A Changed Man (32 page)

“Okay, so what’s the bad news?”

“You’ve got to pick it up before two,” Jimmy says. “I’m closing early. For the weekend. Sean’s got a dirt bike meet all the way up in Cooperstown. We’ve got to leave Friday afternoon and stay over Friday night.”

This isn’t bad news. Bonnie’s car can be fixed soon, and from the sound of Jimmy’s voice, she guesses it won’t be too expensive. She’ll have to leave work early, or better yet, take the day off and get the car. What’s wrong with this picture? Lunch with Laura Ticknor.
That’s
the bad news. Bonnie can’t reschedule. With Laura Ticknor’s social life, that might mean a delay of three months, by which point they will have lost whatever momentum they picked up at the benefit dinner. Good-bye new donors, farewell celebrity volunteers. Vincent will have almost died for nothing.

Why should she go through this so that Jimmy’s son can ride a dangerous dirt bike too fast around a track? Can’t Jimmy’s helper stay late enough to exchange Bonnie’s car keys for money?

“Can’t you leave the car and the key for me till I get home from work tomorrow night? And I’ll get you a check.”

Jimmy says, “We’re not supposed to let this get out. But a car was stolen from the lot two weeks ago. So we’re being extra careful.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Bonnie says. “There’s this guy I work with, I could send him to pick up the car tomorrow. And I’ll call you and send you a check. Or I could give it to him. But how will I know how much it is?”

“I’ll trust you for it,” says Jimmy.

H
OW LONG HAS
M
EYER BEEN ASLEEP
?
Long enough for
the light to have changed. The sky above the city has taken on a dusty lavender color, a color for which, he seems to recall, there was a Hungarian word. But he can’t remember it, and maybe there never was one, just an illusion left over from the dream state he’d slipped into at his desk. Has he missed anything? Probably. So much is happening every minute. The TV show coming up, and all the hullabaloo about Vincent…

Every light on his phone is blinking. He rings Bonnie and gets her voice mail. Meyer calls the front desk. Has everyone gone home? He looks at his watch. It’s seven. No wonder they’re gone. How could he have slept so long? Why didn’t anyone wake him? Didn’t anyone care enough to see if he was alive?

Meyer leaves his office and wanders down the halls lined with empty cubicles. How melancholy and alone he feels, like an abandoned child. On the morning of the day he came home from school to find that his mother had been taken away by the Germans, they’d had a fight because he’d refused to wear the scratchy new scarf she’d made him. The scarf was there. She wasn’t. Only then did he put it on. A lifetime later, he can still feel the coarse wool around his neck.

Why think that now? Because he’s alone in the office? Because the elderly baby can’t be left on his own? Meyer’s being hard on himself. He’s not a pampered infant. His work is important. He just freed an innocent man from jail, halfway around the world. Meyer made some phone calls. He called in a couple of favors. But no one wants to hear about that. They all want to know about Vincent.

Why should Meyer be surprised that Vincent’s story should be easier to market? It’s new. They’re tired of Meyer’s song and dance. The Holocaust is over. Please, no more Hitler, no more ovens, no more filthy, skeletal half-dead Jews in striped pajamas. It’s time to move on. Enough with the Hungarian kid who had unspeakable things done to him and survived. Let’s concentrate on this younger, handsomer model who once had a couple of racist thoughts and later changed his mind.

What has it all added up to? How much time does Meyer have left? And what will he do with that time? Sit in this office, make calls. No one cares. No one buys his books.

Meyer needs to snap out of it. He probably has plans for the evening, something Irene arranged. Some museum opening, opera, ballet. Why can’t Meyer remember? Because he never knows. When he gets home, Irene will give him the evening’s assignment, tell him when and where he will be playing Meyer Maslow.

In any case, he needs to go. He hurries back to his office to grab his briefcase and keys. Isn’t there a security guard? It shames him that he doesn’t know how to lock up his own place of business. Every grocer can do that.

The light on his phone blinks again. Obviously, it’s Irene, asking where he is, scolding him for being late. He dreads the sound of her voice. But there’s nothing to be gained by making Irene worry.

“Hello,” says Meyer.

There’s a silence. Then a man says, “Ah need to talk to Vincent.”

The tone is low and menacing, and the southern drawl sounds even more threatening because it seems fake.

“Who is this?” Meyer asks.

“Who wants to know?” says the voice.

“This is Meyer Maslow.”

“This is Meyer Maslow.” The man imitates him, several registers higher. “Vincent Nolan will know who I am.”

“He’s not here,” says Meyer.

“Tell him I called.” The line goes dead. Meyer stands there with the phone to his ear, listening to the silence.

Meyer has enough instinct left to know that the guy isn’t kidding. The guy means Vincent harm. That sixth sense that enabled him to read a person’s true intentions must still be functioning. There’s no ESP required. Just common sense, and anyway, Vincent said as much that first day. The guys in ARM were after him. That’s why he needed to stay at Bonnie’s. And now at last they’ve found him.

Meyer knew something like this would happen. But he chose to ignore it, because Vincent was useful to him. That’s how low Meyer has sunk. He’s put someone else’s life in danger. And for what? To publicize his book? No, it’s not about that. It’s to support the foundation.

Meanwhile Vincent’s a sitting duck. That’s what Meyer and Bonnie have made him. They’ve bred the instinct out of him: the impulse to take off running. Meyer recognized that reflex. That’s why he made Bonnie watch him. To change Vincent that way, to denature him, is like handling a baby bird, like domesticating a wild beast and setting it loose in the forest.

The phone lights again. Meyer picks up.

“Hello?” he says. “Hello?”

“Meyer,” Irene says. “Where are you? Do you have any i-dee-a?”

G
ETTING HIGH WAS A HUGE MISTAKE.
Danny’s got to stop
it. He promises himself that he’ll cut down as soon as school is over. He knows it’s a promise he only makes at the very worst moments, like now, when Mrs. Graber is looming over his desk, asking him to look at his schedule and see what period he has free to meet with her and Mr. Armstrong. That’s the assistant principal. And Mrs. Graber doesn’t sound friendly. The pot is giving her voice a kind of echoey reverb. Danny takes out his schedule. There’s no way he can pretend not to have the next two periods free. Doesn’t Graber have to teach? This must be important if Linda Graber’s blowing off a class for a conference about whatever Danny supposedly did.

“Next period then,” Mrs. Graber says. “We’ll expect you in David Armstrong’s office.”

“Can I ask what this is about?” Danny hates the wimpy sound of his voice. The whole class is watching. He’ll never live this down.
Can I ask what this is about?
will dog him all the way to next year’s graduation. Anyway, he doesn’t have to ask. He already knows.

“I think you know,” Mrs. Graber says.

“My Hitler paper?” Danny says.

“Good guess, Danny,” says Graber.

But there’s nothing wrong with his paper. It was a fairly straightforward biography of Hitler plus some information about how he might have been gay. Which he put in to make it more interesting. He was trying to say something new.

“What’s the problem?” Danny stalls. Mrs. Graber’s supposed to tell him together with the assistant principal. But she can hardly wait. She’s dying to break the news herself.

“Frankly, Danny, there was some concern that your paper might be…homophobic.”

Homophobic? Danny wasn’t saying that being gay meant you were Hitler, or that Hitler was Hitler because he was gay, or that all gay guys are like Hitler. How could Graber and Armstrong get it so wrong? Armstrong’s famously touchy about this, being as how he
is
gay, the only out administrator in the Lower Hudson Valley system. Ever since Armstrong came to the school, they’ve had a week of sensitivity training every fall, five days of nonstop embarrassment, of making the few black and Hispanic kids want to kill themselves on the spot as the homeroom teachers read from a script that lists the nasty prejudices you might have about other races. The teachers ask the kids who believe it to raise their hands. No kid is that stupid. A school joke is that Armstrong’s initials, DGA, stand for Definitely Gay Astronaut. He
could
be the first gay astronaut. He looks like one. He’s got an astronaut name.

Next period. Let’s get it over with. At least Graber won’t expect him to listen as she drones on for the rest of class. He’s too busy trying to remember exactly what he said in his paper. He knows Mrs. Graber won’t call on him because today, even if it’s obvious that he hasn’t done the reading, it’s no fun for her. She can’t get him in trouble. He’s already in trouble.

As soon as the bell rings, Danny hurries out, then hangs back. The last thing he wants is to get to Armstrong’s office early and stand around making small talk until Graber shows up. Taking baby steps to the second floor, he gets there just as Mrs. Graber walks in.

She sits down beside Armstrong’s desk. There’s no chair for Danny. But he never expected this to be a friendly social occasion. For a moment they pretend he’s not there, allowing him to observe their perfect mutual understanding. They’ve already had a talk about him. The thought gives him the shivers.

David Armstrong is the one person in the whole school most likely to hate his essay. Because he’s one of those gay guys who thinks he has to be super straight. Maybe Linda Graber is gay, too. Just because she’s married…Whether anyone is gay or not has nothing to do with this. What matters is what Danny meant to say, and what he said, in his paper.

“Hello, Danny,” Armstrong says. Have they actually met? They’ve said hello as they passed in the hall. Armstrong says hello to everyone and pretends he knows you. He probably thinks he
does
know you because you say hello. He probably thinks that’s what knowing you
is.

Stepping forward to shake his hand, Armstrong’s doing his slightly hunched, pigeon-toed school-administrator walk, like the wild ostriches Danny saw last week on Discovery Channel. Armstrong’s hand feels cool and soft.

“Hi,” says Danny. “Hey, Mrs. Graber.”

Graber rolls her eyes and sighs.

Mr. Armstrong says, “As we suppose you can imagine…” Who is this
we?
And
what
can Danny imagine? By suggesting he can imagine something, Armstrong’s suggesting that Danny already knows something, which proves that he’s guilty. “Mrs. Graber and I are terribly upset about the paper you turned in for World Civilizations.”

Graber and Armstrong both sound like astronauts’ names. Houston, we’ve got a problem.

“What was wrong with my paper?”
As I suppose you can imagine.

“We feel…Mrs. Graber and I both feel that it’s extremely homophobic of you to say that homosexuality or even the fear of his own homosexuality can turn a man into history’s most evil mass murderer.”

That’s what Danny was afraid they
thought
he said. Except that he
didn’t
say that. He never said that was why Hitler did what he did. He just said maybe Hitler was gay.
And
he was evil. Neither thing
caused
the other. They’ve completely misread him.

Ultimately, why should he care? Who are Armstrong and Graber? Two losers who work in his school. Still can’t get past the fact that someone thinks he meant and said something he didn’t mean or say. It throws him so off balance that now he isn’t sure what he
did
mean and
did
say. Maybe he didn’t say it clearly. Is there a way to explain? Danny’s afraid there isn’t, that he’ll never change their minds. His only choice is to fall back on what’s in his heart, what he believes. Which is that being gay doesn’t mean you want to kill six million Jews, nor that all gay people are murderers. He’s tired. He wants to sit down. What he really wants is to punch someone. It’s so frustrating. A teen cliché.
Nobody understands me.

“That’s not what I meant,” says Danny. “I never said that Hitler did what he did because he was a closeted gay. I never said that all gays are capable of doing what Hitler did. I said that Hitler had a lot of problems. And one of them was maybe sexual…”

It’s as if he hasn’t spoken, as if he’s moving his lips. Testing, testing, has someone turned off the audio? Graber and Armstrong don’t blink. Danny wishes he weren’t stoned. It’s making this twice as scary. Danny will never get high again. Not ever, as long as he lives.

Armstrong runs a hand through his blond bristles and leans across his desk. His pink face shines at Danny like those interrogation lamps you see in movies about Nazis. Best not to think of those films now. Danny has to stay clear.

“We so want our students to understand that the most valuable thing we can teach them, even more important than what they learn in class, is a sense of community, of inclusiveness and tolerance, of live and let live.”

“I know that.” Danny ought to. He’s certainly heard it enough.

“And to believe or say anything counter to that is…well, it’s a re-al problem for the community. Danny, I’ll be straight with you. It’s like a knife in our hearts.”

The most important thing is not to crack up because David Armstrong said he wanted to be
straight
with him. Danny didn’t write what they say he wrote. And what if he did? What about
his
freedom of speech? His First Amendment rights? Where were Graber and Armstrong last year when they took American History, and Mr. Hellenschmidt, one of the only cool teachers, made sure that even the slowest kids understood what the Constitution guaranteed.

“So what happens now?” asks Danny.

Armstrong and Graber look at him, surprised and a little stung. They want to torture him longer, and Danny’s ruined their fun.

“We need to think it over and discuss it amongst ourselves,” says Mr. Armstrong. “We need to consider your case.” So they
are
going to torture him more. Starting with the disgusting idea of them
discussing his case.

“And until then?” Danny’s been a cringing wreck ever since Linda Graber stood over his desk. What would happen if he needed to fight a real enemy—let’s say, the Nazis? He fears cowardice above all things. He fears he’s the kind who runs away from danger instead of the kind who runs toward it. He fears he’s inherited it from his mom. It’s in his DNA code.

Graber and Armstrong exchange looks. They’ve got this all worked out. Why don’t they say it in unison, like cartoon chipmunks? Why does Mrs. Graber defer to Mr. Armstrong? Because he’s the
man.

“Let’s start with a temporary suspension,” he says.

“Fine. Let’s start with that.” Danny likes the feeling of saying it, so he says it again. “Let’s start with that.” The second time may have been a mistake. Anyway, it’s his exit line. Danny is up and out of the office.

Testosterone is the wind in his sails! It carries him past Armstrong’s secretary and straight toward the door, toward the sunlight and warm air. Let the hall monitors stop him. Danny is following orders.

Outside, it’s a beautiful day. Only lunatics would be rotting in school, wasting their time in class. Danny decides to go home and figure out what he needs to do next. The thought of home leads directly to Mom, who will not be pleased by the suspension. But Danny will show her his paper. She’ll understand what Danny was saying, and she’ll take his side. Despite how often Danny wishes his mom were different, he’s glad she’s the way she is.

It all feels unaccountably fantastic, the charitable thoughts about his mom, the residual high combined with the pleasant weather, the beautiful streets of Clairmont. Every flowering tree is in bloom. Too bad for those puppies stuck in school beneath the fluorescent lights. For all that Danny complains about Clairmont, that it’s boring, there’s nothing to do, today he has to admit that it’s a great place to live. Not that he’ll be here long. He’s got college after next year. Oops. Temporary suspension. Which ultimately won’t matter. It’s in the school’s interests for him to get into college. They’ll downplay this little glitch. And the truth is, Danny is Mr. Tolerance.
That’s
in his DNA code. Just look at where his mother works. If worst comes to worst, Mom can get Maslow to write a letter testifying to Danny’s brotherly love credentials.

Danny rounds his corner. Something’s going on. More cars than usual are parked on his street. Maybe there’s something at the church. Maybe somebody’s selling their house and is having the realtors in.

The parking thins near his house. The bad house on the good block. Danny used to get annoyed when his parents said that, as if living in the neighborhood dump was something to boast about. But Danny’s come to like the fact that his house is the real house, as opposed to all the pretentious fantasy houses, the Scarlett O’Hara, the Mount Vernon, the Addams Family mansion. Danny’s still slightly wasted. That was good weed Chloe had.

How happy he is to see his house. It’s how he’s been feeling about his mom. His house, his mother, he loves them. Nothing like a chat with Armstrong and Graber to make you appreciate what you’ve got. He wishes Mom were home now. He could tell her what happened. She’d be upset at first, but then she’d read his paper….

There’s a pickup truck in his driveway. Is Mom having work done on the house? Danny doubts it. She would have told him. A million times. She would have spent days reminding him that someone was going to be there, someone it was safe to let in, as opposed to all the serial killers trying to break down the front door. She would have given him a detailed description of the electrician or plumber: mug shot, license number, psychological profile.

Maybe some creep is casing the house. Maybe Mom’s worst fantasy has come true. Or maybe it’s just some guy who’s decided to take a nap in Danny’s driveway, or trawl for neighborhood kids to molest. In any case, it’s not what Danny wants to deal with at the moment.

Danny considers pretending that there’s no guy and no truck in his driveway. He could walk around the block, cut across the neighbor’s yard, sneak in the back way. Lock the door, keep the curtains pulled. That’s what the weed is suggesting. The problem is that Danny can’t forget that conversation with Vincent about the people who run away from trouble and the ones who run toward it. Danny’s a guy from the first group who wants to belong to the second. And the truck in his driveway is definitely a test.

There’s no way he can sneak inside with that guy sitting there. Since Dad’s gone, Danny’s the man of the house. So he’s got to do something besides what he would love to do—which is to keep going.

It takes all the nerve Danny has to walk up to the truck. He pulls himself up to his full height and tries to swagger like a cop giving a ticket. Which is
not
what he wants to look like, a cop handing out a ticket, unless he wants his head blown off by whoever is sitting in the rusted, twenty-year-old pickup. The other end of the line from what Dad was driving. Danny can see his blood and brains splashed all over the driveway, his little brother finding him when he comes home from school. And calling Mom. Poor Mom!

This is what bravery is. Bravery has nothing to do with giving Armstrong and Graber attitude. It serves Danny right for even imagining
that
took courage. His punishment for even thinking that is to come home and face the real thing. What happened in school was foreplay. The nightmare is beginning.

Danny approaches the driver’s-side window. He’s investing so much energy in trying not to look scared that it keeps him from getting as nervous as he otherwise would. That is, until he looks in the truck and sees a butt-ugly, scowling, bald guy. There’s a funny indentation around his forehead, as if he’s got permanent hat hair without hair or a hat. He’s also missing a couple of teeth. Where did they get this creep? Call central casting, get me a redneck. But wait. It gets worse. A redneck Nazi. Danny can’t help but notice the swastika tattooed on the back of the guy’s right hand.