by Vince Taplin
I, on the other hand, woke up invigorated. Ready to roll. I was excited to meet the Nick Preston, the legend, the myth, the rich prick who owned most of the East End. I’d heard stories and seen pictures but I never thought I’d meet those Ivy League assholes in person. I was also trying to bury the idea that I was looking forward to seeing Alex.
I threw my duffel bag in my car and left the house. First stop was the gym. I spent some time on the elliptical, got my heart rate up to one-seventy, and called it good after my shirt looked like Chris Farley’d walked a few feet. I cooled down on the treadmill until I could hear the hot tub calling my name. I answered. After fifteen minutes of cooking in the tub, I took a shower. A long, cool one. I stood in the shower for ten or fifteen minutes, palms pressed against the white tile with a smile on my face. It’s rare that I get to separate from my cell phone. Rare to be away from the wife and kid, too. I shaved, cleaned up my eyebrows, and trimmed my nose hairs. I cleaned all the other areas I usually neglect, too. Before I left I said hello to a few old guys I know and pulled my clothes out of my locker.
Next, I picked up my dry cleaning. It was “Trenty-a-dorrars” for a couple shirts and pants. After that I caught some lunch. I grabbed a turkey Italian hoagie from Dominick’s Deli on 29th Avenue. I’m here once a week, so I qualify as a regular. I could smell burnt coffee, mustard, and a hint of bacon when I walked in. The store windows were tinted, but had decades of scratches in the film letting in white lasers of light every few feet. As usual, the owner was standing behind the long glass case of meats, cheeses, and various colors of vegetables, watching soccer on an old tube TV hanging on the far wall. This guy was a character, a gem. Not necessarily a nice guy, but a fun one to watch. He ever so delicately sliced the salami and pepperoni like he was performing open heart surgery. He laid them on the bread carefully, and maintained the balance of greens to meat perfectly. Then, he sprayed spicy mustard and oil haphazardly across the top of the sandwich like an overpowered fire hose. Careful setup, clumsy ending. He always makes sandwiches like that.
I ate my sandwich in the deli. No other customers entered, none left. I was all alone with my thoughts and my red and white checkered tablecloth for twenty minutes before my phone buzzed. I wiped a few crumbs from the screen and read the text from Kraya: “My fucking hair is falling out!” Accompanied with the text was a picture. It was a shot of her hand, with the bathroom floor in the background. A big chunk of hair lay flat in her palm.
Awesome. This is exactly what I needed today. I texted back: “Oh no! How? What?” Am I concerned? Yeah, I am, but these freakish occurrences were a pretty common addition to our family.
“In the shower. Just now. They just… fell out! I was washing my hair and a few clumps just fell out! Ugh! I look terrible!”
“Take a picture, let me see where it came from.” I picture Britney Spears after her meltdown.
“I’ll show you when you get home!” Accompanied by a long string of frownie faces.
“Very sorry that’s happening to you, babe! I’ll be home in a bit and I’ll take a look.”
“Can’t you come home now? I’m worried. I read online that it might be allergies. I threw away all of our soap and shampoo. Can you pick up new shampoo and conditioner on your way home?”
“I have no idea what to get you for shampoo and conditioner.” Seriously, have you seen those aisles at the store? There are too many options. Moisturizing, curling, dry-scalp, oily-scalp, passion fruit, unscented, straightening…
“Just pick one.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I’ll be home in a bit. Don’t forget I have that party tonight.” I wait. No response.
That could mean a few things. One, she is annoyed that I’m thinking about the party while she is having a hair loss meltdown — or — two, something else happened, hair or general kid-related issues.
I picked up some shampoo, soap, and conditioner that the lady said was “good for sensitive skin.” It’s probably safe to assume her skin is sensitive if it’s shedding its own hair, right? When I got home, I was surprised. Not because of her hair, that looked okay. (Just okay; there were a few patches missing but nothing a quick comb-over couldn’t hide). I was surprised because she was lying on the floor in the kitchen, chuckling to herself, listening to loud music — drunk.
“What the fuck, Kray!?”
Chap2er Tw20ty
After the supermarket, I cried like a little girl. No, no, not sadness. The kind of giggling tears that happen after you kiss your first boy. I buried my face in my hands in room 9, laughing. I cried, chuckled, laughed, and cried. It was so sweet, so successful. It couldn’t have gone better.
I’m so proud of myself for keeping it together. I stuck to the plan. I wanted to scream and jump into his arms. I wanted to feel his hands on my back, his breath on my neck, and the warmth of his lips against mine. I wanted him. No, no, I needed him. But the plan was perfect. I can’t stop now, I can’t slow my campaign. Balls are rolling now that cannot be unrolled.
I looked at the bottle of vanilla on the table, standing in glory because the hands of an angel held it. Touched by a god no more than 25 minutes ago. A god! I can hardly touch it. I could feel him on the label. Sense his pheromones. His every fiber was so close I could taste him. His DNA is fresh here.
I dared to touch it. Tingles raced down my arms as I inch closer to the bottle of vanilla. I snatch it, like a devious child stealing a roll of candy. I rub it with my thumb. He. Is. Perfection.
I stopped visiting his house every night because I have better control now. I make entry only when needed — when the plan calls for action. Like tonight, Kraya’s cocktail of medication needs to be changed. She is adjusting to the drugs and she has become almost functional. Like mother and her drugs.
I’ve created a perfect blend of uppers and downers. Oxycodone to put her to sleep and ephedra to bring her up. Sometimes, I mix some Adderall into the mix to see how she handles it.
I rigged more cameras around their house. I added some in his car and others in hers. I can hear more with advanced microphones, enough to know when someone is dreaming lightly or smacking their lips. I watch from my phone, from the living room, from board meetings on a tablet, from room 9. I watch them everywhere.
My most recent triumph came when I gave her a particularly heavy dose. Kraya fell asleep in less than 10 minutes, a new record. I entered through the back door, as usual. I found her macaroni in a pan on the counter. I put the pan back on the stove and cranked up the heat to high. I checked on her in the bedroom, too. She was sleeping soundly, snoring into a big patterned pillowcase. His son was crying, so I held him. I whispered calm songs in his ear. But he didn’t calm down. He cried harder and wriggled and sobbed. Someday soon, love, someday soon you’ll be with Vick and me and know I am your new mother. I’ll care for you and give you and your father everything, everything you want, and everything you need will be yours. I whisper in his ear, loud enough to get past his obnoxious wailing, “Your mother is a peasant cunt. You’ll realize that soon.” I received a notification on my phone that Vick was moving. He was coming home. He is coming here. It took painful energy to leave, knowing he would be here soon, in this very spot. I could meet him again. Hug him here! We could make love in his house, in his bed. It would be beautiful.
I put “our son” down and slipped back downstairs. I put my heels on and snuck out the sliding door. I got into my car and left, holding my phone with one hand and the steering wheel with the other. I waited and watched. I spied as he lost his cool, throwing the pan into the sink. I watched as he lost faith in his wife. I watched him save his son from the smoke.
Your time is short, Kraya.
I will win.
Chapter Twenty-one
Kraya lay on the floor, eating potato chips. “I… I… only had one glass of (hiccup) wine. So shoot me!” Patches of her hair were scattered around her. “Oh, and don’t worry — he’s fine. He’s upstairs.” She
lifted the video baby monitor, showing an image of him sleeping soundly in his crib.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Your hair? Is it still…”
“Falling out?” She pulled out another bunch, looking at it with a squinted, glazed eye. “I made an appointment with the doc tomorrow.”
Kneeling, I grabbed her by the shoulders, squaring my body to hers. “Kray, honey. I’m so sorry about your hair. But you’re drunk. Our kid is upstairs. What if something happened?”
“Something did happen, Vick.” With arms crossed, she continued, “Asshole. Don’t you remember?” She pointed to the piles of hair around her.
I need to be at the tower in a few hours. This can’t be happening. “Yes, I remember, but right now I need to make sure someone is caring for our child. You’re drunk…”
She interrupted. “I’m buzzed. And I told you, I only had one glass of wine. You don’t believe me!”
There is a time to choose your words carefully. This wasn’t one of those times. “No. I don’t believe you, Kray, you’re wasted! I know you had a bad day, and it sucks that your hair is acting weird, but you’re a mom. You need to make sure our…”
“I’m not wasted. Buzzzzzzzzzzzed…” She tried to get to her feet, instead she lay back down. “I’m only buzzed. And he’s fine. He’s been sleeping for a while.”
“What happens when he wakes up from his nap?”
“I was going to get him! He’s so cute, isn’t he?”
“Seriously? I’m so very done with this conversation. I’m calling Molly. I can’t do this, not tonight.”
Sad. Pissed. Worried. Annoyed? I couldn’t quite peg which one I am most. A fucked-up cluster of emotions, I guess. I called Molly, our neighbor, who does some freelance babysitting. She was nineteen, overweight, and responsible. Her night was booked, but not too busy to turn down a hundred bucks. I tucked in Kraya, fed the munchkin, and put on my best shirt. It was obnoxiously convenient that Kraya was sleeping. I’ll avoid a lot of questions about the night when I get home.
I slipped on a pair of pressed pants, a sharp belt, polished shoes, and then threw a blazer over my shoulder and waited. Molly was twenty minutes late, leaving a crappy, short window for me to make my scheduled pickup at five-thirty. I’m still pissed at Kray, but I can’t spend energy on that right now. There are people in high places looking to swing some deals tonight and I’m going to be one of them, dammit.
I looked in the mirror and realized my suit looked pretty darn good. Not millionaire sharp, but I looked like a guy who knew how to dress. Fancy watch, mirrored shoes, and a suit jacket that fit just right. I checked the time. Shit. I said my goodbyes, kissed the kid, and ran out the door.
I pulled up to the tower between the valet stand and the decorative main entrance. Late, but here. I flipped the radio station from Christmas music to the news. I couldn’t begin to guess what music she listened to.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally fifteen minutes. I called her. On the first ring, I spotted her heading toward my car. I hung up and completely forgot about my grievance with her tardiness. I forgot about everything. She was breathtaking in her gown. An elegant, red number that framed her body tighter than plastic wrap on a pallet. A white fur scarf rounded her shoulders, protecting her from the winter air. Not too scandalous, not too conservative, but a perfect combination of sophistication and beauty. Here we go again.
I remind myself that I’m married by looking at my ringed hand on the steering wheel. I have a kid. I’m happily married. You know, all those things you forget when a perfect piece of tail smiles at you. She paused outside the car door, peeking in.
Chapter 2wenty-2wo
I’ve been waiting all night for him to call. I sit in room 9, eyes trained on my silent cell phone. The room is stale with the smell of rubber and sweat and raspberry lotion. The eBay jacket I bought from him hangs loosely around my shoulders, and I clench the bottle of vanilla tightly. It’s been a long, sleepless night. I can’t tell what time it is. Is it past dinner? Coming up on breakfast? I set my water on the desk next to 6 empty water bottles.
Will he test his marriage for me? Is he learning the truth now, about his own feelings? About himself? He knows he loves me. He knows his heart burns and lusts for my attention.
While I wait, I rub the bump of skin just above my lips. My phone rings, buzzing along the table against the stillness of the night. I fear a stroke — my pulse rockets beyond a healthy range. I slap myself hard enough to snap back into reality, but soft enough not to damage the years of work I’d put into my skin. Years I’ve sacrificed for him. To be perfect. For this chance.
I clear my throat and smile.
“Professor. I knew you’d call.” Was that over the top? Too thick? I need to keep it professional. Keep it tight. Stick with the plan.
“Oh, wait, is this Pizza Palace?” Vick said.
Funny. He is so funny. Did he come up with that on the spot? God, he’s funny! It took me a second to contain myself. Be sensible, Alexa, be professional.
“You’ve had time to review my offer. I hope you’re calling to say yes.”
He paused there, breathing into the microphone. I listened so intensely I could probably hear his heartbeat if I focused. My hand shook as I pressed the phone to the side of my head. Harder and harder I pressed, hoping if I can get the speaker a bit closer, I’d be that much closer to him — that much closer to his lips. I thought of hanging up, dialing 9-1-1 — my heart can’t sustain this stress. My chest hurts. Speak! Are you going to take it? I’m going to die. I’m going to die right now. My heart is going to start sputtering and I’m going to fall to the floor. It’ll be days before they find me in here.
“I appreciate your offer. I’d be more interested if it said 60,000 dollars. If you’ll adjust your contract, I’ll reconsider.”
More money? More money? That is the only barrier? I’ve got him. I’ve got you, my clam, my rock, my little pony. You do love me. He’s learning to play the game. He can’t just run to me, he needs to take it slow and let Kraya down easy. What a gentleman. But, c’mon, Vick. Just 60,000 dollars? Oh, sweetheart, you need to learn how to read your opponent. We’ll work on that together, you and me. I would have taken 200,000 dollars. Maybe half a million? Ugh… for you, any number.
Pulsing red drumbeats cloud my vision. Calm down, Alexa. Calm down. Play it by the book. Drink the water. I cleared my head and spoke. “You’re feistier than I expected, Professor.” Good. Great! Keep it cool. Keep it casual. Have fun with him for Christ’s sake.
“Vick, Miss Livingston. Just Vick.”
Oh God! Oh! Vick! You’re really you! We’re really doing this, aren’t we! Play nice and play back… “Just Vick.” I’m in hysterics. I put the phone on mute for a moment to catch my breath. Pause, honey, pause. Take your time. I click the unmute button — “I’ll accept your offer for 60,000 dollars and sweeten the pot by offering a 5-year membership to the Orchard Path Golf Club. But this offer is only good right now. Are you going to make me a happy woman? Or disappoint me?”
Too much. I gave him too much! He’s playing me now. Happy? Disappoint? The golf club? Father will kill me for that. I don’t care. Oh, I don’t care! The willows and the earth rejoice together, I don’t care! I want to see him. I want to touch him. I want him to be so happy he runs to me, begging for more, begging for me with tears in his eyes!
“As for the disappointment or happiness, that’s between you and your shrink…” He laughed a beautiful laugh. “But I’ll sign.” He is so funny! Ahhhhh! His laugh is so genuine and humor so quick. What a funny, funny man. I love his wit! And he said yes! Yes! Oh fuck yes, Vick! We’re doing it! But he is right, I do need to call my shrink sometime. He is always right.
“Yes? Yes! Great! Yes! Wonderful! The instructions are on the packet. I’ll have a new draft written with the new dollar amount. Can you still make it on time?” I can’t believe it! It’s working!
“My attorney still has the contract. Can you give me the det
ails again?”
“Of course! You’ll need to go to The Twelfth Floor Clinic in our building.” I continued to tell him about the appointment. Am I rambling? It doesn’t matter! He loves me. I can feel it. True love doesn’t care if you babble happily. A few more pieces to the puzzle and we can finally be together.
“You’re going to give me something I’ve wanted for a long, long time, Vick. Thank you. See you in a bit.”
He hung up and I hung up. I pulled the vanilla bottle out with a pop and set it back on its shrine.
“Much to do. Much to do!” I sing it. I can’t believe I’m singing.
I picked up the newest photoshopped pictures of Vick from the printer. Room 9 is already covered, wall to wall, with pictures of Vick. I’d even added myself to many of the photos. Kissing him. Hugging him. Laughing with him. It didn’t take much to crop out and replace that hussy.
This new batch of pictures was different. These were edited with care taken in the details. After 3 online classes and 14 hours on YouTube, I learned how to photoshop any image to perfection.
With practice, weeks upon weeks of practice, I’d learned how to add moles and freckles. I could adjust his hair color, too. I feel guilty, like I am changing the paint on the Mona Lisa or altering the Sistine Chapel.
Stick with the plan, Alexa. Stay with me.
I hang the new pictures around my apartment and kiss the glass over his cheek.
Chapter Twenty-three
My tires chomped through the snow until they came to a stop on the circle driveway. I opened her car door when we arrived. She grabbed my hand to steady herself on the icy drive. Such a gentle grip. Dainty and sweaty. Gross, but tolerable considering the rest of the body it’s attached to. Pools of red fabric lingered along her body. Focus, chump. I’m here for business.