shouldn’t have come. But there was something about Ray Malcolm’s voice that comforted him, and it seemed he had nothing anymore to lose.
Right now Lana was perhaps driving on the highway, making her way around an exit ramp. Getting on or off, switching directions, listening to the radio and singing to herself. Anna was probably asleep. Frank was breathing in the dark. There was a certain comfort to the idea that all these things were happening at once.
SAMSON WAS STARING out the window at the half-empty swimming pool when Ray knocked at eight. He had always wanted a pool, and when he was six he’d gotten the idea of digging one in the backyard.
I’m digging a pool,
he told his mother. She looked up from her magazine, her face shaded by a straw hat.
Wonderful,
she’d said.
I’ll change into my suit.
“Take your time,” Ray said.
In daylight the house looked older, shabbier than it had the night before. The white paint was peeling and water-stained on the outside.
“I built it in 1970. It was very modern at the time,” Ray explained, carrying a pot of herbal tea and a bowl of fruit. Samson followed him out onto the slate patio. There was a table and a few lawn chairs, the kind with plastic straps that leave leg welts.
“I hired a well-known architect, mostly forgotten now. The houseappeared in magazines, et cetera. My wife had to fight him over everything. He wanted to suspend the children’s bedrooms from ropes. They would come down by a system of pulleys. A two-year-old and four-year-old, like Tarzans.”
A lawn mower hummed in the distance.
“I’d bought the property four, five years before and we’d been living in the ranch house that came on it. The house of a television sitcom. The plan was to demolish it and build this as soon as we had the money, so we didn’t allow ourselves to get too comfortable. Funny, though, when we moved into the new house, the feeling stayed. We lived here like honeymooners.”
Samson realized what all along the house had reminded him of. Ray had knocked down the house of a television sitcom and built a movie set in its place.
“It’s beautiful, it really is. But it doesn’t seem very comfortable for a family.”
“True.” Ray leaned back in his chair, a man who had built a house—an empire—and this allowed him the magnanimity to admit his mistakes. “I ought to sell it, I’m hardly here. But at least when I get back it’s waiting. This is where my children grew up. There are memories.”
“Seems like maybe it’s a burden to keep.”
Ray bobbed the tea bag around and fished it out of the pot. He looked up at Samson. “The memories or the house?”
“Both.”
“It’s unforgiving. You have to move through it at right angles. But I feel a great deal of warmth for this house. Like a woman you loved who spurned you for years, to whom you feel a certain gratitude because you realize she gave shape to your life.”
Samson looked out at the view. He wondered if there had been another woman, before Anna, someone he had loved who had refused him. If so, her mark had been lost along with everything else. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun.
“Your research, it’s in the desert?”
“Right. In Nevada.”
“What’s there?”
“Nothing—some scrub, squat buildings: brothels, casinos, and military bases. Cheap and no neighbors.”
And now he could almost believe that he really was in a movie, a character as cool and composed as Bogart, shocked by nothing. “Should I not ask questions? I guess what you do is legal.”
Ray laughed. “Very.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you seem very reputable.” Samson looked away, embarrassed. He had wanted to play Ray’s equal, for the doctor to feel that nothing was beyond him. Instead he had come out sounding naïve. “You seem like a good man, Ray. No neighbors, you were saying.”
“Thank you, yes. We have a lab out there, a pretty substantial facility dedicated to a single
Right now Lana was perhaps driving on the highway, making her way around an exit ramp. Getting on or off, switching directions, listening to the radio and singing to herself. Anna was probably asleep. Frank was breathing in the dark. There was a certain comfort to the idea that all these things were happening at once.
SAMSON WAS STARING out the window at the half-empty swimming pool when Ray knocked at eight. He had always wanted a pool, and when he was six he’d gotten the idea of digging one in the backyard.
I’m digging a pool,
he told his mother. She looked up from her magazine, her face shaded by a straw hat.
Wonderful,
she’d said.
I’ll change into my suit.
“Take your time,” Ray said.
In daylight the house looked older, shabbier than it had the night before. The white paint was peeling and water-stained on the outside.
“I built it in 1970. It was very modern at the time,” Ray explained, carrying a pot of herbal tea and a bowl of fruit. Samson followed him out onto the slate patio. There was a table and a few lawn chairs, the kind with plastic straps that leave leg welts.
“I hired a well-known architect, mostly forgotten now. The houseappeared in magazines, et cetera. My wife had to fight him over everything. He wanted to suspend the children’s bedrooms from ropes. They would come down by a system of pulleys. A two-year-old and four-year-old, like Tarzans.”
A lawn mower hummed in the distance.
“I’d bought the property four, five years before and we’d been living in the ranch house that came on it. The house of a television sitcom. The plan was to demolish it and build this as soon as we had the money, so we didn’t allow ourselves to get too comfortable. Funny, though, when we moved into the new house, the feeling stayed. We lived here like honeymooners.”
Samson realized what all along the house had reminded him of. Ray had knocked down the house of a television sitcom and built a movie set in its place.
“It’s beautiful, it really is. But it doesn’t seem very comfortable for a family.”
“True.” Ray leaned back in his chair, a man who had built a house—an empire—and this allowed him the magnanimity to admit his mistakes. “I ought to sell it, I’m hardly here. But at least when I get back it’s waiting. This is where my children grew up. There are memories.”
“Seems like maybe it’s a burden to keep.”
Ray bobbed the tea bag around and fished it out of the pot. He looked up at Samson. “The memories or the house?”
“Both.”
“It’s unforgiving. You have to move through it at right angles. But I feel a great deal of warmth for this house. Like a woman you loved who spurned you for years, to whom you feel a certain gratitude because you realize she gave shape to your life.”
Samson looked out at the view. He wondered if there had been another woman, before Anna, someone he had loved who had refused him. If so, her mark had been lost along with everything else. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun.
“Your research, it’s in the desert?”
“Right. In Nevada.”
“What’s there?”
“Nothing—some scrub, squat buildings: brothels, casinos, and military bases. Cheap and no neighbors.”
And now he could almost believe that he really was in a movie, a character as cool and composed as Bogart, shocked by nothing. “Should I not ask questions? I guess what you do is legal.”
Ray laughed. “Very.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you seem very reputable.” Samson looked away, embarrassed. He had wanted to play Ray’s equal, for the doctor to feel that nothing was beyond him. Instead he had come out sounding naïve. “You seem like a good man, Ray. No neighbors, you were saying.”
“Thank you, yes. We have a lab out there, a pretty substantial facility dedicated to a single
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