by Terri Kraus
Twenty minutes early. Time to review the résumé.
She slipped it out of the leather folder and tried to stare at the words, tried to memorize the dates and accomplishments, in case someone inside the brick building quizzed her on the specifics. She had read recently—perhaps it had been in the career section of the Pittsburgh paper—that every job candidate had to know exactly what was on his or her résumé, backward and forward. “If you don’t know it, what does that say about the quality of your work?”
She tried to read the words, but as soon as she tried to focus, the words began to swim on the page—not a lot, but they grew quivery and liquid. She shut her eyes and tried to take deep breaths, the classic response to the beginning of the familiar rising panic. She tried to remember what her yoga instructor had said. “Calm yourself. Stay centered. Take deep cleansing breaths while you keep your eyes closed. Concentrate on a peaceful image.”
None of it ever seemed to work all that well.
Leslie simply shut her eyes, breathed, and prayed that this was simply a small shower of panic, not a deluge. She had no way of deciphering the severity at the outset of the event.
Not today. Not now.
If it happened now …
She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes.
It might pass.
It might not, just as easily. Her breaths grew shallower and faster. She felt the clamminess on her palms and her chest began to tighten.
No. Not here. Please, God, not now.
It was a familiar plea. It was a familiar prayer.
She jammed her eyes shut as tight as she could and imagined the panic in her palms, then unclenched her palms to keep the emotions under control and push the panic away.
It did not work. It had never worked, really. All of the self-help plans and advice had never done much good. Panic would flood her being, fill her to the core, and do with her what it would.
She managed to open her eyes to look at her watch. Five minutes left. She tried to reach for the leather folder to put her résumé away, but her arm wouldn’t respond. All that she heard, all that she could hear, was a voice from somewhere inside yelling, pleading, screaming: Get out of here! Get out of here! Get out. Get out.
She could barely move her arm to find her keys. She turned them in the ignition. She knew she had to start the car. Her heart was beating fast, ready to leap from her chest, ready to burst from the pressure. Her vision clouded with an angry, dark fog. She jammed the minivan into reverse, and with as much control as she could possibly muster, edged back out of the parking lot. She drove back through the wrought-iron gates and back up the steep hill that led to Butler and back home, all the while, repeating, almost chanting, Dear God, dear God, dear God.…
She parked the minivan at an awkward angle to the street, not far away enough to cause suspicion, but as close as she could. She bolted up the steps, slammed open the apartment door, and leaned back against it when it snapped shut. Trembling, she forced herself to the phone in the kitchen. She dialed the number. She prayed she would sound less frantic than she felt.
“I have an interview at 9:00 with Mr. Lytwak. My daughter’s school called and said that she had … been hurt on the playground. It’s not serious, but I have … have to take her home for the day. Would it be possible to reschedule the interview for tomorrow at the same time?”
She shut her eyes as she waited.
“Oh.”
She listened.
“I understand. I understand. Maybe … maybe I could call him tomorrow? Maybe?”
She listened.
“Okay. I understand. Thank you.”
She hung up the phone, scrabbling at the wall to find purchase, then ran down the hallway, into her bedroom, and slammed her door shut. Throwing herself on the bed, she pulled the pillow tightly over her head, not wanting to scream, not wanting to cry out in fear. She tried to breathe deeply to prevent the tears and the anguish, holding on to the pillowcase so tightly that the fabric almost began to tear.
Why now? Why are they coming back now? If he finds out, he’ll take Ava for sure. He can’t find out. He can’t.
But if I can’t get a job—he will find out. It’s all starting again. Oh, God, it’s starting all over again.
Amelia Westland, age fifteen years
Butler Orphan Asylum
Butler County, Pennsylvania
July 6, 1877
The idea has gotten possession of me to petition the Headmaster for the same manner of assignment as has been given to Julian Beck—not at the livery, of course, for that would be man’s work, but perhaps as a domestic in the home of a Christian family in the town of Butler, so that I can remain nearby Julian. I pray that Mr. Stevens not ask my reason, for I am loathe to say a falsehood to him. Perhaps in that fashion we could continue to see each other on occasion. Meanwhile, my heart dares hope for any small time we may have to further our acquaintance here. I pray it shall come to pass.
Catherine, rather chagrined at my plan, has already begun to grieve my departure, though it is not at all certain as to if and when I shall be placed. She is such a dear. I should sorely miss her as well. I assure her that we will always be as sisters, as lifelong friends.
The LORD hath heard my supplication;
the LORD will receive my prayer.
—Psalm 6:9
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IF SOMEONE ASKED THE CASUAL observer—the average man or woman walking on any sidewalk in town—if Alice and Frank Adams were natives to Butler, odds are that the overwhelming majority would have said, “Absolutely not.”
Perhaps none of them would be able to pinpoint the reason for their response. Perhaps it was Alice’s fashion sense. Eclectic, to be sure, but expensive—or at any rate, exclusive. A style of skirt that never once appeared in any store out at the Butler mall. Her blouse—well, it just looked foreign. Maybe Japanese, maybe some other exotic Far Eastern designer brand that no one in Butler had heard of. And the shoes. Salon shoes, with some elegant-sounding Italian name printed on the inside, no doubt.
And Frank, even though he was most partial to jeans—expensive jeans, the kind you could only find in exclusive, hip, and trendy boutiques in London or New York or Pittsburgh; and even though he wore white shirts—almost always the kind of white shirt that famous people might wear; and even if he had been wearing Levi’s and a T-shirt from Target, he still would have stood out. The shoes—Ermenegildo Zegna—worn without socks, of course. The color of his dark hair, and the cut, were clues. And the highlights. Everyone in Butler knows that most men do not highlight their hair, especially with light chestnut streaks, studied and practiced—almost natural, but not really.
Nothing they wore—or were—was by itself outrageous. But none of their apparel was from anywhere near Butler, either. They were simply cutting-edge stylish.
So when the tall pair entered the Main Street headquarters of the First Bank of Butler, tellers and personal bankers looked up. And while the bank employees didn’t stare, exactly, the pair did garner more attention than the normal, average, everyday customer.
Being handsome, or striking, and not really acknowledging their good looks, added to their image. They stopped at the information desk.
“Who do we talk to concerning a property that you have for sale?” Frank asked.
The clerk, a Ms. Abigail Farkas, perhaps surprised by the question, looked around behind her, at the anonymous desks inhabited by equally anonymous personal bankers, as if one of them were about to raise their hand.
Actually, one of them did raise his hand.
“Lowell,” she said, without much confidence, while pointing to a desk on the other side of the open space. “Lowell … something or other. He handles the commercial real estate for the bank.”
Ms. Farkas scanned the list of employee names as
she ran her finger down the paper. “Lowell … McDowell,” the clerk added. “He does do the commercial real-estate stuff.” She turned around, the other way, looking over her shoulder. “And he’s here today. You’re in luck, I guess.”
Alice and Frank made their way down the long row of identical desks, with identical phones and computer terminals. Lowell stood to greet them and invited them to sit in the two matching identical guest chairs.
“You have an old building for sale. We want to buy it,” Alice stated.
“You do?” Lowell replied, his voice rising in pitch. Lowell was new to the bank, and in his experience, few people—in fact, no people—ever just walked in and so stated their intentions.
“Yes. We do. It’s a funny sort of corner three-flat and large retail space over on Cedar. We saw it before we left for Europe and we want to buy it. It has green balconies that have been screened in. What’s it listed at?”
Alice and Frank sat down in the two matching chairs.
Again, Lowell was surprised. No one jumped to the price so quickly. He knew that he had not shown the building to them, but it was on the multiple listings sheet at one time, so perhaps it had been shown by another realtor in town. Lowell would have asked them, but then the honorable thing to do would be to instruct them that they should deal with the original showing agent if they wanted to buy it. But Lowell didn’t, because unlike most of the other bankers here, he did get a commission on every piece of property that he sold for the bank. It wasn’t as much as he could make as a real real-estate agent, but the bank offered a steadier income, with benefits, which is why Lowell was working for First Bank and not Century 21 or some other local firm.
“Yes … I remember that property …”
And all of a sudden, Lowell’s heart sank, because he remembered that the property had sold several weeks earlier. After sitting on the bank’s open listings for over a year, it had sold for much less than the original asking price, and now here were two customers who probably would have paid the full asking amount, which would have meant a bigger commission.
“But let me make sure …”
Lowell was actually sure—was now positive, in fact—that the closing had gone through without a hitch, but he didn’t want to disappoint this nice, attractive couple. Maybe they would buy something else, some other run-down commercial property that had been sitting vacant for a year or two, and it would make Lowell’s quarterly bonus bigger. That would be a good thing.
“I’m pretty sure it was just sold.”
The couple appeared to deflate, ever so slightly.
“Sold? I knew we should have jumped on it before we left for Europe. I just knew it. Didn’t I say that, Frank?” the woman said.
Lowell realized that he hadn’t introduced himself, nor presented either of them with his business card, nor the specially designed real-estate brochure the bank had produced a few months earlier, the one with Lowell’s picture showing a client in a business suit at a vacant warehouse. Lowell thought it was a pretty good photo of him, even if it had been windy that day and his hair seemed more than a bit mussed.
Lowell pulled out a folder from his desk drawer, flipped it open, and ran his finger down a long numbered list.
“Yes. The property did close … I guess it was nearly a month ago now. A young woman from Greensburg purchased it,” Lowell added, and then wondered if he had said too much. He wasn’t always positive what was a matter of public record and what wasn’t.
Frank leaned forward. He smiled in such a way that Lowell wanted to tell him more.
“Did she rent out the bottom of the building?”
Lowell was now more than flustered. He had no idea. And he had no idea if he had any further information on the building or the new owner, other than that the sale had closed properly, the bank had gotten its money, and Lowell would make his commission.
“I-I don’t know. She didn’t say anything about it. I think she is living there, in one of the apartments upstairs. At least that’s what she told me she was thinking. That was her plan. She had her young daughter with her.”
And again, Lowell remained unsure if the daughter was also a part of the public record or not.
“Well, then, there’s still hope, Alice. If she hasn’t made a deal with anyone, we can still do what we want to do—and we’ll have no mortgage to worry about.”
Alice stood up and smoothed out her Japanese skirt. “Thank you so much, Mr.—”
Lowell handed her a packet of business cards.
“—Mr. McDowell. You have been such a help.”
Alice waited until Frank stood up, then they slowly walked out of the building.
Everyone in the bank did their best to not watch the couple as they went by.
Jack wanted coffee in the worst way but was fairly certain a cup of the brew would roil his stomach in a most wicked manner, so he ordered a large orange juice, without ice, along with two breakfast sandwiches at the drive-thru. It was a practiced meal, one he had downed perhaps a hundred times before—some protein, with enough liquid to offer some hydration. It was easy to eat as well.
He parked on a side street. There were fewer cars here and he would not have to parallel-park, because that would involve him pivoting his head back and forth and he was pretty sure that would bring on a ripple of nausea. Pulling to the curb, he slowly ate his breakfast in his truck. He had spent the morning in his apartment, doing his best not to be sick, and had succeeded. A handful of aspirin and two glasses of milk were all he could manage to get down. Now, with the egg sandwiches gone, and the aspirin taking effect, he felt almost normal.
Not normal at all, not really. But not sick, either. Just normal enough to do a little work.
He knew he didn’t have the concentration to handle any complex tasks today—nothing with measuring or cutting or nailing. All of that required a steady hand.
He held his hand out in the cab of the truck. His fingers wavered like a leaf on a windy spring day.
No cutting. No power tools.
He stepped out onto the street and slammed the truck door behind him. He winced at the harsh metallic sound, gritted his teeth, and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He could have simply stayed home. Even Leslie said they were ahead of schedule. And he was—nearly a week ahead of where he had anticipated being. The work had gone smoothly.
He used his key to unlock the door to the first-floor retail space in the building, still empty and almost cavernous. Jack had spent a few weekends hauling away scores of large black contractor trash bags, filled with all manner of flotsam and jetsam, the odd debris empty buildings seem to attract—empty soda cans, wrappers from fast-food restaurants, old newspapers, empty boxes—nothing of value, but a lot of it.
He was unsure what he might tackle here this afternoon. Whatever it would be would need to be done slowly, gingerly, without any sudden moves, and without making a lot of noise. The tin ceiling needed attention. It was of the original stamped tin-plate squares, probably installed when the building was first built, which made perfect sense to Jack, because tin ceilings had reached the zenith of their popularity in the 1890s, and this building had been completed in 1897.
Jack had bought a fourteen-foot ladder for the job. All that the ceiling job entailed was screwing up loose corners. The finishing nails that had been used for repairs were not appropriate for the installation, and each of them had worked free from the ceiling over time. Jack selected three-inch stainless steel screws that would match the tin’s appearance and hold tight for decades and never rust.
Working on the ceiling meant working above his head, which meant some internal pounding, just inside his temples, but it was bearable. The only noise he would have to endure was the quiet whirr of the cordless drill and the tinny squeal of the screw grabbing into the wood backing of the tin. He climbed the ladder slowly, as if h
e were climbing into a strong headwind, and his movements were exactingly deliberate, like a man nursing a critical headache.
If Leslie comes down, I’ll just tell her I didn’t feel up to working upstairs. I’m sure she won’t give it a second thought.
Frank and Alice Adams pressed their attractive, tanned faces against the windows on the west side of the Midlands building.
“This would be absolutely perfect. Close to Main Street, but not right downtown. Parking wouldn’t be a problem.”
Alice stepped back on the wide sidewalk and looked up at the apartments on the second floor of the Midlands Building.
“What about zoning?” Frank asked.
She shook her head, indicating it was of no concern. “If the space was zoned retail once, that property almost always remains zoned retail. Grandfathered in. Unless there was an uprising among the neighbors. Or a massive neighborhood rezoning. And I cannot imagine either of those events occurring in Butler.”
Frank stepped back from the glass. He watched Alice walk toward the main entrance, knowing her mind was working—redesigning, repainting, reconfiguring the old building on the corner, imagining how she might make it renewed and current and upscale and desirable.
“It’s perfect, Frank. The arched windows. The original fireplace. Wonderful brickwork. Solid. But still … a bit quixotic and quirky. Perfect.”
Hitching up his three-hundred-dollar True Religion jeans, Frank walked around the corner. He stopped suddenly. “There’s someone inside. He’s working on the ceiling.”
Alice’s voice dropped and tightened. “If someone else has rented this, I’m going to be so upset. Really, horribly, totally upset. I mean that in the worst way.”
Frank knew that voice and knew the consequences. He walked to the front door, turned the gold signet ring on his right hand ever so slightly, and tapped at the door. He saw the man on the ladder jump and grab onto to the rungs, as if the sharp rapping had interrupted his balance.