Next To You (7 page)

‘And I thought I would be the fitness freak of the complex. So who’s the motorcycle idiot in the building?’

Will laughed. ‘I would be that idiot. When I said bike, I didn’t mean bicycle. Mind if I ask why you think my bike’s idiotic? Or is it just you find anyone who rides motorcycles idiotic?’

‘Uhh … never mind the spinach, is there much foot stuck on my teeth?’

‘No offense taken,’ he grinned. ‘What is it that bothers you about the motorcycle? I’d like to know. I’m curious.’

Caroline glanced at him over the wine glass she’d picked up to hide behind. ‘They scare me. I can’t stand the noise they make. Isn’t there a way to muffle the muffler on them?’

‘You realize that’s part of the appeal? Chicks dig that sound, and the black leather too.’

‘I can’t picture a man in a suit like yours ever putting on leather pants.’

‘The day I met you I was wearing my leathers.’

‘I don’t really remember you in leather anything. I tend to recall funny things about people, like the color of your hair, the chocolate milk on your shoes, or the Heuer Monaco you’re wearing.’ Her eyes flicked to his wrist, ‘It’s the kind of watch Steve McQueen used to wear.’

‘I love Steve McQueen. He was so cool.’

He mouth pursed. ‘Well, that
sort of
explains your motorcycle. You’re exceptionally well dressed. Not only do you have excellent taste in clothes and Indian food, you also have this sort of quiet elegance about you. What are you, a Steve McQueen-loving, motorcycle-riding investment banker?’

‘Quiet elegance? I like that. I always thought I looked like a White Russian dancing bear in an Italian suit.’ He sat back in his seat, nodding. ‘Quiet elegance. Nice.’

‘Are you a Russian or Scandinavian corporate raider?’

‘Neither. I’m an Irish albino lawyer. I’m in-house counsel for CollinsBuilt.’

Caroline chuckled. ‘Seriously, was your mother Norwegian or Swedish?’

Her question was genuine, and Will was surprised. ‘Seriously, I’m Irish, I have albinism, and I’m the head of the in-house legal team for a multinational construction and development company. I know your father was Italian, but what’s the rest of your family’s heritage?’

‘My mother was Irish too.’

‘That explains
your
fair skin.’

She said, ‘So, do you wear colored contacts?’

‘I wear rigid lenses that have a slight tint for glare, but they’re not colored.’

‘You eyes are like a pale iolite or tanzanite. I have earrings almost the same color. I’ll have to show them to you. Does it ever hurt?’

‘Does what hurt?’ Will savored the Chianti in his mouth and swallowed.

‘Being albino. It’s a dumb question, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s not dumb. A question, any question, is better than being stared at. Some prefer to say they’re
a person with albinism
instead of using the word
albino
, but I’m okay with either. No, it doesn’t hurt, unless I get sunburned, but that’s easy to avoid. I limit my exposure to the sun, wear sunscreen, or cover up.’ He licked a bead of wine from the corner of his mouth before he continued. ‘Whatever you’ve seen in the movies is wrong. There are two main types of albinism. Oculocutaneous affects the eyes and skin and has various subdivisions. Ocular albinism usually affects the eyes. I have the first kind, Oculocutaneous albinism. I have the fair skin and a very mild nystagmus. That means my eyes sometimes get a sort of speed wobble, but that only happens if I’m exhausted or really sick.’

Caroline wasn’t merely being polite, she was interested, and Will was pleased when she asked, ‘Do you have to wear glasses when you read, you know, the middle-age thing that seems to happen to everyone?’

He wiped his mouth and placed his napkin back in his lap. ‘I’m farsighted with some astigmatism. Quite often vision for people with albinism is much more significantly impaired. So if you see a gun-totin’ albino character in a movie, feel free to yell at the screen like I do—unless the guy’s wearing glasses. I wear glasses or contact lenses all the time. I wear both when I drive. I might look kind of funny to you when I read because I don’t hold the book straight in front of me like you probably do and— Is this too much information? Do you really want to know all this crap?’

She leaned forward, chin in her hand. ‘How do you hold a book, William?’

‘Listen, tell me to stop anytime, because, if it’s not obvious, I tend to get up on my soapbox to educate about albinism whenever someone asks a question.’

‘How do you hold a book?’

‘I turn it and tilt my head to the left to see the detail, same with newspapers. It also helps that I have a really huge … TV. My eyes are always a little sensitive to bright light. Strong sunlight on a very clear day can be uncomfortable. I suppose it’s painful in the way when you come out of a darkened cinema straight into the middle of broad daylight. My office has subdued lighting and I live on the shady side of the building. Your place gets most of the sun. A good hat and sunglasses work pretty well. Tinted glasses help too, especially in places with severe indoor lighting, like in the cosmetics section at Webb & Fairchild, or in grocery stores. Those types of lights wash out fine details like sunshine. My sister said how I describe what I see is like when she’s been lounging by the pool all afternoon. The minute she goes inside everything seems greenish-white and washed out.’

‘Yeah, that’s like the world’s suddenly become an overexposed photo.’

He nodded. ‘That’s a pretty good analogy. From the overall large clues in the overexposure you know what you’re looking at, but some elements are missing. A nose still is a nose, but because the exposure has too much light, you can’t see the bump on the nose or the acne on what appears to be a rosy red face. That’s kind of how I see things most of the time. Another way to think of it is like those pictures made up of a collection of small squares or dots.’

‘You mean the ones popular twenty years ago, you stare at the thing and the image suddenly pops into view?’

‘No. I mean the pictures made up of lots of small photos arranged to make the whole image.’

She sat up. ‘Okay, I know what you’re talking about now.
Time
Magazine once did a photo spread of covers to make a picture of Princess Diana or somebody.’

‘Well, smaller images …’ Will paused to drink a little wine. ‘Had enough yet?’

‘No, it’s fascinating. What about the smaller images?’

‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘
You
can see all the photos that make up the image. I see three quarters, maybe a little more, of the pictures you do. I miss some little features, maybe like how her earring is made up of pictures of King Tut’s sarcophagus or her lips are images of T-bone steaks, but I can still tell you it’s a photo of Princess Diana. It has to do with your retina’s rods and cones. Remember that from high school biology?’

‘Vaguely,’ she said.

‘People with albinism tend to have fewer cones. Too much bright light can bleach out detail. I can’t play baseball, tennis, or golf because I find it hard to judge the depth required to hit the ball, but I
can
drive, and I can ride my bike. When I was a child I wore glasses, and occasionally an eye patch, but I was pretty determined. Even if I couldn’t get the ball to hit the bat, I made up my mind. I was going to be Steve McQueen, get a motorcycle, and a really cool car.’

Caroline leaned forward again, chin on her the back of her hands, hair dipping over one eye. ‘I bet it was hard at school when you were a kid.’

He shrugged. ‘My family helped. I developed a pretty thick skin early on. I’ve been called every uninspired, unimaginable name from Whitey, Moby Dick, to idiot with the motorcycle.’

Caroline blew back her hair with a puff of air, and smiled. ‘Well, you know all about my seamy past, you even saw part of it today. Are you ever going to tell me about the neighbors, William? In spite of the romantic lighting, weren’t the other neighbors the pretext for this neighborly get together we’re having? My uncle’s told me little bits over the years. I knew a lawyer lived in the building. That’s you. There’s somebody else who likes to sing, a Greek couple, and one guy is a writer, but I have to admit I don’t always pay that much attention to my uncle’s chatter. You tell me the rest.’

‘The Neighbors: A Cautionary Tale.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you included in this story of dangerous fellow neighbors?’

‘For that, you would have to ask our first subject, Mrs. Bonnie Chesterman.’ Will tried to sound as much like Rod Serling from
The Twilight Zone
as he could, pulling his mouth back into a grimace, moving his head around like the eerie show’s host did, ‘Apartment A. Bonnie, the resident Gladys Kravitz gossip from
Bewitched
, will talk your ear off and you’ll be lucky if you get in more than three words before you’ll want to gnaw off your own foot to get away. Spiro and Helen Dimitrios, apartment B, will suck you into their vortex of grandchildren photos. Wolfy Schultz, freelance writer, bears a striking resemblance to Hitler, or maybe it’s just Hitler’s mustache that lives in apartment C. And then there’s Archie and Dennis, newlyweds who would just be tickled pink by your kitchen. Oh, crap, listen to me. That was offensive. How much wine have I had?’

‘You just opened a second bottle.’

‘And I drank three quarters of the first. It’s getting late and I should probably go before I break into a tune because I’m the neighbor who likes to sing. I forgot to say that.’

‘It’s not that late. It’s only …’ Caroline glanced at her watch. ‘It’s almost eleven. It’s a lot later than I thought.’

‘I’ll go. I’m getting a little too …
happy
.’ He stood and began to stack the dishes.

Caroline gathered the empty bottles and set them on the tray. ‘Thank you for picking up dinner,’ she said. ‘What do I owe you?’

He took the tray from her. ‘What do you owe me? Well, considering I asked you first, then you asked me, and then I asked you again, and we ended up here at your house, using your dishes, which I’m sure you’re not going to let me wash …’ He grinned.

‘I’ll let you wash the dishes, William.’

He looked at the dirty plates on the tray. Batman trotted inside over and sat beside his owner. Will glanced at the dog, and cocked his head at Caroline. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mrs. Jones. Dinner’s my treat, you wash up, and I’ll give you a ride to work this week.’

‘Thank you for dinner, but there is no way I’m getting on your motorcycle.’

‘What do you drive?’

‘I have an old Triumph Spitfire.’

‘Triumph used to make great motorcycles. I had one once. I traded it for an Indian, and traded that for a Ducati.’

‘You really like motorcycles, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do. Why do you hate them?’

‘I don’t think they’re particularly safe.’

‘Would a Volvo suit you better?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Me too. Do you have one?’

Chapter 3

Nothing gave a cleaner, smooth-as-a-baby’s-bottom result than a pore-opening, skin-softening, hot water shave in the shower. Will examined his terribly prickly stubble in the anti-fog mirror and soaped up his face. He shaved above his top lip first and began singing a perfect, note-by-note cover of David Cassidy’s vocals on ‘I Woke Up In Love This Morning.’ In a few minute his face was whisker-free and he’d done an excellent impersonation of the entire Partridge Family, including Shirley’s soprano. He’d even kept time with the bar of soap in a way little Tracy Partridge never seemed able to with a tambourine.

Quincy often made fun of him for liking old bubblegum pop, but Will didn’t care. He climbed out of the shower, dried himself, and wrapped the towel around his hips. He slapped an Yves Saint Laurent aftershave on his face, and launched into ‘One Bad Apple,’ his skin stinging. His voice cracked when he hit the high notes like a young Donny Osmond.

Once he’d dressed, he checked the lay of his tie and jacket the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, straightening his cuffs, picking off a bit of fuzz from his shoulder.

Quiet elegance. That’s what Caroline said, he had a
quiet elegance
. Quiet menace was what most people who didn’t know him thought, once they stopped elbowing each other to point and stare at him. It was a sad but true fact; many people believed in the pulp fiction and Hollywood stereotype of the sore-covered, spooky albino with demonic red eyes. Movie albinos were evil henchmen, assassins, satanic cult members who took glee in inflicting pain on others. Movie albinos were comic relief or misunderstood, miserable, lonely souls shunned by entire communities.

Will was used to all those misconceptions, and he’d had a long time to get comfortable in his own skin. Still, Caroline’s comment was the nicest thing anyone had ever said about his appearance. He wanted to believe it and tried hard to see what she found elegant. He was built like a rugby player or slightly taller, somewhat older, beefier Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
. There was no doubt he possessed a sartorial sense, he knew that, but whenever he scrutinized his image, he simply saw a white face, blue eyes, and a burly frame in a perfectly fitting suit. In his book, being well heeled and polished didn’t equal elegant. Yet she had chosen the words.
Quiet elegance
. That phrase wiped off the sprinkling of dusty antiquity he hadn’t realized had settled on him last Saturday.

***

The blue-black jacket William left draped over a chair on the terrace last night had fallen on the outdoor tiles. It was covered with short hairs from her uncle’s cats, or from Batman.

Caroline put the jacket on a wooden hanger and hung it from a knob on a cupboard in the kitchen. Methodically, she ran a clothes brush over the wool fabric. The action released a pleasant trace of the clean fragrance William had worn yesterday. Right in the middle of a downward pet hair-collecting stroke, she paused, lifted the sleeve and held it against her nose, inhaling slowly. She put the brush on the countertop, pulled the jacket from the hanger, slipped it over her shoulders, and buried her nose in the lapel, wondering why she hadn’t noticed how nice he’d smelled last night.