by Janet Leigh
“I’m here to have a massage with”—I glanced down at the paper Eli had given me—“Cherry.”
She told me I could wait down the hall while Cherry finished with her client. I walked down a narrow hall that had multiple rooms branching from it. Many were hair salons, and the smell of hair tint and styling products wafted down the hall, making my nose run. Laughter pealed from one of the rooms, and I found a seat outside the room with “Cherry—Massage” plated on the door. While I waited, people came and went. Finally, a heavyset woman in neon-green tights and a purple spandex minidress emerged from the room marked “Cherry—Massage.” She looked me up and down and asked, “Are you my nine o’clock?”
“Yes, hi, I’m Jennifer.”
“Cherry.” She quirked her lips. “You got anything wrong with ya?”
“Uhm, no.”
“Good, ’cuz I’m outta the paperwork you’re supposed to sign.”
The door to her room opened, and an older man walked out and gave her a long kiss with a lot of tongue. “Later, Cherry pie,” he said as he put on his coat and left out the back door. Ick.
“OK, sweetie, you’re up.”
I stood and entered the massage room. It was an eight-by-ten space stuffed to the gills with garden art. There were little garden signs that hung on the walls. Ceramic snails and frogs stared up from the small table that sat next to a wooden bench. A tall bookcase filled with magazines leaned against the wall, and garden gnomes lined the top, staring down at me with their slanty little eyes. A massage table stood in the center of the room.
“Go ahead, honey, take off your clothes and lie facedown on the table, then holler at me when you’re ready. She stepped out of the room, and I took off my clothes and draped them over the bench. The table looked clean, but when I slipped under the satin sheets, they smelled like cigarette smoke. Apparently, changing the sheets wasn’t a high priority for Cherry. I took part of the sheet and wiped the headrest clean, just in case. This was better than nothing, and I made a mental note to bring hand sanitizer for my next massage. I told Cherry I was ready, and she entered the room.
“Is coconut oil OK?” she asked. “I’m all out of cocoa butter.”
“Fine.” I guess. This woman seems to be out of everything, my inner voice chided and started making strike marks against Cherry.
“I’ll infuse it with a little peppermint. That will get your circulation moving,” she said as she began rubbing my back. She had firm hands; maybe she could be a candidate to fill in at Eli’s office.
I felt myself being drawn into the first stages of REM sleep. Cherry moved to the top of the table and began rubbing her hands from my shoulders down to my buttocks. As she neared my butt, her large breasts lay like two huge water balloons across the back of my head, pushing my face into the headrest and making it difficult to breathe. I sucked in air through the small hole in the face cradle.
“How’s the pressure, honey?” she asked as she held me hostage with her massive boobs.
I gave her a muffled “A little less please,” and my inner voice marked a definite NO next to Cherry’s name. I left Cherry agreeing with my inner voice and smelling like a piña colada.
I had another scheduled at a place back in Coffee Creek. When I arrived, the building was boarded up. No piece of paper for a forwarding location was hanging on the door. I crossed that name off my list.
My next massage was back in Sunnyside. Last time my sister, Melody, was in town, we went to Massage Appeal for a hot stone massage. An inexpensive chain massage center, it offered various types of massages. My potential massage candidate was a guy named Ahwad. He didn’t do the hot stone, so I downgraded to a scalp and upper body massage. Because Cherry had rubbed my buttocks until they hurt, I felt like thirty minutes would allow me enough time to check this guy out and get to Gitmo in time for my lesson with Jake. Massage Appeal was located in a strip shopping center across from my dad’s health food store. I parked in front of a big plate glass window that read, “Couples’ One-Hour Massage Special—$40.” As I entered, a chime sounded from the doorway, letting the staff know I had arrived. An older lady in head-to-toe black greeted me and handed me a clipboard with three pages of information to complete. This must be Cherry’s missing paperwork. The reception area had floor-to-ceiling shelves across the back wall that displayed the Massage Appeal products. Three brown leather sofas formed a triangle with a large round rattan table as their centerpiece. I sat at the end of one of the sofas and completed my forms.
After I turned in my paperwork, a thin Asian gentleman took me to the dressing area and gave me a complimentary white bathrobe to change into for my massage session. My inner voice cooed at the soft robe and put a check mark next to Massage Appeal. I rolled my eyes and changed into the robe. The Asian gentleman was waiting for me outside the dressing area and took me to a small waiting room that was playing relaxing music. He offered me a glass of water infused with cucumber. It was delicious, and another checkmark was given. I reminded my inner voice we were looking for a therapist. I sat waiting on a brown chenille chair and sipped my cucumber water.
About five minutes later a dark-skinned man with thick black-rimmed glasses called my name. He introduced himself and escorted me down a hall and into his therapy room. Like Cherry minus the garden gnomes, he asked me to get on the massage table that was centered in the dimly lit room. I crawled under the plush sheets, and he returned with hot towels that he wrapped around my feet. Cozy. He began massaging my back in the same manner as Cherry had previously. I started to drift off when I felt Ahwad place his entire forearm across my bottom. Wait, I was supposed to have scalp and upper body only. Ahwad did not read his paperwork. He began dragging his arm over my butt and up toward my back. His very long arm hair dragged across my back like seaweed floating in the high tide. Goose pimples rose all over my body as he repeated the process over and over. About the third pass, my inner voice screamed, MAKE HIM STOP, so I asked Ahwad if he could just move on to the neck and scalp massage. He asked me to flip over, and he worked the knots in my neck and shoulders. He told me I had “much tension” in my neck muscles, and he proceeded to push on each and every one of them until I begged him to stop. He began working on my scalp, gently rubbing in the beginning, which felt nice. I gave a sigh of relief and tried to relax once again. Ahwad said, “And now for the finale.”
My eyes popped open. Finale? What the heck is that?
Ahwad grabbed me in a headlock and began ferociously rubbing on my scalp with his fingers. The same way that Eli used to give me a noogie when we were kids.
“This increases the blood flow to the scalp and makes beautiful hair,” he explained.
Ahwad ended my session with three final taps to the head. He announced the massage was over and told me that he would meet me in the hall after I was dressed. He turned on his heel and left the room. As I stood up, I glanced in the mirror to see my perfectly straightened hair standing up on its own as if I had recently stuck my finger in an electric socket. I stifled a scream and quickly put my robe back on while trying to smooth my static-ridden hair. Ahwad was waiting for me in the hall as promised.
“Here you go,” he said as he handed me a small cup of water and held out his hand, palm up.
I downed the water and set the cup balancing on his open palm. He raised an eyebrow and gave a sigh of indignation. I gave him a thumbs-up and returned to the dressing room to fetch my belongings. My inner voice drew a line through Ahwad’s name and shook her head back and forth.
Chapter 10
Arriving back home, I ditched my coat because it would be warmer in Gitmo. Gertie was already gone. I ate a carton of strawberry yogurt and went upstairs to shower off all the massage therapy oil. After my second shower of the day, I applied my makeup with the precision of Michelangelo and ran the flat iron over my hair again. I put on my subtle but sexy outfit I had planned the day before. I was ready to head to Gitm
o for combat training. Many of the travelers would be arriving to get their assignments, if Pickles had any idea of where they might go. Hopefully, Caiyan would be one of them.
Attack cat was sleeping lazily on the back of the couch. I gave him a gentle rub on the head, and he gave me a swat, snagging my tunic.
“Thanks, cat,” I said, finding a pair of scissors to cut the thread he’d pulled loose. I stepped outside and locked the door. Wrapping my arms around myself, I made a run for the outhouse. I jumped in, took a deep relaxing breath, and braced myself. Focusing on Gitmo, I said the magic word hanhepi, and my world went spinning.
The landing at Gitmo was a few bumps, similar to a plane’s wheels touching down on the runway. I stepped from my vessel to find Jake waiting for me. We greeted each other with a quick, awkward hug. I hated that our relationship was strained. In the past, that would have been a big brotherly hug. In the not-so-recent past, it would have been followed with a lot of tongue.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asked, pointing at my heels.
“What? I love these boots.”
“The last time you wore those, we were dancing at the Longhorn Ball, and I had to rub your feet afterward because they gave you blisters.”
I had forgotten the ritzy ball we’d attended last year. I had also forgotten the passion-filled night that we’d spent together after the ball at the W hotel. The way Jake looked at me, I could tell he had not.
“He’s not here,” Jake said.
“Who isn’t here?”
“Jen, I’ve known you since grade school. I know why you’re wearing those shoes, and I’m taking you to change and dropping you off at combat training.”
I sulked as we headed down the long corridor toward the elevator to the exit.
Jake’s cell beeped as we turned the last corner. “I’ll be there right away, sir.” Jake tucked his phone back in his jacket and turned to me. “Sorry, Jen, I need to go see General Potts. Please wait for me in the lounge.”
“Yes, sir,” I responded with a salute. “And tell General Poopy Potts hi for me.”
Jake grimaced at this remark but didn’t disagree. The general was a grouchy, overweight man who reminded me of Buford T. Justice. In fact, I sort of felt like Sally Field in Smokey and the Bandit, an upstanding young girl accidentally thrown in with a bunch of outlaws. My inner voice reminded me Sally Field was wearing a wedding gown when she hopped in the bandit’s car. OK, maybe upstanding is too strong a word. Jake deposited me on a couch in the lounge and left for his meeting. The lounge was a break room of sorts for the guards and personnel of floor B. There was a refrigerator stocked with sodas and water, a wall of cabinets, a sink, and a microwave. Several round tables were scattered around the room with black plastic resin chairs set up around them. The room was quiet except for a television mounted on the wall opposite the black pleather couch I was currently occupying. CNN piped through the room, and I skimmed a People magazine that I had picked up off the rectangular coffee table.
After ten minutes of finding out the latest celebrity gossip, I decided to pay the lab a visit. The little voice inside my head reminded me that Jake told me to wait in the lounge, but I dismissed it by telling it Jake probably didn’t think to tell me to wait in the lab. Besides, the last time I was here, he took me there himself to say hello.
I walked down the hall and found the wall with the keypad. I didn’t have a code. Maybe I could just knock. I reached my fist up and gave the door a three-tap knock. The door slid open, and Al was standing on the other side. “Jennifer, my dear, this is a secured area. You can’t just walk up and knock on the door.”
“But you answered,” I pointed out.
“I did indeed, but I saw you on the security camera.” He pointed at a wall of small screens. “Come in.” He stepped aside, and I entered, waving to Pickles, who sat behind his semicircular desk that allowed access for his wheelchair.
Pickles had on a Bob Marley T-shirt and jeans. Several rope bracelets stacked up his left forearm. He had a diamond stud earring in his left ear and his dreadlocks pulled back in a yellow bandanna. His key hung from a black leather cord around his neck, and the tornado on his medallion shone brilliantly against his dark skin.
“Hey dare, you are lookin’ veery nice today.”
“Hey yourself.” I walked over to his workspace, and he leaned back in his chair.
“I heard you was going to come fer training again tis weekend.”
I smiled at the tone of his voice. It was that I can’t believe she really showed up tone.
“Yep, here I am. I am combat training for about two hours today, and then we’re hitting it heavy tomorrow—weapons training.” I made a gun with my hands and did a Charlie’s Angels pose.
“Jeez, next dey be askin’ Al to suit up for combat.”
“Don’t think I can’t take out a few brigands.” Al threw his shoulders back and puffed his chest out. “I was mighty in my day.”
Pickles leaned his head back and gave a deep, throaty laugh. “Sure thing, man.” Then something on his screen caught his eye.
“Dey are at it again, Al.”
Al came over and peered through his spectacles at one of Pickles’s monitors. I moved closer to get a better look. There was a blue dot flickering around the screen and a black dot and a red dot not too far away.
“Who is doing what?” I asked.
“This dot here,” Al said, pointing to the black dot, “is a brigand. We don’t know who yet, but we’re working on it. The red dot keeps popping up, but we still haven’t identified it yet, either.”
“But the moon cycle is over,” I said. Both men looked at each other and shrugged. “You mean the mystery traveler really stayed in the past?”
“Not only dat, but de brigand stayed, too. Dey both stayed after de last cycle ended,” Pickles explained. “De moon is beginning her waxing phase, so we can see dem again.”
I knew this was a very difficult thing to do. Caiyan had explained it to me. There would be a lot of pain as the full moon cycle ended, but if the traveler could endure, he or she could stay until the next full moon cycle. The longer the traveler stayed in the past, the less chance he or she would be able to travel back to the present safely. Caiyan told me he and Ace had stayed in 1969 because they wanted to see Woodstock live. He told me it was extremely painful, but the LSD everyone was handing out helped diminish the pain.
I remembered from my last trip to the time lab that the red dot was an unidentified traveler. We didn’t know if it was a brigand or a new traveler who could become part of the WTF, like myself. I had shown up as a red dot until they figured out who I was, thanks to Caiyan and his womanizing ways. “Do you think the red dot might be someone the brigand is after?”
“I don’t tink so,” said Pickles. “In fact, we are almost positive de brigand is with de red dot—dat we are fer sure.”
“How are you going to find out who it is?” I asked, watching the red and black dots dance across the screen.
“Caiyan is doing dat fer us,” Pickles responded, watching the screen intently.
“Caiyan?” I questioned, and then my eyes saw the blue dot jumping a few inches away from the other dots. “Is Caiyan back there?” My voice started to raise a few octaves, and Al’s and Pickles’s heads snapped up in alarm.
They turned and looked at me, oblivious to the fact I might have feelings for Caiyan. They knew something was amiss. “How did he get back to—where is he?” I stuttered.
“He’s in 1985,” Jake said as he entered the room. “I told you to stay in the lounge.”
“How did Caiyan get back to 1985?” I asked, hands on hips. “We just returned from a travel.”
“He volunteered to go back as the moon cycle closed,” Jake answered.
“Isn’t it very painful to stay between moon cycles?” I asked. Pickles and Al looked like they were w
atching a tennis match as Jake and I squared off.
“Hurts like hell if you’re caught between cycles, but he volunteered.”
We stood staring at each other for a minute. The room was silent except for the whirring of the computers and the blipping of the dots on the screens.
“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” I asked, and Jake stared me down.
“This was a classified mission.” He was eye to eye with no regrets leaking out. At this moment I wasn’t the best friend who was privy to all Jake’s secrets, but a member of the WTF. Focusing on Caiyan rather than being mad at Jake might be the smarter hand to play.
“How do we get him back?” I asked.
“He’s on a mission. When he finds out who the red dot is, he can come back,” Jake said, pointing to the screens. “I expect him to return this moon cycle.”
“What if something is wrong and he can’t come back?” I stomped my foot in protest. “What if the red dot has him held prisoner like Pancho Villa did with Gertie and me?”
Al chimed in, and I jumped slightly. I was so caught up I had forgotten he was there. “We can see Caiyan moving around.” He placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder and directed me toward the large screen centered in the room. Pickles tapped a few buttons, and the map projected on the screen. I saw the tiny dots blinking on the map.
“See.” Al took a metal object from his shirt pocket and expanded it into a long metal pointer. “Here is Caiyan.” He pointed at the blue dot. “He seems to be moving around freely and follows the red dot to different locations.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
“Los Angeles, 1985,” Al answered.
“LA?” I looked at Jake, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smirk as if Caiyan was out partying in Hollywood with Tom Cruise.
“Yeah, mon,” Pickles piped up from his chair. “We know dat is de location, but we don’t know why or who is dere.”