Sway (5 page)

“Why?” he asked curiously. “You planning on robbing the place?”

“What?” I asked, because I hadn't really been giving the conversation my full attention. Then it hit me what he had said. “No. Nothing like that. Look, I can't really explain, but I just need to have an excuse to walk around the garden for a few minutes. Want to go for a walk?”

“With you?” he asked, as if the idea was mildly repulsive.

“Maybe you could pretend to be my grandfather for the next ten minutes or so. I can pay you.”

“Pay me to be your grandfather,” he said as he stroked his chin with a thick, gnarled finger, the nail etched with white lines. “Interesting. And you're not here to rob the place?”

“No.”

“Because you know, all these people,” he said with an expansive gesture around the room, “they're old and frail—half of them don't even know what decade it is. Someone could walk in here, rip 'em off. It would be easy. They don't even pay attention at the front desk.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. You ever think about stealing from the other inmates?” I asked.

“Wouldn't be much point. A lot of what you can get in here is valuables that would need to be fenced—mostly jewels and electronics. Maybe some credit cards but there's a limited value in those. I'd need a partner.”

I nodded in understanding. “I can see you've really thought this through.”

“Yeah, well. Thinking is all I can do in this place. I can't stand that fat slob who's hosting
The Price Is Right
now. He's lost a lot of weight but he still looks like a fat slob to me. Might as well just be fat, is the way I see it.” It was clear that if I didn't interrupt his senseless babble, we'd be standing here all night, talking about game show hosts and low-yield heists in old folks' homes.

“Listen,” I said—patient, reasonable, “I just want to walk into the courtyard for a few minutes and talk to someone. You want to come with me, pretend to be my grandfather, and give me an excuse to be here?”

“Grandfather?” he asked. “How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to be my great-grandfather,” I said, cutting off this line of speculative conversation before it could even get started. “Seriously, I'm sort of in a hurry.”

“Why should I do that for you?” he asked.

“I can pay you.”

“What the hell do I need money for?” he asked, obviously keen on hearing himself talk. “You think I don't have enough hemorrhoid cream or something?”

“
Uch,
okay, just stop. You're going to make me sick. We can negotiate later,” I said. “I just need a grandfather for the next ten minutes—think you can do that?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, wiry gray hair in stark relief against the muddy age spots that covered his forearms, as he narrowed one eye and glared at me through the other, filmy with cataract. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing illegal,” I said.

“Fine.”

I gripped the handles on his wheelchair and propelled him down the hall and out into the relative cool of the late-September afternoon, the interior temperature warm enough to bake someone my age. Bridget and the old woman sat beside a metal fountain that splashed water gaily against a pile of large tumbled stones. The old lady wore a woolly sweater, her shoulders hunched and her head hanging like a bird of prey.

I fixed my face into a friendly smile as we approached the bench where Bridget sat with her grandmother, who resembled Mr. Magoo from the old cartoon. “Hi,” I said, feigning a little surprise at seeing Bridget as I parked the old man near the bench where he could watch the fountain.

“Hello,” Bridget said, squinting up at me, the sun in her eyes. “You go to Wakefield, don't you?”

“Yes. You too?”

“Yes, I'm a senior,” she said. “Bridget Smalley. What's your name?”

“Jesse. Alderman.”

“I've heard your name. It's nice to meet you,” she said, sounding unreasonably happy about it. “This is my grandmother, Dorothy Cleary.”

“You'd best not sit near us,” Dorothy said as she glanced furtively over both shoulders. “The CIA is watching me. All the time they're watching.” She nodded toward a second-story window in the building and, in an ominous tone, said, “There. They've got cameras on me. They'll be after you if you're not careful.”

“Is this your grandfather?” Bridget asked, ignoring Dorothy's rant.

“Hiram Dunkelman,” the old man said as he leaned forward and offered her his hand to shake.

“I haven't seen you here before, Jesse,” Bridget said kindly. She was acting so nice, it seemed like it had to be a put-on, but I couldn't detect anything other than genuine delight to meet us in her eyes. I'll tell you honestly, it creeped me out a little. I kept trying to figure what her angle was, why she would bother being so nice to some old loser and his grandson who wasn't anybody important enough to have gotten her notice at school in three years.

“I've been living here for just over a year,” Mr. Dunkelman said, “but this is the first time he's come to visit me. He's kind of a dumb-ass. Ungrateful kid like his mom.”

“Oh,” Bridget said. She wanted to take it as a joke but looked from me to Mr. Dunkelman, waiting for one of us to smile. When neither of us did, she just cleared her throat and turned to her grandmother, who looked like she was just about asleep. “You warm enough, Grandmother?” she asked, her voice raised to such a volume it startled the ducks preening themselves on the warm rocks. The woman seemed oblivious of Bridget's ministrations and I wondered if she even knew where she was.

“You're here a lot,” Mr. Dunkelman said. “I see you with your grandmother—what?—once a week?”

Bridget nodded. “Yes, I usually come every Thursday, but this week I can't come on my regular day so I thought I would just sneak in a quick visit today.”

Mr. Dunkelman turned as far as he could in his seat to fix a scowl on me. “See?” he said. “She comes once a week. What do I get? You don't even come to take me to temple for Rosh Hashanah.”

I opened my eyes wide as I tried to cue him to shut the fuck up.

Bridget shot me a sympathetic smile and said, “I don't know how much difference it makes, whether she really knows I'm here or not.” She rubbed the old woman's gnarled hands as she spoke.

“The sea air can give you a wicked cold,” Dorothy said. “That's why I spend most of my time belowdecks, or in my cabin.”

“Sometimes she thinks she's on a ship,” Bridget whispered conspiratorially to us out of the side of her mouth.

We all politely ignored Dorothy Cleary's lunacy with a brief silence. It was Mr. Dunkelman who broke the awkward pause.

“I'm sure she appreciates that you come,” Mr. Dunkelman said, elbows on the arms of his wheelchair, leaning forward as he spoke. “Just the fact that you touch her, let her get a change of scenery. I'm sure it makes a difference for her.” He said this as he shot another accusing look in my direction, as if I really were his ungrateful grandson who never came to see him. I bit my lower lip in an effort to keep from laughing or cussing him, or both.

Bridget's smile brightened and I felt my heart lurch in my chest as it missed a beat. Where the sun touched her hair and the planes of her face, she shone gold, warmth and light radiating from her like she was an angel backlit by the heavens. I looked away as Mr. Dunkelman resumed their conversation. Bridget and Mr. Dunkelman chatted amicably for a few minutes while Dorothy and I sat mutely, both of us captivated by the ducks, now bobbing in the fountain, dipping their beaks periodically. The whole situation was quickly becoming surreal.

Finally Bridget stood and took command of Dorothy's wheelchair again. “Well,” she said, “it's been nice talking to you both.” Including me, even though I had barely said two words since our introduction. “I have to be somewhere, but I hope to see you next time I'm here for a visit.”

Mr. Dunkelman and I both stood as a show of politeness as she left, even though it was clearly a struggle for him. As I wheeled him back into the building, I said, “Thanks. That was perfect.”

“She's beautiful,” he said. “I can see why you wanted an excuse to talk to her.”

“It's not what you think,” I said, distracted as I watched for a glimpse of that golden head of hair.

“If you say so,” he said. “You got a car?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You pick me up here Saturday at eleven.”

“Excuse me?”

“My payment,” he said impatiently, as if he were talking to a half-wit. “That's my price. I want to go to the football game over at the university.”

“That's not what I meant by payment,” I said. “I'll give you cash, I'll even get you tickets to the game if that's what you want, but I've got plans for Saturday.”

“Better cancel them,” he said. “I'd hate to have to tell Bridget we lied to her, tell her you offered me some desperately needed companionship if I would pretend to be your grandfather. I'd say you'd have no chance with her after that.”

“You think this is about the girl, for me? That I'm trying to get laid or something?” I asked.

He shrugged, indifferent. “Doesn't much matter to me. Only thing matters is you don't want her to know you're a liar. That gives me a nice advantage.”

“You're a nasty old fart, aren't you?” I asked, but I kind of respected the way he had turned the situation around to suit his own needs.

“Just to show you there's no hard feelings,” he said as he took control of the wheelchair and steered himself toward the common room, where the television played at top volume, “I'll pay for drinks and dogs.”

“Fine, I'll see you on Saturday,” I called to his retreating back, “but then we're even.”

 

SEVEN

Bridget and I ended up leaving the building at the same time. I held the door and nodded for her to go in front of me as she dipped her head with that sweet, apologetic expression that was already familiar to me.

As we walked through the exit together, I asked if she needed a ride home and she hesitated before answering. Her reluctance didn't surprise me—a girl as beautiful as she was would be used to getting more attention than she probably wanted from guys.

“I'm heading to the Siegel Center,” she said. “You sure it wouldn't be out of your way?”

Again she surprised me, as I got the sense that she was truly worried she might cause an inconvenience. There was no hint that she was using the idea as an excuse to get out of riding with me. I still couldn't see her angle.

“It's not out of my way,” I lied.

“Okay, then,” she said as she fell into step beside me, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “So, your grandfather seems really mad at you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We've got baggage.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, apologetically. “Right.” She seemed to have remembered now why she had heard my name before. My name had been churned through the gossip mill in town for several months the previous year.

Bridget thanked me when I opened and held the passenger door of the car for her. She carefully arranged her skirt around her legs once she was seated, like she wanted to minimize the amount of skin she shared with me. What I could see of her legs, the skin was brown from the sun, with pale lines on the tops of her feet, the mark of shoe straps.

“So,” I said as I settled into the car beside her, “your grandmother always say weird shit like that?”

“Yes,” Bridget said with a nod. “She has dementia. The CIA is not really out to get her,” she added, her head inclined conspiratorially.

“How do you know?” I asked.

She didn't laugh, didn't give me a weird look, just thought about it for a minute, then said, “I guess I don't.”

“Maybe she worked as a spy when she was younger,” I said.

Now she did look at me. “You have a very good imagination, Jesse.”

“You think so?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you use your powers for good or for evil?”

“Define good,” I said as I pulled away from the curb and steered into traffic.

“Do you write stories, create beautiful artwork?” she asked. “Or do you make up lies to get what you want?”

A smile was playing at the corners of her mouth as she said this and I realized I had misjudged her. Her good nature was not the result of naïveté or lack of intelligence. Intriguing.

“Nothing is either good or bad,” I said, “but thinking makes it so.”

“Shakespeare,” she said, her tone triumphant. “
Hamlet
is my favorite.”

“It must be hard for you,” I observed, “always being the smartest and the best looking.” I noticed her cheeks redden but she just gave me a drop-dead stare.

We rode in silence for a minute and I thought I had made her angry, but when she turned to speak to me again, there was no evidence of it in her voice.

“So, Jesse, if you could have one superpower for a day, what would it be?” she asked.

“Is this some kind of test?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she said as she stared out the window, watching the world going by. Since she wasn't looking at me, I took the opportunity to study her legs again, the golden hairs along her arm, the rise and fall of her perfect breasts as she breathed. “I like to ask people that question,” she said, interrupting the path of my thoughts. “I think it's a good way to get to know someone. You know, if someone says they would like to be invisible, that means they would probably steal from you or invade your privacy as long as they knew they wouldn't get caught.”

“What about you?” I asked. “What superpower would you want?”

“I change my mind about it,” she said, her finger idly twirling a lock of her hair. “But I think I would like to be able to read minds, know what people are really thinking instead of just what they are saying.”