Captain Saturday

by Robert Inman

  “She’s got a lawyer?”

  “In a divorce proceeding…”

  “There’s not going to be a divorce. Two reasonable people can work out their differences without lawyers getting involved.”

  “Will…”

  Will looked back. Morris had stopped. He was standing there, hands on hips, wearing his best professor-with-dull-student demeanor. “Will, I’m telling you…”

  “Later, Morris. Tell me later.”

  He strode briskly on, watching for a taxi, and finally hailed one near the capitol building, driven by a tiny bald-headed man who leaned out the window and yelled, “Yo! Will Baggett! What’s the weather?” The sign attached to his dashboard announced that he was one Arthel Sutley, and he pronounced himself pleased as punch to have a celebrity occupy his cab. He was one of those people who assumed that if you appeared on television, you knew everyone else who appeared on television. He peppered Will with questions about Dan Rather and a woman who had a cooking show on Public TV, but the traffic was fortunately light and it took only a few minutes for the taxi to reach LeGrand and pull into the driveway. The Christian Renovators were gone for the day. It was almost four o’clock.

  Will reached for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He must have failed to take it with him when Morris picked him up. Morris had paid for lunch.

  “I don’t have my wallet,” Will said. “It must be in the house.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Arthel Sutley.

  Will climbed out of the cab, fished in his pocket for his keys, and inserted the house key into the front door. It wouldn’t turn. He tried again. Nothing.

  Arthel Sutley was watching him through the windshield of the cab. The engine was still running. Will shrugged in Sutley’s direction and went around to the back of the house. His key didn’t work in the back door, either. And the Christian Renovators had quite efficiently boarded up their demolition site with big sheets of plywood reinforced by cross-members of two-by-four. He went to the garage for a crowbar and found that it, too, was locked. He tried the garage key. Nothing. His car was in the garage.

  Morris, you sonofabitch. You had me traipsing all over north Wake County with you this morning, hiking and eating barbecue, while Clarice was having the locks changed. You Morris, you sonofabitch, are aiding and abetting my wife in this foolishness.

  He should be truly pissed, he thought, standing there beside the garage with his useless key in the lock. But instead he felt a rush of love for Clarice, an intense and urgent need to protect and comfort, to reassure, to make things once again whole and right. They would go away for awhile, away from lawyers and the rest of the madding crowd. He would take her in his arms and comfort her. He would tell her whatever she wanted to know. What had happened to him, this embarrassing ruckus and this larger thing, this slow shifting of cosmic forces that left them, their marriage, suddenly teetering on the brink of disaster…they would mend and heal. Whatever it took. He could not, would not, lose her. He would fight for her. He would take the first step -- and the last, too, if that’s what it took. Right now, he must see her, touch her.

  He went back to the cab. “I can’t get in the house,” he said. “I can meet you somewhere later with the money.”

  Arthel Sutley shook his head slowly. “Can’t do that. Comp’ny rules.”

  “Look, you know me. You know where to find me. Do you think a celebrity would try to gyp you out of a fare?”

  Sutley turned off the engine. “Yep,” he said, “happened before.” He sat back in the seat, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel as if suspicious that Will might reach in the window and try to wrest it from him.

  Will flapped his arms in frustration. “What do you want?” He reached for his wrist. “My watch?”

  “Cash,” said Sutley.

  “Well, I don’t have any cash,” Will barked. “My cash is locked up in the house and I can’t get in.”

  “Your wife changed the locks?” Sutley had a look that said he had seen all this before.

  “It appears that way.”

  “And where’s your wife?”

  They arrived fifteen minutes later at the offices of Snively and Ellis Realty.

  It was a couple of miles out Glenwood from the center of downtown -- a fairly new structure, but built in the fashion of a rambling old farmhouse with a wide front porch (with a row of rocking chairs) a tin roof, and dormered windows peeking from the second story. It was a good location, out here on Glenwood, out toward all the falling-all-over-itself growth that made North Raleigh a boom area and made Old Raleigh cringe. The office nestled comfortably on a modest expanse of immaculate lawn and perfectly-tended beds of shrubbery and annuals. The parking lot was tucked discreetly to one side behind a screen of cypress and holly. It was the kind of place that gave the impression of homespun efficiency, the kind of neighborly place where people didn’t sell houses, they fitted you lovingly into the perfect home where there would always be cookies baking in the oven and a large, long-haired dog lounging in front of the fireplace.

  It was the first time Will had actually been to the headquarters of Snively and Ellis. He had escorted Clarice to company Christmas parties and summer picnics, but they had always been held somewhere else. There had never been any reason to come here.

  Will felt a pang of guilt. Okay, he had been too wrapped up in his own career. He hadn’t paid proper attention to Clarice’s, hadn’t given proper credit to the charm, cleverness and hard work that had led to her considerable success. But that would change. Now that he had the luxury of time, he would be a regular visitor here, arriving to take her to lunch, sending flowers that the entire staff could enjoy. That is, if he were not in jail. He still hadn’t figured that one out, but he thought he might have to pretty quickly, now that he was here.

  Will checked the parking lot. Clarice’s car was there.

  Tina, the receptionist, met him at the front door. He remembered her vaguely from the previous Christmas party, where she had consumed a trifle much champagne punch and had giggled as she told him of her ancient grandmother in Goldsboro who had somehow gotten it in her dotty mind that Will Baggett was not only her weatherman but also a long-lost cousin who had left for Argentina in the Thirties. Here, four months later, Tina seemed to have put on a bit of weight and was now a rather formidably sturdy, no-nonsense presence filling the doorway.

  “How are you, Tina?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Mrs. Baggett isn’t available,” Tina said.

  Will tried to peer around Tina into the office interior. Tina shifted slightly, blocking his view. “I know she’s here. Her car is out back.”

  “She isn’t available,” Tina repeated.

  Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, but he kept his voice calm and even. “Just tell her I’m here, and I’d like to speak to her. As soon as possible. If she’s busy and can’t speak to me right away, I’ll wait.”

  Tina took a deep breath, and Will thought she was about to say something definitive. Instead, she stepped back inside, closed the door behind her, and deadbolted it. “Shit,” Will said softly. When he tried to peer through the glass, she lowered a blind. There was a big plate glass window just to his left, but as he turned to it, blinds came down there too.

  Will tapped on the door glass -- lightly at first, then harder. Then he rapped his knuckles forcefully against the wood frame of the door. And then he banged on it with his fist. He could hear voices inside.

  A voice behind him: “Did you get the money?” Will turned to see Arthel Sutley standing at the bottom of the steps. Will had forgotten about him. “Meter’s still running,” Sutley said. “She’s up to thirty bucks now.”

  “Then let it run,” Will said. “This may take awhile.” Sutley shrugged and headed back to the parking area.

  Will banged again, even harder this time. The glass in the door rattled precariously. Next, he thought, he would put his fist through it. Blood everywhere. He would sue for damages.

  Then he heard t
he deadbolt unlock and the door opened a few inches and Fincher Snively, managing partner of Snively and Ellis, peered out. “Will!” he said brightly, as if suddenly discovering who was banging the hell out of his front door. Will could see movement behind Fincher, could hear the urgent murmur of voices.

  “Yes Fincher, it’s me, good old Will,” Will said. “I’ve come to see my wife.”

  “Will, she’s just not available at the moment.”

  “That’s what Tina said.”

  Fincher shrugged, “I can ask her to call you.”

  “I want to see her in person.”

  Fincher glanced back into the room. Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She’s with some clients right now. A big sale.”

  “I don’t care if she’s with the Shah of Iran…”

  “The Shah’s dead,” Fincher smiled, all charm and affability.

  Will put a hand on the door and gave a light but firm push. Fincher jammed a foot behind it and pushed back lightly but firmly. Will pushed harder. So did Fincher. “Will,” he said, “let’s don’t have a scene here.”

  Will took his hand away from the door.

  “I’m sure we can be reasonable…”

  “Fincher,” Will said evenly, “I don’t feel very reasonable right now. You have a size and strength advantage on me. I’ve seen you in those tank tops at the company picnics with your pectorals bulging, so I don’t have any illusions about being able to whip your ass in a fair fight. But I am prepared to arm myself with a tire tool from the taxicab which brought me here and beat on this goddamn door, and you, if need be, until I am allowed to talk to my wife.”

  Fincher’s eyes narrowed. “Will, you have just communicated a threat. That’s a punishable offense. And given your current, ah, situation, I don’t think you need any more punishable offenses.”

  They stared at each other. Will smiled. “I withdraw my threat, Fincher.”

  “I salute your good judgment,” Fincher said. “I’ll tell Clarice you were here.” He closed the door.

  Will stood there on the porch for a moment, at a loss. He had not expected this, not this throwing up of barricades by a goddamn bunch of realtors. He had intended to rush here and take her into his arms and beg her to come home with him, and once there they would make love and begin to rediscover what it was they had lost. And he would set the record straight if need be. Whatever it took. But this…

  He turned away from the door and walked down the steps and stood on the lawn looking out at Glenwood Avenue. Across the divided six-lane was a strip shopping center, and one of the occupants was a Kinko’s Copy Center. Will considered things for a moment, then made for the road.

  He had some change in his pocket, enough to purchase a large sheet of poster paper and two magic markers -- a red and a black. Then he re-crossed Glenwood, dodging the traffic that was beginning to pick up here in the late afternoon. He returned to the front steps of Snively and Ellis and sat for awhile fashioning a sign. Big black letters, accented with red. He worked diligently, somewhat surprised at what he was doing but either unwilling or unable to stop. He couldn’t tell which, exactly.

  After awhile, Arthel Sutley appeared before him again. “Meter’s up to forty-five now,” Arthel said.

  Will peered up from his work. Sutley was looking at the sign, trying to read it upside down. Will tilted it up at just enough of an angle that Sutley couldn’t see. “Look at it this way, Mister Sutley. As long as I’m running up a bill, you don’t have to pick up any more fares, one of which could be an armed robber who would take everything you’ve got, including your cab, and might even put a bullet in your brain. This is the easiest, safest money you’ll make all day.”

  Sutley shook his head and went back to his taxicab. Will finished the sign, going over the letters several times to make them as big and bold as possible. Then he tossed the markers into the shrubbery next to the porch and walked with the sign to the curb alongside Glenwood. He faced left toward the oncoming traffic and held the sign aloft. He thought for a brief moment that he should probably feel ridiculous. But he didn’t. And if he looked ridiculous, he didn’t care.

  It took twenty minutes for Morris deLesseps to get there. In the meantime, Will created a fair-sized commotion along Glenwood as the rush-hour traffic piled up. Passengers gawked and pointed, and behind the closed windows of their airconditioning he could see them mouthing the words of the sign: SNIVELY & ELLIS SUCKS. The sign got them first, and then, more often than not, they would recognize the holder as none other than Raleigh’s (former) most popular TV weatherman, the fellow who kept turning up on the front page of the paper. There was a good deal of horn-honking and window-rolling-down-and-waving-and-shouting -- Yo Will! -- along with several near-collisions. Across the street at the strip shopping center, clerks and customers came out of the stores and stood watching and pointing. Somebody, Will figured, would go back inside and call Fincher and Snively Realty. Or the cops. Or both. He felt like an ancient Barbarian, laying siege to the place.

  Will spotted Morris’s Saab a good way off. Morris was honking the horn now, flapping an arm out of the driver’s side window, motioning for Will to get away from the curb. Will stood his ground. Finally the Saab reached him and Morris flung the passenger side door open. “Get in!” he barked.

  “I’m busy,” Will said. Traffic backed up. A school bus full of rowdy kids was just behind the Saab. The driver bore down on the horn, drowning out whatever it was that Morris said next. Morris pulled away and made a sharp turn into the Snively and Ellis driveway, stopped, leaped out, and started loping across the lawn toward Will. “Are you crazy?” he cried.

  Morris lunged for the sign, but Will made a quick, neat move, blocking Morris with his body. “I just want to see my wife.”

  “Put the sign down. She’ll talk to you on the phone.” He pulled a flip phone from the pocket of his tweed jacket.

  “I want to look her in the eye, Morris.”

  Morris’s eyes were bulging now, the skin of his face blotched with red. “Look, you stubborn sonofabitch, if you don’t cut this out…”

  “Are the cops on the way?”

  “No,” he said between clenched teeth, “but they will be. And if they come and arrest you, Judge Nettles will revoke your bail, you’ll lose your bond money, and you’ll rot in jail. Good God, Will, you’re making an absolute ass of yourself!”

  Will lowered the sign.

  Morris started punching numbers on the flip phone. “Fincher? All right. The sign’s down. Put Clarice on.”

  He handed the phone to Will.

  “Go away,” Will said firmly. “I want to speak to my wife without some goddamn lawyer listening in on the conversation.”

  Morris made a face and walked away toward his car.

  Will put the phone to his ear. “Clarice…”

  “Wilbur,” she said, “go away.”

  He turned, saw her standing at one of the front windows of the realty office. He took a step toward her.

  “Clarice, please…let’s talk. Just give me…”

  “We don’t have anything to talk about .”

  “I know I’ve embarrassed you, honey.”

  “You’re embarrassing me right now.”

  “I’m sorry. About everything. Look, is it about what happened in court? If it is, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “No,” she said, “it’s not about what happened in court.”

  “Look, honey, I know we’ve got a lot to work on.”

  “What did you just say?”

  He hesitated. “I said we’ve got a lot to work on. But we can fix this.”

  Her voice rose an octave. “Are you listening to yourself, Wilbur? Fix it? Work on it? My God. Mow the grass, clip the shrubbery, deliver the forecast, fix Clarice!”

  “Honey,” he said softly, “it’s not like that. I love you, Clarice. I just want us to get straightened out. Whatever it takes. It’s my fault. I’ll take all the blame. I know things haven’t been
right. And all this business the past couple of weeks -- Jesus, I’m sorry. I know you’re embarrassed. And your family…”

  “Don’t bring my family into this,” she said sharply.

  “Okay. But don’t give up on us, Clarice. Just tell me what to do.” He could feel himself close to tears now, a naked pleading in his voice.

  There was a lengthy silence and then she gave a long, slow sigh. Even through the cell phone he could feel the weariness, the resignation. “Will, I’m just tired.”

  “Of me?”

  “Of all of it. I can’t handle it any more. I want out. And I want you to go away and leave me alone.” He could see her clearly through the front window of Snively and Ellis, using one long, elegant index finger to punch the button on her own telephone. Click. She turned away from the window. Wait a minute! I’ve got one more question before you shut me out of your life! Is there somebody else? But someone closed the blinds and she was lost to him and whether there was someone else or not was almost beside the point.

  Morris was back. Arthel Sutley was with him. Sutley said to Morris, “Are you with him?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Well, it’s up to sixty-five dollars.”

  “Pay him,” Will told Morris. “You owe me.”

  Morris made a wry face. He knew exactly what Will meant. While Morris pulled out his billfold, Will sat down on the curb. Traffic eased by, inches from his feet. He thought briefly of flinging himself in front of one of the vehicles, but they were moving too slowly to do more than nudge him. And besides, he had already been run over several times.

  FOURTEEN

  “You set me up,” Will said. “That trip today, traipsing around the countryside…”

  Morris made a helpless, supplicating gesture. “You should have heard Clarice on the phone last night. I’ve never known her to be so wrought up. I thought the best thing to do was to get you out of the house. Let things cool down. It’s a common technique in transactional negotiation, Will. Separate the warring parties.”

  “We’re not at war. We’re at…well, I don’t know what we’re at. Impasse, maybe, but not war.”