The Practical Navigator (15 page)

One evening, at the roommate's insistence, she takes a shot of tequila hoping it will take the edge off the day's growing anxiety. It doesn't. But the fourth one does. She begins drinking on a regular basis, not so much to get drunk but to keep calm. She discovers that alcohol makes her social. Even outgoing. She has never had friends. It has never bothered her. She can't picture herself going through life as anything but alone. But now she can actually be with people for more than the usual half hour at a time without losing interest and wanting to walk away. On the nights she doesn't drink, her brain feels like it's shooting off sparks. She sits by herself in the library pretending to read magazines or she watches television in the student center, wanting to bang her head against the wall to stem the rising tide. She wonders how long she can go on like this. She wonders if she should talk to someone about it. She wonders if she should kill herself and just get it over with. But no—she's actually curious as to how it will all turn out.

Her roommate, something of a pal now, calls her unknowable. And she is. Even to herself.

 

26

Leo brings cookies.

He is a stealth bomber. He is a commando. He is a closet gourmet and home chef armed with
La Pâtisserie de Pierre Hermé
, English edition.

“These are for Mike,” he says.

“Don't tell me, tell him,” says Rose.

“I can't 'cause he's not in yet,” says Leo, stating the obvious.

Rose, who doesn't like the obvious being sprung on her, least of all by Leo, looks up from the computer. “Shouldn't you be at the job?”

“I'm on my way.”

“You're late on your way.”

Making it sound like it's a regular occurrence, thinks Leo. Man, it's tough to be appreciated. “I'm just dropping these off. For Mike. And I don't want you eating any of 'em.”

“Any what?” says Rose, her attention back on the computer screen.

“These cookies.” They are in a shiny aluminum tin, one-pound capacity, made by a shipping supply specialist. Leo has found they keep the air out, the freshness in.

“Cookies,” says Rose as if she's not exactly sure what cookies are.

“Cookies, yeah,” says Leo. “Homemade cookies.”

“Homemade as in
you
made them?”

“Yes, as in me, as in I made them.”

“What kind of cookies would you make, Leo?” Rose sounds skeptical, sounds as if she knows for a fact that Leo has a hard time boiling water.

So much for what you know.

“For your information, Rose, these are chocolate-chip butter-pecan maple melts. I took sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla, almond extract, unbleached flour, baking soda, ground nutmeg, maple syrup, chocolate bits, half a cup of toasted pecans, and I made these cookies. Did I mention the pound of butter?”

The recipe is actually Donna Hay, not Pierre Hermé. The chocolate bits are Leo's addition. Twisting the lid, Leo opens the tin.

“You wanna try one?”

He offers the tin to Rose who hesitates, starts to reach—Leo dangling the tin ever closer—and then abruptly pulls her hand back.

“You're such a liar, Leo.”

Rose pushes her curly dark hair back behind her ears, a gesture Leo finds painfully erotic. “A liar. How?”

“You didn't make these.”

“No, Rose, no, I didn't. I got 'em in the frozen food section at Costco.” Leo clamps the silver tin shut, a silver tin that he would like to tell Rose cost eighty bucks he couldn't really afford at the time, but hey, you get what you pay for when it comes to cooking.

“What's going on?”

Leo turns. The outer door to the office has opened and Michael is standing there.

“Nothin',” says Leo. “I gotta talk to you about something. In private. And I brought you cookies.” He holds out the tin.

“Cookies,” says Michael as if he too isn't quite sure what cookies are.

“Yeah, for you and Jamie,” says Leo, sounding exasperated. “Doesn't anyone know what cookies are?”

“Great. I'll take 'em home with me.”

“Good,” says Leo. He turns back to Rose. “At least somebody'll appreciate 'em.” And putting the tin down on Rose's desk, Leo proudly turns and disappears into the inner sanctum.

“What was that all about?” Michael says to Rose.

“Never mind,” Rose says. “A disagreement.”

Shrugging, Michael moves into his office and closes the door behind them.

*   *   *

“The meeting with the guy, you never told me how it went.” Leo has lowered his considerable bulk into the office's old straight-backed chair. It squeaks in protest.

“The guy. What guy?”

“The rich guy.”

“That guy, oh, yeah. If he has a toilet to unplug,” says Michael, moving around his desk to sit, “he might give us a call.” He tries to keep his voice light. It hasn't been easy to lately.

“Aw, shit, we can do that job, Mike. In our sleep we can. Did you tell 'im that?”

“I should have known better than to even ask.”

“So what's next then? After we finish dickwad's place.”

“I have some irons in the fire. We'll find something.”

“Meaning we got nothing.”

“We'll find something, Leo. We always do.”

“We're small potatoes, Mike.”

“Yeah, but we're good potatoes. We taste great.”

Leo rises. He suddenly feels trapped in the small room. The photos on the wall—photos of remodels, additions, cabinetry work they've done, work to be proud of—suddenly seem depressing.

“I need some money, Mike. I'm behind.”

The words hang there, plaintive and pathetic, even to his own ears. He adds the last word—the dog-shit icing on a crap cake.

“Again.”

“How much you in for?” asks Michael quietly.

“A grand.”

“That's a lot.”

“I know. I keep thinking, the circumstances and all, they'll give me a break. They don't.”

“I can give you an extra two hundred…”

“That's not enough.”

“… a week. For the next five weeks.”

“Can I get four up front?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“It won't happen again, I swear.”

“No problem.”

It kills Leo that the look on Michael's face says he's heard it before. But what the hell. He has.

*   *   *

Damn you, Leo.

The tin keeps calling to Rose, making work impossible. The cookies were three-inch round disks, golden brown and puffy, with flecks of chocolate and pecan floating just beneath the surface. When Leo exposed them to the light, the office suddenly smelled like a bakery. Perhaps that's all she needs. To smell them again, yes. She will certainly not give Leo the satisfaction of eating one. She has heard the rumors. Leo makes fancy, full-course dinners for friends. He went to Luis's very own house and cooked Luis's father the world's best
menudo
for his birthday. Everyone tells him that he should open his own restaurant someday. Rose, who is on a Nutrisystem diet to help manage her hyperglycemia, is of the opinion that food is a weakness. Still, it is one she has a tendency to get overly excited about. She doesn't want to even think about the fact that Leo's beard smelled of butter and powdered sugar as he leaned over the desk.

Rose reaches for the tin.

It is surprisingly heavy. Obviously the contents—the cookies—are denser than they appeared. Leaden perhaps. Dry and soggy. Yes, probably both.

Rose opens the lid.

The rich smell of pecan, chocolate, butter, maple, and sugar envelops her like perfume. She feels faint with hunger. There is no way they can taste as good as they smell. She lifts one gently from its bed. There are brothers and sisters, each more beautiful than the next, underneath. She takes a small bite, careful not to spill crumbs on her desk. Saliva, sweet as nectar, floods her mouth and she feels like swooning.

¡Le consigno al infierno, Leo!

I consign you to hell.

 

27

Pulling into the country club parking always reminds Neal Beacham that he needs to get the damn car washed. It's a gray Lexus LS, five years old, still high-end, but undistinguished when compared to the brand-new Mercedeses, BMWs, and sports cars that dot the members' parking lot. Neal Beacham doesn't really give a rat's ass about cars, but still, there is such a thing as keeping up with his fellow club members, even if the majority of them are pompous nitwits, upgrading their cars as often as they do their golf clubs. What Bob Moses, who's in his mid-seventies, needs with a Ferrari is beyond him. And that pretentious prick Jay Bellemy can stick the silly Corvette with its U.S. Naval Academy decal and all his flying missions in Vietnam up his ass.

We lost. What good did you do?

As to the dusty car, maybe he'll ask Anita to take care of it. It's not that she has anything better to do. Hanging around the house, sitting by the pool, making coffee in the kitchen.

Puts my damn teeth on edge.

“Your mother and I would like to know your plans.”

“She would or you would?”

“All right. I would.”

“I don't have any.”

“None.”

“At the moment nary a one.”

“There are such things as jobs.”

“Mmm, maybe I should become a banker.”

“I don't think you're funny.”

“You never have, Dad.”

“You may not stay here indefinitely.”

“Gee, I have an idea. Maybe you could buy
me
a condo.”

Children a man can brag on. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently, yes.

Heading toward the clubhouse, Neal waves perfunctorily at the group on the first tee. Karl Van der Grew with his banal sex jokes. Dave Bundy who insists on plumb bobbing every damn two-foot putt on a course he's played a thousand times. Robert Caulfield with all his so-called financial savvy and advice. As if a wart doctor knows the first thing about the workings of a private bank, knows the first thing about the regulations that demand your money, time, and resources, knows about the big boys constantly sniffing around and hovering, looking to gobble you up, knows about foreclosures, weak loan demand, and the low interest rates that pinch your lending profits. Neal Beacham prays daily for the next inevitable real estate meltdown. He's quietly and carefully positioned himself for it. And when it happens and the lemmings go down with the ship he will buy Robert Caulfield out a dime on the dollar.

“Neal B!”

“Come on, Neal-meister! We need a fourth!”

“Bring your wallet!”

“Not today, you buzzards! I already have a game!”

Ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha. Ha.

He wouldn't piss on any of them if they were burning. He's playing with George Frost today—George, a retired dentist and a twenty handicap who out of sheer ego calls himself a nine and so will go down in flames to Neal Beacham's solid ten. Should at any rate. Coming around the corner of the pro shop, Neal Beacham feels disoriented, as if he is walking down an uneven, echoing passageway. His game has been …
off
lately. As he stands on the tee, his heart will start to beat out of control. His arms and shoulders feel stiff even when he hits the simplest iron shot. There seems to be a tremor in his hands when he holds his putter or signs his scorecard. Sometimes he feels like sitting down and not getting up again. Stress. It must be. And no wonder.

My wife is no better than my daughter.

“She's going through a difficult time, that's all.”

“When hasn't she?”

“Now you're just being mean, aren't you.”

“There comes a moment when one has got to cut bait.”

“That's a lovely cliché. Who'd you get it from?”

“It's the truth.”

“Yours perhaps.”

“Just don't blame me if she becomes totally unstable and you know who I'm talking about.”

“Neal?”

“What is it.”

“Plan on eating alone tonight.”

Love me, he wants to say. For once in your life, for once in our life together, just love me. It would all be so very different if you would.

That'll be the day.

By the time he enters the quiet of the men's locker room, Neal Beacham has come to the conclusion that both his wife and children are ruining not just his golf game but his health and well-being as well. He doesn't deserve it, not any of it. He's a reasonable man who does far too much for too many and now, as usual, is going to be forced to do it again.

They're all damn lucky to have him.

 

III. Coastal Phase: Navigating within 50 miles of the coast or inshore of the 200 meter depth contour.

 

28

“Hello, this is Dr. Akrepede.”

“Hey. You're a hard person to get ahold of,” says Michael. He is in his truck and is fumbling to get the Bluetooth in place, the headset which always makes him feel like an old-fashioned telephone operator. The voice on the other end hesitates a moment.

“I'm sorry, I've been terribly busy at work.”

“If I was a patient, I would have had to call 911.”

Not the best of jokes. It's bothered him that she hasn't called back, that she seemingly has so little interest in what's been happening in his life.

“And I was at a conference,” Fari now says, more an afterthought than an excuse.

“You too busy to go out Saturday night?”

“Are you sure? If it's not yet a good time for you…”

“It's fine. Back on track. And I want to see you.”

“All right. Saturday is fine then.”

“Around seven? We'll go to dinner.”

“No,” Fari says. “I'll cook.”

“Let's make it six then.”