A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

And his butt is sore; the soreness seeps through his bones. Maybe he does have cancer, maybe he should let them biopsy his nut, but at the moment he's had enough.

As he leaves, the receptionist calls after him: "Don't forget, you've been validated. Have a nice day."

He wants to turn around and correct her, he wants to say "violated," he wants to say, "I'm a dead man, dead men don't have nice days." He wants to say something.

"Do you need a follow-up?" she asks.

"I'll call," Richard says.

WHEN HE gets home, Cecelia is standing in the driveway, behind a rope of yellow plastic CRIME SCENE tape.

"We're not allowed in."

"It's our house."

"There's a man in there who told me to go outside."

"That's crazy." Richard walks into the house.

"Sorry, sir, you'll have to stay outside."

"Who are you?"

"One of the day men," he says, like it's a 1960s singing group, The Day Men, like The Highwaymen, and The Journeymen.

"It's my house."

"The first thing I'm going to have you do is take your car out of the garage."

"Is this a hijacking, are you holding us hostage? No one said you could come in."

"Your garage is the closest thing to the hill; it could go in at any moment, and that looks like a very heavy car."

Richard goes outside, pulls the car out of the garage, parks at the curb, and goes back into the house.

"I feel better now," the man says. "A lot of cars go over the edge. Sorry about the CRIME SCENE tape. I didn't mean to scare you, but I ran out of CAUTION tape and had to take what I could get. Look, it's your house, I can't stop you from being in it, but I can tell you that it's not over yet. I was just stopping by to check. It's not like I have nothing better to do: with all the rain, I'm sure I've got some mud slides. By the way, I like your pictures. I thought they only had paintings like that in museums. Guess I was wrong."

Cecelia comes into the house while the man is still talking.

"What I'm trying to tell you is that it's time for you to go." And with that, the man leaves.

Cecelia starts to pack. She takes out her vacuum, her mop and bucket and fills the bucket with her favorite supplies, as though they can't be replaced — her rubber gloves and her extra pair of work shoes.

Richard picks up the phone and calls the Four Seasons. "I was hoping to make a last-minute reservation," he says. "The name is Novak. Arriving in about an hour and staying, well, I'm not sure, a few days, maybe a week."

"The usual suite?"

"That would be fine." He knows what they're getting at — they think he is his ex-wife's assistant. It's fine, he'll get good service and they'll keep an eye out, waiting for her to show up.

"Bill it to the company?"

"Let me give you another card — personal."

When the ex-wife comes to L.A., she's usually too busy to see him. They always make a plan; 90 percent of the time she cancels before she even arrives, and the other 10 percent she cancels at the last minute — but she always calls.

Richard begins going through the house, rushing in a progressive panic, taking things he decides he can't live without: his laptop, and his flat-screen monitor, his cordless mouse, the bag that he started packing last night. He stuffs a few more things into the bag: a tie — just in case — a sport jacket — for the same unknown reason — a better pair of shoes.

Cecelia has her head in the refrigerator, pulling out the perishables, pulling out his food for the week, packing it in ice. She drops something — the salmon that is supposed to be for dinner tonight — it lands on the floor and rolls. It rolls across the floor, rolls downhill, rolls flipping over and over, like it is swimming downstream. There is no reason why the salmon should be rolling except that the house, which was previously on an even plane, is now off kilter.

Cecelia and Richard watch the salmon roll over and over all the way across the floor, until it gets stuck on the leg of a chair. While they are watching, the phone rings — Cecelia picks it up and hands it to Richard. "It's for you," she says without saying hello.

"Was that your wife?"

"My housekeeper."

The crying woman is on the phone; she sounds terrible.

"What happened, did something happen? You sound horrible."

"I was thinking of taking you up on your offer, if only for a little bit."

"My house is falling down. It's a disaster. Did you see the thing about the flying horse on TV? That was me, my house, it's falling into a sinkhole."

"Does that mean I can't come over?"

He pauses. "No, of course not," he says. "It just means that you probably shouldn't come here. I'm packing up and going to the Four Seasons; do you want to meet me there?"

She doesn't say anything for a minute. "I'll meet you in the lobby," she says.

"Give me an hour." He hangs up.

"You really are something," Cecelia says. "Phone calls from women and everything, almost like a human being. Do you want me to go down there with you and get you set up?"

"I'll be fine."

"Now, you know, I can't make your breakfast or clean up after you at a hotel, they have their own people."

"I know."

Richard realizes that he has no idea how Cecelia gets to and from work: she just appears and disappears.

"Are you all right to get yourself home, do you want a ride somewhere?"

"Oh, I'm not going home. I'm going to enjoy myself. Maybe I'll go shopping, maybe I'll go down to the Farmers Market and get myself a lemon-meringue pie."

"I didn't get a chance to tell you, but while I was out I found us a place; we can't get in for a week, but it's on the ocean in Malibu."

The doorbell rings; it's the FedEx man delivering the Bose noise-canceling headset that he ordered for Cecelia.

"You didn't have to do that — now you won't have anything to get me for Christmas."

"It's a long way to Christmas; I'm sure you'll think of something else."

"We can both wear them and not talk to each other," Cecelia says, opening the box.

"And you can play music through them," Richard says. "And if you go on a plane it's great for cutting down the engine noise — that's how I discovered them."

Richard loads the car. The movie star comes walking down the street. "Is this a bad time? I was going to call, but I didn't have your number."

"I'm just heading out," Richard says. "Temporarily relocating."

"Listen," the movie star says. "My sister is starting a group, a kind of a reading group, about religious thought, I think she wants to start her own religion — would you like to join?"

"Thanks for thinking of me," Richard says. "It sounds interesting."

"We're starting tonight, with the Jews — understanding the Jews."

"Are you Jewish?" Richard asks the movie star.

"Of course not," he says. "But my parents are."

Richard doesn't know quite what to do with that.

"Think about it," the movie star says, "give me a call; I'm in

the phone book under Edward Albee."

"Do you get many calls about the real Edward Albee?"

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"No."

"Really? Wow, maybe I should pick someone else. What about Holden Caulfield — is he still living?"

"I'm not sure," Richard says, not wanting to pop the bubble.

"What about the pictures?" Cecelia asks, coming out with the last bag. "You can't just leave them in there, can you?"

He completely forgot about the paintings. He goes back, takes the paintings off the walls, wraps them in sheets, and carefully puts them into the car — seat-belting the de Kooning into the backseat and easing the Rothko into the trunk, closing with caution. There are others he could take, but these are the two key pieces.

Cecelia toots the horn. "I'm not going to be able to enjoy my day off if it doesn't start soon."