he said, “and it’s unlocked.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Then get in.”
“Get in?”
“Nobody’s coming. Just get in and find the registration.”
Robby climbed into the car and opened the glove compartment. The car’s interior lights lit up the whole scene like a fish tank, and at that moment I heard my uncle calling, “Robby?”
I couldn’t see where Uncle Hoyt was, exactly. There was a catering truck to one side of us and somebody’s Dodge dually on the other side, and though I could see most of the front lawn, I couldn’t see my uncle, so I ducked.
The voice came closer.
“Robby?”
The light in the car went out. I had no way of knowing whether Robby had also heard the voice and ducked.
“I don’t know where he went,” my uncle told somebody. “I’ll send him to find you when he shows up, okay?” he said.
I earnestly hoped that might be the end of his search, but then I saw my uncle’s silhouette at the far end of the corridor that the parked cars formed on the grass and gravel. He would see me. He would see me crouched beside a car and he’d know whose car it was and what would I say? What if he came up and saw Robby in the front seat?
I popped up and started walking—sprinting, nearly—toward him, not daring to sneak a glance into the Avalon. “Hi, Uncle Hoyt,” I said. My voice sounded fake and wobbly, as a nervous, lying voice will. “I was just looking for something.”
“You find it?” He studied me with his usual acuteness. That was the thing that gave Uncle Hoyt real substance, the fact that he always looked like he was weighing your moral fitness and expecting the very best you could be, no lies or cowardice, and giving you the same. How could I have been wrong about him?
“Yeah, I found it,” I told him, sick at heart. I patted my purse as if the phantom lost thing were safely stowed. I sweated onto the tight batiste armholes of my new unfashionable dress.
“Let’s go back to the party, then, okay?” Hoyt said. “Have you seen Robby?”
I said I hadn’t lately, and I went with him to the plates of scallops and figs and strawberries and lamb, but I slipped away again from the quivering pool water and the sparkly lights as soon as I could. There in the Avalon was Robby, prone in thedark seat of the car. When he saw me, he cautiously sat up. I opened the car door and discovered that Robby Wallace is not spy material and maybe not, as I thought at the start of the party, the master of his surfboard and the sea.
“Well?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. I haven’t moved since you left.”
“Get cracking, Tintin! I’ll be the lookout.”
He shook his head, so finally I just did it for him. I got in the car, opened the glove compartment, and rifled away. I told myself it was my father’s fault and my uncle’s, too, and that I used to be good and trustworthy.
The car was registered to someone named Arnold Farlow on Tumblecreek Lane. I memorized this information and stuffed the papers back into the plasticine folder filled with receipts. I was more than ready to declare this sufficient information when I noticed that there was a laminated tag on the floor of the car—one of those ID cards you have to wear now that people assassinate their co-workers all the time. MARY BETH FARLOW , this one said beneath her photograph, but the interior lights had winked out automatically, so I was trying to make out her face when Robby opened the car door and made all the light I needed. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed, crouching down on the grass beside the car. “Let’s go.”
When we returned to the party, my mother said, “I’ve been looking for you. Stay closer.”
Cake was presented, candles were lighted, candles were extinguished, cake was removed from the table by a white-jacketed waiter, and my aunt Agnès said a number of unspecificthings about her affection for Robby and Fallbrook and failed, afterward, to include my mother and me in the vast
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Then get in.”
“Get in?”
“Nobody’s coming. Just get in and find the registration.”
Robby climbed into the car and opened the glove compartment. The car’s interior lights lit up the whole scene like a fish tank, and at that moment I heard my uncle calling, “Robby?”
I couldn’t see where Uncle Hoyt was, exactly. There was a catering truck to one side of us and somebody’s Dodge dually on the other side, and though I could see most of the front lawn, I couldn’t see my uncle, so I ducked.
The voice came closer.
“Robby?”
The light in the car went out. I had no way of knowing whether Robby had also heard the voice and ducked.
“I don’t know where he went,” my uncle told somebody. “I’ll send him to find you when he shows up, okay?” he said.
I earnestly hoped that might be the end of his search, but then I saw my uncle’s silhouette at the far end of the corridor that the parked cars formed on the grass and gravel. He would see me. He would see me crouched beside a car and he’d know whose car it was and what would I say? What if he came up and saw Robby in the front seat?
I popped up and started walking—sprinting, nearly—toward him, not daring to sneak a glance into the Avalon. “Hi, Uncle Hoyt,” I said. My voice sounded fake and wobbly, as a nervous, lying voice will. “I was just looking for something.”
“You find it?” He studied me with his usual acuteness. That was the thing that gave Uncle Hoyt real substance, the fact that he always looked like he was weighing your moral fitness and expecting the very best you could be, no lies or cowardice, and giving you the same. How could I have been wrong about him?
“Yeah, I found it,” I told him, sick at heart. I patted my purse as if the phantom lost thing were safely stowed. I sweated onto the tight batiste armholes of my new unfashionable dress.
“Let’s go back to the party, then, okay?” Hoyt said. “Have you seen Robby?”
I said I hadn’t lately, and I went with him to the plates of scallops and figs and strawberries and lamb, but I slipped away again from the quivering pool water and the sparkly lights as soon as I could. There in the Avalon was Robby, prone in thedark seat of the car. When he saw me, he cautiously sat up. I opened the car door and discovered that Robby Wallace is not spy material and maybe not, as I thought at the start of the party, the master of his surfboard and the sea.
“Well?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. I haven’t moved since you left.”
“Get cracking, Tintin! I’ll be the lookout.”
He shook his head, so finally I just did it for him. I got in the car, opened the glove compartment, and rifled away. I told myself it was my father’s fault and my uncle’s, too, and that I used to be good and trustworthy.
The car was registered to someone named Arnold Farlow on Tumblecreek Lane. I memorized this information and stuffed the papers back into the plasticine folder filled with receipts. I was more than ready to declare this sufficient information when I noticed that there was a laminated tag on the floor of the car—one of those ID cards you have to wear now that people assassinate their co-workers all the time. MARY BETH FARLOW , this one said beneath her photograph, but the interior lights had winked out automatically, so I was trying to make out her face when Robby opened the car door and made all the light I needed. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed, crouching down on the grass beside the car. “Let’s go.”
When we returned to the party, my mother said, “I’ve been looking for you. Stay closer.”
Cake was presented, candles were lighted, candles were extinguished, cake was removed from the table by a white-jacketed waiter, and my aunt Agnès said a number of unspecificthings about her affection for Robby and Fallbrook and failed, afterward, to include my mother and me in the vast
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