Final Exam

by Maggie Barbieri

  That was a wrinkle I hadn’t ironed out.

  I finally got up around six, my eyes dry from lack of sleep and from living in a dusty, most likely mold-filled environment. I leaned on the cracked sink in the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how, for the third time, I had come to be involved in such a complicated situation. I decided that that was not somewhere I wanted to go that early in the morning, and without coffee, and that I would table that internal monologue for a time when I was feeling and acting more coherent. I took one last look at myself. “I’m sick of this,” I said to my haggard reflection. Trixie padded in, her nails clicking on the old black-and-white tile on the bathroom floor. She jumped up and put her paws on the sink, her eyes imploring me to do something, anything, that would get her outside. I went back into the bedroom and pulled a sweatshirt over my head, slipping my feet into my clogs.

  I took Trixie down to the river, a mist rolling off it and soaking the two of us. I took a seat on a flat rock and watched her play in the water, chasing a couple of brave ducks who were waddling along the shoreline. The sun was tucked away behind a few clouds and it was chillier than I thought it would be. I crossed my arms on my chest and put my head to my knees, all the better to consider everything that had happened the night before, not to mention since I had moved onto campus.

  I thought of my conversation with Amanda and wondered how I would attend her wedding knowing that she was ambivalent, at best, about Brandon. I also thought of her stepfather, his father, and the business, and her response to my question about whether or not the limo company was profitable. “It is now,” she had said. I thought about that and surmised Nicholas’s coming to the company and Amanda’s marriage were surely related in some way. Now that Wayne was out of the way, I decided that I would turn my attention to the mystery of Amanda’s impending loveless nuptial.

  And immediately came to the conclusion that a ride to Newark was in order. And that I needed Max and her patented feminine wiles to seal the deal.

  I put Trixie back on the leash and ran up the hill to the dorm, breathless when I entered the side door. I went into my room, hastily showered, dressed, and was back out the door and on my way to my office within a half hour.

  I immediately turned on my computer, tapping my foot impatiently while I waited for it to warm up. I decided to put all my feelings about Max, my red bedroom, her self-absorption, and her sham marriage aside, deciding that I needed her help. I e-mailed Max: “What’s your day looking like?”

  Max, the original BlackBerry addict, responded immediately. She was probably still in bed, able to sleep and text at the same time. “Why?”

  “I need you to come with me to Newark.” I was banking on Max’s patented approach to life—act now, think later—to get her to commit to coming with me. And I figured that this was as good a way as any to move past the rift between us. Because if there was anything I knew about Max, it was that she would rather pretend things didn’t happen than talk about and resolve them in a mature fashion.

  She seemed to have to take a minute or two to think about my request because her reply was delayed. “What’s in Newark?”

  I typed quickly, my response cryptic. “The answer to all my questions. What are you wearing?”

  “I don’t do text sex with my friends.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Do you look sexy?”

  “I always look sexy. You?”

  I ignored that; I’ve known Max long enough to recognize a one-word dig. “You in or out?”

  “IN.” She put a smiley face next to her response. “I’ll be at STU by 5.”

  I clapped my hands together and immediately set about figuring out where T&G Limousine was and how we would get there. I found them again on the Web and jotted down their telephone number. I rehearsed my spiel a few times before picking up the phone, my heart racing as I dialed the number. Someone picked up on the second ring.

  “T&G. For all of your car service needs. How can I help you?”

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “My name is Martha Raymore . . .”—I stuck with something close to Max’s name because anything else would confuse her—“and I’m with the law firm of . . .” I forgot what the fake law firm was called, so I scanned my bookshelves for inspiration. “Plath, Dickinson, Shakespeare, and Austen.” I smacked my head with the phone. Shakespeare? It didn’t seem to register with the person who answered the phone because she asked politely what she could do for me. “Oh, right. Well, I’m the office manager here and I was told by Mr. Plath that I should look for a different limousine company for our attorneys.”

  “Great. I’ll need to put you in touch with one of our partners, Mr. Grigoriadis or Mr. Tsagarakis.”

  “It would be great if I could meet with both. Tonight? Say seven-thirty?” Newark was farther away than I had anticipated.

  The operator hesitated. “I don’t know if I can arrange that but I’ll ask them when they come in.”

  Right. It was barely after seven in the morning. I let my excitement get the better of me. “Thank you.”

  “Can I call you back?” she asked.

  Absolutely not, I thought. I didn’t want to leave any kind of trail regarding who was making the call. “I’m going to have a very busy day. Can I call you back?”

  “Of course. How about some time between eleven and noon? My name is Adriana. Just ask for me.”

  “Thank you, Adriana. I’ll call you later.” I hung up and wiped my palms on my skirt. I was definitely going to hell, and there, I would most definitely have sweaty palms for all eternity. Before I forgot, I jotted the name of the fake law firm and the name “Martha Rayburn” onto a sheet of paper, not realizing that it wasn’t the name I had given the lovely Adriana until I called her back, from my cell, between classes, at eleven-twenty. I stood in an alcove on the fourth floor, having just come out of my ten-thirty class.

  “T&G Limousine. For all of your car service needs. How can I help you?”

  “Can I speak with Adriana, please?”

  “Speaking. Who’s calling?”

  “Hi, this is Martha Rayburn.”

  “How can I help you?”

  I got a little impatient. “You said to call you back between eleven and twelve? To see if I could get an appointment with Mr. Grigoriadis and Mr. Tsagarakis?” I smiled as one of my students walked by and waved in my direction.

  She hesitated. “Oh, yes. Ms. Rayburn. I had written ‘Martha Raymore’ on my pad. My apologies.”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. “That’s an easy mistake to make!” I said gaily. “Everyone does it!” Even me! I neglected to add.

  “I have an appointment set up for seven-thirty. Does that work for you?”

  “That’s perfect!” I said, whoever I was. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty.” I hung up and crept out of the alcove, attempting to blend into the flow of students changing classes. I don’t know why I felt compelled to act as if I weren’t doing anything wrong—I wasn’t—but I have the most finely honed sense of guilt ever. I made my way to my next class, repeating the name “Rayburn” over and over until I had it right.

  I called Crawford at the precinct, but he was out. I left a message with one of the cops to tell him I had called, knowing that if he had a busy day in front of him, I was unlikely to hear from him for a long time, if even today. This made me happy; I hated talking to Crawford after I’ve lied excessively. I feel like he can read my mind, and even if that’s not the case, I feel like he could get the truth out of me very easily.

  The day seemed endless. I finally got back to my room at four-thirty, washed up, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. I walked Trixie, seeing Max’s cab in the parking lot on my way back from the cemetery, which had become Trixie’s official spot for her evening walk.

  Max got out of the cab, looking extremely vixenlike in a black cashmere sweater that accentuated her stupendous rack, and tight black pants. She had a red pashmina shawl thrown over her shoulders, which matched the red of the soles of her t
housand-dollar boots. She threw her arms out. “Good enough?”

  “Good enough,” I said. I resisted going over and giving her a hug because just the sight of her reignited my feelings over the guerrilla redecorating.

  “What? No hug?” she asked.

  I gave her a loose, quick hug. “Let me get my car keys,” I said, breaking away from her and the cloud of Opium that enveloped me when I got close to her. “Go wait by the car.”

  Once we were in the car, I outlined my plan. I also filled her in on the latest goings-on with Amanda, Wayne, and Brandon. “Nicholas is a hound dog and likes the ladies. At least that’s what I’m guessing by the five marriages.”

  “So, I’m supposed to charm the pants off of him?” she asked, pulling down the visor to check her makeup.

  “Not literally.”

  “Duh. I’m a married woman,” she said.

  No you’re not, I thought. I let it go. “Your name is Margaret Raymore.” At least I hoped that was the name; I couldn’t remember what name I had given Adriana and I couldn’t find the piece of paper I had written the original name down on. All I knew was that it was close to Max’s name and that was it.

  “Why?” she asked. “That’s a sucky name.”

  “But you can’t use your name or my name,” I said. “You’re an office manager at Plath, Dickinson, Shakespeare, and Austen.”

  She turned. “How the hell am I supposed to remember that?”

  I looked into the sideview mirror and attempted to merge into the rush-hour traffic on the George Washington Bridge. “Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, William Shakespeare, Jane Austen.” I thought that would help.

  She rooted through her giant purse. “Wait. I need to write that down.” She found a pen and a piece of paper. “Say it again.”

  I repeated the name of the fake law firm. “So I want you to meet Nicholas, look around the office, and tell me if anything looks hinky.”

  “ ‘Hinky’?”

  “Yeah. Hinky. Out of the ordinary. See if he hits on you. See if he’s weird in any way.”

  “What’s that going to tell us?”

  I swerved to avoid being hit by a Pepperidge Farm truck. “I don’t know. But those thugs who beat up Amanda are from Newark. This company’s in Newark. She’s marrying the son of her father’s business partner. I think he put a lot of money into the company. I have all of the puzzle pieces but I just don’t know how to put them together.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” she said, pausing, “that tells me nothing.”

  “Can you just play along, Max?” I pleaded, hitting the Jersey Turnpike and feeling better about being off the bridge even if the view was far less scenic.

  “I’ll play along,” she said, exasperated. “This is quite a caper.”

  We drove to Newark in near silence, avoiding the conversational elephants in the room. Ah, Jersey. Bergen County was lovely, as was the shore. I love the shore. But this stretch of turnpike was dreary, dotted with factories and the occasional strip mall. It was pretty depressing.

  Max finally broke the silence. “So, this Margaret Raymore.”

  “Right,” I said, my voice wavering a bit. I tried to think back to my original conversation with Adriana or imagine in my mind’s eye what I had written on the piece of paper after I had spoken to her but I couldn’t remember either. I hoped “Raymore” was right.

  “That’s it, right?” Max said. I could tell by her tone that she knew I was unsure.

  “Margaret Raymore,” I said, trying to sound as definitive as I could. I still wasn’t sure, though.

  “We know she’s hot. But does she have a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I just want her to have some game. Does she have game?”

  “She has loads of game. She runs one of the biggest law firms in Jersey. She’s an excellent office manager.”

  The GPS, my dear friend Lola, told me to exit and I obeyed her command, getting into the right lane and making my way to the exit. I followed her directions through Newark—again, not the most scenic vista I’ve ever seen—and found T&G. I parked across the street in a strip mall and pointed to a one-story building with a fleet of Town Cars, stretch limousines, Suburbans, and a host of other vehicles parked on either side and, presumably, behind the building. The building was nondescript with a small sign indicating that we were at the right place. I guess you didn’t need a flashy setup to operate a limousine company; as long as the cars were new and clean and worked, nobody cared where they came from.

  “So what am I supposed to do again?” Max said, looking a little nervous, and obsessively running her hands through her cropped hair. She’s usually a gamer; I wondered what was making her so tense.

  “Just tell them that you’re thinking about changing limo companies and that you heard that T&G was the best.”

  “And why can’t you do it?”

  I sighed. We had been over this. “Because Costas knows me.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “Just get a sense of things. Does Nicholas act weird? Is there anybody else around? Is there anything to indicate that things may not be on the up-and-up?”

  She looked at me, panic in her eyes.

  “I know it’s a long shot, Max, and believe me, I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t have to, but I need to find out what’s going on for Amanda’s sake.”

  She took a few deep breaths and finally put her hand on the door handle. “Wish me luck.”

  “Godspeed.”

  “What? Godspell? What does that have to do with this?” she asked.

  “Good luck, Max.”

  “Thanks. I’m gonna need it.” She opened the car door. “Does Margaret Raymore flirt?”

  “If she has to,” I said.

  Max got out of the car and, after looking both ways, crossed the busy street that separated the strip mall from the T&G building. I dug into my pocketbook for my cell phone, which had begun to chirp halfway to Newark, indicating that I had a voice mail message. I had turned the phone to vibrate so that I wouldn’t have to be disturbed while driving.

  I pulled out the directions that I had downloaded from the Internet that morning—although I had Lola I still liked to have something printed—and looked at what I had written across the top: Martha Raymore. Then I remembered my conversation with Adriana and our discussion about my fake name. The second time Adriana and I had spoken. I had played along and gone with Martha Rayburn. Max was supposed to be Martha Rayburn not Margaret Raymore. My stomach did a little flip when I realized I had given Max the wrong name.

  I leaned down and looked out the passenger side window of the car, watching as Martha/Margaret made her way to the front door of T&G.

  I said a silent prayer that Max was still able to think on her feet. Obviously, thinking on my feet wasn’t my strong suit, nor was memorizing an alias that I myself had created.

  Max was gone for far longer than I ever would have imagined, and when we hit the one-hour mark, I nearly lost consciousness from the stress. My thumbnails were bitten down to the quick, and in an amazing display of hindsight being twenty-twenty, I came to the realization that this was a very bad idea. What did I hope to find out? That yes, Nicholas Tsagarakis was a ladies’ man? Who cares? That he had flooded the company in cash and, as a reward, wanted his son to marry Costas’s daughter? That maybe—and this was clearly a long shot—one of the guys who attacked Amanda was associated with the company? I didn’t know what I was hoping to find out and wasn’t sure why I even cared. If Amanda didn’t have the guts to tell her stepfather that she didn’t love Brandon, that was none of my business. She was a big girl and I had known her a week. Didn’t concern me.

  But it did, in a way. I had married a guy once who didn’t love me and things had turned out very badly. I didn’t want to see anyone go down that road, and if I could stop Amanda, I guess I could move beyond my failed marriage and realize none of it had been my fault. Or could I?

  This ha
d started as a way for me to find Wayne and get my life back. Well, we had found Wayne, he was behind bars, and hopefully, at some point, I would be free of the Siena dorm.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and spoke to myself. “Time to move on, Alison.”

  About five minutes later, I finally saw Max exit the building and run across the street, this time barely looking to see if a car was coming down either side of the boulevard. As she approached the car, I could see the flush in her cheeks.

  She got in and immediately starting beating me with her purse. “My name was Martha Rayburn not Margaret Raymore!” she yelled, the blows to my head coming fast and furious. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I covered my head with my hands. “I know! I know! I remembered after you got out of the car.”

  She eased up with the beating after a few more blows to my midsection. “I had to blame it on some girl named Adriana who I don’t even know!”

  I rubbed my head. “Wait. Who blamed it on Adriana?”

  “They figured out that she had written the wrong name down . . . or the right name,” she said, giving me a dark look, “and said that she’s pretty scatterbrained so I had to agree with them.”

  Poor Adriana. So now my lying was going to involve getting an innocent receptionist in trouble. Great. I took a deep breath. “Did you get anything? Did you learn anything new?” I looked over at T&G. “Why were you in there so long?”

  “They’ve got a whole marketing spiel that I had to sit through.” She dropped the timbre of her voice and intoned, “Welcome to T&G. The best in limousine service and more.” She closed her eyes as if wanting to forget the whole thing. “There’s PowerPoint slides, a slide show, music, Nicholas and Costas, the kid . . .”

  “Wait. Which kid?”

  “Nicholas’s son. The hot one. Brian or Bryce or . . .”

  “Brandon.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Really? He’s part of the presentation?”

  “He was the presentation,” Max said. “He did the whole thing while Daddy sat at the conference table across from me, making bedroom eyes at me the whole time.” She grimaced. “Then Daddy gave me the double-handed handshake at the end. I swear if I had given him an inch, he would have given me a hug with the ass grab.”