by S. C. Megale
I pulled the photo up on my phone—I had it bookmarked—and shoved the screen at her.
She scoffed. “I—I didn’t even know that was you.”
“Take it down,” said Quinten. “Or I’ll have an investigative team called in to review your company.”
“Fine!” said Patricia. “I’ll take the photo off my website. But I didn’t take your damn dog.”
“Right,” I said. “You said a service dog on the campus would double your donations.”
Patricia cocked her head indignantly and crossed her arms, but I thought she might have reddened.
“How much of those donations go to camper facilities, Ms. Weinhart?” said Quinten.
“I am not required to discuss assets with either of you. Now march back in there and tell the investors you were making it up!” She pointed to the door. “I cannot believe you would try to hurt the children.”
The children. I huffed. “Look, I don’t trust you. Don’t really believe you either—I think you stalked me and are trying to rake in a suspicious amount of money using these disabled kids. But take my photo down, stay away from my dog, and never send me a brochure to your camp, and this’ll be the end of it.”
“And if you don’t—investigative team,” Quinten reminded.
“I already said I would! Now go apologize!” Her voice cracked with desperation.
I rolled over to the door, pushed it open with François’ help, and poked my head in. The old ladies stopped murmuring and shaking their heads to look at me. “I was kidding about the strippers, by the way.”
They stared at me and blinked.
“Sort of,” I whispered. Patricia didn’t hear. I winked and pulled out, facing Patricia again. “There.”
Muscles tense all over, she shook out a begrudging nod.
“I can’t believe I mistook you so grievously before,” huffed Patricia.
“Mistook me?” I made a face. “Mistook me for what?”
“For reminding me of someone I once knew and respected.” She threw a crumpled tissue into her purse.
I reminded her of someone she once knew and respected? Um. All right.
Before she turned on her heel, I shrugged and said, “If you’re really trying to help handicapped kids, thanks. Walk me out, Quinten.”
Cool fresh air wafted over us outside the lobby and washed away the smell of mothballs and sour nursing-home soap. Quinten laughed next to me.
“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.”
“You terrified her.” I punched his wheelchair joystick playfully.
“Still got it,” said Quinten. We parked by the St. Francis statue.
“Think that’ll be the end of it?” I said.
Quinten took a deep breath and stared at the mulch. “Probably. It’s possible she’s embezzling money. But also possible she’s not, and is just trying to stupidly cheat a little free sympathy from you for the camp.”
His voice was still a little flimsy and breathless, but man, it’d been forever since I’d heard Quinten not wheeze through every third word.
“I’ll let you know if she doesn’t take the photo down,” I said.
“Investigative team,” Quinten repeated. I chuckled.
We grew silent. Then, slowly, Quinten reached for my hand.
I looked down at our clasped fingers. Instinctively, my thumb rubbed his dry skin. My throat bobbed with a swallow. I pulled my hand back a moment later to pretend I needed to scratch my jaw. His fingers curled away. Sadly.
“I better go wait for my ride at the stop sign,” I lied.
“Okay,” said Quinten. His head lowered.
I patted his back lovingly. “Thanks for today, Chief.”
His mouth twitched.
“You still got it. I’ll see you soon.” I started to leave.
“Maeve,” Quinten breathed. I noticed the wheeze return. I turned to him. He struggled to lift his head back up to meet my eyes. Then he lifted something in his hand. “Take this.”
My brow furrowed and I approached him, taking the object—it was a little tape recorder.
“What’s this?” I said.
“Transcript,” said Quinten. I gaped at the recorder and a smile swelled over my face. I shook my head.
“For real?” I said.
Quinten wheezed. “What kind of an agent would I be without it?”
16
“What are you all jumpy about?” Elliot laughed. I blushed and stared at the bag of C-47s (clothespins) I’d just knocked off the table accidentally. They littered the floor. I was a hell of a lot more nervous about today than I was for yesterday’s encounter with Patricia.
“Sorry,” I said. Elliot swept them back into the bag with the side of his shoe.
“I’m gonna have to report you and Cole to the union.”
“No,” I said. “You really don’t…”
It’d been three days, and he still hadn’t texted. Mags told me that guy time and girl time when it came to texting was an easy formula to remember: dog years. For every day a guy doesn’t text, it feels like seven days to the girl. For every seven days a guy doesn’t text, it feels like one day to him.
I don’t know. I sort of call bullshit on that. Gay best friends in romcoms would say he’s just not that into you. They’re less biased than Mags.
Still, I dressed in my most womanly red blouse. I even applied a little lipstick. That was hard to do without being willing to look in a mirror.
“Well”—Elliot checked his watch—“he’s a few minutes late.”
“That’s just him,” I said. Affection in my voice. Elliot glanced at me.
We confirmed and double confirmed that the cameras didn’t reflect in the glass of the cannonball exhibit like last time. With just a few short shots needed, no other crew was arriving. I think Mags and Nate were on a date, and I was worried about how to be supportive for Mags, how to be excited for her, when Nate was such a dick to me. She’d been so good with me and Cole.
The set was pretty simple—our equipment table wouldn’t be in the shot. But it was after hours at the museum, the only time the museum lady would let us return, and already dark outside. A pitfall Elliot and I had to work with, to make sure the lighting was consistent with the other shots. The floor looked like a booby-trapped 007 vault with stingers—aka wires—everywhere to set up our key and fill lights. We’d gotten the lighting close enough for my satisfaction and could correct the rest in post—every filmmaker’s famous last words.
Elliot ruffled out the plastic Giant food store bag KC had dropped off to him and unloaded the props onto the table. That was when we heard the door open and shut.
Something swooped through my stomach. The jingle of keys on a lanyard neared from the museum lobby.
I snatched the empty bag and twirled it around my wrist, trying to appear occupied and helpful.
“Hey, man!” said Elliot. And I had to look over.
Cole strolled in. I could fill the space between his head and the doorframe with an apple. Per our request, he’d trimmed his dark beard to the exact length it was at the previous shoot. He scratched his strong jaw and moved with total blasé ease and carelessness. Not an ounce of nerves on him. He wore a plain, dark blue shirt and black pants, and my eyes trailed down his belt and to the lanyard I’d heard. Then I glanced over a few centimeters … I tried not to look below his belt too long.
It never seemed to be the case that men needed to pull their eyes away from me; I was always pulling away from them.
“Thanks for coming, man,” said Elliot.
I donned my bravery and smiled at Cole. “Good to see you.”
“Yeah,” Cole boomed and didn’t make eye contact with either of us. “No prob.”
Elliot tossed him a bundle of clothes—his docent uniform. Cole caught it with both hands and looked down at the clothes.
“Cool,” he said. “I’ll go change.”
I kept my eyes on his, waiting for … a nuance. A suggestive glance. Instead, he turn
ed and headed for the bathroom.
“Gonna be okay?” said Elliot under his breath.
“Camera One is a little blurry,” I said, and turned for the lens.
I set to work.
Cole waited by the glass of the cannonball once he was changed into the crisp white work shirt and black tie. He looked so handsome in a domestic, coming-home-after-work, providing-for-the-family type way. His hazel eyes rested, relaxed, on the tripod. I noticed he didn’t rock side to side on his feet the way he normally did. His broad shoulders were slumped.
The lights were set. The script was in my hands. Elliot wore a headset to hear the audio take. I looked up and leveled my gaze on Cole. In the silence, he straightened, realizing it was almost time to shoot. His gaze met mine and locked there. But it wasn’t deep and calculating. It was the way a dog looked at a tennis ball you held up high. Waiting for a cue.
“Action,” I said.
The scene was a reactionary one: we needed Cole to give his lines and react to the other actors with only Elliot reading the opposite part back to him. The camera would be fixed only on Cole, so we could cut to him throughout, minus the reflection of the camera we’d fucked up last time.
Cole’s body, while sedated moments before, surged to life. The movement I loved about him filled him. He rocked his weight to either foot, dropped his head, and smirked. It was pretty amazing.
“Yeah, well, you need to earn this cannonball, kid.” Cole’s voice was back-row-of-the-theater loud. It shook in my eardrums and erupted goose bumps on my skin. He cocked his head. “I’ve been polishing this glass longer than you’ve been scratching your—”
“Cut,” said Elliot. I turned to him, confused. Cole didn’t take it personally, whatever it was. He pushed a hand across his nose and loosened up, waiting for the criticism.
“We forgot his nametag,” said Elliot.
“Ugh, stupid us. I got it,” I said.
“Let me grab another headset for you while you do that,” said Elliot. “One sec.” He jogged for the lobby, where his backpack sagged next to the front door.
I snatched the fake nametag off the table and approached Cole.
“Just in case you forgot who you are,” I said, and handed it to him.
“Ha. That’ll be good,” said Cole. He took it in one hand and read it with amusement. His other hand hung at his side. Right level with my eye. Elliot still wasn’t back …
I swept my fingertips for his.
He lifted his arm and pinned the nametag to his shirt with both hands. My blood pounded with embarrassment. Did he see me?
Elliot returned, and I circled back to behind the camera.
“Here you go.” Elliot snuggled the headset over me.
We called action again.
This time, Cole added a boyish squeak to his thunderous voice that was the most amazing mixture of youth and man. Honey mustard and bacon. Green apple and provolone.
“Yeah, well, you need to earn this cannonball, kid,” said Cole. Elliot smiled because Cole was nailing it. “I’ve been polishing this glass longer than you’ve been scratching your—”
We all cringed as the key light flickered and popped. Something hissed at the outlet.
“Shit!” said Elliot. He jogged over to the stinger and tugged it out so we wouldn’t all get electrocuted. Luckily no smoke trickled out of it to tickle the ancient smoke detectors above us. “Damn.” Elliot lifted the cable and clicked his tongue.
Cole walked over to him. In the newly fallen dark, only the fill light illuminated Cole’s back and toppled his long shadow like a redwood over me. His rough male hand took the cable and inspected it. “This a new cord?”
“Shit, I dunno,” said Elliot. “I just rented it from Mr. Billings. What do you think, Verizon, it busted?”
“It could be a new cord and the outlet here is old as fuck.”
Rmmph. His way of saying fuck.
“Yeah,” said Elliot. “Damn.”
“We might get away with a simple floodlight,” I said. “I could hold it. We’re not rescheduling this, guys.”
Elliot nodded. Cole still studied the cord.
“This is unbelievable,” said Elliot. “All right, I’m going to Target. It’s, like, across the street.”
“You want me to come with you?” I said.
Cole chuckled at that, which alarmed me. “How?” He turned to me with amusement, not unkindly.
“You could carry me into Elliot’s van obviously.”
“I probably could.”
“Aight I’ll be back in like … ten minutes. Fifteen tops.” Elliot muttered one more curse, patted his pocket to feel his wallet, and raced for the door.
“Thanks, Elliot,” I said. Probably for the best. I’m known to accidentally steal things—tablecloths from restaurants, Sharpies from Office Depot. Once I put them on my lap, it’s easy to forget they’re there.
And then the door closed. Elliot was gone.
I gulped. Removed my headset.
There was a stretch of silence. I was reminded of how old and eerie this boring one-roomed museum could be. It was cold too. The ancient wood beams and brick were cavernous.
Cole tossed his head to flip hair from his eyes. He began to pace, looking around at the corners of museum. “So what’s new?” he said. But didn’t look at me. In fact, he kept talking before I could answer. “This is a weird museum.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Apparently that cannonball is haunted.”
“Is that right?”
“No,” I said. “I was kidding.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He shoved his hands in his black pants pockets and stopped walking. He swayed the way he does. Looked at me.
Our eyes connected, interrupted only by the flow of his movement.
“I missed you,” I said.
Oh, Maeve … no. If I could have closed my eyes privately in regret, I would have.
“Nah, you didn’t,” said Cole.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Nah,” said Cole.
“Yeah, well. I still know your card.”
“What was it?” He was immediate.
“Not telling. Stick around and find out.” No. I was bribing him to like me?
“Hmm,” said Cole. He watched me. I noticed the unusual, premature lines beneath his eyes. They couldn’t be smile lines. I hadn’t seen him grin but for the camera.
“Sorry for the delay, though,” I said. “We promise to be fast.”
“Do you?” said Cole.
“I mean you read Tolstoy in high school. So this’ll be nothing.”
“Read is a strong word,” said Cole.
“At least it was only your medium close-ups we need.”
“Is anyone else coming from the cast?” asked Cole.
“No.” I scratched my knee. “It was just—just you.”
“Just me, huh?” said Cole. His gaze harpooned right into me again.
Maybe I could have taken this deeper. But I already felt like I screwed up; I already felt like I word-violated him. So when the awkward pause lingered, I just changed the subject to neutral territory.
“Your nametag is crooked.”
He looked down, still swaying side to side. Pushed it with one hand. “Better?”
No. It did nothing.
“You might need to repin it.”
He fiddled with it with both hands. “I don’t know if I can.”
“There’s a trick to the clasp,” I said, driving closer to him. “It twists before you can pop it.”
He continued to struggle for a moment. I was close, but not about to try touching him again.
Cole grunted.
“You know what?” he said. He reached forward and grabbed the dark red metal bar of my wheelchair, then lowered to one knee. Thumped right in front of me. “Go for it.”
My heart pounded. I flushed, and my muscles went slack. I smelled him: his damp-leaves, cold cotton, and indistinguishable man scent. And half of Cole’s mouth smiled at me,
his eyes power. He knew what he just did.
My hands shook as I reached for his nametag. Fingers brushing his shirt. I fixed it.
“Better?” he said. Low.
I didn’t respond, because I was catching my breath.
His hand slid up my chair towards me another four inches. He was centimeters away. I dropped my fingers to where his should be on my wheelchair, but he pulled it back. Surely he saw me that time. Still he gazed at me.
The door opened in the lobby. And then my wheelchair shook with enormous strength as Cole pressed down on it to help him rise.
Elliot trotted in with the thick yellow floodlight.
Before Elliot came close enough to hear, and just as Cole glanced down at me one last time, I whispered, “Better.”
Cole winked.
17
How the heck are ya?
Fred Kingfisher Wed, Nov 7, 2:51 PM
to M. Leeson
Dear Maeve,
Sorry for the late email. And happy to hear you have some potential action in the forecast with a young man. How’d you meet him?
I’ve been hesitating to tell you I’ve gone on a few dates with an older woman from Christian Mingle. I like her a lot. The site makes it easier to attract some open-minded partners. If things don’t work out, I recommend it.
Hope you’re not getting your shotgun ready for me this time around.
Fred
I kept my thumb on the screen and scrolled the email up and down on my phone. I guess it seemed weird to me. Two things.
1. He hesitated to tell me he’s seeing someone?
2. I need to find good Christian men.
God, you don’t know how often I hear this. Come unto me, all ye sinners.
I closed the email because I wasn’t ready to respond. Unfortunately for Fred, that usually means I’ll forget for weeks. I sighed.
Departing from the digital world, I stowed my phone and returned my attention to the post office counter in front of me. I’d asked Mom to drop me off here and let me run some errands in the surrounding shopping center. François had joined me with a perky gait—errands for him mean service dog showtime. He should get little campaign medals every time he serves a tour helping me in a new place we visit.
