“I would have…”
“Don’t rewrite history, Duck. I was there, remember? You were like this crazy man with a dream, writing scenes on paper plates when you couldn’t find a pad, spending half the day in your head. I was lucky—it was exhilarating to watch. What should I have done? Dragged you away from what you were born to do so you could take care of me and some other guy’s child?”
“I could have done both,” I said. “You…and a baby…that sense of obligation and responsibility might have been good for me.”
“That’s really sexy, Duck. Every woman wants to be an obligation. Check her out, man. Her responsibilities are tight.”
Few things had hurt more than learning that Amy was pregnant and engaged to Clyde. After the success of Midnight Chair, I had several offers, and my next script, Maybe Tomorrow, was scooped up by a well-known producing team, with Edward Norton and Mary-Louise Parker signing on for the lead roles. The producers, Debra and Annie, loved the script but thought the second act needed work. With rehearsals scheduled for September, they gave me the keys to their house in East Hampton so I could write without distractions. A fine idea perhaps, but I would have been better off in my old bedroom at Uncle Dan’s place.
The Hamptons house overlooked the ocean, and each morning I saw a family with a curly-haired little blonde girl that reminded me of Sarah Carpenter. When Amy called with the news that she was pregnant and going to marry Clyde, I went a little psycho. I started following the little blonde girl’s family, convinced that she was going to drown. After a few days the father, an investment banker with one of the big Wall Street firms, threatened to cut off my nuts if I didn’t stop staring at his daughter. Those were his exact words: “cut off your nuts,” and each time I explained that I meant no harm, he shouted “nuts” a little louder. Suddenly I couldn’t write for shit, and the rewrites on Maybe Tomorrow made the play worse. The dialogue was ponderous, the conflicts muddled, and soon my narcolepsy went hyper. When Annie and Debra came out to check on me, they found their playwright face down in the kitchen, my head wedged inside the folds of an empty pizza box. Heroin, they thought, but even after I explained my condition and proved that I was clean, I could sense the shift. They gave me another week to fix the second act, after which I mailed them my original manuscript and said it was the best that I could do. Rehearsals were postponed, and Edward Norton made Fight Club instead. Though the producers held onto their option for another two years, they never called back. The downward spiral had begun.
Had Amy not gotten pregnant that summer, I was certain I would have nailed the rewrites and secured my second hit. Maybe that was a fantasy, a convenient excuse to get my lackluster talent off the hook, but I still believed it. Uncle Dan was convinced that Amy’s timing was intentional, that she’d wanted to sabotage my career.
We pulled out of the high school parking lot and headed toward the mall.
“I appreciate the ride,” Amy said. “I’m pretty sure I could drive, but …”
“It’s no problem,” I said. “It’s like old times, me driving you around …”
“Don’t go there, okay?” She turned toward the window. “It’s not like old times at all.”
. . . . .
Part of me hoped that it was true, that Mr. Ronan was stalking Amy. It would mean he was still alive, that I could still make amends for what she’d done.
In the days after Sarah’s disappearance, I had tried to see him, to apologize, to explain. My testimony had neither helped nor hurt him—having slept through it all, I was the ultimate bad witness—but I still felt culpable. I was an absolute wreck—every thought, every second of my life consumed by what had happened. Sarah had died because of me. I couldn’t escape it and couldn’t understand why Amy had accused Mr. Ronan. I was the one who had fallen asleep and let it happen. I needed to tell him that Amy was confused, that she didn’t mean it, she didn’t know what she had seen, it was me she wanted to blame, not him, but I never got the chance. After the accusations, I saw him only once—at the police station, Clyde’s father, the chief of police, guiding him toward the interrogation room while Uncle Dan and I sat in the corner on metal folding chairs waiting for the hypno-therapist to interview me. Mr. Ronan was drained of color, his posture stooped, his eyes cast toward the floor like a man already convicted. Get your hands off him, I wanted to shout, he’s a great person. Who else would have noticed that the painfully shy narcoleptic kid who smelled like pepperoni had an imagination, had potential? The first time I gave him a skit I had written, he had me paged during homeroom the next day, and when I walked into the Drama Room, he burst into applause. Not even the cheers on opening night of Midnight Chair had ever sounded better. He had changed my life, unquestionably, and seeing him being hustled through the police station turned my blood to ice. I jumped from the chair, but Uncle Dan pulled me back, Clyde’s father bolstering his grip, and the only contact between us was Mr. Ronan turning his head, seeing me and, for a second, smiling. Then he was gone.
Over the years I thought about tracking him down, apologizing, but wasn’t it obvious he wanted nothing to do with me? After he was cleared, he left town within a week, and in Holman Beach, was never seen or heard from again. Never having a chance to say I’m sorry seemed a fate I deserved.
Still—I needed proof. Uncle Dan had given me the name
