“Come on in.” She opened the front door.
“How about a walk?” I said. “I’ve been cooped up all day.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling and smoothing back her hair. “Let me get something, first.”
She ran up the stairs and came back with a white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said KidStuff.
“It’s for babies,” she said, clipping it onto her waistband. “But that’s what old people are, right? Big babies.”
She rotated a dial on the radio and static came on.
“It’s got a range of about five hundred feet, so we can’t go too far. Sometimes he wakes up like a baby—crying out. He wears diapers, too.”
She stayed very close to me as we strolled around the house. Directly behind the building was a dry unplanted parcel broken only by an empty laundry line on metal posts.
Beyond that, the beginnings of forest, the brush growing so thick it looked impenetrable. Nova and I crossed the dirt, and I studied the house. No porches or balconies, just rough logs and windows and a single door. Drapes covered three of the windows on the ground floor.
“Is that his bedroom?” I said.
“Uh-huh. It used to be the library but he can’t get upstairs anymore.”
She started to walk. I kept looking at the house and she stopped.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” she said.
“Like a big log cabin.”
She nodded and pressed her arm against mine. “Yeah, that old rustic feeling.”
“In his shape,” I said, “I don’t imagine decor means much.”
“I doubt it ever did. Money doesn’t mean much to him either. Probably ’cause he’s always had it. He’s cued in to one thing only: himself.” Cool appraisal, no malice. Everything about her seemed cool.
“Have you worked for him a long time?”
“Six months.”
“What’s your background?”
She laughed. “I’m a writer.”
“What kind of things do you write?”
“Poetry, mostly. I’m thinking of doing a screenplay. About California—the strange things you see here.”
“Are you from the East?”
“No, up north.”
“How’d you hook up with him?”
“I wrote him a fan letter and he answered. I wrote back and he sent an even longer letter. We began a correspondence. About writing: style and story structure, things like that. A few months later he offered me a job as a personal assistant. He made it sound as if he was fundamentally healthy and just needed light care. Then I arrived and found out I was going to have to change diapers.”
“But you stayed anyway.”
“Sure,” she said, swinging her arms and picking up her pace. “He’s an institution. How could I turn him down?”
Not to mention material for a screenplay.
I said, “My impression was that he’s a faded institution.”
Her jaw tightened, deepening the tuck scars. “Maybe to fools who follow the best-seller list.”
Stopping, she raised the volume on the radio. Nothing but the static. She lowered it again but didn’t move.
I said, “I heard this place was once a retreat for artists and writers.”
“Long time ago.”
“Nice concept.”
“What is?”
“Retreating. Getting away from the grind.”
“Oh, you never do. You just change gears.”
She turned and began circling back toward the front of the house. I stayed with her.
“So you’re a fan of his.”
“Absolutely.”
“Any books in particular?”
“Everything.”
“Didn’t he write a book of poems that was considered anti-woman?”
She gave me a sharp smile. “You mean, am I being a traitor to my sex by admiring him? Yes, to him women are meat—he grabs my ass at least once a day. But if women were honest, they’d admit men were meat to them, too. Let’s face it, big cocks are better than little cocks.”
Holding the smile, she swung her arms and brushed my thigh.
“We’re all meat,” she said, almost singing it. “What else is there? At least Buck’s honest about it. I clean his shit, he can’t hide anything from me.”
“Nor you from him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still have to tell him about Peter.”
She made a grumbling sound, nearly masculine. A scarred hand pinched her nose, then scratched the tip.
“Gnats,” she said, slapping the air. “They think I’m delicious. Yes, I’ll tell him. But just the fact that you’re up here makes me feel good—believe it or not.” Knowing smile. “You’ve got a certain aura. You get off on helping people, don’t you?” Another thigh brush. “Thanks,” she said, touching my chin.