Zen and Xander Undone (16 page)

And what about that voice I hear in my mind? That's real, isn't it? I want it to be, anyway.

Whether there's a god making all the decisions, though, I'm not sure. If there is a god, he's not the kind, loving grandfather a lot of people claim he is. If he were, I'd still have a mother. And people wouldn't be allowed to die the way Mom died, in terrible pain, and hunger, and thirst, with no hope of relief except the end. The end of everything.

I remember that Paul is still waiting for an answer, a slight smile on his lips as he looks at me. I clear my throat. “I think I believe that maybe a person's soul goes somewhere after they die, but I guess I don't really believe in God.”

He squints at me, bemused. “No one has ever told me that.”

“What?”

“That they believe in an afterlife, but not in God.”

I shrug. “It's just, I think if there was really some perfect being who could fix things, the world wouldn't be so miserable, you know?”

“I know what you mean. If God is supposed to be such a great guy, why do little children starve to death?”

I nod.

Most of the time when I tell believers I don't believe, they get angry, or defensive. But Paul doesn't. He chews on his straw for a while as he thinks about it. Chewing isn't quite the right word. He grabs it in his teeth and pulls on it really hard, as though he's trying to stretch it. Once he knows what he wants to say, he pulls the mangled straw out of his mouth. “I guess I think of God like my fifth grade substitute teacher snogging the principal of my school.”

“Okay,” I say, in all seriousness, “that's weird, Paul.”

He laughs. “No! I'll explain. When I was in fifth grade, we had this substitute, Mrs. Evans, filling in for our regular teacher who was having some kind of surgery. Mrs. Evans was tall, like at least six feet, and kind of big. Not fat, I guess, just a large, beefy woman. She had superlong hair that hung past her butt, and she had the kind of nose where you can sort of see inside her nostrils. Anyway it came out later that year that she'd been schtooping the principal. I guess the school secretary caught them necking in his office one day. She was a total gossip, and she told a few mothers, and before you knew it the entire school was abuzz about it. Mrs. Evans and Mr. Sloate acted really embarrassed too. They'd slink around the hallways while all the kids whispered about them.”

“And this has to do with God because . . .”

He shakes his head, like there's a train inside it and he's trying to bounce it onto the right track. “Um. Incomprehensibility. I could not imagine, could not begin to wrap my mind around the fact that they'd ever touched each other, because she was so big, and he was so . . . He was bald. I didn't tell you that part. Bald, and he always had bloodshot eyes. To me, they were both so old and ugly! Anyway, I finally asked my mom how two such ugly people could find each other attractive enough to do
that.
” He wrinkles his nose in mock disgust. “Mom just said, ‘You know, Paul, all I can say is it's a grownup thing.'” He stops, looking out the windshield at all the fluffy trees, quietly nodding to himself.

“I'm still not getting the connection.”

He gives me a sly grin, and that makes me smile. Somewhere along the way, my hackles went down. I like this Paul Martelli. I really do.

“Last year I saw Mrs. Evans in the supermarket,” he says, his voice low. “I didn't talk to her or anything, but I did get a good look at her. Now that I'm older, I can see she's kind of a pretty woman. I'm not a kid anymore. I went up a level, and now I understand someone wanting to snog her. Know what I mean?”

“Kind of,” I say, because I don't want him to think I'm a moron. I'm trying to follow what he's saying, but I'm a little distracted by a small chip in his front tooth, which is amazingly sexy in a way I cannot describe.

“It's like God is a grownup and we're all fifth-graders,” he says. He sees the new way I'm looking at him, and now he's looking at me in that way too, and his voice is softer, as though it's being slowly caressed by his breath. “The bad stuff He lets happen, to Him it's a grownup thing.” He fixes me with a level gaze. “Just like I couldn't imagine Mr. Sloate's reasons for wanting to do the nasty with Mrs. Evans, I can't understand God's reasons either.”

We look at each other for a long time, slowly smiling.

“E
ITHER HE'S REALLY DEEP,
or he's really weird,” Xander says. I'm lying on the living room couch, she's perched on the armrest, and we're dissecting my date. At least, she is. “So he didn't even
act
like he wanted to kiss you?”

“I don't
know
if he wanted to kiss me, Xander. I'm not a mind reader.”

“There are signals.”

I get so sick of her explaining guys to me, as if they are that complicated. Either they like you or they don't. It's not like Paul is a sports car I have to hot-wire.

“Did he look at your lips a lot? Did he lean in? Did he—”

“Oh, spare me!”

“But he
did
drive you home?”

“No, Xander, he kicked me out of his car and made me walk four miles with a sore back.”

“Wow. What a jerk,” she says, just to get on my nerves.

“He said let's do this again. So maybe he'll kiss me later.”

“Or maybe he just wants to be friends.”

Xander can't handle ambiguity, and I guess if my afternoon with Paul was anything, it was ambiguous. We talked for hours about God, religion, our futures, and then he drove me home. It felt friendly in the car, and breezy. I didn't feel all knotted up the way I usually am when I'm around a guy I think is cute, maybe because I could see the side of Paul that doesn't depend on him being attractive. He parked under the big maple tree that shades our lawn. He said, “Let's do this again.” Then, the feel of his fingertip on my skin, and I got out of the car.

“Well—” I begin. But then I think better of it. I shouldn't tell Xander anything.

“Well what?”

I sigh. Judging from the way she's sitting, with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward, staring avidly into my face, there's no way she's going to drop this. I may as well give her what she wants, and what she wants is details. “I guess I didn't give him a chance to kiss me because I got out of the car pretty fast.”

She throws up her hands. “God! Zen! You need girl lessons, I swear to god!”

“But before I got out,” I yell so she'll shut up, “he touched my arm. Very lightly. Sort of in the crease of my elbow. With one finger.”

She stares at me, deadpan. “That's so sexy I'm about to climax right here.”

“Shut up. It was nice.” He waited for me to open the front door before he drove off. I liked that, though I know Xander would see this as unimportant. To me, it's very important. Every guy wants to touch, but not every guy waits to make sure you get in okay. “He wasn't grabby. So what?”

This seems to satisfy her. “Okay. Good. You're on track.”

“On track for
what?
”

“On track for no longer being a hopelessly virginal martial arts geek.”

“Like being a slutty martial arts geek is something to shoot for.”

“You'd be better off, believe me.”

“Whatever.”

She slaps her hands together and rubs them like she's at a hoedown and the roast pig is ready. “Okay. You wanted to call what's-his-bucket. So let's do it.”

Even though I'm lying down, this makes my stomach plunge. “I thought you wanted to go there without calling.”

“I checked in to plane fare, and I can't find any tickets for less than six hundred dollars.” She picks up the phone from the end table behind her. “Come on. Let's just do it.”

“It's too late to call right now.”

“Not in Wisconsin.”

“I don't want to do it.”

“Okay. I will.” She cradles the phone on her shoulder and punches the keys, but just as quickly hangs back up. “I can't.” She starts chewing on the corner of her fingernail absently, a signal she's thinking extra hard. She narrows her eyes at the window. “We need a man.”

“That's what you said last week when you and Margot were making out.”

“Ha-ha.” She sticks the phone in my face. “Call Adam.”

“What the hell for?”

“Adam can pretend to be Mr. Blackstone following up about Mom's will. About the statue.”

“Call him yourself. I'm not going to be your go-between.”

She glares at me like she wants to belt me as she eases into the red armchair that Mom used to always sit in. The room is dark, but there's lots of light filtering through the thin curtains. She's sitting so still, thinking, blue in the moonlight, if I blur my eyes enough, I can almost believe Xander is Mom, like I'm looking at a ghost. And the ghost is terribly sad.

Xander breaks the spell when she clicks on the table lamp at my feet, lifts the phone, and dials Adam's number. “Hey. It's me . . .
Xander,
you asshole. We need your help . . . Well, Zen needs your help . . . Apologize for what? . . .
I'm
giving
you
the silent treatment? . . . Fine, Adam, I'm sorry you have the emotional maturity of a zygote. Can you
please
come help us? Now? . . . Fine. Bye.” She jabs at the phone to turn it off, and throws it into the easy chair across the living room. It bounces onto the floor with a loud crack.

“Hey! If you're going to throw things, go outside!” Dad calls up from the bowels of the basement.

“I'm glad to hear you haven't died!” Xander calls back.

“No, I'm just lying here on my side!” Dad calls back.

“I'm starting to think you have no pride!” I yell.

“I know,” he calls. It worries me that he didn't rhyme. I should go down to check on him, but I don't have the energy. Dad is going to have to find his own way out of the basement.

Xander goes upstairs and into the bathroom. I hear her splashing water on her face, opening and closing makeup containers. She's getting ready for Adam, though she'd never admit it, probably not even to herself.

Adam knocks as he opens the front door and steps inside. He's wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. When he sees Xander coming downstairs, he skips a beat before saying, “Hi.”

“Hi,” we both drone.

Xander hands him the phone. “I need you to pretend to be Mr. Blackstone, Mom's lawyer, and you're calling Phillips to check that the statue arrived safely. Or something.”

“Or something?”

“Just do it,” she snaps. “You're good with people. Milk him for information.”

“About what?”

“Find out if he had an affair with Mom,” she whispers so Dad can't hear, “but don't
seem
like you're trying to find it out.” She hands him the paper with Phillips's number on it and plunks onto the sofa, barely giving me enough time to move my feet out of the way.

She could get the phone from upstairs and listen to the whole conversation, but she doesn't, and that's not like Xander. I realize now that the real reason she got Adam is because she's scared, just like I am. I don't even want to hear the guy's voice.

“Don't say anything stupid,” Xander says.

“And don't ask him outright,” I add.

“Make it sound like a business call.”

“Shut up!” Adam shakes his head angrily as he dials, but when the other end clicks on, he's all professional courtesy. “Hello, is this Mr. Phillips?—Doctor. Sorry. I'm sorry to bother you at home. This is uh, uh . . .” He widens his eyes in horror and looks at Xander, who mouths the word at him. “Bob Blackstone, and I'm calling regarding Marie Vogel's will? . . . Well, I'm glad we could be of service. . . . Dr. Phillips, I've gotten an inquiry from the family about the statue I sent you. It was one of the oldest daughter's favorites. It would help her to understand why her mother left you the statue if she knew the nature of your relationship?”

Xander gives Adam a thumbs-up.

Adam pauses for a long time, listening. I search his face for some clue about what Phillips is saying, but he's completely blank. Finally he nods. “I see. So it was purely professional? Because the family has learned the value of the statue and—” Adam winces, and I can hear Phillips's voice coming through the phone in sharp tones. He's mad. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize this was such a delicate subject for you,” Adam says innocently, and then Phillips
really
lets him have it. At one point the yelling is so bad, Adam has to hold the phone away from his ear, and I catch a few words.

“
Don't you know what this could do to that family!
”

I look at Xander, who looks at me, her face grave.

“Sir! Sir! You're right. You're absolutely right. I have no idea how they found out about it, but I promise you I will do everything I can to—” Adam cuts off, surprised, then clicks the phone off. “He hung up.”

“What did he say?” Xander asks.

“He said she was his student, but when I started pressing him he got really defensive.” His voice is soft as he talks to her, and he's looking at her with very sad eyes.

“You're holding something back,” I say to him. His eyes dart to mine, then down to the floor.

“What did he
say?
” Xander asks again.

“When I mentioned you,” Adam says slowly, tapping his fingertips nervously on his thigh, “the first thing out of his mouth was ‘Her daughters weren't supposed to know about us.'”

“Us,” Xander repeats, her eyes on mine.

Mom was lying. To us. To Dad, and to me and Xander. She lied. Not just little lies, either. Huge, guilty, black-as-night lies. About who she was, about her life, about everything.