A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"It's your painter, on my cell phone, calling from inside the house. I didn't have keys, so I just stayed here. I'm finished. The room is done, so I'm going, I'm leaving. I'll close the door behind me."

"Dr. Lusardi's office. The doctor wants to discuss the health of your prostate."

"It's Cecelia — I'm in the hospital. I was coming out of anesthesia and I saw you on television. I thought I must be dreaming. You're at the bottom of a hill, the car is in a ditch. It's on CNN. They keep playing it over and over again — every ten minutes I see pictures of you trying to climb the hill. Oh Lord, I hope you're all right."

"Hi. You don't know me, but I'm thirty-nine and looking to meet someone nice and, well, there just don't seem to be any decent guys out there. So, if you're interested, we could just meet somewhere for a coffee. OK, I know it's weird."

"Hello, Richard, it's Charlie, from Good Morning America… "

"It's Wendy from Hello Los Angeles… "

"Dick, it's Jeff, from the Today show…"

"Ah, Mr. Novak, this is Sergeant Braddock. We had a Hancock Park man come into the station today claiming that you have his wife, says you kidnapped her, and, well, given the recent activity on the highway, could you give us a call."

"It's me. I wanted to thank you. I don't know what to say; I'm really grateful, and I'm going to keep your shirt, if that's OK. I'm at my parents' house — and I'm going to stay here for a while."

"Are you there, Richard? Pick up. I've gotten a dozen calls today from people who seem to think you've been doing things — rescuing animals, saving kidnapped women… I tried to tell them it couldn't be you, you're not the kind of person who does things like that, but I thought you should know, there's another Richard Novak out there on the loose. Be careful. I hope you're feeling better, by the way; it's not like I don't care, I'm just busy."

He lies on the bed. Did anyone else see it? The brake lights flashing — how did she know to do that? What did she think when she flashed and he beeped back the same pattern? Did she think, "I'm safe"? Can she ever feel safe again? His arms are sore — the hill, the rough brush, rolling over the hard yellow grasses, holding on to the guy. He replays it — the hollow echo of his knuckles knocking on the trunk. The girl answering, muffled — a distant girl in a distant trunk, and at the same time perfectly clear.

Richard gets out of bed and goes back into the living room; the fire is still glowing. He camps out on the other sofa, opposite Cynthia.

"Can't sleep," he says.

"Join the crowd," she says.

FIVE A.M… he is in the bedroom, sitting eyes closed in the middle of the king-sized bed, breathing, trying to follow his breath. His mind wanders, he chases it, reminding himself to stay in his body, in his breath. He's good for twenty-two minutes and then it is over.

Cynthia is up, dressed, ready for her first day at the plastic surgeon's charitable change-your-life facility. The car isn't picking her up until eight-thirty, but she's pacing. "Did I do the right thing? I hope I did the right thing. I mean, when you think about it, I just left, I walked out on my children. I could get in trouble for that. If Andy wanted to be an ass, he could make it so I didn't see them again. It was exhausting, twenty-four hours a day cooking, cleaning, driving."

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

"A walk would be good," she says. "I need to move. I shouldn't have gotten stoned last night. I always get paranoid when I get stoned. I didn't seem paranoid, did I? I mean, I didn't do anything to draw attention to myself?"

"You fell asleep," he says.

They walk down the beach towards Santa Monica. A dog drops a ball at Richard's feet. He picks it up, throws it; the dog gets the ball and brings it back. They do it about twenty times, and then the dog follows them back to the house and up onto the deck.

"OK, friend," Richard says. "Go home now." And the dog just stands there.

"You're on TV," Cynthia calls from the living room.

"Little is known about Richard Novak; he declined an appearance on this morning's show. Neighbors in his upscale Los Angeles neighborhood say that before last week's episode, when a horse fell into a sinkhole, they'd never met him. Is he a modern-day superhero, anonymously fighting crime, or is he just an old-fashioned Good Samaritan? If you know Richard Novak, or someone like him, let us know. Good Samaritans — an investigation, starts Monday on the eleven o'clock news."

"You're famous," Cynthia says.

The dog is still on the porch.

"Am I famous?" Richard asks the dog. "What does 'famous' mean?"

"Can I use your computer for a minute?" Cynthia asks. Sure.

She logs on and sends the kids a message. "Mom here — just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you. Reminder: brush your teeth — hard to keep friends if you have dragon breath. Change underwear — clean underwear is not just for special occasions."

Outside, a horn beeps.

Richard walks Cynthia to the car. "Do you want to give me an address or a phone number just in case?"

The woman behind the wheel hands him one of the doctor's business cards. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll have her back by five."

"Call me if you want to come home earlier," he says.

"I'll be fine," Cynthia says.

As the car is pulling out, Nic opens his door. "Hey, man, sorry if I went on last night — I really shouldn't drink and smoke."

"You're up early."

"I'm a morning person: no matter what time I go down, I pop up at five-thirty. Can I borrow your car? Mine's in the shop. Just for a couple of hours?"

"Yeah, sure, take it."

"Actually, better yet, can you drive me?"

"I guess; where are you going?"

"A place down on Fairfax."

"OK. Sure. Not a problem."

"Can we go soon?"

"Give me fifteen minutes." Richard goes back inside. The dog is still on the deck; Richard gives him some leftovers and a bowl of water.

"You know," he tells the dog, "famous people don't feed dogs, they have people who do that for them — dog feeders." The dog just looks at him. Richard gets the dog a towel so he'll have something to sit on. The dog curls up on the towel.

By the time Richard gets outside, Nic is waiting with a shopping bag full of stuff.

"Do you even have a car?" Richard asks.

"Of course I do." He pulls a key chain out of his pocket and pushes a button, and the garage door lifts. A huge, shiny Bentley is parked in the narrow garage. "OK, so it's not in the shop, but I can't exactly go driving around in it."

"Why do you have a Bentley?"

"It was a gift."

"Nice. Who gives a Bentley as a gift?"

"John Lennon. It was John's, and he gave it to me a long time ago. It's not like I can sell it or anything."

"And why did John Lennon give you his car?"

"Actually, I paid him a dollar for it — there had to be a transaction in order to transfer the title."

"Am I'm supposed to ask where you knew John Lennon from?"

"He read a book I wrote and called me," Nic says, matter-of-factly.

"Really. My ex-wife is in publishing," Richard says.

"Sorry about last night," Nic says, changing the subject. "I didn't mean to bring everyone down."

"Buckle up." Richard pulls the car out onto the highway.

They ride in silence, listening to the car rattling, groaning over potholes. Richard puts a price on each sound — some are two hundred dollars, some are closer to two thousand. He's on the 10 heading towards town. None of the cars look the same as they did yesterday, no one is innocent, everyone is suspect, menacing. Maybe he shouldn't have smoked the pot last night — maybe he's a little bit paranoid too.

"What am I looking for — store, office — what?" he asks when they're finally on Fairfax.