“No.”
“Because the things that we think are going to heal us and make us feel better—the dreams of being rich and successful, the desire to prove to the world that we’re somebody with power, even the desire to get even, like you’re talking about—those things in the end don’t make us happy. They’re just empty promises.”
I sigh through my nose, put my feet back on the floor. “I don’t know. It seems to me like winning the lottery would take care of a lot of my problems. How could getting rid of all my debt be a negative?”
“Maybe there’s some lesson that you’re supposed to learn through the process.”
I snort, fold up the paper. “The lesson I want to learn is how to balance my checkbook at the end of the month and find out that there is lots of leftover money I don’t know what to do with.”
“Well, if you do win the lottery, throw a little of it my way, huh?” Ezra says. “I’m pretty sure that the article said sharing the wealth made the lottery-winners much happier.”
I laugh and then my phone rings. I answer without checking the number.
“This is Tayt.”
“Tayt? It’s Phil. Phil Hunley. We spoke the other day.”
“Oh hey, Phil, how’s it going?”
The voice on the other end of the phone is shaking a little. Nerves? Ezra raises his eyebrows at me and points to his watch. He has some monk ritual at four o’clock in the morning. I motion with my free hand that I’m ready and he puts our dishes into the bin by the coffee counter. We zip our coats simultaneously, me pressing the cell phone between shoulder and chin.
“So, listen, that event I was talking about, it’s coming right up,” Phil says. “Are you still going to be able to make it?”
“Oh, um, yeah, sure. What was it again?” I rack my brain trying to remember if he’d ever spelled out what he’d needed security help with. Concert? Poker tournament?
“I don’t think we ever discussed the details,” Phil says. “It’s um, a party,” he adds. “At my parents’ house.”
“OK. How many people attending?”
“How many . . .” his voice fades out. “How many people?”
“Yeah, I need to know the number of people so I’ll know if I need to hire some extra hands. Generally, if the crowd is about twenty’ish or under, I’m OK on my own. If it’s much more than that though, I like to hire a couple of local guys to help out. How many do you think will be attending?”
Silence.
“Hello? Are you there?” I ask.
Ezra motions toward the door and mimics walking. I nod and fall in step behind him, then follow him onto the sidewalk, winding a scarf around my neck at the same time.
“Well, ah, see, this isn’t really a big party.”
“OK. So you just need me, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
I sigh. It’s too late in the day to have much left in the patience reservoir.
“Phil, I feel like we’re having two different conversations here. You want to hire me to handle security at this party, correct?”
Pause.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“So what exactly is it that you want me to do?” I’m over-enunciating my words and Ezra starts laughing under his breath.
“Uh, well, be my date,” Phil says.
“Your date?”
Ezra turns around and cocks an eyebrow up and down. His chuckle turns into a big, Cheshire cat grin. I smack him on the arm and keep walking.
“Right. At the party. I need a date and figured ...”
“You want to hire me to be your date. Like a call girl?”
“No, no. Not like that. It’s complicated. I can’t ask...that is...I can’t,” Phil lets out a whoosh of frustrated breath, “I can’t bring who I want to the party, but my parents expect me to have a date. So I’m hiring you to do it. It’s not anything sexual, if that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, I have a, a partner already.”
“If you have a partner, why are you hiring me?”
Pause.
“Because my partner is a man. And my parents are homophobes, and I can’t bring him. Okay?”
Now it’s my turn to be silent.
“Oh.”
“Look, I know this is weird but I can’t tell them that I’m ... and this party is something special for their fortieth anniversary. It’s very posh and all their richy-rich friends will be there. My job as their one and only son, their perfect kid, is to show up with an attractive female and be attentive and engaging and make all their friends ooh and ahh over how well I turned out and what a great reflection that is on them, as my parents.”
Part of me still feels weirded out to be hired as a date. Another part of me is flattered that he considers me an “attractive female.” Then I realize he hasn’t seen me since high school.
“So will you still do it?” he asks.
I chew the inside of my cheek. Ezra nudges me with his shoulder and gives me a questioning look. I ignore him.
“Sure,” I tell Phil.
He sighs loudly on the other end of the phone. “Great. Thank you.”
“So, when is this shindig?” I ask. “And what am I supposed to wear?”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I’m at the gym and working out hard. Well, harder than I have in a long time. Compared to workouts I was doing before my injury, this is fluff. I block that out. Now, not only am I trying to get my strength back but also my figure. Phil is going to be billed for the party dress, but I want to get something I might actually wear again. The only guidelines he gave me were that it had to be formal and something in an eye-catching color.
Ezra nearly doubled over with laughter when I explained the full phone conversation last night.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I finally said after he’d laughed himself nearly to tears. “Is having me as a date so hilarious?”
“No,” Ezra had wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “You just get yourself into the strangest situations.”
I’d snorted. Was it my fault that people asked for help with unusual problems? I’d left him on the curb in front of the Shrine’s truck, still chuckling. Then I’d spent the rest of the night thinking about how awkward this party was going to be. Shouldn’t Phil and I meet first, make sure we have our story straight? It’s going to look a little weird if he says we met one way and I’m telling everyone we met another.
I make a mental note to call and ask him about this at the same time the heavy bag swings back in my direction. I hit it with a right jab and then a sharp left hook. Pain radiates from my shoulder and into the other side of my body.
Gritting my teeth, I hit the bag again and again. Pain or not, it feels good to be back at the gym, where people don’t ask questions—fussing and fretting over how are you feeling, are you overexerting—and just let me get on with my workout.
After I finish and stretch, I head to the showers. The stalls are empty and I choose the one furthest back, stripping out of my sweaty clothes in the privacy area and stepping into the stall. A cloud of hot water vapor engulfs me and I turn and let the spray wash over my head and down my back. My fingers automatically go to the spot, tracing the area of red, puckered skin.
At first it really bothered me to look at it. It was so angry and ugly. Raw, red skin twisted. Now though, I’m beginning to see it as a sign of bravery, a badge of honor. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo over it someday like women who lose a breast to cancer.
The door to the locker room opens and closes and I hear footsteps. I wait to hear another shower turn on but there’s no sound. Maybe someone lost track of the time and is making due with a sponge bath. But no water runs and there is no sound of a locker opening and closing. I debate peeking my head out but the water feels good. The air outside the stall will be cold. I shrug, lather my hair and rinse, soaping up while conditioner which promises to protect my delicate ends from splitting does its thing. I’m about to rinse it o
ut and shave my legs when the door opens again. I don’t hear it close.
It’s while I’m drying off and dressing, hair pulled into a turban, that I see something poking out of my gym bag. It’s white and square. What is it? I dry my hands on the towel on my head before walking over and pulling it out. A single piece of white copier paper, folded in four. I open it and see two words. They are centered on the plain white paper.
“I’m watching.”
The letters are boxy, cut from a newspaper. There’s no name, no other marks on the paper. I fold the paper back up carefully and put it into the side pocket of my bag. Too much coffee I tell myself. That’s why my fingers are shaking.
I comb my hair out and dry it halfheartedly, my arms too tired to finish the job. Then I dress and carry my bag to the hallway. I retrace my steps to the check-in desk. Bundling into outerwear, I wave to the guy behind the high desk.
“Hey, did you notice anyone going to the women’s locker room about ten minutes ago?” I ask. The guy, whose name I can’t remember, is big and beefy but with surprisingly small, elegant looking hands. He shakes his head, bandana covering a ring of wavy dark hair.
“Nah, sorry, I didn’t. Any problems?”
“No, no problem. I just thought I heard someone come in, that’s all. Have a good day,” I say and head for the door.
***
I debate with myself on my drive to the office: should I leave the note with the police or just ignore it? I could call C.J. and sic him on it. But then he’ll only ask me more questions, get more protective. I can barely stand all the smothering as it is. Forget it. It’s probably a practical joke. Or maybe the note was meant for someone else.
At the office I distract myself by Googling West Fresh Institute, the place Mark had written in his notebook. The air is still chilly in the big room and I pull on an extra bomber jacket that I keep behind the door. The fabric is heavy and cold at first, but the silk lining warms quickly. I tap my Doc Martins impatiently, waiting for the page to load. My stomach growls but I ignore it.
Finally, the page finishes loading. West Fresh Institute is a vegan raw foods culinary school. It’s a residential program, offering everything from classes for weekend cooks to serious students looking for a professional culinary arts degree. The food looks like sculptures and is incredibly colorful compared to the pathetic sandwiches I usually eat. I mentally pat myself on the back for the couple of visits to the Juice Bar recently. But that doesn’t stop me from reaching into the top desk drawer as I read about the class offerings of the school, what a typical semester looks like, and pulling out a bag of peanut butter filled pretzels. Just a few. To tide me over until lunch.
Clicking back to the home page, I position my pretzel to the side of the computer. I hate crumbs lodged in the keys. I find the culinary school’s phone number, do some quick math in my head. It’s just past ten here which would make it, what, seven there?
Pretty early, but I dial anyway. There are three sharp rings and then a woman’s recorded voice invites me to explore the health-sustaining offerings of West Fresh Institute by selecting one of the following numbered menu options. I press the number for admissions and am surprised when another woman’s voice answers, this time a real, live person. My brain swirls with ideas. I didn’t expect anyone to answer. What to do: Tell a lie? The truth? What will get me the information I’m looking for?
I clear my throat, “Hello, I’m hoping you can put me in touch with my brother, Mark. Mark Chester. He’s just started at the school.”
There’s a pause and I wait for the woman to tell me that she can’t give out that type of personal information or to ask my name. I search my brain wildly for something appropriate. Sue? Melissa? Cindy? Something that won’t stand out too much in her memory.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” I wait for her to tell me the next bit—“We don’t give out that kind of information”—but instead she says, “Mark is in class right now. Our students start their day early. Class has been running for a half hour now, as a matter of fact. I’d be happy to take a message for you and give it to him, if you’d like?”
“Oh, um, no, that’s okay. I’ll just try him back later.”
“Sure, no problem. Have a health-filled day.”
“Thanks, you too,” I say and hang up.
I can’t resist pumping a fist in the air briefly. The prodigal son, or boyfriend rather, has been found. I call Garrison’s Gym and get Sandra on the phone.
“Good news,” I say. “I found Mark.”
She squeals on the other end, so loudly that I pull the phone away from my ear to protect my eardrum.
“That’s wonderful news. Good job!”
“Thanks. It seems that he’s out West. In Arizona. I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to proceed from here, so thought I would give you a call.”
“Arizona? Hold on a second.” There is a loud clunk and I hear Sandra greeting someone in the room, then there are a few seconds of dead air, a click, and she’s back on the line.
“Sorry, I just walked in and wanted to go into the office for more privacy. What is he doing in Arizona?”
“He’s at a vegan raw foods culinary institute. It’s called West Fresh Institute. I’m not sure how long he’s planning to stay though. He could be registered for just a short-term class or he could be there for the duration of the program. That runs two years.”
Sandra makes a disgruntled sound.
“But his apartment hasn’t been cleaned out,” I say, hoping she won’t ask how I know this, I rush on. “I called his landlord, but he hasn’t called me back yet. I’ll try him again today, see what he knows. I just thought you’d want an update and to know that he’s okay.”
“Yes, thanks so much. I appreciate it.” Sandra’s voice fades away and for a second I think I’ve lost her. When she speaks again, her voice is clear though. “The strange thing is,” she exhales sharply, “we talked about doing this together, him and me. I find it hard to believe he’d just take off without me. You’re sure he’s registered?”
“I just got off the phone with someone in admissions.”
There’s a few seconds of silence and I picture Sandra twirling a lock of blond hair around her finger. I have no idea if this is actually one of her habits, but she seems like someone who would be a hair-twister.
“Well,” she says at last, “I think you’ll need to book a flight out there.”
“A flight?” I repeat, dumbly. Half of me is jumping up and down (free vacation!) and the other half is ready to screech in frustration. I have other cases I’m working on, however slowly, and I can’t just jet off across the country.
“I’ll pay your travel expenses of course and I’ll give you double the fee in our contract if you bring him back with you.”
Well, then.
“Sure,” I say. “That works for me.”
Chapter Twelve
As I’m driving home, I replay the phone call with Mark’s landlord in my mind. No, he didn’t know that his renter was out of town. No, he wasn’t concerned. And no, (obviously) he had no idea when Mark was expected back. Not super helpful. In addition to worrying about my trip and all the loose ends I want to have tied up before leaving, I have Phil’s party coming up and this stupid note to deal with. Or not deal with. I glance toward my gym bag reflexively.
Another incoming call interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the screen and nearly groan. My mother. I wedge my Bluetooth into my ear and answer.
“Hi Mama,” I say, trying to sound chipper instead of stressed and irritated.
“Tatum Rose, it is so good to hear your voice. I hope you’ve been spending a lot of time resting.” My mother’s voice is saccharine sweet. “I have another stack of magazines for you.” Mama keeps giving me home decorating and fashion magazines as though she’s trying to tell me something.
“Remember what the doctor said: you’ll never heal properly if you take on too much, too soon...”
I tune out for a few minutes. Watch the li
nes in the road. Think about the pint of Ben & Jerry’s sitting in the freezer.
“... which is why I’m calling,” she says after several seconds of silence on my end. “She’ll be arriving tonight,” she continues, “and I hoped you might be able to pick her up at the airport. It’s such a short trip. I told her there was no reason to rent a car. You don’t mind collecting her, do you, darling?”
Conundrum: do I admit that I wasn’t listening and have no idea who I’m supposed to collect at the airport or just agree and find out when I get there?
“Um, sure. Yes, I can do that.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you, Tatum.”
“No problem.” I feel instantly guilty that I don’t call the woman more often. I’m the only one of her children who lives close enough to visit and I don’t even call her once a week. What kind of daughter am I?
“I know that you and Sophie have your differences, but it’s so good to see you making an effort to be a good sister.” My mother’s southern drawl is thicker today than usual. It happens when she’s emotional. But wait. What does Sophie have to do with it?
Oh no. I clap a hand on my forehead and then replace it on the wheel before the car veers into a ditch. No, no, no, no. I did not just agree to collect Sophie from the airport, did I?
“You’re sure it won’t take too much out of you?”
I mumble something that must sound like the answer Mama wants because she continues. “She’ll be arriving on the seven o’clock flight from Philadelphia. You might want to call the airport just before you leave to make sure everything’s on schedule. Hopefully that storm will hold off until she’s home safe and sound.”
Storm?
I assure my mother that I will call the airport before I leave and ask if she’d like to come along for the ride. She doesn’t drive but generally loves to be invited anywhere.
“Not this time, baby. I’ll have dinner for ya’ll in the oven and the dogs will be resting. It might be stressful to them if plans changed suddenly. And you know how Grover is. Bless his little heart.”
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