Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“Sadie Hawkins dance. You were six months from graduating. I was a year behind you. You got asked by Ann Paltrow, had been drinking before the dance, were pretty hammered by the time you got there. She got mad and ditched you, at which point you started putting the moves on me. Turns out I’d downed a few Buds myself and before you knew it we’re in the back of your dad’s car making out for an hour. Tell me you’ve forgotten that.”

I smiled, swallowed. “I have forgotten that.”

“Then I guess you’ve also forgotten that I left town a few months after that, and nine and a half months later-”

“Jesus.”

She smiled, patted my hand. “I’m just messing with you. About the last part, anyway. I mean, I did leave town, but I just had to get out of this place. I never felt like I fit in around here. You always seemed a bit out of place, too, but you got along okay because-hope you don’t mind my saying this-you were kind of a Goody Two-shoes.”

“I suppose,” I conceded. “And you…not so much.”

She smiled. “I had my moments.”

“There was a while there, I remember, during exams, someone kept calling the fire department, saying the school was on fire, or there was a bomb. Word was, that was you.”

She went stone-faced. “I have no idea who would do such a thing. That’s totally irresponsible.” She paused. “But I can certainly understand how someone who wasn’t fully prepared to take a difficult test might feel she had no choice but to resort to extreme measures.” Another pause. “And it was only twice.”

“Shit, so it was you.”

“Fifth,” Julie said. “But it was one more reason to get out of town.”

“Yeah, I didn’t hang in all that much longer.”

“And now we’re both back,” she said as the waitress delivered two Coronas. “At least you’ve got an excuse. A death in the family.”

“What’s yours?”

“I traveled around, got jobs at several small-town papers. No one cared all that much back then whether you had a journalism degree, which I did not. By the time I applied for a job at the Los Angeles Times I had plenty of experience. And then they started downsizing, and I was out of a job. Every other paper was cutting back, too, but as it turned out, tough as times are, the Standard newsroom had openings. One woman got herself fired, and there was this other guy, Harwood-God, the problems that guy had-left town to start his life over again someplace else, good luck with that. So I came back. The paper has no money, it’s a real shit show run by a bunch of fuckheads, but it pays a tenth of the bills till I find something else. And believe me, I’m looking.”

I laughed.

“What?”

“Your word for the folks you work for. Thomas says that’s what you called the Landry brothers.”

Now it was her turn to try to remember. “God, those two. Dumber than shoes. I called them fuckheads?”

“When they were picking on Thomas. You stepped in, chased them off. I know it’s probably a little late to say thank you, but thank you.”

“God, I’d forgotten about that.” She grabbed the Corona by the neck and took a very long drink, rested her back against the seat. “You know they’re both dead?”

“Seriously?”

“Both drunk, pulled over to the side of the road in a pickup. One was around back, dropping something over the tailgate. Other one backed over him, not knowing he was there, heard the bump, got out to see what was wrong but forgot to put the truck in park, started running after it, tripped and got caught under the back wheel. I’m just sorry it happened before I got here. Would love to have written the story.” She looked at me and made an apologetic face. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking there. You wanted to talk to me because of the story I wrote about your dad.”

I shook my head, warding off her apology. “That’s okay. I read the story. I wondered if there was anything more you knew about it.”

“Not really.”

“Do you know whether there was any kind of investigation afterward?”

“Yup. The usual. Death-by-misadventure kind of thing. The facts were pretty straightforward. There was no inquest. I wrote a short follow-up piece but it didn’t have any surprises so it never even made the paper. I know, when it’s something that happens to you, it’s a big deal, the details matter. But for the Standard, it was a one-day story, and only about two inches at that. It kind of jumped out at me on the day’s police logs because I knew who Adam Kilbride was, that he was Thomas’s and your dad.”

“I shouldn’t have troubled you with this.”

“It’s okay,” Julie said. “These things, I mean, you know, they’re hard. Look, is there anything I can do for you, for Thomas?”

“No, it’s-yeah, I mean, drop in sometime. I know Thomas would be happy to see you. He’s-I guess you know he’s kind of different.”

“He always was,” Julie said.

“I think now he’s even more so,” I said.

Julie smiled. “He always had this thing about maps. He still into those?”

“Yes.”

I worked on my Corona. Julie had nearly finished hers. “You were a bit weird yourself, you know. Always drawing things. You weren’t exactly a jock.”

“I threw the javelin,” I said defensively. It was true. It was about the only sport, if it can be called that, I ever went out for. And I was damn good at it. That, and playing darts in our basement rec room.

“The javelin,” Julie said. “Really. One of the big full-body-contact events. I see the drawing thing paid off for you, though. Your illustrations made the L.A. Times every now and then. They’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“You get married along the way?”

“No. Came close a couple of times. You?”

“Lived a few months with a guy who does that relaxation music, you know, like they play when you’re getting a massage? With birds chirping and brooks babbling in the background? Mellows you out? He had that effect on me. I nearly slipped into a coma half a dozen times with him. Then there was a thing with an NBA coach, a reality TV producer, and a guy who raised iguanas.” She paused reflectively. “I’ve had a knack for attracting people outside the boundaries of normalcy. But hey, that’s California. Maybe it’s good to be back here.”

Out of nowhere, I had a flashback.

“Purple,” I said.

“What?”

I pointed my index finger at her, waved it about in a general way. “Your underwear. It was purple.”

Julie smiled. “I was hurt there for a bit, thinking I failed to make an impression.”

The next day, at breakfast, I said to Thomas, “I liked Dr. Grigorin.”

“She’s okay,” he said, grabbing a banana from the bowl. “What kind of pills did she give you?”

I shrugged. “Who knows what the hell all these drugs are called.”

He peeled the banana down to the halfway point. “Did she tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“What I’m doing. I told her you could know about it.”

“She told me.”

“I thought it was time for you to know what I’m working on.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me yourself?”

He bit into the banana. “I figured, coming from her, you’d believe it. Because she’s a doctor.”

“You think Dr. Grigorin believes it?” I asked him. “What it is you’re doing? Memorizing maps and street plans so you can help secret agents on the run? And that one day, there won’t be any maps at all and you’ll have all the information stored up here?” I tapped my index finger just above my temple.

He put the banana down and rested his palms on the kitchen table. “If she didn’t believe it, why would she ask so many questions about it? If she didn’t believe it, she’d dismiss it out of hand.” Disappointment washed over his face. “I guess you don’t believe in what I’m doing. I was wrong, thinking Dr. Grigorin could convince you.”