Stephen Carter - Emperor of Ocean Park

I wish her well.

Theo Mountain dies two days after Lem’s swearing-in. His daughter, Jo, the New York lawyer, mistakenly believing that Theo was still my mentor, asks me to deliver one of the eulogies at his huge Roman Catholic funeral. I cannot think of a way to refuse that will not add to her grief. I write a few lines, trying to recall the way I once felt about Theo, but I cannot get through my text because I am weeping too hard. As everybody stares at everybody else in embarrassment, it is Lynda Wyatt who emerges from the congregation, puts a gentle arm around my waist, and leads me back to my pew.

I suppose people think I was crying over Theo. Maybe I was, a little. But, mainly, I was crying over all the good things that will never be again, and the way the Lord, when you least expect it, forces you to grow up.

Mr. Henderson shows up at the door of my condo on the second morning after the funeral. He was in the area, he says brightly for the benefit of any neighbors who might be listening, so he thought he would stop in and say hello. He is wearing a sports jacket to hide his gun, and he shows no obvious damage, so I suppose the fifth person in the cemetery the night I was shot must have been his alter ego Harrison. Dana and I were there, Colin Scott was there, and Maxine was there and stole the unburied box. That makes four. But I know there was a fifth, not only because the police think so, but also because I heard a man-not a woman-cry out in pain when the dying Colin Scott’s desperate bullet struck him. The police found no sign of him, so it was someone close enough to the action to get shot, and tough enough to escape anyway.

I let Mr. Henderson in because I have no choice. Waiting for the guillotine’s blade to fall, I lead him to the small kitchen table, an oft-painted wooden relic of my childhood salvaged from the basement of the house on Hobby Road. I offer water or juice. Henderson declines. Like gamblers who distrust each other, we both keep our hands in sight. We are very civil, although Henderson takes the precaution of setting up a small electronic device that will, he assures me, make it difficult for us to be overheard. All I know is that it gives me a sharp, sudden headache, even though it does not seem to be making a sound.

“Your friend understands why you did what you did,” Henderson tells me in his smooth, sparkling voice. “He does not blame you for the fact that the contents of the box were… disappointing. On the contrary. He is pleased.”

This surprises me. “He is?”

“Your friend is of the view that all involved parties are satisfied with this outcome.”

Rubbing an aching ear, I think this one over. What Dana and I feared appears to be true: Jack Ziegler is too old a hand to be fooled so easily. I suppose the other involved parties are old hands too. Yet they are satisfied. And Henderson is here. Which means that…

“Somebody else ended up with the box,” I murmur. The good guys, I am thinking. Not the great guys, the good guys. “My… friend doesn’t have it. Am I right?”

Henderson declines to enlighten me. His strong face is smoothly impassive. “Your friend is of the view that if nothing was found, then perhaps there was nothing to be found. Some threats are bluffs.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you agree.”

I realize, finally, where I am being led: what I am being forgiven for, and what words I must recite to earn forgiveness. “I agree. Some threats are bluffs.”

“Perhaps there were never any real arrangements.”

“That is certainly possible.”

“Even likely.”

“Even likely,” I echo, closing the deal.

Henderson is on his feet, wide shoulders flexing, catlike, under the loose jacket. I wonder how many seconds it would take him to kill me with his bare hands should the need arise. “Thank you for your hospitality, Professor.”

“Thank you for stopping by.”

Before folding up his electronic baffler, Henderson adds a final point: “Your friend also wants you to know that if you should, in the future, discover contents that are… less disappointing… he will expect to hear from you. In the meanwhile, he assures you that you will not be troubled further over this matter.”

I think this one over, too. Some threats are bluffs. He is implying a little bit more than he is saying. “And my family and I.. .”

“Will be perfectly safe. Naturally.” But no smile. “You have your friend’s promise.”

As long as I keep my end of the bargain, he means. Before, Uncle Jack’s ability to protect me was driven by his assurance to involved parties that I would track down the arrangements. Now that things have changed, his ability to protect me rests on his assurance that I will not. They cannot know whether I have found the real contents someplace else; whether, like my father, I have hidden them away, and made arrangements of my own, to be launched in the event of my unexpected demise. The involved parties and I shall live henceforth in a balance of terror.

“All right,” I say.

We do not shake hands.

Every night I watch the weather channel. Near the end of the third week of the month, while Bentley is with me for a few days, I turn on the television and note with approval a terrible hurricane on its way up the coast. If it keeps on its present course, it will hit the Vineyard four days from now. Perfect.

The next morning, Saturday, I take Bentley back to his mother. My son and I stand together out on the front lawn, and Don Felsenfeld, tending his flowers, raises a trowel in greeting. I decide not to wonder whether Don, who notices everything, knew about Lionel before I did.

“When Bemley see you ’gain?”

“Next weekend, sweetheart.”

“Promise?”

“God willing, Bentley. God willing.”

His keen eyes search my face. “Dare Daddy?” he inquires, lapsing into the secret language we hardly ever hear any more.

“Yes, sweetheart. Dare Daddy. Absolutely.”

I lead my son up the crooked brick path to Number 41 Hobby Road. Crooked because Kimmer and I, shortly after moving in, laid the bricks ourselves. A two-day job that took us, busy, love-struck rookies that we were, about a month.

My hand trembles on the cane.

The house is empty. The thought comes to me unbidden but with all the moral force of absolute truth. It is an empty house… no, an empty home. Kimmer is certainly inside somewhere, waiting for her son. Her BMW is parked in the turnaround, as usual, in defiance of my counsel. And if my wife has been careless and broken her solemn word-nothing new there!-Lionel Eldridge might be lurking around the place, his powder-blue Porsche safely hidden away in the garage. Yet the Victorian sits empty, for a home that once housed a family and now holds only its shards is like a beach whose sand has eroded to rock-retaining only the name, and none of the reason for the name.

At the door, I tell Kimmer I am returning to the Vineyard for a few days. She nods indifferently, then stops and peers at me. The resolution in my voice frightens her.

“What are you going to do, Misha?”

“I’m going to finish it, Kimmer. I have to.”

“No, you don’t. There’s nothing to finish. It’s over, it’s all over.” Hugging our son to her thigh now, wishing the truth away.

“Take care of him, Kimmer. I mean, if anything happens to me.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that!”

“I have to go.” I peel her hand from my sleeve. Then I spot the real panic in her face and I realize she has it all wrong. She thinks I’m going off to Oak Bluffs to kill myself. Over her! I love her, yes, I am in pain, sure, but suicide! So I smile and take her hand and lead her down the steps onto the lawn. She is savvy enough to shoo Bentley into the house.