Our friend Blossom, from Magic Beach, who calls herself the Happy Monster, phoned to say she will join us in another week. She was gravely disfigured as a child, when her drunken father set her on fire. Why so often childen, and why so often their parents? I guess it’s just the nature of this long, long war. Anyway, I can’t wait to see Blossom, for she is beautiful in her disfigurement.
Yesterday, shortly after Tim took his morning shower, he was overcome by the feeling that he was still dirty. He showered again, and then a third time. After that I found him washing his hands incessantly at the kitchen sink, and weeping.
He did not know why he felt this way, but I knew it was the years at Roseland that he had not yet forgotten as thoroughly as he needed to forget them.
Even Annamaria could not soothe him, so I took him to the front porch, just us guys, with a Mr. Goodbar for each of us. As we watched the shorebirds kiting in the sky, I told him about the best part of a Mr. Goodbar.
The best part of a Mr. Goodbar is not the wrapper, is it? No, and the best part of a Coke is not the can. On those nights when you lie awake, either man or boy, wondering about yourself, peeling away one layer of oddness after another, you should remember and always be grateful that the woefully imperfect person that you are, with all your contradictions and unworthy desires, is not the best of you, any more than the wrapper is the best part of a Mr. Goodbar.
Tim said he didn’t understand me any more than I understand Annamaria, but he felt better. That’s all that matters, really: that we can make each other feel better.
For a while I did not feel at all good about how I had turned away Mr. Hitchcock in that glen in Roseland. I worried that he wouldn’t return to seek my help.
This morning, however, as I sat on the front porch drinking coffee, he strolled by on the beach in a three-piece suit and black wingtips. He waved at me and kept walking, but I suspect that any day now, when I come out for coffee on the porch, he’ll be there.
It’s a little daunting to consider what the director of Psycho might wish to convey to me. But then he was also the director of North by Northwest and other films that were as funny as they were suspenseful. And he made some great love stories. I’m a sucker for love stories, as you probably know by now.
And so I wait for the bell to ring in the night. I dream of Stormy, I walk in search of Annamaria’s mysterious tree, I go down to the sea to swim in the shallows with Tim, and I wait for the bell to ring.
To Jeff Zaleski,
with gratitude for his insight and integrity.
By Dean Koontz