Look Closer

“Happy Halloween,” I say, but he doesn’t smile. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”

I follow him up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He stops in the kitchen and looks at me. “I’m fine. Just nerves, I guess. I’ve never done something like this.”

Don’t go wussing out on me now, Christian. I need you, pal.

His eyes are glassy, almost like he’s been crying. He’s pale and sweaty and shaky.

Are you fucking kidding me? He’s going south on me now? We’re just hours away.

“Let me get you some water,” I say.

“Gloves,” he says, pointing at the kitchen counter.

A pair of rubber gloves, pulled out of their wrapping and waiting for me. Smart.

“I just spent . . . all weekend scrubbing you out of this condo,” he says.

I snap on the rubber gloves, grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and hand it to him. “Drink,” I say. “Do you have the flu or something?”

“I just . . . threw up,” he admits. “Nervous stomach, I guess. I don’t have the flu.”

“Let me take your temperature. You have a thermometer?”

“Uh . . . I think so. An old one.”

I head into his bathroom. It reeks of vomit. The toilet lid is still up. What a freakin’ cream puff. But what did I expect, I guess, from a guy with a titanium toothbrush and matching nose-hair trimmer?

“I’ll clean up in here a little,” I call to him. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”

Get some rest and grow a pair of testicles.

—

When I come out of the bathroom, Christian’s lying on the couch, trying to relax but not succeeding. I drop my bag down and sit next to him, putting his feet on my lap.

“We’re only getting one chance at this,” I say.

“I know that. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”

“Did you practice with the Glock?”

He nods. “I practiced. It’s fine. It’s easy to handle.”

“Okay. What time are you going?”

He blows out. “Probably six-thirty or so, I’ll be there. I’ll try to blend in with the crowd. I’ll make it down to her house about five minutes ’til seven.”

“Good. A couple minutes before seven, ring the doorbell. If it’s after seven, she might not answer—”

“I know. I got it.”

“And right at seven, people might be sticking their heads out to shout ‘Happy Halloween’—”

“I know, Vicky. A couple minutes before seven. And what happens if other kids are there at that time? Other trick-or-treaters?”

“Not very likely,” I say. “But if so, wait for them to leave.”

“And you’re sure Conrad is out of town?”

“I’m sure. It will be Lauren answering the door. She’s there alone. Okay?” I shake his leg. “We okay? It’s a good plan, Christian.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as me. “I’m fine.”

Jeez. Does he want his hands on that twenty-one million or not?

72 Simon

This isn’t over.

After Vicky leaves Monday morning, I try to find an outlet for my nervous energy. I clean the downstairs, spraying and wiping and vacuuming and dusting. When I’m done, I stretch my back, sore but calmed by the physical labor. The sunlight streaming into the family room helps, too. The middle of the night, dark and desolate, is never a good place for me. Daytime is much better.

And it’s nice to have that green journal behind me, every last page burned to ash and scattered into the wind in my backyard. It’s just about the last remaining connection to Lauren.

Other than the green phone, turned off, in my pocket.

I go to work. I’m not sure why. I don’t have class today and I don’t have office hours today, but I go anyway, maybe because I think I’m supposed to, because it will look right, it will look normal, but I can’t think about the law. I can only think about her. I try to read from the e-bulletin I receive every Monday about new Fourth Amendment decisions handed down around the country, but all I can think about is her. I try to focus on my new law review article on the good-faith exception to the warrant requirement, but all I can think about is her. I put on my headphones and jam the loudest music I can find, Metallica and Rage Against the Machine—

Trapped in myself, body my holding cell
An empty glass of himself shattered somewhere within

—turning it up louder and louder and louder, but all I can think about is Lauren Lauren Lauren Lauren LAUREN.

—

I open my eyes. I’m home. I got home. Right, I drove home.

I’m in the basement, in the dark. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to do this.

You don’t have to do this.

Simon Peter Dobias: You can let this go. You can let her go.

—

I go to the pantry and open it up. Six hundred forty pieces of candy, four bags of a hundred sixty each. Happy Halloween.

What time is it? After three. Trick-or-treating starts at four in Grace Park, an hour later than the Village.

Waiting. The waiting is ripping a hole through my stomach. Nothing I can do but grit it out. Deep breaths now, Simon. Deep breaths.

Why always “trick or treat” and never, ever “treat or trick”? It means the same thing. So does “jelly and peanut butter” or “cream ’n’ cookies” or “white and black.”