by Pat Young
With a plate stacked high with deli and salads, Lucie looked at the bottle of Riesling chilling on the refrigerator door.
‘Why the hell not?’ she announced, opening tall cupboards till she found Charlotte’s glassware. It was beautiful, the same quality as the rest of her belongings, but each glass stood beside only one that matched. Two red wine, two white wine, two flutes, all with dangerously slender stems. Two tumblers and two high-ball, lined up with precision. Charlotte wasn’t one for entertaining large numbers. Or perhaps when she entertained, the caterers brought everything. Lucie reached for a wine glass and poured the pale wine, enjoying the joyous way it gurgled out of the bottle. She lifted her glass and raised it in a toast. ‘Cheers, Charlotte. Here’s to you. And me. One and the same.’
Lucie ate, trying to enjoy the first good food and wine she’d tasted for years.
Since Curtis failed to find work she’d been making ends meet on a tight budget. For the last few months it had got even tighter as she’d tried to save a little each week and stash it below the mattress. The only way she could do that was by cutting down the amount she ate.
‘I’m just not hungry,’ she explained, the one time he’d remarked on the small amount on her plate. He never asked again. A dime here and a quarter there soon added up until she had enough for her fare into Manhattan and the first step on her escape route.
Who would blame her if she indulged herself for a few days in the good things Charlotte enjoyed. Lucie felt like a child, playing house with someone else’s belongings. What harm could there be in that, as long as she didn’t damage or steal anything?
The only problem that Lucie could foresee in the immediate future was food. The supplies in the fridge wouldn’t last for ever. At some point she would need to venture out or go hungry.
The thought of leaving Charlotte’s place made her insides cramp like a monthly pain. After the madness on the street, being cocooned in this luxury apartment was balm to her soul.
When she walked away from Curtis she swore she’d never let anyone or anything scare her again, but she’d been living with fear for so long, she’d forgotten how to be brave.
The intercom buzzed. Lucie startled like a nervous kitten. A bizarre giggle emerged with her out breath as she tried to decide if she should answer. Stuffing the fear down into a corner of her mind, she picked up.
‘Ms Gillespie, I have a guy here says he always delivers your grocery order. I just have to check with you before I let him bring it on up? Excuse me one second, ma’am.’ His voice became less audible, as if he’d turned away to speak to someone.
‘He says he’s from Shop around the Block. That mean anything to you, ma’am?’
Lucie recognised the logo from the packaging in the refrigerator. The groceries had come to the right place.
Lucie’s stomach flipped. The delivery guy would know Charlotte. She couldn’t let him in. But turning away a regular delivery would look very suspicious. And she needed to get food from somewhere.
Lucie did the quickest thinking of her life.
‘Okay, send him up, but warn him he may get a shock when he sees me.’
She ran to the bathroom, stuck a shower cap on her head and grabbed a pot of face mask. Liberally smearing the expensive goo all over her face, she listened for the doorbell. It rang just as the last bit of bare skin disappeared under a dollop of green slime.
Her heart thundering, she undid the locks and opened the door.
‘Hi, Miss Gillespie. How are you today?’ Without giving her a second glance, the young delivery man, laden with boxes, sailed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen.
‘Good,’ she said, in as neutral a voice as she could manage. She was conscious of her hand shaking on the door handle and clasped it tightly in her fingers.
He placed the boxes of food on the counter and apologised for having no asparagus this week. Pointing to the gloop stuck to her face she made a gesture of apology.
He laughed, but made no move to leave. Lucie hoped Charlotte wasn’t the chatty type. Why didn’t he go now he’d made the delivery? She was still standing by the open door, hoping he’d take the hint. Perhaps Charlotte was one of those sad bored-housewife types who invited delivery boys to join her for a coffee? Or worse.
When he finally said, ‘Well, I’d better get going,’ but still didn’t leave, she remembered the protocol. Of course, he was waiting for a tip. It had been so long since she’d been in a position to tip anyone that Lucie had forgotten how it was done.
She held up her hand as if to say, ‘Hang on,’ and ran to the bedroom closet where she grabbed Charlotte’s bag from a shelf behind the door and rifled through it for her wallet.
The delivery guy was staring at the TV.
‘Horrendous,’ he said. ‘Sure makes you feel lucky to be alive.’
She nodded vigorously and handed him a ten-dollar bill. His surprise showed her tip was more generous than Charlotte’s usual, but hey, given they had all just diced with death a little generosity did not seem inappropriate.
‘Wow, thanks, Miss Gillespie,’ he said, stuffing the money into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘You have a nice day now. I’ll see you next week. That’s if I recognise you!’
Lucie’s body language must have shown some reaction to his remark, for he added, as if by way of explanation, ‘I mean, if the facemask hasn’t made you look ten years younger by then.’
Lucie couldn’t laugh through the rigor mortis of the drying mask.
The young man responded to her silence by becoming terribly embarrassed. He muttered and mumbled apology after apology.
Before he could say any more, Lucie gave him a gentle pat on the back followed by a little push towards the door.
The relief when he’d gone left her feeling weak and she flopped on the sofa and stared out of the window. The plume of smoke was thinner now and drifting in a different direction. There was a change in the wind. Lucie felt a change in herself, too. She’d just had an encounter with someone who saw Charlotte regularly, once a week, it seemed, and she’d got away with the deception. Even if she had cheated a bit with the face mask, she’d survived the ordeal. And it had taught her something.
The guy had bustled in with the groceries and, if she’d been ready with his tip, he’d have bustled straight out again. Nobody wastes time examining people they encounter every day. She tried to remember what the checkout girl at her local grocery store looked like. Apart from a few sketchy details – tall, heavy, darkish hair – Lucie could not give a description that would find the girl in a police enquiry. She was sure most folk were in the same position. Keen to get on with their lives and concerned with their own problems. Neighbours were another example. All those years she was with Curtis she could hardly tell you who lived next door. The likelihood of the inhabitants of a Manhattan apartment block being friendly with their neighbours was slimmer than their floor to ceiling windows.
She could get away with this. Go on living here for as long as she wanted. Pretty much everything she needed could be ordered in and delivered to the door. She had enough of Charlotte’s cash to tip delivery boys for weeks.
She’d never get bored. Charlotte had an amazing collection of DVDs packed with episodes of TV shows and movies. There was wine in the fridge and candy and popcorn in the kitchen cupboards. What more could a girl ask?
When Lucie went to the bathroom to remove the mask, it had dried into more cracks than a Mexican riverbed and her skin felt tight and very clean. She patted it dry with a towel and smeared on some of Charlotte’s expensive face cream.
Feeling more pampered than she had in years, Lucie settled down for the afternoon with series one of Sex and the City and a bowl of freshly popped corn.
Then the phone rang again.
‘Ms Gillespie, your cleaners are here.’
17
Dylan felt a lot better for his shave and shower, the first he’d had since the morning he’d found Curtis out cold. The morning the towers cam
e down. His mum always claimed to remember exactly where she was and what she was doing the day Kennedy got shot. Dylan had thought it was just something older folks said, but now he knew what she meant. He would never forget the morning of 9/11. It was as if something in his brain had been recording in high definition. He’d heard some of the nurses saying the same sort of thing while he’d been waiting for Curtis to wake up.
For Lucie’s sake, if not his own, he was glad to see Curtis recover consciousness. Curtis could be a real mean S.O.B. at times, and Dylan would have been done with him, years ago, if it hadn’t been for Lucie. He would never understand, not if he lived to be a thousand years old, how any man could be mean to her.
The first time he’d met her he thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Something about the way she laughed and the sparkle in her eyes. She was like one of those trees you see in the springtime, all covered in bursting buds. You know there will be a mass of flowers all over that tree the next time you walk by. That was Lucie, so full of vitality you wanted to be near her, so you could pick up some of her energy.
Living with Curtis had diminished Lucie. First the sparkle went, when the baby died. Then her energy seemed to seep away, a little bit at a time, leaving a poor defeated woman who looked nothing like the vibrant girl she’d been.
They were so happy, to begin with. Lucie had been warm, friendly and kind, not a bit jealous of Curtis’s friendship with Dylan. Instead of losing his best buddy, he gained a good friend. For a while he spent most of his free time going to track meets with them, cheering Lucie on and celebrating her wins over pizza and a pitcher of Bud.
Knowing Curtis could not afford to get romantically involved with another student, Dylan had hoped for a while that he might have a chance with Lucie, but she only ever had eyes for Curtis. How could it be any different? Although they were both tall and athletic, Dylan was a skinny distance runner, not muscled and bulky like the sprinters. With his pale, freckled skin and mousy hair he was no match for the dark, swarthy Curtis and his charismatic personality. Dylan knew he could never compete, so he settled for Lucie’s friendship, his heart singing when she laughed at his quiet humour. He was glad to have her in his life and was sure she liked having him around.
When he found out they were sleeping together, Dylan had felt a double let-down and accused Curtis of using their threesome as a smokescreen to hide his inappropriate relationship with Lucie. He’d even threatened to report Curtis to the college and to NCAA.
‘Don’t, Dylan. Please, man, I’m begging you.’
‘Because you’ll lose your job? Well, you should have thought of that before you started messing with Lucie.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I swear on my mother’s life.’
‘Your mother’s already dead, Curtis.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Curtis was pacing up and down, trying to think of a way out of this. Dylan knew the behaviour. He’d seen it a hundred times since kindergarten. Curtis in trouble. Curtis blaming someone else. Curtis charming the teacher. Curtis getting away with it. ‘Lucie’s just so damn gorgeous and when she smashed the record that time in Minneapolis, we had a bit too much to drink that night and, well, she came on to me, man.’
‘Shut your mouth, Curtis!’ Dylan could feel his hands forming fists. If Curtis started in with the details, Dylan would beat his face to a pulp.
‘What the hell was I supposed to do?’ He threw his arms wide, palms up.
‘You were supposed to keep it in your fucking pants. She’s your student, for chrissake! You’re in a position of trust. She’s just a kid.’
Curtis laughed. ‘She’s no kid, believe me.’
‘You’re a piece of shit. You disgust me.’ In that moment, Dylan meant every word. ‘Did you learn nothing the last time? The Principal warned you. You’ll lose your job if this gets out.’
Curtis had hung his head. ‘You’re right. Sorry. And I’d deserve it. I’m an asshole.’
‘You got that one right.’
‘But Dylan, this isn’t about me. Think about Lucie. If this gets out, she’ll lose her scholarship.’
‘No, she won’t. Lucie’s the injured party here. You took advantage of her.’
Curtis looked like he was going to contradict him, then thought the better of it. ‘She might not lose her place here, but if they fire me, she’ll lose her coach. Think about it. She could be NCAA Champion if she keeps going at this rate. After all the work she’s done, would you take that away from her?’
Dylan thought about it, just long enough for Curtis to see his chance and go for it.
‘I believe she’s Olympic material. Maybe even gold.’
Dylan knew how much Curtis wanted this for Lucie. And for himself. It would be a life-changing victory for Curtis, albeit vicarious.
‘You really think she’s that good?’
‘I know she is. Please don’t rob her of the chance to prove it, just to punish me.’
‘Promise me you won’t lay another finger on her.’
‘I promise. Sorry, man.’ He’d held out his hand and Dylan, fooled again, shook it and gave him a hug.
Last night, as Curtis had lain unconscious in hospital, Dylan had lain awake. Worrying about Lucie. Worrying about Curtis. Worrying about Lucie again. In the lonely, early hours between night and day, his mind drove him close to madness.
Curtis deserved some payback for all the times he’d hurt Lucie. But what if Curtis had died?
Dylan could never have testified that Lucie Jardine had struck her husband with a blunt instrument thereby causing his death. When they and the doctors asked him if he had any idea how Curtis might have sustained his injury, Dylan simply shook his head. He’d rather die and go to his grave with her secret locked in his heart than betray Lucie.
It was a blessing that Curtis’s memory seemed to have erased completely the scene where Lucie had struck him, probably in self-defence. Maybe to save her life. Dylan suspected that Curtis had been getting more violent towards Lucie, but she was very loyal to her husband and Dylan never saw any proof. He’d tried to talk about it one time, but Curtis had gone crazy. In that one brief episode, Dylan had seen a glimpse of what life must be like for Lucie. To his shame, he’d backed off. And he’d been too big a coward to challenge Curtis since.
Now Lucie was gone. And Dylan didn’t know if she was dead or alive.
Curtis was alone in his hospital room when Dylan pushed open the door. ‘Hey! How you feeling?’ he asked in a bright, cheery voice.
‘Hell you think I’m feelin’?’
‘Glad to be alive?’
‘When I could’ve been dead, thanks to that sweet girl I married. Is that what you mean?’
‘What are you talking about, Curtis?’
‘Don’t act cute, Dylan. Lucie did this to me, didn’t she?’
‘How would I know that, Curtis? I wasn’t there.’
‘It’s coming back to me now. We started fighting about money. I was hungry and she was, like, whining I don’t give her enough money to buy food. What a crock! Then she told me, as if she’d found a cure for cancer or something, that she had the solution to all our problems. She was getting a job. Cleaning offices. She had arranged an interview in Manhattan. Without saying a word.’
‘Maybe she’s just trying to help.’
‘Yeah, right! Like I’d let her go waltzing off into Manhattan every day! To clean offices?’ He patted the bedcovers. ‘This is the result. She’s crippled me.’
‘Curtis, that can’t be right. Lucie wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Well, she did a damn good job hurting me. And now she’s run away. Proof she’s guilty, wouldn’t you say?’
‘We don’t know for sure she’s run away. You said she was going to Manhattan. It’s crazy in there.’ Dylan didn’t want to say what he was thinking.
‘You think she’s dead.’
Dylan searched for a response. Came up blank. He lowered his head to hide his emotions.
‘Yeah, I thou
ght so. Well, I don’t think she is. But it might only be a matter of time.’
‘What do you mean, a matter of time? You still got concussion?’
‘I’m perfectly compos mentis. What I mean is, if she ever shows her face again, I’ll kill the bitch.’
Dylan left at that point and considered staying away, but the next night Curtis called.
‘Dylan?’
‘Hey, Curtis. How you doin’, buddy?’
‘Don’t ever ask me again how I’m doin’. I can’t walk, take a piss, screw my wife, or any other woman. How would you be doin’? Buddy.’
It crossed Dylan’s mind that his friend would never beat another woman either. Small mercies. ‘Sorry, Curtis.’
‘Yeah, you ain’t as sorry as me,’ said Curtis, the aggression gone from his voice.
Dylan shook his head, glad his friend couldn’t see the pity on his face. Curtis wouldn’t take kindly to people feeling sorry for him. He’d been the same when he’d ruptured his Achilles. God help anyone who’d offered him sympathy, especially another athlete.
Dylan made his voice upbeat. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’
‘Listen, I need you to track down my wife.’
‘But I’ve no idea where she is.’
‘She been home yet?’
‘Last time I checked there was no sign.’
‘Well, you’ve got to find her.’
‘Did you ever think that maybe if you hadn’t been beating up on her, none of this would have happened?’
‘You’re taking her side? I don’t believe this. She’s left me crippled and you’re feeling sorry for her?’
Curtis’s voice was rising. Maybe this wasn’t the time for home truths, not while the guy was so vulnerable. ‘Look at me! I can’t even wipe my own ass.’
Dylan didn’t like the picture that came into his mind. ‘Woah! Too much information there.’
‘You know what I’m saying. I need to find Lucie. She needs to come back and look after me. Unless you’d like to volunteer for the job?’
Dylan refused to react. ‘Why would she want to do that, Curtis?’