by Joy Fielding
“I’m afraid Jeff doesn’t work here anymore.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Tom demanded. Had the whole world gone crazy? What was going on?
“Jeff no longer works here,” the voice repeated.
“You mean he’s not working today ?”
“I mean he’s no longer working at Elite Fitness.”
“Since when?”
“Since a few hours ago.”
“He quit?”
“I’m afraid you’d have to ask him about that.”
“Well, I’m afraid you don’t know fuck-all, do you?” Tom snapped, instantly severing their connection. “Shit!” Wouldn’t you know it? Just when he really needed to talk to Jeff, Jeff was conveniently unavailable. He punched in the numbers for Jeff’s cell, was transferred immediately to voice mail. He left a short message—“Where the hell are you?”—before trying Jeff’s apartment. That call was answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” Kristin asked on the other end of the line.
“I need to speak to Jeff,” Tom announced without preamble.
“Tom?”
“Is Jeff around?”
“He’s at work.”
“Exactly what work would that be?”
“What are you talking about?” Kristin asked.
“Apparently Jeff no longer works at Elite Fitness.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course he does.”
“I just called there. They said otherwise.”
“I don’t understand,” Kristin said again.
“Welcome to the club.” He hung up before Kristin could say anything else.
“SOMETHING WRONG?” Will asked as Kristin came out of the bedroom, her long blond hair cascading past her shoulders, her makeup artfully applied, a pair of black stilettos dangling from her left hand, the buttons of her leopard-print blouse undone, her breasts spilling out of her black push-up bra.
“I think Jeff’s been fired,” she said, leaning forward to slip on her shoes.
Will said nothing.
“You don’t seem too surprised.”
Will hesitated, trying to decide the best way to tell Kristin that Jeff hadn’t gone to work this morning.
“I know Jeff wasn’t at work this morning,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “He came home when he realized he’d forgotten his wallet.” She related the details of their conversation.
“He told you he was with Tom?” Will repeated when she was through.
A pause. “You don’t believe him?”
“Do you?”
Another pause. “I don’t know.” She shrugged, the shrug causing her breasts to lift up and down. “Obviously his boss didn’t believe him.” Then, absently fluffing her hair, “You’re the philosopher. Tell me, Will, why do men lie? And don’t say ‘Because they can.’”
Will wished she’d do up her blouse so he could concentrate. Was she being deliberately provocative, he couldn’t help but wonder, displaying her body to him in such a seemingly casual, offhand way? Or was she honestly unaware of the effect such a display might have on him? Was he as sexless, as inconsequential, to her—to all women—as a piece of furniture? “I guess men lie for the same reasons women do,” he said finally.
“Are we talking about any woman in particular?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Where’d you go after you found out Jeff wasn’t at work?” Kristin asked.
“Nowhere special.”
“You’ve been gone all day.”
“Just wandering around,” Will said.
“That’s a lot of wandering.”
“There’s a lot to see.”
“I take it you didn’t see Jeff.”
Will shook his head.
“So where do you think he is? We know he’s not with Tom now.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he’s with Suzy?” Kristin asked plainly.
Another silence, longer than all the others.
“Is that what you think?” Will asked, throwing the question back at her. Clearly they’d both been giving this possibility a great deal of thought. Even more clearly, they’d reached the same conclusion.
Kristin brought the two halves of her blouse together, began buttoning it from the bottom up. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” she said, tucking it inside her short, tight skirt and grabbing her purse from the floor.
“How would you feel about it if it were true?”
“I don’t know. How would you feel?”
Will shrugged, shook his head.
“Well, I don’t have time to worry about it now. I have to get to work. You gonna stop by the Wild Zone later?”
“You want me to?”
“Always.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Kristin leaned forward, her breasts spilling toward Will as she kissed him softly on the cheek. “See you later, alligator.”
He smiled in spite of himself. “In a while, crocodile.”
“SO,” DAVE SAID as he stepped into the front foyer of his home at approximately half past six that evening. “It looks as if your boyfriend got himself fired.”
Suzy fought to keep her face a blank screen. It was important not to betray any emotion, to keep from revealing any potentially harmful information. It was important she stay calm and focused, that she not overreact. Whatever her reply, her voice had to remain steady, her hands still. While a certain amount of curiosity would be tolerated, even expected, she couldn’t appear too eager. She had to tread carefully. One wrong inflection could spell disaster. “What are you talking about?” she asked over the loud pounding of her heart. Could he hear it? she wondered. Could he see it beating wildly in her chest?
“Jeff Rydell,” Dave said, lobbing the name at her as if it were a football he expected her to catch and run with.
Suzy pushed her features into an expression of confusion. She shrugged, as if the name meant so little it didn’t bear repeating.
“The guy in the car on Sunday, looking for Miracle Mile,” Dave elaborated, studying her face for the slightest flicker of recognition. “The one holding the map.”
“I don’t remember.”
“’Course you do. The good-looking one in the passenger seat. Heavy on muscles, short on brains. How could you not remember him?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention. . . .”
“No,” Dave said, pushing past her into the living room. “You were just trying to be helpful.”
Suzy followed after him, her mind rushing off in four different directions at once, as if she were being drawn and quartered. Why was he talking about Jeff, and how did he know his name? Had he followed her this morning? Had he seen the two of them at the coffee shop? Had he watched them enter the motel room together? What did he mean when he said her boyfriend had been fired? What was he talking about? How much did he know? “Would you like a drink before dinner?” she asked.
“That would be nice.” He sat down on the cream-colored sofa, crossed one leg over the other, undid his tie, and waited to be served. “Vodka, rocks.”
Suzy hurried into their square eat-in kitchen, painted the sunny yellows and deep blues of Provence. She threw a handful of ice cubes in a glass, then retrieved the vodka from the freezer and poured her husband a tall drink, trying to control the telltale trembling of her hands. Stay calm, she told herself as she practiced holding out the drink in front of her, as if offering it to Dave, then repeated the gesture several times in an effort to bring her shaking fingers under control. Show no fear, she told herself, taking a series of deep breaths before returning to the living room.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I know he got fired?” Dave said as she approached. He held out his hand.
Suzy quickly handed him his drink, said nothing.
“I know because I was there.”
“I don’t understand,” Suzy said truthfully. What was Dave talking ab
out?
“Remember he told us he was a personal trainer, that he worked at Elite Fitness on Northwest Fortieth over in Wynwood?”
“I don’t remember,” Suzy lied. Did he believe her? He always claimed to know when she wasn’t being truthful.
“Well, anyway,” Dave continued, patting the cushion beside him, silently directing her to sit down, “I got to thinking. The guy had some pretty impressive-looking biceps. And I’m not getting any younger. Maybe I should start working out, get myself in better shape. Can’t afford to get too complacent.”
Suzy sank into the deep, down-filled seat, glancing at the lamp on the cloverleaf table next to her, its dented shade a cruel reminder of how Dave dealt with liars. “What are you talking about? You look terrific.”
He put his arm around her, drew her close, kissed her hard on her cheek. “Well, thank you, sweetheart. A man always appreciates a vote of confidence from his beautiful wife.” He took a sip of his drink. “Especially one who mixes drinks as good as this one. You been taking lessons from your friend?”
“What?”
“That bartender from the Wild Zone. What was her name again?”
“Kristin,” Suzy whispered, feeling her pulse quicken. He was playing with her, the way a cat taunts its prey before moving in for the kill.
“Kristin. Right. You speak to her this week?”
“No.”
“No? How come? I thought you two had become such good friends.”
“Not really.”
“That’s good.” He took another sip of his drink, leaned back against the cushion, closed his eyes.
“So, aren’t you going to finish your story?” Suzy asked in spite of herself.
Dave opened his eyes. “Not much left to tell. I called Elite Fitness, made an appointment for a private session, and went over there this afternoon.”
“You went over there?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not. I’m just surprised you’d go all the way over to Wynwood when there are a million gyms right around here.”
“It wasn’t that far. Although I certainly won’t be going there again.”
“What happened?”
Dave shrugged. “Turns out our Jeff isn’t much of a trainer, and his boss was smart enough to realize it.”
“You were there when he fired him?”
“It’s like I’m always telling you, sweetheart. Bad things happen to people who get on my bad side.”
Suzy felt a shiver travel from the base of her spine to the top of her neck. She shuddered.
“What’s the matter, babe?” he asked. “You cold?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not upset he got fired, are you?”
“Why would I be upset?”
“Good.” He reached over and patted her knees. “Now, what’s for dinner? All that exercise seems to have given me quite an appetite.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE SUN WAS STILL shining when Jeff got out of the taxi at exactly ten minutes to nine that evening, although it was that peculiar kind of light—intense and yet strangely flat—that belongs to neither day nor night. A borrowed light, Jeff was thinking as he paid the cabbie and crossed the empty street toward the lobby of the oddly named Bayshore Motel—odd because there was neither bay nor shore anywhere in sight. Buffalo was like that, he thought, looking back over his shoulder at the departing taxi. Nothing here had ever made any sense. At least for him.
So what was he doing back here?
He barely remembered boarding the plane, let alone buying the ticket.
A sudden image, like a jagged bolt of lightning, streaked across his line of vision. He saw Dave’s face twisted with exertion, Larry’s face contorted with anger, his own face flush with disbelief at his abrupt dismissal. And then the good doctor’s twisted smile as he waved his victorious good-bye. The best man had won, those fluttering fingers had told Jeff in no uncertain terms. He’d been out-manipulated and outplayed, seduced and then cruelly abandoned, beaten at his own game, Jeff thought, not for the first time, not even for the tenth time, as his fists clenched at his sides.
He saw himself bounding down the stairs from the gym to the street, fleeing the normally comforting smell of freshly baked bread that now threatened to suffocate him, and running full-out until he found himself, sweating and out of breath, back in front of the nearby travel agency with its enticing handwritten offers of discount holidays to far-off, exotic locales. He saw his face pressed up against the glass, like a child in front of a Macy’s window at Christmas, as the woman behind the glass beckoned him inside, offering him coffee and a smile crowded with too many teeth. He heard his voice informing her that he suddenly found himself with time on his hands and the irresistible urge to travel. An assortment of colorful brochures had immediately materialized, as if by magic, as the woman’s voice droned seductively on about the beauties of Barcelona, the wonders of ancient Greece. And then another voice, this one small and unsteady, a child’s voice really, quivering with the threat of tears—not his voice, surely not his voice—interrupting her to say that his mother was dying and was there any way she could get him on the first available plane to Buffalo? And the woman’s upper lip falling like a curtain over all those teeth as the smile died on her face and her hand reached for his, lingering perhaps a beat too long. Of course, she’d whispered. Anything she could do to help . . .
“Just get me on that plane,” he’d said.
What had he been thinking?
Clearly he hadn’t been, Jeff decided now, pulling open the heavy glass door to the entrance of the empty motel lobby and bursting into the too warm, stale-smelling space with such force it caused the sleepy-looking clerk behind the reception desk to take a step back.
“Can I help you?” the young man asked, tugging at the collar of his white shirt with one hand while reaching for the panic button under the counter with the other. He was very tall and almost alarmingly thin, although his voice was surprisingly deep. His skin was freckled with the remains of teenage acne and his reddish-brown hair refused to lie the way it had been combed, preferring to branch out in several different directions at once, so that he managed to look both bored and surprised at the same time.
“I need a room,” Jeff heard himself say, his eyes casually absorbing the uninteresting watercolor of a bunch of sailboats that occupied much of the pale blue wall behind the registration desk.
The young man shrugged, his hand relaxing over the buzzer. “How long you staying?”
“Just for one night.”
“Air-conditioning’s not working.”
“I thought it felt a little warm.”
“I can give you a break on the price,” the young man offered unprompted. “Sixty bucks instead of eighty-five. How’s that?”
“Very thoughtful.”
The young man’s lips curled into a tentative smile, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he was being toyed with. “If you stay an extra night, I gotta charge you full price.”
“I won’t be staying.”
“Where you from?”
“Miami.”
“Always wanted to go to Miami. I hear the women are really something.”
Jeff nodded, staring into the memory of Suzy’s sea-blue eyes. It felt like weeks since he’d seen her, touched her. Could it really have been just this morning that he’d held her in his arms?
“So what brings you up this way?” the boy was asking.
“My mother’s dying,” Jeff said simply.
The young man took a step back, as if her impending death might be contagious. “Yeah? Sorry to hear that.”
Jeff shrugged. “What can you do?”
“Not much, I guess. So how do you want to take care of this?”
For an instant Jeff thought they were still talking about his mother. “I don’t understand. . . .”
“MasterCard, Visa, American Express?” the clerk prompted.
Jeff pulled his wallet out of his
back pocket, removed his credit card, pushed it across the counter. The motion reminded him of Kristin pushing drinks along the bar of the Wild Zone. He checked his watch. It was nine o’clock. I should call her, he thought. She’d probably be wondering where he was.
Or maybe not.
Kristin had always been remarkably sanguine about his comings and goings. It was one of the things he liked best about her. Still, he thought he probably should have called her to tell her of his plans. Although how could he have told her anything when he hadn’t known—still didn’t know—what those plans were? Plans, by their very nature, implied a certain level of conscious thought, and he’d been operating on nothing but adrenaline for the past week. How else to explain the events of the last several days?
How else to explain what the hell he was doing here?
He’d always hated this bloody city, he thought, swiveling back toward the street, barely recognizing the seemingly deserted neighborhood, even though the house he’d grown up in was less than a mile away. Was that why he’d directed the taxi here and not to a more comfortable downtown hotel? “The corner of Branch and Charles,” he’d instructed the dark-skinned cabbie, not even sure whether the motel he remembered from his childhood would still be standing and only half-surprised to see that it was, although the name had been changed. Not for the first time, he suspected.
The rest of the city looked pretty much the same, he’d decided on the drive in from the airport. Swallowing his growing sense of dread as the taxi bypassed the downtown core, Jeff had watched the seemingly random series of abandoned and derelict warehouses in the surrounding slums gradually give way to a succession of neat, working-class suburban homes. He didn’t look too closely, aware of the incipient decay lurking just out of sight—a collapsing eaves trough here, some crumbling front steps there, the damage of last winter’s lake-effect snow bubbling like oil beneath each smooth, painted surface. The city even smelled the same, Jeff had noted, a slight breeze blowing the grit and grime of the streets through the cab’s open rear window. Jeff felt it sink into his pores like tiny pebbles. Rationally he knew he was being overly sensitive, that the city of his unhappy youth smelled no different than any other midsize American city: an uneasy combination of nature and industry, earth and concrete, decay and renewal, success and failure. Mostly failure, he thought now, standing in the stifling, nautically themed lobby, reluctant to take a breath.