Catwalk

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Are you okay, Giselle?”

  “Oh, sure? You know, just busy and everything?” She started to open the door, then sat back and stared at my glove compartment door. “I’m tired of talking to the police, that’s all.” Sniff. “And I kind of hope they don’t even catch whoever killed that horrible man.” There was no question at all in her tone.

  We parted in the lobby. I started down the hall to Tom’s office but caught a glimpse of my hair in a glass trophy case and backtracked across the lounge to the restroom for some repair work. I couldn’t do much about my fiery cheeks, gift of the sharp November wind, but if I could find a comb, I could at least make it look less like I was wearing a fright wig. I fished around in my tote bag. “Oh, that’s where you are,” I said, pulling my missing dog-nail clippers out from under my wallet and a small sample of cat treats I’d forgotten about. I had a nail file and a jaw clip, but no brush or comb, not even Jay’s.

  “Must be windy out there.” It was Tracy, the secretary from Tom’s department. As always, she appeared to have just come from a fashion shoot, which she may have, since she does some part-time modeling.

  “Cold, windy, and wet,” I said. I bent over and used my fingers to comb my hair, then stood up, gathered the curly mess, and closed the clip over it. I looked in the mirror and then at Tracy. She shook her head slightly.

  “Right,” I said, removing the clip and shaking out the curls.

  Tracy smiled and left me searching for my lip balm. I was smearing it on when two young women came in. They both wore jeans, hiking boots, and loose ponytails, and they both seemed to be speaking at once while they scrubbed their hands.

  “Couldn’t happen to a more odious man,” said the tall one in the cable-knit sweater.

  “I know,” said the short one in the turtleneck and sweatshirt. “I hope they never catch the guy who did it.”

  “How do you know it was a guy?”

  Sweatshirt pivoted toward her friend and, by default, me, her eyes wide. “You’re right. It could have been a woman.” She lowered her voice and said, “I heard he beat his wife.” She glanced at me, and as I returned the look, I read the writing on her sweatshirt. See the Future with ESP, it said, and below that, IPFW Environmental Studies Program.

  The two women exchanged a look and stopped talking while they dried their hands. They resumed as they went out the door, and the last thing I head was, “Do you think this will stop the development?”

  They must have been talking about Rasmussen. Hadn’t Tom mentioned a protest from some of the environmental studies students who didn’t want the university to accept scholarship funding from him? I couldn’t remember the details, but Tom would know.

  I shifted my thoughts to the reason for my current visit to the university. I gazed into the reflection of my own eyes for a moment and took three deep breaths. In one-two-three, out one-two-three-four. Then I marched myself out the door and across the lobby, rehearsing what I planned to say. We could combine households, maybe rent the house we aren’t living in for a while until we decide, or … Really? asked my companion voices. You’re going with the oh-so-practical appeal for cohabitation? I decided to stop rehearsing. My guardian angel whispered, Just say what you feel.

  As I approached Tom’s office, I heard his voice. He sounded like he was on the phone. “Okay … Yes … Any other titers besides rabies? … How long in advance?”

  I stopped outside his door.

  “Yes, just a year.” Silence. “And no quarantine, correct?”

  My knees went wobbly and my mind raced. Although I had always known that Tom had a sabbatical coming, it had never occurred to me that he might be planning to go abroad. But if he was checking on quarantines and any other antibody titers besides rabies, he had to be thinking of taking Drake out of the country. My mind raced to remember the possible research projects he had told me about. Something in Mexico? I thought so. And some tiny island in the Caribbean, if memory served. Something caught in my chest and I leaned into the wall.

  Tom was still speaking, but all I really heard was “… list of local veterinarians” and his email address, all wrapped up with, “Okay, thank you very much … Goodbye.”

  I pulled myself upright and debated what to do. I didn’t want him to know I’d been listening in. On the other hand, his door was wide open. I decided to leave. I didn’t get far.

  “Janet?”

  I turned and tried to smile, but my mouth didn’t want to cooperate and I was afraid I might start to cry. Stupid hormones.

  Tom said, “I’ll be back,” and pulled the door shut. “Where are you going?” Tom caught up to me and kissed my cheek. “I just finished my mountain of papers. Why didn’t you come in?”

  “Oh, I, uh, was just going to the restroom.”

  “I was just going to grab a cup of coffee. Come on.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and I let myself be steered toward the cafeteria. Tom stopped outside the women’s restroom and said, “I’ll wait here.”

  For a moment I had no idea what he meant, then remembered what I had said. I went into a stall and leaned against the wall, and told myself it wasn’t the end of the world, or even our relationship. Then why do I feel like I might barf ? I splashed cold water on my face and patted it dry.

  “Are you okay?” Tom asked when I returned.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You were in there a long time.” He studied my face, started to speak, and then stopped. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  We found a table near a window that looked out across an expanse of grass along the Saint Joseph River. Rain slanted into the glass and a bank of indigo clouds hung low over the trees to the northwest.

  “What’s up?” asked Tom.

  “No, nothing,” I said. I tried to smile at him, but my mouth felt lopsided.

  “What are you doing here on such a rotten day?” He grinned at me.

  “Just, you know, running some errands and thought I’d stop and say hi,” I said, marveling at the dopiness of it all. I wanted to ask about what I had heard from outside his office, but I was afraid I’d embarrass myself if he said he was leaving for a year.

  Tom gave me the look that said he knew there was more, but he let it go for the time being. “The forecast is a bit better for Thursday. That’s good, because I’m not driving to Indianapolis in freezing rain.”

  “So you’re still planning to go?” How could he get a puppy if he was also planning to go abroad for a year? I wondered.

  “Of course,” said Tom. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I started to feel angry, although I wasn’t sure whether it was for my own inability to ask straight out what was happening, or at Tom for not telling me. But I didn’t want to get into it in a public place, especially not where Tom worked, so I changed the subject. Again.

  “I saw Giselle on my way in,” I said. “She …”

  Tom was staring over my head and pointing at something. I was about to turn around when an image on the television across the room caught my eye. A “Breaking News” banner in the upper corner of the screen where a reporter spoke in front of a bevy of emergency vehicles with their lights flashing. A news crawler moved across the bottom, and I caught “… bomb squad called to home in southeast Fort Wayne.” Two men were visible behind the reporter. One was Homer Hutchinson. I whipped my head around and saw that the same scenario was playing on another TV behind me. The whole thing was unfolding in front of a house I knew.

  thirty-three

  “That’s Alberta’s house.” That’s what I meant to say, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

  “Isn’t that Alberta’s house?” asked Tom. He stood and pressed the volume button so that we could hear.

  “… the bomb. One person was slightly injured and there is major damage to the home. This is Ro …”

  “Oh my God,” I said, and realized that my
hands had clasped themselves over my mouth of their own volition.

  The image shifted to a traffic accident on Interstate 69.

  “Try another channel,” I said, forcing my hands down to the table.

  Tom tried two more news stations before we hit one that showed the same chaotic scene in front of Alberta’s house. The camera angle was different, and the open garage door showed no vehicle inside. The camera panned past the emergency vehicles in the driveway and on the street and stopped in another driveway. I recognized the Rasmussen home, and Alberta’s SUV in the Rasmussens’ driveway. Just one Rasmussen, a voice in my head reminded me. A police officer appeared at the back of Alberta’s vehicle, popped the hatch, and picked up a pet carrier. It looked like the one Gypsy and her kittens had been in when I visited. Another man appeared with four Welsh Terriers on leashes. Hutchinson. He followed the officer with the cats in through the garage.

  Tom sat down beside me as the image shifted to a distant view of the back of Alberta’s house, where a half dozen police officers and a couple of fire fighters were doing what they do. “… through a large window. Police have not yet determined whether the incidents are connected.” The reporter pressed her ear and held her hand up in a “wait a minute” gesture, then spoke to the camera again. “We take you live now to police spokesperson Captain Vicky Miller.”

  A crisp woman in a jacket with police insignia on it was now addressing a dozen reporters. “… short statement. The bomb squad responded this afternoon to a report of a suspicious package delivered to a home in Fort Wayne. It was determined that the contents of the package were designed to look like a bomb, but no explosives were present. The back window of the same home was broken at about the same time. We have not yet determined whether the events are related. We will keep you informed as we learn more.” The Channel 15 reporter started to ask a question, but Captain Miller signaled “stop” with her hand and said, “We have work to do” and the image shifted again.

  The camera panned across the front of Alberta’s yard to the pond and woods, and the reporter spoke again. “We have learned that the owner of the home, Mrs. Alberta Shofelter, has been embroiled in a number of neighborhood disputes over the past few months.”

  “‘A number of disputes?” I said.

  “Two is a number,” said Tom, holding up his hand to stop me talking.

  “… feral cat colony, and an unrelated dispute over potential development of this empty lot.”

  My shoulder muscles spasmed at that. “Empty lot? It’s woods and wetlands and meadow, you moron.”

  Several people turned to look at me, including the two young women I had seen earlier in the restroom. Sweatshirt smiled at me and said, “You’re right. It’s a beautiful place, and not empty at all.”

  The television shifted again to a view of Louise Rasmussen’s house across the street, and then a photo of Charles appeared on the screen. “… developer and philanthropist Charles Rasmussen, who died Sunday under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Good riddance,” said a young man sitting with the ESP women. The three of them stood up, dropped their refuse into the recycle bins by the wall, and left.

  The TV news shifted to another story, and Tom turned the volume off.

  “I need to check on Alberta,” I said. “She may need some help.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, but Tom stopped me. “Let’s go to my office. It’s quieter.”

  It was no surprise that Alberta didn’t answer her phone. Even if she had it with her, she had to be shook up. I left a message and tried Hutchinson. No luck there, either. I didn’t have Louise’s number, but I knew someone who did. Jade Templeton answered on the first ring, and I told her what was going on.

  “I can’t give out residents’ numbers except to family,” she said. “But hang on …” I heard a door close, and Jade said, “Mr. Marconi is in the garden with your mom. Hold on. I’m on my way …”

  Drake’s head rested on my thigh, and I fondled his silky ear while I waited.

  Then another voice. “Janet?”

  “Mr. Marconi. Something has happened to my friend, well, her house, across from Louise’s place. I really need Louise’s phone number.” I wrote it on a pad on Tom’s desk and said, “How’s my mom today?”

  “Better, much better,” he said. “She’s been telling me about your upcoming exhibit of photos from North Africa.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “That was in 1990.”

  “I know,” he said, the kindness in his voice tangible over the airways. “She’s really looking forward to the opening, and she’s very proud of you.”

  “Wow. Just wow,” I said after I closed my phone. I told Tom what Marconi had said, then punched in Louise’s number. She didn’t answer, either, but I left a message.

  “I’m going,” I said.

  Tom grabbed his jacket from the back of the door and snapped Drake’s leash to his collar. “Who’s driving?”

  I stepped out the door and nearly walked into the young woman in the Environmental Studies sweatshirt. She said, “Oh!” and took a step back. “Sorry. I just, uh, I thought you might be here at Professor Saunders’ office so …” She thrust a flyer into my hand and said, “Here. I wanted you to have this. If you’re interested.”

  The flyer’s headline was “DON’T LET THEM PAVE PARADISE.” Below it was a call to a teach-in, a term I hadn’t heard since the sixties and seventies. My mother was fond of teach-ins in those days. The theme was “Wetlands and Woods in Winter,” and it was scheduled for the first weekend in December.

  “Okay, I’ll look at the website,” I said, and started to walk past her, but the woman’s face lit up and she said, “You will? Oh, that’s great. We could use a photographer.”

  “How do you know I’m a photographer?”

  Tom closed his door and said, “Guilty.”

  The woman gave Drake a good back-scratch, then held her hand toward me and said, “Sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Robin.” She glanced at Tom. “I took Professor Saunders’ class on ethno-botany. He showed us an article about that award you won last year for your environmental photography.”

  He did?

  Tom shrugged at me.

  “Robin, look, we really have to go, but I will look at the website.”

  “Can I call you? Or, you know, text you?” The fire of youthful passion lit her face.

  “Sure, call or email. Email is better. No texts. You can get my email from To …, er, Professor Saunders.” I started to go, but turned back and asked, “What’s your last name?”

  “Byrde. With a ‘y’ and an ‘e.’”

  When we were out of earshot, I said, “Seriously? Her parents named her Robin Byrde?”

  “Beats ‘Princess.’ I had one of those once.”

  The subject of goofy names was therapeutic, if bewildering. Coming up with more of them cracked the glacier of stress that had been smothering me since I arrived on campus, if not before. “What do you suppose Robin’s relatives are named?” I asked.

  “There’s her brother Hawk.”

  “And the twins, Wren and Sparrow.”

  “Don’t forget Uncle Booby,” offered Tom. “He wears blue suede shoes.”

  “And Auntie Ostrich, with the long neck.”

  “We’re awful. She seems like a nice person,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Auntie Ostrich?”

  “Robin.”

  “She is. At least she was a good student.” He slowed down for the turn into Alberta’s subdivision, and gestured for me to look down the street. The fire truck we had seen on television was gone, but two police cars, one of them unmarked, still had their lights going, and a K9 handler was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, a black German Shepherd dog by his side.

  thirty-four<
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  “I’m going to park down here,” said Tom, pulling to the curb several houses down from Alberta’s place and clear of the police cruisers’ flashing lights of a fire truck, a panel truck with “Fort Wayne Police Department Technical Response” on the side, and an unmarked vehicle like the one Hutchinson drove. “There’s an umbrella in the back if you want it.”

  The mist was turning into a more serious drizzle, but I declined the umbrella and pulled my hood up, trading peripheral vision for hands free to tuck into my pockets. Tom put on a cowboy hat he had brought back from New Mexico. I didn’t say a word, but he still offered, “Keeps the rain off, ma’am.” By the time we had walked the half block to Alberta’s house, I wished I had my rain pants. My jeans were soaked through and the wind was cold. I shoved my hands into my pockets and found a happy surprise. Gloves.

  Hutchinson saw us coming and left an older man in a FWPD parka to intercept us. “Alberta is with Louise. Nobody’s hurt.” Hutchinson sported a butterfly bandage over a long gash under his right eye.

  “The TV news says one person was hurt,” I said, gesturing toward his face. “You?”

  He touched the bandage with one finger and winced. “Yeah. It’s nothing.”

  “Looks like it needs stitches,” said Tom. “What happened?”

  “I stopped by on my way to the station.” He glanced at the other cops and lowered his voice. “I come to see the kittens almost very day.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said, and Hutchinson nodded at me.

  “Alberta’s dogs started raising hell, and wouldn’t be quiet when she told them, like they usually are.” I remembered well the power of Alberta’s quiet! command. Hutchinson continued, “So she went to see what was wrong. I looked out the window and saw a mail truck back out of the driveway, and I heard Alberta open the door, but didn’t think anything about it until she said ‘Oh my God.’”

  “A package?” said Tom.

  “She came back to the kitty’s room and said I’d better come see. Said it was a bomb.” Hutchinson fidgeted slightly. “Honestly, I thought she was imagining things. She’s been, you know, kind of on edge.”