by David Staats
The clock said 5:23 and noticeably fewer people were in the club. The man who was pounding on the treadmill picked up his pace, and his pounding got even louder, as if he were sprinting the last four hundred yards of a five thousand meter race.
Pop! Golden had worked the cork out of the bottle. Foam bubbled up, ran out of the top of the bottle, and spilled onto Golden’s hand. He frantically grabbed at one of the plastic wine glasses with the other hand.
Blake Culler was laughing. “The sidewalk was bumpy,” he said.
Golden flung his hand sharply downward to shake the champagne from it onto the carpet. Then he kept filling glasses until he had emptied the bottle. He straightened up and directed his gaze at MacCreedy, who stood across from him. “First of all,” he said, “Congratulations to Rich and Elizabeth on the marriage of their daughter – even though it was two weeks ago, we can still celebrate it. And it must be a deferred honeymoon for Rich and Vanessa – first trip to Europe! – okay?” and then, looking at Rich, “There’s lots to celebrate. Take up your glasses!”
He paused while everyone took one of the over-generously charged glasses.
“To Stephanie! To Rich! To life!” He held out his glass in a trembling hand. The others raised their glasses, touched them to one another, making soft, plastic clacks, and drank.
There followed a bit of an anticlimax as the five people stood in a circle around the champagne cart looking at one another. Vanessa looked almost as stunning as she did when Hargrave had hired her five years ago. Her hazel-green eyes flickered unsteadily between Richard and MacCreedy. Then she looked down to stare at the glass in her hands.
MacCreedy, self-consciously maintaining a strict, upright posture, kept a proprietress’s eye on what was going on in the club outside of the little circle, and periodically, when she brought her gaze back to a member of the group, forced a small smile. Hargrave, his vibrant, chestnut brown hair, almost certainly dyed, making him look younger than his 58 years, gave off a ‘been-there-done-that’ air of weariness.
Golden idly picked up one of the champagne bottles and examined the label. “ ‘Elegant Jade Sparkling!’ What kind of name is that for champagne?” He laughed and the others followed suit. He held the bottle closer to his face and began to read the fine print aloud. “ ‘Contains sulfites. Produced and bottled in China’! Look out Veuve Clicquot! The Chinese are going to eat your lunch too.” He turned to Blake Culler. “What kind of shop are you running over there? – Chinese champagne …”
“Hey, it’s a sports bar, not The Dead Rabbit,” said Culler.
“Probably cost two bucks a bottle, right? That’s what I get for telling you to keep the change,” said Golden.
“You want your money back?” barked Culler.
“Don’t get excited,” said Golden. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” He poured some more champagne in his own glass, and then into Hargrave’s. “It’s good stuff!”
No one wanted to be the first to leave the little circle, and so they stood there, making small talk, being distracted by the activity around them, and thinking about what they still had to get done that day. Golden aggressively re-filled anyone’s glass which got low. Gradually, the cohesion of the circle dissipated, like electricity draining from a battery, until Hargrave said, “Well, gotta get to the sauna so I can get out of here to make my train.” He set his glass on the cart and turned to go, only to have Vanessa grasp his forearm. She held out to him another glass.
“Here, drink this, honey,” she said. Hargrave smiled at her indulgently and drank.
“Alright!” exclaimed a man who had been doing the bench press. “A new personal best!” he shouted, as if everyone in the club would be interested.
Hargrave went into the men’s locker room, and MacCreedy went over to the sign-in counter to wish a happy Fourth to the people who were leaving the club. It was now 5:40 and more people were leaving. Culler and Vanessa drifted over to join MacCreedy.
“It was so busy this afternoon!” remarked MacCreedy.
“People wanted to get their work-out in before the holiday to keep up their training load, knowing there would be two days off,” said Blake.
“I didn’t get mine in,” said Vanessa. “And Mrs. Darling didn't come in, either.” Standing behind the counter with MacCreedy, she rested her forearms on the glass counter-top and leant forward, as if tired from exertion. Abruptly she left the front and walked to the vending machines and studied their contents. Apparently disappointed, she went into the receiving and stock room through the door which was just to the right of the vending machines.
“G’night,” said MacCreedy to a man as he went past the sign-in counter to the door. Despite her saying ‘goodnight,’ it was bright daylight outside in the long July afternoon.
Blake was standing on the other side of the counter, leaning his back against it, looking like a cool guy.
Three more people left the club. Seemingly suddenly, the club was empty, except for present company. Golden was wheeling the champagne cart up to the front. MacCreedy looked at the clock: 5:50.
“I’m going,” she announced. “Blake you’re going to lock up?” she said, to confirm that he knew what he was supposed to do.
“Yep,” said Blake, “Did Mr. Hargrave leave?”
“I think so,” said Vanessa, just returning to the front. “He had to catch his train.”
Like a typical business owner, MacCreedy, having announced that she was going to leave, did not leave. “Go and check the locker rooms. Make sure everybody’s out,” she said. Culler and Vanessa went to the men’s and women’s locker room, respectively.
Golden said ‘good-bye’ and left. MacCreedy idly looked over the sign-in sheet.
“All clear,” called Blake as he came out of the men’s locker room.
“Women’s locker room is empty,” said Vanessa, a second later.
“Have a nice holiday,” called MacCreedy as she went out the door. Vanessa followed her, and Culler was left to lock up.
Chapter 3. The Temperature Was Roasting Hot
The next day, Saturday, July 4, dawned clear and lovely, as did every Fourth of July in Canterbury. Early in the morning it was cool, the grass dew-laden; but the temperature rose quickly.
The annual Fourth of July parade was a big deal in Canterbury. All the businesses closed for the event, even the convenience stores and the gas stations. The high school marching band had been practicing and preparing since school got out six weeks ago. Local businesses and local politicians all had their floats, some of them quite elaborate.
Others not. The University Health Club’s “float” in the Canterbury Fourth of July Parade consisted of a 1957 Thunderbird convertible driven by Elizabeth MacCreedy. The car belonged to Richard Hargrave. Vanessa had driven it to the parade staging ground. The Club’s two most attractive assets, Vanessa and Culler, sat on the rear deck of the two-seater. Since Culler could not put his legs down into the driver’s seat with MacCreedy there, he had to sit in the middle. Vanessa sat to his right, her feet on the passenger seat. Out of this necessity, they sat close together. Vanessa tried to maintain a small gap between her hip and Culler’s but it was a battle. There was a limit to how far she could scrunch over to her right without running out of a place to sit.
This assemblage of three attractive bodies, the T-Bird, Culler, and Vanessa, was rolling at two miles an hour down Milton Street. The heat on this sunny day had become sweltering, and Culler and Vanessa were dressed for the weather. They waved to the crowd, and called out to their friends and acquaintances as they saw them standing along the sidewalk. Blake’s eighth-grade English teacher, whom he remembered as an arbitrary authoritarian, shrieked his name and waved to him, standing on tiptoe with her arm stretched up straight and making wild motions. When Culler waved to his former teacher and called “Hi, Mrs. Slater,” to her, her face lit up, as if somehow being in the parade made him a celebrity, and she had become a fan-girl.
Ahead of them, the VFW had done a
n elaborate job with a flatbed truck on which Revolutionary War re-enactors, dressed in authentic-looking uniforms were periodically discharging muskets. The T-bird then drove through the clouds of light-gray-colored, acrid-smelling smoke which lingered in the still air. Between the crack of the muskets and the bang of the occasional firecracker exploding at the back of the crowd of spectators, no one would have noticed if a firearm had been discharged in earnest.
Blake and Vanessa were smiling for the crowd. Blake knew, from what he had overheard at the health club, that she expected her husband to be in New York City that day. “I take it you’ll be free this afternoon,” he said.
Vanessa swiveled her head sharply to look in Blake’s face. His gaze could have been innocent or insolent. “You had a lot to drink last night?” she asked.
“No more’n usual.”
“You’re not hung over?”
“Me? Do I look hung over?”
She let her eyes slide off to the right and engage with the crowd on the opposite side of the street. She waved her arm with exaggerated motions. “I’ve got to finish packing,” she said.
“Need any help?”
“I can handle it.”
“You must have a lot of packing to do – two weeks in Europe,” suggested Blake, waving his left hand and smiling for the crowd.
“I can handle it.”
“I’d be glad to come over and help.”
Vanessa ignored him. Smiling her lovely smile, she held up her right arm, bent at the elbow, and fluttered her hand to the admiring spectators.
After a moment he added, “So when are you leaving?”
“I’m driving up to New York Monday afternoon. Rich is already there. We’re flying out Monday evening.”
“You sure you wouldn’t like some company, say on Sunday?”
She snapped at him. “Blake, why don’t you --”. But she broke off and her lower jaw trembled. “When are you going to grow up?” she said. She used just that tone of voice which her mother used to use with her.
“Didn’t mean to upset you. Just thought you might be lonely.”
“It’s okay, Blake.” She looked down at her hands. The fingers of her right hand were twisting the rings on her ring finger.
After the last float passed, the crowd flowed into the street and followed behind the parade, which turned left onto Miner Street and proceeded to its terminus at Baldwin’s Grove Park, three blocks from the center of town. There, as each float paraded past the grand stand, a cheer went up. The floats which received the most enthusiastic response, according to a panel of judges (the pooh-bahs of the town), won first, second, or third prize. There was a spirited competition for these prizes, which conferred a prestige on the winner for a whole year. This year, the winner was Smeltzer’s Funeral Parlor.
* * *
Monday morning, the sixth of July, hauled itself up hazy and hot out of the east. The temperature was already 87 degrees at six o’clock in the morning – the hour that the University Health Club opened to accommodate the before-work work-out crowd. The stagnant morning air in downtown Canterbury made breathing a chore. Echoing from nearby streets the high-pitched roar of delivery trucks and garbage trucks accelerating in low gear, and then the squealing of their brakes, seemed to presage a day of frayed nerves. A small knot of fit folk were congregating in front of the entrance to the Club because, unusually, it was not open on time. It was now a couple of minutes after 6:00 and still the club had not opened.
The Club closed only three days of the year: the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas; fireworks, turkey, and ham. This year however, unusually, it had also been closed on the fifth of July. MacCreedy had given, as her reason for this, the fact that she had, during the week leading up to the Fourth, chatted with her customers about their plans for the upcoming holiday; nearly everybody was going to be either out of town for the weekend, or busy doing other things, so that opening the Club on Sunday, the fifth of July would be unnecessary and unprofitable. Thus the Club had been closed the fourth and the fifth, and today was the sixth.
Waiting for the club to open were three men and one woman. Two of the men were in business attire, their gym bags on the sidewalk at their feet. They stood with necks bent, intent on checking their e-mail or reading the news on their smart phones. The third man and the woman were dressed in skimpy athletic garb suitable for the hot, muggy weather. The man was jogging in place as he waited. Whenever his ogling of the woman, a twenty-something showing long, tan legs who was stretching her calves by leaning forward and pressing against the side of the brick building, threatened to become too obvious, he would turn ninety degrees as he jogged and gaze diagonally across the corner of South Church Street and University Avenue. There stood the University’s Science Center, with its large, modern building, neat lawn and green trees.
“What’s taking them so long?” asked one of the other men, looking up from his phone, sighing, and glancing up and down the street as if to spot the approach of the person with the keys.
From the next intersection down on Church Street came the growl of an engine and in a moment a blue Porsche Boxster decelerated rapidly and swerved over to park at the side of the street, on the opposite side from the Club. A good-looking young man hopped out of the top-down car and jogged across the street.
“Hey, Blake,” said the young woman in greeting.
“A little late, aren’t we,” said one of the businessmen, ostentatiously looking at his left wrist as if to check his watch, which in fact he had stopped wearing a few years ago.
“Sorry, guys, sorry,” said Blake Culler, taking a ring of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and held it open as the waiting members made a little parade filing inside.
“Whoa!” exclaimed a male voice.
Culler went in after them, the door closing automatically behind him. Another little line had formed as the members signed in on the sign-in sheet at the reception desk. “Whew!” said Culler, “The air conditioning must have been off for the whole weekend.”
“Somebody’s been doing some barbecuing,” said one of the men. The members were wrinkling their noses and exchanging glances.
“I’ll get it turned on, I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” said Culler. He went around the reception counter and picked up the telephone receiver. Before dialing he said, “Our landlord is a cheapskate. He’s not supposed to turn off the AC over the weekend. We were closed for two days, though. I guess he thought he could get away with it.”
“Maybe they didn’t empty the garbage,” said the woman. She walked over to the large plastic garbage can which stood next to the vending machines. “I don’t see anything stinky in here,” she called out. “Plastic soda bottles – and there are two champagne bottles!”
As Culler made his call, the two businessmen made their way to the men’s locker room. The woman went to the treadmills and began jogging; the young man who also was already dressed for working out went to the weight machines area and began to stretch.
Hanging up the phone, Culler rushed around turning on all the lights and the video displays in front of the treadmills and stationary cycles. It was fortunate that the lone woman had gone directly to the treadmills, so that, with no one in the ladies’ locker room, he could go in and turn on the lights. Going into the ladies’ locker room was always an iffy thing. He first knocked on the door. Hearing no response, he opened the door, making a mental note to spray some WD-40 on the creaking hinge. “Hello?” he called out, just to make sure. His voice reverberated from the tile walls. He flicked on the four light switches. The fluorescent lights flickered like summer lightening as they warmed up. He went towards the sauna in the corner of the locker room, looking down the rows of lockers as he went. There were only two rows; it wasn’t a large locker room. There was a sock on the floor, and what looked like a red sweatshirt draped in disorderly fashion over a bench. Oops! The sauna was already on. He must have left it on over the weekend – he had been in such a rush to get out of ther
e on Friday.
He went into the men’s locker room. The two businessmen had already turned on the lights. “Blake,” said one of the men, standing in front of his open locker, “you know it’s really strong in here. Worse than out front.”
“The AC should be on in a minute,” said Culler. He seemed disinclined to stop and chat. “It’ll clear the air pretty quick.” He went back out to the reception counter, checked the sign-in sheet to make sure that everyone had signed in, then sat on the high stool behind the counter, tapping his foot on the rung nervously. He called the landlord’s office again about the air conditioning.
Another client came in, a small, not-quite-middle-aged man with a fringe of dark hair around his bald head, as if he had a tonsure. Culler watched to make sure that he signed in. The man paused as he was writing, raised his head and sniffed audibly. “Spare ribs? I can’t quite place it. It’s not quite pleasant … overtones of old socks?” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“The AC was off over the weekend,” explained Culler.
After a few minutes, Culler got up and walked a sinuous route between exercise machines to the storage and receiving room in the corner of the huge open area that was the main part of the Club. He was searching for a can of aerosol disinfectant. This room annoyed him. It was supposed to be a room for receiving shipments and storing supplies, but it was jammed full of broken, worn-out, and obsolete equipment that for some reason the owner could not bring herself to throw away. Half the fluorescent lights were burnt out, but there was so much junk in the way, that you couldn’t get a ladder in to replace them. For his own purposes, he had made sure that a pathway from the interior door to the exit door into the alley was clear, so that he could use that route to scoot over across the alley to the sports bar where his other job was. Other than that, the place was an obstacle course.
So that there would be more light, he left the door from the exercise area open. Supplies were kept on gray metal shelves that were against the walls. He knew where the spray disinfectant was, but somebody had shoved the equipment around so that he in turn had to shove some of it back and step over things to get to the place he wanted. If he tripped and fell and broke his leg, he would sue. It would serve her right. Between him and the place where the disinfectant should be was an old treadmill that had been stood on end so as to fit more junk in the room. He turned sideways to edge past it, but when he was wedged between it and the shelving, his leg bumped into something and he could go no further. It was too dark down below for him to see clearly what was holding him up, but he believed that he could just stretch out his right hand and grab the can that he wanted. He did so and just as he latched onto the can he heard a groaning behind him. He froze and listened. Ernh-ernh-ernh.