by Didi Oviatt
She stands behind Dad’s leather recliner with squared shoulders and her hands crossed over one another behind him. As Tim and I are moving the coffee table back to its rightful place in the middle of the room, Dorothy clears her throat and announces that dinner is ready.
I look over just in time to watch my dad reach crosswise over himself and place a loving hand on top of hers. He looks up at her with a sparkle in his eye. He’s happy, content, and for the first time in a long time, I’m actually grateful for Dorothy. Despite the fact that she’s so uppity and judgmental, for some reason, he does love her.
She’s kept him from being alone all these years, and I can see in the exchange of her glance that the feeling is mutual. It’s my fault Mom’s gone, so Dad’s happiness is the least I can hope for. Dorothy nods slightly as if to show an understanding of some unspoken gesture before shuffling away.
“Go on ahead, Tim,” Dad says. “We’ll be right behind you.”
I can feel the outside edges of my face bunch in toward the center. If it wasn’t for the relaxed lift of Dad’s brows and the kind half-smile forming on his lips, I’d have thought this was an ambush. He places his strong but gentle hands on both of my shoulders and smiles. A strange feeling of uplifting comfort washes over me; it’s something that I’m not exactly used to.
“Thank you for coming today, Ahnia. I know things have been a little hard for you lately; I’ve spoken with Douglas.”
My shoulders drop a few inches under his hands. The feeling of comfort in them is suddenly gone, and it’s replaced with the weight of a semi. I groan and let my head fall back dramatically.
“Please, Dad, can we not talk about this right now?”
He removes his hands, and dumps them in his pockets. Before I can maneuver around him and escape toward the heavenly scent coming from down the hall, he says the one thing I’ve spent the majority of my adult life praying to never hear.
“You know, you’re always welcome here, Ahnia. If you ever need money, or a place to stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I swallow a hard lump and look down at my feet.
“Thanks, Dad,” I mutter.
The feeling of failure kneads its way through my bowels. Luckily, he doesn’t push it any further. He only gives me another squeeze and then offers me the hook of his elbow. I slide my arm through it and embrace the silence while he leads me to the kitchen.
The lasagna is superb. It’s always been my favorite dish, and Dad can cook it better than any others I’ve tasted. I all but lick my plate clean, like a dog, once I’ve finished a second helping. I’m stuffed enough that I’m forced to decline a slice of chocolate cake Dorothy picked up for dessert. Baked by Lucy, no doubt.
“So, Ahnia,” Dorothy pipes up, “What exactly are your intentions? You know, for the immediate future?”
She flashes me a callous grin before her teeth sink into a forkful of chocolaty goodness. Dad clears his throat and flashes her a warning glare, but he doesn’t say a word. Tim’s wide eyes float back and forth between the two of us, waiting for some kind of explosion.
“What do you mean?” I growl.
She swallows and then dabs a white, cloth napkin at the corners of her lips.
“Have you considered submitting any applications for jobs, or possibly going back to school?”
“Nope.” I smile a toothy grin.
“Hmm, well, perhaps if you took a creative writing class, you’d be inspired.”
“Dorothy,” Dad interjects, “I’m not really sure we should push any . . .”
“No, Dad, it’s fine.”
I interrupt him calmly, trying my best to portray myself as confidently as Dorothy does. I even square my shoulders to match her own.
“I’ve actually started on a project that I’m really excited about. I think I’ll be ready to knock out another book soon enough that school won’t be necessary.”
Tim’s head jerks in my direction.
“Really?!” his voice cracks. “Why didn’t you say anything? That’s great!”
“Well,” I ponder on his questions for a moment with Mac’s face in my thoughts for reinsurance, “I don’t know; I thought it could be a surprise, I guess.”
The lie came too easy, and I have zero guilt. I’m relieved that no one presses me even further. Dad reaches his long arm over and gives the back of my shoulder a firm smack. The glee in his face says everything I need to know.
This is my chance. Mac better have something good in mind, because now, I have to follow through. I couldn’t bear to let Tim or Dad down now. Besides, I’m really looking forward to giving Dorothy something to choke on.
Chapter Six
It came as a shock, but getting up early this morning has been no struggle at all. I even woke up an hour before the alarm was set to go off. Instead of forcing my eyes back shut, as I normally would, I pull myself to my feet and start the process of getting ready for the day.
Makeup is a rarity for me, but today, the mood calls for it. I want to feel confident and ready to conquer whatever shenanigans Mac has in mind. Hopefully it isn’t anything too nasty . . . just nasty enough for the right writing inspiration. I think about Belle while I line my eyes perfectly with liquid black. I remind myself that despite her death, it was in fact the action of killing her that inspired my first book. The book was dark, it was sinister, and it was a compelling hit. I also remind myself that Mac is completely unaware of Belle’s death at my hand, and whatever inspiring action he’s talking about had better be good enough to count.
I finish up by smoothing the last few wavy strands of my hair with a flat iron. Pulling it straight brings out the shine and reveals the impressive length of it. I feel my sexiest with straightened hair as it flows to my lower back. I shimmy into my favorite skinny jeans and a fitted black halter top before digging through my nightstand for the napkin.
The address is on the outskirts of town. There’s nothing there but rundown, abandoned housing units and a few condemned factories. This part of town has been ghostly for years. No one goes there aside from a few homeless people, desperate enough to brave the heavily polluted industrial wasteland in order to squat under some broken, leaky roof. It’s odd that this is where he chose to meet, but so be it. He did say he wanted our meeting to be a secret. There’s no better place in this entire state to remain hidden than a neighborhood avoided by even the majority of the homeless.
I program the address into my phone and then debate on lighting the napkin on fire to cover my trail. Ultimately, I decide against it. I do still have a pinch of speculation. It feels like a little fearful bird is flapping its wings in my belly, trying to escape. I wind up leaving the address out in the open on my kitchen counter between a couple stacks of Ruth Ware and Colleen Hoover novels.
The only people who have a key to my apartment, or that would ever help themselves in anyway, are Tim and Lucy. Neither would show up and do such a thing unless I’d gone missing for a week, or even longer. If that winds up being the case, I may want to leave them the clue.
I lock up and hit the road. It’s early, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. My backpack is fully equipped with a couple of granola bars, along with my computer and murder notes, just in case. I stop only for coffee on the way and fiddle with my fingers on the steering wheel. The road becomes increasingly damaged as I pass several abandoned factories. Broken glass is shattered periodically on the bumpy pavement; potholes and cracks make the drive a rocky one.
A winding road twists past one last parking lot before toxic industry transforms to emptied suburb. The houses are rundown, roofs are caved in, and windows are broken and boarded up. One house after another, the doom and gloom of abandonment has consumed this part of the city like a plague. There is no sign of life. Lawns have turned to dirt and weeds. There are no flowers, no children riding their bicycles on the sidewalks, and no sprinklers dampening the ground. All the things I love about early summer are absent.
There are several houses with the
inner walls showing. Doorless frames reveal graffiti and burn stains from being occupied by riff-raff and hoodlums, no doubt. Even they have moved on to a better place. Aside from a few stripped-to-the-frame cars and tumbleweeds, the curbs and driveways are completely empty.
The navigator on my phone leads me through a couple more turns. I don’t even bother to stop at the stop signs or yield for crosswalks; there’s absolutely no point in that. The blinker is used out of habit only.
Soon, I’m gliding into the driveway of what may have once been a classy home. It’s three stories, the tallest on the block, and only half of the windows are boarded up. The others are surprisingly intact, even fairly new looking. The siding is a sun-faded blue, and the shutters are maroon.
Off to the corner of the dirt yard, there’s a tire swing. It’s hanging by a chain at one side like it was once cared for, yet dragging the hard ground with the other to reveal it’s true abandonment.
I imagine a large family once living here. The kids laughing and pushing each other around the tire in a circle while their parents sipped sweet tea in the shade of the opposite side of the tree.
My imagination is a testament of the cruel reality of what humanity can actually bring about. The smiles would have been slapped from their faces with the foreclosure of their home, their lifestyles, their livelihood. The same happy family of my thoughts could now be standing in a soup line of some random city on the other side of the country. They could be starved, split apart, ripped from the core. And, for what . . . the closing of a factory?
Or worse, the family that once lived here could share a sliver of my own history. Death could have weighed heavily on this family, as it did on my own. Maybe a teen once lived here, a teen that’s as twisted as the people I write about in my notebook.
Mac steps out of the front door onto the cracked concrete of the porch. His smile is unfaltering, and it’s a punch to my already nervous gut. His clothing is casual yet clean with the tattered fade of his jeans wonderfully intentional. He hooks a thumb at the garage door, nods the same direction with his head, and mouths silent words into the polluted air.
“I’ll go open it.”
I nod back slowly, awkwardly. He sure is a strange creature, I think. Mac, my secret-filled night in tainted armor. There’s something about this sneaking around a toxic neighborhood that whispers in my ear to go home, turn around, run away now. At the same time, it’s filling me to the brim with the hope of producing a written masterpiece. Along with a strong sense of curiosity in all its beauty and wonder.
I pull my car into the garage as soon as the door lifts. I kill the engine and step out. The large tin door shuts behind me with the push of a button on the wall. Mac, with the same proud grin, is standing in the doorway entrance to our house of mystery.
“You’re here,” he smiles, “and on time even. I’m impressed.”
And, there it is . . . the dig of an insulting compliment.
“Yeah, yeah. Are you going to invite me in before you slice me to pieces? Or are you just going to off me now in the garage for easy cleaning?”
He chimes his adorable giggle.
“Come on in. I’m making breakfast.”
An unmistakable hum of power generators floats up the basement steps. The stairwell is off to the right, just inside the garage entry. To the left is a small archway past the entrance landing that leads into the kitchen. One ceiling fan with a dim light is powered on in the center of the room. It’s hardly enough to light the space as the once sliding glass door to the back wall is boarded shut.
The first thing that comes to mind is carbon monoxide. Shouldn’t there be some sort of air ventilation before running a generator inside? Oh well, it is what it is. If I die in this house, at least I left Tim and Lucy the address. Outside, the sun is rising over the hills, creating the most beautiful illumination. Here we are hiding from it behind thick slabs of corkwood over the windows and doors. The kitchen cupboards are made of old cedar and well intact. The pewter countertops are littered with chips, scratches, and burn marks.
I take a seat in one of the two stools that are slid up against a wrap-around countertop, and watch Mac finish crisping the sausage links he has cooking on a portable propane stove. More gases, lovely.
“I’ve got to say, Mac, it’s awful here. I don’t really like what you’ve done with the place.”
“Aw,” he teases back, “but you’ve yet to see the view.”
I set my coffee on the counter, adjust my pack on the floor at my feet, and then pull my laptop out of it. There’s clearly no Wi-Fi, so I open a blank word document from the desktop, intending to get right to work. I didn’t come here to dilly dally or even to make friends. If anything, I’ll keep as far of a distance from Mac as I possibly can. Who knows what he has planned, and complicating things with proximity is utterly out of the question.
I look up as he scoops the sausage onto a couple of paper plates and then pulls a carton of eggs from a small cooler against the wall. He cracks a few into the pan and then pulls out a bundle of grapes. Of course he’s bound to be a good cook. If he wasn’t a sneak and a phony who happens to be engaged, he’d be the perfect catch. Which reminds me of her.
“So, Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s your fiancé? You know . . . that woman who looks like me? What did you call her? Lauren?”
“Lorraine, and she’s in New York. She travels for business.”
“Your business?”
“Yep, well, our business. She has a pretty face and a lot of attitude, so she’s the one we send out to reel in new clients. Tactics.”
He turns to face me, while biting down on a juicy grape through an open grin.
“Want one?” he offers.
I only smile and shake my head while wiggling my half-empty coffee in the air. His face drops in irritation.
“Don’t tell me you’re not going to eat any of this. I’ve cooked enough breakfast to feed a young polygamist family.”
I giggle, unable to help myself. I actually feel strangely at ease; the longer I’m around him the more comfortable I’m becoming. It’s like he has some strange, calming power and can hug my soul from the inside.
“Nah,” I tell him. “I’ll eat. I just usually like to finish my coffee first.”
“Good,” he says, before pulling a half gallon of orange juice from the cooler and setting it over the top of a giant gouge on the counter. “For after your coffee.”
“So what’s your big plan, anyway? Did you bribe me to an abandoned wasteland just to feed me breakfast and tell me how pretty your traveling wife-to-be is?”
Mac leans across the counter onto his elbows, closing the distance between us. His gaze is intense, and his facial expression is flat, completely unreadable. A stubbly chin rests on his knuckles. I hold my breath while he stares deep into my eyes. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the tick of his fancy Louis Cartier watch. The dark leather fits perfectly slack around his wrist. All I can feel in this very moment is a steady thump of my heart, and I’m acutely aware of the uncomfortable amount of spit in my mouth.
“Nope,” he says as he turns back on his heels to flip the eggs. “You’re not ready.”
“Not ready for what?” I demand, a little irritated that I’m turned on by the intensity of his ego.
“The heist.”
I laugh, “The what?”
“Our action, inspiration, writing fall back . . . Our heist.”
“You’re using me to rob something?”
“Not exactly . . . but kind of.”
“I don’t get it,” I say as I drum my fingers on the damaged counter.
Mac produces an ample plate of deliciousness. I didn’t realize just how much I miss breakfast food that isn’t either burnt in my attempt to cook or made primarily of sugar. I swallow the last of my coffee and dig in. The flavor is heaven. I shovel down my entire plate as I listen to Mac.
“I haven’t decided on the main event just yet. But I think
we need danger. We need to do something intense, for real inspiration. We need the feeling of risk in order to write about it. Don’t you think?”
Mac’s eyes are piercing and lips are pinched. He’s hardly touched his food. I think about Belle. He’s right; it was the actual feelings of fear, danger, adrenaline, and even confusion that sparked the storyline of my best seller. I had painted my character as being outside of herself, unable to control the impulse to kill . . . just like I had done to Belle in my sleep. It takes some effort to swallow the bite of sausage that’s rolling around in my mouth.
“I suppose,” I say, before washing it down with a large gulp of juice. “Seems a little reckless, though. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail because I needed inspiration.”
“Which is exactly why we need to research and put together a fail-proof plan.”
“Okay, double ‘o’ seven,” I exaggerate, “exactly what kind of research and plan do you have in mind?”
“Let’s finish breakfast.” He grins. “Then I’ll show you.”
As we finish filling our bellies, Mac explains to me how he’d purchased several houses in this part of town through foreclosure auctions when all of the nearby businesses crashed. He bought them for pennies on the dollar under the company name, expecting some sort of pick up or boom in the future. No such turnaround has occurred. Not yet anyway, and practically all the homes are now condemned. Apparently, Mac has dug himself into quite a hole with several business investments, and despite the efforts of his pretty fiancé, MacConell’s Marketing is all lined up for the crash of a lifetime.
Mac needs a turnaround just as badly as I do. I can’t decide if all this news is frightening or a comfort. On one hand, I know he’ll do his best to make something happen, to make our adventure a success. He’s not going to back out and stick me with the consequences of our actions because desperate times call for desperate measures. Yet, on the other hand, his judgment is clouded, and I don’t know if I should trust his deceiving hands with my entire future.