The Fives Run North-South (16 page)

Paul was daring and creative. It was his idea to strike the deal with
Esquire
magazine as 2012 approached, the year of Charles Dickens’s two hundredth birthday. Rob Keaton’s latest novel,
Dented
,
would be serialized, as had all of Dickens’s works. Twelve installments, ending in December. The finale aligned with Dickens’s birthday. Truthfully, Rob’s sales had grown a bit soft. Some said he was coasting on his reputation. It was a small percentage who said that; Rob’s solid fan base drank his words to the point of drowning, and they still numbered in the millions.

So in January of 2012, when in the pages of
Esquire
, Adam Mann got tied up in his bizarre road rage incident, the creative presentation relit Rob Keaton fever.

Paul also struck a deal with Amazon, making the installments available
twenty
-
nine
days later
(twenty
-
four
hours before the release of the subsequent
Esquire
issue). The first two installments were free; subsequent chapters would be a mere
twenty
-
nine
cents. Of course, the final installments would increase in price as public reaction was measured. Readership snowballed, reaching levels that exceeded his typical numbers. A cultural tipping point had been reached, one of those unexplained
gotta
-
be
-
a
-
part
-
of
-
it
trends. Rob, who had been only slightly ahead in writing the installments, had found a groove. His excitement in the story was one he’d not felt since his early (nondrug) days.

What no one anticipated was how his tribute to Dickens would turn
Drood
-
like
. A sudden, unexpected death. A popular book without an ending. Reaction was swift, unfair, and, in some cases, demented. Paul, twisted up with the death of his friend, had to answer wild questions including a conspiracy theory that Rob’s death was a publicity
stunt
—
complete
with online demands to see the body. The most difficult press conference of Paul’s career had been the one in which he’d announced that not even one complete installment could be added to the story.

None were left.

A new word had soaked into the cultural dictionary: Randall Grosse. The driver of the red SUV. A tease without a payoff. A
gift
-
wrapped
empty box.

Knock, knock

Who’s there?

Randall Grosse

Randall Grosse who?

Silence.

“You’re not serious,” Ben said, holding out his glass for a refill.

“I don’t know,” said Paul.

“Well, I do. I’m sick of hearing about Randall Grosse. It’ll fade.”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.”

They sipped in silence.

“He really hadn’t turned in another installment?” Ben asked.

“Nope.”

“Cutting it close, wasn’t he? I mean, there were only what, two, three weeks left before it went to press?”

“Who knows what’s on his desk. It’s been left alone.”

Under guard. Afraid that those seeking to cash in might break into Rob’s house, Paul had hired
round
-
the
-
clock
security until Ben had the energy and will to do what had to be done there.

“So you’re wondering if there are more chapters,” Ben said.

“Who isn’t?” Paul said. “But I know it’s not finished. He was just a little bit ahead of publication. Said he wanted to enjoy it at the same pace as the audience.”

Ben nodded, knowing his father’s writing style.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ben said. “My writing days are done.”

Paul let the words hang there, shifting his weight on the church step. Crowds walking the streets of Portsmouth had diminished a bit. Ben looked at his friend’s face and could read the thoughts. Ambition and sensitivity made a bitter cocktail. Paul was good at both, but knew when each was appropriate without the other.

“I’m just going to say this,” Paul said.

“I was having such a good night,” Ben said, taking a
heavier
-
than
-
usual
hit from his glass of scotch.

“I’ll always say that Rob Keaton was like a second father to me. Our bond was worlds tighter than the typical
writer
-
agent
relationship. Despite that, I know it was only a microfraction of what you two had, so I’m not going to sit here and tell you what he wanted. With one exception: your blind spot.”

“Here it comes.”

“He wanted you to write again. And I’ll add something else to that. I know he wants the world to have all of
Dented
.
You saw his enthusiasm for that story. So as
self
-
serving
as it sounds, I can say with complete certainty that the idea of you finishing it for him is in perfect alignment with what he’d call a happy ending from all this shit.”

“Paul…”

“No, Ben. As much as you knew your father, I don’t think you have any idea how heavy it was on him that you stopped writing after
Flier
.”

“Come on…”

Paul held up his hands. “Hold tight. This isn’t fair right here and now. That silly fan boy brought this inevitable conversation out too soon. Just do me a favor. Don’t say no, don’t do anything but put the idea aside for a few days. We’ll bring it back out when there’s a bit more of a scab over the wound. Deal?”

“You’re a fucker, you know, Paul.”

In
No-Exit Maze
,
Rob Keaton wrote: “A father cannot look at son without the heavy gaze of memory, shame, and pride.”

Rob was adamant that his stories were not personal, not based on experience, and definitely had no confessional qualities. “My life’s in my head, in a separate compartment from the stories.”

That was not always true. That line in
No-Exit Maze
was a rare exception. He wrote that one day after spending the afternoon with
Ben
—
just
a couple years ago. They’d gone out to lunch, followed up with a quick trip to the bookstore to kill time before a movie they planned to see. They had separated, and as it neared time to leave, Rob wandered the aisles looking for Ben. He rounded the corner and saw his son in the fiction stacks, lost in thought as he looked at books. A look in his eye that Rob recognized. Ben was holding a book. No, he was caressing a book. Rob just stood and stared, and recognized the weight of his gaze. It was loaded down with shame and pride. Pride in his son, a young man who wasted too much admiration on his father. A young man who had proved to be of higher quality than Rob had been at his age.

And shame.

Ben’s first memories of his father had been of the man who was clean of drugs and had learned to love his son in balance with his first love of writing. As with most children, none of those experience from the first five or so years stuck in Ben’s memory.

For Rob however, snippets of memory that made it through his drug fog still haunted him. He would take most to his grave. And as he stood in that bookstore, a dark memory attacked him, bringing a sting to his eye. Himself, the night his wife died, sitting on the floor of the hallway outside Ben’s bedroom. His hands squeezing his temples, trying to shut everything down inside. From the other side of the door the screaming of a baby, a baby who was probably in agony from hunger, diaper filled with shit and piss hours old. A baby he hated and saw no hope of ever loving.

17

“Y
ou okay?”

“Stop asking that,” Ben said.

“It’s been well over twelve hours since I last asked,” Paul said.

“Sleep time doesn’t count.”

They were walking up the path to Rob’s house the morning after the funeral. They had eaten
breakfast
—
picked
at it
mostly
—
back
at the hotel before checking out and driving their cars over to the house to begin cleaning. Soon, though perhaps not too soon, Ben would begin the process of selling the place. Paul had hired private security. They met the man on duty sitting in his car halfway down the drive. He introduced himself as Trip.

“Nothing to report,” he said. “All’s quiet.” He said it as if he’d grown used to that condition. Too used to it.

Ben had briefly considered the possibility of keeping, perhaps even moving in to, the larger home. Or at least keep it as a coastal retreat. But Portsmouth was his father’s place, not his.

The will had been quick and easy. Ben got everything, with the exception of a large monetary donation to Rob’s favorite charity and the establishment of a trust fund for Edward, which would probably go unused. Today, Ben would start shifting through the household contents, splitting those items that he’d have transported to his home in the city, those that would be sold, and those that fell in the middle: not necessarily something Ben wanted or needed, but that he couldn’t quite let go. Those would go to storage, where he was certain they’d stay untouched for a while, hidden where he’d not have to face them.

As for the stuff he was selling, that presented its own set of problems.

“Collectors will pay a premium for Rob Keaton possessions,” Paul had said.

The vultures had already collected around the outer boundaries. Some respectful, like the Smithsonian, requesting items for display, including his writing desk. Rob would have chuckled over that one. Some were less respectful, the worst being some guy who’d called five times offering his services as an eBay broker, promising massive profits, of which he’d take only a reasonable commission. Jesus.

Rob’s house was well over a hundred years old, built on the center of a fat peninsula, with plenty of ocean view. The best view was from Rob’s office, where he’d ripped out the back wall and installed massive windows. Both Paul and Ben knew that was going to be the most difficult space to enter, so after opening the front door they lingered in the other rooms.

Still stinging a bit from the prior night’s scotch, Paul offered to throw on some coffee.

“Sounds great,” Ben said, following him to the kitchen and pulling up a stool at the bar top.

After he got the coffee started, Paul broke the silence. “Nothing says we have to do this now. We can leave it be for a few weeks.”

“I’m all about ripping off the bandage,” Ben said.

“Too early and you expose the wound to infection.”

“Stop messing with my metaphors.”

“Just saying…”

“Really, it’s fine,” Ben said. “I got nowhere else to go. No clock to punch, and I’ve already sent in this week’s reviews.” Of all the independent gigs Ben had, his book review column for
The Globe
was the only one with a deadline attached. “This will keep me busy. And while I appreciate you being here, I don’t need you to hold my hand. You have other clients.”

“None with anything pressing,” Paul said. “Besides, I’m not here as a babysitter. I’m here as a friend. I’m considering this a vacation.”

“Next time, try a cruise.”

The coffee finished, and he poured two mugs. Ben looked at his mug and shook his head. Among the dozens of decisions: what do to with his father’s kitchen stuff. “How much you think this cup would go for on eBay?”

They were getting tired and hungry as the day crept into early afternoon.

“Posthangover hunger,” Paul said, rubbing his stomach.

They had tagged the stuff that was going to Ben’s house or to storage. Eventually, they’d send movers in, but it was becoming apparent that this was going to be more than a
one
-
day
job.

“One more room I think I’d like to set foot in before we go,” said Ben.

They both knew what he meant.

His father’s office was large, and they could see the sunlight seeping out through the door cracks. As they opened the door, the bright blue of the ocean and sky vista attacked their senses through the massive windows. Ben knew that no one had set foot in here since the night his father had likely turned off the lights and gone to his bedroom. As he’d expected, at the center of the desk was his father’s famous yellow legal pad and one of his Mont Blancs, lying beside the last words he ever wrote. Beside him, Ben could feel Paul’s anxious desire to see the pad, and momentarily resented him for it. The feeling passed; Ben shared Paul’s understandable curiosity.

He scanned the room, and it was just as it had always been. He looked up at the bookshelf and his eye caught the one shelf with family photos and memorabilia. Including, on the center of the shelf, two copies of Ben’s only book,
Flier
, sitting between two bookends Ben had made back in junior high shop class. Paul caught Ben looking over there.

“I don’t think you’ll ever understand how sad your father was that you didn’t keep writing,” Paul said.

“I still write.”

“You know what I mean.”

Ben shrugged. “We’ve been over this.”

“
Flier
was good. Bordered on great.”

“Like most geniuses, I won’t be appreciated until after my time.”

“Most geniuses have thicker skin,” Paul said.

“Go to hell,” Ben said, only half in jest.

Ben had been a senior in college when he wrote the first draft of
Flier
.
He’d been born with a love of writing, and didn’t mind letting it be known. Through school, he’d heard enough reaction along the line of: “Well, it’s in your genes, isn’t it?” The more he heard it, the less agreeable his reaction became. Eventually, it just pissed him off.

“I might as well change my name to ‘Rob Keaton’s Son’.” he’d said at the time.

Just weeks before graduation, he’d landed the book deal. His classmates congratulated him with hollow smiles, making some effort to hide their envy.

“I wouldn’t have had a book deal if not for my father. Everyone knows that,” Ben said.

Paul rolled his eyes. “So what?”

“So I didn’t pay my dues. And the thing bombed.”

“It was good. It was nothing like what your dad wrote.”

“So fans of my dad’s hated it, and all the rest never bothered to pick it up,” Ben said. “Only ones who read it were the critics.” Ben made a look of disgust remembering how most of those critiques had gone. Some found it the ultimate irony that Ben became a book critic himself. He had been the principal’s son at high school, the coach’s son on the football team, and the second George Bush all rolled into one.

“Hell,” he said. “All critics are just frustrated writers anyways, so no wonder they spent a little extra venom on me. The literary fortunate son.”

“Not all of them,” Paul said. “Not the fair and impartial ones. You had a lot more positive press than you’re remembering.”

“Whatever. I don’t have shaky memory on the unit sales.”

“Take it from me: the landscape is littered with writers who’ve sold slow then followed up with a hit.”

Ben looked at his book on his father’s shelf, given a spot of reverence.

“To repeat,” Paul said. “He was proud of you and what you did. And gravely upset that he might have been the reason you stopped.”

“There was more to it than that. You know…”

“Well,” said Paul. “It’s never too late to start again.”

“Not the time or the place.”

“Might not be the time,” Paul said, spreading out his arms, “but I can’t think of a better place. If you can’t be inspired to pick up a pen by being here, you’re thick as concrete.”

“Now I’m going to assume you’re suggesting this due to some misguided notion that I’m a lost literary soul who will be complete only if I start writing. Not because you want me to tackle
Dented
because
Esquire
has your balls in a vice.”

“You insult me. I don’t give a damn about your soul.”

“Well, either way, don’t get your hopes up,” Ben said.

Paul turned toward the desk. “You ready?”

Ben nodded. They walked over and looked down at the pad of yellow paper. Rob always wrote longhand. He had a typist who worked near Paul’s office. Her name was
Cyndy
—
with
two y’s. Rob had loved that. Fast hands, but slow in any other way that mattered. When Paul had found her, he’d been impressed that she’d worked for the CIA a decade earlier.

“She was well schooled in typing without reading,” Paul had said. “She told me in her interview that she’d transcribed
top
-
secret
,
five
-
alarm
documents.”

“How’d she know?” Rob had asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d she know they were
top
-
secret
documents if she never read them? Could have been anything.”

Either way, Paul had been attracted to what he expected would be Cyndy’s unlikely ability or inclination to absorb the content of Rob’s books. Her discretion could be counted on. He’d called her earlier, and had learned what he’d expected. She had no further installments to type.

“Cyndy had typed and returned the next chapter,” Paul said. Only one ahead of what had already been published in
Esquire
.
“I expect we’ll find it in here somewhere. I’m also guessing that a few more pages of longhand would be somewhere around this desk, too.”

Another chapter, maybe two.

“Would that even make it to the halfway point of the story?” Ben asked.

“No.”

“Can’t imagine Dad bucked the trend of nearly thirty years by creating an outline.”

“‘The outline’s in my head.’” Paul quoted.

Ben pointed. “There’s his idea book. Sure to be a clue or two in there.”

“Much as I’m eager to see it, he never let me peek before. Too personal, I guess, so I’ll leave that for you.”

Paul’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the number on his readout and frowned, not recognizing it.

“Hello?” he said. His frown deepened as he listened. “Okay,” he continued. “We’ll be right out.” He disconnected.

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“Our buddy. The guard, Trip. Seems he snagged a trespasser.”

Ben’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“Sounds like our little buddy from the wake. The fan boy.”

It was. Shaved head. Sweaty.

“What was your name again?” Paul asked him.

“Walter Benning. But they call me Paddy.”

“Patty?”

“No. With a ‘d.’”

“Paddy.”

“Yessir.”

“You Irish?”

“No.”

Pause.

“Okay, Walter,” Paul said. “What are you doing here?”

“This is Rob Keaton’s house.”

“I know that.”

Walter nodded.

Paul, Ben, and Trip the Guard looked at each other, trying to see if one of them had connected the dots.

“You know you’re not supposed to be here, don’t you?” Paul said.

Walter blinked. His upper lip was as sweaty as Ben had ever seen. Like it had been rained on.

“I mean, you weren’t even invited to his wake,” Paul continued. “What were you hoping to do here?”

Walter shrugged.

“You guys want to go inside and have a cup of coffee?” Ben asked.

Paul, Trip, and even Walter looked at Ben as if he’d offered them a trip to the Arctic. “Excuse me?” Paul finally said.

“Look,” Ben said. “I need another shot of caffeine. Walter here is the president of my father’s fan club.”

“Boston chapter,” Walter said.

“Boston chapter. Dad was never one to ignore the folks who loved his work. Why should we start? Walter?”

“Yessir?”

“If we go in, and I give you a small tour, will you go back home and not bother this nice private security guy again?”