by Rick Hautala
The words were barely out of her mouth before she could consider them. She was instantly irritated at herself for resorting to so obvious a cliché.
“’Coffee,’ huh?” Samael’s voice had a husky echo in the dark confines of the alcove. The sidewalk behind him danced with falling rain.
Claire couldn’t dispel the feeling that the two of them had somehow entered a magical bubble where the rest of the world passing by them wasn’t at all real and didn’t matter in the least. She was staring at him—the planes of his face, the glow in his eyes—and she was thinking with every passing second that, yes, she damned well wanted him to come up to her place for coffee or anything else he might have in mind.
“Or a nightcap, if you’d like,” Claire added, thinking immediately how foolish that sounded, so early in the morning.
What time is it, anyway? She wondered. If she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she knew she’d be able to look up and see the time and temperature display on One Canal Plaza, but she didn’t want to know the time. It might burst the illusion she was constructing here.
“Another time, maybe,” Samael said even though he didn’t turn to leave. He simply stood there, staring at her like he was waiting for her to say or do the right thing.
What the fuck? Claire thought, immediately stung by his refusal. For a moment or two, she wanted to believe she hadn’t heard him correctly.
Is he ditching me again?
She studied Samael with surprise and relief warring inside her. It wasn’t at all like her to be so forward with a man, any man,…even one who seemed to have it all.
Except he doesn’t seem all that interested in me, Claire thought. And why should he? I’m so far out of his class, and we both know it.
“Well, then…umm…thanks again for the ride.”
“My pleasure,” Samael said.
This is your chance, Claire thought. The least you could do is give me a little hug and maybe…just maybe a kiss on the cheek.
But…no.
Samael bowed his head and then turned. The umbrella magically sprouted again, looking like spreading bat wings that shielded him from the rain as he walked around his car to the driver’s side, opened the door, and got inside. Claire couldn’t see him through the tinted glass, but she could feel—or, at least, she wanted to hope—that he was watching her and maybe…just a little…regretting that he hadn’t accepted her invitation to come upstairs for that cup of coffee.
“You’ll never know what you missed,” she whispered as Samael’s car started up and pulled out onto the street. It didn’t take long for his car to be lost in the rain-slick darkness, and once it was gone, Claire had the unique sensation that it had never been there in the first place—that she had imagined the ride home and everything else.
And all she was left with was a lonely, aching feeling that she was the one who had missed out.
“Screw it,” she muttered, still staring down the street. She reached into her coat pocket, took out the napkin with his name and phone number, and crumpled it up and tossed it onto the sidewalk, where it instantly turned into soggy mush. She was tempted to step out into the rain and grind it underfoot like she was crushing out a cigarette, but enough was enough.
As she keyed the door open, she told herself she’d be a fool to think about this Samael guy ever again, but then, the next morning—Saturday—bright and early, a huge bouquet of flowers arrived with a handwritten Get Well card from Samael, saying:
“I hope you’re feeling better and I hope to see you soon.”
“You slick devil,” she whispered, not knowing how true that was.
Chapter
3
Burning Boat
Things happened fast after that.
It was, as they say, a “whirlwind courtship.” After she received the flowers on Saturday morning, Samael called and asked—if she was feeling all right—if he could take her out for lunch, maybe to Dominick’s, the “floating” restaurant on a huge barge on Casco Bay, beside Chandler’s Wharf. Although she wasn’t a huge fan of seafood, Claire didn’t hesitate. She had always wanted to eat there, but felt she couldn’t afford it. So she spent the next hour fussing about what to wear and how she should do her hair.
Sally got up late, as was usual for her on weekends. Around noon, while Claire was touching up her fingernails in the kitchen, her roommate hovered around, clattering dishes and banging pots and pans as if that was the best way to demonstrate to Claire that she was irritated and/or couldn’t care less where she was going or what she was doing. Sally’s cat, Mittens, stuck her tail into the air and left the room; and when Claire couldn’t take it any longer, she decided to say something. Not wanting to start an argument, Claire chose to take a gentle approach.
“So…how was the concert last night?”
“Huh? Oh, great…except I kept getting these text messages from someone.”
“Really?…Who?”
“Oh, sure. Go ahead ‘n play all innocent now.”
“What are you talking about?”
So much for nonconfrontational.
“Who do you think?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Claire’s first thought was: What if it was Samael?…What if somehow he had gotten Sally’s cell number and had been texting her?
“You, you moron. You only sent me, like, fifteen or twenty messages.”
“The hell I did. I called you once, early this morning, but you were too groggy to talk, and then I…walked home.”
“I don’t remember you calling this morning.”
“Well, I did.”
“You want me to show you the texts?” Sally said.
Sally’s face was pale, her expression pinched with eyes narrowed to two dark, glassy beads that looked like they would shatter if she opened them too wide. Before Claire could respond, Sally grabbed her purse from the counter where she usually tossed it after a night out. Huffing under her breath and frowning, she dug until she found her cell.
“Hold on,” she said as she pressed a few buttons to call up the record of messages received. Smirking, she held the phone out so Claire could see.
“See?…Satisfied?”
Sure enough, there was a string of messages, all listed with the times they had been sent. Claire cocked her head to one side and studied the screen. She didn’t try to count them all. She guessed more than twelve. But all of the texts had originated from her phone.
“That’s…really weird,” she said, genuinely perplexed.
“Irritating’s more like it.”
“Honest to God. I didn’t text you last night.”
Sally’s smirk said it all, before she turned her phone off and tossed it onto the counter. Then she leaned back, folded her arms across her chest, and scowled as she looked at Claire. “It was really irritating.”
“Talk about irritating.” Claire waved her hand in front of her nose. “I wish you’d change the cat litter sometime soon.”
“I can’t smell anything,” Sally said.
Claire sniffed and said, “The smell’s so bad Mittens has stopped using her litter box,” but she didn’t want to get off on a tangent, complaining about Sally’s cat. She couldn’t stop wondering about those texts last night.
“Maybe I, like, butt-dialed all of them or something?”
Even she knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“They were all different…and perfectly coherent.”
“Wait, you’re saying I sent a different text each time? And they made sense? Like no spelling or grammatical errors?”
Claire was flummoxed, for sure. Even with Auto-Correct, her friends complained that her texts often bordered on gibberish, making little to no sense. There was no way she could explain any texts from last night…unless she had sent them while semiconscious or unconscious. Maybe the meds the doctors had given her at the hospital had really walloped her.
“And none of them were, like, all garbled and full of misspellings and stuff?”
; That gave her pause. She always explained that her thumbs weren’t coordinated enough for texting, and that she preferred talking to a real person on the phone…the way you’re supposed to.
“Can I read a couple?”
“Why bother? You irritated the living shit out of me enough last night. I was trying to enjoy the show.”
“I’m sorry. I really am, but I…I never—” Claire held out her hand, shaking it impatiently. She hoped the new layer of fingernail polish was dry enough and wouldn’t smudge. Samael was going to be here in half an hour.
“Come on. Just lemme take a look.”
Reluctantly, Sally picked up her phone and opened up the list. She was still scowling when she handed the phone to Claire.
“Hmmm,” she kept saying as she read the messages in order. For one thing, Sally was right. There were no spelling or grammatical errors. Each message was clear and precise with absolutely no “text-speak.” The other thing that struck Claire was that none of the texts “sounded” like her. The first few were chatty—
“Hey! How are you doing? Are you enjoying the concert?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine.”
—and could have been from anyone, asking what her friend was up to. But the tone quickly changed, and the last few came across as accusatory and more than a little self-pitying.
“I don’t mind being here all alone. Seriously. I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine. Enjoy yourself!”
The last one was—“Thanks for nothing. You call yourself a friend? Deserting me when I needed help the most! I was almost raped, and you weren’t there for me!”—downright combative.
“I swear to God I never sent these,” Claire said.
“See if I help you out the next time you need it.”
“You didn’t help me out this time!”
“You want to, you can delete me from your phone and your friends list.”
Claire was astonished. When she had finished scanning the texts—as it turned out, there were eighteen of them—she stood there shaking her head from side to side, her mind a roaring blank as she handed Sally’s cell phone back to her.
“I guess I’m sorry,” was all she could say, “but I didn’t do it.”
“They came from your number. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
“But I didn’t write them or send any—”
This was getting ridiculous. Sally was primed to fight for fighting’s sake. A sudden crushing sensation filled her chest as she looked at her roommate. Sure, she may not be her best or closest friend, but they had been through a lot together over the last few years—including Sally’s unplanned pregnancy and abortion—and there was no way, no way, even on the deepest subconscious level, that she would ever say anything hurtful or spiteful to Sally.
“I have no idea how it happened,” Claire finally said, hoping to finish it with a shrug.
Sally gave her one last withering look and then, without another word, stormed out of the kitchen and into the living room with a bowl of Rice Krispies in hand. Claire didn’t feel comfortable letting it hang like this, and she was about to follow after her, but before she moved, the buzzer sounded.
“Oh, shit!”
She rushed over to the intercom and hit the TALK button.
“Hey. You’re kinda early.”
“I’m right on time.”
His voice sounded flat over the speaker, but Claire barely noticed because Mittens let out a rising howl the instant Samael spoke. Then she darted from the living room like her tail was on fire. Claire watched her go, confused, and then glanced at the wall clock next to the stove.
It was a quarter to twelve.
He was fifteen minutes early, but she wasn’t about to dispute it.
“I’ll be down in a few,” she said, and then clicked off.
She was still wondering what had set Mittens off, but she was more intent on looking terrific for Samael as she went to her bedroom to finish getting dressed. If he was going to be early, she made sure she took all the time she wanted.
She’d teach him.
Twenty minutes later, she grabbed her purse and coat from the rack next to the door. Without another word to Sally and with no sign of Mittens anywhere, she headed out the door.
But as she was swinging the door shut behind her, she glanced back and saw Sally in the living room doorway, watching her with a dark scowl. For the rest of the day, Claire was puzzled—you might say haunted, even, by the expression on her roommate’s face.
~ * ~
“So. I never got to ask you at the bar…what do you do for work?”
Claire felt a little bit foolish asking such a basic question. She was so comfortable being around Samael, she felt she had known him for years. She would have assumed they were well past such “getting to know you” questions. The truth was, there was so much about him—everything—she had yet to discover, and she thrilled at the prospect.
“Sales and service,” he said, his voice a touch distant, as if the subject bored him as much as he expected it would bore her. “Buying and selling and, maybe, a bit of trading now and then.”
“Really,” Claire said, and then she fell silent and took a moment to look around.
Dominick’s wasn’t the kind of restaurant she and people she knew usually went to for lunch, dinner, or anything else…not on her salary. It was a gorgeous day, after the rain last night, and they had a window seat—one of the best tables in the place—looking out over Portland Harbor. The water sparkled in the sunlight, and huge, tumbling fair-weather clouds rolled over the South Portland skyline. Lobster boats and pleasure craft dotted the water, bobbing up and down on the gentle swells. The day had a bright, almost surreal intensity.
Claire was convinced it was being with Samael that made everything appear so…different.
One thing she did notice…something that struck her as peculiar, was the way, even with brilliant sunlight pouring in through the window, Samael’s face appeared to be cast in shadow and deeply lined. His eyes remained bright, darting back and forth as he watched the activity going on around them. He looked distracted and aloof. He reminded Claire of a caged beast, one that wasn’t at all comfortable being confined but was a master of appearing at ease in such a situation.
Finally, when she became slightly annoyed by him looking around, she asked, “Are you expecting to see someone or something?”
Samael shifted his intense gaze to her and, after a moment, his top teeth dimpling his lower lip, shook his head.
“No…Why?”
“I dunno. Just the way you seem to…” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and cast a wary glance of her own around the dining room. “Distracted, I guess. You’re not married and looking out for anyone who might know you and get word back to your wife, are you?” She arched an eyebrow.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m not married.”
Samael slid his hand across the table and patted the back of her hand, like he was reassuring a child. Something within her didn’t approve of the gesture—it seemed a little too patronizing, but she had to admit that his touch sent a tingle up her arm.
“It’s just there are some…some clients of mine here, and I’d prefer them not to see me.”
Claire bristled at that, wondering if, for some reason, he might be embarrassed to be seen in public with her. Apparently reading her mind, he tightened his grip on her hand and said, “I prefer not to discuss my business when I’m trying to relax…with a beautiful woman, I might add.”
Claire kept looking away, scanning the patrons in the restaurant and wondering how any of them might be connected with Samael. Most of them—the ones she could see clearly, anyway—seemed not to be enjoying either their lunches or their environment. Their expressions struck her as superficial…plastered on while in public to be removed—like masks—when they were alone. She attributed the curious deadness in many of the people’s faces as “symptoms” of their empty, pointless lives. She, on the o
ther hand, had never felt more alive.
They engaged in small talk throughout their meal, and Claire found herself swept away simply listening to Samael speak…and looking at him, watching him was divine. She felt giddy and found herself laughing at the most mundane things. She had to keep reminding herself to play it a little cooler. No sense looking like a yokel from the “County” on their first real date.
After a while, before dessert, Samael excused himself and went to the restroom, so Claire sat there staring off across the harbor while trying to rein in her racing thoughts.
This is all going too fast…
She couldn’t deny that Samael was special…unique, and she was determined to take this as far as it would go, not to let him get away if she could help it, but she kept warning herself not to go too far too fast.
Let whatever is happening here evolve on its own time…
Que sera, sera…
If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, and dozens of other meaningless platitudes rolled through her mind, but something inside her wanted to dismiss them and say, “To Hell with all of it…I’m gonna jump!”
After a while—How long?… It could only have been a few minutes—she realized Samael had been gone longer than seemed necessary. The panicked thought that he had ditched her again sent tingling chills through her.
She shifted in her chair and kept glancing in the direction of the restrooms, wishing…hoping…praying he would return soon. An almost childish desperation of wanting never to let him out of her sight filled her with longing. At the same time, the feeling struck her as amusing.
What the hell’s the matter with me? She kept asking herself as she stared out over the water, tracking a lobster boat as it slid slowly toward one of the commercial wharves. The wake cut a foam-ridged ‘V’ in the blue water. Seagulls swooped and darted around the stern of the boat, looking to steal any bait from the bait barrel or that might fall into the water.
You’re infatuated…that’s what…with his kindness…his essence.
“Hey, there.”
Samael’s voice, coming so suddenly from behind, startled her and made her jump, almost spilling her coffee.