by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Ten
Norrah felt so bad for Brittney by the end of their pancake meal that she not only swore she’d get back to her as soon as she met with Aaron, but opened her wallet and removed all the cash she had (a few twenties and some smaller bills) and insisted she take it. “Compensation for your time with me,” Norrah had said. Brittney abashedly took the money, said if she didn’t need it so badly she’d have turned it down.
Norrah had a good idea that she (Norrah) would be selling an interview for a ton of money. And if so, she considered cutting the girl a check for some unknown quantity, to make her remaining college years more comfortable to get through. What a shitty father she has, to make life so rough on his daughter as he drives around a hundred-thousand-dollar Benz. And what a shame that a fortune was so accessible to Norrah but not for Brittney. Any news broadcaster should want to hear her story over Norrah’s. But what it came down to is there were twenty-three people who went missing, so the public couldn’t and didn’t remember each of their names. NBC couldn’t hook “Interview with Brittney Hayes tonight at eight!” because nobody would know who that is. But everyone knew who Norrah Petersen was. She was the closed-door and whispered prime suspect at first, sharing that infamous title with Paul Klein. “She knows something that she isn’t telling,” many pundits had echoed for days. It didn’t help that people associated the surname Petersen with Scott Peterson, who had killed his wife and unborn child; that story was in the headlines for months. So all the public had to do was transition from hating one Peterson to the next.
Had it been only Brittney Hayes who went missing, and twenty-three people shared Norrah’s circumstance of being upstairs when it happened, the money would have been offered to Brittney instead. But it wasn’t just that. Several students had already given interviews and did so for free, so there wasn’t enough meat on that bone left for news companies to make a business proposition to yet another recovered student. And on top of that, the interviews with the students were boring, a real yawn fest. Sure the ratings would have been high for the first and maybe second interviews, but people had given up hope of hearing something juicy after having heard variations of, “I have no idea what happened. I didn’t know I was missing. There is nothing unusual to speak of.”
Norrah walked her new friend to her Civic. Friend is what Brittney was; Norrah had decided that before her first pancake was eaten. She enjoyed the girl’s personality and they shared something special in an indirect way. She especially liked her candor. Things she should have been embarrassed about or ashamed of she readily confessed to. That’s a rare thing. And a refreshing thing. She described in too much detail (Norrah thought) the sexual things. Norrah figured she could ask Brittney anything and get an honest answer back reflexively, without any consideration or tailoring. And she did just that, at the Civic.
“Are you still a virgin then?” Norrah said with a silly smile.
“Unfortunately, yes. Why, you want to get lucky?”
Norrah laughed out loud. “No, weirdo. That’s really cool. Don’t feel like you need to get it over with. You shouldn’t feel bad waiting till the time is right, and with the right person. I wish I had done what you’re doing.”
“Yeah.” She unlocked her car door and sat inside. “I’m kind of glad it didn’t happen, because I would be regretting it right now. Since that night, Jonathan has avoided me. Maybe he’ll come around, but it isn’t looking like it right now.”
“Have you had any long-term boyfriends?”
“No. If I had, I probably wouldn’t be a virgin.”
“Oh yeah, duh.”
“Every time I date a guy something seems to screw it up. I guess I’m the one to blame. But not always.”
“Do you want to hang out sometime? Come over for dinner? I know it’s a long drive, but I’d pay for your gas.”
“Sure.”
“I admit to having a kind of ulterior motive. I do like you, and I’d enjoy spending time with you, just the two of us, but there’s a guy I’d like you to meet. The guy I’m dating, the cop who was with me that night, he has a younger brother about your age. I haven’t met him yet but Jay tells me wonderful things about him. I’ve seen his picture, he’s really good looking. And he just dumped his girlfriend who cheated on him. Who’d want to cheat on a guy like that? Shoot, don’t tell Jay I said that. His name is Caleb. He goes to U.C.L.A.”
Brittney smiled at Norrah, closed her door and lowered the window. “That’s cool of you to want to do something nice for me, a virtual stranger. Oftentimes first impressions are wrong, but I was right to think you were a nice lady when I first saw you.”
“Lady?” Norrah repeated with a sour taste in her mouth. “I’m a lady to you?”
“Sorry, I know that sounds like I’m calling you old. Girl. Is that better?”
“Much.”
“How old are you, anyway? Mid-twenties?”
Norrah liked hearing that. “Thirty. Thanks.”
“About Caleb: dating isn’t something I’m eager to do right now.”
“Not now, but down the road. But not too far down the road because a guy like him will have women coming after him.”
“All right. Thanks for the money. I feel like a shit taking it. I hope it doesn’t set you back too much.”
“Not at all,” Norrah lied. It did sting. “Take care, Brittney. I’ll call you tonight, okay? After Aaron leaves.”
“I look forward to it.”
On the drive back up the mountain, the low-gas light came on in Norrah’s Camry. She stopped at the Chevron in Blue Jay. She began pumping gas after swiping her debit card in the thingy. After four dollars of petro went inside the hungry tank, the gas stopped. She tried it again, but it wouldn’t let her pump. She wondered if she was at zero in her checking account. There was a strong possibility she was. She’d have to check her account online when she returned home. She went inside the Food Mart and handed the clerk her debit card and said forty on pump two, and added that it might not work. He punched some keys on the register, looked up at her with sudden awareness.
“Norrah Petersen,” he said.
“Yes?”
“You’re her.”
“Uh… thanks?”
“That’s so cool.” He checked to be sure nobody was within ear-shot when he said conspiratorially, “Between you and me, Paul Klein had something to do with all them kids missing, didn’t he?”
Norrah stole the debit card out of his hand and left.
“I didn’t mean any offense by it,” the clerk said to her back.
“Nobody ever does,” she said.
Thanks to the ridiculous prices at the pump, she only got one gallon of go-juice for the remaining four bucks in her account. She’d have to get gas at Shell, on credit. Shit, her Visa was currently at its max of two grand. And if she wasn’t maxed on credit, would someone at Shell make comments about her celebrity as well? She couldn’t write-off every gas station. And every bank. And store. Maybe giving that interview would be a blessing on two fronts. Money, and people would stop asking questions. All the questions would have already been asked, and answered. They’d still ask questions, but then she could just say, “Watch the interview on YouTube,” and that would be the end of it.
She considered bringing me in on the business deal. Maybe she’d counter their offer with a half-million, and say Jay Davis would join in. They’d probably wonder who Jay Davis is, and when she stated that I’m the only other person who was in the house when the twenty-three reappeared, they’d imagine their ratings hiking north. With a half-million, we could both retire. Share her nearly-paid-off house and live off of the interest. If that dried up, there’s always a book deal. Like the book I’m writing this very moment. There has been no publisher-shopping for this story yet, and truth be told I’d rather not make money on this project. Once I make a dime off of it, people will see that as a motive for writing it. Or that I’m trying to profit off of other’s misfortune. I’d rather find a way to get the
story out there while keeping it non-profit. I suppose that’s my ultimate goal.
As Norrah drove home she wondered how she ran out of money. She knew she was low, but not that low. She was getting paid tomorrow, so it wasn’t a big deal.
“Shit. Shit!” She was supposed to buy groceries for tonight’s hosted dinner. Rib-eye steaks. Now what? As much as she liked Brittney, she currently resented her for accepting that sixty-something dollars earlier. That’s unfair, Norrah thought. It wasn’t Brittney’s fault but her own. She considered calling me to ask if I’d buy some meat and bring it over, but couldn’t get herself to do it. She was fiercely independent, and didn’t think she had it in her to ask that favor.
She was friendly with Clyde the butcher at Jansen’s Market. He was in his sixties and always flirted innocently with her. They had been acquaintances for ten years. That was plenty long enough to ask him for a huge favor: let me pay for the steaks tomorrow, with interest. She was confident he’d go for it.
She wanted to get it out of the way so she wouldn’t have to worry about it over the next several hours. She parked outside Jansen’s and disregarded the stack of hand-carts as she entered. She’d rather not be presumptuous with Clyde’s generosity. She was already changing her habits, not looking around as she entered the store but instead kept her head down and eyes straight. It was dead at this hour, thankfully. She frowned at the butcher behind the counter, not Clyde.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” the man said affably. His nameplate read Ryan Sturgeon.
“Hi, Ryan. Is Clyde off today?”
“No, he’s in back cutting up some lamb. Want me to get him?”
“Please.”
He went in back. Clyde came out a moment later with a bloody apron and a very large knife. He smiled at her. “Norrah! Well hello there, lovely lady.”
She wished he hadn’t used her name so loudly. “Hello, kind sir. How are you today?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain. You look great.”
“Do I?” She appraised herself with a quick glance. “Whatever you say. How’s Bethany?”
His smile became a lesser one. “She hasn’t divorced me yet, so could be better.”
She laughed. “Why don’t you just leave her, instead of talking about your crappy marriage year after year.”
“Maybe our marriage isn’t quite as bad as I make it out to be. It is pretty lousy, but it could be worse.”
“You just want her gone so you can propose to me, don’t you?” She winked at him.
“That’s exactly right.” His smile warmed her. “So what can I get for you today?”
In a low tone she said, “You don’t know how wonderful it is to not be asked the usual questions. I love how you treat me the same now as you did before.”
“Oh? What happened?” A brief moment later he chuckled. “I kid, I kid. I figure you get inundated with those damned questions enough; you don’t need it from me, too.”
“That’s why I love you, Clyde.”
His brow raised. “You just earned a free slab of bacon with your order, my sweets.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need a bigger favor than that.” She winced anticipatorily.
“Is that right? What can I do you for?” What can I do you for was what he always asked. Today she would reply differently to that double entendre of a question.
“Oh, about eighty bucks.”
“Beg pardon?”
She laughed, waved dismissively. “Never mind.”
“Oh!” He laughed. “I can do you for eighty bucks!” He laughed harder. “That’s good stuff, Norrah.”
“I try. But really, I do need a favor. I get paid tomorrow, so…” She hoped he’d connect the dots, saving her the embarrassment of having to ask directly.
“And?”
“I get paid tomorrow, so…” She gave him another chance.
“So you have no money now?”
She nodded.
“Ah. What is it you’re looking for?”
“I’m having company tonight. I promised them rib-eye steaks. I have potatoes and vegetables already, but no steaks.”
“We aren’t in the habit of lending food here. It’s not my policy. But I think we can make an exception this once.”
“It’s okay,” she said on second thought, “just forget that I asked. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“No-no, I won’t forget that you asked. I’d be happy to do you a favor. God knows you could use a positive experience right now during these difficult times. What’s a couple steaks? Nothing for a store like this. And I know you’re good for the money.”
“Of course I am.”
“How many steaks?”
“I could get by with two. One for each of the guys, and I’ll make myself a frozen chicken breast.”
“You like rib-eyes, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“But you prefer chicken?”
“No.”
“Then three rib-eyes it is.”
“You’re the best, Clyde. I’m not just saying that, either. I’ve never met such a thoughtful employee at any grocery store, including the one I work at.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he remembered, “you work at Stater’s. Why do you buy your meat here?” Before she could answer he took a guess. “Because Stater’s has Stater’s steaks, not our U.S.D.A. prime cuts.”
“Exactly. People who can appreciate the difference in steak quality buy here.”
He smiled as he shuffled the rib-eyes around, selected three beauties, the best looking three he had. He placed them on a clear plastic sheet.
“Want me to marinate them? We have lemon-herb, teriyaki, barbecue.”
“Ooo, teriyaki sounds great.”
“Coming right up.” He put the steaks in a big baggie and pumped the dispenser of teriyaki, slowly filling up the baggie with dark brown liquid. He wrapped the baggie in white paper and weighed it. “Thirty-two dollars it’s going to be, dear. I’m afraid there’s no way I can ring it up in a way that payment taken tomorrow will satisfy it. The only way is for me to pay and you pay me back later.”
“I can’t take your money. No way. Just forget it,” she said shamefaced, “I don’t need them. I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.” She turned and took her first step away, cheeks burning red.
“If you keep walking, I’m going to shout Norrah Petersen is here, Norrah Petersen is here. Do you want that?”
She rounded on her heels, gawped at him.
“I’ll be offended if you don’t let me do you this favor. Offended, Norrah. Take the steaks. This isn’t up for debate.”
She returned to the counter to accept the proffered parcel, her bright eyes conveying her gratitude. He held up a hand (think nothing of it) and said he looked forward to seeing her tomorrow, or whenever she had the money.
She blew him a kiss and strode off. She’d make it a point to stop by tomorrow and pay him back, thank him again. Two teenaged boys stood side by side between Norrah and the market’s exit, fixed on her. Their expressions said it all.
“Dude, I told you it’s her,” said one.
“Why won’t you give an interview, lady?” said the other. “My dad says—”
“Hey!” Clyde shouted at them.
The two boys looked around Norrah to the butcher. With eyes to the floor before her, in full stride, she flanked the two boys, made her escape.
“Come here a minute!” Clyde said and beckoned them with a finger.
The double sliding-glass doors opened for her. She heard Clyde scolding the kids from a good distance behind her now. She got in her car.
“Clyde, you wonderful man,” she muttered, patted the meat-parcel on the passenger seat.