Bad Connections (12 page)

T
HERE IS A
town upstate called Milton's Crossing, a little to the south of the bridge that crosses the Hudson near Rhinebeck. It is in an area of Dutchess County known for its autumn crop of apples; in the summer a few of the local farmers let out houses—large shingled Victorian structures, the kind that have deep porches with rows of decrepit wicker rockers, upon which one sits in the evenings safe from the mosquitoes beating against the screening. It was such a house that Conrad rented with a group of radical friends and went to live in with Roberta that June, announcing to me his need for space and time in which to “repair damages,” as well as his intention of coming into the city as little as possible until September. “I'll keep in touch,” he said. He told me he would be staying “somewhere near Saugerties”—a town that happened to be at least thirty miles away and on the other side of the river.

I never told Conrad I once saw the actual house a year after he and Roberta lived there. Any blurring of lines around the compartments in which he kept the various segments of his life disturbed him considerably. It made him nervous enough that we had an acquaintance in common—a young woman named Francine, who'd come to work in my office around the time that Conrad vanished and who'd often been invited by one of her boyfriends to spend the weekend in Milton's Crossing. She had even been asked to join the commune, which she disparagingly called “the orphanage,” although she admitted the level of intellectual discussion was high.

Aware of my intense interest in that part of the country, Francine invited me and Matthew for a Sunday drive to the Dutchess County fair. On the way toward the fairgrounds at Rhinebeck, we approached the exit for Milton's Crossing. “Now there's a leading tourist attraction,” she said, slowing the car. “Well, would you like to see the place? Or do you think it would upset you?”

I told her I was very curious. Merely curious, I said.

She turned onto a road bordered by fields and orchards—a gently rolling landscape, not mountainous the way it was across the river. The house was painted yellow—which surprised me; I'd imagined it white. There were apple trees on the front lawn with windfallen apples in the uncut grass and hydrangeas were in bloom. The house seemed locked and empty.

Francine pulled into the driveway. “Let's get out,” she said, “and I'll show you the view from the back.”

I sat for a moment, astonished by the violence of my feelings. I wanted to walk up the steps of the porch, force open the door, walk through every room.
Conrad, I am walking in your house.

“If anyone comes,” I said, “it'll be embarrassing.”

“Oh come on. Just for a minute.”

I followed her out of the car. Matthew ran up the path ahead of us and picked up a long stick to play with. Francine pointed out the withered vestiges of a large vegetable garden which the commune had planted last summer—“Whatever else you want to say about Roberta H., she produces terrific organic tomatoes, and she's a really dedicated weeder”—and a badminton net where there had been games every evening after dinner. “It was an absolute treat to see Conrad in shorts—you know, with that overhanging buddha belly of his—switching away at that little feathered thing. What do they call it?”

“A puck,” I said absently, looking out over a meadow that I remembered Conrad had told me he could see from the windows of his bedroom. You could walk across the meadow and into the woods at the edge of it to the swimming hole. It was very private, Francine had said. They all swam naked there.

“No, it's a birdie. A puck is hockey, I believe. Honestly, Molly, it's obvious you're not
sportif
.”

“I didn't know Conrad was.”

I was looking at the row of windows on the second floor, wondering which room had been his and Roberta's. I was thinking that I might have been here with him last summer. It might have been me just as well.

“You know what I really admire about Conrad—he doesn't give a damn about being absurd. I mean he's a terrible shit and all—but you sort of have to admire him for that. And for that head of his, I guess.”

She was all of twenty-four and her judgments of her elders were delightfully lacking in respect.

I laughed with some uneasiness. “I know what you mean about absurd.”

“The trouble with you, Molly, is that you take him seriously.”

I was subject to attacks of unreality the summer Conrad went back to Roberta. They would come upon me particularly on my way home from work if I had reason to stop at the supermarket. Why there at the Red Apple, I am not sure. I would push the metal cart down the long aisles, hanging on to it for dear life, in fear that it would glide away from me under its own power before I could choose what I wanted from the shelves—not that I could choose at all, not that I wanted anything. Filled with dread, I would force myself to pick items according to a list I could scarcely remember composing.

It was Conrad's unreachability that filled my mind. I knew that if I could only locate him, I could get him back. Evidently, he knew it as well. Why else would he have taken such pains to hide himself, leaving me not so much as a forwarding address or a phone number, or even listing himself with Information in Saugerties.

I began to go for walks in the evenings—always the same eight blocks down Columbus Avenue. “Let's get a little air,” I'd say to Matthew. On the way I'd look at the passing traffic very carefully as well as all the cars that had been parked; perhaps I could spot a green Saab among them. Stationing myself across the street from Conrad's house, I'd look up at his apartment, trying to make out a light behind the drawn blinds and attempting to memorize their current position so that I could tell whether they'd been raised or lowered the next time I came. I'd go upstairs sometimes for an examination of his door. Obviously, he'd asked the doorman to save his mail for him because I never found any outside his apartment. As if I were leaving a note, I'd wedge a folded piece of paper between the edge of the door and the door frame. In a few days, I'd go back and check on it to see if it had been removed. I'd pull it out and crumple it in my pocket. Occasionally, I'd miss an evening and feel convinced that this was the very time he'd come and I'd lost my one chance of confronting him. I'd learned that it was quite useless to leave messages with his office or his answering service.

In July, I rented a two-room cottage in Woodstock, which happened to be near Saugerties. I intended to spend my weekends there, since there was no possibility that Conrad would choose a weekend to come into New York. Since Woodstock happened to be the cultural center of the Catskills as well as the hub of radical activity in that region, it stood to reason that anyone wishing to escape the rural boredom of Saugerties would have to come into Woodstock at least occasionally.

The Woodstock paper printed news of Saugerties from time to time—a square dance at the firehouse sponsored by the American Legion, the discovery of the body of a vagrant who had been shot through the head in a picnic area. I read each item with morbid interest. One event which was widely publicized was Annual Dog Tattooing Day—upon which one could come to the lawn in front of the town hall and have one's dog tattooed with one's Social Security number for a dollar—a free beer for the dog owner thrown in. This epitomized for me the meanness and inanity of that town—and I wondered why Conrad had chosen to spend the summer there, or perhaps it had been Roberta who had made the choice and Conrad with his peculiar obliviousness to what surrounded him had simply gone along with it.

Still I never came upon him in Woodstock, even though I went to all the movies I thought he'd want to see, ate in the restaurants where perhaps he'd take Roberta, attended concerts of his favorite music. I felt as though he deliberately ignored its proximity. Perhaps he'd found out that I was there.

She has hit upon a way of getting Conrad's phone number in the country—not a very nice way. Still she is quite sure, the moment she thinks of it, that this outrageously awful plan will work. It has to do with making a phone call to Roberta's ex-husband Theodore.

Once she decides to do it, she goes through with it immediately, efficiently looking up the number and writing it down on a little pad, closing the door of her office—the order and impersonality of which protect her, as if this act is part of a day's work, nothing more.

“Hello,” she says, speaking loudly and rapidly when Theodore Holloman answers. “I feel so terribly awkward about bothering you—because I hear you and Bobbie are separated now—but I've been desperately trying to reach her and there's no answer at her apartment, and I wonder whether you could tell me if she's away for the summer.”

She pauses for his answer, hoping he has not noticed she has neglected to mention her name. Let him simply think he is dealing with a loud and foolish person.

“Yes, she is out of town,” he says pleasantly. “By the way, who is this I'm speaking to? Have we ever met?”

“No we haven't, but I'm a very old friend of hers. We went to school together. I'm sorry I never got to meet you, Ted.”

“Theodore,” he says, “but don't sweat it.”

“You see, I've been living in Seattle all these years. I'm just passing through New York with my second husband. We're on our way to Greece. I thought it would be so wonderful to see Roberta—or rather Bobbie—again and I'm heartbroken that she's not around.”

“Well, she's not very far from the city.”

“Oh really?”

“I can give you her phone number, if you'd like it.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful. At least I'd get to talk with her.” By this time she is so comfortable in her role as Roberta's friend, she almost feels some real affection for her.

“She's sharing a house with her boyfriend and some other people—but she's thinking of staying up there with her friend on a year-round basis. In fact, she says she's determined to do it.”

“How very interesting.”

“I doubt Bobbie will go through with it, though. She's really a very urban person, isn't she?”

“Yes, I've always felt that way about her.”

“Still, she's just unsettled enough to want to try it out. Oh, here it is,” he said. “914-JK5-6213.”

“I can't thank you enough,” she says.

“Why don't you try calling around dinner. I think she spends afternoons at the swimming hole.”

“It was really good talking to you, Ted. Lots of luck.”

Shaking, she hangs up. It is probably one of the worst things she has ever done. Staring at the stolen phone number, she wonders whether she can ever use it. Is Theodore in frequent communication with Roberta? Will he ask her if she ever heard from her friend from Seattle? Will Roberta deny the existence of such a friend—and then being anyway inclined to paranoia, begin to put two and two together—particularly if Molly has called in the meantime?

On the other hand, since she has acted so far outside the bounds of normal, decent behavior, possibly no one will have the imagination to attribute such outrageousness to her. Not even Conrad, with all his talk of her vengefulness, would imagine her going to the lengths of fraud and impersonation for his phone number.

She wonders what she is becoming. She is helpless before her need to stalk him. It is as if that is her only form of connection to Conrad. She must somehow keep him alive in her own mind in order for her to continue to exist in his.
People you've been close to don't simply drop out of your consciousness, Molly.
And they
were
close, she thinks. God, they never came closer than they were at the end. They should have gone on from there—but they didn't. Her mind always sticks at that point. It is as if she must keep trying to force her logic upon the disorder of life.

***

“Operator, I'd like to make a person-to-person call to Conrad Schwartzberg.”

There are advantages to calling long distance. The anonymous voice of the operator will protect her from certain possible confrontations. She only wishes to speak to Conrad—she has just enough courage for that.

The phone rings in his house. They have probably all finished having dinner by now, and maybe at this moment there is no one in the kitchen, which is where she thinks the phone must be located.
I would like to have a private discussion with Conrad Schwartzberg, if you don't mind.

“Hello.” A woman's voice, unidentifiable.

“I have a person-to-person call for Conrad Schwartzenberg.”

“He's out in back, I think. You'll have to wait a minute.” There is irritation in her voice—perhaps it is Roberta. “Who is this call from?”

The woman waits for an answer, the operator waits, Molly says nothing.

“I'm calling Conrad Schwartzenberger,” the operator says.

“I'll go and get him,” the woman says after a moment.

“Hello?” He sounds out of breath, a little guarded.

“Conrad—” she manages to say.

“Is this he?” the operator asks.

“Yes, it's he,” she says.

“How are you, Molly?” he says grimly.

“Not so good. I'd like to talk to you.”

“I don't know when that could be.”

“Conrad—”

“Listen, what I'm going to do is write you a letter about the history of our relationship.”

“I don't want a letter.”

“Unfortunately, this is not a private phone. I share it with eight people. There is also someone about to come in here to try to fix the dishwasher, because there isn't one piece of equipment that works properly in this fucking house. Otherwise it's perfect.”

“I'm really glad to hear it's perfect.”

“I'm relaxed, Molly. I'm like a normal person. You wouldn't know me.”