Goodnight Beautiful(43)
“The paperboy?” Sam asks the smiley face, lifting the rug and holding it at eye level. Something metal glints on the floor. A vent. He places his ear to it, just in time to catch the unmistakable whoop of Albert Bitterman’s laughter, followed by the sweeping opening notes of the best theme song in television history.
The West Wing.
Albert’s downstairs in Sam’s office, watching The West Wing—“No?l,” season 2, episode 10, to be exact—and Sam can hear every word of it through this vent in the floor. It happens again: Sam starts laughing. A big belly laugh this time, as it all comes together: Albert was up here, listening to the therapy sessions. Well, by god, of course he was, Sam thinks, tears rolling down his cheeks. He knew it; that deeply unconscious sense of Albert above him suddenly becomes conscious—an energy upstairs, moving in and out of this room above him, Albert’s rhythm in tune with his.
Sam’s laughing so hard that he almost misses the commotion downstairs—Albert’s voice through the vent (“My god, Sam, is that you?”), the sound of Sam’s office door slamming again. And not only is Sam laughing, he’s also taking a great deal of pleasure in beating the absolute crap out of the happy-face rug—a truly flimsy piece of shit—and the rug is in tatters by the time Albert is standing in the doorway, a terrified look in his eyes, a bag of Smartfood popcorn in his hands.
“You were up here listening to me,” Sam says.
“What? No—” Albert says.
He stops laughing as the memory of that night returns, clear as day. The storm was building, and Sam closed the door to his office, picturing Annie. She’d be waiting at home for him, stirring something on the stove, wine uncorked on the counter. Albert was on his porch, holding a tray of drinks. Sam pretended not to see him as he ran to his car.
He got into his car and realized he didn’t have his keys. He’d left them on the top of his desk.
The memory of what happened next is surprisingly vibrant, even the small details, like running back through the rain to his office, and the band of sweat on Albert’s lip when he appeared in the waiting room, rain dripping from his hair, a shovel gripped in his hands. The wild look on Albert’s face as he charged toward Sam, the shovel raised over his head.
A wave of fear engulfs Sam. “Please, let me call my wife.”
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I can’t do that.” Albert’s expression is vacant and he stands still in the doorway.
“What do you mean? Of course you can,” Sam pleads. “Go get your phone.”
“No, Sam, I can’t.”
“Why, Albert?” Sam feels a sob rising in his chest. “Why are you keeping me here?”
“Keeping you here?” Albert says, looking as if he’d been slapped. “I’m not keeping you here, Sam. I’m taking care of you.”
“But I don’t want you to take care of me,” Sam whispers. “I want to go home.”
“Well, then, you should have had that drink,” Albert spits. “The specialty cocktail I made you. You didn’t have to be so rude.”
“The . . . drink?” Sam stammers. “This is all because of a drink?”
Albert makes a show of taking a deep breath. “No, Sam, this isn’t all because of a drink. It’s because you need help, and I’m the only one who can help you.” He walks into the room and picks up the tattered rug before exiting the room and slamming the door behind him. Sam waits until he hears the lock click into place, and then he does something he hasn’t done since the day his dad left. He allows himself to cry.
Chapter 32
The Pigeon’s having a party.
I catch glimpses of it from my upstairs window. Six couples, one inconsiderate enough to park on the Pigeon’s lawn. Dinner Club, they call it. A bunch of former cheerleaders from Brookside High who take turns hosting every few weeks. Tonight it’s the Pigeon’s turn, and Drew is making steak. He started the marinade at two o’clock while the Pigeon snapped a photograph to post on Instagram, letting everyone know how #grateful she is to have a hubby that cooks.
The lights are on inside, everyone where they’re supposed to be: the men braving the cold rain at the grill out back, the women in the kitchen, sharing guacamole and red wine, probably chitchatting about the article in the paper this morning: “Police at a Loss for Clues in Case of Chestnut Hill Doctor Missing for Four Days.”
Young Harriet Eager is starting to make a name for herself, staying on top of the story (not to mention the front page).
Four days into the search for the local psychologist, detectives on the case have exhausted all means to locate Sam Statler. “All that’s left at this point is to appeal to the public for any information they can provide,” said Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy.
The article was shared dozens of times on Facebook, where some chubby guy named Timmy Hopper had the nerve to make a joke about Sam’s reputation back in high school—“Anyone check Sheila Demollino’s basement?”—garnering six likes the last time I checked.
A light turns on upstairs at the Pigeon’s house. The second-to-last window, the middle boy’s room. I check the time. Five forty-six p.m., right on schedule. Fourteen years old and sneaking upstairs every evening, two long streams of smoke out the window, just to get through an evening with his family. The lighter flashes on, illuminating his face, as my oven timer beeps downstairs. I hang the binoculars on their hook and head grudgingly down to the kitchen, hoping Sam will still be asleep when I bring his dinner.