You've Been Warned

Either way, I’ve got to give Michael some credit. Telling Dakota I was there planning a surprise party for Penley at “Nana and Papa’s” country club was a masterstroke of quick thinking. His voice was totally calm, not a hint of panic. “It’s really, really important that you don’t say anything to Mommy so we don’t ruin the surprise. Okay, sweetheart?”

Wow. Never has so much faith been put in the nodding head of a little girl.

And it’s making me incredibly uneasy. Mostly because I hate lying to Dakota and getting her into the middle of this mess. She’s just a little kid.

With Connecticut at my back, I approach the city and somehow navigate the ever-narrow FDR Drive on the East Side without causing a fifty-car pileup. Once I return Bob to the lot on First Avenue, it’s almost as if I can’t remember being behind the wheel.

Now what?

It may be a beautiful day, but I don’t feel like being outside anymore. Nor do I want to go back to my apartment. So I hop a cab downtown to the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a director’s cut playing of Flirting with Disaster. How appropriate.

All I want is light and funny, and thanks to Ben Stiller, I get it. In fact, as advertised in the lobby poster, I get an additional “six never-before-seen minutes” of it. I’m curious, though. Has a “director’s cut” ever been shorter than the original?

After the movie I try to do some clothes shopping in SoHo, where most of my favorite stores are. But as I flip through the racks at Jenne Maag, Kirna Zabête, and French Corner—where I once saw Gwen Stefani trying on a pair of jeans—I’m just not in the mood. I keep regretting my very stupid trip out to Westport.

Even if Dakota hadn’t spotted us, I really goofed. Michael had every right to be angry. Well, maybe not that angry?

What was I thinking?

For about the tenth time, I reach for my cell phone to call him. I want to apologize again.

And for about the tenth time, I put the phone away without dialing. Don’t push it, I warn myself. I know how he is. If I let him be for a day or two, he’ll be fine.

We’ll be fine.

Chapter 42

WITH THE AFTERNOON sun waning, I stop on the corner of Prince Street and Greene, waiting for the “Walk” sign. I gaze around. A little paranoid. Not too bad, though. It’s all relative.

If there’s a better place to people watch than the heart of SoHo, I’d sure like to know about it. Maybe Paris? Maybe not. Society types, punkers, artists, a few cross-dressers, you name it, they’re all out here sharing the sidewalk.

Including the nutcase on the corner directly across the street from me.

He’s an old man wearing sunglasses and a long gray beard practically down to his belt. He’s pacing back and forth, carrying a sign like in the classic cartoons. Only instead of “The End Is Near,” his reads, “The End Is Just the Beginning.” His take on the Resurrection, I guess.

Yeah, I get it—I’ve been warned.

As I cross the street and pass him, I can’t help shaking my head. How does a person become so disconnected from the rest of the world?

“Be afraid, Kristin.”

Huh?

I stop dead in my tracks, turning back toward the man. “How do you know my name?”

“I just know it.”

I take a few steps closer. I’m about a foot from his face. He’s definitely there. He’s real. “I said, How do you know my name? ”

“It’s not too late, Kristin,” he says. His voice is raspy, raw, a little scary on its own.

He tries to turn away, and I grab his shoulder. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

Silence from him now. What—have I offended Mr. ZZ Top?

“Tell me!” I insist.

He smiles, flashing a mouth of the most rotted, brown teeth I’ve ever seen. But I don’t back away.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

Reaching up, he removes his sunglasses, and I gasp. Now I back up a step. One of his eyes is missing. There’s nothing there but a dark hole that seems to disappear into his head. Is that possible? I almost expect worms or slimy white maggots to crawl out.

“Not yet,” he answers. “But soon you will. When you figure out your life.”

He puts his shades back on, nods, and then turns away.

Chapter 43

I’M TREMBLING AS the bearded, one-eyed joker walks off down the street. It’s officially a toss-up now. Where is it more surreal? Inside my apartment or out here?

Hailing a cab, I decide being in my apartment might not be so bad anymore. Perhaps a nice, quiet evening at home will help calm the nerves. Then maybe I can figure this out, though I seriously doubt it.

In fifteen minutes, I’m there.

I begin with a superhot bath, the kind you need to ease your body into an inch at a time. I even add some herbal salts that Connie gave me for my birthday last year. “Soothing Citrus,” says the label.