Kissing the Beehive (14 page)

In my terror, I kept thinking about all those people downstairs waiting.

People who had come to listen and consider. If they only knew where the featured mouth for the evening was. Then I thought about someone coming up to get me and seeing me half-guillotined in that window . . .

The trapped rat inside took over and I battled until I was able to make it budge an extra few inches. When all of me was back in the room, I looked in a mirror and saw an angry red line down the side of my neck, the window's souvenir. Rubbing it hard, I tried to get some blood flowing there again, but then someone was knocking at the door and it was time to go.

The lecture hall was full -- there must have been three hundred people there. Totally flustered by my war with the window and now all these attentive faces, I raced through the speech. There was a question-and-answer session afterward that I handled a little better. When it was over, what seemed like half the audience came up to get their books autographed. I left my notes on the podium and stood at the front of the stage, signing. It took about an hour.

When I was done, I went back to the podium to pick up the papers.

Another green Post-it was stuck on top of them.

"Hi, Sam! What happened to your neck?"

The package arrived almost simultaneously with Ivan's next report. It was a small orange envelope addressed to me in Veronica's memorable handwriting. Inside was Stephen Mitchell's translation of _The Book of Job_.

Nothing else.

It was the first time I had heard from her in days and I didn't know what to think. Life had been quiet since my return from Rutgers. I spent most of the time working on Pauline's book. Frannie and I spoke on the phone almost every day, but he hadn't been able to turn up anything of importance. The only fingerprints on the videotape were his and mine. The same with the Post-it notes. Because there were so few written words on them, clone in block letters, no graphologist could do an analysis. Frannie's friends with the Los

Angeles police had canvassed Cadmus's neighborhood, but no one had seen a person on the front porch the day we were there.

When I told Frannie about what had happened after my speech, all he could say over and over was "Asshole!" Home seemed the best place to be, and other than a couple of visits from Cassandra and Ivan, I saw no one. Aurelio called once to ask how the book was going. The only thing I could think to say was, "It's movin' along." I wasn't about to tell that loudmouth what had been happening. If McCabe was right, I was relatively safe so long as I continued writing. I assumed Mr. Post-it was aware of what I was doing. But did he peek in the window to keep tabs on me? Sneak into the house when I was out and read what I had written?

I read Veronica's book in one afternoon and was awed by the beauty of the language, Job's
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brilliance at verbalizing his fears and anger in front of the Almighty. But why had she sent it to me? What was she trying to say?

Besides loving the story, I couldn't help thinking she was using it as some kind of Trojan horse to sneak up on me. I wasn't wrong. A few days after it arrived, I received a postcard from her. The only thing written on it was a quote from the text, which I remembered immediately.

_Remember: you formed me from clay . . ._

_Yet this you bid in your heart,_

_this I know was your purpose:_

_to watch me, and if I ever sinned_

_to punish me for the rest of my days._

_You lash me if I am guilty,_

_shame me if I am not._

_You set me free, then trap me,_

_like a cat toying with a mouse._

_Why did you let me be born?_

Did she see herself as Job? And I as _God_? I couldn't even coax my dog off a chair! The thought made me pick up the phone. She wasn't home. I left a message, saying, please call because we have to talk. Nothing. I waited two days and called again. Instead of her voice, she sent another card with another quote:

_Is it right for you to be vicious,_

_to spoil what your own hands made?_

_Are your eyes mere eyes of flesh?_

_Is your vision no keener than a man's_

_Is your mind like a human mind?_

_For you keep pursuing a sin,_

_trying to dig up a crime,_

_though you_ know _that I am innocent_

_and cannot escape your grasp._

Job or no Job, we had to talk. I left another message on her machine, saying I'd be at Hawthorne's bar in the city at a certain time and would she please meet me. All other things aside, I missed her. She had more secrets than the Turkish ambassador, and what little I knew now of her past gave me the willies. Still, I missed her. I sincerely hoped by talking we could find both common ground and reason to connect again.

The day I was to go into the city, Cass and Ivan showed up, both of them looking serious. When I asked what was up, Cass made a sign to Ivan. He handed her some papers and walked back outside.

"Dad, don't get mad, but I asked Ivan to do this." She held out the papers to me.

"What's this?"

"Have a look and then you can ask anything you want. If you want."

Veronica's name was at the top of the papers. Ignoring Cass, I read quickly. I had been chewing gum but my mouth stopped moving halfway down the first page.

"Why did you do this? Where did Ivan get it?"

She cringed, but her voice was defiant. "It's my fault, Dad. I asked him to find out whatever he could. Ivan's a good hacker -- he can get into a lot of places."

"You're not answering my question: Why did you _do_ it, Cassandra? It's none of your
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business."

"I don't care about her, Dad. I care about _you_, I've never, ever messed in your life. But . . ."

Tears came to her eyes. Her face softened and for a moment she looked seven years old. "I don't like her, Dad. The minute I

met her, I thought something was really wrong. Something was really off. You know me. I like most people. I don't care what they do. I don't care what they are. But I just _really_ didn't like her, so I --"

"So you did this? What if I didn't like Ivan and did this to _him_ after the first time we met?

Would you have been angry? Would you have thought I was out of line? It's very wrong, Cass. If you don't like her, fine, we could have talked about it. But this is absolutely wrong."

I walked past her and out to the car. I opened the door and got in.

Before starting it, I looked back at the house. She was standing in the doorway, hands clasped tightly against her sides. I could tell by her expression she was crying. She looked so alone and helpless, but she had gone way over the line this time. Way over. But what her boyfriend had discovered made me feel even more uneasy about my appointment with Veronica.

It is common practice for authors to create characters and then fall in love with them. It makes sense though, because we live so intimately and so long together that it's difficult to keep them at arm's length. Part of the joy of being a writer is creating people and situations we long for but know will probably never happen to us.

When we were on the book tour, Veronica asked which characters were my favorites and why.

Georgia Brandt. Only dear Georgia. I fell in love with her about five pages into her existence and it got worse as time went on. I

created her when I was still young enough to have the hope someone like her existed in the world and one day we would meet.

What is important to know now is what she looked like. Tall and thin, she had very short black hair that she washed every morning in the sink and then never thought about again. Her skin was preternaturally white, eyes large and green. People mistook her for Irish. Her mouth was long and thin, set in a kind of perpetually bemused smile. If she had used makeup she would have been stunning. But her skin was allergic to it -- an important part of the story --

and that didn't bother her a bit.

When I walked into Hawthorne's that day, Georgia Brandt was sitting at the bar. I thought I'd died and gone to literature. I honestly thought, Mother of God, there she is, she really _does_ exist. Even wearing one of the same outfits I'd described in the story: a dark blue sleeveless linen dress and white tennis sneakers. What's more, on the table in front of her was the book

Georgia was always carrying around: _Russian Verbs of Motion for Intermediate Students_. A black-haired wonder in a linen dress, reading that nutty book --

how could a man _not_ love her?

But what do you do when someone you have created on paper is sitting ten feet away? You swallow the toaster that is suddenly in your throat, go over and say, "I think I know you."

Veronica/Georgia patted the seat next to her. "Is that so? Why don't you sit down?"

"Is this your new fall look?"

"Veronica couldn't come, so she sent me instead. I'm her union negotiator."

"This is beyond strange." I asked the bartender for a whiskey.

She turned in her seat so she faced me square on. "Not at all. You're having a drink with your favorite woman. You said so yourself. Tell _her_

what's bothering you. She loves you too, so you can say anything."

"Good. All right. Okay, I've been going out with someone for the last few months. Until recently
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it's been great. I thought I was beginning to know her, but I discovered things about her that make me really uneasy. I don't know what to think anymore. Veronica, were you really in the Malda Vale?"

She nodded casually. "For two years. How did you know?"

"My daughter. She looked you up on the Internet."

She sighed, then gave a very slow shrug. "I _knew_ she didn't like me after we met. It's my fault.

I was so upset that day. That's why she wanted to know more. It's sweet, Sam. She was worried for you." She smiled.

"There, see! I suddenly discover this great woman was a bisexual, acted in porno films, and was in the Malda Vale, the most famous suicidal religious cult of our age!"

Her voice was calm and reasonable. "But is she good to you? Have you been happy together?

What else matters?"

"Come on, it's not that simple. You were in the _Malda Vale_! That group was right up there with the Branch Davidians and Jim Jones! Add it to the other things: What kind of person does these things?"

She reached up and pulled off the black wig. Her blond hair was tightly pinned to her head and it was a while before she had it undone. "What kind of person? After Donald threw me out, I was suicidal. That's when I met Zane and we were together. I wasn't _with_ Zane -- I just needed to be around someone.

She was there, turned out to be a terrible person and life got even worse.

That's when I met some people from the Malda Vale. The truth of the matter is, they saved me.

I'll always be grateful to them for that. I was in the group for two years. That's why I made the film about them afterward -- I wanted people to see they weren't _all_ just a bunch of crazies. I left when things became frightening and dangerous. None of them tried to stop me. They wished me well. That's the whole story.

"I need to believe in things, Sam. Whether it's a person or a group, that's the way I function. I never dreamed that you and I would get this close. I hoped you might be nice and let me make a film about you, but then all this happened. It's unbelievable and I'm devoted to you. But I'm not promiscuous about that devotion. You're the first person I've slept with in three years."

"Three years?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why did you dress up like Georgia?"

"Because besides your daughter, she's your number one. I know a lot of artists. The greatest loves of _all_ their lives are their creations.

Unfortunately most of us don't have that kind of talent, so we have to make do with falling in love with real people."

At Veronica's place later while we were still thrashing things out, her phone rang. She ignored it and the answering machine came on. "My name is

Francis McCabe and I'm looking for Sam Bayer. He gave me this number. If you know where he is, please tell him to call me because it's urgent."

I picked up the phone. "Hi, Frannie."

"Bingo! I've been calling all over for you. Johnny Petangles's mother died and we had to go into his house to get her. Guess what I found there?

Pauline's notebooks from school."

Veronica asked if she could come with me and I was glad for the company.

We got to Crane's View in an hour and drove straight to the police station.

There was no time for the Bayer guided tour, but I pointed out some things along the way.

At the station there was only one cop on duty. With a tired wave he directed us to Frannie's office. That big empty room was even gloomier at night with only two lights battling the
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shadows.

The chief of police was sitting with his feet up on his desk. Club Soda Johnny was facing him and the two of them were laughing. On the bare desk were two white notebooks with SWARTHMORE COLLEGE printed on the covers.

Frannie got up and straightened his tie as soon as he saw Veronica.

After I introduced them, he went to get more chairs.

"Hi, Johnny."

"Hello. I don't know you."

"Well, I used to know you. This is my friend Veronica."

"Hello, Veronica. You have hair like the woman in the Clairol ad."

She smiled and moved to shake his hand. His first reaction was to pull back. Then, like a frightened but interested animal, he slowly put his big one out and they shook.

She spoke to him in a gentle voice. "Sam told me you know all the commercials."

Frannie came back in with two chairs. "Johnny's the King of Commercial.

That's what we wete doing when you came in -- he was doing the old 'Call for Phillllip Mor-ris!' ad. So sit down, join the festivities."

"My mother died. Frannie came to my house."

We nodded and waited for him to go on. "He was nice, but he went into my room and took my books. They're my books, Frannie. They're not yours."

"Take it easy, big guy. I got a friend of mine to come over and talk to Johnny. He's a clinical psychologist over at the state hospital." Frannie sat back in his chair, put his arms over his head and stretched. "Tried every trick he knew, but Johnny isn't so good at remembering. Says Pauline gave him the books."