The Celebrity, page 18
Excellent, sure—despite Anne’s struggle to stay awake. Safe to say that just about anything Amy wrote turned out excellent. Her first book report on Jacob Have I Loved had been head-and-shoulders-above-the-crowd excellent. Her journal entries, excellent, just like her research paper on the life and work of Robert Frost. And now this creative-writing assignment about a day in the life of a Holocaust survivor. Excellent again.
So Amy read on, caught up in the world she had created on her paper. Her only problem was reading her own labored handwriting, messier than most, probably because her thoughts seemed to sprint ahead of her pen. Although there had seemed an obvious fix for that, Anne had made the mistake early on of asking if Amy would rather do her work on a word processor. Amy had simply shaken her head no, and that had been the end of it.
“Her dad just got laid off at the aluminum mill,” Ron Kent had whispered to the bewildered teacher after class that day, as everyone else filed out. “Now they can’t even afford cable TV.”
Oh. To Ron that must have meant the ultimate in squalor. No Game Boy? Worse yet, no television? How low could you go? Of course, no one in Riverdale needed to worry about making the Forbes magazine Top 100 Wealthiest Americans list, not even Ron’s family, who ran Bucky’s Ponderosa Restaurant and did all right for themselves.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the state of technology at Riverdale Christian School in general and Miss Stewart’s room in particular. The only computer in her classroom had been used up and donated many years ago, so it had only been able to produce a foul-smelling puff of smoke and a horrible screeching noise the first time they’d tried to boot it up. Joe had laughed when she’d told him that story, which made her try to think of other ways to make him laugh. She’d had a number of chances to do so, since she often found herself at the Do-Nut Barn even after her occasional shift ended.
“You, again?” He had looked up from his dough mixing with a grin, a couple of days later. “I didn’t know your dad scheduled you for tonight.”
“Not exactly.” She pushed past him and pretended to look for something in a catchall drawer. “I was just looking for a …”
She found a Sharpie marker. Yes. That would do.
“That one’s dry.” He came up beside her, and she could feel the blush rising in her cheeks when he looked into her eyes. Goodness, those eyes! “Here. I think this one works.”
Zap!
She jumped and yelped at the static spark when he handed her a marker and their fingertips touched. Of course then she giggled to see him jump too.
“Just electricity.” She laughed, but she knew it was that, and more. Now it was his turn to blush. She didn’t know he could do that, too. He turned away.
“I’ll get back to my dough.”
“Thanks.” She held up the marker. “I was just going to … decorate the old broken computer monitor in my classroom.”
“Oh. Right. You mean like turn it into a fishbowl or a sculpture?”
That seemed like a good idea, so the next morning she painted a smiley face on the old green monitor with the marker, and one of the kids decorated the lifeless plastic hulk with fake cardboard sunglasses and a green clown wig perched on top. They called him Percy PeeCee. Somehow it seemed appropriate.
The school’s small computer lab wasn’t much better off. The kids complained that the third and fourth graders were always in there doing keyboarding and Math Blaster drills. So much for high tech at Riverdale Christian School. After their fun with Percy, they had more book reports to read.
“Thank you, Jules.”
Jules Partlow finished his reading with a flourish, and a couple of the kids applauded quietly. Sara Harris asked if she could open the window because she was going to faint from the heat.
Anne would have opened the door to the hallway as well—if Lance Howell hadn’t beaten her to it. The principal poked his head in the door with a look on his face that Anne didn’t recognize. A smile curled at his lips, but she could be in big trouble too. Since she couldn’t read his expression, she told the class to continue reading on their next book-report book and hurried out to the hall to see what was up.
“Anne.” He started to say something, opened his mouth, and then changed his mind with a shake of his head. At least he could chuckle about it, which was probably a good sign.
“Did I do something?” She still couldn’t tell. So he pointed down the hallway toward the office and the main entry, where two young men stood with their arms piled high with boxes.
“These gentlemen are from Klicki-Tech Computers, and they’re saying it’s a delivery for Miss Stewart’s classroom.”
“Delivery? Delivery of what?”
“Six brand-new laptop computers. Know anything about it?”
Anne’s jaw dropped; obviously she didn’t. But by that time a couple of kids had slipped to the open door and were buzzing the news back to their classmates. Anne pointed at them to return to their seats.
“There has to be some kind of mix-up.” Anne held up her hands in surrender, but she had a feeling this situation was about to spin out of control. “I have no idea what this is all about.”
Neither did the two guys from Klicki-Tech, the computer store in The Dalles. But they had their orders and were not about to walk back out the front door without making their delivery.
“If you’re Miss Stewart,” insisted the older of the two delivery guys, “these are yours.”
“No, no, no.” Anne could just see it now, the five-figure invoice. “I can tell you for a fact I did not order any computers. How would I pay for them? And six?”
By that time the entire class had crowded around the door, everyone jockeying for a better view of the drama in the hall. Not to mention all the other classes along this stretch of hallway; curious heads started popping out of several doorways.
“They’re Macs,” explained the second delivery guy, who up to that point had let his partner do all the talking. “Each one has a seventeen-inch screen, a DVD burner, and a wireless network card built in. So you can use them all over the class—no wires—and still surf the Net, print, or do e-mail. You kids are going to love ‘em.”
That did it. Ron Kent started whooping when he saw Mr. Howell shrug his shoulders and step aside to let the delivery through. When the rest of the class joined in, the entire town could probably hear them through the open window.
And yes, the computers were all paid for. But no, the Klicki-Tech guys couldn’t explain how or who had done the paying. They didn’t know, said the first guy with a grin.
“Unless you happen to know any angels,” he added.
28
A man has only one escape from his old self: to see a different self—in the mirror of some woman’s eyes.
—CLARE BOOTHE LUCE
It’s like I’m self-destructing, Barkley.”
Barkley seemed like a ready listener as Jamie paced by his mother’s wall plaque at the Haven of Resurrection Cemetery in the late afternoon gloom. The November days were growing shorter. He kept Barkley on a tight leash; the cemetery folks probably wouldn’t be too thrilled about this kind of visit, considering the way they kept their lawn. Good thing dusk nearly hid the two of them from view.
“And I’ll tell you something else. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
So how was it supposed to happen? That he could answer. He could count it off on three fingers.
First, he was supposed to deliver his mother’s ashes to the small town where she had grown up. Who could argue with that?
Second, he would look around for an afternoon or so, get a feel for Riverdale, just to satisfy his curiosity. Roots are good. Family ties and all that.
And third, he would turn right around and get back to his life. Period. End of story.
Only it wasn’t the end of the story. That was the problem. The script didn’t say anything about getting emotionally tangled up here. Barkley sat down on the grass and scratched his ear before looking up again as if to say, Too late, buddy.
“It’s just that she’s so different. I mean, different good. Not like the girls Nick always tries to hook me up with.”
He unwrapped the little bouquet of red roses he’d picked up at Halcombe’s Market, pulled one out, and looked for a place to leave the rest. The thoughtful folks at Haven of Resurrection had built little shelves next to each niche, obviously to accommodate his mother’s favorite flowers. He wasn’t sure what the checkout lady at Halcombe’s thought about his purchase. Maybe she didn’t care as much as she had cared about his scooping up all twenty-two copies of the Entertainment Insider from the rack at the checkout counter. What else could he do after he noticed a little story about how pop singer Jamie D. Lane had canceled his last three concert dates and had then been sighted in an Acapulco drug rehab center?
“Not quite,” he chuckled. “I’m living in a monastery.”
At least the horrible photo of him stepping out of a limo on a bad hair day was hardly recognizable. Though the caption said the exclusive photo had been taken this week south of the border, he recognized the setting: three years ago after a grueling concert set in Miami. The one where he’d sung through a sore throat, and Nick had blown his top about a less-than-perfect sound system. The paparazzi had been lurking outside the stage door long after everyone else had given up.
So he was glad to locate a Dumpster for the Insiders, followed by an easy “hasta la vista, baby” before chucking them in and slamming the top shut.
“Anyway,” he mumbled, making sure his voice didn’t carry through the cemetery, “I’m kind of stuck. Nick is having a cow. I’m going to miss a concert tour. My career’s fast-forwarding straight down the tubes. And obviously I don’t belong here. But …”
But what? The question clung to him like wood smoke to his sweater, wouldn’t let go and yet wouldn’t let itself be answered. He leaned closer to the columbarium in the dim light from a distant streetlight. But instead of getting the creeps, he could see an almost-clear reflection of his own face. For the first time he could see another question almost reflected in his face, a mirror image of what he’d heard before.
But do I belong back there either?
“Hey, I don’t know anymore.” He crossed his arms to keep warm and started pacing once more. “The longer I stay, the confusinger it gets.”
And then who would answer the question? Somebody like Father Greg might know the answer; maybe Andy. Andy could look straight at anybody who walked into the Barn and make mind-reader pronouncements, like “Jim, you need a good cup of coffee.” Or “Hey, Tommy, looks like you’ve been sneaking a cigarette.”
Anne probably got it from her dad: that piercing “I can see right through you” look that was giving Jamie heart problems lately. She’d step into the back room with a look in her eyes that said she knew exactly who the Riverdale Angel was, only she wasn’t telling.
And what about this angel thing? Where would his next hit come from? His next rush? The questions told him he was surely addicted. But once more, the shadows of answers only teased him from somewhere beyond his grasp. Maybe he’d buried them in the columbarium wall with his mother’s ashes. Like those answers, she would certainly not allow herself to be exhumed. Because she belonged here, even if he didn’t.
So he still had no answers. What had he expected? He bent down to pat Barkley, who responded with a thunk-thunk of his tail against the niche wall. Finally he turned to go, holding his single rose. His mother would not mind.
“I’ll get you a full dozen next time, Mom,” he whispered as he hurried back to the car and tossed the flower in the backseat.
“Don’t step on the flower,” he warned Barkley, and he reached over to keep the dog in the front seat as he hurried across town to the Do-Nut Barn. She might be there; she had been coming in for an extra hour or two on afternoons and evenings after practice. And this time she’d parked her Beetle out front, so that was good.
Problem was, he couldn’t just march up and, well, just ask her. But he parked his car and slipped inside the Do-Nut Barn all the same.
“So did you hear what’s playing downtown?” he blurted out before he even thought of the words.
Anne looked up from wiping down the counter. A young couple in the corner was finishing up their coffee and sandwich, but otherwise the place seemed late-afternoon quiet. Nothing unusual. Andy’s cousin Wanda would be showing up in a half-hour to take over the shift she had traded with Jamie.
“Playing?” She repeated his question a little too loudly, and he blinked his eyes in pain. As Nick would say, You’re killing me!
“The movie.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper to avoid the glance of the guy in the corner. “You know, what they’re showing at the Capri?”
“You mean …” Clearly puzzled, she scratched her cheek and scrunched her nose as she leaned in to hear him better. “So … what was the question, exactly?”
He didn’t think it was quite that odd of a question. So he could still “never mind” and bail out. He took a deep breath.
“I was going to go see the movie. At the theater. Tonight. And I was wondering if you wanted to come along. That’s all.”
He shrugged his shoulders as casually as he could manage and checked out the window to see how Barkley was managing in the car parked out on the curb. The dog was bouncing from backseat to front.
“Of course,” he added a disclaimer. “If you’re doing something else, that’s no problem. I just—”
Another shrug for good measure.
“Friday night.” She kept a straight face. “That’s my night to stay home in my caboose and grade papers.”
“Oh, okay.” He nodded quickly and started to back away, but she grabbed him by the sleeve and surprised him with a grin.
“Just kidding! You don’t think schoolteachers really do that every night, do you? I’ll go. I mean, assuming it’s a decent movie and everything. Did you say you knew what’s playing?”
“Sure. I mean, no, I didn’t say. But it’s an old Jim Carrey movie. The Majesty, I think.”
Again she smiled, and if someone would tell him what he said to make her do that, he would gladly say it again.
“I think you mean The Majestic. Hollywood star with amnesia wakes up in a small town, and everybody thinks he’s somebody else.”
Oh, wow. Now he knew she was just like her dad, as she had turned on her “I know who you are” look, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Is that really what it’s about?” he squeaked. Couldn’t be. He had no idea someone had already made a movie of his life. And a Jim Carrey movie to boot. It wasn’t a comedy, was it? Once more Anne’s smile saved his life.
“Yeah, sounds a little far out to me, too. I mean, Bye Bye Birdie is crazy enough. But come to think of it, there’s your big-star-comes-to-a-small-town thing again, right?”
“Guess you’re right.” He went along with it. “I’ve seen some episodes of Lost in Space that were easier to believe.”
“You’ve seen that old show too?” She checked her watch. “Tell you what. If you’re feeling bored tonight, why don’t we just go up to the observatory and catch the Mars program. The telescope’s always good, and every visitor has to see it at least once. Then if you still need something to do, I’ll give you half my papers to grade.”
Nothing wrong with that. He’d heard the popular Simcoe Hills Observatory just above Riverdale housed one of the nicest public telescopes in the region. He’d never been up there before. Besides, sitting quietly through an old movie probably wasn’t the most sociable thing he could think of.
“Sure,” he replied. “I can pick—”
“Meet you up on the hill in an hour?” she asked, and yeah, that sounded fine with him.
Barkley had pretty well disassembled the flower by the time Jamie hurried back to the car. That, and he’d done an exemplary job of slobber-coating the inside of the windows on all sides, port and starboard. He’d even managed to reach the inside of the windshield, quite a stretch for the little dog.
“You’re amazing, Barkley.” Jamie wedged himself into the driver’s seat and picked up what was left of the rose. “All this in less than ten minutes.”
The mutt seemed to grin up at him, obviously pleased with himself.
“So if anybody asks, I just tell them the rose was a nutritional supplement for my dog, is that right?”
Barkley answered with a thunk-thunk of his tail and a kiss on Jamie’s cheek. Ask the dog if he cared. But Jamie didn’t have time. He barely had time to make his way back to the monastery’s guest cottage, off-load the dog, change his shirt, and grab an apple to eat.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked Barkley, who found his place on the floor next to Jamie’s modest bed, waiting intently for the apple core. To him the core looked almost as exciting as the end of a bread crust—and that ranked fairly high. But Barkley tore his gaze away and responded with a sharp bark when someone knocked at the door.
“Father Greg!” Jamie pulled the door open when he saw the caller through the window. “Come to collect the rent?”
“No, no. I saw your light. You’re leaving again?”
The tall priest nearly had to duck to step inside, and it occurred again to Jamie that Father Greg might have made a name for himself in the NBA.
“Actually, I’ve still got a few minutes. They’re having a Mars show up on the hill, and I thought I’d check out the telescope thing.”
The telescope thing. That sounded like a sophisticated way to describe it.
“Oh yes, the observatory. It’s so close, sometimes I forget it’s there. But I’ve always enjoyed watching the stars.”
“Anne said every visitor is supposed to see it at least … at least once.”
The monk smiled and bent down to scratch Barkley behind the ears.
“No complaints about the dog?” asked Jamie.
“Oh no. The brothers have pretty much adopted him, when he’s not out with you. Hope you don’t mind.”
