A Changed Man (42 page)

That’s where Meyer has gone wrong. He’s strayed too far from the heart of his work.

The idea that lodges itself in his mind is so seductive that he hears himself groan aloud.

“Meyer, are you all right?” asks Roberta.

“I’m fine,” Meyer says.

Whether he really is fine will depend on what he does about this seductive idea. Whether he has the nerve and resolve to act on what he is thinking. What good is the moral bungee jump if someone else jumps for you?

He’s not too old to get on a plane. He can find his way to the prison. Hang around, make a pest of himself. Maybe take some reporters with him. Or go alone, pester the warden, convince him the whole world is watching.

Irene will have to deal with it. Give her dinners without him. Maybe things will change for the better. Maybe she’ll gain some new respect for the man she married. But Meyer’s not doing this for Irene. He’s not doing it for himself. He’s doing it for the prisoners. All right. He’s doing it for himself.

But what a thing to do for yourself! It’s not what Elliot would do to make
him
self feel better. Elliot would go for the new Lexus. The beach house in Amagansett. Only Meyer—and maybe a few like-minded individuals—would choose this particular path, would elect of their own free will to spend what funds and resources and time they have left on a trip to a Turkish jail.

Meyer wants it. He wants it all. He wants the airport waits, the rude desk clerks, he wants to fly coach, to fight for space, he wants the hours of riding with his knees up to his chin, the bad food, the bumpy landing, he wants the sudden stab of anxiety on the third-world tarmac, he wants to be the Jewish stranger in the Muslim airport, searching for the exit, the lost luggage, he wants the suspicious immigration officials. Whose suspicions will be justified, considering where Meyer will be headed.

That is
exactly
what Meyer wants. He wants to get lost on the way to the jail, he wants the heat, the dank smell of the prison, the screams, the creeping doubts about how much he can trust his translator, the loneliness, the homesickness, he wants the sick terror that wakes him in the middle of the night, alone in some frightful hotel room.

He wants to leave this conference table, this office, this life, he wants to be brought face-to-face with the reality of what he is doing, of what he
can
do. He wants to buy the ticket himself. Will it free the Kurds any sooner than the phone calls and dinners? Maybe, maybe not. Meyer wants to find out. Is this some old man’s fantasy? Many old men have had worse.

Meyer’s determination grows as the meeting draws to a close, and it strikes him again that this conversation was about nothing. No lawsuits have been brought. No damages have been filed. Elliot just thought they all should get together and talk about what
might
go wrong.

A waste of time. But nothing’s a waste. Look for the hidden blessing. Miracles always happen when you least expect them. This pointless meeting with Elliot Green has shown Meyer the light.

A
MERCIFUL SWIPE OF AMNESIA GIVES
Bonnie a moment of
respite until she wakes up and remembers: Graduation day! The advice to take things one step at a time was invented for mornings like this. All Bonnie has to do is get out of bed and shower and get dressed and try not to panic about what she is going to say, about the fact that she has nothing to say, and about how much easier this would be if only Vincent were here.

Bonnie likes to think in the shower. Today, beneath the hot water, she should be writing the speech in her head. But instead, she keeps dropping the soap and bumping into the shower stall. Bonnie’s talked to groups before. But never at Danny’s high school, with her son in the audience, and never with the painful knowledge that this is something she was supposed to do with Vincent.

Standing in front of the disorderly closet that she will never in her life have the time or energy to straighten, Bonnie tries to decide which of her basically identical suits to wear. Everything has to match and be presentable and sufficiently stylish without calling the slightest attention to itself, or to her. She settles on the tan suit that always felt lucky. Except that, Bonnie remembers now, it was what she was wearing that first day Vincent showed up at the office. Not long after that, she’d decided that it was unflattering and retired it completely. Unflattering? What does that mean? And what does that matter now?

Bonnie stares in the mirror, struggling to see the woman in the tan suit as the same person who came out to reception that day to see why Anita Shu kept ringing her line. What would she have done differently if she had known that whatever she did that afternoon would lead to what she is suffering now? She would have done exactly the same. It was entirely worth it. She needs to stop thinking about herself and concentrate on what Vincent did for the foundation. He nearly gave up his life for them. What more could Bonnie ask?

She shouldn’t have taken her glasses off. That was excessive, and foolish. Still, Bonnie knows that whatever she did, or didn’t do, paled beside what happened on
Chandler
between Vincent and his cousin. How sad that this should seem like a relief, and a consolation. But none of that matters now. The only thing that counts is saying something halfway intelligible and getting off the stage without ruining Danny’s life.

In return for the promise of a few extra minutes of sleep, Danny and Max have agreed to let Bonnie drive them to school. She should be satisfied with that and not hope for the impossible—the chance that, on the way there, they will have a conversation. How enjoyable it would be to chat like three old friends, to talk the way they used to in those lost, idyllic days when the motion of the car seemed to shake something loose, and the boys would open up and tell her what was in their hearts. It was always in the car that the Big Subjects—life and death, the afterlife, God—came up. How cruel that she cannot remember even one thing they said. They never did have that Big Conversation about Vincent’s fight with Raymond. It was almost as if what they saw on TV was what actually happened. But this is probably not the ideal morning for that. Bonnie needs to conserve her energy for the speech.

When Danny appears in the kitchen, Bonnie decides not to mention the fact that he hasn’t combed his hair. It’s not his graduation. That’s not for another year. A year is nothing.
Nothing.
Other families have started thinking about college, but Bonnie’s still not ready to face the prospect of Danny leaving. She cannot imagine daily life, rocky as it is, without him. Once someone told her that there is a word in Chinese that means the kind of pain you can produce by probing a sore tooth with your tongue. Bonnie uses a stab of that tongue-in-sore-tooth pain—her grief over Danny’s departure—to distract her from the more imminent ordeal before her.

Last night, Danny asked her about her speech in a tone that implied that nothing she could say could be anything but appalling. She’d told him she was planning a brief, straightforward description of what the foundation does. The facts, an outline, her job description. That seemed acceptable.

“Don’t bring up those kids that got busted last summer at the conference in Maine, okay? And no preaching. No inspirational bullshit. No advice for the future.”

“Fine, no advice.” That was easy enough. Given Bonnie’s present state, what advice could she give? If they wanted a sermon, she’d thought disloyally, they should have asked Meyer. But Meyer doesn’t have a son in the school. He’s immune to blackmail. Or at least to the kind that makes you agree to do anything for anyone who promises to make your child’s life a little less gruesome.

At the same time Bonnie can’t help thinking that, regardless of what Danny wants, she should take advantage of this opportunity to tell these young people something useful. Useful? What would that be? Love one another. Be good. Be kind. Danny would never talk to her as long as they live.

Probably this was how Vincent felt before he spoke at the benefit dinner. And he did a spectacular job.
And
he was practically dying. Vincent isn’t just a guy who beat up his cousin and split. Vincent is a beacon of light to guide her through these rocky straits.

“Good morning, honey,” Bonnie says.

Danny grunts but doesn’t speak.

By now Max has come downstairs, grasped the whole situation, and gotten himself a bowl of cereal. His older brother glares at him for committing the kiss-ass crime of putting the milk back in the refrigerator.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Max says.

“I’ve got shotgun,” Danny says.

“Sure,” Max says. “It’s all yours.”

Danny goes to get his backpack. Or that’s what Bonnie hopes he’s doing.

“I can’t be late, you know that!” she calls weakly in his direction. And then because there’s nothing else to be done, she goes out to the car, where Max is waiting in the backseat.

Bonnie watches the minutes flip by. Should she call the school and say she might be late? It’s graduation. You can never reach anyone on a
regular
school day.

Just when she’s sure that her head is about to explode, Danny opens the passenger door and flings himself in, as far from her as he can sit and still be in the same car.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”

Bonnie says, “You’re kidding.”

Pulling out of the driveway, she can tell that Danny has something to say.

“What is it?” The usual signal for Danny to say, “Nothing.”

But now he says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask me anything.” Odds are it’s a question Bonnie doesn’t want to be asked. How come you chased Vincent away? How come you chased Dad away? What are you saying in your speech?

Danny says, “Do you think that Vincent is coming back?”

“Good question.” But before Bonnie can answer, she has to start breathing again. “I don’t know. I can’t believe he’s gone for good.”

Bonnie feels Danny’s disappointment. She wishes she could be more reassuring. But since when is
she
the expert on Vincent’s future plans? Obviously, and in more ways than she wants Danny to know, she’s already proved how good she is at misreading Vincent completely.

“Want to hear something strange?” asks Bonnie.

“What?” Plainly, Danny couldn’t be less interested in hearing something strange.

“I keep thinking about that dog that you kids and your dad got at the mall. About those nights after it ran away, when I’d listen for it to come home.”

Lately, Danny’s acted as if any mention of his childhood is a weapon Bonnie’s using against him. Trying to infantilize him, or, alternately, kill him with boredom. But now he turns to her and says, with genuine astonishment, “That is so fucking
awesom
e
!
”

“Language!” says Bonnie. “What’s awesome?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.
Dee dee dee dee…”
Danny hums the theme from
The Twilight Zone.

How young and innocent Danny still is, to see every coincidence as a supernatural occurrence. First kids believe in Santa Claus, then in the paranormal. When did Bonnie quit believing? Bonnie is still a believer. She believes in Meyer. She believes in the foundation and its goals. She believes that just
wanting
to do good means, in and of itself, that you are diminishing the quantity of evil in the world. She believes that Vincent became a better person when he lived with her and her children and worked for Brotherhood Watch.

“You know,” she says, “when you were little, you read my mind all the time. I’d be driving you somewhere in the car, and I’d think something—and, out of nowhere, you’d say it.”

It happened. Bonnie knows it did. The fact that she remembers means that time is not lost. Those years existed and still exist. Their lives coincided and overlapped. This person began life inside her. No one else could be closer. Bonnie concentrates on the road, partly so they won’t get killed, and partly so as not to burden Danny with the gummy intensity of her emotions.

“How old was I?” asks Danny.

“Seven, eight. Maybe older.”

“
What
did I mind-read?” asks Danny. “What kind of stuff did I pick up on?”

Bonnie thinks for a long time. “Gosh, you know, I can’t remember.”

“Great,” says Danny.

“You know what I
do
remember? How guilty I felt about the dog, because I’d been annoyed at your dad for buying this obviously deranged puppy from the mall. As if the whole point was to annoy me. And then when it ran away, and I saw how sad you were…”

“Dad
liked
to annoy you,” Danny says.

“Did he?” says Bonnie. “Really?” Why did she think she was paranoid for suspecting what even a child could see?

Max says, “I remember that dog.”

“How could you? You were hardly born,” says Danny.

“I was too born,” says Max. “Moron.”

“Shut up,” Danny says.

“Was I or was I not born yet?” Max says.

“Of course you were born,” says Bonnie.

“
I’ve
been thinking about that dog,” Max says.

Danny says, “That is
strange.
”

“Why?” says Bonnie. “We’re a family. We went through stuff together. We
should
be thinking the same things.”

Not even Max wants to be thinking the same things as his mother.

“All right,” Bonnie says. “Look. The dog is the last thing that ran away. Till now. First the dog and now Vincent.”

Their father doesn’t count. They knew in advance he was leaving, though it was like any slow death, shocking when at last it occurred.

“But you know,” says Bonnie, “I’m not sure it’s fair to connect Vincent with a dog raised in such a way that it couldn’t interact with humans.” Bonnie doesn’t want them knowing that she lies awake listening for Vincent’s return. The question she wants to ask her sons is: Do
they
think he’ll come back?

“You can drop us off here,” Danny says.

“We’re two blocks from the school,” Bonnie says.

“That’s okay,” says Danny. “You can drop us here. We can walk.”

Both boys jump out of the car.

“See you later. Love you,” she says.

“See you,” says Danny.

“Good luck,” says Max.

“Retards say good luck,” Danny says.

“What
do
you say?” Max asks him.

“Break a leg,” says Danny.

“So break a leg,” Max tells Bonnie.

“I hope not,” Bonnie says.

“Don’t tell her that,” Danny instructs Max. “Now she’ll worry that she’s going to break a leg.” And then, miracle of miracles, Danny smiles at Bonnie.

Bonnie smiles back. “Love you,” she says.

“Love you, too,” says Max.

“Go ahead, Mom,” says Danny. “It’s okay. You can get there before us.”

Bonnie has a sudden desire to make the kids get back in the car and drive on without stopping. No graduation speeches, no office, no work, no going back to the house. No missing Vincent. Hit the highway, start over. The new American dream. The spirited wacky single mom, taking the kids on the road, the quirky impossible heroine of so many novels and films. But ultimately they would have to stop, and what would they do then? Bonnie’s having Vincent’s fantasy. He’s never coming back.

As Bonnie pulls away from the curb, her eyes fill. She’s been on the edge of tears ever since she woke up. She knows what lies ahead of her. Everyone cries at graduations. The tears per person ratio is probably higher than at weddings, about which there are usually more mixed feelings. Maybe it’s the spectacle of all those young people leaving school without a clue to the future or to the dog-eat-dog world they’re so eager to enter.

Maybe no one will think it’s odd if Bonnie bursts into racking sobs in the middle of her speech. She can blame it on “Pomp and Circumstance.” She can say it’s a Pavlovian thing. The song has made her cry ever since her own sixth-grade graduation. What sensible person wouldn’t cry? Whose crazy idea was it to spin graduation as marking a new beginning? Even in sixth grade she knew that she would never see sixth grade again. She’d been so overcome by grief they’d practically had to carry her out of her grade-school auditorium. The fact that “Pomp and Circumstance” goes straight to her tear ducts in a way that “The Wedding March” never has should have told her something before she got married.

Bonnie’s already miserable, and she hasn’t even parked. Each sorrow piles on another, a layer for Vincent’s absence, another for how she has failed her kids. Another layer for how her life has gone, her broken marriage, how old she’s grown, how much she misses her parents. Layer upon layer, weighing on her heart…No need to “share”
that
with the graduates! It will be traumatic enough for Danny if Bonnie sticks to what they worked out. But how will she get through the part where she apologizes for Vincent’s absence? Something came up. He’s home with the flu. The guy left town for a while.

The truth? Roberta would kill her. They don’t want
that
news getting out. Vincent might still come back, and it’s hardly going to do the foundation a favor if their donors think they’re supporting a program designed around a here-today, gone-tomorrow Changed Man instead of the steady, dependable Changed Man they all admire so much.