Night Film(168)

“I hate it so much.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It’s not. But then, that’s the game. It makes life great. The fact that it ends when we don’t want it to. The ending gives it meaning. But now that you mention it, will you promise to off me when I’m ninety and never leave home without an oxygen tank? Make a day of it. Just roll me and my wheelchair off the George Washington Bridge and call it a life. Deal?”

The request seemed to make her smile. “Deal.”

“They should really tack that on to the marriage ceremony. ‘Do you promise to love, honor, obey me, and also to kill me when I can no longer stand in a shower?’ ”

“I really love you, Scott.”

She blurted the words. They took me so off guard, I wasn’t certain I’d heard her correctly, but then she slid forward in the dark, kissed me on the mouth, then sat back, studying me intently, as if she’d just added a key ingredient to a new science experiment.

“What’d you do that for?”

“I told you. I love you. And not as a friend or a boss, but real love. I’ve known it for twenty-four hours.”

“Sounds like a stomach bug that will pass.”

“I’m serious.” She scrambled on top of me, sitting Indian-style on my shins, and before I could stop her, the girl leaned in and planted another kiss on me, her hands clasping the sides of my head. I was almost too tired to do anything about it, but managed to grab her shoulders and pull her away.

“You need to go back to bed.”

“You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“You’re gorgeous.”

She was inches from my face, really squinting, as if it were a section of a globe she’d never closely inspected before, an ocean filled with strings of unnamed islands.

“So what’s the matter?”

“To my knowledge, Woodward and Bernstein never took it this far. I’d prefer we didn’t, either.”

“You’re making a joke?”

“You have your life in front of you. You’re young, and I’m … an old bicycle.” I had no idea where that unfortunate metaphor came from—maybe I was half asleep—but I suddenly had a very unpleasant vision of myself as a rusty junkyard ten-speed, no front wheel, stuffing bulging out of the torn seat.

“You’re not. You’re amazing.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Well, two people who feel that way should be together right now this second and not think.” She scrambled eagerly right alongside me, as if we were together in a compact camping tent. She felt bony and light, and as she rolled over me, her hair and a smell of soap fell around my head, a waterfall I was drenched inside.

“Nora. Please. Go to bed.” I shoved her back, a little more forcefully this time. “I love you, too,” I went on. “You know I do—but, not like that.”

I was aware of how shoddily stitched together the words were—suddenly I was a kid in the hall standing outside my locker about to head to Math. But that was how it went sometimes, the English language, when you really needed it, crumbled to clay in your mouth. That’s when all the real things were said.

“Why are you treating me like I don’t know my own feelings?”

“Experience. I’m forty-three. Maybe even forty-four.”

“In olden days people only lived to thirty, so I’d be ancient.”

“And I’d be dead.”

“Why do you have to joke? Why can’t you just be?”

I didn’t answer, only held out my hand, waiting for her to take it.

“You know I’ll always be on the sidelines,” I said, “cheering you on. You’re a powerful woman. And you’re going to go on being powerful, for miles. For years. I’d only slow you down.”

“Maybe I want to be slow. Why do people have to keep moving away from each other all the time?” She was on the verge of tears again. She wrenched her hand away. “Hopper’s right. You’re not attached to anyone. You love only yourself.”

She waited for me to disagree, but I didn’t. Maybe it was the effect of the last three days. I was spent, had no more will to exert on my own life. I could only keep watching it now, in all its gory glory, as it twisted and bucked in front of me.

“You’re going to ruin everything. Like Hopper said. You don’t care about me. Or Ashley. She means nothing to you. Even now. All you care about is the hunt.”

She struggled off the bed, white comet shooting through the room.

“Nora,” I called out.

But she was gone.





99


My alarm went off at seven. By seven-thirty, I was out the door.

I took the 1 train up the West Side to Barney Greengrass—the famed hundred-year-old Jewish deli—arriving when it opened, and then, bags of bagels and fresh lox in hand, I rode the M train to its very last stop, Metropolitan Avenue in Middle Village, Queens. If I was going to pay an unannounced visit to Sharon Falcone on a Sunday morning, I could only come bearing gifts, and Sharon had a weak spot for poppy-seed bagels, Nova Scotia salmon, and a Yiddish delicacy called schmaltz herring, a cured whitefish that to me tasted like leather encrusted in salt. To Sharon, it was heaven.

She lived in a mug shot of a house: redbrick, sobered, bleary-eyed, square. More than a decade ago, I’d once dropped her off at home when we were working late on the same case—her father had just died, leaving her the house—and I’d quietly made note of her address, in the off chance I ever needed to find her.