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by Bart Hopkins

“Seriously, Dad, you know I hate onions.”

  “You got your driver’s license?” Jason glanced up and winked. Susan could tell it was for her.

  “Ha ha! Yeah, Dad … I got my driver’s license … for my new job.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Video game tester.”

  “Sweet, buddy. Does that involve drinking soda and staying up late?”

  “Yeah!”

  “All right, Danny,” Susan interjected. “We don’t know when Dad’s going to have to get off of Skype, so let’s tell him our other surprise.”

  “Another surprise?” Jason asked. “There’s more?”

  Danny looked at his mom and they started laughing. Jason could see, even across thousands of miles and electrons, the four twinkling eyes of his wife and son.

  “Ready?” Susan asked Danny. “One … two … three.”

  “We got a house!” they cried out together.

  “What? A house? That’s awesome! Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, Dad, it’s so cool. Mom let me pick out my room, and it’s really cool. You can walk in the closet instead of just, like, sliding the door? And there’s a backyard…”

  Susan listened as Danny went on a monologue about the home she’d signed for only the day before. She watched Jason hang on their son’s every word. She’d always been impressed at what a good listener he was; he was happiest hearing about her day after a long day at work. There aren’t many men like him, she thought.

  “…and mom said maybe we could get a dog since we have a back yard now…”

  Jason watched his son with rapt attention. He followed every word and motion and enthusiastic gesture. Susan wondered if he was memorizing every nuance of the situation; she suspected he was.

  “…when you get home we can have a barbecue in the back yard, and then…”

  Susan thought back to the first time she met Greg Thomas. They’d gone inside that house and something had clicked. She knew it was where they were meant to be. It was irrational. She couldn’t explain it. But she knew it to be the truth.

  She’d gone back to look at it again the next day, alone, before work. People were moving around in the street, dressed for their own jobs in suits and uniforms. Two female joggers waved as she got out of her car. She waved back, and then walked around the house, peeking in windows, staring wistfully at the petunias bordering the porch. She lost track of time and was almost late getting to the doc’s office.

  The day after that, she called Greg Thomas. She apologized for being a pest; he insisted she wasn’t bothering him at all. They looked at the house on her lunch break. Again … click! It felt right.

  She emailed him later that day. Apologized again. Wanted to see the house again, this time with her son. Greg complied without complaint. Susan didn’t tell Danny where they were going until they got there.

  “What are we doing, Mom?”

  “I wanted to show you something, buddy.”

  “What?”

  “Just wait until you see, little dude …”

  Danny had practically floated around the house. She didn’t think it was possible, but he may have been more excited than she was. Greg told them they could take their time and look around. He waited patiently nearby, tapping on his smartphone, and answered the myriad questions she threw his way.

  It had been a great experience, she mused, coming back to the present.

  “…we could probably just build a house for a dog, if you want, that’d be cool…” Danny told his dad.

  “That would be cool,” Jason replied to his son. “Hey, babe … sounds like you found a winner for us,” he said to them. The connection froze for a moment, the words garbling, his face frozen.

  “Weiner?” she asked.

  He laughed. “No, a winner. I knew you would.”

  “I hope you like it,” she told him.

  “I’ll love it,” he told her.

  His face changed, became serious, and they looked at each other.

  “Hey, Danny … can you go get mommy her tea? I left it in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah, Mom. Don’t hang up until I get back, Dad!” he replied, springing from his spot in front of the computer.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked once Danny was gone.

  “Yeah. I … I’m just not sure how much I’ll be able to Skype the next few weeks.”

  She felt her heart speed up. Susan knew what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth, like a courtroom juror reading a guilty verdict.

  “I’m getting back to my real job soon, so … I’ll be in and out.”

  “Oh.” They looked at the two-dimensional images of one another silently. All of a sudden, she didn’t feel like talking.

  “I love you, you know,” he told her. He was tough, but she could see his features soften, and realized she didn’t want him feeling bad, or strange. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want him to feel something—she did—but she knew how critical it was for him to have his head in the game. She didn’t know all the details, but she knew he broke down doors, faced people with weapons that wanted to kill him, and put his life in harm’s way. She’d seen the scars. She’d been there when he was presented a Purple Heart.

  She would be strong for him.

  “I love you, too. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” She steeled herself and added, “Do what you have to do, what you were probably born to do.” She thought she might cry but didn’t.

  “Yeah,” he croaked. He nodded at her, couldn’t speak, but didn’t have to. She knew.

  “Here you go, Mom.” Danny ran in and handed a glass of tea to his mom.

  “Thanks, buddy.” She tried to put her fearless adult face on for her son.

  “Well, hey, Danny … I have get to work, okay dude? You’re gonna take care of your mom while I’m gone, right?”

  “I will Dad. She’s safe with me!”

  Danny and Jason laughed, and Susan tried to smile like she meant it.

  Chapter 16

  Greg, Martin, Candy, Susan

  Greg sighed peacefully, and let his excitement out of its cage—he was finally alone in his office, which was a rarity on any other day, but seemingly impossible today. Even though he enjoyed being around people, an advantageous trait for a realtor, he had been hoping all morning that he could have some time alone. Peace in a world of never-ending interruptions and noise.

  He’d moved fast and sent out his Top Ten Properties link over Twitter early in the day. Of all the social media he used to sell homes, Twitter was the hardest for him to break into. At first blush, it rang hollow. As he’d told Claire, he felt like a real tool bag ‘tweeting’ to people.

  Then he watched his number of followers blow up. A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, forty thousand. He was a pioneer, the Magellan of online real estate.

  Of course, today was different than other days—he had a, well, how would he put it? A delicate purpose for the privacy.

  He quickly minimized the MLS windows that were open on his computer and brought up Facebook. Typed in his password. He used to have the little block checked so that the computer would remember him, but he stopped doing that. Changed the password, too.

  When he opened Facebook, there were twelve new notifications. Twelve in just two hours. Most revolved around realty. He was tagged in a photo, too.

  And … there was a new message from Candy … only three minutes old.

  How is your day?

  Good. Busy, like always, he tapped. What about yours?

  Good. Okay, LOL, just so-so. My stupid coworker Tracy is driving me crazy.

  You could always punch her, he said.

  LOL! came Candy’s reply.

  What is she doing?

  She’s always telling everyone how busy she is, and how she ‘limits herself to ten hours of work per day’ and they all just seem to buy it. But if anyone just paid attention, it’s so obvious she disappears for hours to work out and eat lunch and whatever.

  Do
n’t be a hater, he wrote.

  You’re so funny. So … am I going to get to meet Mrs. Thomas at our reunion?

  Greg sat back from his desk. Claire coached the girls’ volleyball crew, and they’d been given the opportunity to meet the U.S. Women’s National Team—the same weekend as his reunion.

  “I just can’t miss it. The girls are all so excited,” she had told him the week before.

  “What about our hotel reservations?” he’d asked.

  “Oh, well, you should still go!”

  “What? Alone?”

  “Yeah, why not … go have fun with all your old pals.”

  “You sure? You guys will be fine?” His heart hurt a little bit; she suspected nothing. Of course, Greg argued with himself, there is nothing to suspect, because I haven’t done anything.

  “Of course,” she laughed and hugged him. “It’ll be hard, but we’ll survive.”

  Brewing inside of him was a mixture of guilt and excitement at the prospect of going to the reunion alone. He didn’t intend to betray his wife—he loved Claire. But, well…

  There was an undercurrent—electricity below the surface—about going back to Galveston alone.

  No, he typed. Claire can’t make it … I’ll be flying solo.

  Oh, that’s too bad, Candy replied. We’ll have to find something to occupy your time then…

  He wondered at that: sounds good.

  He was so consumed that he didn’t hear the door to his office open. Or the sound of footsteps as they crossed the room and ended right behind his chair.

  “Gregory Thomas!”

  Greg nearly fell out of his seat. He turned and jumped to his feet, pulse racing.

  “Hello! Professor Lange, Holy sh … cow. I mean, wow, this is a surprise!”

  “So it is,” Martin agreed, smiling, and shaking Greg’s extended hand. He turned around and minimized his Facebook window. He tried to do it nonchalantly, as he regained his composure; then he turned back to his old professor.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “I am feeling splendid. It’s unrealistic that anyone should feel this good after those treatments, and the rest, but it’s true. I feel like I have a new lease on life. Like someone paid off the mortgage on my life.”

  “Good one, Professor. Very punny.” They looked at each other for a moment, then laughed.

  “Gregory, I really do hate to impose on you, but I’ve actually come on business. To ask a favor. Do you have a moment?”

  “Is this regarding Susan, the nurse…”

  “No, this one is for me.”

  That caught Greg by surprise. Professor Lange didn’t strike him as the type who asked for much help from anyone.

  “What can I do you for?” Greg asked.

  “Ah, ahem: do you for? That’s an interesting turn of words, isn’t it? Do you for. No doubt spawned by young men, or boys, with a predictably sexual sense of humor. I guess what surprises me is how commonly its used. But, I digress, yes?”

  “Ha, sure thing, doc. You are digressing a little bit, but you know how things are, people have historically twisted words around and made them dance; sometimes the dance is a waltz, sometimes it’s a number best performed on the stripper’s pole.”

  “Indeed, a very astute point.”

  “Seat?” Greg pointed to a nearby chair.

  “Thank you.” He sat down next to Greg and removed the hat from his head. Longish, rumpled hair revealed itself. “Gregory, I’d like to recruit your help with something. I’ve got an idea that I would like to see come to fruition, but I am going to need the help of smart people, like yourself, who can do things I cannot.”

  “Like what?” Greg asked.

  “I’d like to start an organization that helps people. People with serious medical problems. Perhaps other types of problems, too, later … but for now I want the focus to be illnesses, those of an ilk that require substantial help. And, therefore, substantial funding.

  “I think that with your help … with your social media experience and web presence, I can leap right over the detritus that a novice like myself would encounter without an expert like you on his team.”

  “Kinda like a Kickstarter for the ill.”

  “If I knew what Kickstarter was, I might agree,” Lange replied with a smirk.

  Greg laughed and put his feet up on his desk. He’d always admired Professor Lange; academic giant that he was, he still had a pretty keen sense of humor. Boxed-in, maybe, but sharp nonetheless.

  “It’s not important what Kickstarter is, except, it’s sort of similar to what you’re talking about. It’s just not something used for sick people, at least not that I know of. It’s a platform that companies sometimes utilize to raise funds to get off the ground. Usually smaller companies. Sometimes bigger. Even lone entrepreneurs.

  “But I’d be happy to help out. Not that I can guarantee any sort of magic. I think I owe a lot of my success to good timing.”

  “You’ll be great, and this is excellent! Splendid! You’ve given me a nice, warm feeling. Like sipping a nice wine, my throat feels smooth, and my mind is clearing. And this Kickstarter sounds like it could be useful later, too. Maybe we can look into it?”

  “Sure.”

  Professor Lange looked around the room for the first time, eyebrows bouncing, taking in the various desks—pictures of kids on every one—realty certificates adorning the walls around them. A large, framed poster on the wall proclaimed KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD!

  Greg snuck a glance at his computer and wondered if Candy had written him back. He thought about peeking at Facebook on his phone, but decided that would be rude.

  “You know, you were a good student. I would have pegged you for something academic. Teacher perhaps.”

  “Yeah? Humanities, maybe, but not math. Whew … I took a beating in math.”

  “Ha! I wouldn’t know about your understanding of the universal language of mathematics. I’ll concede, however, that you certainly seem to have found your métier with real estate. I always hear about you; and I always hear good things about you. Two different ideas, closely related, success at the center of one, and personality the core of the other.”

  “Thanks, doc. Oh, hey, you reminded me … we found your nurse friend, Susan, a house the other day.”

  “Really!”

  “Yeah, I think it was the first place we looked at. Timing again, really … a pretty amazing place fell into my lap around the same time you asked me to take care of her. The owners wanted to sell fast and priced it low. Very low.” He didn’t mention it, but he’d also reduced his percentage by a point. One, it was to help his old professor. Two, it was good for business. Despite all the Internet hoopla, word-of-mouth was the primary reason people sought him out.

  “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Well. This is the business you are undoubtedly meant to do. Moirai.”

  “What’s that?” Greg asked.

  “Fate. From the Greek mythology. There were three Moirai. They wore white robes and, literally, controlled the fate of every human.”

  Greg looked thoughtful. “They could be the ones doing it, I suppose, because these things keep happening, making me look good, when really I just stand there and get struck by lightning, over and over again. Success founded upon dumb luck.”

  To a degree, it was true: he was the good luck man. White cats jumping over ladders. The creation of mirrors. Filling containers with salt. A shimmering field of four-leaf clovers.

  The door opened, and in walked Susan. Greg had seen happy women in his life. Post-childbirth, post-engagement, post-chocolate, post-coital—you name it—he’d seen it. But he never found words to adequately describe it. Glow was what he’d heard other people say. Glow.

  A lot of his female clientele acquired that—glow—when they found their dream house. Post-house purchase. That’s what Susan looked like right now. And he kicked himself mentally, because he’d forgotten all about their meeting today.

  “Susan!”

  “H
i Greg! Oh, Professor Lange, what a pleasant surprise! You’re looking really good—good color,” she told him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Susan, thank you for the kind words. It is always a pleasure to see you,” Martin said, taking her hand in both of his and bowing slightly. “I’m here to proposition our mutual friend … convince him to help me with something I’m doing.”

  “Did he say yes?”

  “Why, he did, he did. And I hear you found a house?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m here to sign more documents with Greg today!” There it was again: The Glow. It’s powerful at 90% wattage, Greg thought, pulling out his folder on Susan and the house and spreading documents along his desk. Wait until she signs her name on these papers … the light bulb is gonna shatter from the champagne supernova.

  “That is really great. Jason will get to come back to a new house!”

  “You remember his name? You’ve got a really good memory, Professor! Jason’s a good man. He’s trusting me to buy whatever house I want for us. Isn’t that scary, letting a lady buy the house?”

  “As they say: happy wife, happy life,” Greg chimed in. “Right?”

  “Greg makes an excellent point, Susan,” Martin said with a nod of his head.

  “Or at least happy wife equals happy wife,” Susan said. “Oh, and Professor, thank you so much for sending me to Mr. Thomas … it has been a blessing. I mean, can you believe it was the first house we looked at? That’s so crazy! Before Greg, we looked at houses off and on for a year and didn’t find anything close.”

  Martin looked at Greg and raised his eyebrows.

  “Good timing,” Greg said with a smile.

  Martin stood and pulled his hat down on his head. Greg hadn’t noticed before—too preoccupied with Facebook—but it was a hunter’s cap, the kind you’d find on half the men in Ireland on any given day. In Austin, however, eccentric old men and hipsters owned the rights to wear them. Greg suppressed a smile.

  “Let me leave you two to business. The first of three parts of my quest for the day is complete. Gregory, thank you—see you soon. Susan, always lovely.”