“No.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“I’m pregnant?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m gonna need you to come down first.”
* * *
The cat, usually skittish with strangers, recognized an immobile slab of flesh in the form of Zach’s lap. He hadn’t moved in an hour and neither had she. I wondered if she would do this if I ever died on the sofa. Boots would be out of town on business and she would just park it on my lap until I went cold. Zach absentmindedly petted her as I explained everything. He made a couple of faces indicating he’d felt left out, but he swallowed his comments. Then he gazed into the kitchen like he was counting the tiles. On the counter were a couple of Asian pears that I’d been saving, resting in squishy white netting. I wondered if I should offer him a pear.
“How’s the coffee?” he asked.
“You know? I’ve never had the coffee.”
“Maybe there’s something in it.”
“Weirdly, I wish that were true. It would simplify things.”
“I feel like you’re making this up.”
“I’m not.”
“It sounds deranged.”
“Wine? Should I get wine? It has cork shards in it.”
“So these guys, they’ll just be going about their lives and feel compelled to visit Chinatown?”
“It’s happening,” I said. “It’s already happened. According to Clive, I have one more.”
“It’s like Field of Dreams except instead of baseball, it’s your vagina.”
“People will come, Ray.”
“People will motherfucking come,” he agreed, shaking his head.
“Whiskey?”
“They told you it’s social media and meditation?”
“Among other things. Do you know what astral projection is?”
“I know it’s not real,” he said, puzzling out the situation. “There has to be a practical answer to this. They’re probably paying these dudes. Or blackmailing them with spyware. Seems like they’re set up for it.”
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but Clive seemed too committed to the purity of his endeavor. Buried underneath the layers of jargon and superiority was passion. It seemed unlikely that he would cheat with something as pedestrian as a computer hack. I showed Zach one of the cards.
“What a waste of money,” he said, holding the carbon paper up to the light.
“That’s nothing.”
“This is some Inception shit.”
“Even if the energy stuff is a placebo,” I offered, “the subliminal messaging is real. I’ve watched it happen. The social media. The search engine results. The research. Did I tell you they have a guy working for them who can mess with the algorithms on targeted ads? And private investigators? Like former Mossad, maybe, I have no idea.”
“I can’t believe how much money that guy has,” Zach said.
“Yeah,” I said, “Clive’s rich.”
“Not rich. Wealthy. He doesn’t need to start a cult.”
“It’s not a cult. Not in the traditional sense.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, not really.”
“I can’t believe how much money that guy has!”
Zach slapped the arm of the sofa. I knew the exclusivity would trip him up, that I would have to listen to him poke around about the business model before we could get to the more pressing problem: my sanity.
“How much money they all have,” I said, throwing a little gasoline on the fire. “Apparently, he’s not paying anyone. And no one seems to think this is a problem. Including your girlfriend. Zach, everyone bows to him.”
“Everyone?” he asked, a pitchy little ski jump in his throat.
“Everyone.”
“Jesus. It’s like a new age pyramid scheme. And all this for closure?”
“That’s the magic word,” I said.
He pulled the zipper up and down over the bent seam of his hoodie.
“Well … do you feel closed?”
I shook my head. It was turning dark outside, the contrast between architecture and sky becoming less pronounced as the sun slipped between buildings. The cat jumped off Zach’s lap, looked at us as if we were fully aware of our crime, and left the room. I was waiting for Zach to say something else.
“I guess I can see how it would be freeing,” he spoke, still zipping, “to think of one’s exes without also thinking of them dead.”