Lunar Park

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3

13. parent/teacher night

I convinced myself I hadn’t seen anything. I had done this many times before (when my father struck me, when I first broke up with Jayne, when I overdosed in Seattle, every moment I thought about reaching for my son) and I was adept at erasing reality. As a writer, it was easy for me to dream up the more viable scenario than the one that had actually played itself out. And so I replaced the roughly ten minutes of footage—which began in the Allens’ backyard and ended with me holding a gun in my son’s room as a car from my past disappeared onto Bedford Street—with something else. Maybe my mind had started shifting while listening to the grating voices at the Allens’ dining table. Maybe the marijuana had created those manifestations I had supposedly witnessed. Did I believe what had happened last night? Did it make any difference if I did? Especially since no one else believed me and there was no proof? As a writer you slant all evidence in favor of the conclusions you want to produce and you rarely tilt in favor of the truth. But since on the morning of November third the truth was irrelevant—since the truth had already been disqualified—I was free to envision another movie. And since I was good at making up things and detailing them meticulously, giving them the necessary spin and shine, I began realizing a new film with different scenes and a happier ending that didn’t leave me shivering in the guest room, alone and afraid. But this is what a writer does: his life is a maelstrom of lying. Embellishment is his focal point. This is what we do to please others. This is what we do in order to flee ourselves. A writer’s physical life is basically one of stasis, and to combat this constraint, an opposite world and another self have to be constructed daily. The problem I encountered that morning was that I needed to compose the peaceful alternative to the terror of last night, yet the half world of the writer’s life encourages drama and pain, and defeat is good for art: if it was day we made it night, if it was love we made it hate, serenity became chaos, kindness became viciousness, God became the devil, a daughter became a whore. I had been inordinately rewarded for participating in this process, and lying often leaked from my writing life—an enclosed sphere of consciousness, a place suspended outside of time, where the untruths flowed onto the whiteness of a blank screen—into the part of me that was tactile and alive. But, admittedly, on that third day of November, I was at a point at which I believed the two had merged and I could not tell one from the other.

Or so I told myself. Because I knew better. I knew what had happened last night.

Last night was the reality.

Yet in order to move on I needed to rationalize the things I had seen to prove to myself that I wasn’t losing my mind. It took an immense amount of concentration and balance to pivot back and forth between the illusory and what you knew without a doubt was true and real, and you had to hope that you wouldn’t unravel somewhere on that trail that connected the two. So I told myself things on November third. I needed to do this because another day was waiting for me, and if I was going to get through it with any semblance of sanity I would have to deny last night. Cut the following from the work-in-progress: The character I had created, a monster, had escaped from a novel. Convince yourself that he had not been in the house last night. (The cream-colored Mercedes was trickier because of the California plates.) Pretend that the Terby hadn’t bitten you (despite the presence of a small scab on my palm) and that the detective who had stopped by on Saturday was full of ominous and confused bullshit. Invent a new chapter heading, “The Night That Never Happened.” Tell yourself it was all a dream. Last night I dreamt that by the light of the pool I saw the Terby tottering by the chrysanthemum bush, delicately feeding on an orange flower. Last night I dreamt this image when I roamed the house in my sleep, checking the locks on every door and window. I dreamt that the doll had somehow escaped from Sarah’s arms and made its way into the backyard. Last night I dreamt that the sounds I’d heard in the hallway coming from behind the door of the master bedroom were those of a child weeping. Last night I dreamt that another squirrel lay gutted on the deck, its intestines pulled from its stomach, its head missing. Last night I dreamt I hadn’t been at that wedding in Nashville where I first saw Robby, and where he took my hand in his and whispered sshhh because there was something he wanted to show me underneath the hedges in a hotel garden. And I dreamt the gentle slope of the lawn we moved across and our shadows tracking along the grass below us, and I dreamt that Robby’s forward motion was carrying me with him, just as I had dreamt the same hand of my father’s when I had guided him toward a bank of palm trees in Hawaii to show him the same lizard Robby had tried to show me and which didn’t exist in Nashville either. Because of this dreaming, the equilibrium required to get through the day returned. Because of this erasure the day was so much easier. I was gliding through it—partly because I was exhausted from lack of sleep (that night I hadn’t gotten closer than an uncomfortable doze) and the Xanax I kept popping, and partly because the writer had convinced me that everything was normal even though I knew the day’s surface tranquility was something brief, the respite from a nearing and total darkness.

My original plan that Monday was to keep out of sight until Jayne and I left for Buckley at seven that night. But there was no need to hide since the kids were at school and Jayne was training at the gymnasium in town for the reshoots. Once the house was empty (except for Rosa vacuuming the footprints that did not exist) I needed to occupy myself, so I inspected things.

First, I casually looked through the newspapers to see if there was any more information about the missing boys.

There was not.

I also looked for anything pertaining to what Donald Kimball had told me.

There was not.

When I entered the master bedroom I found nothing (but what was I looking for? what clues does a phantom leave?), and as I stood by the window I opened the venetian blinds and stared into the Allens’ yard and, for a brief moment, thought I saw myself lying on that chaise longue, looking back up at myself. It was only a flash, but suddenly I was that silhouette from last night, the shadow that I had dreamt. (In the same flash I had suddenly become that boy sitting next to Aimee Light in her BMW.) I moved around the room, replicating the shadow’s movements, wondering what it had been looking for. Nothing seemed to be missing from my closet or drawers, and there were no visible footprints on the carpet (though in my dreams they were in the living room and they were now in my office as well). I finally moved toward Robby’s door and, yet again, hesitated before stepping in. The scratches were still in the bottom right-hand corner and they needed to be painted over and

(I hate you. How many times had I said that to my father? Never. How many times had I wanted to? Thousands.)

the mouse was gone, I told myself, because I had dreamt it, and the room didn’t contain a single detail or clue or reminder of what I had dreamt in there last night. Boxes half-filled with old clothes for the Salvation Army sat in front of Robby’s closet. The moon continued pulsing on the screen saver.

In my office, I couldn’t concentrate on my novel so I reread the scene in American Psycho where Paul Owen is murdered and again was appalled by the details of the crime—the newspapers covering the floor, the raincoat worn by Patrick Bateman to protect his suit, the blade of the ax splitting Paul’s head open, the spraying of blood and the hissing sounds a skull makes coming apart. The thing that scared me the most: What if there was no rage in this person haunting Midland County? What if he just serenely planned his crimes and carried them out methodically, his emotional level akin to pushing a shopping cart through a supermarket while crossing items off a list? There was no rationale for these crimes other than that whoever was committing them liked it.

I did try Aimee Light again. Again she didn’t pick up. Again I didn’t leave a message. I didn’t know what to say anymore, since I had now dreamt seeing her pull out of the Whole Foods parking lot and onto Ophelia Boulevard with Clayton by her side. That—at this point in the dream—had not happened on Saturday afternoon.

I did not see Robby when he came home from school, and he did not sit down to dinner with the family, preferring to eat alone in his bedroom while ostensibly starting his homework. Sarah, sitting with Jayne and me, seemed unaffected by the events of last night, and during the meal I figured out why: she was part of the dream.

I dressed in a suit for parent/teacher night. I looked responsible. I was a concerned adult who yearned for news about his child’s academic progress. The following is the dialogue I wrote for the bedroom scene that night, but which Jayne refused to play and rewrote.

“What should I wear?” I asked.

After a long pause. “I think a smile should be enough.”

“So I can go as the naked grinning idiot?”

Muttered, barely audible: “All you have to do is nod and smile for ten minutes in front of a few teachers and meet the principal. Can you handle that without freaking? Or pulling out a gun?”

Apologetically: “I’ll try.”

“Stop smirking.”

Jayne conferred with Marta about what time we would be returning home.

Jayne did not seem to realize how seriously I was taking things.

We took the Range Rover and drove to the school in silence except when Jayne told me that we were seeing Dr. Faheida tomorrow night. I refrained from asking why we weren’t going at our usual time on Wednesday, because in the dream it no longer mattered.

At Buckley, security guards were everywhere. They stood at the gates, inspecting cars with flashlights while checking names on their lists. At the valet parking, more security guards—some armed—insisted on seeing photo IDs. The entire student body of Buckley, from nursery school through twelfth grade, amounted only to six hundred students (each class held about forty kids) and tonight just the parents of the elementary children were invited, and it seemed as if they had all turned out. The campus was mobbed with neatly dressed young couples, and Jayne received the requisite stares. By the Starbucks cart that had been set up outside the library, we ran into Adam and Mimi Gardner, and once it became apparent that they were ignoring me and no one was going to mention last night, I realized that they were part of my dream as well.

The school was sleek and industrial, with large steel doors that loomed above you wherever you turned, and the entire campus was surrounded by an immense amount of foliage. Trees canopied the school—it was hidden in a forest. Within these woods were a series of block structures—rows of anonymous bungalows dotted with small slotlike windows which comprised the bulk of the classrooms. The architecture was so minimalist that it possessed an unnerving glamour. And it was all based on control, yet it wasn’t claustrophobic, even with all the elms and shrubs that enclosed the school’s grounds. It was comforting, even playful. It was an undeniably chic little school. The gymnasium was a soaring space where we sat on concrete bleachers and listened to the principal make a compact but contrived speech about efficiency and organization, about the linking of mind and spirit, about safety and challenge, about our children’s yearning for a greater sense of the unknown. The following lecture was given by a behavioral pediatrician who had made numerous TV appearances, a silver-haired, soft-spoken Canadian who at one point suggested a Bring Your Stuffed Animal to School Day. And after the desultory applause we went to brief meetings with the teachers. We were shown samples of Robby’s artwork (all moonscapes) and we were told what was positive (not a lot) and what needed improvement (I zoned out). The teacher who worked with Sarah on language skills and word recognition and counting and primary numbers explained that Buckley tended to students’ emotional needs as well as their educational needs and after observing that children are not immune to stress she suggested that we enroll both Sarah and Robby in a confidence-building seminar and we were handed a pamphlet filled with photos of garishly dressed puppets and tips on such relaxation techniques as how to master bubble-blowing (“steady breaths will produce a nice stream”) and a reading list of books about positive thinking, texts to help children find “the quiet on the inside.” When Jayne began protesting charmingly, we were told, “Ms. Dennis, children are often stressed not because they weren’t invited to the right birthday party or were threatened by a bully, but, well, because their parents are stressed too.” Jayne began protesting again, this time less charmingly, and was interrupted with “How well a parent copes with stress is indicative of how well a child will deal with it.” We didn’t know what to say to that, so the teacher added, “Did you know that eight and a half percent of all children under the age of ten tried to kill themselves last year?” which rendered me silent for the rest of the meetings. I overheard another teacher tell a concerned couple, “That could be the reason that your child may end up developing interpersonal difficulties,” and the couple was shown a drawing of a platypus their son had made and was told that an average platypus should look “less deranged.” At one point Jayne muttered softly, “I practice yoga,” and we read a disturbing essay Sarah had written called “I Wished I Was a Pigeon,” which reduced Jayne to tears, and I just stared mutely at the drawings of the Terby—there were dozens of them—swooping down on a house that resembled ours, angry and in full attack mode. Parents were handed complimentary “stress baskets,” which included, among other items, a book called A Weed Can Be Transformed into a Flower. These meetings had wounded me sufficiently. I needed a drink more badly than I ever had. The dream was cracked and I needed it to keep streaming. There was no recourse except to smile darkly at everyone.

Finally, at the reception in the library, after four glasses of a sour chardonnay, I had to excuse myself from the proceedings.

Outside, I nodded at the armed security guard patrolling the stone walkway leading to the library and asked if he had a cigarette. He just said no and that smoking wasn’t allowed on school grounds. I tried to make a joke but the security guard didn’t smile when he stepped away from me and into the darkness. The average platypus, I thought, wandering off. The average platypus.

The library was three stories tall and framed one side of a large open courtyard. The windows of the building were translucent panels emitting a soft white light that filtered out into the darkness. From where I stood I could see the shadows of parents milling around, their murmurings from inside the building a distant soundtrack, and behind them were the long rows of bookshelves carving through the space. In the courtyard was a bronze statue of the Buckley Griffin, the school’s half-eagle, half-lion mascot, and it rose up out of the courtyard, twelve feet tall, its wings outstretched, about to leap off its platform and into flight. I went down the steps to check out the griffin and to find some privacy, but when I reached into my jacket for the cell phone (calling Aimee Light had always been part of my plan for the evening) I realized I wasn’t alone.

There was a figure encased in shadow, slumped on a bench. As I moved closer it said my name and I saw that it was Nadine Allen. I hesitated when I realized who it was. I looked around to make sure the word “Bret” was directed at me, hoping uselessly that it was not—but then she said the name again in a wearying monotone and I sighed and just kept nearing her.

Without saying anything I sat next to Nadine on the small bench jutting out of a tall granite wall. We were below ground level, I idly noticed, looking up at the library, ignoring Nadine. But movement caused me to glance at her. She was lifting a plastic cup half-filled with white wine to her lips and leaning lazily against the granite wall, and I was relieved that she was drunk, because that would keep the dream safely projected onto the wide screen, where it played as an alternative to what I was actually seeing.

In the courtyard, a small waterfall splashed lazily into a man-made pond, in which I briefly glimpsed the orange flashes of koi. Trees swayed overhead and coarse, thick vines were draped along the granite walls that surrounded us, lit up yellow and green by the colored bulbs of ground lamps. Nadine pulled her jacket tightly closed, even though it was warm out (though rain clouds had begun to obscure the moon), and she finished her wine and then, without saying anything, leaned into me, and I let her. She was a pretty woman, youthful for her age, and I watched as she lightly touched the highlights weaved throughout her hair. And when she still didn’t say anything I turned my gaze on the bronze statue of the griffin. Nadine’s silence finally succeeded in unnerving me, and so I prepared an innocuous conversation (oh, weren’t they all?) about the dinner she served last night when suddenly she said something. I didn’t quite catch it and I asked her to repeat the words she had just spoken. Her head lolled against my shoulder, and she giggled.

“They’re going to Neverland.”

I paused and adjusted my shoulder, causing Nadine to sit up sluggishly. I turned to look at her face. Her eyes were half closed and she was seriously buzzed. I was going to give the rest of the conversation sixty seconds and then quietly vacate the courtyard.

“Who . . . is going to Neverland?” I asked.

“The boys,” she whispered. “They’re going to Neverland.”

I cleared my throat. “What boys?”

“The missing boys,” Nadine said. “All of them.”

I took this in. She was waiting for me to reply. I tried to make a connection.

“You think . . . Michael Jackson has something to do with all this?”

Nadine giggled again and leaned into me, but I felt nothing sexual because the mention of the missing boys began enveloping everything around us.

“No . . . not Michael Jackson, silly.” And then she suddenly stopped giggling. She made a flying motion with her hands, mimicking a large, inebriated bird. She lurched forward and started swaying. “Neverland . . . like in Peter Pan. That’s where the boys are.” Mimicking the bird had taken a lot of effort and she leaned back against the wall without focusing on me. Her face—lost and heavily made up and the almond eyes wooden tonight—was lit half green by a ground lamp.

“Your . . . point, Nadine?” I asked cautiously.

“The point?” She sobered up too quickly. The tone became harsh. Maybe I looked frightened, which was what spurred her on. “You want to know what the ‘point’ is, Bret?”

I sighed and leaned against the wall. “No. Not really. No, Nadine. I don’t.”

“Why not?” She seemed activated by my admission, and the indignation in her voice seemed based not on drunkenness but on fear. “The point, Bret, the point is”—and now she breathed in and made a muffled, sullen sound—“the point is that no one is taking them anywhere.”

I nodded thoughtfully, as if mulling this over, and then said, “Sorry, but that just really doesn’t resonate, Nadine.”

“The point . . .”—she was now openly scornful—“the point is that you need to know this . . .” She reached down next to the granite bench and I was shocked to see her pick up a near-empty bottle of wine. Nadine had actually stolen a bottle of the Stonecreek Chardonnay from the reception and was nursing it in the dark courtyard of her children’s school. She carefully poured what was left of it into her plastic cup. I might have laughed if it hadn’t been for my growing concern that the vines were coiling around us. Suddenly, I was afraid. I was losing the signal of the dream. And I realized that Nadine’s behavior was motivated not by alcohol but by a specific anxiety that was spiraling out of control. “The point is”—she took a sip and pursed her lips—“that none of them are ever coming back.”

“Nadine, I think we need to find Mitchell, okay?” was all I could say.

“Mitchell, Bret, is standing next to your wife while Principal Cameron takes advantage of a photo op.” The way Nadine said this opened something up while failing to clarify anything—all it did was add confusion. Suddenly, in the phrasing of the sentence, and the way she had pushed down on certain words, all of our relationships were rearranged. The dream was slipping away.

Nadine sipped her wine and kept staring at something invisible in the darkness. The vines rustled around us. I kept trying to avoid her face and then made an attempt to stand up. Nadine had been quiet for so long that I didn’t think she would notice, but her hand shot out once I made my move and she gripped my forearm, pulling me back to her. She was staring at me now—her eyes bleeding with fear—and I had to turn away. That dream I had constructed so carefully was melting. I had to leave Nadine before it vanished totally, before it was consumed by someone else’s madness. It was becoming Nadine’s dream now, but the urgency in which she was relaying it to me had the horrible texture of truth. As I sat back down she said in a rushed whisper, “I think they’re leaving us.”

I didn’t say anything. I swallowed hard and went cold.

“Ashton collects information about the boys.” Nadine was still gripping my forearm and she was staring at me and she kept nodding. “Yes. There’s a file on his computer, and he didn’t know I found it. He collects information about the boys”—she breathed in and swallowed rapidly—“and he trades it with his friends . . .”

“This is really none of my business, Nadine.”

“But it is, Bret. It’s very much your business.”

“Why is it my business, Nadine?”

I suddenly hated her for what she was confessing to me and again I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t. She lowered her voice and glanced around the courtyard to see if there was anything in the darkness listening to us, almost as if there was a risk associated in confessing this to me.

“Because Robby is one of the boys he’s trading this information with.”

I paused for breath. Everything started wasting away at that point.

“What are you talking about, Nadine?” I tried pulling my arm from her grasp.

“You don’t understand, Bret”—she was almost panting—“there are hundreds of pages devoted to those boys that Ashton has downloaded.”

I could feel her trembling as I tore my arm free and turned away.

“He e-mails them, Bret.” Nadine said this so loudly that it echoed in the empty courtyard.

“He e-mails who?” I couldn’t stop myself. I had to ask.

“He’s sending e-mails to those boys.”

I stopped pulling away and then, forced by fear, slowly turned to face her.

“He knew . . . some of the boys who disappeared?” I asked.

Nadine stared at me. I felt that if she said yes, everything would collapse.

“No,” she said. “He didn’t know any of them.”

I sighed. “Nadine . . .” I started wearily.

“But he e-mailed them after they disappeared,” Nadine whispered. “That’s what I couldn’t understand. He e-mailed them after they disappeared.”

It took me a long time to ask, “How do you know this?”

“I found one the other day.” She was sitting up, ignoring the wine, composing herself; suddenly she realized that she had a partner in this conversation. “It was in a code of some kind, and he forwarded it to Robby.” She was trying to explain this by gesturing with her hands. “One message he sent to Cleary Miller, and another to Eddie Burgess, and when I checked the dates they were sent after they disappeared, Bret. It was after—do you understand?” She was panting again. “I found them in the filing cabinet of Ashton’s AOL account but I had no idea what it meant or why he would do this, and when I confronted him he just yelled at me about invading his privacy . . . and now, the last time I looked, the files and the e-mails weren’t there anymore . . .” And just when it seemed her lucidity had returned, Nadine broke down. She began sobbing. I was vaguely aware that she was clutching my wrist. I remembered last night and Ashton’s tear-streaked face and how Nadine kept excusing herself to check up on him. How many others had been the target of her paranoia? How many others were lured by this crazed theory of Nadine’s? She kept wanting to guide me to a point that she was not capable of making.

I tried to calm her by playing along. “So Ashton was writing to the boys in Neverland, right?”

“That’s right.” She choked back another sob. “The Lost Boys.” Her eyes were pleading, and the taut expression on her face was morphing into relief because someone now believed her.

“Nadine, have you told Mitchell?” I asked this in a soothing tone but I was so hyped up at this point that my voice sounded high and cracked. “Have you contacted the police and told them about this theory?”

“It’s not a theory.” She shook her head like a little girl. “It is not a theory, Bret. Those boys were not abducted. There’ve been no ransom demands. There’ve been no bodies.” She was rummaging through her purse and pulled out a tissue. “They have a plan. The boys have a plan. I think they have this plan. But why? Why do they have a plan? I mean, there’s no other explanation. The police have nothing. Do you know that, Bret? They have nothing. They—”

I was talking over her. “Where are the boys, Nadine?”

“No one knows.” She breathed in and shivered. “That’s the point. No one knows.”

“Well, maybe if we talked to them, to Ashton and—”

“They lie. They will lie to you—”

“But if—”

“Don’t you think the boys have been acting strange?” she asked, cutting me off. She wanted me to validate something for her that, admittedly, I had not been paying attention to.

“In . . . what ways?”

“I don’t know . . .” Now that she had admitted the worst, I thought she might relax and become less furtive, but her twisted hands kept bunching up the Kleenex. “Secretive . . . and . . . and . . . not available?” She phrased this as a question so I would have to answer and then become trapped in her own dream.

“Nadine, they’re eleven-year-old boys. They’re not comedians. Fifth-grade boys are hardly the most outgoing group. I was the same way at that age.” I just wanted to keep on talking. I just wanted to say anything that might drown her out.

“No, no, no—” She had closed her eyes and was shaking her head violently. “This is different. They have a plan. They—”

“Nadine, come on, stand up.”

“Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it?” Her voice was rising. “If we don’t do something we’re going to lose them. Do you understand that?”

“Nadine, come on, we’re going to find Mitch—”

She grabbed my arm again, her hands tearing at the sleeve of my jacket. She was breathing heavily.

“We’re going to lose them if we don’t do some—”

The dream was rushing in the opposite direction, rewriting itself. I was trying to lift Nadine off the granite bench but she kept forcing her weight back onto it. And suddenly she shouted, “Let go of me!” and wrenched herself away. I stood there, also breathing heavily, not knowing where to go. I kept straining to piece this information together.

And then: an interruption.

“Is everything okay down there?” a voice above us called.

I looked up. The armed guard I had asked for a cigarette was standing against a railing and staring down into the courtyard before sweeping the beam from a small flashlight over my face. Covering my eyes with a hand, I said, “Yes, yes, we’re fine,” as courteously as possible. From my point of view the griffin’s massive head floated directly below him.

“Madam?” the guard asked, training the ray of light on her.

Nadine composed herself, blowing her nose. She cleared her throat and squinted up at the guard and called back, smiling, in a restrained and faux cheerful voice, “We’re fine, we’re fine, thank you very much.” The light was absorbed by Nadine’s mask before the guard, peering down at us uncertainly, finally moved on. The guard’s interruption had brought an air of reality to the proceedings and it caused Nadine to stand up and, without looking at me, walk quickly toward the steps as if she was now ashamed by what she had admitted. I had rejected her on some level and the embarrassment was too big to deal with. The stab at a tryst had failed. It was a gamble that hadn’t paid off. It was time to go home. She would never mention any of this to me again.

“Nadine,” I called out. I was staggering after her.

I followed her up the stairs and tried to reach out for her but she was moving too quickly, bounding up the steps leading out of the courtyard until she reached the top, where Jayne was standing, waiting.

Nadine glanced at my wife and smiled, then moved swiftly toward the library.

Jayne nodded back amiably. There was nothing accusatory in Jayne’s stance—she was simply stifling a yawn, and she furrowed her brow only briefly when Nadine ignored her. At the sight of Jayne, my dream began returning, and as I stumbled over the top step I reached out and, letting the dream flow back over me, wrapped my arms around her, not caring when she refused to return the embrace.

And on the drive back to the house on Elsinore Lane, above the dashboard and out the windshield, visible in the wide horizon of darkness, I was seeing newly planted citrus trees that were appearing along the interstate, and the citrus trees kept flashing by, along with the occasional wild palm, their fronds barely visible in the blue mist, and the scent of the Pacific Ocean had somehow entered the Range Rover along with Elton John singing “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” even though the radio wasn’t on, and then there was an exit ramp and the sign above it read SHERMAN OAKS in shimmering letters, and I thought about the city I had abandoned on the West Coast and realized there was no need to point this out to my wife, who was driving, because the windshield suddenly was splintered by rain, obscuring the palm trees now lining the highway everywhere and, above them, the geometry of a constellation from a distant time zone, and I also realized that there was no need to point this out to Jayne because, in the end, I was only the passenger.