by Rodney Jones
Feeling eyes on her back, she stopped and turned. Roland was jogging toward her. A confusion of energy bubbled up within her as she scrambled for an excuse.
He caught up to her, panting. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to be rude.” He huffed and puffed. “And I know it looked that way. I wanted… I mean, I was hoping you’d stick around for a few minutes. I guess I failed to… to be… Do you need to be somewhere? Do you have a few minutes? Is this crazy?”
“No.” She shook her head, then blinked. “Yes. I do have a few minutes, and no to the first question, but yes to the crazy one.” She giggled. “I have to confess. I was really enjoying our conversation. I just felt a little awkward… hanging around, you know? Not that I… I should’ve said something. I wasn’t… Do you ever feel like you’re in a Scooby-Doo cartoon?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, I created that mess back there.” He tipped his head. “Can I start over?”
“Start over?” Joyce peered up into his hazel eyes and saw what she believed was hopefulness and sincerity.
“Like have a chance to express my normalness or something.”
“Okay… sure,” she said.
He squared himself, cleared his throat. “Will you honor me with a wee bit of your time?”
“Did you just say, honor? That’s normal?”
“Did I?” His eyes shifted playfully. “I might have. Trying to dress up my begging.”
She smiled. “Time granted.”
“Good, good.” He nodded. “That went well.” He glanced back toward his display, then threw a thumb up over his shoulder. “Shall we?” As they started back, he added, “So, what’d you see here that might take second place?”
“Well”—Joyce glanced off to her left—“those sticks in the ground may prove to be stiff competition.”
He snickered. “Ah, now see, you haven’t been entirely honest. You’re secretly an art critic for The Tampa Tribune.”
“Close.”
“Really?”
“A music critic.”
Again he laughed. “I thought I sensed a shift in the force.” He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow. “You didn’t happen to mention your name, did you? I’m terrible about that.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t.” She stopped, turned to face him, and offered her hand. “Joyce Rubens.”
Chapter four – imposter
Aware of the silence, of how it accentuated her unease, Joyce entered the living room, stepped up to a cabinet filled with CDs and searched the shelves for something comforting, something to, at the very least, disrupt the quiet.
She dropped a disc of piano sonatas into the player, then sat down in the same chair she’d occupied earlier. It was just piano, but the house was suddenly changed—noisy, better, too noisy. She got back up, turned the volume down, then walked into the kitchen, stopping before the phone hanging on the wall, debating whether to ignore it, not answer it—though it actually wasn’t ringing—but if it was… She returned to the living room, paced up the hall to the bedroom and back again, then stood at the entrance to the kitchen and looked at the microwave—the clock, a brand new minute on its way.
To the other side of the stove was a drawer containing a collection of small hand tools and miscellaneous odds and ends. Joyce dug through loose clothespins, dice, pencils, pliers… until she came to a flashlight. After checking to see that it worked, she stepped out the back door. The light, slipped from side to side as she stepped past obstacles, producing a small, dim patch before her. The rocks, shrubs, and wild cactuses silently conspired, hiding who-knows-what, their shadows deceptively shifting with every step she took.
“Roland!” She stepped around to the side, then the front of the house, completely circling it, and then again in the opposite direction—calling his name, stopping, listening. From beneath the ponderosa pine, some fifty feet back from the house, she called toward the butte, a quarter-mile away. The whisper of a breeze moved through the tree limbs overhead and across the sparse shrubs and cactuses. The flashlight dimmed even more. A pinecone crunched beneath her foot as she pivoted toward the house. Light from the kitchen window reflected off the sand and rocks near the foundation, casting a faint, yellowish glow over the house’s stucco exterior. The light fixture by the backdoor—she’d forgot to turn it on. She stood there gazing toward the house, increasingly aware of the darkness closing in on her.
Why is he doing this?
She twisted around at a fluttering sound from the distance behind her—the butte, hardly visible—black against the starry sky. A shiver shot up her spine, sending a quake to her shoulders. She lifted the flashlight, but the beam was too weak to penetrate the night. She started back toward the house, adopting a deliberate, measured pace, attempting to deny her fears. As she approached the backdoor, her steps quickened, as if her feet had their own anxieties to contend with. Just as her fingers touched the door handle, the muted sound of the phone ringing came from the other side.
Roland.
She held tight to the thought as she rushed into the kitchen, grabbing the receiver halfway into the third ring.
“Hello?” Her chest heaved as she caught her breath.
“Hello.” It was not Roland, but an unfamiliar voice—a cold and unwelcome, male voice. “Is this the home of Roland Bax?”
She glanced at the knife on the counter. “Who is this?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Peter Waterman. New York State Police. You are, Mrs. Bax?”
Oh, God, no! She felt a contraction in her groin, and a tremble in her knees. “Yes…” A cold wave of nausea rose from her stomach—the chill of it teasing the hairs up and down her arms. She grabbed the edge of the counter and eased herself down onto a stool.
“Is your husband home?” The question seemed to come from behind and fly over her head.
“What?”
“Your husband… Am I right to assume that’d be Roland Bax?”
Her mind went blank.
“Mrs. Bax, I’m merely trying to ascertain whether the gentleman we have here is your husband or not. I didn’t want to bother you any more than necessary if he happened to—”
“Roland? No… Wha… what’d you say?”
“Roland Bax? Is that your husband’s name?”
“Is he okay?” She pressed her eyes shut and willed him to reply with a yes.
“He’ll be fine, I think. He’s had a minor—”
“Where is he?”
“Millard Fillmore… the hospital.”
“Fillmore?” She thought she knew all the hospitals in Phoenix, but couldn’t place Millard Fillmore. “What happened?”
“He’ll be okay. May I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Bax?”
She drew in a deep breath. “Yeah.”
“Can you tell me what your husband was doing in Akron?”
“Akron?”
“New York,” he said. “He was found in Akron today.”
“Oh, no, he couldn’t have been in New York. He was here… all day. He was—”
“Uh, ma’am, he’s been here since—”
“He was here until”—she looked at the clock on the microwave—“it was four something.”
“You were with him at four?”
“Yes. He was right here in our kitchen… four-thirty, maybe.”
“Mrs. Bax—”
“He couldn’t have been in New York.”
“You’re sure it was four-thirty, and no earlier?”
She reached up and rubbed her temple. “Yes… yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay. My man here was picked up at seven-forty-five. Uh… five-forty-five your time. A two-hour difference.”
Four-thirty… No. She pictured the numerals on the microwave as they were when she’d left the kitchen earlier. “He was here making lunch. It was 4:42. I checked the clock just before going upstairs. When I came back down he was gone.” She glanced at the chopped vegetables she’d left drying out on the food-prep island. “I
was gone for no more than forty minutes.”
“So where’d he go?”
“Look, something is not right here.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Bax, could you please describe him, what he was wearing, eyes, hair-color… anything else you can think of.”
She brought up a mental image of him standing pretty much where she now stood. “He had on blue jeans and a black T-shirt, and… his eyes… uh… they’re like hazel. His hair’s black, but starting to gray… a lot. He’s six two or three, and somewhere between 185 and 190 pounds, I think.”
“Would he have had a New York driver’s license?”
“What? No, Arizona.”
“And his birthday?”
“Uh… November ninth.”
“The year,” he said.
“Fifty-four.”
“Well, now, that is… Except for the clothing, my guy fits your description down to the birthday, according to his driver’s license anyway. Roland Luis Bax. Is that correct?”
“That’s the name on the license?”
“I take it that’s your husband?”
“Yes, but—”
“But this Akron, New York, address—”
“That’s not right,” Joyce said. “We’ve never lived in New York.”
“Okay…” A faint ting ting ting came over the phone. Like a pencil or a ring tapping a glass. “The timing… It’s not…” Ting ting ting… “Given the time you gave me, there’s no possible way this man could be your husband. Are you sure about the time?”
“What is this? What’s going on?”
“I don’t...” Ting ting ting… “You know what I think? I think if you were to come to Buffalo and have a look... we could work this out. Just a quick look.”
“What?” Joyce began to pace the kitchen floor—“Why don’t you ask him?”—to the back door, and then the refrigerator.
“Ma’am, I know how difficult this is—”
“You’re there. He’s there. Ask him.”
“I have. I have reasons to doubt his answers.”
“What?”
“We’re really doing our—”
“This is ridiculous!” She paced.
Ting ting ting… “I’m on your side, ma’am. Just trying to sort this out—what’s what and who’s who.”
She stopped, took another deep breath, exhaled. “Will you please ask him?”
“Like I said… I did. He swore up and down that the house where he was found is his. He even has the address printed on his driver’s license. But that’s counterfeited, as I believe the rest of his ID is also. The people living there have been renting the place for over two years. They’ve never seen this man before.” Ting ting ting… “Mrs. Bax, do you know a Dana Serrano?”
“No. I don’t.” She waited, expecting an explanation.
“Well… I think you should consider a trip to Buffalo. Seriously.”
“You think I’m lying to you?”
“Huh? No. No, ma’am.”
“You don’t believe me? About the time?”
“Mrs. Bax, your husband is missing, and we have a man here who… very conveniently fits the description you just gave me. Don’t you find that odd?”
Joyce stepped into the living room, then turned and headed toward the back door again—pacing. “The time I gave you is accurate.”
“Yes, but even so… this guy here… he’s either your husband or this is the craziest coincidence ever. That seems like an enticing enough reason to take a little trip and maybe get some answers, doesn’t it?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll leave my number. You can call me should you decide to come, or need anything. I’ll be more than glad to give you a hand with the arrangements.”
“But, if this guy’s not Roland, then who is he?”
“Ask him… when you come.”
Chapter five – a synchronicity
Joyce slapped at the buzzing clock on the nightstand, then dropped back onto her pillow. She panned the ceiling from corner to corner, noting the light, aware of the time and the first stirs of dread—which, like herself, had not yet fully awakened. She rolled to her side, pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, then gazed at the drawing hanging on the wall by the door—another one of Roland’s, one he had completed before they’d met in Saint Petersburg—the face of his little sister peering out of a maze of a swirling, alien, alphabet.
Her mind drifted from her first impressions of it, of his work, of him, of now, the trip ahead, things she needed to do—now. She sat up, dropped her feet to the floor, and stared off into the space before her at an entirely different image… in her head, the man she’d be seeing later that evening. He resembled Roland, maybe, though not completely it seemed. He was not Roland. And somehow he was.
After showering, she put on a pot of coffee, fried a couple eggs, then sat down at the table and ate her breakfast. Out the window to her right, the mountains and the butte were aglow in the light of dawn. As she lifted her coffee to her lips, the phone rang, startling her. There was only one person she could think of who’d be calling this early. She jumped up and grabbed the phone off the hook.
“Brenda?”
“It’s Brian. I hope I didn’t wake you.” Roland’s brother rarely called, and never so early.
“No, no.” She braced herself, assuming he was about to ask for Roland—“I was just having some coffee”—and realized she should’ve been the one calling. “I was about to call you.”
“Oh, then, they’ve already called.”
“They? Who?”
“The hospital. They called you, right?”
She straightened. “Uh… about what?”
“Well, this sucks. I figured they… really?”
“What, Brian?”
“You know about the accident, don’t you?”
“Roland?”
“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I mean, it’s just a slight—”
“The hospital in Buffalo?”
There was a pause, then, “He has a concussion.”
“The cop called you?” Joyce opened a cabinet, glanced inside, then closed it—no idea what she was doing.
“No… no,” he said, “the hospital. Roland had them call me.”
She moved a skillet from the stovetop to the sink, then turned the tap on above it. “He asked them to call you?”
“Jesus, why wouldn’t they’ve called you first?”
“Roland had them call you?”
“Uh… I’m assuming that’s where they got my number.”
She stood there running her fingers through her hair, scratching and rubbing the back of her head, gazing at the stream of water filling the skillet. “Did you talk to him?”
“Well, no, I talked to a nurse. I’m… I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t they’ve called you?”
She shut the water off —“Someone else did”—then scanned the countertop, searching for her coffee. “What all did they tell you?”
“Not a whole lot really.”
“So, that’s all you know? He had a concussion?” She left the pan soaking in the sink, then went and took a seat at the dining room table where she’d left her cup.
“Kate and I will be driving up there in a bit. We’ll be there by six or seven tonight. I’ll give you a call from there.”
“No, I’m coming. I’ll be arriving about that same time.”
“Oh. You all right?”
She took a sip from her cup. “Mm… tired. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
Joyce found her seat—a window seat, just behind the trailing edge of the starboard wing. A man in a dark-gray business suit—round face, bushy eyebrows, mid-fifties—took the seat next to hers. He appeared relaxed and over-confidently cheerful. He smiled, and said, “Not much of a view, is it?”
She forced a smile and shook her head.
“Headed for Chicago?”
> “Buffalo,” she said.
“Oh, really? Me too. You from there?”
“Just visiting.”
“I’m there on business. Don’t believe I’d wanna live there. All that snow. Some nice restaurants, though… if you like Italian.” The man’s smile was etched into the lines around his eyes—like one of those rare people who smile more than they don’t. “Roland Barburg’s my name. There’s a bar in every burg.”
“Roland,” she said.
His smile broadened. “A bar in every burg.”
She was about to ask, but then realized she was being baited. She instead offered her hand. “I’m Joyce Bax.”
A flight attendant came by, checking seatbelts; another stood up front, going over emergency procedures while Mr. Barburg explained the nature of his restaurant supply business. He paused as the plane began accelerating up the runway, but then, once the wheels left the ground, he continued. Nearly a half-hour into the flight, he quieted, reached down for a bag between his feet, and pulled out a paperback. “You won’t mind if I excuse myself? Catch up on some reading?”
Joyce assured him she wouldn’t. She turned and gazed out the window to her right, the past twenty-four hours flitting about in her mind in a non-sequential collage. She finally escaped into an earlier memory, returning again to the art festival in Saint Petersburg, where her chance encounter with Roland still carried a spark of awe. The look on his face: one moment, full of pepper, the next, perfectly dumbstruck.
That moment was still fresh in her mind, their introductions, his hand in hers, the handshake, slow and dream-like, settling, ending. She recalled the look in his eyes, and feeling bewildered by their transformation—from buoyant, to searching, then distant and uncertain, as if he too was in disbelief—and how the realization made her dizzy. His hand, still in hers, for no other reason than they’d forgotten themselves. She relaxed her grip; Roland responded in like, and both withdrew their hands.
One or the other had said, “Selma, Indiana?” She was not sure now who.
He’d raised a hand to his mouth—the tips of his fingers touching his lips, as if holding back an uncertain thought.
