Tumbledown (3 page)

“If you don’t have sex for three years,” she asked a friend, “are you a virgin again?”

In February, the new phone books arrived, and she found him. He had moved to the county. He had a land line. She took a drive that same afternoon, broke her lease in North City, packed her few belongings, and selected from Sunset North’s many vacancies a third-floor efficiency whose balcony provided a view of the neighboring houses. From her angle, the complicated gray roofing of the fashionable houses looked like whole, elaborate structures seen from a great distance—the dilapidated remains of some lost culture. She was able to pick out the roof of Candler’s house and a corner of his green lawn.

Weeks passed before she actually saw him. He appeared at the coffeehouse, standing in line, looking once again hungover. She left her book on the table and got in line behind him. She took a dollar from her purse and pretended to pick it up. “Is this yours?” she asked. He glanced from the dollar to her face and smiled, causing an intense vibration along her spine. “I don’t think so,” he said, betraying no sign of recognition. And why should he recognize her? He had seen her only once before, just another fucked-up girl in his office. She might have found a way right then to get to know him, but a woman sitting at a nearby table said, “That’s my dollar.” The look she gave Lise was so haughty. She had seen everything. Lise handed over the buck and left the line. She retrieved her novel and went to a table outside.

Candler’s car surprised her, but not that he exited the parking lot too fast, the coffee cup pressed to his lips, sunglasses hiding his bloodshot eyes. He was damaged in ways that made him possible. He wasn’t a floor rag, content to clean up the mess of other people’s lives. He wasn’t some bland professional friend. He was a man with demons, who helped others by seeing himself in them. And he had changed her life. Saved it, possibly.

Lise did not believe that she was stumbling again.
Okay,
she was a little obsessed, but she held a job, took classes at San Diego State, went to movies, read books, talked to her parents every Sunday afternoon. She simply had a secret pastime. A consuming hobby that added dimension to her life. A story that lacked an ending.

She shifted her position on the mattress, but the dream of having two heads continued.

You can’t just switch me off,
the nasty head informed her.
And don’t put too much faith in that exalted fucking voice. That voice only
sounds
reliable.

The other head cringed.
Please don’t tell me what to think.

Ha, ha, ha,
the cruel head replied.
Haw, haw, haw.

Lise sat up in bed. Her window was open. The highway below was half shadowed by the building, populated by a stream of vehicles in the shade, an oppositely moving stream in the light. She wondered what James Candler was doing at that moment, who he was helping, how long before he learned her new name.

Try as he might, Candler could not disappear.

In the long and colorful history of vehicles used in stakeouts, none was a poorer choice than his own. The Porsche was the red of holiday lingerie. To lower his head from view, he had to angle his body crookedly past the gearshift, his feet on the passenger floorboard, splaying himself like a man in a limbo contest. It did not help that his stomach coiled in accusation. Twenty-five years earlier in his family’s living room, eight-year-old James Candler had swung a baseball bat at an imaginary pitch and the backswing knocked out his sister’s front teeth. While their parents rushed his sister to the emergency room, he hid himself in a closet, arms wrapped around his tormented stomach.
Shame
was the name for his suffering.

A breeze passed over Lantana Avenue. The leaves in the immense trees lining the street fractured sunlight into millions of pieces. People emerged from houses and disappeared into vehicles, shadows swarming them like bacteria, and in Candler’s gut, the flutter and flail continued. If his role in the accident became known, he would be instantly out of the running for the directorship. Nonetheless, he felt a powerful desire to tell someone. He had driven the remainder of the trip with absurd care, signaling a mile in advance of his exit, leaving the blinker on despite its accusatory sound, going directly to the client’s street, parking along the curb behind an Escapade and just ahead of an Avalanche.

He didn’t know which house belonged to Karly Hopper. No one seemed to know. Her intake papers had labeled Karly
mildly mentally retarded.
The therapeutic world no longer used the term
retarded.
Her file now read
mildly mentally impaired.
What made Karly unusual was that she was also attractive, the sort of woman that Candler might have called
drop dead gorgeous.
The therapeutic world wouldn’t care for that term either, but Candler couldn’t help thinking it. Beyond the street corner another young man waited in his car for the same girl. These two—the beautiful mentally impaired girl and the schizophrenic boy in his Firebird—were Candler’s responsibility. They were his clients, and he had put them in a sheltered workshop together. Mick Coury picked up Karly Hopper each morning but not at her door. For most men, the corner pick up would have set off alarms but schizophrenia had left Mick naive. He had been a different kid before the illness: a good-looking teenager with a fast car and a cute girlfriend. Mental illness had made him innocent all over again.

The door to the house directly across the street opened, and Karly Hopper stepped onto the stoop. She wore a green T-shirt, jeans, flip-flops. Her hair and eyes were brown. She moved with an easy, loose-limbed grace. She stepped to the end of the stoop, aligning her toes with the edge of the concrete. She smiled—a lovely white smile—and walked back inside.

People believe intelligence resides in the eyes, but the body provides a thousand clues about a human’s identity. Karly’s clues were a muddle. She had possessed normal intelligence at birth but as a toddler she nearly drowned in a neighbor’s pool. According to the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale, her IQ was 65. Yet neither in her appearance nor in her movements did she appear damaged. She had a wide range of vocal intonations, full of the subtle, musical shifts that suggest a complex, lively person is speaking. If her intonations were occasionally inappropriate to the subject of a conversation, she was inevitably forgiven. For a beautiful woman, Candler knew, such errors would come across as stimulating rather than improper. She was a provocative woman whose sexuality lived in her limbs and in her slender body. If she were dancing or sitting on a stool at a tavern or, he speculated, if she were unclothed and in bed, the average man would never guess that she was anything but fascinating.

In a certain way, of course, he would be right.

Never judge a book by its cover,
the adage advises, but when humans encounter another of their kind such judgment is inevitable, and anyone encountering Karly Hopper or the boy waiting for her in his car would imagine that they came from the finest chromosomological clay, superior to that of James Candler, for all his personal charm, or Lise Ray, despite the allure of her recent metamorphosis. But for tiny acts of fate—a swimming accident, the mysterious descent of schizophrenia—Karly Hopper and Mick Coury would stride the planet like Titans, their agile, active minds the equal of their lovely, lithe bodies.

(Perhaps this is what those ancient gods experienced when they took human guise, their divinity evident but the expression of it limited by the mortal vessels containing them. Honestly, wouldn’t it explain the foolish things they did?)

Candler waited for her to appear again. He had sent Karly and Mick to the sheltered workshop for different reasons. It was a protected workplace where clients packaged pantyhose for a local company, proceeding at their own rate, with the hope that they would improve over time and eventually take jobs at the factory. This was the goal for Karly Hopper. The workshop also doubled as therapy. The concentration it took to succeed on the assembly line should bleed over into other parts of their lives. And this was the goal for Mick Coury, that he could eventually corral his good thoughts and ignore the rest. Mick and Karly had nothing in common but the workshop; Candler had inadvertently played matchmaker.

Karly stepped again into the dappled morning light and paused at the edge of the stoop, a strategy Candler himself had taught her. She examined her shoes—the flip-flops were gone, replaced by sneakers—her jeans, belt, shirt. She patted her shoulder and smiled once more as she went back inside. Moments later she returned with her purse and went through it all again. This time she walked past Candler’s car without a glance and continued up the street to join the patient Mick Coury and his burnt-orange Firebird, an anachronism from the life the boy led before the onset of schizophrenia. He drove so slowly now that he was a different hazard altogether.

As soon as the couple departed, Candler sat up. Karly’s house was one-story and made of blond brick. The lawn needed mowing. Her family had placed her in Onyx Springs when she was eighteen, putting her in a halfway house, which was less expensive than the Center’s dormitories. Men began appearing in her room—other clients, strangers, even members of the staff. Her family arranged this house for her. They didn’t want anyone to know where it was, even the professionals at the Center. If Mick had not described waiting for her on the corner of Lantana Avenue, Candler would not have known where to look. He did not particularly care where Karly lived—though he copied down the address—but with whom she lived. She had run through a number of roommates, starting with a cousin and including an elderly woman who answered an ad the family placed in the local paper. If she was now living with a man, she had kept it secret from Mick Coury, and he was not a boy who liked surprises.

Candler rang the doorbell. A thumping of feet led up to the entrance but the door didn’t open. Candler rapped on it. “I can hear you in there,” he said and knocked again. He was running short of time. “I’m from Onyx Rehab. Just need a second or two.”

That he could not get a response felt like defeat, as if the Road Runner had been sacrificed for no good reason, lives put at risk for nothing. Candler knocked on the door a few more times before grudgingly returning to his car and reaching for the glove box. He retrieved a Swiss army knife. The brownies’ pan was still warm. He wanted a corner piece, comfort food, but the blade would not pierce the flat of brownies. He lifted the knife and jabbed, but it bounced off. The brownies were a solid tablet.

Those fucking eggs.

The curtain in the front room of Karly’s house ruffled, revealing masculine fingers along the hem. Candler shoved the pan aside and leapt from the car. He flew across the yard and hammered on the door. This time it swung open. A rough-looking man, maybe forty, squinted from Karly’s entry. He was barefoot, his thinning hair long on the sides. He sported a patchy beard.
Disreputable
was the word that sprang to Candler’s mind.

“My supposed to know you?” the man asked.

“If you live here with Karly Hopper,” Candler said, “you ought to know me.” He heard the anger in his voice and pocketed his hands, which had made themselves into fists. As appalling as the situation might be, Karly had to have someone staying with her. Independent living was a goal of her work at the Center, but she was not yet ready.

“Where’d you come from?” the man asked.

“I’m a counselor at Onyx Rehab, and Karly, as you must know, is also a part of the Onyx Rehab family.” Rules of confidentiality did not permit him to say that Karly was his client.

“What the hell’s Ox Rehab?” The man held a toothpick, which he inserted like a bookmark between his teeth. His body gave off a sour morning odor.

“
Onyx
Rehab is one of the largest rehabilitation centers in the United States,” he said evenly, “and it’s right here in town.”

“Karly’s a drunk?” The toothpick waggled with each word. “A druggie? What?”

“May I come in for a minute?”

The man’s head gave a quick shake, yanked by an invisible cord. “We can talk right here.” He stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Discounting the unruly hair, he was an inch or so shorter than Candler and thin—an ashen thin that had nothing to do with exercise or hunger but was the product of self-imposed malnutrition. He was in sweatpants and a T-shirt that advertised an Oklahoma City radio station, its red tower making parenthetical waves across his chest. His feet were so white as to seem silver in the early sunlight, like beached fish.

“Karly’s gone to work.” The man spat the toothpick into his hand and inserted it in the hair above his ear. “She just left.”

“I’m aware of that.” A specific anger squeezed Candler’s throat: he wanted to punch this bastard. “Let’s start over.” He introduced himself and offered his hand. “I’m a counselor at Onyx Rehab, and I’m here on home inspection.”

The hand was ignored. “You got a warrant?”

“I need to know your name and the nature of your relationship with my client.”

“What, you’re a goddamn lawyer now?”

“I’ve already told you who I am.” Candler put a finger to the man’s chest. “You haven’t told me who you are.”

“A friend,” he said, brushing away Candler’s finger. He retrieved the toothpick from his hair. “I stay with Karly off and on. I don’t got to give you my name.”

“You do or do not live here?”

“I come and go. Drive a truck. Can’t park it on the street ’cause of these stupid trees. Only part of town’s got so many stupid trees.” He stared angrily at the giants lining the street. “What’s wrong with Karly that she’s got to have rehab?”

“I can’t discuss—”

“You mean that she’s a dunce?”

“I can’t talk about Karly without the permission of her guardian.”

“She
told
me she was twenty-one.” After a moment, his head gave a half shake. “It’s not me you want. It’s the guy who had this route before, you know? When I inherited it, he let on like Karly was part of the package.”

“
Jesus,”
Candler said, “what have you been doing?”

“I take care of her,” he said. “When I’m here. Nothing wrong with it. She ain’t so dumb. Can’t cook or do laundry worth a damn, but who cares ’bout that shit?”

Candler’s arms flapped once, like a bird’s wings. “What kind of person are you?”

“Long haul. Got a place in Stillwater, so technically I don’t live here. I’m a
guest.
You got a problem with that?”

“How many days a week do you—”

“None a your business.” A wry smile crossed his face. “I can park my rig wherever I please.”

The porch floor shifted beneath Candler’s polished shoes. He closed his eyes, but the Road Runner elevated over the asphalt, the chrome grill a grimacing mouth laced with braces. He understood what the car’s driver had said when he waved Candler on, what he mouthed behind the state trooper’s back:
You win.

“Don’t shut your eyes,” the truck driver said. “You’re no better than me. Look it here.” Candler felt a tiny prod against his belly. “You got a stain.” The toothpick pushed against Candler’s pristine tie. When he glanced down, the man flipped Candler’s chin. He laughed. “Tell a truth, man. You’re just here to eyeball Karly in her panties.”

Candler swung from the hip. The punch caught the truck driver on the jaw, and he crumpled to the tile. He scooted on his back to the corner of the porch, raising one appendage protectively. “All right.” His front teeth were bloody. “You made your point.” He pulled in a ragged breath, crooking his elbow protectively. “She’s
your
girl.”

“Red makes blood,” the new one announced.

He had only just started at the sheltered workshop and already Maura Wood disliked him. He was short with tiny hands and, generally speaking, she didn’t like little men. She was tall and substantial. Puny guys made her feel all Easter Island. This one was a miserable-looking shrimp, with big ears, black-rimmed glasses, and the unmistakable stamp of stupidity dominating his face instead of the normal features. Nose, eyes, brows, lips—he had them but they were beside the point. Maura didn’t need to look at the spider cartons to assemble them. She could stare at the witless stump and do her work. She could jaw with Mick and do her work. She had the feeling she could sleep and do this stinking work.

“If we didn’t have red,” the new one continued, “we wouldn’t bleed.”

“What’s his name again?” she asked Mick.

Mick Coury finished packing the spider carton in his hands before answering, his fingers nimble and confident. Normally he was a sludge brain until noon, but today he zipped through the boxes, which meant he hadn’t taken his meds. Maura didn’t mind him slow-thinking in the a.m. It seemed like a kind of intimacy, like seeing someone in his underpants, but she preferred him like this—quick, loose, slightly out of control.

“Cecil,” Mick said, whipping into another carton. “Cecil Something Something. Rhymes with Wednesday. Sort of rhymes. Like that rhyme when the nut’s not on the bolt the whole way. Cecil Something Something.”