Max brought his cup to his lips and discovered it was empty. He made more coffee and tried to break through the wall. He started to shake, but forced himself to calm down. It wasn’t normal to agonize over a book like this. So, he took a shower, and while standing under sprays of cold water, he found a way out. Or he thought he did. He needed to contact Angelica’s friend. Not his Angelica, but the one who lived in the red brick house. Wasn’t it the same person?
First, he called Angelica’s mother who, without hiding her astonishment, told him that Angelica had two best friends, both Kellys. One immigrated to Canada, her husband’s home country, but the second one had moved to Troy, next to Watervliet. Wilma even had the phone number of that second Kelly, because she was kind enough to stay in touch with the old woman. Max thanked the woman and fought a strange urge to talk to her, ask her about life, about her day, about her weekend. He took a few sips of fresh coffee, took a few bites from a plain bagel, sat in front of his laptop, and dialed Kelly’s number.
“Hello.” A mature female answered after the third ring.
“Hi. May I speak to Kelly?”
“This is she. Who’s calling?”
It took a few seconds for Max to adjust to the obvious. Kelly, in his imagination, was twelve; the woman on the other end of the phone was about forty.
“I’m Max Stevenson. I’m …”
“I know. Mrs. Porter called me just now to let me know you were going to call. She didn’t want me to tell you off. You’re a writer or something?”
“You could say that.”
“I only read magazines. Don’t have time for books. I think I’ve heard of you. Maybe on TV or something.”
“Maybe.”
“So, what do you want? Mrs. Porter seemed in awe of you. I thought she was going to pass out. She told me you were writing about Watervliet.”
“The story takes place in Watervliet, yes.”
“It’s not the fanciest town in the world. You think I can help?”
Max wished, with irritation, that she would shut up so he could explain what he wanted, but he had called and he needed help. She had the right to ask questions and interrupt.
“I have three characters in my book who are teenage girls, all twelve. One is called Angelica, like your …”
“Are you kidding? Like Wilma’s daughter? My friend? Do you know that she disappeared? Are you writing about her?”
“It’s a fictional character, but I can see that a lot of the story is similar to her story. Mrs. Porter told me that her daughter vanished.”
“Yes. Poor girl. No one knows what happened. Our town was so small!”
Max wanted to get to his questions.
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“Yes, but he had nothing to do with it. The police asked everyone. They asked me about him too. Alex didn’t do anything. He loved her.”
“Maybe you know where I might find him now?”
“Why?”
“This story intrigued me. In fact, it intrigued me so much, I am writing a book based on it.”
Max shuddered when he realized what he had just said. That was what he was doing already.
“Yeah? Does Mrs. Porter know?”
“I’ll let her know. I won’t write anything without her permission.”
“I don’t know much about Alex,” Kelly continued. She sounded irritated, but it didn’t compare to the irritation Max felt toward his interlocutor. He didn’t have a reason, but he didn’t like her and it felt mutual. “He went to college somewhere, I don’t remember, and he never came back. Not many people do.”
“Okay. No, you’re right, the detective must have asked you everything he was supposed to, but Watervliet is a small town. It’s strange that a person just vanished and no one knows anything.”
“You’re telling me? We went crazy nuts here! Angelica was so … good. You know? She was a good girl. Everyone loved her. The detective thought she ran away, but it was such a stupid idea. Not An.”
“I understand. I’m actually calling you because I have a problem with one scene. I had a feeling that you could help me. I don’t know why, so I can’t explain. In this scene Angelica is fighting with her friend.”
“Fighting?”
“Well, arguing, not a physical fight.” Max decided not to mention that her friend’s name was Kelly. “It’s happening by the movie theater. Small, old style movie theater. The woman who was selling tickets had this huge hair and red lips.” Max saw the scene so vividly. “I can’t find a reason for the argument. I’m stuck and can’t move on.”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand why you’re calling me if your character is not real. If you write about our An, our Angel, no one would argue with her.”
Max closed his eyes, pulling images that he described before out of his memory.
“Angelica is dressed in a red polka dot dress, her friend—in a white shirt and a blue skirt. Angelica’s hair is long, below her waist, and her friend has a short cut. They stand opposite from each other, each holds an ice-cream cone and her friend says that it’s all Angelica’s fault. Ice cream runs down her wrist and the girl licks it … I have nothing after this.”
Max fell silent, opened his eyes, and looked at the snowfall. He stood by the window, leaning on it, but didn’t remember walking away from the table. The phone was silent too.
“Kelly?”
“How do you know that? Did you talk to someone?”
“No, I didn’t”
“You just described An and me. She had this red polka dot dress, her favorite, and a long braid. I used to cut my hair short in school and I owned a blue skirt. I remember this fu … this ice cream! It was our first and last argument. We didn’t talk for a month or more after that day. How do you know about that?
“I don’t … Maybe her mother ... I don’t remember.”
“You’re kiddin’. How does she know about our fight? Angelica could have told her. She and her mom were like two peas in a pod, not like me with my mother. That quarrel was because of Scottie. Did Wilma tell you about him?”
“No,” Max said, but he knew who she was talking about. It didn’t surprise him any more than the exact description of the outfits or the reality of the argument.
“I liked him a lot. He was a gorgeous boy who flirted with me. I thought he would invite me on a date. You know, we didn’t think about sex at that time. We wanted to go to the movies or to get ice cream. How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Okay. Not that young either. So, Scottie invited Angelica on a date! Just like that! She was surprised too; don’t think that she wasn’t. She said she didn’t know and she hadn’t even spoke to him. However, I knew that he liked her. I didn’t trust her, blamed her when she told me. She told me everything first! I didn’t want to see her or be friends with her. She didn’t go out with him of course. She was a good girl, Angelica. We made up later, our friend Kelly helped. That’s the story. Is that what you need?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I need.”
“Yeah. We fought because of a boys like idiots.”
“Thank you, Kelly. It was helpful.”
“Really? Is that it?”
“Yes, for now. Thank you.”
Kelly was surprised and then said her goodbye, and Max switched off his phone. This story wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t feel it. So, he made another cup of coffee and went to the living room, where he started to walk in circles. He did it all the time with other books, but never with this one. Angelica was quiet and, without her, he didn’t know what to write.
CHAPTER 30
Anna stood by the chocolate aisle, choosing a treat for herself and thinking about Max, who had been on her mind all week, when she had a strange feeling, as if somebody watched her. She stopped and whirled around, but no one in the aisle was looking in her direction.
“Great. Enough thinking.” She grabbed two Lindt bars, threw them on top of the spaghetti boxes and a couple of frozen din
ners, and continued shopping.
She couldn’t figure out her thoughts. Did she really believe her husband’s dreams were supernatural in origin? Did she believe that a ghost had been helping him write the book? It sounded strange, at minimum. She hadn’t shared her thoughts with anyone, but she woke up twice last night because she felt as if somebody was in the room. She couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, she studied the shadows in the corners and listened to every sound. Like now. It felt as if someone was watching her, and it wasn’t normal.
Max’s behavior worried her, and clearly, she had bought into his disease too. What was happening to him? Nothing worrisome, right? Was it really just a creative person at work? Maybe a new muse had landed on Max’s shoulder, and he just had to write the words down. This unusual, supernatural theory was a product of his creativity. He wasn’t surprised, didn’t make jokes, and didn’t deny or offer rational reasons. She had an idea what he thought about this theory, but Max was a cynic and a realist. There was nothing supernatural about creativity. A set of chromosomes, a chemical imbalance. Anything, but cosmic rays or fairies with wings, sprinkling magic dust over the chosen.
Max hadn’t told her everything, hadn’t shown his real feelings. She wasn’t sure if he understood them, but she felt as if a wall had appeared between them. It was as fine as a spider web, but it was there. For the first time since they met, she felt like she didn’t know her husband. Why? Because of the book? Because of some missing girl who had been dead for years? Was everything happening the way Max explained? What if she hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t died, but was a woman, a real person and Max had …?
Anna stopped her thoughts. No lovers. They agreed before the wedding not to hide anything from each other. They promised.
To distract herself from thinking, Anna started to study a plastic box of kiwi. She lifted it and then held it at eye level, which was when she saw a man watching her. He turned away from her, and Anna noticed his face briefly. She looked in the direction the man went, but he disappeared down one of the aisles.
Anna tried to remember if she had seen him before. Where? She must be mistaken. The cap had hidden the man’s face almost completely. She hadn’t seen him well, but he was watching her; it was obvious. Or not? Probably not. She wasn’t so beautiful that people stared at her. He probably gazed at fruits or a banner behind her back. That was it.
“Or he was a ghost. That’s why he was gone so fast.” Anna giggled, but her laugh sounded neurotic rather that amazed. She threw the box of kiwi into her cart and went to the register, returning to her husband in her thoughts, even though she tried not to.
CHAPTER 31
Morris went for the exit right away, but then decided to watch the redhead pay for her groceries and leave the store. She wouldn’t notice him this time, plunged into her thoughts. She was beautiful at that moment. Tense facial expression and so many subtle emotions. From sadness to surprise, from disappointment to tenderness. She looked much better in reality than in photos. They didn’t convey her milky skin or the color of her eyes. She had blue eyes. The color, rare and pure, without shades of gray or green. She had long, artistic fingers that wrapped graciously around fruits, and her wrists, peeking out of the jacket sleeves, were fragile. He couldn’t suppress his erection after he thought about squeezing those wrists, throwing her hands behind her head, tying them with ropes so nothing would cover her body. Now she belonged to that damn writer, but soon she was going to be his.
He left the store, following her, and watched her get into her car. She went grocery shopping every three days, the same time after work, the same supermarket. The cycle of days could change, but he didn’t believe it would be significant. The supermarket wasn’t a good spot for kidnapping, too many people, cameras outside, but the building where she worked would suit the purpose. There was a security guard inside and a camera, but outside there was nothing to catch him. The best time was after work, when she stayed late. The parking lot was empty. He considered her apartment building, but it was also on a busy street and annoying cameras hung everywhere. He could avoid them, but not the people on the street, not the ones looking out the windows. There was a blind spot with trees blocking the view, but too many factors had to come together for him to make it successful. To make a final decision he had to visit her office. It would take time, but this woman was worth it.
When Morris plopped into his car to drive home, he had a plan finalized. His heart beat in impatient anticipation. He hated to wait when he knew how to turn things around, but he couldn’t hurry. They would have caught him a long time ago if he had rushed. The same was true about drawings. If you rushed to finish, you made tons of mistakes, which would result in extra work fixing them. Only this time, there would be no fixing. It wasn’t a drawing. He couldn’t erase a line or grab a new sheet of paper. A mistake could cost him his life, and he wasn’t ready to let it go. He was young; he had a lot of life ahead. He hadn’t experienced all the pleasures of life. However, this game with the writer was going to be a culmination, but too far from the end.
CHAPTER 32
Anna never even glanced at Max’s books before he finished the first draft. She then read the printed manuscripts carefully and made her notes for improvement, which he had always listened to. She had been his first and only reader before the book went to his agent and an editor. Based on her notes, Max made his changes. Anna was proud of her participation in the creation of his bestsellers.
This time, she didn’t wait for him to offer her the manuscript and or for him to finish it. She came home, put the groceries away, and asked him to read a tiny section.
“I’m not even to the middle,” Max said as he glanced over his laptop at her. “Today, I’ve done like, a page.”
“Please. So much is going on, so many strange things. I can’t wait. Max?”
He smacked his lips, and moved his eyes from the computer screen to his wife and back.
“Do you want to read everything I’ve written so far?”
“Whatever you’ll give me. A few pages, a paragraph. I just want to feel what you feel. If it’s possible.”
Max stood, giving way to his wife. She smiled and sat down. She didn’t have coffee or tea as usual. She didn’t print it as usual, so that she could snuggle on the couch with a wrap over her legs.
Max rubbed his hands anxiously, watching as Anna sank into reading. Usually, he liked to wait for her reaction and then interrogate her, asking where she laughed or frowned or bit her lips, but not this time. He went to the living room, turned on the TV, and thought about smoking for the countless time that day. He swore not to smoke or drink, not repeat anything his parents had done. More than anything, he didn’t want to be like them.
He gazed at sitcom on the screen. People in the background laughed loudly, but he couldn’t understand what was happening no matter how hard he tried. He had never before agonized over his wife’s opinion. At the same time, he didn’t care about her opinion this time. He worried that she wouldn’t like Angelica. She hadn’t liked some of his characters and he had never felt offended, but he needed her accept Angelica in all her imperfections. As a real person, like the sister she had never had. Angelica was his.
Anna sat near him on the couch after half an hour. Too fast, he didn’t expect it. She couldn’t have read more than twenty pages by this time.
“What do you think?” he asked. He couldn’t hide his nerves, but Anna didn’t look relaxed either as she used to be after reading his work. He felt her tension and confusion.
“Listen, Max. Don’t be upset, but I had to stop.”
“I won’t. Why should I?”
“I don’t think I can read more.”
“What do you mean?” Max turned to his wife. She looked even more confused as she bit her lower lip.
“It doesn’t feel like your writing.”
Max hemmed. “Trust me, I didn’t rip it off,” he said.
“I didn’t say that. Of course you didn’t, but it’s a dif
ferent book. Different style. It reads like a woman is writing.”
“You told me I’m good at writing from the female’s point of view.”
“Right. But it’s different. I don’t know how to explain it to you, but it has different sentence structure, metaphors, style. Everything is different. It also felt like I was reading a diary. Some girl’s diary. You even wrote about her period. In detail.”
“I wrote …” Max didn’t finish the phrase. He didn’t remember writing that. It didn’t bother him though. Often, going over his finished manuscripts, he was surprised to read what he had written. Being immersed in the creative process, he didn’t notice the outcome. Nothing astonishing.
“Everything is so detailed, Max. So detailed and … so much. It’s not a fiction book with a plot. It’s a biography of the girl named Angelica. Her daily routine. It was a strange read.”
Max stood and circled the room.
“I told you not to read my unfinished work. I delete a lot during editing.”
“You’ll have to delete about ninety percent of this text. It’s not a book. Max, have you had more vertigo episodes?”
“What does that have to do with anything? You think I have a tumor in my head and it makes me write crap? You think I wrote crap?”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
Max noticed tears in Anna’s eyes.
“I’m not.”
“What are you doing, then?”
Max stopped and took a deep breath.
“It’s my best book.”
“Okay.” He heard an unfamiliar submission in his wife’s voice, and it made him feel guilty. For his actions, for Anna’s tears, for this strange tone. What was he doing?
“I’m sorry, Ann. I really think it’s my best work. That’s why I am being so sensitive. Sorry.”
Anna wiped her eyes. “I didn’t criticize you. I just described my feelings.”
“Of course.” Max squatted before his wife, hugged her shoulders, and felt tension in her muscles. She didn’t relax or calm down. They didn’t really argue, more like verbally sparring, both enjoying each other’s wit. “I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.”
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 16