Unknown - The Genius

“I’m sorry I snuck out,” she said. “I meant to say hello, I really did.” “It’s okay.”

“I can’t go back in there right now.” “You don’t have to.”

The wind bit again and she trembled. I gave her my coat. “Thank you.” I nodded.

“Did you make any new friends?” she asked.

“We’re all going out tonight after the depressing shit gets finished.” She smiled faintly. A silence.

“I am so tired..” She looked at me. “Do you know what I mean?” “After my mother’s funeral I slept for a week. They thought something was wrong with me. They took me to the hospital.” “I didn’t know your mother died.” I nodded.

“How old were you?” “Five.”

“Do you mind if I ask what she died of?”

“Breast cancer.”

“That must have been hard.”

I smiled at her. “Is this helping you?”

“It is, actually.”

“Okay.”

“Do you mind?” “Not at all.”

“All right,” she said, but she didn’t say anything else.

I said, “Maybe you have narcolepsy.” She smiled.

Silence. The sea fired glittering buckshot.

She said, “They were up all night with him. The cops. They had a party, like it was his birthday. I know they meant well, but they can go back to work tomorrow. I’m the one that has to deal with it after today.” I nodded.

She pointed to the memorial. “I knew him.”

“I know.”

She looked at me.

“Annie told me,” I said.

“She did?”

I nodded.

“I wish she hadn’t done that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“It is what it is.”

I said nothing.

“That’s him.”

“Ian.”

She nodded, wiped her face, laughed once. “I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous. As soon as I’ve begun to deal with that … and now this. Come on.” She laughed again. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I put my arm around her shoulder, and she leaned against me. We stood there until the wind turned ferocious and her feet began to go numb.

THE FEW PEOPLE THAT REMAINED were halfway into coats. Jerry Gor-dan had left, as had Samantha’s sister. Samantha told me to go on upstairs and wait for her there, but before I could, her mother emerged from the kitchen, grinding a dishtowel into a mug. “Where did you go?” she asked Samantha.

“I needed air.”

“I needed you.. Julie had to take Jerry”—she looked at me, then at Samantha, then back at me. She put on a terrible smile. “Hello. Who’re you.”

“Ethan Muller. I was a friend of Mr. McGrath’s.”

She snorted. ” ‘Mister’?”

“Mom.”

“I don’t think he’s ever been called that.”

“Mom.”

“What, sweetheart. What’s the problem.”

Samantha was staring at the ground, her fists balled.

“He must have liked when you called him that,” Samantha’s mother said to me. “He must have loved that. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” At first she had seemed merely angry, but now I saw that she was very drunk. Over and over the mug started to slip from her hands, only to be caught at the last moment.

“What happened to Jerry,” said Samantha.

“Your sister had to drive him to the emergency room. Don’t look like that, he’s fine. He needs some stitches.”

“What happened.”

“One of your father’s shithead friends”—she stopped again, looked at me, seeming to appraise whether what she had to say could harm my tender ears—”what the hey, we’re all friends here, aren’t we.”

I nodded cautiously.

“Richard hit him,” she said. “He cold-cocked him in the middle of a toast.”

“Oh my God.”

“I threw them out, the bunch of fucking apes. They split his lip open. I needed you. Where did you go.”

“I told you. I went out for a walk.”

Her mother stared at her, reloading; then she turned abruptly toward me and smiled. “And what’s your story?”

“I’m an art dealer.”

“Well la-dee-dah. I didn’t know Lee was into that. Excuse me, Mr. McGrath.”

“I was helping him look into an old case,” I said.

That set Samantha’s mother off; she laughed and laughed. “Really,” she said. “Which one would that be.”

“Mom.”

“It’s just a question, Samantha.”

“Why don’t you go upstairs?” Samantha said to me.

“Actually, I think I’m going to go home—”

“Oh, Lee. All the way til the end. Oh, Christ, what a joke.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Mom.” Samantha yanked her mother into the kitchen. I vacillated, then went quietly upstairs.

In all my time at McGrath’s, I’d never been upstairs, and on the second floor I faced two options, a yellow-and-brown master bedroom still filled with signs of illness: a cane, a bucket for vomit. The other room had woodblocks glued to the door.

JULIE AND SAMS

OOM

Inside I found a bunk bed with matching comforters, pilled and smelling of dust. Girlish stickers adorned the bedframe. On the floor was a duffel bag emblazoned with the logo of the Queens County District Attorney’s office, half open and spilling out hastily crammed clothes, a stick of deodorant, a running shoe.

Downstairs I heard yelling.

I looked through the books on the desk. A Wrinkle in Time. The Catcher in the Rye. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Julie had friendz forever, according to the picture frame. Samantha’s paper number from the 1998 New York City Marathon hung on a corkboard.

The yelling crescendoed. A door slammed.

A few minutes later Samantha entered and closed the door behind her. “Fucking bitch.” She stood for a moment with her face in her hands. When she looked up again, her expression was sober and purposeful. She stared at a blank spot on the far wall as she unbuttoned her shirt, shook it off, let it fall to the floor. “Help me with this, please,” she said, turning around.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO GO ON THE TOP BUNK?”

“It’s all right.”

“I don’t think this was made for someone your size.”

“Probably not.”

“How tall are you, anyway?”

“Six-three.”

“You must be uncomfortable. I can go up there.” “Stay.”

“Are you sure?” “Yes.”

“Okay. Good, because I don’t want to go up there. That one’s Julie’s.” A silence. I felt her smile. “How does it feel to take advantage of a vulnerable woman?” “Fantastic.”

“This isn’t really what I do,” she said. “Grief makes us do strange things.” “In bed.” “Yes.”

“No: in bed. You never played that game?”

“What game.”

“The fortune cookie game.”

“I’m not familiar.”

“You read your fortune cookie and then you add ‘in bed.’ You’ve never done that?”

“I think you’re saying that I sound like a fortune cookie.”

“You did just then.” “When.”

“When you said, ‘Grief makes us do strange things.’ ” “It does.”

“Okay,” she said, “but it’s still silly to talk like that.” My first instinct was to be offended, but then I saw how she was smiling and I had to smile, too. For years Marilyn had been telling me that I had to lighten up; how irritated would she be to learn that all it took was a single goofy look?

I said, “Your lucky numbers are five, nine, fifteen, twenty-two, and thirty.” “In bed.”

“In bed. I don’t remember the last time I had a fortune cookie.” She said, “At my office we get Chinese twice a week. It’s horrible but it’s better than peanut-butter crackers.” “I could buy you lunch sometime.” “That might be nice.” “Well all right.” “All right.” A silence.

She said, “But, I mean, really. I’m not used to this.” “So you said.”