When the Thrill Is Gone

37

The living room was small and filled with sunlight that fell on a pine floor and furniture that was mostly antique white. The sofa and chair were upholstered in pale ivory, and the low coffee table and bookcase, with only seven books on it, were made from unfinished ash. A real cork-stoppered bottle of red wine stood on the table, accompanied by an elegant, unused, glass.

“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Chrystal Chambers-Tyler, known in that neighborhood as Miss Murphy, said.

I was tired, tired of false names, of lies, of hiding in general.

I sat on the cushioned chair, placing the satchel next to my right ankle on the pine floor. Then I held up my hands, fingers splayed wide.

“My name is Leonid McGill, Mrs. Tyler,” I said, “and I’m telling you right now that I’m sick of lying and being lied to.”

Hearing her name brought on a shock of fear that quickly gave way to resignation. The look said, If he wants to kill me, then I’m dead.

“A woman came to my office claiming to be you,” I continued. “She looked a lot like you. She told me that her husband wanted to kill her. I guess she meant that your husband wanted to kill you. Anyway... I went to him and he acted surprised, but not before he tried to fool me into thinking that another guy, who looked a lot like him, was the real Cyril Tyler.”

Chrystal sat with excellent posture on the white sofa. Her face had stopped communicating.

“Was there really something about Fatima and them?” she asked. “Or was that another lie?”

As she spoke these words, a solitary tremor went up her neck, moving her head just slightly.

“I went to a commune on Avenue D where Shawna, your sister, was supposed to be living. She wasn’t there, but the children were being held against their will. I got them out of there and they said something about a man putting their mother to sleep and then this guy Beria and his friends burying her.”

“She’s dead?” Chrystal could have been Fatima right then. The question was that innocent. There was the potential for pain, but she held that down, admirably.

“I don’t know for sure,” I said, “but I decided to take the kids someplace safe. I asked them what they wanted and they said that they wanted to be with you.”

I was trying very hard to stay within the realm of truth, as far as I knew it, but admitting to direct knowledge of a murder was further than I wanted to go.

“Do you think that Shawna is dead?”

“Like I said — I don’t know. But there isn’t any sign of her, and her children were alone in the commune.”

Passing sadness showed on her face like a ghost drifting between us.

“Are the...” she said and hesitated. “Are the police involved?”

“I thought it would be better to come to you first.”

“Why?”

“Your sister gave me a twelve-thousand-dollar retainer,” I said. “I know that your husband’s two previous wives either died or disappeared under questionable circumstances, and the kids are just kids. That’s a straight path here to you.”

“And what do you want?”

“This is as far as I could get on my own. I put the children someplace safe and came to you. The question is — what do you want?”

There are moments when the emotional red tape between strangers gets cut — immediately. Usually it takes many hours, lots and lots of conversation, and the presentation of indisputable proofs before people, intelligent ones at any rate, can even begin to trust each other. After all, most of what people say is lies; in church, in court, even under the threat of death. People lie when they think they’re telling the truth. It is one of the most universal human traits.

But every once in a while the need to trust causes us to ignore the implacable crush of lies. I could see in Chrystal’s eyes that she needed to trust me.

“I could call the kids for you right now,” I offered. “You could talk to Fatima on the phone.”

She didn’t say the word but everything about her demeanor said yes.

I entered Aura’s number and on the fourth ring Theda answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, girl.”

“Uncle L, hi.”

“How’s it goin’?”

“We’re building a fort out of cardboard boxes. Fatima and Boaz are the Indian scouts and the rest of us are waiting for the attack.”

“Put Big Chief Fatima on, will ya?”

The phone made some muffled noises and then a timid voice said, “Yes?”

“I got somebody here wants to talk to you, Fatima,” I said before handing the little cell over to the real Chrystal.

“Fatima?”

The smile that blossomed across Chrystal’s face was something I had hankered for in a long life of solitude. It was the love of a relative who felt a connection with a child who needed that emotional touch.

I wanted that contact more than anything.

They talked about Fatima’s brothers and sisters, about the house they were staying in and what the child thought about me. There was no mention, at least on Chrystal’s part, of Shawna’s possible death.

“Of course you can all come live with me,” the grateful woman said. “But we have to make sure that it’s okay with your mom.”

This last phrase was very important. The children, the older ones at least, were pretty sure that their mother was dead. But knowledge for children is a different thing than it is for adults. Finality is slow in coming for those whose bones have not yet stopped growing. Shawna would be with them for a very long time. She’d be with Chrystal forever.

They talked for at least fifteen minutes before the child was drawn back into the immediacy of her life.

When Chrystal handed the phone back to me there was a shy look in her eyes. I had seen something of her that very few ever had. She was open and vulnerable and fully expressive of love.

Our fingers touched when I took the phone.

“Satisfied?” I asked.

“If that’s what you call it,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of the kids. I’m always worried about them. Shawna lives such a dangerous life.”

“Did you sell a necklace called Indian Christmas to a woman named Nunn?”

“Yes,” she said, a little startled.

“And did you give some of that money to your sister?”

“For her and my brother.”

“Are you afraid that Cyril is planning to have you murdered?”

There’s a limit to honesty with strangers. I had come right up to that border.

Chrystal turned her head away from me. She crossed her bare legs, and I experienced a moment of excitation that passed quickly.

“I know a guy,” I said, “a driver for a limo company, who’d be happy to drive the kids down here. Getting custody might be difficult if you’re not in state, and I don’t think you want them in the foster-care system.”

“No,” she said.

It was like we were old friends or family. I wanted to press her, to find out about her domestic situation, which was so vague. But there was an unspoken prohibition that kept me silent.

I stood up.

“I’ll get back to New York and have the kids brought down here. If you need anything, here’s my card.”

She stood to take the card but caressed my fingers instead.

“Would you like to stay for some wine?” she asked.

She brought out another glass and poured more than one round.

I remember the first kiss.