The Last Tomorrow (17 page)

He’ll call her back after.

4

The elevator doors open. Evelyn emerges from within, like some creature hatched from an egg, and sways toward Eugene, svelte and fluid and serpentine. A smile touches her lips
as she walks toward him, and her eyes are alive with humor and sensuality. He called up to her room over ten minutes ago, but it was certainly worth the wait. He gets to his feet and takes a step
forward to greet her. Seeing her is almost enough to make him forget the envelope he opened this morning and what he found within it. Almost. But even though the worry floats around the back of his
mind he knows he can do nothing about it. He must simply wait, see what happens.

He leans in and kisses her cheek. He can smell clean sweat on her, the kind of sweat you want to lick off, and soap, and that soft flowery perfume that’s so unlike the woman herself.

‘You look beautiful,’ he says into her ear.

‘I know,’ she says.

5

The knock at the door comes sooner than expected. He only called her back fifteen minutes ago, and she wasn’t sure when they got off the phone that he’d actually
show up. He seemed distant and strange during their conversation, halting in his speech, but despite this she is inexplicably looking forward to seeing this man who helped to arrest her son. She
walks to the door and pulls it open. Detective Bachman stands on the other side in a wrinkled gray suit and scuffed shoes, his weathered face hanging there dead till he sees her and puts a smile on
it. He removes his fedora and holds it in front of his chest as if she were the national anthem.

‘Mrs Richardson.’

‘Candice.’

‘Candice, then. Are you ready?’

His eyes seem glossy and far away, and much of the emotion that was evident on his face the night she met him appears to have vanished, is completely absent. She wasn’t herself that night.
Perhaps she misjudged him. Perhaps her memory of him was distorted by what she was going through. She hesitates, wondering if this was a bad idea, wondering if she should just stay home.

She glances back over her shoulder and cannot stand the sight of her empty house. It feels oppressive, the emptiness, and she wants to get away from it. At least temporarily.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Good,’ he says, and steps aside.

6

The restaurant is dimly lit. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lighting the center of the room, but Evelyn and Eugene are sitting at a small two-top in a back corner, in
darkness but for the flickering light of a guttering candle. It makes it difficult for her to read his expression.

He takes a swallow of his beer.

‘Is that really so bad?’ she says.

He remains silent for a long time. Finally he shakes his head and says, ‘I just don’t know how anyone can
not
like Humphrey Bogart.’

‘I didn’t say I don’t like him.’

‘That’s what it sounded like to me.’

‘I like him fine when he plays scoundrels. He was perfect in
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
. But his teeth are disgusting. Every time he kisses a woman onscreen all I can think
about is what his breath must smell like. I see him with Lauren Bacall and I simply don’t believe it.’

‘But they’re
married
.’

She shrugs. ‘They say love is blind. Maybe it doesn’t have a good sense of smell, either.’

Eugene laughs.

She smiles and sips her wine.

7

Carl and Candice sit across from one another at the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard. He watches her eat a bowl of chili and sips his coffee, good and bitter and hot. The
place is busy and filled with the sounds of people talking, of forks and knives scraping against plates, of chairs being scooted in and out. He likes the sounds; they blend together, creating a
cloud of noise that’s almost as peaceful as silence.

‘It was my wife,’ he says, ‘the end of last year. Cancer.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I moved out of our place the next day and haven’t been back since.’

‘Really?’

He nods. ‘Park on the street sometimes, look at the house, but I can’t bring myself to go inside. Too many memories there.’

Candice nods her understanding. ‘Things used to happen there, and now they don’t, and the place feels emptier because of it. Emptier and lonelier.’

‘And the worst thing is that the more full of memories it is,’ Carl says, ‘the more hollow it all seems now.’

‘It’s like that old riddle,’ Candice says, taking a bite of her chili. ‘What gets bigger the more you take away from it?’

‘A hole,’ Carl says.

8

Eugene and Evelyn walk along 8th Street beneath a bruised evening sky. Behind them, what remains of the sunset – a thin line of pink being crushed by dark night from
above. In front of them, the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles. Automobiles roll by, headlights throwing out beams of light. Then one of the yellow streetcars heading east.

‘How far is your apartment?’

‘About five blocks.’

‘Let’s walk there, have a nightcap.’

‘Maybe your hotel room would be better.’

He doesn’t want Evelyn to see his apartment. He’s taken women there before after picking them up in bars. Drunk, they’re delighted by his milk truck. Next morning as he drives
them home, however, they often seem vaguely embarrassed by the whole experience. Waking up in a small apartment furnished in yard-sale finds. Being driven home in a delivery vehicle. The fact they
can’t quite remember his name. Often they ask him to drop them off at the end of the block and walk the rest of the way home.

He likes Evelyn, likes her a lot, and doesn’t want any embarrassed silences come morning. And maybe he feels she’s out of his league and his apartment will reveal that fact to her.
He isn’t sure, exactly.

But Evelyn shakes her head at his suggestion.

‘No?’

‘I can’t let anybody see me take a strange man into my room. That wouldn’t look good. Besides, I want to see where you live.’

‘I’m not sure I have anything to drink at home.’

‘We’ll stop somewhere on the way, pick up a bottle.’

Eugene gives up, shrugs. ‘Okay.’

Evelyn smiles at him and puts her arm in his arm and leans her head on his shoulder as they walk. It feels strange and unnatural and new and fine.

‘Now I think of it, I probably do have a half bottle of whiskey in the cupboard.’

‘Perfect.’

After a few more minutes of silent strolling along the cracked sidewalk they make their way up the stairs toward Eugene’s front door, their feet thudding against the bare wood steps. The
walls are lined with smudges, the banister black from grimy hands dragging up and down it over the years.

Once at the top of the stairs he glances to Evelyn and smiles.

‘Here we are,’ he says.

‘Here we are.’

He unlocks the front door and pushes it open. ‘Ladies first.’

‘What if there’s a burglar?’

‘That’s why I’m sending you in first. To protect me.’

‘Coward.’

She heads into the place, smiling, and Eugene follows. He closes the door behind him and turns on a lamp, illuminating the small living room.

‘Have a seat,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Neat?’

‘Neat.’

He pours them each two fingers of bourbon, carries the glasses out to the living room, sits down. He hands Evelyn her drink.

‘Thank you,’ she says. She holds up the glass. ‘To a lovely evening.’

‘To a lovely evening,’ Eugene says, tapping his glass against hers before taking a swallow. She sips hers as well, her soft mouth smashing against the glass, her tongue teasing the
lip of it. Then she pulls the glass away, and must feel him watching her, because she glances toward him, and suddenly they’re staring into each other’s eyes.

Eugene’s heart pounds in his chest. He leans in toward her, close enough that he can feel her breath on his skin, and hesitates. He feels like an adolescent boy, like he’s never done
this before, his dozens of one-night stands forgotten. He feels unsure of himself and awkward and they stay that way for a long time, their faces mere inches apart, looking back at one another
uncertainly.

‘Do it,’ she says.

He does.

9

Carl and Candice sit in his car in front of her house. They’re silent. Carl feels strange. He feels close to Candice and very far from her. He scratches his cheek and
looks through the windshield at the dark, empty street. The asphalt is gray, houses lined up on either side of it, facing one another like formations of soldiers about to do battle. Most of the
windows are closed for the evening, the curtains drawn, secret things taking place behind them. Awful things, as secret things so often are.

‘Thank you,’ Candice says finally.

He looks over at her. She looks back, smiles.

‘For what?’

‘Understanding.’

‘I wish I didn’t.’

‘I know. But it helped.’

‘I can’t imagine I said anything useful.’

‘Understanding was enough.’

She leans in and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. Then the car door’s opened and shut and she’s walking up the path to her house. The windows are black.

He watches her walk to the front door, unlock it. He watches the door open and shut like the blink of an eye. One minute she’s there, the next she’s not. In between those two states
she glances back at him and smiles.

He touches the corner of his mouth where she kissed him. He blinks.

Her living-room window lights up. He can see her moving behind the glass.

He starts the car.

10

Eugene finds himself in a small room, with no idea how he got there. He walks to a window and looks out. Sees gray sky, lightning flashing in the distance. Thunder follows,
shaking the glass. He puts his fingers to the glass and feels cold from outside. Below him, a dense layer of clouds he can’t see past; they block his view of the ground below, but the mere
fact of the clouds lets him know he’s very high up in a very tall building. His reflection tells him he’s wearing a gray suit. He isn’t sure he owns a gray suit. He turns around
to face the room. On the wall opposite, an oak desk with a telephone and a typewriter on it. He walks to the telephone, picks it up, puts it to his ear. Hears first a shallow silence, then a
pounding sound coming from far away.

Thud, thud, thud.

The entire room shakes.

Eugene sits up in bed. There’s someone beside him, but he doesn’t know who. Then he remembers. He can feel her skin smooth and warm against his skin.

Thud, thud, thud.

Suddenly he knows what the pounding is. He crawls out of bed, walks to his closet, grabs a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver from the top shelf. It’s been months since he last touched it,
perhaps years, and he’s surprised by its weight, but also comforted by it. He checks the cylinder that it’s loaded.

Then, with it gripped in his fist, thumb on the hammer spur, he walks to the front door and yanks it open. No one there, but he hears feet pounding down the stairs. He follows, taking the steps
two at a time, the wood cool against the soles of his bare feet. Then out into the chill night where he sees a figure heading toward a car with the engine running, smoke wafting up from its
tailpipe. The figure pulls open the driver’s-side door, jumps inside, slams the door shut. The taillights glow red. The car pulls away.

Eugene stands in the wet grass, feet cold, body covered in gooseflesh.

He turns around, heads back up the stairs. His door stands open.

There’s an envelope nailed to it, yet another paper moth. He tears the envelope from the door, leaving the nail in place, and walks into the apartment. He closes the door behind him. He
sets the gun down on the dining table beside his typewriter.

He stares at the envelope.

‘What is it?’

He jumps, startled, and looks up.

Evelyn stands in the hallway with a sheet wrapped loosely around her otherwise nude body, revealing a hint of breast he would under normal circumstances find very sexy, but right now he’s
too disoriented, too distracted, to find anything sexy. Moments ago he was pulled from dream sleep and now holds in his hands an answer he isn’t sure he wants. This morning he read that
newspaper clipping and knew it implied a threat, I will tell unless, and knows he now holds the rest of that sentence in his hands. Unless what? Just look inside.

‘What is it?’ Evelyn says again.

‘I don’t know.’

He tears the envelope open.

1

Eugene, wearing only a pair of wrinkled slacks, walks Evelyn to the front door. She looks at him with her large eyes, purse clutched in her hands. Once more she is wearing the
dress she wore last night, though it seems strange in the early morning, out of place, and it’s wrinkled from having spent the night on the floor. Most of her makeup has been rubbed away and
her pin-curled hair is a frizzy mess. Her chin is pink and raw from kissing him, from rubbing against his sandpaper-rough five o’clock shadow.

She looks beautiful.

He touches her arm as he pulls open the door.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says.

She smiles. ‘It’s probably better this way. I can sneak into my room without anybody seeing at this hour.’

‘I’m glad you’re not upset.’

‘Will you call me?’

‘When I get this resolved.’

‘What are you gonna do?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Call me.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want a cab?’

‘It’s only a few blocks.’

She turns and walks down the stairs. He watches her go. When she’s out of the building he closes the apartment door and sets the deadbolt. He puts his forehead against the wood and stays
there a moment before turning to face the room. He walks to the dining table and picks up the note, unfolds it and looks at the gray lettering on the white page. It was typed on a typewriter in
need of ribbon replacement. The ‘t’ is cocked to the right, making it look a bit like a malformed ‘x’. The ‘h’ sits higher than the other letters. The note
says: