Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  Richard noted that the man’s smile never wavered. He returned it, leaning in to whisper in Wayne’s ear. “Nerves.”

  The master of ceremonies cocked an eyebrow, then moved backward into the group, allowing others to step forward.

  Richard shook hands, surreptitiously making his way to the far doors. Charles Bernard stood at the fringe of the crowd, waiting. With a small hand gesture, Richard let him know that he’d be right back.

  God damn hangers-on, Richard thought, attempting a graceful exit. “Thank you,” he said to an older fellow with cold wrinkled hands who’d just spoken to him. “I have been quite impressed with the soup kitchen project.”

  “Soup kitchen? I said, ‘Stadium renovation.’”

  Inching sideways, Richard grimaced at his mistake, “Beg your pardon, but I need to see someone. . . .”

  Furrowing his brow, the older man stepped aside and muttered to himself. Richard spied his assistant, Patty. He gestured her over, telling her to take down the old guy’s phone number so he could get back to him about the stadium. You never knew how much power some of these elderly folks could wield.

  Pushing open the double doors with both hands, Richard felt better as the fresher, cooler air from the less-crowded hall met him, causing a breeze on his face. The press of the hot bodies, their eager warm breaths mingling as they all tried to come over to make his acquaintance caused droplets of perspiration to form on his face, under his arms, and around his waist. Richard prided himself on maintaining his composure, but the short hair framing his forehead began to curl from the sweat, a sure sign of his uneasiness.

  Stragglers in the entryway, nursing their watered-down cocktails, looked up at his entrance, some moving forward, then returning to muted conversations as Richard strode through to the outside doors and the parking lot beyond.

  Slamming the glass door open with his right hand, his left pulled the phone up and flipped it open in a swift, angry gesture. He looked around to ensure he was alone as he hit the speed dial command.

  Timothy answered before the ring registered on Richard’s phone.

  “Got a problem,” he said.

  “Yeah. So I gathered. What is it?”

  “You had a coupla visitors,” Timothy drew out the last word in emphasis. “One of ‘em is still here. The other one left early. Took off with the ladies.”

  Richard, about to lean his back end against a nearby pillar, stopped and straightened as he processed the information. Timothy stayed silent. Richard cleared his throat. “Who?”

  “Don’t know, boss. Never seen this guy before. And the other one, I didn’t get a good look at.”

  Pacing, rubbing his fingers against his left temple, Richard fought the urge to slam the phone to the ground. “How?”

  Gina pushed open the glass door and stood with her hand on her left hip. “There you are,” she said, the shrill of her voice loud in the quiet night. “What was that in there anyway?”

  “Gina, not now.”

  “Whaddya mean not now? You come off the stage and don’t even give your wife the time of day? What’s up with that?”

  Richard’s index finger flipped up. “Gina,” he said, not bothering to mask the anger in his voice, “I said, ‘not now.’ Now get your fat ass back in there and stall for me. Do you understand?”

  Gina’s chin came up in defiance, but her hand dropped to her side. “Fine,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, staring at him, “but you need to start remembering what’s important.” She turned with a flounce.

  Richard massaged his eyes; he knew very well what was important. His head pounded with questions, with rage. In the distance he heard fire sirens racing to some other emergency, their eerie noises compounding the pain in his brain. “The visitor you’ve still got there,” he said, resuming his conversation with Timothy, his voice tight, “see if he’ll tell us who he’s working for.” Could he have been set up? Only Charles Bernard knew he had the drawing. Knew it as of this afternoon, and knew he’d be here tonight.

  The sirens’ wails obscured Timothy’s answer.

  Bernard came out the front doors just then. “Problem?”

  “Take care of things. I’ll be there when I can,” Richard said, as he snapped the phone shut. He looked at Bernard, taking him in from head to toe. “No, not at all,” he said, pasting a smile on his face. “Why ever would you think so?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  She’d taken forever to fall asleep last night. Annie thought about that as she walked softly down the stairs in the morning, determined not to wake him. Being in the same house with Sam, knowing he was there, had been . . . difficult. While there was a certain pleasant tension knowing that he was in his bed not thirty steps away, that pleasant tension was exactly what kept sleep at bay. She’d had the foresight to pack an alarm clock and she’d watched the green numbers glow, changing ever so slowly as the night stretched into morning.

  A tiny part of her brain wondered, as she watched the digits change, if Sam would make some overture. She tossed and turned, knowing in her heart that he would not. She was vulnerable right now; they both knew it. There was no way Sam would take advantage of that. He was too wonderful of a guy. Too decent.

  And yet, part of her felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d played so many different scenarios in her mind, trying to decide how they would get together, but she knew that when he’d used the word “friends” he might have meant just that. Only that.

  “How did you sleep?”

  Surprised to see Sam up so early, Annie gave a start. Wearing a black university T-shirt and blue jeans, he sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, holding a mug of coffee in his right hand. She could see the steam twisting upward and caught the smell of the brew as she moved farther into the kitchen. With his left ankle supported by his right knee, and a slow smile spreading across his face, he came across as the picture of relaxation. “It’s still dark out,” she said. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Same thing you are. Trying to be the first one up.”

  She noticed that his combed-back hair was wet. “I didn’t hear your shower.”

  “I heard yours. You want some coffee?”

  She gave a self-conscious smile. “I got it,” she said, moving to the center of the kitchen’s work area. The dishwasher hummed. All the dirty dishes from the night before were gone. The counter sparkled. Guessing, she opened the cabinet above the coffee maker and found several mugs. Choosing one, she poured herself a cup and opened the refrigerator.

  “You have cream,” she said, pulling out a container of half and half.

  “Uh huh, you want milk instead?”

  “No, not at all,” Annie said, “it’s just that no one else usually keeps cream at home except me.”

  “Got used to it at the restaurant,” he said with a shrug. “So I make sure I keep some at home now too.”

  As Annie turned, she glanced out the window over the sink. It was early, very early, not even six o’clock. The skies were dark, but the promise of sunlight in the eastern clouds made her smile. The warm overhead lights of the room and the darkness outside gave the home a coziness she hadn’t anticipated. Sam had his back to her, and she took a moment to watch him.

  What was it about him that she found so attractive? He was handsome, sure, but not in the classic sense. He probably wouldn’t ever be asked to be a male model, nor the next James Bond, but something about him, his wonderful smile, his gorgeous eyes, something did it for her. When they were together she couldn’t keep from trying to memorize his face. He had tiny wrinkles near his eyes and around his mouth that deepened when he looked at her, little lines that let her know this was a face that liked to smile.

  Sam, sitting at the head of the table, folded his newspaper and turned to see Annie watching him.

  Startled, she moved toward the coffee pot, “Want me to warm you up?” then nearly bit her tongue, worried at how her words sounded.

  “Sure,” he said, draining his mug befo
re she refilled it. If he noticed her slipup, he was too much of a gentleman to react. “Thanks.”

  Annie took a seat, holding her mug in both hands. Sam took a drink from his. They looked at each other.

  “Well,” Annie said, not knowing what to say. For half a moment she imagined what it would be like to be with Sam, to share his life. In this quiet morning atmosphere, she could almost pretend it was real. She smiled, trying to banish the thoughts, worried that they’d somehow broadcast themselves on her face. He was a treasure. One that she wanted to keep forever.

  Sam sat back. “The mural’s really shaping up.”

  “You think so?”

  “I had four people ask for your card this week alone.”

  “Really?” Annie’s voice rose in excitement. She’d heard from two potential clients since the mural had begun, but so far no definite jobs.

  “Four. And a lot more people admiring it, asking who the artist is.” Sam got up and walked into the little alcove that jutted outward from the dining area of the kitchen. Two windows flanked the back door. He twisted the mini-blinds open and stood there, staring outward for a moment. He pointed downward, “Hey, looks like my bunny’s back.”

  Annie stood up and craned her neck to see a small brown rabbit with a white puff on his backside sitting on Sam’s patio, facing away from the sunrise. She moved for a closer look, standing right in front of Sam, near enough to feel warmth emanating from his body. Sleeping next to him would probably be like sleeping next to a furnace.

  Annie shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking things like that.

  “What?” he asked.

  She turned. He was right there. Inches away. Though caught a bit off guard by how close their faces were, she couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to reach up and kiss him right now. She shook her head again. “Nothing.” But she had a peculiar feeling that he’d read her mind.

  Sam nodded, turning away from the window, but his hand grazed the small of her back, just for a second, sending a shiver up her spine. “I’ve got to meet with some produce vendors this morning before I go in. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

  Annie nodded, wishing he’d stay. She cleared her throat. “I just want to thank you again, Sam.”

  He brushed her thanks off with a gesture, “My pleasure.” Rinsing his coffee cup, he headed to the door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll call later to check in, okay?”

  She waited in the front window till his car pulled away, trying not to let him see that she was watching. The house was completely, utterly silent. It was as if its spirit had gone when Sam left.

  Annie headed back into the kitchen. The dishwasher had finished its cycle, so she opened it to dry the glassware and put it away. When she’d finished, it was still before seven. She glanced over at the phone. She didn’t want to call Uncle Lou too early. She’d planned to call him last night, but had forgotten and wanted to let him know where she was, in case he’d tried to reach her.

  Make yourself at home, Sam had said. Annie walked upstairs to the bedroom farthest from Sam’s. Though there were beds in each of the four bedrooms, he’d carried her things up to this room last night. She’d made the bed, wanting to be a tidy guest, although truth be told, she didn’t always do that at home. Thinking it presumptuous to use the drawers, she’d instead folded her clothes and laid them out on top of the dresser, having taken a moment to brush the heavy dust away.

  Wandering back out into the hall, she thought about this man, “her Sam” as she liked to think of him. She moved toward his room and looked in. Actually entering the room seemed to her like an invasion of privacy, so she simply stood in the doorway, wanting to know more about him, looking for clues. His bed was unmade, which made Annie smile. So, she wasn’t the only one. A picture of his son stood on the dresser next to one pile of books. Another pile sat on the nightstand next to a clock radio. He must sleep on the left side of the bed. The right hand nightstand was bare. She wished she could make out some of the titles, she’d like to know what he read, but the distance from the door to the bed made it difficult.

  Annie leaned in the doorjamb and thought about what it might be like to be with him. She laughed then, rubbing her hand over her abdomen. She was a pregnant woman. Pregnant with Gary’s child. What would ever make her believe that Sam would find her attractive? And yet, she knew she felt something when he looked at her.

  Wishful thinking, perhaps.

  * * * * *

  The phone rang four times before he answered.

  “Annie!” Uncle Lou’s voice came over the phone, a mixture of relief and alarm. “Thank God!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think you better come home.”

  Annie looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. “Why? What happened?” And how did he know she wasn’t home?

  The small sounds that came through the receiver led Annie to believe that Uncle Lou was rubbing his hands over his face. His raspy breathing came through with a sonorous rhythm as she imagined him gathering the courage to tell her something terrible. She felt an irrational fear, as if her house had burned down. He said, “Ah . . .” with a reluctant pull to the word. “It might be best if you just come on home. Where are you, anyway?”

  “I’m at . . .” She stopped. How would it sound to tell him that she’d spent the night at Sam’s house without having the chance to explain it? “I’m . . .” She needed to know why her uncle sounded so upset. “Uncle Lou. Tell me what’s happened.”

  She heard him blow a breath out, and she sat down, knowing without knowing how she knew, that she’d need to be sitting to hear this.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, honey,” Uncle Lou said, his voice cracking, “Gary’s dead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Here you go Mrs. Randall,” the officer said.

  Annie didn’t really want the water, but extended her free hand to take the Styrofoam cup from the young man with a murmur of thanks. Her other arm hung tight around her backpack, and her finger traced up and down its side, rubbing over a bump in the fabric over and over. They’d called her Mrs. Randall since she’d walked in the door, despite the fact that she’d introduced herself as Annie Callaghan.

  Gary was dead.

  But he couldn’t be. She’d just seen him. They were together yesterday and he’d been alive. How could it be? Annie couldn’t make herself believe it, and yet when Uncle Lou had come to get her at Sam’s house, his face wore the pained, shocked look of terrible news.

  Annie’s molded plastic chair wobbled when she moved. She found herself trying to sit very still, to keep the metallic legs from tapping on the tile floor of this long narrow hallway. Bricked on both sides and illuminated at either end by tall windows, she felt the warmth of the early afternoon sun as its rays sliced through the skylights above, hitting her square in the face. Other than the chair next to her, occupied by the silent young Officer Schlosser, the hall was vacant.

  She held the backpack protectively to her chest, and stared into the cup of water, wondering why she was here. Soft voices from the rooms she’d been escorted through, reflected against the triangular-shaped windows, only to be absorbed by the brick, distorting their sound, rendering them incomprehensible. Too quiet. Her hand readjusted around the small white cup and she took a sip, wanting to have something to do.

  When they said he’d been killed, she’d immediately assumed a car accident. But Uncle Lou had brought her home, and she’d found her car parked in front of her house, the keys dropped on her kitchen table, no note. Gary had obviously been back since she and Sam left. That put him at her house sometime after three o’clock yesterday. But there was no sign of Pete.

  Uncle Lou could tell her nothing because he knew nothing. Despite connections in the world of news reporting, he’d come up empty.

  But then came the visit to the morgue. Annie had never been there before, and on the drive, Uncle Lou at the wheel, she’d stared out the passenger window, barely registering the outsi
de world as he navigated through the city to Harrison Street. Part of her, a quiet detached fraction of her mind, saw the boarded-up homes and the dirt where grass should be in front lawns and knew that under other circumstances, she’d be fearful right now. This crime-ridden area was one she took pains to avoid. And here they were, hurtling through it, just over the speed limit, without a second thought.

  Once there, they were met by a man in uniform, who took her information, had Annie fill out forms and show her driver’s license, and who then directed them into a waiting room, its cinder block walls painted two bland shades of beige. They sat on the plastic covered orange couch in the corner for a few minutes before a second door, near the back of the room, opened.

  “Mrs. Randall?” A short, bleached-blond woman in a green jumpsuit held open the far door with her back end, motioning them in.

  “Yes,” Annie said, not bothering to mention that she used her maiden name. It didn’t seem to matter one way or another at the moment. She and Uncle Lou got up together, the couch making a squeak as their weight lifted from the hard cushions.

  She didn’t want to walk through that door. Her gut knew what her mind still rebelled against. Like a reluctant child being led to the doctor’s for a shot, she knew that nothing good waited down that corridor. Walking toward the technician in green, she searched for some sign of compassion. There was none. The tech, in paper booties, skooched backward, pushing the door farther into the looming corridor, one hand holding a clipboard, the other gesturing them forward.

  “This way,” she said, glancing up to Annie’s face, not reacting at all to whatever she saw there. She seemed to be making a mental note of them, but without any interest whatsoever. Annie could feel her stomach clench. Her feet still propelled her forward, one in front of the other, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how she wasn’t collapsing. It was unreal.

  The walls down the short corridor, as well as those in the small room ahead, were painted a shade of green that matched the tech’s outfit. Putrid green, Annie thought. Some mishmash of shades that would never be used for painting nature, it had a fake, unpleasant look to it, as though the color were engineered for this purpose alone.