Bricks & Mortar

- Part One -

Box

Isabella and I watched the huddle, a dark collection of figures with hands holding umbrellas, on shoulders, around waists, consoling, soothing. Inevitably the day could not be anything but sad. While I like to think of rainy days as hopeful, death usually is far less so. And yet as I watched the Federers try to come to grips with their husband, father, brother and son being laid to rest, I could not ignore a strange feeling. I nodded my head in closer to Isabella’s. "I hate to admit this, but I feel kind of almost happy. Not about Calvin finally passing away. Not that."

Having endured my thoughts for almost twenty years, she didn’t even look my way. "What are you feeling almost happy about, then? I’m glad to see the suffering over with. I think Kim is as well."

"It’s nothing like that. I am actually pleased to have a good friend to grieve. Before I started visiting and getting to know him, I would have been hard pressed to come up with someone to grieve for other than you or Stella or, you know, the ordinary suspects."

"Gee. Thanks, honey. You make it sound like a privileged list."

"I know. I know full well this is selfish, but on such a miserable, crappy day like today, I will take it. If I had not gotten to know Cal so well, I would feel differently, worse for sure." I looked at Cal’s very old and extremely frail mother being wheeled towards an awaiting conversion van. "Maybe I would be lost in the loss. Effected by the lost opportunity for friendship."

"If you wouldn’t have gotten to know him how would you feel anything? You would have read the obit – maybe – and went on, probably just noting the fact that it was the father of Stella’s friend."

"Good point. I guess I don’t know what I’m trying to say then."

The service had been remarkably serene and typical. A fair accounting of his life, both the storied and domesticated, came and went followed by a few nods to protestant orthodoxy. Then a short ride out to the cemetery, Spruce Hills, nicely positioned on a ridge crest a mile outside city limits. The rain had let up only to be replaced by giant dollops of snow, which would not stick enough to be troublesome. They put the shiny lacquered box in the ground while everyone gazed either at their shoes or some middle distant fuzzy mass of contrived distraction. A few more ceremonial phrases made their way out of the minister before concluding the exercise.

Isabella and I wanted to say something to the Federer huddle, but knew nothing that would add anything to the long ordeal, except to share Stella’s best wishes in her absence. An aged Ethan and his wife were in from Vancouver, Ethan looking like he had recovered well from the accident in Sweden. Kirsten hung tightly to Cal’s pillar-of-strength wife, Kim. Assorted Iowa-looking relatives formed a picket around the core, so we stood there reflecting amidst the snowflake showers in Spruce Hills, me remembering how I had pop music and the untamed youth of Cade County to thank for having such a good friend as Calvin. I immediately heard background music for a flashback welling up inside my head.

Spring

Our daughter convinced us to go to her high school’s Spring Talent Show – a program audaciously entitled, "Creativity is Blooming." Somehow we could not conjure a good enough excuse and since she was growing into a bright and sociable sophomore it made a certain amount of sense, from me and my wife’s perspective, to see what sort of talents existed at Cade County High. Who knew that when we piled into the car to make a quick drive over to the school auditorium we would witness something close to history (in so far as history can ever be made in Cadeville)? Nothing against our fine town, but it is not exactly culturally alert. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say Cadeville was culturally inert.

Stella simply wanted to see a band her best friend’s brother had put together and normally we would have let her go with Kirsten, but she made a special appeal for our presence. "Dad, I so think you’ll kind of like this band," she said while we were assembled in the kitchen. I have to listen to her, because she’s our beautiful, wonderful child and she has this power over us. Sure she’s an only child and all that, but she’s also smart, quick and intuitive. We used to call her precocious, but she out grew that.

Stella knows what sort of music I like (we take such things seriously in our house) and so when she says we should listen to something the recommendation is not brushed off. She has a keen sense of aesthetics. Something I did not develop (if I can even profess to having it now) until much later, despite having older brothers secretly replacing my Partridge Family albums with The Beach Boys Pet Sounds and The Beatles Revolver.

Significant Music Side Bar #1:


Beatles -- Tomorrow Never Knows -- It blew me away and shook me out of my Beach Boys rut (which had in turn rested me from a serious Partridge Family fanship). I found out that those songs about drugs and/or politics could mean something to me too as a pre-teen. This song advanced my thinking well beyond cars, the beach and girls. The drums were so engaging with that cool Ringo syncopation thing going and then there was Lennon’s amazing vocals that sounded, quite impressively, like they’d miked him while off having a dream. Then there are the fun sounds of backwards guitars and who knows what all creating more craziness over a mystical drone, all generating the dreamscape for the vocals. It’s as if this song formed a collection of all Beatles production tricks. They were saying, "okay then, we’ve had our fun writing about girls and love, now we’re just going to mess with you and sing about whatever." This song, incidentally was the first to be recorded for Revolver, which is astounding to think about. It’s just a superb piece of work that stands up even to this day.

Anyway, either Isabella or I could come up with anything better to do than to witness some of Stella’s friends exercise their wild, chemically unbalanced egos in front of peers.

"What are they called?" I asked while looking over the top of the paper.

"Bricks & Mortar." She said while extracting a container of milk from its hiding place behind a bunch of withered grapes.

"Uh-huh. Sounds pretty industrial for Iowa, my dear." I sniffed while letting the band’s name sail over my head just before returning to a feature on immigrant families over in North Cedar worried about the government’s next move.

Isabella got up from the kitchen table. "Are they loud? What sort of music is it?"

Stella held the milk up to her mom. "Want some?"

"Please." Then she added, "Okay, this is not racist, but it’s not Rap is it? I am not fond of rap."

Stella pulled two glasses out of the cabinet. "Ma-omm. Jeez. No. Definitely not Rap. I know better than that. Promise. They aren’t really loud. It’s, well, like, melodic sort of guitar stuff. You know like British Invasion stuff. That sort of thing. You’ll like them. They’re good." She chortled,

"I mean they are REALLY good."

Isabella watched Stella fill a glass and hand it to her while she took a big drink of milk for herself.

"It wouldn’t have anything to do with providing cover for your continued infatuation with Kirsten’s older brother would it?" A fond smile arose on Isabella’s face. "Are you sucking us into an intrigue?"

At this, milk shot from Stella’s nose and she pitched forward theatrically, attempting to keep the milk running down her chin from hitting her field hockey jersey. This all made it appear as if she was surprised her parents would be familiar with those rustic, aboriginal teenage thoughts of lust. "Ma-omm. What is this Dawson’s Creek? He’s like sooo much older. And, you know. All like a gentleman and all that." Her face had a rutabaga look about it. Red at the bottom that faded into a floury, pasty white.

I gave Isabella a rueful smirk. "Stella, we aren’t living in a Jane Austen novel. I doubt very seriously that gentlemen enter into the modern equation."

Again, Stella guffawed. "Dad, you are such a dork. What, like now I want to see this band I’m gonna be mackin’ the dude?"

"Dork, you say?" I repeated in a game show announcer’s voice. "Very passe term used ironically, I presume."

Talent

We traipsed over to the auditorium the following evening. The night was one of those clear, early Spring evenings when the heat of the day makes a quick retreat and cool breezes sweep from the big trees around President Polk’s statue in City Park. The type of evening that almost had us forget about crazy young men driving airliners into far away tall buildings to kick off a grim autumn of fear and discontent. You think you can smell the speculaas dough being mixed for the next morning over at the Dutch bakery on Oak Street; lots of stars overhead; a faint sense that Harold Hill was about to burst through the oleanders and sing about "76 trombones" or some such thing.

But instead of the Music Man, we were undoubtedly about to be treated to loud, atonal sound washes by metal head Senior boys attempting to impress their girlfriends with their take on Iron Maiden’s catalog. Or so I thought, despite Stella’s descriptive use of "British Invasion." Which Invasion would she be using as her bellwether? As we took our seats along with the one hundred other souls who couldn’t avoid the show, I must say watching Stella wave and greet friends and classmates made it instantly fun. Isabella and I were not like her when we went to high school. Somehow she did not get the genetic predisposition to introversion that ran particularly acute and heavy in her parents.

The show began as expected. Three awkward Senior girls did something like juggling while lip synching to a Beyonce tune. From there, it went down hill with each odd performance some of which inspired enthusiastic reaction out of the students in the audience while completely mystifying adults. I found myself pleased with this disconnect between the two generations, sensing something akin to maturity and a modest awareness of good taste.

Then the night began its turn around when one skit actually turned out pretty well from the standpoint of entertaining the wider audience. It was a take-off on a reality TV show and the six kids that did it fairly nailed a decent satirical edge. Isabella and I wondered who had penned such snappy dialogue, but Stella either legitimately did not know or for some reason beyond us she would not say. We never press these sorts of things, because it really doesn’t matter anyway so why make her feel awkward about letting us into some perfect circle of teenage confidence.
It came time for Bricks & Mortar. Isabella and I braced for what may come shooting an eye towards an escape route. We knew from the rules printed in the program that they only had a five-minute window so the pain and suffering would be limited. I flashed on a memory of my own painful sojourn into making rock music as a sophomore at Iowa. What did I think I was going to accomplish making a complete fool of myself trying to front a band that played Gun Club covers? I closed my eyes for a moment and worked hard to avoid shuttering with mortification. The debut, in front of fifteen clearly deranged fellow students, was in the living room of Robin Corwood’s duplex on Woodside Drive -- the most incomprehensible, beer- fueled dream. We just knew we had made some cosmic connection with Mission of Burma or Pere Ubu. And as I dug a bit deeper into that memory, I remembered the exhilaration back stage (the kitchen) we felt after slogging and droning and brooding through our first six song set. So this is what it felt like, we thought. But oh my, the Lightning Terns were so incredibly horrible and yet we insisted on playing almost two dozen "shows" mostly at blurry, alcohol-fueled basement parties on the back streets or the sun-bleached Ped Mall for one lame event or another. I can still picture my Converse All-Stars all Sharpied up with revolutionary slogans. Who did I think would be reading my shoes as I stood there hanging on the microphone stand attempting to channel Ian Curtis? It all just fulfilled a desire I had harbored since high school to not just be in a band, but have the band fulfill my vision of art delivered through two and a half minute pop-like tunes. I wonder if the cassette tape of that first show survived somewhere? Next question should be why had it survived?

Significant Music Side Bar #2:

Velvet Underground -- Sweet Jane -- High school hit and I had a serious crush on New York City. The Velvet Underground fed this perfectly. Everything about the group said New York to me and Sweet Jane perfectly communicated it. Listening to it with my eyes shut I could picture Washington Square, though I’d never been there. Hell, I could practically smell the place, the Frisbees of dope. The Velvet Underground also showed me how simple music and crap vocals could still make an important connection. It was okay not to have great harmonies and suberb instrumentation. With the right attitude and words and production, many things are possible -- even being able to smell Washington Square from a 1000 miles away while driving to a FFA meeting.

Up on stage an impressive array of young people wheeled out an even more impressive array of amplification, including a rather professional set of Ampeg PA speakers. Drums (a white Tama set with sparkling Zildjin cymbals) on a riser materialized from back stage in an instant, then everything cleared. Kirsten herself came out and stepped to the microphone under a blue light drawing an excited little squeal and clap from Stella. "Um, hi." She said quietly giving a slight curtsy and wave that all parents find endearing. "Everybody, um, please welcome to the…" she consulted a note card, "um, Brixton, er, Academy?" She looked around a bit more nervous and uncertain than was normal for Kirsten, who usually appeared very strong and confident when around the house. With the mention of Brixton Academy, a venerable venue in London, my ears immediately perked up. "Well, um, this is, um my broth, I mean, this is Bricks and Mortar." And with that she walked off stage left.

Well-directed red and blue lights went up on the set and a huge Union Jack banner (painted with what must have been the town’s allotment of tempura paint) unfurled as a backdrop, giving the gear a rather dramatic appearance. From stage right, three boys walked on amongst polite applause looking extremely dapper and much more confident than their fellow performers. They looked as though they had walked on to stage a thousand times. Dressed in matching, tightly tailored light gray suits and what looked like bowling shoes, they stepped to their places in a compelling way – smooth, confident and rehearsed. My eyes narrowed as I felt sure I had seen this before. But I knew I hadn’t, I mean, at least not like this. I recognized Kirsten’s brother, Ethan from the Hy-Vee. He plugged his shiny Rickenbacker into a refrigerator-sized stack of Vox amps with a hum and pop. The bass player may have been the boy two streets over from us who once jumped out of a moving car when his mother wouldn’t stop for the ice cream truck. It was a famous stunt in our little section of Cadeville. The lanky drummer, whose pageboy haircut made him look somewhat like a wild lepiota mushroom, wasn’t familiar at all.

They looked at each other once, then just catapulted into a blistering account of Gang of Four’s "Natural’s Not In it," complete with remarkably angry backing vocals from the jumping out of car boy and perfect, kinetic restraint from mushroom drummer. It was letter perfect, except for the sheer volume of Ethan’s slashing cuts sizzling from the stack and rib shaking thump from mushroom boy’s kick drum. Ah, live performance mix can be delicate, I thought, while they tore it up (in a good way). They segued right into The Jam’s "London Girl." This took my breath away. It was an impressive, assured performance and one totally unsuitable for the venue. Halfway through "London Girl" I was nearly in tears laughing. I yelled over to Isabella, "Oh my God. They’re fucking amazing. How can this happen?"

The Mods came to Cade County R-III Senior High, peeled the roof off and left the stage to a near riot of cheers, applause and freaked out parents trying to stop their ears from ringing -- a Quadrophenia moment in East Iowa. They didn’t win, I might add. No, they were disqualified, because of inappropriate lyrics and going over their allotted time. Later Stella told me that Mr. Quinn didn’t like that the "material glorified cigarettes and beer." He made no mention of the Gang of Four’s exceptionally politicized, sexual lyrics apparently (I wondered what Dr. Ganthide, the mayor, thought of young Ethan belting out the word "fornication"). Instead the official ruling zeroed in on the smoking and alcohol of "London Girl." Our Mr. Quinn was a good enough principal and generally had a levelheaded approach to most things, but putting the gong to Bricks & Mortar when they had obviously KILLED gave me pause. Also later, Stella told me that the band feared winning, because it would be part of the band’s bio for eternity. I nodded sagely. "One two song set and they’re image conscious already," I added.

Stella clucked her tongue and added, "Kirsten says Ethan was born image conscious."

It dawned on me as we pulled into the garage that "Bricks & Mortar" was a song on The Jam’s debut, "In the City" and it amused me that it had zipped right by me from the start. How was I supposed to know that in this small town in Iowa there were three excellent young musicians who were The Jam incarnate? I mean moving from the chop of Andy Gill to Paul Weller’s clean buzz so effortlessly?

We got out of the car and stood for a moment in that springtime air, breathing in the cut grass and motor oil smell of the garage. I turned to Stella and just looked perplexed enough I didn’t even have to ask the question.

She looked at her mother, then back at me blinking almost comically. "Their Dad was like some rocker guy back in the eighties." She affected a cute shrug. "Like, out in California or something. You know, before he became manager of that fan belt plant in the business-park." She walked by me. "He’s a big influence on Ethan."

I didn’t know what to say. "Dayton Rubber? That’s a radiator hose plant."

She disappeared through the door to the kitchen, calling out "whatever."

Surf

That night I did a search on Google using Ethan and Kirsten’s father’s name and came up with telling results. Calvin Federer turned out to be a former member of seminal Bay Area punk outfit, Mercury Charge. This took me aback, because when I was a student geek at Iowa, doing a late night shift on KRUI, I had played the hell out of Mercury Charge, usually in an unimaginative set with Flipper and The Nuns. If I was feeling particularly ironic (this was well before the death of irony) I would sandwich Mercury Charge’s "In and Around" between something from Uriah Heep and then maybe 13th Floor Elevators. But I digress. Cal Federer played bass for eight long years of Mercury Charge history -- through four releases on the Branch One label, an ill-fated major label dalliance with Sire, countless shows at Mabuhay Gardens, national tours and a few dismissed felony charges.

So how does the former bassist of Mercury Charge end up managing a radiator hose factory in Cadeville, Iowa? This question would need to be asked of the man himself someday. I rarely saw him, despite the shuttling that goes on between our two houses involving either Kirsten or Stella. And here I sensed late night radio kinship I didn’t even know we had! Though, as I sat there at the computer, a distinct feeling came over me that this was history Calvin had left and only wanted to use as the basis of paternal wisdom to help his son and presumably daughter with their initial forages into adult life. In my brief conversations with him over the years there had never been an occasion to start dredging up each of our personal resumes. As I thought further about this, there wasn’t much worse than coming across someone whose whole anchor in discourse was reminiscence.

Launch

Tipped by Kirsten, we all made a trek to watch the more legitimate debut of Bricks & Mortar at Gabe’s Oasis in Iowa City about two weeks later. They were on a bill with a band from Des Moines called North of Grand. Stella was granted a yellow under age wristband, which Kirsten avoided by slipping in when the band loaded and sound checked (she was very proud of this slightly subversive fact). Isabella wisely crammed cotton into her ears as we set up shop near the bar. They opened with "Natural’s Not In It," but then went into a goose-bump inducing version of "Paperback Writer," followed by "London Girl." They then rapidly clipped through three songs of their own I imagine would meet any test for Anglo-mod revivalism -- socially conscious and politically charged, bristling with punchy bass and wonderful melodies. They then played what sounded to me like an Aztec Camera song before finishing with another Jam song, "Saturday’s Kids", a Kinks song, I think, though I couldn’t quite place it and something from the New Order songbook, "Primitive Notion." The last tune being quite tricky without the requisite New Order keyboard treatments. Ten songs that impressed everyone (including Jason the long-serving, hyper-jaded bar tender), delivered with professionalism and staggering, sweat-soaked swagger that again belied their 18 year old minds.

Afterwards, as they worked to get out of the next band’s way, I flagged Ethan down as he was carefully packing his Rickenbacker. He was quite damp and a little jittery, but nice enough to take a moment to chat. "Where’d you pick up that Ricky?"

He shrugged. "It’s my Dad’s so I guess I’d have to say I picked it up from our basement."

"You don’t see so many of those anymore." I tried hard not to sound like a pretentious asshole. Hard trick when speaking with a prodigy some twenty-five years younger.

He nodded slowly in agreement while closing the case. "1967 Sunburst 365."

"And your Dad let’s you out of his sight with it?"

Another shrug. "He’s very supportive, Mr. Carraway."

"How old are you Ethan?"

"We’ll be getting a lot of that, I’m sure. I better get used to it." Unbuttoning his suit coat, he handed his guitar case to the Mushroom drummer whom, for the occasion apparently, had cut his pageboy hair and now looked like a member of Madness. "This style of music is our point of, like, entry? You know? We decided a couple of things when we started to practice last fall. Like, we’d just play and play. No recording, no web site and all that messing around with computers and shit…"

"The Luddite approach to rocking."

Rightfully, he ignored me. "We would practice and get it right where we wanted it. We decided that there is no substitute for performing, whether it’s in my basement after school every single day…"

"…or here." I added holding my arms out as if to highlight the enormity of this New World the band stood in.

He looked up into a rack of lights clearly trying hard to tolerate an over enthused senior citizen.
"We’d play some covers from The Jam and you know bands like that. I mean nothing too current, like, I don’t know, The Hives or whatever. Our one break is trying to play New Order, which is sort of for Kirsten. A secret or, um private thing, because she’s been a big help. But anyway, really, those songs, it’s a way to get tight." He clasped his hands together as if I suddenly didn’t know what tight meant. "The Jam." He smiled and nodded dramatically. "Wow, like, we all love London. We’ve been like Beatles fans since, I don’t know, sixth grade? But you know, playing Beatles’ songs is…" he shrugged, "so over done?"

"Except for Paperback…"

"One of THE greatest rock songs written. A song basically built around one chord. You know?" He cocked his head in amazement. "Man, McCartney was an under-rated guitarist."

"I agree."

"Listen to his solo during Taxman, Taxman! A George Harrison song and McCartney’s playing lead guitar. But also remember when that song was written."

"Again, how old are you Ethan?"

He laughed. "You’re really bothered by that, aren’t you Mr. Carraway? Anyway, you obviously know The Jam and know how amazing they are or were. It just feels right when we play it."

"And Gang of Four?"

"Gets everybody’s attention, don’t it? I mean, who can believe that we would even have a political point of view? And that we’d get away with it, that tight chop, that jungle beat man. Fucking absurd. But it’s a cool song and we think it works, you know, um, a little serious social commentary to set us up."

"Ethan, come on. You’re too much."

"Stella told us you liked the talent show." He peeked over my shoulder and directed a little wave towards Stella who was practically cowering behind Kirsten who stood next to Isabella. Stella looked embarrassed that her old man would be so uncool as to talk with one of her acquaintances, which I thought funny since Kirsten had practically moved in at various times over the previous couple of years.

"You got ripped off that night."

He grinned broadly. "Oh no. No, not at all. We had a deal with Mr. Quinn. We’d been, like, practicing for months and needed a place to, sort of, I don’t know, kind of get in front of people and break the ice. Shake it down. And Mr. Quinn, he’s a pretty cool human being. But the last thing, I mean the LAST thing we wanted to do was win a High School talent show. How lame would that be?"

I squinted at him and cast what I imagined to be a skeptical frown. "I think you guys are ringers. Ringers shipped in from somewhere far away…"

"Yeah, Surrey maybe."

"…to wake us all up from a deep sleep."

"Aw, Mr. Carraway, you know I’m a Senior. Shit I’ll be handing you a cantaloupe at Hy-Vee tomorrow." He laughed and brushed through his short, yet fashionably highlighted hair.

"Was that an Aztec Camera song you guys played? I couldn’t place it."

He blew air out the side of his mouth. "Good guess. No, it’s an Ocean Blue tune. ‘Marigold.’ It gives Caleb a chance to sing. Gives me a break. You know? I just stand there and strum for three minutes. Anyway, his mom sang it to him all the time when he was a baby. He fucking loves singing that song."

"Before he started jumping out of cars?"

He grinned and nodded. "Man loves the Bomb Pops, know what I’m saying?"

So it was the kid from a couple streets over. I was right. "What was the Kinks song you played?"

Ethan grimaced and looked at his shoes. "She’s Got Everything." He wiped his forehead. "We really shouldn’t have done that. We don’t know it well enough. I think, anyway. I don’t like bluffing through songs. It’s not right."

"You been to London?"

"I’ve been to an Outback Steakhouse in London, Ontario. We drove through on our way to Niagara Falls two years ago. But that’s about it." Ethan noticed there were more attractive alternatives to this conversation and I could sense he’d had enough of this foolishness. "Chalk it up to Globalization, Mr. Carraway. You don’t need to fly anywhere. I mean, with the Internet, you know?" Before turning to a group of three young women fresh off the University campus who had been patiently waiting to have a moment of Ethan’s time, he added, "we’ll get there soon enough. Make our pilgrimage to Woking, to the Weller house. Then we’ll be all down and shit, because it doesn’t measure up." He smirked and held out his hand. "Thanks for coming down."

"Enjoyed it." I shook his hand. "I didn’t see your Dad here tonight."

"No, no. He’s vowed to stay out of the way. He thinks rock is for the kids."

"Oh. Right. That’s my cue."

Sunbath

Despite Ethan saying he would be handing me a cantaloupe the next day at the Hy-Vee, that evening was the last time I saw him for a long time. Two months after the Gabe’s show, Kirsten was over doing summertime things with Stella and as they traipsed through the family room on the way to the back yard, huge towels and sun tan lotion in hand, they paused and lingered over the central music library. I sat on the couch quietly reading an Ian Rankin novel and taking great pains to be as inconspicuous as possible. But I couldn’t help overhearing their patter as they pawed at the compact discs, which were cataloged below the vinyl, but above the 78’s.

Kirsten selected something. "Oh-migawd. You’ve got Chapterhouse?"

Stella looked at the CD. "Um, so it seems."

"Ethan went through a Chapterhouse phase, which was followed by his Verve phase." She slid the CD back. "He used to be the worst streak listener." She spoke with a tinge of awe and fondness that made me wish Stella had an older sibling, instead of distant and vague cousins in the far away lands of Nebraska. I pondered whether teenage girls should be referring to hypnotic shoegaze-dance hybrids from Reading, England whose most salient release came out the same year they were born. But then I recalled my teenage fascination with Beach Boys music, most of which came out well before I was on the Earth. I should know by now current conditions do not necessarily have anything to do with what catches a music fan’s interest. I also had three older siblings who funneled their collective taste down to me so mine could reach beyond the womb (Capitol released Pet Sounds on my first birthday).

"Aren’t most people, you know, streak listeners? Here, check this out. We’ve gotta listen to this. It’ll block out all the damaging rays." Stella handed her a CD.

Kirsten sort of half guffawed and half snorted. "Totally."

And with this exchange they flitted out the sliding glass door and out to the far reaches of the back yard, where the lawn meets the Soybean plants of the mighty Jamessen Farm. It is there at the edge of our yard and Cadeville City Limits that the sun is at its most lethal and where Stella and Kirsten employed not only a portable CD device, but also SPF-60. They awaited Lars Jamessen and his propensity to motor by shirtless, tan and fit atop his father’s Versatile 435. I nodded at this before returning to intrigue and violence of Rankin’s Edinburgh, thinking that Stella and her friend provided a wonderous glimpse into teenage lust and limitless energy in a very different way than Bricks & Mortar did -- Voyeurs versus the performers.

I went back to Inspector Rebus for a while, then stopped reading and looked across the room at the wall of music we’d accumulated. It brought much to the house, but mostly it had been a companion of mine for most of my life. Really, since before I was Stella’s age. The magic, the art, the expanse of ideas. For Isabella, the relationship is more practitioner to art form, a craft really as she was a concert quality cellist firmly within the grip of the university’s music department when we married. She can look beyond the cultural ramifications and see a narrower aesthetic. Performance and theory are key and anything that avoids 4/4 time will always catch her attention. Kids like Ethan and maybe Kirsten and possible now Stella need music as a way to look beyond limits. After the show at Gabe’s Oasis Ethan referred to a sense of quasi globalization brought his way by a wired world and the music his family enjoyed. It’s everything I can do to restrain my enthusiasm when I’m around the kids. No one likes a cultural snob or a busy body. Mix the two and it’s a certain curse, but music as essential building block is incontrovertible.
Later that day, gathered for dinner, I very much wanted to ask Stella what Bricks & Mortar news she had for me, but as I imagined myself asking this, it made me cringe. There was little doubt that I had already tread on the fervent territory of youth with my enthusiasm for the band. Perhaps it was time to exercise the sort of common sense Ethan’s parents had and leave rock to the kids. But then again, maybe just better awareness of boundaries was all I needed.

"Stella, what did you listen to this afternoon out in the sun?"

"Verdi’s Requiem."

Isabella shot her an incredulous look.

"I can guess the performance." I said a little too jauntily for some reason. "Sir Neville Mariner and the Stuttgart Radio Symphony." Stella and Isabella stared. "A Phillips Recording released in July 1987." I added while spooning peas.

Stella and Isabella looked at each other. Isabella nodded and smiled. "You are a Class A dork, my dear."

I stopped spooning. "What?"

Stella laughed, dislodging a pea and shooting it into her plate. "Dad. I was joking."

"Oh. Then. Well? What were you listening to?"

She quickly became reverent. "Moby."

"Oh. Um, you should check out Verdi’s Requiem." And here I thought I was going to work on the cultural snobbery and busy body stuff. Irrational exuberance is not just bad for stock markets.

Hyperbolic

Six months later I came across a piece in Magnet about the Bricks & Mortar debut -- a glowing, positively fawning review written by someone who really didn’t know much Mod history and how to authenticate an influence. But I needed to judge the locals for myself. I downloaded it from eMusic and after listening to it a couple times found myself wanting a copy of that Gabe’s performance. Their debut, Free With Purchase (on Bridlemile Records for those keeping score) lacked the torrid low end and manic energy of the live show. The production seemed too cool and bright for the content. I fixed blame for this on the producer (DJ Brooklyn F for those aforementioned score keepers) whom I gathered from the Magnet article was a stalwart of the Williamsburg Scene. How he was let into the Boston City limits to ruin a recording is still a mystery. Hope he took points, rather than up-front. But arrangements had kept their meaty melodic hooks on Brit Pop. There was no way to fault the singing, mercilessly avoiding auto-tune, or the musicianship, which was impeccable – a bit too impeccable maybe. Song topics were the usual grab bag of youthful subversion regarding the government and corporations (not one song about a relationship of any kind). So Bricks & Mortar had settled into life in Boston apparently and were cautiously optimistic about spreading socialist gospel or some such thing. Though (in a shocking coincidence) I came across the band not a week later in a Forbes article (Forbes? Who was their publicist?). They were mentioned along with a few other bands in a piece about young rockers with astute and suspicious business sense. Bands that hooked up with intellectual property attorneys early and only licensed music to record companies as opposed to the traditional deal made with a tenacious A&R rep from a keen indie record company being run out of the shotgun shack in Austin (my imagery not the Forbes writer’s). The new day had risen and in its bright light I clearly saw the wisdom of Mercury Charge’s Calvin Federer being disseminated.

A quote from Ethan in the article hangs with me to this day. The type of quote you don’t often get from a nineteen-year old. The type of quote you may hear a young person in a hop television show spout making you huff and think, kids don’t talk like that.

"The trick is to not let sound judgement get in the way of your creative decisions and vice versa. Music is history and the music business is revisionist. What I mean by that is a lot of bands in the past have made stunning music, but died at the hands of poor management and bad business. Unfortunately that tarnishes the accomplishments because it sharply reduces the art’s exposure and impact."

Jesus H. Christ. And to think what I was babbling about when I was nineteen – Larry Byrd’s free throw percentage? Of course, I did not grow up with a worldly musician for a father -- a punker stung from pre-dawn raids and malfeasant accounting. Then I recalled a few lines from one of the songs on the Bricks & Mortar debut -- something about a rocker’s death. Was Ethan singing about Mercury Charge’s leader, Yello? A long stretch maybe, but his death inspired a Che-like silk screen image being printed on millions of T-Shirts; whose heroin over-dose in a squalid, Los Feliz apartment in 1985 spawned an entire clothing line; whose passing into the eternal netted the Yello estate – Zilch.

Significant Music Side Bar #3

The Clash -- London Calling – Well, I’m a little embarrassed putting this on my list, because it’s so over-done. I mean, come on. Maybe I should put down something from "Give’m Enough Rope." Well, just as cliches are no less real, London Calling did, in fact, refocus my thinking. I had been part of "phoney Beatlemania" and was glad to hear it had bitten the dust. London Calling marked a sharper turn towards the punk ethos. The Who had laid the ground work, predisposed as I was from Velvet Underground listening. But the Clash pounded it home. They brought direct action to me through the speaker cabinets. A bunch of art students from London with backgrounds not too disimilar to my own and they could still spit in Margaret Thatcher’s eye.

Vestibule

I ran into Calvin at the library for the first time after getting to know Bricks & Mortar. Kirsten was with him and she politely and quite precociously reintroduced him. He had dark, long-ish hair highlighted by gray strands on the temples. Calvin was taller than I remembered, more muscular too with an urbane and assured atmosphere surrounding him, as though we were running into each other outside of Webster Hall in New York. "Good seeing you again." He said with a pleasant, supper club approved smile. We shook hands and I fumbled around a bit in the vestibule looking for something substantive to say. I worked hard to avoid asking him what it was like to play on the bill with Black Flag. What it was like to rebuff SST Records in favor of the highly esoteric Branch One, a label more famous for releasing avant-garde Berkeley jazz ensembles and spoken word albums by radical communists. What sort of bass effect did he use throughout the recording of the Underwater Heat record? Obviously, I knew this would be craven and stupid trivial noise completely out of scale and place. These were the urgent questions of a twenty-year old music nerd deep in the bowels of a college radio station, not the questions of a middle aged business editor of "wildly popular" monthly, Tomorrow’s Farm. It was Kirsten who bailed me out. "My Dad was helping me with that project Stella and I have for Mr. Waters’ class. He was showing me a few resources."

"Oh." I said as thoughtfully as I could. We had, of course, met several times before, but now, after having placed Calvin into some sort of new context, I just didn’t have anything to say. I felt a bit embarrassed having Googled him. The sort of embarrassment that comes from knowing far more about someone than is appropriate and indeed more then they do about you. It’s terrible having this feeling, like knowing some sort of secret about them. This may be the World Wide Web’s most subtle and negative effect on interpersonal behavior.

Calvin looked at her. "You make me sound like Wunder Dad. Remember, you’re the one doing the work." He smiled and shrugged. "She sees me as some sort of a whizz in project management, I guess."

"Life is all about project management, Kirsten." I offered with what I imagined to be a hint of sarcasm lacing my words in order to deliver the right satirical tone. I don’t know if I was successful in my attempt at humor, because they were both grinning at each other with the knowing expressions of a joke left untold. "By the way, congratulations on winning that award." I spoke on behalf of some shadowy town collective of boosters about his plant being named manufacturing facility of the year by the Iowa Chamber of Commerce.

"Thanks. We have a lot of fantastic people on the team." He said automatically as though part of the PR department’s standard Power Point."

"It’s a great honor."

He nodded. "I’m hoping it helps us stay put. Helps the company keep manufacturing here and not move it to GZ."

"Guangzhou, right? What about Nuevo Laredo?"

"Well, they looked at that already. We don’t compete with plants in this country or even Mexico, we measure ourselves, our productivity against the PRC. There’s always pressure to move it there, because of labor cost. But they can’t match the value our productivity adds."

"Amazing."

"Continuous productivity improvement is the only way to stay out of the way of that axe that is always hovering right over our head. Nope – it’s all about productivity." He glanced up as though he really was keeping a wary eye on a blade being wielded by the Board members.

This sort of earnest business statement astonished me. It came from a guy who was a member of a band that once sang about dollar bills having a worse influence on mankind than ‘the herion bought with crumpled dollar bills in garbage strewn parking garages of decaying urban centers all across the asphalt heated landscape.’ I wondered how Calvin ended up in the position of safeguarding the employment of 92 Iowans through continuous productivity enhancement. Cal Federer: Captain of Industry.

After their departure, I noted that the times I have seen him, he always seemed to wear long sleeves, perhaps to not freak out the aging populace of Cadeville with his many elaborate punk era tattoos. Or perhaps he was counter-revolutionary and avoided the needle, wearing long sleeves because he had a propensity to be chilly. Either way, it seemed as though I would never know, because there weren’t any graceful ways of entering into a conversation about someone’s past life, particularly a passing acquaintance, even one with near stardom in the underground. But then I wondered about my own snap judgement.

Walking home I reflected on an article I read about Greg Norton, the bassist for Husker Du, who is now a successful restaurateur. He must find great joy in the evenings he can operate without dealing with someone asking him about recording Zen Arcade. The man is just trying to sell some food and beverage. Perhaps it is good to know about the famous career that framed the person, but much the better to have it unspoken. On the other hand, if it is a vital part of who a person is, why avoid it out of hand? If they want to continue to express this past as who they are currently, then so what?

Wired

Within the blue glow of my computer’s screen, I looked up the Glastonbury Festival and found it next on the Bricks & Mortar agenda where they will be playing the John Peel Stage between The Indivisibles and June Varietals. Apparently, Glasto was back on after yet another year off. A few more clicks confirmed that Ethan, Caleb and Jonathon would also be playing a festival in Middlesbrough where Ocean Colour Scene would be headlining. The publicity shot used for this particular piece of information was one taken in City Park, which a very hard to believe. Yet indeed, President Polk looms above Ethan’s right shoulder. (One day I shall find out how it came to be that we have President Polk looming over anybody’s shoulder in City Park).
More quick reference showed there would be nine dates for the hometown boys with The Maginots in Spain and France. Good for them, I thought, just the sort of thing to do while building another record. Take some sun in along the Costa del Sol. Beats working the produce section at Hy-Vee, detassling corn or bussing tables at Culver’s.

I looked out over the PC screen, out through the picture window at what was once a field – the Jamessen sorghum crop now being commandeered by bulldozers and carpenters for a new subdivision or vinyl-sided mini mansions, soon to be choke full of plasma television glow. Our little corner of Iowa was in to displaying prosperity by plowing under the sorghum and growing consumers instead. I shook my head out of this tape loop.

Would the family like to make the trip to Glastonbury? Imagine: from Cadeville, Iowa with all the Mod Cons.

No, no. Rock is for the kids.

My new mantra.

Note: Apparently, Polk was the President when Iowa became a state in December of 1846 (beating neighboring Wisconsin by almost two years). 1846 also happens to be the year of incorporation for Cadeville, which, I guess, explains why we have a statue of a slave-owning one-term president from Tennessee in our midst.

Significant Music Side Bar #4:

REM -- Radio Free Europe -- Sure you couldn’t understand a word Michael Stipe was singing and the production was a bit weedy, but man was it fresh, inspiring and urgent. There was such promise in this sound. A return to basics, this music was an excellent counterweight to new wave with all its sythesizers and hair cuts and to punk with all its noise and hair cuts. Hearing it made you want to read Faulkner, suddenly wear FFA jackets and make little art projects. For me, it made me want to write. This song immediately drew me to REM and I’ve been under their spell on and off ever since. At the stage I was at in my college career (freshman) when I first heard Radio Free Europe, I was ready to be some sort of artist. It beat being an Ag major, which is what I was at the time and the artiness of Stipe’s voice and rootsy Americana of Peter Buck’s guitar all carried along by the pulsing bubble and bang of Mills and Berry grabbed at my lapels (if I would have had lapels). The music conjured strong imagery in me and the urge to write materialized quite out of thin air. I also wanted to be in a band like REM and heard nothing in Radio Free Europe that was out of reach – except for the talent part, of course.

- Part Two -

Interstate

We’re taking Stella off to college, an endeavor filled with difficult emotions. Isabella is stretched out in the back seat reading a Melissa Bank novel, Stella stares out the window listening to any number of possibilities on her iPod. I am left with Interstate 80 sweeping beneath the car attempting to tranquilize me as I gently hold the steering wheel at 10 and 2. Off to school she is going. Our youngster. The smart little girl got herself into a smart little school in the rolling hills of Southestern Ohio. Aspiration placed her there and I admire it, because when I was her age I applied to one school just 83 miles from the door of the family home and was relieved to be accepted for being the mediocre intellectual presence that passes in much of America as above average.

Now there she is across from me. Ambitious about her education like I never could have hoped to be and I am thankful she received Isabella’s school genes and not mine. We have some six hours of driving in front of us and I should think we should fill this time with witty conversation about expectation and anticipation, but then reality quickly sets in. We’ve been over all that and feel certain Stella is prepared for what a small liberal arts college may unleash upon her. Our small town girl from Eastern Iowa will be thrown into a fondue kettle with rich kids from New York and hippie kids from Tukwila. The result of this, I am sure, will be Stella never returning home again in any permanent fashion. We sense internships at glamorous-sounding organizations in hip, fast-paced locations sounding faintly exotic.

And what will college mean for her musical tastes? Will she become a more focused, disciplined music listener? Will she finally come around to see jazz as more than just music for music’s sake?
Stella is reading my mind again. She removes her ear buds. "When you went to college, what did you most want to avoid hearing from your parents?"

I gave her a look and out the corner of my eye I could see that Isabella had put her book down. "Um. Well. I can’t really remember way back that far."

Isabella huffed with a humor designed to discredit as well as reassure me. "Come on old man."
Mom and dad took me down to Iowa in the new pick up. I felt privileged that Dad was willing to put 166 miles on the new rig just to deliver me to college. We unloaded next to the dumpster at Reinow. The entire time we made our trips between the truck and the sixth floor, I hoped to not receive the same lecture my older brothers had upon their departures -- a standard "man-to-man" aside regarding the dangerous charms of smoking, college girls and any combination of the above. My father labored under the notion college life still resided somewhere in the rumble seats of the twenties, forgetting the presence of hard drugs and alcohol that flowed not unlike the falls at Niagara. For all my Mother’s silence, I knew she had a better grasp of what lurked in the halls of Reinow and beyond as she at least had a year under her belt at Grinnell and had listened more closely to my brothers accounts of life on their various campuses. But my Dad? He took nothing in other than what John Chancellor told him everynight at 6. "Okay, okay, I think I dreaded the sort of conversation, or, um lecture, we gave you right around the sixth grade."

"Oh gawd." Stella swooned before laughing. "Come on. It was the eighties."

"Exactly," is all I could think of saying. "Just say no was the official policy of the land." I grinned.

"And that worked so well didn’t it Isabella?" I looked into the rearview mirror in time to see her roll her eyes.

"So you were afraid of having a chat with Grandpa about the birds and the bees." She shook her head. "Sooo?"

"Sooo, what?"

"Did you have it?"

After putting my final box of records on the dorm bed, I remember turning to my parents half expecting them to sit down and stay awhile, maybe give me my lecture in some folksy, Iowa way. "When the last box of stuff landed in my dorm room, Grandma and Grandpa couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Grandpa actually had his hand on the door knob."

Stella didn’t think this image very funny. "I hope you guys won’t just dump me."

"No chance. I think the fire in the trash chute sort of got on my Mom’s nerves a little. I mean, the very first thing we see when we got off the elevator on my new floor is some guy pulling the fire hose out of the glass cabinet and pulling it over to the trash chute. It was about five minutes of chaos and then everything suddenly went back to normal. By the third trip from the truck all we saw was a fireman with a flashlight looking down the chute, my fellow students went about the business of unpacking and tossing hacky sacks down the hall. It was enough to freak Grandma out."

"Interesting, and she’s the cosmopolitan," Stella made quotation marks in the air and shook her head, "of the two."

"Yes, well." I shrugged. "The fact it was about a 1000 degrees centigrade in the dorm may have caused a hasty retreat. I think they wanted to get back to the polar winds blowing from the truck’s air vents. Anyway, they left and I never learned anything about sexual relations until I met your mother." I grinned in what I imaged to be a comical way.

Isabella made a face at me via the rearview mirror.

"I want you guys to stay as long as you like at Aversham."

"Ha!" I guffawed. "I doubt that."

"Hey. I’m not kidding. I mean, sure a part of me wants to get on with it, doesn’t want my parents around for a second longer than necessary. What kid wouldn’t feel that? But, you know, I am, well, it’s a long way back to home. It’s hard. It’s like when I went to Kindergarten."

"You remember that?"

"Miss Francis was, like a hundred years old and all. And it was all day long and I didn’t see you guys."

"Yes, but now you have a cell phone and a lap top and an iPod and something resembling maturity."

"You think?"

Isabella scooted up. "Stell, remember, you’re there to experience. Sure to learn and do good stuff. But above all, your dad and I want you to experience. Safely I should add."

"And you really can’t begin absorbing the world staying at home." I added. "Don’t worry too much about results. At least at first." I shot a glance over to see her smiling ever so slightly. It seemed like the best place to leave any attempts at parental advice. And we’re still two states away from campus.

Significant Music Side Bar #5

Husker Du -- It's Not Funny Anymore – I’d heard a fair bit of punk and had liked it okay. Then I heard Husker Du. "Don’t worry about the results or the effect it has on your career." Well, I did worry about it. I worried a lot about many things. But somehow, once again, as with many of the others on my list of significant music moments, this song showed me another world. The whole EP, ‘Metal Circus’ was amazing. It stood head and shoulders above everything else as far as I was concerned and so I became a huge Husker Du Fan. It’s Not Funny Anymore was a glimpse of what was to come -- powerful pop-laced post punk that spoke directly to me. Husker Du seemed to have an endless array of these songs speaking to me as I attempted to ready myself for the "Real World." When I finally saw them live, I’m pretty sure I had a religious experience when they played It’s Not Funny Anymore. I wanted to move up to Minneapolis, take up a "Flying V" and not care about the results.

Union

I was coming out of Nistelrooy’s Hardware when out of a fit of civic pride, I decided to cut across the town square to stop in at the library. This is hardly newsworthy, but for the fact that as I crossed in front of the courthouse, I ran into Ethan and his fiancee, a lanky girl named Senja (from Espoo, Finland as if there could be any doubt). I found her piercing blue eyes almost as unsettling as her threadbare Poison concert shirt. Ethan had just secured a license for their union. "Congratulations," I said after introductions, attempting to recalculate his age, back-dating from that long ago performance at the talent show. "So where’d you two hook-up?"

Ethan beamed. "On a barge in Paris."

"A barge?" An image of giant Mississippi barges hauling piles of coal southward came to mind.

"Man, it was crazy. Middle of the night. We had gone with our French distributor to see this group of Iranians perform on a barge. Like, I don’t know, what, maybe two in the morning? We had done a good show there, y’know one of those mystical nights where everything works and were really up for it." [I felt like part of the "in" crowd as Ethan assumed I knew what he meant by a mystical night on stage where everything goes right]. "So like, we’re down in the barge and through the clouds of cigarette smoke there she was." He leaned out away from Senja and motioned with his arms not unlike a game show hostess displaying a new washer and dryer combination. "She was a little too amazed with the Tombak player.

"But then there was up on the deck where the candies were bought." She smiled demurely, then added for ironic charm, "Ah, beneath the stars, waiting for the night bus after being left by the rest of the band."

"She’s a sucker for Turkish taffy. Next thing I know, she’s got credentials and is in The Garage’s dressing room with her cousin orchestrating an outing to some Chicken Balti place in Camden Town." Ethan laughed as he gazed at Senja with a thoroughly enraptured expression. "Weird stuff."

Senja put her hand on his chest. "Making a jealous man by flirting with Cory."

"Cory." He repeats flatly before looking at me. "Right. The always dynamic and intimidatingly tall guitarist for Crack Addicts of Yorkville Unite."

"Oh. Right. Of course." This was all a bit too world party kid for Cadeville and I wondered what Mr. Bricks & Mortar was doing back in the humble Midwest. "So, besides the obvious," I pointed to the envelope, "what brings you all the way home?"

Ethan’s face suddenly lost its brightness. "Well, um, didn’t Kirsten tell you? My Dad has, he’s been diagnosed with cancer, Mr. Carraway."

This was horrible news to get on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse on a sunny day amidst jet-set lovers. "I am really sorry to hear that, Ethan. We haven’t seen too much of Kirsten since graduation. Stella is at Aversham these days, but over the summer I guess everybody was working and …" I lost my train of thought, then remembered the shattering news. "Anyway, tell me about your Dad. Is he going to be, well, okay or …"

"He has been going down to Iowa City for treatment. But we don’t really know if it’s going to work. Modern medicine is pretty amazing and all, but there’s still a lot of mystery." He looked at Senja. "At least he’s into Senja here. He and Mom have really rolled out the welcome mat this week. I’ve got one more week before I have to go to Vancouver and start work on our next project."

Caught by surprise with the terrible news I didn’t know where to go with the conversation. I did not want to intrude on the family crisis, certainly did not want to ask about trivial matters like music, though truth be told I really wanted to ask what listening to Iranian’s play music in a barge on the Seine at 2 AM in the morning was like.

Significant Music Side Bar #6:

Joy Division – Shadowplay -- I have noted that I didn't find room for U2 on the list and this bugs me, because they were an important part of my mid 80's. But really, I had to soul search a bit and really it came down to what effected me more, New Year's Day or Joy Division's Shadowplay? I had to face the fact that Joy Division radically altered my thinking towards music and U2 really did not. U2 altered my fashion sense maybe and how I viewed delay effects on guitars and fed into my European travel dreams. But man, Joy Division brought me to a different place musically. It was dark and cool and decidedly in the basement of all our subconsciences. There was this sudden need to record music, though I really couldn’t play anything other than the E chord on a Woolworth’s guitar (but this took me a long way using Joy Division as a touchstone). They conveyed minimalism to me and Ian Curtis had a fine habit of being down right haunting, perhaps even vaguely gothic in some industrial way.

I stammered. "We’ll be thinking about your family. If there’s anything we can do, let …"

"You know, I think it would be cool if you paid him a visit, Mr. Carraway. To talk about music. He won’t with me. He has his reasons, I guess. You’ve always been so supportive and all and grew up with the same music my Dad did, he’d be into it."

"Really?"

"I used to think he had left all that far behind him. Or, I mean, like, the history stuff, not the business stuff, because his advice has been totally right on for the band. But he never would talk about the eighties. But I get this sense he’d be into it right about now."

"Well, I don’t know. There are few of us who are willing participants in nerd-like behavior."

"There is that word again, Ethan. Nerd." Senja spouted, then went on. "I hear this word and can not have the understanding." Her accent was not very strong, but the way she assembled her words amused me.

I smiled at her. "It means complete focus on useless trivia. I mean, in my case anyway."

"Oh, Mr. Carraway, that’s so wrong. Music is art and you can never know too much about art, about how it’s, you know, put together and all."

Senja snickered and hooked her thumb into the belt loop of her low riders. "Ethan you amuse me. All the things you have memorized is not the art. Who played what and when did they play it and what company made the music available to the world, to us. Those things are not the art."
Ethan looked at Senja and then at me. "Now you see why my Mom and Dad just absolutely love her. She won’t let me get away with anything." He looked at me again. "What are you doing right now, Mr. Carraway. Do you have time for coffee at O’Brien’s?" He nodded towards our one and only venerable coffee institution located directly opposite the door to the jail. "I’d like to convince you to visit my Dad."

Talk

Seeing Calvin at his home turned out to be easier than I expected. Because of the kids, we had a certain initial bond, but as it turned out he seemed to relish the opportunity to talk with someone other than the usual circle. I quickly realized that he had the same thirst for friendship I did.
He sat in a huge easy chair, hooked to several intimidating home health devices. "You know the hardest part about being sick?"

"I don’t know. What?"

"The family."

"Family?"

"Not the wife and kids, the immediates. No, it’s all the rest of them you try studiously to avoid. But you can’t when you have something like this. Anyway, I hate family gatherings. You know, people who think they know you but haven’t a fucking clue?

I thought about this as Calvin drifted off, his eyes looking out the picture window at the birds swarming a thistle feeder. Looking at Calvin wincing from pain was an altogether different experience, yet not too far removed from how many feel when they go to big gatherings of vaguely familiar relatives.

"You know Kirsten said something to me after I had surgery the first time. She said that she was really sad in the hospital not because I was going to die, but because the illness was really bringing us all together so tightly. It filled her with sadness to see that it takes a drastic illness and hearing death’s call in order for such intimacy to come out." Calvin looked at me. "Well, I’m sort of paraphrasing. But that’s a pretty profound observation for an eighteen year old to make." He smiled. "I told her that there shouldn’t be any question regarding the tie that binds us. We had a long talk about the relationships and she said she felt so much better after we’d talked about that. She learned a lot about me right then. I told her she has a terrific future in psychiatry. She wrinkled her nose at me and went, ewe."

This information had special significance to me, perhaps because the exchange they had was the type I wish I could have had with my parents. "Yes. We regularly get that reaction out of Stella. The wrinkled nose treatment."

"How’s she doing? We miss her being around."

"She loves Aversham. She loves college a little too much for my tastes. She’s going to end up being a perpetual student."

"Working at Kinko’s with Yo La Tengo on the iPod."

I laughed at this sharp, insider-type observation. "Well, maybe not Yo La Tengo, but something appropriately obscure I am sure."

"My God kids are amazing. Understatement, right? I think about the time of my life when I couldn’t imagine having them and, like a lot of that back then, I just can’t understand my thinking. Now I can’t fathom a world without Ethan and Kirsten. You think I have a certain level of despair now? Ho, ho, can you imagine if I didn’t have those two?"

I felt despair was a remarkable word for Calvin to use. He certainly did not appear to be completely defeated. At least I hoped it was not futile. This part of the world was in short supply of decent parents, production managers, all around good eggs and former punk pioneers who kept the roses pruned.

"I have so many salient observations now that I’ve almost had it. But there’s nothing like those that you get from your kids. It’s so much better when you can think of it as a reflection of yourself."

"That’s an interesting statement in itself. I agree with that. It makes sense. It’s like when Stella was young I was always worried about certain misbehavior on her part. Then one day I stepped back and asked, why am I sweating this so much? Ah-ha! Because maybe it reflects on me and Isabella."

"Yeah, we can all be regular wise men now." He readjusted himself in his chair. "I’m actually working on being as unselfish as possible. It's hard for someone with this. I got to be selfish with time. With not wanting strange cousins and such stopping in and dotting on me for no good reason. But what I mean is that I am trying terribly hard not to just say exactly what I think. Even more so than when I thought I had lots of time on my hands."

"I don’t follow." I said this, but then suddenly understood his basic idea. "What you are saying is that the bluntness of the terminal can be selfish?"

"I think so. I think suicide is selfish, obviously and I think making demands about how your ceremony, your memorial or funeral thing should be handled is kind of selfish."

"Yet you complain about relatives coming around."

He thought about this while watching a small skirmish between house finches on the feeder.

"You’re right. I’m being hypocritical."

"I think you have every right…"

"No. No I don’t. Not in the least."

We sat for some time without saying anything else. Filled with admiration for his attempts at being candid, I wanted to reciprocate, yet felt all my attempts would be far, far shallower.

"Remember the Housemartins?" He suddenly asked.

"Socialists from, where, like, um, maybe Peterborough?"

"Hull, actually." He grinned slightly.

"Right. Why?"

"I admired them. Poppy, yet wicked underneath. It was effective. Sometimes, back when I was a real revolutionary I got this feeling we were doing more harm than good. You know, our views became useless, because we had narrowed the band of our frequency so much. Who listened to us other than the already converted."

"You have to rely on people making the jump beyond the antic and into the idea. Getting beyond the attention getting segment of the program. I’m not sure if pop music is equipped to do that very well. Maybe nothing is able to that in our post-sixties world."

We were quiet for a few minutes, then Calvin added, "Damn it. Now they’re stuck in my head.
The fucking Housemartins."

"The Smiths, light." I offered.

Calvin looked at me with a wry smile. "No, no. Not really. I don’t agree."

"Didn’t one of them end up turning himself into Fat Boy Slim?"

"Norman Cook."

"You know a lot about pop music."

"I think I know far too much."

"Is that possible? Can a person know too much about something, anything?"

"If only I could have done something with it."

I thought of Ethan and Bricks & Mortar at their debut four years before. "You did." Then I thought about the whole idea that rock is for the kids or whatever Ethan used to say to me, which did nothing to help assuage my vague guilt regarding youthful enthusiasms being harbored by a middle aged music fan. It was now obvious that being a music fan is a hopeless condition.

Backyard

"I am constantly amused with the revisionist history critics churn out." Calvin sat in an aluminum deck chair on his patio while I sat on their picnic table. He was having a rare beer, taking sips and trying to avoid the pain chain sawing its way through his body. We both knew the end for him loomed somewhere over the milo plants in the distance.

"You mean how once scorned artists turn up as genius later on."

He nodded. "I’m thinking of the Gin Blossoms. Here’s a nice pop band from Phoenix or, I suppose Tempe, to be more precise and when they had their hits, wow the scorn they generated. Then I read something lately in one of Kirsten’s Indie mags how they were a bastion of excellent power pop in an ocean of mediocre flannel. Or whatever. I personally didn’t give them much of a listen, but that’s just personal taste. Ah, I don’t know. I guess I am pissed whenever critics put down music or a band and say they aren’t any good. What does a critic know about putting music together?"

"I think you’re going out on a limb. I don’t see anything wrong with making a quality assessment…"

"…as long as the quality assessment isn’t based inversely on a group’s popularity."

I smiled. "Pop has always been that way. That’s no secret."

"What way?"

"You have to ascend to a lofty purch, atop consistent high quality and ambition to render immunity."

"Listen to you Professor Carraway."

"I don’t understand the mechanism working." I was suddenly embarrassed by my meandering obfuscation. "Maybe something about fashion and assumptions."

"The guys in that band wanted to make a buck and have fun. Isn’t that the motivation behind Pop music?

"Everyone can’t be making statements. There are few Bob Dylans."

"Only one that I know of. But that’s not the only criteria for quality."

"No, I know. My judge of quality is suspect at the best of times." I said this, but then realized I had no idea what I was talking about. "I don’t know how to judge whether something is crap, but I do know how to judge whether I like something or not. I wrote something about Coldplay couple months ago. I don’t know, I was fed up with the blow back on them. Like they needed defending."

"You need defending, liking them." Cal smiled. "Look the fast of the matter is that Pop music revolves around group psychology. What other people think matters, but on the other hand, give these people a fucking break."

I crossed my arms and tried to bear down on my previous line of thought a bit more. "I listened to REM’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi the other day for the first time in years. I distinctly recall not liking it much when it came out."

"Critics liked it."

"But when I listened the other day I was like, hey this is really, really good. I’m in a completely different place life-wise now so why should it be a surprise that I get a different take on it. I think that’s what happens to these critics too. A lot. They pull something out from in back of their bins and it suddenly says something to them based on current conditions. Or they’ve been able to bury the expectations they once had for a particular effort."

"Well, right. That’s true. It’s not that they discover new qualities in the music, it is that they’ve what? Maybe discovered something new about themselves?"

"That’s revisionism in a nutshell, right?"

"But then there’s irony that clouds the issue. Somebody like Nancy Sinatra gets some props and starts moving units again, because martinis and go-go boots become popular. So then it surfaces that Nancy Sinatra was ahead of her time or something."

"I’m not following."

"Ah, neither am I. Sometimes the drugs in my head. You know?" Calvin’s eyes became more distant than usual. "I wonder where Ethan and the boys are at the moment. We got an Email from him the other day. They were going to be playing in some hole in Warsaw." Calvin laughed.
"What a revision that is. When I was playing we couldn’t conceive a moment in time when playing a hole in Warsaw would be possible. Fucking Ronnie Reagan had his Pershing II missiles aimed at Warsaw." He looked down at his beer. "Could not imagine a time…and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know, Ethan, I mean. Being in a different, unimagined world."

Cup

I took Calvin over to O’Brien’s coffee house against the expressed orders. But he wanted desperately to get out and about again after being in the house, since last coming back from treatment in Iowa City. He was in a particularly poor mood, which was really the only way I could justify the breaking of rules. I would be in a poor mood if I were in his type of pain and state of less than easy mobility.

We settled into a booth towards the back door. "I can’t thank you enough for springing me from the house."

"Don’t mention it. Again. Please. If your lovely wife finds out I have taking you for a jaunt to purchase stimulant beverages, I’ll be grounded for life."

He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. "I know I need to store up what chips I have left to make it by Ethan’s wedding, but man, I can’t tell you how it is to be in the house day after day after."

"Are you and Kim excited about the big event?"

Cal shrugged. "I am so happy for Ethan. Senja is a delight. So funny. So perfect for the life of a young musician. But I feel a bit, well, daunted by the process of a wedding here in our little quiet town. Playing host to a contingent of Finns. It’ll be a trip. Mostly, it’s just going to be really difficult to be helpful to Kim. I mean, for me to be helpful. So she’s going to be having to coordinate much of it."

"What about Ethan?"

"He’s finishing up with the European leg of their tour, then he jets to Osaka, picks up Senja, then comes here. I thanked him for wanting to have the event here, because of, well, my situation, but advised him to do it in Finland. He said that Senja insisted on it being here."

"Thoughtful." I took a big swallow of Mozambique Peaberry dark roast.

"Yes."

"Who is doing the music?"

"It’s going to be some Finnish folk group from Telluride." He shook his head. "Globilization."

"What will be next? Mongolians blowing water buffalo horns?"

"Listen to you suddenly sounding as though you’re 60." He gave me a smirk I hadn’t seen before.

"I am pretty uncool when it comes to wedding music."

"Traditionalist."

"There are worse things to be called."

Calvin nodded. "I suppose." He took another sip. "Were you ever in a band? I don’t think you’ve ever said, but the way you can carry on, it seems like it."

He was a good five years older than me, but he suddenly sounded to me like an elder, a Yoda of Cadeville asking some penetrating question. I grimaced. "Define your terms?"

"Oh for fuck’s sake. Did you ever stand up and make music in front of anybody? What do you mean, define your terms?"

"Well, hell. I didn’t expect you to get so bent out of shape. Look at it from my point of view. Music nerd has to fess up to punk icon that his band once covered one of their songs."

Calvin smiled. "I will alert ASCAP."

"Mostly, we did a bad imitation of The Gun Club."

He nodded approval. "What was this project called?"

"We were the Lightening Terns. Lightening with an E, as though we were shedding weight as we flew."

"College boys."

"College boys and girl."

"Girl on bass, I bet."

"Uncanny guess."

"That was the thing in the late eighties, right?"

"Was it?"

Calvin shrugged and looked towards the front of the store, quiet for a few moments. "So what happened to the Lightening Terns?"

"We discovered that the market for a band such as ours in Iowa City was limited. Very narrowly defined was our fan base."

"Did you wear those knee high boots that Jeffrey Lee Pierce used to wear?"

"I think that may have been part of the problem. One of fashion or a lack thereof. We lapsed away from these roots and started to play sort of like The Leaving Trains. Then we wanted to be Mercury Charge."

"I’ve heard of them."

"So in the space of about six months, we went from affecting an LA sound to that famous Mercury Charge Bay Area punk swagger."

"Right up the 101." He straightened his back after a slight wince of pain. "I think you’re much too hard on your old band. Why be so critical? Think about this. At least you tried something. At least you went out in front of people – I mean I presume there were a few people anyway – and expressed yourselves. Granted, you tried to express yourself with other people’s music, but nevertheless…"

"That’s what I have always told myself. Makes it sound very nearly noble, or, I don’t know, like art or something."

"Does it?"

"I’m looking for a silver lining in my confession."

"I think you will always meet with a certain level of respect from musicians if you’ve had experience performing. It’s time well-spent. Usually. Good for the, um, soul?"

"You think so?"

"Maybe I am being a bit too positive, or optimistic."

"No, no. Please. Continue on. It’s encouraging to know that my time in back of a microphone drunk off my ass and singing Always Between Wars wasn’t a complete waste of time."

Night

When the phone rings at 1:00 AM not much good comes into the head in the first flashes of consciousness after the sleep slips away. Isabella’s first word was "Stella." I sat bolt upright and picked the receiver up, sounding a bit crisper than I should have with my, "Hello?"

"Nick? It’s Kim Federer."

Indeed it was and she sounded close to frantic, but holding it together so far, despite what I guessed was a sharp down turn for Cal. "Yes, Kim. Is it Calvin?"

"No, no. Ethan. Royce, from Comet just, I mean, their manager just called. There’s been an accident."

A split second of relief was immediately replaced with a deeper horror. "Is he alright? Are they…"

"He’s in a hospital in Stockholm. The road manager and um a keyboard player for The Indivisibles…killed."

Look, I have to leave to get to him right away. Kirsten is in Chicago. Can you come by and be with Cal?"

Schedules, deadlines, sleep, cuddling with Isabella (a cherished morning ritual) all swept away immediately. "Of course, of course. I can be over in a few minutes."

"Great. I have a morning flight to London with a connection so I can get to him pretty fast. Kirsten is coming with me."

"Okay, look spare me the detail. I’ll be over and Calvin can tell me."

"I wanted to call his brother in Des Moines, but he asked me to call you."

"Kim. It’s no problem. I’m happy to help." I was honored to help, but that really didn’t occur to me at that moment. Only when I was driving over to the house did I suddenly feel a great sense of fellowship, maybe even kinship.

She let me in through the garage. As she shrugged her coat on she gave me a quick tour of the medications assembled between the sink and the refrigerator. "Calvin is asleep right now and will probably stay that way for another hour. He knows you’ll be here for him so it won’t be like some sort of surprise."

"I’m glad he could get to sleep."

"He’s heavily medicated. Otherwise he’d be still trying to convince me he should go over too."

She paused awkwardly and stared out the kitchen window. "I won’t be able to make it over to Stockholm before Ethan wakes up from surgery, but…" She shook her head and looked down at her feet. "I’ll be…I need to get going."

"I’ll be here and however I can help, just let me know."

"Thank you so much. My cell phone number is on the fridge."

She left without any further instructions or frivolous banter. Dark and quiet, the house offered little in the way of diversion. I stood in the kitchen not knowing what to do with myself, how to avoid speculating about the accident, about the shape of Calvin’s mind when he wakes up or how would manage to be of use.

I walked into the family room where their desktop computer sat on a small desk, its screen still displaying a news story from the Guardian about the accident.

One member of the rock group, The Indivisibles and the road manager for American rockers, Bricks & Mortar were killed in a coach accident on a Swedish highway last night. Six other members of the tour remain in hospital after the bus they traveled in struck a parked vehicle on the E4 between Stockholm and Helsingborg. The victims, identified as Joe Jordan, 20 of Didcot and Sam Wessey, 41 of New York, New York, were thrown from the coach after it flipped on to its side after swerving and striking a bridge support.

Both The Indivisibles and Bricks & Mortar had completed a show in Copenhagen, Denmark and were to perform at Sockholm’s Club Mondo this evening. The accident occurred at 0220 GMT in clear weather conditions making …

"Anything new?" Calvin said as he made his way down the dark hallway. I pulled myself away from the screen, straightening up to watch as he emerged, a halo of darkness surrounding his thin self swaddled in a dark blue terry cloth robe. "I think the kid will be alright." He did not look good. Which is, in his advanced state of illness, an understatement. Of course, I have a different perspective than most."

"There was something up on the screen. I guess Kim did a quick search. Before leaving Here. Sit down." I motioned to the sofa. "Um, are you supposed to be out of bed this early?"

He shuffled over to the sofa and eased himself down. "Fuck it. I was laying there listening to Kim throw herself together for a flight to London, knowing there wasn’t anything for me to do, but continue to look as hopeless as possible. And, you know, I could not keep The Decemberists out of my head. Fuck, I hate when a band invades."

"Really?"

"But, you know, it makes sense. I mean, they have that maudlin, Victorian gothic ethos running full tilt. I’m nearly dead, so why not be literary about it."

"Either that, or you have a fondness for Chimney Sweeps."

He wiped imaginary crumbs from his lips and chuckled. "You mean Chimbley Sweep."

"How can you be so calm? Calm enough to continue to name check a wide degree of pop bands. Jesus, if Stella were involved in an accident, I would be mental."

"Well, obviously, I have a significant level of pain killer in my blood stream, anti depressants, all that, so my senses are dulled." Cal sighed. "I had a feeling that something would happen on this tour. That kid that did die was a smack addict, so he was doomed from the start. It would be either his brain landing on a Swedish bridge support or a bad score in Sheffield that did him in. I just really didn’t think there would be this carnage. Didn’t think of the second oldest cliché in rock. The tour bus crash."

"What’s THE oldest cliché in rock, then?"

"Come on, man. The overdose."

"Right."

"Do you know much about Ethan’s injuries?"

"Apparently he’s out of the woods, life threatening wise. But specifics are missing. I would bet I will have the complete story well before Kim even lands in London. The kid will be waking up later in the morning, after her flight leaves. So I’ll get a call from him or someone at Comet. What does it say that I am not handling this differently? If anything, my condition should make me even more fretful, uptight..."

"You said yourself the drugs have you numb."

He looked at me and nodded, then looked down at his lap. "He’ll be fine."

Bricks & Mortar had been on quite a roll, a veritable avalanche: supporting their fourth album, which had just been certified gold. The band resigned a management agreement with Comet Group on the verge of signing a big licensing deal with Protégé. Bricks & Mortar looked favorites to rock well on into the future. So now there would be several pots down on their career mix board. I wondered about Ethan’s wife. "Where is Ethan’s wife in all this?"

"Good question. Last I heard she was at their house in Vancouver. But then I heard something about her being in Singapore." He shrugged. "She’ll surface at the hospital at some point I’m sure. They’re crazy about each other." He put his hands in the pockets of his robe. "At least the last time I knew, they were a happy loving couple. But they’re kids. Global youth. Who knows from one day to the next? I am now sitting here hoping I am alive when Kim gets back from Sweden." Calvin looked at me with anthracite eyes. "I do not feel very well."

I went over to him and sat down next to him. "What can I do?"

He patted me on the knee. "Don’t worry. Don’t feel guilty if I keel over on you. Even if you were a wizard from M.D. Anderson there would be nothing you could do."

"Guilt hell. It’s not about quilt. It’s shelfish. It’s loosing someone to talk to about the loose drum production on Picaresque."

He huffed. "The fucking Decemberists again."

"A theme."

"Colin Meloy would approve."

"You think?"

"Call him up."

I actually considered this for a few seconds, then thought of something new to talk about. "Do you think that the album is dead? Is it even a relative term anymore? Album."

Cal sighed. "From a band’s perspective it is not dead. It will always be important to have songs collected and placed into context where they can be a marker in a band’s life span. The attitude and outlook of a group is put down at that point. Also you have to think of the economics of recording. Batching the process leads to economies of scale in the studio, mixing, mastering, etcetera. But from a marketing standpoint? It’s going to depend on the consumer. And we increasingly just down load our favorite bits and forget about the rest. It’s going real time and accelerating every year. That’s obvious."

"So what’s going to happen to the album? Will there ever be classic albums in the future?"

"Nothing will happen to the album. The document will still exist, but won’t be the economic engine it once was. Ethan and just about everyone else works on as many channels as possible, as many revenue streams as possible. Digital and physical units, streaming, merchandise, live performance, licensing, which is where he places a lot of his chips. Jesus, do you know that Bricks & Mortar has a holding company in the Netherlands? Ethan says you don’t have to pay tax on royalties there." He shook his head and shrugged. "There’s so many ways to control costs and places to go grab revenue now you have to be a damn business school grad to understand the P&L statements." This answer took a lot of wind out of Calvin and he fell silent.

I wasn’t sure if these sorts of large philosophical type questions were a smart way of conducting our conversations anymore. Those days seem to be slipping away for good.

Global

We had fallen asleep, because when I awoke, finally hearing the phone ring, the light coming through the windows had that clean, late winter slice to it. Scrambling to the phone I noticed Cal had fallen over on the sofa and slept deeply on his side. The caller ID read "Out of Area."

"Federer residence. This is Nick."

"Mr. Carraway? It’s Ethan." He sounded like he was down the street. His all the way from Sweden voice was void of any echo or hiss. Who was his cell phone provider?

"Ethan! Good to hear from you."

"Yes. Hi. Is my Mom there?"

"No. She’s heading your way. I suspect she is at O’Hare waiting to board."

"I can try her cell. She doesn’t need to come over. I’m okay."

"Define okay."

"A broken arm, cracked rib oh and they had to remove my spleen. Isn’t that weird?"

"Is it? I don’t know."

"Is my Dad around?"

"He’s asleep." I wondered how best to wake him. "You sound really good for someone who is recovering from surgery and is on the other side of the planet."

"Modern living. I can’t decide whether you should wake Dad or not. I mean, I can just call back. You know, he’s in a situation where he needs his rest."

"You think?" I didn’t mean that to sound sarcastic, but I think it did. "How are you, um, mentally speaking? You together?"

"Remarkable."

"You sound pretty okay."

"How’s Stella doing?"

This question took me aback somewhat. Weren’t we just discussing his injuries sustained in a horrible (and fatal for some) bus accident? "Um, oh, she’s doing well. She likes school. Lots of friends."

"Boyfriend yet?"

Again, another question that threw me. "Yes. Apparently. Some computer whiz from Louisville named Michael. We haven’t met him."

"That’s cool. Kirsten and I always thought of her as sort of another sister and I thought of her just a while ago and wondered what she was doing."

This turn of conversation would have been a major highlight for Stella if it happened three or so years earlier and I would have had the boldness to relay the inquiry to her. These days, I doubt she would give it a lot of thought. "That’s nice of you to think of her."

"All I can do here, right now, is think." There was a brief pause and Ethan said something to somebody, then returned. "You know something? As I was laying there with Caleb, a chunk of bus roof and the rest of his bedding on top of me, staring out the front of the bus through the broken windows, the bus laying there on its side, you know, totally fucked, I didn’t feel any pain. As I laid there in the strangest silence you can imagine, I asked myself, Ethan, are you satisfied?"

"Satisfied with?" I could sense that in his post-operative pharmaceutically enhanced head, he was going from reminiscence to the metaphysical without even checking the mirrors.
"Have I left anything behind? The planet is four or five billion years old and it will be another billion years or more before the sun goes supernova and makes rock music surplus to requirements. So, I mean, well, with history and all, will there be any history left behind? I laid there for who knows how long thinking I was a dead man. I could see the world through Dad’s eyes so fucking clearly. Accept, well, I didn’t have any pain. Or I mean I didn’t feel any. Shock and silence. And there was this apocalyptic scene in front of me. Like that old movie, Mad Max. Anyway, wow, like I have to say I’m satisfied. I think this is my religious experience. For me, God isn’t about fear of death. You know, like wanting ever-lasting life. God is about this all encompassing vastness. The huge expanse of infinity. It’s God. So. Like I said. I’m satisfied with my life."

"Satisfied?"

"Part of anticipatory grief, you know, I mean, me dealing with Dad dying…" I glanced at the sleeping Cal and wondered if he wasn’t sleeping at all. "…is making sure there aren’t any unresolved issues, feelings, questions, whatever. SO there’s been these long talks with him. And he always comes back to the theme of what do we leave behind? Are we satisfied with the body of work left to tell our story? With him, he’s happy with his marriage, proud of Kirs and I, happy with his work at the factory, with his earlier brush with fame. He laughs that at least his name comes up on Google as one of the first entries. That’s a joke now: how do we define a successful celebrity history? What the search engines do with you."

"So you’re happy with what you’d leave behind?"

"That’s what I can now say. I can also say I have a better understanding of what God is and yesterday, I don’t think I would have said that. I know I wouldn’t have said it. But I don’t fear infinity. I love and that’s good. I create and that’s cool. So I have stuff to leave behind."

"And you come up on Google now."

Ethan laughed. "Fuckin’ A."

"And what’s cooler than having a song used on an episode of Veronica Mars?"

He chuckled. "Plenty of things, Mr. Carraway."

"So should I wake your Dad? I think he’d want to talk with you." How often do you get to talk with your son about finding God, I thought?

"I think I will call my Mom and then call back there. She really does not need to come over."

"You won’t convince her otherwise. She called me up and installed me and drove out of here like shot from a canon."

A brief pause during which I thought I could almost make out some cell site interference. "I’m glad you and Dad have become such good friends. That’s another good thing he’ll leave behind."

"He said the other day that he isn’t depressed or anything. And funny enough, I’m not frightened for him."

"He’s satisfied. The theory is that you only fear the inevitable if you haven’t done enough."

This struck me as hyper accurate. I recalled my own despair at the death of my father. There was still much unfinished business, many unsaid thoughts and emotions. Was he satisfied with what he left behind? What was my father's legacy? Farming 980 acres for fifty years? Sending my brothers and I to school where I delivered a mediocre performance while they learned to split atoms and calculate pi? Did he love Mom? This thought made my throat tighten significantly, because I did not have the answer to that important question. If I asked my Mom if Dad had loved her she would laugh and wave at me nonchalantly. Of course, dear.

I regained focus. "Ethan. Why don’t you try your Mom, then call back here in about an hour?"

"Yeah, okay. "

"Good talking with you."

"Take care. I’m out." The line went quiet, Ethan’s strangely buoyant tone replaced with line hiss. I hung up and looked at Calvin again. Was he breathing? Moving toward him I noticed his chest moving up and down and heard a slight whistle coming from his nose with each exhale.
I went to the kitchen to make myself busy with coffee so I would not have to revisit the topic of my parents, but it didn’t work. The question hung with me. Did Dad love Mom? It bothered me to have that question be just that. Something to question. Why was it even in doubt? That alone is sad enough. Then there’s the looming answer, which may very well have been or may very well be: No. As I scooped coffee into the filter of the machine it explained why there was so much drama in his last moments. The crushing fear and anguish he had. Dad was not satisfied with what he was leaving behind, which was doubt, missed opportunities, unfinished business.
I went to my coat and pulled out my cell phone. It was eight o’clock in Ohio where Stella attended college. I dialed her number. Inevitably – her voice mail greeted me. "Stella. Dad. Hey, I’m calling to say I love you and I’m extremely proud of you. Oh, and you’ll probably see somewhere that Ethan was involved in an accident in Sweden, but I just spoke to him and he’s fine. Okay, well, um, have a good day and we’ll talk with you soon."

Immediately, I dialed Isabella.

She picked up immediately. "What’s going on over there?" I could here the tea kettle whistling accompaniment to the toaster as she orchestrated a breakfast, of some type while getting ready for work.

"Ethan just called here from Sweden. He sounds fine. A little metaphysical, but okay. I’m letting Calvin sleep, because Ethan is going to call back after he tries Kim, who I would suspect is waiting for that morning flight to Heathrow."

"So have you spoken with Calvin?"

"We talked for a while shortly after Kim had left, then he went back to sleep."

"What did you talk about?"

"I can’t remember. The Decemberists?"

"Jesus." She muttered before crunching down on some toast.

"No, no, we didn’t talk about the son of God."

"Keep me in the loop."

I smiled at this phrase. "In the loop. I don’t think you’ve ever said that before. It’s funny."

"It’s silly. But it popped into my head to use. Say, why do you sound so cheery?"

"Do I?" I thought about it for a second. "I guess I do. Maybe having a pal that relies on me is a good thing."

"I rely on you and so does Stella."

"Of course. You are my family. My closest companions. But it’s different."

"Is it?"

"Maybe what I am saying is that it is good to have lots of people rely on you, me, um, you being a general pronoun here. More like second person narrative."

"I understand without all the explanation."

"The very definition of a long term relationship."

"What is?"

"Understanding without lengthy explanation."

"I don’t mind lengthy explanation unless I am getting ready for work."

"So noted." I glanced at the clock on the microwave. "I will keep you in the loop!"

"Thanks."

I folded up my cell phone and poured some coffee. Isabella always knows exactly how to bring a smile to my face and can always cut through some of my meandering thoughts so well. Yes, the
very definition of a long-term relationship.

Significant Music Side Bar #7

Mercury Charge – Bay Bridged – This is a late entry. I re-examined MC after many years and got stuck on this car crash of a hardcore tune. I was taking another look at this band, because a friend of mine, no, a close friend of mine played bass guitar for this particular, seminal West Coast punk band. Examining sexual politics by using a chainsaw as part of the rhythm section, the group pushed everything to a logical and sometimes violent conclusion. This song came on their third and best release and displayed a mighty, buzzy, loose low end that somehow incorporated the chainsaw whine so perfectly, to an untrained ear, you’d swear it was MC’s first (and only) use of a synthesizer. Being able to access and understand this song and get what the band was attempting to say announced to me that I had become a more mature music listener. Yesterday my friend who had been in this band, died. In our many hours of talking about music he always came back to a central belief. That rock music was for the kids. At this point, Cal, I am here to say, that this music, this visceral, complex abstraction of cultural commentary was and is by no means for the kids. Rock music in all its infinite varieties has the potential to change individuals and entire cultures. You should rest easy up on the brow of an Iowa ridge for eternity knowing that.

Wake

"I hope you aren’t too down about not being a pall bearer?" For some reason, I watched Kim’s mouth as she asked me this, buzzed as I was on wine.

"No, no. Please. That’s…"

"We just had a lot of relatives to think about. People who didn’t have a hand in his, well…" The corners of her mouth turned down and she ran her tongue along the bottom lip. "You did so much for Calvin, for me."

I looked at Isabella who was looking at me. "It was a real pleasure to become friends with Cal this year. He means a lot to me."

Kim gave my forearm a squeeze. "Well, I can not even begin to tell you what it’s meant for Cal to be able to talk with you about music." She leaned closer to Isabella and I. "He never would talk with Ethan about it. A point of principle I never understood." She straightened up. "And everything else you used to talk about. You were an impartial observer or someone not weighed down by family history. Yet, you know, you guys had a lot in common."

"Friends are God’s consolation for families." I stated. "Someone said that or I read it someplace. I can’t remember who it was though."

Isabella gave me a playful elbow. "Thanks a lot."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" She smiled ever so slightly.

"I think that’s a Jay McInerney line." Kim suggested.

"Oh terrific." I let my shoulders drop. "Now I’m quoting New Yorkers."

"There are a few worse things, Mr. Carraway." I heard a hoarse voice say from behind us. I turned to find Ethan holding a coffee mug that read Wisconsin Dells across it.

"You think?" I grinned. "I could quote lyrics from that funny pop band, who is that, you know, the ones from Iowa that say they're from Vancouver…"

"Ha, Ha." He switched his mug out of his right hand and extended it for a shake. "You have no idea how much easier it is to say Vancouver."

I gave his hand a firm shake. "We’re sorry for your loss." I could not think of anything else to say, which is pretty pitiful.

Ethan shrugged. "We were prepared. As best we could be. I wish I could have pulled a Bono and flown in every day to keep the man company. But oh well, we can’t all have a Gulfstream V gassed and ready on the tarmac." He took a sip from his cup. "It kind of helps me that Senja is pregnant." He looked beyond our group, across the room to where Senja was digging a chip into a huge bowl of dip sitting on the dining room table. "She demanded that we release the news, even though it is really early."

I turned back to Kim as Isabella touched her arm. "Grandma. How do you feel about this news?"
She smiled broadly and leaned in towards Isabella. "As a young widow, well, young-ish anyway. Ha-ha. I feel intimidated by the thought of being a grandparent."

I turned back to Ethan. "Amazing news."

He beamed. "It is isn’t it?"

Charade - Chapter Thirty Five

So far, Michael had resisted his cell phone and perhaps the two dozen text messages he knew would be on it from his sister and Rebecca. Outside every window interesting things kept his mind occupied. His first ever trip on an airplane had taken him from Columbus, Ohio to New York LaGuardia. Out that window a dazzling array of clouds, other aircraft and the brown and gray carpet of land far, far below kept him occupied. Then, a taxi-cab, he could not believe it, but a real yellow taxi cab whisked him away from the terminal, off to Flushing. Not able to face being at home for the Christmas break and warned off going home with Rebecca (by Rebecca), Michael settled on accepting Cary’s invitation.

Beside him, Cary Grant effortlessly texted back and forth with Charlotte, having moved through the day so far with a practiced, cool elegance Michael found inspiring. "I can’t believe how jammed together everything is here. Everything is on top of everything else."

Cary did not look up from his screen. "Yes. Wonderful isn’t it?"

They fell quiet again as the taxi bounced along before slowing to a crawl on Northern Boulevard. Out his window Michael noticed the metropolis was everything he had expected and much more. Excited by it all he wanted to thank Cary again for buying his ticket or rather Cary’s mother, but he also knew his repeated thanks would get on Cary’s nerves. The taxi made a quick turn down a less busy street, then made two more, smoother turns on to a street lined with trees and narrow two story houses.

Cary looked up. "Here we are. Good old 152nd Street. Feels like only yesterday I left for college."

"152nd Street. Not great for your porn name, Cary."

"My what?"

"You know, you take the name of your first pet and the street you lived on when you were a kid to make a name. Rebecca told me about it. Her’s is Trixie Hillview. Isn’t that kinda hot? 152nd Street isn’t a very usable last name."

"I’ve never had a pet either, so it would be one of those names that is just a surname. Sting or Cher or something." Cary put his phone away anticipating arrival at the curb in front of his father’s place. "What’s your porn name?"

"Duke Fairlong."

"Nice." Cary leaned forward. "Right up here. Right passed the white car." The taxi pulled over. Cary immediately produced some cash and handed it through the window, then got out followed closely by Michael who pushed his backpack out first.

As they climbed the short flight of stairs to the door, Cary dug his key out of the pocket of his bag. "You know, these back pack things are darn handy."

"Yes, just one of the many conveniences you embraced this term, right?" They stopped as Cary worked to open the door. Michael looked around, taking a deep breath, then exhaling a large plume of condensation into the winter afternoon. "What are we going to do later?"

Cary finished with the final lock and pushed the door open. "I don’t really know. First thing’s first. We have to hang around a bit with my Dad." He stepped into the dark front hall, but held the storm door open with his foot for Michael. "Come on in."

They could see Cary’s father down the short, dim hall, framed by an arched passage. Tim sat reading the New York Times at the small kitchen table, but upon hearing the two boys, lowered the paper and looked at them over his large reading glasses. "Good gravy. It’s the scholars." He looked at his watch. "And right on time." Tim got up, tossed the paper aside and came through to them. "You both look as though you just landed on a steamer from darkest Africa."

Cary put his bag down. "It took about as long as that to get here." He hugged his father, noticing a brightness and energy about him. "You remember Michael."

"Yes, indeed. How are you? Welcome to Flushing." He shook Michael’s hand.

"Thanks. Glad to be here."

"Well, good, good. Glad you young men made it. Come in, please. Get comfortable." He led Cary and Michael into the small living room, rimmed with stacks of books and furnishings from what appeared to Michael as a late sixties garage sale. Tim picked up a stack of newspapers, which teetered high above a worn velour couch cushion. "Here. Sit. Look at you Cary. You look, well, I’m nearly speechless. You look like an average college kid."

"I’m trying to change a few things up…"

Tim interrupted. "Well, I approve. I approve! You look relaxed."

"Thanks. I am."

"Grades okay?"

"So far."

"Good, good. Well, can I get you boys anything? A beer? Some soda pop?" He stood waiting for an answer, holding the tall stack of papers.

Michael plopped down on the couch and watched as a cloud of dust enveloped him. "I’ll take a beer. Sure."

"And you son?"

Cary remained standing, still taking in the condition of the front room and the remarkably jolly attitude of his father. "Have any gin, dad?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. "Darn it. I knew there was something I needed to get at the store." He looked at Michael. "I stood for fifteen minutes staring at the dairy section trying to remember the one thing he asked me to get." He started to go back to the kitchen.

"Should’ve written it down."

Cary picked up a shoebox of index cards sitting on a wicker rocker and finally sat down. "No big deal. Just a Sprite or something. Whatever."

Tim called back from the kitchen. "Your mother left you her key. She’s over in Goa for a few weeks so she said if you wanted to use her loft for anything…"

Cary looked at Michael and shrugged, then called back to his father. "That’s pretty generous.
What’s that all about?"

"I think she thought you’d be coming home with your girlfriend, um, Charlene. Probably thought you’d need someplace to, well, you know, anyway. It’s in an envelope with Bilschein.
He has the floor above?"

"Right. I know who he is." Cary turned to Michael. "This is a bit of good luck. Mom’s loft is basically right across the river from Manhattan."

Tim came back into the room with a can of beer, which he handed to Michael and a glass of something fizzing, which he gave to his son. "Now, here’s your refreshment. There’s some cheese and salami in the fridge. I have to start getting ready to go out tonight. Something sort of came up. I meant to stay in and visit with you lads, take you to Pho Nuy for a spectacular Vietnamese dinner, but, alas, your old man has a date."

"Wow. That’s great." Cary took a sip of his soda happy to learn the excuse for his father’s constant, faint smile. "When was the last time you were on a date?"

Tim rubbed his chin. "I think Monica Lewinsky was a topic of conversation, so however long ago that would be."

"Hard to believe she would ever be a topic of conversation." Michael offered.

"Before her, I suppose it all was about O.J." Tim sighed. "So, I didn’t think it would be too much a hardship to release two young fellows out into the night."

"With the key to Mom’s loft." Cary put his soda down on a dusty magazine cover, which formed the top strata of an impressive butte of stacked publications. "So where did you meet up with someone that could be convinced to go out with you, dad?"

Tim smiled and rubbed his chin again. "I know, I know, I can not believe I fooled someone; a woman who speaks English! And by golly she has all her limbs too." He looked at Michael.

"Sorry. Bad joke."

Michael shrugged and popped his beer open.

Tim went to leave the room, then stopped. "The Entertainment section is out on the counter next to the sink. Thought it may interest you two."

Cary looked at his watch. "We’ll catch a train in."

Tim looked at Michael. "I know it’s a bit strange for you to arrive and your host to leave, but this sort of came up last minute and I am sure Cary will be an exceptional host." He paused, then turned to his son. "Well, I will leave you to your own devices, then." He started climbing the narrow, steep stairway to the second floor. "If you decide to stay at your mothers, just leave a message. Don’t want to have to call Jake out to go dragging the harbor."

Michael looked over at Cary who ran his finger along a magazine cover, plowing up a small pile of dust. "He has a very dark sense of humor.

"Yes, he most certainly does." Cary stood up. "Let me get the paper and you can see if there’s anything you want to do."

"The paper?" Michael leaned over and grabbed his backpack. "Let me at my old MacBook and we’ll…"

"Where do you think you are? My Dad doesn’t have any access, much less WiFi."

Michael pulled his laptop out. "Oh, I know. But someone around here does." He flipped it open. "Who’s Jake?"

"The police. My Dad likes to sprinkle his dialog with quaint terms like that. Shows he’s a man of the people."

"Oh." Michael waited quietly for his laptop to boot, taking a look around the room while sipping beer. "You know, I wouldn’t have pictured your home like this. I had some kind of image of, I don’t know, some huge apartment like you’d see on television."

Cary finished his cup of soda and looked around him. "It’s hard for me to picture this place too." He sighed. "And I lived here for what maybe thirteen years?" He rolled the empty cup back and forth in his hands. "My room used to be a little sanctuary of cleanliness and organization."

"Imagine that."

"Yeah, well, we’ll see in a minute what’s been done to it since I left in August."

"Okay, here we go. All sorts of signals here. Let’s see, this one looks good, WF Big Sal. Unsecured access" Michael pursed his lips and nodded. "Naughty, naughty."

"Sal Fromme, I bet. He lives across the street." Cary bent to look out the front window. "Right over there." He pointed toward a house with bleached pink shutters.

"The Most Serene Republic is at Mercury Lounge tonight." Michael looked up at Cary. "You’d actually like them. I know you would."

"Where is Mercury Lounge?"

"It’s on Houston." Michael pronounced the street like the city in Texas.

Cary nodded, not bothering to correct him. "Okay, there’s a cool bookstore on Prince Street. We could have some dinner, duck in there for a bit, then go to the show at Mercury."

Michael tapped away at his keyboard. "Oh here it is in Nearby Businesses. I think. McNally-Robinson? Looks like it’s just a few blocks."

"Any events this evening?"

"Nope."

"I hate when they have events and the place gets stuffed with pretentious, bearded guys in tweed and tennis shoes. So, this band you think I’ll like, do you like them?"

"Don’t know, really."

"Then why’d you say I would?"

"Because I’ve learned that you’d be more interested in going to a show if it would provide clues as to how I perceive you." Michael smiled. "Such a complex manipulation, don’t you think?"

"Oh, sure. You’re a real schemer." Cary looked at his watch, hearing the shower upstairs squeak to a start. "Let’s go. We can catch a bus over to the station to grab the Number 7. We’ll need to stop off at my Mom’s and grab the key, then go for dinner."

"The number 7?"

"Subway. It can take several moon phases to get into Manhattan even if you take an Express, but it’s pretty convenient. About thirty or so minutes and you’re in Times Square."

"Convenient if you don’t know how to drive."

"Particularly if you don’t have a license." Cary held up his finger. "I do know how to drive. Well, sort of. I mean, I grasp the concept. I’m licensed anyway."

Michael shook his head. "You should borrow Rebecca’s car sometime for practice."

"June? I wouldn’t dare risk it."

"She’s pretty relaxed about it. I’ve driven it a couple of times. It’s a fun car."

"That’s not what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"Charlotte wouldn’t care for it."

"Oh, right. Whatever."

"It’s a bit of a hike to the station, but not bad."

"You’re the tour guide." Michael closed his laptop and turned toward the front window.

"Thanks Big Sal. Appreciate the band-width."

"Let me run upstairs and tell my Dad we’re going and that we’ll stay at my Mom’s tonight." Cary started for the stairs.

"Sure, in case he wants to bring back the English-speaking woman who has all her limbs."

Cary stopped on the first step and looked back at Michael. "Please. Let me get used to the fact my Dad is even going on a date first. That in itself is huge news. No wonder he’s blowing us off. Anyway, the thought of it going beyond mere casual conversation over a bottle of wine is too much for me to contemplate."

Michael watched Cary disappear up the stairway. He thought about how far the two of them traveled during the past semester; the high comfort level and easy banter they enjoyed. The two now met in the middle on almost everything. Michael wanted to see a band, Cary wanted to go to a bookstore and so they would do both without any thought of excluding one or the other from an agenda. It was a typical example for decisions made every day they were together for the last four months. An unlikely pairing put together by what must be an extraordinary piece of software run by Residential Life. As he put his laptop back in its bag, Michael wondered what the parameters were for the program. How did it run the match, in there case, so perfectly? Was it an anomaly? He finished his beer and took it back into the kitchen, looking around for a place to put the empty can and thinking about how no one on the hall battled with a mismatched roommate or indeed how anyone had requested a room switch. Michael put the empty on top of the Times and went back to the couch. He and Cary ended up being a lot alike despite coming from vastly different backgrounds, having significantly divergent interests and outlooks. "How did they do it?" He muttered, just as Cary came back down the stairs.

"Okay, let’s go." They picked up the bags. "Dad seemed pleased we wouldn’t be back tonight, but I don’t think he plans on bringing anyone back to this." Cary looked around the more-than-a-little-grim living room and shook his head. "He would’ve called someone to come in and sandblast the place. No, I think he genuinely wants us to have a good time."

They left the house and took off down the sidewalk, Michael following. "Hey, I didn’t get to see your room. I wanted to get some perspective, learn more about what makes Cary Grant tick."

"From my old room?"

"Sure. Maybe."

"My old room wouldn’t help you very much, I’m afraid."

They walked quietly for a moment. "Do you miss Charlotte yet? Ha Ha Ha."

Cary glanced at Michael. "Do you miss Rebecca yet? Ha Ha Ha."

"How many texts have you had so far today?"

"I number somewhere between 20 and 200."

Michael snorted. "I bet." They reached the corner and were met with a lot of foot traffic along the busier street. "It’s hard to believe how we ended up with them. I mean, Rebecca, in my case, I guess. You know, I mean, she is way out of my league. Way, way out."

"Don’t put yourself down like that. Look at me. Charlotte is an upper classmen. Juniors aren’t supposed to date Freshmen."

"Dude, you look older than half the professors on that campus." They weaved around a large contingent of Asian gentlemen. "You certainly, like, totally act older than most of them."

"Thanks. But really. Michael. You shouldn’t feel like Rebecca is out of your league."

"I know. She keeps telling me I’m money and I don’t even know it. Or something like that."

"Listen to her."

"So how come you didn’t hook up with her?"

Cary bobbed his head back and forth, weighing how best to answer. "I think she is a bit too, I don’t know, in your face for me? Maybe it’s just a chemistry thing. I didn’t feel a connection immediately like I did and do with Charlotte."

"She said she tried kissing you once and you turned into an ice sculpture."

"Not the smoothest of moments for me. I gave her a peck back on the cheek, like she was a great aunt or something. I was trying to say thanks, but no thanks and everything is cool between us." He sighed. "Like I said. Not especially smooth of me."

"She got over it."

"Between you and me, of course, I think Rebecca would have discovered how much I really admired, how much I knew about the real Cary Grant. It would have thrown me for a loop, you know, being discovered like that. I wanted an opportunity to change myself without that being the reason. You see what I mean?"

"Kind of."

"Charlotte doesn’t try to figure me out or make connections, assume anything other than what’s in front of her. That’s given me the chance I needed to retool. Keep the stuff that really makes me, me. Let go of the superficial, while maintaining my self confidence."

"Apparently."

"Besides, Rebecca always has the pop culture reference thing right up front. I’m used to that, of course, but it still bugs me. Charlotte isn’t like that."

"Hey, but I am. Half the time I speak in old sit-com dialog or I spout some lyric from a song."

"Maybe. But we’re not dating. It’s a lot different." They stopped to wait for the bus. Cary looked up the street. "And anyway, no one is saying we ended up with anyone. I keep reminding myself of that. She’ll graduate next year and be long gone. Hard to see her sticking with me beyond that horizon."

"That’s sort of funny. You know, we’re living in the hook up age. The friends with benefits and all that. Reminders about how temporary a situation is seems so last century. You see what I’m saying?"

"Well, we do still have some differences don’t we, Michael? I do have to constantly remind myself about not getting too far ahead of where Charlotte and I are at any given moment and it seems like you are always waiting for the penny to drop."

"That’s all Rebecca and I have been doing the last month. Focusing on the next ten minutes, instead of the next day or month or whatever." They fell quiet for a few minutes and Michael studied a couple of newspaper racks at the bus stop. "Which is what you were saying about why you aren’t with Rebecca."

Cary looked at his watch. "What are you in the mood for, food-wise?"

"Whatever."

"I think we’ll do some Indian. I feel like a good curry would be nice."

"Was that a Cary Grant accent I just heard, my man?"

"Have you been watching DVD’s of my work lately?"

"Rebecca and I watched Charade and The Bishop’s Wife the other night."

"Bishop’s Wife? Interesting choice. My Dad has a thing for Loretta Young."

Michael stepped over a pulpy mass of old newspapers forming a small moraine on the sidewalk. "Which character is that?"

"The wife."

"Right. Hmmm. Hard to really pass judgement on her. You know, black and white and all. Funny hairstyles."

A bus appeared up the street. "And Charade? The best Hitchcock thriller, not involving Hitchcock."

"That’s exactly what Rebecca said."

"He let his hair show a little gray for that. You didn’t do that as a leading man in Hollywood at the time."

"You were such a radical. I mean, you know all this stuff, don’t you?"

"Apparently. Here’s our bus." Cary motioned. "The Number 15. You have change?"

Michael dug into his pants. "Think so. I’m not sure why you always claim you don’t know anything about that guy."

"I know. It’s kind of dumb now that I’ve had the chance to think about it and talk it over with Charlotte. I guess I was hoping that my whole character is of my own design. Don’t want to owe anybody anything for my style, I suppose. But the other thing that I can’t quite get at is how I wanted to maybe keep people from thinking they know me, know where I am coming from."

Michael shifted his backpack and looked at the change he pulled out of his pocket. "Sounds like you don’t want people to get to know you."

"That, my friend, has changed." Cary looked at his watch again. "Guess we should have just taken a cab directly to my Mom’s, but who knew she’d leave me the key to her loft. Lucky for us, I guess."

"She should have texted you."

"She doesn’t know I have joined the rest of the modern world as yet."

"Really?"

"But in a good way." He wondered what she would make of his outfit – a pea coat over an At Proper Distance T-Shirt borrowed from Michael’s pile, new old-looking blue jeans and appropriately scuffed shoes. "You should take a picture of me when we get to her place. I’d love to email it." He opened his arms wide as the bus snuffled to a stop and opened it’s doors. "The new me!"

Michael glanced down at his feet as they climbed aboard. "I think I stepped in some dog shit."

"Ah, perfect. Welcome to the greatest city on Earth."

Charade - Chapter Thirty Four

Cary sat at his assigned place in Mangum Auditorium, staring at the screen of his MacBook Pro. Fifteen minutes early for his Architecture & Society Final, he had set up shop, only to be greeted with a case of nerves. His rib cage vibrated faintly and his hands shook slightly. He wasn’t nervous about the test or the fact his entire grade for the class rested on it. Despite two weeks of getting used to working with technology and being expertly tutored by his roommate, Cary still worried about placing his academic wellbeing into the hands of a computer.

He sat back and stretched his arms, looking up into the high ceiling of the Architecture schools main lecture hall. An elegant space, as it would have to be, noted for clean, sophisticated mid century lines, exceptional lighting design and remarkable acoustics, the space seated perhaps 300. The seats were padded, retrofit ten years previous with work surfaces and plug-ins for power and network cables. His assigned position three seats in along the third row gave him a superb view of the lecture stage, with its glistening poplar flooring and contrasting gorgeous walnut lectern rescued from a pre-reformation Dutch church. Cary felt the space inspired and practically urged audience members to design well.

A smile crossed his face as his thoughts quickly shifted to Charlotte and her initial reaction to him using technology. They were in her room, Cary at the desk, typing on the laptop, Charlotte on her bed, facing him while reviewing for her Ethics final. She looked over her book with a look that caught Cary’s attention immediately. "What?"

"You know, I used to think your Luddite channeled via GQ approach to the world, well, kind of, I don’t know, sexy? But now, seeing you work that Apple laptop makes me want to jump on you."

Cary grinned, looking back at the screen that displayed entries on the Chemistry I Blog. "Oh, you’re just worked up after studying for four hours."

She got up, placed a bookmark in her reader and sauntered over to Cary, lifted her leg up, sitting herself down on his lap. "Believe what you want. I think it’s a clear manifestation of ambition. And ambition is very sexy." She kissed him.

Thurston Rosen sat down next to him and immediately started unpacking his laptop, bringing Cary out of his pleasant reminiscence. "I have sat next to you all semester, Cary and haven’t ever seen you with your laptop. I half figured you didn’t have one, but that’s a pretty fucked up assumption these days." He produced his Westec and put it on the work surface, plugging in and pushing the start button. "You can’t function these days without one."

Cary crossed his arms. "Oh, I don’t know. It’s not impossible."

"Are you logged in yet?" Thurston glanced at Cary’s screen. "Is that what I should be looking at?"

"Yes, this is the start screen apparently."

"Shit I hope he doesn’t ask anything about New Objectivity."

Cary felt certain Dr. Sweet would ask a lot about New Objectivity, perhaps even devote a third of the test to the movement. Cary knew Dr. Sweet wrote his dissertation at Columbia on Constructivism in the Soviet Union and had written important chapters in the text the school used for Arch 239 Contemporary Design. He had spent two lectures on the politicization of the Bauhaus school and another lecture and reading assignment from an article on Walter Gropius in Functionalism and Art. And if Thurston would have been interested, Cary could have directed him to Dr. Joshua Sweet’s authoritative biography of Bruno Taut. So Cary was not sure how to respond to Thurston’s concern. "Just remember expressionism and glass. Functionalism and the elevation of all levels of society. Oh and did I say, light? No, I said glass." Cary smiled to let him know it was meant to be a joke.

Thurston tapped in his network access to go to the class’ test site. "Gee. Thanks, man." He arrived at the same screen Cary had up. "So did you pdf your outlines?"

Cary shook his head. "No, I didn’t get around to that. I am going to rely on memory."

Thurston gave him a sideways look. "Whatever, man. You’re funeral."

"I suppose. But, I have a pretty good memory so I’m not too worried."

They sat quietly as the other 85 members of their lecture took their places. Cary tried to stay calm about his computer abilities and tried not to obsess on any one element of the semester’s worth of work in Architecture and Society. Finally, Dr. Sweet himself came in followed by his four teaching assistants. He bounded up on stage to the lectern while the TA’s went to the front of the stage, all holding, Cary noted immediately, stacks of blue books. Dr. Sweet always conducted himself as though a much older man, but Cary knew from his background work he was just 45 -- the same age as his father. While he went to Aversham for his undergraduate work, Cary’s father did not know him, both obviously traveling in significantly different types of orbit. This morning, Dr. Sweet looked refreshed and invigorated, actually appearing to be far younger, wearing a black turtle neck and jean jacket. The professor switched on the microphone. "Good morning."

A sleepy murmur of good morning returned from the audience made Dr. Sweet nod slightly and smile. "Well, I have a bit of a change in order for all you budding designers out there. Part of being a good architect is dealing with changes. Having specs altered or financial considerations radically shift. So part of today’s exercise will be to see how well we can cope without our technological crutch. The class began to murmur and whisper uneasiness. "My associates here will be handing out blue books and pens to everyone, but not until everyone has put their laptops away." Further complaining and some not so quietly done ensued. "Once the blue books and pens have been distributed, I’ll put up the three questions and you’ll have 90 minutes to get the job done."

Cary smiled as he powered down his laptop. Once again, he had been remarkably well served by his excellent study habits. And as it turned out, his lack of reliance on technology would pay dividends. He cracked his knuckles and waited for his blue book to arrive. Won’t Michael be blown away by this stroke of luck, he thought.

Up on stage, Dr. Sweet leaned casually against the lectern as his assistants began to work the room. "As some of you might be aware already, this semester is the last semester for the venerable blue book, ladies and gentlemen. It’s hard for me to get my old head around this, but that’s the edict anyway. There’s a lot of hand wringing about this over at A&S. A lot of English professors in a state of panic. But for me? For us? Well, an element of today’s Final is just plain old nostalgia."

"Nostalgia, my ass." Thurston Rosen muttered as he took a blue book and passed the rest to
Cary. "I busted my ass on my outlines."

"And before any of you think about complaining to the provost, remember, I’m not only tenured," he chuckled, "I’m the Dean of the School." He signaled to the back of the auditorium, presumably to someone in the control room and up on the screen above the stage flashed a header for the course. "So, assuming everyone has their blue book and pen, let’s have a look at your next 90 minutes." Three questions came up on the huge projection screen. "Keep in mind, you can answer these in any order, just indicate the question number at the start of your answer." He went to shut his microphone off, then stopped. "Oh, and good luck."

Cary looked at the very first question and could not help but grin.

1) What in today’s design fabric can be attributed to the modern architectural movement in 1920’s Europe as defined by Neue Sachlichkeit.

He then read the other two and considered them softball sorts of test questions that any good list-making student who had been present at Dr. Sweet’s lectures should be able to blow through. Cary could not believe that these were the questions for the Final. They seemed to him to be quiz material.

2) An Igloo is an example of vernacular architecture. Name four more examples and explain why you consider them vernacular.

3) What are the three principles of sustainable design and how do each influence planning?

After just 50 minutes, Cary closed his book, put his Dr. Sweet supplied pen in his shirt pocket and shook his writing hand. The test was his first blue book test and most likely, his last. Looking around he noticed a few of his classmates were looking finished, assembling their book bags and laptop cases. Cary did the same, then stood up. Thurston did not even look up as he continued to write furiously in what Cary thought of as second grader chicken scratch. He took his test up to the front and placed it in the box, noting that he was not the first to hand in his blue book, but probably the third.

Outside Mangum he found Charlotte sitting on a bench reading the Chicago Tribune. They didn’t say anything to each other until he had taken a seat next to her. She finished the story, collapsed the paper and handed him a tall coffee cup. "The new Fair Trade stuff from the Union. Thought you could use a Venti." She looked at him over her Sunglasses. "Soooo, you survived your first laptop final?"

"Nope. Didn’t have to." He put his laptop case between his legs, took a long drink of coffee, then stretched his arms out along the bench.

"What, pray tell, do you mean by that?" She asked with a melodramatic take on a Victorian schoolmarm.

"Blue Book." He took another sip of coffee and looked at the cup. "This is really, really good."

"Blue Book? She turned to him, folding the paper even more.

"A last minute change by Dr. Sweet. He said we needed to be flexible as architects and designers. He babbled something about how the elimination of blue book tests is sending everyone over at Arts & Science into an apoplectic shock."

"He said that?"

"Well, not exactly like that. I am not sure I have ever heard anyone use the word apoplectic out loud. So anyway, he handed out blue books and pens and put three essay questions up." Cary shrugged. "My guess? He didn’t have time to finish up the on-line exam so he decided to go old school."

"People going crazy?"

"What can you do? The guy who sits next to me was fuming, but, well, he’s the Dean and you know that makes him very much God-like here on this campus."

She shook her head and looked up into the brilliant blue December sky. "I can’t fathom how unbelievably lucky you continue to be."

"Luck is preparation meeting opportunity."

"Listen to you Mr. Insurance Sales Manager."

"Mock me if you like, but it makes it no less true. Anyway, I was ready." He looked up at the frosted glass and steel front of Yule-Tucker School of Architecture. "I could have killed any test put on the server."

Charlotte made a megaphone with her hands. "And I repeat: Listen to you!" She gave him a playful push in the side.

"I know, I know. I used to be so humble, so unassuming."

"Ah, but now we know that wasn’t really how you viewed yourself. That’s how you thought other’s viewed you."

"So it seems." He noticed a few more people coming out of the auditorium door. "Style and personal approach as passive aggressiveness. Is that even a word?"

"Aggressiveness? Of course. But there’s no reason to go that far." Charlotte jumped up. "Come on. Let’s go. I want to get another one of those." She pointed to the cup Cary held.

Cary got up and slung his laptop case strap over his shoulder. They began to walk towards Mullen Piazza. "Have you made a decision on the break? Manhattan at Christmas is a treat."
She studied the ground as they strolled. "I’m not sure if I am ready to be away. On the one hand, it makes a lot of sense to do something different. On the other, I just don’t know how I’ll do away from home during an already emotionally intense time."

"I think it would do you a lot of good to be away. It would do me a lot of good to show you around the world’s greatest city."

"Wait, I thought you invited me back to New York, not Paris."

He clasped his chest over his heart. "Ouch. You have stuck a knife in my heart. I am going to die." Cary looked at her to make sure that wasn’t taken the wrong way, but she appeared unfazed by his jest.

"I’ve been to New York plenty of times."

"True, but you’ve never seen my version of the city." Cary impressed himself with the sardonic tone.

"Oh, right. I’m sure you have quite a list."

"I’m telling you, Charlotte."

"The library, Grant’s Tomb."

"There are places we will go, things to encounter…and what’s wrong with Grant’s Tomb?"

"We shall see -- let’s just get by the next few days." She consulted her tank watch. "Shall we go and study?"

"Might as well." She skipped ahead a little, then turned to him, pressing a finger to his chest.

"Maybe you’ll get lucky and get another professor nostalgic for the golden age of the blue book. It’s probably the talk around the water coolers -- who will grade the last of the blue books."

"Sure does suddenly appear to be all the rage." Cary sighed and pulled his iPhone out. "I wonder who will grade the last of the blue books." He turned his phone on.

"Probably some subversive old prof in the philosophy department."

"Your advisor, perhaps. What’s his name?"

"Dr. Hewson?"

"Right, that guy."

"No, no. He’s got all the mod cons, my man. He has us use our laptops for everything. Now, if you want a hold out, I will point your attention to my ethics prof."

"Dr. McGuinley?"

"McGuinn. Totally. Now there’s a blue book kind of guy."

Cary checked the screen for texts, but there weren’t any. "Am I blue book kind of guy?"

She gave him a sideways glance, looking him up and down. "Not anymore, my love. Not anymore."

"Damn it. I’ve changed, then."

"It wouldn’t be a story without some of that going on, would it?"

"Good point."

Charade - Chapter Thirty Three

"I made it all the way to December first without buckling, without bowing to the gods of technology." Cary was staring at a box sitting on the desk in front of him still wrapped in its shopping bag.

Michael, who had just come back from class stood motionless, mouth agape, eyes locked on the wrapped box, which he knew contained an impressive piece of machinery. "When, did you, get, THAT?" He finally unlocked himself and came over to Cary’s desk, placing a hand gently on the plastic.

"My Mom gave it to me last August. It’s been sitting up in the closet here since I arrived on campus, along with this." He opened his top desk drawer and pointed into it.

Michael looked down. "Holy shit, Cary. That’s an iPhone."

Cary smirked. "Yes it is."

"So let’s open it all up and get you going." Michael tossed his book bag on to his bed.
Cary stood and began to lift the box out of the bag. "I’ve been really dumb about this."

"So why all of sudden are you willing to jump into the twenty first century?"

He handed Michael the box, then held up two fingers. "Two reasons. First, my Architecture & Society final requires a computer. The final is the grade kind of thing and I was ignoring that most all semester, thinking I would be able to get around it somehow, which is ludicrous. Second, going home with Charlotte and learning more about each other showed me how completely ridiculous I was being about myself."

Michael looked at the box. "A fucking MacBook Pro and it’s been sitting here the whole time. I can NOT believe you, man." He started opening the box. "So how have you been ridiculous? Other than, you know, the fact you had three grand worth of electronics hiding in your dorm closet all semester."

"That’s some of it. I have been playing the part of Cary Grant, the actor, locked in some illusory fifties sensibility. By trying to affect this style, the sensibility, I found myself in High School getting a lot of what I determined was the right sort of attention. You know, in other words, not getting beaten up or shaken down or falling into a certain faction. So it just stuck. And by denying I knew anything about the other Cary Grant, I could always have that contrarian edge, where confrontation is futile. And maybe I thought at college I could carry on with my little world, a world where, I don’t know, people continue to cater to me." He sighed. "I’ve made a choice. I mean, I had a decision to make. Whether to just keep playing the part of the suave movie hero circa 1957 or become a normal everyday college student. From Grant in An Affair to Remember to Grant in If I Don’t Get an A in Architecture & Society I Will Be Sincerely Bummed."

"What’s that rated?"

"It’s an unrated director’s cut."

"I’ll stream it from Netflix."

"I look forward to the release and my new, more grounded existence."

"You sound like a corporate spokesman for yourself."

"Well then, let the re-branding begin!"

"Brooks Brothers will never be the same." Michael slid the machine out of its interior plastic wrapping and reverently placed it on to Cary’s desk. "This is big talk. This is historic self awareness."

"Well, we all have our no-go areas. Parts of us where we don’t want to go and don’t want anyone else certainly to go."

"So you’re going to fire up this amazing machine, having been forced by your Final exam and the realization that you have to meet the rest of the world on its terms as opposed to your own…"

"There is great irony in this, I think. But I don’t know exactly how to identify it."

Michael plugged the power cord in and opened the laptop. "Look at this 17 inch display. Unbelievable." He motioned to Cary. "Here, sit. You can do the start up. Apple tests the start up with mongrel dogs they pick up at the Cupertino pound. I think you can do as well as a Sheltie-Beagle mix."

"Is that true?"

Michael shook his head. "Urban legend. So was it really just Thanksgiving away from New York, hanging with Charlotte that gave you this sudden jolt?"

"It’s been coming on for a number of weeks, but what really helped was just a couple of sessions with a counselor over at Student Health. And by the way, I highly recommend their work. BY saying that, I’m not passing any judgement on you."

"Gee. Thanks."

"No. Really. I’m just…"

"What does Charlotte say about this new day rising?"

"She’s working on her own basket of issues, but I think she is generally in favor of me becoming a more regular guy. Particularly with the iron lung of finals coming in two weeks."

"Two weeks to get you up to speed with OS X and a fantastic MacBook. Actually, we may want to download Leopard, which is the latest OS X version. But let’s see what this thing is all about. Okay, first thing, push the power button."

"You may think that’s funny, but I am telling you right now, that Sheltie-Beagle mix in California probably has just as much computer skill as I do."

They laughed as the laptop sprang to life. "Your timing is pretty good, Cary. This is the last semester for Blue Books at Aversham."

"Really? They’d do that in the middle of the year? Make a switch of epic proportion like that?"

"That’s the word from Student Services. It’s being pushed by faculty and the provost."

"Wow. My Dad talked about Blue Book tests in almost mythical terms."

"So what. In the future, you can talk about your MacBook in mythical terms. Hell you can do that already."

"Why do you say that?"

"Dude. You sat on a wicked piece of machinery all semester long. I mean, speaking of urban legend."

"Please, stop. It seems almost patronizing." With this, Michael began teaching Cary how to use the modern world. After a short while Cary could open and close programs, create files, even get on line, check the weather for Flushing, New York and send his Mom a surprise email. Michael, who sat beside Cary for a time, but then retreated to his bed to do some texting, finally looked over. "So I think it’s time we get you situated with your iPhone." He swung his legs off the bed and stretched. "Wow. Man, it blows my mind to think of Cary Grant cruising around campus with an iPhone to his ear."

"Earbuds, stove pipes and Vans are next, I guess. Should I take up skateboarding?"

"Do you see me risking my neck? Not that I am your ultimate role model for this new life you’re talking about. But, you know, you’re always welcome to anything in my closet."

"You have something in your closet?"

"You know what I mean." He picked up the iPhone and started playing with it. "It is really inconceivable to me that you got this far into the semester without engaging technology. I mean, how does that happen? You know, like, you told me and all, but I can’t get my head around it."

"I imposed myself on a great number of people."

"Naw. Just some instructors who were probably happy to have someone like you who would come to their office and talk face to face."

"I wonder."

"Here." He handed Cary the iPhone. "Call Charlotte."

"No. I think I’ll wait and just produce this thing later when we go to dinner. She’s seen the box and all, knows I have it, but she’ll be stunned that I have decided to start using it."

"Then call Rebecca and tell her the news."

Cary took it and looked at the screen."

"Just tap the numbers on the screen." He gave him the number then waited to see if she would actually answer.

"Rebecca? It’s Cary." He looked at Michael. "No, no. Yes. It’s my cell phone. Right. I’ve had one all along. No. Yes. I thought it was time to learn how to use this stuff. Yes. Right. He’s right here." Cary handed Michael the phone.

"Hey there." Michael looked out the window. "I know, I know. It’s freakin’ me out and I am a witness to this. Right in front of my eyes. Yes. An iPhone, if you can believe that. Really. Yes. Okay. No, not tonight. Okay, I’m out." He ended the call and handed the iPhone back to Cary.

"She’s about to fall over. I think she sort of half thinks we’re trying to punk her."

"We’re supposed to get together tomorrow for a study session. Wait until I spring this laptop on her." Cary navigated his way to the Student Print Shop and typed in a special code he had been given earlier in the day. "The people over at SPS scanned my whole notebook. I just have to transfer it on to my computer."

"You’re on your way. And it’s only the first semester. You’ll be dispensing with physical notebooks, paper and pens in no time. The woodlands of the world thank you. You’ll see the advantage one of these things can mean. Academically, for sure. In your case I can see it being a positive with your productivity. Maybe in someone else’s hands, like, say, mine, it would send a titanium tipped torpedo into my productivity."

Cary watched as the file from SPS began to transfer. "You shouldn't short change yourself."

"Pot, Kettle, Black."

Charade - Chapter Thirty Two

After dinner, Cary and Charlotte stood out on the gray cypress deck, slick with rain and wet leaves. Half-bathed in yellow-tinted light escaping from the expansive, modern space of the expensively decorated living area, Charlotte looked out into the darkness of the backyard. Up in the trees the ambient light painted the barren tree limbs with a sodium glow. Cary looked the other way, back into the house, in through the wall of glass where the Sundquists still sat beneath the Kandinsky. Cary judged it to be from the twenties, perhaps the Blue Four period of his work. It hung against a veneer of stacked dolomite high above a crackling hearth. He second-guessed his judgement on the painting, which snapped him back to the reality of a cool autumn evening in Northern Illinois. "Your parents have impeccable taste."

She glanced around to see what Cary meant. "They used to have a Klee in the dining room, but Dad sold it and bought a house in Umbria." She went back to looking at the back yard.
Cary could only muster a "wow" in response.

"Why did you tell my Dad you didn’t know how to drive? I’ve seen your license. Why the lie?"

"You think it’s a good idea for me to drive your father’s $70,000 automobile around in the dark in a place I have never been? I’m not a very accomplished driver anyway."

"Ah, but you are an accomplished liar, apparently. He believed you." She glanced at him. "He’s supposed to be harder to fool than that."

"I doubt I fooled him. It just saved us from going back and forth, until I was forced to capitulate, then nervously drive an LS 430 through a shop window. If I can’t drive to begin with there’s little room for debate."

Charlotte didn’t say anything for a long period of time, but then nodded slowly. "I’m not sure what you and Dad talked about, but he has been in way too good of a mood. Dinner was charming. Which in itself is fine. But…"

"I think he’s satisfied I am not going to duct tape you to a box springs in the back of a conversion van. Leave you under a bridge in Parkersburg."

"You think? Jesus, sounds like you’ve given it some thought."

"It’s a dark world."

"Parkersburg?"

Cary shrugged and shot a partial grin. "In general."

"I never picked you as such a dark cynic."

"You’ve had a profound effect on me. In case you hadn’t noticed."

She huffed. "Whatever you guys said in the thirty minutes you were gone to The Wine Cask it sure seemed to brighten his day."

"He unloaded a lot. It seemed to me, anyway. He has the same gift for candor that my Mom has."

"I assure you that’s a late developing gift. Wish you could have the same effect on Mom." She turned around and looked in on her parents, seeing her father pet his wife on the head as they watched the fire. "But I think she’s beyond cheering up. Even with a drugstore’s worth of prescriptions she takes."

"She’s hanging in there as best she can given, you know…the holidays and all." He offered knowingly.

Charlotte glared at him and turned around to the back yard again, hugging herself. "Ah. Right. Of course."

"Don’t be upset with him for telling. He felt a need to clarify or…"

"That explains his mood, then. He thinks he got one over on me. But really, I secretly hoped and understood you would learn about it."

"Terribly elaborate way of going about communicating a life changing tragedy."

"It’s impossible for me to talk about it."

"Apparently."

"It just is. I wish it wasn’t."

"It’s hard for me to believe that considering your openness about other things."

"Everybody has one or two no-go areas. A demilitarized zone or no man’s land of emotion."

Cary thought of his very small secret. That he not only knew everything about his Hollywood namesake, but worked mightily as a Freshman in High School to affect the man’s persona. He knew every movie after all and every aspect of the original Cary Grant’s biography. But then, in the face of merciless fellow students at a street toughened urban high school, he had adopted the idea that his style and personal bearing was all just happenstance. "That is very true." He paused, thinking of how comparatively trivial his charade when stacked against the ghost with which Charlotte lived. "Have you talked with, you know, a professional?"

She glanced at him and huffed. "Legions of the best. It hasn’t ever made any difference."

Cary didn’t really know what to say so he offered, "You’ll figure out a way someday. You’re the smartest person I have ever met."

"And yet I can’t talk about something so central to myself." She sighed heavily.

"At least you know why you are the way you are, despite maybe not being able to talk about it. You have that context."

"Yeah, well, maybe. I guess."

Cary turned to the back yard, but kept quiet, looking all around with false curiosity. They stayed quiet for a long time, watching their breath drift up into the late night air. Cary finally looked at her and saw Charlotte’s tears. He pulled her into him and Charlotte’s head dropped on to his shoulder. "Holidays are the worst."

"I will never disagree with that, Charlotte."

"It’s the family."

"Family?"

"Not really Mom or Dad. It’s all the rest of them I try studiously to avoid. But you can’t when you have something like this. Anyway, I hate family gatherings. You know, people who think they know you out of, I don’t know, maybe proximity? Proximity to your life, I mean. Like they know you, because they’ve been aware of you forever. But they never really listen to you, never try to understand. Their understanding is a projection of the character they remember or the idea of you or whatever. Everybody spends their time trying to make points about where they are in their lives, but no one is out to really receive the information. Blah, blah, blah. Here in the Midwest, we all think of our families as just slightly South of perfect, but really all we’re good at is ignoring the blatant short-comings of a particular group of individuals simply because they’ve all endured the lutefisk at the Great Aunt’s – the shared experience paradigm."

Cary knew exactly what she meant. "You are explaining why I am not in Yonkers tonight with my Dad. He’s got this sister, my aunt, and her never-ending family. It’s a circus. All I can say."

"You know my Uncle said something to me the first Thanksgiving after the funeral. He said that he was really sad not because P.J. was in a better place, but because my Mom and Dad were showing real tenderness and caring for each other. It filled him with sadness to see that it took an unspeakable tragedy for such intimacy to come out. I just looked at him and said, fuck you."

"Well…"

"Not because he had a point that I wasn’t in the state to hear, which I guess maybe was part of it, but at the time I was thinking, fuck you, Uncle Giles for laying that out like you really know us. This is my Mom’s hippie brother from Vermont channeling some sort of spiritual bullshit. I had seen the guy maybe five times my whole life. Maybe. And he’s making these observations."

"In my limited experience, people from Vermont love to make those types of observations." Cary smiled. "Sounds rehearsed, like something he’s said before."
Charlotte huffed. "Or read in some crap new age book."

"What is new age, anyway?"

"Crystals, organic peaches, wind chimes."

"Is your Uncle Giles coming tomorrow for dinner?"

"Oh, no. Thankfully, he and his crew are staying put. Interestingly enough they haven’t been back after my outburst. Not that I’m proud of that fact. He’s just, I don’t know, getting close to going over the edge."

"Sounds like he’s over that edge already. And maybe he likes it there."

She glanced at him. "Okay, I am really unfair to him. Just because he said that to me that one time. I admit it. I mean, so what if I’ve only seen him five times. He’s still Mom’s brother. That should mean he gets accorded some sort of respect, right?"

"This was Thanksgiving he said this?" Cary cocked his head and considered for a moment. "You know, with the spirit of the season and all. Thanksgiving. Forgiveness. Togetherness. All those nesses."

"Listen to you? As you pointed out, you didn’t exactly jump at the chance to be in Yonkers tomorrow."

They fell quiet for a moment. Cary looked up into the sky, attempting to affect a casual edge to his sincerity. "So he was extraordinary in every sense."

Charlotte sniffled and whispered, "It’s impossible to describe how close we were, finishing each other’s sentences, teasing in a short hand, obtuse way our parents couldn’t decipher. A profound sibling love that collapsed into a morbid grief…a deep hole impossible to fill."

Charlotte raised her voice above a whisper. "I am quite amazed I survived it. My Dad kept wanting me to talk about P.J. Insisting that doing so would keep us from forgetting anything. Keep his memory razor sharp. I battled with him about that. I let him know that I think about P.J. every minute of the day and that there was no way I would ever forget anything about him. Anything. I’ll be 90 years old and still remember how he tossed his toothbrush into the holder with this theatrical flare every single night." She sighed. "Talking about him doesn’t serve me at all. The pain it reveals doesn’t serve anybody else either."

Cary could not say anything to this, through lack of experience with not only death, but of having a sibling. They fell quiet for a few minutes.

"I’ve always wondered. Wondered." She faltered and wiped her eyes on Cary’s sweater.

"Wondered why we limit our goodwill to, to, just a few days forced upon us largely by Christendom."

"It’s the custom."

"Folk tales cloaked in mysticism hardened into commercial expectation, commercially sanctioned goodwill. A big chunk of the world economy riding on the birth of Christ. Container ships leaving China hourly, spreading the good tidings for balance sheets everywhere…"

"I suppose…" He tried to get a word in, but failed.

"…the birth of a myth coinciding happily with the winter solstice. Well…"

"Well…" he tried to interrupt.

"…at least Thanksgiving is largely based on a pagan feast. How do we choose our folklore?"

"Touched another nerve."

She nodded slowly.

"You could write a book." He shrugged, "but then again, you are the philosopher."

She sighed heavily. "Let’s talk about the weather."

"Okay. I can do that."

"Anything. Limiting goodwill is the sort of conversation I would have with him on a night like this."

"It smells like it could snow. There’s a low pressure system coming out of Alberta. Hope it doesn’t effect travel plans."

"It’s been fun, Cary. Let’s keep it at that." She whispered.

They stood wrapped in each other for a long time.

Charade - Chapter Thirty One

They pulled into the driveway of the Dando house on Spindell Avenue and Michael could hear the noise even before Rebecca turned June’s engine off. He looked beyond the line of cars they parked behind and into the large picture window to see a knot of humanity all standing around holding drinks, arms flailing about as everyone appeared to be telling some great tale at the same time. Rebecca looked to where Michael’s gaze appeared locked. "The party’s started already. So much for being early and inconspicuous." She took a deep breath. "You ready for this?"

"No. But what is the alternative?"

"You’re right. Welcome to Shaker Heights."

"Boyhood home of Paul Newman."

"Somebody has been busy on Google." She opened her door.

"Wikipedia is my friend." He opened the passenger door and got out quickly, noticing two or three of the throng in the window were now pointing at them, smiling and waving enthusiastically.

Rebecca waved back. "Oh, this should be great fun. Aunt Di and my cousin are already in full bloom." They went around to the trunk to retrieve their bags. "Why did I think this would be a good idea, bringing you home for Thanksgiving?" She popped the trunk. "You’ll get to answer without saying anything. My family is very good at asking questions, then ignoring or talking over and right passed the answer. It’s the very definition of not getting a word in edge-wise."

They pulled their bags out. "It’s just insane."

"How many sisters do you have again?"

"Too freaking many, my friend. You’d think my parents didn’t know what contraception was." She rolled her eyes and closed the trunk. "Catholics. How my parents afforded six kids and sent them all to college is a bit of a mystery really."

"Hard nosed work and sweat and all that."

"More like help from my Grandparents on my Mom’s side. They’re loaded. Or my Dad’s kept his membership in the mafia a secret."

"Really?"

"Right. As if…" They climbed the stairs to the front door, but before Rebecca went for the knob, the door exploded inward and they were greeted by laughing girls. Rebecca and Michael stopped. "Ah. Here are two of my lovely sisters now."

They ignored Rebecca as they came out on to the front stoop to admire Michael, each taking an arm. "We know who you are…" said the shorter one followed by "the famous Cary Grant," from the taller. He tried to lock eyes on Rebecca as he was swept inside, into the humidity, heat and beehive chatter of a packed living room. The taller one waved her arms around. "Hey everybody. Hello! Look over here. It’s Becca’s new boyfriend!" The crowd of maybe fifteen fell nearly quiet for a brief moment, then after a few perfunctory greetings returned to its former garrulous fervor.

Rebecca poked her head in between Michael and one of her sisters and said into his ear, "let’s get rid of the bags and find my Mom."

He turned to her. "I wasn’t anticipating being confused for my roommate." They slipped from the room and down the stairs to the lower level where five men sat around a bar at the far end of a rec room festooned with various movie and sports posters. "I feel anonymous."

"Well, I haven’t really talked to anyone for a while. Been busy. All they know is what I was talking about two months ago."

"You were talking about Cary Grant two months ago?"

"Who wasn’t?"

Michael thought back to his many texts and emails with his sister and had to admit his roommate had been a source of curiosity for a while. He conceded by moving on. "Lots of people here already."

Rebecca directed him to a closet near the rack of pool cues. "Here. Put your bag in here for now. This isn’t even everyone. Tomorrow the numbers will double." She leaned into him.

"Like I said, insane."

"Becca!" One of the men called.

She looked around. "Uncle Tom." She waved.

He waved them over to the bar. "Come here, come here. I need a hug."

Rebecca and Michael went around the pool table and approached the bar, constructed of inexpensive paneling and a linoleum top. Rebecca went around to the back and gave Tom a hug. "Uncle Tom, this Michael Slocum, my friend from school. Michael, this is Tom," then she pointed around. "These are my cousins, Jim, Dave and Greg." They all shook hands with Michael, but didn’t have anything to say to him. She looked at the television. "What a surprise. You’re watching soccer. Who’s playing?"

Cousin Jim handed an empty bottle to his Dad. "Arsenal and Blackburn."

"Magic." With one easy movement, Uncle Tom reached into the fridge, produced another bottle of beer, opened it and handed it to Tom. "Cheers, son."

Cousin Jim saluted with his bottle and took a drink. He then turned to Michael. "You want anything, dude? A beer or something?"

Rebecca moved around to Michael’s side. "We’re going to find my Mom and then possibly hunt down my Dad. We’ll catch up with you hooligans later."

"Your Dad’s out in the garage with Henry. They’re trying to fix the tap. I think your Mom went to Heinen’s or somewhere. Getting more cups, whatever."

They went upstairs and turned into the kitchen, greeted by another faction – a gaggle of matronly older ladies. Rebecca stopped, grabbing hold of Michael’s hand just as one with a pronounced arch to the back and a walking stick turned to her. "Now, now. Here she is. My Becca." The old woman moved her body around. "Let me see you."

"Hi Grandma Bert." She moved to her and gave her a gentle hug. "How is my favorite Grandparent?"

Bert chortled and moved to face Michael, looking him and down. She took her walking stick and tapped him on the chest. "I’ve heard about you. You’re the one who doesn’t think he’s named after the movie star."

Michael grinned and shrugged, looking to Rebecca to say something, but she listened to another old woman explaining how she still called a refrigerator an ‘ice box.’ Michael looked back at Bert. "Um, no. That’s my roommate. But he’s a…"

Bert frowned. "You aren’t Cary?"

Michael shook his head slowly and looked at Rebecca.

Bert touched his arm. "Well, then you won’t be helping Becca here get a job in Hollywood someday."

"Um, well. No." Michael did not know if the woman was really confused or simply joking with him and he suddenly really wanted to be back in the dorm at school playing Halo 3 with the foreign kids left behind by the wholesale Thanksgiving evacuation. "I’m Michael Slocum." He stuck out his hand and she ignored it.

"You’re from New York City, though, right?" Bert winked at him for some reason.

Michael thought Rebecca had imparted a lot of the wrong information on her family. "Louisville."

"Louisville?"

"Yes. Home of bats and bourbon."

Bert squinted at him and moved closer to him. "I used to go to Louisville every year for the Derby, but stopped going after Majestic Prince won in 69. You go to Churchill Downs often? It’s a lovely place. I always liked it there." Michael realized this was what Rebecca meant by not getting a word in edgewise. "There’s so much history. But we stopped going, because of one thing or another. A shame really. I miss the paddock. The show. It was always so exciting."

Rebecca turned away from the woman who still carried on about ‘ice boxes.’ She grabbed Michael’s forearm and started to guide him through the group. "Grandma Bert, we’ll catch back up with you after we find my Dad."

"Oh, he’s out with Henry trying to fix something in the garage." As they passed her, Bert grabbed Michael by the arm and he stopped to listen. "Between you and me I think my sons are just trying to avoid this crowd in here."

He smiled, then turned to Rebecca who began pulling on him again. "I can’t imagine avoiding this crowd."

They sprung free out the back door on to the walk leading back to the garage. "Wow, we were in there for all of ten minutes and I’m sweating." Rebecca said. She stopped and turned to Michael. "I promise to make it up to you. I do. I really do."

"Don’t worry about it. I prefer to have a huge crowd than just a small one. Less chance of people focusing on me. Y’know?"

"Oh, just you wait. Everybody’s laying back at the moment, but then it will come time for them to try to impress you. My sisters that is. Not sure about anyone else, really." They went to the door to the garage and peaked in the window. "There’s my dad. The one with the screwdriver trying to pry something loose. We better say hello before he stabs himself and has to go to the hospital." She opened the door. "If you think sabotaging the beer tap is going to keep Uncle Tom and his gang from drinking all your beer…"

Jack Dando did a comic double take, then looked at his brother. "Damn, I thought we were shot of that one. Now she’s back, Hank."

His brother, idling his huge frame on a wobbly stool next to the workbench smiled. "I can never seem to shake my kids either. They just keep coming back. Dory wants me to change the locks."

Jack went toward Rebecca, arms out-stretched. "Not a bad idea, brother. Come here, you. I am very glad to see you." He hugged her. "And who’s that in the doorway looking as though he’s lost his wallet?"

Rebecca turned to Michael. "That’s my college friend, Dad. Michael Slocum."

Michael walked further into the garage to shake Jack’s hand, going for a plausible imitation of his roommate and concentrating on delivering a firm grip. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Dando."

"Mr. Dando died two years ago. God rest his soul. Call me Jack." He pumped Michael’s hand vigorously, then turned to Rebecca. "Your Mom is at the store and she’ll have final say as to whether Michael is good enough for you." He looked at Michael. "So you can relax until Viv gets back with the extra rolls and whatever the hell else she just had to get."

"Funny, Dad. I thought I had final say on Michael. Although, one of his pet peeves is when people talk about him as though he isn’t there." She looked at Michael and smiled. "So maybe he has final say on himself.

Henry Dando chortled. "Viv sure has her fooled, huh Jackie? Come on. Get the fuckin’ tap working so I can start drinkin’ some half decent beer."

"Go back in and watch the match. I just need to loosen this set screw a little more, then realign the pressure gasket." He then handed Henry the tap and his screwdriver. "But on second count, why don’t you fix the damn thing and let me talk to my daughter a while."
Michael, Rebecca and Jack left the garage and walked up the cracked cement path to a back patio, wreathed in large drifts of fallen leaves. "So Michael, are you studying film too or…"

"I’m in computer science." He shrugged. "Not nearly as fun."

"I already know how you two met, given Rebecca’s habit of killing computers. I bet you’ve had to rescue her’s a few times."

Michael suppressed a smile at Rebecca’s expense and looked at his shoes. "Not quite how we met, but, you know, like I do admit to having a look under her hood a couple of times."
Jack nodded. "So to speak."

Rebecca looked around the yard. "Okay, well…hey, you finally got rid of the swing set."

"Sold it to some Tacos that moved in down the block. Should have seen it. About ten guys in landscaping clothes showed up in the back of a pick up and in the space of about fifteen minutes the thing was taken apart and hauled away. It was like locusts devouring a corn plant."
Rebecca looked at her father. "Michael, excuse the racism. There’s great diversity here in Shaker Heights, but you’d never know it listening to some of its older residents."

"What’d I say? I simply described the scene." Jack held up his hands. "Okay, never mind."

"I do so love the holidays," Rebecca sighed.

Michael watched a rusty minivan squeeze into the small area in front of the garage. He knew the van well. The same year and make driven into a farm pond down near E-Town by his oldest brother when he was a sophomore.

"Okay. Here’s the final piece of this crazy-assed puzzle." Rebecca grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the car. "It’s my mommy! She’s home! She’s home," she called with great irony in the delivery. A woman with bleach blond hair, significant eyebrows and a skeleton of wire came springing out before Rebecca and Michael reached the car. She wore an orange bowling shirt and tight jeans with an iron-on knee patch. As she enveloped them both in a tight hug, Michael smelled cigarettes and alcohol and despite obvious flaws in the analysis, thought of Rebecca’s Mom as a female version of Noel Gallagher.

"Becca and her mmmaaan!" She drew back and gave Michael a look. "Handsome, sort of, but not dark, and, um not so tall, eh?" She looked at her daughter. "What happened to your taste, my dear? On the other hand, you’ve brought home worse before." She paused, then gave Michael an elbow in the ribs. "I’m just pulling your leg, hun." She handed him a bag. "You’ll do just fine, I’m sure."

Vivian Dando dived back into the car and grabbed another two grocery bags. "Come on let’s get inside before the whole damn gang riots." They all started for the back door and Michael couldn’t help but notice that Jack had silently disappeared.

Rebecca leaned into Michael and whispered, "it’s going to be a long, long, terrible weekend."

She squeezed his elbow. "I’ll make it up to you."

As they retreated into the stuffed house, he decided the consolation would more than make up for the inevitable discomfort of this cacophonous knot of humanity.

Charade - Chapter Thirty

Paul Sundquist followed Cary out the door to the garage. "Here." Cary turned to him just as he tossed his keys. "You can drive. I’ve had enough of traffic."

Cary caught the keys then looked at the sleek, dark Lexus parked before them. He blinked, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was drive the father of his girlfriend’s luxury automobile around unfamiliar streets. He turned to Paul. "Mr. Sundquist I'd love to drive this. But I don’t know how to drive." He regretted saying this immediately, but hoped to skate through it okay.

Paul seized up on his trek around to the passenger side. "What? Is this some sort of New York humor? What do you mean you don’t know how to drive?"

Cary moved to Paul holding the keys out to him. "I’ve never driven a car. I’ve never needed to. I just haven’t learned."

Paul stared at him, but did not move, taking the keys back almost in slow motion. "This is just like in the movies." He became animated again and went to the driver side as Cary went around to get in to the car. "Do you like movies? A guy with your name sort of has to, right?"
Cary thought of Charlotte’s warning about subtexts, then quickly searched for hidden meaning in the question about movies, coming up empty. He sat down in the plush leather experience of the Sundquist Lexus, not truly believing an automobile could be this radically comfortable. "Well, believe it or not, I am not much of a fan. I mean, I like movies okay. I don’t have anything against them, but I don’t know much about them." He wondered how convincing he sounded to a sharp attorney used to ferreting out prevarication.

Paul got in as well, his door swinging shut with a solid, muffled thunk. "Really? I read statistics that said kids your age are crazy about movies. Spend a lot of money on them. Charlotte, though. Well, she’s like you. Not much of a movie-goer. Is that a word? Goer?"

"I’ve noticed. She’s never menioned my Hollywood doppelganger. It’s one of the many things I appreciate about her." Cary closed his door and Paul started the engine, pushing the garage door button almost simultaneously.

"I’m glad we’re going to have a little time running this errand together. It’s important for a father to gauge the worth of the young man who is sleeping with his daughter." He began to back out.

Cary buckled up and tried to look at ease with this sudden notice of intent to depose. "Uh, right. Of course."

"I just hope for your sake you haven’t told her that you love her."

Cary felt a head and heartache coming on along with a powerful longing to be back on campus. "Charlotte warned me about you, Mr. Sundquist." Cary thought this note of comic honesty a winning response. But Paul remained quiet as they drove down the driveway and out on to the leafy suburban street. As they drove Cary studied the other houses intently. He decided to break the silence. "I have to say that you did the right thing in going contemporary with your house. It’s really the best in the neighborhood. And I don’t mean that to sound so patronizing. Displays a great sense of the site. As a student, maybe I can get away with saying that."

"Thanks. It wasn’t an easy sell in this development. Most everyone is enamored with the traditional McMansion. But we had to have something different. We both did." He took the wheel with both hands and shifted in his seat. "You know, after P.J. died, we simply had to make up our minds we would change. We rededicated, we took Charlotte out of a lot of her endless array of activities, we stopped the ridiculous charade of attending church, we stopped judging our friends, we built the house we wanted and we started taking our medications. Hell, Cary we were all supposed to be on something and had avoided it for years. Felt ashamed of what drugs could do for us."

Cary became even more uncomfortable on two new levels. First, because Paul Sundquist suddenly felt a need to become exceedingly intimate and the second at the mention of a family death. A death Charlotte never mentioned before and one he desperately wanted to know more about. "I envy your ability to radically make changes. I don’t know if I can ever be so radical. For me, things just sort of occur. I’ve spent my life reacting."

"Well, if you are your Mother’s son." He shot a glance at him as they turned out on to Higgins Road. "You will someday embrace a more proactive approach."

"I’m sorry, but can you tell me about P.J.? Is it okay to ask that? Charlotte has never…"

"Five years ago, Charlotte’s older brother, Paul was killed in an auto accident coming home from school. I am not really that surprised Charlotte has never talked about it. It was devastating, of course, I mean, as you can only imagine."

"I am really sorry to hear about this, this, I, well, I don’t know what to say."

"That’s surprising. From what I hear from Charlotte you rarely find it difficult knowing exactly what to say."

Cary watched light sprinkles of rain begin to dot the windshield, evening descending upon the Northwest suburbs as they rode to the wine store. "I don’t think I deserve that reputation. Afterall," he looked at Paul, "I actually did tell Charlotte I love her."

Paul shook his head slowly. "Caused trouble, didn’t it?"

"Well. Perhaps communicating it was, maybe premature?"

He made a face. "Here’s a little tip on that. She used to be quite an empathetic soul. Almost to the point of being unhealthy. Her first year at French Camp she latched on to a kid battling cancer or M-S, because of something, who knows. Anyway, she professed a love and deep understanding of this kid." Paul looked at Cary. "Understand these were eight year olds. But she stayed closely in touch with this girl who lived in, I don’t know, maybe Colorado? They traded letters all the time, then eventually, after a number of years moved high tech into their own chat room. Then, one day, nothing. The girl stopped communicating. Drove Charlotte crazy. The girl just disappeared. Quite obviously she was a sick little girl and she probably died." Paul nodded and paused for a moment. "And, of course, there’s P.J. They were nearly inseparable, always told each other how much they loved each other -- in an honest way. I mean, nothing weird, you know. It was genuine and they expressed it. He didn’t just disappear, obviously. He did die. But what it means is she’s probably not going to profess love for anyone for a long time." He turned into the parking lot of a posh-looking, multi-storied retail establishment. "Here we are -- Nirvana for a snob. The Wine Cask." He eased into a space and turned the engine off. "Look, Cary. My daughter may not like that expression. Maybe she hasn’t been as open as she needs to be with you, but she’s the one with subtext. She’s constructed neat compartments these days. Compartments with airtight seals. Maybe find a tactful way of having her open up a bit about P.J. I think she may want to, but is so trapped by her rules. She’s," he gathered himself up tightly, "protective of that, of that relationship. Maybe afraid of the feelings still surrounding her. On the other hand she may blow a gasket." He shrugged his shoulders, then looked up and out the windshield, presumably at the drizzle now picking up pace. "By the way, you are nothing like P.J., if you were going to wonder about some sort of a projection issue." He opened his door. "Now, let’s go find the right thing for tomorrow."

Cary got out as well, deep in thought. Charlotte’s father did not seem interested in cross-examining him or discovery or whatever subtext he would normally search for. It seemed to Cary that he was all about putting Charlotte’s approach to the relationship into context. They entered into the dimly lit and cool confines of The Wine Cask, wove through the bustling holiday crowd and climbed stairs to a loft. "Up here, Cary. This is where they keep the Iberians I like. Those tremendous Riojas." He stopped at the top of the stairwell. "These stores are great for my pretentious side. I can nearly be drawn into self-parody here." Paul began to browse, Cary following after him, still deep in thought. "So what do your parents think of Charlotte?"

Cary heard this and once again found words difficult to conjure in response to such forthright questioning. "She was a hit."

"You can do better than that."

"My Mom thought she was lovely and my Dad rendered no opinion, which is typical of him. But we don’t have those types of conversations anyway. It’s not like he’s going to volunteer anything. Just the way he is." Paul stopped and looked at a bottle, then moved on.
Cary looked at the same bottle before moving to catch up with Paul. "So, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you cope? I mean, Charlotte is amazing, given what’s happened in her life."

"For me?"

"Sorry, you don’t have to…"

"I cope by going to a shrink twice a week, Yoga, 300 milligrams of Zoloft, unhealthy levels of caffeine, an occasional Percocet." Paul shrugged. "Unfortunately, this regimen doesn’t help my wife. She leans hard on a variety of Schedule 2 controlled substances." He stopped and looked at Cary. "She’s been dying ever since the phone rang."

"Really, sorry…"

"Relax."

"I didn’t…"

"Look, with so much shit that’s gone down, I’m not worried what you think of me. Hell, holidays are when you get to find out why people are the way they are. Am I right? Your girlfriend is going to get some dimension to her."

"I shouldn’t have…" Cary did not know what else to say so he pulled a bottle out, looked at the label and handed it to Paul. "Here. What about this?" Paul took the bottle and began to look at it. "Who knows what other little, tiny, subtle land mines she has placed within me that will float to the surface this weekend."

Paul smirked and nodded. "Christ almighty kid, this is a good choice. Really solid. Let’s find a few others. It’s a long weekend. You hold this for now." He handed the bottle back. "I am going to instruct Charlotte that she is not allowed to let you go. A young man with your kind of aesthetic…" He turned and nodded his head again. "Well, it just doesn’t happen."

"Please, no flattery. It’s genetic or something. I take little if any responsibility."

Paul sighed. "When is your generation going to start taking responsibility?"

"When the revolution is televised. That’s what my roommate says. I say it’s when the televisions all get thrown out the window." Cary stopped again and pulled another bottle out from a coven of wicked looking Catalons.

"I was being sarcastic."

"So was I." He put the bottle back in. "Too much of the sea breeze in these. Do they have anything from Portugal?"

"What are you, fifty? We should be wearing ascots and discussing your position on debenture bonds.

Cary smiled. "Cut it out, Mr. Sundquist. I’m just trying to be helpful. Don’t start sounding like the guys in the dorm."

"Okay. No debenture bond jokes. That’s noted. So what are your parents doing this Thanksgiving? Your Mom and Dad are divorced, is that right?"

"Have been since I can remember. Mom and her assistant are in Milan and my Dad is at my Aunt’s in Yonkers tomorrow."

"Milan! Excellent. Have you been?"

"Sorry to say I have not been out of the country yet." Cary shrugged. "Maybe some day."

"You’ll get there." Paul pointed across the room. "Let’s go over there. Some unassuming Vinho Tinto might be there for us. Blends are good in mixed company." They began to walk.

"A wine should always be unassuming, don’t you think?"

"Jesus. What are you, a sommelier too?"

"My Dad insisted I be well rounded."

"But you don’t watch television. How well rounded can you be?"

"Good point. Maybe he meant well adjusted."

"So the scene in Yonkers isn’t your cup of tea?"

"Yonkers? It’s an okay place. My Aunt’s okay in a vacuum. You put the two of them together, add my Uncle and four wild cousins and it becomes insane very quickly."

"Don’t be too harsh. You haven’t seen what tomorrow may bring."

They stopped in front of an impressive array of Vinho Tinto. Paul pulled out a Vale de Bomfin from 2004. "Look at this. Eleven bucks. Can’t beat this, kid. Hell, I should buy a case."

Cary pulled a different bottle. "Maybe you should buy a case of this too. You know, for Christmas."

"Evel Douro. 2003. Wait a minute. This is seven dollars. Outrageous." He chewed his lower lip and turned on his heals. "Okay. Two of these and two of those. Yes. We’re done being pretentious. Time to go home to the women and drink."

Cary put his hands in his pockets and followed Paul down the stairs. "As an officer of the court…"

"You’re surprised I’d be willing to violate Article Ten, Section six dash sixteen of the Liquor Control Act of 1934?"

"Wow, that’s impressive."

"I have no idea if that’s right, but it sounds good, doesn’t it? I really only know parts of the tax code."

"Corruption of youth." Cary shook his head.

"Class A Misdemeanor. It’s living on the edge, Cary. We’re living on the acceptable fringe of the unacceptable." They pulled up at the check out and Paul turned to him. "Do you have any money?"

Cary searched Paul’s face for a sign of humor, but didn’t find any hints. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "I thought you got your allowance today?" He said while starting to root around for the bills.

When he looked up he saw Paul handing over his AMEX Platinum, shaking his head. "Cary, I swear. Keep your milk money, kiddo. You’re covered. Put that away and I hope I don’t see it again for a long time."

They completed the transaction, interrupted momentarily by Paul waving and saying hello to someone he knew. Bag in hand he and Cary scurried out into the steady rain and into the warm dry Lexus. Paul handed the bag to Cary. "A penny saved is a penny earned." He glanced over. "My wine-buying motto."

"You are a utility purchaser. It’s not a mere hobby." Cary peeked into the bag. "Very European of you."

As they drove back to the house Cary considered the last few set pieces in their shopping experience. Charlotte’s father seemed to be giddy with relief Cary had proven worthy of the wine store. Either that or he saw a chance to regain a father-son dynamic. This prospect concerned Cary. "Do you think Charlotte is going to be upset with you for telling me about P.J.?"

Paul kept quiet for a few seconds, bouncing his head back and forth as he considered. "I give it 50-50. She should not be upset, because it’s a critical piece of who she is now and she should have told you when things became serious. So I guess she should be pissed at herself. Then again, maybe she’ll be relieved you know about our tragedy. I think…" Paul suddenly shifted in his seat as though a sudden great idea made sitting impossible. "…part of bringing you home was to tell you about the brother she lost."

"I feel tremendous responsibility."

"And nary a television went out a window."

Charade - Chapter Twenty Nine

Charlotte leaned over Cary sharply, trying to get a first glimpse of her home city as they felt the G-force of their plane banking tightly to get into the pattern over Lake Michigan. The first of the holidays were before them, Cary having agreed to go home with Charlotte, thus avoiding the debate about time share with his parents and secretly hoping to convince Charlotte she really did love him after all. It had been a dull and routine run-in to Thanksgiving as the relationship settled precariously on the thin ice of unspoken emotional disparity. If only to avoid the enormous triteness of only one in the pair being capable of love, he plotted ways to break through to the other side, to persuade her of the feelings he believed smothered in some sort of heavy shit from perhaps not so long ago. He could sense this only, since evidence proved impossible to come by in the hermetically sealed confines of their student life. Cary hoped to be correct, hoped he could figure it out.

Cary looked out the window of their Airbus 319 and looked at the scalloped shoreline running North toward Wisconsin. "You didn’t tell your parents this was my first time to Chicago did you?" he finally said, looking into her ear as she continued to study the view.

"Oh no, come on. If anyone is more unlikely to say something to trigger a rage of parental tourism, I’d like to meet them. Anything to avoid embarrassing bouts of and here’s this and there’s that." She straightened up. "I first flew when I was two months old and haven’t gone a year since without being on these buckets, yet I still never get tired of looking out the window when we land."

"There’s a post-modern beauty to looking at cities from above. The architecture is in abstract, but the patterns formed by the land and the streets and the structures give you the first impression."

"Okay, professor. Settle down. You’ll have plenty of time to spout design-speak with my father. Wait till you see the house."

"Oh?" Cary kept looking out the window.

"You’ve been warned." She added. "A rock, steel and glass box in a neighborhood of twisty streets and vinyl sided mini mansions."

"You should see my dad’s place. I pass no judgements on residential architecture. It’s a result of far too many variables out of the hands of a designer."

"Oh, my. You and my Dad are going to get along really well."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No. I was being maybe a little facetious."

"Tell me the difference?" He whispered into her ear. "I love it when we mince words."

"Stop it."

"Really."

"Anyway, Dad likes to talk about every pretentious subject there is, so…"

"So architecture is pretentious?"

"Oh, not at all. Maybe talking about it is." She shrugged. "You’ll see what I mean."

"I know, I know. You met my mother. I know exactly what you’re talking about. She doesn’t speak unless it’s laced with pretension."

"I thought that was your father who was like that." She settled back into her seat, tightening her lap belt.

Cary looked out the window. "No, he only sounds pretentious, because of the language, not the subject matter." His face became a question mark. "Does that make sense?"

"A little, yeah." She pointed to his belt. "Tighten that up. We’ll bounce around because of the heat island. And, you know, mincing words could be construed as pretentious. Should we be concerned about that?"

"Right now I am only concerned that you just referenced the term heat island."

She cocked her head and smiled. "Well, some chicks know what Ingmar Bergman was trying to say with the Seventh Seal and others know, um," Charlotte pointed out the window just as the plane pitched up, then down, "science!"

Cary entered this pointed reference to Rebecca into a log of quite a few over the last few weeks, since Celebration Day Weekend when she and Michael became a couple. The two were nearly inseparable, texting constantly, arguing whether or not Network Television was dead, discussing the literary merits of comic books and being witnessed in various stages of undress. "Remind me to ask you about The Seventh Seal when we’re down." The plane pitched again, the wings waddling across an invisible ocean sound."

"Don’t ask me. I pulled that out of thin air. Ask your other girlfriend."

"Ouch. What is that supposed to mean?"

She didn’t say anything in reply, instead looking by Cary, out on to the flat gray and brown carpet of Northern Cook County. "Ah, Skokie!"

"Maybe what I meant by asking you about The Seventh Seal is I wanted you to tell me what is going on in your head -- why you make these little comments." He looked out the window
too, then at her. "Maybe later?"

She sat back again. "If we have any time to ourselves. Maybe." The plane pitched again. "But think about this. All those pop culture-spouting people out there in the world. Are they really just trying to dazzle us with a different kind of trivial intellectualism?"

"You mean, rather than the standard version of trivia about, say, oh, heat islands?"
Charlotte released a quick and quiet laugh, looking out the window again. "Look at the wing tip. They’re fighting a heavy cross wind."

Cary looked out too. "I can relate."

"Oh stop that." She pointed out the window. "Look it’s the Rosemont Arena. They call it the Allstate Arena now, but I saw my first concert there when I was 12." She nodded. "Everything has to have a brand name attached to it."

"Now who’s having a here’s this here’s that moment?" The plane dipped, then came up. Cary tightened his belt a bit more. "Can’t wait until we get down on the ground."

"Just another 30 seconds or so. I remember when I was a kid we were landing at Narita. Wow, did we bounce. I was on the ceiling. And we were in a 747. Getting tossed like a lawn dart." The plane eased to the ground and as they rolled out Charlotte leaned close to Cary. "Just remember something about my Dad. Remember he’s a lawyer. A hot shot one at that. Everything he says or asks has a subtext. He may be a bit of a blubbering sycophant when it comes to creative types, but he is still looking for everybody’s angle."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

"I’m not too worried about you. I don’t know if I have ever met someone so void of angles as you. He’ll be disappointed."

Cary looked at his watch, because it seemed like a good thing to do, then straightened his cuffs. "I have only one angle."

Charlotte watched him fuss with his cuffs and shirt. "I don’t believe you." She pulled her cell phone out of her backpack and turned it on. Then she realized what he meant. "We’ve been through this now, right? Just because you’re coming to Thanksgiving with me doesn’t mean, like, we’re going to measure up for a life long love affair. And don’t look all tortured on me. You know the rules." She hit the speed dial and put the phone up to her ear. "Mom. Hey. Yep. We’ll be coming out just as soon as our little feets can take us. Right. Yes. Bye."

He looked at her. "We’re just going steady."

"Singles going steady, Cary. That’s what we have been all along." To him, this sounded too contrived, as though she was quoting someone else. He did not believe the statement reflected the entire picture. They sat quietly until the plane docked at the gate and the seat belt sign went off. Charlotte put a hand on his knee. "You’re not going to be your father and I am not going to be your mother. But we are here for next couple of days to find out what we are going to be instead of that."

Cary felt a mixture of disappointment, revelation and frustration. As he waited to deplane, bent beneath the overhead, super-cool air shooting into his ear and small carry on in hand disappointment clouded up inside him. Yes, over studying and sailing a relationship in a heavy-handed manner attempting to maintain order, to understand, to be accepted and loved, repeated family history. He had as much as admitted this paradigm on occasion and it had never appeared to bother Charlotte. This revelation caused a new sense of frustration. So why had she made this empty statement at this point, at the beginning of the holiday weekend? Charlotte, beautiful and smart to be sure, did not want to appear in love and yet by sheer insistence, there they were, traipsing down the aisle of an Airbus 319 on the way into a moment of time where the unspoken agenda would be crowned by gaining parental acceptance.

The smell of musty indoor/outdoor carpet and bite of Northern Illinois November darting in through the cracks between the jetway and the Airbus brought Cary out of his trance. "So what am I doing here? What’s the objective?"

She stopped and waited for him to catch up. "What do you mean what are you doing here, what’s the objective? There has to be one?" Charlotte hooked her arm into his. "I would try to wink at you right now, but my contacts are killing me and my eye might not re-open. You’re my man, Cary. It’s a Holiday." They continued up the ramp to the terminal door. "We’re here to relax, eat, drink, show you off to the relations. Oh, and for you to finally figure me out. Again, I’d wink, but that airplane air has screwed up my eyes.

"You are so full of warm and fuzzy Thanksgiving spirit." Cary said this more sharply than he wanted.

"Hey, you know, I try."

They burst out into the terminal concourse, the bustle of which reminded Cary of Midtown. This similarity relaxed him as he quickly felt more in his element within the noise and diversity of a major international city. It made him quite nearly homesick, but then he remembered some Thanksgivings from the near past and immediately became re-enthused about spending time safely tucked away with Charlotte, regardless of her program.
They met up with Charlotte’s Mom just beyond security. Cary did not remember her looking so old and frail when they had met a month earlier at Aversham. Donna Sundquist seemed like she was about to keel over at any moment, put upon by the labor of retrieving her daughter from O’Hare. "Cary it’s good to see you again." She said automatically as they turned toward the escalators.

"Nice being here. Thank you for inviting me. I look forward to spending some time in Chicago." Cary rattled this off as though he had been rehearsing it all the way from Columbus.
"I assume you didn’t check anything so we’ll head straight for the car. Paul should be home by the time we get there. He had a meeting, naturally, but promised to be home to welcome you two." As she spoke Cary could not get over the fact that she sounded so tired and mechanical. Even her hug with Charlotte seemed perfunctory.

"The beat of commerce never ceases." Charlotte offered up. "A corporate tax attorney’s job is never complete."

"Naturally." Donna sighed.

"It seems colder here than it was in Ohio." Cary blurted not knowing what else to say. The Sundquist women chose to ignore his meteorological observation to his great relief.
They began to descend the escalator leading to the passage for the parking garage. Cary thought about his expectations for the long weekend, then thought about Michael and Rebecca, wondering how their time together will play out.

Charade - Chapter Twenty Eight

Michael could not believe how assembled Rebecca looked when they met at the School Street Bridge. "It’s not fair," he said. "You always look perfect."

"Wow." She hooked her arm into his and they set off towards town to grab some pizza at The Shed, a place on Cornwall Street notorious for serving under age and having a low and leaky roof, the ceiling of which heavily festooned with graffiti and band stickers. "What do you mean? Not fair?"

"You looking this way after last night. I feel horrible. Still. And I know I look like I feel. You, on the other hand, look like you just stepped from a catalog."

"Thanks." She grinned. "That’s nice, but really. I feel like hell too. Maybe I am better at stagecraft than I thought. Hmmm. Well, anyway, you’re nice to say that. Particularly after how I treated you last night. It wasn’t nice."

"I had a good time."

"Oh come on. I kept bringing up Cary every ten seconds."

"No you didn’t."

"Oh yes I did." She tucked her hair around her ear, then switched the side she walked on. "As soon as you blabbered that Charlotte wasn’t in love with Cary and all, I just sort of went off. Maybe I was venting. I don’t know, but whatever the hell I was doing, I apologize for being such a total freak."

This answered a question Michael kept asking himself all afternoon as he laid on his bed and texted back and forth with his sister. He had spilled vital beans and there would be no withdrawing of the news now. "Well, um, y’know, like, okay. I knew all along that you were in to him and all. I mean, it’s no surprise. Maybe that’s why I told you that they aren’t, like 100 percent on the same page. Maybe I was trying to be your buddy."

"Dude, you shouldn’t be trying to be my buddy. You should be trying to fight crime with me."

"Huh?" They crossed Broad Street.

"You know? Fight crime? Douglas Coupland? Shampoo Planet?"

"You’ve lost me."

"Not a reader?"

"I read."

"Blogs, the occasional graphic novel."

"I have been known to read…"

"…materials published by DC and Marvel." She chuckled at this. "Have you ever read a novel?"

"Jesus, how condescending can you get?" He began to frantically think about it, but titles did not present themselves. "Don’t ask me which one. My mind doesn’t work exactly like that."

"Right. Well, don’t worry, man. I’m not a huge, big time reader or anything." She tugged him around the corner into Cornwall Street, then stood in front of him. "Look, I had a really nice time at dinner and then it went out of control and, you know." She looked down the street and then back at him. Michael fought the impulse to stare at his shoes. "Most of my friends are happy to get wasted, hook up with some dude, then pretend they’re not depressed about a lack of romance. Now, that said, if we’re going to do more than just hook up, my man, then we can’t be talking about what other people are up to. Am I right?"

Michael shrugged. "Don’t ask me. I’m just here for the view."

This seemed to be just the right response for Rebecca. She leaned in and kissed him. And as she did this, another chunk of the previous evening’s shenanigans rushed back into him. Michael thought about the band and its world-weary melodies, lush arpeggio and the fullness of that rib-shaking lower end. He had been there for a modest chapter in a favorite band's history all because Rebecca had asked him to her Dining Club. He returned her kiss, the taste of licorice laced minty freshness on her tongue giving his heart a dose of Ringer’s Lactate. She hooked her finger into the belt loop of his cargo pants. "Should we take the pizza back to my place?"

"It’ll get cold." He responded automatically, then recovered from his swoon toward logic and smiled. "But it’s better that way anyway. Right?"

"Undoubtedly." They pointed themselves at The Shed and beat a path across Cornwall Street to the dirty green door of the best pizza in town, beyond which doomed romance lurked in each mozzarella bubble.

"So there’s nothing about the show last night on the APD’ web site. What little blog traffic I saw didn’t mention Avona Novoselic or how her brother is their manager and the band seemingly doing their manager a huge favor."

"Doesn’t surprise me. We move in mysterious ways, does King Cole." She smiled. "No, but seriously, when I talked to Marcus last night I thought he said something like he was happy to do it…"

"Were they at a party?" He tried to interject.

"…And that Sam Gill went to Aversham, before transferring to Tulane."

"Sam Gill only tours with them. He’s not even a full time member." Michael smirked. "I have overheard three different conversations about the show."

As they pushed through The Shed’s door, she grinned at him. "I hear you didn’t have much to say to Marcus when you met him at the fridge."

"Was that for real? Were they at some party we ended up at?" The darkness inside gave Michael’s eyes a needed break. "I can’t really remember that now."

Brick oven smells drifted just above the beer-soaked wood odor emanating from the thick labyrinth of booths. A crowd already stood around the order and take-home windows so Rebecca pulled out her phone and pushed the speed dial number for The Shed. Squinting at the board she ordered with the proficiency of a daily visitor, then spotting an open booth, she pushed Michael along towards it as she gave her credit card information (from memory) and received confirmation that it would be a twenty minute wait. She closed the phone up as they sat down, Michael leaning up against the wall with his legs pulled up on to the bench. Rebecca drummed her hands, looked away, then right at Michael. "So how do you see this happening?"

He nodded. "I think I’ll just kind of use my elbows and get to the window, grab the pie and run."

"Ha. Funny. I mean you and me."

"Oh. Right. Well…"

"I could easily see us getting all stuck in, you know? One of those freaky, love-struck things where we don’t come up for air until May. Or, we could let Cary get in the way and we’ll turn
this into a buddy movie hook up thing. Know what I’m saying?"

Michael looked at her, blinking while furiously trying to think of something to say.

"So freakiness or buddy movie?"

"You have to ask?"

"Of course, I have to ask. Don’t you know me better than that?"

"Um. No?"

"Sure I’m all pop references and care free sounding, maybe playing that insecure girlie card once in a while. But I do, actually, really strive to be clear. I mean with feelings. I don’t want to leave anything to chance where that’s concerned."

"Is that why you stepped in when Cary’s old girlfriend showed up a couple months ago. You know, I mean you really made that work out better than I thought it would."

"Please. I had nothing to do with it. Cary strives for simplicity. He wants to be clear. He does try. But that just got away from him from before. From the Summer."

"You don’t think he’s clear?"

Rebecca stared blankly at Michael. "He thinks he is. Maybe that’s more dangerous than being completely oblivious."

He shrugged. "Okay. I see." He looked away at the crowd still gathered around the order and pick up windows. "Interesting. He seems pretty straight forward to me."

"Oh for the most part. I mean, he’s like, all straight ahead when he is sure of himself."
Michael looked at her. "You know, I’m starting to think that they do make a perfect pair -- Charlotte and Cary. Not that I’d ever rendered an opinion before."

"You saying she likes things fuzzy, but plays it like she’s a straight shooter?"

He shrugged.

Rebecca glanced at her phone to see who was texting her. "That’s my impression, but I don’t really know. Like I’ve said before, I just hear about her through Cary. Hardly objective."

"It’s a teen novel waiting to happen."

"Please. What do you know from novels, Batman Returns?"

"Speaking of culture…"

"Were we?"

"…you know the bust on Friday that has my neighbors in some hot water?"

"Like no one saw that coming."

"Really. Anyway, our hall proctor, Trent."

"Don’t mess with that guy, man."

"He didn’t see it coming. And he was supposed to be all bad ass and everything. But, so, he isn’t. But that’s whatever. So anyway he was telling me how he had only written up one guy so far this semester and he was a volunteer."

"Oh, a Stalag 13."

Michael was thrilled she knew precisely what he was going to say. "Exactly!"

"Do you know the volunteer?"

"Not really. But it’s weird. Trent didn’t know what a Stalag 13 is. Or if he knew the term he doesn’t know the origins."

"Send him the book mark to the Amazon page. Paramount just released the first few seasons of Hogan’s Heroes."

"How can he not know what Hogan’s Heroes is? Larry Hovis was a comic genius."

"Trent and Cary must really get along."

A song came on and Michael sat up. "Listen."

"What?"

"Interpol."

"And?"

"You should like these guys." He closed his eyes to listen.

"Because you know me so well, right?" She smiled, then feeling her cell phone vibrate Rebecca checked the screen. "That’s us. Wow, fast. Guess it pays to know the manager. Let’s go."

"You and I are in beta right now, that’s all. We’ll test out."

"Your considered opinion?"

"I’m confident in the programming."

Charade - Chapter Twenty Seven

Michael’s eyes fluttered open and took in what they could without having to move. The room’s four walls were blank and white, accept for a single Crucifix suspended over a closed door. His brain felt compressed and dull, but the light streaming in through half closed and battered venetian blinds converted the dullness to a sharp pain. Rolling eyes downward he caught sight of Rebecca’s shiny, red-tinged brown hair and Michael could feel the pressure of her head on his rib cage, then feel her hot exhale on his stomach. He closed his eyes again.
Working mightily to avoid reassembling the previous night, Michael attempted to trick his brain to sleep by thinking about something peaceful and pleasant. But the ringing in his ears took control of whatever images created and converted them into reminders. The band, the music, the drugs, the alcohol, the darkness. His eyes opened again and he lifted his head this time just enough to see that they were both draped across a stripped mattress still in their dinner clothes, Rebecca asleep perpendicular to him. Michael followed the curves of her body, across the rumpled twin set cardigan, by the skirt, which had hiked up to offer a glimpse of underwear, down to the tips of her toes, then out the window. Between the blind slats he could see car bumpers and the leaves of bushes. It gave little clue to his whereabouts so he gently returned his head to the mattress and again closed his eyes, trying to work magic.

He felt Rebecca’s breathing change and the light brush of eyelashes on his skin. "I do one of these a semester," she whispered with the rasp of a dry mouth.

When he went to reply he realized just how dry his mouth had become overnight. Mojave dry. Painfully void of saliva. The throat muscles worked to generate a swallow, the sensation of which felt like he ingested tiny particles of broken glass. "One, what?" He whispered, noticing his jaw hurt.

"One night of lunacy. Or maybe it’s immaturity." She replied quietly, deliberately. "Starting Junior year of High School. Now it’s college, I guess. Each one I’ve had a Leaving Las Vegas night." Slowly, Rebecca lifted her head, then raised her torso, propping herself up with an arm, still looking away from Michael. "If I were shooting this, it would be in 16 millimeter black and white. ASA 60. A hand-held Arriflex. 100 foot magazine," she quietly rambled, then stopped and looked around and down at Michael. "I suddenly get terribly serious about film making after I’ve been hopelessly infantile."

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Michael found that his head hurt too much to speak, barely able to comprehend what Rebecca said to him, before closing his eyes and wishing to be immersed in a bathtub of ice cubes. His kingdom for a Dixie cup of water, he thought.

"What happened?"

"I’m not really sure." She whispered.

"Where are we?"

There was a long pause, but Michael waited with his eyes shut. Rebecca put her head back on his chest. "Avona Novoselic’s apartment."

"How did we get here?"

"After the show. You know. We went to Jessica Gleason’s house. The band was there. We came back here with a bunch of people after that."

Michael didn’t want to think about it at the moment. In fact, he decided he didn’t want to think about anything. Imaginary blankets folded over pillows that folded over Michael’s head as it sank away deeper into darkness, padded by mattress. Neurons greeted synapses and secret handshakes were exchanged between enzymes. Various disparate cells, finding themselves out of place, swam in omnidirectional randomness to find a place to congregate, to resettle. When the last of the savages had hacked their way through the mossy back lots of sleep, Michael’s eyes popped open again to find himself alone in the barren room of Avona Novoselic’s apartment.

He got up slowly and dug his cell phone out to check the time. 1:30 PM. If he didn’t get himself together he would miss lunch, then be forced to fend for himself on a Sunday night. This thought troubled him as he had no idea where the apartment was located and how he would get back to campus. But just as he shrugged on his shirt and went for departure, Rebecca opened the door to the room. "Need a ride?" She asked in a moist and pleasant voice.

"I think so. Where is this place?"

She stood by the door, looking a bit more pulled together than the last brief segment of dialog between them. "If you take School Street straight through town, then hang a left at the IGA."

"The Columbus Road spur?"

"No that’s a left at the RV lot."

"Whatever. I need a ride so I can get back for lunch. I have 30 minutes left before they close."

"You’ll be there in five. We’re only on Ashburton Avenue. Come on."

He passed Rebecca, brushing by her and feeling a crackling stratosphere of sexual tension. Out in the bright, sunlit living area, he found that the tall girl from the dinner was lying on a couch with some dude he didn’t recognize. Michael generated a half wave.

"Thanks again for letting us crash Avona."

"No problem." The tall girl replied without taking her eyes off the flat screen TV resting atop a stack of European newspapers and fashion magazines.

They left and out in the fresh air, Michael felt his stomach turn sour, the sudden freshness and density to the air causing a host of gremlins from the previous night to kick and scream.
She looked at him as they walked around the corner toward the parking lot. "Are you sure you’re up to lunch, my man? Maybe you should just drink something and try to get yourself together for dinner. I’ll treat you tonight as a way of thanking you for being so nice last night. For hanging with the program so well. For being a conspirator."

Michael didn’t like the way that last thing sounded, but couldn’t generate anything of a response beyond a simple shrug and a weak, "thanks."

"So here we are." Rebecca pointed her key fob at a spotless, white VW Bug. "You remember my car, June."

They got in and Michael immediately bundled his arms and propped his head against the passenger door. "I can’t believe your club booked At Proper Distance." He looked at her as she started the car and backed out of a space beneath a large Pin Oak. "And kept it a complete secret. What, I mean, how does that happen?"

"Pure luck. Avona’s brother is their manager. The secrecy part is easy. But getting hold of a band like that, paying a band like that. We’d never have been able to do it without her." She put June into gear and accelerated through the apartment complex parking lot. "You see? Being part of something like a DC isn’t so terribly bad. Am I right?"

"Two albums on Bridlemile, Three on Fire World. Countless soundtracks. Heavy blog traffic. It’s not just any band. It’s quality. It’s smart. Southern, arty, indie pop rock." Michael lifted his head off the passenger window and mumbled. "I think Marcus spoke to me at some point."
Rebecca didn’t hear him. "We aim to please!" They drove down Ashburton to the IGA and turned toward campus. Michael watched the small town scene streak by his window. Neither spoke again until they had reached Lot D near the Mould Group Dorms. Rebecca shut the car off. "Hey, you know, like, last night, I told you how much I was in love with you and all." The sudden burning knot in his mid section hit Michael simultaneous to his recollection of them rolling around in the grass of Kempker Meadows. "But don’t be too freaked. Drug induced." She shrugged and looked at her watch. "You have fifteen minutes to eat macaroni and cheese, dude."

"I, uh. Yeah. Right." He couldn’t figure out what to say to this turn of events so he pulled the handle and popped the door open.

"Look. Why don’t you go eat something and sleep some more or whatever, then let me take you out for dinner. A nice, drug and alcohol free dinner." She smiled ever so slightly. "I need to make it up to you somehow."

"What are you talking about?"

"Last night. I was deplorable."

"Last night you were drunk."

"Calling you Cary’s pal. Cary this and Cary that. No excuse for that. Really. I mean what the fuck?"

Michael looked at the dashboard now recalling some of what had passed between them as they carried on well into the night and across the campus and town. Lots of strange discussion about television and computers interspersed with references to Cary. And then she had ended up on top of him as they made out in a field, saying how she loved him for being just the sort of guy her parents would fall in love with. Michael recalled wondering about her drunken pronoun confusion and assumed that he was that sort, but then realized she again referred to Cary Grant. "Were you saying not-so-nice things about Charlotte last night? Am I remembering that right?"

She made a face. "Maybe. I mean, like, she’s fine and all, but seems sort of on auto-pilot with everything. Know what I’m saying?"

"Yes. I sort of do. I am guessing by everything you mean Cary?"

She shrugged. "Sorry. Really. I know she’s a friend." Rebecca added. "And you are such a great friend to Cary" An awkward kiss on the cheek followed.

Michael nodded and turned to her. "Okay. I’m easy." He got out and bent down. "Text me later."

She started the car. "I gotta run back out to Avona’s and grab something, then I have a pile of work. Maybe around 7?"

He straightened and waved as she backed out of the space and took off. Michael watched as Rebecca disappeared out of Lot D. Despite her assurances at the beginning of the entire program, Michael knew he was a stand in for Cary and a very poor one at that. And as he started to walk to the Cafeteria entrance a debate kicked off. Should he go along with it and see what fun he could have or refuse to indulge her and tell Cary his fan base of one spiraled towards stalker level. He pulled out his wallet to get his A-Card, deciding the best policy may be to go with the flow and enjoy being loved for just being the roommate of Cary Grant. "Everyone loves the man." He shook his head and climbed the stairs to the cafeteria door.

"Might as well take full advantage of all rights and privileges. I’ll be this scene’s metasyntactic variable."

Going in the doors, he flashed his card and entered the line where the food workers were already breaking it down. As he considered the meager options, trying to hold his stomach together long enough to get to a table, he began to wonder if he had told Rebecca about Charlotte admitting to not loving Cary. Had he encouraged her in some way? Recollection of this proved impossible, particularly while making a vitally important choice between a congealed flat of succotash or a dried pan of instant mashed potatoes. "I’ll have some potatoes, please." The matron wordlessly tightened her plastic sanitary gloves and dished out a mountain of starch, tossing it up on the counter above the sneeze guard. "Thanks," Michael offered.

After grabbing a giant cup of cola he took a seat in a nearly empty dining hall, producing his phone to look at what texts may have come in while working to assemble himself into human form during the mid day hours. A text from his sister followed by another complaining about lack of response. Another one from a classmate about x86 assembly language and one from Rebecca that read, "wake up."

He smiled and scooped some potatoes up, thinking, Rebecca, Rebecca, I will gladly be your secret agent if it means waking up with you more often.

Charade - Chapter Twenty Six

The amplified plink plonk of an electric piano announced the arrival of shadowy figures to their instruments. With the stage still dark, five figures emerged from behind the ersatz back-stage, better known as a curtain, hung to obscure the swivel door to the kitchen. Michael could see the faint glow of tube amps and burning cigarette ends. He could not believe how much he had missed these sights since leaving the familiar venues back home. Then he thought he recognized the two chords being played on the piano, just before an early melody was revealed by a short run up to a raspy, urgent opening vocal.

"I’m so happy this day is here
Been counting down one by one
It’s the best day of the worst year
A short life that’s gone a long way…"

Then the stage lights exploded with the crunch of guitar and rumble of drum and bass. Michael could not believe his eyes. He leaned into Rebecca standing beside him. "Oh. My. God. It’s At Proper Distance!" She looked at him and smiled, pointing to her ear and nodding that she couldn’t her him. He watched as they chugged through their song, ‘Finish Line’ from the group’s critically acclaimed fourth release. "How could they be here?" he asked himself. It was a dazzling coup to have brought in such a stalwart of the indie rock scene; a band whose debut came out when Michael was skipping Kindergarten; a group with seamless college music heritage who made New Orleans a home base, despite conspiracies of hurricanes and governments. "Wow." He said swept by an astonishing level of disbelief.

He looked at Rebecca who simply looked back, smiling and bobbing her head along with the shoe gaze meets Americana scramble of At Proper Distance. She reached into a small pocket on the front of her plaid skirt and as her body twisted back and forth in time with the music, she lifted two small, round pills out. And with her fingers, held them up indicating Michael should hold his hand out to receive a gift. She bent into his ear and with a good scream said, "love drug."

He looked back up at Marcus DeSanto, the taciturn, bespectacled front man who strummed on a glistening Fender Telecaster, apparently frozen while studying his monitor. Michael had greatly missed the hum and thump of live performance. The opportunity to reacquaint with it in the company of somebody as hot and sweet as Rebecca Dando made his hand go up to receive the red tablet, bearing a Mercedes logo. "Down the hatch," he yelled back, before flipping the Ecstasy on to his tongue. Marcus DeSanto stomped his foot down on his chorus effect, stepping back to the mic to sing in the immutable off-handed style now copied by great numbers of bands all over Myspace …

"Ian Curtis overhead
Black sheets on her bed"

For Michael, the night rolled out in front of him with guitar echo, bass string thump, stage light heat and Rebecca’s body in a constant state of languid movement up close to his. At one point he wondered if he would ever be able to open his eyes wide again as the big room and all the dancing people closed in tightly, moving and shouting and building time bombs with the person next to them. Song after song came over them and he knew each all so well his body moved easily, turning to liquid at times, lubricated by heat and sweat. A flash of synapse popped a momentary sense of depressing inevitability the good times, sexy feelings would end with payment due. But with the next sonic wind from Giles Johnson’s kick drum, the feeling blew away just as Rebecca’s sweaty lips came to his.

The crowd grew as members of other clubs found a way by the various security arrangements. The body press was incredible, yet no one minded. The music kept coming and the darkness to the back increasingly obscured the reality of academics. Michael felt his way around Rebecca’s torso, holding his other arm up to salute the manic heart snapping marathon version of APD’s indie hit, ‘Durango.’

And then the band left in the dark as they had arrived with no one even thinking it had been real or that they had been short changed by the enormous surprise of what would become a campus legend. The crowd hummed in the darkness and to the front of it, almost dead center, Michael and Rebecca stood kissing deeply, passionately, ignorant to any outcome. This was why he had decided to come to college -- the messy nonsense fantasy of sheltered relationship.

To hell with computers.

They slid into a marshy, dark, time-lapse event with outlandish characters and ill-defined goings-on. Michael found himself target locked on a half gallon of skim milk resting amongst many bottles of beer inside the refrigerator of some nondescript kitchen. "Are you going to make a selection?" A voice asked calmly.

He turned, letting the refrigerator door go. Marcus DeSanto grabbed the door before it slowly swung shut. Michael did not understand why a Lightening Tern stood next to him asking a question so he just shrugged.

Marcus reached in a grabbed a bottle of something. "I know, I know. Hard choice. Is it the beer or the out of date milk? Which to choose?" He handed Michael the bottle, then grabbed another. "I’m just guessing you’ll take the beer."

Michael’s wits came around, but only just enough. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Marcus twisted the bottle open and took a drink. "Someone told me you’re halfway round the bend when it comes to music. What’ya listen to?"

Michael gripped the bottle, but didn’t open it. "Oh, everything. Sort of. I mean, like, My Morning Jacket and uh," He couldn’t think of any of his favorite bands besides My Morning Jacket, then he spouted, "VHS or Beta."

"Louisville." He nodded looking around for someone. "Ever been?"

"I’m, um, like, from there?"

"Cool. Good restaurants in that place. Before we were signed we used to come up and play some place on Bardstown Road. Can’t remember the name." He adjusted his glasses. "Doubt it’s there anymore. Then there’s that record store there." Marcus looked up at the ceiling. "Fuck it. Can’t remember. Anyway, we played a Derby party once. You know, with our name coming from where it comes from, we sort of thought we’d end up playing a lot those. But then we got kind of big for that. Man, that Derby party. Wildest crazy fuckin’ thing." He shook his head and looked at the floor. "I’ll tell you one thing. It sure did make Mardi Gras look like some kind of Scout jamboree."

Michael couldn’t think of anything to say. He just shrugged again, then became aware of a high pitched whine in his left ear and that he was staring at a small piece of aluminum foil on the floor over by a trash can.

"So does everyone assume that since you’re from Louisville, you bet on horses?"

"Not really. No more than say, they think Louisville is like the Eastern part of the state."

"How so?"

"Well, Kentucky. You know, people assume I have bad teeth and date my sister."

"Well, do you?"

Michael showed his teeth. "What do you think?"

Marcus crouched somewhat and looked at Michael’s teeth. "Nice. Braces?"

"Yup." Michael relaxed his lips, then felt his jaw.

Marcus took a drink. "And your sister?"

"Not sure who dates her, but it isn’t me, man." Michael stuck his finger in his ear, trying to clear the buzzing. He worked feverishly to come up with something cool to say about an At Proper Distance moment, but couldn’t manufacture anything other than, "I was supposed to go see you guys play at the Red Barn on your last tour, but couldn’t get a ride."

Marcus nodded. "Don’t really remember anything about the show." He looked at his beer.

"That was a few years back anyway." Michael wasn’t sure why he said that and quickly found himself in a vacuum of silence.

"Well, hey. Good chatting." Marcus stuck out his hand. "Be good." Michael shook it, then looked down at his bottle as Marcus disappeared into the noise and clatter of a Bar-Kays record in the other room.

"Wasn’t there something, anything to maybe ask him?" Michael said to an empty kitchen. He went to the sink and looked out the window on to a dark backyard faintly illuminated by the interior lights. They were at someone’s house, but no clues presented themselves. He could make out a rusted swing set seemingly tossed by some hulking giant beneath a looming tree. A Big Wheel, missing its big wheel sat in the remains of a sandbox. The whine in his head intensified so he put the beer back in the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water, sauntering into a hallway, which led to Rebecca’s laughter.

Charade - Chapter Twenty Five

Michael and Rebecca agreed to meet at the Union where the dining clubs managed meeting rooms behind closed and purposely mysterious-looking doors. Early, he sat down on the stone bench outside the main Union entrance, feeling even more self-conscious than he imagined possible. He closed his eyes for a few minutes and let the setting sun rays warm his face, hoping to calm his nerves. When Rebecca appeared he immediately felt relieved. He thought she would be more dressed up given Cary’s concern about his casual attire.

"Wow, you look dazzling." He stood up as she approached, attempting to avoid his eyes falling on particular curves or the swath of ever-so-slightly-exposed belly between a red twin set and low-slung plaid schoolgirl skirt. He had his sister to thank for basic fashion knowledge, though up until this episode he had never applied any of the nonsense absorbed over years of listening to her talk in a nonstop monologue about the multitude of mall stores attempting to employ her. "You look beautiful, but in a, you know, kind of laid back way. Kinda like a Catholic girl who had a growth spurt during vespers."

"Well, gee. Thanks. But what did you expect? An antebellum hoop skirt and heels? And what do you know about vespers?" She leaned into him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "There, that gets that out of the way. You look," she regarded him from head to toe, "really different."

"I was worried I’d be under dressed."

She waved into the air. "Cary said that, right? His DC seems to like formal wear and believes all the others do too, I guess." She hooked her arm through his and they started up the stairs to the Union doors. "No, no, we’re a pretty casual bunch. We’ve got dinner, but then after that there’s a little band playing. It’s all been very, very secret. We only have post dinner entertainment three times each school year."

Michael pulled open the door and Rebecca swept through pulling him along. He felt emboldened by the kiss and her breezy, open confidence. "Do you know the band?" Michael imagined one of the six or seven slack garage outfits that made the party rounds, but then thought big and wondered if they pulled some outfit out of Columbus.

"Only three people on the whole campus know who’s playing."

Michael smiled. "I feel honored to be at one of the three dinner show things. Thanks for asking me."

"Oh, you’re so sweet. Thanks for coming." They went down the stairs and into the long hallway where each of the clubs official rooms occupied large tracts of the building. The smell of linoleum polish, an upright piano with a dust cover draped sloppily over it and the tang of institutional food wafting about always gave Rebecca the impression she was in some church basement somewhere. On this night, the hall smelled like catering as seven different clubs held their Celebration Day Weekend dinners. Packed with students in various forms of evening wear, Rebecca guided Michael through the place, pulling him with clasped hands to the closed antique green door with a brass plaque that read "King Cole was a Merry Old Soul."
While looking seriously at Michael, she knocked a short and careful rhythm on the door, much to his amusement. "What is this? Skull and Bones?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. We normally don’t have an entry knock and invitation system in place, but I take it our entertainment tonight is more exclusive than normal."

The door opened just a bit, enough for a curly-headed, portly guy to stick his head out. Michael recognized him from the computer labs over in Robertson. "Rebecca." He said in a slightly conspiratorial tone. "Do you have your invite?"

"Right here, Jones. Take a gander." She handed him a card lifted quickly out of her small purse.

Jones consulted the card. "This looks in order." He then looked at Michael. "And this is?"

"Shut up and get the hell back inside." Rebecca pushed him back through the door and went in after him, tugging Michael. With a worn out sigh, the door snapped shut and she made the introductions. "Jones, this is Slocum. Slocum, meet Jones."

Momentarily distracted by hearing his last name, Michael extended his hand. "Hey. How’s it going?"

Jones shook it but immediately turned his attention to Rebecca and her bobbing earrings. "You seem to have some Hoola Hoops on your ears there, Dando."

"Ha ha." She surveyed the room. "So any word on who the band is?"

Jones shrugged. "You’ll be at Number 20 tonight." He pointed off into the shadows to a table near a substantial support column.

Rebecca rested her fists on her waist and huffed. "Huh. How about that? Not exactly an upgrade, but 20’s good."

Michael looked around too, taking in the dimly lit dining club, a series of round tables with crisp linens and candle lanterns as centerpieces in a space that surprised him with it’s considerable size. The tables were populated by a diverse group of perhaps 90 to 100 that would undoubtedly give demographers trouble in determining the right products for a corporation to sell here. Apparently, they were one of the last of the club to show up.
To the back there was a riser that ran the width of the room, shrouded in darkness. He could see the red glow from various standby lights on the amps and decided that there was some serious volume to be made later. Squinting, he could make out some shimmer on the bodies of guitars. Michael could make out a small drum kit off center and obscured by equipment. This all comforted him and he turned to Rebecca. "Let’s go up front and see what’s been loaded in."

Jones huffed. "Their security don’t want any of us close until they’re on."

Rebecca pursed her lips. "Interesting. I have to give the guys on the social committee points for this." She looked at Michael. "I picked a good night to invite you along, mon ami."

Jones wandered back to the door to listen for more entries.

"Apparently." He put his hands in his pockets, feeling the inspection tag still making a home in his new pants. He pulled it out and consulted it. It read, Inspected by Number 7. Rebecca leaned into him to see the tag. Michael could smell her hair redolent of something floral, clean and what he considered feminine. He had not considered Rebecca to particularly bristle with sexiness before this evening, but so far, the first ten minutes of their congress felt charged up with a surprising energy. He handed her the tag and said in a mock DJ voice, "New pants for the young man. Have a souvenir."

She took the tag and looked at him. "They look nice, Michael. Proof, perhaps, that Cary is right about something."

"Oh, you had to bring him up, huh?" He said, while smiling unassumingly.

"You don’t have to have a messy surface to prove you have hidden depths." She put the tag in her little purse along with the invitation.

"That doesn’t sound like him."

"No. It’s more of a composite of things he’s said, maybe thought." She looked over toward their table. "Let’s go and have a seat." Rebecca took Michael by the hand and pulled him along
as they delved further into the dining hall.

The noise of all the conversation rose so Michael walked close to Rebecca to be heard.
"What’s on the menu for dinner?"

She looked back at him as they wove through the people and tables. "If it goes to form." She checked their route to Table 20. "You’ll have a choice between chicken and something vegan. I usually go vegan, even though I’m not, you know, vegan." A short girl stepped out from behind a much taller one. Rebecca stopped abruptly causing Michael to work mightily not to careen into everyone causing a drink explosion. "Hi, Smithwick. What’s going on with you tonight?"

Smithwick giggled and stepped closer to Rebecca, her face about even with Rebecca’s armpit. "Novoselic got a bottle of slivovitz by Jones." She pointed to the back of the taller girl who held court at Table 18. "For later, y’know. Got to have that post tofu digestif," she added.

Rebecca stepped slightly to one side to bring Michael up beside her, moving to create a circle of conversation.

Smithwick squinted, looking up at him. "Wow, you brought, dare I say it, Dando?" She looked over at Rebecca. "A date?"

Michael waved. "I guess that’s me."

"Name please?" Smithwick, arms akimbo, batted her eyes up at Michael, waiting for her answer.

"Um. It’s Michael." He held out his hand to shake her’s.

"No, no." She shook his hand with a firm, but perfunctory yank. "We don’t use first names here. When you’re at King Cole, it’s only surnames."

"Oh. Slocum."

"All right then, Slocum. Welcome to the furnace room. Hope you have a fine time."

Michael sensed the arrival of an awkward moment, since Rebecca was now saying something into Novoselic’s ear and not entirely present for support. "Thanks for having me." He looked over to the darkened stage. "Any clues as to the music situation?"

Smithwick shrugged following Michael’s gaze to the stage. "By the size and quantity of amplification, I would guess we’ll be rocking." She turned back to him. "We don’t often do it, but King Cole can muster one ear-ringing squall of noise."

"Doesn’t the Union, you know, the others, the, um other DC’s complain?"

"Screw ‘em." Smithwick flashed a smile and stepped into Michael, giving him a playful elbow.

"If our faculty advisor signs off on it, they don’t have a leg to stand on."

Michael wondered what sort of powerful administration force allowed King Cole to ignore sound requirements. "Who’s your advisor?"

"Do you take any Chemistry?"

"No. I’m Bits and Bytes."

Smithwick grimaced. "Really? Oh shit. I fucking hate my computer. You know? I get these blue screens and defrag notices and error lock-ups." She stopped herself. "Oops. Sorry. Why does everyone automatically pour their heart out to anyone who professes technical knowledge?"
Michael shrugged. "They’re central to our existence."

"Hell, they’re central to our survival, Slocum." She stopped suddenly and shut her eyes. "What was I saying? Oh! You wanted to know who our advisor was. She’s simply the coolest. Dr. Westerberg."

"Oh sure. I’ve heard of her. Hey wait." He turned to Rebecca who had just turned her head back into the conversation. "That’s who you and Cary have?

"Yep. She’s a very interesting person." Rebecca added, then hooked Michael’s arm. "Let’s grab our seats and await the arrival of the menu." She leaned into Michael and whispered in his ear. "I think I want you away from Smithwick."

Michael looked to see what expression Rebecca wore, hoping to figure out what she meant by that overt hush of jealousy. "Okay."

"Later, Smithwick."

"La-tah, Dando." Smithwich saluted back.

They moved away and through another narrow alley of people, before finally arriving at Table 20. "Here we are." She looked around at the other members already seated. "Hello, everyone." Rebecca looked at Michael and said in a quiet tone. "Sorry about pulling you away, but Smithwick can rope you into some really drawn out conversations about our faculty advisor. She’s in love with her. Makes me sort of uncomfortable anyway." She looked back at the table. "So, let’s see. I think it’s just easier for me to show case the new face, then you all can just introduce as needed. So everyone, this is Slocum. And yes, he is my official date."
There were only three of the six others even paying the least amount of attention and they all smiled back and nodded, one even half rising, leaning over another to shake Michael’s hand. He sat back down and exclaimed, "welcome, Slocum. Hope you treat our Dando with kid gloves. If not, we’ll bag you and tag you and send you over to those stuffy assholes in Erie," he cocked his head to the right, "over in the next room."

Michael widened his eyes in what he imagined to be a comic gesture. "Say, watch it. Erie is my roommate’s DC."

"Is your roommate a stuffy asshole?" The jovial welcomer asked.

As they took their seats, Michael doing the courtesy of pushing Rebecca’ chair in first, before seating himself. Picked up from watching Cary and Charlotte eat countless dinners, this simple act gave Michael a sense of cordial, clubiness he had never experienced before. ""Oh, I think he would say he is, but he’s actually a great guy."

Charade - Chapter Twenty Four

Michael tucked his shirt in and turned to Cary. "So here it is, man. How much do I look like a clown?"

Cary, stretched out on his bed, looked up from his reading. "You look good. Rebecca will appreciate the effort." He went back to his reading.

Michael looked down at his purchases. "You know what to wear at a Dining Club. Does this pass? Is this okay?"

Cary didn’t bother looking up. "It’s perfect. Might still be on the informal side, but don’t worry about it."

"Dude, I am so not worried." He noticed a lack of interest on the part of Cary and made a note to email Charlotte and Rebecca to see if they knew anything about his downturn over the last week. He had anticipated Cary being more enthused about the arrival of nice clothes and the inherent universal reality shift that would naturally occur when Michael donned the new veneer in a serious attempt at impressing Rebecca. Yet, he hadn’t seen much of Cary in the seven days since the sartorial consultation and when alone with him, Cary had burrowed deeply into textbook reading and said little to Michael.

He sat down at his computer and tapped out a quick email to Rebecca asking if she knew anything about Mr. G’s condition, before going on to clearing his in tray of nonsense. As he started reading an email from his sister, a reply came in from Rebecca with an attachment. The speed of this surprised him. The quick reply from Rebecca filled him with some sense of maturity and importance. He smiled, thinking that just a few months ago in high school he would not have had an opportunity to correspond with such a girl, to get any sort of response, let alone being able to elicit lightning fast replies with personal picture attachments. In the world of high school, it appeared to Michael that intellect was still a liability. In the fairy world of Aversham, it apparently did not pose as an impediment to social success.

DandoR@Aversham.edu: Mr. G OK as far as I know. We both aced the Chem test. Check this pic. Took it with my phone after we got our grades. 90+ for both. Does this man look bothered?

Michael looked over to Cary still reclined on his bed, then opened the attachment. The picture showed Rebecca and Cary closely together and mugging it up for the camera lens. It reminded him of pictures he routinely saw on MySpace of parties and backstage pictures taken on the fly. He closed it and sat looking at the email text wondering how Charlotte would react to seeing Cary so chummy with Rebecca. He had to admit it gave him pause as he dragged the attachment to his trashcan and watched the flames flicker the evidence away. Michael then went into his server account and cleared the attachment files out of reflex.

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: Like, should you be, you know, showing me this sort of thing when we have a date in about 18 hours from now?

DandoR@Aversham.edu: Hardy har har. It’s a picture of two chemistry chums yucking it up after an academic achievment.

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: Whatever. V. chummy.

DandoR@Aversham.edu: You asked me if I thought there was anything going on withhim and Im furnishing proof all is well. LOL.

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: If didn’t knw better and maybe I don’t, I’d say hes down right depressed.

DandoR@Aversham.edu: Does not comput.

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: I’ve lived with him two months now and this is the first time I have seen him this way.

DandoR@Aversham.edu: Try his close companion then. Maybe she knows somethin. KWIS?

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: I’d say let’s IM, but I gotta fly. BBFN

DandoR@Aversham.edu: SYS. J

Unsettled by the big smiles in Rebecca’s phone cam shot, he dashed off a quick email to Charlotte, wondering why he suddenly cared about Cary Grant’s mood so much.

SlocumM@Aversham.edu: Cary seems totally out of it last few days. OK, maybe not totally, but, jus not usual 1000% happy self. Any cluess?

He hovered over the enter key, then went ahead and stabbed it. Why shouldn’t he be concerned about his roommate and closest friend, he thought? Maybe the pressure of securing perfect grades finally materialized as a darker shade of Cary’s personality, cutting out the positive reinforcements and general attitude, in favor of a quieter, simmering personality. Michael got up from his desk and looked at himself in the mirror as he slid his wristwatch on. The time had come for him to hike over to the barber on Cornwall Avenue. Let the mayhem begin, he decided.

When he swung open the door, Michael encountered the hulking backs of two campus policemen in full black SWAT team-like jump suits. While one kept a German Shepherd on a tight leash, the other reeled around and gave Michael a glare with a finger to his mouth, requesting quiet. This did not look good for Perry and Greg. Trent Benn, with Des Roback trailing behind, joined them looking a bit frazzled as he held the master key card out for Mr. Sargent Quiet Requester. Trent looked at Michael and pointed his thumb out of the hall comically nodding an order to retreat.

They went into the stairwell and down to the vestibule. Trent sighed and rubbed through his hair. "Looks like we have a bad situation."

"Um, well, er." Michael stammered, then gave Trent a suspicious look.

"Wasn’t me, man. I haven’t written anybody up except for Vince in 129 and he was a volunteer."

"Oh, yeah. I heard about that. The Stalag 13." Michael offered.

"Stalag 13?" Trent put his hands on his hips and looked up the stairwell, sighing again.

Michael knew Perry and Greg were both gone, down into town searching for a large supply of water balloons. "You know, Hogan’s Heroes? They had to attempt escape every once in a while to throw the Gestapo off. Colonel Kink couldn’t have too good of a record, right?"
Trent looked at him and screwed his face into a question mark. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sorry." He often faulted a general wide gap in his popular culture reference points that powered much of student conversation. It left him scrambling for some hidden meaning that often did not exist.

Michael shook his head. "Whatever." He would need to ask Rebecca about this. Are there really fellow students not versed in Tele-reference? It could be a funny opening gambit for the evening. His self absorbing thought broke apart when the Sargent came into the stairwell holding Perry’s travel shaving-cum-pot kit, a smallish sandwich bag stuffed with dark, leafy herbs and squawking into the radio pinned to his right shoulder. Des Roback followed him talking into her PDA. Michael looked at Trent who squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall. It appeared like a long night ahead for Perry and Greg and a bit of an afternoon hassle for Trent over at the Rez Life office.

"Not such a good day for a wake and bake." Michael announced as he watched the Sargent stand outside the dorm calling in the find while Des Roback quickly vanished without a trace. He felt surprised at his sudden lack of empathy for his fellow hall mates. "Well. I am off to get my hair cut."

"Hey if you know, y’know, their cell phone numbers?" Trent looked up the stairwell to the hall door. "Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to sort of let them know that the shit is coming down? Those guys are a couple of spoiled brats, but I still feel like warning them. Something about the obvious overkill of the campus gestapo."

Michael appreciated Trent’s quasi-concern for Perry and Greg, despite how careless they had been about the shear quantity and frequency of contraband use. "And here I thought you were some kick ass ninja-like dude who didn’t like people breaking rules."

"Yea, well, I’ve been exposed, then."

"Your secret’s safe with me."

"Don’t’ think I need it to be safe. Not now anyway. Now get the hell out of here and call those idiots."

"But wouldn’t that make me an accessory or pervert the course of justice or something?"

"I don’t know."

"Trent, I’m not getting involved in this at all. As far as I’m concerned they’re idiots."

"Right, right. Good point. Not bad for a Freshman. I wasn’t thinking straight." Trent gave Michael a nudge on the shoulder. "But aren’t you a friend?" Trent did his best family room charade’s version of someone smoking a joint.

"Uh, no. Not. Um. Can I go now?"

"Go get your hair cut."

So he left the scene of crime and walked out into the sunlight, noticing the general lack of interest the event created. Was it just standard operating procedure for the students to see two seriously equipped lawmen with a big dog come swooping in for a bust? Michael put his hands in his pockets and considered how lucky he had been not to have had the police visit on a day he had been coaxed into Perry and Greg’s room for Xbox, metal music and bong hits. He resolved to live a cleaner existence. No way he could afford getting kicked out of school only to be sent back to the family asylum in Louisville.

When he came back to a silent dorm, Cary had left a note on his keyboard.

"Cops asked if you knew anything about what went on across the hall. Told them you studied all the time. Not around a lot. They didn’t really care. – Cary"

Michael turned his computer on and checked email. Charlotte’s response was in amongst half a dozen other more useless emails, mostly having to do with classes, a band or someone’s blue screen error message.

Csundguist@aversham.edu: Cary told me he loved me, but I can’t say same. At least right now anyway, bcause it’s too much and all. Too much weight. Cant explain it. Not the way he wants us to be, I imagine. Bummed him out. He says it hasn’t, but you know. Gues he will snap out of it. Maybe after we get through the weekend and work and mid terms and all the other. Thanks for asking about him. It is so strange to see him at 80% instead of the usual. Good luck with dnner

Charade - Chapter Twenty Three

"What to make of Mr. Slocum going off to his first club dinner?" Charlotte asked as she sat on Cary’s bed. While exhibiting confidence in her relationship with Cary early on, as the semester continued it’s tour across the psyches of over extended students, she had allowed small shadowy glimpses of jealousy to peak through when it came to Rebecca. That Rebecca had tacked away from her man by asking Michael to dinner shored up the cracks. She felt a project in the offing.

Cary, who stood between the two beds and watched leaves fly by the window, turned to Michael lying on his bed staring straight up at the ceiling. "Well, you don’t have anything to wear. That’s the first thing to make of it. You can’t go to King Cole DC wearing a Klaxons T-shit, cargo pants and skater shoes."

Michael put his hands together, then put them in back of his head. "Are you knocking my standard uniform?"

Charlotte pulled her legs up to her chest and studied her bare feet. "Stay within your own pallet. I don’t want to see you as Cary light. So, no borrowing."

Cary crossed his arms, gave her a look and playfully offered, "Well, despite not being able to fit in my few meager choices, I think he would look good in Brooks Brothers. But maybe Bean would make more sense."

"Cary, he’s not 50." She started shaking a bottle of nail polish retrieved earlier from a side pocket of her courier bag. "And anyway he can’t make too big a leap or it looks far too contrived. It’ll end up making him more nervous than he already will be. Beach frat casual."
Michael turned to Charlotte. "I love when you guys talk like I’m not here. Really. Reminds me of Kiva and Don."

Charlotte looked up from her nail polishing. "Oh. Sorry. That is very rude."

Michael went back to looking at his ceiling. "I have it all worked out on the nerves thing. First, she asked me to this thing so I didn’t do anything extraordinary or out of character to get this show on the road. I won’t have to keep up some sort of charade. Second, there’s nothing to lose, since I had not planned on having a girlfriend until I’d made my first million working on some new media scheme that busts out a sweet IPO. Third, she certainly has some ulterior motive for this so I’m willing to go along for the ride, especially if we end up macking as part of the plot."

"Listen to yourself. Don’t over think this or anything. Okay?" Charlotte smiled at her toes.

"Dude, it’s dinner at King Cole. Keep perspective."

Cary seemed to be ignoring them. "So should we go to town for a little shopping?"

Charlotte huffed. "What town would that be?"

Cary shot his arm out and straightened his cuff. "What do you mean what town would that be? I believe civilization is to be had just up the road."

Michael sighed. "People, people. Already taken care of. Really. I’m set." No one said anything for a couple of beats. "Five minutes on the Banana Republic site and I’m good to go. I’m not a complete basket case. I have an older sister who knows about this stuff too."

Cary and Charlotte looked at each other and smiled, then turned to Michael. Charlotte cocked her head to one side. "Always ready with the surprise Mr. Slocum. Nice work. You showed us up." She leaned across and held her hand out to him. He turned and gave her a smooth five.
Cary grimaced. "I don’t have any experience ordering clothing over the Internet, so bare with me. How do you know how the sizes run, true fabric colors and the weight, the quality…"
"Cary. It’s handled, man. Sorry to rob you girls of the experience of, like, giving me a make-over or whatever, but it’s not necessary." Michael plugged some ear buds in and drilled down on his iPod. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some time to waste listening to the new VHS or Beta."

Charlotte picked a spiral notebook up and waved it at her feet. "So Cary. Shall we retire up the stairwell to where the beast with two backs has its bed?"

"To, um, what?"

"Come on, you know. That Shakespearean euphemism for…" She trailed off, rolling her eyes.

"Ah. Pardon me. I should have known that. Well, I have a quiz in Chemistry tomorrow so…"

"So what. I have a French test tomorrow."

"Yes, but you’re fluent. Let’s see, what time is it…oh, my, it’s getting to be the small hours."

He shot an eye to her. "Isn’t that Shakespearean? Small hours?"

Charlotte chuckled and stood up. "I guess we should slip upstairs."

He picked up his chemistry book and a notebook. "Shall we go see about this beast’s back trouble?"

She smiled and glided by him, keeping her eyes on him. He followed her to the door and opened it. Just as they stepped into the hall, Trent Benn came in from the stairwell. He glanced down the hall toward them, but kept walking to his door, calling his greeting over the shoulder. "Mr. Grant. Ms. Sundquist. A good evening to you both." He stopped, then turned on his heels. "Oh, I have a question for you, Cary." He met them at the doorway to the stairwell. "You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the massive quantity of alcohol Pete the janitor found beneath the recycling bin, I suppose?"

Cary looked at Charlotte, then back at Trent. "We have a janitor?" He blinked. "I never knew that." He did know however, that this questioning on the part of Trent was really about Charlotte being on the floor and not about anonymous bottles of alcohol.

"Right. Didn’t think you’d know." He started back towards his door, but stopped. "Do you know the pain I felt dumping that bottle of wine?"

Cary nodded slightly. "I can only imagine that somewhere, someone’s wine rack released a mournful kind of moan."

Trent released a half laugh, half huff and continued to his door. "I toyed with the idea of letting Mr. Nirkern take it."

Charlotte wanted so much to say something to Trent about the subject, but she fought successfully to maintain silence realizing she wasn’t supposed to be on the floor at 12:45 AM. She squeezed Cary’s hand as Trent went into his room, a signal to scram up the stairs before Trent remembered the antiquated, draconian and hypocritical co-ed dorm curfew rules vintage 1970. No one wanted to test Trent Benn on any rules, particularly after he successfully sussed out the booze supply and is rumored to be absorbing detailed information regarding the hall’s cannabis traffic.

Reaching her floor and after a successful transverse to her side of the building as per the norm, through the central bathroom, Charlotte swiped her A-Card and sprung her door. "He’s intense. I thought he would write us up."

"For what? Being in love? There is no law against two people being in love." Cary smiled at her. "And I am deeply in love with you, Charlotte Sundquist."

Charlotte froze and looked at him as they stood in the doorway to her room.

"I’ve had lunch with Trent quite a bit. He’s a good guy. Yes, a stickler for certain rules, but he’s also willing to ignore whole sections of rez-life doctrine when it comes to relationship oriented infractions. I think he told me once, all things are related and if a man lives a pure life nothing can destroy him…"

Charlotte interrupted. "I have no idea what you’re going on about. I can’t believe you just dropped that on me." She broke her stare and went into the room followed by Cary

"What?"

"That you are in love with me. Then you’re babbling on and on with some pseudo Buddhist whatever. Love. I mean, we’ve known each other for about two minutes."

Cary took her books out of her hand, tossed them on the missing roommate’s bed and went to hug Charlotte. "I can’t imagine it being any sort of a surprise."

Charlotte rested herself free and sat down on her bed. "You’re not supposed to say it. It’s, it’s…"

"Excuse me?"

"Worms. In can. Now open."

"What?"

"Cary, please let’s just, you know, be. Exist."

"Sure. I thought that’s what it’s all about."

"Not when you start laying out definitions, making statements, announcing that you’re in love. That we’re supposed to be in love."

Cary could not see an easy way out of this if he went deeper. "I don’t understand why it’s so bad that I suddenly admit I love you. I do. It is what it is. You make me feel good. Maybe it isn’t the perfect time to put it out between us, but there it is." He paused and there was a number of awkward seconds before he filled the void with, "I’m not asking for you to feel the same way." Cary heard this statement and had a clearer proximity to her trouble. "And if I made an assumption of your feelings, I apologize. I didn’t mean to assume. Really." He sat down next to her and though he did not understand why her sudden darkness, said, "we’re fine. Let’s just exist. All will be well, Charlotte."

She looked at him. "Will it be? Are you satisfied that I can’t say what you said?"

"Yes. I think I am satisfied." Cary thought of something that seemed to make sense. "Look, I messed up with Grace last summer. Not making an effort to define where we were. But that was, as I learned afterwards, what she needed. What we should have done was strive for clarity. But with you, with us, it appears that ambiguity is a good thing." He sighed. "Pardon my confusion. But as long as you understand me, I suppose I don’t really have to understand you in the same way."

Charlotte looked beyond Cary and into the blackness outside her window. She wanted to say more, but kept silent. She saw an ending that took her by surprise and knew would cause pain – pain she had set out to avoid this year. "Let’s go to bed," she whispered.

"I have the chemistry thing." He replied softly. "I need to finish the review."

Charade - Chapter Twenty Two

Michael watched Perry and Greg pass a pipe back and forth, each inhaling what seemed to Michael as an enormous amount of marijuana smoke. Yet, as he stood, leaning against Perry’s desk, attempting to steady himself after a number of what he imagined as much smaller hits, the thought of quantities morphed into a vision of a tower off in some far distance. He stood on a dusty plateau looking across at a tall, thin tower made of unspecified materials, small vehicles racing through clouds of dust toward the base, though never reaching it. He recognized the scene as a dream he used to have in first and second grade -- a dream he had forgotten, until smoking pot with Perry and Greg on a rainy October night.

"Look at Mike, man." Perry wheezed, motioning clumsily for Greg. "He's like Dark Ages. Y'know? Like, when that knave gets hammered on th' head by th' headless squire when he doesn't make third level?"

"I am someplace else." Michael straightened up, awakened from his moment in the desert by Perry’s raspy baritone voice. "And I need to be."

They fell silent, listening to Slipknot as Greg worked to ready the Xbox for a new game -- the evening’s activity muted due to the arrival of a bonafide Hall Proctor in the form of Trent Benn. His presence at the other end of the hall had chastened what had been a free fire zone for a number of weeks. A leather jacket wearing Buddhist who had spent the previous summer covering the Nepalese insurgency for an on-line magazine, Trent Benn was instantly respected. Being one of those grad students who exuded a world-weary gravitas, it also didn’t hurt that Trent stood tall and broad shouldered. He climbed sheer cliffs, tall mountains and the more challenging sides of various academic buildings, plus had a stunning warrior princess from New Zealand as a mysterious girlfriend and climbing buddy. With Des Roback standing in back of him with smug approval, he let everyone know at his first hall meeting that they would be expected to follow every rule no matter how small, how inane. Everyone looked back at Trent with glazed faces. He did not blink his piercing anthracite eyes, saying "Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live."

Damien snorted. "You’re quoting Oscar Wilde in a hall meeting?"

"Yes, I’m quoting Oscar Wilde in a Hall Meeting. Um…" Trent looked expectantly at Damien.

"Oh, Damien Reeves."

"Ah, Mr. Reeves from Dayton. Room 138. Right. Well, anyway, I will write you guys up. There are rules for a reason. Follow them and everyone will have a better experience."

So with this as a back drop, the hall’s main tour de force in the criminal element department, Perry and Greg, had dialed down on their antics significantly, employing a vast array of rule skirting devices. From the mundane – duel stereo headphones and damp towels on the door cracks to more elaborate rigging for exhaust fans out their room’s top transom window. Then there were more risky ventures like hiding their extensive alcohol stores under the massive recycle bin kept inside the hall’s locked maintenance closet. No one seemed to know or think to ask from where the key to this space had come. Early theories revolved around Greg being slight enough to fit through the portal facing the hall, but however access was initialized, everything from a liter of generic gin to a ‘78 Chateauneuf du Pape resided neatly beneath the rotund plastic bin.

"So Mike. Ready to rape and pillage?" Greg handed him the Xbox control just as they heard the muffled knock coming from Michael and Cary’s door.

Michael handed Greg the control back, suddenly worried there was something in all the talk of marijuana-induced paranoia. Since he had been considering the Hall Proctor situation Trent must have actually materialized. "Someone’s at my door." He went by Perry and Greg, toed the damp towels out away from the door.

Perry stood up suddenly. "What are you doing? Don’t open that door now. You gotta give it a little while, man. Let the room exhaust out."

Michael pushed the towels back to the door. "But there’s someone at my door."

Greg looked at Perry. "I bet this freak actually answers the phone when it rings." They laughed.

"Michael is that you?" The muffled voice of a young woman asked.

Michael recognized it as the voice of his favorite, yet occasional computer client, Rebecca. "I know who it is." He opened the door and found Rebecca standing with back pack at her feet, holding a cell phone to her ear as small droplets of rain water dripped off stray locks of hair. "Rebecca," he stated flatly and uneasily.

She grimaced and waved her free hand around. "Jesus, dude. Having a little oxygen with your weed?" She pushed him back into Perry and Greg’s room and closed the door behind her, punching her cell phone off with a nimble thumb and stowing it in a pocket of her red North Face rain gear. "From what Cary tells me about your new Hall Proctor gentlemen, I am not sure smoking weed is the best way to forget your troubles." She looked at Michael’s T-shirt. "You like Coldplay?"

He rolled his eyes. "It’s supposed to be ironic."

"No. Wearing a Britney Spears shirt is ironic. Wearing a Coldplay shirt makes you look like a 50 year old advertising exec trying to look hip backstage at a community theater adaptation of My Fair Lady."

Greg guffawed. Perry looked at him and shook his head. "Who let Kim Possible in to our room?"

"Anyway, Michael." She widened her eyes and put her hand on a well-positioned hip. "I stopped by to ask you if you would come along with me to my DC’s Celebration Day party. There’s going to be live entertainment, of sorts. If I don’t have someone cool and quirky to lean against, I’ll probably fall face first into my Chicken Cordon Bleu."

Michael stood listening to the words, trying to process the implications of them, and having difficulty recalling what Chicken Cordon Bleu was. Behind him he could sense Perry and Greg staring at Rebecca as though she came from Mars in a Chrysler LeBaron. "I, uh. Wow. Me?"
She put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this is a bad time for you to make a decision on your dinner choices for the weekend. Guess I should wait until you can get, you know, beyond the thought of a king sized bag of Doritoes." She took Michael’s hand and produced a pen in one motion. "When you’re done with Cheech and Chong here, give me a shout." Rebecca scrawled her cell phone number across Michael’s palm.

"You’re in a DC?" He asked weakly looking at his palm.

She smiled. "What’s a good girl to do in order to satisfy the need to be festive?"

Greg added. "I have a couple of ideas."

Rebecca ignored him and opened the door. "Or maybe I should respond with some sort of teen movie dialogue. Gosh, Michael. Isn’t everyone in a Dining Club?" She paused dramatically, then stepped out into the hall. "Okay. I need to be elsewhere. Call me latah, Michael Slocum." And with that she was gone, a vapor-like memory writhing seductively across Michael’s mind. And as he watched her slip around the corner into the stair well he snapped out of the moment by seeing Trent Benn locking his door. He closed Perry and Greg’s door and quickly unlocked his door and entered the room, hoping the smell of his herbal indulgence wouldn’t linger for too long in the hallway now patrolled by a leaner meaner deputy dog.

Standing in front of the mirror he looked carefully at his face, attempting to see something of an explanation, a telling expression. Why did Rebecca drop out of the sun and invite him to a dinner? He turned and looked at Cary’s crisply made bed and few, yet well organized personal effects. Michael then came to a suspicion and held up his hand to study her number. Locating his phone deep in the thigh pocket of his cargo pants, he carefully pushed its tiny keys entering the digits.

"What took you so long Champ?" She answered.

"Um. Right. Well."

"Judging by your enthusiastic embrace of my fabulous offer, isn’t…"

"I’ll go, I’ll go to the dinner. Whatever. No problem. Are you kidding?"

"Ha. I was voted class clown in High School." "Really?"

"No. Have to admit that’s an award I didn’t get."

"Where are you right now?"

"I’m walking to Wareham Annex."

"Just answer me this then Rebecca, am I going to be like, um, the quirky sidekick character that allows you to stay close to your real target of affection?"

"Cheer up Duck, think about this. You still get with Iona when Andie Walsh rides off in the sunset with Blane."

"Iona? Sixteen Candles is your plot line?"

"No, Pretty in Pink is my plot line. Andie, you know, Molly Ringwald. Iona, as played by the adorable Annie Potts."

"So you’re admitting this?"

"Michael, I like you. You’ve been a big help to me with my idiotic computer. Cary speaks quite highly of you young man. I need a date for this dinner. You correctly identified my character analogy as a John Hughes reference, though you had the wrong film. Anyway, remember: hello! I have a class with Cary and he’s my study partner for it. I don’t need you to be close to Cary Grant."

"That makes sense."

"Sometimes I do." She sighed. "Look, I’m about to go into a tutorial. Text me if you still need work on that self esteem."

"Ha ha. Okay. Hey, when we go to dinner is James Spader going to hop out of a convertible and kick my ass?"

"I can’t believe I am going to say this, I mean, me, I am saying this – we have now taken pop references too far when Michael Slocum name checks James Spader."

"Noooo. We can’t go too far. It’s, it’s like a cool way, you know, to make small talk without resorting to traffic and weather."

"I hear that. Look, I’m out. Latah."

Michael looked at himself in the mirror again. The big grin on his face made him feel even better than Perry’s controlled substances. He could not wait to tell Cary and he surmised Charlotte would be pretty happy about it as well.

Charade - Chapter Twenty One

Dr. Westerberg kept an office at the end of a hallway on the second floor of Kessler Hall. Cary admired the building, which had been the center of History and Public Affairs, until that crowd moved to the other side of campus in 1970. It then became an office building for the Chemistry and Biology departments. Built from enormous blocks of Michigan black granite, it gave the impression of a miniature Federal Reserve Bank being dropped down into the middle of a grove of river birch and spruce. Inside, the most recent remodeling gave it an unexpectedly light and open atmosphere. Behind the frosted glass monolith of Dr. Westerberg’s door, her office appeared to be a veritable bubbling beaker of activity. Who knew how many people created such controlled chaos.

Rebecca and Cary leaned in to check the sheet taped to the small whiteboard to the left of the door, both scanning for their student numbers and simultaneously arriving at the corresponding percentage. They both drew back and looked at each other smiling. "I can’t believe it," Rebecca said, shooting a hand into her book bag looking for her phone. "I have to take a picture of us to send to my sister. She gives me so much crap about taking chemistry for my science requirement." She flipped the phone out. "Okay, okay. Let’s stand by the sheet."

"That’s not going to show up on a snap shot." Cary pointed to the small type on the paper. "It’s way too small."

"Doesn’t matter. She’ll know by the big smiles on our faces." What she didn’t say was that her sister would finally see the face so often mentioned in excitable emails and texts. "She works at a store at the Mall all day and she’s giving me shit about chemistry. I mean, what the hell?"

She held up the phone. "Here. Squeeze in next to the results. Okay, big smile now." Her proximity to Cary’s head caused her blood to circulate at a higher speed. She felt her core temperature spike as she squeezed off three pictures in a row. "There we go." They moved apart and she gave Cary a look, their eyes meeting long enough to encourage. She leaned in and gently grabbed his upper arm, kissing him in an unhurried and tender movement. Her eyes blinked open to see Cary’s expression frozen. She stepped back. "This is new. Cary Grant with nothing to say."

"Rebecca."

"That was nice."

"Rebecca. I don’t…"

She looked at her phone. "Oh all right. I just thought. You know."

Cary stepped closer and kissed her on the cheek. "I’m with Charlotte, but thanks. You just keep flattering me." He stepped back again. "You and Charlotte are a real danger to my ego."
Rebecca kept fiddling with her phone. "Hey, whatever." She looked down the hall. "Just two fellow chemistry students sharing the afterglow of acing a big test."

"You should know by now I’m not the hook-up type."

She put her phone away. "Of course you aren’t. Why do you think I want to sleep with you?"

"I, um."

Rebecca zipped her book bag up and looked into his eyes. "Because you’re not the hook-up type. Duh."Cary glanced away. "I thought it was because of my canon of work in Hollywood." He smiled uneasily at her. "Come on. Let’s go get some coffee and talk about this. I don’t want you thinking that I’m not interested in you, just because…"

"You don’t want to fuck me." They began to walk down the hall.

Cary looked around. "Shhhh. I should be used to your, um, candor, but, still."

"Sorry. I tend to speak my mind."

"Oh, really? Never noticed that before." He said with a tinge of acid in his words.

"Settle down. I’m not going to make my mission in life breaking you and Charlotte up."

"Hope not. We’re pretty solid."

"Golly, I didn’t realize." She shot him a glare and a smirk as they began to descend a stairway.

"So what are you trying to do, then? Let me know you’re interested? I know that."

"Do you? Then why is this the first real conversation about it we’ve had?" She stopped on a landing.

Cary kept going down a few steps before stopping and looking back. "Because these types of conversations only really happen in plays and movies. Books. Stories. It’s usually fiction."

"That’s a cop out." She started down again, passing him while shaking her head. "Man, oh man. I saved your ass when Grace showed up. And look at the gratitude. I’ve gone out of my way to stay clear of you and Miss Rich Kid."

He started after her. "That’s a dumb thing to say. If you’re going here you’re a rich kid."

"I’m not. Your roommate isn’t. I’ll be in hock up to my eyeballs when I finally get out of here."

"You’ll pay your debt off when you sell your first script…"

"Right."

"…and Michael will someday fly in his private jet paid for by the proceeds from some labor-saving program he wrote. Kids with deferred richness, right?"

"We’re getting way off the subject." They went out the door of Kessler.

"Of course we are."

"You’re good at that." She put sunglasses on. "I want you to know that I’m not going to unnecessarily avoid you or the subject."

"Ah, the door is always open for me, is that what you mean?"

"Hell no." She hoisted her book bag higher up on her shoulder and grinned at him. "My door just shut, Cary."

"Good. I mean, um, sorry. But…look, I know I have a problem wanting everyone to like me or whatever. It’s never been a big problem before, because I’ve always been able to drift along doing my own thing. The people that knew me didn't look too deeply at me or into me." He brushed through his hair. "But here? The quickness of everyone, the intellect, I just can’t get away with drifting by."

"Dude, you need to trust. You need to trust yourself." She looked at him, pausing for a few seconds. "That’s really it, I think. You come off as this solid guy. Someone confident and a little anachronistic, shunning pop culture, getting just the right sort of attention…"

"What are you talking about?" Cary interrupted her.

She started to walk down the path leading to North Campus. "I don’t know."

"So are we okay?"

She turned back to him, but continued by walking backwards. "Oh sure, Cary. We’re golden."
She then turned and disappeared around a blue spruce the path gracefully curved to avoid.

Cary looked into the branches of a nearby birch clump. "Well, that went very well. Very, very well." He sighed, turned and began walking the opposite direction towards Mullen Piazza.

Charade - Chapter Twenty

Cary sat at Charlotte’s desk and attempted to read in his Structures I Workbook, but he couldn’t gain any traction on the exercise. His eyes went off the top of the book, off the desk, followed the line of Charlotte’s naked leg to the clock on her nightstand at the end of the bed. It glared, taunting him with 1:05 AM. She had already been asleep two hours, but Cary refused to succumb. He thought about the letter he received from Grace on Friday, opening his notebook to where it had been pinned ever since he first read it.

Dear Cary:

That kick in the head you gave me when I visited last month really helped me. I know it wasn’t what you intended, so I’m not blaming you or anything. Since I got back to campus I’ve got back on my meds and got back into classes and I met a nice group at a pottery seminar. But I have also found out that this isn’t the place for me. I’m looking into transferring to Tufts. Or maybe I am going to go home and go to SUNY. I wish you would discover email or even the telephone. Sometimes it would be good to talk to you. Hope you are doing great and that you’re taking some time to have a little fun. I was having too much fun and went a little crackers. But I think you don’t have enough and that can cause you to go crackers too. Okay. I have said too much. Will I see you around Thanksgiving? Will you be home? Write soon.

Grace.

As if Parent’s Weekend hadn’t taken huge lashes of time away from studies and pummeled his nerve endings, Grace’s letter acted as a constant needle probing for a vein. He wondered why it bothered him so much Grace mentioned transferring, but then realized that it was the fact she wrote at all that bothered him.

He clasped his hands and bowed his head, then found himself thinking about reconciling the presence of his father and mother along with the awesome force of Charlotte’s father, who presented a striking contrast to his own. Cary closed his eyes and heard his mother.

"Well if it isn’t my former husband."

Cary’s father forced a smile. "Imogene." He passed her in the Union’s lounge and gave Cary a hug. Then surveyed the room loaded with parents and addled students amongst the overstuffed furnishings of indestructible man made fabric. "How are you Cary?"

And so as the three chatted, Cary thought his father sounded remarkably road weary, making his words sound all the more sincere, creating a sense of profound sorrow in Cary. The month and a half away from the man had provided him with needed perspective. While his mother’s statements were laced with a constant note of distraction, his father seemed on a mission to gauge the welfare of his son’s existence and nothing else.

They chatted about classes and changes to the campus and stepped around issues with various meaningless statements. But then Imogene decided to tack into the wind. "Cary picked me up at the airport with his lovely new girlfriend. Tim, have you met Charlotte?"

"I didn’t know she existed until just now."

"Oh, she’s adorable. So sweet. I am a little concerned about her politics. And she gives the impression of nothing much ever bothering her. You know, that always unsettles me for some reason. Otherwise, as sharp as you would expect, naturally."

"She’d have to be."

"Smart as a whip." Imogene added.

Cary stepped in so as to derail the process whereby his mother would dissect the hour drive from the airport to campus. "Can a whip be smart, Mom?"

She waved at him. "Oh, stop. You sound like your father when you do that."
Tim ignored this while Cary pressed her, "and why are you concerned about her politics and not mine?"

"Oh Cary. I know what your politics are."

"Really? I don’t." He looked at Imogene. "Really."

"Oh, stop. You’re horrible at teasing me."

Tim smiled at his son. "Never mind about politics, I presume we’ll need to be something of a united front and all when we meet her? Did her parents come to this weekend? What’s her name again…Charlotte?"

"Her parents did come." Cary’s eyes darted around the room to see if they had yet arrived at the reception. "They’re very nice people."

"Are you in love with her, son?"

His father’s chase cutting took Cary by surprise. He did not know how to respond, because the idea of it seemed so fresh and new. Cary had only rendered an opinion the previous weekend, when watching Charlotte dig ice out of the cooler at work, he’d realized the conversion his lust had made, well beyond admiration and respect, plunging head-long into a curious energy field that startled him. "Well, Dad. I don’t know how best to answer that sort of question right now." He wanted to add that a press release at this juncture appeared premature due to the newness of the idea. "I think Charlotte should be the first one I discuss that concept with."

Imogene cut in abruptly. "Her parents are I am sure, pleasant people. I’ve only met him, but he seems like quite a good sport."

Tim sighed. "Good. He’ll need to be if they’re going to put up with us."

"Christ Dad, it’s not all that bad is it?" Cary attempted mightily to conceal appreciation for his mother moving the conversation on.

"You tell me."

"I’m telling you that you guys are only problematic to me. I know the back story. To others…"

"I’m a poor shlubby sidekick to a famous artist."

Imogene rolled her eyes skyward and shook her head ever so slightly.

Cary transported himself back from recollection to the present -- being seated at Charlotte’s desk at 1:09 AM. Granted, it had been a better-than-expected weekend, yet he still found himself uptight and unable to grow tired enough to sleep. He looked at Charlotte’s bare leg, then rubbed his eyes. Oh to have normal, ordinary parents like Charlotte’s, he thought. Parents who don’t get into an argument about the negihama at some obscure sushi place in Dumbo, but rather focus on the well-being of their offspring. His father made a good effort before losing himself in a pedantic-language-as-humor paradigm, no match for a mother lost in the sycophantic nether world of commercial success. He marveled at how Paul and Donna appeared genuinely interested in Charlotte’s world despite a pretentious preoccupation with his mother’s art, then marveled at how Charlotte took it all for granted and felt put upon by such interest. His father asking him if he loved Charlotte made sense to him suddenly, realizing the missing context – his father having courted and temporarily "won" the heart of his mother while inhabiting this same campus and town. Cary could not believe the question at the time, but now couldn’t believe he did not understand the reasons for it until then.
He shook his head and turned the light off, moving quietly to the bed, he slipped his socks and shoes off, dropped his pants and stepped out of them before gently climbing over Charlotte and coming to rest, wedged between her and the cool wall. He placed his hand gently beneath her shirt and felt Charlotte’s warm, smooth belly, listening to her breath, wishing she would wake up so they could make love. He listened to her breath long enough to drift away himself.

Charade - Chapter Nineteen

Parent’s Weekend came in late September, usually about a month before Celebration Day (read: Homecoming). Students who cared found both nerve-wracking, because it opened them up to close scrutiny. It reminded kids participating that they had not escaped completely from having to pass muster on lifestyle and grade point with the parents.

Celebration Day did not hold the same reverence/concern as Parent’s weekend for two reasons. First, it did not carry the primal overtones it did at other schools, since it centered on soccer -- football phased out of existence after the 1981 season. By the mid seventies, the Board of Regents had football on the short list to discard having come to the conclusion they should not harbor that sort of ‘culture’ within the pristine confines of Aversham. Also, the financial realities of Title IX placed additional pressure on the Fightin’ Miners, much to the momentary pursed lips of random, largely remote alumni.

Secondly, either through incomprehension or disinterest, not many parents bothered attending Celebration Day. Even if they were alums the laid-back affair did not warrant a massive influx. Those who did care to check in on the condition of their investment, attended Parent’s Weekend. They came to perhaps stroll amongst the sycamores of North Campus, breathing the patchouli redolence of the brilliant and talented, hoping their young Brandon or Haley would be able to negotiate this bohemian rhapsody in one piece.

Cary was an anomaly in that he did not care one way or the other about the scrutiny, but cared deeply about his mother and father having independently declared an intention to visit him on Parent’s Weekend. He moaned audibly after reading his father’s note, having heard from his mother a week before.

Michael’s parents kept him hanging for days until they announced that the Tent Sale at his father’s Chevrolet dealership would keep him "pinned down." This was an enormous relief to Michael who celebrated by hacking his father’s dealership site and changing the Aveo inventory from 2 to 200.

Charlotte’s parents would be coming in from the rarified air of Hoffman Estates, Illinois. Thus, she was in a catatonic state and Cary had learned quickly she was inconsolable on the issue. "Why do they have to come here, NOW?" She asked him not intent on waiting for an answer. "He’ll just strut around, quiz me about classes, give you the eye and I’ll be like a total basket case."

Having his own set of dim issues to work through with the impending arrival of two diametrically opposed forces embodied by his parents, Cary did not field the necessary energy to soothe Charlotte. This royally pissed her off and they did not speak to each other for an entire six-hour period on the Wednesday before Parent’s Day. But immediately following the standoff they decided to both respect each other’s problems with the weekend and try to lend support as best they could. Understandably rattled by their own neuroses and not knowing what else to say, they both remarked simultaneously while walking to the dining hall, "I can’t wait to meet your father."

It was an odd and corny moment to which they both winced and decided to quickly forget. Cary held the door open for Charlotte. "You were going to tell me about music you thought I should…"

"Yeah, before we got all weird on each other." She entered and they got into line. "I wanted you to hear Guster. I’ve been trying to come up with a short list of pop groups for you to listen to."

"Are they like what Michael listens to? He’s very secretive about his music with me, yet every shirt he owns advertises a pop band."

"Well, not exactly. A pop band is generally considered a band that someone has heard of. How about just band. I would call British Sea Power a band. Not a pop band. While Guster, well, you might encounter them on an episode of a television show or hear them at Starbuck’s." They handeded their A-Cards to the attendant who swiped them on the reader, silently marked them off a mysterious list of numbers, before effortlessly returning to her magazine reading.

"Well, what will it be tonight, then?" Cary looked over Charlotte’s shoulder to see the steam table offerings. "Delicious. Sausage and sauerkraut. Oh and look, Charlotte. Potatoes. Can you believe that?"

"Cary, making fun of this dysentery waiting to happen went out in about 1975."

"I am hoping for a resurgence in the humor of Mr. Bob Hope."

Charlotte grabbed a tray. "I’m struck by how you just sounded like your buddy, Rebecca."

Cary replayed his statement again for the record and could not disagree with her. He worried about the implications of his very next statement, then immediately wondered why this concerned him.

Charlotte took him off the hook by adding, "Just remember, Cary. I only SAY I am not the jealous type."

"I’m going to have the sausage and sauerkraut." He muttered, taking up his black PVC cafeteria tray.

"Maybe it’s time to take in some of the vegetarian fare over at Wilson." She said while watching Cary’s plate receive a sausage.

And so, the very next day, Cary and Charlotte waited for his Mother and her assistant at the Port of Columbus, having taken the shuttle to act as a welcoming committee. At the other end of the terminal, Imogene and Maryna unfolded from their seats on a small regional jet and ambled up the jetway following a pack of other flying rabble.

Cary did not like the idea of Maryna tagging along, but his mother, now a burgeoning star in the art world, no longer traveled alone and could never be completely out of touch with her communications network, which Maryna managed. On more than one occasion Imogene joked that she was an artist and "could not be bothered with soulless cell phones and pandering PalmPilots. That’s what I have Maryna for."

His discomfort with Maryna’s presence originated within memories he had of day dreams richly constructed while on the #7 going into LIC for visits. These erotically charged thoughts of his mother’s assistant embarrassed him, though no one had ever been privy to them. Nevertheless, he worried that either the Ukrainian art vixen could read his mind or his less than suave dealings with her had given the relationship a note of uncorrectable, awkward intimacy. He stood self-consciously beside Charlotte by a bank of empty pay phone cubes waiting for them to wander by the TSA checkpoint.

"Why are you so freaked out?" Charlotte grabbed his hand and stood closer to him.

"I have to explain? It’s my mother. She always keeps me in the state of panic. Not unlike your father, I presume."

"Touche, mon ami."

"There they are." He held up his hand and waved to the smartly dressed pair of New Yorkers wading through a collection of accountants and grandparents. "My mother has outdone herself with the outfit." He moved toward them with Charlotte following closely.

"Wow, your mom wears designer clothes." Charlotte nearly whispered.

Cary nodded slightly. "How do you know that?"

She spoke up, "and look at the handbag. Art in New York pays well." Imogene’s appearance did not match at all with the image Charlotte had sketched of her. There wasn’t a beret or hint of paint-smeared smocks anywhere.

"For just a few, I guess. I’m surprised, I did not realize you were such a student of fashion." Cary responded quickly as they approached the dynamic duo. "Hello, Mother." He gave the tall and elegant woman a hug. "Good flight?"

"Say hello to Maryna, please. And yes, it was a good flight. At least from the perspective of the airline."

Cary moved to Maryna who reminded him of the lean models he used to see bumming around Park Slope on an off day -- black trucker’s hat, tastefully torn vintage jeans and impeccable high heel sandals. "Hi, Maryna. Nice to see you." He shook her hand. Charlotte stood by dutifully somehow avoiding the look of terror that Cary guessed she felt. "Mom, Maryna, this is Charlotte."

Imogene took Charlotte’s hands and regarded her with a cheery smile, well practiced during weekends in the Hamptons. "Well Charlotte, very nice to meet you. You are a stunning young woman. Why on earth are you being seen with this piece of work." She nodded her head toward Cary.

Charlotte’s face went comically serious for a moment. "He’s an excellent con artist, Mrs. Grant."

"He’s something all right. And please, call my Genie."

Cary did not miss this important signal that his mother had already passed an instant and positive judgement on Charlotte. He felt a small window of relief, before remembering an entire weekend remained in front of them. "Let’s grab your luggage."

Imogene waved Maryna back over. "I’ll have her get the car." Maryna nodded and made steam for the Hertz counter. Imogene took Cary and Charlotte by the arms and they all went for the carousels. "So, Charlotte. What are your politics? Are you Pro-Choice?"

"Mother!" Cary admonished. "That’s not something you ask, I mean, your son’s girlfriend. Immediately. I don’t even know what Charlotte’s politics are and frankly don’t care." They stopped by the luggage carousel.

"Why not, dear? Seems to me that’s a baseline."

Charlotte crossed her arms. "Say, you know, I am right here. I think I can decide what’s appropriate or not for myself."

Cary felt embarrassed by his mother’s question, but more embarrassed by his reaction. He looked at Charlotte. "You’re right. I just want you to know that I don’t care."

Charlotte squinted and dropped her arms. "How can you not care about my politics?"

Imogene shifted toward Charlotte and looked at Cary conspiratorially. "Didn’t you think it was funny he didn’t ask you?"

Charlotte gave her a nudge. "I figured he would get around to it, but then he never did. Weeks have gone by and I have no idea whether your son is a fascist, socialist, communist…"

"Or just an old fashioned capitalist." Imogene added.

Cary shook his head and tried on a smile. "Just like you, Mom, to show up and shoot an RPG through the window." He addressed Charlotte. "So? How about we get this over with so the next embarrassing question can be asked."

Bags began to show up and people crowded in. "Well, my politics are issue-based and not easily aligned with a particular party." Charlotte looked at Imogene. "Genie, what do your bags look like?"

"The tired green of a Welsh pasture. You know, well traveled. A big strip of yellow reflector tape on the sides. Maryna peeled the reflector tape off a freshly paved road in Mozambique." She added proudly, then switched back to inquisition mode with her son. "So, is it so hard to ask, hun? Oh, there’s one now. Behind that tray of shredded cardboard." She watched Cary pluck her first case out of the line up.

"Well, if it’s any consolation, I have been known to be hasty when making political statements. Anyway, as of this moment, I do think we have a vapid figurehead occupying the White House." Charlotte looked down at her feet, "Is that more along the lines of what you need to hear?"

Cary caught his mother’s eye and made sure to roll his in silent communication of his distaste for the discussion.

Imogene pointed to another one of her bags. "Cary, would you?" She sighed and gave Charlotte a playful elbow. "Cary wasn’t old enough, but I dare say he wouldn’t have voted if he could. Am I right, my love?" Cary did not respond. "Okay, well. So what’s everybody’s favorite class this term?" Watching Cary pluck her other bag out she leaned to him. "How was that Cary? Banal enough?"

Charlotte laughed. Cary smiled. "Perfect. Mine’s chemistry. Charlotte?"

"Oh, my." They began to move out of the herd around the luggage area. "I guess it would have to be Medieval Religious Philosophy."

"Blek. Goodness me, I wasn’t being serious, guys." She said before spotting Maryna. "There she is." They circled her to see what they were given by the God of Rental Vehicles.
Maryna untangled the keys from the paperwork and handed them to Imogene. "Something called an Explorer?" She then added helpfully, "It is in the space numbered 13. We need to catch the yellow van and be taken there."

The ride from the airport with Cary’s mom and her paramour took a lot out of Charlotte. She hoped her parents would not be in yet from Chicago. But there he was, holding court already, she thought. To her, Paul stood some 9 feet tall, looming over the lobby bar in the Stickley Inn. She saw him immediately when they came through the revolving door. His tallness and baldness impossible to miss, her mother conspicuous by her absence.

Charlotte and her entourage caught Paul’s eye immediately. If his pretty, sophisticated and recalcitrant daughter did not smile at him, she at very least gave him a cute little wave and a shrug of the shoulders. She was with an entourage heading for the front desk, which she left and headed his way. He set his Dewar’s rocks on the bar and broke away from a couple of well-healed bookends. "Look at this." He held his arms open. "Gorgeous, gorgeous, I am glad to see you."

She embraced him. "Good to see you, Dad." They broke apart and she looked him up and down. "You didn’t overdress. Very nice, you." She took his hand. "Come on. Let’s get this over with right now. I want you to meet someone." She pointed across the dark cherry paneled lobby. "I seem to have found a boyfriend this semester."

Paul felt a moment of dread and concern being taken off balance by this news. Then it washed away in a hint of excitement. "Oh? Oh, my."

Cary met them in the middle of the lobby, under a small rotunda painted the color of a pink carnation. Charlotte took Cary’s hand and turned to her father, looming as he was as though a Blue Heron waiting for a school of minnows. "Dad, this is Cary Grant. Cary, Paul Sundquist."
He shook the young man’s hand and smiled pleasantly. "Very nice to meet you, Cary. I’m a big fan." He thought this a winning gambit with multiple implications.

"Always nice to meet a big fan." Cary responded with an engaging and easy smile.
Paul felt a sudden release of energy, or was that relief? He paused for a second before looking over Cary’s shoulder at the elegant, older woman who stood next to the front desk. He knew the face.

Cary turned. "We’re just checking my Mom and her assistant in."

"Your Mom looks familiar to me."

Charlotte looked over. "Have you been to a New York gallery lately? Maybe to the Whitney?"
He looked at her taken aback. "I was there last week. How did you … yes. Right."

"Imogene Hunter." Charlotte said. "Let’s introduce you to her." They moved over to the Front Desk.

Paul looked at Cary, then at Imogene as Charlotte led him over. Cary combed through his hair. "Mom? Here’s Charlotte’s Dad, Paul."

Paul grinned and stuck out a hand. "Imogene. Great to meet you. I’m a big fan."
"Dad. You used that one already." Charlotte looked at Imogene. "He’s a big fan of everybody today."

"Always nice to meet a big fan." Imogene said.

"I saw your show at the Whitney just last week. I must say ‘Liberty’s Crown’ is quite provocative. The highlight for me. Reminded me of a Bluemner piece I saw in Berlin years ago."

This bit of name checking clearly pleased Imogene. "You flatter me Paul." She paused for effect, then touched his upper arm. "Let’s have a drink."

"Come on over to the bar and meet my friends the Cutlers. My wife will be joining us shortly. She’s trying to get rid of a headache up in the room." With his thumb he pointed over his shoulder. "They’ll get a kick out of drinking their white wine in the presence of genius."
Imogene laughed and touched Paul’s arm again. "I tell you what, let me get my feet on the ground. Maybe a bit later."

Charlotte, happy to have the spotlight taken off Cary so quickly, stepped between Paul and Imogene, taking Cary’s hand. "Dad, let’s give her some space before you go off the deep end and embarrass yourself with shameless art talk and name-dropping." Cary laughed at this, because he’d seen far worse in his day of spending time with his somewhat famous mother.
"Sure, sure. I need to catch up with my daughter and check out your son. You get settled." He looked at Charlotte. "Let’s take a table in the lounge and do that catch up thing."
Charlotte took his hand. "Will Mom be functional soon?"

"Oh, yes, yes. Just a small headache today, Kiddo. Not bad. Drugs and rest."

"Is it a migraine?"

"She’ll be fine."

"If you say so."

"You know how it is."

Charlotte looked at Cary and frowned. Cary was not sure what that meant and filed it away for later.

Charade - Chapter Eighteen

As her personal style dictated, Rebecca did not even bother to say hello when he answered his cell phone while laying on the floor reading Annihilation #7, the pencils and inks of its violent pages helping him divorce from the crafted elegance of Aversham’s nether world feel. "My fucking laptop just went blue and I have a paper due, in, like, seconds."

Michael took the interruption with a mix of calm acceptance and a sense of easy money, of fluffy avarice. As had become routine, a variety of students unwilling to hand over their lap tops to the school’s sanctioned computer stewards for probing diagnosis and repair, meant those in Bits & Bytes with the time and inclination could pick up extra cash. By sweeping into action, curing a host of bugs, program errors and even more drastic violent crashes of hardscape caused by ill advised coffee mug placement, Michael had built a sweet business. Rebecca’s call counted as her second in a week and he had all the time in the world for Rebecca’s computer problems, especially in light of his painfully quiet crush on her. "Tell me more?" he replied.

"Well, I was moving between folders, then I opened Trix 41 to take a still from Hondo and bang. System error."

"You’re taxing resources again, aren’t you?" He tossed the comic up on to his bed. "We’ve talked about this."

"I checked CPU resources and it read only 6%. Is that bad?"

"Not really."

"I can’t get anything to boot now. Fuck. Can I bring this over?"

Michael looked at the time on his phone’s screen. "Meet me at the Union in fifteen minutes. I think I can get you moving AND have a cup of coffee at the same time. A grande? Your treat."

"Whatever. Okay. Don’t be late."

"Oh, I know better than to be late Rebecca."

"I’m out."

He collected himself off the floor, grabbed his iPod and with a quick look in the mirror to be sure he didn’t have any food on his face, left the relative quiet dorm room to save the day again.

On the walk over he listened to Maximo Park and practiced just the right facial expression to employ for Rebecca, wanting to mask his true emotion. She had skimmed repeatedly across his atmosphere of late, whether in dealings with Cary or the other moment of computer havoc and it had been enough to fuel a longing nearly bordering on desire. And as is so often the case with such an unrealized relationship, the fear of having the delusion punctured by rejection kept Michael mute, happy to play along with other banal conversation.

Inadvertently, Cary gave him little encouragement by relaying a certain sense that Rebecca’s
social calendar remained packed with amusement at a level appropriate for such an attractive collegiate.

Entering the Union’s café, he spotted Rebecca already set up with her lap top and two impossibly tall coffee cups steaming away in a booth beneath a gigantic window. Sunlight shot rays across the room, sliced by the thin blades of leaded glass in the Union’s gothic front. As he approached he detected the wolf eyes and tossed hair of an all-nighter and knew she would be in an even higher state of tension than normal.

"Okay, let me see it." He slid into the seat across from her.

She spun the laptop around to him. "I got it to boot, then the error message showed up again."
He read the error message number, then shut the computer down completely. "Okay, let me check something." Michael flipped his phone open and got on line, going to a program diagnostic address where he keyed in the error number. "So much of this sort of thing is just knowing what the secret hand shake is."

Rebecca huffed and took a big drink from her coffee.

Michael read his information quickly, then turned her computer on again. "So what’s your paper on?"

"Film adaptations of Hamlet."

"Huh?" Michael went to the DOS screen and continued to feed in an impressive array of alpha-numeric code.

"Sure, Louis L’Amour wrote a short story and James Grant the screenplay, but all it really is, is, you know, Hamlet. Revenge is a bitch."

"Who was in it?"

"You have to ask?"

"What do I know?"

"John Wayne."

"Do I look like someone who would know his John Wayne movies?"

She held her coffee with both hands. "Well, do I?"

Michael finished entering code, then went to Windows. He shot an eye at Rebecca and smiled slightly. "As a matter of fact, you look like a huge John Wayne fan."

"Marion Morrison of Winterset, Iowa? Ardent Republican. Racist." She took a sip of coffee.

"Where is Iowa even? Do you know?"

Michael shrugged as he ran a diagnostic test. "So that was John Wayne’s real name? Marion?"

"You’re ready for Trivial Pursuit, now. Anyway, that’s what my head remembers. Don’t quote me. Always the useless crap. The most useless crap. If I didn’t speak in pop culture, what would I be left with? English?"

Michael watched the horizontal bars on the screen race across, indicating programs, files and folders checked. He picked up his coffee and took a drink, not knowing what to say while he finished the patch.

Rebecca stretched her arms, then propped her head up with an arm on the table. "So how’s everything with Cary and Charlotte?"

"Fine. I guess. I don’t see a lot of him. She comes around now and then. It’s not like we have serious, you know, chat sessions or bull sessions or whatever. She’s one of those people, I don’t know. You know, that just makes me a little uneasy. Like she’s guarding something, some information." Michael shrugged. "He looks like he always looks. Well dressed and energized for taking the yacht out for a good sail."

She half laughed, half sighed. "The look is timeless. He’s the same, you realize. Not that he makes me uneasy. Far from it. But as far as being reserved. Measured."

"He’s the poster child for measurement." He brought up her rescued paper on "Hondo" and spun the lap top around toward Rebecca. "All fixed."

"Dude. You, like, rock."

"Was that you being ironic or stating rational exuberance?"

"Sincerely, my man. I really appreciate it. You’re my star."

Michael took a drink of coffee. "It’s what I do."

Charade - Chapter Seventeen

Charlotte sat in Mullen Piazza reading a book on Kant in the bright sunlight. Just at a critical moment between moral faith and radical evil, Grace emerged on the path leading from South Campus, followed closely by Rebecca on a cell phone. They both spotted her and came over. At first Charlotte attempted to ignore them, but finally conceded and put her challenging German philosopher away. "Hi, guys." She affected a pleasant, social tone.

Rebecca waved. "We’re on our way to the shuttle stop. Grace is heading back to Amherst."
Charlotte felt particularly buoyed by this news. "Oh." She looked at Grace. "I thought you were going to be with us all weekend."

Grace shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. "I’ve gotta get back. Lots of stuff is waiting for me back in Amherst."

Charlotte suppressed a smile. "Did you see Cary? He’ll be disappointed you’re leaving." The subtext was not lost on Charlotte who instinctively knew she had won something, though it remained to be seen what that something could be in the current state of affairs.

Rebecca sighed. "We went by his room, but neither he or the boy wonder were around."

"Probably having lunch. Did you check the dining hall?" Charlotte said this with less than full conviction.

"We’re out of time." Grace said. "I slipped a note beneath his door."

"A low tech and poetic touch. He’ll like that." Charlotte smiled up in the sunlight over Grace’s shoulder.

Grace regarded both Rebecca and Charlotte. "Have either of you seen him even touch a computer? In High School he never was seen with anything resembling modern technology. But the funny thing was, he never got ripped for it. You know, you’d think a guy like Cary would be a target for serious smack."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "Quite the Ferris."

Grace laughed. "A friend to geek, jock and gangsta alike."

Charlotte stood up. "He’s quite the man." She touched Grace on the forearm. "Say, it was nice to meet you. I hope you have a smooth trip back east."

Grace unexpectedly gave Charlotte a hug, which Charlotte thought extremely odd. After this awkward exchange, Rebecca and Grace disappeared around the west corner of the Union.
Charlotte sat back down again and immediately flipped her cell phone open and hit the speed dial to Cary’s room.

Michael answered with his customary, understated, "hello?"

"Michael. Charlotte. Cary there?"

"We just got back from lunch. He’s right here."

Charlotte listened to fumbling and noises that reminded her of holding a seashell up to her ear.

"Yes?" Cary nearly sang, obviously in a good mood.

"Hey you. Did you know your old girlfriend was leaving today, like right now?"

"I did not know that." He replied stiffly. "Michael, did you know Grace was leaving today?"

Cary paused then addressed Charlotte. "Michael didn’t know. But he just handed me an envelope with my name on it, written by her. Michael, where was this?" Another pause. "The floor? Anyway, Charlotte, how do you know about this?"

"Just saw them heading to the shuttle stop. Get this. Grace hugged me."

"Really?"

"What, I spent, like about a half hour with this person and she’s hugging me?" Charlotte did something close to a chortle, yet not quite a giggle.

Cary winced. "Right. A little forward, I’d say, but she’s always been a hugger."

"Sure and you’re a friend to geek and gangsta alike."

"Huh?"

"Never you mind, mister. We still hooking up before work?"

"I prefer the less strident ‘association.’ Sounds…"

"Like a meeting of department heads."

"Would you prefer, then, copulation?"

Charlotte laughed. "So romantic."

"Is it? I’ll make a note. More clinical talk for Charlotte."

"Did you hear the rumor?"

Cary thought this sounded like a joke coming. "No, what’s the rumor?"

"Well, you know the big ‘Free Africa Now’ rally next month?"

"Is that the one they’re holding inside the RecPlex?"

"Yep. Guess who may come to it?"

Cary could not begin to fathom who would be attending such an event other than hundreds of very earnest, yet well healed students demanding debt relief. "You?"

"Hell no. I’ll give you a hint. My room mate is in love with him."

"Usher?" Cary was proud that he had remembered the name of one of the pop stars
Charlotte’s roommate, Elizabeth adored.

"Noooooo. Bono, you dork."

"Is he the one with the sunglasses?"

"Sunglasses to Bono are like going shirtless for Usher. It’s a signature."

"Why would Bono come to Aversham?"

"Duh. To speak about debt relief. Just a little ironic, I think. Given the trust funds we all seem to have could easily buy Zimbabwe."

"Maybe that’s why he’s coming. To convince all the rich kids to combine their trusts and pay down the debt."

"You know, somehow I doubt that."

"How does a rumor like this get started?" Cary could only imagine the suppositions made by a hand-full of students while they passed a bong around. From there it works seamlessly through the grapevine, the roots, leaves and fruit itself.

"Who cares. It’s hilarious to think about."

"Maybe Usher and Bono will arrive on campus to make Eliza’s life complete."

Charlotte huffed. "Something better happen to her someday. Okay, gotta run."

"Yes. Right."

"Later."

"Goodbye." He hung up and paused for a beat. "You know what, Michael?"

"I know nothing out of the ordinary." He replied while stretched out on his bed reading Magnet Magazine.

"Charlotte, sometimes anyway, well, no, most of the time, makes my heart do really strange things." Cary picked up his books.

"That’s a good thing right?" Michael stared intently at the publication.

"Of course. Say, have you heard that Bono might speak at next month’s debt relief rally?"

"Yea, I heard that one. That’s the kind of rumor that snowballs from a joke between a couple of people into a, I don’t know, kind of like a wild fire thing. Now everyone is talking about how the man will be here."

Cary nodded thoughtfully. "I would not put it past this strange place to come up with something as obtuse as this."

"It’s not that outlandish." He paused, then sighed. "What am I saying?"

"I’m off to the library."

"Enjoy." He snapped the magazine down. "Don’t forget. It’s mac and cheese night at Chez Dining Hall."

"Outstanding news. Reserve a table for us." Cary drifted out of the room and made sail for the Library.

For a pleasant early autumn Saturday afternoon, Francis Portage was packed out. Undoubtedly, everyone needed to catch up and get into a better position for midterms and the first wave of papers. Cary went straight for his usual haunt on the third floor archeology wing where few dare tread through thickly bound volumes of dust and tales of the Gobi desert. Pulling up at a carrel between Paleozoic and Mesozoic, he put his books down and took his watch off, placing it on the shelf in the desk hutch. He had three hours before Charlotte happened. Just enough time to broaden back the buffer he had on all four of his classes, a few of which had almost caught up to where his reading had left off.

Somehow over the last 48 hours he had been transformed just enough by events so as to once again focus on tasks at hand. He sat down and the first thing he did was scribble a short priority list, which went ‘Classes, Charlotte, work’ from top to bottom. Cary had striped away all the other interference, which had made severe inroads and decided on what were the three most important elements to his current life. He looked at his short list, then added one more. ‘Michael.’ Then another, ‘Rebecca.’

He jumped into his chemistry book, but then jumped back to his list after one page of reading. His mother’s advice had been followed without much effort. She would be proud that he had opted for simplicity and for developing relationships. Cary added one more item to his list. ‘Call Mom about the Kasmin show.’

Satisfied with his expanded list, he concentrated mightily and sawed through a vast amount of reading and note-taking, before noticing he had ten minutes to get himself out of the library and back to Norton. Packing up, he tore his priority list out of the geography notebook, folded it and put into his shirt pocket. With his watch strapped back on his wrist, he made his way swiftly through the lateral mineshafts of brown and blue bound books.

Outside the breezy air and sunlight made him regret spending so much time inside the library, though he liked being ahead of the class on each of the four syllabuses. On Mullen a group of students were working hard to interest fellow classmates in the word of the Lord. In another corner a much larger gang of malcontents raised the alarm about the President’s foreign policy agenda.

Cary walked between the competing interests and out of the Piazza. He walked along the path back to Mould Group and encountered Charlotte sitting at a bench in front of Sparhawk Biology Building. "Hello, there." He looked at the book she had been studying. "Kant? My, oh my. Not exactly light reading for such a pretty day." He looked out over Kempker Meadow.
She stood up and stowed the book in her backpack. "It passes the time while waiting to jump the likes of you." She turned to him and gave him a kiss of such urgency and sincerity it took Cary aback.

Charlotte hoisted her backpack on to her shoulder. "You look as though I just struck you over the head with a plank."

They began to walk, holding hands with Charlotte hooking Cary on the upper arm with her free hand. He smiled and laid his head on top of her’s. "Oh really? Maybe I am trying to adjust to that lifeless kiss."

"Lifeless kiss?" She chided.

"I am being sardonic." Cary added.

"You amaze me every second of the day."

Cary squeezed her hand. "Really?"

"I am being sarcastic."

Charade - Chapter Sixteen

For the walk home through the Betty Pfeiffer Memorial Woodlands, Charlotte drew up particularly close to Cary, putting her arm around his waist. This he found to be extremely pleasing and he put his arm over her shoulder. They were both tired from a busy night at the restaurant and all Cary wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep, but he knew a big conference just had to happen or nothing would get straightened out.

"You know that last deuce by the window?" She asked while looking at the hosta plants lining a particular section of pathway.

"Nice check?"

"Great tip. Thirty on a hundred and thirty two bill."

"Thank you ’91 Pucello Brunello, huh?"

"I love serving a wine like that."

Normally, this type of statement carried them into a longer discussion about the craft they ply each weekend in the name of pocket cash. But Cary’s mind already had moved back to what he was going to say when the train wreck happened in a few minutes.

‘Charlotte, meet Grace. And you know Rebecca, who now knows Grace and, well, she knows me from high school back in New York. She decided to come see me, because, we’re just good friends. Rebecca, how’s that chemistry reading?’

No matter how he took everyone through the variables it all sounded hopelessly silly. He kept telling himself there was nothing to feel strange about, yet for some reason, some bizarre sense of guilt hung over him and he didn't know how to get rid of it. He hoped that by clearing up where everyone stood in relation to each other he would exorcise the peculiar brand of guilt saddling him. But so far, he had no such luck. Besides, the dark clouds of Charlotte’s well-camouflaged jealousy haunted the horizon ominously.

As they reached Norton Hall, he wished he had actually done something to deserve the emotion troubling him most. In this odd logic, he would probably feel less strange, because a different set of defenses would be deployed. Cary made a note to himself to seek guidance from the student-counseling department of College Health Care. ‘But first things first,’ he muttered as he pulled open the door.

Charlotte squinted at him. "What?"

"Let’s go meet everybody and get that out of the way."

"Can I run up to my room first and change. I smell like Bambino’s apron."

Cary laughed. "Go ahead, then come on down."

She kissed him on the cheek and scooted up the stairwell. He stood there, listening to the wing in full Friday night bloom. "Amazing we don’t all end up deaf as a post," he said to the floor as he rounded the corner. He entered his hallway where a rousing game of hockey took place involving half a dozen of his drunken neighbors. He tiptoed through the rink to his door. "Sorry guys." They did not pay any attention, busy with body checks into the cinder block walls.

When Cary opened his door he found Rebecca at Michael’s computer, Michael bending over her pointing to the screen and Grace standing next to them with her arms crossed looking cold. Everyone looked up and wore a sort of crazed smile that leaned in the direction of the unsettled variety. "Look at this group of ardent students." Cary consulted his watch. "Working hard at midnight on a Friday."

Rebecca looked back at the screen. "Michael’s teaching us the basics of hacking. We’re going to take down Blacksmith DC’s listserv."

Michael cleared his throat and let out a nervous laugh. "No we’re not."

Grace relaxed her shoulders and patted Michael on the back. "You have a genius for a roommate."

Cary loosened his tie, looked at the computer screen, and then went to his closet to hang up his tie. "He’s a genius all right. Just don’t launch any missiles while you’re fooling around."

"How was work?" Grace asked in a freakishly buoyant tone.

"It was the busiest night since I started. The owner said it was one of the best nights they’d ever had."

"So you’re rich?" Michael said while still watching what Rebecca was doing.

"For the time being, I’m doing okay."

"Where’s Charlotte?" Rebecca asked. "Oh, no. Now what? I’m at another firewall."

Michael straightened up and rubbed his chin. "I think we’ve gone as far as we can without causing any trouble."

Cary sat down on his bed and untied his shoes. "She’ll be down in a minute. We both smell like a bus tub. She wanted to freshen up."

Grace flopped down on Michael’s bed. "I’m excited about finally meeting her. She sounds like a super girl."

‘Super?’ Cary considered this. He would not characterize her using that word. ‘Super’ sounded like an advertising word for some product back in the seventies. In Charlotte’s case he felt she deserved thoroughly modern adjectives. "Well, tonight she’s a very tired super girl. So I don’t know if we’ll be able to do much. But mostly I just wanted you to meet her. I like her a lot and you’ll be hearing about her over the rest of the year and I don’t want to feel weird."

Grace looked at Rebecca, who was stretching her arms and trying to slide her sandals back on her feet. "Why would you feel weird? That’s silly."

"Because you guys never had the talk." Rebecca said as she got up. "You never talked about where things stood when you went your different directions. So there’s, oh what’s the word…"

Cary pulled his shoes off. "Ambiguity. There was some ambiguity as to where our relationship stood and now I am in another one."

Grace bit her lower lip and leaned back against the wall next to the bed. "So that’s what we had. A relationship."

Rebecca chortled. "Face it, Cary. You’re an average middle class white guy who likes definitions, but hates confrontation. You crave organization," she made quotation marks in the air, "but you don’t really want to do the extra work with the people close to you."
"My, my, you do know a lot about me. Guess I won’t need that appointment at the Student Life office then."

"Wow, was that sarcasm? From Cary Grant?" They all laughed, including Cary. "No. I’m guessing. I’ve known plenty like you."

Cary unbuttoned the top button of his shirt suddenly feeling very warm. He looked at Grace. "Grace. We are friends. High school was bearable because of you. You came a long way to see me this weekend and I guess that’s why I feel guilty, because you came over here to Ohio and here I am, already safely tucked into a different life. And you haven’t quite lifted off yet in Amherst. So…"

"Alright, wait." Rebecca sat down in Cary’s desk chair. "No one says stuff like that in these cases."

Michael sat down at his computer. "You obviously don’t listen to this guy talk very much. He talks like..."

Rebecca interrupted, "he has strict instructions not to."

"That much hasn’t changed." Grace said at the same time.

Cary laughed and pulled his loafers out from beneath the bed. "I’ll try to loosen up a bit to be more life-like."

A knock on the door brought Michael back out of his seat just long enough to spring the door latch and pull it open. "Hey, Charlotte." He sat back down and waved to her. "Come on in and join the party."

"Hey, Michael."

She came in, fully changed and looking scrubbed up and ready to carry the night forward.
Cary, amazed at her rapid change, stood up. "Charlotte, you know Rebecca. But this is my friend from New York. Grace Tumwater." Charlotte went over and they shook hands.

Grace stood up, bouncing on her toes a little. "Hi, How are you?"

Rebecca chimed in. "Okay, this is where Charlotte says, I’ve heard a lot about you. Only in a different way that isn’t a cliché, you know, so there’s a bit of mystery over what she really means."

Charlotte turned to her. "I’m a big believer in cliches."

"Aren’t we all." Michael said as he worked to shut his computer down.
It felt too easy. Cary could not have asked for the strangeness to disappear any more quickly. As the merry band made their way over to the Union for late night coffee, Cary hung towards the back with Charlotte. He had the distinct impression they could slip off into the darkness of Kempker Meadow and the three others would not even realize it. They were deep into a rousing discussion of films Cary had never heard of, deeply engrossed in a debate over the merits of each. Grace, who did not know anything about them either, played referee. But as they walked out onto Mullen Piazza, he was struck with the notion that he’d been set up for all this, that Rebecca somehow had concocted the whole weekend, scripted it as some sort of performance art piece.

She was just too chummy with Grace and Michael to be believable. How had she come upon some of the information she seemed to have and why did Grace go and do something so completely foreign to her character as this? The variable he could not offer a conspiratorial explanation for was Charlotte. And then there would be the natural question over motives. Why would Rebecca orchestrate such a subtle string of events?

Just before they went into the union doors, following the other three, Charlotte yanked him aside and kissed him. "Let’s let them continue their battles over Scorsese movies and go back to my place." She nodded towards the quickly disappearing trio. "This is silly to be going along with them, particularly after the long night we had." She looked at the others. "Besides Grace is too cute for me to be comfortable with for too long. Y’know?"

Amused by the fresh taste of cinnamon Charlotte seemed to affect, Cary kissed her again. "Let’s go."

And as they dashed off to the side of the Piazza, through the narrow pass between the Stipe Visual Arts Building and the Library, the other three came back to the doors of the Union. Rebecca smiled. "They lasted longer than I thought."

Michael sighed. "Can we still get some coffee, please?"

Grace tugged at his shirt and responded, "Come on Michael. I could use a big fat espresso."

Rebecca watched the darkness between ivy-cloaked buildings swallow up Cary and Charlotte and followed the other two to in. "Hey wait up."

The trio secured their various coffee-based treats and settled into a corner booth. The Union’s late night coffee enterprise meant tables were nearly filled with students all clutching their tall cups. Michael stirred his mocha grande. "What else do you have in store for Grace’s visit?"

Grace looked around at the busy scene. "You know, guys, I came here because I needed to reconsider my options." She took a drink. "It feels like I should make some sort of speech. A wrap up."

Rebecca added, "though it isn’t writing itself like you had hoped, it still has to be good to be out of Hampshire. You know, with all that shit with that guy, Caleb and well…"
Michael admired Rebecca. "You amaze me, Rebecca. Like, who could resist being in one of your productions? You’re so, oh, I don’t know what the word is."

Grace blew across the surface of her coffee to try and bring the temperature down and under control. "You’ve been a big help to me. You should be, like, a spiritual healer."

This statement sent the other two into hysterics.

Grace set her coffee down. "This doofus I have for English, he’s supposed to be some kind of author or something, anyway, he’s writing a book about healers. He makes us read his treatments."

Rebecca made quotation marks in the air. "Treatments." She rolled her eyes. "He doesn’t really use that word, does he?"

Michael also made quotation marks in the air. "Treatments?"

Rebecca cocked her head. "Guess I do that a little too much, then, huh?"

They spent the next hour listening to Grace talk about life in Amherst and on the Hampshire campus. Finally, Rebecca decided she had heard enough about the food at the Mixed Nuts Co-Op or The Bridge or whatever else Grace carried on about with the over-all topic being the
"Freshmen Fifteen."

Rebecca interrupted the diatribe. "So what about you Michael…afraid of what’s in the food over at Mould Group? After all, you don’t have the deluxe arrangements Grace apparently enjoys."

Michael who was slouched to the point that his chin was level with the table in their booth didn’t bother to straighten up. "It’s better than what we had at home that’s all I’ll say about it."

Rebecca clasped her hands in the manner of an inquisitive TV show host. "You mean to say your parents weren’t providing proper nutrition."

Michael laughed at her characterization. "Frozen pizza breads and Diet Coke three times a week. I’m still alive. Still able to, you know, like breath and all despite the unbalanced meal."
Rebecca huffed, "Just think how much better you’ll feel eating those mashed potatoes at the dining hall. So much for the food pyramid."

Michael flicked a sugar pack at her. "I eat according to the food monolith."

Grace cocked her head to one side. "The what?"

Rebecca returned fire with a Splenda pack. "You’re reasonably in shape, man. If you ate better and got some exercise, maybe cut all that hair you have, you’d be the shit."

Michael straightened up finally. "Gee thanks. That’s why I came to college. To be the shit."

"Whatever. Let’s get out of here." Rebecca slid out of the booth and stood up. "Maybe on our way to oblivion, you can explain why Cary isn’t attracted to me."

Michael made it to his feet, then shrugged. "That’s easy. You’re too here and now for him."

Grace slid out too. "Could someone tell me what a monolith is, please?"

Rebecca grimaced. "I knew there was an intellectual underneath all that Paul Stuart clothing." She began to walk.

Michael followed, stretching his arms and yawning. "It’s really not worth it, Grace."

They left the Union. Grace and Rebecca headed off toward South Campus and Michael made sail for Mould Group. As Michael wandered back in the direction of his dormitory he realized his A-Card was not with him. "Damn it." Either he would have to disturb the golden couple wherever they may end up or crash in Perry and Greg’s room.

When Cary and Charlotte got back to Norton, they climbed the stairs slowly to her floor. The noise had abated somewhat and the building sounded as though its inhabitants were settling in for the small hours of Saturday. He looked forward to the ordered chaos or at worst the controlled crash landing that was about to result. They reached her door and without saying a thing, she keyed in and flipped the light on. Cary gracefully slipped by her after quietly closing the door.

She went to her laptop and opened her music program. With a couple of mouse clicks she started a CD, adjusting the volume to a suitably low level. She then kicked her shoes off. She went to her closet and rummaged around, then produced a liter and a half jug of Vodka, which she hoisted on to her desk. "Care for a night cap?" She said with a seductive, leering tone. "I have fresh olives. Bambino hooked me up."

"I believe you will be all the refreshment I require." He smiled broadly and sat down on her bed.

"Awwwweee. So sweet." She came over, pushed him over and straddled his waist. "Can you be any more sarcastic?"

"It’s a new thing for me. The last few days have been the most sarcastic of my life." He put his hands behind his head and gave her a smirk. "Is it me, or is there something terribly strange about that girl, Rebecca?"

Charlotte peeled her T-shirt off and tossed it over in the general direction of her closet. "Oh, she’s strange all right."

"I can’t put my finger on exactly why."

"Did you know she likes Michael?"

Cary screwed his face into a doubtful expression. "Where’d you hear that? He rubbed his jaw. But that makes some sense, I guess."

"Well, don't quote me. It's just a sense."

"Maybe I'll just ask her. What does your sense say about that?" Cary began to unbutton his shirt.

Charlotte bent down and gave him a long kiss. "I don’t know, Mr. Grant. Let me help you with those." She undid the rest of his buttons. "Your friend Grace seems like a nice person. You guys used to go out? What, maybe six months?"

"Womanly intuition again. That’s why I felt strange earlier, which I am certain you noticed. It just seemed so bizarre. Old life here’s my new life. I am always unsettled by ambiguity. But, then again, I have been accused of being self-centered when I have wanted to get organized. Oh well," he watched her unfasten the cuffs and added, "we had a nice conversation earlier today. Grace understands where I am these days." He did not like the way that sounded.
Charlotte helped him slip out of his shirt. "And?"

He looked right into her blue, green and hazel pupils. "And I am here, with you."

She kissed him again. "Shall we talk about something else?"

"I don’t think we should talk at all." He leaned up and kissed her neck.

Charade - Chapter Fifteen

Michael dug through a mountain of mashed potatoes trying to get enthused about the prospect of dinner. The sterling conversation of his hall neighbors and the ultra-processed potato product kept him from embracing the notion. He held up a thick, pasty wad. "What sort of nozzle dispensed this goo?" Met with a momentary pause in the debate over the merits of Rap Music, Michael decided to take a wild jump and put the potato mass into his mouth.

He had to take eating with these clowns with a grain of salt – so to speak. Since Cary had not yet made it back from his afternoon (and he would have to rush off to work anyway), Michael went ahead to the dining hall with Perry, Greg and a few other miscreants from their wing. Not that he minded the fellowship, but their devotion to what he considered elements of a vacuous nonsensical culture, made his own esoteric tastes seem like high art. He was anxious to talk with Cary and find out about last night.

Most of the guys in their wing didn’t know whom Cary Grant was in the first place – either the actor or the student. The student version spent very little daylight time around Norton Hall and when he was there he was up in Charlotte’s room or they were down in his room, making Michael feel out of place (though he would never admit it to them). He enjoyed their company and hoped for the best, but that did not make it any more comfortable.

As he finished his mashed potatoes, Michael looked out across the dining hall. There were maybe a hundred or so of his dorm group neighbors eating or talking or reading and none of them were anywhere close to being as unique as Cary Grant. Aloof, yet warm and intellectually curious, everybody wanted to know more about Cary Grant once they’d met him. This absolutely amazed Michael, because he certainly had never come across anyone so immediately engaging.

The others at the table were trying to out-do themselves with ways to make fun of the band on Michael’s T-shirt. He finally snapped out of it. "Okay. I can appreciate Rap Music, though I don’t know a lot about Urban culture. But it’s not for me. It isn’t designed and performed with me in mind. So I am not going to apologize for not being up on the latest Dizz V or DJ EllumiNot release. And think about it guys. Should a bunch of rich white guys from private schools be listening to songs about pimps and cocaine and guns? I mean, I am all for diversity and that sort of thing, but when something is so completely distant from personal experience, should it be speaking to you? Of course not."

Damien, the only African-American at the table held up his finger. "I hear what you’re saying, Michael, but I don’t have to go to Paris or Venice in order to appreciate Henry James."
"Well, um, then there’s the question of white America perpetuating stereotypes by funneling millions of dollars into the genre. What does that make your average rapper, then?"

Perry shrugged. "Smart?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "I’m not talking about the Kanye Wests of the world who seem to understand the big picture. I mean, you have to admit there is a lot of garbage thrown together with some catchy samples and rhymes featuring female anatomy, whizzing bullets and crack pipes. Next thing you know some white kid driving his Dad’s SUV is cruising the big wide streets of the suburban landscape playing that, thinking that is how it is downtown. And that stereotyping is just shorthand."

Everyone at their end of the table just stared back at Michael in either incomprehension or perhaps in Damien’s case, embarrassment.

"All right, then. Great conversation today. Excellent." He stood up and grabbed his tray. "Gotta run. Super busy beta testing a new search engine trying to locate any significance to anything you all say about music."

Finally, they all laughed. Perry wadded a napkin up and threw it at Michael’s head as he turned and departed for the tray conveyor. He lollygaged to the unloading point, watched his tray disappear into a hatch through which steam hissed and trebly AM radio squelched, then pondered how Cary would react to such benign teasing. As he exited the dining hall Michael decided Cary would not react at all, because he was too damn busy to be bothered. On his way down to the mailroom, he walked by a poster for the Bessemer Dining Club (or just BDC to most) wondering if such an organization had any redeeming qualities besides providing meals on Sunday nights and various theme parties throughout the year.

Bessemer had high visibility going for them. The club’s posters were everywhere on campus, plus they had taken out a long run with the Shamtown Digest. This active marketing campaign struck Michael (and many others in the Dorm) as fairly tone deaf. Then there was the wildly popular Blacksmith DC – the largest dining club at the Union. So annoyed with their spam, Michael wanted to hack their listserv and cause an implosion.

As he dialed the combination of his mailbox, he nodded, thinking once again about Cary and how he flew right over all these currents, announcing one evening that he had accepted membership into his father’s old club, Erie. Then he quickly added it was largely done to appease his father. Cary could not see how he would ever have time to engage in much of Erie’s many social events. For even then, a Friday night during the height of the Dining Club bidding period, Cary was off campus, working at the area’s best Italian restaurant.
Everybody prepared for the unrest coming in the form of Friday night at Tuscan Sun. Jeremy carried a stack of salad plates on to the server line and carefully placed them onto the stainless steel counter next to the reach-in. Bambino was in the bar showing the new bar tender where everything was kept. Charlotte finished setting the tables and Cary worked on the coffee maker to clear the left-hand line, which was not letting water drip down on to the coffee properly. He had not had any opportunity to talk with Charlotte since arriving at the restaurant. There were a number of important items on his agenda to cover.

Earlier, Charlotte whispered into his ear something about a different kind of hook-up later that evening. This made little sense to him, since they never had referred to their relationship as a ‘hook-up.’ As he thought about it, maybe that’s exactly what it was – a classic post-modern, teen hook-up, though he was under the impression that hook-up implied something short, fleeting and without much depth. He felt this to be the antithesis of his relationship with Charlotte.

As he finished with the coffee maker and gave it a test, he looked down at his shoes and nodded slowly. This is where his thoughts have been taken -- to internal debates over the concise definition of a common term. Charlotte came in from the dining room and gave Cary a tickle on his rib cage. "Can’t stay there for much longer. You’re gonna have to work sometime."

He straightened up. "Do you need help out there?"

"I need water glasses for 23 and the deuces along the wall."

Jeremy, who had finished plating dinner salads for the reach-in walked by. "I’ll get them. Carlo has some racks ready now."

Charlotte stood next to Cary with her hands behind her back. They both stared at the coffee maker. "I think it’ll be okay, Cary."

"Oh, I know." He turned toward her. "I have someone I’d like you to meet after work tonight." He thought he better make an effort to cover some ground before work really kicked in.

"You do?" She leaned back against the counter. "Well, I kind of had a small surprise for you too."

"A friend of mine has paid me a surprise visit this weekend. Someone from home. And I’d like you to meet her."

"Well, my room mate cleared out for the weekend. So we have the room all," she straightened up and moved closer to him, "to ourselves." Charlotte hooked her finger into his belt loop. "No need to vacate in the middle of the night." She smiled.

Cary thought she had not heard him. "That’s fine. But did you hear me when I…"

"When you said you had a visitor. Yes. That’s great. I’m sure he’ll understand."

"Well, it’s a she and I’m sure she will understand, but I still feel sort of responsible for making sure she’s not…"

Bambino came ambling into the server line. "What’s this? Come on you two, have you seen the book? Christ, I can’t have you standing around during prep. Do something, ferchrissakes. Charlotte we need waters out on 23 and on the deuces along the wall."

"Jeremy is getting them, darling."

Bambino blew her a kiss as he backed through the kitchen doors.

Cary rolled his eyes and stepped away from Charlotte. "We’ll all be meeting in my room."

"Right. Your room. Whatever." Charlotte went into the dining room.

The computer screen illuminated Michael’s face with a blue glow as he studied the blog. He read statements made about various bands and coughed with derision, nodded and launched a flame or two. Just as he was about to flame a participant for an ignorant statement regarding British Sea Power, his IM notice chimed and up on his screen popped a message from his sister.

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: gotcha. Surpriz! Not texting? what has you tied to your computer tonight?

Michael could not believe his "luck." He didn’t think he was going to be hearing from Claire this evening, particularly given her random computer access.

SlocumM@aversham.edu: JAD yawning at the ignorants of music fans

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: im at school. Supposed to be reading but its sooooo boring. But I don’t want to go home. Mom is having some candle party with all her minivan driving thugs from round the hood.

SlocumM@aversham.edu: right. big meet up. hohoho. shOuld be lots of fun.

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: gonna be a stitch back there at the casa. Donny wants to crash it with Carl muller.

SlocumM@aversham.edu: carl mullet, u mean?

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: LOL

SlocumM@aversham.edu: So how are Kiva and Don?

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: fat as ever. I wish I could just get school over with and get out of town. U know? Oh, you do. That’s right.

SlocumM@aversham.edu: patience lotus flower buddah says, there are never enough hens for the farm. something like that.

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: yes sensei. Yes … so whats goin on with your nerdy movie star guy

SlocumM@aversham.edu: he’s got a lot on hiz plate. Girlie troubles and hi expectations from his peeps back in NYC. but he’s cool. rilly

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: LOL. Bet U wish you had his issues.

Michael thought this a little unfair. While he did not agree with her, she had hit fairly close to a nerve and with the big event about to happen he didn’t want to be bothered with his sister’s distant assessments.

Through high school he prided himself on his ability to foster some level of relationship out of the most odd on-line link. No one at Fairdale High knew of the connections in his geek world and Michael certainly worked extremely hard to keep as low of a profile at home as he could. But with Claire, the stakes were at there highest. At home he had never felt protective over her, but now, seeing the situation from outside, he knew he owed her at least an ear to talk into from time to time.

SlocumM@aversham.edu: whateveR

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: would luv to come up there and escape this shit

SlocumM@aversham.edu: dunno about that. Theres a lot of that goin on now. visits I think the dorm population is double what it should bee

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: have any survival tips for your big siss

SlocumM@aversham.edu: duck n cover

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: great. First you tell me to stay away, then you give me lame ass advise

SlocumM@aversham.edu: advice with a C. got to run reading to do b4 lights out. Bbfn

ClaireS@jeffersoncc.edu: luv U kid rock

SlocumM@aversham.edu: thx

Michael went back to thinking about British Sea Power. It was either think about obscure indie bands or be driven crazy with Claire and news from home.

Charade - Chapter Fourteen

Unprepared for the arrival as he may have been, Cary understood the events of the past twelve-plus hours to be a formative lesson in communications. As he sat in his seat anticipating the start of a Chemistry lecture, the empty seat next to him proved this. How had he missed important signs Rebecca would suddenly become a vital supporting cast member? He kept an eye on the door while also making a few notes as Dr. Westerberg scrolled out a number of items on the dry erase board she had somehow yanked down from the heavens.

Rebecca popped through the door just as Dr. Westerberg went to close it. Cary dramatized his concern for her whereabouts by regarding his wristwatch purposefully. "Where’s Grace?" he whispered as Rebecca slipped in next to him.

"She ditched me over on South Campus near the Bucklund Yurt." She replied looking at him and unsuccessfully stifling a grin.

Apparently taking Cary by surprise had become habit for females once on the Aversham
campus. He could not construct any sort of response to this news.

Rebecca reached over and gave his thigh a squeeze and just before Dr. Westerberg launched, Rebecca let him off the hook. "Just kidding. She’s sleeping in. Poor girl was exhausted."
Cary, maddened he had to sit through an entire lecture and discussion on hydrogen atoms attaching and not attaching themselves, could hardly wait for 8:30 to roll around. His mind cycled through truckloads of data searching for that important set of beakers holding necessary ingredients allowing him to figure it all out. With so much going on in the world what with hydrogen atoms attaching or not, Cary knew his ‘love rhombus’ needed to get straightened out. There was little point in letting the situation get any further out of hand. There were bigger concerns with which everyone needed to be, well, concerned.
He wondered if this was the way most of his classmates thought. Looking around the voluminous lecture hall, he saw a great number of faces betraying deep thought – very few of which he believed to be hydrogen related. And knowing the strong liberal bent of his college, there was half a chance a few of those deeply thoughtful chemistry students concerned themselves with starvation and disease right at that very moment. Who was he to think otherwise?

Stealing a look at Rebecca, he knew the explanation would start with her right after class. What exactly he was to explain that she wouldn’t already know about loomed as a mystery.
As 8:30 came around, Dr. Westerberg cut them all loose. As Cary and Rebecca allowed themselves to drift out of the building with the rest of the herd, he gently grabbed her elbow and guided her to a bench on Mullen Piazza. "I need to talk with you."

"Well, no shit. That’s one reason I told Grace to stay put."

"No, no. Fine. Whatever. Look, I want to tell you a few things." They sat down. "First, Grace and I went out a few times over the summer and Prom and all that sort of thing and I guess somewhere along the line it all gained more significance than intended."

"I hate to keep saying this, but no shit."

"We just went away to separate schools and promised to keep in touch and well, next thing I know she’s visiting me from her campus 698 miles away."

"You never had The Talk." Rebecca accented with quotation marks in the air, then playfully hit him in the upper arm. "You jerk."

"This is made even worse by the fact that, you know, I’ve been seeing a young woman I work with at Tuscan Sun."

"Charlotte."

"You know her?" Cary suddenly exhibited unreasonable concern. "How?"

"We met at the restaurant that time. You know, like hello, we were all having a fine conversation. She’s like totally looking like Diane Lane in Knight Moves."

"Who? What?"

"Diane Lane. Oh, never mind."

"A celebrity right? Does she look like someone named Ashley Judd? That’s who my roommate says she resembles."

"Ashley Judd? What, is he, like, from Kentucky?"

"How’d you know that?"

She rubbed her forehead. "So you were saying."

Cary, unswayed by the sidebar regarding movie stars, scanned his memory and honestly did not remember having a fine conversation at the restaurant with both Rebecca and Charlotte.

"So anyway. Charlotte lives in my dorm. Right upstairs and we haven’t really…"

"Had The Talk yet." Rebecca again accented with quotation marks in the air, something Cary found well overplayed.

"We haven’t had any discussions as to what the relationship is or anything." As Cary worked to clarify his thoughts, Rebecca looked out over the Piazza, watching students crisscrossing the compound. "Charlotte does not seem too interested in having it and I think it’s maybe too early anyway."

"Unless you’re sleeping together." She said matter-of-factly.

"Oh." He looked at his loafers and noticed they needed to be shined. "Right. That makes sense, then."

"And don’t look for her to take you off the hook, not that you would. Like, you’re being up-front with me and all. But I saved your ass last night. You owe me."

"I want to be up-front with everybody. A little over a month at college and I’ve got to straighten my head already. Get organized. That kind of thing should not be happening."

"Hello. It’s not about you getting organized. It’s about treating people right."

"Of course. Of course. I know that. I’m just saying that I…"

"Right. Look. You’ve loaded me down with the 4-1-1 so let me throw some back." She took a breath, then vaulted into her own clarifications. "I like you. I like you a lot. And it’s not because I’m a film student and want to hang with some guy named Cary Grant and I’m not a lonely whacko or playing games or whatever guys always think when girls come on to them."

"Pretty much those things, I suppose."

"Right. Well, have you seen any Whit Stillman movies? Have you seen Metropolitans? All these New York debutantes speaking in complete sentences, analyzing their existences and spouting neat criticisms of Flaubert?"

"No, but what’s your point?"

"Please don’t sound like that when you talk with Grace."

"Well, first off, we’re from Flushing. Not debutante territory." Cary stood up and smiled. "And I’ve never read Madame Bovary or any criticisms of it." He became serious again. "Look, I promise to be direct and not ambiguous in anyway. Come on, let’s go."

"I’ve got a class." She stood up and grabbed her backpack. "Oh fuck it. Can we stop at the Union? I’m dying for some hydrogen atoms to attach."

They began to walk. "Did Grace mention anything about her medicine?"

"Medicines?" Rebecca’s cell phone rang, but she ignored it. "Look we just met, she’s not going to talk with me about her pharmaceutical needs."

"She was on Prozac and Ritalin for a long time, then just stopped apparently when she got to Hampshire."

Rebecca whistled. "That shit will fuck you up. But it’s even worse when you stop. I’ve read some stuff about…"

"I didn’t even know she was on it when we were going out."

"It’s not something you announce. Anyway, it sounds like she’s in love with E. She mentioned that a couple of times last night."

"What does Ecstacy do?" They started up the stairs to the Union.

"You’ve never tried it?" Rebecca stopped. "Of course you’ve never tried it. Sorry." She nodded slowly and began climbing the stairs again. "It’s a sweet party drug in the best of times. In the worst of times," they went through the heavy oak doors of the Union, "it’ll depress the hell out of you, make you want to throw up, maybe make you paranoid. Makes me hotter than hell."

Cary thought it sounded horrible. "Why is it so popular?"

"That, my man, is something you have to find out for yourself." She smiled at him and joined the end of the line waiting to get coffee.

After getting hooked into an IV of caffeine, they strolled on into South Campus and over toward Alex Arnest -- her two-story villa. He marveled at the terra cotta accents and copper downspouts. The place, nestled in spruce and fir trees, looked over South Campus as though an inviting Ski Chalet high above Davos. It was the type of building Cary hoped he would design one day. Billionaire Alex Arnest gave Aversham twelve million dollars to build what many on campus (and at Architectural Digest) considered the premier dormitory. Aversham, being the appreciative institution of higher learning that it was, made sure Mr. Arnest’s name and architectural opinions were taken into account.

As they ducked beneath the low branch of a locust tree and came to the front of the dorm hall, Rebecca stopped. "Wait." She took her lanyard off, unsnapped her A-Card and handed it to Cary. "You don’t need me. It’s B12. Just look for Kubrick on the door."

Cary looked at the card, then at Rebecca. "Kubrick?"

"I am not even going to dignify your ignorance with an explanation."

"I’ve heard of Stanley Kubrick. I just hope I can recognize him."

"Oh for Christ’s sake, just look for B12." Then, in a classic soap opera touch, Rebecca closed Cary’s hand around the A-Card. "I’ll run on to my class and come back."

He nodded, but did not say anything, which gave the moment a more weighty drama than it deserved. "But…"

She started walking back toward North Campus saying over her shoulder. "No rifling through my underwear drawer."

He went in the door and enjoyed the pine needle smell of the lobby, which soared above him into an art-glass colored atrium. Fifty single rooms and twelve suites in the villa and everyone paid a premium for the privilege. He went up the stairs and turned down the hall. Each door, festooned with numerous photographs and magazine clippings, seemed to provide a summary of the room’s inhabitant. Cary decided a number of the doors left little to the imagination and he wondered what the resident gained by allowing him access into past vacations, musical tastes and current political views. He found B12, featuring a gigantic poster of a bearded fellow with the same type of glasses his old piano teacher had worn.

He knocked and Grace answered through the closed door. "Is that you Rebecca?"

"It’s Cary."

She didn’t respond for a moment, then he heard the lock-set clunk and the door opened.

"Come in. Rebecca isn’t here."

"I know." Cary stepped into the room immediately soaking in an overwhelming desire to fall asleep. Rich purple walls postered with a variety of Hollywood favorites most of whom Cary didn’t recognize. A shelf above her desk crammed with DVD’s. A huge houseplant gobbling up sunlight in front of the over-sized window, which were such popular features of the building. Her closet door papered with a huge Oasis poster. He refocused back on matters at hand. "I wanted to talk with you about last night and about us."

Grace sat down on the futon, which faced Rebecca’s bed. "Not that I don’t like Rebecca. She’s great and all, but I was really hoping to stay with you."

"Yes." He sat down on the bed. "I know, but the funny thing about surprises. They don’t always go as planned." He looked at Grace and remembered why he had enjoyed her company last year so much. It was a nice, warm and round face. "There isn’t a gentle way of talking about this stuff."

"What stuff?"

"People change when they set foot on college campuses, get away from high school, parents, situations. You know. You said yourself."

"Why though? Why is it so dangerous too? People, I mean, I mean, you know, I went out with this guy last week that I only just met and he was…" She looked out the window, then down at her shoes. "Anyway, I had to see you. I know it’s different being away from Flushing. Like, duh. But I needed to run away for just a few days and I didn’t want to go back to Flushing, face Mom and Dad."

Cary did not want to pile on and changed what he had wanted to say. "I want to keep you as a good friend Grace. That sounds so hollow, so ridiculous."

"Stupid, you mean?"

Cary looked at the ceiling. "What happened in Amherst? What did this guy say or do?"

She did not respond, but when she finally looked at him, her eyes were pooled with tears on the verge of falling. "Do you know what Roofies are Cary?"

Cary glanced out the window. "I don’t, but it doesn’t sound good."

"Well, it’s not. It’s a drug called Rohypnol and I." She couldn’t continue and they sat there for some time. Cary understood what this pause meant. "I just needed to see my friend. You know?"

Cary got up and shifted over to beside Grace, giving her a hug. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with that."

"What will we be like by Christmas break?"

"Basket cases?"

She pushed away from him slightly and looked into his eyes. "Do you have someone else now?"

Cary honestly did not know what this meant. He simply starred into her teary eyes.

"I spent most of last night talking with Rebecca. About her deal. About you. She’s really, really cool. She mentioned you’ve been seeing someone."

"Oh. Yes. Right. That would be Charlotte’s cue. I’m not sure what it’s about, but we see a lot of each other and I like her a lot. Maybe more than that."

They talked for several hours completely forgetting they were in someone else’s room. For the first time, Cary had missed classes, but he felt particularly good about it looking at Grace.

She obviously needed to unload baggage from Amherst where she felt out of her depth. Battling more than simple insecurity, high expectations within the close-knit social circles of campus conspired to remove large segments of her judgement, reason and logic.

Cary only briefly went into his developing relationship with Charlotte and Grace certainly was not up for seeking details. She already had the overwhelming sense that both of them were actually locked in a repetitive and melodramatic dorm room talk-a-thon. "I feel better now, but is there a way I could stay with you all for the weekend?"

Cary could not speak for Rebecca or any of the other minor characters in his teen novel-like existence, but as far as he was concerned she could stay. "I have work tonight and tomorrow night as well and some reading. Other than that, I’d be glad to give you a guided tour through possibly the quietest college town in the State of Ohio."

Grace smiled and looked noticeably less tense than when Cary had arrived earlier. She pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged on the futon. "Rebecca said she’d take me to see "Donnie Darko" at the Union Theater tonight." Grace had desperately needed to get out of town and do a ‘warm reset,’ as Michael would say. She looked healthier than the night before and there were a number of people Cary had to thank for that.

"Maybe after work you can meet Charlotte."

"That will be just a little odd, I think." She smiled again and Cary felt good, not because of any bullets dodged, which was how he had started the entire episode. He stood up. "Why don’t we all plan on meeting around eleven, then?"

Grace did not move. "Okay." She opened her arms for a hug. "Come here. I want to give you a squeeze." She made quotation marks in the air, which to Cary was a sure sign Rebecca’s impact had some depth to it.

"I’ve got to go." They hugged and Cary went to the door.

"Don’t forget your books." She pointed to the bed where his Chemistry materials sat.

"Right." He plucked them off the scrambled bedding and went back to the door. "See you later, then. Are you going to be alright staying here or do you want to go with me."

"I’ll stay. I want to mellow out and not try to think."

He opened the door. "Good luck with that, then."

"Bye."

As he turned to go down the hall he nearly tripped over Rebecca who had stationed herself on the floor outside the room in order to either read, eavesdrop, fall asleep or all of the above. He looked down at her as she slumped over her backpack trying to catch up on what Cary decided must be the sleep lost consoling Grace. He squatted down and shook her gently on the shoulder. "Rebecca. It’s Cary. Hello. Rebecca?"

She sat up. "Yes? I’m okay. Everything’s good. Right. Alright, then. Hi."

"Sorry, sorry for taking so long."

She twisted and bent her neck around. "Do you think you could take a little more time there Lucas?" She got up on her feet. "I did most of the heavy lifting last night." She whispered.

"Who?"

"One Tree Hill reference."

Cary appeared lost. "Sorry?"

"Right. Whatever. You said that." She rubbed her neck and then realized she was being cross for no reason. "It’s okay. Take it easy. Reminds me of a night I spent at Port Authority once. Hey, That’s in your neck of the woods."

"Not really."

"Anyway, I asked for it when I jumped in last night." She nodded toward the room and continued to whisper. "She’s kinda fucked up about school and everything." She nearly mouthed, "And what you told me about the meds makes sense now."

He sighed, picked up her backpack and handed her keycard back. "Thanks again."

"1000 female students on this campus, half of them chasing you so why not add another from the Massachusetts College of Emotionally Frail."

They began to walk down the hall. "Come on Rebecca. That’s pretty unfair."

"Unfair or not, looks like the truth."

"Not everyone can have your self confidence."

"That’s the coolest thing a boy has ever said to me." She hooked her arm around his and they descended the stairs.

Charade - Chapter Thirteen

Michael popped through the door just as Cary pulled his books and notes together, readying himself to claim a spot at Francis Portage. "What’s up?"

Cary put a pen in his shirt pocket and shrugged. "I’m just hanging out. How did you do on the math quiz?"

Michael tossed his book bag on the bed. "Pretty certain I went ten for ten. You?"

"I’m right there too. Should be an interesting mid term."

Michael went to the window. "Don’t say that word yet."

"Mid-term?"

"Or is that two words?" He went to his desk, pulling off his iPod and stowing it in the bottom drawer. "Man, I can not think about mid terms yet."

"Well, I’m going to the library in a few minutes, if you want to join me."

"No thanks. I prefer barricading myself in this concrete pillbox."

"You’ll be safe when a terrorist bombs Columbus." Cary went to the door.

"I always knew they weren’t OSU fans." Michael started taking stuff out of his book bag.

Cary waved and slipped away into the late afternoon campus buzz. He traversed the paths, thinking about autumn. The distant maples on the higher ground of South Campus were showing hints of crimson at their tops. He could not wait for cooler weather. A few evenings had cooled down significantly, hinting at funny business with pressure gradients up around Hudson Bay. Riotous autumn color suited Cary.

At the library he blew through the reading for Chemistry and Design and then did his problem set for math. The earlier site of turning maples had energized him to focus and the inspiration was paid for with productivity he had not experienced recently. In less time than he had blocked on his schedule goals were met and important facts learned.

On his leisurely walk back to Norton to meet up with Charlotte, he heard The Cure’s ‘Friday, I’m in Love’ booming from a window on the third floor of Hart Hall. Identification of this piece of pop music made possible from his days with Grace, who was The Cure’s number one fan at Flushing High. He smiled remembering her favorite song – Charlotte Sometimes. Why had it taken him so long to recall this bit of prophecy? As his involvement with Charlotte deepened, his thoughts of Grace increasingly became overwhelmingly spoiled with guilt. Preposterous as this sense was, he could not free himself from it. No wonder details conveniently went missing.

He checked his watch approaching the East entryway to Norton Hall. It was only 9:10 PM – too early for Charlotte to be home from Thursday evening’s Epistemic Theories tutorial. Cary would make some tea and relax for a while.

Coming through the entryway he ran right into Michael. "Where have you been?"

Cary stopped and imitated a startled, perhaps absent minded, professor. "Don’t surprise me like that. Were you sitting here long, waiting to jump me?"

"Dude, like, your old girlfriend is, is HERE." Michael emphatically pointed to the floor.

"What do you mean by old girlfriend?"

"What do you mean, what do you mean? Grace. She’s in our room, man."

Cary felt rather warm all of a sudden and his lungs constricted as if the concept of Grace Tumwater dropping by suddenly gave him chronic emergency room visiting type asthma. "I. I. I…"

Michael pulled on the neck of his Pilot to Gunner T-shirt. "She just showed up about an hour ago. Like, from out of nowhere."

Cary quickly recovered from the chronic emergency room type asthma grip. "No, not nowhere. She’s supposed to be in Massachusetts. At school. Well, then. Let’s go see what Grace is doing in our room." He motioned Michael to the hallway door and followed him, thinking at an extremely high rate of speed, reviewing multiple conversations at once for evidence he missed an important signal. He tried to formulate a plausible explanation for his cast-off invitation in that early letter.

The door to their room was standing open and as they entered, Michael quickly grabbed a few random books and retreated back out the door. Grace, who had been sitting on Michael’s bed, stood up barely containing her excitement at surprising Cary. They didn’t say anything for an impossible length of time. To Cary, in the nearly two months since they had last been together, Grace had grown maddeningly more attractive and feminine. She had gained much needed weight and her hair was different. He thought, ‘so here it is, then. The old meets new. Now, what was Charlotte saying the other day about cliches?’ He placed his books down on his desk and opened his arms for a hug. "How did you get here?"

Grace hugged him and didn’t seem like she was going to let go. She whispered, "Flew. Logan to Columbus. Aversham shuttle. Easy, really. Really easy. The campus map at the shuttle stop is awesome."

"I’ll tell the provost."

"It’s a beautiful campus, Cary."

"It’s great to see you, Grace," Cary whispered with all the sincerity he could possibly muster on such short notice. He then wondered how she afforded such an extravagance.

"I just had to see you. I had to." To Cary it sounded rehearsed. They continued to hug. "A telephone just was not going to do it. I had to see you and talk with you again."

Cary finally broke the hug and wondered how he missed the important exit sign on this particular thoroughfare. "So here we are." He knew Charlotte would be sweeping by to invite him up and thought it a good idea to vacate the premises. "Welcome to Ohio, Grace." She sat back down in an all too comfortable way. "Let’s go for a walk."

"Now?"

He went back to the open door. "The campus at night time is spectacular." She stood up and again he noticed changes in her bearing. "It’s my favorite time to walk around."

Grace gave him an incredulous look and clucked, "whatever."

He took Grace the long way round Kempker Meadow to the Student Union. Cary felt safe on this route certain Charlotte would take the short cut through the Pfeiffer Woodlands on her way home. He also knew Charlotte had a particular disdain for the Union with all its School Spirit Rah-Rah, misogynistic jukebox selections and raucous foosball action. Grace, on the other hand, would undoubtedly be quite keen on the place.

He soon discovered that judgement was based on a Grace from a whole other era. Some time at a smart, clubby Massachusetts college and Grace Tumwater had turned herself into a rather close approximation of Charlotte. As they sat in the William S. and Leta D. Brubaker Memorial Café, Cary found Grace to be more opinionated, loquacious and radically adventurous than he knew her to be. In high school way back some five months ago, she had been without a care and modest to the point of being self-absorbed. "I just don’t think people should sit around and wonder, ‘what ifs.’ Get up and do something," she said while gulping a third, giant cup of coffee.

Cary could see he was in for an extremely hard night. Grace’s persona had hints of a disconnection between a quiet student and the forced jocularity of an over-exposed cultural figure. "Where did this new action-figure approach come from, Grace?" He stirred creamer into his coffee.

"You’d be amazed what being away from home will do for some people. I’ve dropped those meds I was on since I was twelve. There’s a healer some of my friends go to in Northampton. She’s really great and got me to see how pointless those pills were."

Cary had not realized she was on medication when they were going out. "What medications did you take?"

"Oh the usual. Ritalin, Prozac." She blinked rapidly for a moment as if receiving a slight electric shock. "The usual cocktail. Anyway, I bet you feel different, being away from your Dad, and Flushing, and all that..."

"Are you supposed to stop taking those drugs like that?" Cary asked, but she ignored him and kept rambling.

"I see you still have that same, Death in the Afternoon wardrobe affectation. Did you know Hemingway almost died during World War I? Oh, by the way, you should really look into Aversham’s Study Abroad program." She was speaking faster and faster without coming up for air. "Hampshire’s is fantastic, because they’re in the Five Colleges cooperative. You know I have my pick, basically. Maybe we could both study in someplace like Seville.

Cary could not imagine such a thing from several respects, starting with money and followed quickly by the lack of desire he felt to spend time listening to more Grace Tumwater Version 2.0. The fact she had dropped the taking of serious psychotropic drugs gave him even deeper pause.

She just kept going and going. "Or wouldn’t it be cool to study in Japan? I’ve always liked Japanese people. Remember Reiko So. She was in my first period and really seemed cool. Did you know her?"

"No, I don’t think I ever met her." He kept his eyes moving around like radar sweeping for developing weather. Hurricane Charlotte came to mind, but just as the screen looked clear, Cary spotted Rebecca.

Excellent, he thought. He held up his hand and waved at her, trying to get her attention. Grace turned to see who had grabbed his attention. "It’s my study partner from Chemistry class."

Grace turned back to him. "Pretty girl."

Cary tried a casual smile, but felt like it failed miserably. "Is she?"

Rebecca saw him through some latticework that separated the Café from the Study Lounge. She smiled and waved enthusiastically, before heading his direction. Cary could not believe his sense of relief.

Grace appeared somewhat resigned – for the first time since Cary spirited her away from his dorm room. "She’s coming over. What’s her name?"

Cary scooted over fully anticipating Rebecca saving him from listening to more of the New Grace. "Her name is Rebecca. She’s from Shaker Heights."

"Which is where?"

"Cleveland."

"And I need to know this, because?" Grace’s acidity took Cary by surprise.

"Hey, how are you tonight?" Rebecca called still a number of tables distant from their booth.

"Great. Did you get through the chapter on molecular bonding?" Cary wished to set an academic tone immediately, but Rebecca, spotting Grace, was having none of it.

"Cary Grant, having coffee at Chasen’s with, let’s see." She stopped and gave Grace an appraising look. "Should be Irene Dunne?"

Cary ignored her, now used to such silliness from Rebecca. "This is my good friend from home, Grace Tumwater. Grace, this is Rebecca Dando."

Grace, none-too-thrilled with the ‘good friend’ moniker, shot Cary a disappointed look before fixing a smile and thrusting her hand out for a stiff shake with the new arrival. "Nice to meet you."

"Grace?" Rebecca looked at Cary. "This confirms the affair. There’s always been a lot of talk about you being in a love triangle with Hitch and Grace Kelly."

Like so many before her, Rebecca had taken the joke way beyond just too far. She was now at a point of seriously worrying Cary. "Rebecca. Please stop." Cary raised an eyebrow and gave her a long stare. "I’ve heard it all before…many times."

After a shaky start, Rebecca actually turned out to be Cary’s savior. For some mysterious reason, she could sense the dynamic and took command of the situation by keeping Grace focused on complete nonsense. Given Rebecca’s personality, Cary found it easy turning the conversation almost completely over to her.

As the café closed down for the evening and the trio was ushered toward the lounge, Rebecca made a daring gambit by asking Grace where she intended to spend the night. She replied, "I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Cary, any ideas?"

Cary knew he was on the spot and for the first time in almost forever he didn’t have a ready answer and locked up. This pause of some pregnancy offered Rebecca one more opportunity to further her charge of the light brigade. "Well, as long as this isn’t too, too Pretty in Pink, John Hughes trite, I’m in a single over in Alex Arnest. I’ve got tons of room." She turned to Grace, "Why don’t you stay with me?"

As Grace looked at her feet, then at Rebecca, then up at him, apparently waiting for an alternative plan, Cary sensed his blood pressure moderating and felt noticeably cooler. "Oh, that’s a terrific idea, Rebecca. Marvelous. Michael stays up until all hours working on his computer so you wouldn’t get much sleep in our room and, well, Rebecca happens to live in the newest and nicest dorm on campus."

They all started walking to the exit. Outside Cary became animated and energized by the notion he might be able to somehow navigate the weekend. "What a nice night, Grace. You’ve picked the perfect time to visit Aversham." He leaned forward a little to address Rebecca who walked on the other side of Grace. "And how fortunate to run into my Chemistry pal."

Grace looked at him. "Yeah. Fortunate."

"Come on Gracie, we’ll have a super time. Tomorrow, you can come along with me to my classes." Cary sensed Rebecca had slipped into character.

"Um, well." They continued to walk back towards Norton Hall to pick up her bag and after some time, Grace finally, asked, "Rebecca? Please don’t call me Gracie. Is that okay?"

"Oh, no problem. I am really silly about people’s names. Just ask Cary. I give him seven kinds of trouble about that."

"Yes, you do. All the time." He added a bit farcically, picking up on Rebecca’s over-acting.

"Always linking me with that other Cary."

Rebecca laughed. "You know, the other Cary Grant used to say, ‘everybody wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant.’ Isn’t that funny?"

Grace, looking straight ahead, replied "hilarious."

As they arrived back in the Norton courtyard, Cary glanced up at Charlotte’s window and noticed the light on. This gave him another burst of relief, figuring this meant Charlotte would not be down in his room waiting. But then he swung the other direction emotionally and became uncharacteristically paranoid. "Hey, let me save you guys some steps. I’ll run in and grab your bag, then we can continue right on over to Alex Arnest and get you settled in."
Amazingly, Rebecca’s instincts for choreography paid off yet again. "Thanks, Cary. We’ll hang here on the wall and talk about you behind your back."

He smiled then dashed inside – this being the first time Rebecca, Grace or anyone had ever witnessed Cary Grant dashing anywhere in any form. Rounding the corner into his hall, he ran right into Michael. "This is beginning to happen a little more often than I think either of us like."

Michael thought this comment funny and coughed out a laugh. "Well, dude. Your night keeps getting better. Charlotte’s in our room."

Cary let his shoulders drop slightly. "Well now of course she is. I knew it!" He whispered. "We ran into Rebecca from my Chemistry Class and she’s outside with Grace."

"Rebecca. Oh, the one that’s hot for you, but maybe kind of a freak?"

Cary just gave him a look and shut his eyes trying to think.

"Never mind a love triangle. Brother, you’ve got, what, like a love rhombus on your hands."

"Don’t say that sort of nonsense."

"What do you mean? You’re walking around with the old girlfriend and that girl who wants to jump your bones because she thinks you’re a reincarnated movie star or whatever. Then, you’ve got Charlotte. One, two three." Michael pointed to Cary. "Four. Yep, it’s a rhombus all right."

"Okay, okay. Stop that." Cary rubbed his chin. "Okay, this is not a problem. Grace is going to stay with Rebecca tonight."

"The reincarnation girl?"

Cary looked at him a little confused at this comment, but then shook it off. "Okay, do me a favor. Can you go in and grab Grace’s bag for me?"

"It’s in Perry and Greg’s room." They went to their door and Michael tapped on it.

Cary almost became overwhelmed with admiration for Michael and Rebecca. These new friends of his had gone well beyond the call of duty. He owed everyone in this strange and disorganized event a levelheaded explanation, but at the moment that sort of mature discussion and sorting out fell way beyond his grasp. Perry answered the door and though obviously seriously stoned, ushered them inside. "Greg’s been, you know, like guarding the bag like it was his baby bird, um, baby sister’s or...that’s a little messed up."

Michael took the bag from Greg who had been sitting on his bed (also stoned) with the backpack in his lap. He snorted at Perry. "Shut up." They both laughed hysterically while Michael and Cary backed out of the room and slipped back down the hall to the entryway.
Cary took the bag and before darting out, looked at Michael. "I’ll talk with you later. Thanks."

"This is fun."

Charade - Chapter Twelve

The Chemistry experience featured lots of weird moments now. Cary, mind-splitting time between the periodic chart, Rebecca’s hair tucks and naturally the happening called Charlotte, could not understand where or why or how he had become such an interesting phenomenon. His father would (if present) try to convince him it was his distinctive, classic style and bearing – the only fellow without baggy pants falling off, shirts from the bottom of the clothes hamper and hideous, preposterous tattoos, jewelry and other assorted instruments of pop culture. His mother on the other hand used to chide him for looking like a mannequin, though she did admit that this in itself was unique in a place like Flushing. Above all, she wanted him to avoid being too serious (at all costs). This, made sense coming from a woman who inadvertently named her boy after a world famous film star.

After a Monday class, Rebecca turned to Cary and continued the discussion they were having before the lecture started. Cary told her about his roommate and Rebecca remarked, slightly suggestively, that she did not have one.

"Oh?" They walked into a bustling Mullen Piazza. "That must make it a little lonely."

"Yeah, well, from what you say about Michael. I don’t know, sounds like the nerdy kid in a slasher flick that turns out to be, well, you know. Like, the slasher guy."

"He might say the same thing about himself. Your preoccupation with movies…"

She interrupted. "It is my major. I suppose it should be sort of a preoccupation." She nodded slightly, letting her words trail off.

"I see your point." He tacked and headed toward the library. Rebecca, to his surprise did not follow him, instead heading off into the busy piazza without saying anything more. He went up the library stairs to the main entrance wondering if she had taken offense. Cary pulled the door open and walked into a more peaceful dimension. He thought about what he said and worried that he had been unfair to Michael. As he climbed the broad marble stairway to the third floor anthropology section, he knew nothing he said could be disparaging. So why had Rebecca jumped to such a conclusion about Michael?

As he claimed a carrel and set his books down upon it, he remembered in one conversation talking about his roommate’s collection of T-shirts and still another discussion of Michael’s exceedingly late hours. Cary shrugged and sat down, understanding Rebecca’s slasher film comment to be a conclusion based on cliché and the type of statement designed to get underneath his skin.

He cracked open his Architecture & Society book and began reading about Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye. For a good fifteen minutes Cary sat and feigned interest in the topic. He was several chapters ahead and could not gather the energy to push on any further. He blazed by Walter Gropius only to be caught in Le Corbusier’s quagmire. A nearby window had been cranked open allowing an occasional breeze to sweep into the back alleys of musty stacks and across the rear aisle where Cary sat. One such breeze inspired him to close the book and prop his chin up with his forearm.

He wrote Charlotte’s name and drew an oval racetrack of fountain pen ink around and around it. Against his usual judgement, he had taken his mother’s advice – to a certain extent – and settled on building a relationship, of sorts, with Charlotte. Charlotte, however, was not settling for anything, nor viewing their daily congress as a construction of any kind. "It is what it is," she liked to say with a strange accent.

As far as Cary could surmise thus far in the association, Charlotte liked to drink martinis, trash various political figures and draw lightning fast opinions on a range of subjects. And she seemed to have a raw nerve of jealousy dancing loose from rigorous constraints of logic. Somewhere along the line she also could destroy a pop quiz or two and work up eloquent summaries of assigned reading. "How do you do it, Ms. Icarus?" Cary had asked one evening as they draped themselves over her disaster area of a bed. "Well, accepting Jesus Christ as my savior didn’t hurt. Oh, and taking a lot of crystal meth helps too." She replied in a way Cary could not easily decide how serious she was being about either the Prince of Peace or taking meth, which highlighted the youth of their relationship in glaring fashion for him. A somewhat threatening moment of dead air hung over their naked bodies until Charlotte squeezed his arm hard and added, "I know we’re still new to each other, but come on. Accepting Jesus Christ?"

"Not to mention the whole idea of taking meth."

She grinned. "That’s more plausible than hearing the word of the Lord."

"You do so much and always seem to have it all in hand. What I mean by that is…" Cary sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around his pulled up knees. "It’s the old, I’m not the type of guy who normally." He flashed on his mother and father for a bizarre moment, his mind teetering over a dim memory of Imogene laughing at Tim and saying, ‘you’re just romantic enough to believe opposites attract.’ Cary blew air through his tightened lips and whispered, "all right, I am not your type. I don’t know how else to say it."

"You know, don’t be ashamed of that kind of cliché. Let me tell you that we’re not going to have the sort of conversation, you know, where we artfully dodge cliché just for the sake of it. No one could possibly speak like that."

"Aren’t you a philosophy major?" He grinned.

She acted serious for a moment. "Oh, right. You got me. I’m supposed to speak like that. Exception noted."

"I bet we could if we tried. Why do we need cliché? As some type of shorthand, we presume."

"Which is a problem for me. It is impossible to avoid clichés. Why fight it?" She got up out of bed and slipped on a pair of sweat pants, then shrugged into Cary’s shirt. "By avoiding cliché, we become a cliché."

Cary flopped back into a small riot of pillows. He regarded her Henrik Ibsen poster and then the ceiling. "So the sort of conversation we will have is the gazing at stars and wondering if we are a speck of dust in a shoebox kind of conversation."

"Exactly."

"Sounds boring."

Charlotte sat back down on the bed and placed a warm hand on his thigh. "Believe me. Avoiding cliché is more boring. The ultimate point I want to make is that I don’t want us to be thinking about how to say something."

"But that’s my whole schtick."

She grinned at him and raised her eyebrows. "Don’t think. Have fun."

"Good God, my girlfriend is actually my mother."

She gave him a light punch in the stomach. "Oedipus and Icarus all in one conversation. It’s too, too much!"

"My father had me read a book on Mythology as part of his summer reading list for me."

"Let me guess. Edith Hamilton."

"Robert Graves."

"Ho, ho, and you thought you weren’t my type." She bent over and kissed him and looked into his eyes. "You multi-task exactly the same way. You’re funny. Delightful. You respect me. God-damn, your taste is impeccable even if it is from the fifties. You may not process at the same rate, but you’re also the calmest, most collected person I know."

Cary enjoyed that exchange for a number of reasons. He smiled at Charlotte’s name now surrounded by a thick black line. The trees outside the open window shimmered in the mid-September wind and the fresh current hitting him inspired a sudden interest in escaping the stacks and accosting his cynical lover. Then he remembered his next class and the plan instantly fell apart.

Charade - Chapter Eleven

Michael pounded away on his reply to a comment he found particularly dumb on the VHS or Beta blog. Since arriving at Aversham, he hadn’t spent much time on his web haunts. He felt this newsworthy for some reason. "A late breaking story out of Ohio tonight, Michael Slocum is growing out of his drug-like dependence on news from the Astralwerks website." There were times over the previous three years when he escaped for hours upon hours in the blue screen glow of independent music sites, working hard to keep up on the endless array of groups looking to be the next White Stripes.

Two and a half weeks into the school year, there was a bit of catch up to do whenever he did surf by an indie site or blog. He texted Claire a message to the effect that he was starting to feel like a "well rounded" person. But he knew that sort of maturity still wiggled out of his grasp and disappeared over the nearby hills. Claire’s reply reminded him he was only a freshman and still a geek.

Music took a place in standing-room-only behind matters such as school work, going to class, fixing hall mate’s computers and repeatedly beating Perry and Greg at Halo 3 or Master and Slave 3.1 (granted they were usually stoned, but it would not have mattered). He had Cary to thank for this all. His roommate’s incredible work ethic and consistently genuine approach to all matters somehow rubbed off. He had never been around someone so secure, up-front and not phony.

Michael spent a few hours earlier in the evening, when Cary was at work, finding out about the other Cary Grant – the other one so often referenced. He did not know why he had been driven to this modest research project. The only thing he could think of sounded a little freaky. That hypothesis suggested that the Cary Grant living in Room 146 of Norton Hall was almost completely devoid of history, so maybe there were clues to be had from the Hollywood one. Maybe the Cary Grant attending Aversham College had another name, like Archie Leach. Michael knew this to be useless, but that did not stop him from scanning the filmography of the actor for clues. After gaining nothing from the exercise he turned his attention to music, happy to learn of tour dates being announced for British Sea Power.
The door lock buzzed and plinked signaling Cary’s arrival home. When he came through their door, Michael felt awkward for no good reason, like he had been snooping in Cary’s papers or had read diary passages. He looked at the time in the corner of his computer screen not surprised to see 0315. "What’sup." Michael turned and looked at Cary noticing he looked as though he had been mugged. His appearance, coupled with the time added to the incongruity. "Your mother and I have been worried sick, young man," he added in a silly old man voice. "This is becoming a habit."

"Hey." Cary began to undress. "Another rather strange night."

"Work suck?" Michael went back to the computer screen.
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