The Mentor (20 page)

“I don’t know, Charles, I honestly don’t know.”

“I love you, Anne, and I’m very sorry.”

Without answering, Anne walks past him, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

…

Charles races down the hallway toward the elevator. The door is closing—he sticks out his arm to stop it. It rolls open and he steps in. Emma is backed into the corner, her forearm covered with bloody scratches.

“Did Anne do that?”

She quickly rolls down her sleeve. “Leave me alone.”

My God, she did it to herself.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

She stares straight ahead as the elevator begins its descent.

“Emma, talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s everything to say.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Be reasonable.”

“Don’t you mean obedient?”

And she turns on him, fierce. A bloodstain appears on her sleeve. They both notice it. She turns away, breathing in quick, shallow gulps, her lower lip trembling. She might leave town, and the book isn’t finished; he needs her, needs to protect her—she’s suicidal, isn’t she?

“Emma, listen to me. I’m going to tell Anne I want a divorce.”

Emma tries to disguise her shock, and her hope—but it sparks in her eyes. She just keeps staring straight ahead. Charles lets his words sink in.

“And from now on, we’ll work at your place. You’ll never have to see her again. Emma, you must know you’re more important to me than she is. Didn’t we prove that today?”

Still she won’t look at him.

“I love you, Emma. But I won’t force you to do anything. It’s all up to you.”

The elevator doors open. Emma turns and looks at Charles, a dare in her eyes. Then she walks away.

At this hour, in the dark belly of night, the streetlights of Central Park glitter like lost jewels. Charles stands at the window in his study, tracing the path of a lone taxicab as it makes its way beneath the spindly web of trees. He hopes that whoever is in the cab is beautiful and young and that the night holds them gently.

Charles turns away from the window and reaches for the bottle of Chivas on his desk. He pours himself another drink and takes a long, slow sip. The only light comes from a small desk lamp with a green glass shade. Charles is comfortable in its shadows.

It isn’t really Emma’s book anymore. He’s changed virtually every sentence, suggested whole scenes, molded Zack, given the mother complexity and pathos. It’s written in his style; it has his voice. It’s his book now. Besides, he needs it so much more than she does. It’s his resurrection. If Emma publishes the book, it will destroy her. Her past will come out, the media will create a sideshow, and she’ll be turned into a freak: The Girl Who Murdered Her Mother. She’ll have a psychotic break. What had the
psychiatrist said? Incipient schizophrenia. Charles has to protect her. She’s all alone in the world.

He walks into the outer office. She’s left a sweater, a simple gray cardigan, on the back of her chair. He picks it up and feels the wool, running it slowly between his fingers. Then he presses his face into the sweater, and smells Emma, his Emma, and thinks of their day together, their lovemaking. They gave each other so much of themselves—from the beginning, really. What he’ll do is set up some kind of fund for her, from the earnings. He’ll call his old Dartmouth classmate, Dan Leber, he’s one of the best psychiatrists in the city. When they finish their work, Emma will need a good long rest somewhere, somewhere in the country, somewhere peaceful.

Charles goes back to his desk and pours himself another two fingers of Chivas, which he downs in a swallow. He’ll have to be very careful from here on in. If he can just keep things on keel for another two weeks, that’s all the time he needs, he’s that close. Portia wrote him a letter, demanding to see the book. And so he’ll show her what he has. He gathers up the manuscript and slides it into a manila envelope. He switches on his computer, its screen bathing him in a ghostly glow, and types the title page:

The Sky Is Falling
A novel
by
Charles Davis

For the briefest time, between the reveler’s last hour and the laborer’s first, Manhattan feels like a ghost town. In the unearthly calm and quiet, Charles walks out of his building with the manila envelope under his arm. The mailbox is a block away, but it feels like a mile. Charles loves the stillness, the sense of having stepped into a world with its own rules. Of course he’s doing the right thing, the right thing for everyone. He reaches the mailbox and opens it. For a moment he hesitates, and then he drops in the envelope and the box clangs shut.

Anne can’t sit still. She’s overwhelmed by anxiety, and she hates this overdecorated suite at Kayla’s hotel. She wants to rip down the hideous window treatments—acres of swag-infested paisley. The coffee on the room-service tray is cold but she takes another gulp anyway, lights a Kent, and flicks on the television. She races through the channels until they blur into a vomitous kaleidoscope of American culture. She walks into one of the enormous bathrooms and turns on a hot bath. Then she turns it off. She tosses her cigarette into the toilet. When she walks back out into the living room Kayla is standing there.

“You look strung out,” Kayla says.

“Oh, I’m way beyond strung out.”

The two friends hug long and hard.

“It’ll all be over in a few hours. Sit down,” Kayla says, picking up the phone. “Yes, could you send up a big pot of mint tea, please?… I said sit down.”

Anne obeys. Only Kayla could look so good fresh off the red
eye; relaxed and fit in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a navy cashmere blazer—she calls it her Goldie Hawn uniform. Her frizzy hair erupts around her round face, which—to the untrained eye—looks makeup-free. She finds Mozart on the radio, takes off her blazer, kneels, pulls off Anne’s flats and begins to give her an expert foot massage. Anne closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of the sofa.

“Thanks for coming, Kayla.”

“You couldn’t have kept me away. I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

Anne nods.

“I called my ‘friend,’ ” Kayla says.

“Will she take the job?”

“She will. It’s not going to be cheap, though.”

“I don’t care what it costs,” Anne says.

Anne and Kayla are the only people in the clinic waiting room. It’s a pleasant room painted in mellow tones; Bach plays softly. Dr. Arnold comes out. She’s reassuring, maternal, with shoulder-length gray hair superbly cut, a handsome face, warm gray eyes. She greets them, gives Anne a Valium, explains the procedure, tells her she’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.

Anne is calmer. She and Kayla sit there in silence. What is there to say?

And then Anne’s body starts to tremble. Her face contorts and the tears come, thick and salty. Now she’s rocking back and forth and shaking and moaning and Kayla is afraid she’s having a convulsion of some kind. She tries to put her arms around her but Anne pushes her away and runs out of the office and Kayla races after her and Anne falls in the hallway and Kayla can hear her knee crack against the floor. She clambers up and runs past the receptionist and out onto the street. Kayla follows. It’s starting to rain, a gusty rain that sends leaves and bits of trash swirling through the air.
Passersby turn and stare as Anne runs past them. Kayla struggles not to lose sight of her.

And then she does.

Kayla stands on the street corner, frantic, scanning, searching, afraid at any second she’s going to hear the screech of tires, a thud, a scream.

There’s a church behind her, a beautiful stone church. She sprints up the steps and opens the heavy wooden doors. The vaulted sanctuary is hushed, her footfalls echo, she smells incense and candles. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light pouring through stained glass. Half a dozen worshipers are scattered among the front pews, praying silently. No Anne. Then she hears a noise. She walks silently down the center aisle. Anne is lying in the second to last pew, curled in on herself like a cat, her body heaving with choked sobs.

It’s gusting rain and Charles is huddled at a pay phone, listening to the ring on the other end of the line and keeping his eyes on the windows of Emma’s apartment a block away. He can see the faint glow of her bedside lamp, the one shaped like three puppies. He forgot his umbrella and water drips down the back of his neck. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his monogrammed silver flask—a long-ago gift from Nina—and takes a deep swallow of Scotch. He knows she’s in there, listening to the phone ring, letting it go unanswered. He can
feel
her at the other end of the line, looking at the phone, thinking of him, playing her game. Let her play it, he thinks as he hangs up yet again, let her have her little satisfaction. He’ll play the supplicant if that’s what it takes.

From outside, her apartment looks dry and cozy. He imagines going there, her handing him a rough towel, watching as he dries his hair. Get out of those soggy clothes, she’d say, and her words would excite them both. He would slowly undress in the warmth
of her apartment, while she made a pot of tea. They would get in bed together and hold each other and talk. He might even explain to her about the book, why it is his, how this is best for them both. And then slowly, inevitably, they would make love and everything would be all right.

The wind gusts, and he huddles tight under the meager shelter. He has to keep watching, of course, in case she decides to do something rash. Hurt herself. It’s reassuring that her line is never busy, that she isn’t making calls. But who would she call? She has no friends. She’ll come back.

Charles takes another pull from the flask. Some asshole, a downtown degenerate with a pierced lip, what else, appears and indicates he wants to use the phone. Charles has to think fast. It’s too soon to call Emma back. But he can’t give up this spot.

“I’ll be a little while,” Charles says. Guy looks like a cadaver. Probably a junkie. Charles drops in another quarter and dials his answering machine. When he hears Portia’s voice, his pulse starts to race.

“Charles, call me immediately.”

He hangs up and turns to the sleazy addict, who’s lighting a cigarette in the rain. A fancy European cigarette. Probably stole them.

“I have to make another call.”

“Whatever.”

Some people just can’t take a hint. Charles uses his credit card to call Portia. She answers halfway through the first ring.

“Charles?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I need to talk to you. I want you to come up here.”

“Did you get my manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“I’ll expect you here tomorrow for a late lunch.”

And then she hangs up.

What a strange response. Suddenly Charles is afraid, afraid that
Portia hates the book. The wind gusts, and he’s lashed by rain. He’s soaked, standing there holding the dead receiver. The junkie takes a step forward.

“All right, it’s yours,” Charles says, moving away from the phone. He isn’t sure where to go. He hears Portia’s voice. Can he leave Emma alone for the day? He moves down the street toward her apartment, staying close to the buildings, pressing against them. What if she looks out the window and sees him? He ducks into a shallow doorway and finishes his whiskey. It’s a good vantage point. He’ll just stay here, keep watching her window, make sure she doesn’t go out, doesn’t disappear—that’s a good plan.

Charles wakes up on the couch in his office, fully clothed. Anne spent the weekend at her friend Kayla’s hotel suite—passive aggression disguised as female bonding. Fine—she’s out of his hair. Charles calls for his car. He makes it up the Thruway in record time, fighting a headachy hangover all the way. The day is gray and humid, the landscape bare and uninspiring; with the leaves gone, all the dreary malls and self-storage barns leap out at him. He gets off the Thruway and heads deep into the forest. There’s no sign of human life for many miles, as if the world has ended and he’s the last man left. Just endless woods, woods that could swallow you up without anyone knowing it.

Charles finally reaches Portia’s cabin. Smoke is coming from its chimney; a lamp glows inside; hardy mums bloom in haphazard clumps around the yard. He finds Portia slumped in her favorite chair—a cigarette in her mouth, a mug of coffee beside her, half-glasses perched on the end of her nose—reading his manuscript.

“You’re early,” she says, without looking up.

“I suppose that means lunch isn’t ready yet.”

“Lunch is somewhere out there in the lake.” She puts down the manuscript and picks up her cane. “Let’s go.”

In California they call it earthquake weather, these gray, still, unseasonably humid days. Good weather for going insane. Carrying the fishing rods, Charles follows Portia down the wooden steps that wind down the cliff to the lake. They walk out onto the old dock—it wobbles and creaks beneath them—and climb into Portia’s battered rowboat. A sad little puddle sits in the bottom of the boat and Charles can feel the water seep into his socks. Portia takes the oars and slowly begins to row them out onto the deserted lake. The suffocating silence is broken only by the rhythmic squeak of the oarlocks. From somewhere deep in the forest comes the plaintive cry of a distant bird—or is it a coyote? The moist air and low clouds make it hard to breathe, as if the sky were a damp blanket slowly descending over the earth.

When they reach the middle of the lake, Portia ships the oars and expertly casts her fishing line.

“Ten years ago the lake would have been frozen over by this time. Winter feels like summer and summer feels like hell. The day is coming when the living will envy the dead, mark my words. In the meantime, I wish I could stop caring so much.”

She reels in her line and casts off again.

“I’ve reread it three times. I didn’t know I could still be so moved by the written word. That boy, that poor lost child … and his mother—what a harrowing creation. Haunting, simply haunting. I haven’t felt this way since I first read your work.”