The Fives Run North-South (17 page)

“Yessir.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Cream or sugar?” Ben asked.

“Ummm,” said Walter.

“Let me guess: you don’t drink coffee.”

“Not really. But I’ll try it.”

“How about some water?”

“I’m a bit thirsty.”

“Ice?”

“No, thanks.”

“Out of the tap okay?”

“Uh
-
huh
.”

They sat in the breakfast room at the small round table with the uncomfortable seats. Rob hadn’t eaten breakfast there very often.

Walter was looking at Paul. “You’re the agent, right?”

Paul nodded. “I was Rob’s agent, yes.”

Walter pouted. Then settled in, taking a sip of his water. It was clear to Ben and Paul that Walter felt no discomfort with pregnant pauses.

“Why do you ask, Paddy?” Paul asked.

“No one likes you.”

“Define ‘no one.’”

“Fans.”

“Including you?”

Walter looked slightly surprised to be asked that. “You seem okay. I guess.”

“Great,” said Paul. “So when you check back in at fan boy headquarters, you’ll give me a glowing report then?”

“Dude, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Hey, Paul, I have an idea,” said Ben. “Why don’t you give me a few minutes with Walter here?”

“Really?” Paul asked, looking at Ben as he would a dartboard.

“I’m sure you have calls to make.”

“Fine.”

He left them alone, going to the back porch to sit and look at the ocean.

“So,” said Ben.

“He’s not a nice man,” Walter said.

“Give him a chance. More water?”

“No. I’ve got a small bladder.”

“We have a bathroom.”

Walter seemed to ponder the possibility of peeing in Rob Keaton’s bathroom. Ben could read his face, so he got up and refilled Walter’s glass at the sink. Walter gulped down half of it.

“So do you think I’m a nice man?” Ben asked.

“You didn’t kick me out of your father’s party.”

“He probably would have been fine with you being there. Dad always had perspective where his audience was concerned.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Good,” said Ben. “I am nice. And I’m also very protective of my father and his legacy. Walter, you can’t keep showing up, no matter how good your intentions. You get that, don’t you?”

Walter nodded.

“Now I’m going to show you around. I might even be able to dig up an autographed copy from his stuff. But we have to make a deal, and that includes you going home and letting me get on with settling my dad’s affairs. This is, as you’d imagine, pretty tough.”

“I read your book.”

Ben sat back with surprise. “So you were the one,” he said.

Walter blinked.

“That was a joke,” Ben said.

“Oh, because I was going to say, I think a few people have read it.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “A few.”

They sat in silence for a second, both taking sips they didn’t really want and checking out the kitchen.

“Doesn’t mean it was bad,” said Walter. “The fact that no one really bought it, I mean.”

“There are a few critics who would argue with you.”

“Critics are idiots. People who failed as writers,” He looked up. “Not all critics, of course.”

“Most of us are, to be honest,” said Ben.

“Idiots?”

“Well, that and failed writers.”

“Dude, I’m a failed writer. The world is full of failed writers. I can make wallpaper from rejection letters,” Walter said. “You got published. And so what if the only reason was because of your dad.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“And really, it was kinda good. Nothing like Rob Keaton.”

“Of course.”

“But that doesn’t make it bad.”

“Of course.”

“I mean,” said Walter. “That’s your problem. People who bought your book because they like Rob Keaton wouldn’t like it. And people who don’t like Rob Keaton probably wouldn’t buy your book in the first place. So you’re fucked, you know?”

“You ever consider being an agent?”

“Worse failures than critics.” A pause. “But don’t tell your friend.”

“Well, Walter, I appreciate your insights. Let me see if I can find you a signed book.”

“Wait!”

Ben sat back down. “Okay.”

“Why is Randall Grosse doing all that stuff to Adam and Suze?”

Ben shook his head. “I really don’t know, Walter.”

“Did he kill Viniteri?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there any unpublished chapters?”

Ben nodded. “Not many,” he said.

“Have you read them?” Eyes wide.

“Not yet.”

Silence. Sipping.

“Can I?” Walter asked.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

Silence. Sipping.

“Are you going to read them?” Walter asked.

“Not sure.”

Silence. Sipping.

“I have some theories,” Walter said. “You want to hear them?”

“Not really.”

“I think he knows Peter.”

“Who?”

“Randall Grosse. I think he knows Peter.”

“The son?”

“Why else is he in the story? Rob Keaton never carried spare characters,” Walter said.

“No, he didn’t.”

“And I don’t even think Randall Grosse is the one who killed Viniteri.”

“Okay,” Ben said.

Silence. The mugs had gone empty.

“You want to know who I think did it?”

“Not really.”

Walter sighed. After a minute, he said: “I could help you. Check for spelling and stuff.”

“Help me?”

“If you decide to finish it.”

“I already told you…”

“It could relaunch your career. You know, as a real writer.”

Ben smiled. “Well, I appreciate that. I’ll give it some thought.”

“And I can really help. I’ve read all his books. Most a second or third time, so if you want to bounce ideas off me…”

“You two done?” Paul said, walking in.

“Aw, man…” Walter said under his breath.

“Walter,” Ben said. “I thank you for your loyalty to my father. And you’ve given me some food for thought. To be honest, I think
Dented
will likely remain his unfinished work. And, really, it’s wide open for guys like you to play around with. Trade theories, stuff like that. Sort of a
write
-
your
-
own
-
ending
challenge. I’m thinking that’s something my father would have liked to see. Keeps his spirit alive with the fans.” Ben stood up.

Walter, still seated, said softly: “It’s not the same thing.” Then he looked at Paul, shrugged, and got up to walk out.

“You can’t come back,” Ben said. “You know that, don’t you, Paddy?”

Walter smiled upon hearing his nickname. He turned and walked out.

As they drove back to the hotel, Paul said. “So he didn’t talk you into finishing
Dented
,
did he?”

“You saying you’re on his side?”

“The guy creeps me out, but he might have been onto something.”

Ben didn’t reply; he simply looked out the window at the landscape as the ocean faded from view.

18

B
en was relieved when Paul announced that he had business to do and was going to leave him alone for the rest of the day. Ben didn’t feel like talking, and went down to the hotel dining room to grab a burger. He found a copy of
USA Today
in the
lobby
—
a
day
old
—
and
brought it to the table. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read it, but wanted an excuse to keep his head and eyes down while eating so he could think. Or not think. Brain shutdown was more like it. It had been a tiring few days and promised to continue for a while. Ben knew he was fortunate in the life he’d chosen that he didn’t push himself as much as most people had to. Could he consider himself lucky? On the surface. He thought of his college roommate, Gil. Even though they had nothing in common (Gil was an electrical engineer, for Christ’s sake!) they kept in touch. Gil’s life couldn’t be any different than Ben’s if they’d tried. Married. Bunch of kids. A house that could handle it if he doubled his family size. Worked some nights until eleven o’clock. Woke up at five in the morning. Phone glued to his ear, even on vacation. Gil had often said he’d kill to have just a fraction of Ben’s free time. Ben had no desire to trade lives with Gil, but…

Gil had family.

Life is about reward versus sacrifice; the key is to spend as little energy as possible pondering what we’ve sacrificed. That’s the tough part. Now that his father was gone, what did family mean for Ben?

For a second he thought about Edward. But as he’d learned to do in the last ten years, he shut that mental vault quickly. For Ben, family simply meant something that everyone else had. His trade off was time, money, and freedom. It amazed him how boring an excess of those things could become.

After a while, he finally looked up from his newspaper (had he read an article? If he had, it’d made no impression) and noticed that the dining room had gotten more crowded since he’d sat down. There were even some people sitting at the bar. As he scanned the crowd, his eye returned to a single lady sitting at the far edge, eating a salad and sipping white wine. She triggered that itch in his mind as he tried to reason why she seemed familiar. She was close to his age, dressed fashionably (really, too fashionably for Portsmouth), and moved gracefully as she brought food and drink to her mouth. Her eyes were blue…

No, purple. They’d looked purple when she’d been dressed in black.

From his father’s funeral. She’d caught his eye there.

Both Paul and Rob had accused Ben of being excessively laid back in his approach to dating.

“I’ll add it to my list of defects,” Ben had responded to that and other
self
-
help
suggestions.

In his own mind, Ben had always rationalized that he’d show the appropriate amount of diligence if a worthwhile woman presented herself. It’d simply been a lack of candidates. Good story. Probably true, to an extent.

Ben thought of that as he stood and started walking toward the bar. He was surprised how little nervousness or hesitancy he felt. Until about the time he was five feet away and she looked up at him.

“Uh…” he said.

She looked at him with uncertainty for a few seconds, until like a light switching on, her face registered a smile of recognition. “Hi,” she said.

“I believe I saw you at my dad’s wake yesterday,” he managed.

“You did.”

“I’m Ben Keaton. Rob’s son.”

“I got that.” She held out her hand. “I’m Cary Spencer.” For a second he saw her expression change, as if she were wondering if he recognized the name. He furiously scanned his mental Rolodex, feeling a slight blush pull on his face as he wondered whether he should have already known that or not.

He shook her hand and looked down at the stool beside her.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

“It’s a good time for a beer,” he said, shifting his body on the barstool. “Amstel Light,” he said to the bartender. “So how did you know my father?” he asked.

“I’m just a fan,” she said.

“He had a few of those.”

“I thought the service was beautiful,” she said. “And I was truly touched by your tribute.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Did you ever meet my dad?”

She shook her head. “Never had the privilege.”

“You live around here?”

“No, I’m from Boston. I decided to stay up a couple days and do a little shopping. And take the pace down a notch. It’s been whirlwind for the last year. I got divorced about ten months ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I actually enjoy saying that
word
—
divorce
. The more I say it, the more real it becomes. And sometimes it doesn’t feel like my brain is completely convinced that’s where I am just yet.”

Ben chuckled. “Okay…so, did you say you were divorced?”

“Yes. I’m divorced.”

“Well, you look divorced. Is this helping?”

She nodded.

“Did you have any kids?”

Cary shook her head. “He never had time for that.”

“Well, I’m no expert, but from what I recall from
high
-
school
health class, it wasn’t something that took a whole lot of time when you get right down to it.”

She gently nudged his arm with her elbow. “My ex had a way of making the simplest thing a major task. How about you? Married?”

“A long time ago. For about five minutes.”

“So no kids, then.”

Ben stiffened, reaching down for his beer. He started swallowing before taking a drink. “I have a son,” he managed to say after gulping.

“Oh,” she said. She reached for her glass of wine, sensing immediately that this conversational trail had reached its end, and she didn’t quite know where to pick up a new one yet.

Ben took the cue. “So other than divorcing, what keeps you busy?”

“Well, I was a kept woman while married. My ex liked it best when I was available 24/7 to support all the important things he had to do. Now I’m playing around with all kinds of options. The first thing I did after the divorce was sign up for piano lessons.”

“Really?”

“I know. It sounds very Jane Austen. How about you? I don’t suppose you’re a writer like your dad.”

“Tried it once. Didn’t collect as many fans as he did. I do a bit of related stuff. Freelance editing. Contribute to
The Globe
with literary reviews. I did a stretch writing copy for school textbooks. That hurt. I think I pulled all the muscles in my arms trying to write without a hint of sarcasm, irony, or any of the other stuff that makes writing worthwhile. So I quit that.”

“Hmmm. Well, the rumor at the reception was that you were going to help make sure
Dented
got finished.”

“You know what they say about rumors.”

“No,” she said. “What?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping you’d know the answer to that. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a clever way of saying they’re often far from true.”

“Wow. I told my girlfriend that certainly it’d been written already and he was submitting parts to the magazine from a finished work.”

Ben shrugged.

Cary slapped her forehead. “I’m sorry. This is probably way insensitive of me. We just met and I’m interrogating you like some cheap Hollywood reporter.”

“It’s okay, really. I’ve had worse. Just this morning, in fact.”

“That’s why you were huddled in that corner over there eating your lunch without once lifting your eyes off the paper?”

“Pegged me.”

“Next time, at least pretend to read. You know, turn the page occasionally?”

Ben finished his beer and stood. “It was really nice meeting you, Cary Spencer.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Ben Keaton.” She reached out her hand and they shook firmly, almost playfully. “Can I do the tacky phone number on the cocktail napkin thing?” she asked.

“Well…”

She reached over and grabbed a napkin, pulling her pen out of her purse. “How about this?” she said. “I give it to you, taking advantage of my newly divorced,
out
-
of
-
character
bravery. You take it and politely put it in your pocket, walk out of here and do with it what you’d like after you’re out of my sight. I can then always wonder if you had really intended to call me, but put your pants in the wash before remembering to take out the napkin.”

“Sounds like you’re the writer now,” he said.

“Take care, Ben Keaton.”

“You, too, Cary Spencer.”

He hesitated for a second, and they both looked awkwardly close to saying something else. After a pause, Ben smiled, did a little bow (
Seriously
, he thought…
a bow?
), turned, and left.

Cary looked at the small
sip
-
sized
amount of wine left in her glass. She considered ordering another, but remembered she’d promised herself some shopping. The second, less important reason for making the trip. She thought about Ben. Nicer than she’d expected. Slowly, she put her hand to her forehead and rubbed. It could have gone better, she thought. Certainly could have gone worse. Almost did the way she was throwing questions at him like some stupid reporter. Sighing, she got up. Not sure where to go from here. Maybe there were no answers here. Maybe she was never meant to know. And it didn’t feel as heavy as she would expect.

Because she felt confident she wasn’t done with Ben Keaton. And if he didn’t know, he would soon. This wasn’t over.

Ben went out into the street. He had kept a brave face, but the nausea that had started building toward the end of his conversation with Cary was nearly overwhelming. His stomach was being stretched, as his mind opened up to the memories he usually kept stacked in the vault.

Across the street, he saw a convenience store. Walking over, he entered and went back to the beer and wine. Wine. Thing about these New England towns, the small stores always kept a small supply of the good stuff because the clientele always included
well
-
to
-
do
vacationers. Snobs.
Like me
, he supposed. Sure, getting ready to go on a bender alone in his hotel room, but at least he’d do it on a good vintage.

He crossed the street and returned to the hotel. Walking to the back, he found his way to the stairwell. As he ascended, he spun the question though his mind.

So no kids then?

I have a son.

Edward Keaton.

Tonight, the day after burying his father, he’d raise a glass to his son, Edward.