The Boy Next Door (32 page)

To: Mel Fuller

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: My aunt

I just thought you might be interested to know that I found out from her physician that my aunt was moved out of the ICU a month ago. She is now in a private room. She is, of course, still in a coma, but she can be visited any day between four and seven o’clock.

Her prognosis, I’m sorry to say, is not good.

Max Friedlander

To: Mel Fuller

From: Stacy Trent

Subject: John

Dear Ms. Fuller,

You don’t know me, but you do know my brother-in-law, John. I am sorry to write to you this way, seeing as how we’ve never actually been introduced, but I couldn’t sit still and watch what was happening between you and John without saying something.

Melissa—I hope you don’t mind if I call you Melissa; I feel like I know you, from all the talking John’s done about you—I know that what John and his friend Max did was very, very wrong. I was completely shocked when I heard about it. In fact, I urged him to tell you the truth from the very beginning.

But he was afraid you’d be so mad at him, you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him…a fear that unfortunately proved well founded. And so he chose instead to wait for that “perfect moment” to tell you.

Except that, as you or I could have told him, there is no perfect moment to hear that the person you have fallen in love with has misrepresented himself in some way.

I am not saying that you do not have ample reason to be furiously angry with John. And I absolutely adored the creative manner in which you got back at him. But don’t you think he has suffered long enough?

Because he
is
suffering, very badly. Why, when he came by the other night to see the baby—I just had my third, a boy we named John after my twin daughters’ favorite uncle (see? He’s well liked by children, which means he can’t be all bad)—he looked quite dreadful. I swear he’s lost at least ten pounds.

I know how maddening men can be (do I ever—I’ve been married to John’s older brother Jason for a decade), but I also remember
from my single days how truly hard it is to find a good one…and that’s what John is, despite what you might think, based on his behavior toward you so far.

Won’t you please give him a second chance? He really is crazy about you—and I can prove it. I’d like to offer you John’s own words, in e-mails he has sent to me over the course of the past few months. Perhaps, after reading them, you will come to the same conclusion I did: that the two of you have managed to find something very few of us in this world are lucky enough to discover: a soulmate.

>So what do you want to know?

>

>Did she believe I was Max Friedlander? I am sorry to say that she did.

>

>Did I play the part of Max Friedlander to perfection? I guess I must have, or she wouldn’t have believed I was he.

>

>Do I feel like a grade-A heel for doing it? Yes. Self-flagellation.

>A for me.

>

>The worst part is…well, I already told you the worst part.
She thinks I’m Max Friedlander
. Max Friedlander, the ingrate who doesn’t even seem to care that someone coldcocked his eighty-year-old aunt.

>

>Melissa cares, though.

>

>That’s her name. The redhead. Melissa. People call her Mel. That’s what she told me. “People call me Mel.” She moved to the city right after college, which makes her about twenty-seven years old, since she’s lived here for five years. Originally, she’s from Lansing, Illinois. Have you ever heard of Lansing, Illinois? I’ve heard of
Lansing, Michigan, but not Lansing, Illinois. She says it’s a small town where you can walk down Main Street and everyone goes, “Oh, hi, Mel.”

>

>Just like that. “Oh, hi, Mel.”

>

>She showed me where Max’s aunt keeps the dog and cat food. She told me where to buy more, in case I ran out. She told me what Paco’s favorite walks were. She showed me how to lure a cat named, and I kid you not, Mr. Peepers, out from underneath the bed.

>

>She asked me about my work for the Save the Children fund. She asked me about my trip to Ethiopia. She asked me if I’d been to visit my aunt in the hospital, and if it had upset me very much, seeing her with all those tubes coming out of her. She patted me on the arm and told me not to worry, that if anyone could come out of a coma, it was my aunt Helen.

>And I stood there and grinned like an idiot and pretended I was Max Friedlander.

>

>I’ve met this completely terrific girl. I mean
completely
terrific, Stace: She likes tornadoes and the blues, beer, and anything to do with serial killers. She eats up celebrity gossip with as much enthusiasm as she attacks a plate of moo shu pork, wears shoes with heels that are way too high and looks fabulous in them—but manages to look just as fabulous in Keds and a pair of sweat-pants.

>

>And she’s
nice
. I mean, really, truly, genuinely kind. In a city where no one knows his neighbors, she not only knows hers, but actually
cares
about them. And she lives in
Manhattan
. Manhattan, where people routinely step over the homeless in an effort to
get into their favorite restaurants. As far as Mel seems to be concerned, she never left Lansing, Illinois, population 13,000. Broadway might as well be Main Street.

>

>I’ve met this completely terrific girl….

>

>And I can’t even tell her my real name.

>

>No, she thinks I’m Max Friedlander.

>

>I know what you’re going to say. I know exactly what you’re going to say, Stace.

>

>And the answer is no, I can’t. Maybe if I’d never lied to her about it in the first place. Maybe if right from the first moment I met her I’d said, “Listen, I am not Max. Max couldn’t make it. He feels really bad about what happened to his aunt, so he sent me in his place.”

>

>But I didn’t, all right? I blew it. I blew it from the very beginning.

>

>And now it’s too late to tell her the truth, because anything else I ever try to tell her, she’ll think I’m lying about that, too. Maybe she won’t admit it. But in the back of her mind, it will always be there. “Maybe he’s lying about this, too.”

>

>Don’t try to tell me she won’t, either, Stace.

>

>So there you have it. My hellish life, in a nutshell. Got any advice? Any sage words of womanly wisdom to throw my way?

>

>No, I didn’t think so. I am perfectly aware of the fact that I’ve dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.

>

>What do you want me to say, anyway? That she’s exactly what I’ve been looking for in a woman all this time, but never dared hope I’d find? That she’s my soulmate, my kismet, my cosmic destiny? That I’m counting the minutes until I can see her again?

>

>Fine. There. I’ve said it.

I found this particular bit most interesting:

>I bought her a ring. An engagement ring.

>

>And no, this isn’t like the time in Vegas. I have not been perpetually drunk for the past three months. I genuinely believe that this woman, out of all the women I have ever known, is the one with whom I want to spend the rest of my life.

>

>I was going to tell her the truth, and then propose, in Vermont.

>

>Now she won’t answer my phone calls, open her door, or reply to my e-mails.

>

>My life is over.

Well, there you have it. I hope you won’t discuss what you have just read with John. He would never speak to me again if he found out I had shared all this with you.

But I had to. I really had to. Because I think it’s important for you to know…well, how much he loves you.

That’s all.

Sincerely,

Stacy Trent

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Mel

Darling, do you have any idea why Mel is weeping in the ladies’? It’s extremely annoying. I was trying to show the new fax boy how cozy it can be for two in the handicapped-accessible stall, but her incessant sobs completely killed the mood.

XXXOOO

Dolly

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Mel

I don’t know why she’s crying. She won’t tell me. She’s barely speaking to me since I shot down her theory that Max Friedlander is trying to kill his aunt.

But I’m not the only one. Apparently, no one will believe her. Not even Aaron.

I have to admit, I’m worried. It’s like Mel’s taken this whole thing with John and turned it around so that it’s all about Max and his attempts at aunty-cide.

Maybe we should call somebody down in Human Resources. I mean, maybe she’s cracking up.

What do you think?

Nad

To: John Trent

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Max Friedlander

Dear John,

I forgive you.

Now we’ve got a real problem: I think Max Friedlander is going to try to kill his aunt! I think he tried to do it once before, but loused it up. We’ve got to stop him. Can you come over right away?

Mel

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Where the hell is

Fuller?

I turn my back for one minute, and she’s gone. Do I have tomorrow’s column yet? No, I do not have tomorrow’s column. How can she leave without giving me tomorrow’s column? HOW CAN SHE DO THAT???

George

To: George Sanchez

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Mel

Um, I think she had to do some research for her column. I’m sure she’ll hand it in before the copy desk shuts down. Don’t worry.

Meanwhile, did you read my story on Mars 2112? Theme Restaurants: Not Just for Tourists Anymore. Has a nice ring to it, right?

Nad

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: You are so dead

WHERE ARE YOU??? George is furious. I tried to cover for you as best I could, but I don’t think it worked very well.

Are you having a breakdown? Because, seriously, if you are, I think it’s pretty selfish of you. I’m the one who should be having the breakdown. I mean, I’m the one who’s getting married and all. I’m the one with the mother who’s furious that I’m not wearing her wedding dress, and just spent $700 on one from some outlet in New Jersey. You don’t have any right to have a breakdown.

And I know you’re going to say that you do, that this whole thing with John has destroyed your faith in men and all of that, but, Mel, the truth is, your faith in men was destroyed a long time ago. I’ll admit that when you first started seeing the guy, I thought there was something kind of sketchy about him, but now that I
know what it is, I have to say, you could do a lot worse. A LOT worse.

And I know you really love him and are perfectly miserable without him, so could you please just call the man and get back together with him? I mean, seriously, this has gone on long enough.

There. I’ve said it.

Now, where the hell are you???

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Shhhh…

You want to know where I am? Well, right now I am squatting in an emergency stairwell, which just happens to have a wall that adjoins Mrs. Friedlander’s living room.

No, really! I’m using that satellite hook-in function George had installed in our laptops. That none of us could figure out how to use? Well, Tim showed me….

I know you think I’m crazy, but I can prove to you I’m not. And the way I can prove it is by telling you exactly what I’m hearing right now, and that’s John Trent asking Max Friedlander where he was the night his aunt got her head bashed in.

I am not the only one who is listening, either.

John is wearing a wire.

That’s right. A WIRE. And there are a bunch of policemen in my apartment, listening to the same conversation I’m listening to. Only they are using headphones. I don’t have to. I can hear the whole thing just by pressing my ear against the wall.

I am not supposed to be doing this. I am supposed to be in the coffee shop across the street, for my own protection. When they told me this, I was, like, “Right!” As if I would wait in a coffee shop across the street when I could be here, getting the scoop first-hand.

Nadine, I am telling you, this is going to be the story of the year, maybe of the decade! And I am going to write it, and George is going to have no choice but to run it. He will be forced to admit that I am too good for Page Ten, and put me on hard news. I can feel it, Nadine. I can feel it in my bones!

Okay, so here’s what I’m hearing:

John:
I’m just saying, I could understand it, if you did.

Max:
Yeah, but I didn’t.

John:
But I’d understand it if you did. I mean, look at my family. They are loaded. Loaded. It’s a bit different in my case, but let’s just say my grandfather hadn’t left me any money, and had left it all to my grandmother. If she wasn’t willing to lend me a few hundred bucks now and then, I’d flip out, too.

Max:
I never flipped out.

John:
Look, I know how it is. I mean, not really, but you know how I’ve been trying to live off just my reporter’s salary? It’s tough. If I ran out, and I knew I didn’t have any more cash coming to me for a while, and I had a supermodel waiting downstairs, and I went to my grandmother for a loan, and she said no…well, I might get mad, too.

Max:
Well…You know. It’s, like, what do they think? They’re going to take it with them?

John:
Exactly.

Max:
I mean, there she was, sitting on this huge pile of cash, and the stupid bitch couldn’t part with a couple thou?

John:
Like she’d even know it was missing.

Max:
Seriously. Like she’d even know it was missing. But,
no. I have to get the lecture: “If you’d learn to handle your money in a more responsible manner, you wouldn’t be running out of it all the time. You need to learn to live within your means.”

John:
Meanwhile, she’s dropping twenty grand flying to the opera in Helsinki every couple months.

Max:
Yeah! I mean, yeah.

John:
It’s enough to get a guy pretty hot under the collar.

Max:
It’s more like the
way
she said it, you know. Like I was a little kid, or something. I mean, Christ, I’m thirty-

five years old. All I wanted was five grand. Just five grand.

John:
Drop in the bucket to a woman like that.

Max:
Don’t you know it. Then she has the nerve to go, “Don’t leave mad.”

John:
Don’t leave mad. Jesus.

Max:
Right. “Don’t be like that, Maxie. Don’t leave mad.” And she’s pulling on me, you know. On my arm. And I’m parked in front of the building, by a hydrant. And Vivica’s waiting. “Don’t leave mad,” she says.

John:
But she won’t give you the money.

Max:
Hell, no. And she wouldn’t let go of me, either.

John:
So you pushed her.

Max:
I had to. She wouldn’t get offa me. I didn’t mean to, you know, make her fall down. I just wanted her off me. Only…I don’t know. I guess I pushed too hard. Because she fell over backward, and her head slammed into the corner of the coffee table. And there’s blood everywhere, and that damn dog was barking, and I got scared that neighbor of hers would hear….

John:
So you panicked.

Max:
I panicked. I mean, I figured if she wasn’t dead, somebody would find her eventually. But if she was…

John:
You’re her next of kin?

Max:
Yeah. We’re talking twelve million, man. That’s chump change to you, but for me, the way I go through money…

John:
So what did you do?

Max:
I went into her bedroom and threw a bunch of her clothes around. You know, so people would think it was that guy, that transvestite killer. Then I got the hell out of there. I figured, lay low.

John:
But she wasn’t dead.

Max:
God, no. Tough old bitch that she is. And things…well, you know. Vivica. And my manager, he’s such a lardass. Won’t get off his butt to find me any real work. I was strapped.

John:
And she’s been in that coma how long?

Max:
Months, man. She’s probably going to croak anyway. I mean, if I gave her another little push, who’d even notice?

John:
Push?

Max:
You know. Toward death, as they say.

John:
And how were you planning on doing that?

Max:
Insulin, man. You just inject too much. Like that Claus von Bülow guy. Little old lady like that’d croak for sure—