The Eaton

by John K. Addis

  One time, though, she did lose her. They had been at a party for more than two hours, and Sarah had been signaling her desire to leave, but Kedzie wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh come on,” she pouted. “I’m having fun. And besides, look at that cute boy that just walked in.”

  Sarah looked, and flushed. The boy was not only cute, he was staring right at her. Not at Kedzie, or even at Kedzie and Sarah together, but just at Sarah. It was unmistakable. His dark eyes seemed to see right through her, and with the slightest of nods, he conveyed a simple message: “I am talking to you first.” He poured himself a beer from the keg, gestured to a few guys he recognized from across the room, and walked with confidence over to where Sarah and Kedzie were trying to pretend not to notice him.

  “Hello,” the stranger had said. He looked at Kedzie, then Sarah, but his eyes stayed on Sarah.

  “Hi,” said Kedzie with her usual, bubbly charm. The stranger smiled politely at this, but took no special notice. He turned back to Sarah, awaiting her greeting, which was his purpose.

  “Hello,” said Sarah. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Tony,” he answered. “And you?”

  “Sarah.”

  “And I’m Kedzie!” Kedzie flashed the brightest, flirtiest smile she had in her.

  Tony smiled again at Kedzie, but in a perfunctory way, as if she had handed him a business card. “Nice to meet you,” he said to her, before turning back to Sarah. “And you,” he said, with more weight.

  Kedzie read the situation, and gave Sarah a knowing smile. “Well, I was just about to run back to continue my fascinating conversation with Dale and…Joe…Jim…over there, so I’ll leave you be. It was nice to meet you, Tony!”

  “Likewise,” Tony replied.

  Sarah watched her friend leave, but Tony was determined to hold Sarah’s attention.

  “Please tell me,” he began smoothly, “what you study.”

  “I study journalism,” Sarah lied. It was her standard answer. She couldn’t for the life of her remember when or why she had started answering this way, but figured she had observed just the right balance of interest and disinterest with this response in the past, and so it came to her now on auto-pilot. The truthful answer would have been “sociology,” but for some reason this admission had, in the past, either sparked unwanted debate, or stopped a conversation cold. “Journalism” was interesting but not too interesting, and could be as mundane or controversial as she wished to portray it, based on whether she wanted a short conversation or a long one.

  “And what,” Tony asked, eyes locked to hers, “do you journalate?”

  Sarah blinked, then giggled, which was unlike her. “I journalate whatever I care to, Tony. But please tell me you know that’s not a real word.”

  “I think anything can be a real word in a living language,” he countered. “Words are made to be created, revised, tested, and perfected. You understood the question I was asking. There was no confusion. A real word is that which conveys meaning. It does not have to be in the dictionary. At least, not at first. Why, I bet people used the word ‘sexy’ for years before someone decided it was a ‘real’ word, and I bet no one had any trouble understanding what ‘sexy’ meant when they heard it aloud before they read it in a book. ‘Sexy’ is a word that just makes sense in context. And I bet, Sarah, that you’re very sexy when you journalate.”

  Sarah couldn’t decide whether she adored or despised this talkative, showy, forward young man. But she was suitably intrigued, which is a higher compliment than she had ever bestowed on a boy at a frat party in the past. She was compelled to determine whether Tony was genuinely interesting or just a player with some unique pick-up lines, and that could only come through additional conversation. Maybe she had a streak of journalism in her after all. So they talked, and laughed, and drank beer out of red plastic cups together, and Sarah forgot about Kedzie for a solid thirty minutes.

  “Hey, one sec,” Sarah said. She looked around. Kedz was nowhere.

  “Looking for someone?” asked Tony.

  “Yeah, the girl I was with. We’re watching out for each other.”

  Tony nodded knowingly. “Sure, I understand. Want to walk around a bit, look for her?”

  “Can we? I know that sounds paranoid.”

  “Not at all,” reassured Tony. “I’ll come with.”

  As they walked from the party room to the dining room to the large open kitchen, Sarah felt a pit in her stomach. Where was she? Had she been talked into going upstairs into one of the bedrooms? Dammit, girl.

  “Kedzie?” Sarah called, trying not to sound concerned or motherly. “Hey Kedz, ya still around?” But she wasn’t.

  “She probably found a cute boy and is making out somewhere,” teased Tony. “Come on, don’t worry about it. She your little sister or something?”

  Sarah ignored him, and kept scanning the crowds. No sign.

  What’s wrong with me, thought Sarah. I’m not her guardian angel. She’s probably having fun. Lighten the fuck up.

  Sarah was by the staircase now, debating whether to continue the search upstairs.

  Then she heard the scream.

  There’s no question it was Kedzie’s. Sarah knew it, viscerally, in her gut. She raced up the first flight of stairs, not waiting to see if Tony was still behind her. She arrived at the hallway, and looked around, frantic. There were so many doors. Where was she?

  Then she heard her. “Nooo!” Kedzie was screaming. It was coming from the left, maybe two doors down. Sarah raced to the door, and without knocking or even thinking, she turned the doorknob and bolted in.

  “Kedzie?” she cried.

  Kedzie was there, alright. With a boy. But she wasn’t in danger. She had her shirt off, though not her bra, and the boy had his shirt off too, but he wasn’t hurting her. He was drawing on her taut stomach with ice cubes.

  Sarah replayed the screams in the recorder of her mind. What had sounded like terror must have been the playful shouts of someone being teased by ice, enjoying the cold but being shocked by it. She hadn’t saved her friend by barging in. She had embarrassed Kedzie. And herself.

  “Oh, God,” Sarah stammered. “I’m so sorry. I heard screaming, and run up…”

  Kedzie shot her a furious look. But the boy was laughing. “Holy shit, girl, I told ya you were being loud! Especially if they could hear you downstairs.” The boy looked past Sarah to the guy standing behind her. “Is this the guy you brought with you to stop the evil rapist?”

  Sarah turned and saw Tony. He was smiling, too.

  Relieved, Sarah allowed herself an embarrassed chuckle. “Well, shit, Kedz.”

  Kedzie was still pissed. She grabbed her shirt, then barked “close the door—we’re leaving in five minutes.” Sarah and Tony backed out and did as ordered.

  “I guess she wants to leave,” Sarah said, sheepishly. “I’m going to get yelled at.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tony smiled. “I’m sure in time she’ll be flattered that you care enough to try and protect her.”

  “Right?” agreed Sarah. Then she sighed. “I guess it would be pretty insulting, though, if someone felt they had to look after me all the time.”

  Tony nodded. Then, he looked around, and snatched a dry erase marker from a nearby bedroom door. He fished a receipt from his pocket and wrote a phone number on the paper, testing the dryness afterwards with a finger. The number held together.

  “This is my cell,” he said, handing it to her. “Give me a call if things calm down tonight, or whenever. If you like.”

  Sarah took the paper. “Sure thing, Tony. Good to meet you.”

  They shook hands in a playfully formal manner, just as a newly clothed Kedzie opened the door of the ice man’s room. She glanced dismissively at Tony, then took Sarah’s hand and led her down the stairs and toward the exit. Sarah was going to get an earful, alright.

  “You think I can’t tell the difference between a nice guy and a rapist?” K
edzie demanded after they had exited the fraternity. The air had become chilly, and Kedzie shuddered, though it could have been the lingering effects from the ice.

  “I don’t think anyone can tell the difference. Otherwise the assholes couldn’t get away with it.”

  “That’s bullshit. I can smell a rapist coming a mile away.”

  Sarah scoffed at this, and rolled her eyes, though a week later, Sarah would find herself wishing Kedzie’s claim had been true.

  “Look,” Kedzie said, after a pause. “I do know that you care about me. But I’m not a kid. I’m not a ditz either, by the way. I can make my own choices, and my own mistakes. Okay?”

  Sarah sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well okay then,” Kedzie smiled brightly. “Let’s order pizza.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, Sarah trying to determine whether Kedzie’s restored joviality was genuine or a cover. She supposed she did tend to think of Kedzie as younger, though she wasn’t, and ditzier, though she wasn’t that either, at least not really. Why was Sarah so protective? Kedzie just seemed more carefree than Sarah had ever been, and the brightness in her spirit was so clear. Perhaps, although Sarah hated to admit it, at times she was a little jealous too.

  “We could get you a Kubotan,” offered Sarah.

  “What’s a Kubotan?”

  “It’s a self-defense thing. Goes on a keychain.”

  “Pepper spray?”

  “No, it’s more like a piece of hard plastic or metal. I’ve been thinking of getting one. It can cause pain if applied to certain sensitive parts of the body.”

  “Like the dick?”

  Sarah laughed. “I suppose that would be painful.”

  “Nah, that’s what knees are for.”

  “True enough.”

  “I am tough, ya know.”

  “I know, Kedz.”

  “Someday I’m going to get a tattoo that says ‘one tough bitch,’ just so people don’t fuck with me.” Kedzie giggled and beamed. “Ya think?”

  “Could work,” Sarah acknowledged.

  “Of course, that means I’d have to deal with the pain of the tattoo needle, and I hate needles.”

  “Who’s the tough bitch now,” Sarah teased.

  Kedzie sighed. “Maybe I’ll just get the Kubotan.”

  “We’ll order them together.”

  “Engraved,” added Kedzie.

  “Tough bitches forever.”

  The next morning, they had purchased Kubotans together at a head shop near campus. They were made of solid iron, and were identical in size and color, so Sarah thought fondly of her friend whenever she noticed or felt the small weapon on her keychain in the days that followed.

  Their friendship had faded somewhat in the past two years, as Sarah had become serious with Sam. She supposed that was normal, for when you live with a significant other, they’re bound to become your best friend, and when you’re planning a future with someone, priorities change. She had hoped Kedzie would meet someone just as special, because then they could have couples nights and do couples things, and they’d all be friends together. Unless she chose a real douchebag, that is. But now, Kedzie’s “plus one” would be a newborn baby, and their life paths would diverge even further.

  As Sarah and Vaughn made their way back toward the staircase of The Eaton, thoughts of Kedzie’s friendship years ago were replaced with thoughts of Kedzie’s unusual behavior in the past few hours. Sarah knew there was something “off,” but couldn’t place it. Then again, even Vaughn seemed a little “off” at the moment. Maybe she was “off” too, merely being “Sarah-ish” instead of Sarah, not quite feeling herself, as they all navigated this new and bizarre reality a hundred feet below the earth.

  Reuniting with Sam in the stairwell, the three walked down to the maintenance level, opened the door, and peered down the empty hallway. Once again, cries of “hello?” and “Kedz?” darkly lingered in the hollow air, unheard and unanswered. Sam nodded to Sarah and Vaughn, indicating they would repeat the procedure of previous floors, Sam standing guard by the stairs while the others explored the floor.

  Sarah thought this hallway felt just as quiet, but somehow not as empty. There was a faint, dank smell which could have been semen. Sarah tried to track the odor to a specific place but could not; it seemed to enter and exit her perception without pattern. She followed and watched as Vaughn lit the laundry room, but it was as empty as everywhere else. They shrugged to each other and returned to the hallway.

  “Well, at least let’s get the lights on,” sighed Sarah, gesturing to the maintenance room.

  Vaughn smiled and led the way.

  twelve

  The hallway of the first floor of double rooms looked more or less like the hallways of single rooms, but with fewer doors; instead of four rooms on each side of the hallway, there were three rooms on each side. Not quite “double” rooms, Al thought.

  Al held the light as Janet checked each of the doorknobs to assure they wouldn’t turn.

  “Shouldn’t we open them?” Al asked.

  “The doors?” Janet shrugged. “What for? If they’re locked, she couldn’t have gotten in.”

  “What if she found one that was unlocked, went in, and locked it from the inside?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Why would she run off in the first place?”

  Janet smiled. “I think you just want to keep exploring. But this is Sam’s place and we should wait for him.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Besides, if we search all the rooms it would take forever.”

  “Well, at least knock on each door, just to make sure she’s not inside.”

  This compromise seemed wise. Janet knocked on a door and called Kedzie’s name, listened intently for a few seconds, and moved on to the next. Soon the first floor of double rooms was clear.

  At the end of the hallway, Janet tried the elevator button just in case, but without power, everything remained silent.

  “Onward and upward,” advised Al, gesturing back toward the stairs.

  As they walked together down the dark hallway, Janet asked Al how he had gotten into the restoration business. Al described his early days in Detroit, fixing up old buildings before it was “cool,” and how he eventually and almost accidentally became an expert in “adaptive re-use.”

  “Adaptive re-use?”

  “It’s when you take an old structure and use it for something new, like converting a warehouse into loft apartments,” Al explained. Then he gave her a teasing smirk. “I thought you were in real estate.”

  Janet stiffened a bit. “I do mostly homes,” she said. “But I’m quite familiar with adaptive re-use; I just never called it that.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “I dunno,” she replied. “Renovation? Restoration?”

  “It’s partly that, but I think if you just restore something, you’re intending to return it to its original purpose. With adaptive re-use, you’re turning it into something new that people need in the modern world. Especially old factories and warehouses in downtown districts, which are now prime real estate. Developers just want to tear down these century-old buildings and put in cheap-ass drywall boxes.” Al shuddered. “So many beautiful buildings that could have stood for a thousand years have been destroyed and replaced with crap that won’t last fifty.”

  “Why’d you leave Detroit? Seems no shortage of old buildings to restore down there.”

  Al laughed. “Yeah, but no money to do it. The big guys are doing fine, but smaller developers are spooked. They see the city getting smaller every year. There are maybe six or seven blocks in the whole city that were worth restoring, and they’re already restored. I know, because I worked on half of them.”

  The pair had taken the stairs to the next level, which looked so much like the previous floor Janet was half-convinced they hadn’t m
oved at all.

  “Is this your first time on an Eaton Rapids project?” asked Janet, as she tried the first room door.

  “No, I’ve poked around here for years. I had some experience working with Albert Kahn buildings in the D, so one day a guy calls to see if I’d help make a restoration plan for the old Horner Mill.”

  “Kahn did the Fisher Building, right?”

  Al nodded. “That and about half the city. The architect of Detroit, they called him.”

  “But the mill’s older than that, right?” Janet asked, after testing and knocking on another door.

  “Some of it, sure. But when the mill needed to expand back in the day, they got Kahn to design the expansions and the new buildings. It doesn’t look as distinctive as some of his high-profile work, because he wanted to blend his style with the existing structures so it all felt right. But the guys who own the Horner Mill now wanted my expertise in preserving Kahn’s badassery while making cool lofts with modern amenities.”

  “Is that when you moved from Detroit?”

  “Yep. To Lansing, though. Lots to do there, too.”

  “You must be pretty respected.”

  “I’m the man,” claimed Al. In truth, though his knowledge and experience were genuine, his reputation had suffered significant damage in recent years. Untreated alcoholism resulted in a number of burned bridges, and he was fired from more than one well-paying gig due to tardiness and a negative attitude. When the owners of the Horner Mill contacted him for a quote, he cut his rates in half to assure the gig, using it as a way to escape Detroit and start a new life, making new connections. So far, it had worked well, and he had talked his way into a project manager position on a number of small but decent gigs. His apartment was affordable, and without family his expenses were low, so he was able to offer low rates in return, making him affordable even to kids like Sam Spicer. Although, even before the discovery of this underground hotel, he would have taken Sam’s job for free, just in case.

  There was one door left for Janet to check, room 706. She was so surprised when the knob turned that she jumped.