Hear No Evil

by J. P. Choquette

  There is a noisy clearing of the throat on the other end of the phone.

  “As I said, I’ll see what I can do. Was there anything else you needed assistance with today?”

  “Can you just try to get this one thing right?” is what I want to respond. But instead I take a big, deep breath (difficult since my lungs are sprouting icicles) and say, “No, thank you. That’s all.”

  I debate leaving the house unlocked for the service guy, since I have no idea when he’ll show up and I have a crap-load of work to do at the office. Plus, despite the extra layers I’ve piled on I’m still cold. But I decide to stay.

  I call my office phone remotely to check messages. It says there are two. The first is from the hospital billing office. Delete. The second is from a woman who says her name is Molly Stevens. Molly is in need of my services, but doesn’t give any details. She sounds young and pretty. I picture blonde curls and big, blue eyes.

  Another relationship issue?

  Groan.

  ***

  It’s two o’clock when I finally get into the office. The heating technician tried to explain what was wrong, but he must have noticed my eyes crossing. Finally, he said, “And you’re all set. Have a good day!” and left me with an invoice. I shove it into a drawer with a bunch of other unpaid bills. Someday soon I’m going to have to actually deal with those.

  I’d connected with Molly over the phone and, since I didn’t have anything scheduled for this afternoon, we agreed to meet. She’ll be here in a half-hour or so. I spend the time sipping a cup of extra hot coffee, rifling through both snail and email.

  A knock sounds on the door at precisely two-thirty and a young woman pushes it open. My mental picture was spot on; goose bumps pop up on my arms. I should hire myself out as a psychic.

  Molly is about five foot five, a little plump, well-dressed with short blond curls. On me it would look clownish, but on her it’s striking. She has on a shade of red lipstick that makes me think of flappers in the 20s. Stylish. Pretty. I introduce myself, offer her a chair and cup of coffee, tea, or water but she refuses them all so we get down to business.

  Molly clears her throat, but when she starts to speak her voice breaks like a thirteen-year-old boy’s. She clears it again and starts over.

  “I have a fiancé and I think he might be cheating on me.”

  My heart sinks. Not another one. I hold in my distasteful sounds and make an “uh-huh” noise. She launches into a diatribe.

  “I never really thought he was the kind of guy to do something like this, you know? I mean, we haven’t known each other that long, but it was like magic when we met—love at first sight. We’ve been so happy these past few months, and I just ...” sniffle, sniffle, sob, “I just can’t believe he would betray me like this. I mean, I’ve put on a little weight lately, but these wedding plans are completely stressing me out! What does he expect—that it’s all going to come together without any work?”

  I hand her a box of tissues.

  “Molly, the first thing to do is calm down.” I say this gently, as though explaining to a toddler that the reason she shouldn’t pull the dog’s tail. Her gasping sobs are starting to concern me. If she hyperventilates, will I have the strength to carry her to the car? Will the ambulance people die on my staircase when it gives out under the weight of three people?

  “I deal with these types of cases all the time,” I say. “I’m sure I can help you. First, we’ll need to go over some specifics—some information about your fiancé: Where he works, where he hangs out after work—that type of thing. Also, I’ll need photos of him.”

  Molly nods and takes another handful of tissues.

  The rest of the meeting goes as expected. There is further crying and gnashing of teeth, exclamations over how much her fiancé loves her and how she really can’t grasp the fact that he’d cheat on her, etc., etc.

  I listen and nod, make sympathetic noises. I take notes while she talks and end up with a page full of information about one Jordan Shumly, her potentially dabbling husband-to-be. We fill out a contract and she gives me half of the fee upfront using her credit card.

  After she leaves, blowing her nose into the last half of my tissues, I start a new file, adding a copy of the credit card receipt, the contract, the informational sheet about Mr. Shumly, and two photos she’s left with me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I spend the evening with my laptop, catching up on record keeping and updating the website. The statistics tell me it’s time to run another sale. Last year I had a Valentine’s Day special where I offered ladies half-price PI services for the week of the fourteenth. It ended up being quite popular, sadly. Sneaky men apparently let their guard down around that time of the year, enamored with secret girlfriends and late-night trysts and purchases of expensive jewelry. I made a bundle, though my gut felt tight each time I snapped pictures and documented comings and goings. My work isn’t always sunshine and tulips.

  The phone rings around ten, just as I’m getting ready to bring a new book to bed. I debate answering—it could be Creepy Caller again—and then snatch up the receiver just before the answering machine gets it.

  “Hey,” Ezra says. “Was wondering if you wanted to get together for lunch or something this week. I had that thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh right. The Thing,” I say, walking to the kitchen where I keep my day planner. “Sure. Your turn to buy, right?”

  He laughs but agrees.

  “I’ve got time tomorrow afternoon if you don’t mind an early lunch. I have an appointment in the morning in Williston and another in the early afternoon with a new client back in St. Albans. I could meet you in town around eleven-thirty?”

  “Yeah, sure. That sounds good.”

  We chat for a few more minutes about nothing and then hang up. I change into my flannel pajamas, wishing for the one-hundred and eightieth time that I had a woodstove in my bedroom and instead curl up around a hot water bottle. I fall asleep with the book on my chest, three pages in.

  ***

  Early the next morning I follow I-89 south to Williston. Jordan is an assistant branch manager at 1st Choice Bank. I plan to spy on him and see what I can learn.

  Finding someone who doesn’t want to be found involves skill, patience, and creativity. Finding someone who doesn’t know they should be hiding is significantly easier. Jordan, I’m wagering, is as clueless as he is cute. Something like sixty percent of affairs start in the workplace, so that’s where I start. I debate trying to get in to see him personally, but in the end decide it’s easier to just go in with an inane banking question and scope out his workplace.

  The atrium is stifling hot. The tellers wear sleeveless dresses and dressy tank tops, chatting away behind a high granite counter. I walk to the kiosk full of deposit and withdrawal slips and peruse pamphlets on mortgage rates and car loans, surreptitiously taking looks around. Glassed-in offices frame the main area. Jordan’s office is positioned on the west side of the building. It looks out over the parking lot, my lucky day.

  I walk to the counter and ask the mint-sucking woman about opening a checking account. While she talks, I glance at Jordan’s office. He’s seated at an expensive-looking desk, talking into the phone, and pecking at his computer. I can see where Molly might worry. In comparison to her gently rounded figure Jordan looks like he works out a minimum of fifteen hours a week. His starched shirt fits perfectly over a flat abdomen and broad chest. His hair is brown and shiny, like Christopher Reeve in his prime.

  I turn my attention back to the teller, nodding, smiling, and murmuring something about thinking it over, then stroll past Jordan’s office pretending to inspect an ugly painting near his door. “... can’t right now. I want to also, but” he sighs, lowering his voice. “... I know.”

  It would be weird to stand here any longer. The bored-looking security guard might suddenly come to attention. I wander out of the front door, brochure grasped in hand. The cold slaps me across the fac
e like a rich-but-classless reality TV wife.

  Back in the car I wriggle down in my seat and pull out a small pair of powerful binoculars. I train them on the building, finding Jordan’s window easily. The job of assistant bank manager, I decide after nearly an hour, is freaking boooooring. There is only one bit of excitement, when an athletic-looking woman with long brown hair strides into his office.

  I picture for a minute that we’re in a Hollywood movie and the woman will straddle him and stick her tongue down his throat. Instead, she talks for a few minutes, hands him a folder and leaves the office crossing to her own across the atrium. I can’t make out the writing above the door, but the office is bigger and more luxurious than Jordan’s. Athlete Woman must be the bank manager.

  I watch Jordan inspect the file, give a small smile, and begin to type again on the computer keyboard. Fifteen minutes later, he stands, stretches, and makes a show (or is it my imagination?) of checking his watch. He pulls on a thick wool pea coat and leaves his office, nodding and smiling at the tellers who bat their eyes in response. Then he walks out a side door opposite the parking lot. I keep the binoculars on him but when he goes around the building a tall hedge hides him from view. Where is he going? A mid-morning walk? A rendezvous?

  I scoot out of the car, tuck the binoculars in my coat pocket and start walking on the wide sidewalk until clearing the front of the bank. Then I stoop and wedge myself into the thick line of tall cedar hedge. Snow tumbles down in clumps around me and a little makes its way down my coat collar. I shiver, bat at it and then stand to full height. I’m thankful that the spiders who make these branches home in the summer are all dead now. Branches poke me in uncomfortable places, but the shrubbery makes a good hiding spot.

  Pulling the binoculars back out, I scan the area where Jordan was headed. He’s standing near the rear corner of the building, a small shed and little fenced area nearby. He’s watching the corner of the bank that he just came from.

  Footsteps sound nearby. I hold my breath. The security guard from the bank? Or maybe a second one, who only patrols the exterior of the building.

  Branches poke and jab me. My mittens feel too hot, and I can feel my palms sliding around inside them, greasy with sweat.

  The footsteps draw closer.

  Then I hear a deep voice say, “Hey, what are you doing?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My heart hammers in my chest so hard that I half-expect it to flop right out. I want to sprint from the spot but my legs are frozen in place.

  “Hey, man, it’s been a long time,” another voice says. “Whatcha been up to, bro?”

  I slowly exhale as two guys try to outdo each other with MTV-sounding phrases. Is MTV even around anymore? The popular TV station used to be the center of my universe. My breath has returned to normal by the time the two have finished discussing girls, sic rides and their newest job perspectives. I wait until they’ve moved on completely before following the hedge around the side of the bank, keeping an eye on the building itself.

  Small, dark globe cameras dot the exterior. I push my way back into the hedge, closer to the shed.

  What’s that? A flash of black against the white snow: Jordan’s coat, ducking into the small structure. I wait. The hiding spot smells like a winter wonderland, branches and bark scratching my wrists and neck. Keeping the binoculars focused on the shed door, I nearly jump when Athlete Woman appears suddenly, full screen in the enlarged image. She’s smirking as she enters the shed, dark hair streaming over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial.

  Eight minutes later Jordan emerges, looking as pristine as when he arrived except for the untucked button down which he shoves back into the waistband of perfectly pressed khakis. He rubs a hand over his shirt front, then buttons up his coat which was hanging open. How can they not be concerned about the cameras? Can Athlete Woman turn them off? Do they not cover that area? Or is the risk part of the fun?

  I press the 35mm camera’s button over and over: shots of Jordan fixing his shirt, smoothing a hand over his perfect hair and checking once over his shoulder before I lose him around the side of the building.

  I wait another three minutes and Athlete Woman emerges, looking, if possible, more perfect than Jordan. She isn’t tucking anything in, though the rather slinky, stretchy dress likely doesn’t have even a pocket. She too, is buttoning up her coat, the cold in the air making a frosty cloud in front of her face. I take more photos of her and realize as I zoom in on the last shot that there’s not only a huge, honking diamond on her hand, but a wedding band, too.

  ***

  A drug store in Burlington still offers one-hour photos and 35mm film developing. I could use the kiosk and my digital camera but like to do these things old-school. The woman at the counter smiles at me and tells me to be back in forty-five minutes as things are slow. I wander around the store for a while, looking at gaudy nail polish, neon hair extensions, and foot cream.

  Forty minutes later, I tuck the package of glossy images into my bag along with a scrap of paper with some general details: date, times, mileage, and an abbreviated version of what I saw. All these notes will be typed up neatly in a full report for Molly, which I’ll turn over to her, along with the photos and a bill for the second half of my fee.

  Maybe she’ll have further use of my services. Marketing to someone who’s just had their world torn apart feels pretty slimy. But I like to think of it as helping a heartbroken woman through a difficult time. The fact that I charge her for services rendered is just part of business in the real world.

  ***

  Ezra is five minutes late and looks disheveled when he meets me at the restaurant. This is not our usual pizza or sub joint, but a real, honest-to-goodness nice place with tablecloths and everything.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask, waving a hand around the half-filled dining area. “Did you get a raise or something?”

  “Huh?” Ezra’s head pokes up from behind the menu. Oh, did I forget to mention? It also has real menus, not the type written on a big board that gives you a crick in your neck from looking at it while waiting in line to order.

  “Oh, yeah. I mean, no. No raise. I just thought it would be nice to have a little quiet and privacy to talk.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  Ezra grins and the tightness in my belly loosens.

  “It’s nothing bad. Just some things I’ve been thinking about and thought I’d seek your wise counsel on.”

  I snort while sipping my water and it nearly comes out of my nose.

  “You must be desperate.”

  He grins again, his head ducking back behind his menu.

  We place our orders a few minutes later. Ezra goes for a bacon burger made with local beef and I throw caution—and my newly formed healthy eating habits—to the wind, ordering a plate of fish and chips.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask, extracting a piece of soft bread from a basket lined with a thick, white napkin. The bread is fresh from the oven and my mouth waters before I’ve even finished buttering the slice.

  Ezra takes his time responding, glancing over his shoulder, grabbing his own slice of bread, and adding a thick coat of butter before he speaks.

  “I’ve been thinking about leaving the brotherhood.”

  I nearly choke on the bread which is lodged neatly against my windpipe. I scramble for some water. I drink nearly the entire glass before I can speak.

  “What?” I finally croak out. “Are you serious?”

  He nods, then shakes his head. “No. I’m not sure. But yes, I’m considering it. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do ... hence the counsel-seeking. But I’ve been having these feelings lately and I want to explore them, I guess.”

  “What kind of feelings? Ezra, this is”— (crazy, nuts, off your rocker worrisome)— “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know. Crazy, right? I just ...” He breaks off, looking out the large bank of windows. “I don’t want to make the wrong decision. This is going
to affect the rest of my life and if I choose wrong it’ll screw things up.” He pauses and takes another bite of bread, chews, and swallows. “This must be how regular guys feel before they propose to someone.”

  I sit motionless. If he’d told me he was pregnant, I couldn’t have been more surprised. This is all he’s wanted for a long time.

  Finally, I rouse myself. “Are you sure it’s not just nerves? You’re getting close to the end of your time as a brother. Maybe you’re just nervous about taking your vows for the priesthood.”

  “Maybe. But there’s something else.” He leans toward me. His hair is wavy and dark and there is a piece of blue lint hanging precariously from one strand. “I’m worried about, you know, marriage and kids and stuff.”

  “Huh?” No one ever accused me of eloquence.

  Ezra sits for a few minutes in silence, the slice of bread in his calloused hand halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes look toward the windows and for just a few seconds light from the sun fills the space and illuminates him. He looks like he’s glowing and I realize for the first time in a long time—maybe years—how much I depend on him. How much of a sure thing his presence is in my life. If he leaves the Shrine, will he also leave the area? And since when does he want a wife and kids? Did he meet someone? There’s a sinking feeling in my belly. I take another sip of water, wishing my wine had arrived.

  He’s talking again and I shake myself mentally, try to focus.

  “I thought this was my calling, I was sure it was. But lately I’ve just been thinking more and more about the rest of my life. Do I want to spend it alone? Serving in a congregation where I get to see inside other people’s lives but never invite anyone into my own? It seems lonely.”

  “Well, there’s always the cleaning woman,” I say. Bad joke.