Siegel, James - Derailed

“So then . . .”

“So then. He asked everyone this question. All the other animals in the forest.”

“In the garden, ” Anna corrected me.

“In the garden. But no one could help him.”

“Except the owl.”

“The wise owl. The owl said, ‘When you use it, you’ll know.’ ”

“And . . .”

“One day, the bee was in the forest — the garden — and he saw a peacock. Of course he didn’t know it was a peacock. He didn’t know what a peacock was, exactly. Just an ordinary-looking bird, apparently.”

“You didn’t say apparently when I was little,” Anna said.

“Well, you’re not little anymore. Apparently.”

“No.”

“Just an ordinary-looking bird. So he thought. Until he landed on it and asked it the same question he’d asked all the other animals. Why do I have a stinger?”

“Why?” Anna said, as if she really wanted to know the answer to the question, as if she’d forgotten and needed to hear it again.

“And the peacock said to the bee, ‘Buzz off.’ Whereupon the bee got angry.”

“And stung the peacock,” Anna said, finishing for me. “And the peacock went ouch, and all its feathers stood out. All of them. All the colors of the rainbow. And the little bee thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And died.”

When we turned into Yale Road, Vasquez was there. Standing like a sentinel under a street lamp.

I drove right past him and almost up onto the facing sidewalk.

“Daddy!” Anna was suddenly not snuggling anymore, but up and alert and maybe even alarmed.

Somehow I managed to steer the car back into the street, then up the driveway to 1823 Yale.

“What’s wrong?” Anna said.

“Nothing.” As insincere a “nothing” as ever left a person’s mouth. Certainly mine. But Anna was too polite to question me any further, even when I grabbed her by the arm and nearly yanked her into the house.

Where Deanna was up and waiting. Coffee brewed, lights on, kitchen TV set to the Food Channel as she waited for the loves of her life to return home safely.

Anyway, we’d returned.

It’s possible she mistook my expression of dread for the night’s events — waking up to find our daughter unconscious and in shock. What else would she think caused me to turn white and pace up and down the kitchen floor?

“Is she all right?” Deanna asked. She’d already directed this question to Anna herself, who with her teenage sullenness back in full working order had simply tramped by her and up the stairs to her room.

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine. Her blood sugar was down to one twenty-two.”

“How is she? Scared?”

“No,” I said. I'm scared.

Anna was a trouper, and Anna was going to be a-okay. But Charley here — that was a different matter. I was trying to deflect my wife’s attention from the door, where any minute now the man who was blackmailing me might ring the bell.

Vasquez was no more than forty yards away from my wife and child.

I walked to the window and stared out into the dark.

“What are you looking at?” Deanna asked me.

“Nothing. I thought I heard something . . .”

She was behind me now. She laid her head against my neck and stood there half leaning on me, one of us thinking the danger had passed, the other one knowing it hadn’t.

“Is she really okay?” Deanna asked me.

“What?” I felt momentarily calmed by the warmth of her body.

“Maybe I should sleep with her tonight.”

“She wouldn’t let you.”

“I can slip in after she falls asleep.”

“I think it’s okay, Deanna. She’ll be fine tonight.” The operative word being tonight, of course. Couldn’t vouch for tomorrow night or the night after that. Of course, it was possible we wouldn’t be fine tonight.

Why had Vasquez come here? What did he want?

“Why do you look so worried, Charles? I thought that was my department.”

“Well, you know . . . the hospital and all.”

“I’m going to sleep,” she said. “I’m going to try.”

“I’ll be up later,” I said.

But after Deanna walked up the stairs, I counted to ten, then went over to the fireplace and picked up a poker. I swung it back and forth a few times.

I opened the front door and went outside.

It was approximately twenty-five steps from my front door to the beginning of the driveway. I knew this because I counted every one. As something to do—anything to do—instead of panic. Of course, it was possible I was already panicking. After all, I was walking down the driveway with a fireplace poker in my hands.

When I made it all the way down to the sidewalk, I took three deep breaths and saw that Vasquez wasn’t there.

The streetlight illuminated a starkly empty corner.

Was it possible I’d imagined it? Was I starting to see Vasquez even when Vasquez wasn’t there — my very own personal spook?

I was honestly willing to believe it—in fact, desperately wanted to believe it. But it wasn’t until I dutifully walked all the way to the corner and even called out his name—not loudly, no, but loud enough for the neighborhood setter to start barking—then reversed field and walked back past my driveway to the opposite corner and still saw no Vasquez, that I was willing to embrace it as gospel.

Maybe I was seeing things. I’d had a near death experience tonight—my daughter’s, maybe, but still. You have one bad fright, you’re due for another. Chalk one up for my old pal fear. Or my new pal — we were spending so much time together these days.

But when I passed the oak tree that established the borders of my property, I noticed a wet stain running down its gnarled trunk. And I smelled something.

Acrid, tart — the smell of Giants Stadium at halftime. So many beers consumed and so many beers given back, the stadium like one enormous urinal. That’s what it smelled like here.

Courtesy of a passing canine? Fine, except for a simple law of physics. A dog just couldn’t reach that high on the trunk — not Curry, not the neighborhood setter, not even a Great Dane. Dogs pissing on trees is a very solemn ritual, or so I’d read — a way of marking their territory.

That’s why Vasquez had done it.

I hadn’t been imagining things. No.

Vasquez had come calling and had left a calling card. See, he said, this is my territory — your home, your life, your family.

It’s mine now.

EIGHTEEN

Hello, Charles.”

It was 10:15 Wednesday night. I was sitting in the den, where I’d been standing guard over the telephone. It was unnerving — every time it rang I’d pick it up and wait to see who’d say hello. The fastest answering machine in the West — one ring and it was sitting in my hand. I knew he’d be calling; I didn’t want Deanna picking it up first.

“Why were you outside my house? ” I said.

“Was that me?”

“I’m asking you what you were doing here.”

“Must have been taking a walk.”

“What do you want? What?”

“What do you want?”

Okay, I was a little taken aback — this answering a question with a question.

“What do I want?”

“That’s right. You tell me.”

Well. For one thing, I wanted Vasquez to stop coming by my house. For another thing, I wanted him to stop calling my house. That would be nice.

“I want you to leave me alone,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I’m not clear what you mean. . . .”

“Something about okay you don’t understand? You said you want me to leave you alone, I said okay.”