I’m pretty much a master of mental self-discipline, but this is a tough one.
Laurie gives me a list, and I go to the market and buy food, since Marcus has consumed everything, and he’s going to have to continue to be fed. I have my cart full when I get stuck behind two women on the cashier line. I don’t know why it is, but I find that many women stand and watch their items being rung up, and only when that process is done do they open their purse and start taking out their means of payment. Do they think they are not going to be asked to pay?
When I finally get back home, Laurie starts to cook dinner. “You should ask Marcus if he wants to eat with us.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, though it sounds more like a whine than I intended.
“Andy, you can’t not invite him to dinner. He’s living here.”
“He didn’t sign up for the meal plan.”
“Andy…”
I nod with resignation and go upstairs. Marcus is not at home, which is good news and bad news. I can be alone with Laurie for dinner, but it means that Marcus is loose on the streets of Findlay. So it’s good for me, bad for Findlay. I can live with that.
After dinner we spend the kind of evening that I’ve missed even more than I realized. We open a bottle of wine and sit on the couch, with Tara between us. Golden retrievers are a master of positioning, and Tara arranges things so that I scratch her stomach while Laurie pets her head.
We watch a tape of one of our favorite movies, A Beautiful Mind, and I can see Laurie’s eyes tear up as Jennifer Connelly says, “I need to believe that something extraordinary is possible.” Well, extraordinary things can come in all shapes and sizes, and this is an extraordinary moment.
It is all so comfortable, all so wonderful, that I almost resist when Laurie asks if I’m ready to go to bed. Almost, but not quite.
Moments later we are making love, and while we are doing so, Laurie says, “Andy, I don’t want this to end. We have to figure out a way that this doesn’t have to end.”
I don’t know if she is talking about our lovemaking or about us, but either way it’s got my vote.
• • • • •
MRS. BARLOW HAS agreed to talk with you” is the first thing Stephen Drummond says after he says hello.
It’s a surprise to me, but I’m pleased at this first invitation to meet the good citizens of Center City. Maybe that ridiculous wheel okayed the interview. “Good,” I say. “When can that happen?”
“I’m available at three this afternoon,” he says.
“And why would that be significant?”
I can almost feel his smug smile through the phone. “Mrs. Barlow insists that I be there.”
This is likely to cut down on the chances of my actually learning anything, but I know there is no possibility I can get this reversed. I agree to meet at three at the Barlow residence. He asks that I not get there early, probably to spare Mrs. Barlow the nightmare of being alone without her Harvard-educated lawyer for protection.
Actually, protection is a serious consideration for me. It would be paranoid of me to think I’m being led into a trap, but that town and its people make me more than a little uncomfortable.
Marcus is not home, so I call him on his cell phone and invite him to the meeting. Based on his reaction, he’s either thrilled or asleep, but I think I get him to understand that I want him at the house at two-thirty so we can drive to Center City.
The culture shock of Marcus entering Center City will be such that I almost feel I should call ahead and warn them. It’s akin to when Tokyo woke up one morning and there was Godzilla strolling out of the water onto the beach. The townspeople are going to be running to the Keeper asking him what the hell is going on, because they’ve never experienced anything like Marcus before.
Marcus shows up promptly at two-thirty, and since he’s in his car already, I get in the passenger seat and let him drive. We’re about thirty seconds into the trip when I realize that classical music is coming out of the radio.
At least I think it’s classical music; I’m not an expert. But there are no lyrics, and it sounds like a large orchestra, and I feel like I should be dressed up to hear it, so that fits my definition pretty well.
It’s a rental car, so probably the radio was set to this when Marcus got it, and he was simply too oblivious to notice. There is as much chance that Marcus is intentionally playing classical music as there is that I’m playing center field for the New York Yankees.
“You listening to that?” I ask.
He nods. “Yuh.”
“You like classical music?”
“Yuh.”
“NOW PLAYING CENTER FIELD FOR THE YANKEES, NUMBER SEVEN, ANDY CARPENTER… CARPENTER… CARPENTER… CARPENTER.”
The twenty-minute drive feels like it takes about four hours. For the first fifteen minutes I try to make small talk, though I have no idea why. I say absolutely nothing interesting, and Marcus says nothing at all. I guess he’s enraptured by the music.
I use the last five minutes to explain to Marcus what i know about Center City, its inhabitants, and its religion. He not only does not ask any questions, he doesn’t nod or even blink. Yet for all his lack of inquisitiveness, Marcus has proven to be a smart guy, at least in a street sense kind of way. He’s a terrific investigator, and that is a job for which morons need not apply.
We get to Center City, and I point out the few landmarks that I know. When he sees the town hall, towering above the rest of the buildings, he says, “That the church?”
“And city hall,” I say. “Or both. They don’t like strangers inside.”
We drive on to the address we have for the Barlows, which is like pretty much every other house on every street in the town. The strange thing is that it is a farming community, yet there are no farmhouses. The farms are on the outskirts of town, while the farmers are most definitely on the “inskirts.” And speaking of skirts, every woman I have seen here has been wearing one; jeans or slacks are clearly not the clothing of choice for the fashionable women of Center City.
We park in front of the Barlow house; I would know it even if i didn’t see the number. That’s because two of the larger servants in the town are standing on the porch, awaiting our arrival. “Those are the local tough guys,” I say, but Marcus doesn’t seem to look at them.
We get out of the car and walk toward the house. One of the servants says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Good afternoon,” I say. “We’re here to see Mrs. Barlow.”
“Yes, sir. The meeting will begin shortly.” He’s talking to me, but he and his partner are staring straight at Marcus.
I look at my watch and see that we’re five minutes early, and at that moment a car pulls up and Keeper Wallace gets out of the backseat, and the driver gets out as well. He is Drummond’s son, who seems to be the servant assigned to taking the Keeper around. Drummond told me that his son is also a pilot, so maybe Wallace does more than travel around town.
Wallace has obviously taken Drummond’s place as Mrs. Barlow’s protector during this interview. It won’t make any difference, despite the fact that they dress rather differently. Drummond is a suit-and-tie guy, while Wallace is clad in full robes and looks semi-ridiculous. I glance at Marcus to see if he has any reaction, but, of course, he does not.
Wallace walks toward the house. He greets me with a smile and a nod, and I introduce Marcus as my investigator.
He takes one look at Marcus and somehow avoids the temptation to hug him hello. Instead he turns to me. “The agreement with Mrs. Barlow was that she would speak with only you. I’m afraid Mr. Clark will have to leave.”
“Nunh,” says Marcus with a slight shake of the head. As an experienced and very capable bodyguard, he’s not letting me out of his sight.
What happens next is almost imperceptible, but I am Andy the Great Perceiver, so I pick up all of it. The two large guys on the porch start to move toward Marcus, who, even though he’s not looking at them, senses it and turns slightly toward them. He does so with an understated intensity that literally stops them in their tracks, as if somebody yelled, “Freeze.”
Wallace, apparently in my class as a perceiver of subtlety, observes it too. He’s smart enough to know that Marcus is not going to obey a guy standing on the street in a dress, so he decides to speak to the only people there who will listen to him.
“It is just a misunderstanding,” he says to the servants. “Please confirm with Mrs. Barlow that Mr. Clark’s presence will be welcomed.”
“Yes, Keeper,” says one of them, and he goes inside to do just that. The other one stays behind and stares ominously at Marcus, who seems to avoid shaking in fear. When the first guy comes back with the shocking news that Mrs. Barlow is okay with Marcus, we go in.