The Immortalists(58)

‘I’m keeping her memory alive,’ Raj had roared. ‘Can you say the same?’

They haven’t spoken since, though this isn’t just Raj’s fault. There have been plenty of times when Daniel could have reached out – certainly before that falling-out, and even after. But being in the presence of Raj and Ruby has always given Daniel a disturbing feeling of regret. When Ruby was young, she looked like Raj, but in her teens, she assumed Klara’s full, dimpled cheeks and Cheshire cat smile. Long, curly hair fell to her waist like Klara’s, except that Ruby’s was brown – Klara’s natural color – instead of red. Sometimes, when she was moody, Daniel experienced a phantasmagoric sense of déjà vu. With holographic ease, Ruby became her mother, and Klara stared at Daniel with accusation. He had not been close enough to her, had not known how sick she was. He had initiated their visit to the fortune teller, too, which affected all of his siblings, but perhaps Klara most of all. He still remembers the way she looked in the alley afterward: wet-cheeked and raw-nosed, her eyes both alert and strangely vacant.

The only phone number Daniel has is Raj’s landline. Since they’re traveling, he clicks on Contact. E-mail addresses are listed for Raj and Ruby’s manager, publicist, and agent above a box that reads, Write to the Chapals! Who knows if they even check it – the box seems designed for fan mail – but he decides to try.

Raj:

Daniel Gold here. It’s been quite some time, so I thought I’d write. I noticed that you’ll be traveling to New York in the coming weeks. Any Thanksgiving plans? We’d be happy to host you. It seems a shame to go so long without seeing family.

Best,

DG





Daniel rereads the e-mail and worries it’s too casual. He puts dear before Raj, then deletes it (Raj isn’t dear to him, and neither Daniel nor Raj tolerate phoniness; it’s one of the few things they have in common). Daniel writes, Do you have before any Thanksgiving plans? and substitutes really like for be happy before to host you. He deletes the last line – are they family, really? – and then rewrites it. They’re close enough. He hits Send.

He figured he’d be up at 6:30 the next morning, despite his suspension – at forty-eight years old, he’s nothing if not predictable – but when his cell phone rings, the sun is high in the sky. He squints at the clock, shakes his head, squints again: it’s eleven. He fumbles around his bedside table with one hand, finds his glasses and flip phone, puts the first on and opens the second. Could Raj be calling already?

‘ ’Lo?’

He’s greeted by static. ‘Daniel,’ says a voice. ‘. . . t’s . . . Dee . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Daniel. ‘You’re breaking up. What was that?’

‘It’s . . . Dee . . . here in the . . . son . . . ley . . . service . . .’

‘Dee?’

‘. . . Dee,’ says the voice, insistently. ‘Eddie O . . . hue . . .’

‘Eddie O’Donoghue?’ Even in its garbled form, something about the name jogs Daniel’s memory. He sits up, stuffing a pillow behind him.

‘. . . ’es . . . Cop . . . we met . . . cisco . . . your . . . ’ter . . . FBI . . .’

‘Oh my God,’ Daniel says. ‘Of course.’

Eddie O’Donoghue was the FBI agent assigned to Klara’s case. He attended her memorial service in San Francisco, and afterward, Daniel ran into him at a pub on Geary. The following day, Daniel woke with a splitting migraine and could not imagine why he’d shared so much with Eddie, but he hoped the agent had been drunk enough to forget it.

‘. . . pull over,’ says Eddie, and suddenly, his voice becomes clear. ‘There we go. Mother of God, the service here is shit. I don’t know how you stand it.’

‘We have a landline,’ says Daniel. ‘It’s much more reliable.’

‘Listen, I can’t talk long – I’m on the side of the highway – but would that work for you? Four, five o’clock? Some place in town? There’s a few things I want to share with you.’

Daniel blinks. The phone call – the entire morning – feels surreal.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s meet at the Hoffman House. Four thirty.’

Not until he hangs up does he notice the wide shadow in the bedroom doorway: his mother.

‘Jesus, Ma,’ Daniel says, pulling the covers up. She still has the power to make him feel like a twelve-year-old. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Who were you talking to?’ Gertie is wearing her quilted pink bathrobe – how many decades she’s owned it, Daniel doesn’t want to calculate – and her thick gray hair looks like Beethoven’s.

‘No one,’ he says. ‘Mira.’

‘Like hell it was Mira. I’m not an imbecile.’

‘No.’ Daniel gets out of bed, pulls on a SUNY Binghamton sweatshirt and steps into his sheepskin slippers. Then he walks to the doorway and kisses his mother’s cheek. ‘But you are a busybody. Have you eaten?’

‘Have I eaten? Of course I’ve eaten. It’s almost noon. And here’s you sleeping in like a teenager.’

‘I’ve been suspended.’

‘I know. Mira told me.’