by Alan Mulak
Alex laughed. “All right, all right. You don’t have to tell me twice.” He stood, turning off his laptop. “You know where to find me.”
He and MacKenzie walked out of his office, and into the great room, where a small group of people were gathered around the registration desk, and seated in the overstuffed chairs. The holiday weekend reservations were checking out, their replacements checking in. MacKenzie headed for the front desk to help out, and Alex walked to the front door. He was about to step outside when he came face to face with the deep blue eyes of Anna Becker.
18
Anna
Alex stood frozen, gazing into the eyes of the only woman he had ever loved. Anna stared back. After twenty years, there was not a shred of doubt – it was Anna. Her thick auburn hair was still long and flowing. Her lips still full and inviting. Other than a few lines emanating out from her round blue eyes, the passage of time had hardly touched the woman standing in front of him. She wore a lemon colored long-sleeved Patagonia shirt, open at the collar, and blue jeans – and seemingly, had not gained an ounce.
There have been numerous studies about facial recognition, and one generally accepted conclusion is that women are better at recognition and recollection of faces than men. Studies suggest it may be because they spend more time studying features without even knowing it. However, if the relationship was intimate and lasted for an extended period, both men and women scored high. In this particular case – the entryway to the Slater Ranch – both Anna Becker and Alex Delvecchio were positive in their respective identifications.
The last time Alex – Rob Santos back then – looked into Anna’s eyes was a bitterly cold winter morning in 1989. He was removing boxes of his belongings from Anna’s third-floor Cambridge apartment, carrying them down to his borrowed pick-up truck which was double-parked on the street. Suddenly, Anna, long brown hair flowing over her black, goose down parka, stepped into the doorway, blocking Rob’s path. Her cheeks were red from the four-block walk from the homeless shelter where she served breakfast, and she was still breathless from the climb up the stairs to her apartment
Rob, sagging at the sight of her, put down the box of books. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working until noon.”
Anna stared at the box at Rob’s feet. “We got done early. What’s going on?”
Rob said nothing, looking away.
Anna unbuttoned her coat. “Are you going somewhere?”
Ever so slightly, Rob nodded. “I’m moving out.”
Anna froze, her cobalt-blue eyes opened wide. “Why?”
After a few attempts, Rob found his voice. “It’s not going to work. We want different things out of life.”
Anna slid out of her parka, letting it fall to the floor. “What are you saying?”
“I’ve been thinking about this – us – and it’ll always be a struggle with us. You and I are very different. Our life together will be one big taffy pull. I want a big-dollar career in a Fortune Five Hundred corporation; you want to save the world. These are very different things. Let’s end it now.”
“What? Things? You’re breaking up with me because of things?” Anna said in barely a whisper. “How can you do this? We love each other. At least, I love you, and I thought you loved me. I’ve never been happier. So what if life is a struggle. What does it matter? We have what’s important.”
Rob shook his head, as if in stubborn denial of what he knew to be true.
Anna’s face had lost its color. Her big, round blue eyes were now filled with tears. “You were moving out when I’m not home? Were you planning on telling me?”
“I was going to leave you a note.”
“A note? You were going to leave me a note? If I hadn’t come home early… I can’t believe this is happening. I had no idea. No clue.”
Rob found his voice. “It’s for the best.”
Anna studied Rob’s face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Rob, look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.”
Rob tried, but he looked away. “I have to go.”
Battlefield accounts from soldiers relate a strange effect from a nearby bomb blast. They speak of all their senses – except vision - shutting down for a period of time. There are no sounds, smells, or feelings of any sort. There are no emotions or thoughts. It is as if all human sensors have been overwhelmed and simply stopped working. That is precisely how Alex felt, standing in the doorway of Slater Ranch.
Finally, a painfully thin, balding man with a gray beard came up behind Anna and took her by the arm. He said, “Thanks for waiting, my dear. I made arrangements for our luggage to be brought to our room.” He looked up at Alex, smiled, and said, “Pardon me.”
Alex stepped aside as the old man and Anna walked into the Slater Ranch.
19
Snooping Around
The next morning at 6:45 A.M., MacKenzie walked into Alex’s office. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to take some time off?”
Alex flushed and held up a few sheets of paper. "Just checking an aging report from the accounts receivable module of QuickBooks," he lied. "I'm doing a mini-audit on all of our vendors."
MacKenzie cocked her head and pursed her lips. “At this time of day? You never get in here this early. And can’t this wait a few days?”
Alex shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “I’ll take next week off instead.”
MacKenzie left, but in a few minutes, came back. She pulled up Alex's guest chair, put her feet up, and leaned back in her chair. She sipped coffee from a home-made pottery mug, all the while staring at Alex. After a moment, she said, "I'm terrible with numbers. You know that. And like I said when we first met, balancing my checkbook is a real adventure for me. On the other hand, when it comes to people, I'm really perceptive. I have this gift. Now, I'm not claiming to be able to peer into your head or anything like that, but I'm usually right about the vibes I pick up." She paused and sipped her coffee again. "What's up?"
Alex took off his glasses and smiled weakly. “Like I said, I’m just running some numbers.”
“Bullshit.”
Alex sat back in his chair and opened his hands in a what do you want me to say gesture.
MacKenzie nodded, and then stood up. “Okay, have it your way. But if you want to talk, let me know. I’ll be taking some of the guests for a horseback ride first thing this morning but will be in my office later this afternoon.”
A few minutes before eight A.M., Jackie, the desk clerk, showed up. Alex was waiting for her.
“Hi, Jackie.”
Jackie, a gray-haired, matronly grandmother of about half a dozen grandkids, blinked at Alex from behind her half-moon glasses. She was wonderful as a receptionist and treated all the guests like they were family – but only after she had had her third cup of coffee. She was about half-way through her second.
“Hi yourself,” she snorted. “What are you doing here?”
Alex chuckled. “Just spreading good will and cheer, and making sure all our employees are happy and healthy.”
"It's a bit early for all that. Do what you need to do but just stay out of my way," Jackie said, starting up her computer, and arranging her workspace. "Now, make yourself useful and empty that trash can. When you're done with that, sweep the welcome mat at the front door.” She pointed to a broom standing in the corner.
“Ah, so that’s how you get to work,” Alex said, grabbing the broom and carrying out the trash.
By the time he returned from his tasks, Jackie had the guest counter set up to her liking and appeared to be more approachable.
“So, Jackie,” Alex said, moving behind the guest counter. “I was wondering if I could see the guest register.”
Jackie looked at Alex over her glasses. “Why?”
“I’ll buy you one of those cinnamon rolls from the town bakery.”
“It’ll cost you two.”
“Deal.”
Jackie slid the guest registration book along the counter
to where Alex stood. Breathlessly, he read down the list of guests until he found what he was looking for:
Anna and Jacques Tardiff.
Bordeaux, France
While Jackie was busy with the menu board, Alex took down the information, and then slipped away.
His first stop was back in his office, where he shut the door and signed onto Google. He typed in Jacques Tardiff and was astonished at the results. The man was a renowned photographer, successful screenwriter, and international philanthropist. His accomplishments took pages to list, and his humanitarian activity was legendary throughout Europe and Africa. His successful efforts to provide drinking water to regions suffering from extended droughts were well-documented. But what was of keen interest to Alex was the biography at the end of his website, especially the part that read:
…Then in 1993, Jacques, perhaps Europe’s most eligible bachelor, married Anna Becker, the beautiful and charming model from Boston, Massachusetts…
Alex sat back.
Model? Anna? When did that happen?
Alex read on.
…Tardiff was born in 1946…
That makes him twenty-two years older than Anna. And let's see, they married in '93. That was three years after we broke up. Holy shit! They've been married for a long time. It must be working for them.
He again looked at the screen.
…and has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer…
Again Alex sat back. Realizations and possibilities were coming fast and furious.
Am I hopeful the old guy dies so I can have another chance? What kind of an asshole does that make me?
He jumped to his feet to gaze out the window, his mind awhirl with conflicting emotions. He massaged the back of his neck. Then his eyes focused on the scene out back. MacKenzie was preparing to lead a small group of guests on a horseback trip along one of the hiking trails. Anna was among them, her frail husband at her arm. She gently helped him lift his leg to the stirrup and boosted him up onto the saddle. She then climbed up onto her horse and immediately, led her animal alongside her husband's. She reached across and lovingly patted his shoulder, smiling. MacKenzie doubled back and said a few words to Anna. They both looked at Jacques, and together, seemed to decide to give it a try. As the riders left the ranch, Anna stayed in the rear with her husband, who although stooped, was giving it a go. Then, they were gone.
Alex stepped back from the window, breathing heavily. His knees felt weak, and he sat back down. The bomb blast emotional overload hit him again. His brain was in neutral, but his fingers took over. He went directly to www.JacquesTardiff.com and hit the BIO button.
In addition to being a professional photographer, there were plenty of other accomplishments, boatloads of awards, and an entire gallery of pictures of him with African natives and screenplay awards ceremonies and photojournalism recognitions. But the siren call Alex heard the loudest was the link to his professional Models page. He clicked and held his breath.
Tardiff’s introduction to the Models section of his website was wordy but surprisingly self-effacing, giving all credit to the women whose photographs launched his career.
…Many are rags to riches stories. Take my wife for example. I found her running a local pantry for the homeless in Boston. Through her overworked demeanor and threadbare attire showed an innate beauty. Shy and reluctant at first, she grudgingly agreed to let me take her under my wing and try to make her into a model. The terms of the original arrangement were that all proceeds were to go to the shelter. And now, look at her. She may be my greatest success. Of course, I'm prejudiced toward her as we've fallen deeply in love...
Ouch, ouch, ouch. Fucking ouch.
Alex backed away from the Models' tab and clicked on the African tab. Reading down, the text read,
…Two years after their marriage, Anna was made full partner in his corporation and headed up the African Thirst Relief campaign, an effort that reached thousands of people who were literally dying of thirst…
And in one of the award speeches, Anna was quoted as saying:
...For me, this is a dream come true. Finally, after years of serving soup to the poor, I feel like I am truly helping save the lives of those less fortunate. I could not have accomplished any of this without this wonderful man, Jacques Tardiff…
Ouch.
Alex exited from that section of Tardiff’s website and went back to his Models tab. The portfolios of his clients were sorted by year. As Alex searched the website, his fingers shook. He hit 1990. Pages of stunningly beautiful models came up. Alex searched, but there was no Anna. He hit 1991. Again no Anna. Then he hit 1992, and halfway down, there she was - Anna.
My God, she was beautiful.
Alex studied each posed image, his pulse banging in his temples. After three rows of the customary model poses, was another row. In these pictures, shot in high resolution black and white, Anna wore only an over-sized sheer see-through translucent blouse. Her nude figure was perfect.
Alex felt his stomach knot up.
My God.
He backed out of Tardiff’s website and leaned back in the chair, taking deep breaths. Curiosity returned, and he again typed in Jacques Tardiff. This time he scrolled down past all his personal accolades and approved websites, to other links to his name. These were stories printed by the Paris-Match and London Daily Mirror; both yellow journalism favorites of the paparazzi reporters and photographers.
Again drilling down, he located the extensive files on Tardiff. Starting with 1992, he examined the pages of photos and headline captions. And there were many. Some featured Tardiff in a tuxedo, getting out of a limousine at some awards banquet. Others were candid shots of Tardiff at lunch, or boarding a plane headed for Africa, or ducking into a café out of the rain. But then he spotted the pride of the yellow journalists; the leisure times. Specifically, in a series of grainy pictures shot with telephoto lenses from a significant distance, Tardiff and a topless Anna lounge in a beach chair on some private Southern France beach. They looked comfortable. They looked like they were in love.
Alex exhaled, and looked down at the keyboard to his computer, seeing nothing.
After an undetermined period of time, he reached over and turned off his monitor. As it shut down, the paparazzi picture quickly faded.
That could have been me. I blew it. I really fucked up.
Then the screen went dark. Alex stood up and went home.
20
Thomas “Tatman” Irving
The massive gate of black iron bars swung open, hinges crying out in protest, and four men stepped out of the former stone-walled castle which now served as the East Jersey State Prison. A yellow taxi cab idled at the curb.
The tallest of the group, a thin man with a rumpled gray suit that matched his mussed gray hair, removed a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and read aloud, "Thomas Irving," he began. "As of this date, you have paid your debt to society, and as a duly appointed agent of the State of New Jersey, I declare you a free man. May God go with you.”
One of the men, a short and plump prison guard, handed Irving a canvas bag, mumbling, “Your personal belongings.”
Irving took it without a word.
The other guard, built like an Irish rugby player but hardly old enough to shave, said, “Just look to Jesus for guidance, Thomas. Like the stars in the sky, you may not always see Him, but He will be there."
Irving, shaved head, tattoos covering all visible skin - thus earning him his nickname, Tatman - studied the three men with his haunting, pale blue eyes. As was his habit, the right side of his face twitched as if trying to shoo a mosquito.
The tall man in the suit extended his hand. “Best of luck, Irving.”
Irving stared at the extended hand, twitched again, then turned without shaking it and got into the cab.
Once the cab had pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke, the short, plump guard said, "Six months. I’ve got five bucks saying he’ll be back inside in six months.”
T
he tall man in the suit shook his head solemnly. “I think not. I’ll cover your sawbuck and take never, because this time, someone’s going to put a bullet in his scrambled-egg head. We’ll never see the likes of him again.”
“You’re both wrong,” the young guard stated. “He’s found Jesus, and he’ll go straight. He’s never coming back.”
The plump guard scoffed. "Every dirtbag that passes through this dump finds Jesus."
“Perhaps,” the young guard replied. “But all the same, we won’t see Thomas again. That’s my wager.”
The three men stepped back inside, swinging the gate closed with a loud clang.
They would all prove to be wrong.
Tatman paid his taxi fare and got out at the Camden Municipal Parking Garage. He walked to the attendant’s booth and tapped softly on the door. The man inside looked up from horse race results, and his eyes widened with recognition. After a quick look all around, he slid open the window.
"Good to see you, Tatman," he said, sounding insincere. "I heard you were out and would be coming by." He plucked a set of keys from a hook. "Here you go. Third deck. Space seventy-eight. We’ve taken good care of it. And the boss dropped this off for you.” He handed Tatman an inexpensive, disposable mobile phone.