The topic was paused to thank Armando as the food arrived. It was in Scarlet’s opinion, disappointingly small.
Janet began cutting her avocado into tiny pieces. “You’re too nice…too easy going. He’s terrified of me and do you think he’d dare move Simon away from his beloved Jazz station. Candy had no interest in Tony’s oldies or Pat’s holy rollers, so yes, it was down to you.”
Fork, halfway to mouth, Janet speculated, “I’m sure his wife must be aware he can’t keep it zipped up, wouldn’t you think? Surprising really that Candy’s threat held water.”
Swallowing a scrumptious mouthful, Scarlet said, “It’s one thing to suspect, but to have it pushed in your face is altogether different. No doubt, his long-suffering wife has found a way of coping. Brian’s, no doubt, aware Candy could push the poor woman over the edge.”
Regarding Scarlet with what appeared to be drink-induced awe, Janet said, “I bet you’re right.”
Small talk and laughter filled the rest of their time until Janet’s boyfriend came to drive her to the Wharf.
Walking to her car, Scarlet processed what she knew. Even if, or she should say when the affair ended, Candy would still have the leverage to keep Scarlet’s show. Pathetic as the wages were at Bay Radio, they still paid more than other stations in the city. She’d better get used to hosting Mending Men because goodness knows she didn’t have a backup plan.
Head held high, Scarlet walked from her car to the station’s front doors. In one hand, she held a powerful flashlight and in the other, a man’s sock with a large bar of soap in it.
Upon returning home from her luncheon with Janet, Scarlet had found Tom deadheading roses in her front yard while Niles looked on in apparent bewilderment.
Thanking Tom, she and Niles had left him to it.
“Please tell me he’s got another assignment soon,” Scarlet jokingly whispered, looking back at the avid gardener.
Hands over his eyes, Niles groaned, “No word of one yet.”
Joining them in the house minutes later, a large bag over his shoulder, Tom said, “Niles told me about your creepy caller. I’m very concerned Scarlet. I have a couple of things here I want you to use.”
Digging into an oversized tote, Tom produced a large and cumbersome looking flashlight, one gray woolen sock and an enormous rectangular bar of soap.
“This,” he said dramatically holding up the flashlight, “is used by the Military and Law Enforcement. It is not a weapon,” he added with a wink. “It merely enables you to see in the dark while walking from your car to the radio station. This,” he went on, as if the garment needed explanation, “is a man’s sock. And this is simply a bar of soap.”
Niles, Scarlet, and Prudence stayed silent, captivated by Tom’s bag of tricks.
Destined to be on QVC, Tom continued, “When you place this bar of soap inside a sock, you have a very effective means of defending yourself. But… It is not a weapon.” Again, this was followed by an exaggerated wink.
Trying not to giggle, as Tom was clearly taking this very seriously, Scarlet pictured herself telling a police officer she simply had a fetish for men’s socks and never knew if she might get dirty.
Putting the items back in the bag and giving it to Scarlet, Tom concluded, “If anyone approaches you, swing and whack, swing and whack. You could do some serious damage with these things. Certainly enough to allow you time for an escape.”
Scarlet thanked Tom with sincerity, asking if he was sure he could spare such a nice flashlight.
Smiling, he assured her he could spare anything to keep her safe.
Now, five hours later, she marched confidently into the radio station, surreptitiously stuffing the sock-covered soap into her coat pocket.
With heightened self-awareness, she ascended the staircase to her studio. Switching the light then waking up her equipment, Scarlet deposited her coat and bag before going in search of the elusive Sylvia.
Not finding the girl in either of the two places she should be, Scarlet, came to the conclusion that either she had not put her point across forcefully enough, or Sylvia just didn’t give a damn.
Only minutes to spare before she was live on, Mending Men, Scarlet found the P.I.B. in Janet’s studio. Noisily smacking gum, Sylvia walked long purple fingernails atop a row of CDs. Having to stand in front of the girl to catch her attention, Scarlet motioned for Sylvia to remove her headphones.
Trying to keep her patience, when Sylvia gave her a why are you bothering me look, Scarlet asked if she could please stay in or near the control room tonight.
Sylvia nodded, put her headphones back on and continued rifling through Janet’s CD collection.
Running back down the long corridor, Scarlet barely managed to catch her breath before saying, “Thank you for calling Mending Men, this is Scarlet, how can I help?”
“Do you have brothers, Miss Scarlet?” A deep male voiced asked.
Feeling a little gun shy at immediately being asked a question, Scarlet replied, “I have one brother.” Then added, “Who am I chatting with tonight?”
“This is Henry from Bernal Heights.”
Regaining her composure, Scarlet asked, “What can I help you with this evening, Henry?”
“I know it’s the oldest saying in the book,” the man said, “but my wife really doesn’t understand me.”
Thankful this was radio and not television, Scarlet raised her eyebrows. Then, fighting to suppress a smile which experience had taught her could be heard in your voice, enquired,
“Why do you feel that way, Henry?”
“Well, there’s a reason I ask about you having brothers or not Miss Scarlet. I feel without that childhood interaction girls grow into women who have no clue about how us lesser mortals tick.”
Trying to predict where the conversation was going, and a suitable sports analogy, Scarlet bought time by stating the obvious, “Your wife doesn’t have any brothers?”
“No,” said the caller, “and she went to an all-girls school and university.”
Genuinely interested, Scarlet said, “I could see that being tricky. You’re correct, growing up with a brother takes away some of the mystery.”
“Exactly,” Henry agreed in his baritone brogue. “We met at a dance, she was so damn cute and oh my Lord was she boy crazy. It was as if I were some rare forbidden fruit she was finally allowed to sample. I didn’t complain; I was young and reveled in the attention.”
Opening her preselected websites on the computer, but unsure if she’d need them, Scarlet asked, “How long have you been married, Henry?”
“Twenty years,” he replied promptly.
Wanting to say, that’s a lifetime when you’re unhappy, Scarlet instead said, “A good amount of time. Have you always felt this disconnect?”
Yikes, Scarlet thought. I’m beginning to sound like a bad psychiatrist!
Thankfully unperturbed by the question, Henry said, “Certainly for the lion’s share of it. We tried counseling a couple of times but with little success. She refuses to take part in anything I do or anything I’m interested in. I play softball, and I begged her to try it. I love listening to Jazz; there are so many great jazz joints in this city. No interest. Her idea of a good time is watching soaps, going to scrapbooking parties, and getting her nails done.”
Scarlet had been about to ask if he’d tried getting involved in things his spouse liked to do. But, if the list he’d given her of his wife’s interests was accurate, the poor man had few options.
“Gosh Henry …” Scarlet began.
“It’s okay, Miss Scarlet,” Henry interrupted. “I don’t need a sports metaphor, as good as they are.”
Oh, that thin line between politeness and dishonesty, Scarlet mused.
“It just feels good to talk to you about it. Would it be alright if I called again?” he asked.
“I hope you do, Henry,” Scarlet replied warmly.
Saying she would play, Let it Be, by the Beatles, Scarlet concluded the call befo
re emitting a contented sigh.
Next in line was Barry from Daly City. He’d called three times last week, and Scarlet felt he was making up problems just to talk on the show. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the problems weren’t completely ridiculous. Why were waitresses so friendly to you and then refuse to go on a date? And then, why shouldn’t a man buy a bride in a catalog? Such bizarre open-ended questions left Scarlet speechless and with nowhere to go, other than an equally ridiculous sports analogy in response.
Welcoming Barry back to the show, Scarlet wondered how many times they could play this out.
“I think there should be bars where only single women can go,” he said. Before Scarlet could get a word in, Barry added, “That way us guys can go in there and know we’re going to score. Plus, we won’t get beaten up by some chick’s boyfriend.”
Finding an analogy, Scarlet figured was closer than he deserved, she said, “You can’t expect to knock it out of the park every time you step up to the plate. Thanks for calling Mending Men, Barry.” She ended the call without saying stay in touch, though she knew, invited or not, he would.
Beginning her nine in a row with, Wind of Change, by the Scorpions, Scarlet decided to head to the cafeteria for some below average vending machine hot chocolate. Walking to the end of a corridor and finding a dead end, she was reminded she’d maybe made this trip twice since starting at the station. In the good old days of hosting a hugely popular show, she’d had drinks brought to her by engineers, board ops, and sales staff.
Encouraged by what sounded uncannily like the whirring of a vending machine, Scarlet rounded one more corner. About to turn into the impersonal room with a flickering overhead light, she halted upon hearing laughter.
Holding her breath, Scarlet peeked around the open door. A pry bar in one hand and a hammer in the other, a short, stocky man casually worked on breaking into the soda machine. Sylvia stood at his side, giggling.
Trying not to release the gasp traveling up her throat, Scarlet slowly turned and walked, be it faster than normal, down the long corridor until it turned into another. Now she began a half run, half walk until she reached her studio.
Taking deep breaths, Scarlet reached for her soap in a sock. Clasping it tightly to her chest, she pondered whether safe and normal were luxuries of the past.
Anxiety was still rearing its unwanted head, but day-by-day Scarlet felt a little more at ease in her new position. The weekend having taken the slow train, eventually arrived. Friday night socializing was now a distant pleasant memory, with San Francisco nightlife ending around the same time as Mending Men. Weekends began when she and Prudence opened their eyes on Saturday.
This happened a little earlier than expected, as Scarlet had forgotten to pull her drapes closed the night before. It was an unusually bright fall morning, rays of sunlight highlighting the need to clean her room. A layer of fine dust covered her shabby chic vanity and three-drawer accent chest. Long thin cobwebs formed a delicate bridge from a black resin ballerina lamp to her very pink ballerina jewelry holder.
For a girl who’d never enjoyed ballet, Scarlet had a surprising number of objects and collectibles inspired by the dance. Fifteen years after its release, Scarlet’s Mother had seen, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Although only twelve years old at the time, the movie made an impact. Decades later, and after watching Audrey Hepburn star in over twenty-five films, Marilyn enrolled her daughters in ballet. Violet was five and Scarlet, three. Many girls their age took dance lessons; there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. What was rather unusual was the frequency of the lessons. Four times a week, the little girls were squeezed into tights and tutus and deposited in an old church hall for an hour. Not until Violet ran off between the third and fourth of the five basic ballet positions had the question been asked, was this amount of instruction fair on such young girls.
Violet had been found, two blocks away in a comic store. Scarlet, vaguely remembered the police bringing her home and her mother’s prolonged crying. Violet never suffered through another lesson, but Scarlet still attended once a week.
Many years of arguments and resentment stemmed from that day. Didn’t Scarlet’s father understand ballet had helped shape Audrey Hepburn into the incredible woman she was? Did he think that kind of posture came from volleyball or track? Was he aware, Audrey spent many years at a professional ballet conservatory?
As for Violet, Marilyn never forgave her for telling the police she hated ballet, and her mom made her do it. Marilyn informed anyone who’d listen, how the Police had treated her like some kind of criminal. Was it a crime to want your daughters to emulate the poise and grace of Audrey Hepburn?
Scarlet, to appease her mother, continued with her ballet lessons until she was thirteen. At least once a month, Marilyn would buy Scarlet a dance themed gift. Ninety percent of them ended up in Scarlet’s closet. The reason was twofold. She felt bad about getting gifts when her siblings didn’t and said gifts were on the gaudy side.
A decade later, some pink and taffeta remained and was cherished. Vowing to give the bedroom a thorough clean after breakfast, Scarlet checked her calendar.
Plenty of time before her first meal, err date, with Gary. Debating whether to pull the drapes and try for more sleep or get up now and enjoy a full day, Scarlet decided on the latter.
****
Breathing in fresh, crisp air, Scarlet parked her car feet away from a narrow path leading down to China Beach. Spreading a blue fleece blanket on the sand, she sat, knees up under her chin, looking out onto the Pacific Ocean. The Golden Gate always took her breath away, even with the top of its towers hidden amongst rain leaden clouds. In the distance, a cargo ship moved effortlessly towards the wharf. Its massive steel bow causing subtle ripples, which seconds later morphed into powerful white foam hitting the glistening sand.
Squinting against welcome sunlight, Scarlet tried to decipher which of the two, almost naked, men she was here to see.
Determining it to be the one who’d just submerged his entire body in the freezing water, Scarlet patiently waited. Surely, she thought with a shiver, it couldn’t be too long until he returned to dry land.
Scarlet stood as the man, hastily drying his body with a towel that appeared inadequate, walked towards her.
Shaking water from his ear in a rather dog-like fashion, Joe said, “Your Gran told you my secret.”
Scarlet smiled at her father. “I think it’s great. She said you try for three times a week.”
Nodding his head but looking off towards the parking lot, Joe said, “Let me run to the car and grab my sweats. Is that a thermos I spy in your basket?”
Smiling and concurring it was, Scarlet watched her father clap cold hands together before running to his vehicle.
Minutes later, father and daughter, steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hands, sat together on the blanket. With only an odd screech from overhead seagulls, the pair, while soaking in the beauty around them, were content to say nothing.
At length, Joe broke the silence, “Have you seen your mother lately?”
Scarlet pushed her mug down into the sand. “Last weekend. She’s talking about moving onto the golf course.”
Joe sighed. “I’d heard that. Believe it or not, Marilyn calls your Gran every now and then.” With a smile, he added, “I think usually after a few glasses of wine.”
Joe turned his head towards Scarlet. “You know I tried my very best?”
Scarlet placed a sand covered hand over her father’s. “I do. I was there.”
Swallowing hard, Joe continued, “Your Mother accuses me of having a stereotypical midlife crisis, and she’s the undeserving victim. I can honestly say the timing had nothing to do with my age. But … she may be right about the crisis part.”
Scarlet paled. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
Turning an empty mug in his hands, Joe said, “I’m fifty-seven years old and living with my mother. My son won’t talk to me, and my oldest girl is living on a commune wi
th no means of communication.” Taking in his daughter’s look of concern, Joe hastily added, “It’s all fixable. Your old Dad’s fine.”
Unscrewing the thermos for more hot chocolate, Scarlet suggested, “It hasn’t been that long. You and Gran are great roommates. When you’re ready, you’ll get your own place. Besides, that house is big enough you could go for days without bumping into each other. As for Trent, ever since he married Lisa he’s adopted this holier than thou attitude. None of us can please him, so why bother trying? Violet, well she’s Violet. I’m going to barge my way in there one of these days if you want to join me.”
Laughing and thanking Scarlet for the refill, Joe said, “My job has reached the level of stress only handled well by a younger man. For the last five years, I feel as if I’ve been there on borrowed time as it is. I’ve made some smart suggestions and proposals, but I feel like a fraud. Every day I wonder if they’re going to realize they promoted the wrong man and acknowledge I’m not good enough for the job or the salary.”
Shaking her head, Scarlet confessed, “I had no idea you were going through this.”
Patting her knee, Joe said, “I’m glad, and I hope you don’t mind me offloading with you now. I’m thankful you and I have always had an honest relationship.”
“Me, too,” Scarlet responded with a smile. “So, what are you going to do?”
Joe brushed sand off the blue blanket. “There’s a lot of back and forth right now about growth in the industry. Many believe we should focus on economic growth over the expansion of domestic airports. I have a feeling there’s going to be some reshuffling going on. This could be the perfect opportunity to put my name up for a different, less stressful, position.”
Draining her mug, Scarlet urged, “Do it, Dad. Sooner rather than later.”
Joe pulled a face. “There’s one rather large snag.”
Scarlet waited expectantly. Closing his eyes for a moment, Joe said, “Alimony.”
Putting the pieces together, Scarlet said, “Less stress means less money which means less alimony for Mom.”
Scarlet Oaks and the Serial Caller Page 5