they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  I went to check the answering machine, get a straight time for the call, but none of the clock features were set up so there was no information available.

  Lecia wouldn’t have gotten a call first thing in the morning from the opening manager or anything like that, because when would the other employee have called out? And it didn’t make sense that she had to switch her schedule, especially as she not only already had plans for a night out but had such a hectic schedule, otherwise, something I’m sure her bosses knew about.

  -They would have asked her, not told her I said to the mirror, getting my shirt half tucked in, half not, the way I liked it, so that it showcased my belt buckle, made me seem thinner than I was.

  -She wanted to switch her schedule, Bertram, I said, looking at my face while I told him to think about it, knowing he probably already had.

  It wasn’t like I could ask him, couldn’t talk reason to him. He was keeping the secret for her, was made an accomplice in it, a dupe against himself. He was going to go home to bed—sleep it off, sleep through it.

  I wondered about him. I was upset, but this changed abruptly. It was obviously a mess for him. It was obviously so many things all at once.

  ***

  From the train, immediately into a convenience store for cigarettes, I thought about heading up to my brother’s apartment, a few blocks away. I’d forced myself to get off the train at a random stop, but I’d not strayed from the primary line. I began walking in that direction, at first rather sluggishly, paying attention to people on the other side of the street, trying to stoke up some interest in having an encounter, some adventure, then it came over me that I really should go to my brother’s apartment.

  I’d poke around, try to find Lecia’s address. Bertram wasn’t going to do anything, but things obviously had him in such a state that he’d broken down to me as he had. That time it had taken alcohol, but he was seeming dour, lately. My little snoop through his apartment more than justified getting to the bottom of things. If I didn’t, things were likely to implode. Less alcohol for each confessional session, he’d just burn himself down.

  Realizing I was moving as though in an actual hurry, I made myself stop, smoke two cigarettes down to the filters at a corner, made myself take the longer route along the canal—all a pretence of making the whole matter seem more trivial, off hand.

  It seemed to me that tonight, this situation, would actually prove something out. If Lecia wasn’t stepping out, if this set of circumstances was exactly as she advertised it to be, one method of dealing with Bertram could be taken—I could try to get him not to worry about it so much or something—and if something was off, I’d have to act accordingly. Not that anything would be definite, but I decided that in good conscience I couldn’t ignore the situation.

  And I wanted to know. I wanted to know. If she was going behind Bertram’s back, she was hurting him, was manipulating him, it was not something to just sidestep.

  Just down the block from his apartment building, I slowed, wondered if it would be wise to tell Bertram if I found something out. My thoughts sort of tended that way, but something in the look I knew would cross his face—the unappreciative, almost accusatory aspect he would take on—sort of got me feeling glum. If I told him, it’d not even be a done deal and I would be distanced from it all over again.

  I tried to picture seeing him again after I’d told him, see him touching her back, know that when I met them out from drinks they’d just earlier been wantonly at each other, had not even washed from it.

  It was a drag.

  Bertram knew, anyway. I knew why he knew and I knew for the same reason. I almost muttered this to myself, a last cigarette, a last shrug before I moved toward the heavy glass of the lobby door.

  ***

  As I was getting the key into the door lock, struggling to get it to catch, I heard the bolt from inside slid, the chain undone. Bertram opened the door, looking at me, a friendly smile, his head tilted, hair wet from a shower, not even toweled, almost dry. I smiled, nodded, moved into the room when he made a motion and I apologized, saying I’d thought he was still at work. He explained he’d told them he was feeling really bad, which he also admitted was not so far from the truth, furthered that it’d been slow so he’d been kind of going out of his mind.

  -About what? I asked, just offhand, and he, genuinely having not heard me, made some questioning sound.

  -You were just going nuts from it being slow, you mean?

  Making a dismissive wave of his arm, he said he’d just wanted to get to sleep, but then when he got home, he’d not been so sleepy.

  -What brings you? he asked as I was pouring myself a shot of bourbon, looking at the television screen, some film I couldn’t quite remember the name of.

  I told him I was going out for the evening, thought I’d left my wallet around, quickly corrected that I didn’t mean my wallet, I meant a gift card I’d gotten awhile back, meant I couldn’t find it in my wallet and figured I must’ve dropped it, as I’d definitely had it the night before.

  He’d not really been listening, just asked me where I was heading out to as he went around into his bedroom. I hadn’t decided, I said, quickly snapping my fingers, asking him if he’d still be up for going to a movie, as he couldn’t sleep.

  I playacted looking around on the floor, was going through the sofa cushions when he reentered the room, went to the kitchen. He poured a rather large glassful of bourbon and said ‘I’ll sleep’, but there had been so much time between my question and his speaking I’d nearly forgotten what my remark had been.

  -I’ll probably just go out to some bar, then, I said, making a show of getting my wallet out, my back turned, removing the card I’d allegedly forgotten. You’re a thief, my friend, I said, pointing at him with the card as I reinserted it into the wallet, the wallet slipped back into the pocket. He asked me what it was, so I repeated the whole thing about the card going missing, this time getting a dull nod and him wondering how much it was for.

  -Two hundred dollars, man, I answered—not true, but harmless to say, it kept it light, let me riff that I understood why he’d coveted it so highly.

  I invited him to join me one last time, keeping my tone even, not wanting to betray any concern, especially standing in the same room he’d confessed his suspicions to me in not even twenty-four hours previous. He shook his head, dull and obviously final.

  To be certain he meant to stay in, pass out, I told him to pour me another drink, a big one, save me a few dollars. He said now I was stealing from him and I reminded him to pour himself a second one, because I couldn’t be trusted drinking by myself.

  ***

  I was already making light of myself, riding the elevator down, asking myself where exactly was it I thought I’d find Lecia’s address written down? Why would my brother have his girlfriends address written down? Did I ever have a girlfriends address written down, leave it around in a drawer someplace?

  In my defense, I suggested there might’ve been a piece of her mail around, something with a return address, and even though I couldn’t find a counterargument to this, I still felt the plan had been ill conceived.

  The bourbon had me warm, giddy, a little bit too much outside of things. With me, a drink or two will set me out of orbit, while a night of drinking seems to tether me in. So, I made my way along, not concerned about much, not looking for anyplace to stop, even ignoring a group of people my age, two of the girls, I was certain, having directly made eyes at me, whispered something to each other about me while their companions chattered on.

  Finally taking stock of where I’d wound up, I searched out the nearest metro entrance, wished I’d brought a book to read, brought a flask, a small bottle, saw myself swishing along in a train, soused, reading some novel. I stepped onto a crowded Green Line, back stepped off immediately, apologizing for knocking into someone, though they hardly registered it.

&nbs
p; I’d take the chance that Lecia might still be at work. Not much of a chance, but then again it did make sense, and at least it gave me something to do.

  I got impatient for the Yellow Line, teetered back and forth, kept touching at the flap lid of a trashcan. The train was packed, the first flush of the evening commute, I thought, but when I asked someone for the time it seemed early. I put it off to the weather, the lisp of overcast, the half asleep scent of coming snow.

  It was disconcerting, walking up the escalator, out into middle afternoon, the distinct feeling it was late evening, middle of the night. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone, distrusting everything.

  I decided I’d get coffee if Lecia turned out to still be there. I’d get drunk if not, try to forget about it, let her go do whatever she wanted.

  Needing to have a piss, I ducked around the long line of some slim little bagel shop, waiting for three other people to get through in the toilet, a queue four deep seeping in behind me.

  While I urinated and took a moment to throw hot water on my face, I started ticking off the day one finger at a time. Woke up. What time? Eight? Nine? Snooped around. Call that two hours, at the longest? Eleven o’clock? Noon? Home, train and cab, no more than an hour, hour and half. Then back out, up to see my brother.

  Even if I was forgetting something, it was still what time it ought to be.

  I flushed after washing my hands and so washed my hands, again. It felt like something was missing, some amount of time, a moment somewhere, some aspect of the day. But even if something was, it was something that didn’t seem to make a difference.

  ***

  There was no way to see in through the front windows of the shop where Lecia worked—posters, little event flyers the place let any local artist slap up, carts of books, two sodden bookshelves left out all day and night, cheap books on them the shop doesn’t care if passersby take for free, clutter, no way to see in.

  I milled around, leafed through a weather beaten copy of The Year Of The Death Of Ricardo Reis, smoked down a cigarette, realizing when some patron left the shop that I’d been waiting for such a prompt, something to remind me I was actually someplace, actually doing something.

  The shop was deep, expanded wide about halfway through, shrank to an odd little hall of stacks of old magazines. An older woman was at the front desk, counting and straightening the money in her till. I nodded, generally, letting out a breath of puffed cheeks, feeling tight, idiotic for how casual I was trying to appear.

  I saw Lecia just as she was turning, hadn’t recognized her from behind—it was kind of a shock, she said my name before I’d processed her appearance, as though she was suddenly superimposed on someone else.

  -It’s the baby brother, she said, moved in to give me a hug, exuberant.

  I awkwardly returned the gesture, cautiously let both of my hands rest a moment at her hips before backing up, dizzy and just slightly erect from the unexpected close contact. She asked what brought me, taking a very casual stance, speaking in an excited sort of whisper, like I was supposed to be telling her a secret.

  -I’m out getting drunk, I said, pointing at myself.

  She wasn’t betraying any sort of awkwardness at my appearing where she worked, nothing to make me think my presence put her off. She also didn’t ask about Bertram at all, just made a cute little shocked face, covering her mouth with both hands and then flitting at the air in front of me.

  -I didn’t know you were a scoundrel, she play whispered.

  -I am I am, I said, not bothering to try at charm, feeling a bit embarrassed.

  After a moment or two of silence, she arched her back, rubbing a shoulder blade with the side of the bookshelf she was leaned against and I admitted that I knew the bookstore didn’t sell alcohol, that I just noticed where I was and thought she might be at work.

  -I appreciate the pop in, are you going any place in particular?

  I shook my head, said that I’d only just gotten a message from Bertram that plans had changed, altered this to explain I meant I’d gotten the message an hour ago, had left my phone off, been on my way into the city, anyway.

  -He didn’t say what was up, that you’re busy or something, but I won’t tell on you if you stop for a quick drink with me when you’re off. The words came out a stupid, hurried mash, but she smiled, said I was so forward when I was drunk it was almost contagious.

  -I have to go to the library, though, actually, and she trailed off, reaching into her pocket, producing some money. She handed me a bill and said I was to take four shots of a particular bourbon, raise the glass to her each time.

  ***

  The trouble I had, tucked into the space between some restaurant and a closed-for-the-night clothing shop across the street from Lecia’s work, is that I was distracted by the thought that she seemed to have genuinely considered going for a drink with me. The whole conversation didn’t seem to have anything evidencing she was on her way to mess around on my brother. If I had a lover on the side, I thought, nodding at each point, and had canceled plans with my steady to get some on the side and my steady’s brother happened to walk into the store where I worked, I’d be put off, at least ask some question more loaded than Where are you getting drunk? I’d never stopped into the store where she worked, before, only knew about it because Bertram and I had met her there the night I’d gotten drunk, broke up with Courtney.

  It was odd, and the unsettled feeling it gave me mixed in with the sense of fun I was having, waiting to see her again.

  I also considered that I hardly registered with her—she, after all, was more than eight years older than me, was older than my brother by a few years. Ten years older than me, perhaps? Nine, either way. I could’ve just come across as she’d said, the baby brother, adorable in my slight intoxication, in my playing the rake.

  I chuckled about this.

  It made just as much sense that I’d not put her off at all, of course—she’d no reason to think Bertram would send me to keep an eye on her, because Bertram hadn’t sent me to keep an eye on her. In an overly technical way of looking at it, Bertram hadn’t even given me a reason to keep an eye on her, as he didn’t recall his conversation with me, that night didn’t exist to him, it was less present than a dream.

  I nodded, heavy, knowing the logic was sound, knowing I was an absolute anomaly.

  Holding up one finger after another, keeping my mouth busy with cigarette, I explained that if she had something going on, she had it going on in such a way that she either thought Bertram knew nothing, or knew he knew everything—the general facts, anyway—but was comfortable enough about it to know he wasn’t ever going to make a show of it.

  Which he wasn’t. She was right.

  I smiled thinking of her face dismissing me, the click of her head, more stern than smiling, once she’d given me the bit of money to go off and play with. She was a bit of a caution, all things considered. If my brother was the guy she was stepping out with rather than the one she was screwing around on, I’d just write off the other guy she was involved with as some hump didn’t deserve her, someone who’d let it slip out of his hands, couldn’t keep up.

  I wondered what she told the other guy about Bertram, what the exact differences were between them.

  I remembered the diminished husk of Bertram’s voice. He could kill her, thinks about it, about killing her and what he would be afterward, what he would’ve become.

  This wasn’t really a game, it wasn’t something abstract—it was something hurting, something stabbed in that needed to be pried free.

  -I whispered You’re a bitch, and I tried to picture what her face might do if I said it right at her.

  ***

  She left the store inside of the hour. I let her get a block away before I started to follow, keeping to the other side of the street. She didn’t look around very much, I noticed, immediately wondering what I meant by it. Her face st
ayed trained in front of her, even if she made a glance it didn’t seem to take anything in. She just seemed like she was going to the next place she was going, the distance between not pleasant, not an annoyance—like she simply didn’t exist for a little while.

  Ten blocks or so along, I took the time to cross to her side of the street, this allowing her to get a lead on me, again. I kept my hands tightly down my pockets, tapped my nose to my coat shoulder whenever it seemed wet, the feeling of a sore throat along the back of my mouth.

  She entered an apartment building, nothing more I could do. I had a cigarette, just in case she’d lingered in the lobby for some reason—checking her mail, having a conversation with a neighbor—then went up to the entrance door, finding it locked. Her name was right on one of cards by the buzzer, but I couldn’t tell exactly what had to happened to get the door to unlock, there wasn’t a keypad, wasn’t a card slot. I did find a place where a key could be inserted, so I supposed that was how it went.

  Finding that there wasn’t a good place to conceal myself, I just crossed the street, waited at a bus stop bench, my back to her building front, took up some crumpled advertisement papers, figured they’d look like a newspaper from a distance.

  Ten minutes passed and twenty minutes passed, the creeping realization coming over me that I didn’t really have things so under control. For example, there could be a second entrance to the building, she could be out and gone, already. I had to tense against heading all the way up the block, rounding the corner, verifying whether there was some entrance in back.

  Worse was that I was taking it at her word she was going to the library. She knew this is what she’d told Bertram, so she’d repeated it to me, if not to out-and-out cover her bases—actually suspecting me of being there to snoop on her—then because the stories would have to match up if I happened to bring up the encounter with Bertram, some time. She could have given me the money for that very reason, an echo chamber, testing in conversation with Bertram if I’d let him know I’d seen her, if I’d accurately reported back—or else to see if he’d bring it up himself, if he’d act surprised, awkward when she did.