Following Polly

by Karen Bergreen

  I’m outside.

  Charlie thinks I am on a mission either to help his father or to do some work on my own situation. I just needed to leave his house and clear my head. To mull over my friend’s stinging comments without trying to be a polite houseguest. And whatever romantic thoughts I may have been entertaining about Charlie must be quashed. Charlie is a means to an end for now, the end being my freedom. The day I am exonerated and Jean apologizes to me is the day I renew my crush.

  I’m outside to think. How dare she? How dare she take away that fun little fantasy I’ve been having while my life is a mess.

  Now I have to deal with reality.

  I don’t want to.

  Urgh.

  It’s time to tell Charlie about his father.

  I run back to the apartment.

  I turn the key in his lock and push the door open with intensity.

  “I need to tell you somethi—” I start to say, but I realize that Charlie’s not alone. Standing in his living room holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cupcake in the other is William Redwin.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello?” William stops there.

  I don’t say anything. Charlie rescues me.

  “Dad, this is my friend Alice from college. We’re working on a project together.”

  I take off my coat. I’m wearing Charlie’s shirt.

  “What kind of project?” he asks, slightly amused. He’s not going to mention our “date.”

  “A legal thing,” I say, trying to sound professional.

  “Are you a lawyer?” William asks me.

  “No, I am a—” Charlie cuts me off.

  “She’s my research assistant.”

  “I didn’t know lawyers had research assistants.” William winks at me. This is too uncomfortable.

  “We’re working on a special project.”

  “Oh,” William says, as he looks at his oops cupcake.

  I smile awkwardly.

  “You look familiar,” William says. Is he enjoying himself?

  “A lot of people say that,” I say.

  Nobody says it. I wonder if he knows that his “delightful” blind date is a potential murderess, or at the very least, has witnessed his secret life.

  “I have one of those faces,” I add.

  Charlie cuts in. “Dad, what are you doing with your time? I worry about you when there’s no structure.”

  “This and that,” William says. I guess he doesn’t even tell his son about the visits to Sloan-Kettering.

  “Maybe you should take a trip or something. Then when you get your job back, you’ll be relaxed from a nice vacation.”

  “I may not get my job back,” William says.

  “Dad. This thing will blow over.”

  “It may not blow over,” William says.

  “Dad. I don’t want you to give up. I haven’t,” Charlie tells him.

  “You need to be realistic, Walter.”

  “I’m being realistic. These women are going to start feeling guilty about lying, and then they’ll recant and you can sue Kelt Pharmaceuticals to get your job back.”

  “They may not recant,” William says.

  “They will,” Charlie says. He is determined.

  William doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns to me.

  “Tell me about yourself, Alice. It is Alice, isn’t it?”

  “Alice is a great cook,” Charlie says.

  “Oh. That’s always a plus,” William says.

  “Shall I go into the kitchen and whip something up?” I need to escape.

  “No thanks. I just had something.”

  “How about a drink, Dad?” Charlie says.

  “No thanks.”

  “Water?”

  “No thanks.” William is not listening. He’s staring into space.

  “So what kind of research are you guys doing?” William asks Charlie. He thinks we’re a couple. He thinks Charlie isn’t telling him for some reason.

  Charlie doesn’t answer right away, so I interrupt.

  “New York,” I tell him. “We’re researching New York.”

  “What for?” William asks.

  I’m stumped. Charlie looks at me, though, giving me permission to say whatever I please.

  “We’re preparing a pamphlet about New York neighborhoods for new businesses,” I say, thinking I can probably remember a few things I wrote at K.I.N.D.

  “I didn’t know you knew anything about that, Walter.”

  “He didn’t at first,” I said, “but I’ve been helping him learn.”

  “I thought you said she was your research assistant,” William says to Charlie. Why doesn’t he just say he knows we’re lying?

  “She is. She knows more about these kinds of books, but I have the legal expertise for start-up companies.” Charlie’s body language is way too uncomfortable for the casual conversation we need to present.

  “You’re a litigator,” William says.

  “For companies, Dad.”

  William seems to drop it. But I notice he’s looking at me. I know he’s trying to communicate something, but either he can’t or I’m illiterate.

  “Dad?” Charlie says.

  William’s not listening. He is looking at me.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing.

  “Dad, are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay.” William gives me a little smile—I think.

  “Maybe I should leave you guys alone for a bit,” I say. “I’m going to go do some research.”

  “What’ll you do?” William asks me. He knows I’m in trouble. He must’ve seen it on the news.

  “It’s a book about New York. We’re in New York. I’ll walk around.”

  Charlie doesn’t stop me.

  I want to go home. And I don’t mean Fifty-fifth Street. I mean to Mother’s house. I don’t care if Barnes lives there. Seeing Charlie with William reminds me how I miss my own flawed parent.

  And, for the first time, I feel bad about following Polly. I still don’t like her—didn’t like her. But who am I—who was I to invade her privacy? She didn’t invite me to watch her every move, listen to her conversations, and monitor her purchases. Yet I derived parasitic pleasure from gluing myself to every detail of her life. It would make me sick to receive that kind of attention.

  Maybe I deserve to be punished. Polly wasn’t a good person, but my actions were inexcusable.

  However, I didn’t kill her.

  I’m ten blocks away from Mother’s house. It’s Wednesday, and Barnes will most likely be at Chelsea Piers playing golf. He never misses a golf appointment. His wife’s kid is a fugitive from justice and I can guarantee you his score has not changed. Mother will probably be at her ballet class. She’s religious about her ballet.

  “It’s gotten me through a lot of painful times,” she has told Barnes and me. Even he can’t coax her into missing a class.

  Sophie is probably upstairs; that is, if Barnes hasn’t driven her out with his bigotry. I smile as I think back on the first day I met Sophie. I had come by Mother’s to pick up a check from her. This was when I was working at K.I.N.D. for free. Barnes was angry with Sophie because she had put his dress shirts in the wrong closet.

  “I have made it clear to you, have I not, that my dress shirts go in my dress closet. They do not go in the closet with my casual clothes.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Newlan.” Sophie was genuinely apologetic, as this was her first transgression.

  “Need I draw you a map, Sophie, of the proper dwelling for each article of clothing?”

  “Dwelling, sir?” Sophie couldn’t understand Barnes’s singular style of speech.

  Barnes looked at Sophie, trying to assess her question.

  “Are you mocking me, Sophie? Please don’t mock me.”

  Sophie didn’t say anything. I think, like me, she was trying to stifle a laugh. Barnes sensed this.

  “Sophie.” Barnes is at his most condescending when he overuses
a person’s name. “I am really trying to help you, to teach you. Isn’t that why you left Puerto Rico in the first place, so that you could have a better life here in our country?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophie said.

  “I guess your ‘teacher’ needs to be taught that Puerto Rico is part of the United States,” I whispered to Sophie.

  “He needs to feel like he’s king of the castle,” Sophie said.

  “I think you mean king of the dwelling,” I corrected her.

  The problem is that I have to get past two doormen and anyone else who might be lingering in the lobby. What do I say to them? Hey guys. I bet the cops have told you that if I come around here, you’re supposed to call them, but I’ve always been amiable—sort of—and I didn’t murder Polly or Mona. I was framed. So if you could just let me go upstairs and see Mother and refrain from calling the cops, I’d be ever so grateful.

  I don’t think so.

  I have an idea. I am at the corner of Eighty-third and Madison. And I’ve finally found a working pay phone. I dial Mother’s house.

  It’s ringing.

  “Hello, Newlan residence.” It’s Sophie.

  I hold my nose. “May I speak with Sophia Marino, please?”

  “This is Sophia Marino.”

  “This is Edna Applebaum from the INS, that is, the Immigration and Naturalization Services.”

  Sophie pauses for a moment. “Yes.”

  “We’re calling to inform you that one of your people is down here. Could you come get her? She says it’s a little cold. Could you bring a shawl?”

  “I’ll come right away, Ms. A-Applebaum.”

  “Good. We are on the eighty-third floor.”

  Now I know there is no eighty-third floor in the Jacob Javits building. And I’m hoping that Sophie knows that, too. She’s no dummy. I’m sure she picked up my hint, as we have been joking about her immigration status ever since Barnes lectured her. Unfazed by trash, I pick up a New York Post from the street and hold it up to my face as I wait for Sophie and her shawl.

  I stay on Eighty-third and Madison. And I wait.

  There she is trotting toward me with a shawl and a little bag. We greet each other enthusiastically but quietly.

  “Thank you for coming. I was hoping you wouldn’t tell the police.”

  “Why would I tell the police, Ms. Alice? I might get deported.” We both burst into laughter.

  “Here. I brought you something from your mother’s closet.” Sophie reaches into the bag and pulls out one of Mother’s old wigs. Good thinking, Sophie, I left my blond wig at Charlie’s house. I put the wig on. I put the shawl over my coat and make it look like a really big scarf. I walk back to the house with Sophie.

  I’m in Mother’s kitchen drinking hot chocolate and reading an old issue of Vanity Fair when I hear the door open.

  “Anyone home?”

  It’s Barnes.

  “Just me, Mr. Newlan.”

  I hide in Mother’s laundry room. Barnes never goes in there.

  “Is my wife back yet?”

  Obviously he wasn’t listening.

  “No, Mr. Newlan. Just me.”

  “Any calls?”

  “No, Mr. Newlan. No calls.”

  “I see on the caller ID that someone called about twenty minutes ago. I thought you said there were no calls, Sophie.” Barnes’s tone is professorial.

  “That was a wrong number, Mr. Newlan.”

  “Sophie. When I ask you if someone called, you have to tell me, ‘Yes, Mr. Barnes, someone did call, but it was the wrong number.’ When you say that no one called and someone clearly did call, that is not an answer that is completely forthcoming.”

  No response.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan. There was a call, but it was the wrong number.”

  Just so you know, Barnes is not interrogating Sophie like this because he thinks I might have called. The man is a control freak.

  “Sophie, when you are ready, I will have my lunch.”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan.” I listen as Sophie prepares Barnes’s standard lunch. It’s tuna with low-fat mayonnaise on whole wheat bread with a small bag of baked potato chips and a Red Delicious apple.

  I try to think of a game plan. How will I speak to Mother if Barnes is at home? He’s sure to call the cops right away.

  “Sophie.”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan.”

  “This apple isn’t as shiny as usual.”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan.” I imagine that Sophie is heading over to his lunch table and shining the apple for him. I’m hoping that she uses her spit to give it that extra shine.

  “Sophie, do you know when my wife will return?”

  “She should return very soon.”

  “Sophie, I don’t want you to think I was simply scolding you before. I was trying to impart to you the importance of being precise. I’m sure that your intentions were honest when you told me that there were no calls, but you were incorrect and imprecise. If you ever want to advance yourself in our country, you have to be more precise.”

  Barnes often gives Sophie advice on how she can “advance” in this country. Usually it relates to completing a menial task for him.

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan.”

  Mother will be coming home shortly. The question to ask is, when will Barnes leave again? Sophie comes into the laundry room. I make an obscene gesture in Barnes’s general direction, and Sophie chuckles.

  “Sophie.”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan,” she calls from the laundry room.

  “Were you speaking to me?”

  “No, Mr. Newlan. I was not.”

  “Oh. I thought I heard something.”

  “You did, Mr. Newlan.”

  To be precise, you heard a chuckle, I want to add.

  “Everything all right in there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Newlan.” I mouth it as Sophie says it.

  “You know I don’t like to be disturbed during my lunch.”

  Funny, I think, because you are inviting disturbance.

  “I understand, Mr. Newlan.”

  The front door opens. “Hello, hello, hello!”

  It’s Mother.

  “I’m back, my darling.”

  Mother seems distraught.

  “Anything?”

  “Yes. Angel. Sophie took one call. She failed to mention it to me at first, but after I taught her the importance of precision, she was able to inform me that it was a wrong number.”

  “Barnes. It could have been Alice.” Mother starts shuffling about.

  “Sophie would recognize Alice’s voice. Would you not, Sophie?”

  Would you not?

  Before Sophie has a chance to answer, Mother interrupts.

  “It must have been Alice. She may be trying to convey a message to us. She may be in trouble.”

  “Angel, Alice will contact us when she is ready to face the consequences of her actions. She’s probably doing some long and hard soul searching.”

  Little does he know, I’m doing it in his laundry room.

  “I just hope she’s all right,” Mother says.

  “Of course she’s all right. We would get a call if there were something wrong. Maybe we should try to take your mind off of all of this. Maybe we could go on a vacation. I’ve been dying to try that new place on St. Kitts.”

  “I’m not going on a vacation while my daughter is missing.”

  Thank you, Mother!

  “Angela. Try not to be so dramatic.”

  It was a mistake to come here.

  I’m on my way back to Charlie’s house. This is the second time I have run back to him today. I imagine his visit with his father will have ended. I can’t wait to tell him about Barnes’s most recent lecture to Sophie. Charlie calls him Lord Ridiculous.

  I walk in the door. I was right. William isn’t here. But Charlie is. He’s sitting on the couch. I like to think of him as sitting on my bed. It seems more intimate. I realize that except for our Law & Order date last night, Cha
rlie hasn’t sat here since I’ve been staying in the apartment. Maybe his visit with his father has pushed him to confront his feelings for me. Maybe his father has seen that we should be a couple together and told him that we should move this relationship forward.

  I’m not sure I want this. I mean, maybe I’ve loved Charlie all of those years because he was unavailable and maybe my feelings for him have intensified these last few weeks because he’s the only person who knows the truth. Well, Jean knows, but she betrayed me. But Charlie has been helpful and warm, and respectful and lovi—

  “Alice, we need to talk.”

  Here it is. He’s about to confront me. There’s going to be a long declaration on his part. Then I will have to say a few words. Like I have always loved you, too; I have never before felt this way. Or something more mysterious like I know. I know. I know. Then we’ll kiss.

  “Alice, I have to have a frank conversation with you.”

  Here goes.

  “I need you to answer me honestly.”

  Oh, no. He is putting it on me. I have to declare my love for him before he does. Maybe it’s all for the best. Maybe I’ve finally learned that it’s good to take risks.

  “Are you asking me to say what I think you are asking me to say?” My voice almost doesn’t sound familiar. It’s all husky.

  “I’m asking you to be honest with me, Alice.” Charlie’s voice sounds the same as it always does.

  Here I go, I love you I love you I love you. I’ve always loved you. Loved you loved you.

  But it doesn’t come out. Charlie is speaking.

  “Alice. My father told me that what they say is true.”

  What who says? That I’m a killer?

  “That he’s been paying these girls.”

  I’m not sure how to react. Do I console him?

  “At least you know,” I say to him meekly.

  “I wish I had known sooner,” he says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “If I had known sooner, I could have helped him. Really helped him. Saved his job, and saved my job. And his reputation.”

  And your reputation, I think to myself.

  “Maybe he wanted to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “From knowing that he’s flawed. He doesn’t want to admit that he has some kind of problem. He was probably really lonely after your mother died and he couldn’t have a real relationship with a wom—”