The Good Neighbor Page 36

  “We’re just looking,” said Colt.

  “I haven’t been out in public in fifteen years,” Nova told the se curity guard, who raised his eyebrows.

  “All right, you don’t need to tell your life story to everyone you meet,” Colt said. He took his father by the elbow and steered him toward the men’s department. They went up the escalator to the second floor, with Nova latched firmly on to the moving handrail and peering over the side at the shoppers below. They entered a landscape of ties and shirts, and once again Nova froze.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t need any of this stuff,” he whispered. “Come on. We’ll just get you a couple of pairs of khakis or something. Some more denim shirts. You have to have more than one outfit . . . Nova.” Colt still wasn’t sure what to call his father.

  “Dad” was out of the question. “Father ” sounded ridiculous. “I’m not going to need it.”

  “Yes, you are.” “No, Colt, really.”

  They were approached now by a matronly woman in a skirt suit, who exuded the scents of brand-new fabric and flowery per fume; Colt could hear the plump sausages of her thighs, encased in dark panty hose, whisking together as she walked.

  “May I help you gentlemen?” she inquired sweetly.

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  “Here you go,” said Colt to his father. “This man—my father, I mean—needs a few new things. But he’s not sure what he wants.”

  “What style of clothing?”

  “Casual,” said Colt. “Some chinos, some shirts, a pair of shoes.” He’d forgotten that he himself was dressed in the only thing he could wear over his upraised cast, which was a sweatshirt with one arm scissored neatly up the seam, and a pair of jeans; yet he was pleased to see that the saleswoman bowed her head deferentially just as if he was dressed in his best suit. Maybe she recognizes me, he thought. “I’ll just hand him over to you,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Won’t you come with me, sir?” said the saleslady. With his eyes wide and his expression suddenly beatific, it seemed that Nova had already become entranced by the woman. Colt realized, with some amusement, that it had likely been fifteen years since his father had been this close to a female, at least one that wasn’t in uniform.

  “I’ll be right over here,” Colt told his father, pointing to a row of armchairs. “And then we’ll get you a suit.”

  Nova Hart shot an anxious look over his shoulder as he was be ing led away. Colt made himself as comfortable as he could on one of the chairs and perused a magazine, waiting. About fifteen min utes later the saleslady reappeared.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “The gentleman . . .” Colt looked up. “Yes?”

  “He’s locked himself into one of the changing rooms, and he won’t come out.”

  Colt struggled to his feet. “Well, maybe he’s just trying stuff on,” he said.

  “I think I heard him—well, crying,” said the woman. “Is he ill?” “Crying?” Oh God, he thought.

  “Come this way, sir. I’ll show you where he is.”

  The woman brought Colt to the dressing rooms and pointed to one of the Venetian-style doors. Colt tapped on it.

  “Nova?” he called. “Are you in there?”

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  There was no reply, but he heard the snuffling and honking of a nose being blown.

  “Nova,” he said. “Come on out.”

  “No,” his father replied through the door. “It’s too—” “Too what?”

  “—big,” he said. “Too big.” “You’re scared? Is that it?”

  “I’m not scared,” said the old man irately. “I just feel better in here, that’s all.”

  “You can’t stay in there all day, you know.” “It’s just . . . the walls.”

  “The walls? What about them?” There was a long pause.

  “I miss them,” came the reply.

  “Is your father agoraphobic?” asked the saleslady.

  Colt turned to her—he’d forgotten she was there. “No, he’s a— yes,” he said. “An agoraphobic.”

  “I’m not . . . whatever you’re calling me!” said Nova Hart. “I’m a con!”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose the same way the security guard’s had, and she took a tiny step backward.

  “All right, all right,” said Colt, embarrassed. “Come on out, Nova. We’ll go home, if it makes you feel better.”

  “It would,” said Nova, but still he didn’t open the door.

  “I’m sorry, was it something I did?” said the saleslady. “I can’t imagine—”

  “No, it’s not your fault,” said Colt. He tapped on the door again. “Nova, come out and we’ll go home.”

  “Make her go away,” Nova whispered. “I can’t come out while she’s there.”

  Colt looked at the saleslady again. “I think he means you,” he said. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “Oh,” said the saleslady. “Well, I certainly am sorry.” “Nothing to be sorry about.”

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  The saleslady whisked away again, looking back once over her shoulder.

  “All right,” said Colt. “She’s gone.”

  The door opened, and Nova stood there in the doorway, face red and flushed. “I—I don’t know what came over me,” he said. “Can we go now, please?”

  “Yes, okay. We’re going.”

  “I don’t really need any clothes,” he said. “I only need one suit.”

  Colt sighed. “All right,” he said. “Why do you only need one suit?”

  “Just something halfway decent, to be buried in. If I’d stayed in the joint, they would have taken care of all that. Funeral expenses and so on. They never shoulda let me out.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Colt said. “Didn’t they tell you, at the prison?” said Nova. Colt stared at him. “Tell me what?” he said.

  “I’m dying,” his father said as they stepped onto the escalator. “I have AIDS.”

  Colt felt a chill creep up from the bottom of his spine. The old man had related this as casually as if he was telling Colt he had a cold.

  “No,” he said. “They didn’t tell me that.”

  “I was sure they would have,” said Nova, without much emo tion. “Kind of like when you adopt a puppy from a shelter. They tell you everything that’s wrong with it. So you know what you’re dealing with.”

  “Nobody said anything.”

  “Well,” said his father. “Shame on them. That would have been a lot easier than me telling you myself. Now let’s get out of here,” his father said. “Please? I can’t take it anymore.”

  “All right,” Colt said. “We’re going.”

  ❚ ❚ ❚

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  They waited for a taxi for several minutes in silence. Colt couldn’t think of what to say, or rather, he couldn’t think of what to feel. Was he supposed to be sad about this? A part of him said yes, but another part of him remembered a time when he would have been almost happy to hear that his father was dying, or dead. And that had not been so long ago.

  They got into the taxi and Colt gave the driver directions. “You’re mighty quiet all of a sudden,” said Nova.

  “I’m just—taking it in.”

  “I got it from dirty needles, you know. Not from—the other way.”

  “Right,” said Colt.

  “I could tell you were wondering.”

  “No, I was just—well, yes. I was wondering.”

  “Yeah. You never know with us prison types.” Nova grinned. “Jesus,” Colt said. “Come on.”

  “Relax. Just a little joke.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because, I really thought you already knew. Besides, it’s not like I just found out. I’ve had it for years. For a long time I just had that HIV business. It didn’t turn into anything. But now—I’m starting to develop symptoms. Coughing a lot. Lesions on my lungs. I have to ta
ke a lot of medication.”

  “When did you get it?” Colt said. “You told the parole board you hadn’t been using any drugs since you came to prison.”

  “That was a lie,” said Nova. “You tell them that because they don’t like to hear how corrupt the prison system is. You don’t want to remind them of what a joke the whole thing is. They have this happy little fantasy that prison is a place where people get rehabilitated, and where bad things never happen.” He laughed disdainfully. “Those motherfuckers are so full of shit, I’d like to cut every one of their throats,” he said. “You know where I got the stuff from? The guards,” he said. “They smuggled it in up their asses. They packed it in balloons, and up the poop chute it

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  went. Those guards are looser than the biggest queens in the pen. We bought it from them. And we shared needles, us prisoners. We only had one or two. We had to sharpen them against the wall, they got so dull.”

  Colt felt vaguely nauseous. “How long did that go on?”

  His father shrugged. “Years,” he said. “I don’t know exactly. I really am clean now, though. Have been for a long time. But at first, it wasn’t any different on the inside than it was on the out side. It’s a fucking joke. Just so you know your taxpayer dollars aren’t accomplishing much.”

  Colt chose to ignore that comment. “So you got it from one of your prison buddies.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’m telling you, boy. It was a mess in there. The whole system is a big joke. Don’t ever go to jail. It makes you crazy just trying to figure out how things work.”

  “I don’t plan on it,” Colt said. “Good.”

  “So,” said Colt. “Well, I’m—sorry. That you’re sick.” Nova looked at him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  They were silent for a long time, the cab stopping and starting in the traffic. After a while Nova turned to Colt again and asked, “Do you believe in God?”

  Colt was surprised. “In God?” “Yes.”

  “Well—no. As a matter of fact, I don’t.” “Oh. Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Because it seems like a kind of primitive idea, that’s why. Like the kind of thing people believe only because it makes them feel better. Why?”

  “I just wondered if it’s because of me that you don’t believe, or if you had another reason.”

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  “Well,” said Colt, “we weren’t exactly a churchgoing family.” “No,” said Nova. “I never could stomach it when I was a kid, ei

  ther. But I guess I been thinking about it a lot more lately.” “Do you? Believe in God?”

  “Me?” Nova frowned. “I don’t know. All I know is, I used to pray that I wouldn’t die in prison. I didn’t think anyone was lis tening. But then—you came along.”

  Colt snorted. “I’m not God.”

  “No. I know that. What I’m saying is, maybe something sent you to my parole hearing to get me out.”

  “I don’t know why I went to that parole hearing,” said Colt. “Maybe God is as good a reason as anything else. But I didn’t hear anyone talking to me.”

  “No. Of course not. That’s not really what I meant.” “Well, what did you mean, then?”

  “I guess I just wonder that if there really was a God, and he re ally did send you to the prison, maybe you wouldn’t even know about it at all. In case that’s the way it works. I don’t know. I’m really just guessing.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah? Waddaya think?”

  “I don’t know,” Colt said. “It’s not something I ever think about.”

  When they were just a few blocks from the apartment, still stuck in traffic, Colt said, “You wanna know what I do think about?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s not going to make any sense. And it doesn’t have anything to do with what we were talking about. But I was just thinking about this idea I have. Kinda hard to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s about the stock market,” Colt said. “Did you ever notice— well, no, you probably never did. It’s . . . it’s got to do with the way the market is connected to the rest of the world.”

  “I see,” said Nova.

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  “It’s something that just calms me down to think about,” Colt said. “It makes me feel like there really is a reason for everything. It has to do with—I don’t know, with the way the universe works, or something. See, all those numbers, when you put them together in a matrix, they form a pattern. You look at them one way, they’re just values, and that’s it. They don’t have to do with anything else. But you look at them another way, and things start to emerge. You see how world events have an impact. This is not just conjecture—it’s real. A natural disaster happens, or a war, and the market reacts. That’s not hocus-pocus.”

  “Right,” said Nova.

  “So then one day I started thinking, if big things have a big im pact on the market, then little things must have a little impact. See what I mean? I’m not talking about things that make the newspapers. I mean the little everyday things that happen to everybody, all the time. Those things must show up, too. Because you know why?”

  “Why?” asked Nova.

  “Because everything is connected,” said Colt. “The more you’re in the business the more you realize that. Everything is connected to everything else. Joe Shmoe in California wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, has a bad day—that shows up in the num bers. Somehow. Don’t ask me how. I’m still trying to figure it out. But I know it’s true. It has to be.” He glanced at his father to see how he was digesting this information. “It’s not something I ever talk about with anybody,” said Colt. “But you asked me if I believe in God. I don’t, but I do believe in this. Not just in the stock mar ket. In that everything is connected. I know we all believe it, all us traders. Or something like it, anyway. A lot of us carry good-luck charms, did you know that?”

  “No. What’s yours?”

  “Well, I lost mine,” said Colt. “A couple of months ago. I guess I knew that was when things were going to start falling apart for me. But I pretended not to notice. Or to care.”

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  “Yeah, but—what was it?”

  “It was a ring,” said Colt. “A simple little gold band.” “Why that? What did that mean?”

  “It was Mom’s,” Colt said. “The day I moved out, I took it with me. I wanted something of hers, but I knew she wouldn’t give me anything. Or she would give me the wrong thing. And I didn’t want to tell her I was leaving, anyway. I just wanted to go. So I went into your room and I took this old ring out of her jewelry box. I wore it on a chain around my neck for years. But it fell off when we moved, I guess.”

  “I remember that ring,” said Nova. “It was her father ’s. Solid gold. His wedding ring.”

  “Yeah. It had engraving in it. Initials and a date.”

  “Yeah, that was it. Good thing you took it, you know. When you did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she probably would have ended up hocking it for dope. That’s what happened to all our stuff. She looked for that ring. I remember. She was hoping to get twenty bucks for it, but we never could figure out what happened to it.”

  “Oh,” said Colt.

  There was another long silence.

  “You know, that idea you have—how things are connected. To the numbers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s pretty good,” said Nova. “It’s not so different from what other great thinkers in other times have believed. Did you know that? The ancient Chinese sages believed something very similar. I mention them because I’ve always found them kinda interesting. I would read about ’em in the library. The Taoist masters. They thought that if you were good enough at meditation, you could see the nature of everything reflected in everything else. Didn’t matter what you looked at. A
flower. A bug. You could see the en tire structure of all creation, mirrored in that one little thing.”

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  “Yeah,” Colt said. “That’s it.” “That’s what you mean?” “Yeah. Exactly what I mean.”

  “Far fucking out,” said Nova Hart, as they finally emerged from the shiny snarl of cars that clogged the intersections and pulled up in front of the apartment.

  36

  ‌

  To Live At Adencourt

  Colt opened the door to the apartment and entered. Then he stopped, surprised, for there, sitting next to Michael on the couch,

  was Francie.

  “Oh,” he said. “Hi.” “Hi,” said Francie.

  “The Coltster!” said Michael.

  Nova Hart trailed him in, and he, too, stopped upon seeing Francie. “Hello there!” he said.

  “The Novarama!” said Michael.

  “Oh, my God,” said Francie, staring at Nova. “So you are real.”

  Nova smiled, pleased. “Yes!” he said. “Depending on what you mean by ‘real,’ of course.”

  Francie stood up. “I’m Francine. Francine Hart,” she said. “For the moment.”

  “Yes, I heard the bad news,” said Nova, shaking her hand. “I’m Nova Hart.”

  “It’s a—a great surprise to meet you,” Francie said. “It’s funny,

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  but Colt never said anything about you to me.” She looked at Colt archly, but he pretended not to notice.

  “Yes, well, I don’t blame him,” said Nova. “You certainly are a very beautiful girl.” He looked at his son, who studiously avoided his gaze, too.

  “Thank you,” said Francie. “Colt, can I speak with you in pri vate, please?”