by Dan Begley
My dad rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, Leah’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”
The sky is washed in shades of lavender and pink, and if I had a camera, and knew anything about photography, it’s the kind of sky I’d want to take a picture of.
“Thanks for coming out, Mitch,” he says, shaking my hand. “I had a great day with you and Nathan.”
He starts to shuffle away toward the clubhouse.
“Hey, Dad?” I call after him and he stops and turns. “Maybe next time we do this, you could bring Jessica. If she golfs.”
“She doesn’t,” he says. “But I’ll bring her anyway.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s ten days before Thanksgiving and we’re lying in bed, afterwards. This is one of my overnight stays, so I’m settled, content, dreamy, ready to welcome Mercutio’s Queen Mab and her hazelnut chariot and whatever visions she might be bringing my way. Marie, though, has a little frowning look on her face.
“What do you want to do for Thanksgiving?” she asks.
I drape my arm across her stomach. “Spend it right here, with you.”
“Right. And miss out on all the stuffing and pie?”
I’ve been waiting for the Thanksgiving moment, and dreading it, but I’m glad I’ve given it some thought.
“Well, let’s see. You have a tradition with your family, I assume.”
“My uncle Ted’s.”
“And I have two families to deal with, my mom’s and my dad’s.” That’s one bit of truth I’ve given her, that my parents are divorced. “So unless we want to be in one place all day and disappoint two other households, or spend the entire day running back and forth all over the city, I suggest we do our own thing.”
This doesn’t sit well with her. She leans up on her elbow. “Hey, what if we ask someone to have it a few days earlier, or later?”
I give her a look like, “You can’t be serious.” What I’m thinking is, “Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that.” “Don’t you think that’s a lot to ask, on such short notice, making everyone change their plans just to accommodate us?”
She gets one of those faces like she wants to fight it, but then sinks back into the bed.
I scoot closer and smooth her hair behind her ear. “Marie, listen. We have the big holidays coming up next month. Cookies and eggnog and a visit from St. Nick. Why don’t we make plans for that?”
She doesn’t respond.
“I promise we’ll do it right. Spread it out, visit all the families. Okay? And as for our Thanksgiving,” I whisper into the nape of her neck, “why don’t we do something on Wednesday? Get a bottle of wine, cook up dinner or get takeout, watch a movie. Whatever you want to do.”
She still doesn’t answer, but does back her body into mine, so that now we’re spooning and getting warmer by the second. That’s a yes, by the way.
So I’ve bought myself a little time. A couple weeks at least. That should be plenty of time to come up with a thoughtful, sincere, and casual way to straighten out this whole mess. Or hop on a slow boat to China.
On Thursday I reach a milestone that under any other circumstances would be cause for trumpet blasts and cannon fire: I finish my novel. Catwalk Mama is done. Not done in the sense that it won’t need a bit of tweaking here and there, but done in the sense that you could sit down and read clean through to page 316 and the story would be complete and whole and satisfying. I pack it all up and send it to Katharine, and to celebrate… I head to Bookzilla.
It’s not exactly the way I’d prefer to mark the occasion. A celebratory dinner with my mom or Bradley or Marie would be a thousand times better, but a problem, since my mom doesn’t know I started, Bradley doesn’t know I finished, and Marie doesn’t know who I am. But actually it’s okay being here. This is where it all started, basically, and it feels good to come back for a visit that doesn’t involve theft. In fact, with nothing on my mind, I grab a cup of caramel mocha latte, sit in the café, kick back, relax, and enjoy.
I watch the guy with the biography of John Adams and the older woman with a travel book on Venice and a couple with a book on infant care—though she doesn’t look pregnant, so they must be starting this early—and the others with their paperbacks and hardbacks and bestsellers, and they all seem so absorbed and engrossed that I let myself imagine for a moment that someone in the not-too-distant future will take my book off the shelf and come here and sit and enjoy it, and if they do that, and get a laugh or smile out of it, or walk away feeling better than they did before, that would be good. Great, even.
Before I leave, I head up to the front counter to take care of some long overdue business. I don’t know the proper protocol, so I jump right in.
“A couple months back, I walked out with a book I didn’t pay for. I’d like to pay for it now.”
The woman just looks at me. “So… you just walked out with it?”
“Yep.” I smile.
“Hmm. I’m not sure how to handle that one.”
“How about if I just give you the money for it?”
She gives her head a sad little shake. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Then my drawer won’t balance. Let me ask Val.”
She asks Val, but Val just squints her eyes at me.
“I need to call my manager,” my gal says, picking up the intercom phone. “MANAGER ON DUTY, PROBLEM AT CASH WRAP. MANAGER ON DUTY, WE HAVE A PROBLEM AT CASH WRAP.” She hangs up. “Did that come through?” she asks.
“It did.”
The manager comes over, and he’s the kind of guy you’d expect to see leading the football team in tackling drills. I’m thinking maybe he’ll make me run laps or do push-ups. The cashier explains the situation, and he looks over at me to make sure he’s gotten it right. I nod.
“Well, sir, what we can do, I guess, is I can scan another copy of the book and charge you for it. That way the register comes out okay. It throws inventory off, but it’s the lesser of two evils.” He steps out from behind the counter. “What did you say the book was?”
At this point, Val and her new customer and everyone waiting in line are all looking at me, and I’m sure I’m blushing, because I feel like I’m blushing, all hot and prickly. I’m tempted to walk over to him and whisper the title in his ear, despite how that would look. But I don’t. Instead…
“The Cappuccino Club,” I say. And then, just so he’s got it, I add, “By Katharine Longwell.”
“Yep. I know it.”
And then he walks away to fetch it, no different than if I’d said Macbeth, and then he comes back and swipes it and I fork over the $26.85.
“Would you like a receipt with that?” he asks a little sheepishly, since now that I’ve coughed up the money and have no book in hand, he’d like me to leave with something.
“No, thanks,” I say. Besides, I’m already leaving with something: the knowledge that at least in this small way, I’m still capable of telling the truth.
Marie has to work on Saturday, so we meet at the sandwich shop next to her salon for lunch.
“How about dinner tonight at Canyon Café?” she asks as we’re finishing up.
“Sure.”
“And I’ll just meet you there,” she half-mutters, trying to sneak it by.
“Meet? Why?”
“No reason.” She uses her napkin to wipe her mouth, but it looks more like a bank robber’s bandana since it covers everything but her eyes. “I just thought it’d be fun.”
“Really. You wanna try that again, Jesse James?”
She lowers the napkin. “That obvious, eh? Fine. Just meet me there.”
“Cool. A surprise. So what is it?”
“Like I’m going to tell you. That’s the whole point of a surprise, now isn’t it? To be surprised.”
“I suppose. And you’d be surprised if I didn’t show up?”
“Yep. And angry.” She gets up and leans down to kiss me. “I’ll see you at seven.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon not knowing what to do with myself.
With the book finished, I feel like I’ve quit a full-time job, one where I was putting in twelve-hour days, and now I’m bored. I get to the restaurant around six and sit at the bar, watching a hockey game. Around five till seven, my phone rings. It’s her.
“I just pulled up at the restaurant,” she says. “Where are you?”
So she didn’t see my car. “Close. Now, about that surprise you were talking about. Wanna let me in?”
“Be patient. You’ll see soon enough.”
“Ah, so it’s something I get to look at. Are you wearing it?”
“Not quite. But actually it’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a ‘them.’ And I have my arms through one of them right now.”
“So, you have your arm through one of them, but you’re not wearing it. Hmm.” I get up from my stool and take a more covert spot, where I can still see the front door. My plan is to watch her walk in and impress her with my riddle-solving skills.
“Think about it,” she says. “What can you put your arm through, but you don’t wear?”
“Let’s see… Oh, I know. The shower curtain. When you reach in to test the water.”
“Exactly! How’d you know?” I hear another voice on her end, and she repeats what I said, “shower curtain,” and then there’s laughter. “Arms, Jason. You can put your arms through other people’s arms. I’ve brought people. Two of them.”
“Oh?” I say, and immediately my stomach flip-flops a little, because when we go out with people, they’re usually friends from the studio, and there’s no surprise in that, and there wouldn’t be tonight. Which means she’s brought another kind of people, which I’m not sure I like, and the instant the door swings open and I see the people she’s brought, I like it even less. Bradley and Skyler.
Fuck!
I wheel around so quickly that I knock into a guy and he stumbles, but tough luck for him because I dash for the bathroom and duck into a stall.
“Jason? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m still there,” I say, panting. “It’s just… there’s an accident up ahead and I need to be careful here.” My legs are shaking, so I sit down. I need to get off the phone before she hears someone whistle or fart or flush. “Hey, Marie. I have another call coming in. Let me put you on hold.” I hang up.
Son of a bitch!
The simplest solution would be to climb out a bathroom window, and that’s how it’d work in a sitcom, though depending on the sitcom, and the character I play, I would either make it out unscathed or I would get caught in the window, then the three of them would appear on the sidewalk, and I would throw my coat over my head to avoid being seen, but they would notice me anyway, which would have the studio audience in stitches. Unfortunately—or fortunately—there’s no bathroom window. The only way out is the way I came in, and the way they came in: the front door. I wait till the bathroom is empty, then I peek out: all clear. I slip out into the hallway and inch my way toward the bar till I see them: they’re sitting on the other side. Put my head down and run, or crawl: how about those for options? Then I spot a waitress, which gives me an idea. I signal her over.
“You okay?” she asks.
“No. Not at all. I need to get out of here without some people at the bar seeing me.” I pull a twenty out of my wallet. “Do you think you could help?
She eyes me and my money suspiciously. “Did you do something bad to those people?”
“No, I swear. It’s a long story and I’d love to explain, and I think you’d get a kick out of it, but right now I just need to get out of here.”
She gives me another once-over. Maybe it’s the sweaty forehead that convinces her. “Okay. Who is it?”
I point them out.
“I’ll mistake the guy for someone I went to school with.” She brushes the money away. “You keep that. Just come back sometime and tell me why I had to do this. And leave a big tip.”
“The biggest.”
She smoothes her hair back and straightens her blouse and walks to the other side. When she gets behind them, she stops, gawks at Bradley, and taps him on the shoulder. “Kevin!” she belts out over the din. Bradley turns. Skyler turns. Marie turns. I run, shielding my face with my hand, heart thudding in my chest, straight out the front door, and I don’t stop running till I get to my car, and only when I’m inside, doors locked, slouched down on the seat, do I allow myself a peek back. No one. I wait until I’m off the lot to call Marie back.
“Sorry we got disconnected,” I say.
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not. That was my mom who called. She’s sick and she needs me to run to the drugstore.” Then I add, because I know she’ll be telling Bradley/Kevin: “Her fiancé would do it, but he’s in Greece. Flying a plane. He’s a pilot.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s not well. You want me to come over?”
“No. That’s the last thing my mom would want. To meet you under these circumstances. She could be contagious.” I pause, breathe, put some nonchalance in my voice. “So anyway, who were the surprise guests?”
“Oh, no one. I’ll save it for another time.”
“Okay then. Well, I’ll give you a call later on, let you know how it’s going.”
I give her a minute or two to break the news to Bradley and Skyler, then I call Bradley’s cell phone. As expected, he has it turned off and I get his voice mail, and I leave a message that I’m at Colchester’s grabbing a bite to eat, and he should join me if he can. Of course, I’m not holding out much hope that he’ll show, since I get the feeling he’s previously engaged.
Bradley and I shoot baskets the next day, despite the cold, because I want to feel him out, see if he suspects anything. He doesn’t, of course. But why should he? Put the pieces together and the picture you get looks nothing like me: Jason is Jason, a pharmaceutical rep who drives a Malibu, who loves to dance and has his own shoes, who will watch chick flicks, who will go to malls, who will listen to Mariah Carey, and whose ill mother is engaged to a pilot. What signs point to me? That he has brown hair and brown eyes and his parents are divorced? That’s half the male population of St. Louis, probably. Still, I’m paranoid and twitchy, and when Bradley asks me how Colchester’s was, I’m glad I actually went, because I can tell him all about it with a mostly clean conscience.
I spend the rest of the afternoon reflecting on how absurd this has gotten. Maybe if I were a spy in a foreign country, breaking up terrorist plots or sabotaging hostile nuclear weapons programs; or maybe if I were an airplane pilot, like my mother’s fiancé, with wives in three cities; or maybe if I were a mob-informant Donnie Brasco type; maybe then all the subterfuge and trickery and double-dealing would be necessary just to keep myself alive. But I’m just a PhD candidate in a mediocre apartment trying to carve out an unspectacular life with the woman I love. When did I become The Fugitive? But, of course, I know when I did: when I introduced the world to Jason Gallagher. One bad decision and it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
I’d planned to tell her everything in a couple weeks, before Christmas, but it has to come sooner. This weekend, even. Just let me get through Thanksgiving, then I’ll do it, before I wind up sleeping with the fish. Or worse.
Katharine calls on Monday. She’s in Chicago to spend the week with her family, but she’s gotten the manuscript and cleared all non–Thanksgiving related tasks from her schedule to read it.
“Is it good?” she asks point-blank.
“Um, Bradley seems pleased.”
“Ah, ever the diplomat. But what about you, Mitch? Do you like it?”
“Honestly? Yeah, I do.”
“Good. Because I trust your judgment.”
She tells me she can’t wait to read it and will call the moment she’s finished.
So… she trusts my judgment. Would you think any less of me if I told you I like that?
Marie and I make an evening of it Wednesday. We don’t want to do the traditional Thanksgiving foods, since we’ll be getting our fill tomorr
ow, and Marie doesn’t want to cook, so we pick up Chinese and a movie. It’s her choice: Pride and Prejudice, the one with Keira Knightley. I know there was a big stink when the U.S. version was released, since they actually dared to let Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth share a kiss at the end and that’s not in the book, and I’m prepared to be sufficiently outraged by the blasphemy, but it turns out to be a decently clever scene that I don’t think Austen herself would’ve minded. The only awkward moment of the evening occurs when Marie calls Bradley to wish him well on his trip to Colorado with Skyler. I leave the room, since the thought of her talking to him while she’s looking at me, or mentioning my name—Jason—makes me a little sick.
Thanksgiving Day goes off without a hitch. I stop in at my dad’s around one, just to say hi and meet a few of Leah’s relatives, then I get over to my mom’s around three. It’s a small group, just Scott, Melinda, Kyle, and my mom and grandmother. I toss the football in the yard with Kyle and Scott, then we settle in for the feast and tell Mom how great everything is, then we all collapse on the sofa and into various chairs and say we could sleep for a week and we’ll probably never eat again. At one point, I steal away and make a call to Marie. I feel like a kid doing something illicit, speaking in hushed tones in the basement, but the queasy churning in my stomach, I realize, has less to do with the fact that my family might be upstairs listening in than knowing what I’m about to do this weekend. Namely, introduce Marie to a guy named Mitch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’ve never been much of a day after Thanksgiving shopper. Day before Christmas, sure. But Marie doesn’t have to work and she wants to head out. Mind you, this isn’t getting up at four am to head to K-Mart for eight-dollar microwaves and Tickle Me Elmo dolls; this is bundling up and walking around and soaking up the holiday music and decorations.
I get over to her place around eight for bagels and coffee, and the morning gets off to a rocky start. I spill an entire cup of coffee, which I’ve never done in my life, and it misses my crotch by millimeters. A scalding hot cup, straight from the pot. I’m embarrassed of course, even though she says it’s no big deal since it’s only the kitchen floor and an old mug, but what bothers me most is knowing why it happened: nerves, the jitters, unease over my impeding confession. I sop up the mess—on my knees, appropriately, since I’m singing hallelujahs to my guardian angel for sparing me an agonizing stint in bed, in the fetal position, with an ice pack between my legs—and then we’re off.