anybody asks, Al is retired, which is a good cover if you don’t know. Retirement is as good a name for it as any. He’s not that far north of fifty, too many idle years ahead, but is that an indictable offense? Between them, QVC and The Shopping Channel have everything Al wants and they have it in his size, second day delivery, which gives him a giddy feeling of control. Al’s happy, Bobby thinks, or what passes for happy, and this is even more depressing then the set of his sister’s mouth as she nips dead petals off yet another African violet.
He’s going upstairs to phone when Margaret looks up from her violets. ‘You had a phone call.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. I called you, but I guess you didn’t hear.’
‘I was talking to someone.’
‘You.’ She snaps a head off a violet. ‘You’re always talking to someone.’
Not really. ‘Did they leave a message?’
‘I am not your answering service,’ Margaret says resentfully, apparently pissed off by his contact with real life.
He loves his sister, he hates seeing her like this. He says, ‘Look, you can’t just go into mourning and stay there.’
‘OK, it was Chape Bellinger.’
‘Shit.’ You reach a stage in life where you can’t tell whether a phone call from somebody you used to know is a good thing or a bad one. It’s embarrassing, given that they were bonded in high school. They haven’t spoken since Bobby got home, and that was last spring. When you get right down to it why would they, Chape is a litigator, Bobby’s heard, demon in the courtroom, president of the Gryphon Club, kids’ soccer coach, king of the world. Given what just happened, they have to talk anyway. Lucy’s picture, in this stranger’s hands. He has it planned:
Bob Chaplin, returning Chape Bellinger
. Sound official, arm’s-length. Businesslike. Give him the bad news, whatever it is, and at this point he isn’t sure. But the number Chape left is not the office. It’s the house. They’ve known each other for so long that when Chape picks up, Bobby says, ‘It’s me.’
Big, handsome guy, big voice. ‘Hey, you.’
‘You called?’
‘I did.’ Chape’s third generation Fort Jude. He never starts a meeting until he’s made his manners. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Good. You?’ Bobby winces.
‘I can’t complain. How long have you been home?’
People gossip. It’s not like Chape doesn’t know. ‘Too long.’
‘All this time and I’ve been meaning to . . .’
‘I know.’ Chape is waiting for him to say, ‘I have too,’ so he does. He did mean to call Chape, really. He just hasn’t, is all. Now he has to offer, ‘Maybe I can give you and Sallie dinner at the club.’
‘We’d love to, just as soon as . . .’ Wait for it. The hesitation. The apologetic, ‘You how it is when you get busy.’
‘Everybody’s busy.’
Like a teacher handing out the consolation prize, Chape says, ‘But we’ll look for you at the party tonight.’
Bobby laughs. ‘I’d rather see me dead in the rain.’
‘That’s kind of why I called. Listen, Bob. We have a problem.’
Confused, Bobby asks, ‘How did you find out?’
‘Word gets around.’ Chape laughs, to show Bobby he’s in charge. Then he rethinks. Puzzled, he asks, ‘How did you?’
‘He was here.’
‘Brad?’
‘Brad!’ Bobby’s stomach sours. ‘Fuck Brad. I haven’t seen Brad since college. Listen Chape, we have a real problem.’
‘Explain.’
‘A kid was here. Could be Lucy’s.’
Fucking lawyer, Chape asks in that controlled tone. ‘How do you know?’
‘He came looking for her house.’ Bobby is deciding whether or not to tell him about the snapshot.
Chape should ask him why, but he doesn’t. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he doesn’t say anything. When they were kids, Bobby’s pal Bellinger drove teachers nuts with his empty, innocent stare:
Who, me?
Bobby doesn’t have to be there to see it – the smooth, untroubled look of a man whose mind is as empty as
He’s going upstairs to phone when Margaret looks up from her violets. ‘You had a phone call.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. I called you, but I guess you didn’t hear.’
‘I was talking to someone.’
‘You.’ She snaps a head off a violet. ‘You’re always talking to someone.’
Not really. ‘Did they leave a message?’
‘I am not your answering service,’ Margaret says resentfully, apparently pissed off by his contact with real life.
He loves his sister, he hates seeing her like this. He says, ‘Look, you can’t just go into mourning and stay there.’
‘OK, it was Chape Bellinger.’
‘Shit.’ You reach a stage in life where you can’t tell whether a phone call from somebody you used to know is a good thing or a bad one. It’s embarrassing, given that they were bonded in high school. They haven’t spoken since Bobby got home, and that was last spring. When you get right down to it why would they, Chape is a litigator, Bobby’s heard, demon in the courtroom, president of the Gryphon Club, kids’ soccer coach, king of the world. Given what just happened, they have to talk anyway. Lucy’s picture, in this stranger’s hands. He has it planned:
Bob Chaplin, returning Chape Bellinger
. Sound official, arm’s-length. Businesslike. Give him the bad news, whatever it is, and at this point he isn’t sure. But the number Chape left is not the office. It’s the house. They’ve known each other for so long that when Chape picks up, Bobby says, ‘It’s me.’
Big, handsome guy, big voice. ‘Hey, you.’
‘You called?’
‘I did.’ Chape’s third generation Fort Jude. He never starts a meeting until he’s made his manners. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Good. You?’ Bobby winces.
‘I can’t complain. How long have you been home?’
People gossip. It’s not like Chape doesn’t know. ‘Too long.’
‘All this time and I’ve been meaning to . . .’
‘I know.’ Chape is waiting for him to say, ‘I have too,’ so he does. He did mean to call Chape, really. He just hasn’t, is all. Now he has to offer, ‘Maybe I can give you and Sallie dinner at the club.’
‘We’d love to, just as soon as . . .’ Wait for it. The hesitation. The apologetic, ‘You how it is when you get busy.’
‘Everybody’s busy.’
Like a teacher handing out the consolation prize, Chape says, ‘But we’ll look for you at the party tonight.’
Bobby laughs. ‘I’d rather see me dead in the rain.’
‘That’s kind of why I called. Listen, Bob. We have a problem.’
Confused, Bobby asks, ‘How did you find out?’
‘Word gets around.’ Chape laughs, to show Bobby he’s in charge. Then he rethinks. Puzzled, he asks, ‘How did you?’
‘He was here.’
‘Brad?’
‘Brad!’ Bobby’s stomach sours. ‘Fuck Brad. I haven’t seen Brad since college. Listen Chape, we have a real problem.’
‘Explain.’
‘A kid was here. Could be Lucy’s.’
Fucking lawyer, Chape asks in that controlled tone. ‘How do you know?’
‘He came looking for her house.’ Bobby is deciding whether or not to tell him about the snapshot.
Chape should ask him why, but he doesn’t. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he doesn’t say anything. When they were kids, Bobby’s pal Bellinger drove teachers nuts with his empty, innocent stare:
Who, me?
Bobby doesn’t have to be there to see it – the smooth, untroubled look of a man whose mind is as empty as
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