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Chapter Eight
- Cornell University Press
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Chapter Eight Back at my apartment, the answering machine is blinking, and I think of all the bad news that comes from such a device: the arraignment and courtordered psychotherapy, the bond and Mom putting up the house as collateral and the violation just four days after his release, the sound of Ike’s voice as he tried to explain that Dad would be on the news, and that it would be best not to watch it. lights—like the one that is winking at me now, mocking my presence, feigning an indication of good news but really holding all that is sickening, paralyzing—seem to follow me from place to place, a reminder that leaving is only a temporary solution. I hit the Play button, and someone hangs up. The next call is from Cindy, trying to catch me before I went to work yesterday to tell me about Pleasant hills closing. There’s a pause before the third message, and Michael the agent takes the phone off speaker and talks directly into the mouthpiece. “hey there, Truman Capote,” he says, not a trace of irony in his approach. “This is your tried-and-true agent. Just checking in. I assume you’re on your way to Indiana, then. remember to make sure I have your contact details. Didn’t know if you’d end up getting a local cell phone once you’re up there. give the corn and pigs kisses for me. Much love. Bye.” I erase all the messages and look around the place. Pascal whines to go for a walk, but I have to run to the leasing office to broker some sort of deal. I can feel the urgency now; last night’s delving into the details of the riley case, even if brief, has given me some energy. Dad was diagnosed with having an obsessive-compulsive personality, and maybe a tad bit of manic depression, although he only was treated with Paxil while in prison. I can’t help but think about the highs and lows of my own life as I take a copy of my lease with me and head out into the crisp spring sunlight, feeling every bit the enthusiastic 54 D o u g C r a n D e l l author, while just a few days ago all I could do was drink and smoke and listen to classic rock. Blackbirds hop over a scattering of discarded French fries near the Dumpster , while several people are taking advantage of the nice weather to wash their cars, a sucking vacuum in use, pennies flying up the long tube, as a man hitches up his pants and looks at the end as if amazed by the force. I pass the pool where a black iron fence and security gate keep the blue water protected just for us residents. up in the sky, turkey buzzards swirl in a gigantic swath, riding the wind shear and looping in slow, wide figure eights, slicing the electric atmosphere. I jog up the steps to the office, and the little metal bell clinks against the glass door as I enter, its small tongue missing. no one is at the desk, and the door to the office at the side of the waiting area is closed. I stand in the center of the floor, holding the rental agreement in my hand as if ready to go to court. I turn around and look out the glass door in the direction I just came, but all that’s visible is the sunlight on the pitted steps, and the brick facade of one of the buildings, the shadow of this one. I turn back and decide to knock on the office door. I rap lightly, then a little harder. Someone from behind the door utters something, which I take for permission to enter. I twist the knob, and a flurry of activity seems to bounce off the walls, the desk, and chairs. Two bodies whipping on shirts, a man stooping to yank up his jeans, and the young woman who is usually at the front desk, face red and eyes wide, trying to shimmy into her tight skirt, a bright green thong gone in a flash. “Jesus,” says the manager, a man who lifts weights and is always in the complex’s fitness center with his wife, spotting her, peering down at her, his legs spread. “I fucking said wait a minute!” he wipes his mouth with...