more pleasant thought of his handsome friend, so that her sympathy feels like an afterthought. Irene believes in the foundation’s work, but Meyer knows that the people they’ve helped blend in her mind into one battered prisoner crouched on a cold cement floor.
“Something else,” Meyer says. “Today, at the foundation. A neo-Nazi came into the office.”
“Oh my God,” says Irene. “Is everyone all right?”
“Nothing happened, darling. Relax. He wants to work with us. He claims to have had some kind of vision. So he’s come to Brotherhood Watch to—”
“Oh,” says Irene. “You mean like that skinhead in California? I saw him on that Chandler show. Now he’s become a big shot with the Wiesenthal Foundation.”
Meyer remembers Vincent saying something about a TV show. Meyer chose to ignore it. Again he feels vaguely like he felt when the flashbulbs popped for Wiesel. That something like this has happened before diminishes his own satisfaction, his sense of being special. Good God, how small is that? The ideal would be for every skinhead to work for tolerance and brotherhood. To convert the entire white supremacist world.
“Who knows what the truth is? Or if the guy knows his own mind. He wants us to believe that he’s already changed. That all of that is behind him. But I think he’s on the edge. He could go either way. That’s what interests me. So I thought we’d sign him on as…something like an intern. Bonnie Kalen offered to let him stay at her house—”
“Meyer,” says Irene. “Excuse me. I must have heard you wrong. You let poor Bonnie Kalen, who’s hanging on by her fingernails, if she has any fingernails she hasn’t bitten, you let that poor woman take in some…thug.”
“I didn’t make Bonnie do it. Bonnie volunteered.” Is he taking advantage of Bonnie? More telescopic philanthropy. He’ll call Bonnie later and see if everything is all right.
“How could you even let him into your office?”
“That’s what Sol asked,” says Meyer.
“Someone should have searched the guy. He could have had a gun! You need to hire a bodyguard, Meyer. I’ve been telling you that for years. But what good would a bodyguard do if you invite these criminals—”
“ Bonnie invited him,” Meyer says.
“Oh, that poor woman,” says Irene. “How do you know the guy isn’t dangerous? He might be a serial killer, he—”
“Because I’m sure, is why.” Everyone knows that Meyer is a genius at judging character. So why doesn’t Irene believe that? No man is a hero to his valet. And now that there are no more valets, it’s become a code word for wife.
Only a woman would think first about what this means for Bonnie. It’s one of the reasons Meyer needs Irene, to keep his compassion sharp, to keep him focused on the Jellyby children as well as the African babies. But women also need men to tell them which men are dangerous, to reassure them that a guy like Vincent Nolan is harmless. How does Meyer know? He knows. Irene couldn’t do what he did today. Nor would Irene, for all her intuition, know that Bonnie wanted to be asked to take Vincent in.
O NLY NOW THAT HE’S LIFTING THE JUNK off the bed where Bonnie said he could sleep can Nolan afford to ask himself: How messed up has he been? Now that the previous stage in his life is over, or practically over, or temporarily—and temporarily is the operative word—over, only now can he face the fact that he’s been basically homeless. Sleeping on Raymond’s living room couch is not what you’d call a life. Nolan could never decide for himself when to hit the sack. Nights, while Raymond and his friends watched TV, Nolan had to wait until some show that wasn’t about Nazis came on the all-Hitler Channel, or until Raymond got bored or too drunk and called it a night, or until Lucy stomped in.
He’d never said it was a life. The word he’d thought then was transition. He’d had a life. A job, a girlfriend, a home. And the next
“Something else,” Meyer says. “Today, at the foundation. A neo-Nazi came into the office.”
“Oh my God,” says Irene. “Is everyone all right?”
“Nothing happened, darling. Relax. He wants to work with us. He claims to have had some kind of vision. So he’s come to Brotherhood Watch to—”
“Oh,” says Irene. “You mean like that skinhead in California? I saw him on that Chandler show. Now he’s become a big shot with the Wiesenthal Foundation.”
Meyer remembers Vincent saying something about a TV show. Meyer chose to ignore it. Again he feels vaguely like he felt when the flashbulbs popped for Wiesel. That something like this has happened before diminishes his own satisfaction, his sense of being special. Good God, how small is that? The ideal would be for every skinhead to work for tolerance and brotherhood. To convert the entire white supremacist world.
“Who knows what the truth is? Or if the guy knows his own mind. He wants us to believe that he’s already changed. That all of that is behind him. But I think he’s on the edge. He could go either way. That’s what interests me. So I thought we’d sign him on as…something like an intern. Bonnie Kalen offered to let him stay at her house—”
“Meyer,” says Irene. “Excuse me. I must have heard you wrong. You let poor Bonnie Kalen, who’s hanging on by her fingernails, if she has any fingernails she hasn’t bitten, you let that poor woman take in some…thug.”
“I didn’t make Bonnie do it. Bonnie volunteered.” Is he taking advantage of Bonnie? More telescopic philanthropy. He’ll call Bonnie later and see if everything is all right.
“How could you even let him into your office?”
“That’s what Sol asked,” says Meyer.
“Someone should have searched the guy. He could have had a gun! You need to hire a bodyguard, Meyer. I’ve been telling you that for years. But what good would a bodyguard do if you invite these criminals—”
“ Bonnie invited him,” Meyer says.
“Oh, that poor woman,” says Irene. “How do you know the guy isn’t dangerous? He might be a serial killer, he—”
“Because I’m sure, is why.” Everyone knows that Meyer is a genius at judging character. So why doesn’t Irene believe that? No man is a hero to his valet. And now that there are no more valets, it’s become a code word for wife.
Only a woman would think first about what this means for Bonnie. It’s one of the reasons Meyer needs Irene, to keep his compassion sharp, to keep him focused on the Jellyby children as well as the African babies. But women also need men to tell them which men are dangerous, to reassure them that a guy like Vincent Nolan is harmless. How does Meyer know? He knows. Irene couldn’t do what he did today. Nor would Irene, for all her intuition, know that Bonnie wanted to be asked to take Vincent in.
O NLY NOW THAT HE’S LIFTING THE JUNK off the bed where Bonnie said he could sleep can Nolan afford to ask himself: How messed up has he been? Now that the previous stage in his life is over, or practically over, or temporarily—and temporarily is the operative word—over, only now can he face the fact that he’s been basically homeless. Sleeping on Raymond’s living room couch is not what you’d call a life. Nolan could never decide for himself when to hit the sack. Nights, while Raymond and his friends watched TV, Nolan had to wait until some show that wasn’t about Nazis came on the all-Hitler Channel, or until Raymond got bored or too drunk and called it a night, or until Lucy stomped in.
He’d never said it was a life. The word he’d thought then was transition. He’d had a life. A job, a girlfriend, a home. And the next
Similar Books
