Time Off for Good Behavior

by Lani Diane Rich

  I stretched over the counter and grabbed the pen, hitting 9 for replay, writing Elizabeth’s number down as I heard it the second time. Based on the message, I thought Elizabeth was someone I could talk to. For one, she managed to fit three curse words into less than thirty seconds; I could respect that. Two, she was suspicious I might be selling something, which was exactly what I would think if I saw that crackpot ad. Three, she was a therapist, and while I ordinarily didn’t like therapists, who was I to turn down a free headshrink?

  And besides, I was so horribly, horribly bored.

  I dialed the number, and after four rings, a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, hi. I’m calling for Elizabeth. Is she in?”

  “This is she.”

  This is she. I stood up straighter. “Hi. This is Wanda.”

  There was a pause. Then a slight intake of breath. Then another pause. “I’m sorry. Wanda?”

  “Yes. From the newspaper ad. You called?” I cringed and pressed my palms into my eyes. What was I doing? I used to have friends. I was popular in high school. I literally dated the quarterback. How was it possible that I ended up here, with only priests and strange therapists to talk to?

  “Oh! Wanda!” She laughed. I relaxed a bit. “The one from the paper?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Look, that ad was a mistake.”

  “Not necessarily,” she said, taking a pause. The tone in her voice changed from friendly to oversweet with just a hint of condescension. “I mean, if it helped you to express your feelings... I mean, it’s important to—”

  “No,” I said, cutting her off, saving us both the pain. “I mean, it was really a mistake. They screwed it up at the paper. It was meant for this other person, and... It doesn’t matter.”

  I heard some breath release from the other end. “Crap. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was lecturing.” She sighed again, and then a quiet self-admonition: “I always do that.”

  “Hmm? Do what?”

  “Talk down to people. I hate it, but I can’t help it. They start talking, and then there’s a pause, and I’m supposed to jump in and be brilliant, but usually what I’m thinking is that I wish they would stop all the whining, and so I go into this college textbook crap.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “It’s awful.”

  “Maybe you need to find a new line of work.”

  “Yeah, if you can think of one that allows me to be here when the kids come home from school, I’m open. I’ve got some clients who would thank you, I’m sure.” She laughed. It was a genuine, hearty laugh. I liked it.

  “Well, you’re gonna hate this. Part of the reason I called is because I have something I kind of need to talk about.”

  “Oh,” she said. Her sunshine voice came back. “Sure, Wanda, that’s great. Go ahead.”

  “Um... how about this? I tell you what I’m thinking about, and you try to stay out of Pollyanna land, okay? You can be my practice therapist, and I can be your practice client. You tell me if I’m crazy, and I tell you if you’re weird. What do you think?”

  “We don’t like the term crazy,” she began.

  “Weird,” I warned.

  “Is that why all my clients keep leaving me?”

  “I’d take that bet, yes.”

  “Well, shit.” She laughed again, and her voice went natural. “Go ahead. What’s your problem?”

  “It’s kind of a moral question. I was just watching the news, and they had this story about this crabbing boat in Alaska.”

  “The one that went down and all the crew members died?” Chopping in the background. Sounded like a good idea. I opened the fridge and started to poke around.

  “Yeah. Well, my ex-husband is in Alaska and he just lost his job and I know those crabbers always need people and I’m actually sitting here praying that he was on that boat.” The chopping in the background stopped. I visualized Elizabeth taking an unconscious step back. I grabbed a bag of baby carrots and shut the door to the fridge. “That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?”

  A moment of silence. The chopping resumed. “I can’t do this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a huge difference between what I’m supposed to tell you and what I want to tell you.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Okay. What I’m supposed to tell you is that there’s no value to defining something as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Then I’m supposed to ask you how those thoughts made you feel.”

  “Good fucking God.”

  “No shit,” she said, her voice laced with a combination of frustration and mild amusement. “Fifty thousand dollars on my education and this is what I’m telling people.”

  I slouched over the kitchen counter and grabbed a handful of nuts from a wooden bowl Walter had set out. “So what was the other thing?”

  “Hmm?” she said.

  “What you were really thinking. What was it? That I’m evil, right?”

  “No,” she said, dismissing the idea with a huff. “Look, thinking bad thoughts is human. Everyone does it. It’s only a problem if you act on those thoughts. So unless you secured your ex a position on a boat you knew was going to sink, you need to just get over yourself and start spending your energy on things that matter.”

  Whoa. I stopped slouching against the counter. “Really?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, really.”

  I smiled. I could get used to this chick. “If it’s any comfort, I liked your second answer better.”

  The food prep sounds ceased in the background. “You did?” she said.

  “Yeah. Deliver smackdown next time. Works for Dr. Phil.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, Dr. Phil’s not a single mom with a lawsuit hanging over her head.” There was a kid’s voice in the background. Elizabeth said something, and I could hear her give the kid a kiss.

  “So what about phantom music?”

  “I’m sorry?” she said. I sighed. She didn’t like the term crazy, but I was pretty sure nuts would be making an appearance soon.

  “I’ve been hearing phantom strands of music. Mostly at night, when I’m going to sleep. No one else can hear it. Am I crazy?”

  Pause. Yes. “Not necessarily. It’s probably just your subconscious talking.”

  “Okay. Weird.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “But it started after a head injury,” I said. “Don’t you think that’s something of a coincidence?”

  “Well, either life is full of coincidences, or there’s no such thing as coincidence,” she said.

  “Weird.”

  She huffed. “I was serious that time, too.”

  I let that go. “Okay, but why would my subconscious wait until I got knocked in the head to speak up?”

  She grunted. “Beats the shit out of me. It’s your subconscious.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Moving on. “What was that about a lawsuit?”

  “Oh, Christ,” she said, lowering her voice. “How much time do you have?”

  ***

  “What kind of lawyer are you again?”

  Walter had just put his coat on the rack and was loosening his tie when I bounded out of the kitchen, sliding a bit in my socks on the hardwood floors and wiping my hands on my Billy Joel Storm Front tour T-shirt.

  “Civil.” He put his briefcase down and looked over my shoulder. “What’s that smell?”

  I glanced behind me at the kitchen door. “The reason I ordered pizza tonight.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “What did you do?”

  “Me?” I gave an innocent shrug. “Nothing. It’s my friend Elizabeth who needs a lawyer. Oh—did you mean in the kitchen?”

  He stepped back and eyed me. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No. I saw this recipe on the Food Network for this chicken-with-leeks dish and you didn’t have leeks, you had scallions, and I didn’t really know the difference, but... Well, it wasn’t pretty. But it’s all clean. I’m just run
ning the fan to clear the smoke.”

  Walter laughed and put both hands on my shoulders. “Take a breath, Wanda.”

  I inhaled. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just being in the house alone all afternoon and thinking about George... I’ve just got some nervous energy I need to burn off.”

  There was a beat when the idea of burning off energy floated between us. Walter pulled his hands away from my shoulders. I stepped back. Jesus. We were worse than kids passing notes in study hall. Do you like me? Or do you like like me?

  “So what’s going on with your friend?”

  “She took her ex-husband’s car and drove it over his rototiller. The bastard deserved it—they were trying to reconcile, and she caught him sleeping with a bimbo from Hastings Flowers—but now he’s suing her for the damage to the car and the value of the rototiller. I gave her your direct number. I hope that’s okay.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that’s fine.” There was a long silence, then a conversational downshift. “Have you heard anything? About your ex-husband?”

  I shook my head. “No news is good news, right?”

  He shrugged, paused. “Have you called the police?”

  I felt my shoulders tighten. “No.”

  He took off his suit jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. I shifted on my feet.

  “Walter, you just don’t understand.”

  He turned to face me. “Explain it to me, then.”

  “Calling the police is not going to help the situation.”

  “What harm can it do?”

  “Maybe you should ask Molly that question.”

  His face hardened. I felt regret snake its way through my gut, but I kept my eyes steely on his, refused to show any signs of softening. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  He looked away first.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his eyes avoiding mine as he walked past me, down the hall to his room. I turned and watched him go, letting out a breath as the door shut gently behind him.

  “Dammit,” I whispered, my eyes unconsciously floating toward the mantel in the living room, where there wasn’t a single picture of his dead wife. My eyes shut tight as it occurred to me for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Walter’s trying to protect me didn’t have as much to do with me as I might think.

  Crap. I shouldn’t be here. I should be taking Edgar Dowd’s ten grand and blowing it in Vegas. Or drinking mai tais in Maui. Something, anything, as long as it didn’t involve dragging other people into my drama. I didn’t even want to be involved in my drama. I turned around to go back to my room and pack, but Walter was standing behind me, blocking my way.

  We stared at each other for a moment of excruciating silence. He’d traded his office clothes for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that read “Harvard Law School.” I stared at his chest as he spoke.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what you’re going through.” He ran his fingers through his hair. I kept my eyes focused on the “Har” in “Harvard.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  I nodded, motioning to his chest. “You went to Harvard?”

  He looked down at the shirt, then back at me. “Yeah.”

  That moment ranks number one on my list of the Stupidest Things That Have Ever Made Me Want to Cry. Who cared that he went to Harvard? Who cared that he was trying to save me because he couldn’t save her? Who cared that I would never be good enough for him, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I changed, if I even could change?

  I did. Goddammit, I cared. And there I stood, the incurable wiseass, rendered mute by a stupid freaking sweatshirt.

  Walter reached out, pulling me slowly to him. His body smelled earthy and fragrant, one part Irish Spring and two parts pure man, and for the second time in five minutes, I had to swallow a lump in my throat. I tightened my grip around his waist, buried my face in his chest, inhaled deeply, and forced myself to be sincere.

  “I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I totally suck at letting people help me.”

  He pulled back a bit, his palms resting gently on either side of my neck, his thumbs tracing my jawline. My heart worked double time, pounding out what I believe was Morse code for Kiss me.

  “Wanda.” His whisper was ragged, questioning. Here he was, mine for the taking—all I had to do was lean in and let fly—and instead, I gasped and pushed myself out of his arms.

  “You know what?” I said, my words stumbling over each other to get out. “The pizza’s gonna be here in a minute and I need to get my cash. Don’t argue. It’s on me. I’ll be right back.” I ran down the hallway into the Martha Stewart guest room and shut the door behind me, putting my hands over my eyes and leaning against the door, my chest heaving as I gasped for air, my heart pounding out its futile message in Morse code: Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

  Too bad no one was listening.

  Chapter Six

  “The pizza’s gonna be here?” Elizabeth asked, incredulous. “He was going to kiss you and you said, ‘The pizza’s gonna be here’?”

  “I know.” I dropped my head into my hands, staring down at my burger and fries. “There just aren’t enough o’s in the word smooth for me, are there?”

  “So what happened after that?”

  “We ate dinner and went to bed.” Her eyes widened and I held up my hand to ward off any bright ideas. “Separately.”

  She nodded, watched me for a minute, then spoke again. “He’s taking my case, you know.”

  “Really?” Even though I’d referred her, I felt a stab of stupid jealousy. Elizabeth, as fate would have it, was thin, blonde, and naturally beautiful. It took every last bit of self-esteem I had not to hate her on sight. “You saw him?”

  She nodded and poked at her salad. “This morning. He’s really cute.”

  “You’re not helping,” I groaned, putting my face in my hands.

  “Not trying to,” she said, grinning. “I think glasses are sexy on a guy. Don’t you?”

  “Shut up,” I said. “He’s just a nice guy, trying to help a pathetic case of a woman, that’s all.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I saw it in his eyes when I mentioned your name, and your face shouts it out like a damn billboard. You guys are a hairsbreadth away from the big bang. Better accept it now, or you’ll be taken by surprise with your legs all hairy.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “The big bang?”

  “Denial...” she sang as she poked at a cherry tomato.

  I slammed my palm down on the table. “What are you doing eating a salad? If you turned sideways in the wind, you’d whistle.”

  Elizabeth took a sip of her water. “You know, it’s just as rude to make fun of a skinny person as it is a fat person. And don’t change the subject. We’re talking about your screwed-up life, not mine.”

  “You’re gonna need to start taking some of this hostility out on real clients soon, or I’m gonna start charging you.”

  “Ooh, nice deflection, but we’re still talking about you and Walter. Now, tell me. Why is it so bad that you’ve got a thing for him? It’s obvious the feeling’s mutual.”

  I ticked off my points on the fingers of one hand. “A: it’s not obvious. B: he went to Harvard. C: he’s a lawyer. D: he folds his towels in thirds.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “See what I mean?” I said. “We’re not compatible. He’s a fine French Merlot, and I’m that crappy blush that comes in a box.” Elizabeth was quiet. I looked up. “What?”

  “Blush in a box?” she said. “I think that’s the worst piece of shit analogy I’ve ever heard. And I’m a therapist.”

  “Whatever.” I tossed down the french fry I’d been dangling over my plate. “My point is—”

  “Your point is that you think you’re not good enough for him.” She sat back and crossed her arms over her stomach. “I cannot believe your arrogance.”

  “Arrogance?” I sputtered. “What the—?”

  She pointed her finger at
me. I shut up. “You don’t even know this guy, and you think you know what he needs? Who died and left you to decide what is and is not right for him? If he wants to be with you, and you want to be with him, and you’re not letting it happen because of blush in a box, then go ahead and run away now and save him the misery of loving you. I have a mother-in-law apartment over my garage if you want it.”

  She sat back and smiled. “That felt good. I’m going to start doing that with clients. Today.” She winked at me. “Thanks, Wanda.”

  “I’m glad to be of service,” I said, my voice in full pout.

  “Oh, stop being hurt,” she said. “You’ll thank me later. It’s common sense. Either fix the problem or get out before you make everyone crazy.”

  She reached for her water. I stared at a piece of wilted lettuce hanging out of my burger. “So how do I do that?”

  “Hmm?” she said. “Do what?”

  I huffed. “Don’t you pay attention to your own stupid advice? How do I fix it?”

  “Well, you can get over this blush-in-a-box crap, to start with.” She reached over to my plate, grabbed a fry, and popped it into her mouth. “You know, you’re right about the salad. I’m getting a burger next time.”

  ***

  I returned to Walter’s place with an emotional hangover and a package of yellow sticky notes. Elizabeth had given them to me, explaining that I was to write on them specific things I wanted and stick them on my wall, pulling each one down as I achieved the goal. She said the exercise was her idea, something she had done after she caught her husband, Jack, in bed with the girl from Hastings Flowers.

  “Made me feel better,” she said. “And it kept me from killing him. Everybody plays, everybody wins.”

  I lay back on the bed and flipped the package of sticky notes over and over in my hands, having no idea what to write on them. What did I want? Did I want to be a kinder, gentler Wanda? Did I want Walter? Did I want a job? Did I want to find George dead on the side of the road? And how the hell were sticky notes supposed to help me with any of that? I wasn’t going to say anything to Elizabeth, because she was the first real friend potential Id had in a long while, but resolving problems with sticky notes seemed like the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of.