by R. J. Jacobs
Robert leans back a little, the look on his face suggesting that something has been decided. I can tell he means for our meeting to end. “So, Saturday. You’ll come for sure?”
“I guess.”
“Say yes, please.” He holds still in expectation.
“Okay,” I say.
He makes a fist that becomes a thumbs-up as he shifts back and forth in his seat. “There’ll be a lot of guests, I’m sure, so look for me when you arrive. I’ll let Owen and Shelly know you’re there, then we can visit and maybe do a photo.” His chin drops. “They can count on you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, they can.”
He tugs a little at his ear as he glances behind the truck. “Very good,” he says. “This is very good.”
We say our goodbyes and I climb back out of the truck. He calls out, “See you Saturday,” before I close the door.
I watch him pull away, my head filled with that just-waking sense when it’s not clear whether what just happened was real or a dream. But this was real. I watch his blinker flash as he turns onto the street, the smell of mints and cologne fresh in my mind.
When I get in my car, my eyes jump all over the dashboard, searching for the odometer. My hand shakes as I log the reading in my gas notebook. I drive slowly and distractedly home, wondering what I’ve agreed to and how in the world I’ll say anything about it to Ken. Maybe, I decide, it’ll be better if he doesn’t know until the time.
How could he possibly be upset if Owen and Shelly give me their blessing? Won’t that make him look good too? After all, Robert said it was why Owen had offered Ken “the gig.”
The chance to set everything right feels like a gift that is somehow also scary as hell.
That night, I vacuum my living room twice. I walk circles around my kitchen table. I could never lie well—my stomach aches and I start blabbering. To keep that from happening and my words from getting jumbled and confused, I’d meant to text Ken the following morning. I’d meant to say: Ken, I can’t work the party. I’m so sorry.
Now, everything has changed.
I lie in bed, the shadows on the wall monstrous exaggerations of the trees outside. In the distance a siren wails like a warning. Just as I lie down, my phone lights up. I turn the face toward me. I sit up some when I see it’s a message from Malik. Ken had insisted we each exchange numbers in case one of us had to call out, but he’s never texted me before.
Hey Jessie, just checking in on you. You seemed quieter than usual today. Or something. Let me know if you want to talk.
Part of me is touched by him reaching out, but another is frustrated—I don’t want to talk, I want to think. Even if I knew I could trust him enough to explain what was going on, where would I begin telling the story? The terrible hugeness of it.
I type back:
You’re nice to ask, Malik. I’m fine.
Then I turn my phone face-down on the nightstand. It is dark for a second before the screen lights up again—a sliver of light reflected off the tabletop, so faint, I almost miss it. I turn it back over. He’s replied:
Have coffee with me sometime?
I delete the message thread and turn the phone off.
Not now. At least, not yet.
Talking would probably lead to Malik’s knowing about where I’ve been—kept in the closet, following a tour like a maniac, lying in a prison bed—parts of life I hardly want to think about myself, let alone explain to anyone aside from Ms. Parsons. He thinks he wants to know about me, but he wouldn’t like what he would find out. Besides, the unexpected meeting with Robert left my head feeling full. Maybe, just maybe, if Saturday night goes like Robert said it will, there will be space to start talking with someone.
But not now.
* * *
Over the next two days, I work normally. What is about to happen feels so unreal, I hardly allow myself to think about it. Instead, I keep my head down, and my earbuds in, and stay focused on the prep work Ken hired me to do in the first place. I follow the recipes to the letter, interested as I go about the food Shelly has chosen. Asian slaw for pork barbeque sliders. A mustard sauce for a bacon bar. I wonder, will they invite me to eat any of this stuff?
On the afternoon of the party, my apartment is silent and still. I clean again and rest on my bed. From upstairs, a guitar riff starts. Then a girl begins singing. My window unit kicks on and rattles like my heart. I feel the cold air on my cheek, but my eyes are fixed on the black sleeve of my uniform shirt, poking out from my closet. Soon, it will be time to get ready to go. I get up and pace, practicing what I may say, how I may greet Owen and Shelly. I try to imagine what their facial expressions will be like when they see me. I force my face into the happiest, most grateful-looking smile I can.
I want to meet with Ms. Parsons, to tell her about the plan, but my next appointment with her isn’t until the next Tuesday. I have hardly slept any of the last three nights since meeting with Robert, and now my eyelids are impossibly heavy. I lie back down to rest for just a minute.
But when I wake up, I realize the sun is going down. Panic floods through me, and when I check my phone I see four missed calls from Ken. I check the time and text him to say that I will meet him at the party. I get ready faster than I ever have, practically hyperventilating as I rush through my shower. I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten, so I grab a package of orange peanut butter crackers and shove them in my pocket for later, then run out my door without even vacuuming up my footprints.
I have no idea how much gas I’m burning as I speed toward the James house. I smudged the pencil on the notepad and now I just have to guess. I step on the accelerator, hoping I won’t run out of fuel. How could I have let this happen? I cut down a Belle Meade side street where trees grow in a canopy from both sides, blocking the last daylight. Fireflies’ highlighter-yellow flashes light up the front steps of Warner Park while my headlights create a path along the darkening road.
As I turn onto the Jameses’ street, I am greeted by a line of red taillights. Shit. Some boys wearing emerald-green shirts and khaki shorts run along the shoulder before jumping into SUVs and pulling away. At the top of the hill, the mansion is lit up like a concert is going on inside. The windows are giant white rectangles through which light rains onto the grass, catching some of the trees in the massive, sloping yard. I watch people-shaped shadows ascend the long driveway and hear a joyous tangle of voices in the front yard as my car idles. I check the time again. Because I rushed so much, I’m barely late, but there is no way I can wait in this line of cars.
Ken’s van is parked in the driveway, the rear double doors hanging open. He’s waiting, I know, counting on me, but the line of traffic makes entering and parking behind the van impossible.
I crane my neck to look over the steering wheel, then lean forward as I cut along the side of the road to avoid the other cars and drive straight ahead through the grassy shoulder, the full moon a dull reflection on my hood. I rumble forward until I can slip back onto the paved roadway. I drive a few hundred yards to an empty gravel lot at the back entrance to Warner Park, get out, and start walking back toward the mansion.
I remind myself that this is my chance. I’m lucky, I tell myself, my steps light as my shoes crunch on the loose stones beneath them. I try to ignore the voice that’s saying, You should not be going up there. Don’t be a fool.
As I near the road, a pair of headlights appear. They weave a little, like cars do when their drivers are texting—distractedly drifting across lanes before they suddenly look up and correct back to center. I step to the side, but the car is coming so fast, and is so close to the edge, it nearly clips me. I manage to catch my balance and keep from falling into the weeds. When I look again, I realize I know the car very well.
I’m staring at Shelly James’s white Mercedes SUV as it slides into a space beside my car. Her taillights redden the night as she slows.
I panic and duck behind the trunk of a tall tree, my thin cotton pants protecting my legs fr
om the branches of brambles. Leaves crackle gently beneath my shoes as I move among the shadows.
What is happening? Why is Shelly leaving her own party just as it starts?
I know I need to get to the party, but I watch.
I can’t help it.
Did she see me? No, I guess, probably not. If she had, she wouldn’t have nearly run me over. But what if she recognizes my car? Even if she does, will it even matter? Something tells me no. Something tells me she is keeping a secret of her own. She seems to have hushed the night, silencing the insects in the weeds and woods behind me. Her house is close enough that I can hear distant cries of laughter, carried on the wind, from where I hide. Laughter that sounds somehow dangerous, now.
And I feel crazy, really crazy, like the world won’t let me stop watching Owen and Shelly James no matter how hard I try not to. Just as I’m about to make everything right. It’s what I always do, I think frustratedly, watch and dream. I know what it would look like if someone saw me there—like I’m the thing I hate being called the most, a stalker. I’d look like I was stalking Shelly James, and I guess I am—but what else can I do? What it means to accept something you don’t like … I feel a sense of resignation, like duty too, even as fear grips me.
Circles of overlapping light fall on the ground as her SUV door opens. Separate shadows appear inside them, as if there are two Shellys. I lean against a tree trunk and watch very carefully as she hunches over, staggering and bouncing, trying to get a pair of shoes on. When she straightens up, she runs her hands over her hair, then slams her door closed. Then she moves toward the base of a hill, where a trail begins.
My breathing is shallow and fast as the soft sound of crickets returns to the night. Above me, branches creak as they sway. I watch Shelly’s shape climbing the trail—dark inside dark, more a movement than a shape. I imagine her expression as she walks—it’s like she’s in a trance, being drawn forward.
Her SUV lights pop off automatically, night-blinding me. I know the blackness will last only a few seconds—there is still the moonlight. The dark calms me, but in it, in that brief instant, I lose Shelly. She has gone into the woods.
Maybe it wasn’t her.
But no, I’m sure it was. I would know her anywhere.
I shake my head, like someone trying to knock away room-spins from too much medication. Questions swarm in my mind, but I feel like a timer is running inside me. I picture Ken’s worried expression, his tic, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
I curse under my breath because there is not enough time to make sense of what I saw.
I find the house lights again and follow them slowly, trying not to think about what just happened, not to feel like I am neglecting some deeper duty to keep her safe. I tell myself to follow the plan Robert laid out and explain everything to him the moment I see him. I put one foot in front of the other along the roadside, listening to the crickets and the gravel and the call of an owl from somewhere nearby. Lights from the guests’ vehicles fill the roadway and the wooded area where they’re being parked. Mostly all SUVs, like Shelly’s. The valet boys wildly run to and fro, their floppy hair bouncing over their collars. I keep my eyes straight ahead, willing them not to pay me any attention as I enter the gate.
Halfway up the driveway, Ken’s van is in the same place, both back doors still open. I fall in behind a couple wearing formal-looking clothes making their way up toward the house. The hem of the lady’s dress nearly brushes the ground. I’m close enough to hear the swish of the fabric as she walks. Her husband links his arm through hers, steadying himself with a cane that makes a clinking sound each time it touches the cement.
Behind me, I hear one valet say to the other, “Owen James’s friends are definitely old Nashville.”
It seems like a nasty thing to say, even though I see what he means. I keep a quiet distance from the couple, despite my desire to rush past them.
I think of how Shelly hadn’t just been leaving the party but speeding in the other direction. I glance behind me into the swallowing dark and wonder, somehow, if who I saw wasn’t her. I picture the overlapping circles of light that showed her shadow in two directions. Did I really see what I think I did?
Please be safe, I think, whoever you are.
Ken emerges from the van carrying a tray, smiling as he sees me. His forehead is shiny with sweat. “Oh, Jessie, you’re a lifesaver. Perfect timing.” Once he’s closer, he leans down, whispering, “Not like you to be late. Everything okay?”
I make my face blank to hide the terror inside me, the confusion over what I’ve just seen, and what I hope may happen soon. I actually look past Ken’s shoulder, wondering, somehow, if I might find Robert standing there, ready to welcome me.
“I’m good,” I say to Ken, actually a little out of breath from the walk up the steep drive.
I’m sort of starstruck just by the house as I follow Ken to the back, around the pool where light from the second-story windows reflects on the tiny ripples below. Around us is a low rumble of conversation. Laughter rings out, loudly now, before disappearing into the dark line of trees along the backyard. I see the hill where Andre and Malik sat a few days earlier. I can’t count how many times I’ve spied on the front with drive-by glances, but the rear of the house is exactly as the cooks described it: nearly all glass. The backyard is a manicured slope lined by pine forest.
Ken leads me to a table with a black tablecloth and glasses turned upside down on it. He has obviously done a lot of work setting up—everything seems to be in its place. Through the glass, inside, I can see trays of the food I’ve been preparing all week. I feel a tinge of guilt for having shown up late. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get here on time,” I say.
But Ken is buzzed with energy and hardly seems to have considered it. “No worries, especially not now. The guys rode over with me, we managed.”
“They’re inside?” I picture them passing Robert and wonder briefly if he has asked about me.
“Yeah. But out here is where I need you. Cool?”
Definitely cool with me, I think, preferring to have some space to breathe. I look around and notice the amount of alcohol set out—more than at any other party I’ve ever been to. Two cases of wine are stacked beside two coolers full of beer on ice. Bottles of every type of liquor line the station. In one, gold flecks float in what looks like a thick, clear syrup.
I lean close to Ken so no one else can hear me ask, “How many people are coming?”
He straightens a stack of paper napkins that are already perfectly straight. “Ms. James asked us to cater for seventy, but I brought enough for ten more, just in case.” He notices the way my eye is focused on the alcohol and explains with a low laugh, “I didn’t know either about all of that booze. She had it all brought in and set up. Here, hand me those?” He points to a stack of napkins, which I hand to him as he explains how guests may ask for simple cocktails but will mostly likely help themselves to beer and wine. I catch every third word or so of Ken’s instructions, but I understand enough—I am to occasionally pour drinks, but mostly collect the empty glasses and plates that are left about.
I scan the patio for Robert, but there is no sign of him. I wish he would appear, even for a second, to signal me, to reassure me that there will be no misunderstanding. I’m more than a watcher tonight—I’m both supposed to be here and not, which is horrible and thrilling. Stay focused, stay focused. Just do your job.
“Jessie?” I feel a tug at my sleeve. My head snaps around. Ken’s eyes are worried, but his mouth is smiling. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Sorry, I’m here. Just taking everything in.”
He glances back to the lit glass wall of the main house, where Owen’s friends move around the enormous kitchen. Even from that distance they seem so much older than Shelly.
Why did she leave? I hope she’s come back. Maybe she already has.
“Okay, you got this,” Ken says. “Just keep filling up the water and champagne gl
asses. Wine is on ice behind the table. I just opened a fresh bottle. I’ll be right inside if you need anything.” He practically skips back to the house. I see his black shirt through the window, the outline of his glasses.
Soon, more party guests arrive. I take deep breaths. I smile as I pour. Twice, I walk the perimeter of the pool to collect glasses on a tray. The woods at the edge of the property draw my eyes. I stare at the subtle shapes in the dark, part of me wanting to run off between the trees, to vanish.
But not tonight, I think. Tonight will be different. But when?
I try to estimate the time because there is still no sign of Robert. When I fill my second tray, I realize I need to take it inside and exchange the dirty glasses for clean. I can see Ken’s back through the glass wall. Beside him is the edge of the crate where the clean glasses are.
I hate to leave my station, but it should only take a minute to get in and out. I’ll take the tray inside, set it beside Ken, and come out with a fresh tray that should get me through the rest of the party.
I try my best not to be overwhelmed, to use some of the coping skills Ms. Parsons taught me, and not fall into my old ways like vanishing into myself or finding somewhere small to hide. I breathe in to a count of four, hold it inside for two, then let my breath out to a count of four—just the way I practiced in her office. But my heart will not calm down. It wants to run wild because I’m walking into Owen and Shelly James’s house. That fact rings through me as I load up the tray and go quickly through the back door.
The kitchen looks like it should be in a restaurant or on a cooking show—it’s larger than All Out Catering’s space. Every light seems to be turned on, which makes the space very bright, like a movie set. The refrigerator, range, and dishwasher are all stainless steel, gleaming. Unlike my apartment, the James house doesn’t smell like a mossy window unit—it smells like flowers and baking, like orange and lemon mixed with sunshine. It smells perfect, like a fancy retail store, like I’ve always imagined a house is supposed to smell.
