Bystanders

by Tara Laskowski

  “Hi, monster,” Theresa breathed at him. The Professor sneezed, but otherwise gave no indication we’d barged into his pad. “When does he sleep?” she asked.

  “Most of the time.”

  “Does he eat everything?” she asked. She always had weird questions, as if asking just one more meant she could stay longer to wait for the answer.

  “No, just lots of vegetables.” That was the beauty of the iguana—he’s an herbivore, so no live insects for The Professor. He eats rhubarb, lettuce, spinach, beets, radishes, turnips, and occasionally, when I’m feeling generous, pizza. The Professor loves nothing more than to climb the tree branch I’ve propped up behind my La-Z-Boy and chow down on some Papa John’s pizza crust.

  “Why does he like the light so much?” Theresa’s nervous tic was out now—sniffling and squeezing her nose with her fingers. I have a special talent for searching out nervous tics in other people. It helps me figure out if I am winning in certain situations, or if I stand a chance at all. If I can’t find the tic in someone, then they bring out my nervous tic.

  “Helps him digest his food,” I said and immediately regretted it because I could already imagine the barrage of questions that came along with that answer. What do you mean? Why would the light help that? How does he poop? Where does he poop? Can I stay here forever and be your best friend and never stop asking you questions, never ever ever for as long as we both live?

  I snuck a look down at the paper, peeled off the rubber band, and fitted it around my wrist. The matter-of-fact headline blared out, “Judge Charged in Child Sex Sting.” Then my byline, “By Harrison Teeth, Daily Star Investigative Reporter.” I felt the itch under my skin. Anticipation. I always got it when I saw my story in print.

  I never wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to be a cop. I enrolled in the academy, and after the first few weeks realized it wasn’t for me. The other cadets were dumb, sexist, racist blockheads. I couldn’t see spending the rest of my career driving a squad car around with a guy whose idea of a good time is shooting beer cans off a burned tree stump. I need to feel smart, surround myself with smart people. I think that’s why I named the iguana The Professor, the smartest one on Gilligan’s Island (I prefer to think of my reference to that awful TV show as ironic, not an indication of some hypocrisy on my part).

  I was always a pretty good writer, so I thought doing the cops beat at a daily might be the second best thing. One thing led to another, and I found myself heading up the ranks at the paper, getting more and more stories, sources calling at odd hours. Mary Beth was frightened of the people calling the house, shady characters for sure, and she told me that I couldn’t use my real name if I was publishing these kind of things, that these people might hunt us down and burn crosses in our yard or kidnap our daughter, or worse—ruin her reputation in the neighborhood.

  So I reluctantly agreed to an alias.

  At first I thought it would be a let-down. Work hundreds of hours busting your ass to uncover a story and then not even see your name in print. But then it ended up being kind of fun, working under another name. Having another identity. A secret identity.

  That, and I sort-of started to think of Harrison Teeth as my other self, a whole separate person with separate rules. Not in a weird split-personality way. More like in the way it is when you get really drunk and you start to see yourself as invincible, witty, engaging, and really attractive. Harrison Teeth seemed like that kind of guy. Very good on the page, very good on the street. The kind of guy you want to talk to at a cocktail party.

  * * *

  By the time I got Theresa out of my apartment and had fully savored my story over black, black coffee, most of the morning traffic had died down. The newsroom was buzzing, however. I made my way to my desk and sat down. Blinking light on the Harrison Teeth phone. Nineteen messages already. The red light blinking extra fast to let me know my voice mail was full. The Paul Reston phone was sadly, humbly silent.

  Before I had a chance to check messages, Lila snaked her white miniskirt way across the room and propped herself on the corner of my desk, tapping a folder in my direction. “You, my friend, are the most popular guy in town today.”

  “Not Paul Reston.”

  Lila shook her head. “Mr. Teeth.”

  “Ah, Mr. Teeth. Popular? Or notorious?”

  “Aren’t those one and the same?” Lila and I often ended up working together on assignments. She was fresh out of college but with a driven attitude that you didn’t see as much in the younger generation. Don’t get me wrong—she was still a bit wild. She was the only photographer on staff who regularly came to the office dressed like she worked on Wall Street, but then shared the intimate details of her piercings and drank the boys under the table at happy hour. But she did good work. The fact that she had gotten roped into some of the aftermath of my divorce proceedings and yet still didn’t hate me over it was something to admire as well.

  “It appears, Mr. Teeth, that your story has some bite to it. The Judge is not happy.”

  “Neither is The Professor,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Have we been getting calls?”

  “Calls?” Lila laughed. “Mr. Teeth, this is way beyond calls.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must not have been watching television. The Judge has been on every morning news show. Saying that the police acted illegally—I think the word ‘entrapment’ was tossed around a lot with the lawyer types. That Harrison Teeth was on a personal mission to destroy his character. That my pictures were illegal. Oh, it’s ugly.”

  “Good thing I’m just little old Paul Reston, reviewer of movies and dinner theater plays.”

  Lila smiled, clucking her tongue in that way she did. Her tic—though it wasn’t a nervous one. It was more of a sign of contentment, that she’d just won. A sly cat purring in the sun, was what that tic was. I don’t even think she realized she did it.

  “We’re having a staff meeting in five. Roberts was waiting until you got in.” She brushed her short black hair from her face and put the folder down on my desk. She lifted her arms above her head, stretching, revealing a spiked leather bracelet beneath her sleeve. Even in her dress shirt and miniskirt, there was something about Lila that was a bit punk.

  “Jesus, couldn’t you have given me some notice?”

  “Well, if you had a smart phone like everyone else on the planet, maybe I could.”

  I rolled my eyes. Here’s when the age difference got in the way—she didn’t understand how someone might not want a device that could track your whereabouts at all times. Hell, when I told her where The Professor’s name had come from, she’d never heard of Gilligan’s Island. Talk about making a guy feel old.

  “Well, I came to tell you about the meeting, but I was also hoping I could take you to lunch today to celebrate,” she said, picking up the folder.

  I cringed, remembering Mary Beth. “Oh shit, Lila, I can’t. I have to meet Mary Beth. Stuff about Megan. She’s having trouble in school.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. Another time.”

  “Maybe dinner after work next week,” I said.

  “Maybe.” She avoided my eyes. I knew she was thinking about what my wife had accused her of. Even though it had cooled down lately, it was still a sore spot.

  Awkward pause broken by one of the graphic designers, Tim. “Hey Jackass,” he called me, his term of endearment. “Staff meeting in the conference room. Everyone wants a piece of you.” Then he turned to Lila. “Looking fine.”

  Lila blew him a kiss. He responded by squeezing her ass. Politically correct we are not.

  ***

  Lunch. I met Mary Beth at her favorite café in downtown. We’d gone there once on a date, one of the first. We were different people then, happy, free, not the two bitter souls sitting across from one another at a
rickety metal table, snacking on pretzels and hot mustard sauce and calculating the other’s next move.

  These meetings were dangerous. That’s what my lawyer told me. He said that if I tried to play nice, I was going to get burned. I still have a hard time believing it. For one thing, Mary Beth no longer brought up Lila’s name. I saw that as a victory. We talked strictly business (the kid), but there was no hair-pulling, no name-calling (usually). There were no inside jokes, either. All that history between us, just fallen away. It was sad. But we dealt with it. What doesn’t kill you…

  “I’m worried about Megan,” Mary Beth dropped in my lap about halfway through lunch. I wiped the corner of my lip where the mustard was burning a hole.

  “What about her now? Grades? Boys?”

  “Her teacher says she’s being unresponsive.”

  I laughed. It came out cynical, which is probably the way I intended. I’d always had a problem laughing in inappropriate situations.

  Mary Beth ignored it. “She thinks it’s because of the divorce. She thinks maybe Megan’s not spending enough time with both of us.”

  “With both of us? That’s ridiculous. Doesn’t she know what divorce means?” But as I said it, I realized what Mary Beth was really saying, what she didn’t want to say, why she was getting all flushed in the face—the counselor was saying that my daughter needed to spend more time with me. Good ole dad.

  “Paul, listen, I still stand firm that having Megan with me is the best thing for her,” Mary Beth rushed through her words, picking up pieces of salt from the table and grinding them between her fingernails. “But maybe you could take her a little more. Do things with her, you know? Not just sit around that apartment like you do, with that animal.”

  A few retorts came to mind: we don’t just sit around, The Professor is not just some animal, that I would do more things with my daughter if Mary Beth hadn’t been threatening to sue me frontwards and backwards for the past seven months. But I was so elated with her obvious discomfort, with her sudden willingness to put her child’s needs in front of her own sense of revenge, that I wanted to jump up and cheer.

  As if she read my mind, Mary Beth straightened up in her chair and pulled her jacket tighter around her breasts. She pressed the back of her hand lightly up against her bangs, fluffing them. She wanted lunch to be over.

  “I could take her next weekend,” I said. “Up to my parents. They can spoil her with presents, feed her poison about my abilities as a parent—though I’m sure she gets enough of that from you—and stuff her with goulash and sausage and whatever else my mom has lying around the house.”

  “Next weekend is my weekend,” she said, the familiar iciness returning. I was used to it by now, but man, in the beginning it had completely thrown me for a loop. All the accusations, especially how untrue and from left field they were, really nailed me to the wall.

  “Well, you just said…You have her all week, Mary Beth.”

  “I know.” She paused. “Let me think about it.” Perhaps she recognized her iciness as a natural defense around me, something she did even when she didn’t need to.

  Mary Beth looked troubled, pinching her bottom lip. I leaned over, touched her arm. “Hey. It’ll be okay. She’s a good kid.”

  She pulled away from my touch, but not unkindly. “I know. Right.”

  The waiter came and dropped the check. Mary Beth picked that time to head for the bathroom. She always had good timing. I opened my wallet to pay the bill, and there was Megan, staring back at me. School picture from a few years ago. She wore a little too much eye make-up, giving her that raccoon look that all the pre-teens had, and she smiled only slightly in order to hide the braces. Rarely did I see that smile anymore, replaced by a constant scowl, or an eye roll. The last time I’d gotten her to laugh was when I’d cursed profusely at The Professor for leaving a nice pile of shit in my clean laundry basket.

  Mary Beth came back just after the waiter took the check. “Thanks for lunch, Paul. I’ve got to head back to the office now. We’ll talk about next weekend, okay?”

  And then she was gone, only the trail of her perfume remaining, and I realized that she’d never even mentioned the story or the Judge.

  ***

  The Judge made several mistakes. For one thing, he gained a reputation for being harsh at sentencing. When I, as Harrison Teeth, dug into his records, I found the Judge had a 95 percent conviction rate for sex crimes—rapes, prostitution, child pornography. The district attorney said that the Judge had one time told a defendant that he hoped “God has Mercy on your soul, because I don’t.”

  The Judge prided himself on being a family guy. Married for thirty-seven years to a banker’s daughter, with three kids. The Judge’s family went to church every Sunday morning for 9:00 a.m. Mass, never fail. All five of them lined up like ducks in one of the pews toward the front of the church, waiting to accept the communion wafer with their tongues.

  He was a stand-up guy, they said. Laughed at your jokes, but would never tell a dirty one (at least not in mixed company). Occasionally swirled a brandy with a cigar, but frowned on drinking, especially in excess. Believed in the Bible, America, and our military.

  The perfect set-up for destruction.

  Every politician has a secret, everybody has a double life that they don’t want their friends to find out about. It’s what keeps the world ticking. What keeps the papers selling.

  It started with an anonymous call to the Harrison Teeth phone line one afternoon at the Star. A tip from a source down at the police station hinted that maybe the Internet Crime Division had a big fish to fry. That something was going to go down, that someone who was someone was about to head to a house to meet up with an undercover cop that he thought was a thirteen-year-old girl ready to lose her virginity.

  I knew that the ICD had been cracking down hard on online predators, and that if one of the baddies was someone prominent, we had a story. The thought of it was enough to get my heart hammering.

  The source tipped me off on the time and place, though he didn’t tell me the name of the baddie—just that it was someone political. Lila and I got in a nondescript Honda Accord and parked it in a playground conveniently across the street from the sting house. There we were, Harrison Teeth, investigative reporter, and Lila Santos, ace photographer, dressed the part: Teeth in a grungy t-shirt and jeans, Lila with her short black hair covered by a New York Yankees ball cap. She was cradling her Nikon like a baby.

  You couldn’t tell anything was going down. It was a quiet neighborhood east of the city, upper middle-class but not too ritzy. The kind of place that wasn’t the ghetto, but wasn’t too upscale to be threatening for a predator. In fact, with the dim sound of a lawnmower buzzing a few blocks away, the sun shining through the trees, everything calm and soothing, I was sweating a little that maybe the source had been wrong.

  But then I saw a jogger trot by holding a hand to one ear and I knew this was it. I felt a twinge of anticipation in my groin and adjusted myself. Harrison Teeth was ready for the story.

  After about two hours, a Lincoln Continental drove by slowly. The driver stared at the house, rode past, and in about five minutes passed again from the other side. This happened about five times, and then I saw another car with two men in it, the driver holding a radio. The cops were getting antsy.

  The Lincoln Continental finally pulled over to the curb, about five houses down from the sting house. And just sat there.

  “He’s got cold feet,” I muttered to Lila. We both knew it. The fish the cops wanted to fry looked like he was ready to leap out of the pan before they even had a chance to turn up the heat.

  And then something strange happened, something that made Lila straighten up in her seat like someone had just twanged her ass with a rubber band. A girl walked out of the sting house. She looked about thirteen—I would’ve believed it, even though I knew how these things worked a
nd knew she had to be at least eighteen. She was wearing a t-shirt, pink skirt down past her knees, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Her long braid trailed out the back of her hat.

  The girl looked around, approaching the car cautiously. Lila sucked air between her teeth. “Seriously?” she whispered. “They’re sending her out? Bastards.”

  The car was still running. I expected that at any moment whoever was inside would take notice of the girl and book it out of there. But he stayed where he was. The girl tapped on the passenger window with her knuckles. She leaned down, gave a little wave. From where we were sitting we could see the toothy grin the girl gave the guy.

  “Are you getting this?” I asked Lila, but she was already peering through the lens, deep in concentration.

  They talked for awhile. The girl was trying to convince him to come up. She kept pointing at the house. But the driver had chickened out. The girl was desperate now, knowing what her role was supposed to be. I could imagine the conversation playing out. Well, if you don’t want to come up, maybe we could talk a little? Would you like that?

  And then the Judge made the decision that got his mug shot on the doorstep of 120,000 subscribers of the Daily Star. He leaned over, popped open the passenger door of his car, and let the girl inside.

  “I hope this guy rots in hell,” Lila murmured, her face so close to the window her nose was almost touching it.

  Swarms of undercover police, as well as screaming squad cars, suddenly descended upon the car as Lila clicked away like she was being paid by the second. I jotted in my notebook, capturing the scene. A drop of sweat settled in Harrison Teeth’s inner ear. The situation was so good. He could taste it.

  ***

  Mary Beth had sworn Lila and I were having an affair. It had been her reason for leaving, though it was really the final excuse for a decision that had long been brewing. The more I denied it, the more certain she was. Her divorce lawyer salivated at the thought of proof, but there was none to be found.

  At first it was flattering to think that my wife thought a twenty-one-year old would be interested in me. Then it was a bit of a joke. Then it wasn’t funny anymore.