John Irving - Until I Find You

That was why Jack was wide awake. He suddenly knew it was a joke for him to even imagine he could remember what had happened to him in those North Sea ports when he was four, almost thirty years ago! That was the trip Jack needed to take—alone, or certainly not with Leslie Oastler. It was not only a trip he’d already taken; it was possibly a trip he’d largely imagined, or it had been under his mother’s management and she’d imagined it for him.

It was not the time to look for his father; it was the time to discover if William was worth looking for.

They’d gone to Copenhagen first. His mother hadn’t manipulated that; at least Jack knew where their trip had started, and where he would soon be returning. “Copenhagen,” he said aloud—not meaning to. As unlikely as this may seem, Jack had forgotten about the Skretkowicz sister, whose strong thigh gripped his waist.

She’d kicked the covers off; maybe the word Copenhagen had triggered something, because her hips were moving. Long-distance motorcyclists have a certain authority in their hips—in the case of Jack’s Skretkowicz sister, even in her sleep. A green, somewhat startled-looking sea horse was tattooed on her forearm, which was flung across Jack’s chest. The sea horse stared unblinkingly into the flickering light from the weather channel on Emma’s small TV, which was on mute. The Skretkowicz sisters had a long ride ahead of them in the morning; the former Mrs. Flattop Tom had wanted to know the forecast for Ohio.

There was a storm story on the weather channel. Palm trees were snapped in half, docks had been swept away in high seas, a small boat was smashed on some rocks, breakers were pounding—all without a sound. The blue-green light from the television illuminated the tattoo on Ms. Skretkowicz’s hip; the light threw into relief the barbed dorsal spines near the base of a stingray’s whiplike tail.

Yes, Jack observed, there was a stingray tattooed on his Skretkowicz sister’s undulating hip. The tentacles of the octopus (on her ass) appeared to be reaching for the ray, as if the tattoo artist’s body were a map of the ocean’s floor.

Jack had to arch his back to reach for the remote, which he still couldn’t quite reach; it was not the response to her hips that his biker friend had expected. “Don’t go,” she whispered hoarsely, still half asleep. “Where are you going?”

“Copenhagen,” Jack repeated.

“Is it raining there?” she asked him groggily.

It would be April before he could get there, Jack was thinking; there was a good chance it would be raining. “Probably,” he answered.

“Don’t go,” she whispered again, as if she were falling back to sleep—or at least she wanted to.

“I have to go,” he told her.

“Who’s in Copenhagen?” his Skretkowicz sister asked. Jack could tell she was wide awake now. “What’s her name?” she said, her biker’s thigh gripping him tighter.

It was a he, not a she, who primarily interested Jack. Since Jack didn’t know his name, it would be hard to find him. But there could be little doubt who Jack was thinking of—the littlest soldier who saved him. Not to diminish the importance of Ladies’ Man Madsen; it’s just that Lars would be easier to find. At least Jack knew his name.

Jack slipped away from Toronto without telling Miss Wurtz his plans; he never even said good-bye. He was afraid that Caroline would be disappointed in his decision not to go looking for his father straightaway.

He took only his winter clothes with him; Jack thought they’d be suitable for April in the North Sea. His Toronto clothes, Mrs. Oastler called them. Leslie had helped him pack. After all, she’d shopped for Jack’s clothes—she’d even paid for most of them, during the winter Alice was dying—and Mrs. Oastler had her own opinions regarding how he should dress in those European ports of call.

“I hope you know, Jack—you don’t wear the same clothes to a tattoo parlor that you would wear in a church, and vice versa.”

He left Leslie with the responsibility of sending his screenplay of The Slush-Pile Reader to Bob Bookman at C.A.A. in Beverly Hills. In the long Canadian winter, Leslie had become Jack’s partner in the project; a couple of times, he’d come close to telling her that Emma had left him more than her notes for a screenplay. But that wouldn’t have been faithful to what Emma had wanted.

In the months he’d spent with his mom in Toronto, Jack’s mail had been forwarded from California. Like her late daughter, Mrs. Oastler invariably read Jack’s mail before giving it to him. She didn’t give all his mail to him, either; she was more censorial than Emma. The fan mail from female admirers was not worthy of Jack’s interest, Mrs. Oastler said. She refused to show him the photographs of his she-male tormentors, too.

It must have been February when Jack asked Leslie: “Didn’t I get any Christmas cards this year?”

“Yeah, you got a ton of Christmas cards,” Mrs. Oastler answered. “I threw them away.”

“You don’t like Christmas cards, Leslie?”

“Who needs them, Jack? You’re a busy guy.”

Somehow the letter from Michele Maher escaped the censor in Mrs. Oastler and made it into Jack’s hands, although it was a month or more after Leslie had first read Michele’s letter. “This one’s interesting,” Mrs. Oastler said. “Some doctor in Massachusetts with the name of Emma’s character.”

Jack must have looked stricken, or overeager to see the letter, because Leslie didn’t immediately hand it over. “Someone you know ?” she asked him.

“Someone I knew, ” he corrected her, holding out his hand. Mrs. Oastler looked the letter over—more carefully than she had the first time. “Emma knew that I knew her,” Jack explained. “Emma knew she was using a real person’s name.”

“Sort of an inside joke—is that what you’re saying, Jack?” She still wouldn’t give him the letter.

“Sort of,” he said.

“Would you like me to read it to you?” Leslie asked. Jack was still holding out his hand. “ ‘Dear Jack—’ ” Mrs. Oastler began, promptly interrupting herself. “Well, even your fans address you as ‘Jack’—you can see why I never guessed that she actually knew you.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Jack said, his voice remaining calm.

“Dr. Maher—she’s a dermatologist, of all things—goes on,” Leslie continued. “ ‘I know you were close to Emma Oastler, and I’ve read that you’re adapting her novel, The Slush-Pile Reader, as a film. Good luck with the screenplay, and your other projects. That novel is one of my favorites, not only because of the main character’s name. With my best wishes, and congratulations on your considerable success as an actor.’ Well, that’s it,” Mrs. Oastler said with a sigh. “It’s a typed letter—probably someone else typed it. She just signed her name, ‘Michele.’ It’s her office letterhead—some sort of doctors’ office building at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Massachusetts. On second thought, it’s not that interesting a letter; there’s nothing personal in it, really. No one reading this would dream that she ever knew you.”

Leslie held the letter at arm’s length in her hand—not quite as if it were dirty laundry, but something potentially worse, something she sensed Jack wanted. “May I see the letter, please?” he asked her.

“It’s not the sort of letter one has to answer, Jack.”

“Give me the fucking letter, Leslie!”