Good Intentions (23 page)

“They’re with their mother,” Marc answered. “I’ll bring them next time. There were some things I wanted to talk over with you today.”

“Such as?” The words came out “Sshush us?” and Lynn felt Marc’s body stiffen beside hers.

“How are they treating you here, Dad?” Marc asked, not ready to plunge right in. Ralph Cameron shrugged with half his body. “Nurses still can’t keep their hands off you?”

“It’s a terrible state of affairs,” the senior Cameron said, and once again his eyes smiled.

“So you’re happy? No complaints?”

“None at the moment,” Marc’s father said, eyeing his son skeptically, as if he knew that was going to change. He winked at Lynn, and Lynn responded to the gesture with a wide smile. There was definitely nothing slow about the old man’s mind. For a moment, Lynn wondered which was preferable—a failing mind, like her mother’s had been, lost inside a reasonably healthy body, or a healthy mind, such as Marc’s father obviously had, imprisoned in a body that had failed him.

Marc Cameron sat down on the bed facing his father and took the old man’s hands in his.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” Lynn asked.

“Please stay,” Marc whispered softly, and then proceeded to explain to his father the steps he had taken with regard to the senior Cameron’s finances. Lynn listened as Marc patiently, and with as much tact and gentleness as was possible, told his father that he now had power of attorney over his money, that there were to be no more trips for the nurses, no more baby-blue Lincoln convertibles, that he would be put on a weekly allowance.

“And watched like a child,” his father said, refusing to look at his son as tears fell unimpeded down the length of his cheek. He made no effort to wipe them away.

“No, Dad, not like …”

“I guess I might as well die now,” Ralph Cameron said, and for the first time that afternoon, his words were slow
and clear. Lynn felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Mr. Cameron …” Lynn began, but Ralph Cameron raised his good arm, telling her to be quiet.

“Please go,” he said.

“It’s for your own good, Dad,” Marc Cameron pleaded. “I can’t just sit back and watch you throw your money away on cars you can’t drive and trips for the nursing staff. You worked too hard all your life for me to let you do that.”

Ralph Cameron lifted his head and stared directly into his son’s sad eyes. “Bastard,” he said.

Lynn saw Marc’s body sway, as if he might topple over. She felt his pain and wished there was something she could do to ease it, knowing there was nothing. She watched him turn from his father and walk quickly out of the room. Slowly, carefully, Lynn approached Marc’s father and knelt down before him. “Your son loves you very much, Mr. Cameron. This was very hard for him.” The senior Cameron said nothing, his gaze directed resolutely out the window toward his convertible. “Goodbye,” Lynn whispered when she could think of nothing further to say. Sometimes it was best to leave bad enough alone.

She caught up with Marc in the hall. He was staring at the closed elevator doors with the same intensity as his father had been staring out his bedroom window. Lynn knew better than to speak at such a time. She stood beside him quietly, letting him know that she was there without saying anything.

There were already two people in the elevator when Lynn followed Marc inside, the tags on their white coats identifying them as doctors. Lynn smiled hello. Marc said
nothing, seemingly oblivious to their presence. His eyes followed the numbers of the floors as they descended from three to one.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cameron?” one of the doctors asked. He was about the same age as Marc, short, stocky, with the beginnings of a mustache sprouting under his small, bulbous nose. Marc turned toward him as if in a trance. “Dr. Turgov,” the doctor continued, extending his hand. “We met last time you were here. You’re the writer, right? Your father is the one who sent Nancy Petruck to Greece to see her grandmother.” He laughed. “That car of his is something else. He let me take it for a spin the other day. Great car. How’s the writing coming?” He said all this in one sweeping mouthful, apparently unaware of Marc’s almost palpable hostility. “You know, I always thought that when
I
retired, I’d take up writing.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” Marc said in return, the sarcasm clinging to each word like honey on a knife. “I always thought that when I retired, I’d take up medicine.”

The elevator door opened as if on cue, and Marc exited before Dr. Turgov had time to understand he’d been insulted.

“It’s amazing the things people will say to writers.” Marc was still fuming as they waited for the bridge that connected West Palm Beach to Palm Beach to lower. “Can you imagine saying to a lawyer, ‘I think I’ll take up law when I retire’? Or to a dentist, ‘I’ll take up dentistry’? But everybody thinks they have a book in them. And maybe they do; maybe they’ve lived particularly interesting lives, and have exceptionally sharp insights. But that still doesn’t mean that they’re capable of recording them
coherently or entertainingly enough to make anyone want to read about them. ‘I have great ideas,’ people are always saying to me. ‘I could be a writer.’ Well, they couldn’t. Because while they may have ideas, even great ideas, what they don’t have is the discipline that it takes to sit down and write every day, to face that blank piece of paper every morning and turn it into a mirror of their souls so that the readers see their own reflections in it. Writing’s like any other skill. Not everybody can just sit down in front of a typewriter and do it, and yet everybody thinks that when they retire, they’ll just write a little book. ‘If you can do it, I can do it.’ Do you know how many times I’ve heard that one? From friends too, not just casual acquaintances. Like people who look at a Picasso masterpiece and say, ‘My kid can do that.’ Well, I’d like to see that kid try. Christ,” he said, banging his fist against the steering wheel, “this bridge is taking a long time.”

Lynn strained her head to see around the lineup of cars in front of them. “I think the last boat is going under now,” she said, watching the mast of a large sailboat as it passed between the raised sides of the large bridge. She watched as the two halves of the bridge began their slow descent, joining at the middle as they came together and then lying flat, the cars once again free to cross over. “What else do writers hear?” she asked, grateful for the doctor’s insensitivity because it had allowed Marc the opportunity to blow off necessary steam without brooding about his father.

Marc warmed to his subject. “I’m asked a lot where I get my ideas.”

“Where
do
you get your ideas?”

“Impossible question to answer.” He laughed, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. “But people never believe that. They like things neat and tidy. So you tell them that you get your ideas from newspapers, from what’s happening in your own and your friends’ lives, that sort of thing. The truth is that you don’t know where you get your ideas any more than anybody else does. I guess it has something to do with the way writers look at the world. You and I may overhear the same argument at a dinner table, and you’ll come away wondering what you could do to help, and I’ll come away with a scene for a book. Writers use everything. Use it, change it, pervert it. Everything is stimulus. Nothing is sacred.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Lynn squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the conversation for the first time. “Where are we going?” she asked absently, thinking it was probably a good time to change the subject.

“I thought we’d have some lunch.”

“Good idea. I’m famished.”

“I thought we’d have it at my place,” he said, and she said nothing.

“A lady was by to see you earlier,” the doorman announced as Marc led Lynn through the front doors of the lobby of his apartment building.

“Did she leave her name?”

“No, sir,” the elderly gentleman replied, sweating beneath his too tight uniform. “No name, no message. I asked her, but she said she’d try to reach you herself later.”

Marc shrugged, seemingly unconcerned, and he guided Lynn toward the elevators in the back of the building.

“It’s a nice apartment,” Lynn lied once they were inside the small foyer of the dark two-bedroom apartment.

“It’s a lousy apartment,” he corrected her. “And you’re a lousier liar. Brown, for God’s sake,” he exclaimed as they entered the cramped living room, furnished entirely in shades of brown and mustard yellow. “I’m not saying that everyone has to do blues and greens, but come on, even a little beige would have been welcome.” Lynn followed Marc into the tiny galley kitchen, the cupboards of which were a depressing imitation wood. “But what the hell, it was furnished, cheap, and it was available, and until I know for sure what’s happening, it’ll do just fine. Now, what can I get you to drink?”

“I’d love a Coke.”

“A Coke for the lady,” he announced, the hint of a laugh in his voice as he handed her a cold tin from the fridge, immediately followed by a glass. Lynn’s eyes fell across his sons’ recent finger paintings, which were taped to the fridge door. “And a beer for her would-be suitor.”

Lynn pretended she hadn’t heard the last remark, as they returned to the living room. She was thinking that she shouldn’t have agreed to come here, and was alarmed to discover she couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.

“I have a wonderful crabmeat salad in the refrigerator for later. Made it myself this morning.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Good. I did it to impress you.” He winked, and she understood the gesture was inherited.

“Where do you write?”

“I have a desk set up in my bedroom. Care to have a look?”

“No,” Lynn said quickly. She should never have agreed to come here. He could rape her and no jury in the world would convict him. “I thought it was what she wanted,” she could hear him tell a crowded courtroom. “Why else would she go to my apartment? She knew my intentions were less than honorable.” How many times had she advised young women not to put themselves into positions like this? Where were her brains? More importantly, where was her self-control?

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“That this is really a depressing place,” Lynn answered, taking a quick look around. “Why don’t we get out of here? I’m not really very hungry.”

“You said you were famished.”

“Actually I was just thirsty.” She held up her Coke, taking a long sip for emphasis.

“What about my crabmeat salad?”

“What about a picnic on the beach?”

“Sounds great. Can I finish my beer first?”

“Oh. Oh, sure. Of course.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No. No. I’m very comfortable standing.”

“You don’t look very comfortable.”

Lynn took another sip of her drink, wishing he would do the same with his. “What do your boys think of the place?”

He laughed. “They think it’s great.”

Lynn looked at the unadorned mustard-colored wall across from where she stood, realizing she had never even
seen the house in Gulfstream that Gary had temporarily rented.

“Of course, it’s quite a switch from where they’re used to living.”

“Must be quite a switch for you too.” Lynn tried to picture how Gary must have felt upon abandoning their house on Crestwood Drive, how he must feel each time he returned to it. Of course, Gary had chosen to leave. Marc had been given no such choice.

“You get used to everything,” he told her. “Besides, Suzette’s home was never my home. For years I tried to pretend it was, but the truth is that I was always just a visitor there, a boarder with special privileges, if you will. Suzette’s parents bought and paid for that house, the same way they bought and paid for everything their daughter wanted. The princess is supposed to live happily ever after, remember?” He shrugged, and took a long sip of his beer. “After her parents were killed, she wanted no part of the house. Said it had too many memories. So we started looking for a new house.” He laughed. “We found a little more than I bargained for.” Lynn watched his free hand form a fist. “Come on, let me show you my etchings.”

Lynn had no time to object. Marc’s arm was at the back of her elbow, half guiding, half pushing her down the narrow hall. “Is this where the boys sleep?” Lynn asked, braking to a halt outside a small brown-and-yellow room whose twin beds were all but hidden by stuffed dinosaurs and model airplanes. Lynn walked inside the room, pretending to study the collection of Hardy Boys mysteries that lined the small bookshelf along one wall. “They’re a little young for these, aren’t they?”

“They were mine,” Marc confessed, a bit sheepishly. “I saved them, actually brought them with me when I moved down from Buffalo. I used to love the Hardy Boys.”

“I’m a Nancy Drew fan myself,” Lynn told him, and laughed. “Megan is reading them now.”

“And they ask what makes a classic.”

He was moving closer. “What’s that?” Lynn asked.

“What’s what?”

Lynn pointed to what looked like a large fish tank, something long and black lining its bottom. “That.” She edged closer, out of arm’s reach.

“Oh, that. That’s Henry.”

“Henry?” Lynn was almost on top of it when she saw it move, and she realized that Henry was a snake. “Oh my God.”

“You don’t like snakes?”

“I like things that jump,” Lynn said, feeling squeamish, not sure which way to turn. “Snakes don’t jump.” She pushed quickly past him into the hall, then turned right, finding herself in the master bedroom. “Wrong turn,” she said, aware that he was behind her, his large frame blocking the doorway. He began moving closer.

“Marc, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You want me to take a blood test?” He smiled and so did she.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is I shouldn’t even be here.”

“I know, your lawyer advises against it.”

“I’m too old for games, Marc.”

“I’m not playing games. How much more straightforward can I be, Lynn? I want to make love to you. I
think you want to make love to me. Am I wrong?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”