A Changed Man (6 page)

“Lots of people have hard times. And they don’t—”

“A Book-of-Job hard time,” Vincent says. “I lost my job, my girlfriend left. I had a…problem at work that almost turned into a court thing but luckily got settled.”

What problem? What court thing? Bonnie reminds herself to ask later.

“So you joined a hate group?”

“Right. I mean, look…have you ever been having a really tough time, and someone told you something that made everything fall into place and make sense?”

Obviously, Bonnie has. She came to work for Meyer. But it’s not like joining ARM.

A sense of belonging, an explanation for how the world works—sure, it’s what everyone wants. When Bonnie tries to understand how someone could become a Nazi, that’s the only explanation she can come up with. But every conversion isn’t the same. What matters is what you turn into, what you do, what you believe. And what did Vincent Nolan believe? How did it help him to think that Jews should be killed and African-Americans shipped back to Africa? If he thought that. Thinks that. Is there a polite way to ask?

“Anyhow, it wasn’t the hate stuff. Like I said before, it was about the government. My family had some problems with the IRS.”

“So what happened? You got audited? That’s why you joined ARM?” Bonnie hears the edge in her voice and instantly regrets it.

Vincent turns to face her, and now it’s lucky the traffic has stopped, because Bonnie feels helpless to look away; her gaze is locked on his. It’s as if they’ve known each other so long that she can stare at him without blinking. Though his face is chapped and abraded by years of anger, disappointment, alcohol, and boredom, he looks like a kid. Is it because he’s good-looking that Bonnie was never really scared, not even in the office when she finally figured out who he was?

He says, “It might be better if you didn’t talk about stuff you don’t know about.”

Is he warning her? Or giving advice? Or giving warning advice? She wishes Meyer were here to tell her what he means.

“Sorry,” is all she can say. It’s the second time she’s apologized: a bad precedent for the future.

“No, I’m sorry,” Vincent says. Another silence falls. And now—so there
is
a merciful God—the traffic picks up again. Bonnie’s so glad to be moving, she nearly plows into the back of the car ahead of them and has to slam on the brakes.

Vincent says, “Ever notice how men and women have different driving styles?”

“Right,” says Bonnie. “So they say. Men won’t ask directions.”

“How’s that?” Vincent asks.

Is this guy Rip Van Winkle? Where’s he been for the last twenty years? But it makes sense.
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
would hardly have topped the Aryan Nation best-seller list. Probably this is the lead-in to the critique of her driving skills that he finally can’t help giving.

“Women protect what they have,” he says. “And guys always want what
you
have. It’s territorial instinct. It’s why women don’t start wars.”

What about Indira Gandhi? Margaret Thatcher? Bonnie feels defensive. This is one discussion she doesn’t want to be having with this guy. Or with anyone. She always hates it when men say anything about
women.
It feels like flirtation and criticism rolled into one neat little package.

“Human instinct,” says Vincent. “Simple as that. You can’t get rid of it.” He flashes Bonnie a grin. Probably he’s relieved that they’ve stopped talking about his career in ARM.

“You’re saying it’s hardwired?” Bonnie says.

“I hate that expression,” says Vincent. “Hardwired.”

“Actually, so do I. Come to think of it.” Bonnie points to the dashboard. “Speaking of wires, what’s that?”

“Maintenance required? Nothing. Get a tune-up sometime in the next thousand miles.”

The next thousand miles? Bonnie’s thrilled. She can deal with the traffic jam as long as she doesn’t have to deal with a traffic jam
and
a breakdown. And now…look at that! The toll booth’s in sight. She edges into the E-ZPass lane.

“E-ZPass is some scary shit,” says Vincent. “They can track your every move.”

“Let them track me,” Bonnie says. “I’m going home to my kids.”

It’s as if saying it makes it true. The bridge opens up before them. Even after years of living in Clairmont, Bonnie still loves driving the Tappan Zee. Traveling over the causeway makes her feel like a water bird, skimming the surface before takeoff.

“These bridges?” Vincent shouts above the warm wind rushing into the car. “They have a guy stationed at the on-ramps round the clock. His whole job is to take over the wheel for drivers who panic and have to be driven across.”

“Really?” Bonnie shouts back.

“I used to get that. I had it for years. Then it went away.”

Terrific. A phobic neo-Nazi. And a neurotic single mother of two. Bonnie and Vincent were made for each other.

As they turn onto 9W, Vincent’s sitting forward, charged with gopherlike alertness now that there’s something to see, signposts to his future. It’s touching how he’s practically sniffing at everything they pass: the gas station, the supermarket, the garden center.

“Clairmont,” Vincent says.

“Ever been here?” says Bonnie.

“Once, I think. Some…firemen’s carnival. Years ago. Before—”

“Every July.” It gives Bonnie the creeps to think of Vincent and his white supremacist pals hanging out in her town on beer night.

They pass the candle store, the antiques shops, the organic health food café, all of it seeming more precious and middle class and privileged by the minute. An African-American couple cross the street, pushing a high-tech baby stroller. Nothing like a skinhead riding shotgun to make you see your town clearly. Well, sorree! Bonnie likes what she sees, the diversity, the small businesses trying to survive, the pretty houses, the families who want the best for their kids and don’t feel compelled to burn a cross on the lawn of anyone who’s different.

They stop at the traffic light in front of the Methodist church, where for a couple of weeks now the billboard has read,
THE TOMB IS EMPTY
.

Vincent says, “Tomb. Empty. Those are two words that shouldn’t exist in the same sentence. Is that some Easter thing?”

“I live on the next block,” says Bonnie. “The not-so-great house on the great block.” Meaning: Don’t get excited or worried when we pass the huge stately Victorians. Don’t judge until we pull into the driveway of the nondescript two-story frame house that seems to have been transported from another, shabbier town.

When she and Joel first moved here, they liked saying that they lived in the not-so-great house on the great block. But eventually it got old. She’s gotten so used to apologizing for the house she’s still apologizing, just in case her guest room happens to be a step down from the Nazi cousin’s living room couch.

Bonnie should have known that Joel was planning to leave when he had the house repainted. She has to give him credit for not sticking her with that. But why he didn’t do it earlier, when domestic neglect was one of many topics of low-level squabbling masking the real problem, which was Lorraine? Lorraine is the widow of Joel’s former partner Jeffrey, who died suddenly of a coronary, and before that the widow of one of Jeffrey’s cardiac patients. Lorraine has written a book about it, a successful memoir called
Heartbreak,
an account of how it feels to lose two husbands in a short time, both to coronary occlusion.

Maybe Joel wanted the painters around to minimize the hysterical fits he assumed Bonnie would throw when she learned he was leaving. When in fact she was admirably calm, if you don’t count a few shaming episodes of weeping and begging and promising to change. Until the house is painted again, which will probably be never, she’ll always be able to measure the time since he left. A marker, as Meyer and Vincent said about their tattoos.

Bonnie pulls into the driveway.

“Nice crib,” says Vincent. “Good
living.
”

“Thank you,” Bonnie says.

“What does your husband do?”

“Ex-husband,” Bonnie says. “Cardiologist.”

“Got it,” Vincent says.

“What’s so funny?” Bonnie says.

“I don’t know,” says Vincent. “I figured a shrink.”

“He
needed
a shrink.” Why did Bonnie say
that?

“Well, obviously,” says Vincent. “The guy blew a good thing.”

Should Bonnie say thank you again? She busies herself with leaving the van. Vincent waits till she’s gathered her purse, keys, and briefcase, and disentangled from the seat belt. Then he goes around to the back and wrestles out his duffel bag. It’s heavy. The poor guy’s exhausted. He’s had a tough day. He catches Bonnie watching.

“Books,” he explains.

Right.
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, Mein Kampf, The Turner Diaries.
Having Vincent along makes her so self-conscious that she enters her own house as if someone else lives there.

“Hello-o? Max? Danny? Kids?” Meanwhile she’s rehearsing. Boys, this is Vincent Nolan. He’s come to work with the foundation. He’ll be staying with us for a few days until he gets his own place. Very up, very straightforward. Very don’t-ask-me-now.

But there’s no one to try it out on. She calls their names. Neither boy seems to be here. So what? Max is twelve, Danny’s sixteen. There are a million places where they could be on this lovely, unseasonably warm evening. Playing basketball. Strolling up Main Street for a predinner Big Mac. Bonnie knocks on the wooden banister. The most unlikely possibility is that something bad has happened, but that’s what Bonnie imagines first. At least she can suffer in private. Joel always found her maternal terrors so pitiful and annoying.

She returns to the kitchen to find Vincent still standing near the door.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” Bonnie says. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

“Are you okay?” says Vincent.

Bonnie says, “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine. I was just wondering where my kids are.”

“Out having fun?” Vincent suggests.

“Probably,” admits Bonnie. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Maybe later.” Vincent hasn’t put down his duffel bag.

“Come on,” says Bonnie. “It’s this way.”

Vincent waits a beat after Bonnie starts up the stairs, perhaps so his face won’t be directly in Bonnie’s ass. His face. Bonnie’s ass.
Those
are four words that shouldn’t exist in the same sentence.

If only Meyer could have trusted the guy to stay in a hotel for one night and given her time to clear out the guest room, to deal with the striated layers of family junk dumped in a space intended for a life that never happened. What guests did she and Joel imagine spending the night? Visiting friends from the city? Those friendships dropped off soon after they moved here. Even Joel’s parents, in from La Jolla, stayed in Manhattan and drove up for the day.

She and Vincent linger in the doorway, contemplating the piles of boxes, old clothes, papers, outgrown toys stuffed in lumpy plastic bags. Bonnie should have predicted the hard knot of anxiety that would swell in her chest at the prospect of this stranger sleeping in a room with her kids’ outgrown stuff. Their baby pictures. Does she think Vincent will hurt them? That’s what Meyer would ask. Somewhere, he’d say, there’s a mother with baby pictures of Vincent.

“Sorry about the mess,” says Bonnie.

“Please,” says Vincent. “You should see the rathole I’ve been staying in. Not that it was
my
mess. I’m basically a neat person—”

“Glad to hear it,” says Bonnie. “I’ll get you some clean sheets. And if you need to rearrange some stuff…”

“I’ll be careful,” Vincent says.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. You’ll be sharing with the boys.” Bonnie can hardly say it, the thought fills her with such revulsion. “I’ll leave the dark blue towel for you. It’s the only one like it, so you won’t confuse it—”

“I won’t,” promises Vincent. “That’d be great. Man, I could use a shower.”

And Bonnie? She could use getting through the lifetime from now until the boys show up. Once they’re home she can relax and get on with her evening. Read, watch TV. Danny will go to his room. Sometimes Max still consents to cuddle on the couch.

Bonnie should have given Vincent the house and taken the kids to a motel. Maybe she could get comfortable there. She certainly can’t, not here. At least her bedroom is on the other side of the house. At least she has her own bathroom. Everything could always be worse. She can stand it for one night.

She goes to her room and lies down without taking off her shoes. The unmade bed increases her sense of languor and self-pity. She closes her eyes and tries to calm herself by making plans for tomorrow. She and Meyer are having a staff meeting to discuss how they can use Vincent to generate some buzz. And help him in the process.

Suddenly, Bonnie jumps up. Has she fallen asleep? Are the kids home? She’d just as soon Vincent not meet the boys while she’s napping upstairs.

The first disappointment is that the kids aren’t home. The second is that Vincent is back in the kitchen, looking fresh and scrubbed. The duffel bag must contain some clothes. He’s changed into a short-sleeved black T-shirt. Bonnie tries not to stare at his tattoos. Do Max and Danny need to see that right away? They’ll see it sooner or later.

On the table before him are two books.

“What are you reading?” she says.

He says, “I like to read two books at once. “This one’s
The Way of the Warrior.
That’s
The Complete Pogo.
”

“Pogo?” says Bonnie. “The comic? Why?”

“I like how those swamp creatures sound like guys I know.”

“
Pogo
?” repeats Bonnie. “They don’t sound like anyone
anyone
knows.”

Vincent shrugs. “I’m also reading
Crime and Punishment.
”

“You’re reading Dostoyevsky? I haven’t read that since college.” What has Meyer sent her? A neo-Nazi intellectual?

“My mom was a reader,” Vincent explains. “I guess I got it from her. The funny thing was, I didn’t start until I was, like, twenty-five—”