The Collective(39)

Make a U-turn. Right on Chestnut. Drive 3.1 miles to Crestwood Ave. in Hollandville. Make a right. Two miles down is the Hollandville Village Green. At the center of the green, next to the flagpole, you will see a free library. Pull out A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. You will find another envelope inside. Follow the instructions within.



Wendy lets out a theatrical yawn. “And, ladies and gentlemen, we still don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.” She screeches into a U-turn, the thing in the trunk clanging again. Neither one of us mentions it. “Talk to me some more, Camille,” she says. “I need to stay awake.”


BY THE TIME we reach Hollandville, we’re back to The Bachelor. I really do enjoy discussing the show, especially now that it’s close to three a.m. and I’m sleep-deprived and edgy. When you’re in a place you’ve never been with a person you’ve just met, following a long list of instructions sent by someone whose name you don’t even know, there’s something uniquely comforting in talking about a reality show that’s been on the air for more than twenty seasons.

Wendy says, “You know what my favorite thing about the show is? None of the girls give a damn about Pilot Pete.”

“Why?”

“Well, would you give a damn about him?”

“No, I mean why is that your favorite thing about the show? It’s pretty obvious they all just want fame—but that’s the part that makes me ashamed for watching.”

Wendy smiles. “Ah, but you see, it’s not fame they’re after,” she says. “It’s winning.”

“Winning what?”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s the genius of it. Poor Pete’s just a maypole they all dance around, and all each of them wants is to be the last one standing. He could be anybody. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yep.”

“Anything. Like . . . say the Bachelor was a bowl of chili.”

She snorts. “They’d fight just as hard to be the future Mrs. Hormel.”

“Wow.”

“Imagine that rose ceremony.”

“Oh my God.”

“Camille, will you accept this bad case of gas?”

“Stop!” We both erupt in giggles, and soon we’re laughing so hard, we can barely breathe.

“The wedding!” Wendy shrieks. “You’d throw rice. And cheese. And onions.”

“And that’s all fine, until the groom spends the whole honeymoon in the can!”

“I can’t believe you said that out loud.”

Tears are rolling down my face. My stomach hurts from laughing, and Wendy is making little squeaking noises. It’s very impressive to me how she’s able to drive so carefully and at the speed limit when she’s completely losing it. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, we have to . . . Oh my God.”

“Deep breaths.” I wipe a tear from my cheek, and Wendy and I breathe together, in and out. Once we’re calm, we sit in silence, collecting ourselves.

“This is one crazy-ass night.”

“Understatement of the year.”

We gaze out the window, this tiny town with its clapped-together houses, the one old-fashioned gas station, everything dark and abandoned-looking.

“There it is,” she says.

Within seconds we’ve reached the town square. She pulls up to the curb right next to it and stops the car, and without a word I step out into the night, my hoodie pulled past the sides of my face. Next to the flagpole is a squat little bookcase with a hand-painted sign at the top that says FREE LIBRARY. I shine my flashlight on it, and a noise erupts behind me—a muffled animal wail. Bear. I spin around to look, but the street is still. Quiet. The sound must have come from inside my mind, some primal fear making itself known. . . .

From behind the wheel of the Mercedes, Wendy gives me a tentative wave and only then do I realize I’ve been staring at her, frozen. I flash her a thumbs-up, turn back to the bookcase. Keep yourself together.

It’s just four shelves, all of them stocked with weathered tomes that are probably rejects from the real library. I find it quickly. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is on the top shelf, third from the left. I pull it out and flip through the pages until I find a sealed legal-sized envelope, which I bring back to the car.

Once I’m inside, I start to open the envelope, but Wendy puts her hand on mine. “Camille, before we do this next part, I should tell you something.” She says it very quietly.

“What?”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh.”

“It took me a little while, with your new hair and all. But when you were taking me out of the bar, everything snapped into place. The video. The trial. Your daughter.”

I exhale.

“For what it’s worth, I hate that Blanchard kid. I’ve always hated him. Never believed that bullshit story in Rolling Stone.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. I mean it.

“So, that being said . . .” Her voice trails off.

“You sound like you’re going to ask me to accept this rose.”

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. “I want to tell you about my son.”

“Oh, Wendy, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. It’s only fair.”