talk about? You’re supposed to be sleeping. ”
It took her a moment to notice Anders standing on the other side of the door.
“Oh,” she said and looked at her watch. “I thought visiting hours were over.”
“He brought me a book,” said Charlie.
Sophie looked at Anders. “Well, that was sweet,” she said, taking her seat beside Charlie’s bed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Toward the end of Anders’s marriage, when things had gotten really bad, Sophie Ashby had written him a letter. It came on her stationery, a nice heavy stock, and in it she told him, with a bluntness that was incongruous with the light loops of her handwriting, that he was losing his wife. She said that she was sorry he was so unhappy, she really was, and that she hoped he’d find a way through it—they all did—but if he couldn’t figure out how to buck up (her phrase) and do what was right for his family, it was clear to her he had no idea how to be a man.
Despite the fact that it felt like a ransom note written on a thank-you card, Anders slipped it inside a book he was reading about emerging markets, and soon it had become his bookmark, worn and yellowed, her caustic words peeking out from whatever volume was resting on his bedside table. He carried it with him nearly everywhere he went. It fit nicely in the outside pocket of his laptop case or the inside pocket of his houndstooth blazer, a stiff rectangle in the jacket lining whose corners he absently flicked while he was concentrating deeply on something, like said book on emerging markets, and the distracting blabber of the rest of the world raged on around him.
“He likes my graphic novel.”
“Everyone likes your graphic novel,” said Sophie.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s about a dog.”
Charlie shook his head. “It’s not about a dog.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know what it is if you don’t let me see it?”
“It’s about a stray dog who is launched into space for reasons she could never understand. It’s about being exploited by the people who are supposed to protect you.”
“That sounds sad.”
“It is sad. It’s very sad. It’s goddamn heartbreaking.”
“The Meadows isn’t outer space, honey.”
“It’s worse. It’s Arizona.”
“I’m finished having this conversation.”
Charlie looked back at Anders. “You see what I’m dealing with here?”
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said to Anders. “Clearly he needs to rest.”
“He came here ’cause he’s looking for his wife.”
Sophie’s face came back to Anders. “Oh,” she said, and for the first time it seemed to make sense to her what he was doing there. “She’s at home.”
“She’s decorating,” said Charlie. “The house. With her enormous boyfriend.”
“Charlie.”
“What? He is.” He looked at Anders. “He’s big.”
Anders nodded. “Thanks.”
“He lives there now. A lot of conversations about that. About whether things are moving too fast.”
“Charlie, you’ve made your point,” said Sophie. She seemed exhausted.
“But I guess he’s loaded, so…” He didn’t bother to finish the thought.
“He’s not loaded,” said Anders, and a strange pause settled over them. “He’s not. I’ve known the guy a long time.” Sophie’s eyes were fixed on the far wall. For once, both Charlie and Sophie were quiet. “Well, I should go.”
“Anders,” she said as he was leaving. “She’ll call you back when she’s ready.”
Outside, the sun was gone and the streetlamps were on. The cars on I-95 had come to a standstill. He made it into the recesses of the parking lot before he realized he was still holding Charlie’s sketchbook. Under the lights in his car, the drawings were impressive, beautiful little silver things that depicted a world of stark light, one in which people did as they were told and there wasn’t room for feelings outside the party line. Khrushchev made an appearance, a portly fellow looking not
It took her a moment to notice Anders standing on the other side of the door.
“Oh,” she said and looked at her watch. “I thought visiting hours were over.”
“He brought me a book,” said Charlie.
Sophie looked at Anders. “Well, that was sweet,” she said, taking her seat beside Charlie’s bed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Toward the end of Anders’s marriage, when things had gotten really bad, Sophie Ashby had written him a letter. It came on her stationery, a nice heavy stock, and in it she told him, with a bluntness that was incongruous with the light loops of her handwriting, that he was losing his wife. She said that she was sorry he was so unhappy, she really was, and that she hoped he’d find a way through it—they all did—but if he couldn’t figure out how to buck up (her phrase) and do what was right for his family, it was clear to her he had no idea how to be a man.
Despite the fact that it felt like a ransom note written on a thank-you card, Anders slipped it inside a book he was reading about emerging markets, and soon it had become his bookmark, worn and yellowed, her caustic words peeking out from whatever volume was resting on his bedside table. He carried it with him nearly everywhere he went. It fit nicely in the outside pocket of his laptop case or the inside pocket of his houndstooth blazer, a stiff rectangle in the jacket lining whose corners he absently flicked while he was concentrating deeply on something, like said book on emerging markets, and the distracting blabber of the rest of the world raged on around him.
“He likes my graphic novel.”
“Everyone likes your graphic novel,” said Sophie.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s about a dog.”
Charlie shook his head. “It’s not about a dog.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know what it is if you don’t let me see it?”
“It’s about a stray dog who is launched into space for reasons she could never understand. It’s about being exploited by the people who are supposed to protect you.”
“That sounds sad.”
“It is sad. It’s very sad. It’s goddamn heartbreaking.”
“The Meadows isn’t outer space, honey.”
“It’s worse. It’s Arizona.”
“I’m finished having this conversation.”
Charlie looked back at Anders. “You see what I’m dealing with here?”
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said to Anders. “Clearly he needs to rest.”
“He came here ’cause he’s looking for his wife.”
Sophie’s face came back to Anders. “Oh,” she said, and for the first time it seemed to make sense to her what he was doing there. “She’s at home.”
“She’s decorating,” said Charlie. “The house. With her enormous boyfriend.”
“Charlie.”
“What? He is.” He looked at Anders. “He’s big.”
Anders nodded. “Thanks.”
“He lives there now. A lot of conversations about that. About whether things are moving too fast.”
“Charlie, you’ve made your point,” said Sophie. She seemed exhausted.
“But I guess he’s loaded, so…” He didn’t bother to finish the thought.
“He’s not loaded,” said Anders, and a strange pause settled over them. “He’s not. I’ve known the guy a long time.” Sophie’s eyes were fixed on the far wall. For once, both Charlie and Sophie were quiet. “Well, I should go.”
“Anders,” she said as he was leaving. “She’ll call you back when she’s ready.”
Outside, the sun was gone and the streetlamps were on. The cars on I-95 had come to a standstill. He made it into the recesses of the parking lot before he realized he was still holding Charlie’s sketchbook. Under the lights in his car, the drawings were impressive, beautiful little silver things that depicted a world of stark light, one in which people did as they were told and there wasn’t room for feelings outside the party line. Khrushchev made an appearance, a portly fellow looking not
Similar Books
