It Starts

by Avery Kirk

  “No, ma’am. We’ve got several warehouses, but none in California.”

  “I just want to send it back. So tell me what to do. I don’t want it. I don’t need a return number or anything. I just want to send it back, so I need your address,” I said, hopelessness filling my voice.

  “Well, the thing is, ma’am, we don’t sell shirts at all. We are exclusively a tool company. Not a shirt in the whole product line. We wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she said softly, sounding as if she were speaking to a lunatic who she didn’t want to upset.

  “Please just give me your address. I just want to send it back to you. Maybe it got accidentally dropped in the box by an employee and they’ll want it back,” I said, covering my eyes.

  She gave me the address of the place, and I wrote it on the back of my hand. I didn’t want to take any chances that the inside might be too sweaty and make the writing less clear. I hung up with the lady and began to get to my feet when I noticed something on the bottom of the slippers that Kevin had bought me the night we went out. It was a sticker, smashed and stuck to the bottom. Must have been from when I wore them outside at the end of the night.

  I pulled the slipper out from under my bed, bottom side up and saw the word: PROTECTED. I pulled the sticker down from where it was rolled up and saw the that the rest of the sticker was from some home alarm monitoring company, and this was their window sticker for customers.

  I tore the sticker off my slipper and wildly tried to get every single sticky part off, using my fingernail to scrape it as my hands shook. I ran to the sink of the bathroom and scrubbed the slipper’s sole with soap and water and a nail brush, tossing the sticker and scraps into the box with the T-shirt.

  When I was satisfied with how cleanly the sticker was removed, I ran down the stairs and transferred the company’s address from my hand to the box. I taped it up and tossed it in my truck. I got in the truck and immediately drove to the post office, tears streaming down my face the whole way.

  My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I answered anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Mel?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat, trying to disguise any tears in my voice.

  “It’s Wren. How are you doing?”

  “Hi, Wren, I’m sorry. I am—well, right in the middle of something. Can I call you back?” I cleared my throat again.

  “Oh—sure sure. Talk soon—”

  “Bye.”

  I parked recklessly and stormed into the post office, bolting directly over to the automated postage machine. I fumbled through the touchscreen commands, finally getting a price to ship it to the address I’d scribbled on my hand. Turned out it would cost over fifty dollars to ship it overnight. I hesitated and then decided that I didn’t care. I needed to get it there as fast as possible.

  I reached into my back pocket where I’d shoved a credit card, and I swiped my card in the machine. My foot tapped as the label printed. Picking up the box, I slapped the new label on it and spotted the metal mail dumper that allows you to leave packages without talking to anyone.

  I shoved the box in the open space and lifted the handle to spill it into the back room. The damn thing was too big. It stuck out just enough that the cylinder wouldn’t turn to dump it. My anxiety burned in my chest and I held both of my hands over my face in misery. I mentally scrambled for a new idea. Got it. I grabbed the box again and dropped it on the floor. I then raised my foot and stomped on it until it was nearly flat. I knew I was making a terrible racket but, I didn’t care.

  I didn’t make eye contact with anyone who I knew was watching. I grabbed the box and tore off the excess cardboard. I grabbed some tape on the counter and snatched the box up again. I made sure that the address and postage were both still readable and used a mess of the packaging tape to repair it. The package was flat now and taped to death.

  I placed my newly flattened box into the metal package dumper. It turned effortlessly and I heard the soft thud of relief. I immediately felt better. I smiled at a man who had been watching me, handed him the packing tape, smiled again and walked out.

  Chapter 10: Disapproving Support

  I walked to Harry’s place with a good-sized white marker board under my arm. I’d bought it while at the drugstore with Kevin. We had pretended to be visiting from London and used fake British accents. The cashier busted us by asking a question that we answered in our very flat American accents, but Kevin smoothed it over by touching her arm calling her by her first name. She got super giddy with him.

  I knocked before walking into Harry’s room, but when I remembered he couldn’t talk to give me the OK to come in, I just took my chances.

  “Hi, Harry,” I said, handing him the marker board. He turned off the TV and smiled at me. He reluctantly took the marker board and pointed to himself.

  “Yep, it’s for you. I saw it and thought of you. I got you a black marker and I brought you a shop towel from home.”

  I showed him how he could write on it and then wipe it right off. He looked thrilled and placed his hand on his chest to show his appreciation.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Harry used his new marker board to ask a question. It read, ‘How are things?’

  I looked at his question, and my eyes stung. I shrugged and decided that I wouldn’t look at him. I don’t know why I’d come here since I knew that he would ask this, and I was uncomfortable telling him. I felt dumb. Harry let me sit without interruption for a while. I sat with my elbows on my knees and rubbed my eyes over and over.

  “I had another weird dream. I’m starting to miss my boring sleep!” I laughed, nervously.

  ‘Palm trees?’ he wrote.

  I struggled to recall. I shook my head a little. “Not this time, at least not that I remember.” I perched my chin on my interlaced fingers and stared into space. “It had a horse in it and a man.”

  ‘Skinny guy?’

  I shook my head. “Different guy.”

  Harry nodded.

  “And there’s more.”

  I gave him the rundown of all that had happened: more dreams, the phone call about the pre-paid trip, Vita’s phone call, and the T-shirt. All pointing to some random place in California. All unexplainable as far as I could tell.

  Harry thought for a few minutes before he wrote. ‘Do you think that it could be someone playing a trick? A ruse?’

  “I’m not sure what a ‘ruse’ is,” I said.

  ‘A plot or con,’ the marker board read.

  “Oh, I thought maybe that’s possible. But I can’t think of who would do that. You know? Go through all the trouble? And why?” I asked.

  Harry shook his head slowly, holding his chin with his hand.

  He decided to write again. ‘Are you going to go?’

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I answered without looking at his face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he wasn’t expecting that answer.

  He took a few minutes to write this time. ‘Why not take the travel credit and go to the Bahamas with your grampa? Nice getaway.’

  “I have to think on it. I haven’t thought about any of it. On purpose I mean,” I said, looking down.

  He studied me for a few minutes. I watched the man next to him, sleeping. I watched his chest rising and falling and felt comforted by the sight of it. While I watched him, Harry wrote.

  ‘I caution you on habitually suppressing your emotions. It could have long-term effects.’ He seemed to sturdy himself, prepared for a negative response.

  I thought about his statement, then I couldn’t help but fire back. “I don’t think I’m suppressing them. Just timing them better so I can manage them. I can’t handle an assault of situations to…process—so I just choose to ignore them until I have a better time to sort through them,” I said, slightly defensive.

  He stared at me, expressionless for a moment before he wrote. ‘That’s OK as long as you do make time to deal with them.’

  I d
idn’t respond. I didn’t feel like thinking about this right now. I guess I thought I’d just tell Harry what was going on, and he would be a good sounding board. Now I felt as if I had to explain the way I managed my own head. I decided to change direction and ignore his last comment.

  “So you don’t think I should go?” I asked, curious.

  He shook his head the whole time he wrote in large letters ‘NO.’

  “Why?” I asked.

  He erased quickly and wrote, ‘100 reasons.’

  “What if I brought Kevin with me?” I said, quietly.

  He wrote, ‘WHY would you choose to go? What is to be gained?’

  I sat still for a few minutes. I rubbed my hands together and concentrated on them. I looked out the window and watched the rain tap on the glass and slide down. I allowed the rest of the room to blur and focused only on the rain-drenched glass. Finally, I found my answer.

  “Because fear repulses me,” I said, abruptly.

  Harry turned his head. We sat silently as the subtle smell of lunchtime circulated into the room. He picked up his marker. ‘Don’t leave yet.’

  The dimpled girl delivered Harry’s lunch and smiled at me. Harry nodded to her in gratitude and turned to me when she left.

  He wrote in large letters and for a split second I wondered if I would be less annoyed if I’d made him use his papers and index cards and never brought him the marker board. He turned the marker board to me. ‘IT’S CRAZY,’ it read. Then he held his pointer finger up in the air as if to tell me to wait. Again he turned the board back to himself and wrote. ‘BUT I understand.’

  “You do?” I asked.

  ‘I’ve never wished more that I could speak,’ he wrote, looking depressed.

  “I’m sorry. If this is making you mad, I can go,” I offered.

  He shook his head quickly and wrote, ‘I just want to be sure you’re not in danger and that you’re going for yourself. Hard to express my thoughts without inflexion. Frustrating.’ He underlined the last word.

  I looked at him blankly. “Inflexion?” I asked.

  The shop towel was getting good use today. He erased and wrote ‘Voice tones. Better for communicating meaning.’

  I nodded big in understanding. I could see how that would be frustrating.

  I decided to make my decision there and then.

  As I reviewed each coincidence, I decided that the odds of each of those things happening to a single person over the course of only a few weeks was probably one in 10 billion. Yes, I made up that number. But the fact remaining in my mind was that these events were probably not random. That put me in a position to either ignore the whole thing or jump in and see where the ride went.

  Odds were, no one planned this for me to surprise me with anything. Murray didn’t—no way. My high school friends were away at college and too broke for this. My family wasn’t that creative, and that left Kevin. It just wasn’t his style. He was more the type to give me my Christmas present weeks before Christmas. And while Lanie was very understanding of our relationship, I doubted she’d think that Kevin buying me a trip to California was a good idea. There was just no way.

  “I just decided that I’m going to go,” I announced to Harry, as I stood up to leave. He had been vaguely stirring his pureed food and looked up at me surprised. He grabbed his marker board, looking a little defeated. ‘Will you come back and see me before you go?’

  I zipped up my coat and replied, “I sure will.”

  We exchanged waves, and he had a weird look of failure on his face. I almost felt bad leaving.

  As I began to walk back home, I pulled out my cell phone and the scrap of paper where I’d written the number and dialed the number to the Albuquerque travel agent, Margaret.

  “Mundo Hermosa Travel Agency, Margaret speaking. How may I help you?” she answered, cheerfully.

  “Hi, Margaret. This is Amelia Harper. I just wanted to call to tell you who my companion is for the California trip.”

  “Oh yes, Amelia, I remember. Let me pull up your account. Did you get it all figured out?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You can put the second ticket under the name Kevin Banner,” I said.

  Margaret confirmed the spelling of each of our names and looked up the ticket prices. Since I’d waited to call her back, she informed me that the gift certificate amount would no longer cover the hotel at all, but she recommended that we use it toward airline credits for drinks and other stuff that the airline offers directly. So that’s what we did. I insisted that I would book the hotel on my own. Courageous or not, I wasn’t stupid. I’d rather pay for the hotel and go where I chose. Especially since I still had no idea who paid for this trip.

  I knew that I’d put Kevin’s name on the ticket without first asking him. I felt a little uncomfortable with that, but I’d deal with it. I didn’t need him to go. My thought was that if Kevin couldn’t or wouldn’t go, I’d go alone. And I was fine with that as a possibility.

  I walked home and went directly upstairs to my bedroom. I closed the door and threw myself the bed on my belly, letting my arms and legs sprawl out. My head hung slightly off the bed. I saw the corner of the dream book that Kevin’s mom had given me. I’d tossed it in on the dresser and it must have fallen on the floor. I picked it up—what the heck—I’d take a look. I quickly flipped through the pages, and I saw Vita’s swooshy handwriting on the inside title page under the title. ‘Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.’ Freud

  I thought it was interesting that she wrote that particular quote inside this book. I kept paging through. My eyes stopped on Leg, Missing: To dream that your leg is missing shows a lack of courage and refusing to take a stand.

  I rolled my eyes and looked up something else from my stupid dreams.

  Horse: To dream of a horse signifies strength and power. A white horse is a symbol for good fortune and purity.

  Running: To dream that you are running means that you’re uncertain of your future or avoiding a situation. You aren’t facing your issues.

  Whatever. Next.

  Garbage: To dream of garbage is a sign of good fortune.

  I looked up woman—thinking of the woman in the convertible. I also looked up man. For some reason I expected there to be a very clear definition for what it means when you dream about a horse turning into a man. All it did was irritate me. The book went on to say that dreams can be interpreted many different ways. What the hell was the point of trying to interpret them then? I chucked the book on my dresser and threw myself back on the bed. Just then it occurred to me. Dog. I had dreamed of a dog—twice I thought. I didn’t feel like it, but I got up and picked up the book as well as the picture frame I’d knocked over by throwing it. I was curious.

  Dog: To dream of a dog or a barking dog indicates protection or guardianship.

  No way. Protection. I threw the book again.

  Chapter 11: A Change in Plans

  It was about 1 a.m. on Sunday morning. About an hour had passed since Kevin had called. I’d listened to his message after my voicemail indicator kept waking me up. When I called him back, he didn’t sound good and wasn’t making a ton of sense. Although I could barely make out what he was saying—it was very loud where he was. This was pretty much the first time he’d called me to pick him up from a bar, so something had to be up.

  I put my hand on the pub’s door handle and hesitated a split second before pushing the door open. Immediately, the combined smells of old beer, crappy cologne, cigarette smoke and an intensely floral stench rolled around me like a fog. Saturday night at the bar. I inhaled deeply and regretted it. When you’re wrecked, the smell doesn’t really bother you. I wasn’t wrecked.

  The bar was not a fancy place. We would come here from time to time because Kevin’s friend was a bouncer here. He wasn’t at the door now—probably because it was so late. A two-year-old pop song was blaring, and a dozen or so girls were on the dance floor bouncing with their arms in the air and makeup smeared. Some baref
oot. Gross.

  I was sure Kevin would be sitting at the bar, he was so damn social. Sure enough, he had a good people-watching position at the far end, facing the door. He wasn’t a sloppy drunk at all; still I knew him well enough to know the subtle signals of his body language. This particular pose typically meant he was seriously bummed. Normally, he’d be talking someone’s ear off or showing how well he really can dance. You typically don’t see a guy walk on the dance floor and throw down like he could.

  I lowered my chin and started toward him, preparing for the worst on the way. He was very even tempered, so I wasn’t sure why I felt this uneasy.

  Mike, the bartender, stopped drying his hands for a moment and shouted, “Hey, Mel!”

  “Hey, Mike.” I shot a look at Kevin. He hadn’t heard us. I walked up to Mike. He leaned over the bar with unnecessary gusto and kissed me on the cheek. “How is he doing?” I asked with a nod toward Kevin.

  “He’s pretty down. That guy he came in with totally pimped him. Ass,” he said giving his head a backward jerk, mouth turned down. “Left with some girl. She was no catch, either, let me tell you. Kinda raunchy if you ask me. But I haven’t ignored him, promise. Just been busy, you know…Saturday.” He shrugged. “I gotta tell you, though, I didn’t really throttle him,” he said a little sheepishly.

  “He asked, I brought. You know I always make ‘em tight for you guys, but I was about to make them lighter when he switched to straight whiskey a few hours ago. Can’t help much there.” He pointed at me quickly, reminded of his job. “Can I get you something?”

  “Yeah, dark beer. Surprise me,” I said, my eyes on Kevin. Mike made a clicking sound with his tongue and turned to retrieve it. I walked the length of the long bar to get over to Kevin. I had to shimmy a few times and put my hand on a few people’s shoulders to pass them politely. The place wasn’t jammed, but the bar area was pretty full.

  Kevin sat in the corner leaning a bit forward, a glass of water, two empty shot glasses, a glass of caramel colored liquid, and a plate of half-eaten hot wings next to him. He was peeling the strands off of a celery stick and had a small pile accumulating beneath his hands.