Other Resort Cities (9 page)

A
week after Joanne and the kids disappear, I call Del, my older brother, and ask him to come by to give me a quote on some contracting and design work I want done.

“This doesn’t sound like something my firm would normally do,” Del says.

“It ’s a simple redesign,” I say. “Move a couple walls. Bring in some furniture. What’s so hard about that?”

“I’m not even sure what you want is legal, strictly speaking,” Del says.

“It’s not
illegal
,” I say, “strictly speaking.”

I’m sitting in my den and looking out the window to the empty street of my gated community. There are seven homes on my cul-de-sac and in the three years I’ve lived here, I’ve never met a single other owner. We wave at each other as we pass, certainly, and there was the time one realtor murdered another realtor in the empty house on the corner and we all gathered on the hot asphalt to watch the coroner wheel out the dead body and fancy gold jacket of Century 21er Rhonda Lefcout, a woman I’d wished dead every time a new calendar with her face appeared on my doorstep, and to whose smile I jerked off once when our wireless Internet went on the fritz,
but never once have I had an actual conversation with any of them. There’s no tragedy in this. I value my privacy more than I value a conversation about the heat, or the cold, or the disposition of the HOA’s discretionary fund.

“Look, Jason,” Del says, “I’m happy to meet up and have a few beers with you, talk about the kids, whatever, but I have to advise you that you’re asking for a lawsuit here.”

“I don’t intend to open the house to the public,” I say. I hear Del sigh, and I know that I have him. “How does tomorrow at noon look?”

“This is going to be expensive,” Del says. “Those espresso machines alone run to several thousand dollars.”

“What price happiness?” I say.

Outside, a man and his standard poodle drive by in a golf cart, just as they do every day at 1:00 PM. Where they go—and why—is a mystery, but I know that by 1:30 they will be back, and by 1:45 the man will stand on his front lawn, standard poodle beside him, and he will chip imaginary golf balls out of an imaginary bunker. I find this very odd since we actually live on a golf course, one filled with real golf balls and real bunkers.

After a while, Del says, “How’s Joanne?”

“Gone the way of the large reptiles,” I say.

“Oh, Christ, man, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” I say, which is true. One day she and the kids were here, and one day they were not. The kids weren’t mine; Joanne brought them into the relationship like she brought in the duvet covers, stemware, and Meg Ryan DVDs. “Maybe there will be an article in
US Magazine
and it will all be clear.”

Three years ago, after getting a rather choice divorce settlement from my first wife, I moved to the desert in hopes of finding the personal freedom I thought I deserved. Carolyn and I had met in college and survived several calamities together: my failing out of law school; my failing out of the MBA program; my decision to invest my remaining student loan money into an auction website that was supposed to be just as good as eBay, but which turned out to be nothing like eBay at all, particularly since it was operated by Filipino gangsters and not Republicans; the death of both of our parents; the death of our desire to have sex with each other, that sort of thing. What finally broke us, however, was my decision to go into the pharmaceutical sales industry, which was made easier since Carolyn was a doctor and employed me as her office manager. We had boxes and boxes of prescription pads. Carolyn, bless her heart, thought that I made a poor business choice. The last thing she said to me, after our divorce was finalized, was “I’d appreciate it if you’d make an effort to stay out of prison.”

And yet: a gate, a guard, an elaborate system of laser locks, night-vision cameras, and a guaranteed armed response are at the touch of my fingertips. Joanne, before becoming my second wife, was my real estate agent. She wasn’t like Rhonda Lefcout, however. She never left calendars for anyone. She said that calendars only made people aware of how long they were really tethered to their homes.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Del says. He’s standing in the living room, where I took the liberty of taking a claw hammer to the mirrored wet bar and have done some minor reconstruction on a curio cabinet filled with framed wedding photos.

“Mirrors and cabinets aren’t the flavor I want here,” I say. “I envision this area will have several two tops, three sofas, four or five of those overstuffed chairs in blue or black. I’d even be happy with leather if you wish to deviate a smidgen.”

Del steps through the living room and then walks down the long hallway which leads to the kids’ bedrooms. I follow behind him as he peers into each room. I don’t know what he expects to find. I’ve already cleaned them out and have begun reimagining them. I’ll need plenty of dry storage space, I know that. Plus, I’m required to have at least one large walk-in refrigerator to keep the pastries, the three different kinds of coffee cake, the new freshly made sandwiches and all the Frappuccino mix and whipped cream chilled. I’ve already begun transitioning the den into a break room.

“Jason,” Del says, quietly, “I can’t be a part of this.”

“You’re the only person I trust,” I say.

“You have no reason to trust me,” Del says.

“But I don’t blame you for anything, either,” I say. “That makes you an exclusive party in my life.”

Del cracks open what was once the cedar-lined hall closet where Joanne kept her furs. I’ve already filled it up with napkins, cup sleeves, straws, and stacks of Bruce Springsteen, Al Green, Joan Baez, and Alanis Morrisette CDs.

“What happened to you?” Del says.

Nothing just happens.

 

It takes a week, but a member of the HOA’s architectural committee finally shows up. Though Del has not been working in the house himself, he’s hired a staff of twenty men and women to do the job, working in alternating twelve-hour
shifts all day long. I’ve been sleeping in the backyard in a tent, and, in hopes of not annoying the workers too much, I’ve taken to urinating on my putting green and defecating into the fountain Joanne installed in our courtyard. The gentleman from the HOA catches me just as I’m zipping up on the green.

“Pardon me,” he says, “but are you the owner of this home?”

“I am,” I say. I’m not sure I know this man. He looks familiar to me, but I’m not sure I can accurately place him, so I decide that he might be one of those nameless people I see in my dreams, the neurological character actors who look on while I fuck realtors or jump off skyscrapers or eat handfuls of sand on the moon.

“Yes,” he says. “Well. It appears you’re doing some renovations. Would that be correct?”

“That would.”

“Yes. Well. You see, you haven’t filed the proper paperwork with the Association, and the bylaws clearly state that before any architectural improvements can take place that paperwork must be filed in a timely manner.”

Two of the workers—Chet and Vince I call them, though I don’t actually know their real names, my sense being that if I’m paying them to work, I can call them whatever I choose for the twelve hours they’re in my home—come outside with a stack of blueprints and lay them across a sawhorse. This concerns me. Chet and Vince aren’t part of the design team. They are strictly movers and shakers and lift-with-your-legs men.

“Is there a fine?” I say.

“Yes,” the man says. “And I’m going to need your work to cease immediately.”

“That’s not possible,” I say. Chet and Vince are twisting the blueprints around in circles, and I hear Vince say something about Del indicating the need for recessed lighting near the periodical stacks and that they’re gonna have to rewire the whole fucking garage.

“Is it my understanding that people are working here twenty-four hours a day?”

“How could I ever possibly know what you understand?” I say.

Before the man from the HOA can respond, the UPS truck pulls up for its daily drop-off and half of my staff piles out of the house to help bring in the delivery. Today it’s the sofas, the flip-top glass refrigeration unit, twenty crates of beans, and a set of uniforms.

“What are you building?” the man asks.

“A Starbucks,” I say. The UPS truck hauls away, and out on the street I see the golf cart and standard poodle both waiting patiently for their master. I look at my watch. It is exactly 1:00 PM.

“That’s against the CCRs.”

When Joanne and her kids—were there two or three of them? I can’t seem to remember now—moved in, she demanded to read the CCRs. When I asked her why, she said that she wanted to know which rule to break first, because she wanted to be the kind of neighbor other people gossiped about, or else she’d go crazy living on a golf course guarded by fat men with guns. “Normal people don’t live in vacation homes,” she said. That night and for the next 1,094 nights, she parked her car on the driveway, left the garage door open whenever she felt it prudent,
and cheated her way toward the Ladies Bunco Tournament title. Someone loved the pilgrim soul in her. I loved the charlatan and the grifter.

There were three kids. I’m almost certain of it.

“Let me ask you a question,” I say. “Do you remember seeing any kids living here?”

“Sir, I’m sorry if this is a bad time for you,” the man says, “but you must understand that we all live here to avoid just this sort of willy-nilly construction. Don’t you like living here? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“There were two girls,” I say. “I know that much, but I’m not sure if I’m confusing one of them with Joanne. So there might have been one girl and one boy. It seems like it’s right there on the tip of my tongue. You ever get that? Sort of like a sense of perfect clarity, and then you just can’t wrap your mind around it? You ever get that? Like when you’re outside
pretending
to play fucking golf when there’s a golf course in your fucking backyard? Or when you and that genetic fucking mishap of a dog go out for your thirty-minute battery-powered drive? You ever get the feeling that absolute truth is one fucking imaginary golf swing or thrilling bit of bestiality away? You ever get that?”

The man looks at me for a long time without speaking. Not hours or minutes or even really seconds, but like he’s frozen in front of me and time is stopped, and I’m the only one who is still aware that time should be moving and people should not be frozen.

“Yes. Well,” the man says. “I do hope you’re not considering a drive-thru or any kind of amplified music.”

I interviewed fifteen candidates but finally settled on Zack. He had the most prior experience and seemed to understand the project the best. Plus, there were never any ice particles in his Frappuccinos and his mochas were always double pumped.

“You understand that you’ll be expected to live here,” I say. We’re sitting across from each other in overstuffed chairs, the
New York Times
spread between us, Al Green singing about times being good and bad, happy and sad at a reasonable volume through the house speakers, and two pieces of crumble coffee cake have been placed discreetly on perfect white plates. My living room has never looked better.

“You got it, buddy,” Zack says.

“Eventually we’ll get you a few co-workers,” I say. “Maybe even a woman. Maybe two or three. But the first month is a probationary period, you understand, just to make sure it’s a good fit.”

“Whatever it takes,” Zack says. “That’s my philosophy.”

“Refreshing,” I say. “When can you start?”

“When would you like me to start?”

I like Zack. He’s a smart kid. Though I guess I’m not sure if he’s actually a kid. He could be thirty. He could be nineteen. He has a goatee and floppy hair, and he wears a leather necklace with an interesting pendant around his neck. He has a very discreet tattoo of a sunburst on his left forearm. He smells vaguely like patchouli, which I find comforting.

“Now sounds good,” I say.

“Well, all right,” Zack says, rising. I stand up as well, and Zack shakes my hand vigorously. “Let me just get set up behind the counter, and we’ll get it going for you.”

“How much time do you need?”

Zack runs a hand through his mop of hair and exhales through his mouth like he’s really contemplating. “Give me ten minutes,” he says.

I head off to my bedroom and place a call to Del. I’ve kept my bedroom fully functional in the belief that everyone needs a haven, even if home is paradise. God had the Garden of Eden, after all, and as I lay on my bed waiting for Del to pick up, I believe his only mistake was not eating the apple Himself.

Del answers on the tenth ring.

“Hello Jason,” he says.

“I’m calling to invite you over,” I say. “I’m having a soft opening this afternoon.”

“I’m not free today,” he says.

“Well, then I’ll have a soft opening tomorrow, too,” I say.

“Is there any reason why Joanne’s mother would call me?” he asks.

“Joanne?”

“Your wife, Jason,” Del says. “Your wife. You remember her, right?”

From the living room I can hear the sounds of milk being frothed and Bruce Springsteen doing an acoustic take on “Born To Run.” Zack has changed CDs, which is fine. A little advanced warning would be nice, but that’s why it’s a soft opening.

“Are you there?” Del asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Joanne. Lovely woman. And all of her kids. They were simply divine little creatures. All four of them. Three of them. Whatever, right?”

Del clears his throat, and I wonder what took him so long to answer the phone. Ten rings! Who doesn’t have voice
mail that picks up after four? Was he standing there staring at his caller ID and just counting? Did he decide ten rings was an appropriate number of rings for his only brother to sit through?

“Jason,” Del says, “listen. Joanne’s mother is worried. She hasn’t heard from her in over a month.”