Angel Falling Softly (11 page)

“Forget something?” he mumbled, trying not to drool toothpaste. He ducked back into the bathroom and rinsed. He called out, “You think you forgot something?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

“Um, the dry cleaning?”

“I didn’t forget that. They had to do a special order on Milada’s outfit. I’ll pick it up next week.” She looked at him. “You can wear the navy blue on Sunday.”

“Oh.”

Yes, he preferred his black pinstriped suit. Even though he was forty, the navy blue tended to give him something of that freshly scrubbed missionary look.

David crossed the room and turned off the light. He knelt down at the side of the bed. She joined him, clasping his left hand in her right. They prayed every night like this, side by side. And while David prayed aloud, Rachel silently asked God to help her remember what she could not remember forgetting.

For once, it felt good to ask for something other than her daughter’s life. Even if it was only for herself.

B
righam’s Beer Hound was the name of the bar. Kammy’s idea. Her non-Mormon students had recommended it. The bar was located at the east end of South Temple, where the avenues climbed the bench to the University of Utah campus. They had to buy a four-dollar membership to get in the door—the product of some strange nexus between state liquor laws and the teetotaling Mormon population, Kammy explained.

Down-tempo lounge tunes played in the background. When they sat at the bar, the bartender paused in front of them. “What can I get you?” he asked, stepping to the side so they could see the sign boldly displayed on the wall: We Card Everybody. It’s the Law! Even serving the watered-down brew that passed for beer in the state, he obviously didn’t want to risk them not being over twenty-one.

They handed over their New York driver licenses. He made a show of comparing their license photos to their actual selves. Kammy was wearing her Indiana Jones outfit, as she called it. She tipped back the fedora and pushed down her sunglasses and smiled coquettishly at him over the rims.

“Huh,” he said, handing back the licenses. He added under his breath, “Nice fake IDs.”

“They are,” agreed Kammy, playing along. “The weird thing is that we’re a lot
older
than it says.”

Based on the name alone, Kammy ordered a microbrew called Polygamy Porter. “Not half bad,” was her opinion. Milada played it safe with a midrange white wine.

Kammy said, “I hear you moved to the suburbs. Living a life of quiet desperation, eh?”

“Garrick telling tales out of school again?” Milada twiddled the stem of the glass, slippery and cool with condensation. “It is tolerable, actually. The welcome wagon all but rolled out the red carpet. I was invited to a
barbecue
on Monday. It turned out rather—interesting.”

“And when they found out you aren’t Mormon?”

“Only seemed to pique their curiosity. One eager young man, had he been a dog, would have been humping my leg by the time dessert was served. I have a date with him later this evening.”

“No kidding?”

“He asked. I was intrigued. I don’t see that much of a downside.”

“As Garrick likes to say, don’t go hunting in your own back yard.”

“The same Garrick who otherwise treats me like a neurotic anorexic. Anyway, it hardly counts as hunting. More like catch and release.”

“The action around here picks up in a few hours. If your young Mormon proves as well behaved as reputation suggests, you might find something here more to your liking.”

“You should take your own advice.”

“Nah, it’s too complicated.”

“Complications can be dealt with.” Milada lowered her voice. “Besides, you know blood tastes so much better fresh. And that’s not the
only
thing that tastes better.”

“I mean, complicated for
me.
I prefer to keep my dietary demands and my social life separate. Like I said, not a problem in a hospital. It goes good with V8. Protein rich. And nobody can tell if our thermoses get mixed up.”

The combination sounded truly revolting. “Get thee to a nunnery, sister.”

“I’m no ascetic. Abstinence is just easier in the short term. I save up my emotional nickels and dimes, settle on a nice guy, and then blow it all on some grand, tragic relationship.”

“Tragic?”

“You know, like, ‘We’ll always have Paris
.
’” Kammy continued in a husky growl, “Stick by me, kid, and you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But soon and for the rest of your life.”

She did a pretty good Bogart, Milada thought. The fedora didn’t hurt. “How romantic.”

“How pragmatic. Zoë’s the romantic, waiting for her Cinderella to come dancing into her life and sweep her off her feet.”

“You mean Prince Charm—” Milada shook her head. “No, you’re right.”

A group of students bustled in the front door. One of them waved in their direction. Another called out, “Hey, Dr. Daranyi.”

Kammy waved back. “My students,” she explained. “I’m subbing for Dr. Dennett. He’s off to Lake Powell somewhere. That’s near the Grand Canyon, isn’t it?”

“What rotation are you doing?”

“Geriatrics.”

“You did your residency in pediatrics. Why not—”

“You know why,” Kammy said in a quiet voice that told Milada to drop the subject. “Besides, as you can see, I’m teaching.”

“So get yourself on a tenure track, then.”

“Like I have any desire to dive into a time suck like
that.
”

“Ah,” said Milada, a bit too smugly. “Then you should have
plenty
of time to serve on the Wylde board.”

Kammy collapsed with a melodramatic groan. Resting her forehead against the dark, varnished hardwood of the bar, she asked, “Why are you so obsessed with me living your idea of a productive life?”

Milada had to smile to herself. The eternal teenager was still hiding inside her sister, just beneath the skin. “Because you
are
perfectly capable of living a more productive life.”

“Why aren’t you giving this lecture to Zoë?”

“If she’d sit still for five minutes, I would.”

“You’re just compensating,” Kammy grumbled.

“You’re just sublimating,” Milada snapped back.

Always the same routine. The same questions and the same answers. But she had to ask, she had to nag. “Well, I’ll let you get to your friends.” Milada cringed as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She sounded like somebody’s mother.

“Have fun with your Mormon boy.”

“It should be an adventure.”

Milada paid the tab. She glanced over her shoulder as Kammy joined her friends—or colleagues, or classmates—at a table near the back. Kammy had friends. Friends that came and went without the world ending or beginning, something Milada had never been able to manage. She rationed her friends the same way Kammy rationed lovers.

Returning her billfold to her inside breast pocket, Milada felt the envelope and sighed. She was getting forgetful in her old age—the envelope was the reason she’d arranged this meeting with Kammy in the first place. She wrote a few lines on the back and strode over to the table, ignoring the intrigued looks that turned in her direction. “Here,” she said, handing the envelope to Kammy.

Kammy opened the envelope and took out a Wylde corporate ID card.

“No rush,” Milada said. “But try to get some hands-on experience in the next couple of weeks. Kick the tires, take the databases for a spin. Whatever one does with whatever they do.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Milada patted her on the shoulder. “I wrote my address on the back. Stop by some time and enliven my life of quiet desperation.”

Kammy turned the envelope over and nodded. “Sure. If you say so.”

“I’ll see you, then.”

“Yeah, later, Milly.”

She wasn’t out of earshot when somebody at the table said, “Wow, so it really
does
run in the family.”

“What, you guys didn’t believe me?”

“Pretty rare, though, isn’t it? A trait like that?”

“Rare doesn’t mean zero.”

They were referring to her hair and skin. Kammy described their observable condition as hypomelanism. In simpler terms, they were albino. It was genetic, and it did run in the family. Except that they got it from the first of their stepfathers, long after their parents had died.

T
he stressed-concrete entranceway to the Japanese restaurant was tucked in between the parking garage and a movie theater. Steven pulled into the parking garage and said, “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Milada looked again and replied that it was.

“When do you need to be picked up?”

“I should be fine for the evening. If not, I will call a taxi.”

Once she got inside, Milada felt more reassured. The sharp scent of
shoyu
and boiled rice at once brought back a decades-old memory of strolling through Shibuya a quarter-century ago, before Japan’s real-estate bubble burst.

The sushi chef called out a greeting from the bar. The floor area, crowded with tables, wrapped around the varnished pine sushi bar. A waitress, a small Japanese girl, bowed to her.

“I’m here to meet a Mr. Troy Ellis—”

“Milada!” Troy stood and waved. Seeing the eager young Mormon again, all square jaw and broad shoulders, she knew he was the boy who as a child sat through all the elementary school self-esteem courses and believed every word he heard.

The waitress led her over to the table. Troy came around the table to hold the chair for her. The waitress gave her a menu.

“Did you find the place all right?”

“My driver has a talent with addresses and directions.”

“The sushi’s quite good. Take your pick. I usually go with the tuna roll or California roll.”

Milada nodded. She put down the menu and took a sip of water.

“So,” said Troy, “how’s your knowledge of Mormons coming along?”

“It’s still pretty much confined to what you don’t do. I’m up to tobacco, alcohol, and caffeine.

“Technically it depends what the caffeine comes in. Coffee—that’s a given. Diet Coke—that’s how you separate out the true believers.”

Milada smiled. She wasn’t certain whether the boy was trying to be funny on purpose. The waitress returned and took their orders, picked up the menus, and left.

Troy toyed with his water glass, spinning it around on its coaster. “Not to get too personal, but do you consider yourself a religious person?”

“No,” Milada replied bluntly.

“You mean, you haven’t ever thought about, say, whether you existed before you were born, whether the soul continues after death—”

“Those are as much philosophical questions as religious questions.”

“Then do you consider yourself a philosophical person?”

Milada said again, “No.”

Troy gave her a guarded look. “Not even the purpose of life? Your place in God’s creation?”

“A long time ago, I spent a century thinking about it. Not any more.”

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“The purpose of life is business.”

Troy raised his eyebrows.

“I am serious. Religion preaches values, ethics, love of your fellow man. But where do those virtues touch everyday life? Other than in our own homes? In commerce. Yes, we aspire to loftier pursuits—to art, music, literature. To the priesthood. To lives of charity and self-sacrifice. And how do we pay for them? What must we sacrifice at the end of the day? Not only our lives and honor, said Thomas Jefferson, but our fortunes. The Good Samaritan, when he asked the innkeeper to watch over the man he rescued along the road to Jericho, he left the man with an expense account.”

Troy objected. “But business by itself is hardly virtuous. Without a foundation of belief, isn’t life reduced to little more than a series of economic transactions?”

Milada nodded. “Yes, business is hardly virtuous. Neither am I. It is not the place to expect sainthood. Or even fair play. But it is the place to practice. Immediate gratification tempts. But patience rewards in the long term. That and the miracle of compound interest.” She smiled to herself. “Now, if you are looking for a more Manichean philosophy of life, I would have you ask Zoë.”