by Amanda Lamb
“Hello.” She extended a slender hand with piano player fingers, as she reached behind her back with her other hand to untie the apron. “The store doesn’t want me to wear this for the interview. I get it. I am not speaking for them. I am speaking as an individual.”
I detected an accent. Like so many people in the Oak City area, she was originally from somewhere else. We had become a rich mixture of cultures in a way that made our quiet southern city much more interesting than it had been when I first moved here from New Jersey years ago.
“Totally understand.” I shook her hand as I noticed her exquisitely manicured purple nails.
I stepped back to allow her to pull the apron above her head.
Then walked up a scruffy young man in jeans loosely held up by a black studded belt wearing a faded concert shirt. He was sporting low black, well-worn motorcycle boots and was smoking the end of a cigarette held between his paint-stained fingers adorned by several large silver rings, including one in the shape of a skull. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his round multicolor wire-framed John Lennon sunglasses, but I could tell by the specific matting of the hair in the back of his head that he had most likely recently gotten out of bed.
“Larry Boone,” he said, in a gravelly voice, tipping his chin upward to me instead of reaching out his hand to shake mine. Unlike Lucinda, I could tell, despite Larry’s youthful way of dressing, that he was older than he tried to appear. I placed him in his early to mid-forties. He was clearly still a struggling artist. Janie had explained that he worked at night, stocking shelves for the store in between his artistic endeavors.
“He’s very talented. Just biding his time until his big break comes, right Larry?” Lucinda said, without any hint of sarcasm, when she noticed my visual assessment of him.
He again tilted his chin upward in assent. I was beginning to realize this was Larry’s go-to gesture.
Lucinda then told me how she had first noticed the ducks when she was on her lunch break, eating at one of the picnic tables reserved for employees on the side of the building. She told me that, at first, she fed them scraps of bread, but then read online that she should be feeding them real duck food instead. That night she stopped by the agriculture supply store and bought a bag of feed she brought with her to work the next day.
One thing led to another, and Lucinda’s ducks soon began to multiply and take up residence in a little grassy knoll, a traffic island adorned with one tree, in the middle of the parking lot. Eventually a shopper who knew something about ducks told Lucinda she needed a water source for them. That’s when she and Larry decided to place a plastic baby pool on the island for them to bathe in and drink from.
But despite their efforts to keep the ducks on the island with a big bucket fully stocked daily with feed and the blue plastic pool to splash in, the birds insisted on crossing the road to the picnic tables several times a day to the spot where Lucinda had first fed them. That’s when Larry got the idea to create the Duck Crossing sign.
“I just kept thinking I was going to come out and find some duck pate on the street in front of the store.” Larry pantomimed a car flattening a duck with his hands. “People are pretty cool if you allow them to be. Most everyone stops for them. Sure, there are a few angry people, dicks who get a little annoyed and honk because they’re in a hurry to get to Pilates or the golf course or some bullshit like that. I’m like, dude, they’re ducks. They got nowhere to go and all day to get there. Unlike your sorry, stressed-out ass. Chill.”
I had to do several takes with Larry to get him to say things again without curse words so I could use his sound bites on the air. Thankfully he seemed to understand my predicament with the FCC guidelines that still prohibited certain language on network television. He was more than happy to oblige me.
“It’s important that we allow people and nature to co-exist,” Lucinda said, with her dreamy accent, like an ethereal prophet. I wondered if she taught yoga.
“What are we if we can’t appreciate God’s vulnerable creatures? Then what does that say about us as human beings?”
Janie had contacted Jerome Salinger, whose corporation owned the shopping center, to see if he would be willing to do an interview with us. His assistant referred us to the management company that ran the shopping center, the Howell Management Corporation. As expected, no one from Howell was willing to go on camera and talk about the duck situation, but they did agree to email us a statement. In my opinion, this was always a big mistake. If I were their public relations person, I would have gotten out in front of this mini-crisis immediately and tried to find a solution that made the shoppers and the animal activists comfortable.
Instead of transparency and a solution, we got this: While we appreciate the efforts of two employees of the anchor store in our shopping center to protect the wildlife, it has caused a major disruption to our patrons, one that we fear will result in an inconvenience and possible negative interactions between drivers and the ducks in our parking lot. As a result, we are asking Ms. Bark and Mr. Boone to remove the food and water source that are keeping the birds in residence on our property. We are also asking them to remove the illegal sign that was erected without our approval and which does not comply with the town’s sign ordinance. We hope they will give these requests their immediate attention, or we will be forced to take legal action.
Howell could have posted positive messages on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram about their ability to create a peaceful co-existence between wildlife and their customers, but instead they dropped the ball. It would be their loss when the backlash started. And it would start. This I knew for sure, from previous experience.
I shook hands with Lucinda and Larry, thanking them, and gave them business cards so they could keep me posted on the situation. They were both another reminder of why I became a journalist in the first place—to be a passenger on other people’s adventures. The characters I met along the way were stitched together in my memory like a patchwork quilt that stayed with me wherever I went. I was constantly adding another square, another story, another rich layer to my interesting life as a reporter. Besides the kids, my work was the one thing that could usually distract me from my grief.
“Suzanne,” I said to her voicemail, over my car’s Bluetooth as I pulled out of the Food Stop parking lot and headed toward the station. “I am just checking in to see how you are. Also I have a few things we need to discuss. Can we get together?”
Just then, another call clicked in on call waiting. It was Suzanne.
“Maddie.” Suzanne’s voice was urgent. “Sorry I didn’t pick up. I was on the other line, but then I realized it was you.”
“It’s okay. Just disregard my voicemail. First, how are you?”
“I’m okay, I guess. I just don’t know what’s going on. Is my mind playing tricks on me? He left in the middle of the night the other night.”
“Who left?”
“Tanner. Said he had a medical emergency.”
“Well, maybe he did have a medical emergency.”
“Maybe, but it was weird. He got a text, looked at it, jumped out of bed, and bolted. The phone was on the table next to the bed. But when he got up, he took it with him into the bathroom while he got ready. It was like he didn’t want me to see the text.”
“You’re probably reading too much into that. Maybe he just didn’t want to wake you. Maybe he needed to respond to the text and didn’t want to waste any time, so he took the phone to the bathroom. I would hold off on imagining the worst before you know more.” I tempered my comments based on my newly recalled memory of Tanner. I was starting to wonder if Suzanne was just paranoid. “Look, I need to see you. Are you free for lunch?”
“Lunch, yes, okay. Where?”
“Oak City Bistro, one o’clock.”
“Okay. Maddie, thank you for all you have done for me. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. Seriously, you barely know me and you’re trying to help me navigate this nightmare. By the way, we never finis
hed our conversation about your mother. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t remember we were talking about that before all the crap went down with Tanner. I want to be there for you the way you’ve been there for me. Friendship is a two-way street.”
I hung up and placed it back the phone my empty cup holder. I swapped it for a now, lukewarm bottle of water that had been sitting in the car all morning, and took a long unsatisfying sip. Friendship? Out of desperation, Suzanne was becoming way too attached to me. We had known each other for just a few weeks. I was not prepared to bare my soul to her. Speaking to her about my mother would have been a mistake. Suzanne was the vulnerable one who needed my help. I did not need hers. From now on I intended to keep her at arm’s length.
9
Breaking Bread
Suzanne’s mention of my mother had put me on edge. I knew she probably meant well, but it unnerved me. As I sat at the table in the restaurant, dipping a big piece of crusty bread in olive oil, I kept returning to our phone conversation. I knew I was dwelling on my own insecurities when I should be thinking about how to help Suzanne, but I was rattled.
I wasn’t even hungry. It was a nervous habit—eating to keep my hands busy and my head occupied. The longer I waited for Suzanne, the more bread I ate, and the more my mind circled back to the moment I mentioned my mother. I was hoping she would forget it.
“Hey, there.” Suzanne breezed into the restaurant like a woman who just left the spa.
Her dark hair was a perfectly coiffed cascade of loose waves hanging over her shoulders. Her dark eyeliner and red lipstick made her face stand out like a model in a glossy magazine advertisement. She wore a snug-fitting blue wrap dress and carried her signature large, silver purse over her shoulder, nearly hitting me in the head as she leaned in for an airkiss. She gave my shoulder a quick squeeze.
“You look great,” I said after, I swallowed my third mouthful of soggy bread.
“Thanks. It’s one thing I learned through crisis PR work. Always look better than your opponent. It psyches them out. And looking better than you feel has a way of creating a positive vibe that hides your internal struggles.”
“So Suzanne, the reason I wanted to meet,” I said, just as the waiter arrived.
“Ladies, would you like to hear our specials today?”
The waiter was a thin redhead with close cropped hair and lobe expanders—big pieces of round black-plastic that stretched holes in his ears roughly the size of quarters. It was a fashion statement I didn’t understand and always had to look away from because it seemed so painful to me. I bowed my head and pretended I was intently studying the menu while waiting for him to go away. Suzanne, on the other hand, engaged him in flirtatious banter about the size of the Cobb salad. Finally, we both settled on salads, Suzanne on the Cobb, and me on the wedge salad with chicken, and the ear-expanding waiter finally left us alone.
“Maddie, I feel like I always talk about myself when we’re together. Let’s forget about me and my crazy life for a moment and talk about you. What was it that you were going to tell me about your mother, about what happened in Pennsylvania, before we got so rudely interrupted by my creepy husband the other day when we were running?”
I was completely caught off guard by her directness. My brain was racing, trying to figure out what her angle was, what she really wanted from me.
“Well…” I felt the same lump in my throat and redness in my face that I felt anytime I did something scary, like cascading down a zipline in Costa Rica. As I got older, I knew that this was usually a sign I shouldn’t do something, even if everyone else was doing it. I was always that person—the person who got bucked off the sweetest horse. The person who got sick on the upside-down roller coaster. The person who ran out of air or blew my eardrums on a shallow reef dive. My gut told me this was another one of those situations, that I should not share my dark history with Suzanne Parker.
“Suzanne, I really think we have more pressing things to talk about. Like Tanner,” I whispered. Oak City was a small town disguised as a city. Sure, we had tall buildings, crippling traffic, and large concert venues, but the vibe was still small-town. Everyone knew everyone else, either directly or through just a few degrees of separation. I didn’t want to risk anyone hearing us talk about Tanner since I had no real proof that he was a bad person.
“It’s okay. I’m not scared anymore. Not even after the pillow incident. I made a decision. I am going to leave him. I’ve got everything lined up a condo downtown, an attorney. I talked to one of the attorneys you recommended, about getting joint custody. I really think this is the best plan. In hindsight, I think I might have been overreacting about everything, all that stuff about him trying to kill me. I might have exaggerated a little bit. Just because a man has an affair doesn’t make him a monster. Plenty of men have affairs and never kill their wives. I haven’t told him yet that I’m leaving, but I’m going to very soon.”
Suzanne smiled and then, with her fork, speared a piece of egg from the top of her salad and popped it in her mouth. I sat back in my chair and studied her. Yesterday, she told me her husband was trying to smother her with a pillow, and now she was just going to casually walk out the door and leave him. I was starting to think Buster was right when he said, The crazies see you coming a mile away.
I felt like I needed to tell her about Maria being pregnant. I had to get it off my chest. If she found out later that I knew and didn’t tell her, she would be devastated. She could do whatever she wanted with the information. I just needed to unburden myself.
I wasn’t ready to tell her yet that I knew Tanner, that he had treated Adam’s finger. This didn’t seem important at the moment. My five-year-old fleeting impression of him, certainly not as important as telling her about Maria. It was hard for me to concentrate on what Suzanne was saying as my inner thoughts competed with her for my attention.
“Suzanne, that’s great news. It’s wonderful to hear you talking this way. I’m so glad you’re moving forward, that you have a plan. I knew you were capable of figuring this out. I just want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I tried to sound as enthusiastic as my words, but I was still skeptical that what seemed like such a dire situation could be resolved so easily and peacefully.
“They say the most dangerous time for a woman with an abusive husband is when she leaves. That’s when most women get killed. It’s a control thing. But I’m not afraid of him anymore.” Suzanne picked the onions out of her salad. Mr. Lobe Extenders had forgotten to leave them off, despite her specific instructions. I suspected he was so taken with her that he was too lovestruck to get her order right.
“But I’ve made up my mind. My lawyer is helping me get everything in place to protect me financially and parent-wise before I drop the bombshell on him that it’s over. Honestly, he may be relieved to be rid of me. I think he’s wanted out for a long time, too.”
My mother told Roger she was done with him on more than one occasion—these were murky memories. But I specifically remembered one time. The look on his face was something between sadness and rage. They were standing in the kitchen. She was at the sink, wearing yellow rubber gloves, holding a sponge and scrubbing dishes. He was standing at the kitchen table, one hand steadying himself on the edge, swaying. Looking back, I’m sure he was drunk. My mother paused from her dish duty to tell him their marriage was over, like it was an afterthought.
“Roger, I’m leaving you. I’m done. Please pack your things and get out by the end of the day.”
Roger stood dumbfounded, like he had no idea what he had done wrong. Even as a little girl who did not understand all the adult words, I was pretty sure he knew he had done something bad, or maybe a lot of somethings.
My mother immediately returned to washing dishes, not waiting for his response, not wanting to engage in any follow-up discussion.
The look on Roger’s face was one I had seen only one other time in my life. It had happened when I knocked ove
r a glass vase, spilling the ornamental rocks, water, and flowers all over the carpet in our entry hall. The glass from the vase shattered into tiny pieces that were carried by a tsunami of water in every direction. At the time, I had been standing on my tiptoes at the sideboard, trying to pull the vase closer to me so I could see how the sunlight poured through the small cracks between the rocks. Roger let out a guttural, almost animal-like roar and gave me that look when everything fell crashing to the floor. Time stopped. The droplets of water moved in slow motion through the air, with Roger’s terrible distorted face visible through them.
Maybe that’s why we went to my grandparents’ house in central Pennsylvania, because of the look my mother saw on Roger’s face when she told him to get out. She told me we were going on a little vacation, for a quick visit. But looking back, I now know she thought we’d be safer there, that he wouldn’t find us.
“Suzanne, just be careful, please. You sound like you’re in a good place. I’m happy that you have a lawyer and have been able to come to this decision. But just don’t do anything rash. Think everything through one step at a time. And about my mother, I’m sorry, it’s just not a story I feel comfortable sharing right now. I hope you understand.” I slipped in the last part casually to make it seem less important.
“I understand completely,” Suzanne replied with sincerity, and then reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. “You talk about it when you’re ready. That’s what true friendship is all about. I’m here for you.”
O
I excused myself and went to the bathroom after my soapbox speech, feeling proud that I had nixed her inquiry about my mother. But as I looked in the mirror, I knew there was still one more crucial conversation to be had about Maria. I convinced myself that this should not come as a shock to Suzanne. She already suspected that Tanner and Maria were having an affair, so what if she was pregnant? Sure, it was another complication, but hopefully not something that would implode her exit plan. I returned to the table on a mission.