Always he seemed satisfied that it was.
By day three, Wagner was bringing Carl’s manuscript pages back to him, marked up by Maggie Peterson. She wanted a bit more feel of the weather and local geography. She liked the tone. The pacing was good. She was pleased with what he was doing, which gratified Carl immensely. That gratification and the brutal schedule kept his curiosity in check. He still didn’t know whom he was writing about or what possible importance it all had. But he was caught up in the process now. The characters he was creating, the world he was describing, had started to come alive. And that was enough for him. For the moment.
By day four Carl Granville had lost all track of the outside world. He could no longer identify what day of the week it was. In fact, he had to think a minute to recall what month it was. By day seven he had no clear, fixed memory of what his life had been like before he started this project, even who he had been.
By day ten he was going totally stir-crazy and felt sure he was about to explode.
This feeling came over him at one o’clock in the morning. He was all written out for the night, spent, exhausted—but wired to a caffeine high. Sleep was out of the question. The walls were closing in. He needed to take a break. Not a half-hour break on the heavy bag, either. A real, honest-to-goodness break. Carl knew exactly what he needed.
He needed to go to Son House for that beer.
It was warm out. Once summer hits, it never cools off at night in the city. His street was still active, even at one A.M. Couples were coming home arm in arm, giddy with drink and laughter. A Con Ed crew was tearing up the pavement at the corner. Still, as Carl started down the block toward Broadway, where cabs cruised all night, a strange feeling came over him. A feeling of unease. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck. It was crazy, but he felt it.
Somebody was following him.
He shook it off. The work was getting to him, that was all it was. He was tense, he was spooked. But he was definitely not being followed.
He went to the cash machine at the Citibank on Eighty-sixth and Broadway. He’d done this several times since he’d been hired by Maggie Peterson. It was silly, he knew, immature. But he couldn’t help it. After punching in his code, he followed the instructions, telling the machine that he wanted to use the English language, that he wanted to deal with “Your Money in the Bank,” then that he specifically wanted to see his savings account. And there it was. Just as it had been since he deposited it. Fifty thousand dollars. He smiled and thought what he thought every time he came by this machine:
So it
is
real. It
is
happening.
But now Carl did something he had never done before. He pressed the instructions for “Get Cash.” And he took a thousand dollars out of his account.
He actually never held that much money in cash before, and he shovelled it all quickly into the right pocket of his jeans. Why the hell had he taken it out? What was he going to do with it? Spend it? Lose it? Give it all away? He didn’t really care. He suddenly felt exhilarated and couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
And that’s when he was
sure
someone was following him.
He spun around and looked in every direction. But he saw nobody. He ran to the corner, but he heard no other footsteps in pursuit. Jesus. He shook his head and gave a little half laugh. He really
was
acting crazy. Too much Harry Wagner. Too much time cooped up with Rayette and her baby and their dreary journey through the South.
Blow it out your ear, Maggie. Shove it where the sun don’t shine, Harry. Get out of my life, Sulene and Rayette and Billy Taylor and all the rest of you. I’m in the mood for a good time, and I’ve got money to burn.
Smiling again, Carl Granville stuck out his hand and waved it in the air, instantly caught a cab, and headed downtown.
* * *
Son House was Chelsea’s answer to a down-home, shit-kicking roadhouse. The walls were of aged barn siding and studded with dented hubcaps, chrome bumpers, and old Louisiana license plates. There was sawdust on the floor and Stevie Ray Vaughan blasting from the jukebox. There was raucous laughter, lots of people having fun. There was life.
There was Toni with an i.
He found a table and waved her down. She seemed a bit frazzled and exhausted, but she did seem happy to see him. And she was as gorgeous as he remembered. Maybe more so. The sight of her standing there in her Son House T-shirt and tight black jeans made his palms start to sweat. And those arresting blue eyes turned his mouth dry.
“Did you get the part?” he asked when she brought him his Corona—on the house, ice cold, with a wedge of lime. When her eyes narrowed, not understanding, he said, “
All My Children.
”
“Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “I’ve already lost three more parts since then.”
The place was busy, so he quickly drank his Corona and watched her work. Toni was easy with the customers, lively and friendly and engaging. He could tell by the way she moved that she knew he was watching her. She brought him another Corona when he finished the first one. Also a pulled pork sandwich. He grinned at her. His best Granny grin. She smiled back, coloring slightly.
He devoured the sandwich. It tasted great. Freedom tasted great.
When the place quieted down, a little after two, Toni grabbed another couple of cold ones and flopped down next to him.
“They sure make you hump for a buck here,” she said, blowing a wisp of blond hair from her eyes. “I have got to get me a good part.”
“You will.”
“I suppose. But it’s damned hard to keep going sometimes. Because you’re nothing but a face and a bod to them. Acting is supposed to be about what’s inside of you, but they’re not interested in who you are or what you think or what you feel. All they do is stare at you like they’re wondering what you look like with your clothes off.”
“Only because they are,” said Carl, who after several days alone in a room with Harry Wagner was wondering the exact same thing himself.
“You know what it’s like?” she went on, growing more animated. “It’s like the whole business is being run by fourteen-year-old boys.”
“Hey, the whole country is being run by fourteen-year-old boys.”
She let out a laugh. “Are you always so cynical?”
He stopped to think about that a moment., “No. No, I’m not. At least, I didn’t used to be. Something about this job, I guess.”
“Your novel?”
“A ghostwriting gig.”
She lit up. “Really? Anybody famous?”
He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell someone. And he hesitated. He closed his eyes, willing the words to come out. But he couldn’t do it. He’d given his word. He could never tell anyone about Gideon. So he just shook his head and sipped his beer.
“I’ve always admired writers,” she said. “I guess because I wanted to write myself.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Don’t have anything to say.”
“You’re doing fine so far.”
“I mean …” Toni paused, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I figured I wasn’t smart enough.”
“That’s never stopped me.”
“Did you always want to write?”
“I did,” he replied, turning serious. “And when I was growing up, it caused some serious friction between my father and me. Actually, it still does. If it hadn’t been for my mother, I’d probably be a—” He broke off, swallowing. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, maybe it was the Coronas. Maybe it was because he hadn’t talked like this to anybody in a long time, not since Amanda. But suddenly he was feeling very emotional. He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. Maybe he was just tired.
“You lost her, didn’t you?” Toni said, watching him.
“Four years ago.” Carl gazed at her curiously.
“I could see it in your eyes.” Her own big blue eyes began to shimmer. “I lost mine, too. Last year. I miss her every single day,”
“Every single day,” Carl echoed.
“There are things I wanted to tell her. My triumphs. My failures. Mostly my failures these days. Only she’s not there anymore …”
“And never will be,” Carl said softly. “I know.”
They were silent for a moment. Something had changed between them. There was a feeling of closeness. Of intimacy.
She was the one who broke the silence. “So the other day, how’d you celebrate? Your novel, I mean.”
“Never got around to it.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
Within minutes she had punched out and said her goodnights to her coworkers and they’d caught a cab uptown. They were in each other’s arms by the time they crossed Forty-second Street, kissing each other with a passion that bordered on the feverish.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, panting for a breath. “Here I go again.”
“Meaning what?” he said, his chest heaving.
“I have really bad taste in men.”
“Sure, now you tell me.”
“No, it’s just … they always end up hurting me.”
He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t hurt you if you won’t try to change me.”
“Why would I want to?”
“It’s been known to happen. Is it a deal?”
“You know it is, Carl,” she said softly, melting into him.
“I think you should start calling me Granny.”
“Okay … Granny.”
They did no more talking after that.
When they arrived at their building, she went up to her apartment to shower and he stopped off at his place for the bottle of champagne that was still in his refrigerator and a couple of glasses. As he opened the door, he was suddenly terrified that he’d find Harry Wagner inside, rustling up some gourmet grub. But happily, there was no sign of the man, and he rushed out and up the flight of stairs. Toni had left her door open for him. Her bathroom door was closed, and he heard water running in there. The ugly green chair was exactly where they’d left it. Cartons were still piled everywhere. He went into her kitchen, popped the cork on the champagne, and poured. He raised his glass. In silence he toasted Maggie Peterson. Then he toasted himself and his genius and his luck.
“I decided to take a bath instead of a shower,” Toni called out to him over the sound of the water. “I don’t suppose I could have my champagne in here, could I?”
“I think that’s allowed,” he said. He carried her glass over to the door, pushed it open, and with great propriety said, “Madam’s champagne.”
She was in the tub, naked and pink and slippery as can be. She was not the least bit self-conscious about her nakedness. Not that she had any reason to be. Carl stood there a moment, his eyes feasting on her, the fragrance of an exotic bath oil filling his nostrils.
“Are you going to stand there gawking all night,” she said, “or are you going to get in here with me?”
It was only a few moments before she was in his arms, splashing and wriggling and laughing. They were both laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. And then the laughter gave way to long sighs and even longer moans. She straddled him right there in the tub, lowering herself slowly, achingly, down onto him until he was buried deep inside her. They stayed locked together that way, motionless, as long as they could, wanting it to last a long, long time. And it did. Until neither of them could wait a moment longer. The water was cold by then. They didn’t notice. They didn’t notice anything. Just each other.
It wasn’t love. Carl knew that. Christ, how could it be? He barely knew this woman. But this wasn’t some casual fuck, either.
It was something special.
Afterward they dried each other off and Carl carried her to her bed, and it began all over again as the dawn sky grew purple outside her window. The two of them were even hungrier for each other this time, if such a thing was possible. And they made it possible.
For one special night, Carl decided, all things were possible.
* * *
The diary seemed particularly unintelligible to Carl the next morning. Almost like a foreign language. He couldn’t concentrate on it. Hell, he could barely focus on it. He just sat there at his desk gazing blindly at the scrawled handwriting, absorbing nothing. His head ached. His mouth tasted like fish glue. And his mind kept straying back to Toni. The feel of her, the smell of her, and taste of her …
His mind wasn’t here in his apartment at all. It was still upstairs, locked in her fragrant embrace.
She had been gone when he woke up. Left him a note on her pillow. Also her spare key. The note read:
Granny—Off to a class. Didn’t want to wake you. For some reason you seemed really worn out. Please lock up.—Toni.
Grinning, he had climbed into his jeans and his shirt and staggered downstairs, to find Harry Wagner whipping up thin, golden brown johnnycakes topped with poached eggs and caviar. He had devoured them, then showered and shaved, and now he was staring dumbly at the diary, a bulging folder with Maggie’s marked-up changes waiting next in line for his attention, courtesy of Wagner, who sat on the bed in a light grey silk herringbone suit, watching him as always.
“You’re doing a good job, Carl. Making decent progress. They’re quite happy.”
“Whoever they are, I’m glad,” Carl said, slumping back in his swivel chair.
“Tell you what,” Wagner said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t we give it a rest today? Just work on Maggie’s changes.”
“You’re all heart, Harry,” Carl said gratefully.
“Carl, I’m going to say the truest words I’ve ever said to you: I have almost no heart whatsoever. But for some reason I’ve grown strangely fond of you. You’re a professional. I admire professionalism.”
You’re a professional, too,
Carl thought.
But a professional
what—
that’s the question.
“But sometimes,” Harry went on, “there’s more to life than professionalism, don’t you think?” Carl didn’t answer. And Harry continued as if he hadn’t expected him to. “Sometimes it’s important to just be whatever it is you are.”
“All right,” Carl agreed. “So what
are
you, Harry?”
“I’m not talking about me. I know what I am, and it’s too late to ever change that. I’m talking about you.”