The Blue Pen

by Lisa Rusczyk

PARKER

  Cleo eyed her coffee cup, then looked up at Parker. She rubbed her face with one hand, and drank from the almost empty mug, draining it. She said, “Perhaps I could just have a little sip more, without the coffee.” Her speech had slowed from its even, fast-paced talk, and she looked tired. Parker remembered the smell in his car the first day he had met her.

  He looked down at the gray cat sleeping at her feet, feeling both sympathetic and slightly disgusted. He nodded at the cat and got up from the table. He looked at the clock on his stove. It was 4:32 P.M. The fall sky was almost all darkened. He went to his cabinet and took out a small glass that Missy had bought from a restaurant when she went to Italy for an art display of her work. The Italians had taken quite an interest in her sculpture at that time. The glass was small, thin and clear, straight from top to bottom, little more than an orange juice glass, and she had told him that she had such a good time in Europe, and that the restaurant had served her wine in that little glass, wine that dated from 1889. When she had come home and showed it to him, she had said it was the one little piece of her trip that she wanted him to have.

  He poured more whiskey than he thought he should have into the glass and returned to the table. Cleo took it without looking at him and drank it all very quickly. She put the glass on the table and slowly shook her head. She said, “I need to rest. I am very tired. Working the memory accurately is exhausting stuff. Do you mind if I take a nap? We can continue when I awake. I just need…” She smiled. He thought she looked happy; her cheeks were flushing like she had pinched them. A curl slipped from behind her ear and touched her red lower lip. It reminded him of Missy.

  Parker nodded and told her she was welcome to sleep in his second bedroom. She looked down at the empty glass from Italy. She said, “It has been a while since I slept in fine linens. Perhaps it would feel nice.” She looked back into his eyes. “I will take the kitten with me. A sweet purr is the best sleeping pill. I will close the door behind me, but you really should get a litter box. For now, papers will do.”

  About an hour after Cleo shut the door to the second bedroom, Parker washed the glass from Italy and poured into it a small glass of whiskey for himself. He sipped, and then took the picture of Missy off of his mantle. He placed it on the coffee table, then reached behind him and opened the window. The air was freezing. It made the liquor taste all the better. He didn’t talk to the picture as he usually did. He was worried about Cleo still being awake and hearing him. He looked away from the photo, staring at one of the wooden posts of the coffee table, remembering the day he and Missy went shopping for it. They brought it home and she took out her chisel. He went to bed, but when he had awoken the next day, she had carved small wooden mermaids on each of the four posts of the coffee table. She was asleep on the couch, chisel on the floor, like working her trade and her imagination had finally killed her. When Missy awoke, he was sitting on the floor, watching her. She had smiled.

  She then said, “This coffee table is now ours.”

  He felt like it was not theirs at all right then, but just hers.

  He felt that way as he looked at it at that moment and sipped whiskey with a homeless woman in his second bedroom. He forgot about Missy then, and wondered about Cleo. He decided to check the messages on his voice mail. He took the phone out of the freezer. He hit the on/off button and heard a skipping dial tone. He dialed his voicemail.

  There was only one message, from the Dean. His deep voice said, “Nice trick at lunch today. You have the Network drooling even more. Call me back. They have a very nice offer for you.”

  Parker tried to read a book for a couple of hours, but ended up falling asleep in bed with his light still on and the book lying across his stomach. He awoke around four in the morning and turned off his light, put the book away.

  He awoke at eight with the feeling he was being watched. He looked around the bedroom, but didn’t see Cleo. Then he heard a strange rumbling sound and gazed at the foot of his bed. The gray kitten was curled up at his feet, blinking at him, purring. His neck prickled. The cat stood up and stretched, then delicately walked up to his hand and rubbed its head against his knuckles.

  “Mahhhh, mrahhh.”

  Parker pushed the cat away and got out of bed, thinking of Cleo and feeling irritated that she had let the cat out of the second bedroom. He walked into his living room to see Cleo sitting on the couch reading one of his magazines.

  She looked up at him with a smile. She said, “Fresh coffee for you, reporter. I figured you’d sleep in, it being a Sunday. I made a pot about thirty minutes ago.”

  He nodded at her, rubbed his eyes, trying to hide his feelings about the cat being in his bed. “Thanks.”

  He went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. He took a sip. It was a little strong for him. He noticed the coffee bag sitting on the counter. She had used the last of it and just left the package sitting out. He sighed and grabbed the bag, opening the cabinet under the sink to throw it away. His eyes met with the whiskey bottle next to the trashcan. It was almost empty. He remembered it being half full when he poured himself the small drink the night before. Cleo must have drunk it. He groaned.

  He went back into the living room. The kitten had followed him out of his bedroom and was now sitting in Cleo’s lap. She smiled again. He decided not to say anything about the whiskey.

  He sat down in the recliner next to the couch. He asked her, “How did you sleep?”

  Her voice was crackling like the first time he met her. “I slept fine, thank you.” She didn’t look like she drank half a bottle of whiskey.

  He leaned back into the chair and sipped his coffee.

  She was wearing some different clothes of Missy’s, a white sweater and a different pair of old blue jeans. She noticed him looking her over and she said, “Luckily she liked baggy clothes from time to time. I found this old pair of jeans in the back of the dresser.”

  “She sculpted in those.”

  Cleo closed the magazine. She pinched the denim near her knee. “You are too trusting. I could rob you blind, you sleep so deeply.”

  “Uh-huh.” He looked out the window behind her.

  She said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy soon enough.”

  He looked at her again. She seemed happier than she did last night, as though spilling the story of her life was like confessing to a forgiving god.

  His phone rang. He got up and walked into the kitchen, answered the phone with a yawn and, “Hello?”

  The Dean’s voice saluted him, “Good morning. Get my message yesterday?”

  “Yeah, yeah I got it.” He walked to his bedroom and shut the door.

  The Dean told him about the offer the network news was laying on the table. They wanted to feature him on a segment talk piece. It was rather generous, but he didn’t need money. Parker asked why they didn’t just do their own story and leave him out of it.

  The Dean said, “Because you are one famous writer, they want your angle.”

  “I don’t really have an angle.”

  The Dean chuckled. “Also got an interesting call a few minutes ago. Seems a young woman believes that you found her mother, who has been missing since 1984. Name is Cleo, blue eyes like you described.”

  Parker blinked. “What was the daughter’s name?”

  “She said her name was Belle.”

  Parker frowned. “Did she say how old she is?”

  “You have more to this story, don’t you? I’ve worked with you long enough to know that sound in your voice. Same reason you seemed so distracted at lunch yesterday. Something on your mind?”

  “Yeah, I do have more.” Parker knew the Dean wouldn’t blow his story or sell him out. “I have the woman here with me. I’m interviewing her.”

  The Dean was silent for a moment. He said, “In your house?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Dean made a humming noise, and asked, “How did you find her?”

  “I didn’t. She found me.�
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  “I see. A second, Parker.” His voice sounded far from the phone for a moment, saying, “Sure, Fred, leave it on my desk.” To Parker, he said, “Has she mentioned having a daughter?”

  Parker lowered his voice, disliking the thought that Fred might have overheard any of this conversation. “Not one with that name. Not yet, at least.”

  His boss was quiet for a moment, and said, “This Belle caught the story rather quickly, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Dean hummed again. “She said she has been looking for her mother for years. Sounds like she has some connections to the media somehow. I asked her how she found the story so fast and she said she has other people helping her look for any information about her mother. Has that sound in her voice, the money sound.” The Dean laughed. Parker smiled.

  With his voice still lowered, Parker said, “Give me a couple days.”

  “Okay.”

  He hit the off button and went back out to the kitchen to hang up the phone.

  Cleo walked in and got a mug out of the cabinet. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat in the same chair she had occupied the day before. She said, “Shall we continue?”

  “Okay.” He sat down across from her.

 

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN