A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"You have to really rub it," Nic says. "Work it into the muscle."

"I have the name of a good masseur," Richard says.

"You're doing fine. That's good, right there — that's the spot."

"Better?"

"Much, thank you."

"My son will be here in less than twenty-four hours," Richard blurts. "What if he gets here and it doesn't work? I don't even know the kid."

Nic rolls himself to sitting. "You want in on a secret? I have a kid." Nic says it in a way that lets Richard know that not only does he know what Richard is talking about, but also that he's not the person to turn to for good counsel. "A little girl, Faith, I haven't seen her in a year. Her mom left me for another woman. Sandra, my ex, is black and wanted to move back into the black community and has absolutely no use for me. I became the enemy."

"Except that the girl is your daughter."

"That's exactly my point — and the boy is your son, and something is bringing him out here; you'll do the best you can.

"You should see your girl."

"Yeah," Nic says, easing himself off the table. "I should see my girl. In fact, I'm going to put it on my list." He taps his head, indicating where he keeps the list. "So what can I do for you, there's a reason you came knocking?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow your car; they took mine."

"The keys are by the door."

"Do I just leave you here?"

"Help me to the sofa and I'll try and sleep my way through it."

"I asked my ex-wife what Ben is like," Richard tells Nic as he's helping him. "She said four years ago the shrink told her he needs parents. It's not like she ever told me — what if it's too late?"

RICHARD takes surface roads — Olympic to Bundy to Santa Monica, past the Beverly Hills Hotel. The Bentley is beautiful, built as if an artist put it together — the seat belt, a modest single strap lying limp across his waist, guaranteeing only that his body would be found near the scene if there were a crash.

Bentley drives with a kind of elegance that's hard to describe; the fineness of the car makes Richard drive more slowly, leisurely, as if on parade. Did John Lennon ever actually drive the car, or was he just driven in it? Richard glances over his shoulder into the back seat, picturing the long-haired Beatle in his white suit sitting with Yoko at his side.

In a city full of Beemers and Mercedes, where even modest folks drive beyond their means, Bentley is eccentric, rich, and a little freakish. People stare. Richard waves — he doesn't know what else to do.

As he winds up the hill, he sees a "For Sale" sign on the swimmer's house. He's secretly pleased — good, someone new will come, a fresh muse.

He stops outside his house. When he looks at it through Bentley's windshield, the house looks smaller. It's all about perspective. When he bought the house, he was coming from New York, where everyone lived in an apartment, and by comparison the house seemed spacious, extravagant. Now, when he is coming from Malibu, with the full expanse of the Pacific outside, the house feels pinched, like a hamster hut but for a man. He goes in. The high, clean smell, the perpetual polish it had when Cecelia was there, is missing.

He collects his mail — catalogues, bills, an envelope from the Golden Door with Cynthia's name scrawled above the return address. It is a letter written on stationery from the Four Seasons, the Golden Door, and free postcards she picked up along the way, and on the back of a long piece of cash register receipt — each page/card is numbered.

As I write this I keep telling myself to stop, tear it up, find what I'm trying to say on a nice Hallmark card from aisle 14, something with a picture of a duck dancing in the rain — Thinking of You. I keep thinking I should rip it up but then I keep writing. I just want to thank you for giving me a chance to open my life again after it's been closed for so long. I feel like I've been let out — saved would not be too extreme. Out of nowhere there you were in the produce section, you've taken care of me and asked for nothing in return — no one has ever taken care of me like that. That's my job!

This is the person he wants to be. He wants to be able to do this for others, strangers, it doesn't matter who, and he wants to be able to do it for himself. He flashes on his father — why his father twice in one day? — his father looking at his grades, practically straight A's, and saying, "And you think that's good enough? Did anyone else do better?"

He reads the letter again; it makes him feel good, much improved.

"Glad it worked out," the contractor says, coming into the house without knocking.

"Car's in the shop," Richard says, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket.

"This is Luigi, he's working with me on another house nearby. It's the obvious panels," the contractor says, pointing out the broken windows to Luigi.

"Why do you have this kind of glass?" Luigi asks Richard.

"It was here when I bought the house."

"This glass is no good; it doesn't surprise me that this happened. They don't even make this glass anymore — I can get it for you special, but it doesn't come like this, no one wants it. Everyone wants double-pane."

"More expensive," the contractor says.

"Yes, but this is not a poor man's house."

"Fine, then, put the double-pane in," Richard says.

The contractor shakes his head. "You can't just put a few in. The double-panes look entirely different; you'd have to do the whole house."

"Then don't, just make it how it was… That's what I really want, I want to be able to pretend this never happened."

"So American, pretend it never happened, that's how you get into trouble — always pretending something. You should take care of it, make it better."

"What would that involve?"

"Big windows like these, maybe seventy-five thousand. I do a good job — yes."

"No, let's just replace the windows that are broken."

"OK, you are the boss, I'm not going to argue with you." He takes out his metal measuring tape, slaps it against the windows, and speaks the measurements into a little recorder he keeps with him. "I make no mistakes," he says, whipping the metal tape from window to window.

Should Richard go for the better windows? How much longer is he going to be in this house?

"You're thinking too hard," the contractor says. "It'll look great. Just relax."

The message light on his answering machine is blinking; someone wants to come clean his chimney — he doesn't even know if he has a chimney — more TV producers, and a message from Ben — "We'll be there tomorrow. I'll call when we're closer."

Richard changes his outgoing message: "If this is Ben, call me on my cell; all other callers, wait for the beep."

As Richard is leaving, Cynthia's husband, Andy, pops out from behind a bush and rushes up into Richard's face. "What are you doing, what the fuck are you doing with my wife?"

"I'm not doing anything. Were you hiding behind the bush?"

"You must be doing something, because she's gone. She walked out on me, on the kids — now I don't even know where the fuck she is." The husband pushes Richard.

"Are you looking for a fight? Because I'm not going to fight you."

"You're not going to fight me," he says, pushing Richard again.

"Look, buddy, I'm not your problem. You and Cynthia have to work it out."

"Don't tell me you're not fucking her," he says.

Richard doesn't know what to say: You shouldn't be here. You should be at work. You're acting like a real bozo.

"Mr. Goody-Goody, Mr. Fucking Samaritan." Bozo is now pushing Richard all over the yard, one push, two push. "Was that girl in the trunk some other little project you picked up along the way? Put my wife in your trunk and I'll fucking kill you."