ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “It’s all right. I’ve had my rabies shot,” Frank said.

  “You sure about this? I don’t want you to do something you might regret in the morning.” To Vicky’s astonishment Frank smiled, broad enough to show his teeth.

  “Well, all right then,” Vicky said moving away from the door and back into the living room. This time she looked around the apartment. The first thing she saw was rows and rows of bookshelves, all of them filled. Framed photographs sat here and there on the ledges of the bookshelves, mostly older ones in black and white of ancestors long past. She looked at the walls and her eyes caught sight of a large painting of mallard ducks rising over a marsh on a hazy morning. Everything was so neat and orderly, so tidy with everything in its place. She was the only thing out of place. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said, afraid to take one step further.

  “Don’t worry about it. I can’t sleep anyway so it’s not like you’re keeping me up. Here, I’ll put on some more music. Have a seat. If you’re tired go ahead and lie down,” he said motioning toward the plaid couch that looked as if it had never been sat on. “I’ll keep a lookout for the locksmith. You want a blanket?”

  “How come you’re being so nice to me all of sudden? It ain’t like you, Frank.”

  “Oh, yeah? I can be a very nice guy when I want to. Besides, I heard you went through a rough time over the holidays. I heard about your cousin. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” Vicky said, a twinge of pain grabbing her in the chest at the thought of Bobby. “So I guess you been talking to Allison. She must’ve told you to be nice to me.”

  “So what if she did?”

  “That explains it. Bet she told you to give me one last chance.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So maybe you could give me another chance. I told you I can be a very nice guy.”

  “So can Dr. Jekyll when the full moon ain’t out.”

  “You’re in luck. No full moon tonight, just a black sky with brilliant stars.”

  “So you saw the stars too?”

  “I always observe the stars. Astronomy’s my hobby.”

  “They’re beautiful tonight. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Beautiful.” Frank looked away for a moment in which he seemed suddenly shy and self-conscious.

  “Can I take your coat?” Frank asked. Vicky unzipped her jacket, thinking it all a strange dream. In a moment Frank was behind her, helping her off with it. “Make yourself at home. Have a seat,” Frank said as he walked over to the front hall closet and hung her coat on a hanger.

  “I’m afraid I’ll break something or mess it up,” Vicky said, slipping off her black flat heel shoes she always wore to work. She took one look at the carpet and didn’t want to get it dirty.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Vicky put her shoes neatly by the door and headed toward the navy, tan, and green plaid couch. She looked at the books on the bookshelves on her way over. They were the only things that seemed to be worn in the whole place. Her eyes scanned the shelves that were eye level. Some titles were familiar, The Three Musketeers, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Tale of Two Cities. The shelves higher up contained books on mathematics, statistics, and yes, astronomy.

  Every book seemed worn as if there was something in them he needed, something he had to visit time and time again–adventure, danger, mystery, and heroism, but also logic and order from the math books, problems with solutions in a universe that made sense. Despite the neatness of the place, it had a very strong manly presence. Even the painting of the mallard ducks suggested more the conquest of the hunter than the mere beauty of a nature scene. The place smelled male, like the very faint fragrance of some type of musk or cologne mixed with coffee. It was an appealing fragrance that would mark its memory forever in Vicky’s mind. Yet something was missing from Frank’s place, those little touches of life one sees in a woman’s place–the plants, the souvenirs, the candid photographs stuck with magnets to the refrigerator, the place of comfort–perhaps in the corner where a rocking chair might be. There were no living things, no place for comfort, and no room for sentiment, yet the place cried out for these things.

  Frank had disappeared into another room while Vicky was looking around. She decided to give the couch a try, but it was no use, there was no lounging on it. Not that it wasn’t comfortable, just that she was in Frank’s place and she could tell there wasn’t much relaxing done here. Still she tried. It felt good to get off her feet and rest her back.

  Frank appeared around the corner with a suddeness that gave Vicky a start. He was carrying a neatly folded plaid blanket and a pillow which he handed to her. “Here,” he said.

  “You really like plaid, don’t you?” she said looking at the neatly folded blanket. Frank smiled his shy, self conscious smile, and Vicky thought he looked almost boyish in that moment. “I don’t wanna get too comfortable and, you know, miss the locksmith.”

  “Don’t worry, I told you I’d keep an eye out for him,” he said scooting his chair at an angle so he could see out the sliding glass door into the parking lot.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No,” he said and handed her a beautiful crystal ashtray off the coffee table. “Just watch the ashes.”

  “This thing weighs a ton.”

  “It’s lead crystal,” he said.

  “Of course it is,” she said as Frank pulled a book of matches out of a worn but beautiful maroon leather case on the coffee table.

  “Are you sure it’s okay if I flick my ashes in this thing?”

  “It’s what it was designed for,” he said with match book in hand awaiting her to fish a cigarette out of her purse.

  “Have you ever used it before?”

  “Occasionally I smoke a cigar.”

  Vicky produced the cigarette and before she had a chance to draw it to her lips, Frank was there before her face with the lit match. Vicky stuck the end of the cigarette in the flame and inhaled.

  “You feel weird being here, don’t you?” Frank said, shaking the matchstick out to extinguish the flame.

  “Let’s face it, Frank, it is pretty weird.” Vicky said exhaling a stream of smoke.

  “Yes, it is.” He said it in such a way it made her laugh. They both laughed and Vicky noticed how handsome he truly was. She’d noticed it before at those off guard candid moments at the lounge when he laughed with some of his friends, and of course when she’d seen him look at Allison. “I’ll put some music on if you like.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s see, I believe it was Chopin that caused you to fall head long into my door.” He went over to the stereo and took the record off the turntable. “Yep, my old buddy Fred.”

  “Who?”

  “Frederic Chopin, the dead guy who composed this music. He lived around the 1830’s. He was born in Poland but moved to France as a young man. He never returned to Poland but he remained Polish through and through. You can hear his love for his native country in much of his music. The traditional folk music of Poland inspired many of his waltzes and mazurkas.

  “I’m sorry, I’m boring you,” he said looking back over his shoulder from the stereo as the piano music softly filled the room.

  “No, you ain’t. I mean, no, it isn’t boring,” Vicky said catching her incorrect English. “Not to me anyway. It’s funny you mentioned he missed his country. I could tell the guy who wrote that music was homesick. I could hear it. It made me a little homesick. It made me think about my cousin, made me think about when we was kids.” Frank had seated himself in a navy blue upholstered easy chair across from the sofa. He said nothing in response.

  “I can relate to…Spell his name for me, will you,” Vicky said, pulling her notepad and pen out of her sweater pocket.

  “C-H-O-P-I-N.”

  Vicky repeated the letters after him. “I may be an ignorant country girl but I know it ain’t pronounced ‘Chop- In’ like
how it looks. Could you pronounce it for me again?” Frank pronounced the name with a bemused smile on his face. Vicky wrote down the phonetic spelling next to Chopin’s name. Sho-Pan.

  “I can relate to Chopin. Here I am living in Indiana but I’ll always be a Kentuckian at heart. I guess that’s why I like this music so much.”

  “How did you come to live here?”

  “My work. I applied to all the upscale restaurants and clubs in the tri-state area, plus some in Louisville and it finally came down to the River Inn. I also got an offer, a better offer actually, from a Country Club in Louisville, but Bobby had already settled here in Lamasco so this is where I decided to come. He’s the only family I got, or had I guess I should say.”

  “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said in a very formal manner as he looked at the floor, seemingly uncomfortable with her grief. “So why did you want to work somewhere upscale particularly?”

  “Why, does that surprise you?”

  “No, no. Just curious,” he said defensively.

  “I got tired of working in dives. I want to run my own place someday. It’s my dream really, so I wanted to learn as much as I could about the business, you know, the correct way to do things.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You really mean it?” Vicky said exhaling a stream of smoke, wondering if he was being sincere or merely condescending.

  “Yes, I do. You said it was your dream. I don’t think we just have dreams by chance. I think we have them for a reason, because that’s what we’re meant to do.”

  “You surprise me, Frank. I’d have thought you’d be more cynical than that.”

  “Me cynical? I told you I’m a very nice guy. Besides, it’s simply a matter of reason. For example, my brother can build anything with his hands, whereas I’m terrible at building things. I have no ability, no aptitude whatsoever. Fortunately, I have no desire to build things. We’re born with a natural desire and aptitude to do certain things. That’s what we were designed to do.”

  “By God, you mean,” said Vicky.

  “Yes, I believe that. We each have some purpose.”

  “So that’s why we got these dreams, huh? To spur us on, right, so we’ll fulfill our purpose.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I hope you’re right because I really want to believe you.”

  “So you don’t believe that, huh?” asked Frank.

  “I don’t know. I think some dreams are all wrong. We only want what we want for ourselves and screw everybody else,” Vicky said.

  “That’s strange because I wouldn’t guess you to be cynical.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, ain’t we all just a mystery.”

  He smiled and chuckled softly. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. You’re so right. We are indeed a mystery. Human beings.”

  “So tell me, how did you end up here in Lamasco, Indiana? And what’s your dream?”

  “Like you, I came here to work.”

  “Why in tarnation did you, a New York City boy, come to the middle of nowhere to work? I mean, Lamasco’s a big city for me, but for you, man, it’s gotta be Hicksville.”

  “This is Middle America. Its Midwestern towns like Lamasco where we find out what the average American wants. That’s why I started up my market research firm here.”

  “You mean you got your own business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, your own place. That’s exactly what I want. Who’d have ever thought you and I have something in common. So how’s your place doing?”

  “We’re struggling. I guess that’s why I don’t sleep too well at night. I worry about things–how I can cut overhead costs, how I can continue to pay my skeletal staff all of whom work so hard and get so little in return, how I can keep from going under just one more month, how I can make something out of nothing here.”

  “So that’s what I have to look forward to when I have my own place?”

  “Yep, that’s it.”

  “So what exactly do you do?”

  “Market research. We find out what consumers want and need in terms of products and services.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “We ask questions, conduct surveys mostly, and then we use statistical analysis on the data to tell us what we need to know.”

  “So how is that your dream?”

  “Statistics is something of a passion of mine. People don’t realize how exciting numbers can be. Numbers can help reveal facts, predict future trends, unlock human mysteries. Everything’s mathematical–time, space, even the human body.”

  “It’s weird but I kinda know what you mean. I don’t know numbers or math but I do know people. One thing I’ve observed in my line of work is that you gotta look out for the odd numbers.”

  “Odd numbers?”

  “By that I mean the odd numbered parties, especially parties of one and three. You got a party of one sitting at the bar all by themselves, it’s my job to figure out why that person is there alone. Sometimes it’s just because that person’s waiting on a friend. I can always tell ‘cause if they have to wait any amount of time they usually start looking around, watching the doors, checking their watch. It’s my job to put them at ease until the other party arrives. Once that other person gets there, they relax. It’s strange, even if they don’t have to wait long; the waiting party is never quite comfortable until that second person shows up.

  “Then there are those who come alone but hope not to leave alone if you get my meaning, then finally those that come alone and plan on leaving alone. You gotta keep a special eye on them last types because they’re most likely to leave drunk.

  “I’m sorry. Now I’m afraid I’m boring you,” Vicky said.

  “Not at all, I find it fascinating. So why is this last type most likely to leave drunk?”

  “Cause they’re there to get drunk. They just split with their boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, husband, whatever. They just lost their job, or else they can’t stand the pressures from the job they do have. They got money problems, relationship problems, loneliness, stress, guilt, you name it. My job is to listen, help if I can, but most of all to make sure they don’t drive home too crocked.

  “Then you got your parties of three. Now not always, mind you, but a lot of times you got someone feeling left out when you got a party of three. Two out of the three are gonna hit it off and one person’s gonna be standing out in the cold. You see it sometimes with parties of five too.

  “Of course the fights are always between two people–lovers, husbands, wives, co-workers, rivals, you name it. Now we don’t have a bouncer at River Inn because it’s a classy place so most fights don’t come to blows, but we do have occasional raised voices. I’m the one who gets to play referee. So you see that third party ain’t always bad. Sometimes they’re there to make peace. Anyhow, you might see fights and factions with even numbered parties, but it’s with the odd numbers that you see loneliness. That’s why I gotta look out for my odd numbered folks. Hospitality is what’ it’s all about. That’s why I want my own place. A place where everybody feels welcome–no one’s left out. That’s my dream. It’s too much to hope that the world will ever be that way, but maybe we can make little places in the world where all are welcome, even the odd numbers.”

  “Vicky.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like an odd number at Camelot. Is it too late to say ‘welcome’?”

  “No, Frank, it’s not too late, but I hope you don’t think I was fishing around for an apology. That’s not why I said what I said. I mean, hell, we’re all odd numbers here at Camelot. When you’re single you’re automatically an odd number in a paired off world.”

  “We’re not odd numbers right now.”

  “No, we’re not.” It was perhaps the first time they looked each other straight in the eye without anger and bitterness between them. It was just for a moment lost in ti
me until it became awkward and self-conscious. “I’m sorry. Here I go shooting off at the mouth again. I got way sidetracked. It’s one of my many bad habits. So, um, how did you decide on market research as your dream?”

  “I love statistics, I have a good business mind, and I’ve always wanted to build something from nothing. Be independent, be my own boss.”

  “You said a mouthful there. So tell me, how do you conduct these surveys?”

  “We have many different methods, but we’ve found the most effective and least intrusive is to stop people in public places where they might be shopping for example and simply ask for a moment of their time.”

  “Wait a minute! Are you one of them clowns that follow me around the mall trying to get me to try out different sugar-free gums?”

  “That probably was one of my clowns, yes. I hope you didn’t feel too harassed.”

  “Naw, he was probably the one who felt harassed. I told him to f-off, pardon my French.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “Sorry I didn’t know he worked for you. If I’d known that I probably would’ve been a whole lot meaner,” she said and Frank laughed.

  “It’s good to see you smile,” Vicky said.

  “It’s good to smile. I guess I haven’t smiled much lately.”

  There was silence between them. They both turned their gaze away from each other. The music floated between them with all of its sweetness and feeling as Vicky realized it was the song she had first heard that had brought her to Frank’s door.

  “This is it! This is the song that was playing when I fell against your door. What’s the name of it?”

  “It’s Chopin’s Berceuse. I believe that’s French for lullaby.”

  They chuckled at the irony of it all then got caught up in the music again. Vicky reclined spreading the blanket out over her. The sofa seemed more comfortable this time. Frank laid his head back on the easy chair.