exactly . . ."
Daphne shook her head.
"They left it on the squash courts."
I don't know why, but that's when I lost it. I laughed so hard Inearly cried. It was like all the stress of the last two months came rushing out.
I felt the thaw come over our small group. It was almost like we were back at Nigel's dinner party, before everything went to hell with trials and mysterious clubs that can't be mentioned for some pretentious reason.
"This is what matters," I said finally. "Right here. Friendship. At the end of the day, none of the other stuff matters."
Everybody agreed, but nobody looked totally sure.
John and Nigel stumbled toward their homes. Daphne and I hung back. I didn't know what to say next. Somehow "Your place or mine?" seemed wrong.
"I guess I might see you tomorrow night," I said. Tomorrow was the eleventh, the night of the second event, according to the cryptic invitation on my bed.
Daphne smiled. "Maybe. Who knows what they have in store for us?" She rubbed my arm. "You were great today. I knew I was right to choose you."
"You were great too."
I felt a thrill in my stomach.
She made a big production of yawning and stretching. "Wow, I can't keep my eyes open." She leaned in and gave me a brief hug. Then she said good night and walked off, leaving me as confused and deflated as a star witness on the stand, freshly shredded and dismissed.
The next morning I checked my bank account. About a thousand dollars left to get me to the end of the semester and my next loan check. I withdrew eight hundred and bought a new suit.
14
November 11 marked day two of the Indian summer that arrived with the trial. I could almost forget the bitterness of October; the days were now bright and cheerful, warm in the sun, crisp in the shade. I got a haircut and asked for it short. I usually let my hair dry wavy. Today I parted it on the left and combed it straight. I put on my new suit. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself.
Tonight's invitation had even less information than the first. Just a date and time. No address. No instructions.
The only option, I decided, was to return to 2312 Morland Street. I would get there early, in case I was wrong and had to improvise.
On the way, I wondered who I would see tonight. Would I encounter the elegant Mr. Bones again? Would he show me new items in his crazy-man collection?
Would I see the old man with the red toupee, the retired lawyer who asked all about my grandfather? The one who wondered if I wanted it bad enough? He wouldn't have to ask that tonight.
The gingerbread house on Morland Street looked the same. I rang the doorbell. A young woman dressed like a soccer mom pulled aside the curtain and looked at me through the window. Two kids chased a ball behind her.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Jeremy Davis. I'm looking for"--I didn't even know his name--"the gentleman who lives here."
"I'm sorry,
who
are you looking for?"
"The man who lives here? He's about my height? Gray hair?"
"There's no one like that here." She picked up one of the kids who was pulling at her pants. She looked at my suit, sized me up. She closed the curtain and opened the door.
"We moved in two weeks ago. Maybe you're looking for the people who lived here before?"
"You moved in two weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Pretty sure."
I tried to think.
"Did they leave a forwarding address?"
"No. I never met them. I'm sorry I can't be more help."
She started to close the door.
"Are you sure I'm not supposed to be here?"
She looked me over.
"Sorry, sweetie. I don't know what to tell you."
"Thanks anyway."
"All right. Drive safe."
It was an odd thing for her to say, considering I walked here. But when I turned around to leave, I saw a car idling across the street. It was a nice car--I'm no good with names, but I was pretty sure it was a Bentley. The windows were tinted. A driver stood by the rear passenger door. He was straight out of another era--long coat, black
Daphne shook her head.
"They left it on the squash courts."
I don't know why, but that's when I lost it. I laughed so hard Inearly cried. It was like all the stress of the last two months came rushing out.
I felt the thaw come over our small group. It was almost like we were back at Nigel's dinner party, before everything went to hell with trials and mysterious clubs that can't be mentioned for some pretentious reason.
"This is what matters," I said finally. "Right here. Friendship. At the end of the day, none of the other stuff matters."
Everybody agreed, but nobody looked totally sure.
John and Nigel stumbled toward their homes. Daphne and I hung back. I didn't know what to say next. Somehow "Your place or mine?" seemed wrong.
"I guess I might see you tomorrow night," I said. Tomorrow was the eleventh, the night of the second event, according to the cryptic invitation on my bed.
Daphne smiled. "Maybe. Who knows what they have in store for us?" She rubbed my arm. "You were great today. I knew I was right to choose you."
"You were great too."
I felt a thrill in my stomach.
She made a big production of yawning and stretching. "Wow, I can't keep my eyes open." She leaned in and gave me a brief hug. Then she said good night and walked off, leaving me as confused and deflated as a star witness on the stand, freshly shredded and dismissed.
The next morning I checked my bank account. About a thousand dollars left to get me to the end of the semester and my next loan check. I withdrew eight hundred and bought a new suit.
14
November 11 marked day two of the Indian summer that arrived with the trial. I could almost forget the bitterness of October; the days were now bright and cheerful, warm in the sun, crisp in the shade. I got a haircut and asked for it short. I usually let my hair dry wavy. Today I parted it on the left and combed it straight. I put on my new suit. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself.
Tonight's invitation had even less information than the first. Just a date and time. No address. No instructions.
The only option, I decided, was to return to 2312 Morland Street. I would get there early, in case I was wrong and had to improvise.
On the way, I wondered who I would see tonight. Would I encounter the elegant Mr. Bones again? Would he show me new items in his crazy-man collection?
Would I see the old man with the red toupee, the retired lawyer who asked all about my grandfather? The one who wondered if I wanted it bad enough? He wouldn't have to ask that tonight.
The gingerbread house on Morland Street looked the same. I rang the doorbell. A young woman dressed like a soccer mom pulled aside the curtain and looked at me through the window. Two kids chased a ball behind her.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Jeremy Davis. I'm looking for"--I didn't even know his name--"the gentleman who lives here."
"I'm sorry,
who
are you looking for?"
"The man who lives here? He's about my height? Gray hair?"
"There's no one like that here." She picked up one of the kids who was pulling at her pants. She looked at my suit, sized me up. She closed the curtain and opened the door.
"We moved in two weeks ago. Maybe you're looking for the people who lived here before?"
"You moved in two weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Pretty sure."
I tried to think.
"Did they leave a forwarding address?"
"No. I never met them. I'm sorry I can't be more help."
She started to close the door.
"Are you sure I'm not supposed to be here?"
She looked me over.
"Sorry, sweetie. I don't know what to tell you."
"Thanks anyway."
"All right. Drive safe."
It was an odd thing for her to say, considering I walked here. But when I turned around to leave, I saw a car idling across the street. It was a nice car--I'm no good with names, but I was pretty sure it was a Bentley. The windows were tinted. A driver stood by the rear passenger door. He was straight out of another era--long coat, black
Similar Books
