The Newman Resident (9 page)

Christopher asked why he couldn’t just get all jeans and T-shirts, but his father pointed out that even he had slacks and nicer shirts in his closet. As they looked through some shirts on hangers, Richard noticed a man who’d been looking through the shelves of shirts for several minutes. Hoping for some help, he wondered if the man could possibly be the clerk when a thin twenty-something man who looked like a model came up and offered his help. The clerk helped them pick out a few shirts and a couple of pairs of pants, then Richard and his son went to the dressing room. When they came back out, the clerk had another handful of clothes for the boy to try on.

After a few more trips to the dressing room, Richard waved his credit card over the scanner, trying his best to avoid seeing the total. Carol had already made it clear they’d have to watch costs now that they didn’t have his salary. As the clerk folded the clothes one by one, placing them in the shopping bags, Christopher kept looking all around as though they were in some sort of fascinating museum of life. Of course, he’d taken Christopher to stores before on his break, but his son seemed to be looking through different eyes this time.

“There’s a T.G.I.S. sale over in the toy department today,” the clerk said, handing Richard the bags. “Some good buys.”

“T.G.I.S.?” Richard asked.

“Thank Goodness It’s Summer. Of course, parents always say the opposite about summer, don’t they? That’s why they invented summer camp.” The clerk winked.

Richard took the two large bags from the clerk, and he and Christopher headed for the escalators.

“What’s summer camp?” Christopher asked.

“During the summer, some parents send their kids to camps out near some lake or something.”

“Do you want to send me to camp?”

“No,” Richard said, “absolutely not.” For the first time since bringing him home, he saw the beginnings of a smile on his son’s face. “But I would like to check out that toy sale. What do you say?”

Richard let his son lead the way, interested to see what toys might appeal to him. They’d never bought him any toys for Christmas or birthdays, since he couldn’t take them back to Newman. Christopher walked past the dolls and the baby toys, which wasn’t too surprising, but he also didn’t spend any time at the cars or the guns or the action figures. The boy went through the entire department without even stopping.

“Are you all done?” Richard asked.

“Yes. I saw everything.”

“Don’t you want to get anything?”

Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know what most of those things are.”

“Here, let’s look together, a little more slowly this time.”

Richard took him over to the action figures. After all these years, there were still the classics: Batman, G.I. Joe, Harry Potter. Plus, there was a good supply Richard didn’t recognize, like some boy who looked like he was armed for the mother of all battles and several aliens that must have been from the same movie.
Christopher picked up a couple and looked at them closely, less like a little boy and more like an archaeologist with a piece of pottery, and Richard noticed out of the corner of his eye the same man he’d seen in the clothing department. The man pretended to look at toys, but so awkwardly Richard knew it was all pretense.

“What are you supposed to do with these?” Christopher asked, pointing to some G.I. Joes.

“Well, you kind of...you take one, and then you get the other... you sort of crash them together a lot. Like they’re fighting. You make up things about them and play with them.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s take a look at the cars. Maybe you’ll like those.”

They walked over to another aisle, Richard keeping an eye on the man. He wore a dark blue suit, so Richard figured he wasn’t from the school. But you could never be sure; Level Two Security was hard to spot. Anyway, why would the school send someone to spy on them? Spy? Talk about being on edge.

“Now what do we do?”

“Well, you have your classics. Matchbox cars are more like little replicas of actual cars. And you have Hot Wheels—they’re sporty cars. Then you’ve got these HoverMods that don’t even have wheels because they can float on bursts of air.”

He picked up a HoverMod and showed his son how it could hang about an inch in the air and move forward. As Christopher was fascinated by the car, Richard looked up again and caught the man staring straight at Christopher. The man turned around and walked to another aisle.

“Here are some games. Why don’t you take a look at them for a minute?”

“Where are you going?”

“I just need to ask that man something. I won’t go far.” Richard left the bags of clothes near Christopher and walked around the corner. The man was pretending to be looking at some dolls when Richard grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him around.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the man said.

“What’s going on here? You’ve been following us ever since we got here.”

“I was hoping you’d recognize me.”

Richard inspected the man’s face. It was round in a familiar way, and the man was going bald. He was a little paunchy, like he spent too much time behind a desk.

“You’re the man at the school. The guy using my crate.”

The man relaxed a little and tried to smile. “That’s right.”

“What do you want? Why are you following us?”

“I just wanted to talk with you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

“Talk about what?”

“Your son, Christopher.”

Richard stepped back, his jaw tightening. “How do you know his name? What do you want?”

“I want to know how you got him out. I’ve been trying for months. Just for the sabbatical, that’s all I wanted, the sabbatical.” The man’s eyes were moist now. “How did you do it?”

“My wife and I just filled out the papers.”

“We’ve done that, three times. But something always happens, and the sabbatical doesn’t come through. Here,” the man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the back. “Tonight, at twelve o’clock, a support group is meeting at this apartment. Come and talk to all of us.”

“Support group? Why midnight?”

“They’re dangerous, Mr. Carson. You can’t meet in the middle of the day and talk about them.”

“Who?”

Perspiration dripped down the man’s face as he looked around. “Look, we’ve talked too long. I’ve got to go.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Please come tonight. And don’t tell anyone about the meeting. Not your son, not your wife, not anyone.”

The man turned away from Richard and headed for the stairs. He looked back once, then hurried out of sight. Richard looked after him, long after he was gone, then read the card. Harold Solomon. Accountant. Why was this accountant holding secret midnight meetings? Richard didn’t know what to do. Part of him just wanted to forget about the man, but another part wanted to run over, grab Christopher and go back to the apartment and stay there.

He turned the card over. Handwritten in black ink were another address and phone number and the words, “Richard, let us help.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

C
hristopher picked out Scrabble at the store, one of the old versions, with wooden tiles and a board—the same kind Richard had played with as a boy. They spent an hour after dinner playing. After Christopher went to bed, Richard had tried to get some writing done. But two and a half hours, and nothing. Not a chapter, not a page, not a paragraph. He’d always hoped having his son home would give him peace, ease the turmoil that stopped him from finding the words. But his thoughts were more bound inside tonight than ever before.

“Who’s Harold Solomon?”

Richard jumped out of his chair. Carol had opened the front door and come into the office without his hearing a sound.

“Don’t do that!”

“Somebody’s got something to hide.”

Richard opened his mouth to defend himself, but she smiled. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her. Life was good again.

“Welcome home, Counselor.”

“I move we call it a day and get to bed,” she said.

“No objection.”

She left the room and he stayed in the office for a moment, listening to her footsteps going down the hall. The scent of her perfume was still in the air. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could never remember the name of the perfume, but it always excited him, making him want to hold her.

He glanced down at his notebook and the only words he’d written, large and bold: Harold Solomon. He’d almost forgotten about his strange stalker-accountant. He scratched out Harold’s name, then followed the perfume trail to their bedroom, where he found Carol putting on her nightgown.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“I’ve got too many cases. We need to hire some more attorneys.” She walked into the bathroom. “But as long as they can get everyone to work ridiculous hours, they’ll never hire enough to get us to normal workweeks. Remember when 80 hours a week was considered normal?”

“Christopher and I had a good day today.”

His wife pause before she turned on the water to wash her face.

“I think this is going to be an excellent summer,” he said.

“It’s just the first day,” she said. “Let’s see how things go.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Richard, just let’s take things one day at a time.”

As she dried her face, an emptiness came over him, pushing out any feeling of hope that she would give this sabbatical a chance. What was she thinking? What was she planning?

“You won’t believe this,” he said as they walked back into the bedroom, “but your mother called.”

“Oh, I forgot. She left a message on my cell.”

“She said she’d be in the city tomorrow and wanted to eat lunch with you.”

“I’ll call her in the morning and set something up,” Carol said.

“I went ahead and invited her to dinner tomorrow night. We’ll eat early so she can make it back to New Jersey before it gets too dark.”

Carol stopped. Richard had seen that expression before, watching her perform in the courtroom. And he’d felt sorry for the witness.

“You did what?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get takeout. Nothing fancy. I think she was just surprised to be invited.”

“I’ll cancel.”

“What do you mean? I’ve already invited her.”

“You know I don’t like her coming here,” Carol said. “I feel like I’m having a judge over to my own home.”

“I thought it’d be good for her to see her only grandchild. I don’t know how long it’s been since she’s seen him.”

“Did you tell her he’s here now?”

“No, I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

Carol marched back into the bathroom, closing the door after her. Richard heard water running in the sink.

“Don’t you want your mother to know Christopher is here?”

No answer.

“Are you just planning to keep him a secret all summer?”

Still no answer.

“Answer me, Carol, what’s going on here?”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

O
ff in the distance a police siren pierced the night air. It felt much later than it actually was. Richard stood on the corner, looking up at his living room window, then back down at the front door of his apartment building. The light was still on in the living room, and the only person who’d left the building was the lanky man in 610 who’d come out ten minutes earlier. At first Richard stuck around to make sure Carol didn’t leave Christopher alone in the apartment, but deep down he knew she wouldn’t do that. After their fight he’d told her he was leaving to get some air. She’d nodded and turned off the light by the bed. This was the first time she’d been alone with Christopher since they’d sent him away to school.

“What are you doing here?”

Startled, Richard turned and bumped into a short, round neighborhood security guard, clinching his club. He’d seen the man, walking the neighborhood around East 63rd, fingering his club and occasionally saying something into the band around his wrist, but they’d never spoken to each other before.

“I’m with Bulldog Security. You are required to respond to me.”

“I live here.”

“On this corner? At midnight? Don’t think so.”

“No, really. I live in that building over there.” He pulled out his wallet and showed the guard his ID. “I’m just heading out.”

“Better get heading then.”

The guard just stood there, sticking out his chest like he was expecting a fight. Richard wondered if he should go back home, but he turned around and headed down the street. After a while he made it to Park Avenue and turned to look behind him. The guard was long gone.

Richard passed the Christian Science Church on the corner. Didn’t he have an aunt who was a Christian Scientist? Or a great aunt? Yes, Aunt Ellen, a smiling woman who would always remind him to look on the bright side. “No matter what you look for,” she’d tell him, “you find it. So look for the good.”

As Richard turned south on Park Avenue, he pulled Harold Solomon’s business card out of his jeans pockets. “Richard, let us help.” How could they help? What did they need to help with? None of it made any sense to Richard, but maybe the meeting would provide some answers.

He stepped into the street and hailed a cab.

The cab took him to an area of the city Richard knew well from his Columbia days. They drove through the low 100’s, the Morningside Heights area. All the shops on the first floor of the old apartment buildings were closed. This section of Broadway wasn’t all that far from the theatre district, but worlds away. No stars, no glamour. A bagel store...a bookstore...maybe a dry cleaners or a shoe store. And, every so often, a cheap place where Columbia students could grab a slice of New York style pizza. All run-down and maybe a little scary to someone from a nicer part of town. But, as a student, Richard never gave the area a second
thought. For him, the worst local dive was better than the law school library.

Past the wall surrounding Columbia, the cab turned left on 122nd, heading for the Hudson, then right on Riverside Drive. Some of Richard’s classmates used to joke about this being the most religious section of the world per square foot. Within a few blocks were the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, Union Theological Seminary, Jewish Theological Seminary, Riverside Church, and who knew what else scattered among the neighborhood streets.