Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [70]
Twelve MICHAEL WAS POLISHING OFF his second hot dog, savoring every juicy bite, every burst of flavor in his mouth. Man, was he ever hungry! Starved! Ravenous! And thank God, he didn’t have to worry about what he ate. Here he was, between assignments, back in New York, killing time. He was hanging out, having some fun, waiting to hear what was up next for him. He’d seen just about every movie released, gone to the best museums (like the Museum of the American Indian), plus visited most of the doughnut and coffee joints on the island of Manhattan in single-minded pursuit of the best old-fashioned cake doughnut known to man. And, oh yeah, he was taking boxing lessons. Yes, boxing lessons. Over the years he’d discovered so many activities that he loved, a lot of which he’d thought he wouldn’t like at all. Such as boxing. But it was terrific exercise, and it really built up the self-confidence. Self-awareness, too. Also, it brought him closer to people, in a weird sort of way. Sometimes a
Thirteen THE CABDRIVER OBLIGINGLY stomped on the gas, and Michael’s head flew back against the seat. This was so strange. Why bump into one of his kids, all grown-up? Never happened before. So why now? What did it mean? Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer, but, as usual, got no answer. In that way, at least, he figured he was just like everybody else: put here for a reason, but damned if he could figure out what it was. One thing, though: The longer he was here, the more “human” he felt. Was that a clue, that he was becoming more human? And was that a good thing? After all, what did Michael know about himself? Not as much as he wanted to, for sure. He had a limited memory of the past, was able to recall only fuzzy faces, indistinct periods of time. He had no concrete idea of how long he’d been on the job or exactly how many kids he’d looked after. He knew for certain that he loved what he did, except, on average, maybe one day a month. Also on average, he would stay with a child
Fourteen MY MOTHER HAD DONE everything but physically throw her body in front of the door to keep me from moving out of her apartment and getting my own place after college. “Move out? Nonsense! Why on earth would you want to move out? Raoul is here! I’m here! Jane-Sweetie, with me and Raoul and the Chinese restaurant on Lexington, you have everything you could possibly want.” Yes, Mother. Everything but privacy, a life, and perhaps my sanity. “You can’t manage without me!” Vivienne had insisted. “Who will help you pick out your clothes? Remind you to stick to your diet? Help with your practically nonexistent love life? Oh, which reminds me. My friend Tori gave me her cousin’s number, and I really think you should call him — apparently he’s an ear surgeon and very successful. But, Jane-Sweetie . . .” So that pretty much convinced me. As the movers were taking my Biedermeier dresser out the door, Vivienne had admitted a partial — and only a partial — defeat. “We’ll try it for a few mont
Fifteen MICHAEL’S APARTMENT was in SoHo, one of his favorite parts of New York City, or any city, for that matter. Like everybody else, he had a certain amount of free will, could make most of his own choices. He just had a job to do, a mission — to be an imaginary friend to children. It wasn’t a bad job, by any means. He sometimes said out loud, “I love my work.” Still, he enjoyed these sabbaticals between assignments, between his kids. There was no telling how long they might last, so he’d learned to make the most of every day, to live in the moment, all that good stuff people liked to talk about, especially on TV, but often weren’t very good at