Men Seeking Women Page 12

  They went inside. The carpet in the living room was the green of young corn husks, pale and cool-looking; the sofa was of gold velour, the end tables white with glass tops. There were family photos on the tables.

  Byrne then heard the rattle of a dog shaking itself, and in the next moment a brown-and-white spaniel came jingling in from the kitchen.

  “Georgie!” Carly cried. “Look who’s here!”

  Georgie arrived trembling at Byrne’s feet, sat obediently, and looked up at the stranger with what seemed like human eyes. He barked twice.

  “Hi, Georgie,” Byrne said. He stooped and offered the back of his hand. Georgie licked it, then sniffed Byrne’s bag.

  “I’d better let him out,” Carly said. “Then we’ll get you set up.” Byrne waited as Carly let Georgie out through the back door.

  The spare bedroom had a single bed with a sky-blue spread on it. On the white wooden desk was a computer, its screen saver showing schools of fish swimming perpetually in both directions. Every so often, a fish would be upside down.

  Byrne entered and set his bag on the floor. Carly stood in the doorway. On the dresser was a painted ceramic dog, the same breed as Georgie.

  Byrne nodded at the computer. “Is that where you write me from?” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mind if I check my e-mail?”

  Carly hesitated. “Why?” she said. “Are you expecting a message?”

  Byrne laughed, to deflect what he took as her suspicion that he was communicating with other women. “No,” he said. “I just like to check it.”

  “Me too,” said Carly, striving to meet him. “It makes my day sometimes.”

  Byrne regarded the bookcase, which held an old encyclopedia, black-bound with faded gold letters. He pulled out the second volume—B for Byrne—and opened it to a random page, thinking that he might alight on some guiding word or idea. There was an illustrated diagram entitled WHAT AN AUSTRALIAN CAN DO WITH A BOOMERANG. Below was a caption: The Australian “blackfellow” can make his boomerang do all these things. Byrne tried again and found a picture of a Burmese pagoda that was built on a boulder that overhung a steep chasm: it was said to rock gently in the wind. He read a line about the bazaars of Mandalay that were thronged by a “curiously mixed population of Mohammedans, Jews, Hindus, Chinese, and tribesmen from the hills, with many British soldiers from the nearby cantonment.” Byrne then turned to the first page, whose initial entry was “Baby Care.” Under a photo of a young mother playing with her baby was a caption, part of which Byrne slowly read aloud: “ ‘. . . and his skin absorbs the sun’s ultraviolet rays, which make him brown as a berry and stimulate the growth of strong, straight bones and teeth.’ ”

  “I’ve been meaning to get rid of those books,” said Carly. “Look at all the space they take up.”

  Byrne smelled the musk of old knowledge, dead words, rising from the pages. As he returned the book to the shelf, he saw Carly in his periphery; she had come into the room, and was glowing with some quiet, shuddering anticipation.

  She said, “So—what now?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a nap,” Byrne said. “It was a long drive.”

  Carly smiled, trying feebly to overcome her disappointment. “It’s three o’clock,” she said. “How long do you want to nap?”

  “I’m not sure.” Byrne sat on the bed and began removing his workboots.

  Carly took another step toward Byrne. Her hands were behind her back. “Can I get you anything?” she said. “An extra blanket?”

  “No, thanks,” said Byrne. He unbuttoned his plaid flannel shirt and took it off. “I guess I should have had a cup of coffee.”

  Carly blushed, averted her eyes. “I can make coffee here.”

  “Maybe later,” Byrne said. He lay back on the pillow, his hands clasped on his chest.

  Carly looked at him. “Kyle Byrne,” she said. “That’s a nice name.”

  Byrne closed his eyes. “It’s the name my mother gave me,” he said.

  After a moment he heard Carly leave the room, and then there were noises of running water and clinking bottles. Within minutes he was dreaming.

  Ted was on the sofa when the doorbell rang. He had fallen asleep there around four in the morning, drinking whiskey and listening to Sibelius’s Fourth, and had not expected to be awakened anytime soon. Yet according to his watch it was ten in the morning. On a Sunday! No goddamned nigger of a Jehovah’s Witness was worth the salt of his sleep. It was times like this that Ted wished he had a dog on the property. His last dog, Swinburne, had strangled himself in the curtains—Ted had come home one night to find him lying tangled like an angel engulfed in its own white wisps. That was two years ago. Now all Ted had was Kyle. And he was about to holler out for him—tell him to answer the bloody door—when he remembered that Kyle wasn’t home, that he’d been gone since yesterday morning.

  Ted swung his feet to the hardwood floor. He wore a pair of gray, tattered Jockey underpants and nothing else. He took a swig from the bottle of Jameson’s on the low oak table, stood, and went to the front door, filled with atheist venom.

  He looked through the peephole and was surprised to see the huge distorted face of a bald white man with the egg-shaped head and narrow eyes of a bull terrier. Swinburne had been part that. Curious, Ted chained the door and opened it an inch.

  There were three men altogether. All of them wore suits.

  Ted was mystified. “Hello?” he said.

  “Kyle Byrne?” said the bald man. His tone was friendly and unassuming.

  “No,” said Ted, wondering if Kyle had entered a sweepstakes and won. Instantly Ted calculated that he was entitled to half.

  “Are you Mr. Theodore Slocum?”

  Ted squinted. Was it the IRS? He’d been meaning to get back to them.

  “I’m Bill Messerschmidt,” said the man. “FBI.”

  A badge was displayed.

  “Could we ask you a few questions, Mr. Slocum?”

  Ted ran his fingers over his ribs. The FBI?

  “Kyle Byrne is a friend of yours, Mr. Slocum?”

  “He’s my brother,” said Ted. He gripped the doorknob. “My half-brother. What’s this about?”

  “If you’ll let us in, Mr. Slocum, we can go into more detail. It’s a little chilly this morning.”

  Ted unfastened the chain, opened the door.

  Messerschmidt looked him over. “We can wait a minute,” he said, “if you want to get some pants on.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Ted, feeling vaguely that there was some principle he was defending.

  Messerschmidt shrugged, as if it were all the same to him. He introduced his associates as they gathered in the foyer, but Ted was thinking about the marijuana plants that he was cultivating in the basement closet.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Messerschmidt said.

  Ted hesitated. The presence of the men sensitized him to certain impurities in the room. It smelled of sweat and sleep and fried onions, with undertones of whiskey rising from his pores. He resented the conclusions that his visitors were probably drawing. He might explain to them that he, Ted Slocum, owned a vaunted secondhand bookstore in Fredericksburg, and that a collection of his poetry had been published fifteen years ago by a prestigious university press, not that these men would appreciate such things. Still, it comforted him, touching the dried-up leaves of those laurels. A man should never forget his accomplishments.

  He led Messerschmidt to the sofa. The house was dark. There were leaning bookcases and dusty shelves buckling under the weight of old LPs. On the walls were some nude studies done by Ted, several framed photographs of his and Kyle’s mother, a large red canvas with a black stripe supposedly painted by Ted’s father (Ted had never met his father, just as Kyle had never met his), and, on the sliver of wall to the right of the window, a blowup of the cover of Ted’s opus, All That Moveth, Doth in Change Delight. The floor-length curtains of the front windows were closed as a rule. Ted turned on the lamp beside the so
fa, upon whose green corduroy cushions, faded and stained, Messerschmidt presently lowered himself. Ted cringed. It was his sofa, ’twas his bloody bed, he’d chewed those cushions in his sleep, had wrestled them, made love to them, made love on them, if memory served, and Swinburne, too, had been there, you could smell him deep in the material, the old grease and slobber, a scent like hickory smoke, that Messerschmidt was snuffing out. Ted was forced, then, to sit in the armchair, which faced the sofa. It was an antique, with palmette and cockleshell carvings. The cushion was rough and irritated his ass.

  The other two men did not sit; one had positioned himself by the curtains, while the other, a tall black with wire-rim glasses, stood by the door. The black had a small circle of gray in his hair, as if lightning had touched it.

  “Maybe you’ve heard, Mr. Slocum,” Messerschmidt said, “about a shooting yesterday, at a family planning clinic.”

  Ted crossed his legs, which were thin and muscular, like a long-distance runner’s. “An abortion clinic, you mean?” He reached for the pack of Winstons on the coffee table.

  “Do you know where your brother is?” said Messerschmidt. “Because we’d like to ask him some questions.”

  “Why?” said Ted, lighting a cigarette. He held it between thumb and forefinger, like a straw. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Would it surprise you?” said Messerschmidt.

  Ted saw the man by the curtains pull them aside discreetly to peek out. He had the gold helmetlike hair of a news anchorman, and eyes that appeared widened by cosmetic surgery.

  “No,” Ted said. “I guess it wouldn’t surprise me.” He noticed that his ankle was twitching. “When you’ve got an open mind, nothing’s too surprising.” Ted cleared his throat, then descended into his cigarette; smoke rose from his head like the hair of a sinking man.

  He loved his brother. He loved him, but he was also afraid of him. Their mother had taken some drugs during her pregnancy—a risky and complicated pregnancy at that; she was somewhere near forty—and it was Ted’s judgment that poor Kyle had come out slightly damaged by it all. Mother and son, then, had nearly killed each other during those critical months; and it followed that in life they’d had an understanding, an empathy, from which Ted was hopelessly excluded. Mom would dote on Kyle like crazy, when she wasn’t hacking out her lungs. When she finally died of emphysema—she’d been a heavy smoker most of her life—Kyle was only twelve, and Ted, at twenty-eight, was left in charge of the boy’s upbringing. He hadn’t published a poem since.

  “What kind of car does he drive?” said Messerschmidt.

  Ted squinted at the tip of his cigarette. “A blue one,” he said. He glanced at the black man, who was still by the door, arms folded. His gold suit was too small for him, and had a sheen to it. Ted didn’t own a suit.

  “Where did he go?” said Messerschmidt.

  Ted fidgeted. “Couldn’t tell you,” he said.

  “This is a homicide, Mr. Slocum,” said Messerschmidt. “You understand.”

  Ted nodded abstractedly. Then he reached for the bottle and drank. He didn’t care to offer any to his guests. He set down the bottle and fell to looking at the twin skulls of his knees.

  “As far as I know,” he said, “he went to see a girl.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  Ted shook his head.

  Messerschmidt started jotting something on a pad.

  “All I know,” said Ted, feeling a little unnerved, “is that he met her on the Internet. One of those dating services. LoveSearch, I think it’s called.” Ted didn’t add that he’d been corresponding with his own girl on LoveSearch. Her screen name was Femcaesura, and she lived in Richmond. Ted hadn’t seen her picture—she hadn’t posted one—but he’d been drawn by her stated tastes in literature, which reflected his own. They’d had some rousing exchanges on the topic. In his last e-mail, Ted had suggested that they meet for sex.

  “Does he spend a lot of time on the computer?” said Messerschmidt, looking up.

  Ted nodded. “It’s his whole universe.” He then felt compelled to add: “But he would never kill anybody. He isn’t capable.”

  “Before you said you wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I said I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a suspect.” Ted recrossed his legs. “If you knew him, you’d understand what I mean.”

  “Apparently,” said Messerschmidt, “an ex-girlfriend of his thinks he is capable. She contacted us when she heard about the incident; she told us he had a vendetta against the doctor who performed her abortion.”

  “She’s a damn liar,” Ted said, the fraternal knot tightening in his chest. “She’s the one with the vendetta—against my brother. After she got that abortion, he left her.”

  Messerschmidt returned his pad to an inner pocket. “Would you mind,” he said, “if I took a quick look at his room?”

  Ted batted his eyes. Did they intend to search the house? He’d better play ball then. He stood and grumbled something about the Fourth Amendment, just loud enough to be heard.

  He led Messerschmidt around a corner; the other men hung back.

  As always, the door to Kyle’s room was closed. Ted opened it, turned on the light. Messerschmidt entered and looked around thoughtfully, like a building inspector judging the structural integrity of the walls. The room was orderly and without any smell. Ted sensed that Messerschmidt approved of it as an oasis of sobriety.

  “Is that your brother?” said Messerschmidt, nodding at the portrait that hung over the bed.

  “Yes,” said Ted. “I painted it.”

  “A striking young man.”

  “Perhaps what’s striking,” said Ted, “is the rendering.” He saw that Messerschmidt was gazing at the portrait, as if bewitched.

  “I’ll bet he has lots of girlfriends,” said Messerschmidt.

  Ted grunted. “Not as many as you think.”

  Messerschmidt smirked. “Well,” he said, “that’s a goddamned relief.” He laughed, and so did Ted. Ted had always been affected by the heartiness of big men. He wanted to have some drinks with Messerschmidt, and then try to pronounce his name. Just once, he would like to roll up his sleeves in a tavern with some men who carried guns. Ted had never even gone hunting—part of the privilege of having grown up fatherless.

  “Are these him too?” said Messerschmidt, who was now inspecting the numerous framed photos on the dresser. “All of them?”

  “Pretty much.” Ted wondered if it was strange for a person to have so many pictures of himself on display. Like most babies, Kyle had been fascinated with his image—Ted reminisced to Messerschmidt how Kyle, as a toddler, used to sit for hours in front of the mirror on their mother’s bedroom door, touching the glass.

  Messerschmidt nodded thoughtfully. “That’s how it is with little ones.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “The ex-girlfriend seems to think he never outgrew that.”

  “How so?”

  “She said he only loved himself.”

  Ted chuckled. “All that means,” he said, “is that he didn’t love her. She wasn’t right for him anyhow. He met her online, of course. She was attractive, educated, career-minded. Kyle barely finished high school, and thinks he’s an angel.”

  “So I heard.” Messerschmidt picked up a recent picture of Kyle and looked carefully at it. “I’m surprised he’d have to go through the personals. Thought that stuff was for more awkward types. Like me, for instance.”

  “He’s shy,” said Ted. “He meets all his girls that way. It’s easier for him.”

  “Shy?” Messerschmidt set down the picture. “Can’t be too shy if he gets naked in front of strangers, now, can he?”

  “He needs the money.”

  “I’ll bet he wouldn’t be shy if he met himself,” said Messerschmidt.

  “No,” said Ted. “Probably not.”

  Messerschmidt's attention then fell on the computer that rested on the spotless desk.

  “LoveSearch, you said the name was?”

 
“Why?” said Ted. “Are you looking too?”

  “No, no, not me,” said Messerschmidt, twisting the gold band on his ring finger. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “It’s easy,” said Ted, with the enthusiasm of a hobbyist who senses interest in his collection. “You’re either the hunter or the prey. You can look for women, or you can put your image out there, and have them look for you.”

  “Seems you’d have more of a pick if you were the hunter,” said Messerschmidt, offhand, as if to hide his interest. “Otherwise, they’d have to find you.”

  “In that case, you could just flood the system.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ted eyed his brother’s portrait on the wall. “I mean, you could put your face in every city. Increase your odds. Imagine: the love of your life could be in Butte, Montana, or in New Orleans. Anywhere. Russia. India. Newport News.” Ted laughed at the absurdity of it all. So many possibilities, yet so much loneliness. He looked at Messerschmidt. “I’ve been writing to a woman,” he said. “She lives right in Richmond. I’ve never been much of a traveler.”

  Byrne managed to survive the weekend without yielding to Carly’s advances; on Saturday evening they had dinner at a place called the Carriage House, then went to the multiplex ten miles away. They saw a romance starring an actor whom Carly kept insisting Byrne resembled. Byrne watched impassively, more concerned about the perfumed hand that had landed on his knee. He covered it with his own, to make sure it traveled no higher. He was looking for nothing more than sanctuary.

  They spent Sunday around the house. Carly had mentioned some yard work that needed to be done, and after a late breakfast at the kitchen table, Byrne, to earn his keep, went outside and took up the rake, then afterward got on a ladder and cleared the old dead leaves from the gutters while Carly ran some errands in town.

  At one point, a young deer appeared on the edge of the woods, not fifty yards from the house: it stood there, looking at Byrne, suffused in the startling light of its perfection. Byrne froze on the ladder. After a moment, the deer turned and leapt away; its hooves made a wooden pock that echoed amid the trees.