Tizzy was practically a neighbor and I knew her outside the group. She was married with grown children and worked at the university in the business school. She was writing a time-travel romance that was heavy on history with just sweet G-rated romance thrown in. She’d gotten the opposite advice of Ed’s. The group thought she needed to spice things up a bit between Campbell Jones, the guest at the Chicago World’s Fair, and the very contemporary Lilith.
Tizzy had been close to being finished with her book and then had decided she wanted to revamp it. Ed read her pages. It was hard to focus on the words because he kept rolling his eyes at the hand-holding and kiss on the cheek that had gone on between Campbell and Lilith. ‘Can’t you put some tongue in it,’ he said finally in exasperation.
‘Not if he’s going to kiss her on the cheek,’ Ben said, and we all laughed at the image of Campbell licking Lilith’s cheek.
‘You know what I mean,’ Ed said.
Daryl read Ben’s work. He was working on a crime story with a cop as the main character. It was full of short sentences and terse dialogue. The group had prevailed on him to give the main character more emotion. He was making headway, but still had a long way to go.
‘OK, I get it,’ Ben said. ‘You’re not going to be happy until my character is crying about something.’
It was Tizzy’s job to read Daryl’s pages. She was the most difficult person in the group. She managed a trendy clothing store downtown, which was probably why she always had on an eye-catching mixture of clothes. She was too tense to say much when we made small talk and when it came time to read her work, she sucked in a breath loudly and I was always afraid she was going to forget to breathe out.
Tizzy presented Daryl’s work. It all went fine until Daryl burst into tears.
‘We didn’t even say anything,’ Ed said, putting his hands up in a hopeless gesture. Daryl was ultra-sensitive about any criticism. She got defensive if someone even brought up a misplaced comma. But if everyone gave her bland approval, she reacted too, saying that it wasn’t helpful. As a result, they left it all up to me to give her comments.
This time it wasn’t just worry about what anyone was going to say. It turned out she’d had a bad day at work, somehow getting in the middle of an argument between a mother and daughter who were customers in the store. We all tried to make her feel better.
I walked them all to the front when the time was up and saw them out the door. I knew it was done, but not over.
TWO
The knock at the door startled me even though it was expected. There was something about the wood door that made any knock come out as loud and commanding.
It was an automatic reaction to open the door quickly even though the door was on the latch. Ben was standing in the hallway holding an aluminum-foil-covered plate in his hand, waiter style. ‘Dinner has arrived,’ he said with a smile.
Part of his sister Sara’s plan to push us together was to send him up with a plate of supposed leftovers from their dinner. They were meat-eaters and I was a vegetarian and it seemed a little suspicious how there was always something meatless left over. I wasn’t about to complain, though, since it meant I didn’t have to cook and it was always delicious.
Ben always had dinner at his sister’s before coming up to the writers’ group and at first he’d brought the plate of food then. But the group had given him a hard time about it, saying it was like he was giving an apple to the teacher to get special consideration. So we’d changed things up and he left with the others, picked up the food and returned. I’m not sure we were fooling them, but at least they didn’t make a fuss.
The deal was that he would stay while I ate because his sister wanted her plate back and a review of the food.
This time there was something more. I had to ask him for a favor. It was awkward and embarrassing, but I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.
‘Sara said to be sure and tell you to take off the aluminum foil before you put it in the microwave,’ he said with a smile, since she basically said it every week as if I didn’t know.
I didn’t bother objecting and told him to make himself comfortable in the living room while I went back to the kitchen. Instead he followed me down the hall.
‘It’s just us now,’ Ben said. ‘So who’s the guy?’
‘Just a client,’ I said, hoping he’d drop it. Once we were in the kitchen, I made a point of removing the foil and popped the plate in the microwave. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘I came prepared,’ he said, pulling a bottle of beer out of his pocket. I thought he’d dropped asking about Tony, but then he said, ‘That guy doesn’t pass the smell test. Cop instinct tells me there’s something too slick about him. I would lose him as a client.’
‘Thank you for your opinion,’ I said, not being clear if I was going to take his advice. I got a glass of sparkling water for myself and when the microwave dinged, put the plate on a tray and we went back to the front room.
The living room was filled with color from artwork, pretty things my parents had collected and the crocheted piece I had hung on the wall over the black leather couch. I glanced out the window and got a view of the third-floor window in an apartment building similar to mine on the other side of the street. The lights were on and I could just make out a guy hovering over his computer. We sat in the alcove at one end of the room, taking what had become our regular spots. He sat on the couch and I took the wing chair.
I was glad that he didn’t bring up Tony again. I wasn’t so sure it was cop instinct that made him dislike Tony as much as he felt threatened by Tony’s effect on all the women. I balanced the tray on my lap and looked down at the plate.
‘It’s mushroom stroganoff over egg noodles,’ he said. ‘My sister outdid herself. Of course, ours had meat.’ He noticed me looking at the plate closely. ‘Don’t worry, there was never any meat in yours. She’d kill me if I told you, but she always makes your plate up first and then adds the meat or chicken for the rest of us.’
‘I kind of figured that,’ I said, scooping some on a fork. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’ I was actually dreading it and it must have shown in my expression, because he instantly tensed.
‘It’s my pages, isn’t it?’ he said. Before he could go any further, I assured him that it wasn’t.
‘No, no, you’re really doing great,’ I said, giving some specific details. I absolutely meant it. When the gifted sessions from his sister had run out, he’d decided to continue on his own. It seemed to be helping him on all accounts. He’d been so stiff when he first joined the group. It was like he had a crust around him, keeping his emotions and personality hidden. He’d barely even smiled. ‘Actually, I need to ask you a favor,’ I began. Now came the hard part. I was worried he’d say no and think the less of me for having to ask him. I’d been invited to the engagement party of a former client I’d written love letters for. Usually, the people I wrote love letters for didn’t want their intended to know that I existed, but this case was different. Not only did she know all about what I’d done, but they were treating me like a guest of honor, crediting my work for bringing them together. They were even going to offer a toast to me. All that attention was likely to get me some business – either for romantic letters or for the other kinds of pieces I wrote. In other words, I needed to make a good impression. Simply put, it wouldn’t look good for someone who wrote love letters to come alone.
Rocky made an appearance just then. He was a large black-and-white cat commonly referred to as a tuxedo cat because his markings made it look as if he was wearing one. He also had asymmetrical marking on his face which gave the impression he had a crooked mustache. The cat paused briefly in the entrance to the living room and then walked over to the couch and jumped up next to Ben. Rocky immediately started rubbing against Ben’s side and knocking into his hand. ‘You know who your best bud is,’ Ben said, beginning to give Rocky long strokes on his back. The cat responded with a loud purr as he le
aned into the petting.
Ben had legitimately earned the cat’s affection. He’d helped me when I brought Rocky home and was a little unclear about the cat’s immediate needs.
In addition to the paid writing gigs, I also did some pro bono work for a downtown pet store that offered pets from assorted shelters for adoption. I wrote what I called personality pieces from the animal’s point of view, which were supposed to help them find forever homes. Usually the pets at the shop were extra cute and the kind of breeds that were most desirable. Rocky had been brought there because he was desperate. He was seven, which was a strike against him, and he was on his last few days at the shelter. So, if he didn’t find a home, well … I couldn’t bear to think about it. I’d done such a good job on the piece for Rocky that I’d been the one to give him a home. The way he’d looked at me and reached out with his paw as if to say ‘take me with you’ had helped, too.
He was my first-ever pet and I was glad that Ben had helped me. I’m sure Rocky was, too, since it involved getting him a cat box.
‘I’m waiting,’ Ben said looking at me, and I realized I’d been using the cat’s entrance as a stall. ‘And using my cop observation skills, I’d say whatever it is makes you uncomfortable.’
I smiled weakly. ‘You hit it exactly.’
‘There’s no reason to feel uncomfortable. We’re friends, remember, friends with no benefits and no need to keep up an image or try to impress as you would if we were, say, dating.’
I put down the fork. ‘Maybe you’d like a drink.’
He held up his hand with the bottle of beer in it and smiled. ‘Whatever it is, just say it and get it over with. It’s like we say to suspects. You’ll feel so much better when you get it off your chest.’ He stopped. ‘Yes, the last part was a cliché, but when you’re dealing with suspects, it’s better to cut to the chase than worry about being original.’
I knew he was right about just throwing it out there. ‘It’s like this,’ I began, taking a breath. I explained the invite to the engagement party and the fact that I needed to project an image of being in a relationship and I gave him the date. I’d made a point to give him the exact date so it would give him an easy out. All he had to say was that he was busy.
He thought it over a moment and shrugged. ‘I could do that. In fact, you could return the favor. You could be my plus one the next time I get invited to a birthday party or event with someone I work with. I’m tired of getting seated with somebody’s cousin or everyone making an issue that I’m alone.’ He looked at me directly. ‘How about it? Will you be my plus one?’
‘Sure,’ I said. It made it better that he wanted something in return. It made me seem less needy. ‘There’s something we need to consider, though. For this to work, we have to look like we actually are in a relationship.’
He laughed. ‘How about I hang all over you?’
‘It can’t be that obvious or it will appear false. I was thinking more on the subtle side. Like you know how I take my coffee and I know you like beer.’ It still amazed me to see how different he looked now that he was letting his personality show. When he’d first joined the group, his expression had always been blank, which had made him seem as if he had no personality and, worse, was cold. But now there was some light in his eyes and he didn’t seem chiseled from stone anymore.
‘As a cop you probably know about body language,’ I said.
He laughed again and I noticed that it made crinkles around his eyes that made him seem so much more approachable. ‘The body language I’m looking for has more to do with whether I think someone is going to pull a gun on me or make a run for it. Not that I haven’t had women try to flirt with me to get off from a ticket, but I don’t think it’s what you have in mind.’
‘Right. It would be way too obvious.’ I thought about it for a minute. ‘How about this. We go to some place like the Mezze,’ I said, referring to a neighborhood restaurant. ‘We can observe how couples react to each other.’ He recognized it as similar to the kind of outings I had the writing group do and saw the point.
‘Sure, that sounds like a good idea,’ he said.
Now that it was settled, I relaxed and ate my food.
‘You can tell Sara it was another winner,’ I said when I’d practically scraped the plate clean. I got up to take it back to the kitchen to wash it before I gave it back to him. He grabbed my empty glass and followed me down the hall.
‘Back to that guy,’ he said. ‘Do you really think it’s wise giving him access to your office? You didn’t give him a key, did you? How long has this been going on? You never said anything before.’
Men, I thought with an inward laugh. Ben sounded almost territorial, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. He was the one who’d told me it was nothing personal, but he couldn’t deal with a relationship right now. I understood that he’d been blindsided by his divorce, but how long was it going to take him to move on?
I was also divorced. Mine had been a brief marriage in my early twenties to someone who’d felt trapped practically from the ‘I do.’ He’d dealt with it by never being home. I admit that it left me not so sure about marriage, but I was certainly up for a relationship with the right person. Rule number one was that the guy had to be in the same place. In other words, I wasn’t interested in anyone who wasn’t interested in having a relationship with me.
‘He doesn’t have a key to my place. I’ve been working with him for a couple of months. And I don’t want to talk about what I’m doing for him,’ I said, handing him his sister’s dinner plate. ‘It’s confidential.’
‘Well, then at least be careful,’ he said. I walked him to the door. ‘I better get this back to her or I’ll never hear the end of it.’ He put up his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘I’ll never hear the end of it from her anyway.’
‘By the way, you really don’t have to knock. The door’s on the latch, so you can just come in.’ There was a brief pause and we awkwardly touched each other’s arms. Just saying good night had seemed too cold and anything like a hug, too much. The arm touching was something in between.
I felt keyed up when Ben left and went through my ritual of putting everything back in its proper order hoping it would help. First, I straightened up the dining room. The table was clear except for a couple of paper clips and the stack of pages they’d left for me to read over. I moved the stack to the sideboard and set up the table for its regular purpose as a place to eat. I arranged my placemat in its usual spot, set a ceramic square decorated with sunflower nearby for anything hot I put on the table, and finally dropped off a small tray of condiments. I looked back at everything I’d set up in its precise place and shook my head. Had I really become so finicky that everything had to be in its correct spot?
If anything I felt tenser after realizing that unfortunate truth. I put the water on the stove hoping that some chamomile tea and crochet would help. While I waited for it to boil, I took the stack of papers to my office. I brushed the keyboard of my computer as I set down the papers and the screen came on. Tony’s file was still open, but the screen was blank. As usual, once he printed it up, he’d deleted what I’d written for him.
The whistling of the kettle called me back to the kitchen. The water sputtered as I poured it over the tea bag into the mug. As the tea steeped, it filled the air with flowery scent that was almost too strong to be pleasing.
My thoughts went back to the evening and I wished that Tony and the group had never intersected. Talking to the group about doing some writing for a neighborhood place was not the same as them seeing an actual client and asking a lot of questions, particularly since I was writing such personal stuff for him. Ben’s comments bothered me the most, maybe because they struck a nerve. The whole thing with Tony seemed a little odd. When he’d explained why he needed the letters it had seemed plausible. He traveled a lot and wanted to let his lady friend know he was thinking about her. He’d said he was good in person, but not so much with the written word. I knew al
most nothing about him other than the obvious. And even less about the person to whom the letters were going. In the past I’d made a point to get at an idea who the recipient was, often meeting them, incognito of course. I thought back to what he’d said when I asked what her interests were, what he loved about her, even what she looked like. He’d been charmingly self-deprecating when he said he was hopeless when it came to describing her and his reason for not having me meet her was a little foggy now. It seemed as if he’d loaded me up with compliments about using my fabulous imagination. Somehow when he’d said that, I’d bought it without a second thought, but now it seemed a little shaky.
I took the mug into the living room and found a comfortable spot on the couch. Along with the tea, crocheting seemed to help smooth out the edges of the day. The bag with one of my projects was tucked behind the throw pillow with the purple iris pattern. I had been crocheting since I was a kid and had always worked on small squares of all kinds. Some had motifs like granny squares and others had different stitch patterns and were done in a variety of yarns. When I accumulated enough of them, I sewed them together into an afghan. I glanced up at the wall above the couch. A sample of one of my earliest finished projects was hanging there.
It brought on a flood of memories. It had just been my father and me then. We were inching our way back to normal after my mother’s death a few years prior. I’d gifted the blanket to him and he’d kept it in his office at the university. He always bragged to his colleagues and students that his daughter had made it.
I glanced around the living room. It seemed bright and inviting with all the colors and personal touches. It was also so full of memories from the years when there had been more than just me living there.
Sometimes I just sat there staring at the room and thinking of all the moments that had happened in that space and I’d see a montage in my mind. A fall day with leaves fluttering by the windows. Then I’d almost feel the warm breeze coming through the open door to the balcony on a languid morning as my father sat in the wing chair reading the Sunday newspaper. The image of a darkened room, then the lights coming on as my mother came in the front door and everyone called out surprise. She had seemed so happy with all the people and presents. None of us could have guessed that it would be the last one we’d celebrate.
Writing a Wrong Page 2