Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  “I’m sorry, but this is my client emergency line.”

  “No problem.”

  It was Debbie, my alibi. “Your uncle called. He said he had some news. Honestly, if you’re having fun, I wouldn’t risk his hearing your voice. You’re clearly about to have sex. Right?” Debbie and I had been friends since first grade. I laughed and hung up.

  Roger had rolled up his pants and had his bare feet in the water. I wrangled out of my stockings and joined him, shoes in one hand, his fingers in the other.

  “Still worried about snakes?” he asked.

  “Any chance you’d care to check my room just in case?”

  He squeezed my hand. We headed back to the hotel. When we got inside, I thought I saw the Eileen Fisher woman again, this time in a skin-tight leather dress, leaving with a miniscule Chinese businessman. Roger asked me to wait for a minute.

  It gave me time to ask myself what I was doing. Roger lived in San Francisco, I might never see him again. But when he came back, twirling the collapsible snake handler like an Englishman’s umbrella, I was in, for better or worse. It was a long elevator ride and an even longer wait while Roger actually checked the room. Finally, he turned. “I don’t see anything, but they’ve been known to hide.”

  I’m not much of one to kiss and tell, but the next three hours were pretty much in the spectacular range. I couldn’t get enough of Roger’s narrow shoulders or the way his flop of hair slapped me on the forehead every time he kissed me. Somehow, I didn’t mind that his chest was smoother than mine. I even came to crave his “green” kelp aftershave, a first for me. It’s amazing how much genuine, crazy, mutual attraction can make every gesture, every movement, even every mistake the most erotic thing that ever happened. It was my favorite kind of sex, the kind where you could only breathe enough to laugh. The kind where the contact, the connection, not the technique, was what mattered. And we had that. We’d had it from the first moment he’d touched my elbow.

  Not that Roger the Chiropractor didn’t have technique—he basically managed to turn my back into a third breast. But I’m not sure I would have liked him any less if he hadn’t. By the time he finally drew himself around me and we fell asleep, I figured for once, I’d done something right.

  At three-thirty, I woke up to find him gone.

  Chapter Eight

  At first I thought he was just in the bathroom, but after five minutes, I finally stumbled up to look. It was dark and empty, as was the rest of the room. I tried not to panic. Men had left quickly before, but usually they at least offered some lame excuse. Had I been wrong about the whole thing? My uncle always said my instincts would ruin me in the end, but I so didn’t want him to be right. I turned on the bedside light, setting off sunspots in my slightly hungover head, and looked around.

  His clothes were gone, but he had left his wallet and keys. Maybe he was just an insomniac and didn’t want to wake me. Maybe he was hungry. I decided for once in my life to be cool, so I turned the light back off. After about a half an hour, I heard the key in the door and resumed my position, eyes closed. It was hard to be perfectly still when you’d just had possibly the best sex of your life with someone who had disappeared.

  Roger eased the door shut. I could feel him moving to the table, where he replaced my key. Then he sat down in one of the chairs by the window. I really wanted to see what he was doing. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and squinted. He looked out the window, then leaned forward and put his head in his hands. This was not a good sign.

  Finally, he got undressed and crawled back into bed, folding himself around me again and kissing me just above my ear. Needless to say, I didn’t get back to sleep.

  I don’t think he did either. Finally, we accidentally turned at the same time, facing each other, about an inch apart. I put my hands on his smooth chest, rippled with small flat muscles. He slid out from under me and started to stroke my back, kissing it at the very bottom.

  “You have the loveliest coccygeal vertebrae I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s this little bit at the very bottom of your spine. It’s perfect.”

  He kissed it gently, covered me up, and lay back. He took my hand and wound his fingers through it. We just lay there for a long time. Later, he turned to me.

  “I just want you to know I don’t do this at every convention. I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. Have you?”

  “You mean with a snake-handler?” I said. He laughed and kissed me. “God, every time you kiss me I forget what time it is. What time is it?”

  “Ten-fifteen,” he said. “I guess I should get moving.” He got up.

  While he took a shower, I kept telling myself, “Flings are short, that’s the point,” but I had that tiny little pain just under my breastbone. I looked over at the room service leftovers we had ordered at one a.m. and reached for my purse. I pulled out a stack of lime green Tupperware “minis” and put the cheese, the rolls, and two shrimp away for later. Those shrimp were about five dollars apiece, and the room was freezing, so I was sure they’d be fine. Mrs. Barsky’s papers weren’t in my purse—I must have put them in my carry-on. Roger emerged from the bathroom, dressed, and drying his hair.

  “What airline?” I asked.

  “American.”

  “They’ll hold your seat until fifteen minutes before—they don’t tell you that, but they don’t want to lose a business customer.”

  Roger put on his belt. “You seem to be a hell of a travel agent, I have to say.”

  “I try.”

  “I’d definitely use you,” he said. “Oh God, that sounds awful. Look, I’m not usually this spontaneous. I like to think I am, but I’m not.”

  “You look a little pale,” I said. “Do you want an aspirin?”

  He smiled. “No thanks. I actually try not to take any drugs if I can help it.”

  “Aspirin’s not a drug, it’s more of a condiment,” I said, popping a couple myself. We’d had a lot of wine.

  He turned me toward him. “Look, Cyd, what I’ve been trying to say all morning is that I’ll never forget this. This night with you.” God, that sounded final.

  “Me neither,” I said. “Do you want my card?”

  “Of course,” he said. We exchanged numbers then he grabbed me and kissed me.

  “Well, if you ever fancy a trip to Africa, give me a call.” I was shooting for levity, which was hard when I could barely breathe.

  “I will,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  And he left. I got on my tiptoes and watched him through the peephole. He hesitated at the elevator, but then it dinged and he disappeared.

  I finished packing and looked for Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx package. I finally found it under the bed. As I was grabbing my last free toiletries, my phone beeped. I hoped it was Roger.

  It was the morgue.

  Chapter Nine

  “Cyd? It’s Paglia. The Barsky broad? Murdered.”

  I sank to the bed. I was not going to faint twice in one weekend, dammit.

  My pal the medical examiner took my silence for the WTF it was. “It’s her. Believe me, the Precinct thought I was drunk too. Definite homicide.”

  “What kind of homicide?”

  “Poisoned. I’ll know more when the lab work comes back.”

  “Poisoned? Holy crap. Does Joni know?”

  “Your cousin Frank said he’d let her know. Anything else?”

  “Just call me when you have more info. I owe you one. Which casino do you want this time? I’m at the Taj now. Don’t tell anybody. Seriously.”

  “Gotcha. How is it?”

  “Full of snakes. I’ll book it now.”

  Who would murder Mrs. Barsky? Had she been right all along? Had the government actually considered her “a threat to our way of life”? Had the cops
searched the store yet? Did it have anything to do with our break-in? I didn’t think kids would kill her, but it was a pretty big coincidence that Mrs. Barsky and the parrot had died on the same day. Did the police realize the papers I’d lifted were missing? They might be evidence. And what did they mean, anyway? I remembered the CITES booth downstairs in the Herp Expo and threw my stuff together. But by the time I had steeled myself to reenter the reptile ballroom, there was nothing left but dollies, takeout containers, and the mouse freezer. Damn. I needed to get back to the office. I’d look it up then. I couldn’t face opening my e-mails on a tiny screen right at that moment, so I headed for the car.

  As I took Exit 38 for the Garden State, I put in my Swahili tape and tried to think about how cute Roger would look in cargo shorts, but the image of Mrs. Barsky, cold and wigless on the floor, was the only thing I saw.

  Two hours later, the bridge was in my sights, and ten minutes after that, I was back at my desk. I had a half hour before I was due for our mandatory Redondo Sunday supper and there was no caution tape around Mrs. Barsky’s store. Yet.

  Jimmy still hadn’t put back the pet store keys, so I had to break in again. As I reached through the mail slot, I went cold. It was too quiet. I opened the door. The animals were gone. Just empty cages and a few feathers, and bird seed pellets on the floor. I hoped the birds and puppies were safe somewhere.

  The old-fashioned cash register was open and the filing cabinets were empty, but there was no sign of a break-in; Joni must have cleaned them out. I headed upstairs to Mrs. B’s apartment. Her drawers and closets were empty, but her lime green chenille bedspread was still there. I sank down on her bed and tried to process the fact that the apartment was mine.

  My phone rang again. Not Roger. It was We Find Anyone, asking if I’d gotten their e-mail about Bobby’s Barsky’s last known address? It was in Tanzania—in downtown Dar es Salaam. Had the weird FedEx been from Bobby? And was he still in Tanzania? Now I had an even better reason to win my trip. I could look after my clients, find Bobby Barsky, and have the first real vacation of my life. It was fate. Mrs. Barsky’s cuckoo clock startled me out of my daze. I had five minutes to get to family dinner.

  The house, as usual, was ablaze. It was three stories of red brick on a long narrow lot, surrounded by the topiary that had been my mother’s hobby during menopause. I guess she had to slice something up. There was a glassed-in sunroom on the left side and a bay window on the right, separated by an oak door heavy enough to withstand continuous brousin slamming. My tiny attic window was like an exclamation point at the top of the A-line roof. Jimmy had most likely grassed me. I felt nauseous. It didn’t matter. Avoiding Sunday night supper would just make it worse.

  I opened the door and was immediately assaulted by two of my nephews. Louie and David were twin boys of six and usually showed their affection by some form of warfare. I had taught them they could only throw things that wouldn’t stain. As long as they didn’t leave bruises, I let them have their fun.

  I was shaking the almonds off my coat when Uncle Leon grabbed me. He always tried to pick me up, but now that he was sixty-eight, it usually didn’t work. I had learned to brace myself against furniture and push off. It made him feel better, though I usually pulled something.

  Leon was the uncle who looked most like my dad, so I had a soft spot for him. He was a taxidermist—the artistic one in the family. He consulted for the Museum of Natural History and took me behind the scenes when I was a kid. There’s a picture somewhere of me at six in a diorama, hugging Neanderthal Man.

  Uncle Leon gestured toward the kitchen. “Everyone’s in there. Big powwow.”

  “About what?”

  “About you,” he said, winking and headed down the hall. Oh God, they knew about Atlantic City.

  “Uncle Leon, wait.”

  “I’m going to watch that Rachel Maddow. Smart is the new sexy.” He disappeared into the den. Just as I turned, Uncle Ray stuck his head out.

  “Hi,” I said, as casually as possible.

  “Everyone’s in here. Come on, I need to talk to you.”

  I moved down the long hallway, past the dining room on the right. The red flocked wallpaper and massive sideboard seemed more ominous than usual and someone had done my job—the silverware. This was going to be bad. I moved to the swinging door outside the kitchen, breathed, and pushed.

  There was a huge roar and I walked into a bright orange banner with “CONGRATULATIONS CYD !!!!” across it. The whole family was clapping like crazy.

  “What?” I said. “What?”

  Uncle Ray put his arm around me. “You did it. You sold sixteen Tanzania trips. You’re the Queen of Redondo Travel. The tour company is thrilled. I’m proud of you.”

  “But I only had nine. What happened?”

  “You got the rest of the Gray Panthers. I ran into Dorothy at Mass. I guess they read something dodgy on the Internet about Peggy Newsome, so they switched over from her Barbados package for their spring trip.”

  I owed my computer-hacking guy a bottle of single malt.

  “I can’t believe it. I’m finally going somewhere. Oh, my God.” No one was smiling. “What?”

  “We’ll talk about it over dinner. Come on, everyone’s hungry.” My stomach fell to my knees. I didn’t grow up in this house for nothing. I turned to my mother who was busying herself with the gnocchi. I watched as she moved around the kitchen, pale as nonfat milk, her long strawberry blond hair flecked with gray and swinging in a braid down her back. Everything about my mother was long: her hair, her feet, her suffering, her name: Mary Bridget Colleen Colleary Redondo. She wouldn’t meet my eye as we moved to the dining room.

  “To Cyd,” Uncle Ray said, raising his glass. “Our favorite girl.”

  “To Cyd!” everyone said, and drank.

  “To Cyd,” my Uncle Ray continued, “who always puts the family and business first. To Cyd, who never lets us down.” Everyone clapped. They’d now clapped twice. “Isn’t she the best? When she cashes in her trip, we can afford to upgrade our computer system.” More applause, then everyone started to pass the antipasto. Just like that. I looked at their faces. They’d all discussed this and agreed. I was never getting out of there. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. Everyone froze. People knew better than to disturb us during Sunday dinner. My mother headed to the door.

  “How’s Debbie?” Jimmy asked.

  “Pissed off,” I said, biting into a breadstick. Then I heard a voice in the hall. A male voice. And before I could stop her, my mother arrived at the table with…Roger.

  Chapter Ten

  He was holding a bunch of lilies. For just a second, I forgot about my family. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and my womb. In the opposite order.

  “You didn’t fly home,” I said.

  My mother cleared her throat. “Everyone, this is Roger. He’s here to see our Cyd.” Except for the sound of my uncle putting down a serving spoon too hard, there was complete silence. Uncle Ray rose to his full height. I was so dead. Then he held out his hand instead of throwing a punch.

  “Ray Redondo. I’m Cyd’s uncle and guardian and this is her family. What can we do for you?”

  “Roger Claymore. Very pleased to meet you. I’m so sorry to have disturbed your dinner. I just wanted to bring these to Cyd.” He turned to me. “I didn’t realize you lived with your family. I’ll come back later? Or see you tomorrow?”

  My brousin Eddie, six-foot two and two feet wide, jumped up.

  “No way. Eddie Redondo. Cyd’s cousin. Nice to meet you. Why don’t you stay? Any friend of Cyd’s is a friend of ours.” He brought in one of the chairs from the hall and put it between him and Uncle Ray. Roger squeezed in, while my mother brought another place setting. Louie threw an olive at Roger, hitting him in the forehead.

  “Nice shot.” Roger grinned at my nephew and looked at the mountain
s of sausages, rigatoni, antipasto, and cheese. “Have I interrupted a special occasion?”

  “Not really,” I said. David pelted him with a parmesan ball.

  “So, Roger, how long have you known our Cyd?” Eddie asked. “I don’t think we’ve heard about you yet.”

  “Yeah, where did you guys meet?” Jimmy said. I would have kicked him, but he was too far away.

  “This weekend,” Roger said as everyone leaned in. “In Atlantic City.”

  I think I actually squeaked. The entire table swiveled in my direction. My Aunt Helen yelled “Not again,” made the sign of the cross, and sucked down the rest of her Chianti.

  “Atlantic City?” Uncle Ray said. “Well, Cyd, you haven’t been there in a while.”

  The last time I’d gone to a convention in Atlantic City, I’d made a small mistake—I’d gotten married. I was twenty-nine at the time. It happens. The family tried to get it annulled, but I refused: I was in love. When we moved into a duplex three blocks over, my uncle gave me a list of everything that would go wrong in the next six months. Every single thing he’d said came true. After that, my family was even more determined to keep me at home and I’d been brokenhearted enough to stay.

  “So,” said Uncle Ray, “Sin City.”

  “NACTA Convention at the Taj. Didn’t Jimmy tell you? It’s far and away the best place to keep informed,” I said.

  “I bet,” Jimmy said. “You look informed.” He and Eddie shared a look.

  “So Roger,” Uncle Ray said, “are you in the business too?”

  “Oh no, I’m a chiropractor.”

  “And where are you from?” my mother asked. Everyone’s forks stopped. She rarely made herself heard in this family.

  “San Francisco,” he said. “I grew up just north of the city.”

  “Earthquakes,” she said in an aside to me.

  Roger took a bite of eggplant, oblivious. “This is absolutely delicious. It’s very kind of you to include me. It must be great to have big family dinners like this.”