“I want to check that we’re still in a good place.”
Asher raised his eyebrows and pointed at the door. Yale shook his head.
He said, carefully, “I mean, you tell me. Has Chuck Donovan complained anymore?”
“Nothing recently.”
Yale said, because it was technically true, “Nothing from Wisconsin lately either.” He could keep his voice steady when telling a technical lie in a way he couldn’t with an outright one. It was one of the things that had always made Charlie’s paranoia so bizarre; Yale was a horrible liar.
“Well, good,” she said. “Great.”
* * *
—
Asher needed the bathroom before he left. He was going to give Teddy a ride back south in his Chevette, a car so loud you had to shout your conversations. Yale and Teddy waited for him in the hall.
Teddy said, “Did you hear they’re discharging Terrence?”
Yale hadn’t heard. “Is that even a good idea?” he asked, and Teddy shrugged. He said, “Look, Teddy, aren’t you gonna get tested now? I mean, I know how you feel about the test, but if there are things that can help—don’t you want to do those? Some clinical trial? Wouldn’t you take the Mexican pills?”
Teddy said, quietly, “I did get tested. We went together. That was the deal—for his birthday, he wanted both of us to get tested. It was my present to him, that I agreed. I’m negative. I mean, I told you. I always told you.”
Yale said, “Jesus Christ, Teddy. I’m happy for you, but Jesus Christ.”
* * *
—
The next day, Bill finally returned, suspiciously tan, and there was at least more noise around the office. That following afternoon, Roman the intern started. He sat in the Northwestern crest chair across from Yale and held his black backpack in his lap. He twitched his foot.
Yale said, “I know you probably thought you’d be doing more curatorial work. I hope this isn’t a disappointment.”
“No, I mean—I’m up for anything. I don’t have experience talking to people about money, but I guess that’s good to learn, right?”
There was no way Roman would be talking to donors—he’d be listening in, at most—but Yale didn’t point this out. If nothing else, he’d join them in Wisconsin next week.
Yale said, “Listen, I’m an art lover myself. I wasn’t a money guy who fell into museums. I’m an art guy who’s good with numbers.”
Roman brightened. “Did you do grad work?”
Yale said, “Let me rephrase that. I’m an art lover who majored in finance.”
“Got it.” Roman nodded. “I mean, it’s not too late.”
Yale couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve gotten a pretty good education along the way.”
“Cool,” Roman said. “Cool.” He took his glasses off and wiped them on his sweater.
Yale set him to work on the Rolodex, which was still a mess. There was an extra table in the front corner of the office that made a decent desk, so long as no one opened the door. And, if Yale was honest, it improved his view. When he wanted to look at something nice, there was the window behind him, or there was Roman, hard at work, in front of him. In another life, Yale might have let himself fantasize about filling another kind of mentor role for Roman, teaching him things in and out of bed. But at the moment, the thought was almost revolting.
* * *
—
Before he left for Wisconsin, Yale bought a big bag of stuff from the deli—egg salad, pasta salad, cold cuts—and put it all right at the front of the refrigerator for Charlie. He made him promise to sleep enough.
Charlie said, “I don’t deserve you.” He was looking into the fridge like it held King Tut’s treasures.
Yale said, “Remember that, next time I leave the window open and it rains.”
* * *
—
The whole trip north, Bill told stories about former interns, at the Brigg and elsewhere—promising ones and shy ones and the one who’d had a mental breakdown. Yale got the distinct impression that many of these young men had been more than interns to Bill Lindsey, and that Bill wanted Roman to pick up on the fact. Bill wasn’t the kind of older man Yale had been imagining for Roman. For one thing, he was sixty. And a closet case wasn’t any kind of model for someone young and nervous.
“So,” Roman said. He rode in the backseat, as if he were Yale and Bill’s child. “We’re just walking right up and knocking on the door?”
“That’s the idea.”
Regardless of whatever ancillary motives Bill had for bringing Roman, the idea was basically a good one: Roman could talk about the student perspective, the benefit to the school. That he looked like an undergrad might remind Nora of her husband’s time at Northwestern. And Roman proved, on the way up, a handy navigator. He even pumped the gas.
Yale said, “The one thing I’m going to ask is that we don’t bring up money. Not even if we’re alone with Nora. Not even words like value or worth, okay?”
Roman said, “I don’t mean this in a bad way, but—why is she doing this? Like, why us?”
“I guess her husband had a really good time at Northwestern,” Yale said. “And I know her grandniece.” He felt guilty, not mentioning Nico.
They stopped first in Egg Harbor to check in and unpack at the bed and breakfast, where Yale strategically chose the middle of the three rooms, feeling he should protect Roman from the possibility of a late-night Bill Lindsey advance. They met back in the front hall, and the couple who ran the place—it was cherry-themed, with paintings of cherries and cherry trees, the promise of cherry cobbler for breakfast—loaded them with advice on what to see if they had “a little extra time.”
Yale felt queasy as they pulled into Nora’s driveway. Even though this had been his idea, he deeply hated springing things on people. He’d often told Charlie that he’d never throw him a surprise party, because his heart couldn’t take the pressure.
A yellow station wagon was parked beside the two Volkswagens this time. And before they were out of the car, a small boy ran around the corner of the house, looked at them, dashed back.
“Shit,” Yale said.
Bill said, “Hey. This could be good. This could be a good thing.”
Yale didn’t see how that was possible. It crossed his mind that maybe Nora had died, that these people were here for some kind of visitation. That they were five days too late.