Terminal Grill (11 page)

I also erased the tape on my answering machine from the night before. That morning, before Matthew had left, I had played it back. It was full of frantic, desperate calls from Matthew, his voice panic-stricken, swearing I was there but not picking up the phone, begging to know where I was and why I wasn't answering. “Where are you?” he begged to know over and over again. “I can't believe you're not there. I can't. I can't …”

Anyone, it seemed to me, anyone with the least shred of dignity would have cringed with embarrassment at hearing such a display played back. The desperation was so blatant, so passionate as to be almost subhuman. Matthew listened to that tape and laughed.

Another thing I did in his absence that Saturday was to examine a small vial of pills he'd brought home the night before. He said he'd been to an herbalist and told the man about his long and fruitless battle to regain his fertility. The herbalist, he'd said, had told him that if he took these pills, he'd be fertile within the year.

I could tell nothing by examining the pills themselves, the little bottle they came in, nor the round dot of a label on the top with numbers and letters written in pencil.

But I recalled that, before he'd left that Saturday morning, Matthew had told me he now felt foolish that he had believed what the herbalist had said.

It got to be five o'clock and—fearing another panic attack—I erased the usual message on my answering machine and constructed and recorded one that would reassure Matthew if he called and found me gone. I had to grocery shop, and soon the stores would be closed.

I went first to the bank where just the day before, I'd withdrawn the second lot of money for him. I felt almost ashamed to go in, as if they would wonder what sort of a fool I was to come into the bank so often.

Weatherwise, it was a horrid evening—full yet again of wild rain and unrelenting wind. I went to a neighbourhood grocer and bought far more food than I needed for myself, though I don't know who I thought would eat it.

When I got home at six, he'd still not called. Finally, though, at six-thirty, he did.

He said he was at a friend's house and that the friend had invited us to dinner, that the friend just happened to live right in my neighbourhood and that he and the friend would come over to pick me up within the half hour.

Though in my heart I knew that this, too, was a ruse, as always, I was happy to have finally heard from Matthew and happy at the prospect of soon being with him again. I had got to the point where I was almost praying that I'd never see him again, and yet, my first thought on seeing him was, “Thank God, you're back.”

He arrived very soon after the phone call, and he had the look on his face that by now I realized meant he was up to something. He was nervous, too, but it was an excited kind of nervousness—that of a kid who has lucked out and is sure he's going to get away with something just because he was fortuitously snatched from the jaws of doom by the fate that is kind to the bad.

He asked me if I would bring along a copy of one of my books to autograph for the wife of his friend. I was happy to lend him this credibility, even though I knew the evening he was now offering as his own credibility was as suspect as everything else about him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
Y SUSPICIONS WERE CONFIRMED
before we even got to our host's home.

I walked out to the curb in front of my place and there I saw a brand new van. So far so good. Inside the van was a man I trusted the moment I set eyes on him. He was warm, obviously intelligent, very kind-looking. He even turned out to be an exceptionally careful driver.

With Matthew—smirking—sitting on a milk crate between the driver's and passenger's seat, where I sat, we took off for the friend's—Bob's—nearby home.

But first, Matthew insisted, we had to stop off at the neighbourhood beer store for a 12-pack—which he also insisted on paying for. He got out of the van and headed into the store.

Which left Bob and me alone. I turned to him and said, “And how long have you known Matthew?”

“Well,” the kindly Bob answered in his sweet voice, “that's a funny thing. I met Matthew playing in a small club downtown about three years ago. I hadn't seen him since, but this afternoon I was in a bar near here and I saw him and I said to myself—hey, I know him! So I went up and struck up a conversation. He remembered me and was really happy to see me. Some coincidence, eh?”

Yeah. Some coincidence.

But there was no way I was going to blow Matthew's evening, because Bob and his wife Sue were absolutely lovely people. They welcomed me into their home. For a good long time, Bob entertained us by playing his guitar and singing. One of his own songs was so wonderful that Matthew and I both insisted on hearing it again. Matthew sang a bit, too. How I loved to hear him—even when I knew his wrecked, pained, painful voice was the voice of deceit and despair no matter what he'd made Bob and Sue believe about himself. How some things will scream the truth when everything else about a person is a lie.

I could tell by the unmistakable deference with which Bob treated Matthew—and by a few of Bob's comments—that Matthew had told him the same story about Neil Young as he'd told me and that Bob had bought it totally, too. I found this sad and confusing, but I forced myself not to weaken. I knew Matthew was a liar. I just wanted to give him a few more happy hours.

And he was happy that night. Our conversation ranged over all sorts of topics. Bob and Sue were very
au courant
, very intelligent, very individual and very sensitive. So were Matthew and I. Never had I so enjoyed an evening of two-couple conversation.

After a little while, Sue asked us if we were hungry. Matthew, who had, of course, never eaten a meal in my presence, said yes.

Sue, as it turned out, had been simmering a pot of quite wonderful shrimp soup, which she now served us with fresh bread and cheddar cheese. As she set the table, I saw Matthew looking at her china. It was truly elegant—simply a white embossed design of a single swirl forming the edge
of the plate, then moving inward to change from structure to ornament in a sweep.

Matthew seemed to observe it with resigned longing. He complimented them on their taste in having chosen it. I could tell he was genuinely moved by some emotion that was strong but strongly hidden. I couldn't tell whether it was regret for something he had lost or sorrow over the unattainability of something he would never have. Or both.

Matthew slowly, almost painfully, it seemed to me, ate two whole bowls of soup. He seemed to have to force it down, though he complimented Sue on how exquisite it was.

After the meal, Bob made espresso, and when he took out the machine for it, Matthew leaned toward me and whispered, “We have one of those …”

“No,” I wanted to say. “No, my poor confused love, we do not.”

Instead, I merely nodded.

We talked more. Bob mentioned in passing that Matthew was supposed to have given him his address in Hartford, but had forgotten.

“Oh, yes,” Matthew said, “I meant to do that. I'll have to write it down.”

Fat chance.

At another point in the conversation, I mentioned that I had called the manager of the Highlander. Matthew—who had told me he'd played there the Saturday night I'd been in Utica—reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card from the manager. On the back was written, “Thanks for all the
fun.” It looked to me very like the same scrawly handwriting on the “autographed” Neil Young record.

When it got to be eleven, we left. The last thing Bob said to Matthew was, “It was fun seeing you again. It's lucky that you missed your plane …”

“Missed your plane?” I asked as we walked into the rainy night. “What does that mean?”

“Oh,” Matthew said, pulling me close against his side, “he just meant that I didn't go straight back to Hartford after the video was done.”

We started to walk back the short distance to my place. The night was still windy and rainy and not very warm. I wanted to get home as fast as I could, but Matthew dawdled. We decided to go to the Terminal, decided we were still hungry.

But when we got to the Terminal, it was closing. Another waitress, not Cynthia, was there and she let us know there was no use in coming in.

So we walked down the street a little to another restaurant, a glorified doughnut shop. We ordered gravy and chips—as usual. As he picked at the food on the boring, thick, cheap restaurant plate, Matthew told me again about his own china and the cabinet in which he stored it. He was worried, he said, because the style of the cabinet didn't match the mood or the style of the dishes.

“But when you come,” he said, staring at me, “you can change whatever you want ….”

We left and on the way home, I discovered I'd lost an earring. I was content to forget about it, but Matthew insisted on helping me look for it. We retraced our steps for what
seemed many long blocks. It was beginning to get quite cold and it still poured rain. We had no umbrella—and the wind would have caught it if we had.

But Matthew seemed to want to stay out as long as possible. No matter what I said, I couldn't get him to hurry home the way I wished we would.

We gave up on the earring. “Thank God,” I thought, “Now at least we can head home.”

But Matthew was out of cigarettes, which necessitated more tramping along the rain-soaked midnight Danforth.

By the time we got home, I was frozen and drenched. But I didn't complain. For Matthew, it had been a perfect evening. He had had the warmth, acceptance and respect that comes not only from being taken seriously—which, of course, he did not mention—but also the proud knowledge of sharing this acceptance with a woman he felt privileged to be with—which he did mention.

I thought it might be the first and last such evening that poor, lost Matthew would have in a good long time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
HE NEXT DAY, THOUGH
Sunday, was like every other day. We loved, we had coffee, we talked, and Matthew disappeared at one in the afternoon.

He said nothing about where he was going, whether he was coming back or when.

I felt sick all day and wasn't sorry to have the long day at home alone, but when it got to be nine-thirty and I had had no word from him at all, I called Ruth and told her I felt as though I was going out of my mind with fear, disgust, confusion, despair.

I told her I wanted to go to the police.

It was a wild, raging night. Nonetheless, my faithful, dauntless girlfriend came, and together in her car we threaded our way through the dark streets in search of the closest police station, which we eventually found.

It took the duty cop long enough to run Matthew's name and DOB through CPIC for me to figure he had to have something on him, especially when he started writing things down, then turned to me and said, “Do you have an address for this guy?”

“Yeah, sure,” I felt like saying. “Mine!” Instead, I just shook my head.

But in the end, all the cop would say was, “I have no reason to tell you he's dangerous. If I were you, though, and he comes by again, I would lock my door and dial 911.”

“Not much help,” Ruth commented as we left the station.

“No,” I answered, “but at least it doesn't sound as though he's a crazed killer or anything.” Neither of us laughed.

When we got back to my place, there was a message on my machine.

Matthew had called and said he would call back. Impatience was clear in his taped voice, displeasure at my not being there. I had left a message saying I'd be back at eleven and he said he'd call then. It was now ten-thirty.

Ruth and I wracked our brains to try to figure out what to do next, to think of a way to find out something about Matthew that we could confront him with, presumably to get him to admit to the truth about himself, whatever that was. Somehow we were convinced that if he were forced to tell the truth, he'd also be compelled to leave.

As we sat by the phone, it suddenly occurred to me that there was a possible chain of people that might lead to Dill, the singer, our only mutual acquaintance—the man we'd seen the first day we'd met. Maybe there was someone who knew someone who knew someone who had Dill's unlisted number.

I dialed the first person in the chain.

And soon I had the other number, the one I needed.

It being very late, the recipient of my phone call was not overly happy to hear my voice. It had been a long time since
I'd talked to him, and at first, he seemed reluctant to talk about Matthew, though he recognized the name immediately.

After a little prodding, he began to talk. He painted a picture of Matthew as a pathetic person who told a tall tale—even on stage—and had been considered an object of ridicule for some time. The place Dill mentioned having heard Matthew make a fool of himself often at was a coffeehouse that had had its heyday at least a decade before. Dill told me a joke people used to tell about Matthew's claim that he had once opened for Neil Young. “Opened what?” people said, “Pop bottles?”

He said Matthew was not dangerous, just a sad fool. “And,” Dill said, “I've heard he likes the boys in the band, if you know what I mean ….”

He said further that he would admit that Matthew had written some good songs and that he was quite a singer, but on the whole, he was a failure and his wild stories the just object of scorn among his fellow musicians.

It sounded like all this had happened a long time ago—as though Matthew had been telling his tale for more than ten years. It also sounded as though Matthew had been very much a Toronto personality rather than someone from out of town.

The last thing our mutual friend said was that it looked like Matthew stuffed socks in his pants.

I knew we were definitely talking about the same man.

I thanked Dill for his help and hung up.