by Janice Weber
As she stood, Guy’s eyes followed her body. “I’m not sure why you had to see me.”
Philippa shrugged, momentarily defeated. “Neither am I, actually.”
They studied each other’s faces, searching for any glimmer of hope. Guy was kissing Philippa’s hand, Philippa was stroking his head, when an old pickup truck plowed through the front window of Cafe Presto. Philippa saw it coming but didn’t react; the pickup truck belonged in another movie, on another actress’s lot. “Watch out!” she screamed a few seconds too late. Then she tripped over her cape. The last thing Philippa saw clearly was a table zooming into her face.
7
I’ve been watching him for two nights now from this shadowy stoop across the street. He just sits alone at a window table in Cafe Presto. Every couple minutes he raises his glass to his mouth. Whenever a car goes by, its headlights show Guy brooding and drinking, still waiting for my wife to come back to him. So far she hasn’t appeared. But he’s kept up that vigil ... why is that? Is the man utterly stupid? Just tired? Or has Emily given him reason to hope that he doesn’t wait in vain? Time will tell, I suppose; meanwhile, I detest the waiting as much as he does. It’s cold out here now. My knees are beginning to bother me from all the standing. Each time I hear footsteps coming down the street, I’m petrified that this time it’s my wife. The terror lasts eons, until the person walks past my little alcove. Then, seeing only a stranger, I crumple in relief. The ups and downs only get worse as the hours go by and there are fewer pedestrians, but each one seems to walk more urgently. By the end of the night, I feel like I’ve been electrocuted a couple dozen times.
Guy normally hangs in there until one or two o’clock. Doesn’t he know by now that Emily goes to bed at eleven? Maybe he thinks she’s just pretending to sleep, and she’s waiting until a few snores come from my side of the bed so that she can steal away to him. No dice, Guy: I don’t snore. Hell, I hardly even sleep. I wake up when Emily leaves the bed to go to the bathroom. I wake up when she blows her nose and even when she rolls over to look at the alarm clock in the middle of the night. I know when her body no longer rests on the mattress, and she knows I know, because I’ve followed her often enough into the atrium now. She ain’t comin, buddy. She’s still a little afraid of me, I think. Go home.
Ah, more footsteps: I turn to cardboard. One breath would blow me down. That you, lamb? Sounds like you. The small, rushed steps get louder, then a woman I do not know flutters by. For the moment, I am saved. I withdraw into the alcove and watch Guy, because he’s going to get blown down next. There, now he’s picked up movement in the street. For the twentieth time tonight, he puts his drink down and leans forward. I look at his face as the poor bugger stares with all his might, wanting the woman to be Emily so badly that he’s oblivious to my face in the gloom just a few feet behind her. That’s dangerous, pal. Now she’s gone and he’s crushed. He settles back in his chair, slightly lower than he was sitting before. Serves him right. May he slump forever.
I blow on my frozen hands, wondering why I don’t go home before Guy abandons his watch. I can’t, of course, not while there’s a one-in-a-thousand chance that she’s going to incarnate my worst nightmares. I must see to believe. And perhaps deep down, petty and ungracious man that I am, I really do want to catch her here. Something inside me yearns to triumph in her iniquity; it’s the only way a cuckold could ever feel superior. Oh God, why doesn’t she just appear on the corner and put us both out of our misery? My knees are killing me. Guy’s got to have the hangover of the century by now. Meanwhile, Emily’s probably curled up on the sofa in her white robe, reading a book, oblivious to the havoc she’s causing on the other side of Beacon Hill. She’s probably feeling virtuous to boot. I should go home and wring her neck.
Guy’s had enough. He’s slowly getting up from the table, going toward the back of the dining room ... but he’s not taking his drink along. That means he’s only going to pee. Damn, should have known. It’s much too early to quit; the Custom House clock is only beginning to strike ten. Guy’s got another fifth of vodka to polish off. I’ve got another three hours to frost my ass and work myself into an uxoricidal frenzy.
I hear a woman’s shoes tapping the cobblestones; once again, true hero that I am, I shrink into the alcove to await the guillotine. Whoever it is walks fast and loud, punishing her shoes. Definitely not Emily. Someone’s out there with her; I think I heard a man’s voice. But now she’s yelling at him to go away. Christ! That sounded like Philippa! The cold’s gotten to me. I’m hallucinating.
A man just ran past. Someone’s pounding on the door of Cafe Presto. My God, it’s Philippa! Right? It’s not Emily pretending to act like her sister in order to confuse me, is it? The two of them have flummoxed me before. I can’t ever let them do it again. No, that’s Philippa. She shouts with a certain vile authority that Emily does not possess. And she’s wearing another of her atrocious costumes, half Isadora Duncan, half General Schwarzkopf. Come on, Guy, open the door before she puts her fist through it. There he is finally. She stomps inside like a ton of bricks and they sit at the front table.
My brain’s beginning to swim. She looks like Emily now. Is that a wig or is that my wife? Why should Philippa want to see Guy? Has Emily confessed everything to her sister? What the hell could they be discussing so earnestly over there? Getaway plans? Oh Christ, he’s going to her side of the table. He’s kissing her neck! She’s allowing it! My blood’s boiling over, it’s filling my lungs. Who is that she-devil over there? Has the bastard seduced both of them? Ah, my head hurts. I should never have come here. Once again I’ve seen what I never wanted to see, the shadow of my wife first with Dana, now with Guy. Was it really Philippa both times?
Get hold of yourself, Major. Of course it was.
Now that is strange. An old pickup truck is charging up the street. Ouch! There goes the window! Get the license, Ross, the way you learned in Boy Scouts. Haul the old legs over the curb fast, before it pulls out of range. Remember that Massachusetts plate! Now it’s skidding around the corner on two wheels. Driver’s a maniac.
I’d better see if they re alive over there. Careful: glass all over the sidewalk. I’ll just peep inside. Guy’s out cold or dead. Fantastic! Leave him. As for the lady ... no, I cannot bear to turn her over and see Emily. Cannot. Maybe I should just call the police. But how am I going to explain my presence here? “Gee, Officer, I was spying on my wife and her lover, cowering across the street like I do every night from ten till one.” ... Forget it. No police. Look, she just moved an arm. She’s trying to sit up, cussing like a sailor. I’d better run back to my little troll’s cave.
She’s on her feet, heading for the door. Shaken up but unhurt, it seems. Whoever it is, she’s in a rush to evaporate. Look at her stumbling off, abandoning Witt en like a sack of rotten potatoes. That’s Philippa, all right. It’s got to be.
I’m going home.
At first, the jangling phone was part of Emily’s dream. Then, louder, it wrenched her into dark reality. Disoriented and damp, she awoke in her bed and groped at the pale green glow on her nightstand. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Philippa said. “Did I wake you?”
“You woke us.”
Thank God; that meant Guy had not called Emily from some hospital after his interrupted tryst. “I wanted to make sure I got you before you left for work,” Philippa explained.
Emily glanced at the clock: four-fifteen. It was an unusual hour, even for Philippa. “What’s up?”
About six hours ago, Philippa had regained consciousness on the floor of Cafe Presto. Realizing that she should probably not be discovered amid upturned tables, broken glass, and Guy Witten, Philippa had wrapped her aching face in her cape and bolted for the airport, where she had rented a limousine to take her to New York. Ten minutes ago, she had arrived back at her hotel. “I think I have to go to a hospital,” she whispered.
“Why? Is it the food poisoning?”
“No. I fell.”
&nb
sp; “Fell where? How?”
“I slipped in the bathroom. The floor was wet. I hit my face on the tub.”
“You were taking a bath at four in the morning?”
“I had to get up and pee.” Philippa anticipated the next question. “No, I am not drunk. My face looks like rhubarb pie! All my teeth are loose! I can’t be seen like this!”
“Phil, go to a hospital. They’ll take an X ray.”
“I have a few cuts as well. My outfit is drenched with blood. Absolutely ruined.”
“What outfit? I thought you said you were asleep.”
“My pajama outfit!”
“How did you get cuts falling on a bathtub?”
“What is this, the third degree? Listen, Em, it doesn’t matter how I got hurt. You have to do me the favor of your life.”
On the other side of the bed, Ross rolled tetchily over. Emily knew that he’d never get back to sleep now. He had come to bed very late, after another solitary séance on the balcony. “What kind of favor? Make it quick,” she whispered.
“Tonight is the opening of Choke Hold, remember? Simon’s made it into an AIDS benefit. Media coverage out the wazoo. You have to stand in for me.”
“Come on! Your fans would crucify me.”
“My fans would never know the difference. You’re going as Philippa Banks.”
“Forget it. No way. Never.”
“Don’t do this to me, Em!” Philippa wailed. “If you took one look at my face you’d understand! Remember, I almost got poisoned thanks to you!”
“Oh, right. Now I owe you one?”
“We’re sisters! Blood! Guts! DNA!” Hearing no response, Philippa tried a new tack. “You’d have a great time, Em. When was the last time you went dancing?”
With Guy, about a year ago. They were at a nouvelle cuisine convention at the Hyatt. When he drove her home that night, he had kissed her in a different way. “This is ridiculous, Philippa. I have a full day of work today visiting all my suppliers.”
“I’m begging you. My career depends on it. You don’t have to do anything but show up, watch a movie, smile and wave, then leave. That’s it.”
“What about my job?”
“What job, that stupid restaurant? You don’t have to work night and day, do you? Leave Boston when you’re done with the suppliers. The screening’s at nine. You dance once with Simon afterward. If you have to get back to Boston, there’s a late flight from Kennedy. Nothing could be simpler.”
Outside Emily’s window, a heavy truck lumbered up Beacon Hill, vibrating houses. After a while, she could hear the crickets again. Yes, summer was over. Soon the snow would return. “What’s your agent going to say about this?”
“I haven’t decided whether or not to tell him. So you can do it?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Don’t think too hard! This is the most important night of the second half of my life!”
“I still don’t see how you could have wrecked your face and gotten full of cuts on the bathtub.”
“It was a freak accident. I’ll explain when you get here.” Philippa hung up.
Emily quietly replaced the phone and tried to wriggle inconspicuously back under the sheets. She had just about regained her former posture when Ross said, “Let me guess. Philippa’s getting married this afternoon and needs a bridesmaid.”
“She wants me to take her place at a movie opening tonight in New York. She fell in the bathtub and bruised her face.”
He laughed out loud. “What a crock!”
Emily snuggled up to her husband. “Could you come with me?”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing it.”
Second by second, she felt him shrinking away from her. “What’s the matter?”
Ross was totally awake now. “Emily, you don’t think that you can just wear one of your sister’s tasteless outfits and convince a thousand people that you’re Philippa, do you? All of her friends will be there. So will her agent. The minute you open your mouth, everyone would know. What’s going on? You’ve spent your entire life pretending you don’t have a twin sister. Now you pretend to be her?”
“I thought for one fucking night I might have a little fun.”
“Now you’re even talking like her.” Ross slid back beneath the sheets. “Go then. Have fun for one fucking night in your life.”
Overcome with guilt, Emily stroked his back for a few moments. “Ross?” He didn’t move. Eventually, her hand dropped away and she lay watching the light bloom on her bedroom walls. She wanted to get away from Boston, away from Ross, Guy, death, and Diavolina for a while. At breakfast, as her husband was studying the editorial page with acute fascination, Emily announced that she would be going to New York that evening. If he changed his mind and cared to come along, she would meet him on the three o’clock shuttle. He did not ask, and she did not tell, when she would return.
Byron looked up from the comics as Emily entered the kitchen at Diavolina. “Morning, Maje. Have you seen today’s paper?”
Sure, reflected upside down on her husband’s reading glasses. Emily poured a cup of coffee and sat opposite Byron at the table. “Am I missing something?”
He read from a two-inch story in the local news section. “‘An unidentified vehicle drove through the front window of Cafe Presto late last night, injuring Guy Witten, the owner of the popular downtown caterer. According to police reports, Witten was seated at a front table, going over the day’s receipts, when the vehicle hit the window. Witten, who sustained head injuries and a sprained wrist, was unable to identify the vehicle or the driver. There were no other witnesses to the apparent hit-and-run incident.’”Byron dipped an almond biscuit into his coffee. “How would you like a Toyota up your ass after a long day?”
Emily immediately called Cafe Presto. “No answer at the restaurant,” she said.
“How could there be, Maje? The building inspector would have shut it down!”
She began phoning hospitals. Mass General had had a Witten in and out of the E-room last night. Emily tried Guy’s gym, with no success. “I guess he’s at home,” she told Byron. Forget calling there; no telling who might pick up. “Look, I’m visiting a few suppliers this morning. Tonight I won’t be in. Could you take over the kitchen for me?”
“Sorry, I have other obligations tonight.”
“Wait a moment! You told me yesterday to stay out as long as I liked!”
“I’ve worked four weeks straight in this booby hatch! My nerves are in shreds!”
“Okay, okay. Never mind.” That did it: no gala in New York. Emily felt surprisingly disappointed.
Ward shuffled in wearing her pink, jam-smeared jogging suit. It was getting fairly tight around the midriff these days, giving her the appearance of a stuffed bear, minus the alert, white eyes. She went immediately to the coffee machine. “Major, I thought you were paying courtesy calls on our vendors today.”
“I wanted to touch base with Byron first.”
The sous-chef closed his newspaper. “Ward, who’s third in command here?” Before Ward could reply “No one,” Byron continued. “Seems that Emily and I both have to be out tonight.”
“Oh, that’s terrific. Great.” Ward reached in her pocket and got a dime. She flipped it in the air, tried to catch it, missed, and finally stomped on it with her sneaker as it was rolling toward the broiler. “Heads or tails?” she called to Byron.
“What for?”
“Whoever wins doesn’t have to work tonight.”
“You can’t do that! I told you months ago about this! You promised!”
Ward thought a moment. “Today’s your grandmother’s ninetieth birthday? I forgot.” She looked at Emily. “What about you? Silver wedding anniversary?”
“Masquerade ball.” Emily sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”
Klepp walked in. “Eh, what lovely, cheerful faces. Starts my day off just right. What are you doing here so early, Ward? Getting a head start on our paychecks?”
Ward
opened Mustapha’s refrigerator and helped herself to a wedge of chocolate cake. “Klepp, you’re in charge of the kitchen today. Serve whatever you want. Just try not to kill anybody. No, on second thought, try to kill everybody.” She padded back to her office.
“Inspirational words,” Klepp said heartily. “You two, vamoose. That’s an order.”
Emily drove toward Quincy Market; perhaps she’d find Guy in front of Cafe Presto with his arm in a sling, selling muffins to the regulars. She needed to see that he was all right. Correction: She just needed to see him again. A smile would do, or a wave, any indication that perhaps he might still be a friend. Emily still hoped for that. It was probably ridiculous. Maneuvering between jaywalking pedestrians, she stopped her car near a hydrant and walked to Cafe Presto. The notice on the front door said it would be temporarily closed for renovations. For several moments Emily stared at the boarded front. One lousy car had taken out all those windows? Guy was lucky to have escaped with a sprained wrist. What could he have been doing at a front table so late at night? Waiting for her, perhaps? Waiting for someone else?
Emily saw Presto’s pastry chef emerge from a coffee shop across the street. “Bert!” she called, trotting over.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “What happened?”
“A car drove through the front window last night. I read it in the paper.”
“But I woke up at five o’clock to get to work! Why didn’t Guy tell me?”
“He was in the hospital. The car hit him, too.”
Bert was not impressed. “Do I go on unemployment now?”
“If I know Guy, the windows will be replaced in a few hours.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to hang around for lunch?” Bert squinted up the narrow street. “Hey! Lois!”
Crossing over, the cashier greeted them. Bert explained what had happened. “Mr. Witten was hurt?” Lois cried. “What was he doing when the car hit him?”
