Barefoot: A Novel

probably some extremely fine pad overlooking Central Park. Amy Feldman lives at home, Brenda thought. And I am now talking to her father, Ron Feldman.

Ron Feldman said, “Would you like me to leave Amy a message?” Again, his voice was so pleasant that there was no possibility he was sincere.

“This is Brenda Lyndon cal ing,” Brenda said. She was speaking very quietly because she didn’t want to wake up anybody in the cottage. “Doctor Lyndon? I was Amy’s professor last semester at Champion.”

“Ohhhh-kay,” Ron Feldman said. “Do I have to write this down or can you cal back in the morning?” It was clear he would prefer the latter, but Brenda was as shameless as a telemarketer. She had to keep him on the phone!

“Would you mind terribly writing it down?” she asked.

“Al right,” he said. “Let me find a pen.” To his wife, he said, “Hon, a pen. It’s a professor of Amy’s from Champion . . . I have no goddamned idea why.” To Brenda he said, “What’s your name again?”

“Brenda Lyndon. Lyndon with a y. ”

“Brenda Lyndon,” Ron Feldman repeated. The voice in the background raised an octave. Ron Feldman said, “What? Okay, wait. Honey, wait.” To Brenda, he said, “I’m going to put you on hold for one second. Is that al right?”

“Al right,” Brenda said.

The line went silent, and Brenda kicked herself. She was a complete idiot. She had decided, only seconds before making this phone cal , that she wasn’t going to leave a message, and here she was leaving a message. And this was the one and only time she would be able to cal ; she couldn’t stalk the Feldman household.

The line clicked. Ron Feldman said, “Are you there? Dr. Lyndon?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who got in al the trouble?” he said. “With the student from Australia? You’re the one who nicked up the original Jackson Pol ock?”

At that second, a light went on in one of the cottages that backed up to Number Eleven Shel Street. In the newly brightened window, Brenda saw the face of a woman her mother’s age who appeared to be throwing back some pil s and drinking water. Aspirin? Brenda thought.

Antidepressants? Pil s for arthritis? High blood pressure? Osteoporosis? When you peered into the windows of someone else’s life, you could only guess what was going on.

“Wel ,” Brenda said. “Yes, I guess I am.”

“We heard al about you,” Ron Feldman said. “Or my wife did, anyway. Amy told us you were a good teacher, though. She liked your class. She liked that book you taught.”

“The Innocent Impostor?” Brenda said.

“The Innocent Impostor, hon?” Ron Feldman said. “Um, we can’t remember the name, neither of us had ever heard of it. Anyway, Dr. Lyndon, it’s late, but we wil pass on to Amy . . .”

“Because that’s why I’m cal ing.”

“What is?”

“The Innocent Impostor, the book Amy liked, the book you’ve never heard of. I turned it into a screenplay. I have it right here in front of me, as an adapted screenplay.”

“Waaaaaaaait a minute,” Ron Feldman said. “Are you . . . ?” He laughed, but he no longer sounded overly pleasant or polite; he sounded suspicious, verging on angry. “Did you cal here to pitch me?”

“Ummmmm . . . ,” Brenda said.

“You cal here in the middle of the night pretending to look for Amy when real y you want to pitch me your screenplay?”

“No, no, I . . .”

“I’ve had people do it a hundred different ways. They leave the script with the maitre d’ at Gotham, because that’s where I eat, or they bribe my doorman or my driver—or hel , they get jobs as my doorman or my driver just so they can get a script in my hands. I am not surprised to find that you, a recently fired Champion professor, have a screenplay, because everyone on God’s green earth has a screenplay, including my periodontist’s nephew, including my secretary’s brother who’s currently doing time in Sing Sing. But this is total y fucked-up. This is like nothing else. You . . . caught me with my guard down. Me! How did you get this number?”

“Your daughter gave it to me,” Brenda said.

“Dandy,” he said. “Dan-dee.”

“You said she liked the book, right?” Brenda said.

He paused. “What’s the name of the goddamned book?”

“The Innocent Impostor. ”

“There’s your first problem right there. You have to change the title. No one wants to see a movie about an innocent anything.”

“Change the title? ” Brenda said.

There was more yammering in the background. “Okay, right, yes. I stand corrected. My wife makes a point about The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton, Martin Scorsese, nominated for an Oscar.