Wilde Lake(87)

JULY 3


“Stay,” Bash says.

“What?” They have been together for almost four hours and she has showered, dressed. In her mind, Lu is already on the road, going through her parallel tracks of to-do lists, work and home.

“It’s a federal holiday. I know that even if my wife doesn’t. And, yeah, I’m sure you have a ton of work to do, blah, blah, blah, but—c’mon. We’ll get a pizza, have some wine. Or we could even go out for an early dinner. Bethesda has lots of good places. There’s this one, with tacos and good tequila—”

“No,” she says. “Not out.” Never out. The demarcation between here and everywhere else is thick, defined, never to be breached. She experiences Bash only inside, in rooms where no one else visits, with the exception of cleaning ladies who arrive long after they have gone.

“Then we’ll have delivery. Or I’ll go out and get something, bring it back, whatever you want. If you run back to your office, you’re going to end up eating at your desk. Just stay.”

She is being lobbied by a lobbyist, one of the best. Still, it’s worrisome, a reminder of that surprise visit to her Christmas open house. She thought they were safely past that. Really, a Bash who talks about pharmaceutical solutions to menopause is preferable to one who wants to take her to a restaurant.

“Something fast,” she says. “Pizza.”

They sit at the granite counter in the never-used kitchen, eating pizza straight from the box, drinking a ridiculously expensive red wine from water glasses. Lu studies the label, wonders if her father would like it. Good wine is a nice gift for the man who has everything, even if much of it is paid for by his daughter.

“I feel bad,” Bash says. “About the last time I saw you.”

Oh. “Oh. That’s okay. I’m sensitive about any discussion of menopause because—” Still, she hesitates to tell him that she went through menopause after her hysterectomy. She feels it de-sexes her. “I guess all women are.”

“No, not about that. I—I didn’t even mention what happened to you. That crazy Rudy Drysdale jumping you in court that way.”

Maybe it’s the recent revelation about her mother, but the word crazy hits her ear hard.

“He really did have severe mental issues,” she says, with frosty sanctimony. “You have to be pretty disturbed to do what he did.”

“Oh, I know. Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Habit?”

“That’s what we called him in high school, Crazy Rudy. He was like our mascot for a while there. Always hanging around. Finally, he took the hint and left us alone.”

Davey knew him, Lu reminds herself. But he said he saw him at the mall, hanging around Nita. And Davey was alone whenever he was with Nita Flood.

“A mascot—you mean, one of the teams you played on? Was he Willie the Wilde cat?”

“No, he was always mooning over Davey and AJ. There was some party or something at Davey’s house—I wasn’t there, but I heard about it—and these guys embarrassed him, but Davey and AJ took up for him. End of sophomore year, junior year? We could not shake him after that. He was worse than you. He showed up everywhere. AJ and Davey were nice to him. I mean we all were. I think AJ finally had a talk with him. At any rate, he stopped hanging around.”

“AJ said he didn’t know him in high school. We discussed that when he was arrested.” She is seeing a yearbook, the Glass Hour, a circle of lamplight. AJ pulled his own yearbook out that night, but remembered to put it back on the shelf. Why? He either knew Rudy or he didn’t. Did he think a picture would jog his memory?

“Maybe AJ didn’t remember him. I didn’t, not right away. Then it clicked—and I was, like—oh, yeah, Crazy Rudy. I always thought he was harmless. But isn’t that the cliché? Watch out for the quiet types.”

The Glass Hour. The glass house. Lu tries to remember everything she can about that afternoon at the cast party—the humiliated boy who darted from that walk-out basement and into the woods behind the house, the trees that allowed the Robinsons to live in a house where their lives were on display. Where did he go? Everyone’s attention had been focused on AJ and Davey, the nasty boys they had chased. No one thought to go looking for the boy they had taunted.

“Bash, was Rudy there that—that night Nita Flood crashed your party? The one at Davey’s house, where everything . . . happened.”

“No.” He seems irritated that they’re still talking about this. “I told you, he followed us around, but we didn’t invite him to stuff. That was just me, Davey, Noel, and AJ. We were the only ones.”

“And Nita.”

“She was shitfaced. Even then, I’m pretty sure she couldn’t remember much.”

“But not when she was with Davey. She got drunk playing the game, right?”

“Monopoly,” Bash says promptly. Promptly. As if prompted.

“That’s some memory you have,” she says. “Monopoly, Rudy Drysdale.”

“It’s hit and miss. Like I said, I didn’t remember Rudy, not right away. AJ probably forgot him, too.”

“I have to go,” she says, sliding down from the stool.

“Really? You’ve barely finished your one slice.” He grabs her wrist. She looks at his hand circling her arm. His hand looks enormous. He’s so much stronger than she is. Who isn’t? If he decided to force her to stay, if he decided to force her to do anything, he could. And if she dared to complain or suggest his behavior criminal, what would he say? You always liked it before. I’ve sent you home with bruises and you were fine with it. I thought it was what you wanted.