The Blue Pen

by Lisa Rusczyk

PARKER

  “Your phone is ringing.”

  “I know.”

  “Answer it.”

  Parker got up from the table with a groan and picked up the cordless receiver. “Hello?” He sounded like he’d been sleeping.

  “Hi Parker, Fred here. I saw your article. Dazzled me.”

  “Oh. Thanks, Fred.”

  “Gotta tell you, you have guts. You make yourself sound like a fucking dick, but somehow you pull it off.” He laughed hard like they shared a personal joke about Parker’s true nature.

  Parker paused, looking at Cleo as she petted the kitten that had curled into a circle on the table. “Okay.”

  “You’re a craftsman, I’ll give you that. But that’s not what I called about. Dean-o wants to see you up here right now. So cruise on down.” They called their boss the Dean because of his history as head of a college department.

  “Why? What’s wrong that somebody else can’t fix?”

  “You. You’re the only one who can fix you.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with me?” Cleo looked up at him with her eyebrows raised.

  “Why should I take all the mystery out of it for you?” He laughed loud enough through the phone that the kitten’s ears twitched and he opened his eyes with a flicker of gray underlid. “See you soon, Townes.”

  Parker didn’t bother hanging up the phone. Instead he turned it off and opened up the freezer and stuck it in the empty door shelf.

  “Cleo –”

  “You have to go. No problem. Not at all.”

  He stood behind his chair and looked down at her and the cat. The gray glanced up, and then stared off into the air in front of his nose.

  “Stay here,” he said, and gestured around his kitchen. “Eat, bathe, do whatever, just…”

  “Oh, I could? But I might warn you, I’m no housewife.”

  “I want to know more.”

  “My voice hurts anyway.”

  “I’ll only be gone an hour.”

  “Do I really have to bathe?”

  He put his hands on the chair back and said, “But he has to go out.”

  “We’ll see.” She sipped and looked away.

  Parker cracked his knuckles and glared at the cat, but it would not give Parker the satisfaction of a staring war. “I’ll only be gone probably less than an hour.”

  “You already said that,” and she wouldn’t look at him in the eyes either, as though in a silent contract with the cat to not let him intimidate them with his meaningful expressions.

  “Now I say less than an hour. But make sure you eat. I have some frozen stuff, some lunchmeat.”

  The kitten glanced up at him at the sound of the word “meat” and licked his furry mouth.

  Cleo said, “His teeth are almost out. Did you know cats’ adult teeth grow in before the baby teeth fall out?”

  “Before I go,” he said, his shoulders lifting as he looked away from the creature on the table, “Why did you leave Nebraska? Did you see Patrick before he went to war?”

  “I didn’t see him, no. He was gone the next Monday, and his brother told me he got the beating on his face from his father because he took the car out without permission. Not that that bastard gave anything but orders.”

  “What about leaving Nebraska?”

  “That,” she said while closing one eye and looking into her empty cup, “I can tell you about later.”

  “You promise you’ll still be here?”

  “Wouldn’t leave for anything.”

  “Okay. Less than an hour. Some women’s clothes, if you need any, in the closet in the other bedroom. The one that’s not mine.”

  She smiled up at him. “I’ll look for the one that smells like woman.”

  Parker folded his arms. “I don’t think you’re charity.”

  “Of course not.”

  He looked at the kitten again without expression. “See you later.”

  Even on Saturday, the magazine office was full of workers. Kathy, the receptionist, was as tall and lovely as ever in her navy suit when she greeted him as Parker paced into the office. Many men had certain taste in women’s looks and often sought out the same types repeatedly as companions, but Parker wasn’t of that nature. He liked a nice smile, and if that was particular, then so be it. Kathy’s mouth drooped like a fading pink flower when she smiled, and he felt a little urge to moisten it each time he saw her. That didn’t mean he intended to do anything about it.

  The Dean was on the phone when Parker entered his office, and the Dean made apologies to whoever was on the other end when he saw the young writer.

  “Parker, have a chair, and some water?” He mixed his tones like the sentence was both a request and a question. The Dean was thin and lined at sixty-two, and had told Parker he would work until he published his own obituary. “Got something for you. News channel wants to pick up your story. Wanted to meet you for lunch. Kind of thing that could be good for the magazine. Thought you’d like a little coverage.”

  Parker sat and declined the offer for water. “What kind of report? What station?”

  “Network, could be big.” The Dean propped his bottom on the edge of his black desk and leaned towards Parker with know-what-I-mean eyes. “Maybe a follow-up is in order.”

  “I’m a little busy today. Could we reschedule?”

  The Dean never said anything like an order, rather he used more deadly means of persuasion - that of watching his employees and tapping their hidden desires as his force. “Another award might be calling. I remember how proud your father looked at the banquet two years ago. Ever mention I think you look like him?”

  Parker did not mind such techniques, but rather felt flattered that the man paid such close attention. Like most people with impeccable memory, he felt the world was too empty of creative manipulators. “Each time you want me to buy you lunch.”

  His eyes twinkled like ice in a vodka martini.

  Parker said, “You didn’t mention what this network liked about my article. What do they want from me?”

  “They want to know more about the condition of the streets. Woman named Loretta Jones called - you might’ve seen her on TV. Nice hair, though her news voice is a little too whiney for me. Her phone voice was much better. More like a telemarketer selling something worthwhile, if there is such a thing. She mentioned my story about spinal meningitis from ’76.”

  “I know her name. I didn’t write about the condition of the streets.” Parker folded his hands on his lap and glanced at the clock over the Dean’s desk. “I was writing about Cleo.”

  The Dean’s eyes stayed in cheerful shape, but his expression changed as though clouds had parted over Parker’s head and the Dean saw a hidden halo. “What are you up to today that has you in such a hurry?”

  Normally Parker would tell his boss about the homeless woman in his apartment, but he didn’t feel good about Loretta-the-reporter’s nosiness into his story. He felt that Cleo was telling her story to him specifically, not to the world, and he felt more flattered by this than any network interest. “My brother’s visiting,” he lied.

  “I didn’t know he was in town. But still, as brothers go, I’m sure he would like a little time away from his sibling so that he can breathe more easily for a couple of hours.”

  Parker sighed and agreed to lunch, and said, “But I’m not promising anything.”

  “Of course, you know I think you should be playing for just one team - ours. But what’s good for them could be good for us.” He waved his hand, and then held up his thumb, “And good for you. I always thought you should try writing a book.”

  “You’re very convincing,” he said, but it wasn’t the Dean’s words that persuaded him. He was thinking of Cleo in his house, possibly the first time in years she had been alone in a nice apartment, and he thought maybe it would be kind to let her relax there. The thought of her having thief’s hands made him pause, but when he was washing his own hands in the bathroom of the Thai restaurant ten minutes later, he l
ooked at himself in the mirror. He remembered the night he had been attacked in the alley and how his reflection had looked in Crystal’s shady bathroom mirror, with dried blood flaking on his forehead. He thought of how it was just one lonely night for him, and he wondered if Cleo had seen a beaten face in the mirror, and if so, how many times, and by who’s hands and what for?

  Loretta was short, wearing her weight like a fitted fleece coat. She had store-tanned makeup on and perfectly painted maroon lips. Parker recognized her, but would not have been able to place her face on the spot had he seen her on the street. Now, he remembered seeing her covering the last presidential election. Her talking voice was different from her television voice, and her expression seemed more earnest than his memory recollected. As she ordered, she looked the waitress in the eye and asked questions about the dishes with sincerity, and the waitress visibly enjoyed telling her what was in the red curry dish. Then Loretta turned her deep brown eyes to Parker, flickering once to the Dean as if to say, “Is this okay? Can I talk now?”

  She said, “I enjoyed your article and called your office at once. I’m so happy you agreed to meet with me. I’ve followed your work in the past.” She never broke eye contact except to look up at the heavens and say, “I wish we could just sit and chat, but I know you must be a busy man.”

  “Actually,” said the Dean, “He was just saying earlier that life is an open calendar when it comes to chatting with the media.”

  She laughed like she thought he really was funny. Parker smiled his worldly grin and sipped water from a goblet. He resisted the urge to look at the Dean’s watch as he remembered the gray cat and how it probably wasn’t house-trained.

  Loretta told them that not many people feel that way when it comes to reporters, “But you know what I mean, right, Mr. Townes?”

  “Of course.” Parker looked around the restaurant with a friendly face, but felt heartburn from the three cups of coffee he had surging up his throat like he’d swallowed a live hamster.

  “I’ll get right to the point then.” Her face seemed to fill his entire vision as she spoke. “I was really affected by what you wrote about the different homeless people you saw and talked to. Do you really think they are just people who haven’t ever been listened to in their lives?” And on it went. Parker did nothing but watch her meaningful expressions and listen to the wide, smooth fluctuations of her voice. The news was the last thing he’d flip the TV to when in a hotel room when he was traveling. It put him at ease and made him sleepy. As Loretta talked, her voice sounded more and more public-friendly, and he could have sworn she had said, “And eleven people were killed in a New England tragedy early this morning when a ninety-year-old building collapsed without warning.” Instead, what she did say passed him by, and when the question came, Parker didn’t notice.

  “Parker,” the Dean said, “Don’t leave a lady hanging.”

  “Oh, Loretta. I’m sorry. I haven’t been sleeping much,” he said. “You were saying…”

  Her soft, motherly gaze tightened up to that of a hungry rat. “I’m asking if you would let me extend your story to a broader audience, with your angle and your name.”

  Parker rubbed his eyes and glanced at the Dean. “Well, honestly, Loretta, I think the story is pretty much out there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, anybody can walk down a street here and see that story. If they really wanted to know more about it, they would already.”

  “But then why did you write it to begin with?”

  He didn’t explain to her that he had hoped his story would lure Cleo in some manner or another, or that it had worked, he only said, “I needed something for this issue. It’s work. You know about work and what you do to just get it done. Story over.” He stood up, and said, “Sorry, Dean. Loretta. I have an appointment I have to keep.” He reached in his pocket and dropped fifteen bucks on the table. “Nice meeting you.” She stared up at him like he’d blown off her advances in a bar. He thought to himself that she was so good, he almost felt sorry for her.

  He didn’t need to hear the Dean’s apologies after he left, and how the Dean would tell her that whenever a story really got under Parker’s skin, he was a wild bear on the hunt. He would say, “Don’t worry,” and, “He just needs to think about it.”

  Parker imagined that Loretta kept a hurtful touch in her eyes, but the Dean would know as well as Parker that a little shoulder brush was all Parker’s abrupt leave was to her.

  Parker’s house smelled like diaper and must. He tried not to panic when, after closing his front door and locking it, he saw cat poop on shredded paper in the corner of his living room. “What the hell…Cleo?”

  The gray cat seemed to appear out of nothingness on an end table that Missy had picked up at the shore a couple of years earlier.

  “Mahhhh.”

  Parker almost told the cat to get out, but remembered Cleo’s special affection for it and instead, he walked to the shredded paper pile and scooped up the mess. “Damn, damn it,” he muttered as he saw slight moisture from the cat urine under the paper on the wood floor. “That’ll stain the frickin’ wood.”

  Cleo’s voice came from the hallway. “Reporter? I’m in the tub. Nice soap you have here.”

  He stood and stared at the hallway, although the hall bath was out of view.

  “I used your magazine for litter. You really should get a litter box for your cat.” Her voice echoed against the bare hall wall, then cracked as she strained to be heard. “Too cold for him to go outside for business.”

  He heard the water begin to drain from the tub. Swish, swishhh as she rose. It didn’t even occur to Parker that he had a naked woman in his apartment, door open and all showing. He jumped when the kitten arched his back and leaned against Parker’s right leg as though trying to become a part of it.

  “Hey,” he said to the cat, then felt dampness in his hand as the paper began to leak. He nudged the cat away and went to the kitchen. The trash can he intended to drop the waste in had been knocked over, and coffee grounds and wrappers and coke cans had spilled out all over the floor. He cursed again, and began scooping the trash into the can. The cat joined him and walked through the rubbish with dainty paws. “No! No, get.” He pushed the cat with the back of his fouled hand.

  Cleo’s voice came from the bathroom, “I think he knocked your trash. I heard it when I was bathing. You should take your trash out more often.”

  Parker closed his eyes and bit the insides of his cheeks. He called out, “No problem,” and, opening his eyes, finished cleaning. The cat walked back through the trash, and Parker scooped him up with his dry hand and put him in the kitchen closet.

  “Mahhh, Mahhar,” cried the imprisoned cat. Parker finished putting away all he could get with his hands, and then pulled a dustbin and small sweeper out from under the sink. The wet coffee grounds resisted his quick sweeps like ants in a windy storm. As he emptied the bin into the trash, the sound of Cleo’s boots clanked into the kitchen.

  “Where is he? Oh, reporter, you didn’t put him in there, did you?” She sounded like she was chiding a six-year-old for dropping his favorite ball in a creek. She opened the door and the gray walked out slowly, a king who had been awakened from dozing on his throne. She picked up the kitten and said, “There, now, you just don’t worry about that man. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  Parker wiped at the surviving grounds with a sponge, then washed his hands twice. As he ran the water over his knuckles, he looked Cleo over. She had put on Missy’s blue sweater, and at the collar he could see she’d also put on one of Missy’s long-sleeved, black cotton shirts underneath. She was wearing a pair of Parker’s dark blue jeans and had stuffed them into her boots. One of Parker’s gray bathroom towels was wrapped around her head.

  Cleo watched him examine her and said, “Your woman must be a twig. I could never fit into those size fours.” She gestured at her legs. “Don’t mind, do you? I have a pair of your black
thermals under, so just don’t let me forget.”

  He put the small trash can under the sink. “Forget what?”

  “To take them off when I leave, of course. Where is your woman?”

  “In England, working.”

  Cleo unwrapped the towel from her head, and long, black ringlets as thick as desert brush fell out all over, reaching down to her waist. She draped the towel over the back of a kitchen chair.

  Parker involuntarily blinked twice, and then offered Cleo food. “You must be hungry.”

  “I am always hungry for biscuits. Got any?”

  “No, but I can get you a sandwich.”

  “I can make some. You watch. Where’s your baking stuff?”

  He pointed at a cabinet and Cleo opened it. She pulled out flour and other boxes and bags Parker hadn’t even looked at in a year. She shook her head and said, “Must pick up some yeast next time you are out, but never mind the biscuits. I’m not very hungry just yet.” Cleo sat down at the table. “Why’s she in England and you’re here?”

  “She had an opportunity she couldn’t refuse.”

  “And what are you? An opportunity to let things fly by?”

  “It’s not like that,” he said, and stood over the towel-draped chair. He watched the gray cat disappear into the hallway. “Did you leave my bedroom door open?”

  “Don’t worry, I put some paper in there, too. Cats don’t like closed doors. It makes them anxious.” She rolled up one side of the placemat in front of her. “Shall I continue with my story?”

  Parker, still looking at the hallway, walked around the chair and sat down. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees so that the wet towel wouldn’t dampen his shirt. “Tell me more about your family. Grandparents? Cousins?”

  “Oh, them. Yes, I guess I have neglected to mention relations to this point. But now would be a good time to talk about my family.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN