Reality Check (2010) (9 page)

Cody couldn't sleep that night. He finally got up, went online, looked for breaking news about Clea. All he ended up finding was that same T V report he'd already seen, posted on YouTube. He watched it over and over--gazing so deeply for meaning into the faces of the reporter, Sergeant Orton, and Townes DeWitt that they disconnected into a blur of incoherent pixels. Only the face of Bud kept its shape, somehow calming him. Cody kept searching--a virtual search, he realized, parallel to the real one going on in Vermont at the moment, where it was probably daytime already--until it was time to go to work.

The first job was a delivery of masonry forms to an outlet mall going up near Fort Collins. Dax had one of his hangovers, the grim, heavy kind that made his driving even worse but kept him from chewing his dip; an acceptable trade-off, in Cody's opinion. On the way back, after a handful of pills swallowed with black coffee, Dax finally felt well enough to talk.

"See about that girl from the high school?" he said. "Missing in Maine somewheres?"
"Vermont," Cody said.
"Whatever," said Dax. He took out his dip, plucked out a wad, shoved it in his cheek, chewing quietly for three or four exits. Then he said, "Some babe, that one."
"What are you talking about?" Cody said.
"That chick," said Dax. "From the high school, what I was just tellin' you about. Her picture was on the news. I been around. Know a babe when I see one."
"Shut up," Cody said.
Dax turned to him, mouth open in shock, tarry strands hanging down from the roof of his mouth. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," Cody said. He got ready to fight, the knowledge that a fistfight in the cab of a truck going seventy-five could not end well temporarily absent from his mind. But there was no fighting. Dax's face went bright red. He turned, spat out his open window, didn't say another word.
They got off work early, which sometimes happened on Saturdays. Dax went into the office; Cody went to the gym. He rode the bike for an hour, did leg curls and leg extensions, first with his left leg, then the right. They could have been the legs of two separate people, didn't even look the same. On the extensions, his right leg zipped through three sets, ten reps each, at one hundred pounds. The left leg faltered halfway through the third set, and that was at thirty pounds. Cody rested for a minute or two, worked that bad leg again and again and again, until it was throbbing from the tip of his toes all the way up to the top.
He drove home and iced, at the same time checking online and on TV for news of Clea. There was none. His phone rang.
"This is Sue Beezon."
"Hi."
"I understand there was some trouble between you and Dax today."
"Um, I wouldn't say--"
"You'd better take a week off and think about it. Without pay, need I add."
"But I--"
"Dax has worked here for seventeen years. He also happens to be Mr. Beezon's second cousin once removed. Mr. Beezon wanted you fired, Cody. Take the week off. Come back with a better attitude."
Click.
"Christ." Cody raised his cell phone, got ready to hurl it against the wall. But could he afford a new one? Could he afford to lose this job? Cody grabbed his jacket. He had to get out.
Downstairs in the entrance hall, he met the mailman coming in. "Two A?" said the mailman.
"Yeah."
The mailman handed Cody a letter, a letter addressed to him. Cody couldn't remember the last time anyone had sent him a letter; who wrote letters anymore? But he knew who'd written this one, just from the handwriting. He tore it open.

There's something about a letter, at least for me--as opposed to email or texting or anything else, even talking sometimes. Blah blah blah. The point is, I've been thinking about you a lot, can't help it. You pop up in my mind so often. I'm not sure I even understand how everything ended, and what I want to say is that if you ever (well, maybe not ever, but in the reasonable future) change your mind--about you and me--then let me know.

Things here are pretty good. The classes are better--but not all of them!--and the facilities are amazing of course, and the place is gorgeous, especially when the leaves were changing. Bud loves it and is doing great in competition. Some of the kids are cool, some are snobby, make me feel kind of hickish. One or two I don't like at all. It's hard to know who to trust sometimes. Like rolling the dice--a cliche that turns out to have real meaning. But that's true everywhere--right?

Well, I'm off to rhetoric class, actually my favorite. You have to give a speech and explain the importance of it. Everyone does stuff like the Gettysburg Address or Winston Churchill, but I'm doing Lady Di's brother's eulogy at her funeral. That'll shake them up a little.

Hope your knee's all better.
Lots of love, Clea

There was no date on the letter. Cody checked the postmark, went to the wall calendar, figured out that it had been mailed on Wednesday, the day Clea had disappeared. He found he was shaking; the letter was like a message from the . . .

But no: He pushed that thought away, refused to allow his mind to even think it, not once. He reread the letter, kept coming back to those two lines:
One or two I don't like at all. It's hard to know who to trust sometimes.
Could they now be considered some kind of . . . evidence? Evidence of what? Cody didn't know. All he knew was that those two lines bothered him. And if there was any chance they were evidence, how could he keep the knowledge to himself? For a few moments he thought about trying to contact that cop, Sergeant Orton. But Cody doubted his ability, even if he reached the guy, to get his point across on the phone. Instead he went out to the alley behind the Red Pony, climbed into his car, and drove to the Heights.

Cody had parked in the driveway at Cottonwood and was walking toward the front door, letter in hand, when he realized Mr. Weston probably wouldn't be inside, had to be in Vermont searching for his daughter. Cody knocked anyway. The door opened and there stood Mr. Weston.

Mr. Weston looked terrible. All those past times Cody had seen him, he'd been perfectly groomed, almost like an actor playing a rich guy, but now he needed a shave, his thinning reddish hair was reduced to sprouts here and there, and blemishes spotted his nose and cheeks. He blinked in the light, although it was a dark day with low-flying clouds, and didn't seem to recognize Cody at all. Cody had prepared a little speech about the letter, but instead he blurted the first thing that came to mind: "Is there any news, Mr. Weston?"

Mr. Weston started to shake his head; the motion sent a little invisible booze cloud wafting Cody's way. Then his expression changed, recognition dawning. "What are you doing here?" he said.

"Or you?" said Cody; more blurting, but he just couldn't help it: If there was no news, meaning Clea hadn't been found, then what the hell was Mr. Weston doing back in Little Bend?

Pink patches rose to the surface of Mr. Weston's face. "How dare you--" At that moment, Fran came up behind him, a very good-looking woman who'd once been a model, but now for the first time Cody saw how old she really was.

Cody and frowned.
"Mrs. Weston?" said Cody, taking the letter from his
pocket, "I got this letter from Clea. It just came but must have
been written the same day she--"
Mr. Weston snatched the letter, started reading, his eyes
desperate, those pink patches spreading on his face. "Skip the first bit," Cody said. He stepped around, pointed
at the middle section of the letter. "There's this part I don't--" Mr. Weston backed away, out of Cody's reach. "'Thinking about you a lot'--goddamn it," he said. He glared at Cody.
"None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for you." "You're blaming me?" Cody said.
"Now, Win," said Fran, touching his shoulder. At that
moment a limo rolled into the driveway. "Come," Fran said.
"We've got to catch the flight back."
Mr. Weston didn't notice the limo, seemed to be aware of
nothing but Cody. He shook off Fran's hand. "Yes, you sneaky
bastard," he said, his voice rising and rising. "I do blame you. If
you hadn't come barging into her life, derailing everything I've
worked so--" All at once, although Mr. Weston's mouth was
still moving, no sounds were coming out, no sounds except for
little gasps. Mr. Weston's hand went to his throat--the letter
floating from his grasp--and he started pushing at his windpipe as though something had slipped out of alignment. "Win?"
And then Mr. Weston spun around in a kind of limp sinking
pirouette and fell on the marble floor of Cottonwood's entrance
hall.

The limo driver knew CPR. Maybe because of him, Mr. Weston was still breathing and his heart was still beating when the ambulance came a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, Cody was standing all by himself in front of Cottonwood. He picked up the letter, pulled the door closed, checking carefully to make sure it was locked before he drove away, like that would make all the difference.

phrase out of his mind. Back at the apartment, he looked without success for news of Clea and then checked the weather in North Dover, Vermont. Rainy and windy, high 45, low 33. Thirty-three was cold, could easily turn that rain to snow. Cody was already pretty sure about his plans, but the weather report moved him closer to certainty. He took out his cell phone and tried her number again.

"Hi, this is Clea. I'm not here right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you."
That was it, end of story. "Clea," he said. "I'm on my way." Cody was aware how stupid that might have sounded, say to some all-knowing observer, but he didn't feel stupid, not the least bit. He went to MapQuest, entered Little Bend in one box and North Dover, Vermont, in the other, and printed the results.
Cody didn't have any real luggage, just a big duffel he used for sports equipment. He started packing: jeans, extra sneakers, a few T-shirts, sweats, underwear, socks. What else? He couldn't think of anything. With what he was already wearing--his other pair of jeans, flannel shirt, fleece--he had all he needed.
He thought of calling his father but couldn't imagine a way for the conversation to go right. Instead he wrote a note and stuck it on the fridge.

Dad,
I'll be gone for a few days. Looking into this
job out of town. I'll call.
Cody

Looking into this job out of town: vague enough to be almost true. Cody had reached the point of knowing that lying was a necessary life skill, and even that some of those who went furthest in life lied the best, but he hadn't reached the point of getting comfortable with it.

Duffel in one hand, car keys in the other, he glanced around the apartment, suddenly saw it for the first time not as just simply home, but as the dingy dump it was. A scary idea hit him: He wouldn't be back. But that was crazy. He started for the door, realized he'd forgotten his toilet kit--toothbrush, razor, all that. And what about taking along a sandwich or two, and water?

Five minutes later, and now fully packed, he left the apartment and went down the stairs. At the bottom he realized he hadn't thought of his bad leg, hadn't favored it at all, not the whole way down; meaning the knee wasn't so bad anymore and he was getting better. His heart lifted inside his chest; relief turned out to be a real physical feeling. He popped the trunk of his car, threw in the duffel, and thought:
Low 33--winter jacket.
Cody climbed back up the stairs, found the apartment door locked, reached into his pocket, and: no keys. Locked out. He'd left them inside. Step one on the journey: kind of funny.