I watched her face squeeze into its wrinkled mask, and I marveled again at how old Rita looked all of a sudden. The worry lines in her forehead seemed permanent, and they were matched by others around her mouth. Beyond that, her skin had lost color and seemed to be fading into a pale, sagging, raised relief map of some desert. Was it merely worry over Cody, or had she actually gotten as old as she looked? We were the same age—did that mean that I was getting old, too? It didn’t show when I looked in the mirror—at least, not to me. Perhaps I was blind to what I really looked like and I, too, was beginning to wrinkle and blanch. I hoped not; I had a great number of important things left to do yet, and I did not want to look like a pallid walking raisin while I did them.
It is strange where the mind wanders when it is being assaulted with earnest and needless platitudes. I am quite sure I should have felt more sympathy for Rita, more empathy with Cody, and more admiration for Mrs. Hornberger’s wonderful command of multisyllabic educational inanity. But I didn’t; all I really felt was teeth-grinding annoyance at the Ordeal by Jargon, and faint repugnance at Rita’s sudden vault into visible old age—and mild alarm at the thought that I might be sliding into senescence, too.
By the time half an hour had slogged by, I had lost every glimmer of the contentment that had so recently lit up my life and I was beginning to fidget almost as much as Cody. But it was another fifteen minutes before Mrs. Hornberger finally marched to her triumphant conclusion—Social Goals must be Integrated into an Individually Tailored Plan for Cooperative Learning, with a Full Commitment to Successful Goal Attainment at Home and at School, on Individual and Institutional Levels—and I could finally stagger weakly from the classroom, clutching my fevered brow and yearning, surprisingly but powerfully, for a cold mojito with Jackie.
I walked with Rita and Cody all the way to her car, where we paused to allow her to finish a sentence. And then she looked at me with that same faceful of worry wrinkles, and said, “Dexter—are you really …? Because I mean, I don’t know.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Surprisingly enough, I understood her, or at least I thought I did. “And I really will be home in a few days, with enough money for a brand-new pool cage.” And as I said it, I felt regret stirring; was it really only a few more days?
“Well,” she said. “But it’s just— I only …” She fluttered both hands helplessly. “It would be nice if you— You really can’t even tell me what you’re doing?”
I opened my mouth to tell her that no, I couldn’t really—and then I remembered that yes, I sort of had to, in a way: captain’s orders. “Um,” I said, not really sure where to begin. I suddenly felt a little bit like a kid asking permission to have a cookie after eating all but one, and I didn’t know why. There was no reason for me to feel guilty or uneasy; I had done exactly what I was supposed to do, and all for the noblest motive of all—a pool cage. So I shrugged it off as a hangover from Mrs. Hornberger’s tirade and plunged right into it.
“There’s a TV show shooting in town,” I said, and Rita lit up like a birthday cake and took off into breathless response.
“Oh!” she said. “Yes, it was in the paper? And they said that Jackie Forrest— Did you know she’s thirty-three? I don’t think she looks it, but of course she must have had a lot of— And Robert Chase! He is so handsome, but he hasn’t done anything in practically— Is that what you— Oh, my God, Dexter, has something horrible happened to Robert Chase?”
“Not yet,” I said, fighting to keep the regret out of my voice. “But the point is, Captain Matthews assigned me to be a technical adviser to the show. And, you know, teach Robert about what I do.”
“Oh. My. God!” Rita said. “You’ve actually met— Dexter, I can’t believe it— I mean, this is just amazing!”
“It’s just more work,” I said, and I admit I was a little irritated at seeing Rita so excited over the mere idea of Robert Chase. “Anyway,” I said, hoping I could get the whole thing out without another of Rita’s verbal frenzies, “there’s another guy in the cast, a comedian, Renny Boudreaux?”
“Yes, he’s very good,” Rita said very seriously. “He uses some words that— And you met him, too?”
“Yes,” I said. “And he’s taping a special Saturday night. And the captain wants me to go.”
“Wants you to go?” she said. “That doesn’t make any— And why wouldn’t you want to go anyway? Because—”
“He thinks it’s good for the department’s image,” I said. “To show cops and the stars all together. And so I have two tickets—”
“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!” Rita said. “Really? Oh, Dexter, oh, my God! This is amazing— But I can’t possibly get a sitter in time!”
It took another five minutes to get Rita calmed down enough to utter a coherent agreement to meet me at seven thirty in the lobby of the Gusman Saturday night, and I found myself growing increasingly anxious for my mojito. It was very odd; I have never been a drinker, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t turned into one overnight—and certainly not enough of a drinker to get the shakes when five o’clock approached without my usual dose. But I could almost taste the cool drink sliding over my tongue and down my throat, almost see Jackie looking at me over the rim of her dew-beaded glass, her large violet eyes alive with amusement at something I hadn’t said yet, and I felt myself growing increasingly irritated with Rita’s high-speed dithering.
And dither she did: She babbled reverentially about Jackie, and actually giggled over Robert, and tossed in several disjointed compliments to Renny and how smart he seemed, even though he did use some very rough language. And then she slid into a totally paralyzed frenzy because she didn’t have anything at all that she could possibly wear—although I knew for a fact that her closet was overflowing with clothing—and how could I possibly expect her to appear in the same room with someone like Jackie Forrest …!
I’d had no notion that Rita actually knew anything about TV stars, and even less idea that she actually cared, that she would be impressed to the point of girlish incoherence at the thought of meeting Robert Chase, and seeing Jackie Forrest in a fancy dress. I mean, I sat on the couch beside Rita every night, and we did watch TV together—but to see her collapse into a kind of babbling hero worship because she was going to see Renny’s show, and might even
breathe the same air as Robert Chase! It was a side of her I had never even seen a hint of before, and I wasn’t really sure what to do with it now.
But happily, even Rita needs to breathe every now and then, and when she finally paused to do so, I jumped in quickly and firmly.
“Rita, I have to get back,” I said. “You will be there on Saturday?”
“Of course I’ll be— I mean, I’ll have to find some kind of dress somewhere, and I don’t have any idea—maybe Nancy’s daughter, Terri? But she’s in marching band, so I don’t know—”
“You don’t really need to wear anything fancy,” I said. “I’m not even wearing a tie.”
“Dexter, I’m going to be on TV! With Jackie Forrest! Of course I have to wear something— Oh, honest to God, you don’t have any idea— Maybe I could still fit into that thing from Key West? You know, that you said looked like a nightgown?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven thirty.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But I really don’t know—”
I leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Bye,” I said. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
Rita pecked me back, and I turned to go at last.