flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 5
Текст из файла (страница 5)
We all exchanged silent smiles as she walkedout.“I got it,” Go said. “Go home, fuck her brains out, then smack her with your penisand scream, ‘There’s some wood for you, bitch!’ ”We laughed. Then we both ushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was thekind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at me like a grenade. It wasalso the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed.Twincest.
We were too tight: our inside jokes, our edge-of-the-party whispers. I’m prettysure I don’t need to say this, but you are not Go, you might misconstrue, so I will: Mysister and I have never screwed or even thought of screwing. We just really like eachother.Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife.No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends.
They were each too territorial. Gowas used to being the alpha girl in my life, Amy was used to being the alpha girl ineveryone’s life. For two people who lived in the same city—the same city twice: rstNew York, now here—they barely knew each other. They itted in and out of my lifelike well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on therare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhatbemused at the situation.Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get glimpses of Go’sthoughts in a sentence here or there.
It’s funny, I can’t quite get a bead on her, like who shereally is. And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And: There’s a di erence betweenreally loving someone and loving the idea of her. And nally: The important thing is shemakes you really happy.Back when Amy made me really happy.Amy offered her own notions of Go: She’s very … Missouri, isn’t she? And: You just haveto be in the right mood for her. And: She’s a little needy about you, but then I guess shedoesn’t have anyone else.I’d hoped when we all wound up back in Missouri, the two would let it drop—agreeto disagree, free to be you and me. Neither did. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so itwas a mismatched battle.
Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riledup, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It isdangerous to laugh at your spouse.“Go, I thought we agreed you’d never mention my genitalia again,” I said. “Thatwithin the bounds of our sibling relationship, I have no genitalia.”The phone rang. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyerolland a smile.
“He sure is here, one moment, please!” To me, she mouthed: “Carl.”Carl Pelley lived across the street from me and Amy. Retired three years. Divorcedtwo years. Moved into our development right after. He’d been a traveling salesman—children’s party supplies—and I sensed that after four decades of motel living, he wasn’tquite at home being home.
He showed up at the bar nearly every day with a pungentHardee’s bag, complaining about his budget until he was o ered a rst drink on thehouse. (This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar—that hewas a functioning but serious alcoholic.) He had the good grace to accept whatever wewere “trying to get rid of,” and he meant it: For one full month Carl drank nothing butdusty Zimas, circa 1992, that we’d discovered in the basement.
When a hangover keptCarl home, he’d nd a reason to call: Your mailbox looks awfully full today, Nicky, maybe apackage came. Or: It’s supposed to rain, you might want to close your windows. The reasonswere bogus. Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink beingpoured.I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl couldimagine his gin.“Hey, Nicky,” Carl’s watery voice came over. “Sorry to bother you. I just thought youshould know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside. It isn’t supposedto be, right?”I gave a noncommittal grunt.“I’d go over and check, but I’m a little under the weather,” Carl said heavily.“Don’t worry,” I said.
“It’s time for me to go home anyway.”It was a fteen-minute drive, straight north along River Road. Driving into ourdevelopment occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses—homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seenthem ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless.When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one middle-agedsingle mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of triplets with a six-pack ofbeer (his wife left at home with the triplets); an older Christian couple who lived a fewhouses down; and of course, Carl from across the street.
We sat out on our back deckand watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percentinterest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were theonly ones with river access, the only ones without children. “Just the two of you? In thiswhole big house?” the single mom asked, doling out a scrambled-egg something.“Just the two of us,” I con rmed with a smile, and nodded in appreciation as I took amouthful of wobbly egg.“Seems lonely.”On that she was right.Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappearedin the night with her three kids. Her house has remained empty. The living-roomwindow still has a child’s picture of a butter y taped to it, the bright Magic Marker sunfaded to brown. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded,bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, oating in the dark like some sadaquarium sh.
He saw me see him and ickered back into the depths of the house. Thenext day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sununtouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out.Quiet. The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, consciousof the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was de nitely on the steps. Still on thesteps, twenty minutes after Carl’s call.
This was strange. Amy loved the cat, the cat wasdeclawed, the cat was never let outside, never ever, because the cat, Bleecker, was sweetbut extremely stupid, and despite the LoJack tracking device pelleted somewhere in hisfat furry rolls, Amy knew she’d never see the cat again if he ever got out. The cat wouldwaddle straight into the Mississippi River—deedle-de-dum—and oat all the way to theGulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark.But it turned out the cat wasn’t even smart enough to get past the steps. Bleeckerwas perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel—Private Tryhard.
As Ipulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feelthe cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward thehouse, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured.I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front doorwas open.
Carl had said as much, but seeing it was di erent. This wasn’t taking-out-thetrash-back-in-a-minute open. This was wide-gaping-ominous open.Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece ofperformance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband. I stood on the middle stepand frowned, then took the stairs quickly, two at a time, calling out my wife’s name.Silence.“Amy, you home?”I ran straight upstairs. No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, adress waiting to be pressed.“Amy!”As I ran back downstairs, I could see Carl still framed in the open doorway, hands onhips, watching. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glintedwith shards of glass, the co ee table shattered.
End tables were on their sides, books slidacross the oor like a card trick. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its fourtiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of goodsharp scissors.“Amy!”I began running, bellowing her name. Through the kitchen, where a teakettle wasburning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out theback door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over theriver. I peeked over the side to see if she was in our rowboat, where I had found her oneday, tethered to the dock, rocking in the water, her face to the sun, eyes closed, and asI’d peered down into the dazzling re ections of the river, at her beautiful, still face,she’d suddenly opened her blue eyes and said nothing to me, and I’d said nothing backand gone into the house alone.“Amy!”She wasn’t on the water, she wasn’t in the house.
Amy was not there.Amy was gone.AMY ELLIOTTSEPTEMBER 18, 2005DIARY ENTRYWell, well, well. Guess who’s back? Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloudkisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then heresurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. Turns out, he’d lost my phone number. Hiscell was out of juice, so he’d written it on a stickie. Then he’d tucked the stickie into hisjeans pocket and put the jeans in the washer, and it turned the stickie into a piece ofcyclone-shaped pulp.
He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. (He said.)And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassinglylate to try to find me. (He said.)Of course I was angry. I had been angry. But now I’m not. Let me set the scene. (Shesaid.) Today. Gusty September winds. I’m walking along Seventh Avenue, making alunchtime contemplation of the sidewalk bodega bins—endless plastic containers ofcantaloupe and honeydew and melon perched on ice like the day’s catch—and I couldfeel a man barnacling himself to my side as I sailed along, and I corner-eyed theintruder and realized who it was.
It was him. The boy in “I met a boy!”I didn’t break my stride, just turned to him and said:a) “Do I know you?” (manipulative, challenging)b) “Oh, wow, I’m so happy to see you!” (eager, doormatlike)c) “Go fuck yourself.” (aggressive, bitter)d) “Well, you certainly take your time about it, don’t you, Nick?” (light,playful, laid-back)Answer: DAnd now we’re together.
Together, together. It was that easy. It’s interesting, thetiming. Propitious, if you will. (And I will.) Just last night was my parents’ book party.Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yup, Rand and Marybeth couldn’t resist. They’ve giventheir daughter’s namesake what they can’t give their daughter: a husband! Yes, for booktwenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! Wheeeeeee. No one cares. No one wantedAmazing Amy to grow up, least of all me.
![](https://s.studizba.com/z.php?f=/templates/si/i/noavatar.png&w=100&h=100&t=1"){kind=avatar}
