The New Yorker Stories Part 56

"Calligraphy," Jim said. "We're a team."

"I wonder if you would be offended if someone who didn't hunt wanted a mallard just as a beautiful piece of handwork to put on his desk?" Francis asked.

Jim shrugged. "All the same to me," he said.

"May I ask what they cost?"

"Two twenty-five," Jim said. "Cost of eyes just went through the roof."

"They're worth every penny," Francis said. "They-I'm sure they do the job, but just as something to look at and contemplate..." He trailed off. "Would you have time to make one for me?"

"This is what I do," Jim said. "Sure."

"Well, may I give you a down payment? That, and of course I wanted to tip you, because the way you drive, you're sure to get to my house in Connecticut before I do!" Without waiting for a response, he reached into his back pocket. His finger slid through. His wallet was not there. He quickly patted his jacket pocket. Only the cell phone was inside. Then he jerked the chair back and felt shock reddening his face. He almost ran out to see if the wallet was on the ground, but tried to remember that nothing would be gained by being in a rush, by being sloppy. He walked back to the car, sensing both of them conferring silently behind him, searching too. The wallet had been full of cash, because he'd known that he would need to tip them. How would he drive without a license? He would have to notify the bank, American Express, too many places to remember.

"Bad break," Jim said, holding a can of beer toward Francis. "Worth going back to the house to look? It would be, wouldn't it?"

"This is hardly your problem," he said.

"Terrible feeling," Jim said. "I got my wallet picked at a Sox game in Boston, summer before last. Caused me no end of trouble. You think it might be back at your aunt's place?"

"It couldn't be. I mean, it could, but I would have noticed. It was empty up there."

"Let's leave the truck here and go in your car," Jim said. "Maybe it'll turn up."

"It's no use," Francis said. "I can envision where I was standing, and I know it wasn't there."

"You don't know," Don persisted. "C'mon, back we go. We'll impress you with our fast drivin'. "

It was getting dark. Francis felt terrible, as if he'd lost a friend. He had lost his wallet only once before-left it behind in a hotel room, actually, and it had been returned to him empty. He tried to tell himself that twice in sixty-six years wasn't so bad, but both times had happened in the past year. He closed his eyes to envision the second-floor room in which he'd been standing. It was something he'd trained himself to do as a lawyer, to reimagine something. Something concrete, not something abstract, like an idea.

"You prayin' or something?" Jim said and held out his hand for Francis's keys. Francis shrugged and handed them to him. At least he hadn't lost his keys.

Jim drove as if they were being chased, taking a shortcut he'd had to avoid with the truck. When they pulled in to the drive and got out, Jim began to pace the lawn, in the last of the waning light, leaving Francis and Don to go inside. Francis began looking through the first floor, feeling utterly defeated. Then he heard someone bolting up the stairs. "We got gold!" Don shouted almost immediately. "Hunt's off."

It was unbelievable; what concluded that way, so easily, so well? He couldn't believe what he heard, and stood with his head turned toward Don's voice, perplexed, allowing only the slightest tingle of relief to pa.s.s through his clenched stomach.

"What's this? Is this a wallet?" Don said, stepping off the last step into the hallway.

In that second, Francis, who had never been paranoid, realized that the wallet had been missing because Don had taken it. Hidden it somewhere. He had meant to go back later to get it. But then why had he insisted that they all come back there? Why had he produced the wallet so suspiciously soon? Why would Don do such a thing?

"Holy s.h.i.t!" Jim said, giving Don a quick slap on the back when he and Francis emerged from the house. "He found it! Just like that, he found it! See?"

It was the moment when Francis, too, should have thrown his arms around Don. But he knew Don had taken the wallet. O.K.: maybe it had fallen out of his pocket, but then Don had noticed it on the floor and either pocketed it or put it somewhere where he could get it later. As sure as Francis had an instinct for anything, he knew that the man preening in front of him had both taken, and returned, the wallet. Because he wants to be the big man in his friend's eyes, Francis thought. His more talented friend, whom he wanted to impress. Don was like those firemen who set fires so they can be heroes when they extinguish them.

"Where exactly did you find it?" Francis asked when they were back in the car, not turning to look at Don.

"On the shelf in the hallway," Don answered. "Sitting right there."

Francis searched his mind, but could not remember having gone near that shelf.

Zooming again through the dark back roads, Jim seemed energized. In the back seat, Don fell silent. The silence was deafening, but Francis thought it would be rude to put on the radio when he wasn't the driver. He would almost certainly not select the sort of music Don and Jim would like. Fidgeting, he took the wallet from his breast pocket and tilted it toward him: it was accordioned-out with money. "I think I should give you the two hundred and twenty-five dollars now, rather than just a deposit. Will that be all right?" he said.

"Hey, I don't turn down an offer like that," Jim said.

"But then, separate from that, I want to thank you for working so quickly and getting everything out of there so well-I mean both of you, of course," he rushed to add. An image of the broken tree limbs sprang into his mind. He blinked. "I'm much older than you two," he said, "so will you permit me an awkwardness?"

"What's that?" Jim said.

"I've never really known exactly how to tip, when furniture is moved. Never in my life. Is there some-"

"Like you'd tip a wh.o.r.e," Don said.

"Excuse me?" Francis said.

"He's kidding," Jim said, disgusted.

"No, I'm not. Don't you tip wh.o.r.es? They name a price, and you've got to pay it, but, if you really like what they did, don't you give them a big tip and go to them again?"

"At my age, I'm not sure I'll have any more moving jobs for you, unless it's moving us into the old-age home," Francis said.

"You never went to a wh.o.r.e, did you?" Don said.

"Shut up," Jim said.

"I'm not bragging," Don said. "I never did it in Kuwait. I did it once in Las Vegas, and once in the Combat Zone, when one almost pulled me outta my car. She was terrible, but the one in Vegas had red hair."

"I've been to Vegas," Francis said. "But you're right-not for anyone's services. I was with Hugh Hefner, who had to fly there to pick up the sister of that month's Playmate, to help Miss November, or whoever she was, get her twin into rehab. They were only seventeen, lying that they were eighteen."

"What?" Jim said. "You're puttin' us on."

"No," Francis said, with the dismissive tone of someone telling the truth. "No, I was advising Hugh Hefner about a legal matter I'm still not free to disclose. We talked business on the plane, because we thought a trial might be coming up soon. I found him to be a gentleman. This was long before he went everywhere in pajamas."

They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jim said, "So did it work out O.K. with the sister?"

"She completed rehab but died in a skiing accident," Francis said. He could feel it as if it were yesterday: Hefner's broken voice on the phone, going straight into his ear.

"You wouldn't have struck me as the sort of guy who hung out with Hugh Hefner," Don said.

"I was a lawyer," Francis said. "Lawyers meet all kinds of people." He let the comment hang in the air. What he still did not know was how one calculated a tip. He decided to delay payment until the furniture was unloaded, which might have been the way to do it, in the first place.

By the time they got on the road with the truck, it was after ten o'clock. They drove for a while, and then Francis blinked his lights several times; eventually, Jim responded by pulling to the side of the road. It was late and Francis was tired. He asked Jim if they could check into a motel. The two detours had cost them several hours, and Francis was having trouble staying awake. He was worried for Jim, as well, and insisted on paying for their room. Jim thought it over for a second. "Sure," he said.

Half an hour later, as they registered for two rooms at a Hampton Inn, Francis handed Jim a folded-up wad of money. "For the decoy," he said solemnly, as the night clerk handed them their key cards. Don had fallen asleep in the truck but stumbled out, groggily, when he realized where they were. He stood outside the door on the pa.s.senger side, blinking, his hair matted. He looked young, and helpless, and for a second Francis felt sympathy for him-he'd acted impulsively, then regretted what he'd done, because he wasn't a bad guy, after all. Tough lives, both of them had. Fighting in the Gulf War. Having a damaged child.

Jim said that he would wake Francis early if he was sure he wanted to follow the truck. Why did he want to follow them? But Francis insisted that he did, and then Jim and Don hopped back in the truck to drive to a faraway but well-lit area that the clerk had said was for large vehicles. They went their separate ways without saying good night.

"Bern?" he said, sitting on the side of his bed.

"G.o.d! I thought you'd never call!" she said. "Where are you?"

"A Hampton Inn," he said. "Has everything gone to h.e.l.l?"

"It's terrible," she said. "Lucy's mother calling, like a woman possessed, forgetting it's three hours later on the East Coast, and poor Lucy at wit's end, trying to calm her. And Francis, it is unbelievable to me, but Sheldon is no help whatsoever. He went out for a walk! A walk! If I were Lucy, I'd never speak to him again."

The non-smoking room smelled of cigarette smoke. Did it come as a surprise to him that people did not follow rules, when un.o.bserved? He pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and finger, let go, but the itching continued. He rubbed his nose. "What is her mother so upset about?" he said.

"The crash landing! What do you think she's upset about? Three people died."

Francis let his mouth drop open. "Crash landing? The plane crashed?"

"You heard it on the radio, didn't you? Somewhere?"

"No," he said.

"You didn't? Then what did you mean by asking-"

"I thought there was trouble between them," he said.

"I just a.s.sumed you'd heard. They almost didn't let the pa.s.sengers who survived leave the airport. The investigators are coming to our house, Francis, at the crack of dawn. Something about someone on the plane telling his seatmate it was going to happen. Francis, go turn on the television."

Francis didn't move. He took in what she'd said with dumb shock.

"And Francis," she said, "I do not have the slightest idea how we raised a son who could not reach out and comfort poor Lucy-who stalked off, instead, to take a walk."

"Maybe he lives in his own head, like his father."

"This is not the time to reproach me for criticizing you, Francis. Whether you do or do not live in your own little world, in the larger world, poor Lucy was two seats behind someone who died."

"Horrible," he murmured. "He's still on his walk? Would it help if I spoke to Lucy, do you think?"

"I've given her an Ambien, poor thing. Her mother is hysterical about the U.S. government and wants to give us all a civics lesson, dragging in the war in Iraq. She's a terrible woman."

"Lucy's asleep upstairs?" he said. He suddenly felt quite exhausted himself.

"Yes, of course. What did you think-that I'd have her stretch out on the sofa?" His wife's voice broke.

"We're coming home first thing in the morning," he said.

"Who is 'we'?"

"The moving men. There was some confusion about my wallet and we were delayed. I thought it best to put us all up at a motel. We'll set out first thing in the morning."

"What do you mean, 'confusion'?"

"One of them took my d.a.m.ned wallet, then felt remorse and returned it. But do not breathe a word of this to either of them, do you understand? I want to remain cordial and simply conclude this move."

She sniffed. "I suppose it's very late, and I might not be understanding you," she said. "You have the wallet, you and the moving men will be on your way. All right. But tell me, Francis-what do I say to our son about his behavior, when he returns?"

"That he's an insensitive a.s.shole, I guess."

"I don't think I should cross him," she said quietly. "He got very angry when Lucy's mother upset her, as if that was Lucy's doing."

"Get some sleep," he said.

"We've raised an immature idiot," she said.

He nodded, but of course she could not see him. "Sleep," he repeated.

"He has a screw missing," she said.

"See you tomorrow, early," he said.

"You have your wallet? That all worked out all right, did it?"

"It worked out," he said.

She said, "For G.o.d's sake, turn on the television."

At the Continental-breakfast buffet, he saw Jim sitting alone at a circular table. Jim had piled two Danish pastries onto a napkin-for Don, Francis was sure. A cup of coffee sat on the table, with a lid on the cup. "Didn't hear the news until this morning," Jim said. "Seems like plane stuff happens a lot more than it ought to."

"Do they know what caused it?" Francis asked.

Jim looked at him. He seemed more tired than he had when they checked in. He had circles under his eyes, dark, like a racc.o.o.n's. "They tell us what they want us to hear," he said.

"Your friend Don," Francis said, pulling back a plastic chair. "He obviously looks up to you."

"He wanted the two of us to spring my son and take care of him, you know that? Go on welfare and take care of him." Jim shook his head. "He's somethin', " he said.

"Would that not be at all possible?" Francis said.

"No, it wouldn't," Jim said. "You'd know that in one second."

"He miscalculated, then. He obviously looks up to you," Francis said again.

"Yeah, well, it's no 'Brokeback Mountain,' " Jim said, taking a big bite of his bagel.

Francis tried again: "I think he might do things-say things, maybe-to impress you."

"Scare me, is more like it. My son's a pretzel," he said. "Not one doctor, ever, thought anybody could take care of him anywhere but in an inst.i.tution." He got up. "Ten minutes, out front," he said.

Francis stood to get some coffee. "I hope I didn't offend you by asking whether Don's idea might have some viability," he said.

"No, it's just that Don's not my kid and sometimes it feels like he is." Jim started for the door, shaking his head. Then he turned back. "If he pressured you into saying you wanted one of the decoys and you don't, no hard feelings."

"He didn't do that. I want one very much. You do beautiful work. You're a real artist," Francis said.

Jim nodded slowly. "My grandfather was better, back twenty years ago, but I stick with it, and every now and then I learn something."