Tumbledown (11 page)

The big truck took the eastbound ramp onto the freeway and Candler circled back to the senior center. Billy Atlas was high-stepping up the building’s white stairs.

Exercising,
Candler supposed. Or just as likely:
Billy has lost his mind.

Billy was disheveled and soft, chronologically in the prime of his life and yet he seemed never to have had a prime, his hair short and badly cut, the color of pine boards, his teeth too big and always showing—Billy was a smiler. He was capable of such insistently blank stares that people often believed he was putting them on. At the bottom of the stairs, he did squats, his hands thrust out like a Russian dancer.
Definitely exercise,
Candler decided, though that didn’t rule out insanity as a sidebar. He was wearing one of Candler’s suits. It was too small, Billy’s pink hands emerging from the cuffs like sea creatures.
Exercising in one of my suits,
Candler revised. He and Billy were both overweight, but the pounds looked manly on Candler and chubby on Billy, and a list of tiny things like this accounted for the vast difference in their lives.

“Yo, Richard Simmons.”

Billy high-stepped it to the car. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming,” he said, climbing in, huffing.

“Had to finish some things.” He had them out on the street again quickly. “How’d it go?”

“I knew I’d get the job when I arrived and the other guy was arguing about whether he could play the radio while he worked. You send that clown?”

“Thought I’d keep the competition to a minimum.”

“It worked. Where we going?”

To the consternation of the librarian, Candler turned onto the eastbound freeway ramp. He wanted to catch the diesel, which shouldn’t be difficult through the Lagunas.
Exit freeway in point five miles.
“There’s a piney place up ahead a few miles where we can eat,” he said. “Have a beer and celebrate your employment.”
Exit freeway in point two miles.

Billy put his nose next to the GPS screen. He touched one corner with his index finger. He kept the finger there and the screen went blank. The omniscient narrator was turned off.

“How’d you know how to do that?”

“I’m a genius.”

“Could’ve used a genius earlier. I’ve had a weird day.”

“How so?”

“Driving stuff, clients, my secretary had her skirt tucked into her belt this morning so her panties were hanging out.”

“This is why camera phones were invented.”

“There are maybe a hundred reasons I wouldn’t do that, starting with liking and respecting her, and moving on to her husband already thinks I’m trying to steal her away.”

“That’s the suit talking . . . Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Trying to steal his wife.”

“I’m engaged, and even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t go for Rainyday.”

“Rainy Day? That’s her name? I think I like that name.”

“Her husband was the other guy I sent to interview.”

“That guy has a panty-wearing wife?”

“Women pretty much all wear panties.”

“Seems like it ought to be reserved to a limited few. The word has a special place in my head, and that guy shouldn’t have a wife with admission to that special place.”

“What should the others wear?”

“Boxers or something, like the rest of us.”

“This is exactly the kind of speculation you can
not
make working at the Center—or any place else in the world, actually, but especially not at the Center.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t talk about any underwear whatsoever. Except maybe teddies. You can talk about teddies in church.”

“When was the last time you were in church?”

“I’m taking this job seriously. Time for a new start. I’m exercising these days, and—”

“When did this exercise regimen begin?”

“Maybe twenty minutes ago. You forget we’re supposed to meet the Haos at the bar?”

Recalculating,
Candler thought and exited the freeway. The Calamari Cowboys required his help. A decent guitarist played in an otherwise atrocious cover band Thursday nights at Toad’s Tavern, a bar near Candler’s house. Clay Hao and his brother had formed a country-and-western band that needed, among other things, a decent guitarist. Candler steered the Porsche through a burger joint before reentering the freeway. Egri would be appalled at their eating in the Porsche, but Candler was resigned to being a crummy sports car owner. He decided, too, that he didn’t care about the diesel. It was gone for now, which made him feel like he had won a bet. As they were passing the last of the three Onyx Springs exits, Candler’s cell phone rang.

“I’ve hesitated to call.” It was Mick Coury’s mother. “I know you have to have a private life, I just . . .”

Candler heard a clicking that might have come from her throat. “What is it, Mrs. Coury?”

She described her son’s incoherent speech. “He’s skipping his medication. If his father hadn’t chosen this particular evening to visit, I might not have gotten him seated long enough to notice. His father insisted I call. He’s in town one afternoon every other week, but he thinks he knows . . .” She let the sentence drift away. “I let Mick go out, anyway, to Alonso’s. Mick’s an adult, after all, and I try to respect his decisions. Besides, he took the pill at, oh, about five fifteen, and I thought I should let him go, but I’ve been fretting about it, whether I’ve inadvertently given him permission to cheat on his medication.”

Candler guessed that Mick was at the same garage apartment where Karly Hopper had climbed the stairs. He could picture her taking those steps up to the landing, the cutoff jeans, the yellow halter top. “I’ll see if I can have him called out of the party,” he said, “at least temporarily. I’ll phone you right back.”

He didn’t like asking favors of the Barnstone, but he only rarely hung out with the Hao brothers, and he didn’t want to miss it. The Barnstone lived in Onyx Springs, near the Center, and she didn’t seem to have any social life that his request might disrupt.

“Surprised to hear from you this time of the evening,” she said.

“It’s about Mick Coury.” He explained the circumstances as he maneuvered freeway traffic. The morning’s accident did not keep him from the fast lane. “The thing is, I’ve been drinking and shouldn’t drive right now.”

Billy Atlas smiled evilly at the lie.

“I could dictate a quick note,” Candler went on. “The key is to make Mick leave the party temporarily, take responsibility for—”

“I catch your drift,” she said. “You can owe me.”

Her last sentence was almost enough to stop him, but he rattled off a message, called Mrs. Coury again, and by the time they reached the exit for Liberty Corners he had taken care of the business.

“Don’t let me get drunk,” Billy said, as soon as Candler clapped his phone shut. “I start my new job—and life—tomorrow.” He put his palms together and pushed strenuously, his face turning crimson.
Isometrics.

“I don’t actually like Mr. James Candler,” Karly said, making a pouty mouth and holding the expression while she took a bite of pizza. They were sitting in a circle on Alonso’s carpet, talking about the counselors. This was a favorite topic, and it took many shapes.

If you had to be stuck on a deserted island with one counselor, which would it be?

Which counselor would make the best president of the United States?

If you could save only one of them from a terrible fire, who would you save?

Today’s topic was marriage. Rhine brought it up. He wanted to marry Karly, and he reasoned this was a good step: the introduction of the general subject. He had an outline for approaching Karly, and the introduction of the general subject was the fifth step. Purchasing the suit had been step one, putting her name on his old cycle helmet had been step two,
hygiene
was step three, using his line from
Casablanca
was step four. Giving her a ride home on his cycle was step six. There were fifty-seven steps altogether, ending with
kissing etc. on wedding night.

By this time, Mick felt better, not less medicated but more accustomed to it. He knew why Karly didn’t like Mr. James Candler—he wouldn’t flirt with her. Mr. Bob Whitman, who must be sixty-five or seventy, flirted in a grandfatherly way, and Mr. Clay Hao flirted in a distracted, friendly way. Even Ms. Patricia Barnstone commented on Karly’s appearance in a racy, joking way. But Mr. James Candler would not flirt, and that hurt her feelings.

“What he is,” she said, “is mean.”

“If you can’t say something nice,” Alonso put in hoarsely, rocking back and forth on the floor, his head nodding, the pause growing long before he finished with, “say something else.”

The pizza man had arrived while Alonso was in the bathroom masturbating. They heard him, but they were used to it—all but the pizza guy, who said, “You got an animal in here?” No one discouraged Alonso’s frequent masturbation. His counselor was satisfied that he finally understood the requirement of privacy. Alonso had been at the Center longer than Mick, longer than any of the others. None of them, including Alonso himself, knew for how long. He was forty-two years old, but his face was unlined and open, and he looked almost as young as Mick and Rhine, who were in their twenties. Karly was twenty-one, but whether she looked older or younger, Mick could not say. She looked the age of actresses in movies when they were the stars of the show and every single thing about their lives mattered. What age was that?

Mick had paid for the pizzas. They did not talk about Crews disappearing and Rhine busting a window. If Maura were with them, she would make wisecracks and tease Rhine. The rest of them weren’t teasers. Rhine had to break the window to answer the phone. What else was there to say? Someone from the facility had called the Center, and a counselor, Mr. Bob Whitman, showed up. All he wanted to know was the precise time that Crews walked out. He distributed their pay and let them go home early.

“Since there’s just one woman counselor,” Rhine said, “can we pretend the men are women? Otherwise, the men all have to choose Ms. Patricia to marry.”

“Ms. Patricia Barnstone,” Alonso said.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” Rhine replied. It always got a laugh.

“That is so funny,” Karly said.

“Go ahead,” Mick said. “If all the counselors were women, who’d you marry?”

Rhine furrowed his brow and nodded. “I’d marry Ms. Patricia.”

“Ms. Patricia Barnstone,” Alonso put in.

“Then why’d you make the men into women?” Mick asked.

“To have a choice,” Rhine said and turned to Karly. “Your turn. You never answered. You can make Ms. Patricia a man.”

“Ms. Patricia Barnstone,” Alonso said again. Then he added, “I’d marry Mr. Clay Hao.”

“He’d have to be
Ms.
Clay Hao,” Rhine said.

“He couldn’t be
Clay
and be a woman,” Karly said. “I know, I’m a woman.”

“How ’bout we call him Janice Hao?” Mick said. “Jackie Hao?”

There was a way to make this funny, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. This was his experience on his meds: he recognized the existence of a punch line but he couldn’t name it. Some people, he guessed, were always like this. Which led him to think that the meds were designed to emulate stupidity.

“Which one?” Rhine asked. “Janice Hao or Jackie Hao?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mick said.

“It matters what your name is,” Rhine insisted.

“You aren’t even marrying him,” Mick said. “Alonso is.”

“You have to pick a name for him before he can be your bride,” Rhine said.

Alonso nodded, smiled. “Mr.—”

“Ms.,” Rhine said.

“Ms.,” Alonso agreed, “Ms. Karly Hao.”

The room erupted in laughter. Alonso laughed especially long and hard, holding his belly. Only Rhine failed to find it funny. He reminded Karly that it was her turn.

“I’d marry Mr. James Candler,” she said. “I’d be Mrs. Karly James Candler.”

Mick was surprised by this. “You said he was mean.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, smiling. Those teeth. “You’re so silly.”

He couldn’t contradict her. “It wouldn’t work out, though, one of
us
marrying one of
them.
”

Alonso’s phone rang.

“That’s right,” Rhine said. “Get that out of your head.”

“Ms. Karly Hao,” Alonso croaked again.

“Everybody knows that,” Karly said.

“Aren’t you going to answer that ringing?” Rhine asked.

Still laughing, Alonso shook his head.

Rhine leapt up and ran to the phone.

“Yes, Mrs. Coury,” he said. “This is Rhine.” He turned to the others, covering the receiver with his hand. “It’s Mrs. Coury.”

Mick got up so quickly that it made him lightheaded. He steadied himself and the room settled as well, the blurring of color reconciling into familiar shapes. On the wall, a poster of Britney Spears stared at him. She was in black leather, her breasts ready to burst from a vest, a portable microphone at her lips, held in place by a wrap around brace that hooked over her ears. Mick remembered not liking Britney Spears, back in the
before
days. Music, anymore, was hard for him to evaluate, even his own reaction to it.
Britney Hao,
he thought, but that wasn’t funny.

“He’s coming, Mrs. Coury,” Rhine said. “He’s crossing the room. Here he’s stepping in. Not there! The doorway is the part that doesn’t have tape. Good-bye, Mrs. Coury. This is Rhine.” He handed the phone to Mick.

“How’s the party?” she asked. Her voice was light, like balloons bouncing off the ceiling, rising, bouncing again.

“All right. Why are you calling?”

“Mr. Candler wants to talk to you.”

Mick glanced over at the others. They were watching him. “What about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Did he call you or you call him?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “We talked.” Concrete had entered her voice. It became as heavy as Mick’s head.

“You called to tell him I wasn’t . . .” He turned away from the others and whispered into the phone. “. . . taking my medication.”