No Way Back (7 page)

We lie on our sides, face each other. We stroke each other’s skin. I run the back of my hand over her abdomen, her nipples, her pubic hair.

She pulls my fingers to her face. She kisses each finger, starting at my thumb. When she gets to the pinky, she puts it in her mouth, sucks on it. She takes it from her lips, stares at it.

Now might be a good time to mention that, on my left hand, I’m missing the first two segments of my pinky. It happened eight years ago, due either to a slammed car door one drunken night,
or an angry bookie named Hector Gonzales. In either case, I blacked out, and don’t remember exactly what happened. Libby tells the story this way: that I arrived home one morning at three
o’clock, with a dish towel wrapped around the stump of my finger. But rather than remark upon my curiously missing digit, I complained that I was starving, and needed to find a good
hamburger. To lure me into the car, she lied and told me she would take me to Jack in the Box, but she took me to the emergency room, instead.

Now, she grabs my half-pinky, brings it down between her legs, strokes her pussy with it. She closes her eyes, shivers.

I leave my mangled hand limp, let her manipulate it. She moves it faster, finds a rhythm that’s familiar to me. In another minute her body shudders. She gasps. Her orgasm sounds like a
surprise – the noise a woman makes when she’s been told someone has died.

After she comes, she closes her eyes. She keeps my half-pinky inside her. Another minute, and I climb on top of her, slide inside. We fuck slowly. She keeps her eyes shut.

Outside, the rain falls. A crack of thunder rolls off the ocean.

I pump faster, keeping rhythm with the rain tapping the window. Libby is barely moving, I realize, too late. Probably wants me to come already, and climb off.

I do. I give a little grunt, let her know I’m done.

I stay on top of her for a moment, because it’s unseemly to dismount too fast, like a gymnast from a pommel horse. After a ten-count, I roll off. Libby is staring up at the teak ceiling
fan, which is rotating slowly, squeaking.

‘I missed you, Libby,’ I say.

‘Now you have me,’ she says.

I cannot tell if these words are plain and sweet, or if there is bitterness underneath. I kiss her lips, roll off the bed, and pad to the bathroom.

When I return, she’s under the covers, with her back to me. Outside the rain has slowed. Thunder sounds – muffled, distant. The storm is leaving.

I look at Libby’s shape under the covers. It’s moving strangely, shaking.

‘Libby?’ I say. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No.’

But she is. I walk to the foot of the bed. I reach down, touch her calf through the sheet. She turns with a start. Her eyes are tear-streaked.

‘What’s wrong, baby?’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. I’m sorry.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says again.

‘You’re not happy we came here.’

‘I am happy,’ she says dully. She sniffles.

‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ I say, but immediately regret it. It sounds like something you say to a whore. I try again. ‘What I mean to say is... ’ I take a
breath. What
do
I mean to say? ‘Libby, this is a big deal for me. This is my chance.’

‘I know it is.’

‘It’s not easy for you. I understand that. I’m grateful you came with me. I’m grateful you’re still here, after everything that I’ve... ’ I stop.
‘Everything that happened.’

She says: ‘I love you, Jimmy.’

Those are the right words. I’m glad she says them. But there is something odd about her tone. Her words don’t sound like love at all; they sound like lines from a script that she is
being forced to read.

My cellphone rings.

I’m relieved by the jarring sound. It gives me a chance to leave her, a chance to walk away without speaking any more, without hurting her, without being forced to remember the things that
I’ve done.

I retrieve my cellphone from my pants, which are crumpled in a ball on the floor. I answer on the third ring. I leave the room, pressing the phone to my ear.

‘This is Jim,’ I say.

‘How’s it going, hotshot?’

It’s Tad Billups. He’s my oldest friend. Probably my
only
friend, come to think of it. The rest gave up on me. Somehow, preposterously, Tad not only stuck with me; he also
gave me this job at Tao. Which makes him more than my friend. He’s also my boss.

With the phone under my chin, I pull the door closed behind me, so that I don’t disturb Libby. I walk down the hall. ‘How’s it
going
?’ I repeat.
‘It’s going to hell, Tad. It’s a crappy company, with crappy people, and a crappy product that no one wants to buy. And it’s burning a million dollars a month. And
there’s only seven weeks of cash left.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I probably should have mentioned all that, before offering you the job. Any good restaurants down there?’

‘Restaurants? How would I know?’ I pad down the stairs. ‘Remind me again. How did you convince me to come here?’

‘I didn’t convince
you
. You convinced
me
. You begged. You were desperate.’

‘Hardly,’ I say. But his banter, meant in fun, cuts close to the bone. The afternoon that I tracked him down in Il Fornaio, I was a bit desperate.

No.

Desperate
suggests more dignity than I actually had.
Pathetic
might be a better word.

He changes the subject. ‘How’s Libby?’

I lower my voice. ‘Sullen, angry.’

‘Well,’ he says brightly. ‘Sounds like everything’s coming up roses.’

‘Oh, and also, it’s one hundred degrees.’

‘Yeah, I should have warned you about that, too. Florida gets kind of... what’s the word they use down there?
Muggy
.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘Let me guess. You wore a suit to the office today, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ I lie.

‘No one in Florida wears a suit, Jimmy. How many of them did you pack?’

‘I didn’t bring any suits, Tad.’

‘How many?’

‘Three. All wool.’

Tad makes a
tsk-tsk
sound. ‘Is there any hope whatsoever?’

‘They say it cools down in December.’

‘I mean for the company, Jimmy.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Give me a couple of days to poke around, see what I can find.’ I work my way into the living room, go to the sliding glass door. I peer
outside, to the patio. The rain has stopped. The swimming pool is placid and clear.

Tad says: ‘What do you mean: “Poke around”?’

‘I just mean—’

Tad interrupts, ‘Remember what I told you, when I hired you?’

‘That you were going to make me rich?’

‘No, that part was a lie. Remember the
other
part?’ Tad’s voice fades in and out, and I distinctly hear the sound of wind sputtering against his microphone. I picture
him driving in his BMW convertible, top down, in sunny, temperate Palo Alto, with his Bluetooth headset clipped to his ear.

‘What other part?’

‘I said: Protect my investment and protect
me
.’

Now that he mentions it, I do remember that. Those words struck me as odd even then:
Protect my investment and protect me.
‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Just what it sounds like. Your first priority is to save the company... if you can.’

‘And my second priority?’

‘Nothing. That’s it.’ After a pause, he adds: ‘Just make sure my generosity doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.’

‘Meaning what, Tad?’

‘Meaning,’ he says, talking slowly now, as if I’m an idiot, ‘I hired you because you’re my friend. I’m taking a chance on you. Just make me proud.
That’s all.’

‘I understand.’ Actually, I don’t. It’s hard to believe that Tad Billups is concerned about the fate of Tao Software LLC – a tiny third-rate start-up he convinced
his partners to invest in nearly four years ago – and a company that’s only one of dozens in his portfolio. Tad’s reputation won’t be ruined if Tao fails. Ninety per cent of
venture-capital-funded companies fail. That’s the nature of his business. A venture capitalist is considered a success if one out of ten companies is a home run. So what does Tad mean when he
tells me to ‘protect him’? Protect him from
what
?

But now suddenly, Tad’s ready to scram. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Anything else to report, before I go?’

‘Listen, Tad,’ I say. I know the answer to my next question, even before I ask, but I
do
have to ask. ‘We need more money. At least another five or ten million. You
didn’t tell me what a mess it was down here.’

‘Not going to happen, hotshot.’

‘Make it a down round. Dilute me. Otherwise, it’s not going to work—’

‘Make it work!’ he yells. I’m surprised by the harshness of his words. I’ve known Tad Billups a long time, and never once has he raised his voice to me. He’s the
kind of man who doesn’t think twice about stabbing a guy in the back, but he’ll do it quietly, with a friendly smile. His voice grows soft again. ‘Really, Jimmy. Make it
work.’ He’s so quiet, in fact, that I think I must have imagined his yell. Maybe it was a trick of his Bluetooth headset. Tad continues: ‘I don’t know what else to tell you.
My partners won’t put another dime into that dog.
Comprende
?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘
Comprendo
.’

‘Anything else I can do for you?’ Tad asks.

‘Anything
else
?’ I repeat, and laugh. ‘What have you done for me so far?’

‘Well, I gave you a great job, and I’m going to make you rich.’

‘You said that part was a lie.’

‘Did I? Ah well, you caught me. Anyway, do what you can.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will, buddy. That’s why I hired you. Ta ta.’

He hangs up, leaving me holding a dead phone to my ear.

When I wake from my nightmares, I never shout.

I wake the same way, every morning, having dreamed the same dream. My son in a bathtub. His body floating just below the water’s surface. His face blue, his mouth open in a silent scream.
That yellow hair, spread thin on the water, like gossamer, hair too long for a boy’s. And that stare – the way his dead eyes look into mine. The way they ask, ‘Why did you do this
to me?’ Terrified eyes.

I sit bolt upright in bed, the sheets bunched around me in a wet tangle, my pyjama top soaked with sweat, the scream still-born on my lips. I never shout. Not out loud. Not ever.

I allow the dread to fade. The same way that other people wake, and allow circulation to return to an arm, after having slept on it. This is my morning ritual. I sit in bed, and breath slowly,
and let terror fade.

I look at the clock. Not quite seven o’clock. Libby is snoring beside me.

I climb from the bed, quietly. I take a cold shower, and dress.

Today I leave my wool suit on a hanger in the closet, and instead put on chinos and a short-sleeved polo. I walk to Libby’s side of the bed, lean over. Still asleep.

‘Libby?’

She grunts, pulls the blanket over her shoulder, turns away from me.

‘Libby, baby, I’m leaving now, OK?’

‘Mmm,’ she says.

‘So we’ll talk when I get back. You know, about last night. OK?’
About you sobbing hysterically after we made love.

Libby says, ‘Mmm.’

I was hoping for more of a response.
Any
response.

‘OK?’ I ask again.

She sighs. She turns to face me. Her eyes open wide. ‘OK,’ she says.

‘Things will get better,’ I say, because I think she needs to hear it. I realize, after I say it, that maybe it’s me that needs to hear it. ‘They will. You’ll
see.’

She pulls the blanket to her chin, and nods.

I take my briefcase. On the way out of the room, I stop at the bureau. I lift the photograph of Libby and me sitting on the couch that New Year’s Eve long ago, when the red-skinned, horned
satyr loomed behind us. Even in the half-light of the room, I’m struck by that image: my arm around Libby, Libby pulling away. It’s not a photograph of a husband and wife enjoying a
night of revelry; it’s a photograph of a kidnapping in progress.

I lay it back on the bureau. I’d like to take a photo to work with me, but not that one. I wish there was a photo of Cole. But Libby hid them all, after the night he died.

From the bed, Libby says: ‘Take the one of us together.’

I turn to her. She’s been watching. Even though I heard what she said, I ask, ‘What?’

‘If you’re going to bring one, bring the one of us together. Please.’

I shrug. Again I lift the photo of the two of us in the San Francisco loft. I examine it. ‘It’s just... weird-looking,’ I say finally.

‘It has both of us,’ she explains.

I’m not sure what she means, or why she cares, but at least she cares about something. So I say, ‘All right, baby.’

I heft the photograph in one hand. The frame is strangely heavy. I pop my briefcase, lay the metal frame inside. I walk to the bedroom door. ‘Wish me luck,’ I say.

‘Knock them dead.’

‘I always do,’ I say, and shut the door behind me.

I go downstairs and head out to the porch. It’s already seventy degrees. The sky is cloudless. The air smells like honeysuckle and hot gravel. I’m suddenly very glad about my
decision to ditch the suit.

Across the street, a blue Pontiac pulls into my neighbour’s driveway. It’s the only other house on the cul-de-sac – a mirror image of the house that Libby and I rent.

The Pontiac cuts its motor. From the car steps a large, muscled man in expensive jeans and a tight silk T-shirt. He wears leather work boots.

He stares at me from across the street. He has black deep-set eyes, a protruding forehead, and a small mouth and chin. The bulbous head and little lips make him look lizard-like, feral,
carnivorous – like a velociraptor.

I wave. I’m about to call hello, too, perhaps even walk across the street to introduce myself, but before I can, he turns and, without acknowledging me, lopes up his driveway and onto the
porch. He doesn’t bother inserting a key into the door. He just turns the knob and walks inside. He’s gone.