Escape Room

by Brian Ullmann

  “Now the dismount,” Wolfie said.

  He now reversed his course, leapt back across the gap. When he reached the support pole, he wrapped his arms around the steel and glided to the floor like a firefighter, hitting the floor in a tucked roll. He forward-rolled until he popped back to a standing position, right beside Tahoe.

  “Boom,” he said. “How you like me now?”

  “Maybe a little less than before, actually,” Tahoe said. “But I’m sure all of that will come in handy if we ever encounter an American Ninja Warrior obstacle course.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chance saw something flutter to the ground. It was tiny, and at first he dismissed it as simply some dust dislodged from the platform above. He walked to where it landed and picked it up.

  “You got something?” Tahoe asked.

  Chance nodded. “It must’ve been up on the platform,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  Chance held it out in his palm. It was a tiny scrap of thick paper, a torn corner. There was no writing on it, just a fragment of some kind of image.

  “I don’t know,” Chance shrugged. “Feels like maybe the corner of a business card. You know, the thickness.”

  “Can’t say I’ve handled many business cards, Chance,” Tahoe said. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

  Wolfie clambered back up the pole to see if anything else was up on the platform, but he returned empty-handed. “Nothing,” he said.

  Chance stared at the image on the torn card, an array of interlocking circles. “It’s not much,” Chance said. “And probably nothing.” He shoved the scrap into his front pocket.

  “Are we done here?” Tahoe asked.

  “We are done here.”

  “So now what?” Wolfie asked.

  “I think it’s time we checked in on our families,” Chance said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Chance had been right about one thing during his outburst. They really knew very little about one another. Case in point: Of the four of them, only Wolfie and Chance had shared that they were from the area. Tahoe had told no one else that she was not from Nevada, but living instead in the decidedly less exotic Arbutus. Wolfie and Kate had not heard her story; they did not even know that her real name was Margaret. Kate, completely consistent with her quiet, secretive nature, had not divulged even the faintest hint about where she had come from.

  They agreed they weren’t going to approach their families directly. That might put their loved ones in danger. Desmond and Scarface clearly had no misgivings about inflicting collateral damage. Like Bigfoot and his friends, like the four players in the Pharaoh’s Room.

  Until Chance and the others figured out what was going on, they wanted to at least make sure they were okay. And maybe, if the opportunity presented itself, they could slip some kind of message to their loved ones, to assure them they, too, were okay.

  “I just need to see my Pops,” Wolfie said. “He’s really all I got.”

  “Same with my mom,” Tahoe said. “I want to hear her voice. I can’t imagine what she’s going through right now.”

  Chance thought about his own father. They hadn’t parted on good terms. The disappointment in his father’s face about the science fair was just a glimpse into something much bigger. He wasn’t the son he was supposed to be, not in his father’s eyes anyway. He wasn’t the star quarterback, or the leading scorer on the basketball team. He didn’t give his father anything to brag about to the other dads. He wrote poems and stories that his dad didn’t read, and wouldn’t understand even if he did. In all the ways that matter to a father, Chance didn’t.

  And yet, he was his son. Flesh and blood. Somewhere, beneath his father’s rejection, was a bond. Perhaps not as strong as the one he felt with his mother, a woman he had never really known, but it was a bond nonetheless. That bond beckoned now, compelling Chance to talk to his father, hear his familiar voice. Maybe his father would know what to do. Maybe he could help. That’s what a father does, right?

  The taxi ride to the industrial park had burned what was left of their money, so they walked the three miles across town to Penn Station. They easily slipped past the conductor, hopped the entrance gate and boarded MARC Train 425 for Washington, D.C. Kate suggested they split up; they’d be less conspicuous that way. She was street-smart, far more than the rest of them.

  They found seats in different compartments and moved to a new car at each stop. An hour later, they reached Union Station and regrouped outside in the shadow of a 45-foot statue of Christopher Columbus.

  The statue surmounted a wide circular fountain, constructed in 1912 after the local Knights of Columbus lobbied Congress for funds. It depicted Columbus wearing a flowing mantle, his hands folded in front of him. He stood on the prow of a ship, in a moment of discovery. Two figures flanked him on either side. To the right was an elderly man, representing the Old World. On his left was a figure of a Native American, representing the New World.

  As Chance gazed up at the statue, he had an unsettling feeling that he was in that middle place too, stuck between two worlds.

  A row of yellow taxis snaked around the fountain in front of the massive Union Station.

  “How far from here?” Tahoe asked Wolfie. They all knew they were out of money. Taking one of the cabs wasn’t a possibility.

  “Just a few miles,” Wolfie said.

  They made their way south through the city, crossing the Anacostia River on the 11th Street Bridge. They paused on the far side of the muddy tributary, scanning pedestrians and vehicles to see if they were being followed. Even when they approached Wolfie’s grandfather’s house, they doubled down an adjacent block and paused again to watch. Nothing. They were clear.

  The brick row house was in the middle of the block. The other homes were identical two-story brick structures with small porches and front yards. Pops’ home was tended to lovingly; the windows were clean and the shutters freshly painted. Flowerboxes hung from the banister of the front porch. The front yard was raked free of leaves.

  Wolfie led them to the end of the block, and around to a narrow alley that ran parallel to the road, immediately behind the row of houses. There, they entered to the small paved back yard through a chain-link gate to a ground-level back door. “It’s always open,” Wolfie said. They slipped inside.

  Pops was not home.

  The kitchen smelled of fresh pecan pie. Suddenly recognizing they were all famished, all four raided the small pantry. Wolfie retrieved a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured out four glasses. They gulped down the tea with slices of pie and chicken salad sandwiches.

  Wolfie was tempted to leave a note for his Pops, but thought better of it. He could not live with himself if he implicated his Pops in all this. Too dangerous. But perhaps the half-empty iced tea pitcher would be enough of a clue to assure Pops that his grandson was still alive.

  “Do you think I can use the phone?” Tahoe asked. She pointed to a phone, still attached via a landline to an outlet in the wall. “Or is that just a museum piece?”

  “Pops is old-school all the way,” Wolfie said. “You want to call home?”

  She nodded. “It’s the only way. We’re not flying to Nevada now, are we?” She studiously avoided making eye contact with Chance.

  “What are you going to say?” Wolfie asked.

  “Nothing,” Tahoe said quietly. “I just want to hear her voice. I know her pretty well. I can tell a lot from the sound of her voice.”

  Wolfie led Chance and Kate into the front living room, to show them the collection of jazz records, and to give Tahoe some privacy.

  It was just a minute later that Tahoe joined them. Chance opened his mouth to ask about the conversation. He had heard her dial the numbers, but had not heard her voice. Not a single word. Something in Tahoe’s eyes told him to give her some space.

  “I think I’ll call, too,” Chance said. “My place is too long a walk from here.”

  He called from the landline in
the kitchen. His dad’s cellphone went right to voicemail after the first ring, so Chance dialed another number by heart. A gruff voice answered.

  “Arlington Service Center.” The whir and clang of tools echoed in the background.

  “Clay Matthews, please,” Chance said, lowering his voice an octave.

  “Clay? Not here today.”

  “This is important,” Chance said. “If he’s busy, I think he would want to be interrupted.”

  “I told you, he ain’t here. Been out all week.”

  Out all week? That was not like his father at all. He hadn’t missed a day of work in years, much less an entire week. Something was wrong. Chance had been gone, missing, for over a week now. Could his father be out there, looking for him?

  “Took a side hustle down in Norfolk,” the gruff mechanic said. “Been down there working on some vehicles at the naval station. Supposed to be back in a few days. If you have a car that you need work done, just bring —”

  Chance hung up.

  He took a minute to compose himself.

  When he entered the living room, Kate approached him with questioning eyes

  “Chance,” she said softly.

  “He’s working,” Chance said. “Down in Norfolk.”

  Kate placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Chance sucked air in through his nose, and said loudly, “It’s better this way. Better that he’s not out looking for me. He doesn’t need to be involved in any of this.”

  A pall descended on the room. It was obvious to all of them that Chance’s and Tahoe’s phone calls had not gone well.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Chance said.

  “Wait,” Wolfie said. “There’s one more thing I want to do. And then, if it’s okay with the rest of you, I’d like to stick around, just for a little while. I want to see him.”

  “Can I stay with you?” Tahoe asked him.

  Wolfie nodded.

  “Just stay out of sight,” Chance told them. He and Kate exited out the back door.

  Wolfie and Tahoe lingered. “Come on,” Wolfie said to Tahoe. “I know a place.”

  They walked through the back alley, circled around the block and crossed the street. Slipping down another trash-filled alley beside a liquor store, Wolfie led them to a rickety fire escape bolted to the brick wall of the squat building. They climbed up, emerging onto a flat tar-stained roof that overlooked the street below.

  From the roof, they had a clear view of the row houses across the street.

  James “Pops” Wolfson ambled up High Street with plastic grocery bags in both hands. He walked slowly, a slight limp in his right leg. He turned onto the narrow path that led up to a set of steps to his small porch. That’s when he heard the music.

  The record was playing on the turntable on the porch. He recognized the song immediately. Billy Eckstine’s Don’t Worry ’Bout Me. The 1962 studio album was arranged by Billy Byers, conducted by Bobby Tucker and produced by a young Quincy Jones. Never made much of a mark on the charts, but it was still one of his favorites.

  Pops smiled, and set the groceries down on the wicker chair beside the turntable. He sat in the second chair and listened until the song was over. Then he reset the needle and listened to it again.

  On the roof of the liquor store across the street, Tahoe wrapped her arms around Wolfie, who was doing everything he could to keep from crying.

  THIRTY

  “Where are we going?” Chance asked. “You never said where your family lived.”

  They were crossing back over the 11th Street Bridge, just him and Kate, walking close enough to one another for their shoulders to occasionally brush together. Ahead, the dull white dome of the U.S. Capitol loomed over the colorless structures of the Washington Navy Yard. The brown waters of the Anacostia River churned in turbid swells below them.

  Kate did not answer right away. After a few moments of silence, she finally said, “I’m glad it’s just you.” She did not elaborate.

  At the Potomac Avenue Metro station, they hopped the gates and rode a mostly empty train back on the Blue line to Gallery Place. They changed to the Orange line, then got off at the stop for Union Station.

  “Here?” Chance asked. “This could’ve been our first stop.”

  “I’m glad it’s just you,” Kate said again.

  Four blocks north of Union Station, they entered a courtyard between three unfinished five-story buildings. Brick and steel and glass. Industrial-style lofts, Chance figured. They were all the rage in big cities. Exposed ceilings, pocket doors, commercial-grade metal blinds. Exorbitant rents.

  Nice digs.

  Kate opened an unmarked door on the side of one building, and they slipped into a concrete stairwell. The stairs were strewn with trash, detritus of the ongoing construction work. There was no signage, no numbers marking the floors. If this building was going to be high-end industrial studio apartments, it wasn’t that yet. Chance watched Kate, but said nothing.

  They ascended several more flights of stairs and pushed through a heavy door into a wide empty floor. Clear plastic tarps hung from the ceiling in regular intervals, as if marking off rooms. Piles of concrete blocks and wooden slats were stacked along exposed brick walls. Sawdust sprinkled the bare floor.

  Kate led him toward the far corner. There were two tarps here, jutting out from either wall to create a concealed corner.

  She pulled back one of the tarps with a dramatic flourish.

  “Home sweet home,” she said.

  There was a twin mattress in the corner, covered with a thin pillow and a dark green army blanket. A basket of clothes peeked out from beneath the cot. A tattered rug covered the floor. Sitting atop a small desk was a hotplate and a three plastic cups of Ramen noodles. An exposed bulb hung on a frayed cord from the unfinished ceiling.

  “In a year, this place will be going for five grand a month,” Kate said. “So really, how lucky am I?”

  “This is where you live?” Chance asked. There was a small stack of books on the floor beside the bed. The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne. Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Anna Karenina.

  She nodded. “Have you ever seen Fallingwater?”

  Chance shook his head.

  “It’s a famous house, in Pennsylvania. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, only the most famous architect in the world.”

  “Now that you say it, it does sound familiar. But I’ve never seen it.”

  “Wright was a true artist. In Fallingwater, he used what he had available and built around it. A huge rock was used as a natural floor. Another boulder was used for part of a fireplace hearth. And the entire house was built on top of and around a waterfall – hence the name of the house.”

  “He worked with what he had,” Chance said.

  Kate sat down on her mattress. “I think I’m like that,” she said quietly. “I work with what I have.”

  “And this is what you have? What about your parents?”

  “I haven’t seen them in almost a year,” Kate said. “Not since I left home.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Not today,” she said.

  “What about school?”

  She shook her head.

  “So you’re here by yourself?” Chance asked.

  “Not now, I’m not,” she said quietly.

  Suddenly, she rose up from the bed and in one graceful stride closed the distance between her and Chance. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Chance was eager for it too, hungry even, as if all that had happened over the last few days could only be soothed by her mouth, right here and now. Kate tasted of sweet tea and pecans. He felt Kate pull him down towards the mattress.

  “I just want you to hold me,” she said. “I just want to feel you beside me. Is that okay?”

  They fell wordlessly to the bed, facing each other. Kate nestled her forehead into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “I just need to feel you beside me,” she repeated. “Just for a little while.”


  There was a small bandage at the back of Kate’s neck. He hadn’t noticed it before, because he had never been this close before. He placed a finger on it.

  “It’s a tattoo,” she said.

  “Covered up?”

  “It used to be a tattoo.”

  “I’m not sure what that means. Can I see?”

  “You may wish you hadn’t.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Slowly, he peeled the bandage free. Underneath, he could just make out the shape of a well-drawn butterfly. Purple and yellow and in full-flight. But the tattoo was marred by a half-dozen round burn marks. They looked black and raw.

  “Cigarette burns,” he said. “Who did this to you?”

  “My dad,” she said quietly. “And for the record, they were cigar burns. Bigger. Hotter.”

  Chance pulled her tightly to him. Close enough for him to feel her chest rise and fall, her breath on his neck.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She pressed her forehead to his chest, exhaling.

  “I guess he didn’t like the butterfly,” she said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Later, the four of them met back up at the Columbus fountain, as planned. Chance could immediately sense something had transpired between Tahoe and Wolfie. It wasn’t anything obvious, but there was something in the way their bodies orbited one another, the way their gazes lingered a half-second longer than usual. It was good, Chance decided. Healthy even. Everybody needed someone.

  Chance felt the weight of Tahoe’s heavy stare. Did she sense something had happened between him and Kate, too? He tried to act nonchalant, but he had this unnerving suspicion that she saw right through him.

  “You two look like you had a good visit,” Tahoe said, a wry smile curling one corner of her mouth. Chance took an unconscious half-step away from Kate. Tahoe rolled her eyes.

  Chance was suddenly anxious to change the subject. “We still have one more family visit to make,” he said.