Erased From Memory (9 page)

“I was crazy then, remember?

“But what was really weird was that poem. It was printed up like a page from an Internet site where people exchange versions of Egyptian poetry. But when I tried to check it later, it wasn’t there.”

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s a real site about Egyptian poetry—new versions, new translations—but there wasn’t any little ‘Day’ poem on it the second time I looked.

“So at first I thought somebody was gaslighting me. And then when I got better, I was perfectly sure that there really had been a poem. But I couldn’t find it.

“So go figure.”

She reaches for the cigarette pack and says, “Oh, shit . . . Hey, I really am going to quit smoking. Save this in remembrance of me.” And she tosses me her cigarette lighter.

“That stupid verse didn’t even sound like an Egyptian poem.” She scrambles to her feet. “I knew that.”

Pausing by the door, she says, “That was one of the best times in my life, that spring in Thebes. Five years ago. One of those bouts you get only once. Know what I mean?”

Five years ago would have been just before Daddy began to lose it to Alzheimer’s. I guess he was still okay then.

I don’t tell Rita that I have memories of Thebes, too, but this was a while before she was there. I was fifteen and Rob was eighteen. And my dad, who still had every one of his marbles, was seventy-five.

 
 
When Rita leaves, I start getting ready for bed. I’ve opened the windows and stowed the cigarette saucer in the hall and am brushing my teeth when the phone rings.

It’s Scott. “Greetings, Lady Blues Enthusiast,” he says, as if he and I were old, close, amicable buddies.

“Hello, Scott.” I’m still suffering from my Junior Moment of guilt, so I probably sound nicer than I am.

“Hey,” he says. “Lady Blues Enthusiast: How about going out for a drink?”

“Now?”

“Sure.”

“Scott, it’s quarter of eleven at night.”

“Great hour for a drink.”

“No.”

“Try it. Just once.”

“We’re in the middle of no place. You gonna raid Egon’s refrigerator?”

“We aren’t, as you so elitistly put it, in the middle of no place. There’s a Best Western Motel, with a bar, ten minutes away.”

I open my mouth to protest about the Best Western bar and then realize that I’m painting myself into a corner. Scott will now suggest another bar, a better hotel . . . “No.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Night after that? Lunch? Afternoon trip to the big city?”

“Hey, Scott, cut it out.” I don’t sound as nasty as I ought to sound. This man has a smart-aleck, acid side to him.
Firm up, Carla
.

“I’ll be back.”

What on earth is the matter with me? “Listen, bro, you haven’t a chance,” I say. I tune in on myself, and I sound flirtatious.

“Okay. Sleep well. Long empty night ahead.” He signs off, sounding pleased.

Obviously, I feel guilty at having stiffed him so consistently for something he didn’t do.

Nuts.

 
 
I get a towel and fan the room to get rid of the rest of Rita’s smoke. I go down the hall and listen at Daddy’s door; the only sound is the quiet susurrus inside of peaceful elderly breathing. I proceed farther down the hall to the library, where I take down a book of Egyptian poetry. Then I realize that I’m outside in my pajamas and will surely meet Scott if I stay around a minute longer, so I beat a hasty, controlled retreat.

Flapping a towel again doesn’t help much with any of my problems. I still feel cross at myself. And the room continues to smell of those black cigarettes.

 
 
Before I go to bed I make the mistake of accessing my e-mail.

Oh, hell.

The fifth visitor of the evening.

It’s Cherie, gabbling away in a schoolgirl e-mail shorthand:

 
Yes, Cherie, the scene around here is super. I bang the delete button so hard I awaken the Microsoft Word Office Assistant.

Chapter 8

“That is one classy-looking lady.” This is the opinion of Bunny Modjeska, viewing Cherie Ghent. Cherie, complete in pink pantsuit and Mustang convertible, has just arrived at the museum with a
Chronicle
reporter in tow. The
Chronicle
reporter, a man, is young and sweet-looking, with floppy hair and pimples. Cherie is gorgeous and determined. Her short blond hair is newly layered.

She and the reporter are cruising the museum, but the purpose of their visit is for the reporter to interview Daddy about the sheriff. “I am going to splash that story all over this paper and the rest of the papers in the U.S.A.,” Cherie says. “It’ll be a national scandal. People making speeches in Congress.” She is walking between the glass cases and viewing the displays as she talks. “Hey, I really like this weird guy with the falcon head, handsome, huh? And a dynamite great shape” (a statue of Horus, king of the gods).

“Darling,” she picks up, addressing me, “boy, have I missed you. A helluva lot going on.”

I tell her that I gathered as much, and try to sound sarcastic, but she’s far beyond me. “Guess what? Me and your little friend Rob got together; hey, how’s that? I guess you don’t think much about him anymore; well, he turns out to be a really sweet guy, and you might not believe it because he seems kinda stiff at first and you’re used to that, but after you know him some . . .”

Here, thank God, she’s interrupted by the arrival of my father, the ostensible object of this visit, who has come down from upstairs. “Darling Crocodile, am I glad to see you. This here is Steve, he’s a reporter for the
Chronicle
, isn’t that great? And he is going to talk to you about what that sheriff did to you.”

And Cherie, Daddy, the reporter, and I head for the elevator, where we are whisked up to Daddy’s room for an interview.

The
Chronicle
reporter doesn’t seem to mind that the interview consists almost entirely of comments from my dad, which are enthusiastic, gentle, and have nothing to do with the questions he’s being asked, and interpolations by Cherie that answer the questions.

“How very lovely to see you, my dear,” Daddy addresses Cherie. “I know you’ve been on a dig; how did it go?”

He asks the
Chronicle
reporter if he is one of his students. He tells both of them it’s too late now to go into the Valley, but if they can arrive earlier tomorrow, preferably just before sunrise . . .

Meanwhile Cherie is describing the tight grip that the sheriff had on Daddy and the handcuffs that he twisted on him, and makes Daddy put his hands up and behind to illustrate the position this forced him into. My father is complaisant about this, although at one point he asks, “Are you thinking of the position the seeker adopted under the tree, my dear? He wouldn’t have had to reach so high.”

“Stevie here,” Cherie says, “is a newer reporter, but he is way sharp. He is going to be one of their ace guys. Steve, I have a great eye for that stuff, I can always tell; you are going to do some world-beating news stories. Now you know that the sheriff did that attack not once, but twice. To this gentle, distinguished old gentleman? The second time, Croc, he accused you, didn’t he; he practically accused you of being a murderer. Just because you were there?”

Surprisingly, Daddy cues in for this question. “I said a spell for the occasion. But I don’t know if he understood that.”

“Highly unlikely. He accused you of murder and forced you down into a chair.”

The
Chronicle
reporter seems to have filled up several pages of notes. He looks a little puzzled, but also happy.

Cherie says that both of them will stay for lunch, but after that the reporter, who has his own car, must get back to the city. She, Cherie, will remain awhile longer. “I am fascinated by this place. The museum. It looks like something I’ve seen before.”

I say, “Well, Egon tries for that,” but she disagrees. “No, I mean
really
something I’ve seen before, not just in pictures. I know this architecture is partly fake Egyptian and partly fake Greek, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Cherie, of course, is brighter than I want her to be. She’s not just a cute curvy blonde in a pink pantsuit. She’s quick, intelligent, manipulative. Probably Rob is crazy about her.

I go down to lunch feeling mad at myself.

“How delightful,” Egon says. “I am so glad you decided to stay for lunch. Edward’s lawyer, you say? What a fine idea.” He beams and passes a plate of curried mushrooms. This noon’s menu is Vegetarian Near Eastern.

Egon says he would be honored to take Cherie on a tour of the premises. “Wonderful. To get your opinions. I can see you have excellent taste.”

Scott wants to interview Cherie on how she got to be a lawyer. Rita asks about shoes and nail polish colors. “I mean, hey, that shade is terrific,” she tells her.

Daddy says Cherie is going to take him on a walk down to the railroad track. “Absolutely,” she says. “I adore trains.”

Stevie the newsman volunteers that Cherie handled a case against Southern Pacific, and Bunny comments that, wow, that is big time. And Egon talks about the stolen artifacts and wonders if Cherie can help him with his insurance problems.

Scott starts a couple of lectures about intercoastal American transportation and about travel during the reign of Amenhotep III. He lets both of these lectures trail off, with a throwaway of, “Oh, hell, there I go again.”

Lunch is lively. I’m the only unhappy person at the table.

 
 
And now I’m headed upstairs to the library, where I plan to hide with some of Egon’s blues tapes and a low-caliber poetry book. But Cherie stops me.

She does this with an arm around my shoulders. “You got to come along, honey bun. Help me out.”

“For company,” she half explains, squeezing a shoulder blade and glancing at Egon. I’m puzzled. No one would suspect Egon of being unsafe to be alone with.

I’ve had enough of Cherie for a day. For a week. But also, I want to find out what she’s up to.

We start out, with Cherie holding my hand. She does this firmly; she’s surprisingly strong and exerts some muscle.

First we do the museum, Egon leading and chanting, “Wonderful, just look,” and Cherie asking questions, about the difference between Akhnaten’s reign and his father’s, about Amarna art, with its elongated figures and faces. Her questions are smart ones. She likes the Amarna better than the traditional. She’s right.

I have a moment of rebellion. I am not going to end up liking this woman, I decide.

“Hey,” she asks when we pause to admire a statue of the Apis bull, “who was the handsome cat at lunch? The one who couldn’t finish his lectures?”

I explain that Scott was probably too impressed with her to be coherent, and she turns an amazed turquoise gaze at me. “Me? It was you, sweet cakes. You were the one he was watching.”

I think I’ve misunderstood. “Huh?”

“He was tracking
you
. The whole time.”

“No he wasn’t.”

“Carla, tune in. You don’t like him? He thought you
did
like him.”

“Nuts.” I tug loose from her hand and listen for a while to Egon, who is telling us how the Apis bull is a creation god. Yet another fertility symbol.

At the end of this gallery, after we have passed my friend the cheerful plump cartonnage lady (and Cherie admires her appropriately, exclaiming, “Great mascara”), Cherie turns toward Egon. “Sir,” she says, “is it all right to call you Egon?”

“Oh, my dear. Of course.”

“Well, you know, I think I remember that Croc said—that is, my darling Ed—did he say something about a crypt? I mean, some special place that you built downstairs? I love the architecture here and I would really appreciate—not, of course, if it’s private—but if I could maybe see it . . .”

“My dear,” Egon interprets, “you want to see the crypt? Just for special people, of course. But yes, for you. A special person. Of course. And Carla, too.”

Egon calls for Bunny Modjeska and asks for the electronic remote. “Keys and electronic signals,” he says. “All these devices. Things get difficult.

“That’s why I can’t understand. The thefts—and they’re getting worse—how can they be happening? Ms. Ghent, you couldn’t help us a tiny bit, pressuring the insurance company?”

Cherie smiles noncommittally.

The crypt is approached from the underground passages. As we are entering them, Rita joins us, carrying a flashlight.

 
 
Egon must have had fun designing this system: it’s full of mysterious convolutions. The result is half Alice’s rabbit hole, half
Passageways of the Lost Kings
. Cherie loves the blue alcoves with the urns. “So damn suggestive. Egon, I do hope there’s nobody in them?”