by Terry Fallis
Yolanda didn’t even turn my way but maintained her position looking out the window.
“No one knows what’s in there. She always kept it locked,” she replied. “Take good care of it.”
I made it to the car with only the faint first signs of a hernia. I opened the hatchback and slid in my precious cargo. No one had seen me walking out with Beverley’s pine box.
I dropped in at Dad’s on the way to the airport to return his T-shirt. It was about 10:30 by this stage. I rang the bell twice, then knocked twice. Nothing. I was about to pull out my own key fearing something had happened, when I heard noises inside. A moment later, the deadbolt slid back and the door swung open. Dad was standing there, in his pyjamas, his hair looking like he’d spent the last hour in a Force 8 gale.
“Oh, Ev, it’s you,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Dad. I was about to ask you the same thing. Have a nice little sleep-in? It’s nearly eleven.”
I stepped around him into the condo. He shut the door but stayed in the foyer.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“I just came by to drop off the shirt you left at the hospital. Yolanda called me this morning.”
“They didn’t find a Mustang cap, did they?”
“Oh, um, well, yes, they did, but I kind of gave it to Kenny,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“Good idea. I got a couple more of them lying around,” he replied, while re-opening the front door. “All right, then. Well, thanks a lot, son, for driving it over. I don’t want to hold you up.”
Just then my mother peeked around the corner to Dad’s bedroom, and it all made sense.
“Geez, Evelyn, you couldn’t just stay in the room for another five seconds? I almost had him out the door,” Dad said, in a tone of benign resignation.
“I just wanted to see our son. Nothing wrong with that,” she said, emerging and smiling, the duvet wrapped around her.
“Well, isn’t this an interesting development,” I said. “I got to say, I was not expecting this.”
I gave them both hugs and headed for the car.
“I’ve got a plane to catch. Pardon the interruption.”
Holy shit. I certainly did not see that coming. I wondered if it had surprised them as much.
I’d pretty well made my mind up when she’d first raised it. It sounded perfect to me. Just perfect. But you don’t want to appear too eager. Just play it cool. So I said I’d think about it for a few days, which meant I’d simply delay telling her how excited I was at the opportunity before asking “Where do I sign and when do I start?” We were back in her office that Monday, just three days after the media briefing in the boardroom down the hall.
“First of all, I’m so sorry about Beverley. It seems impossible that she’s no longer part of this,” Shelley said.
“It was quite a shock. But perhaps it shouldn’t have been,” I replied. “After all, she’d been warning all of us that this was coming sooner or later.”
“I wish it had been later.”
“Me too.”
“Friday seemed to be a big success. I hope you feel the same way about it,” she said. “I thought you handled yourself very well. You completely surpassed my expectations.”
“Thanks. It was all so much easier with you and the heft of NOW behind it. It added a whole new level of credibility and put lots of reporters in the room. It couldn’t have happened without you. I’m grateful.”
“All right. Now that we’re finished buttering one another up, have you given any thought to the idea I mentioned after the newser?”
“Other than, you know, Beverley’s passing, I’ve thought about nothing else,” I replied. “If I were going to design my dream job, I’d stop because you pretty well laid it out for me on Friday.”
She clenched her fists and did a little upper-body shimmy in response. I assume it was a positive reaction and not some kind of seizure.
“Wonderful! That’s just fantastic. When can you start?”
We spent the next two hours hammering out a job description, the compensation package, benefits, vacation, a six-month plan, and of course what would happen to Eve of Equality. Shelley insisted that I maintain control of the blog and carry on with it just as I had been. She also said I could take one hour a day on the NOW payroll to deal with anything blog-related. She asked only that somewhere on the front page there be a reference to NOW and a link to the NOW blogs. As well, you would soon be able to find your way to Eve of Equality from the NOW home page. We also decided that in light of our little media briefing, the blog would now be called Everett of Equality. We even talked about the design. She suggested a graphic designer from the NOW web team could ink in the letters “rett,” on an angle, literally by hand, next to the existing “Eve” in the title. So the look of the blog would be almost the same as before, except for this graffiti-like addition of the rest of my moniker. Of course, we’d add a bio page with my photo and a brief overview of my questionable past.
I didn’t care much about the salary as I planned to continue raking in the online ad revenue through the blog and, of course, handing over half the proceeds to NOW, as promised. Shelley gave me plenty of latitude in the job, which was nice, and rare. I’d report directly to her, which was also nice. We had the whole thing wrapped up in principle by lunch. She’d have the paperwork drawn up and emailed to me in the next few days.
“So, again I ask, when can you start?”
“I’ll need to get out of my apartment in Orlando, make sure my dad is settled, and find a place in DC. But that shouldn’t take too long. Could we say two weeks?”
I sat alone in a restaurant not far from the NOW offices. I was thrilled, almost overwhelmed. Without going all melodramatic, it felt to me like this was the job I was destined to do. This role was built for me and I was built for it. I just hadn’t realized it for a decade or so after university. But I’d caught up now.
But there was still one huge loose end I felt compelled to tie up, for better or worse. I dialed the number and hung up. I stared at my phone, waited for a few seconds breathing deeply, and dialed the number again.
“Mackenzie Martin. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes, um, I’d like to speak to Megan Cook, if I could,”
“I’m sorry, Megan Cook is no longer employed by the firm. Could I pass you on to the lawyer who has taken over her files?”
“She no longer works there?” I said. “Where did she go?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to provide her forwarding address.”
“But you have her forwarding address.”
“But I’m not permitted to disclose it.”
“I see. Thank you, anyway.”
Good news, bad news. She was no longer working for that firm, but I didn’t know how to reach her.
Idea. I searched on my phone for a florist in the area. It took me about thirty seconds to identify a flower shop, a block and a half from the restaurant. I was there in four minutes. I ordered a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. Or perhaps you just call it a bunch of freshly cut flowers. Bouquet has a mildly matrimonial ring to it. In a perfect storm of serendipity, the store’s delivery driver pulled up outside just as I left. He not only drove the florist’s van, but he drove a hard bargain, too. A minute later, I handed him $40 and he handed me his ball cap emblazoned with the store’s logo. I wanted to look the part. But more than that, a few days ago my face had been plastered all over the newscasts. I pulled the florist’s cap down low on my cranium and took another cab the sixteen blocks to the swanky offices of Mackenzie Martin.
I might not have mentioned this, but some people think I have a slightly Slavic look – something about the placement of my eyes and the size of my forehead. Frankly, I don’t see it. My eyes are just where you’d expect them to be, as far as I’m concerned. And I like my forehead. I think I’m kind of average looking. But since I was about to address, in person, the receptionist I’d just spoken to on the phone, I f
igured I’d go with the Slavic thing.
It’s actually not that difficult to speak English with a slight Russian accent, even if your only exemplar is Boris from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. I thought I could pull it off, provided the receptionist wasn’t named Ludmilla or Ekaterina. I took that chance and walked into the sixteenth-floor lobby of Mason Bennington’s law firm bearing my bunch of freshly cut flowers. I know this sounds like something out of a TV sitcom, but at that moment, I was short on alternatives, short on time, and, apparently, long on chutzpah.
The receptionist looked up as I approached her station in the way I hoped your average floral delivery guy would.
“Yes, hello. Good afternoon. I am havink flowers here for, let me see now, Ms. Megan Cook. Yes, dat’s de name.” I checked the piece of paper I held in my hand.
“I’m sorry, but Megan Cook no longer works here,” she replied.
And yes, her voice confirmed it was the same receptionist I’d spoken to on the phone not twenty minutes earlier.
“Oh, I see. She has moved. Dat’s not good for me. Could please you tell me vere she now vorks?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot give you her address. I’m not allowed to.”
“Please. Zis is quite important. I took zis order myself, and wrote za card myself,” I said, worried slightly that I was morphing into a German accent. “I can say dat it is a serious matter zat is urgent, very urgent. And a matter of za heart.”
I gave her my most earnest look, before continuing.
“Zis delivery, I need to make. Please,” I said, now worried that I sounded like Yoda with a German accent. “Please. No one vill know, and Ms. Cook vill be happy. You vill be happy. I vill be happy. We all vill be happy.”
I could see she was thinking about it.
I pulled two tulips from the bunch and handed them to her.
“Please.”
She took the tulips and stuck them in a cup filled with pens on her desk. Then she heaved a heavy sigh, looked one way, looked the other, and typed on her keyboard.
“I’ll deny giving this to you, but she’s working at the Anacostia Community Legal Aid Clinic, you know, in the southeast quad.”
“Tank you. Tank you.”
I turned and got the hell out of Dodge.
I should have guessed. I remember her telling me she’d worked there during law school. I flagged down another cab and gave the driver the address, courtesy of Google. I had no plan, just some romantic notion that if I showed up on her doorstep, apologized, and handed her the flowers, I might just have a fighting chance. That seems to be what always happens in the rom-com flicks I’d seen.
I watched the cityscape change as the taxi crossed into Anacostia. He pulled over in front of the nondescript low-rise building. I paid and got out, leaving the florist’s cap in the back seat as an extra tip for the driver. This truly was a rough part of DC. I entered the clinic. The waiting area was crowded. Really crowded. I approached the frazzled-looking woman behind the glass.
“I’m here to see Megan Cook.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“No, probably not.”
“Are you a client?” she asked, eyeing my flowers.
“Would it be easier to see her if I were?”
The woman was not amused.
“Um, then no, I’m not a client. I’m a friend of hers.”
“Will she want to see you?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but that’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m hanging way out here on this limb.”
“You got a name?”
“Well, yes, yes I do. But I wonder if it might be more effective just to tell her that someone is here with flowers and not give her my name.”
“I think I’d better give her your name.”
“Right. Yes, of course. I think that would be best,” I agreed. “It’s Everett Kane.”
“I know that name. And you seem kind of familiar. Do I know you?”
“I have a very average face. Lots of guys look like me. I’m sure we’ve never met,” I said. “Um, don’t forget to mention the flowers. That could tip the balance my way.”
She nodded and smiled at least a little.
“You can wait over there.” She pointed to a small alcove a little away from the mayhem of the waiting area.
I did as I was told and sat down on the wooden bench beneath the window.
I was looking out the window when she appeared. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Everett? What are you doing here?”
She wasn’t smiling. But my heart did something anyway, when I turned to see her.
“Oh, hi, Megan. Um, I was in the area, and just thought I’d pop in to say hi.”
She sighed but said nothing.
“Okay, that’s not exactly true. I just thought we kind of left things a little unresolved and I wanted a chance to explain, because I think you have the wrong impression of me. I just want a minute to explain,” I babbled. “Oh, and these are for you.”
She took the flowers I offered and smelled them.
“They’re really very nice,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that. In fact, it makes this all a little awkward.”
“Sorry. I don’t want this to be awkward. I was really hoping for un-awkward.”
“How did you find me?”
“Well, it took a little creativity and some serious thespian prowess before the receptionist at your old firm caved. But here I am.”
She sat down on the bench.
“Well, you sure made a splash yesterday,” she said. “I can’t turn on a TV or open a paper without seeing your face.”
“Sorry about that. I have no idea why it’s been such big news. There’s so much other stuff going on in the world that’s more important.”
“I thought you handled yourself very well. And you took the initiative right out of that asshole Mason Bennington’s hands,” she said.
There was a lull in the conversation during which she looked at her watch. Great.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I have clients waiting,” she said, starting to stand up.
“Wait. Look, can you just listen for a moment? I wanted to tell you that night we had dinner that I wrote the blog. I really did. I almost got the words out. But I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to put you in that position. So, if you remember, I gave you my ‘Canadian’ cop-out instead. If I’d told you the truth, you would have had to disclose it to your client. But what’s most important for you to understand is that I wasn’t using you to get info on Bennington. I didn’t offer you safe refuge from that violent rally just to pump you for intelligence on your client. I just acted on instinct. And then I liked you. I didn’t intend for that happen. But it did. That’s all it was. I had no plans to write any more blog posts about Bennington. That was a one-shot deal, and it happened long before I even met you. I wanted to see you again because I just found I was thinking a lot about you.”
“Well, you put me in a really tough spot. When Mason Bennington found out we had dinner together, he was not pleased. Do you have any idea what he’s like when he’s not pleased?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied. “Did you get fired over it?”
“No. I just couldn’t take the charade anymore,” she said. “I didn’t feel like being used by Bennington and my own firm to help put a more enlightened face on a first-class jerk of a client. So I just quit. Best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Good for you.”
“I still believe everyone deserves legal representation. But I decided I didn’t have to be the one providing it to Mason Bennington.”
Silence reigned for a moment or two.
“Do you believe me when I say I wanted to tell you, that I tried to tell you? Do you understand why, in the end, I felt I couldn’t, at least not then?” I asked her.
She sighed, again, and nodded.
“I think I knew the truth long before now. But it’s nice to hear it from you. I should have called
you before now, but I’ve been on a bit of a roller coaster this last week or so, and I could only handle so much at once,” she said. “I was just so shocked that you were the mystery blogger. I wasn’t expecting that. No one was. Personally, I was impressed. But professionally, I was livid. I felt stupid and I felt used. I didn’t react well. I jumped to what I thought were logical conclusions, but I never did my due diligence to see whether I was right. Turns out I wasn’t. Sorry about that.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Wow. This is going better than I expected.”
Finally, she smiled.
“Megan, I know you’ve got clients to see,” I started. “But I also wanted to tell you that I’ve just accepted a position at NOW. I’m moving to DC in the next two weeks.”
I flew back that night and somehow managed to lug Beverley’s pine box up the stairs to my apartment. Actually that’s not quite true. The police officer on duty that night, apparently for my own protection, helped with it. She was quite strong. All was quiet on the street that night. I saw no sign of the nightly protestors, and no sign of any cars pulling up to disgorge well-heeled XY members.
I’d forgotten about the brown paper package Yolanda had given me that morning. I sat down at my kitchen table and picked it up. I peeled off the brown paper to reveal a shallow white cardboard box. The note taped to the top of the box said:
My dear young Everett,
I can think of no one who deserves to cherish this as I have for so many years. I know you will.
Yours in equality,
Bev
The lump entered my throat, hard and fast. I could feel my eyes water. I opened the box. I think I knew the instant before I saw what was inside. Perhaps I should have seen it coming. Her treasured first edition of John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women lay there in all its crimson glory, resting on some tissue paper. I picked it up and held it in my hands, tightly. I then placed the book carefully on the table before spending the next several minutes no longer ignoring the passing of my friend. It felt good. It was a release.
In time, I recovered my faculties enough to turn my attention to the pine box sitting on the table. It was locked with kind of a metallic flap that swung down from the top and latched in front. No key had turned up. I examined the lock. It was very old, but what I knew about picking locks, I’d learned watching cop shows on television. There was almost always a bobby pin involved, and seconds later, after some deft and delicate manipulation, the lock would magically spring open. I had no bobby pins. Why would I? So I turned the box around and examined the hinges. Those I thought I could handle. I used the blade of a butter knife I didn’t even know I had in my cutlery drawer. It took me under five minutes to remove the three slot-headed screws from each of the two hinges. I carefully lifted the lid and rested the free side of it on the table, still connected at the lock.