Three Little Words (7 page)

“The Life and Times of Siddhartha Eikenboom. We're in Duncan, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“So—we had a deal.”

Sid scrapes the bottom of his Blizzard cup with the long red plastic spoon. He considers ordering another but knows it will make him sick.

“Can I take a leak first?” he asks.

Phil nods. “I'll be waiting.”

It's surprisingly easy to talk to Phil. Even though he keeps his attention on the road, Sid knows he's listening from the way he laughs or asks for clarification or says, “You're kidding!” every now and again. Sid finds himself tempted to make stuff up, but Phil seems interested in the boring details of Sid's life. It turns out they can both quote whole scenes from
Back to the Future
; Phil almost drives off the road when Sid does his impersonation of Marty McFly:
Time circuits on. Flux capacitor…fluxing.
Engine running. All right
.

“You got some talent, man,” Phil gasps.

“Thanks, dude,” Sid replies as the car straightens out. “But I don't wanna die for it.”

As they approach the outskirts of Victoria, Sid stops talking and Phil doesn't push him to chat. When they finally turn into an unpaved driveway on a narrow tree-lined street, Sid is unsure he can get out of the car. His legs feel like overcooked pasta. Phil turns off the engine and they sit, listening to the engine tick as it cools.

“That's Devi's place,” Phil says, pointing at a ramshackle cottage set way off the road, surrounded by about a zillion oak trees. Sid is glad he'll be gone before the leaves start to fall. The raking must be brutal. “I'm in the garage at the back,” Phil continues. “I thought you could stay out there, and I'll bunk at Devi's.”

A huge marmalade cat ambles up to the car, and Phil gets out and drapes it across his shoulders like a feather boa. An ancient gray cat with milky eyes brushes against his ankles, and Phil scoops it up too and cradles it in his arms. A tabby with a stump for a tail approaches across the lawn. Sid gets out of the car and crouches down to stroke it.

“Which is which?” he asks.

“That's Smike,” Phil says. He nuzzles the cat in his arms. “This old guy is Dodger, and the one that thinks he's a scarf is Fagin. Fagin runs the show, but keep an eye on the Dodger—he's still got some tricks, don't you, Dodge?” As if in answer, Dodger takes a swipe at Fagin's tail. “Grab your bag from the back and let's get you settled.”

Phil goes ahead of Sid and opens the garage door. When Sid gets inside, he stops, looks around and inhales deeply. The garage is full of tools and wood and sawdust and half-completed pieces of furniture. And it smells amazing—like coffee and glue and solvent and wood chips, with a hint of beer and a whiff of sweat. Sid thinks if you could make a men's cologne that smelled like Phil's garage, you'd make a fortune. Call it Varnish or Grain and sell it at Home Depot in vials shaped like nail guns or power drills.

The living quarters are screened off from the workshop by an ornate Japanese screen. Phil shows Sid the bed in the loft, the minute kitchen, the microscopic bathroom. Skylights illuminate each room. Phil feeds the cats and then opens a bag of chips, dumps a jar of salsa into a blue bowl and takes a can of Coke out of the fridge.

“I'm going to check things out over at Devi's. And I need to give Elizabeth a call. You okay on your own for a bit?”

Sid takes a swig of Coke. “Sure. I'm okay. Do what you have to do.”

After Phil leaves, Sid sits down at the beat-up oak table and rests his head in his folded arms. He doesn't think he has ever been so tired, even though he's been sitting almost all day. He remembers Megan telling him once that anxiety can be as tiring as running a triathalon.

“If that's true, I'm Simon fucking Whitfield,” he mutters as he rests. “Where's my gold medal?”

Make My Day

W
hen Sid wakes up the next day, a seagull is crapping on the skylight above his head. He hopes it isn't an omen. He's not particularly superstitious, but even simple things, like a sudden downpour or a lost sock, seem portentous—even ominous—these days. He vaguely remembers climbing the ladder to the loft the night before, and he has slept surprisingly well. He can hear Phil in the kitchen talking to the cats. He can smell bacon.

“Hope you're not a vegetarian,” Phil says as Sid comes down the ladder. “Or, god forbid, a vegan.” He shudders.

“Nope. Love bacon. Eggs too. Breakfast's my favorite meal. Need any help?”

“Nah. It's under control. And this kitchen is built for one. You've got time for a shower. I put out clean towels.”

Sid nods and goes into the tiny bathroom. It reminds him of the bathroom on the
Caprice
—designed to waste no space. Except Phil's bathroom has walls that look like wooden patchwork quilts, and the inside of the shower stall is covered in a mosaic of deadly sea creatures—jellyfish, octopi, sharks, stingrays, barracuda, stonefish, spiny sea urchins. Devi's work, Sid assumes. He has to admit, it is beautiful, if a bit bizarre. When he comes out, his ringlets dripping onto his clean T-shirt, Phil serves up breakfast, which they eat in silence.

When they are finished, Sid cleans up. It's the least he can do, he thinks, and it kills a bit more time. He's not sure he's ready for whatever comes next. He wants to go up to the loft, crawl back into bed and watch the sky for signs. An eagle, a balloon, a jet trail. His stomach is already churning. He wonders if coming here was a mistake.

“I called Elizabeth last night,” Phil says. “No sign of Wain. Or Devi. You ready to meet your grandmother?”

“I guess,” Sid says. “Can I see a picture of them first?” He doesn't know why he hasn't thought to ask before, but he hopes that seeing what they look like will ease the sense of dread that is creeping up his limbs, weakening his resolve.

“Sure, “Phil says. “Good idea.” He rummages in a kitchen drawer and pulls out a drugstore photo envelope. “I took these at Wain's birthday last March. We all pitched in and got him that Guitar Hero thing.”

He hands the envelope to Sid, who pulls out the photos. On top is a picture of a small woman with short gray curls and a plump, unlined face. She has her arm around a tall thin elderly woman with white hair in an elegant French twist. Beside them is a tall heavyset boy with close-cropped curls, a huge grin and a red guitar. He is a bit blurry, but not so blurry that Sid can't see that he is black. Inky black. Whoa. All along, he's been picturing Gawain as a miniature version of himself: red-haired, pale, wiry, quiet. Clearly, this boy isn't any of those things. He looks like a football player—a linebacker maybe. Sid knows nothing about football—soccer is his game. Even if they do find Wain, what will Sid have to say to him?

He hands the photos back to Phil. “Let's go,” he says. “I'll look at the rest later.”

Phil slides the photos back in the drawer and grabs his keys.

“You'll like Elizabeth,” he says.

Phil is right. Sid does like Elizabeth. From the moment she greets him at the door of her condo, he feels at ease. She answers the door in soft coffee-colored cords and a beige cashmere sweater. On her feet are suede moccasins with rabbit trim and fancy beadwork on the toes, and around her neck hangs a silver Celtic knot on a leather thong. Her hair is gathered into a low ponytail secured by a red silk scarf. When he hears her intake of breath when she sees him, he realizes that he is holding his breath.

“Welcome,” she says, stepping aside to let them enter. Sid stands in the foyer, wondering if he should take off his shoes. He's not used to houses as pristine and white as this one.

“Don't worry about your shoes,” Elizabeth says, as if he has spoken aloud. “Come in, come in.”

Sid follows her into the living room. Phil disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about fixing a dripping faucet. The view of the harbor is unobstructed, and Sid goes to the window and watches a floatplane land near some kayakers. Elizabeth stands beside him and says, “There's always something going on. I never get tired of it. ”

Sid nods. “I do that at home—watch the harbor.”

“Better than
TV
,” Elizabeth says with a laugh. “And no commercials. Although commercials have been very good to me.”

“Good to you?” Sid is puzzled. He hardly ever watches
TV
and when he does he finds most of the commercials annoying.

“After my husband—your grandfather, Stan—died, I was unhappy and bored. I tried lots of old-lady things—bridge, mall-walking, bird-watching. Nothing took my fancy. Then I saw that ‘Where's the beef?' commercial and I got to thinking—maybe there's a market out there for little-old-lady actors. So I found an agent and started going after the juicy parts: daft old things with ill-fitting dentures, ancient biddies in need of home care, spunky grannies who dance and rap, nasty old bats carrying wicked canes. I'll do anything on camera—rollerblade, paraglide, mountain bike, scuba dive—anything but die. I draw the line at that.”

Sid stares at her, and then the penny drops. “You're the Gray Matter Granny!” he says. “I love those commercials. That one where you were hang gliding was awesome.”

Elizabeth curtsies. “Thank you, my dear. Who knew geriatric vitamins could be so much fun? Or so lucrative. Next year we're going on location in Hawaii—geezers in paradise, I call it. I'll be surfing and biking down a volcano and hula dancing.” She makes a fluttering motion with her hands and swivels her hips.

Sid smiles and says, “Aloha.” He turns away from the window and looks around the condo. Everything in it looks brand-new. He had expected antiques and heirlooms, potpourri and gilt-framed pictures of sour-looking ancestors. Faded Oriental carpets, the smell of talcum powder. He couldn't have been more wrong.

As if anticipating a question she has been asked many times before, Elizabeth says, “After Stan died, I sold the big house and put everything except my clothes in storage. I furnished this entire place—dishes, rugs, candleholders, soap dishes, towels—from the IKEA catalog. Once in a while I dream about Stan doing something around the old house—putting up a picture, pouring a glass of wine, unloading the dishwasher. When I wake up, I go to the storage locker and find an object from the dream and it becomes part of my waking life again. The last thing I brought back was his old wooden Slazenger tennis racquet. I dreamed he was using the side of the house as a backboard again. It used to drive me crazy. I hope I never dream that he's dusting the figurine collection I inherited from my Great-Aunt Harriet. She had very bad taste in trinkets. I think I'm fairly safe though; Stan never dusted anything in his life.” She laughs, but there is a quaver in her voice.

“Is that him?” Sid asks, pointing at a framed photograph on a side table.

Elizabeth pulls a cloth hankie from her sweater cuff, wipes her eyes and says, “Yes. On our twentieth anniversary.” She hands Sid the photograph and he notices that her hand is vibrating slightly, like a tuning fork. He wonders if she's as nervous as he is. Or maybe she has—what's it called?—Parkinson's. One of Irena's friends has it and her head moves almost all the time, like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. He sneaks a look at Elizabeth's head, which sits peacefully at the top of her long neck. No bobble. The relief he feels is strange and welcome. He hardly knows her, but he wants her to be well and happy.

He looks down at the photo she has given him. A tall man in gray flannel pants, a navy blazer and a crisp, pale-blue shirt gazes out at him, smiling slightly, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His tie has been loosened. He is standing in a garden next to a wrought-iron bench. Behind him are tall purple and pink flowers. Hollyhocks, Sid thinks. Megan's favorite.

“You have the same eyes,” Elizabeth says. Sid looks more closely and sees that she is right. His grandfather's eyes, like his, are pale gray—the gray of a morning fog—with a black ring around the iris. Unlike Sid, Stan has thick black hair and bushy black eyebrows.

“He was nicknamed Groucho when he was a little boy,” Elizabeth says. “At least you've escaped that fate. The red hair is from my side of the family—the Gallaghers were all wild Irish redheads.”

“I remember her hair,” Sid says. “Devi's hair.”

“Her hair was glorious,” Elizabeth says. “Like yours. But it's gray now. And short.”

“Yeah. I saw a picture. Of her and Wain and you.”

When he doesn't continue, Elizabeth says, “It's all a bit of a shock, isn't it?”

“Yup,” Sid says, thinking of Wain's blue-black skin, his white grin. “Did you really not know about me?” It's hard for him to imagine keeping such an enormous secret for so long, although if he is honest, he knows he's probably capable of it. He wonders how Devi felt after she left him with Megan. Ashamed? Worthless? Sad? Even so—not telling your own mother that you have a child—that's huge. And kind of cruel.

“The first I heard of you was a week ago, when Wain disappeared and Phil decided to tell me Devi's secret. He's been a good friend to her—and to me—but I wish he hadn't waited so long to tell me.” Elizabeth reaches over and touches Sid lightly on the arm. “But you're here now—that's what's important, yes?”

“I guess,” he says. “I'm not really sure why I'm here though. I mean, how am I going to find Wain when you and Phil can't?”

“I don't know, dear,” Elizabeth says. “Mostly I just wanted to meet you. I'm sorry if that seems selfish. And we can certainly use your help trying to find Wain. The police are aware that he's run away, but he's run away so many times, I don't think they're looking all that hard. He's never been gone this long though. And with Devi gone…well, I'm not as young as I used to be and I don't have the energy to go out after dark and search for him. Wain and I aren't as close as we once were. I don't know his friends anymore. Or where he might go.”