by A. R. Taylor
Once they settled in, Inti handed her a flashlight and a plastic cup of wine. “Two essentials for the night.”
“Don’t tell me about the little pets who died. I couldn’t stand it.”
“I know, Fluffy and Pooki and all that.”
“They deserve to live, too.”
“I’m a friend to the animals; why else would I be doing this? It would be a major scoop, at least around here, but also I’m guessing in the city as well. There have been several attacks there too.”
They waited for about an hour, during which time Inti told her his history as an aspiring cellist. All the while he talked, Jenna focused on his long dark eyelashes and his very nearly black eyes. He had a lovely passivity about him, not always moving forward, but sideways into the wind as it were, and he laughed a lot, in this instance very quietly, so unlike Vincent in every conceivable way. “My mother asked my famous Russian cello teacher whether I could be a professional someday. He said, ‘For a cellist, he would make a good insurance salesman.’ That did it for me. I switched to English literature.”
Silent now, they waited together a long, long time, watching at a tiny opening in the tent, listening to every waving branch, every twitch in the grass, anything that moved. After about twenty minutes, they heard one high pitched whine, then another fearsomely loud, inhuman scream. Inside, they huddled, hardly breathing. Inti opened the tent a crack and peered out. He saw a white tabby scampering away. “Just a cat making those terrible cat sounds,” he whispered.
“I’ve got to admit it, I don’t totally love cats. I’m more of a dog person.”
“Me too.”
They settled back to listen, and Jenna lay on her sleeping bag, exhausted by just about everything in her life, dozing. Inti stayed wide awake though, and after about an hour, they heard at once a rush, a pounding over leaves, and then something like animal keening, but after several moments, the eerie cries vanished into the night. In another instant they heard scratching sounds behind the tent. Jenna grabbed her camera and whispered, “Too bad we don’t have a gun.”
“Shh.” Inti put his hand over her mouth. The crunching of leaves grew louder, but then again more silence. He pointed toward the sound as he gently opened the tent wide, while she raised the Leica. Then a soft movement around them grew louder, and finally they heard the whiny meow of a cat slinking right across their field of vision. Out of the darkness a mangy dog-like creature sprang out toward the cat, who howled in terror, and at the same moment Inti leapt toward them and began shouting and waving his arms. The cat appeared ready for the fight and held its ground, slashing about with its paws. The wolfish thing lunged to bite but then unaccountably staggered backwards and fell down, dead it seemed. Jenna had jumped out of the tent, camera in hand and shot a number of pictures before the cat scooted away. “Damn, it was a coyote.” Inti stared down at the limp carcass.
“I got some good shots, I think. I might have caught a glimpse of the pack.”
They explained the whole scene to an animal control officer, who was accompanied by a policeman, and it seemed they had suspected coyotes for some time but hadn’t caught any. Now this female who got so close to a house and to people was probably sick. The animal was bagged for testing, even though to Jenna’s sympathetic eyes the poor creature just looked sad and starved to death.
“Poor creature, my ass,” Inti chided her. “She could kill a dog or even a small child.”
“Not any more, but still, I feel sorry for her.”
“And where did you get that incredible camera?”
“A perk, of sorts, for the work I do for Vincent.”
“Vincent, eh?” Inti didn’t have time to explore this thought, but instead put his arm around her while the officers tried to convince them not to stay in the tent that night. He refused to budge, didn’t want to miss a scoop, even if it was only for the Rye Register. “Be on the lookout for more of them. They normally travel in packs, and you’ll need shots if one of them bites you. Just make a lot of noise and expand your physical presence,” one of the animal control guys advised, throwing out his arms and flapping like a bird.
Jenna watched the officers retreat with their frightful prey wrapped in a towel, its tail sticking out. She, at least, was shaken, but Inti appeared energized. “It’s a terrific story. I was there first. And you’ve got pictures with that fancy camera of yours.”
What with the fear and the animal screechings and the officers, it all made for an emotionally-charged situation, and Jenna could feel this as the two settled into their respective sleeping bags. It was too much for her, and she wanted to defuse it, so as she snuggled a bit closer to him, she pulled her hoodie up over her head. “Want to tell ghost stories?” He ruffled her hair and pulled her toward him for a kiss. She responded, warmly, but the two were exhausted and covered in clothing. They fell asleep almost at the same moment.
The next morning the birds woke them before the sun, and as Jenna turned she saw that Inti was looking at her. She started up, uncomfortable from a night on the ground, but he gently pushed her back down. “Stay and rest. I’m going to look around the property for the cat and see what else might have happened.” She listened as his footsteps receded and, after what seemed like a long time, she fell back to sleep.
Inti was a man for whom women had done a lot. His mother had made him a fresh and often exotic sandwich every day for school. His sister, who bossed him around at every stage of their relationship, thought him her truest and best friend, though she had conditioned him on how to behave. She conceived a game called “Strongling and Weakling.” Whoever called out “Strongling” first meant that the other person had to fall down right away, crying “Weakling.” Inti was always the weakling because he never shouted the words first. She lurked and waited, the essence of the game, while he never gave it a thought until she screeched at him. He was greatly loved, though the cerebral atmosphere at home contained within it not a little pure coldness. His father lost himself in books and artifacts, and on the walls of their home grinning, ghoulish masks glared down upon them all. Things cheered up around cocktail time, and Inti had certainly noticed his father’s big cigar box of marijuana, the rolling papers, and the expert handling thereof.
Until Inti became one himself, his parents regarded journalists as children of the damned, but their son persisted, longing to exit that damp, boring sinkhole, as he called it to his friends, and move right along to a regular city, the bigger the better. No more government bureaucrats, no more chainsaw sculpture or people weaving lanyards out of painted leather. No, the homespun and the relentlessly artsy had lost their charms for him. He wanted new and clean and dry, though he remained a semi-committed expert on pot and its peculiar delights. Rye was the best he could do for now, since he distrusted Vincent Hull in whatever small dealings he’d had with him, worse yet had grown to detest the job at NewsLink and had gotten only a modestly positive reference from them for “good work in the field.”
Inti recognized Jenna as another lost soul, even more forlorn than himself, and it fascinated him to think of her swimming along in the dangerous fish tank that the NewsLink organization surely was. Also, he knew much more about Vincent Hull than he let on. The man had once been a hero to him, not just a rich dabbler in the magazine world, more like a force of nature willing to push and pull and grab and wrestle to the ground the beast that was a certain kind of journalism, that of the opinion piece. Of late, though, NewsLink had become more and more a tabloid, available to whoever shouted the loudest, and its headlines habitually regurgitated blood, guts, murder, revenge, big money, and any horrible person currently making noise. No matter how much serious reportage was done, print got overwhelmed by dead men and hookers. He didn’t necessarily want another job with the man, but he didn’t not want one either, and should the opportunity arise, he might even return to NewsLink once he had more credits. Coyotes were rumored in Central Park, so this subject had legs in more ways than one.
Inti didn’t sh
are these views with Jenna, but on their way back into the city he rubbed her neck affectionately and kissed her now expertly and often. As the train pulled into Grand Central Station, he felt mad at himself for not having made a serious pass at her. “I’ll send you the pictures right away,” she promised. “Though don’t have high expectations, please.”
“I only have high expectations of you,” he said, but she was already walking away from him.
SIX
Another week went by, and Jenna had to climb down from every wild thing she had done during this perplexing time. Her nerve endings seemed on fire, and while she had much to do, little will to do it. Inti’s photos for one. She felt she should rush this job with the studio she had used for Hull’s art inventory, but she had had to wait for the negatives to be processed. The camera might be “perfect,” as Hull had said, but it was not easy or particularly fast when it came to the final images used for the prints. While she had no word from Hull, she assumed that Jorge knew something, but he only occasionally remarked on how blessed they were with his absence. Did Vincent pine for her, lust for her, gnash his teeth in demented longing, just as she felt like doing?
After more days of agonized waiting, Jenna wearily plodded through the NewsLink lobby, where she spotted Tasha with Mrs. Hull. Deep in conversation even as the crowd of employees elbowed past them, the two women waved her over. Jenna didn’t want to move their way but did finally because the diminutive wife of her boss looked at her so intently. “We’re going out for a drink. Want to come with us?” Tasha said.
Mrs. Hull smiled softly. “Yes, please do.”
“I’m Jenna McCann, your new husband’s assistant,” she stumbled and corrected herself, “I meant your husband’s new assistant.”
“I know you. And I knew this already.”
Jenna stopped breathing, but managed to get out, “That’s right.”
“You came to the foundation party.”
“Yes.”
“And once at the hotel.” Jenna barely nodded. Why on earth did she keep telling this woman who she was, as if she’d been somehow invisible every unfortunate time she’d met her.
Angelo and the Lincoln Town Car awaited them, but Jenna decided to run back up to her desk to get her inventory, just in case Hull himself showed up. She had to have some reason for being in their company, and after all, it could be weeks before she saw him again. “Five minutes,” she said loudly and left them standing agape. Did she really care if they left? No, but she held her breath while the elevator ascended.
At last, thick leather binder in hand, Jenna curled herself as far as she could away from the other women in the back seat of the Town Car. Tasha leaned over across Mrs. Hull, who sat in the uncomfortable middle, and said, “When we go out for drinks, we’re all in this together. Don’t forget that.”
What could this possibly mean? Would she have to pay her part of the tab? She’d better watch herself and not drink too much. “Do you enjoy the job, Jenna?” Sabine Hull looked closely at her.
“Very much. It’s a great change from Ohio, pretty glamorous and all, and taking the photographs of your art has been wonderful.”
“Too much, all too much.”
“Excuse me?” Jenna pressed herself back against the seat.
“We have too much. I tell Vincent all the time, but does he listen? You know where he is now? France, looking for a chateau to buy, if you can believe that, in the Champagne region. It’s his favorite place but so cold there, cold and damp. Still he is determined.” The woman smelled of a light, sweet fragrance, and wore a lilac-blue dress, maroon pumps on her slender feet, and carried a small purple clutch. Put together, contained, but Jenna still tried to shrink herself away to the side, as if the woman could smell what she had been up to. “We always go to the Plaza,” Sabine Hull said brightly. “The Oak Room.”
“Oh no, I should get home. . . .” But Sabine interrupted her. “You must come. Tasha and I do this every Friday, and we need some new blood. We’re getting bored with each other.”
“Do, Jenna. Everyone’s afraid of Sabine because of who she’s married to, and they just can’t stand me. I’ve been around the place too long, and I think I’ve dated every writer there.” She laughed and patted Jenna on the knee, and up front Angelo laughed too. “Stop that, Angelo. You’re supposed to pretend you don’t know as much as you actually do.”
“I’m saving it for my book,” he called to them over his shoulder.
“Very funny, mister,” Tasha called back.
Jenna had to agree and figured, no matter how much it cost, maybe she could just get drunk and blend into the wallpaper. And she’d never eaten at the Plaza but felt pretty sure that some major dinner loomed in her future. Angelo’s car phone rang, and he picked up. Pausing a moment, he said, “Yes, sir, of course. We’re headed to the Plaza now, so I’ll tell them, Mrs. Hull, Tasha, and your new assistant.”
Jenna felt her head go fuzzy, but Sabine looked even more upset. “What’s this, Angelo?”
“Mr. Hull just landed at JFK and said he’d meet you in about an hour.”
The three women sat silently until at last Sabine remarked loudly, “Oh crap, merde, merde, merde.”
Jenna just looked over at Tasha, unsure about all this but praying for divine intervention, as in a quick bout of the flu or some other excuse to get out of this dinner. Tasha stared her down expressively, as if to convey, “Say nothing, just go with this.”
The three traipsed through the sumptuous gold-leaf-covered lobby into the wood-bound luxury of the Oak Room, and Jenna stopped at the threshold, staring up at the carved ceiling. This place looked and smelled like a heaven of food and drink, a kingdom all its own, and she vowed right there to enjoy every single part of it, up until the moment she had to slip Hull the inventory and flee. Whatever else happened, she would stay sober long enough to savor roast beef and all the trimmings, which she had already seen flash by her on an elaborate cart covered in huge silver serving dishes.
The vodka martini Sabine—yes—she was directed to call her by her first name—Sabine had ordered for her went down like cold syrup of the gods. By the time she finished it, she had gawked at every diner in the place, had listened to a long discussion of a sale at Henri Bendel’s and the virtues of a purple over a green purse, and had spotted a television personality in the corner of the room. The one problem: Sabine had decided they should wait to eat their main course until her husband showed up. “I warn you now,” the lady said sharply, “he’s always late. It’s his way of telling you how important he is,” and she laughed. “His Goldenness, that’s what we call him.” Tasha smiled, while Jenna looked away. It wouldn’t do for her to join in any criticism of him.
They ordered a second round of martinis, also three shrimp cocktails and a Caesar salad to share, but by now Jenna wasn’t sure she could eat anything or even that she wanted to. “These martinis are terrific. Where have these been all my life?” She giggled, and the two stunning women, each in her own way, seemed to laugh right along with her. The medieval-looking chandeliers twinkled down upon her, and she nibbled on a shrimp, dipping it into the very hot sauce, and then kept swiveling her head, at least that’s how she experienced it, while taking in all the glory of the room. A king might preside here, and alas they awaited one. The minute she thought this, she vowed to eat even more to dilute the vodka, but soon enough the hors d’oeuvres disappeared, and Mrs. Hull’s phone pinged insistently. “Oui, Vincent, c’est dommage, l’heure, l’heure. Pourqoi tout le temps?”
“The always-being-late problem,” Tasha whispered above the other woman’s conversation.
“Time fuck!” Jenna spluttered, quite pleased with herself, but thank god the other two didn’t hear her. She looked down at her watch. It was nine thirty. If you didn’t eat by six thirty in Ohio, something was wrong with you because then you’d have to sleep on a full stomach. You would undoubtedly have nightmares, a piece of information she managed to get out in full sentences to the two so
phisticated women she was supposedly dining with. Fortunately they didn’t look any too sober either; in fact, they were all pretty much in the bag because by now they had actually inhaled three martinis each.
Even so, when at last the looming figure of Vincent Hull appeared near the maître d’, Sabine managed to rise and meet him halfway as he strode toward them. To Jenna’s booze-addled eyes, Hull’s wife wobbled a bit, and she cursed herself for not getting out of there in time to avoid the man himself. Tasha had somehow made her way to the ladies’ room, and now she and the Hulls occupied the same table alone together.
“Have I missed the party?” Vincent boomed out at them, looking remarkably fresh after his transatlantic journey as he ran a hand through his thick hair. His tanned, expressive face seemed to welcome her, despite the potentially dire situation, and he looked full on at her, no hesitation at all. Instantly Jenna had the feeling of a giant, collective stare directed at herself from every other person in the room.
“You’ve missed only the beginning,” Jenna said too quickly. She wanted to get the talking part over with so she could leave.
Within minutes Tasha strode back their way, so commanding, always as if she marched toward her own future, this evening in a sleek, dark green dress, her hair hanging in a long braid, and around her neck a hammered bronze Maltese cross necklace. Hull stood, pulling out her chair, then sat down again. In the midst of all their drinking, it seemed they already had ordered dinner, which Sabine explained to her husband, but as yet no food beyond the hors d’oeuvres had appeared, and now the maître d’ returned to their table to apologize. “Unfortunately, well, this is unprecedented for us”—he pronounced it as “unpreecedented”—“The chef has quit.”