Storyboard’s latest notable narrative, by Jeanne Marie Laskas: She had no idea, back then, that he was sick. She had no idea he was losing his mind. Something neurological, the doctors are now saying, some kind of sludge blocking pathways in his brain. Would it have made a difference if she knew? Of course it would have. But you can’t think like that. And you can’t give a shit about people whispering behind your back. You hear about Fred McNeill? Star linebacker for the Minnesota Vikings back in the ’70s and ’80s. Ended up going crazy, and his wife, Tia, couldn’t handle it, so she walked out. It’s not like that, not even close, but whatever. People can think what they think.
She’s double-parked outside his apartment in the Mid-Wilshire section of L.A., idiots honking as they veer. Oh, forgodsakes. I’m in this world, too, people.
“Fred?” she says, calling him on her cell. “Are you coming down?” She has a sleepy, husky voice that announces her stance on just about everything these days: I’m done. Her face is round, still alive with curiosity, sturdy and pretty and framed by tight curls.
“Am I what?” Fred says.
“Are you coming down? I’m waiting.”
“You’re waiting?”
“Fred, I’m out here waiting!”
“Oh, okay, I’ll come down.”
“Don’t forget the suitcase,” she says.
“Suitcase?”
“Remember I need my suitcase back?”
He does not remember anything about a suitcase.
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