by Tracy Ellen
After we verbally shook hands on our deal- he’d adamantly refused to physically touch me on several grounds- I had let him be. I was happy he’d agreed without any more coercion needed, since I only had a half a tank of gas and a few bucks on me.
After a few moments of driving in companionable silence he had peered out the windshield worriedly. “Um…where are we going? My mom is going to wonder when I don’t show up after school and will report me missing to the police.”
I’d laughed, until I realized he wasn’t kidding.
Now, here Bob Crookston was ten years later, at eight in the morning on a Saturday, and swearing up an incoherent storm into my intercom like I’d taught him nothing in all those intervening years.
“Geez Louise, Crookie, hold on a blasted minute and I’ll be right there.”
I took the stairs down two at a time. I thought I’d heard the name Reggie shouted by Crookie, but that only stumped me more because he and Reg have never been friends. Even as I wondered what could possibly be going on with Crookie, I felt a sneakin’ admiration at my ability to run so quickly and quietly in my high-heeled boots down the stairs without breaking my neck. Sometimes my talents astound me.
Sighing inwardly, I recalled at the last minute to turn back and lock my apartment door behind me. After all, I had to think for two. I had my innocently slumbering guest upstairs to protect and keep safe. Good God, the ongoing sleepover complications and responsibilities of last night’s fun just never ended.
Key ring in hand, I crossed the lobby and unlocked the deadbolt of the door leading to the outside. I opened it a couple inches, but to be on the safe side, I toed the rubber headed door stop down to prevent the door from being pushed further open.
I could have buzzed open the door from upstairs, but for all I knew Crookie might be a tweaker on a rampage. I highly doubted Crookie was a druggie, but it had been a couple years since we last really talked and he was acting spooky. Of course, he had also gotten married which could help explain the spookiness.
He had chilled out. He was waiting with arms crossed and a shoulder propped against the red brick wall. His mouth was a tight line, his whole demeanor grim and exhausted, but not insane or jacked-up.
I eyed him up and down. Aside from looking like his dog died, Bob has steadily improved with age. He still had the same golden-brown hair and hazel eyes, but now sported an expensive haircut and his glasses are rimless. He’d filled out a bit from working out steadily over the years. He’s a tall guy, no doubt about that, but slim now rather than beanpole skinny. Clean shaven with clear, pale skin and no visible tattoos or piercings, he’s your very tall, average-looking, professional man- until he smiled.
Crookie’s smile is a little shy and a little slow, yet once it arrived it’s so unbelievably sweet that any girl who caught a glimpse of it never thought of him as nondescript or average again. If he was a different type of man, he’d be doing a different woman every night based on that little smile alone.
His clothes were a little rumpled, but actually fashionable. He had on a brown leather jacket unzipped over a tan sweater, and his jeans were a designer label that Stella would have a shitfest over if she saw them. I vaguely remember her emoting something about sweatshops and chemicals.
Seeing me, he shoved off the wall and murmured my name. A quick glance around at the quiet street outside verified it had stopped drizzling and the sun was trying to peek out. The air was brisk. Through the gap in the door, the coolness felt refreshingly good on my face.
Even as obviously distressed as he appeared, I was still happy to see my old friend. Kicking up the door stop, I opened the door wide. “Hello, Crookie. Sorry for the delay. I was debating your sanity.”
Crookie cracked a smile, bending to give me a peck on the cheek when he came into the lobby. “Hello, Bel.”
“Hey, what’s wrong, why so grim? Wait, never mind. That’s enough about you; let me show you how I’ve grown.” I reached my arms around his waist and gave him a big, dramatic squeeze. I attempted to lift him saying, “See? I’m so strong now I can lift a head as heavy as yours!”
I hadn’t been able to move him a centimeter, but I did manage to get him to laugh down at me in protest. He gripped my shoulders and held me away from him, looking me up and down. “Yes, I can see you have grown. Those heels may take you out of the dwarf tossing zone, but that is cheating.”
I laughed while I locked up again. Our disparity in inches has been a running joke between us for years. At parties, he insisted the top of my head was a perfect spot for his beer. I insisted his navel was a perfect spot for parking my chewed gum.
“Let’s go into the store and grab a coffee, okay? I know I need one.” Not waiting for an answer, I crossed the lobby to Bel’s Books doors. It’s not safe to keep me too long from my first morning cup of coffee. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.
Genius that he is, Crooks agreed distractedly, “Sure.”
He stood with slumped shoulders and a glum face as I keyed in the code to open the beveled glass, double doors to Bel’s Books. I moved them wide to each side, locking the doors in the open position.
I glanced covertly at Crookie. Something depressing was obviously heavy on his mind. Good money was on woman trouble. What else could have a man running the gambit of acting like a rampaging tweaker and then the walking dead, all within five minutes? I resigned myself to being the lucky girl that was going to hear all the gory details. So much for sneaking some work time in before Stella the Hun arrived.
The lifelong familiar aromas of thousands of books, lemon oil, ground coffee beans, and the spicy scents of herbs rushed out to envelope me. Closing my eyes and inhaling a deep, rejuvenating breath of this enchanted air is often all it takes to right my world. I inhaled again.
Following me in with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Crookie paused. He pointed with an elbow at the huge refectory table a few feet in front of us. Four cement troughs filled with lush, green herbs were staggered down the center of the table. The morning sunlight coming through the large display windows spotlighted the troughs. They stood out in the otherwise darkened store.
“Those are different. The herbs smell great.”
“Yeah, I saw the idea for a smaller version of the troughs in a magazine. I had been envisioning something for that big table old worldish and rustic, but didn’t want metal.” I shrugged one shoulder and smiled up at him. “You know me, once I got the bug up my butt I had to build them that day. Cool, huh?” I bumped his elbow with mine. “You likey?”
I recognized the spark of interest lighting up his eyes. He murmured absently, “I do likey.”
He wandered over and peered at the troughs. A lock of straight hair fell onto his forehead. He became absorbed lightly skimming his fingers over the planters, as if he was a city inspector looking for code violations in the footings of a new construction.
“I have not seen cement look so textured before. What did you use? Did you at least make a mold first?”
He looked up at me at the last question, and he sounded so accusatory I had to laugh. I rubbed my hand up and down an upright spike of French tarragon and breathed in the light licorice scent. “Sure, if you consider a mold two cardboard boxes from Just Food Co-op.”
He winced. My definitely unscientific and lackadaisical approach to creativity drives him so crazy that I tend to be offhand with the details to shake him up. Sometimes super smart nerds need shaking up. They deserve some fun teasing, and they also need to remember being a genius isn’t everything in life. I am just the girl to do this dirty job.
He held up his hands to ward off evil while muttering darkly, “Never mind, I do not want to know how you actually made them because it will drive me nuts!”
I wanted my coffee, so I hurriedly agreed with a big smile. “Good call, since I started by borrowing several things to make them.”
Sure enough, he was already groaning and shaking his head at me. Crookie hates the incorrect term ‘bo
rrowing’ Minnesotans use to cover any item they get from another person, regardless if it’s returnable or not. If you want to drive Crookie insane, ask to borrow a piece of gum.
I hid my smile behind my hand when he gave me a pained look and chided, “You know, Bel, you cannot ‘borrow’ something you cannot return.” He mumbled under his breath, “I bet you decided on the consistency of the cement just by looking, too, instead of using correct measurements. You did not follow any instructions, did you?”
“What instructions? I was totally winging it here, Crooks,” I tormented in reply, plus it was true. “There was only that tiny picture in the magazine and a one liner of a description mentioning using straw mixed in with concrete.” I tapped his forearm. “Straw, by the way, is what creates the textured look you like.”
He practically pulled his hair out. “Bel, there are clear instructions on the bags of QuikCrete for correctly preparing the cement.”
“Gee, I never thought of that. Huh.” I fluffed my blonde hair with both hands.
Revulsion dripping from every word, he demanded, “You did not even wait the right amount of time for the cement to set properly, did you? Do these troughs leak?”
“Only when they get wet.”
Hearing my tone, Crookie looked completely blank for a moment.
His whole expression brightened when, undismayed, he flashed his incredibly darling smile and pointed an accusing finger at me. “You are such a…How can I still fall for your tricks after all these years?”
“Obviously you aren’t getting enough teasing, that’s for sure.”
“Trust me, Bel. I have never been teased by anyone like you in my life. I will have you know at work I am highly respected and revered.” Crookie sighed then, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I have been doing nothing but work for about eight weeks straight.”
“Poor baby. It’s probably a good thing the brainiac women at your lab don’t tear you away from your microscope and tease you. If they got a load of that super-hot little smile thing you’ve got going on, no more cats would get dissected that day.”
“Cats dissected? Microscopes?” He shook his head again and laughed. “Bel, you have no clue what I do for a living, do you?”
I hooked my arm through his and led him down the main aisle to the back of the store. “It has to do with science, so enough said. Come on, Big Brain, this is one blonde that needs her morning coffee something fierce.”
Motioning him into a chair at a table for two in front of Laissez Fare’s counter, I plunked my purse down and went behind the service bar to begin making a latte for myself. Looking up to see Crookie sitting slumped at the table, once again the picture of abject depression; I added enough fresh beans to make three shots of espresso. I had a feeling I was going to need the triple whammy.
“Can I make you a coffee, Crooks? Or something else?”
He shrugged and muttered, “I do not care, Anabel.”
I didn’t care, either, but I made him one, too. For the next couple of minutes the loud gurgling noises of the commercial espresso machine were the only sounds. Carrying over two large cups of frothy coffee, I sat down across from him.
Taking a slow sip of the nectar of the gods, I opened my eyes to see him cautiously doing the same.
“Is your mother enjoying living in Florida?” I asked politely, delaying the inevitable to better savor my latte.
Crooks snorted softly. “As you know, my mother does not enjoy anything, but she has her sister to nurse so she at least she is occupied.”
I grinned. “I guess the better question would be, are you enjoying your mother living in Florida?”
He nodded rigorously. “Yes, immensely, thank you for asking. How is NanaBel?
“My grandmother, the lucky bum, is probably punching a camel in the head as we speak. She’s on her way to the Luxor region in Egypt. After that, she’s off to Germany to stay with friends. Can you believe it’s a house party at a castle over the holidays?”
“I love that woman,” Crookie stated. “What are your sisters up to lately? How is Jasmyn?” Crookie’s always had a little fascination for my sister, Jazy. I think he’d like to put her under his microscope and study her closely.
“My sisters…,” I repeated, smiling a little. “Let’s see; Mac married a man twelve years younger, Kenna divorced her latest that was twenty years older, and Jazy’s single and working her way through the southwestern suburbs, specifically the Prior Lake area.”
Crookie grinned in spite of his depression. He knows my family well enough that he got the subtext of all I was really saying.
We both sipped our coffees in silence for a few moments.
Scrunching his face, Crookie carefully set his full cup back on the table.
Behind the glasses, his eyes were anxious but determined when he demanded, “Anabel, is your brother hiding here?”
“Hiding? No, Reggie’s not hiding here. Why are you asking me such a bizarre question?” I probably looked as bewildered by the abrupt question as I sounded. Crookie visibly relaxed his shoulders at my answer.
“He is never home. He does not return my calls. I think he is hiding from me, the bastard.” Crookie was beginning to get agitated all over again.
“Yikes, Crookie, wait a minute here. Why would Reggie be hiding from you, of all people? I didn’t even know you guys spoke.”
I was completely confused. Crookie hadn’t lived in Northfield since he was married two years ago. At his new wife Cheryl’s urging, they had moved to Edina; a suburb bordering Minneapolis to the immediate west and known for its over-priced real estate and snob appeal.
Crookie is a scientist with advanced degrees in the biotechnology and chemical engineering fields, and who knows what else. Not me; science still gives me a headache. I know he invented and patented a food industry process while still in graduate school that has made him a mint. I am proud of him and his accomplishments, but I’ve begged him not to tell me any details. With his brilliant mind, Crookie probably has invented many more things I wouldn’t want to know about by now. In college, he was courted for employment by many companies. Crooks chose Ecolab, a local company in St Paul. He has worked there since, but he is correct; I have no clue what he does there.
I hoped this doesn’t make me a bad friend, but I can’t be blamed science hurts my head, right?
That’s what I think, too.
His laugh was bitter. “Oh, it is not me Reg has been ‘speaking to’, but my wife, Cheryl.”
I took another long sip of my coffee to buy some time, my synapses finally firing up from the triple hits of espresso. It was starting to become a disturbingly clearer picture once I remembered Cheryl’s sister had moved to Northfield a few years ago. That was how Crookie had met Cheryl in the first place. “The Day of Infamy” was how I believed Anna and I had termed it at the time.
Cheryl’s a bitch with a capital C.
I thought seriously about the man I know my brother to be. Reggie started his own residential construction company five years ago. He’s worked long, hard hours, in all kinds of extreme weather, to build up his business. The dedication has paid off, and he’s now reputed to be a solid, dependable contractor.
That tickles my grandmother to no end. NanaBel had raised all five of us kids- MacKenzie, Kenna, Me, Jasmyn, and Reggie- since our parents died when I was six. She has stressed over Reg not having the proper male influences in his life while growing up.
I suppose living with a grandmother and four older sisters since the age of three, there could be a small case made for Reggie not having enough male influences.
It was true that as a little dude, my sisters and I did doll him up a bit. We applied blue eye shadow and mascara, curled his beautiful blonde hair, buttoned him up in one of my frilly dresses, and then encouraged him to dance like a tiny ballerina. Reg was so cute with his little hands pointed up over his head and tippy, tippy, tippy-toeing all around the room.
It didn’t help NanaBel�
�s worries that Jasmyn, only a year older than Reggie and way meaner, could beat Reg up until they were well into their teens. We take sisterly joy in rubbing it in to Reggie that by the time he was tough enough to possibly win a fight against any of his sisters, he was too old and knew better.
But don’t feel too sorry for him. Aside from where he lived, my brother has actually enjoyed constant male camaraderie his entire life. My dad’s old cop buddies, particularly Jack Banner, our Uncle Trevor, who has no sons, and NanaBel’s platoon of male friends all constantly tried to outdo each other. They had vied to teach Reggie traditional manly pursuits and made sure he did everything boys should do. Reg had happily soaked up all the attention from his wannabe father figures and was disgustingly spoiled. As a result of those good men, and despite his sisters, Reggie grew up to be a halfway decent man with widely varied interests. Not a woman-hating, homicidal, cross-dresser.
He may never be ready to settle down, but with four older sisters that he loves, respects, and more importantly fears, I give him credit for the common sense to steer clear of the wife of any of our good friends.
My brother has dated a multitude of women over the years, but I was under the impression he didn’t mess with married women. Reggie takes the simplest, most direct approach in life to get what he wants, and he’s followed this principle where women were concerned, too. I’d yet to see him get worked up over whether a woman wanted him. If she did, fine. If not, he’d shrug good-naturedly at the rejection and move on. He generally avoided the complicated like the plague. I reasoned you couldn’t get much more complicated than a married woman.
I sighed at this point in my musings. What was I thinking? We were talking about a man and his penis here. Incredibly moronic destinations were often visited when the little head was doing the driving. If a man was trashed out of his mind, then all bets were off.
I spoke quietly, “Are you sure about my brother and Cheryl?”
Crookie shrugged. His face twisted in a painful grimace. I wanted to tear my eyes away from the sight of his emotional torment, but I forced myself to keep a steady gaze. I’ve known this boy since grade school and we’ve been friends since high school. We were tight for several years, even when he went away to school in Indiana. I visited him at Purdue quite a few times, and we hung out when he came home and brought his new college friends. I was still in touch with a couple of them.