magazine published by the Wharton School. Polly had been featured among female graduates of the business school with a headline, “Attacking The World With Style.” In the picture, Polly wears that smile of hers that seemed to say: Today, I ran a triathlon and founded an Internet start-up, now let’s go make love all night and don’t you dare tire out on me.
I feel stung with a sensation well beyond sadness.
The door opens, startling me, and I drop the picture on the seat. I look at it, so does Faith.
Where did the picture come from? Did I leave it? Someone’s fucking with me. I toss the picture into the back.
“I’m not interested in dwelling on the past either.”
“Nat.” She kneels on the seat, facing me.
“Sandy Vello.”
“What about her?”
“That’s our present and our immediate future. Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“I can’t use mine. I want to call Sandy.”
I’m using Faith’s phone because I’m worried that someone is following my activities on mine. It’s also why I’m not using my laptop. Still, I’m sure it can’t be hard to track me. I must continue to assume we’re not alone. Faith hands me her phone.
I plug in Sandy’s number and hit send. As I wait for an answer that doesn’t come, Faith puts her hands on mine, holding my shaking fingers.
“My sister’s a collector,” she says.
I withdraw my hand and end the call.
“A collector of what?”
“Everything. Stuff she buys on the shopping channel, or gets at garage sales, junk mail, containers from places she gets take-out food, everything. In her flat, you literally have to wade through crap to get from room to room.”
I start the car. Faith untucks her legs, sits, fastens her seat belt. Time to head onto the highway, heading north again, in the direction of the Twin Peaks Youth Guidance Center, where some buzzard turned self-proclaimed guardian angel has urged me to track down a TV diva. Beats dwelling on the past.
I’ve heard of this psychological collecting condition, if not a neuro-chemical one. They tend to believe that the things they collect might someday come in handy and so they don’t toss anything. The condition, like so many that humans suffer, isn’t that hard for most of us to connect to, if we really think about it. Who among us hasn’t struggled over whether to hang on to an old wallet or ragged T-shirt, wondering whether it might provide some future use?
I hit the accelerator and we pull out of the rest stop.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“She, my sister-Melanie-has trouble taking care of her son, my nephew, Timothy.”
“Okay.”
“Pull the car over.” Pointed.
“Why?”
“I’m trying to tell you something.”
“So tell me.”
“I’m trying to tell you about me.”
“I need to pull the car over for that?”
I do the opposite, I merge onto the highway. She doesn’t speak for a moment. I look over at her, head slightly hung, exasperated. I feel at once like I’m on my first date with this woman and like I’ve dated her for years. I can read her emotions, and feel desperate to connect to them. And just as desperate to escape them.
I look in the rearview mirror at the thickening highway traffic. Where’s Bill? Does he have a crew, a team? In the yellow roadster? Or the pickup truck jacked two feet off the ground, or the white van with tinted windows and no front license plate?
“Faith?”
“You don’t trust anything, or anybody.”
I laugh. “You set me up at a subway, haven’t been totally clear on why that is or how it happened, lead me to a dead man, then manage to be lingering when I get knocked unconscious, pick up the pieces and seduce me into saying and doing who knows what while I’m still half dead.”
“Jesus. What happened to you?”
“What’s that mean?”
“What happened that you lost all your trust in people?”
The blood drains from my face. I can feel it, the cells slipping from my ears and cheek and neck and draining into my aching stomach. I want to tell her to fuck herself when I feel my phone buzz.
“Hold the wheel.”
“What?”
I withdraw my hands from the wheel and pull out my phone. Faith takes the wheel and I read my text. It’s from Bullseye. It reads: “Chinese characters = interesting.”
I tap back: Means what?
I take back the wheel. “How’s that for trust? I let you drive.”
She sighs.
“Nathaniel, when I first saw you on the subway you looked at me and I thought: Encyclopedia Brown.”
I glance behind me at the cluster of cars. The van with the tinted windows flies out of it and passes me. Its side reads: “Broom Town-Floor Care Specialists.” Maybe.
“You’ve got curious eyes, passionate, but they’re boyish and innocent. Even if I’d not been asked to intercept you, I’d have wished we’d met. Every woman wants to meet a man who wants to understand her and will dig deep to do it.”
“You’re an actress with an unusual relationship with someone named Carl.”
“I’m a transition specialist who is low on work.”
I take the exit into Glen Park, a former working-class-neighborhood-abutting-the-freeway-turned-trendy-San- Francisco-enclave. I turn up O’Shaughnessy, heading to Twin Peaks and Sandy. As we wind tree-cornered hillsides on the city’s southern edge, patchy cloud cover gives way to a foggy carpet.
“You think you can’t trust an actress? I’ve done a few commercials, and do you know why I started acting?”
It’s rhetorical, but I shake my head. She says that when she discovered her nephew’s struggles with learning, she did a bunch of reading and learned the best way to focus kids is with pretend play. The idea, it seems, is that kids get so entranced in a pretend world-whether acting like they’re tossing a ball to one another or pretending to be animals on an adventure-that it teaches the brain to stay on a single subject and develops neural networks accordingly.
She decided to take an acting class. A director who would drop in occasionally spotted her and asked her to be in a commercial.
“Yeah, well, we could use an actress right about now.”
“What?”
“Can you play a delivery driver, or an aggrieved mom so desperate to see her incarcerated son that it distracts the guards and gets me inside this place?”
We’re at the entrance of juvenile hall. To our left, the high-gate of the maximum-security entrance, a cop again parked out front. To our right, the driveway to the learning annex, dominated by a white wide-load delivery truck lurching just in front of us. It continues through the parking lot, along an access road that abuts the right side of the annex.
I park between a roadster with a roadrunner painted on the door and a school bus, probably ferrying students to afternoon programs here.
“Where are we?”
Figuratively, we’re at the point where I take Sandy by the neck and start to demand answers. I step from the
