The Dissident Page 9

  14.

  THE STUDIO HAD NOT EXACTLY ASKED HIM TO COME. THEY HAD MENTIONED something about flying him out “at a later point” to meet the writers, and when Phil had expressed confusion—he’d been under the impression that he was the writer—the executives had explained that with a project like this one, it was always good “to have a couple of extra hands on deck.” Phil hadn’t mentioned this conversation to Aubrey, who believed he had been summoned urgently to L.A. and was going under duress, in order to secure their future together.

  He didn’t want to keep things from Aubrey. But once you’d kept one thing secret, Phil had discovered, it was often difficult not to conceal others. Aubrey wouldn’t understand why it was so important for him to make a triumphant return to Los Angeles, the city he had left in shame and anger ten years before.

  He had resolved that it would be different this time. He’d planned to finalize all of the arrangements beforehand, to leave nothing to chance. Then Cece had told him about Max. Phil believed that there had always been a bond between himself and his nephew. From the early days, when Max had begun to ask him questions about the dinosaurs (and Phil had essentially memorized the encyclopedia in order to answer them), he was startled to find that his nephew looked up to him. He took Phil’s hand and listened with a kind of enamored fascination. No one had ever listened to Phil that way, before or since. When Max had stopped eating everything except for strawberry yogurt, peanut butter, and plain pasta (and only the kind shaped like pinwheels), Phil had been able to relate. It was nice to know what you were getting. He had been the one to carry those snacks on their frequent outings, secured in little baggies. He had been the one to reassure Cece that Max would be fine.

  He knew from Cece about his nephew’s problems in school, but school wasn’t for everyone. (It hadn’t, for example, been for Phil.) At five, Max had known the difference between the brontosaurus, stegosaurus, and triceratops. He had known the pterodactyls. Phil had missed a good deal of Max’s childhood, admittedly, but the kid he’d known had been destined for greatness. He had always meant to get in touch with Max, in an avuncular way, perhaps by mail, but it had never been exactly the right time. There was also an element of pride involved. Ten years ago, his brother had essentially banished him from the family; and if they didn’t want him, he certainly didn’t need them.

  Of course, ten years ago, Gordon had had his reasons.

  “We have a problem with your lifestyle,” his brother had said. This was after Gordon’s book had been published, and his brother had spent nearly a year lecturing all over the country. He had even been to Europe. Phil was working at the restaurant on Melrose, waiting tables and tending bar. He was supposedly auditioning during the day, but it was hard to keep that up, especially after he’d started spending time with Cece and the kids. His shift at the restaurant ended at one in the morning, and he often went out afterward; if he occasionally enjoyed a line or two of cocaine, that was a part of the scene. It wasn’t like he was snorting it in front of the children, or mixing up their little baggies with his own. Phil told himself it was Gordon’s dishonesty that bothered him. There was only one reason his brother had asked him to stay away, and it had nothing to do with Phil’s lifestyle.

  They never determined how much Gordon actually knew. There were certainly never any dramatic scenes of discovery, or any demands about where Cece had been on such and such a day, at such and such a time. Phil sometimes thought it was the friendship Gordon had resented more than anything else. He had a vivid memory of coming in the front door of their old house in Westwood late one afternoon. Cece was carrying Max, and he had Olivia by the hand, and they were laughing about something, he couldn’t remember what. They had the same dumb sense of humor. Gordon was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of coffee. He looked at Phil as if he were seeing him for the first time in years, as if he were just now coming to the conclusion that his little brother had grown into a fully functional adult.

  Three weeks later, Gordon had asked him to go.

  If his brother had accused him in a straightforward way, it would’ve been different. If he had threatened him or hit him, or worse, asked how Phil could have done it—he would have been ashamed. He would have been sorry, and he would’ve wondered himself how such a thing could’ve happened. He might even have gone away on his own.

  As it was, however, Phil had not been able to feel sorrow or regret. He had been too angry. His brother had a way of making him feel like a disappointment: a combination of disgust and pity that was very familiar.

  “I don’t want you around my children,” Gordon had said. It had been his brother standing in front of him, but he had heard his father’s voice. And the worst thing was, when Phil repeated it to Cece, she hadn’t been indignant. She hadn’t rushed to his defense, reminding Gordon of all of those weekends at the observatory, or the tar pits, or the museum, while they had amused the children so that he could have peace and quiet to complete his Great Work. She hadn’t even argued. When Phil told her that her husband had spoken for her (“We have a problem…”), Cece had nodded and said:

  “Well, maybe it’s best.”

  15.

  PHIL HAD DECIDED TO TAKE THE RED-EYE TO COMPENSATE FOR THE EXTRA expense of an open return. It wasn’t like he was rich: a million dollars wasn’t so much anymore, especially after taxes. He had tried to explain that to Aubrey, who of course didn’t hear him. With her salary, and the promise of Phil’s new career, they ought to be able to get started right away. Aubrey was coming to visit him at Thanksgiving, by which time Phil knew he was expected to have procured a ring.

  He booked an in-cabin animal passage for Fionnula, who was traveling as a “kitten.” Every day before his departure he had thought of canceling the ticket; every day he had put Fionnula in her case (so that she might get used to it) with a square of sheepskin that had been rubbed against her mother in Flushing. He wanted her to be prepared either way. He’d been petrified about the airport—surely someone would ask to see her—but in fact the only time he was required to take Fionnula out of her case was at the X-ray machines.

  “It’s a newborn kitten—the runt of the litter,” Phil had said when he lifted her out of the case. He held her against his chest, shielding her body from the eyes of the guards.

  “Aw, a kitten,” the security guard said. The man in front of the X-ray monitor hadn’t looked up.

  It was only once he was on the plane that he encountered suspicion.

  “What is that anyway?” Karen, the Portland-based stewardess, asked him.

  Phil did not like to lie. He occasionally fibbed, in order to make life more pleasant for himself and the people around him, but he tried not to do anything that felt dishonest. In general he tried to go by his gut feeling. Because they were still on the ground, where rules could be put into effect, he decided to be evasive. “A cat. Sort of.”

  “Sort of a cat?”

  “A kitten. She’s a rare breed. Have you heard of the Singapore shorthair?”

  “I’ve heard of Siamese.”

  “That’s different,” Phil said.

  The stewardess shook her head. “Just make sure you keep it in its cage.”

  A businessman stared across the aisle at Phil.

  “She qualified as a cat,” Phil reassured him. “Slipped in under the cat wire.”

  The southern stewardess began the announcements, from behind the curtain in the first-class gallery: “Fasten your seatbelt by inserting the metal fitting into the buckle. Pull on the loose end to secure the strap.” Voice, Phil thought, was one of the key things about a woman. It was rare that you found a truly gorgeous woman with a comparatively appealing voice. Fionnula Flynn, for example, his favorite NPR correspondent, was a large woman with a long face and a practical haircut, who favored shapeless blouses and bright-colored shawls. Her voice, however, could make in-hospital interviews with mutilated Chechen militants sound sexy.

  It figured that the best-looking stewardess would
be working first class. Phil might have flown first class himself, or at least business, if he had waited for the studio to fly him out. Everything would have been arranged in advance: a car to meet him at the airport; a fancy hotel; a schedule. He would’ve disembarked first, fresh and well rested, and his family would’ve been waiting for him at the gate. His brother would’ve given him a real, fraternal hug—which would’ve signified love, forgiveness, and the fact that blood was thicker than water, which was under the bridge anyway. His niece and nephew would’ve been jumping up and down, asking whether he’d brought them anything, and when he looked up from their eager caresses, he would’ve seen their mother standing there, waiting her turn. Cece wouldn’t have said anything, but she wouldn’t have had to: everything would’ve been right there in her goddess-gray eyes.

  Of course, his family did not know he was coming. His niece and nephew—it was difficult to remember—were now teenagers, hardly likely to rush out to the airport to meet him. Nor was his brother Gordon, famously unable to sit through a commercial film without falling asleep, likely to be impressed by the screenplay deal. His brother would be sure to ask discouraging questions, such as:

  When will they actually make this film?

  What exactly does the co producer do?

  And:

  How much will be left, after you’ve paid off your credit-card debt?

  It had been ten years since their falling-out, but it was very possible that Gordon would still not welcome him with open arms. It was even possible that Cece was annoyed with him after the conversation about Fionnula, whom she had mistaken for a new girlfriend, a misunderstanding he hadn’t been able to correct, since he wanted the bush baby to be a surprise. If Cece and Gordon turned him away, where would he go? He loved hotels, but you couldn’t live in a hotel for months, even if you were a millionaire.

  “Pardon me?”

  It was the businessman across the aisle.

  “Yes?”

  “You said that was a cat?”

  “Yes.”

  The man spread his magazine facedown on the seat next to him. It was the in-flight shopping guide. He was looking at page after page of chocolate truffles, Soloflex machines, and Brita at-home water filtration systems.

  “What kind of cat?”

  “Just the ordinary kind,” Phil said. When you were fibbing, it was better to keep things as simple as possible.

  “That’s funny,” said the businessman. “Because I’m allergic. Usually.”

  “She’s nonallergenic,” Phil said. “A special breed.”

  “Is that right? My wife would love a cat, but the dander’s a problem. Knocks out my sinuses.”

  Somewhere in the front of the plane, a baby was crying: a grating, depressing sound, varying in pitch, like a siren. Why was everyone so focused on the well-behaved and unobtrusive Fionnula?

  “She shouldn’t bother you,” Phil said.

  “That’s the funny thing—she isn’t. Wait now, I should write down the name of the breed.”

  “Singapore shorthair.”

  “That’s like a Siamese?”

  “Much rarer.”

  The man nodded, as if he’d expected this. “I guess they cost a fortune?”

  “The earth,” said Phil. “Excuse me—I think I’ll take a little rest now.” He had the second half of last night’s Ambien in the pocket of his jeans, wrapped in paper. Even the Ambien wouldn’t be effective protection against the baby, who was letting out long screams separated by nerve-racking intervals, worse, to Phil’s mind, than the screams themselves. Even more ominous was the unmistakable scraping sound coming from underneath his own seat. Fionnula was turning in circles, beginning to panic. He knew the feeling.

  “Hang in there, little lady,” he implored her: “Just a few more hours.” He’d hadn’t fed her for twenty-four hours before the flight, as the breeder in Flushing had instructed, but it was still possible that she could soil the cage. He hoped not. He had promised her a big meal when they got to Los Angeles, anything she wanted—figs, melon, field mice.

  In a way, Phil had decided to buy Fionnula for Cece years ago, because Cece had said she wanted a monkey. Or perhaps she hadn’t said she wanted one—not in so many words—but she had implied it. They had been at the San Diego Zoo. Max had been afraid of the orangutans (Phil hadn’t blamed him), and Olivia had refused to go into the Monkey House at all, because of the smell, but Cece had been characteristically delighted. She dragged them all over to the chimpanzees, so that they could watch the animals grooming in pairs, picking the tiny nits from each other’s coats.

  “They’re so gentle, really.” Cece was holding onto Max, whose face was buried in his mother’s thighs. “You can see the way they care for each other—I love that.”

  “I’ll get you one,” Phil offered.

  (“No!” Max had cried.)

  “They’re like people trapped in animal bodies,” Cece said.

  “They’re our animal selves,” said Phil.

  Then Cece had blushed. With that blush she had told him that she would like to have a monkey.

  The curtains parted and one of the first-class passengers appeared with the baby, now whimpering in a threatening way.

  “Sorry,” the father said. “Just trying to quiet the little monster down.” He was one of those enormous Scandinavian men, a Norwegian or a Swede. His child seemed, to Phil’s untutored eye, similarly oversized. The gorgeous flight attendant—up close you could appreciate her luminescent skin—was right behind them. Phil was grateful for the plastic nametag: “Julie.”

  “Could I bring you more milk?” Julie asked the baby’s father sympathetically.

  “You’ve been too kind,” the Scandinavian said. He was just as tall as Phil, but with massive shoulders and thick blond hair—real boons if you happened to be after the stunning young flight attendant. Of course, the Scandinavian was not after a flight attendant. He was a father taking care of a cranky child. He smiled apologetically at Phil: “God forbid she should sleep.”

  Then he continued down the aisle. Julie seemed inclined to follow him.

  “It’s a long flight to have a baby in your section,” Phil said. “That must make it difficult for you.”

  “He’s such a good daddy!” Julie gushed. “He’s been up with her the whole time.”

  “Do you work this route often?” Phil asked.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Do you fly from New York to Los Angeles very often?”

  “Three times a week,” Julie said. “The baby’s called Britta—isn’t that sweet?”

  “After the at-home water filtration system?”

  Julie looked confused. “I think it’s because they’re from Denmark.” Then, more encouragingly, she leaned over him (a pretense, he hoped) to take his glass. The fabric of her uniform, a navy blue straight skirt, stretched taut. “His wife died in a terrible automobile accident,” she whispered, barely concealing her excitement.

  “That’s terrible,” Phil said. “I’m Phil, by the way.”

  The baby Dane howled.

  “Chee,” Fionnula protested. “Chee, chee.”

  Julie frowned. “What is that?”

  “What?” said Phil.

  “That noise.”

  Shut up, Phil communicated silently to Fionnula. Just be quiet, and in Los Angeles you’ll have beetles and bananas.

  Fionnula chattered her teeth.

  “There!” said Julie.

  You’ll have figs and papayas. You’ll have strawberries and avocado and spiders. “Oh,” Phil said. “I’m traveling with a kitten.”

  “That’s a kitten?”

  Luckily, at that moment the pi lot came on the loudspeaker to give them their coordinates. As far as Phil could determine, they were smack in the middle of nowhere, near absolutely nothing at all. The Dane returned with his baby and, smiling cordially, slipped through the velveteen curtain into first class.

  “Excuse me,” Julie said, hurrying after him. On the upsid
e, she had lingered a long time in economy. On the downside, she had clearly not been lingering because of Phil. It occurred to him that he was witnessing a biological phenomenon: women were programmed to respond to creatures with large eyes and heads, such as babies, puppies, and kittens—not to mention many types of monkey.

  As soon as Julie disappeared, Fionnula chittered again. Probably the medicine was wearing off. Phil was rooting around in his carry-on for the drugs the breeder had given him, which came in a red plastic pillbox with Chinese characters on it, and needed to be fed to Fionnula inside a chunk of banana, when he had an idea. If walking was good for babies, why not for bush babies? He didn’t especially want to draw attention to her, but it would certainly be worse if she started howling. If he wrapped her in a blanket, no one would know. And who could help loving the bush baby, with her large, ringed eyes? He was sure that in the right circumstances, even practical Aubrey would have come around.

  Phil crouched down in front of his seat and unlatched the cage. Fionnula stopped whining and stared at him reproachfully, flicking her long tail back and forth. Her translucent, triangular ears were cocked.

  “Want to take a walk?” Phil whispered. Luckily, the man across the aisle had put away his magazine and was sleeping soundly. Although Fionnula hadn’t defecated, the sour smell of galago urine was unmistakable.

  “That’s right,” Phil coaxed her. “We’re going to get a little air.” He held the blanket in front of the cage and carefully slipped the latch. Fionnula stayed where she was. “Come on,” Phil said. “Come to papa.” He sat back from the cage, on his haunches, so to speak, giving her a little space. When she flattened her ears, Phil was ready for her. He held his blanket in front of the cage, like a net; Fionnula leapt gracefully into it. They were in sync, like a pair of circus performers.