Page 44 of Coram House

“Alex, hi.”

The man’s voice is low and thick, like he has a cold.

“I—um—well, I hope you don’t mind me calling. This is Xander Nilsson. We met the other day at the police station. Or, well, maybemetisn’t exactly the right word. I—well, I wanted to call and say I’m sorry for my behavior. It’s inexcusable, really. But I would actually really like to treat you to dinner if you’re up for it—to apologize. But I understand if you’re not. Anyways, sorry again and—yeah. Just let me know.”

Xander Nilsson. Until now, he has felt unreal. A fairy-tale millionaire who set his own car on fire. It’s strange to hear the voice of an actual person on the phone. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that he got my phone number. I should probably be creeped out, but mostly I’m curious. Either way, I’m not calling him back, I decide. I don’t need any more distractions.

I nurse my beer and riffle through boxes of old receipts. I find Sister Cecile’s name on a few documents: an order form for two hundred pencils, a receipt for a donation of flannel sheets. Sometimes she signs her full name, Sister Cecile, and sometimes S. Cecile. Some of the other signatures are illegible, but her looping whirls are identically tidy. It’s maddening to have all these pieces of the past and nothing useful. I’m on my second beer when the phone rings. I lunge for it. The number is blocked.

“Hello?” I answer, hoping it’s Stedsan.

“Hey, hey.”

Lola’s voice throws me off. Like she’s calling me from a past life instead of just from Brooklyn. “Lola,” I say. “Hi.”

“Don’t sound so excited.” Her tone is mock annoyed.

“No—I’m just surprised—your number is blocked.”

“I’m at work. Anyways, what are you up to?”

“Going through grocery receipts from 1958.”

“Girl, it’s almost nine. Even brain surgeons take evenings off.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” But I move to the couch and lay down. “I’m drinking a beer.”

She sighs. “You know there are these places called bars where you can drink with other humans.”

I put Lola on speakerphone and listen to her talk about a project at work that’s not going well, how the restaurant around the corner—our happy hour spot—is closing, how the weather has been terrible. Her voice is soothing and steady, the backdrop of the last two decades of my life. I listen while I finish my beer and open another, feeling like I’m floating on a familiar sea, warm and relaxed.

“Alex,” Lola says. “How are things—really?”

I sit up. I know what she’s really asking. Am I still obsessed with the Tommy thing? Does she need to worry about me?

“I’m— It’s good,” I say, which is what I’d say if I’d just chopped off my leg and was bleeding to death on the floor. But I do the dance. She’s just trying to help.

Avoiding any mention of Tommy, I tell her instead about the charming and handsome elderly lawyer and the gruff local cop. I tellher how badly I messed up our first meeting. And I tell her about the moose, which does make her laugh. I don’t mention the dead body I found in the water. Partly because I know she’ll freak out and partly because the woman’s warm, slippery skin still feels too real under my fingers. I’m not ready to package it into an anecdote.

“Officer Russell Parker,” Lola rolls the name around her mouth. “It’s a movie star name. How old is he?”

“I don’t know. Early forties maybe.”

“Is he hot?”

“Jesus, Lola. I don’t know.”

“That means yes.”

This line of questioning makes me want to get up and pace, so I change the subject to Xander stumbling into me drunk at the police station. How he’s some kind of wayward tech millionaire that washed up in Vermont.

“You’re going to go, right? To your apology dinner?”

I can hear how careful she is not to call it a date.

“What?” I laugh. “Of course not.”

“Come on!” she says. “You have to go. He probably has a champagne fountain.”

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