Lunar Park

  I was at a point where all of what the writer wanted filled me with simple remorse.

  (I innocently believed in metaphor, which at this point the writer actively discouraged.)

  There were now two opposing strategies for dealing with the current situation.

  But the writer was winning, because as I ducked back into the Porsche I could smell a sea wind drifting toward me.

  20. kentucky pete

  I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon. The sky was turning black, and the clouds roiling in it kept changing shapes. They resembled waves, crests, the foaming surf of a thousand beaches. My eyes kept checking the rearview mirror to see if anything was following us. I did not give a shit how Sarah would react once she noticed her doll was gone. She was going to have to deal with it, rock ’n’ roll. The writer noticed we were not heading toward the college, and he brought up “Minus Numbers” again. I patiently told the writer that we were not going to the college. I told the writer we were heading back to 307 Elsinore Lane. I told the writer that we needed to get back to Robby’s room. There was information on Robby’s computer. We needed to see what that information consisted of. The information would clarify things. This was why we were heading toward the house and not the college.

  What is in the computer is simply a warning, the writer argued.

  The answer is in that manuscript and not in those files, the writer argued.

  I was drifting off, thinking of my own manuscript. I was thinking of how I knew at that point in time that I was never going to finish it. I dealt with this fact stoically.

  When the writer started laughing at me I felt transparent.

  The writer laughed: Pull over.

  The writer laughed: Drop me off.

  The cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the dashboard. It was Pete.

  “Where did you get that doll?” I asked the moment I clicked on.

  “Hey, Bret Ellis,” Pete drawled, hacking up something. “It’s a little early in the day—we have ourselves an all-nighter?”

  “No, no,” I said, flinching. “It’s not that. I just wanted to ask you about that doll—”

  “What doll, man?”

  “That bird thing that I asked you to get for my little girl?” I said, trying to sound like a concerned parent and not one of Pete’s favorite drug fiends. “I needed one of those Terbys for her birthday? And they were sold out everywhere? Do you remember that?”

  “Oh, right, yeah, that ugly freakin’ thing you wanted so bad.”

  “Yes, exactly,” I said, relieved that Pete actually remembered. We were on course. “Who did you get it from?”

  I could hear him shrugging. “Just some contact.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Why?”

  “I need specifics, Pete. Who was it?”

  “You sure you’re not high, man?”

  Realizing my voice sounded hoarse and labored, I tried to push it into a neutral tone.

  “This is important, okay? You don’t need to name names or anything. Did your contact get this through a toy store or someone else or what?”

  “I didn’t ask him where he got it.” I could see the glazed expression on Pete’s face in the way he said this. “He just brought it to me.”

  Okay. I breathed in. We were heading toward something. The contact was a man.

  “What did the guy look like?” I was gripping the steering wheel tightly in anticipation of Pete’s answer.

  “What did he look like?” Pete asked. “What the fuck?”

  “Was it a young guy? Was it an old guy?”

  “Why do you wanna know this shit?”

  “Pete, just give me some kind of description.” I lowered my voice. “Please, I think it’s important.”

  “It was a younger guy.” Pete said this mystified.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Look like? He looked like a college kid. In fact he was a college kid. He was a student at that place you teach at, man.”

  The writer began grinning.

  The writer was writhing ecstatically in his seat.

  The writer wanted to applaud.

  My silence encouraged Pete to continue.

  “I was meeting up with some kids the first week of classes, and I gotta admit I tried everywhere, even a guy I knew down in Cabo—that thing was just not available—and I knew how much cash you were laying out, so I was getting kinda desperate and so I was just asking pretty much everybody and one night when I was . . . visiting . . . the college, making a little run, I asked this group of kids if anyone could get me one of those things and this kid said he could get me one the next day. No problem.”

  I was driving down the interstate.

  I was ignoring the unswaying palm trees that had turned the interstate into a corridor.

  I had aligned the car with the lane we were in.

  The writer could no longer contain his glee.

  Kentucky Pete kept talking, though what he said no longer mattered.

  “And so I stopped by the parking lot of the Fortinbras and we met up and he had it and that’s all she wrote.” Pete inhaled on something, and his voice deepened. “I gave him half the cash and I kept the rest as a finder’s fee and it was a done deal.”

  “What did he look like, Pete?”

  “Jeez, man, you keep asking that like it means something.”

  “It does. Tell me what he looked like.”

  Pete paused and inhaled again. “Well, you’re probably gonna think I’m taking the easy way out of this one, but he looked a little like you.”

  I found it in myself to ask: “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he looked like you if you were a little younger.”

  I found it in myself to ask: “Was his name Clayton?”

  “I don’t keep records, dude.”

  Outside this car everything was a blur. “Was his name Clayton?”

  “All I know was that I met him up at the college and he drove this little white Mercedes.” Pete coughed. “I remember the car. I remember thinking damn, the kid is loaded. I remember thinking that this was going to be a very lucrative term.” Static. “But I never saw the kid again.”

  The Porsche swerved slightly. Another wave of fear delivered.

  “Was his name Clayton?” I stuttered and tried to sit up straight. I might as well have been talking to myself.

  There was a long pause crackling with static. And then there was silence.

  I was about to click off.

  “You know what?” Pete finally returned. “I think that was his name. Yeah, Clayton. Sounds right.” A concerned pause during which Pete figured something out. “Wait a minute—so you know the guy? Then what the hell are you calling me for—”

  I clicked off.

  I concentrated on the blinding emptiness of the interstate.

  What you just heard will not answer anything, Bret. This is what the writer said.

  Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.

  21. the actor

  The Porsche dived into the garage.

  The writer’s laughter had subsided. The writer was a blind guide who was slowly disappearing. I was now alone.

  Everything I did had an intent that was solely mine.

  The stairs seemed steeper as I climbed them.

  I opened Robby’s door.

  The computer was off.

  (It was on when I had been interrupted.)

  After I restarted it I sat in front of its screen for three hours.

  The moment I typed in the password to open the MC file the computer screen flashed back to the desktop.

  The screen started blinking, its edges shallowing out, and then it burned green and was stubbled with static.

  I kept trying to wade through the glitches. I kept telling myself that if I could read those files everything would become untroubled and weightless.

  I unplugged the Gateway. I restarted it.

  I was on hold with the company’s emergency hotli
ne for an hour before I hung up, realizing there was nothing they would be able to do.

  My eyes were aching as I kept tapping keys with one hand while moving the mouse around in useless circles on its pad with the other, my face flushed with concentration.

  The computer was now a toy made from stone that just stared back at me. The computer was not going to lose this game.

  Each keystroke took me further from where I wanted to be.

  I was receding from the information.

  Within the random flashing and static I could occasionally make out the hills of Sherman Oaks rising up out of the San Fernando Valley, or I glimpsed the shoreline of a hotel in Mexico, my father standing on a pier and he was lifting his hand, and the sound of the ocean was coming from the computer’s speakers.

  Briefly there was a shadow of the Bank of America on Ventura Boulevard.

  Another familiar apparition: Clayton’s face.

  And then the computer was dying.

  Before the sound faded out completely there was the faint and muffled verse from “The Sunny Side of the Street.”

  And then the computer whirred itself into silence and died.

  The only answers were going to come from Robby, I told myself as I pushed away from the desk.

  The writer immediately materialized.

  The writer asked in his thin voice: Do you really believe that, Bret? Do you really believe your son will supply the answers?

  When I responded affirmatively, the writer said: That is sad.

  I told Marta I would be picking Robby up from Buckley. I didn’t let her say anything. I just walked out of her office as I announced this.

  I could hear her reluctantly agreeing as I moved down the hall to the garage.

  Outside, the wind kept altering its direction.

  On the interstate I saw my father standing motionless on the walkway of an overpass.

  After I unrolled the window and flashed my driver’s license to a security guard, I pulled into a line of cars waiting in the parking lot in front of the library. The spires of gnarled pines rose up around us, encircling the school.

  I glanced at the scar in the palm of my hand.

  This was either going to be an ending

  (endings were always so easy for you)

  or something would get healed, and the healing would forestall a tragedy.

  The writer, in his own way, vehemently disagreed.

  Privileged children mumbled warnings to one another as they headed toward the fleet of SUVs waiting for them. Security cameras followed the boys. Sons would always be in peril. Fathers would always be condemned.

  Robby’s backpack was flung over his shoulder and his shirt was untucked and the gray and red striped tie loosened, hanging slackly from around his neck: the parody of a tired businessman.

  Robby was staring at the Porsche and at the man in the driver’s seat. Robby looked at the man questioningly, as if I were someone who had never known his name.

  My questions were going to merge with his answers.

  I could feel his doubt as he stood rigidly in front of the car.

  I was begging him to move forward. You have to surrender, I was begging. You have to give me another chance.

  The writer was about to hiss something, and I silenced him.

  And then, as if he had heard me, Robby shuffled toward the car, forcing a smile.

  He took his backpack off before opening the passenger door.

  “What’s up?” He was grinning as he placed the backpack on the floor.

  As he sat down he closed the passenger door. “Where’s Marta?”

  “Okay, look,” I started, “I know you’re not happy to see me, so you don’t have to smile like that.”

  Robby didn’t even pause. He immediately turned away and was about to open the door when I locked it. His hand clutched the handle.

  “I want to talk to you,” I said, now that we were both encased within the car.

  “About what?” He let go of the handle and stared straight ahead.

  The division in the car asserted itself, as I had expected it to.

  “Look, I want all the bullshit dropped, okay?”

  He turned to me, incredulous. “What bullshit, Dad?”

  The “Dad” was the giveaway.

  “Oh, shit, Robby, stop it. I know how miserable you’ve been.” I breathed in and tried to soften my voice but failed. “Because I’ve been miserable in that house as well.” I breathed in again. “I’ve made everyone miserable in that house. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

  I watched his smooth jaw clench and then unclench as he stared out the windshield.

  “I want you to tell me what’s going on.” I had turned in my seat so that I was facing him. My arms were crossed.

  “About what?” he asked worriedly.

  “About the missing boys.” There was no way to control the urgency of my voice. “What do you know about them?”

  His silence emphasized something. Around us, kids were piling into cars. The cars were maneuvered out of the circular drive while the Porsche sat stationary against the curb. I was waiting.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said softly.

  “I talked to Ashton’s mom. I talked to Nadine. Do you know what she found on his computer?”

  “She’s crazy.” Robby turned to face me, panicked. “She’s crazy, Dad.”

  “She said she found correspondence between the missing boys and Ashton. She said the correspondence was dated after these boys disappeared.”

  Robby’s face flushed and he swallowed. In rapid succession: contempt, speculation, acceptance. So: Ashton had sold them out. So: Ashton was the traitor. Robby imagined a streaming comet. Robby imagined traveling to distant cities where—

  Wrong, Bret. Robby imagined escape.

  “What does this have to do with me?” he asked.

  “It has a hell of a lot to do with you when Ashton’s sending you files to download and Cleary Miller is sending you a letter and—”

  “Dad, that’s not—”

  “And I heard you in the mall on Saturday. When you were standing with your friends and someone brought up Maer Cohen’s name. And then you all stopped talking, because you didn’t want me to hear the conversation. What in the hell was that about, Robby?” I paused and kept trying to control the volume of my voice. “Do you want to talk about this? Do you want to tell me something?”

  “I don’t know what there is to talk about.” His voice was calm and rational, but the lie was turning its black head toward me.

  “Stop it, Robby.”

  “Why are you getting mad at me?”

  “I’m not getting mad at you. I’m just worried. I’m very worried about you.”

  “Why are you worried?” he asked, his eyes pleading. “I’m fine, Dad.”

  There it was again. The word “Dad.” It was a seduction. I momentarily left earth.

  “I want you to stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “I don’t want you to feel that you have to lie to me anymore.”

  “What am I lying about?”

  “Goddamnit, Robby,” I shouted. “I saw what was on your computer. I saw that page with Maer Cohen. Why in the hell are you lying?”

  He whirled toward me in horror. “You went into my computer?”

  “Yeah, I did. I saw the files, Robby.”

  “Dad—”

  He momentarily forgot his lines. He began improvising.

  (Or better yet, the writer suggested, he sent in the understudy.)

  Suddenly Robby started smiling. Robby slumped forward with exaggerated relief.

  And then he started laughing to himself.

  “Dad, I don’t know what you thought you saw—”

  “It was a letter—”

  “Dad—”

  “It was from Cleary Miller—”

  “Dad, I don’t even know Cleary Miller. Why would he send me a letter?”

  I asked the writ
er: Are you writing his dialogue?

  When the writer didn’t answer, I started hoping that Robby was being genuine.

  “What’s happening with the missing boys? Do you know something we should all know? Do you or your friends know anything that would help people—”

  “Dad, it’s not what you think.” He rolled his eyes. “Is this what you’re all upset about?”

  “What do you mean it’s not what I think, Robby?”

  Robby turned to me again and, with a grin tilting his lips, he said, “It’s just a game, Dad. It’s just a stupid game.”

  It took me a long time to judge if this was the truth or the black lie returning.

  “What’s a game?” I asked.

  “The missing guys.” He shook his head. He seemed both relieved and slightly embarrassed. Was this an intriguing combination—one I wasn’t sure I trusted—or simply an attitude he rented?

  “What do you mean—a game?”

  “We kind of keep track of them.” He paused. “We have these bets.”

  “What?” I asked. “You have bets on what?”

  Now it was Robby’s turn to breathe in. “On who’s going to be found first.”

  I said nothing.

  “Sometimes we send each other e-mails pretending to be the guys and it’s really stupid, but we’re just trying to freak each other out.” He smiled to himself again. “That’s what Ashton’s mom saw . . .”

  I kept staring at him.

  Robby realized he had to climb onto my level.

  “Dad, do you think those guys . . . are, like, dead?”

  The writer emerged and pointed out that the question had no fear in it.

  The question wanted a response from me that Robby could gauge. He was going to learn something about me from that response. He would then act on what he gleaned.

  Things were slowing down.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Robby. I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Dad,” he said softly in an attempt to calm me down, “I’ll show you when I get home.”

  (This, the writer told me, will never happen.

  Why not? I asked.

  Because the computer died this afternoon.