Crying Wolf (23 page)

But the plan was out. “Done?” he said. “Done in what way?”

“Don't worry. Everything went smoothly. Grace called, as me, and said she'd been—” She lowered her voice still more. “—you know, kidnapped. We toyed with the idea of asking for yen, the kind of interesting twist that makes things authentic, but then we—”

“Called who?”

“Our father. You're acting funny, Nat, like you're hearing this for the first time. Sure you're—”

“She called as you?”

“Why not? No one can tell us apart on the phone. ‘This is Izzie, something terrible's happened, I'm so scared,' blah blah blah, million dollars, sequential, nondenominational, whatever it was, blah blah.” Izzie laughed; she had that untamed look of Grace's in her eye.

“We have to stop this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We just do.”

“Nat. I told you. It's done. Grace is hiding down in the cave and the money's on its way.”

“The money's on its way?”

“It's nothing to him—didn't we mention that? He's sending someone. Someone gives it to me, I give it to no one, Grace reappears. We get back to normal life. Voilà.”

He shook his head. That hurt, and had no other effect.

“You and Wags had a little disagreement, didn't you?” She came closer, brushed her lips against the tip of his nose, barely touching it. “Give me a kiss.”

He kissed her. They'd kissed maybe dozens of times by now, but never like this.

“The fantasist denies reality to himself, the liar does so only to others.” Illustrate with examples from history or literature.

—From the final-exam study guide, Philosophy 322

A
ll those years, growing up in this town—Inverness, the name itself snotty and hateful—all those years and he'd never once been inside a house on the Hill. Been in their yards, as he was in the backyard of Leo Uzig's house now, the summers he worked for one landscaper or another, but never inside. They had nice yards up on the Hill, and this was a nice one, surprisingly big, with different kinds of trees and a high stone wall. A snow-covered terrace led up to double back doors, heavy and black with brass fittings, like the door at the front. No cheap sliders, no bulkhead with stairs down to the basement, nothing easy. Funny thing, though, about people who lived on the Hill, especially those who'd lived there since the time when no one locked their doors—some still didn't lock them. Freedy tried the polished brass handle. Locked.

He stepped back, almost knocking over the bird feeder, checked the house, hoping for balconies, windows cracked open an inch or two, maybe a—

One of the double doors opened. An old woman came out with a bag of birdseed in her hand, saw Freedy, stopped. She was all in white—a long white housecoat, white slippers—except for her hat, red with earflaps sticking out to the side. She looked like somebody's old gran. He himself had no old gran, his mother's mother, whoever that might have been, belonging to some earlier life. Not to mention the other side, where—

The other side. Freedy had maybe the most amazing thought of his whole life, a kind of jump or leap, like you turn the key in the ignition and then you're there, without doing the actual drive. This, this old thing with the watery eyes and the Kleenex sticking out of her goddamn sleeve, could be his gran! They stared at each other. Freedy knew he should say something, but what? No idea. Had he run into a situation he didn't know how to handle? That would be a first.

He got lucky—a nice change. The old lady spoke first. “Can I help you, young man?” she said.

“I, uh, represent the Aqua Group,” Freedy said; meant to say
Agua
, too late.

“We're happy with what we have now.”

“With what you have now?”

“Poland Spring, I believe. Or possibly Mount Monadnock.”

What the fuck was she— Then he got it. “This is swimming pools,” Freedy said. “I was just checking out your space for possible swimming pool installation.”

“Were you?” she said, making a big thing out of that
were
, like she was pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“But it's the middle of winter.”

“The early bird,” Freedy said.

The old lady smiled. “How right you are.” She gazed beyond him, scanning the trees in the backyard, the smile slowly fading, but not completely. “Perhaps you can help me,” she said, indicating the birdseed. “Before we get to the actual spiel.”

Freedy took the bag from her, spread seed in the feeder.

“Richie,” she called, in a yoo-hoo kind of voice, although she didn't say
yoo-hoo.
“Richie.”

“Richie?” said Freedy, glancing around, seeing no one.

“My cardinal,” said the old lady. “Short for Richelieu, of course, but I don't have to tell you that.”

“None of my business anyway,” said Freedy.

The old lady laughed. “I love a sense of humor. Swimming pools, you say?”

“The best.”

“But now? In the middle of winter?”

“The early bird,” Freedy said again, since it had worked so well the first time.

The old lady nodded. The sky had brightened slightly and he got a good look at her face. Did he resemble her, at all? “Those folk sayings,” she began; but a crow swooped down at the feeder and she threw up her hands in horror. “Oh, no.”

Freedy took a swat at it. He was quick, yes, and a fuckin' leg breaker, yes, but not bird-quick, so some luck must have been involved. Good luck—a nice change. Supposing, on top of all his other qualities, he was starting to get lucky too? Shudder to think, whatever that meant.

Some luck must have been involved. Why? Because he caught that crow a pretty good one, not on the button, but close enough. It went down and stayed down, a black feather or two drifting in the air.

“My goodness,” said the old lady, gazing down at the crow, then up at Freedy. “What a competent fellow!”

Freedy tried to think of some aw-shucks folk saying that fit; he knew there must be some, even felt one on the tip of his tongue, but it didn't come.

“And modest as well,” she said. Yes, even things he didn't do were paying off. This was the start of a lucky day, had to be. He should buy a lottery ticket, maybe go on
Jeopardy.

Something caught her eye, something red. “Good morning, Richie.” The cardinal settled on the rim of the feeder. “Isn't he the most elegant little man you've ever seen?” the old lady said, lowering her voice.

Quicker than a crow, Freedy wondered, or slower? Not the time to experiment. “Yes, ma'am,” he said.

She turned to him. “I'm glad you agree. Now get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

“Why, swimming pools. I was a champion swimmer.”

“You were?”

“At Camp Glenwhinnie. Many, many ribbons, red and blue. Do you know Camp Glenwhinnie, Mr. . . . ?”

“Just call me Freedy.”

“Freedy. What an interesting name. I don't believe I've met a Freedy before. Camp Glenwhinnie, on Lake—is it a diminutive?”

“Huh?”

“Freedy. Is it short for anything?”

“Friedrich, I guess.”

“Friedrich? Is that true?”

“Sure.” How dense could she be? “Like the
Freed
part's in both of them,” he explained patiently, reminding himself that she was old.

“I meant is that really your name—Friedrich?”

“Want to see my birth certificate?” he said. Amazing. He actually had the goddamn thing in his pocket, almost pulled it out.

Her laughter, abrupt and unexpected, stopped him. “Aren't you the funny bunny,” she said. “How about coffee?”

“Sounds good,” said Freedy.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, leading him inside. “It's everybody's day off.”

 

F
reedy sat at the kitchen table, in a little nook with a good view of the feeder. There was no mess that he could see. Why would there be in a house on the Hill? It was all very nice. He stretched out his legs, trying to get comfortable. And he did, right away; comfortable, up on the Hill.

“Richie,” called the old lady, although the bird couldn't possibly hear her, “eat up, there's a good boy.” The fat red fuck stood on the rim of the feeder, doing nothing.

She gave Freedy coffee, poached eggs on toast, bacon—a gran breakfast. They talked about swimming at Camp Whatever-it-was on some lake whose name he didn't catch, up in Vermont or maybe New Hampshire.

“What kind of pools do you install?” she said.

“All kinds.”

“Like what, for example?”

“There's the Malibu. One of our biggest sellers. If that's a little too pricey, we've got the Miami. The Mediterranean's pretty popular too.”

“This is so exciting—and they all start with
M
. More bacon?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't I think of this before?”

“Don't ask me.”

“I'll have to check with Leo.”

“Leo?”

“Not because of the purse strings—don't think that for a minute. But he's sensitive to noise.”

“Leo?”

The old lady nodded toward a framed photograph on the wall. Freedy went over for a look. He saw a guy with wild gray hair, wearing a tuxedo and standing at a podium; behind him sat some famous person whose name escaped Freedy. He peered at the man in the tuxedo. Laid his eyes on him but felt no chill, nothing. Did he resemble this man, at all?

“That was last year, in Vienna,” said the old lady.

“Your son, right?”

No answer.

He turned to her. She was glaring at him.

“What's up?” Freedy said.

“I hate when people say that,” she said. “Have always hated, hate now, will hate. Leo is my husband.”

Freedy tried to remember what he'd heard in the dollhouse, all so complicated. “You're not my gran, then,” he said; said without thinking, the words just popping out.

“Your gran?” said the old lady.

The way she said it pissed Freedy off, all that Hill-and-flats shit, just in her tone of voice. He'd been so nice, so polite, even making sure to eat with his mouth closed. And now this. He whipped out his birth certificate, slapped it on the table in front of her, stabbed his finger at the space marked
FATHER. Full name: Unknown.

The old lady—old lady, but Leo Uzig's wife, and therefore the other woman, the one who'd broken up the family he'd never had—gazed at the sheet of paper with her watery eyes. “Is this the contract?” she said.

“Contract?” The voice—male—came from the kitchen door. Freedy turned quickly, saw Leo Uzig. Not a picture on the wall, but the man. Leo Uzig wore a crimson robe and under it a white shirt and knotted tie, but his feet were bare. His feet: he had the kind of second toes that were longer than the first. Freedy's were the same way. Now he did feel a chill.

“The swimming-pool contract, Leo,” said the old lady. “We have to make a decision. Malibu, Miami, Mediterranean. All beginning with
M
, as I'm sure you noticed. You most of all.”

“What swimming pool contract?” Uzig said.

“This gentleman is from the pool company,” said the old lady. “Freedy, my husband, Professor Leo Uzig. Leo, Freedy, last name to come.”

“How's it goin'?” said Freedy, slipping the birth certificate in his pocket.

Uzig didn't look at him. “Have you signed anything, Helen?”

“And if I have?”

They stared at each other until Freedy said, “Hey. Nothing's signed. This is just the whatchamacallit. Checking out the dimensions. We're strictly aboveboard. You know, integrity.”

Now they were both looking at him.

“Thank you, Freedy,” said the old lady, “but I don't require your help.”

“Huh?”

She glanced at Uzig, back to Freedy. “May I present my husband? Professor Dr. Leo Uzig, Freedy. Short for Friedrich.”

She was introducing them again? What the fuck was he supposed to say? Freedy was wondering about that when he noticed that the expression on Uzig's face, still turned toward him, had changed. Hard to describe how: kind of like Uzig had suddenly realized he'd eaten something bad; Freedy recalled his own very first night in Tijuana, an all-you-can-eat bar called Gringo's. Leo Uzig looked the same kind of sick. Why wouldn't he, being married to a crazy old bag and her with the money? Freedy'd figured that one out in two seconds. She had the money, she wanted a pool, and he didn't. He was way ahead of them.
If I don't watch out, I'm going to make my first sale, and I haven't even got a fucking backhoe.
That was really funny. Freedy caught himself smiling broadly, smiling in the direction of Leo Uzig. No harm in that: no harm in showing him those white teeth, big and perfect.

Uzig smiled back, the kind of smile where teeth don't show. “Perhaps it's not such a bad idea,” he said.

“What isn't?” said Freedy.

“A swimming pool—isn't that the subject at hand?”

Subject at hand? What was he talking about? Freedy, who'd never talked to a college professor before, expected them to make more sense than that. “Malibu, Miami, and Mediterranean,” he said, because he had to say something and that sounded pretty good. “You've got choices.”

Now Uzig's teeth showed, not bad teeth, but not as good as his. Probably smiling because he liked those names. Who wouldn't? They were fucking brilliant, and created—yes, created, like those Budweiser lizards—created by him out of the goddamn blue. Maybe he didn't even need a backhoe. Freedy realized he could have been a college professor himself, probably should have been. His rightful—what was the word?
Birthright.
He stopped smiling.

“Why don't we go out and survey the site?” Uzig said.

“Hey,” said Freedy. “Sure.”

“Me too,” said the old lady.

“It's much too cold,” Uzig told her. He pressed a button on the wall phone. A nurse entered moments later. What about her day off? Freedy almost said something.

“Bath time,” said the nurse.

“I'm clean,” said the old lady.

The nurse led her away.

Uzig put on boots. They went onto the deck. Richie pecked up one last seed and flew away.

They stood on the deck, almost side by side, gazing at the snow-covered yard. Uzig wasn't as tall as Freedy, but Freedy could sense he was built sort of solid. Nothing like Freedy, of course, but Uzig was older, and probably hadn't lifted much, maybe didn't know about andro.

“I don't believe there are many swimming pools in Inverness,” Uzig said.

“Just another one of the fu—of the dumb things about this town.”

Silence. Silence when the next question should have been where he was from, or how long he'd lived in town, or something like that. Freedy tried to figure out why it hadn't been asked, gave up, answered it anyway.

“You've heard of the flats?”

“Of course.”

“That's where I grew up.” Did his voice sound a little angry? He softened it and said, “The pool business I learned in California.”

“Naturally.”

What was natural about it? He could have done other things in California, sold cars or tried Rollerblading. Something impressive occurred to him. “The demand curve for pools,” he said. “Up and up.”