Unforeseen (Thomas Prescott 1)

by Nick Pirog

  When it was finally my turn, I walked past the book curtain, took in a deep breath, and mentally shit my pants. Alex Tooms was a woman.

   

  Alex, or make that Alexandria, had her eyes glued to the book she was writing in, yet I could still make out the majority of her features. She looked to be in her late twenties, a compact 5’6”, mocha brown hair held back in a ponytail, and sleek olive skin. She was wearing faded blue jeans with a simple red tank top, and I wasn’t sure if she had three older brothers or four. She sensed my presence and, without looking up from her present endeavor, said, “Do you need to buy a book?”

  I heard myself say, “Yes, I need a book.”

  She pushed her project aside, grabbed a fresh copy, all the while with her head down, mind you, and said, “Who do you want it made out to?”

  For as much as I was dreading this moment, it couldn’t have played out any better. I licked my chops and said, “Thomas Prescott.”

  It was as if she was tied down on train tracks and each syllable of my name made up the train barreling toward her. The last “T”, the caboose, came to a screeching halt inches from her frail body. She dropped her pen and looked up.

  When God made her eyes, he evidently used dyes Yellow 5 and Blue 1 because they were the exact color of a lime Popsicle. After an awkward moment, she smiled, revealing she’d worn her retainer and her White Strips, and said, “Where’s your machete?”

  Machete? Oh, right. I’d written something in my letter about cutting his, now her, head off with a machete. It’d been a stress reliever at the time, even funny, but now it seemed a little over the top. “I left it in the car.”

  She laughed and her face creased in all the right places. I took this time to affirm I was here to give this person hell, not fall in love with them. I went over her bad qualities again in my head. Weasel reporter? Check. Big headed? Check. Money monger? Check. Nice rack? Check. Nice ass? Check . . . back later.

  My thoughts were interrupted when she said, “I knew you’d show up here today. Actually, that was the whole reason for this book signing. It was bait. Thomas Prescott bait.” She cocked her head to the side and asked, “Mind if I ask why you bit?”

  I told her the truth, “I wanted to make sure you were ugly.”

  She laughed again, and I think my knees melted into my shins. “Then you must be disappointed.”

  Not the modest type, are we? I crafted my response carefully, making a point not to say extremely. “Extremely.” Shit.

  She grabbed a copy of Eight in October. Not the one in front of her, but the one she’d been writing in when I’d first approached. I found myself say, “Alexandria, is it?”

  She handed me the book. “Call me Alex.”

   

  Back safely in the Range Rover, I opened my fourth copy of Eight in October. There was a map on the inside cover, underneath which Alex had scribbled:

  1222 E. Amplewood Terrace. 8:30 Tonight. Bring wine.

  Uh-oh.

  Chapter 10

   

   

  It was after three when I pulled into my drive. I hadn’t eaten anything all day and I had a craving for a breakfast burrito. They say you crave things for a reason; red meat when you’re low on iron, milk when your body is seeking calcium, and eggs when you’re in need of protein. I had another craving but it wasn’t as easily remedied as walking a couple blocks. It was in Philadelphia, even Seattle, not in Surry Woods.

  The only thing on my mind on the walk to Little Benny’s Big Burrito Stand, Little Benny’s for short, was Alex’s invitation to dinner. If I went, I had another opportunity to lash into her for writing the book. If I stayed home, I would just be waiting for something to happen which, sadly, was starting to look like the three-legged horse in the eighth race with Ricki Lake for a jockey.

  When I first set out on my burrito pilgrimage, I’d been 90% in favor of not going to Alex’s for dinner. Now I was down to about 70%. My goal was to somehow get down to fifty-fifty and go to the “old coin flip.” I wonder how many big decisions have come at the hands of the old coin flip? I’m sure a couple wars were started because some idiot called heads. Tails, we sign the treaty. Heads, we nuke ’em.

  Didn’t people know you always call tails. Always.

  When I’d completed the round trip, an elapsed time of twenty minutes, I found Lacy in the kitchen giving Baxter a bath in the sink. She heard me slide the glass door open and said, “How’d the book signing go? Did you give ’em hell?”

  I set the Little Benny’s bag on the kitchen table and said, “You mean, did I give ‘er hell.”

  Lacy stopped scrubbing the pug, who against the classic idiom, seemed to be enjoying the bath thoroughly. “Alex Tooms is a woman? No way. I wish I could have seen the look on your face. Oh, I would have given anything.”

  I took a burrito out of the sack, sat down at the small oak kitchen table, and said, “I’m still in shock.”

  Lacy sniffed. “Little Benny’s?”

  “Got yours right here.”

  Little Benny’s took precedence over Baxter, and Lacy joined me at the table. After she’d taken a huge bite and sighed heavenly, she said, “Sooooo, drama at the bookstore. Spill it, bro.”

  I told her the story and she hung on every word. When I recounted Alex’s dinner invitation for later that evening, Lacy started choking. I had to run and get her a glass of water. After she drank the glass and exhausted a coughing fit, she said, “You have to go.”

  That was all I needed to hear. Lacy’s vote officially bumped it to fifty-fifty. Lacy went back to the kitchen sink—Baxter was in the dead pug’s float—and I asked her if she had a dime. She yelled over her shoulder, “If I had a dime for every time someone asked me for a dime, I’d have a dime.”

  I guess that was a no, because no dimes came hurling my way. I walked to a wooden ledge separating the kitchen from the living room. Sitting on the ledge was an ivory colored ceramic vase, circa 1935—left over by the Farth’s—that had become a refuge for Lacy’s and my change.

  I wasn’t overly superstitious, but I did have a couple quirks and quacks that might fall into the category. After two minutes, I finally stumbled on a dime made the year I was born.

  I flipped the coin and revealed—tails. See?

  Lacy asked, “What’s the verdict?”

  I laughed at my own stupidity and said, “I’m not sure. I didn’t assign heads or tails to either of the outcomes.”

  I primed the coin, assigning one outcome to heads and one to tails. Lacy interrupted my train of thought, “Wait. You can’t assign the outcomes yourself. You need an unbiased third party to assign the outcomes. Like me, for instance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a retard and you always pick tails. So you’re going to assign the outcome you want to tails, even if it’s subconsciously.” She turned around, smiling, “Going was tails? It was, wasn’t it?”

  Oh. Ohhhhhh.

  I’d allocated Going to Alex’s for Dinner to tails. This was not a good sign. “All right, you tell me what’s what.”

  She thought for a second and said, “Flip for it.”

  I was confused. This was starting to be a common trend, “What?”

  “Give me the dime.” I handed her the dime and she said, “If it’s heads then Going to Alex’s for Dinner will be heads. If it’s tails then Going to Alex’s for Dinner will be tails.”

  This was like Abbot and Costello meets Benny and Joon. “So what’s Not Going to Alex’s for Dinner?”

  “It’s whatever Going to Alex’s for Dinner isn’t.”

  I was under the impression flipping a coin to make a decision was meant to simplify the decision, not complicate it. “Whatever.”

  She flipped the coin, then Braill-ed the top of the coin with her right index finger. “Heads. So Going to Alex’s for Dinner is heads. Actually, if you wanted to be entirely unbiased, you would flip a coin to see which one of the outcomes you would flip a coin to see what
heads and tails would be for the final flip.”

  I felt a migraine coming on and grabbed the coin out of Lacy’s hand. “So let me get this straight, Going to Alex’s for Dinner is heads and Not Going to Alex’s for Dinner is tails.”

  “Right.”

  I flipped the coin and, for the first time in my life, I found myself praying for heads.

   

  Tails. Best two out of three. Tails. Best three out of five. Tails. Best four out of seven. Tails. I’m telling you, it’s always tails. To be honest, I was starting to get the heebie-jeebies, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had tails four times in a row. I kept flipping and things started to even out. And after about ten minutes, heads finally inched out tails in the best thirty-three out of sixty-five division.

  After stopping by a liquor store, I turned the navigational system on, foolishly opting for the voice command option. The woman’s voice came on and asked for my destination. The bitchy undertones of the woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, but I still couldn’t place the voice. The woman repeated the command and there was no mistaking it; Hillary Rodham Clinton was yelling at me from the dash.

  I opened Eight in October to where the map should have been, but it’d either vanished or I’d brought the wrong copy of the book. I could have viewed this as a sign I wasn’t fated to go to Alex’s, but that would have been superstitious and I wasn’t superstitious. Plus, my lucky socks would have canceled it out, had it been a sign.

  I called Lacy and luckily Conner was at the house. Apparently, the two were about to head to a movie which, strangely enough, Lacy still enjoyed listening to. Conner found my signed copy of Eight in October, and I relayed the address to Hillary. Within seconds I was a blue dot blinking along I-95 headed to the red star more than twenty-five miles away.

  I pulled a CD out of the glove compartment and slipped it in. I was bumbling along to Maroon 5 when I noticed a high-pitched background singer. In reality, it was Hillary bitching at me to merge onto Route 2 westbound. I turned the music down and followed Hillary’s commands until I found myself in the town of East Madison.

  Alex’s house was on Amplewood Terrace. From my experience, there was only one house on a terrace and it was usually the biggest house on the block. I drove for a long par five and doglegged left for a short par three when the street suddenly ended at a huge wrought iron gate: 1222 Amplewood Terrace.

  I didn’t want to announce my presence at the gate box and was debating whether to jump the fence when the huge gate began to swing inward. Watching Alex’s gate open was like watching a hundred-year-old paraplegic do the moonwalk through fresh concrete. The gate finally opened wide enough to squeak the Range Rover through. Or make that wide enough I thought I could squeak the Range Rover through. My passenger side mirror was now part of Miss Tooms’ gate garden motif. Beats a garden gnome, I guess.

  There was a gravel road leading up a hill, the house’s slate roof shingles barely visible through the barrage of spruces and pines. As I drove, my nose detected a hint of lake or river, and I’d be willing to bet there was freshwater parked somewhere in Alex’s backyard. Speaking of parking, there was a silver Jeep Wrangler parked next to a shed about twenty yards from the house and I headed the car in that direction.

  I grabbed the bottle of wine and stepped out, my feet sinking into a bed of more than an inch of fallen pine needles. Walking around the car, I surveyed the wires dangling from where the passenger-side mirror once sat. In my frustration I may have kicked the front bumper which, in turn, fell off.

  The house was that odd height where it could easily be comprised of either two stories or one story with high ceilings. It was made entirely of white cobble brick and the four pane windows sat back seven or eight inches. There was a series of rosebushes girdling the perimeter of the house, the bulbs readying themselves for the long winter slumber. The front door split the house evenly—two windows on each side—and was the only thing with paint attached. I lifted the bronze doorknocker and slammed it twice against the door.

  I was pulling the doorknocker upward for a final thrusting when the door swung inward and I was left with the doorknocker and its hinged compatriot suspended from my fingertips.

  Alex Tooms stood in the doorway holding the door with her right hand, her left hand appearing to be sewn into her hip pocket. She was wearing the same outfit as earlier, only she was now donning a derisive grin.

  I offered her money for the brass fixture but she said she didn’t have her credit card machine up and running.

  She said, “I’m surprised you came. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Wasn’t expecting me, my ass. She knew, as well as I did, the fancy soap was out. I ambled onto the recently lacquered wood floor, dividing my attention between both Alex and her home’s delicate beauty.

  We made our way to the kitchen, which I was surprised to see was fully loaded. Centering the kitchen was a black marble island with ten burners, four of which were occupied and simmering away.

  I ran my hand over one of the cherry wood cabinet doors and said, “Nice place you got here.” (This comment is only said when either the person saying it is uncomfortable, or they are impressed with the other person’s digs. I was both so I wasn’t sure where that put me.)

  After turning one of the dials on burner one, three, five, seven, or nine, Alex said, “Can you make us some drinks?”

  I wasn’t sure if she was asking if I wanted to make drinks or if I were capable. She gave me instructions to the bar and put in her order for whatever I was having. I set the bottle of Cab on the countertop and exited the kitchen, finding myself in a spacious living room with a long oak bar at back. There were two paintings, one on both the east and west walls, respectively, and I knew immediately both were Winslow Homers. There was a small couch facing a mammoth flat screen television and the bar in the dim left corner was nearly invisible.

  I meandered behind the high bar and fumbled through Alex’s array of liquor bottles. I made two stiff gin and tonics and made my way back to the kitchen. Alex tossed two thick salmon filets on the grill splitting the island, inciting a cacophony of smells.

  At the present moment I was leaning back against one of her marble counters, markedly uncomfortable both physically and conversationally, and hauled myself up with both hands. As I let my weight down on the counter a searing pain tore through my right butt cheek, and I heaved myself up and off the marble. The sound of my gasping began to fade and was soon barely audible beneath the rumbling laughter emitting from Miss Tooms.

  I mustered the strength to look back over my shoulder and took in the sight. There were three corncob holders sticking out of my back right pants pocket. I pulled one out slowly. The blade was about an inch long and about a quarter of an inch thick, covered in a light red film, aka my fucking blood.

  As I pulled the remaining two corncob holders out, the composed Alex said, “You can keep those as souvenirs. I don’t think I want them touching my corn.”

  I smiled meekly, then walked—no, make that hobbled—out of the kitchen and directly across the hall to the sparse bathroom. It took me a couple seconds to get my pants unbuckled and my red boxer briefs peeled from the flesh, which I might add, were white when I bought them. If you are under the impression wounds of the butt don’t bleed, let me be the first to tell you otherwise.

  I cleaned up the wounds with toilet paper and warm water, then scavenged the bathroom cabinet for some Band-Aids. There weren’t any Band-Aids but I did stumble on a box of maxi pads. Hmmm.

  I took three pads from the box, unwrapped them, and smacked them down, securing the wings down tightly on the rosy flesh. Then I flushed the wrappers down the toilet, pulled my pants up, and then flushed twice more for good measure.

  Let’s take a minute and reflect on the night so far, shall we? I’d stripped my passenger side mirror, kicked off my front bumper, ripped off Alex’s doorknocker, sat on a set of corncob holders, and now had three maxi pads stuck to my ass. Holy
shit, maybe I should call it quits before I burned Alex’s house down and put in a tampon.

  Chapter 11

   

   

  The ‘Ol brothers, Alcoh and Tylen, were starting to get along and when Alex said dinner was on, and I didn’t feel half bad. I followed her into the living room and saw the bar was set rather than the table. I thought about this for a moment and decided the bar was at the most desirable height for my present situation. The two of us sidled up to opposite sides of the bar, Alex playing bartender and me in the role of drunken patron or soon to be drunken patron, that is.

  I took in the food; it looked amazing. There was a medley of grilled vegetables: mushrooms, baby tomatoes, green peppers, red peppers, and onions, surrounding a steaming filet of salmon. All were sitting on a bed of dirty rice, garnished with a sprig of parsley and two lemons. I wondered if Alex was trying to impress me or if she’d had an internship with Wolfgang Puck after college.

  Alex had the bottle of wine open and breathing, and while she poured us both a glass I took the time to focus on the message I wanted to convey to this woman. I desperately wanted to scold her for writing the book. But could I blame her? It was a hell of a story and she was paid a substantial amount for the trade.

  Alex pushed a full glass of scarlet Cabernet Sauvignon in front of me and said, “Let’s clear the air. You first.”

  Here went nothing. I cleared my throat and said, “The man who killed those eight women is still out there.”

  Alex sat in stunned silence, obliviously popping a mushroom in her mouth, and garbled, “All right, let’s hear it.”

  I replayed the events that transpired on that fateful day almost a year ago, Alex soaking up each detail like a thirsty sponge. She was a journalist at heart and I could see she was twitching to run and grab a pen and pad. I finished with a tirade of sorts, hitting a high with, “Eight in October is a death trophy to Tristen Grayer.”

  At my conclusion, Alex asked one of the few questions I hadn’t seen on the night’s docket, “Can I see the scars?”