John Irving - Until I Find You

“ Movies, ” Jack said with disgust. Charles laughed.

But Jack saw it then —this was where that hair-faced novelist and screenwriter had gotten the idea to make a love story out of the Halifax Explosion. It was a bad idea to begin with, but it hadn’t even been McSwiney’s idea. He’d stolen it from the Titanic movie; he’d ripped it off from a graveyard full of children!

“Does Doug McSwiney come from Halifax?” Jack asked Charles Burchell. Since Charles was a bookseller, Jack knew that Charles would know.

“Born and raised,” Charles said. “He’s an awful man—he’s always punching people.”

The Titanic grave site gave Jack additional grounds for wanting to kick the crap out of McSwiney, and Jack still had a headache. (As cheap shots go, a blow to someone’s temple is asking for trouble.)

Jack went back to the hotel and took a short nap. He probably did have a concussion, mild or not, because he wasn’t feeling well. He was wondering why Michele Maher hadn’t called him—just to say she was looking forward to lunch or dinner, or whatever. Maybe she was shy; probably she was busy. Jack didn’t sleep very soundly, or for long. At the first ring of the wake-up call, he sat up too suddenly and saw stars. The stars continued to twinkle while he brushed his teeth.

A separated shoulder would be a justifiable injury to inflict on Doug McSwiney, Jack was thinking. Given that McSwiney had hit Jack with a left hook, he was probably right-handed; if so, a separated right shoulder would be a good idea.

Jack called Dr. Maher’s office and once again got Michele’s nurse, Amanda, on the phone. “Hi, Amanda—it’s Jack Burns. I’m calling to confirm breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

He could tell right away that something was wrong; the formerly friendly Amanda was ice-cold to him. “Dr. Maher is with a patient,” the nurse said.

“What’s with the Dr. Maher, Amanda?”

“No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner,” Amanda said. “Dr. Maher doesn’t want to see you—she won’t even talk to you. I canceled your reservation at the Charles.”

“Maybe I’ve misunderstood you,” Jack said. “I have a concussion.”

“That girl gave you a concussion ?” Amanda asked.

“ What girl?”

“I’m talking about the Lucy business—the photographs, the whole story. Don’t they have news in Canada?”

Jack could see that flaming paparazzo as if the photographer were still standing at the foot of the driveway, snapping away. One of the sleazier movie magazines had bought the photographs. The story, and the tamer of the photos, had also been on television.

“You don’t come off very well,” Amanda explained.

“I did not have sex with that young woman!” he told her.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Amanda said. “The girl just knew that you wanted to, and that you definitely would have had sex if she hadn’t called her mother.”

“That’s not true! I called the cops and asked them to come get her! I waited outside my own house until the police came!”

“You had a naked eighteen-year-old in your bed—you even have the same psychiatrist,” Amanda pointed out. “You knew Lucy when she was a child—you beat up her father! And why did you keep her thong, and those terrible pictures? There was a photo of what looked like another naked eighteen-year-old on your desk! There were photographs of a naked woman’s tattooed breast on your refrigerator !”

“I threw all that away!” Jack shouted.

“Where? On your front lawn?” the nurse asked.

“Please let me speak to Michele,” he begged her.

“Michele said, ‘If Jack calls, tell him he’s just too weird for me.’ That’s what the doctor said,” Amanda told him, hanging up the phone.

Jack turned on the television in his hotel room. It took him a while to find an American network among the Canadian TV channels, although (as Leslie Oastler would soon inform him) the Lucy story had already been picked up by the Canadian media. When he found Headline News, Jack discovered that he was the lead item in the entertainment segment.

When Lucy was told that her pink thong had been recovered from Jack’s trash—together with those incriminating photographs, which Lucy had earlier described to reporters—she speculated that Jack must have wanted to have some keepsake of her visit and had therefore hidden her thong from the police. Apparently, he’d had second thoughts and had thrown out the thong with the other “evidence.” (The thong looked really small on TV; it appeared that Jack had stolen it from a child. )

Jack needed to see the sleazy magazine itself before he could understand everything that was incriminating about the photographs—that is, the ones not fit for television. He left the hotel and walked over to The Book Room. Charles Burchell was a bookseller; Charles would know where every newsstand in Halifax was. Naturally, Charles already had a copy of the movie magazine.

“I called you at the hotel, Jack, but they said you were napping.” None of the saleswomen in The Book Room would look at Jack; they’d all seen the photos and had read the insinuating story.

The magazine’s cover photo was of Lucy hanging naked from around Jack’s neck, resembling a pornographic ornament. Both police officers appeared to be struggling as much with Jack as with Lucy. The photographs inside the magazine—particularly the ones that had been rescued from his trash—were no less condemning. The pink thong was not only very small; it was still wet. Emma naked at seventeen had been doctored for magazine propriety. Jack thought that the black slash across Emma’s eyes made her unrecognizable, even to anyone who knew her at that age. And who but Jack had really known her naked at that age? (He’d forgotten that Mrs. Oastler was familiar with that photograph.)

In the case of those photos of his mother, the movie magazine had selected only one; there were two black slashes, across Alice’s nipples. The photo of Emma had been so badly mangled in the trash that you couldn’t see her nipples very distinctly; the magazine hadn’t bothered to conceal them, although they’d had the decency to crop the photograph above Emma’s waist.

Dr. García was mentioned in the article. Jack was sure that she would have refused to comment. But a former patient, whose name was withheld and who described the therapist’s methods as “unorthodox, to say the least,” said that Dr. García strongly discouraged her patients from dating one another. Jack knew perfectly well that Dr. García didn’t believe for a moment that he was dating Lucy, but everyone knows what kind of magazine would do this; the story is implied, and nothing is stated. Even the headline, the very name of the article, was deliberately misleading; in the case of the Lucy story, the headline was a real winner.

JACK BURNS DENIES ANY HANKY PANKY,

BUT WHAT’S HE HIDING IN HIS TRASH?

Jack hadn’t done anything, but he looked guilty. It was too weird, as Michele would say.

Charles Burchell was a good guy; he gave Jack his heartfelt condolences. Jack had a pounding headache by the time he got back to The Prince George. He took a couple of Tylenol, or maybe it was Advil—he wouldn’t remember taking anything.

Jack had fun calling his number in L.A. and listening to all the messages on his answering machine. Commiserations from Richard Gladstein, Bob Bookman, and Alan Hergott; Wild Bill Vanvleck had called from Amsterdam. (Jack found out later that The Mad Dutchman’s anchorwoman girlfriend had been the first to report the scandal in the Netherlands.) Someone with a St. Hilda’s connection had alerted Leslie Oastler to the story; Mrs. Oastler was hopping mad. “I can’t believe you kept that photograph of Emma, and those pictures of your mother. You idiot, Jack!”