It wasn’t thrilling bubble-bath reading material, but I was impressed by his imagination. You wouldn’t know from the writing that he’d never actually seen a low-voltage lighting system in someone’s yard, much less installed one himself. His descriptions were clear, colorful, and written with authority. The inscription wasn’t bad either: To Natalie, You’re a high-voltage system as far as I am concerned.
Considering that I was spending my first free night in ages sitting in tepid bathwater, sipping cheap wine, and reading an instruction manual, it was reassuring to know I could set off sparks somewhere.
I was at Ambrose’s front door at nine a.m. sharp, ready for work. You might even say I was eager.
“Good morning,” I said. “How was your night?”
“We watched Jeopardy! and then I made linguine for dinner,” Ambrose said. “Adrian measured the noodles.”
“Didn’t that drive you nuts?”
“Yes, it did,” Ambrose said. “But what could I do? It makes him happy.”
“I know exactly how you feel.”
I was impressed. Ambrose was a guy who struggled with his own crippling psychological problems, but they hadn’t blinded him to his brother’s unique needs nor made him any less compassionate about them. I looked at Ambrose in an entirely new light.
“It was an excruciating experience,” Ambrose said, stepping aside to let me in.
“I can imagine, believe me,” I said. “I live with it every day.”
“I much prefer to measure the noodles myself.”
I was about to laugh, but choked it back when I saw the look on his face. He wasn’t joking.
“You measure your noodles?”
“It’s not like there’s anyone else around to do it for me,” Ambrose said. “I’m not used to trusting someone else with that responsibility anymore, even though it was Adrian’s job when we were kids.”
I couldn’t imagine what it was like growing up in that house, but I was beginning to understand why their father had fled, not that I approved of his doing it, of course.
“You’re a good brother, Ambrose,” I said. “Where’s Mr. Monk? Is he in the kitchen, counting the Wheat Chex in his bowl?”
“He did that hours ago,” he said. “Adrian is hanging out in his room.”
I went upstairs and found the door to Monk’s room wide open. He was lying on top of his tiny single bed, grinning to himself over a book of Marmaduke cartoons. They were his favorites.
“Found a good one, Mr. Monk?”
“They’re all good, but this one is a classic.” He turned the book so I could see the panel.
Marmaduke, the enormous dog, was licking the roof off a car. Behind the dog, a child stood on a street corner holding a sign that read CAR WASH $5.
“Isn’t it hilarious?” Monk said. “I can’t stop laughing.”
“You aren’t laughing,” I said.
“Yes, I am. Look at me.”
“Trust me, you aren’t. You just have a big grin on your face.”
“That’s laughter,” he said.
“No, that’s a grin. Laughter is different. There are sounds.”
“I must be laughing inside.”
“That’s probably it,” I said.
“Uproariously,” he said.
“If you say so.”
I looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated. There was a 49ers banner, a hand-drawn map of the fire exits, the periodic table, and a family photo of Monk, Ambrose, and their parents, all standing rigidly, arms at their sides, about two feet apart from one another. They were like statuary. It was scary.
He had a shoe-shining machine, something you don’t usually see in a kid’s room—or anybody’s room, for that matter. There was also a floor mat for wiping your feet. He had two matching umbrellas in a stand, a rock-shining kit on his desk, and a complete collection of Encyclopedia Brown mysteries on his bookshelf.
I was heading over to look at the books when I noticed that his closet door was ajar. The edge of a woman’s smile caught my eye. I opened the door and was stunned to see a Farrah Fawcett poster taped to the other side.
“You like Farrah Fawcett?” I asked him.
“I’m not familiar with that company,” he said. “Keebler faucets are the best. They have great knobs.”
“I’m talking about her.” I tapped the poster with my knuckle. “Farrah.”
“Oh yeah,” Monk said. “She was a baby.”
“You mean a babe,” I said.
Monk nodded. “She really knows how to rock.”
He obviously had no idea who she was. My guess was that he had the poster in his room only because all the other boys had one. They all thought she was hot and Monk wanted to fit in. I found it sweet and also achingly sad.
I decided not to embarrass him by pressing the point.
“How does it feel to be back home and sleeping in your old room again, Mr. Monk?”
He put his book down and looked at me. “Strange. I used to sit in this bed and dream about what life would be like when I grew up. And now here I am.”
“Did things turn out the way you imagined they would?”
“Not exactly,” Monk said. “I thought I’d be an inspector with the California State department of weights and measures. I used to go down to the gas station on the corner and check the pumps for accuracy, just for fun. Those were some wild, wild times.”
“It sounds like it,” I said. “What changed your mind?”
“They wouldn’t take me. They said I was overzealous. How can you be too exacting for the department of weights and measures?”
“It’s mind-boggling,” I said.
“So I became a police officer instead. It’s not that different from weights and measures. I maintain the proper balance of things.”
“You certainly do.”
“Last night, I measured the linguine for Ambrose,” Monk said, lowering his voice. “He’s never really gotten the hang of it. Even if he could
