Once she hangs up, I dial Robb’s number. Charlotte, who’s come inside with Ann, interrupts her conversation to call up the stairs. As the phone rings I tell her I’ll be down in just a second. Robb answers.
“I just got a call from your wife,” I say. “She’s worried that you didn’t come home last night, and you’re not answering her calls.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Listen, Carter. I wouldn’t have given you that list if I didn’t think you’d be cool. You’re freaking out, and that makes me worry.”
“I’m not freaking out,” he says.
“It’s going to take more than that to reassure me.”
“I’ll call her. I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were out all night?”
“I couldn’t leave. I had a feeling he was gonna show up. Every time I’d put the key in the ignition, I’d know the moment I left he was gonna be there. So I couldn’t do it.”
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I say. “I’ve made a string of bad calls lately, so I guess this is just the latest. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. But look, it’s time to pull the plug.”
“Not yet.”
“It’s time,” I say. “You’ve spooked your wife, and you’re starting to spook me, too. So let’s put an end to it, all right? I appreciate your help. You made a real difference. Without you, we wouldn’t have put this case down. You’ve done good work, okay? It’s time to let yourself off the hook.”
“Not yet.”
“I understand you feel responsible. Get over it. This isn’t your load to carry. You’re absolved, all right? So go home to your wife.”
He’s quiet a long while, long enough for me to picture him. Not in a church van but in his own car – I’ve already lectured him about that – a mess of fast food wrappers and water bottles on the floor, his worn out little Bible on the dashboard or across his lap, so he can read and pray and watch all at once, convincing himself his freelance surveillance has some kind of religious significance. I recall his eagerness when I first made the offer, like a starving man invited into the bakery. I should have known right then what I was doing was wrong.
“Carter?”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go home.”
“You promise? I’m going to call Gina later, so if you don’t – ”
“I said I would.”
Charlotte calls up the stairs again. Apparently Tommy has arrived home. I want to press Robb harder, but I don’t have time. I’ll have to assume his promise is good. And I will be making that call to Gina sooner rather than later. Trust but verify.
When I join them in the kitchen, Tommy seems baffled by the sudden goodwill coming from Charlotte, but he’s sufficiently in love with himself to imagine that, given time, anyone could share the feeling, so he doesn’t peer too deeply into the matter.
“Hey, I just need to run up to the apartment before we go.”
“No time,” Charlotte insists, tapping her watch face. “We’ve got reservations.”
Ann loops an arm through his. “Besides, you look perfectly fine. Don’t go changing on our account.”
On the way out, he glances toward the living room, but if he notices all his things are gone, he doesn’t let on. We crowd into Ann’s car, the sisters in front, and accelerate into the early evening traffic. As we cruise past the Paragon, Tommy and I exchange a look. But our table is booked at a trattoria on Morningside in Rice Village, not far from the Bridgers’ West University home, where the manager seems to be on friendly terms with Ann. This is all, I realize, her doing. In spite of her bleeding heart when it comes to humanity in general, she can conjure up a ruthless streak for one-on-one dealings.
My hunch is borne out by the way my sister-in-law plays hostess, an unaccustomed role for her, offering a running commentary on the menu, drawing Tommy out about his teaching, the intangibles of his dissertation, and what he calls his activism, which consists mainly of attending various coffeehouse meet and greets and dropping in on the occasional protest. The funny thing is, I can tell she likes him. They have a good bit in common, really.
She gets him talking about West Africa, no doubt having learned from Charlotte that his summer in Ghana is such a touchstone. He can talk about it for hours. I relax and sneak a look in Charlotte’s direction. She still wears the contented smile, as if she’s reclining poolside in the sun, her eyes hidden behind big round sunglasses, her fingers trailing in the water.
By the time the bill arrives, we’re all good friends. The wine has flowed on Tommy’s side of the table, and now he glows with a damp-skinned sense of social triumph. In the car he talks at length about what’s wrong with the world, using words like bourgeois, consumerism, and globalization to great effect. Ann and Charlotte smile encouragingly, the car heading amiably down Kirby past Dryden, making a left onto Swift. We cruise the vehicle-lined street, block by block, until Ann pulls to a stop in front of a white brick duplex with black shutters, a hulking structure from the 1940s that looks part Tara and part art deco.
“Here you go,” Ann says.
The car is silent. Tommy glances toward me in confusion, noticing the keys dangling from Charlotte’s hand as she reaches between the seats.
“What are we doing here?” he asks, a baffled smile on his lips.
Charlotte puts the keys in his open palm. “Dropping you off.”
“I don’t get it.”
“This is your new place,” Ann says, adjusting the rearview mirror for a better look.
“I’m afraid the insurance isn’t going to come through anytime soon,” Charlotte says, “so I had a talk with your father, and he thought it was best for you to relocate. You’ll like this place.”
“It’s great,” Ann agrees. “Original fixtures and tile. And plenty of space out back for entertaining. The old lady downstairs is charming.”
He turns to me. “Is this a joke?”
In spite of everything, I feel for him. The occasion calls for a quip of some kind, but I have a hard time mustering anything, so an anticlimactic shrug has to suffice. Tommy sputters a few objections, only to find the sisters ready, swatting him down with ramrod charm. His things are already in the new apartment waiting for him. The first month’s deposit has been made. Charlotte digs through her purse, producing an envelope from the bank with his prorated rent refund in cash. That seems to clinch things. Fingering the stiff bills, he pops the door open and climbs onto the curb, waiting for the rest of us to get out.
He seems to think we’re all going upstairs to have a look at the place, but Ann quickly disappoints him. Her foot punches the accelerator, slamming the passenger door shut.
“Hey – ”
I turn in my seat, watching Tommy watch us, the keys drooping from one hand and the envelope from the other. Charlotte bursts out laughing, her feet drawn up onto the seat like a girl’s, and Ann grins, proud at her achievement. She rights the mirror, then glances over her shoulder at me.
“That’s how you solve a problem,” she says.
The sisters exchange a high five. I sit quietly in back, reflecting on how differently problems are solved when you’re a lawyer instead of a cop. Tommy, impervious to hints and even subtle intimidation, has been a conundrum to me, a first-class irritation. Even after the hurricane offered deliverance, I allowed him to install himself on the couch. It never occurred to me to buy him off. Charlotte has spent no telling how much to bring about her long-awaited eviction, but now she has it and she’s utterly pleased.
Not that Tommy was ever the real problem. It’s just that the real problem couldn’t be solved and never can be. This time next year, there will be another Tommy, because there always is. To move on, even temporarily, we need a sacrifice on the altar; we need to shed some metaphorical blood. Again, a hollow victory, but a necessary one. Yet another means to an end.
Or maybe I’m talking nonsense. My wife is happy, laughing like she used to when we first met. Instead of overanalyzing, maybe it’s time to simply enjoy. I pass my hand between the seats, finding hers. She clasps it, drawing it onto her lap, sitting back with a heavy, satisfied sigh.