Things Hoped For (12 page)

It feels like a long time before either of us talks. Then Robert says, “I hate to mention it, but I’m still really hungry. You?”

I nod. I hate to admit it too. It seems disrespectful to eat, to do something so normal right here in Grampa’s house, right where he’ll never be again.

Then, for the first time, I understand why there’s always food after a funeral, at least in my family. Food and eating are all about life, about keeping up the strength to go on. And Grampa would want that. He truly would.

I feel drained, but I get to my feet and move toward the kitchen. “How about a ham and cheddar omelette? Maybe with some mushrooms?”

Robert smiles. “That’d be great.”

I turn the corner and bend down to get the frying pan from the cabinet below the cooktop. And I hear, “If you don’t mind, I’d like an omelette as well. And some toast with jam. Sounds quite delicious.”

It’s an almost perfect British accent, and I know Robert means well, trying to lighten things up. But I’m not in the mood. So I say, “Please, no joking, not now.”

“Awfully sorry—though I must say that merely requesting sustenance can hardly be construed as humour.”

The idiot’s still being British, so I put my head around the corner. “I’m serious, Robert, not now.”

Then I see his face. It’s chalky white, and Robert’s eyes are wide, locked, staring at the space in front of the fireplace. So I look there too.

And there it is. Just like at the Nike store.

It’s the shadow man.

Fear is an excellent cure for fatigue. It even dulls my grief. I’m instantly alert, looking at the vague, wavy shadow of an invisible person, a man, standing in the parlor.

And then I remember what Robert said about being out in public: No clothes. There’s a naked man standing twenty feet away from me. A shiver grabes my spine and shoots all the way to my toes. I know I have legs and arms, but I can’t seem to move them. I’m paralyzed.

Robert’s not much better. At least he can talk. And he can think too, because he begins looking wildly around the room, and he says, “What’s going on? Who’s that talking?” He’s pretending he doesn’t know what’s happening. And I don’t really understand why.

The man chuckles. “Nice try, my good fellow. But you see, I heard you talking to the young lady on the subway this afternoon. It’s Gwen, and I assume that’s short for Gwendolyn, right? You were telling Gwendolyn about your experiences two years ago. So please, don’t pretend to be confused.”

Robert adjusts instantly. His face is still pale, but in a conversational tone, he says, “How come you followed us?”

“Curiosity, at first. I could tell you saw me. Which is nothing new. A person in my condition becomes sensitized to being noticed. This is at best a limited form of invisibility, and people are always catching glimpses of me.”

“And how about dogs?” says Robert, and I can tell he’s pulled that question from his own experience, his own time in the same condition. And it strikes me that my two guests, one invited and the other not, have a link, a strange bond that I can only imagine. But I’m learning fast.

The man laughs, and even his laughter has a British tone to it. “I have had to nearly throw myself in front of speeding taxicabs in order to avoid the teeth and claws of the city’s canine residents. I have never seen so many ill-mannered four-footed creatures in my life. And, frankly, the two-footed New Yorkers are not much better.

“But getting back to your question, Robert: I followed you because you not only saw something—me—but you reacted in a way no one ever has before. You seemed to know
what
you were seeing. And when you began to practically run away, I knew I’d best investigate. I managed to catch up just as you got to Columbus Circle. I didn’t get to hear everything you said to Gwendolyn on the train—too many people about, and I had to keep retreating so as not to be trampled. But I heard enough to know that you and I should talk.

“So why don’t we all sit at the table together? I often cook for myself, and I often nibble at some of the finest restaurants and delicatessens in the world. But a simple meal, cooked to order, is a luxury I’ve been craving for almost three years. Gwendolyn, are you planning to step over here and knock me senseless with that skillet, or may I prevail upon you to continue with your previously announced dinner preparations?”

The direct address wakes me up. I look down, and I’m still holding the frying pan.

“No, I’ll cook. Omelettes. I’m ready.”

“Excellent.”

And as I dig around for ingredients in the refrigerator, the man says, “So tell me about your experience, Robert. And please, leave nothing out. I’m certain I shall know if you try to hold anything back.”

It’s the tone of his voice. Something unpleasant, almost threatening. I’m cracking eggs into a bowl, and from my position at the stovetop, I can see Robert on the couch, facing the fireplace. He gets this wonderfully simple look on his face and says, “Why would I hold anything back? Besides, there’s not that much to tell. I woke up one morning at my house in Chicago and I was invisible. And I was that way for almost a month. I stayed at home with my parents, and we kept it a secret. And then one morning I woke up, and I was back. I had some fun, and I missed a lot of school. And I learned more about what I want in life. Because that time changed the way I look at myself. And other people. But that’s about it.”

So Robert’s holding back, telling as little as possible. I don’t blame him.

The man makes a clucking sound, and I can imagine him shaking his head. “No, no, no—that’s far too simplified. I want details, young man, all the details. After a month in the shadow world, you went to bed invisible one night, and then you woke up normal again? Is that what you’re saying?”

Robert nods his head. “That’s what happened. Was it different for you? I mean, like, at the start? And, who are you?”

“Call me William, please. I was employed as a rather undistinguished assistant professor of English literature at a university some distance north of here. Three winters ago I awoke at four in the morning needing a drink of water, and I went to the kitchen in my flat and reached for a glass, and—no hand. No hand, no arm, nothing visible beneath my pyjamas. I had been divorced for two years, living on my own, writing literary criticism when not teaching. So, unlike you, I faced my predicament alone. And that night my former life came to an abrupt end. I simply disappeared, which I must say I found quite invigorating. Rather like being reborn. No debts, no more whining from my ex-wife, no more alimony or child-support payments—quite delightful.” He chuckles and then adds, “I even got to settle a few old scores at the university before I left.”

Warning bells go off in my head, because I’ve never liked the kind of person who holds a grudge. And again, I feel a dark undercurrent—something almost cruel. Something dangerous.

Robert has to be feeling the way I do, but he’s nodding, playing along. He says, “But now you want to get back to normal again.”

The man pauses, considering Robert’s statement. “I would at least like the option. I’d like to know how this happened. Which is why you, young man, are of such intense interest to me. You see, being in this state has enabled me to develop a way to make quite a lot of money. However, at some point it would be good to become my former self so I can spend that money in more conventional ways than I’m currently able to. It does one little good to be stinking rich if one cannot purchase a villa in a sunny climate and then live at that villa without alarming the local population. A person who looks like me cannot speed about in an expensive motorcar without being covered with clothes from head to toe, and of course, that takes all the fun out of owning a convertible. So I’m keenly interested in how you returned to ordinary life.” He pauses, then adds, “And I think you are not telling me all you know about it.”

With a look of confused innocence, Robert says, “There’s nothing more to tell. It’s not like I planned for it to happen, and I didn’t plan for it to stop, either. It happened, and then it stopped.”

Robert may be the best actor I know. And now I understand exactly why he’s holding back like this. The goal is to say good-bye to this man as soon as possible. But what if he decides he wants to stick around? What happens then?

I’ve got the first omelette almost ready, so I put two pieces of bread in the toaster. “William, do you want some orange juice with your omelette? Or milk? Or coffee? And what do you want on the toast? There’s orange marmalade, strawberry preserves, and grape jelly.” It’s strange to be talking to someone I can’t see, because the man isn’t in front of the mantel anymore, and it’s exactly like Robert told me: If you’re in that state, no one can see you unless you’re right up against another background.

And when the man answers, I jump, because William’s just opposite me, right on the other side of the island where I’m cooking. Close enough to reach across the stovetop and touch me. Another shiver.

“Orange juice will be perfect, and strawberry preserves. No coffee, thanks. And you do not have to shout in my direction, Gwendolyn. I am presently invisible, but my hearing is unimpaired.”

And the smile in the man’s voice tells me that he enjoyed seeing me jump.

By the time the toaster pops, I’ve got three places set at the table, and then I serve the first meal. “All ready.”

I’ve moved my daffodils, and I place William’s food on the table so he’s facing me as I cook the second omelette. I don’t want to miss anything. Robert can be matter-of-fact about this, but it’s all new to me, and I want to see—or not see—the whole magic act. And then I want this man to leave.

I have to admit that mealtime is quite a show. The knife floats, slices off a tab of butter, and then spreads it onto the toast. The salt and pepper rise into the air and take turns shaking above the omelette. The juice glass goes up, tips, and the liquid seems to spill into midair and disappear. The fork is in almost constant motion, cutting, spearing, ferrying back and forth between plate and mouth.

And I’m overcooking the second omelette.

Robert’s at the table now, and between mouthfuls the man keeps talking. I wish he’d talk with his mouth open so I could see the food floating there before he swallows. But he has proper English table manners.

“As I followed you here, I was hoping to walk indoors behind you so we’d have a quiet moment to begin our conversation. And then I saw that large man, Henry Carlton Page, as I recall the name, who began pounding on the door. You two made such a dash that I couldn’t slip into the house with you, and I had to stay outside for most of the afternoon. I didn’t think it wise to ring the bell.”

Robert says, “Weren’t you freezing?”

“It was not pleasant, but unless it’s bitterly cold, I have trained myself to ignore bodily discomfort. Then the police arrived and opened all the doors, and I’ve been admiring your home ever since, Gwendolyn. And I must say, this is quite a ripping little drama you’ve got going here. After my initial tour of the premises, I took up residency in the library, since that seemed to be the police command center. And I listened to all of the statements taken by that dreadful chief inspector. And I shall be quite interested to see what he makes of the case. And, of course, Gwendolyn, I am truly sorry about the loss of your grandfather. He has a kindly face. The police were very respectful of him—which is more than they’ve ever been to me. It was fascinating to watch them do their work. Real life is far more interesting than television, don’t you think?”

After a sip of orange juice, the glass hangs in midair, and he says, “I just
adore
nosing about in other people’s business, don’t you? In fact, I often think I should start my own private detective agency. Because sometimes I’ll just choose a person who’s walking down the street, someone who looks interesting to me, and I’ll follow along for days and days—home, office, gym, restaurants, even business trips, and those quiet evenings with friends and family. It’s fascinating to learn so much about another human being, all those little secrets. Of course, I snoop mostly because it’s amusing, just because I can. But I’m certain I would be paid handsomely for the information I could discover. But it’s not a job for the faint of heart. I’ve had some rather close calls as an amateur. So it’s probably just as well that I’ve found . . . other work.”

Robert’s omelette is served, and as I pour out the egg mixture to start cooking mine, I notice my hands are shaking. But I’m curious, and I say, “So, what is this other work?” It’s a casual question, but right away I feel like I shouldn’t have asked.

The juice glass descends. Then a napkin lifts slowly off the table, dabs the air, and returns to its place. And his voice says, “I’d rather not go into that. But I can tell you that it’s an endeavour that has a kinship with the grand old English tradition of Robin Hood.”

I flip my omelette. And even though the man scares me, I’m still curious. So I ask another question. “Do you just sleep in stores . . . like, anywhere it’s warm?”

“Do you mean, am I a homeless person? No, I rent a comfortable flat north of Fourteenth Street, situated above what used to be a meat-cutting plant. It’s a one floor walk-up, and I have my own door at street level with an electronic entry pad—which saves me the trouble of keeping track of a key. I come and go whenever I wish, and my neighbors do not seem to notice or care when my door opens and closes at odd hours. New York is a lot like London in that way, everyone basically minding his own business. I have groceries delivered to my entryway once a week. I did have a break-in last September, but the burglar took an unfortunate tumble down my stairs—I waited until he had a television in his arms. Poor lad thought no one was home. And as he lay at the bottom of the stairs with a broken ankle, sharp things like forks and pencils began to mysteriously float through the air and then suddenly jab into his arms and legs. Quite a lot of howling. The fellow finally managed to flee with relatively minor injuries, but I am certain that neither he nor any of his colleagues will ever be back. He had a
frightening
experience.”