ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “Your what?”

  “Motivational series. As in to motivate. That’s M-O-T…”

  “I know how to spell it. I even know what it means,” Vicky said defensively.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “It’s okay. Only reason I know that word is cause I used to see it all the time on my report cards–‘Capable but lacks motivation’.”

  Allison laughed and Vicky laughed too but that old familiar pang of regret stabbed her in the heart. “Mind if I smoke?” Vicky asked with a cigarette already dangling from her lips and a book of matches already in her hand.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “I dropped out of high school in my junior year. I was unmotivated,” she said with emphasis. “And …something bad happened to me,” Vicky inadvertently touched the scar on her left cheek then caught herself and stopped. “I was in this really bad car wreck.”

  “Oh, no! What happened?”

  Allison was listening attentively but Vicky couldn’t go on. “I know I been talking your leg off all evening, but I just can’t talk about that.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I always regretted quitting high school. I did go back and got my GED then I went to bartending school. Decided to get a job at a nice classy place and quit working in dives. That’s when I got on at River Inn. I’d like to own my own place someday. That’s my dream. I want to be something better than what I am.”

  “I understand,” Allison nodded.

  Of course what Vicky wouldn’t tell Allison was that at one time she even vowed to give up the drug business. But she couldn’t avoid the one person in her life who’d been there for her since her grandma died–Chief Bobby. Whenever she mentioned getting out of the business to Bobby he’d argue that she was doing the same thing legally by selling alcohol to people. She could never argue with that kind of logic. They were modern day bootleggers, he’d say, and Vicky thought there was something terribly daredevil and romantic about that. But it was more than that and more than her loyalty to Chief Bobby that kept drawing her back into the business. It was the money. Between the drug money and the tips she made at River Inn she not only made enough to live comfortably, but also enough to put aside for her own business someday and maybe even a little house out in the country with lots of land. Once she had enough money saved she would quit the drug business for once and for all. That was the argument she always made for herself even though the voice of her conscience told her it was wrong.

  “Vicky? Earth to Vicky,” Allison said, snapping Vicky out of her inner world.

  “Sorry.” Vicky drew her attention back to the books. Her eyes moved down to the next shelf. These were older books. Just from the touch and feel of the creased worn binding she liked these books better. Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, A Tale of Two Cities, Jane Eyre, and one that was vaguely familiar to Vicky–The Sonnets of Shakespeare.

  “You sure got a lot of books.”

  “I love literature. Thought about majoring in it but then you can’t make a living unless you teach,” Allison said as Vicky pulled The Sonnets of Shakespeare off the shelf and began paging through it.

  “Say, I remember this sonnet,” Vicky said delighted at finding one she recognized from Mrs. Ambrose’s Lit class her junior year. She recalled it so clearly because that was the time right before her accident, right before she dropped out of school.

  “Which one is it?” Allison asked.

  “Sonnet 29.”

  “Read it to me.”

  Vicky cleared her throat to read.

  “When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,

  I all alone beweep my outcast state,

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself and curse my fate,

  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

  Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

  Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

  For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings,

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

  “Beautiful,” said Allison looking misty eyed.

  “I love romance,” Vicky said holding the book to her chest.

  “Me too.”

  “Guess that’s why I moved here… to Camelot I mean. It reminded me of all them fairy tales.”

  “It’s funny but I think I moved here for the same reason. It’s the closest thing to a castle in heartland, USA. Of course, you have to ignore the fact that there’s a cornfield on one side and a strip mall on the other.”

  “I’m glad I moved in when I did. I’d been told that as soon as an apartment comes available around here it gets snatched up right quick,” Vicky said.

  “It’s a popular place to live.” Allison said.

  “Except my apartment. I heard it was vacated several months ago. Couldn’t figure out why it didn’t get snatched up right away like the others, until the first time I set foot in it. I knew right away something bad happened there. It must’ve spooked folks away. Damn near spooked me away. Did somebody get killed there or something?”

  Allison grimaced at Vicky’s question.

  “You know, don’t you?” Vicky persisted.

  “Well, I’ve heard. I didn’t live here at the time so I really don’t know much.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “I heard it was a suicide.”

  “Did it happen in the apartment?”

  “Yes. He shot himself.”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” Vicky said shaking her head as her face dropped.

  “I shouldn’t have told you. Especially right after you moved in. So tragic, isn’t it? How did you know something bad happened?”

  “Just felt it. Anyways, I almost didn’t move here ‘cause there were no other vacant apartments. But then I got to thinking, this is my only chance to live in a castle. Just something about looking outside and seeing all them fancy towers takes away all the bad feelings. I wonder if it was a love affair gone wrong?”

  “What?”

  “The suicide.”

  “I don’t know, but please try and forget I told you. It’s your place now, Vicky, and you can change all of those bad memories and replace them with good ones. I know you will.” Allison said smiling and seemingly trying to change the tone and direction of the conversation.

  Vicky could see Allison’s desperate desire to change the subject. She paged through the book of sonnets again then put it carefully back on the shelf. Her eyes began traveling again along the rows.

  “Keep looking,” Allison said.

  “Vicky’s eyes stopped at Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen. She pulled the book off the shelf.

  “I knew that one would catch your eye. Are you familiar with his stories?”

  “Hell yeah! The Ugly Duckling is one of my favorites,” Vicky said paging through the book until she found it.

  “It’s one of my favorites too,” Allison said.

  “It’s my story too. Only I’m still waiting to become a swan.”

  “With a long neck like yours? What are you talking about?” Allison asked. “You are a swan.”

  Vicky said nothing in reply, but slowly put the book back on the shelf. None of the other books were familiar to her. She remembered the difference between her and Allison, the difference between the ignorant and the educated. Yet somehow there didn’t seem to be much difference between the two of them at that moment.

  As they stood there the church bells rang eight o’clock.

  “You got a window open?”

  “No. Why, are you chilly?”

  “No, it ain’t that. It’s them church bells. Shit they’re loud. Where
do they come from?”

  “The Catholic church down the street. They ring every quarter hour. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them. I don’t even hear them anymore.”

  “Do you believe in God?” Vicky asked after a somewhat long and thoughtful pause.

  “I’m an agnostic, I suppose.”

  Vicky retrieved her little spiral notebook and pen from her pocket again.

  “That’s A-G-N-O-S-T-I-C. It means…”

  “No, don’t tell me. You got a dictionary around here I can borrow?”

  Allison pulled her big red Webster’s Dictionary off one of the bottom shelves and handed it to Vicky.

  “Guess I’m gonna have to know the definition if we’re to continue this conversation,” Vicky said paging through the dictionary. Her eyes found the page and the word. “Says here,” Vicky said with her finger pointing to the word, “a person who believes that the human mind cannot know whether or not there is a God or an ultimate cause, or anything beyond material phenomena.” She struggled with the word “phenomena”, but tried to pronounce it slowly, just like how it was spelled. Allison didn’t correct her so she guessed she got it right. “So you ain’t sure, huh?”

  “That’s right. What about you? Do you believe?”

  “I’m afraid to believe and afraid not to believe. If there is a God I’m in deep trouble ‘cause I’ve turned my back on him. He’s gotta be pissed off at me. If there isn’t a God, well then, shit, what is there?”

  “So I guess we’re in the same boat with all this uncertainty.”

  “I guess so.” Vicky took a long drag off her cigarette.

  “If there is a God,” Allison pondered, “then he or she must be the brilliant master mind behind the universe, beyond that I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

  “Do you think he knows you? Personally, I mean?”

  “No. What about you?”

  “I think he does.” Vicky looked at Allison. She wasn’t smiling. The look on Allison’s face made Vicky think of that old gospel story she’d heard preached on in her grandma’s church–the one about the rich man who went away sad because Jesus asked him to give up everything and follow him.

  “But, hell, the way I figure it there must not be a God ‘cause I’d of sure been struck by lightning by now.”

  Laughter and another gulp of whiskey eased the tension. Vicky convinced Allison to try some Jack Daniels with her Fresca. There was more laughter and even less tension after that. The hours and the conversation passed quickly until the bells struck midnight, startling Vicky back into reality. She apologized to Allison for wearing out her welcome and promptly left with a noisy gait down the stairs, a loud tromp in the downstairs hall, and a banging door.

  Chapter 12

  September–November 1983

  You couldn’t call it a love affair because Vicky knew the difference between lust and love. It wasn’t exactly a one night stand because Vicky had slept with him on more than one occasion. She even spent a whole weekend with him once. The fuzzy term “relationship” didn’t fit either because the only time they ever really related to one another was in bed. She couldn’t even remember exactly how or when she’d met him except that he was one of Chief Bobby’s oldest and most faithful customers.

  She only knew she had a weakness for him. Mostly it was about sex. But for him it was also about free drugs and money. So Vicky tried her hardest to avoid him, but then she’d run into him somewhere, or he’d be broke and he’d call her and she’d give in and agree to see him. He had an irresistible charm that she could never walk away from. She’d see him and couldn’t wait to get him alone, to undress him, to touch him all over, to smell his fragrance, and feel his skin against hers. So the result was always terrific sex.

  Afterwards followed the inevitable sob story about how he was in between jobs and down on his luck. Then Vicky would want to kick herself as she emptied her wallet and watched him walk out the door with her money. She didn’t mind him using her for sex–that was all right between two consenting adults with whom it was mutually understood they were using one another. But to use someone for money–now that was wrong. And so every time she swore it would be the last time. Like this time. But he knew her weakness and he knew how to use it.

  That night during the height of passion he breathlessly professed his love for her and made her promise to never be angry at him again. She would have promised him anything at that point. In the aftermath of all this lovemaking he told her that his boss was an unfair son-of-a-bitch and that he fired him for no reason. Then came the big hit-up for money, after which he fell right to sleep, while Vicky stayed awake and tried to figure out some way she could make him mad enough so he would leave her alone forever.

  She would have to be strong, that was for sure, because if she had sex with him again she would wind up giving him even more money. She set her internal alarm clock for early so she would be up, showered, and dressed before he awoke. And most important of all, she would be sure to remain completely sober and straight until after he left–nothing but black coffee. This would be the last time and that was that.

  “Just a gigolo,” she said, placing her hand on the sleeping man’s back. Her water bed rocked gently as she turned on her side, away from him and toward the wall.

  *****

  “This is it! I ain’t gonna help you no more. Now get your clothes on and go,” she said the following morning with unwavering resolve as she flung some money on the bed and turned to exit the room. He followed her out the bedroom door and into the hallway.

  “But baby, you promised never to be mad at me again.”

  “I ain’t mad, and just to prove it I threw in a little extra for cab fare.”

  “C’mon baby, don’t make me take a cab. You can drive me home,” he pleaded coming up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, and speaking the words softly and sensually so that his hot breath tickled the nape of Vicky’s neck.

  “You’re a big boy. You can get your own self home.” She felt his lips on the back of her neck and felt her resolve beginning to weaken.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten dressed so soon,” he said nibbling on her ear lobe.

  “You know I can’t stand to hang out in my jammies. Makes me feel lazy,” Vicky said as he held her tighter and hummed the tune of some popular song in her ear while rocking her back and forth.

  “Come back to bed,” he said unbuttoning the top buttons on her blouse. She closed her eyes and felt herself giving in to the moment. Then all at once she heard that voice inside her head talking sense.

  “No! It ain’t gonna work this time,” she said opening her eyes and unwrapping his arms from around her. “You got what you came for. Now go.”

  “But baby.”

  “Don’t but baby me,” she said as she began shoving him backward, through the short narrow hallway and into the living room. He kept arguing and she kept shoving until somehow she managed to maneuver him out the door, which she promptly slammed in his face and bolted behind him.

  “But baby, my clothes,” his muffled cry sounded from out in the hallway as he banged on the door. She suddenly realized she had pushed him out the door in nothing but his leopard skin bikini briefs. The ones he always wore when he was with her because she thought they were sexy.

  “Shit!” Vicky said running back to the bedroom and grabbing the pile of clothes from on top of the bed. The cash she had flung at him was on top of the pile. “That’s the only reason he’s still calling me ‘baby’ and not ‘bitch’. Cause he ain’t got my money in his hot little hand yet,” she said running back to the door where he was still pounding and still calling out to her, though somewhat more irritably by now. She opened the door.

  “Here’s your fuckin’ clothes,” she said throwing the pile at him. “And don’t forget my money,” she said hurling the bills in his direction.

  All at once she gasped in complete surprise as the figure of a man emerged in the hallway and stood behind her leopard skin bikini clad l
over. It was Frank, standing there with his briefcase in hand all dressed for work. He wore an expensive suit and tie, wingtip shoes with tassels, and the most unpleasant scowl Vicky had ever seen. Her lover jumped in startled surprise and attempted to cover himself with the pile of clothes. The look on Frank’s face made Vicky feel like she was in the presence of a preacher man. She felt her face redden with shame as Frank stared his disapproval back at her.

  Vicky had only seen Frank a few times in the hallway since she moved to Camelot, yet there was something about him that made her feel uncomfortable, like a pin sticking somewhere in her clothing and she couldn’t exact the location, she just knew it was there, pricking her, irritating her.

  “Excuse us. Lovers’ quarrel,” Vicky said, grabbing her stunned lover by the arm, pulling him inside, and closing the door behind him. She took a long hard look at the young man’s face. Had it been ten years ago she would have loved him, but too much had happened since then and it seemed a callous-like blister was forming over her heart.

  “Sorry baby,” she said touching his cheek. “Get your clothes on and I’ll drive you home.”

  *****

  Vicky’s next encounter with Frank came a few days later. He appeared on her doorstep one Sunday evening in his plaid flannel robe and tan leather slippers and asked her in his controlled but obviously angry way to turn her music down. She stared at a bulging vein in his neck that looked like it was ready to pop while he informed her that he’d been knocking on her door for at least ten minutes before she even heard him.

  “What about you? You play that high brow shit of yours loud enough. I’ll turn my music down if you turn yours down.”

  “What exactly are you referring to?”

  “That shit you were playing yesterday morning. It woke me up.”

  “Schubert is not shit.”

  “Neither are the Allman Brothers.”