The Boy Next Door (13 page)

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: You are such

a mother hen.

But, yes, if you insist, I suppose I could arrange for the two of you to bump into one another somehow.

God, the things we do for our friends.

Mel

To: John Trent

From: Genevieve Randolph Trent

Subject: Your recent behavior

Dear John,

This is your grandmother speaking. Or should I say writing. I suppose you will be surprised to hear from me in this manner. I have chosen this venue, the e-mail, with which to correspond,
because you have not returned a single one of my telephone calls, and your brother, Jason, assures me that while you may not check your answering machine, you actually do occasionally answer e-mail messages.

Therefore, to business:

I can forgive the fact that you have chosen to throw caution to the wind and embark on your own career in a field that, frankly, no respectable Trent—or Randolph, either, for that matter—would ever consider. You have proven to me that not all news reporters are vermin.

And I can forgive the fact that you chose to move out of the building and live on your own, first in that hellhole on 37th with that hairy lunatic, and then where you currently reside, in Brooklyn, which I’m told is the most charming of the five boroughs, aside from the occasional race riot and collapsing supermarket.

And I can even forgive you for choosing not to touch any of the money that has been held in trust for you since your grandfather’s death. A man should make his own way in the world, if at all possible, and not depend upon his family for his means. I applaud your effort to do just that. It is far more than any of my other grandchildren have done. Look at your cousin Dickie. I’m certain if that boy had a vocation like you do, John, he would not spend half so much time putting things up his nose that have no business being there.

But what I simply cannot forgive you for is missing the dedication the other night. You know how much my benefits mean to me. This cancer wing I’ve donated is particularly important to me, as you know that cancer was what took your beloved grandfather from me. I understand that you might have had a previous commitment, but you could, at least, have had the courtesy to have sent a note.

I will not lie to you, John. I most particularly wanted you at this event because there is a certain young lady I was very anxious for you to know. I know, I know how you feel about my introducing you to my friends’ eligible daughters. But Victoria Arbuthnot,
whom I am sure you will remember from your childhood summers on the Vineyard—the Arbuthnots had that place in Chilmark—has grown into quite an attractive young lady—she has even overcome that horrible chin problem that has plagued so many of the Arbuthnots.

And she is, from what I understand, a real go-getter in the investment market. Since career-minded women have always appealed to you, I made an effort to ensure Victoria would be at the dedication the other night.

What a fool you made me look, John! I had to pawn Victoria off on your cousin Bill. And you know how I feel about
him
.

I know you pride yourself on being the black sheep of the family, John—though what is supposed to be so enraging about a man who works for a living, doing what it is he actually likes to do, I cannot imagine. Your cousins, with their various addictions and unsuitable pregnancies, are far more maddening.

However, this type of behavior really is quite bewildering, even for you. All I can say is that I hope you have a very good explanation. Furthermore, I hope you will take the time to respond to this letter. It is very rude of you not to have returned my calls.

Yours, in spite of that,

Mim

To: Genevieve Randolph Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: Forgive me?

Mim—

What can I say? You have made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was unconscionable of me not to return your calls. My only
explanation is that I have not been checking my answering machine as assiduously as I used to, due to the fact that, recently, I have been staying in the apartment of a friend. Well, not my friend, really—my friend’s aunt, to be exact, who has been hospitalized, and needed someone to care for her pets.

Although after what happened to one of her cats recently, I am not convinced I am the person most suited for the job.

Anyway, I want you to know that I did not fail to attend the dedication out of any sort of disdain for you or for the event. I just had something else to do. Something very important.

Which reminds me: Vickie Arbuthnot better not be holding her breath waiting for me, Mim. I’ve actually met someone.

And no, it isn’t anyone you know, unless you are familiar with the Fullers of Lansing, Illinois. Which I suspect you are not.

I know. I know. After the Heather debacle, you’d given up on me for good. Well, it takes a lot more to keep a man like me down than finding out a girl I hadn’t proposed to yet had already registered at Bloomingdale’s as the future Mrs. John Trent (and for $1,000 sheets, no less).

But before you start clamoring to meet her, allow me to work out a few slight…kinks. No romantic relationship in New York City is ever simple, but this one is even more complicated than most.

I am confident, however, that I can work it out. I
have
to work it out.

I just don’t have the slightest idea how I’m going to manage it.

Anyway, with many loving apologies, I hope you’ll still consider me sincerely

Your John

To: Mel Fuller

From: Don and Beverly Fuller

Subject: Look out!

Hi, honey, it’s Mommy again, writing you on the e-mail. I hope you are being careful because I saw last night on Tom Brokaw that
another
one of those awful sinkholes has opened up in Manhattan. This one is right in front of a newspaper, no less!

Don’t worry, though, it is that newspaper you hate, the snooty one. Still, think about it, sweetie, that could have been you sitting in that taxi that fell into that twenty-foot-deep hole! Except I know you never take taxis because you spend all your money on clothes.

But that poor lady! Why, it took three firemen to pull her out (you are so tiny, it would only take one fireman to pull you out of any sinkhole, I would think).

Anyway, I just wanted to say BE CAREFUL! Be sure to look down everywhere you go—but look up, too, since I heard people’s air conditioners sometimes go flying out of their windows if they are not fastened securely, and can go crashing down onto the pedestrians below.

That city is so fraught with peril. Why can’t you come home and work for the
Duane County Register
? I saw Mabel Fleming the other day at the Buy and Bag and she said she’d absolutely hire you as their Arts and Entertainment writer.

Think about it, would you? There’s nothing the least bit dangerous in Lansing—no sinkholes or falling air conditioners or
transvestite killers. Just that man who shot up all the customers at the feed store that time, but that was years ago.

Love,

Mommy

Crystal Hope LeBeau and Jeremy “Jer” Vaughn, both of Lansing, were married at the Lansing Church of Christ last Saturday.

Parents of the bride are Brandi Jo and Dwight LeBeau of Lansing, owners of Buckeye Liquors on Main Street in downtown Lansing. Parents of the groom are Joan and Roger Vaughn. Joan Vaughn is a homemaker. Roger Vaughn is employed by Smith Auto.

A reception was held at the Lansing Masonic Lodge, of which Mr. LeBeau is a member.

The bride, 22, is a graduate of Lansing High School and is currently employed at the Beauty Barn. The groom, 29, is a graduate of Lansing High School and is employed by Buckeye Liquors.

After a honeymoon in Maui, the couple will reside in Lansing.

To: George Sanchez

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Office morale

Dear George,

In an attempt to raise the morale around here, which I am sure you will agree with me is—to coin a phrase you frequently employ—
piss-poor, may I suggest that in lieu of a staff meeting this week, we all take a stroll over to 53rd and Madison in order to admire the gigantic sinkhole that has opened up in front of the office building housing our foe and main competitor, the
New York Chronicle
?

I am sure you will agree with me that this will constitute a refreshing change from the normal routine of listening to people complain about how the local Krispy Kreme shut down and how we haven’t been able to get decent doughnuts at our staff meetings ever since.

Plus, seeing as how all the water to the building in which the
Chronicle
is housed has been shut off, we will have the fun of seeing our esteemed colleagues running into the Starbucks across the street to use their facilities.

Please give this matter the full consideration it so richly deserves.

Sincerely,

Mel Fuller

Page Ten Correspondent

New York Journal

To: Mel Fuller

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Office morale

Are you high?

Everyone knows you only want to look at the sinkhole because you love a good disaster.

Get back to work, Fuller. I don’t pay you for your looks.

George

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: A big giant hole in the ground

Come on. How can you resist? If you go with me to look at it, I won’t make you go to spinning class today…

Mel

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: The big giant hole where your brain should be

You are insane. It is like eighty degrees out. I am not spending my precious lunch hour going to look at a giant hole in the ground, even if it
is
in front of the
Chronicle
.

Ask Tim Grabowski. He’ll go with you. He’ll go anywhere men in uniform are gathered in large clusters.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: I met him!

You lazy thing, you. If you’d gotten off your arse and come with us, you would have, as I did, met this fellow that our little Miss Mel has been yakking nonstop about all month.

But I suppose some of us think we’re simply too good for sinkholes.

Tim

To: Tim Grabowski

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: YOU MET HIM???

Spill it, you little weasel.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: What will you give me?

You fiery-spirited wench, you.

Tim

To: Tim Grabowski

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: I have to review the

new Bobby De Niro place, and I’ll take you with me if you tell me all about meeting Max Friedlander.

PUH-lease tell me. I’m begging you.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: Twist my arm

Okay, I’ll tell you. Only I want to go to Bobby’s new place for dinner, not lunch. That’s when all the cute investment bankers will be there.

All righty, then.

Picture it, if you will:

The scene–53rd and Madison. A forty-by-twenty-foot hole has opened up in the middle of the street. Surrounding this hole are police barricades, orange caution cones, bulldozers, cement mixers, Con Edison trucks, a crane, television news reporters, about a hundred cops, and twenty of the hottest construction workers this little computer programmer has ever seen.

The noise of the jackhammers and honking of horns by unsuspecting commuters, who did not listen to the 1010 WINS traffic report before they left Jersey, is deafening. The heat is oppressive.
And the smell, my dear—well, I don’t know what those Con Ed boys are doing at the bottom of that hole, but let me tell you, I strongly suspect they hit the wrong pipe.

It was as if a proverbial hellhole had opened up, right before that bastion of all that is evil, the illustrious
New York Chronicle
, and attempted to suck it back down to its creator, Mr. Satan himself.

And then, through it all, I saw on the face of our Miss Mel—who is, as I am sure you can guess, already giddy with joy at the spectacle before us—a look of such delight that I thought at first a Mr. Softee truck had appeared, and was handing out free chocolate-dipped cones.

Then, following the direction of her dazzled gaze, I saw what it was that had brought that beatific look to her face:

An Apollo. I am not exaggerating. An absolutely perfect specimen of manly beauty. He was standing behind one of the barricades, gazing into the hole, looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of a J. Crew catalog in his baggy chinos and soft denim workshirt. The wind tugged softly at his brown hair, and I swear to you, Nadine, if one of those construction workers had handed him a shovel, it wouldn’t have looked the least bit out of place in those big hands of his.

Which is a lot more than I can say for
my
boyfriend.

But to return to our scene:

Our Miss Mel (screaming to be heard over the pounding of the jackhammers): “John! John! Over here!”

Apollo turns. He sees us. He turns a deep but nevertheless completely attractive shade of umber.

I follow our little Miss Mel, picking her way through the police officers and outraged
Chronicle
employees, who, wearing their press passes, have descended on the poor souls from the mayor’s office and are demanding to know when their private bidets—don’t try to tell me they don’t have them up in those gold-lined halls they work in—are going to be flowing again. Upon reaching the godlike creature she calls John, for reasons that are
still a mystery to me, our Miss Mel goes on in her usual breathless manner:

Our Miss Mel:
“What are you doing here? Did you come to take pictures of the giant hole?”

Max Friedlander:
“Um. Yes.”

Our Miss Mel:
“Where’s your camera?”

Max Friedlander:
“Oh. Um. I forgot it.”

Hmmm. Lights may be on, but no one seems to be home. At least until—

Max Friedlander:
“Actually, I already got the shot I need. I was just out here because…well, you know I love a disaster.”

Our Miss Mel:
“Do I! Here, meet my friend Tim.”

Friend Tim shakes hands with Perfect Specimen of Mankind. Will never wash right hand again.

Max Friedlander:
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Friend Tim:
“Likewise, I’m sure.”

Our Miss Mel:
“Listen, I’m glad I ran into you.” She then proceeds to throw all known dating protocol to the wind by saying: “All my friends want to check you out, so do you think you could show up tomorrow night at Fresche on 10th Street around nine o’clock? Just a bunch of people from the paper, don’t be alarmed.”

I
know!
I was horrified as well! I mean, what could she have been
thinking?
You simply do not go around admitting things like that to prospective paramours. What happened to subtlety? What happened to feminine wiles? To boldly blurt the truth like that…well, I’ll tell you: I was appalled. It just goes to show, you can take
the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl.

Mr. Friedlander, I could tell, was every bit as shocked as I was. He went almost as white as he’d been red a minute before.

Max Friedlander:
“Um. Okay.”

Our Miss Mel:
“Great. See you then.”

Max Friedlander:
“Sure thing.”

Exit our Miss Mel. Exit Friend Tim. When I glanced over my shoulder, Max Friedlander had disappeared—a remarkable feat, considering that there was nowhere on that side of the hole for him to go except into the
Chronicle
building.

But he can’t have gone in
there
. His soul would have been ripped instantly from his body while demons sucked out his life force.

Anyway, that’s all. I fully expect to see you at Fresche tonight at nine. And
don’t
be late.

What’s the appropriate cocktail to order for something like this? I know! Let’s consult Dolly. She always knows just the right drink to go with the occasion.

Ta for now.

Tim