Out of Touch

by Clara Ward

  “Thanks. Would it excuse me from wearing shoes? Mine are soggy.”

  “Ah, I have just the thing.” Reggie swooped gracefully from his seat to his office across the room. His attitude seemed to spread and all faces around the table relaxed. A moment later he returned, presenting Sarah with a pair of black socks. “Not a glass slipper, but probably warmer.”

  As Sarah sat down, Reggie knelt before her and began to remove her wet shoes. From anyone else it would seem awkward or overdone, but Reggie had a knack for carrying off whatever scene he chose to play. He could dramatically dry her feet with a paper napkin, and still seem most refined with his perfect posture and elegant clothing. Sarah gazed at the shiny black curls that brushed the collar of his sapphire peasant shirt and wondered why he’d stayed her boyfriend for three years.

  The sappy thoughts dispersed as Phil asked, “Was the accident nearby? Is everyone all right?”

  “An old car went into a creek by my mom’s house. I saw it, so I hit 911 and went down to check. There was just the man driving the car, and he’s in the hospital now. They say he’ll be all right.”

  “You got him out of the car?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t seem safe. The car caught fire later.”

  Reggie stopped, warm hands tight on her foot, “It caught fire? How much later?”

  “I had the guy safely up the hill by then.”

  “But what if . . .” the questions kept coming. Clearly the agenda had been dropped in favor of hearing how Sarah ended up at the meeting late and in soggy sneakers. She replied, trying to sound steady but plain, “I was just driving home . . . Anyone would have done the same.”

  Sarah was glad her dramatic opening had been well received, but she wished she hadn’t said anything. People like Reggie, who ran places like Pronoia International, floated wit as social currency, but would rather be mute than appear to be trying too hard. Sarah generally kept to the sidelines as others competed with clever remarks and personal anecdotes.

  She felt Reggie slide his wool dress socks over her calves. She knew he kept a suit at work, in case he needed to look impressive. Not that Reggie ever looked unimpressive, whatever he put on. Part of it was an innate sense of style inherited from his rich Italian mother. He only chose good clothes, and he always wore them well. The socks from his suit were wool, she knew; they had to be hand washed. But they were silkier than anything she’d ever called wool before meeting Reggie. They were also warm, or was that because Reggie was the one slipping them on her while she quietly described the events of the evening? Sarah felt herself begin to blush and hoped those listening would attribute it to her story.

  Chill fog lingered the next morning as Sarah knocked on the carved oak door up the hill. There was a brass doorbell to the side and a heavy brass knocker just above center, but Sarah always knocked on doors with her bare hand first. She heard a click before the door opened, revealing a woman of Chinese decent who stood silently staring at Sarah.

  “Hi, um, sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for this cat?” Sarah held up a photo she’d printed out. “I think he sometimes goes in your yard-“

  “You’re the girl from the house behind us? Come in. I’m Mei Mei Chen.”

  “Sarah Duncan. Uh, glad to meet you.”

  Sarah stepped in as a memory of her mother reminded her to never enter a stranger’s house. She slipped off her Birkenstocks where she saw other shoes lined up beside the door. Her feet pressed against the smoothness of marble as she followed her hostess through a dim entryway then turned toward light and white carpet.

  The room before her seemed all Chinese, though Sarah had never been to China. Still, this must be what fancy Chinese restaurants were trying to imitate. There was a dining area to the left with a glossy mahogany table. The chairs had red upholstered cushions and ornately carved backs with lions in the design. The sitting area, ahead of her and a step down, had carpet almost entirely covered by a red Oriental rug, with another rug placed between two black couches. Her feet, already nestled in plush white carpeting, wriggled in anticipation of standing atop two more rugs on top of the carpet. There was more mahogany furniture, some of it with jeweled inlays, probably real antique stuff.

  But Mei Mei motioned her to the window before Sarah had time to finish studying the room. The window took up the whole back wall of the sitting area. Framed by the light, Mei Mei in silhouette became the centerpiece for her sitting room. She looked liked a sculpture of a woman, her hair a perfect smooth black, bobbed softly below the ears. Her skin was healthy and impossibly smooth, though slight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth hinted that she was probably fifty, at least. The flowing amber dress she wore looked like silk, and Sarah wondered if Mei Mei always dressed this well or if she was on her way out. That reminded Sarah that she was supposed to say something.

  “What an amazing view you have, you can see my whole street. That’s my backyard there, a little to the left. I don’t see Spooky anywhere, though.”

  Sarah was scanning the enormous hill, which sloped down from this window to the fence at the back of her house and others on her street. The lots up here were much larger than in her development. She’d seen them before from her side, but it wasn’t nearly so impressive looking up. Mei Mei was staring at her, but Sarah continued to look out at the smooth lawn and well-placed trees and rocks that made up Mei Mei’s backyard. It looked natural, if only nature planned for perfect views.

  “I remember seeing you play down there when you were a child,” Mei Mei said, smiling briefly. “You haven’t changed much. You still look so strong and have such beautiful blond hair. When my Robert was born, I’d sit here and rock him and see you running in the sprinklers. You must have been five or six. I’d watch you turn cartwheels through the water or shape yourself into letters of the alphabet. When my children were older, I let them play in the sprinklers, but they never seemed to enjoy it the way you did.”

  Funny how this elegant, refined woman nodded at the end of her stories, just the way Sarah’s mom had. Sarah slipped into the pattern of exchanging stories, but she mostly kept her eyes to the window, anxious under Mei Mei’s intense gaze.

  “I once carved a fort out of those blackberry bushes along our fence. They were so dense I could just use yard shears and hack away anything I didn’t want. One of the tunnels I cut led to the back corner where I could see between the fence boards into your yard. I saw your kids; they must have been two or three at the time. The boy, Robert I guess, was wearing a white and blue sailor suit. The girl had a lacy white party dress. They ran on the grass, but never fought with each other or mussed their clothes. I’d like to say they reminded me of a famous painting, but at the time, I thought of it as a picture on a greeting card. Guess that’s my American heritage. But they did seem like wonderful children.”

  “I wish you’d come by. I would have liked to meet you, maybe convinced you to babysit, but I thought it would be odd to go down to your house and ask. You didn’t seem to have many visitors. Your mother was a very private person.”

  Sarah met Mei Mei’s eyes, trying to guess what she was really saying. What had this woman seen looking down into their lives? They’d mostly kept the curtains closed, but on summer nights Sarah’s room and the family room must have been lit like a stage. Their performances were probably disappointing. It was true that they never had visitors. Her mother didn’t date or socialize, and Sarah had usually been too embarrassed to bring friends home to a house overrun with clutter and cats. Mostly Sarah had read or done homework, and her mother had watched TV and drank. This woman couldn’t have seen Sarah do anything inexplicable. She’d always been careful about that, hadn’t she? The other thing . . . well, how could anyone have known? Still, there was something about this meeting with Mei Mei. Sarah wanted to stay and learn everything, but she closed down that feeling, also knowing that she wanted to flee.

  “Anyway, I shouldn’t take your whole morning. Let me give you this picture of the cat. It has my name and phone nu
mber on it. Someone’s coming to adopt him at noon; so if you see him, please call me.”

  “Are you moving away? I thought you’d just come back.”

  “You know my mother died?”

  “I’m sorry. She was so young. What happened?”

  “Liver failure.” Sarah had learned to say it without caring whether people heard it as alcoholism. No, she did still care, but truth was truth. “Anyway, I can’t take care of the cats or the house. So I’m just trying to get everything settled.”

  “That must be hard. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Sarah started back toward the door, feeling tense and rude. Her feet, while taking her where she wanted to go, seemed to be in a jubilant mood all their own, enjoying the layers of rug and carpet and finally the smooth marble. What would it have been like to grow up in a grand house like this?

  A few days later came the start of spring, and Sarah went straight from her car to the mailbox. She planned to begin the season by removing wallpaper, but she was curious if card-sending minions marked this occasion, too. Her bottle of eco-enzyme wallpaper remover was impatient and split the bottom of its paper bag, sliding into the juniper bush by the mailbox. Sarah had never liked that bush, and now it was in league with the crowd at the hardware store and the meeting about shift changes at the group home. Figured.

  The mailbox held a flier from “Pets 4 Less” and a card from MeiMei Chen, probably condolences. The top envelope was from the police, and Sarah opened it on the spot. Inside there was a small piece of paper folded in half. Curious paper, not at all like something official. Its texture was more like cloth, crisp, but heavy as linen. She unfolded it.

  March 18, 2025

  Dear Sarah Duncan,

  I’m sorry I did not have a chance to speak with you and thank you in person. I fully appreciate what you did for me. Few people would have helped me so, and I am lucky you were there. I am doing quite well now.

  I thought you would like to know that I have a new car. A friend gave me his 2004 Saturn. (He’s purchased an alternative fuel Toyota.) It runs beautifully, which is such a waste. I don’t anticipate needing it much.

  I am more indebted to you than you can know. Please call on me if you ever have need.

  Sincerely,

  Daniel O’Reeley

  333 3rd St.

  Berkeley, CA

  PS - The police officer says he can’t give me your address, but he assures me he will send this on to you today.

  Sarah felt touched and suddenly knew where the phrase came from. The thanks from the letter seemed to reach out and touch her gently on the shoulder. It was a pretty note. Mr. O’Reeley had loopy handwriting that looked antique on his choice of paper. She especially liked the four threes in “333 3rd St.” It occurred to her she even knew where that was; she’d biked through that area with her cousins several times. Maybe she should visit. No, it would be awkward. She laughed at the part about the car, another old clunker with no GPS or warning systems. But at least he didn’t intend to drive it much.

  Sarah pushed the letter back into the envelope and fished the wallpaper remover out of the annoying bush.

  Something about the letter still fluttered around Sarah’s mind as she placed her hand to the palm lock by her mom’s, now her, front door. It didn’t click. What could be wrong? The palm lock had been one of those wild ideas teenaged Sarah had talked her mom into trying. It wasn’t like anyone would ever bother to rob their house. But Sarah had wanted to see if she could trick the thing without a physical touch. It turned out to be pretty easy, and now the lock just reminded Sarah of herself as a teenager.

  She finally realized it wasn’t clicking because the door was unlocked. Strange that; Sarah always kept it on automatic. She opened the door and heard classical music traipsing playfully down the hall. Reggie.

  She dropped her stuff on the kitchen counter and hurried toward the music. Reggie was artistically stretched across the floor on his stomach reading a book, knees bent and heels kicked up behind him. He was in some old-style tan and cream outfit. The pleated trousers had cuffs, as did the tailored, long-sleeved shirt. Beneath and beside him lay a picnic blanket spread with scones, tea, and tea sandwiches. It lay intentionally askew and off-center in the empty room, protecting the recently sanded hardwood floor.

  As he stood to say, “Welcome, my dear,” she saw the book was poetry by Byron.

  “I look more like Frankenstein’s creature,” she said, gesturing at her gray all-weather ensemble, what passed for office drag at the group home. At work the clothes seemed like comfortable camouflage, but beside Reggie she felt boxed in plain white with the word “generic” stamped in bold letters.

  Reggie kissed her. “Good to know one of us has been doing honest work. I was getting nothing done, so I decided to pick up lunch.”

  “Where did you park?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Then why did you leave the door unlocked?”

  “It was the first hint of my presence. You’ve said you don’t like surprises.”

  “And why did you choose my mom’s old room for your picnic?”

  “It has the best light.”

  He was right. The room had a large corner window with a foot wide ledge for flowerpots. There was no flora on it at present, but the light streaming in on the white walls and unfinished wood floor was picturesque. And there was Reggie, dressed to the nines.

  “Should I change?” Sarah asked.

  “Only if you want to. Or we could eat first, then bathe. Then I could ravish you.”

  “I coach gymnastics at three.”

  “I have a meeting then myself. But if we eat quickly, there should be enough time for ravishing.”

  Chapter 2

  March 23, 2025 – Sacramento, USA

  Reggie triaged 116 emails on his phone by 12:15, while waiting for his parents at Fat City. Each time the door swung open, sunlight glared off his display. He looked up; he looked down.

  The hostess, an older woman in a black skirt and jade green jacket, greeted diners in English or Chinese. The bustling restaurant was an authentic piece of Sacramento history in a way the kitchy old-town surrounding it could only imitate. A framed article on the wall proudly chronicled, “In 1939, Fat City was a well-known politico hangout, backdrop for the capitol’s deal-making and intrigues.” The place felt authentically old. Red carpet covered the floor and looked more than well trodden. Oriental rugs adorned high traffic areas, probably hiding threadbare sections. But the heavy beams of the ceiling were old-growth lumber, and the wall hangings of lions and dragons showed meticulous embroidery if not original themes.

  His parents were late, as usual. Two sets of tourists had come through and been seated. Government workers, in off-the-rack suits and sensible shoes, trickled in by ones and twos, directed to the banquet room for someone’s retirement feast. Reggie wondered if the retiree had ever aspired to be a “well-known politico.”

  Reggie waited, straight-backed in the reception area. He imagined himself as Lord Macartney, the British emissary to China in the 1790’s. He came here to greet representatives of an old and honored culture, to try to accommodate their ways, for the future good of both peoples. Hopefully his diplomacy toward his parents would outshine its historical precedent.

  Allowing a fresh incursion of sunlight, father opened the door like nature’s own doorman, with even a slight tilt of the head. His far arm swung with several shopping bags and his rumpled suit coat.

  Mother breezed in as if she were thirty-nine, with a practiced repertoire for displaying youthful confidence. Regular salon visits and botox eased all the wrinkles except by her eyelids and lips. Her deep blue dress was wound with a glaring silk sash, probably the latest thing, somewhere. She dangled one tiny shopping bag from her loosely curled fingers. Reggie stood to be kissed and was handed the bag.

  “This is for you, darling.”

  Reggie caught the gift with one arm, gave his father a brief hug with the other,
and nodded to the hostess to seat them. His cell phone vibrated, and a quick glance identified the caller as Phil. Reggie let him leave a message.

  Once at their table he opened the bag. The tie looked fine, soft gray and emerald, but the label said “Enhancement Wear”; so Reggie knew there was a catch.

  “It’s an appointment book,” his mother said. “And if you say the key words, ‘I think I’m available’ it records the next sixty seconds, extracting date and time information for the appointment. The lower end vibrates if you have a scheduling conflict, so you can revise.”

  A vibrating tie? Even the marketers must have bit their tongues. Acting as a diplomat he turned restraint into sincerity and said, “Thank you, it is lovely.”

  As they scanned their menus, Reggie listened to Phil’s message. The Greater Bay Area Scout Council wanted a speaker on “entrepreneurial community service after high school,” and Phil wanted to promote their umbrella program and states-based mini-grants. Reggie remembered the week he wore a Girl Scout uniform to high school, when scouts were edgy, not nuevo-geek cool. Transgender clothes were in already, but Reggie usually dressed beyond trendy, so he’d never worn a skirt. Then he met these Girl Scouts who wanted to overthrow the old paradigm. If the Unitarian and gay rights activists couldn’t reform the Boy Scouts, why not offer a better option? These girls with gold and silver award, leadership torches, and service bars challenged their own organization to change its bylaws and let boys form troops. In not too many years, Girl Scouts had boy troops, and the upper levels of Boy Scouts were scrambling to reorganize.

  “How’s that company you started with what’s-his-name?” Dad asked.

  “Pronoia,” his Mother whispered.

  “Phil and I are both keeping busy. The international division has gone all telecom. Any requests for other help, schools, farming, etc. are referred to a local micro-bank network.”