A Note From an Old Acquaintance (3 page)

I apologize for Doris, my agent. She’s a real watchdog, where I’m concerned. I’m surprised she even gave you the e-mail address. Then again, the cousin gambit was a clever one, as she knows I have a gaggle of those scattered across the country.

Brian paused, wondering if he should put in his phone number and decided against it. He wasn’t sure why, perhaps a part of him felt the need for a little caution, or maybe he didn’t want to burst the bubble, whatever the hell
that
meant. He resumed typing.

I’ll let you know when the dates firm up for my little tour and hopefully we can get together.

All my best,

Brian-

PS—Please give my best to Nick

Erik Ruby eyed the two oafs struggling to hang Joanna’s life-size photo, and felt the heat rising in his cheeks. In his mind, he saw the younger one with the low-rider trousers and backwards baseball cap tripping over the laces of his tatty Air Jordans and—

“Careful with that,” he snapped.

The two men froze, their expressions a mixture of fear, exasperation and weariness. The older of the two, a graying heavyset man with pale-blue eyes and a bulbous nose full of burst capillaries, signaled to his younger co-worker to put the photo down, then mopped the sweat from his brow with a soiled blue bandana.

“Are you sure you want the lady hung here, Mr. Ruby? She’ll be in the afternoon sun for a good portion of the day, that way. Bad for the complexion, if you get my drift.”

Ruby’s dark eyes narrowed. “There’s a UV coating on the glass.”

The heavyset man nodded. “Right. Well, then we’d best get to it. Ready, Mike?”

The younger man nodded and the two of them bent down and, with a grunt, lifted the photo and hung it from the two fifty-pound hooks embedded in the wall over the wet bar. The heavyset man stood back, stared at it a moment, head cocked, meaty fists on his hips, then reached out and straightened the ornate Victorian frame with a gentle shove.

“There you go, Mr. Ruby. She’s right as rain. And a pretty one, too, if I do say so.”

Ruby’s gaze shifted from the photo to the older man, his expression stony. “Yes, she is. But I’m not paying you for your opinions.”

“Uh, sorry, Mr. Ruby. No offense intended,” the older man mumbled, embarrassed.

Ruby came from around the desk, handed the heavyset man a wad of cash and watched while the two workers gathered their tools and exited the office, leaving Ruby to his thoughts.

He stared up at his wife’s image, drinking her in. Joanna was still as adorable as the day the photo was taken, fifteen years before. She hardly looked a day older, but as of late she’d been restless and distracted. And while the cause could be anything, a difficult client with one of her commissions, one of her students on the edge of failing, their son, Zack, it was her evasiveness—her unwillingness to speak of the problem—that rankled him. He hated it when anything caused her pain.

The phone on his glass-topped desk buzzed. He walked over and glanced at the blinking light.

His private line.

At least the idiots from the phone company had finally gotten the lines working. He reached over and jabbed the speaker button.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ruby, it’s Dean Meltzer, from IT.”

“Ah, Meltzer, what can I do for you? I trust everything’s on schedule for the move to Ruby Plaza?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Can’t wait ’til December. Everyone’s sick and tired of tripping over one another.”

“It won’t be long now. So, what do you need?”

“I have your weekly report, sir.”

Ruby smiled and shook his head. Too many damned details with this new building. He was forgetting things he shouldn’t. Then again, he wasn’t getting any younger.

Still shaking his head, he said. “So what’s my boy been up to?”

“It would seem that Zack has quite a few female admirers. I really had to stop reading them after awhile.”

Ruby chuckled. “Well, if that’s his only problem, then his mother and I will have one less thing to worry about. Can’t be too sure with all these predators on the Internet, you know.”

“Yes, sir, you’re right about that.”

“Is there anything else?”

“You did say to monitor
all
your home accounts.”

“Yes....” Already bored with the conversation, Ruby picked up his Blackberry and began checking his calendar.

“Well, your wife’s e-mail account was fairly inactive until the other day, when she sent a message to a man in California.”

Ruby frowned.
California?

“What was the address?”

Meltzer told him.

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Did he reply?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

“Forward everything to me and I’ll check it out.”

“Already done, sir.”

“Thank you, Meltzer. And be sure to let me know if my son makes any conquests.”

Meltzer laughed. “Will do, Mr. Ruby.”

Ruby ended the call and reached for his Blackberry.

4

THE
HEELS
OF
BRIAN
’
S
dark red Lucchese boots struck a hollow cadence on the shiny linoleum of Saint John’s new wing when he made his way toward Penny’s room at the end of the hall. Open only for the last few months, the paint still smelled fresh, though now it was mixed with the familiar odor of hospitals: rubbing alcohol, pine-scented disinfectant, the rot of disease and the sickly sweetness of death. It was an odor he’d grown to detest.

Reaching the room, he strode through the door and stopped short, as he always did, struck by the quiet horror of all the monitors and tubes. So many damned tubes snaking into and around what was left of his wife. The respirator breathed, inhaling and exhaling with robotic precision, making a sound that almost qualified as a sigh.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

A nurse stood near the monitors making adjustments and marking down updates on Penny’s chart.

“Any changes?” Brian asked.

The nurse looked up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Weller. No, nothing’s changed.”

He nodded and made his way over to Penny’s bedside.

It was just past four, the sun a fiery ball above the Pacific, casting a reddish glow into the room and reminding Brian of a scene out of an old horror film. It made him shiver. The nurse misinterpreted this.

“If you’re cold, Mr. Weller, I can turn down the air. We keep it cool for your wife. She seems to do better with it this way, but I can—”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

He wished she would finish her rounds and leave them alone. It was clear she was a fan, and felt awkward seeing her literary hero in such surroundings. Perhaps reading his mind, she wrapped up her duties and left the room a few minutes later, a tentative smile on her face.

Brian gazed down at Penny. Armen had not been exaggerating. Both arms and legs were curled in on themselves in impossible angles that would have been painful for a normal, healthy person. And she’d lost weight over time. How much he couldn’t tell, but her athletic body had become a shell, with deep hollows and crevasses where gentle curves and taut sinew had existed before. Her face, even in repose looked gaunt, with deep almost black shadows under her eyes, as if someone had decided she would look better made up as a Goth.

The hair was the worst. What were once long, silky blonde tresses reflecting the sunlight like a hundred thousand tiny mirrors were now drab, lifeless husks. The hospital kept it cropped close to her scalp, making her look even more skeletal and reminding him of a painting of Joan of Arc he’d seen in a museum as a child. Joan stared out of the painting, the flames licking around her, her eyes beseeching heaven—for what?

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Penny’s chest rose and fell, swelling to a point each time where he thought her fragile bones would break, then subsiding only to repeat, over and over and over.

“Hi, Pen,” he said in a soft mumble barely audible above the machinery. “I went and saw Joey yesterday, just thought you’d like to know. Believe it, or not, the flowers I placed there last week still looked fresh. I’ll have to remember what variety they were, for next time.”

One of the monitors attached to his wife gave a quiet
beep
in response.

“I sure could use your help with this latest book. Nothing I do seems to work anymore. You always had a way of shaking things up—making me think. And you never let me take myself too seriously....”

He closed his eyes, feeling the ghosts of her arms wrapping around him, the haunting aroma of her Chanel perfume teasing his nostrils, her sweet breath tickling his earlobe.

“What’s doing, Big Guy? My sexy genius run out of words?”

“Never.... But, can I buy some from you, if I do?” he asked, caressing the soft, downy flesh on the backs of her hands. She chuckled, running her fingers through his hair. “Oooh...I don’t know, they’re pretty pricey these days. They’ll cost you an arm, a leg...and a couple of family jewels.”

The memory of her laughter nearly drowned out the sound of...

...Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Brian’s lips trembled and he turned from the bed, anger tightening his chest. He wanted to put his fist through the window. For a moment he even considered the stout metal chair the nurses occupied after visitor’s hours, but thought better of it. It was the kind of publicity Kevin could live without. Not that Brian gave a rat’s ass about that anymore. Maybe it meant there was a sliver of hope if he still cared enough about other people’s feelings, even a publicity agent’s.

Sighing, he sat down at the desk and moved aside a vase with a single flower in it, then opened the MacBook he’d brought with him and turned it on. It was a ritual he repeated every night. Like so many in his life it helped him retain what little sanity remained.

The hospital provided a wireless Internet hookup in every private room, which allowed him to access his AOL account.

More spam in his “New Mail” box.

And a reply...from Joanna.

His throat ran dry, making him cough when he tried to swallow and his hand trembled when he touched the track-pad. He forced himself to dispose of the junk e-mails first, then placed the cursor over her e-mail. But he hesitated in pushing the ENTER key.

“Come on, Weller, what the hell’s the matter with you? It’s just a lousy e-mail.”

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Penny’s presence intruded into his thoughts, flooding him with shame. He started to drag the e-mail over to trash. His finger hovered over the ENTER key. One push and this nonsense was over. Another long moment passed; his finger began to cramp. And then he knew it wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

He sat back, took a deep breath and pushed the READ button.

Dear Brian:

I’m so glad to hear from you. I must admit that seeing your reply gave me mixed emotions. Anyway, I’d love to have dinner with you. I’m prepping a gallery show over the next couple of weeks, my son, Zack, is gearing up for his Sophomore year in high school (I still can’t believe he’s a teenager), and Erik is immersed in his latest building downtown, so things are a bit busy. But once you know when you’re coming, we’ll work out the logistics. You pick the place, but I’ll warn you, I’m a diehard vegetarian. Bet you don’t remember that. Anyway, please call me, if you get the chance, I’d love to chat with you.

Best,

Joanna

PS—I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Nick passed away about five years ago. Lung cancer.

Brian turned from the computer, blinking back bitter tears. Though the news came as a shock, it was no surprise. He’d half-expected something like this for years, as Nick was never in the best of health. Still, his friend deserved better than to end his days in such a dreadful way.

They’d lost touch not long after Brian left Boston, their phone calls less and less frequent. And of course, whenever they did speak, Brian always inquired after Joanna. Nick never said much in reply, his answers invariably a mumbled “She’s fine,” or “Haven’t talked to her in a while,” blah, blah, blah.

It was understandable—all things considered.

The last time they’d seen each other all those years ago was over an impromptu lunch in a little book-lined café on Newbury Street. During that lunch Nick bared his soul, revealing something that astounded Brian even now, all in an effort to keep him from making what Nick considered to be a grievous error. He’d never forgotten it...and the promise he’d made to his old friend.

“I know you meant well, Nick. And Lord knows I probably should have listened to you,” he said, with a sigh. “But I just couldn’t help myself, as you well know. I kept my word to you, though. I kept my word....”

And then there was Erik Ruby, Joanna’s husband.

He’d nearly forgotten the bastard’s name.

Memories of that last fateful night pushed Nick from Brian’s mind in a torrent of sounds, images and emotions. His head throbbed in time to the pounding of his heart, and his chest felt as if someone were tightening a steel band around it.

“Oh, God...Joanna,” he said, his brain reeling. For the briefest of moments he felt as if he might be sick. It was then the flower sitting in the vase next to his laptop caught his eye. It was then he realized just what kind of flower it was.

A rose—a single white rose.

Nausea turned to blind fury.

With a strangled cry, he swept the vase off the desk. It shattered on the linoleum floor, spraying shards of cobalt-blue glass and rank smelling water in every direction. He stared at the mess, blinking, as if not quite believing what he’d just done. Then he rose to his feet and shambled into the cramped bathroom, his hands trembling. The light snapped on automatically, a dead-white fluorescent that reflected off the gleaming ice-white tile, its faulty ballast humming like an angry insect. He stared at himself in the mirror, feeling a mixture of rage and humiliation. His pale, blotchy reflection reminded him of something out of a George Romero zombie movie.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he said, knowing the answer before he’d asked the question.

He shook his head, turned on the cold water and splashed it against his face, taking deep calming breaths. After toweling dry, he returned to the room, grateful for the hiss of cool air flowing from the vent over Penny’s bed.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Nothing had changed with Penny, not that he’d expected any. But it seemed as if the world looked and felt entirely different. He looked toward the desk where the computer sat. Its glowing screen beckoned.

His head still aching, Brian eased himself back into the chair and typed in:
www.google.com
. When it loaded, he then typed in “Erik Ruby.”

Two seconds later the screen flashed up with the first ten results out of a total of 3,990. He spent the next half an hour poring over dozens of web sites, most of them civic or charitable, and every one of them featuring at least one page with a picture of Ruby’s smug smiling face, glad-handing dignitaries of every stripe. There he was, his arm around His Honor, the Mayor, both men grinning like love-struck schoolboys. And there he was again handing over giant photocopied checks, the amounts on them obscenely large, and the recipients of which looking as if they might explode with joy. Still others showed him breaking ground on building after building, juxtaposed with shots of a ribbon cutting ceremony in front of the completed edifice.

The photos he lingered on, however, were the ones showing Joanna standing off to his side. He lingered on them, not only because she looked beautiful and elegant in her formal attire, but because in nearly every photo, there was an ineffable sadness in her eyes, as if she knew she was there mainly as Ruby’s ornament, his trophy wife, and nothing more. Brian’s anger mounted. He switched back to Google’s main screen and typed in: “Joanna Richman.”

The very first entry struck pay dirt:

Harvest Gallery

... Gallery Artists: Joanna Richman. Joanna is a sculptor who builds apparatus that prompts the viewer to question his or her relationship with their world.

www.harvestgallery.com/artists/aRichman.html - 10k - Cached - Similar pages

There were other web pages from different galleries and shows, all with these wonderfully arcane descriptions of her work, accompanied by pictures of the works themselves. And every piece bore the unmistakable stamp of her distinctive style, though that style had grown and matured since he’d first seen examples of it years before. Brian stared, mesmerized by a piece entitled
Corpus #5
, which depicted a white human form lying on a bed with all manner of tubes, sinewy fibrous forms and fiber optic strands—all colored in the same perfect white—entering the “body” and emanating from it. The entire piece glowed with a preternatural light, reminding Brian of Huxley’s
Brave New World
. It also reminded him of something else—

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

Wssssshhhhh. Haaaaaaaaah.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, folding the laptop closed.

The form in
Corpus #5
had been female.

A knock at the door made Brian look up, startled. Armen stood in the doorway. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

Brian shook his head and rose from the chair. “Just tired, I think.” He looked over at Penny. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, Armen. Maybe I
should
consider moving her. It’s so damned sterile in here.”

Armen moved into the room and stood opposite his friend, with Penny’s bed between them. “Well, it is a hospital.”