“Chase didn’t fuck me,” Grace said, unattached, unemotional. Heather choked on her wine. The primary question that clung to her lips and refused to spill out, answered. She didn’t want to believe it. It was too easy.
“Believe me, I tried,” Grace added as the goblet made its way back to her upturned, ruby lips. They looked bloody, desirous.
“I want to say I don’t believe you. And you’re a bitch, but I won’t. I believe you.” Heather thought that if she said it, it would be tangible, plausible. Something nagged in the back of her—
“I knew Chase before the two of you— No, you met years ago, but it went nowhere. I knew Chase before you finally kissed him. May I ask what took you six years?”
Heather gawked. “How do you know that? He tell you—”
“Call it woman’s intuition,” Grace smirked. Heather recomposed herself as she fixed on the painting behind Grace.
“Whore,” Heather remarked. The concrete foundation of Grace’s demeanor cracked.
“Beg your pardon?”
“The Whore of Babylon. William Blake,” she pointed. “Is it the original?”
Grace refilled Heather’s glass. “It is. Eighteen-Oh-Nine. It was a gift to my thrice great-grandmother.”
“I can see the resemblance,” Heather quipped. She eased back into her seat from the daggers of Grace’s eyes.
“Did you summon this conference just to insult me? I have much more important tasks to attend to than this,” Grace said as she stood.
“No, please, sit. I’m sorry. I do have some real questions for you. You didn’t sleep with Chase, fine. Accepted.”
With feline fluidity, Grace resumed her place. Heather thought she heard a purr.
Fucking wine.
“Thank you,” she began. “My second question, considering you answered my first, why did you call my phone two months ago?”
“Accident. I needed to speak with your former beau. About another chance at an exhibit. You also had something I’ve been wanting for quite some time.”
“That!” Heather snapped up. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Intuition,” Grace smiled.
“Bullshit!” Heather shot to her feet and glowered at the buxom redhead. She couldn’t help but stare into what seemed like a bottomless abyss between her breasts. “Intuition does not see me standing in a dark alley, holding his fucking garbage painting!”
“Garbage? My word! Do you have any grasp behind the inspiration, the genius of his work?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Heather sniped. “How did you know—”
“Intuition.”
“Fuck you! Are you following me? Did you send someone to watch me?”
Grace leaned back in her seat and sipped. A long, pleased breath pushed out through pursed lips. It looked as though she were kissing an apparition.
“My dear, Heather. You are nothing. Why in the world would I care what you do sifting through the waste bins of a dark alley unless you had something I wanted? Should I ask why were you there in the first place? You don’t seem the destitute type.”
Heather shuddered. The wine and medication failed. As usual. Emotion bled its way past her eyelids. She greedily wiped it away.
“Who the fuck are you Grace? Why are you doing this to us?”
“I apologize if I have caused you any discomfort, my dear. But there is no attempt to do anything to you or your lost beloved. I am a businesswoman. Chase is a product I wish to utilize for my benefit. I was unaware of your separation when I called.”
“Bullshit! You knew! You fucking knew!” Spittle flew from Heather’s taut lips. She made no attempt to extinguish her rage. “You tried to fuck him! You admitted it! Is this one of your sick games to get revenge because you didn’t get what you wanted?”
“My dear,” Grace purred, “I always get what I want.”
“Misa’s dead,” Heather said as she peered deeply into Grace. Her lip twitched when she thought she watched Grace fight back a grin. Heat wafted from her chest as she breathed deep. Silence blanketed the gallery in an eerie hush. Fingers danced as Heather awaited a response.
“Already? Pity. Though quick-witted, she was a slow learner.”
Vertigo swept through Heather as she leaned into the seat. Hands gripped the armrests tightly.
“She probably wouldn’t have provided any additional information for you anyway. He never did return to her, despite what you think.”
Heather gawped.
“You came for answers. If only you remembered the questions you rehearsed on the way here, perhaps you would have been satisfied,” Grace said. Heather didn’t respond. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she formulated more questions. Grace stepped to the bar behind her desk. Crouching down, she removed a small bottle of water. Upon her offer, Heather greedily took it.
“Now, dear. Better?”
Breath filled Heather’s lungs as she finished her drink. Grace was cordial, considerate if not so much of a bitch. Thoughts and scenarios swirled throughout her consciousness as she lost track of her next query.
“I— I have to go. I’m sorry I bothered you,” Heather said as she stomped away.
Answers. She wanted answers. Answers to the questions she didn’t want to ask. Why did Chase turn? What stakes did Grace have? Why did she call Heather? Why did she point to Misa?
“Intuition,” she muttered.
Grace didn’t fuck him. Maybe. Was that what this little game was all about? Wanting to see the “competition?”
Intuition. Grace used Chase. Chase who had been broken, cast-off and hurt by others throughout his life. He had something she wanted.
Bullshit. Intuition does not call late at night, asking to bring an item clearly discarded in a dark alley, in a different borough of the city. Intuition does not—
Heather’s head swirled and reeled her sideways. She knocked into the same impaled statue as before and shrieked. The strap of her purse caught one of the pikes and tore free from her shoulder. She wanted to see Seabrook. Even in his ineptitude, she needed to see him. Get that Goddamned script for Xanax. If only Gretchen hadn’t slit her wrists in his office, maybe he would be able to continue seeing patients instead of answering questions from the police.
A vice tightened her chest as she considered the man that always waited in the lobby. The man that was on the train.
“Heather, dear,” Grace summoned. Heather whirled around and watched Grace gently brush the back of her hand down the translucent door of her office, legs crossed, insatiably commanding.
“In case you were wondering. He was here last night. And he is more broken than when you discarded him.”
Eyes widened, teeth clenched, as well as fists.
“Whore! There’s a special place in hell for sluts like you!” Heather wept as she slipped out of the gallery.
“I certainly hope so,” Grace smiled. “Give Mr. Baggio my regards.”
II
The trees along Ocean and Coney Island Avenues teased their intent as the Autumnal hues of early October ushered in the change of seasons. The cabaret tables had been stored away a mere two weeks ago as the summer crowds had diminished with the new school year. It was a pleasant time of year for Heather as she always loved the minute changes in the weather. Warm days and cooler nights made being outside more comfortable as the sun would say its daily farewell earlier and earlier.
The Java Joint bustled with its usual excitement as commuters stopped in for their evening pick-me-ups before heading home. A handful of fresh faces ambled about the espresso machines and percolators, much more attentive of their positions than their predecessors. Heather inhaled deep her dark roast cappuccino before she sipped. Someone finally got her order right.
“This is nice,” Beatrice said as she rested her mug on the table. The two of them sat in the far corner, away from the lines, away from the noise. It was an evening of quiet respite. A much-needed break from the toils of everyday life. Casey, Beatrice’s hus
band nagged her for the last couple of weeks to spend some time with her friends. Being a Freemason, she knew his push came from his own desires to be out with his Brethren. She allowed it.
Other than the welcoming pleasantries when Heather arrived, they mostly sat in silence. It wasn’t that neither one had anything to say. It was their lifelong bond of just needing to be
“So, you know how I copied a few numbers from Chase’s phone?” Heather said. Beatrice rolled her eyes and sighed. It was expected. Beatrice had grown long tired of the references. They had been separated for almost a year, though Beatrice tolerated it, she was growing weary of the topic.
“I really don’t understand how you just can’t move on. I mean, really. Why are you so mentally attached to this guy? He was Okay at first, but, holy shit did he turn!”
Heather flopped back into the cushioned bench. A finger swirled around the rim of the steamy mug. The delectable aroma wafted between them.
“I loved him. I still do.”
“But—”
“He was the one.”
“Apparently he wasn’t.”
“I’m not looking to get back together with him,” Heather drifted off. Her heart thumped, and her hands trembled ever so slightly. She slid her fingers under her thighs and looked away.
“I need closure. That’s all.”
“Why?”
Heather leaned forward and considered Beatrice.
“I broke up with him, right? After almost three years. We were perfect once. Happy. Sex more than most after they’ve been together—”
“Alright with the sex. Move on,” Beatrice waved.
“Sorry. But where did things go wrong? Was it something I said? Something I did?”
“Sweetheart, you’re not perfect. Not even fucking close. But listen to me, you didn’t do anything wrong. He did. You hear me?”
The warm delight of cappuccino slid down Heather’s throat and she exhaled.
“I called his ex-girlfriend,” Heather said and sipped her coffee.
“You what? Who? Why?”
“I told you, I need to know why the hell he became this— that person.”
“And what would you find out by calling his ex-girlfriend? She’s his ex!”
“Excuse me.”
Heather turned and noticed the café manager staring in their direction.
“Is everything all right back there?” he said. Heather smiled as Beatrice waved him off.
“I don’t know. Someone told me I should call her,” Heather said, lowering her voice.
“Who?” Beatrice maintained her volume.
“Grace.”
“Grace? Who the hell is Grace? The one from the gallery?”
Heather nodded.
“Whatever possessed you to call her?”
Heather smiled apologetically. “I didn’t. She called me. Sort of.”
Beatrice dove into her purse and removed her wallet. She examined the few twenties folded together in the side pouch and counted.
“This wasn’t a night for coffee. Let’s stop at Arnipoor’s and head back to your place. This is going to take a while.”
“No, not tonight. I’ve been—”
She didn’t want to continue to tell her friend that drinking had become part of her everyday life, where an Irish coffee had been enjoyed at nearly every late breakfast.
“My head’s already hurting. I really don’t want to drink,” she said. Beatrice returned the wallet to her purse.
“All right, fine. But explain to me why that bitch called you. Start from the beginning,” Beatrice said.
“I was standing in the alley behind Chase’s apart—”
“Oh, my God, Heather. What were you doing there?”
“I got lost. It was that night on the train when—
“My head was spinning that night. I got off at the wrong stop and found myself by his apartment. And, I don’t know, something just made me walk back there. That’s when she called.”
“Okay, Okay, none of this makes any sense, but go on. I want to know where this is going,” Beatrice said.
“Anyway, I just walked back there. I had no idea what I was doing, and she called. For him. But on my phone.”
Beatrice gawked. “Why? What did she want?”
“Him. I think. Then she asked for the painting I was holding.”
“Whoa, wait. What painting? You went upstairs?”
“No, no. It was in the dumpster. Well, under it.”
“Oh, my God. Are you dumpster diving at your ex-boyfriend’s? You need some help. Seriously.”
“Um, ew. I was not dumpster diving.” Heather wiggled her fingers in air-quotes. “I just found it lying there. I was curious and picked it up. Somehow, she knew I was there. And what I was holding.”
“What did you say? How did she know you were there?” Beatrice said.
“No clue. I told her no, of course. I dropped the painting and screamed at her. I wanted to know how she knew all this.”
“And how does Chase’s ex fit into all this?”
“She told me if I want to know where he was heading, to call Misa.”
“I need a drink. This is too much to take in. I can’t believe you’re doing all this. For what?”
Heather sighed and slouched into her seat. “I’m not going into it again. So, I called Misa. No answer.”
“Okay, that’s good, right?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. A few weeks later, I looked her up on Facebook. She’s there. He’s not. Anyway, she’s dead.”
“What?” Beatrice escalated, which brought the manager stepping to their table.
“Ladies, I’m sorry, but if you can’t keep it down—”
“I’m sorry, sir. But this conversation just took a different direction. I’ll try to keep it down,” Beatrice said. He nodded and stepped away.
“She’s dead?” Beatrice whispered. Heather nodded.
“Yep. Trolling her feeds, she should have kept it private, and yeah, message after message of upset friends. The one asshole that posted it before anyone else knew asked people to call her father to find out the particulars.”
“What a dick,” Beatrice scoffed.
“Anyway, I have no idea what I was supposed to find out there.”
Beatrice leaned forward. “Wait a minute. You said Grace told you to call Misa. You did. But a few weeks later. When did she die? How?”
“A month or so later. Car accident. If I called when she told me, maybe I would’ve spoken to her before. Now let me ask you; forget the weird way Grace knew where I was and what I was doing, what the hell am I supposed to glean from all this?”
Heather swept her hands outwards as her eyes reddened. Beatrice took Heather’s grip and squeezed tight.
“I don’t know, sweetie. But if I were you, I’d leave this alone, don’t look into it anymore and just move on. This isn’t going to end well if you keep going with this. Please.”
Heather allowed the emotion to fall from her eyes.
III
The diffused sunlight filtered through the ancient slats of the window shutters, casting horizontal shadows across the vertically aligned tomes stuffed throughout the bookshelves. Particles of dust drifted lackadaisically through the rays, micro-spirits as Ruben referred, searching for other souls in need. The oiled, oaken walls sealed the cozy space in a peace not as easily sensed throughout the rest of the sanctuary, save for the altar. If not for the omniscient scents of incense and regret, one might shudder at the imbedded whiff of nicotine.
Rueben mashed another butt into the overcrowded, tawny ashtray and sent a puff of gray ash over the side. He swiped at the desk blotter beneath and snarled at the blackish streak left in his palm’s wake. A rap at the door furrowed his brow.
“Come in.”
Tarnished brass hinges groaned as the hefty door eased open. A genuine smile pulled Ruben’s tight. His salt and pepper goatee outlined the creases around his mouth and scrunched the crow’s feet about his hooded eyes. A f
inger made its way into the collar and swept through. The white plastic insert remained as he tugged at the top button beneath. He had noticed the additional pounds throughout the past few years but attributed the snug collar and waistband of his slacks to dryer shrinkage.
He watched the young lady enter his office. Her asymmetrical smile was both pleasant and concerned. Not concerned for him, but herself. Maybe. Ruben hadn’t seen her in a while, a year perhaps, and he noticed the fade of light in her eyes since the last time they saw each other. She began missing Sunday services, drifted away from meetings and functions. It was unusual for her considering she had been a youth group leader since she turned eighteen. She apologized with each distancing visit, insisted that life got in the way and she would make sure she showed up the next time.
“Hi, Father,” she said. Her voice cracked. It wasn’t from sorrow. It was lack of sleep and cigarettes. Ruben suffered the same on too many occasions. He arose from his seat, stepped around the desk and opened his arms.
“Heather,” he beamed. “It’s been too long.”
She accepted his embrace and held on tight. Ruben rubbed her back as he thought he heard the whimper that cracked her pillar.
“Come, sit. Let’s talk,” he said. Though an American citizen for the better part of fifty years, his Mexican accent dominated his words and his Mona Lisa smile hid the horrors he witnessed in as a child. He hoped.
He extended his hand towards the brown leather love seat. He always hated it. From the light absorbing wood-paneled walls, he thought it looked like it was soaked in blood. He dumped the ashtray in the waste bin before he followed her.
“So, what finally brings you by to visit an old man who should have retired a long time ago?” He removed his soft pack from his shirt pocket and offered it to Heather. She accepted, lit and exhaled.
“I really want to quit, you know,” she said. He smiled.
“If you were looking to make a confession, you should have considered Saint Peter’s on Barclay.”
The Estranged Page 7