“The day after that, Marian Wallace washes up by the lighthouse,” Lambiase says.
“Yes, I wait to see if Daniel will say anything, to see if he will recognize the girl and claim the baby, but he doesn’t. And I, coward that I am, never bring it up.”
Lambiase takes her in his arms. “None of this matters,” he says after a while. “If there was a crime—”
“There was a crime,” she insists.
“If there was a crime,” he repeats, “everyone who knows about any of it is dead.”
“Except Maya.”
“Maya’s life has turned out beautifully,” Lambiase says.
Ismay shakes her head. “It has, hasn’t it?”
“The way I see it,” Lambiase says, “you saved A. J. Fikry’s life when you stole that manuscript. That’s the way I see it.”
“What kind of cop are you?” Ismay asks.
“The old kind,” he says.
THE NEXT NIGHT, like every third Wednesday of every month for the last ten years, is Chief’s Choice at Island Books. At first, the police officers felt obligated to join, but the group has grown in genuine popularity over the years. Now it’s the largest book meetup that Island has. Police officers still make up the bulk of the membership, but their wives and even some of their children, when they get old enough, attend. Years ago, Lambiase had had to institute a “leave your weapons” policy after a young cop had pulled a gun on another cop during a particularly heated discussion of The House of Sand and Fog. (Lambiase would later reflect to A.J. that the selection had been a mistake. “Had an interesting cop character but too much moral ambiguity in that one. I’m going to stick to easier genre stuff from now on.”) Other than this incident, the group has been free of violence. Aside from the content of the books, of course.
As is his tradition, Lambiase arrives at the store early to set up for Chief’s Choice and talk to A.J. “I saw this resting on the door,” Lambiase says when he comes inside. He hands a padded manila envelope with A.J.’s name on it to his friend.
“Probably another galley,” A.J. says.
“Don’t say that,” Lambiase jokes. “Could be the next big thing in there.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s probably the Great American Novel. I’ll add it to my stack: Things to Read before My Brain Stops Working.”
A.J. sets the package on the countertop, and Lambiase watches it. “You never know,” Lambiase says.
“I’m like a girl who has been on the dating scene too long. I’ve had too many disappointments, too many promises of ‘the one,’ and they never are. As a cop, don’t you get that way?”
“What way?”
“Cynical, I guess,” A.J. says. “Don’t you ever get to the point where you expect the worst from people all the time?”
Lambiase shakes his head. “No. I see good people just as much as I see bad ones.”
“Yeah, name me some.”
“People like you, my friend.” Lambiase clears his throat, and A.J. can think of no reply. “What’s good in crime that I haven’t read? I need some new picks for Chief’s Choice.”
A.J. walks over to the crime section. He looks across the spines, which are, for the most part, black and red with all capitalized fonts in silvers and whites. An occasional burst of fluorescence breaks up the monotony. A.J. thinks how similar everything in the crime genre looks. Why is any one book different from any other book? They are different, A.J. decides, because they are. We have to look inside many. We have to believe. We agree to be disappointed sometimes so that we can be exhilarated every now and again.
He selects one and holds it out to his friend. “Maybe this?”
What We Talk about When We Talk about Love
1980 / Raymond Carver
Two couples get increasingly drunk; discuss what is and what is not love.
A question I’ve thought about a great deal is why it is so much easier to write about the things we dislike/hate/ acknowledge to be flawed than the things we love.* This is my favorite short story, Maya, and yet I cannot begin to tell you why.
(You and Amelia are my favorite people, too.)
—A.J.F.
*This accounts for much of the Internet, of course.
Lot 2200. A last-minute addition to the afternoon’s auction and a rare opportunity for the vintage books connoisseur. Tamerlane and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe. Written when Poe was eighteen and attributed to ‘A Bostonian.’ Only fifty printed at the time. Tamerlane will be the crown jewel in any serious rare-books collection. This copy shows some wear at the spine and is marked in crayon on the cover. The damage should not in any way spoil the beauty or diminish the rarity of this object, which cannot be overstated. Let the bidding begin at twenty thousand dollars.”
The book sells for seventy-two thousand dollars, modestly exceeding the reserve. After fees and taxes, this is enough money to cover A.J.’s copay on the surgery and the first round of radiation.
Even after he receives the check from Christie’s, A.J. has doubts about whether to go through with treatment. He still suspects that the money would be better spent on Maya’s college education. “No,” Maya says. “I’m smart. I’ll get a scholarship. I’ll write the world’s saddest admissions essay about how I was an orphan abandoned in a bookstore by my single mother and how my adopted dad got the rarest form of brain cancer, but look at me now. An upstanding member of society. People will eat it up, Dad.”
“That is awfully crass of you, my little nerd.” A.J. laughs at the monster he has created.
“I have money, too,” the wife insists. Bottom line is, the women in A.J.’s life want him to live, and so he books the surgery.
“SITTING HERE, I find myself thinking that The Late Bloomer really was a bunch of hokum,” Amelia says bitterly. She stands up and walks over to the window. “Do you want the blinds raised or lowered? Raised, we get a spot of natural light and the lovely view of the children’s hospital across the way. Lowered, you can enjoy my deathly pallor under the fluorescent lights. It’s up to you.”
“Raised,” A.J. says. “I want to remember you at your best.”
“Do you remember when Friedman writes how you can’t truly describe a hospital room? How a hospital room when the one you love is in it is too painful to be described or some such crap? How did we ever think that was poetic? I’m disgusted with us. At this stage in my life, I’m with all the people that never wanted to read that book in the first place. I’m with the cover designer who put the flowers and the feet on the front. Because you know what? You totally can describe a hospital room. It’s gray. The art is the worst art you’ve ever seen. Like stuff that got rejected by the Holiday Inn. Everything smells like someone is trying to cover up the smell of piss.”
“You loved The Late Bloomer, Amy.”
She has still never told him about Leon Friedman. “But I didn’t want to be in some stupid play version of it when I was in my forties.”
“Do you think I should really have this surgery?”
Amelia rolls her eyes. “Yes, I do. Number one, it’s happening in twenty minutes, so we probably couldn’t get our money back anyway. And number two, you’ve had your head shaved, and you look like a terrorist. I don’t see what the point is in turning back now,” Amelia says.
“Is it really worth the money for two more years that are likely to be crappy?” he asks Amelia.
“It is,” she says, taking his hand.
“I remember a woman who told me about the importance of shared sensibility. I remember a woman who said she broke up with a bona fide American Hero because they didn’t have good conversation. That could happen to us, you know,” A.J. says.
“That is an entirely different situation,” Amelia insists. A second later, she yells, “FUCK!” A.J. thinks something must be seriously wrong because Amelia never curses.
“What is it?”
“Well, the thing is, I rather like your brain.”
He laughs at her, and she weeps a little.
“Oh, enough with the tears. I don’t want your pity.”
“I’m not crying for you. I’m crying for me. Do you know how long it took me to find you? Do you know how many awful dates I’ve been on? I can’t”—she is breathless now—“I can’t join Match.com again. I just can’t.”
“Big Bird—always looking ahead.”
“Big Bird. What the . . . ? You can’t introduce a nickname at this point in our relationship!”
“You’ll meet someone. I did.”
“Fuck you. I like you. I’m used to you. You are the one, you asshole. I can’t meet someone new.”
He kisses her and then she reaches under his hospital gown between his legs and squeezes. “I love having sex with you,” she says. “If you’re a vegetable when this is done, can I still have sex with you?” she asks.
“Sure,” A.J. says.
“And you won’t think less of me?”
“No.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the turn this conversation has taken,” he says.