Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  I strut down the hall, nerves abuzz, and wave off Lucy when she looks at me eagerly. I can’t talk about this; I need a minute. When I’ve shut my door, I collapse at my desk and drag my cell out of my bag.

  “India?”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  I tell Crispin the deal I’ve made with the devil, and he doesn’t ask any questions, just waits for me to finish spilling my churning guts.

  “You have to go on Sunday?”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I can’t come this weekend. I wish I could, but—”

  “You misunderstand me. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “To New York?”

  “Yeah, unless you were planning to run screaming in the other direction. I’ve heard Tahiti is lovely this time of year.”

  I roll my eyes at his gentle mockery, but I breathe easier at the idea of Crispin sitting next to me on the plane, of him being a safe haven in the city. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “You know I’ll be working all the time. This isn’t like vacation where I can show you around the city, right?”

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll work like I usually do, and when you collapse into bed at night, I’ll be there. Plus, I hear there’s some stuff to do in New York, and I’ve never been. I might even meet some of the people I’ve worked with for the past fifteen years.”

  I picture Crispin in his flip-flops and jeans walking into the Condé Nast building. “You’re not going to be what they’re expecting.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you certainly weren’t what I was expecting.”

  “Think they’ll be disappointed?”

  “Not a chance.”

  We work out the details, and when we’re through, I drop a Post-it on Lucy’s desk with the travel arrangements I’d like her to make.

  *

  Crispin’s spent the weekend distracting me from the looming shitstorm that will be the flight and the press conference. His method of distraction is…delectable.

  He lounges on the bed on Sunday morning while I pack my bag. Whenever the anxiety gets to an intolerable place, I climb into his lap, and he reassures me by holding me tight and telling me everything is going to be fine.

  “I know it’s hard, pet, but listen to me. No one’s going to hurt you, nothing’s going to happen. Your parents might be whack-jobs, but they’re whack-jobs who care about appearances. Even if they find out you’re in town, they’re not going to do anything about it. Your mom will talk about how thrilled she is to have you back at her next cocktail party fundraiser fashion show gala or whatever it is Manhattan socialites do.”

  “You watch too much Gossip Girl.”

  He bites my ear and tips me off his lap, giving me a firm smack on my ass. “Finish up packing and we might have time for some fun before we go.”

  *

  We take Crispin’s car to the airport and walk hand-in-hand through the sliding glass doors—him in his worn jeans, flip-flops, and army jacket with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and me in my twinset and pearls with my suitcase trailing behind. We look mismatched, but the blissed-out expressions on our faces must be mirror images. We’re nearing the desk to check my bag when Crispin pulls his phone out of his pocket.

  “It’s my mom. Go get your bag checked, I’ll be right here.”

  Unease creeps into my stomach. I want to be touching him. I keep an eye on him as I wait in the short line, and I don’t like the way he shoves fingers through his hair. When I’ve finished checking my bag, I walk back over, and his face is drawn and colorless.

  I touch his arm, and his eyes snap to mine as if I’ve startled him. Maybe I have. “Is everything okay?” The answer will be no, but I’m not sure how bad this is going to be.

  He shakes his head, and he can’t meet my gaze for more than a second at a time. His fingers rake through his hair again, and when they’re released from the mussed strands, I take his hand in both of mine. I can’t stand to watch him do that again.

  “Hey, Crispin, what’s wrong?”

  His eyes dart around, blinking too much. “My dad’s in the ICU. When my mom woke up this morning, he wasn’t breathing. She doesn’t know how long he’d been like that.”

  My hands tighten on his before I let go long enough to wrap myself around him. “I’m sorry.”

  His heart is racing, and he’s standing limp in my arms. I could knock him over with a feather. But I don’t want to knock him over; I want to hold him up. I want to support him. I lean back to see his face. “You need to go home.”

  He blinks at me, uncertain.

  “You need to go home, Crispin.”

  “I can’t. You—”

  “I’ll be fine.” My tight tone belies my words, but I’ll do my best not to make this any harder on him. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Let’s go change your ticket.”

  “India.”

  “Don’t argue with me. You need to be with your family. Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course I do, but it’s bad enough I can’t go to New York. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Jack and—”

  “I don’t care. If you need me, I want to be there for you.”

  “There won’t be anything you can do. And I know how important this is for your career, for JVA.”

  “But you believe me? You aren’t just saying that?” It’s really important to me that he believe I would drop everything for him if he needed me to. I’ve done it before, but so much has happened. I need him to know that’s still true. More true than ever.

  His arms come around me, and he hugs me tight. It should be downright suffocating, but it has a strange counteractive effect. He lays his cheek against my hair. “I know, mili. I know you would.”

  He gives me a final squeeze before releasing me, and I tow him over to the nearest ticket desk.

  Fifteen minutes later, Crispin’s got a ticket to Kona for a flight that leaves in three hours, and we’re standing by security. He can’t go any farther because his flight leaves from a different terminal. I’m trying to control my anxiety so he doesn’t feel any worse than he already does, but he knows how terrified I am. His duffel bag is on the floor between us, and my hands are knotted in front of me.

  “Chicago was a cakewalk, right?”

  “Yeah.” If we’re talking Baked Alaska or Cherries Jubilee or something else on fire.

  “New York’s your town. You’re going to own it. David Garcia’s going to worship at your feet by the time this is over. I’ll have to beat him off with a stick to get you back.”

  “You are handy with the rattan, but I’ve never gotten a subbie vibe from him.”

  “Nope, this would be about defending what’s mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah.” Crispin fiddles at his wrist and holds his St. Michael’s medal out to me. “Here.”

  He’s expecting me to take it in my palm, maybe shove it in a pocket or my purse. But I hold out my hand, knuckles up, and after a beat he ties it around my wrist, leaving it loose enough to be pushed up under my suit coat sleeve.

  “Ought to be Saint Joseph of Cupertino or maybe Saint Joan of Arc, but this will have to do.”

  “You were a good little altar boy, weren’t you?” A vision of a moptopped boy in vestments swinging a thurible like a mace comes to mind.

  He laughs but nods. “Except for a few too many nips of the Blood of Christ, yeah.”

  He hugs me one last time, and I never want him to let go.

  “I hope your dad is okay. You’ll call me and let me know when you get home or if you get more news. Or if you change your mind and you want me to come out—”

  “I will.”

  We stand there, clinging to each other, passengers flowing around us, the busy sounds of the airport floating in the air. Crispin leans down and nuzzles at my ear.

&
nbsp; “She that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, and rouse her at the name of Crispin.”

  I giggle maniacally and flush with anticipation. Rouse I shall. “I shall live this day, and when I see you again, I will strip my sleeve and show my scars.”

  His rubs my back, pausing at the site where my past is etched into my skin in the form of a jagged cross-shaped scar. I remember wondering if he could recite the St. Crispin’s Day speech the first time I saw his name. It’s taken me two years to figure out that, yes, he can and he knows it well enough to bastardize it for his own purposes. Oh, how I love this man.

  I squeeze him once more before I tip my head up, asking for a kiss. His lips are tender, gentle on mine. It’s a sweet kiss, telling me he loves me. His hand circles my wrist where he’s tied the medal, telling me I belong to him, he’s always thinking of me, we’re responsible for each other. I drag myself away and through security, waving to him when I’m through. Then I put my head down and walk toward my gate.

  *

  I manage my anxiety with aplomb, the only outward sign being my fingers worrying the disc tied around my wrist. Meanwhile, my head riots. There’s no one to scrape me off the floor of the bathroom and no one to prod me onto the plane, so I have got to keep my shit together, no matter what it costs me.

  When the pilot announces our descent, the fear that’s been contained behind the gates of rationality busts through and my manic thoughts run rampant. I clutch at the medal Crispin’s given me, marked me with, and try to breathe. I close my eyes and picture his face, summon the last words he’s said to me: the altered version of the St. Crispin’s Day speech.

  I dredge the whole thing from the depths of my sophomore Shakespeare seminar at Princeton and recite it like a litany. If I’m going to believe in anything in this world, Crispin and the Bard don’t seem like bad choices. I can’t help the words forming themselves on my lips, and I recite my mantra over and over until the words cease to mean much of anything. I’m positive the man seated next to me must think I’m batshit insane. You don’t know the half of it, buddy.

  Waiting to file off the plane with the rest of the passengers is a regular horror show. I consider staying in my seat and asking the flight crew what the next leg is so I can buy a ticket and not leave. But I think of Crispin, Jack, Constance, Evans, Lucy—even, with a painful wrench of my stomach, Rey. All the people I would disappoint if I couldn’t go through with this. People who have been there for me, helped me. I don’t want to let them down. And that’s the thought that makes me walk off the plane.

  The bustle of JFK is familiar, and I make my way through the terminal to pick up my suitcase. I hate checking things, but though I am a consummate packer, even I can’t fit two weeks’ worth of business attire into a carry-on. Two weeks. That’s how long I have to turn up something. I don’t have to solve the case, but if I can’t show David Garcia something he doesn’t already know, I’m headed home.

  There’s a chauffeur waiting for me with a sign at ground transport. I knew David was going to send a car, but the crazy part of me whispers that this driver’s been bribed by my parents to abduct me and either take me to the Mississippi and dump me in or deposit me at their doorstep so they can dispose of me however they see fit. Neither of those options is appealing. But I repeat my verbal talisman once more, and forty-five minutes later I’m checking into a hotel in a neighborhood far from my old stomping grounds. Perfect.

  I text Crispin to let him know I’ve made it, but don’t hold my breath for a response. He’s still in the air. I pull up the information David’s sent me regarding the position I’m allegedly filling and study up until I’ve got the story down pat. Then I move on to the file on the case. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  After I’ve had three glasses of wine and a hot bath, my phone rings.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey, mili.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  “Still unconscious, not breathing on his own, but he’s got good brain activity.”

  “That’s good news, right?”

  “Yeah. It could’ve been a lot worse, but they can’t tell us how long he’s going to be unconscious for or what he’s going to be like when he wakes up. My mom’s a wreck. He’s scaring her to death.”

  My heart goes out to Mary. I can’t imagine waking up to anything but a warm, breathing, open-eyed Crispin beside me, and the thought of anything else makes bile rise in my throat. I’ve almost lost him too many times. I’m going to cling to him for dear life.

  “I was hoping I might be able to leave, come be with you, but—”

  “No, Crispin, don’t. Your mom needs you, and I’m okay. Apparently there’s some mileage left on this St. Michael’s medal yet. I’ll be fine.”

  *

  The press conference the next morning is something I used to dream about, although it had looked different when I was in grad school. New York City politics are intense, and the Department of Transportation garners a lot of attention, as it should. Moving fifteen million people around five thousand square miles isn’t easy. David gives an incredibly flattering speech about me, touting my education and the projects I’ve worked on for the past several years, avoiding mention of my work in LA.

  “Please help me welcome home our native daughter, Ms. India Burke.”

  There are flashbulbs like whoa as I step up to the podium, but I smile through the blindness, even when there’s a stab of anxiety in my stomach. All those pictures will be in the papers tomorrow, maybe even on the local news tonight. On the outside, I’ve donned my crisp, professional shell, but on the inside, I’m freaking. And hyperventilating. It’s unfortunate this podium is more like a pedestal. No room for me to duck behind it for a quick puke.

  Instead, I take a long blink and see Crispin’s face, telling me it’s all going to be okay. I finger the medal at my wrist for extra assurance before I start to speak.

  “Thank you so much for the warm welcome. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when I got the call from Mr. Garcia offering me the position of deputy commissioner. While my background isn’t based in transportation issues, I do bring something to the table all of us share: a love of the city. I’m looking forward to incorporating the best and brightest ideas from the dozen metropolitan areas I’ve worked in to further improve the comings and goings of residents and visitors alike. The commissioner and I will take questions now.”

  Mostly they want to know about ongoing projects, and David fields their inquiries. A few ask questions about my background. They haven’t had time to do much research on me since the press conference was announced last night.

  “Ms. Burke, are you leaving behind a family in San Diego?”

  “Would you ask me that if I were a man?”

  The reporter turns red. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, if those are all the relevant questions anyone has for today, we can call an end to this. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Flashbulbs go off again as I step down alongside David and we hustle back into the department’s headquarters. David shows me to an office with a nice view of the city and a desk that’s empty except for a docking station and a phone. When I’ve taken a seat in a serviceable swivel chair, a handsome, earnest-looking young man in a suit and tie pokes his head in the door.

  “Ah, Ms. Burke,” David says, “this is Toby Gordon. He’ll help you out with anything you need. Bit of a technical wizard, he is. He’ll get you set up with access to our systems.”

  Toby and I shake, and he asks, “How do you like your coffee, Ms. Burke?”

  I like this kid already.

  “Cream and sugar.”

  He scurries off, presumably to get me a cup, which I’ll need. The task before me seems monumental, especially considering I’m also tasked with doing a few projects a “real” deputy commissioner would be put in charge of. David excuses himself, saying we’ll meet tomorrow morning.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Burke. We’
re glad to have you.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.” The prodigal daughter returns.

  A moment later, Toby returns with a cup of steaming manna from heaven. I take a sip and it’s not bad, but it makes me miss Lucy. I’ll shoot her an email later to tell her so.

  I spend most of the day getting acquainted with the various software systems in use at the department, and I start to see how the myriad programs they use create a rabbit warren of tunnels and pockets where money can be moved and stowed without enough accountability. I make some notes about actions that can be taken to tighten the net without too much suspicion. We’ll leave a few loopholes to see if we can’t catch ourselves a thief.

  It’s getting on seven when Toby swings into my office again, bearing another cup of coffee. Smart boy.

  “If you don’t need me for anything else…”

  “I don’t tonight, but I’ll expect you at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Have a good night.”

  I wave him off and dig back into the massive amounts of learning I need to do before the sun comes up tomorrow. David’s set me up with a car service, but it’s almost midnight when I finally dial them to pick me up.

  When I get back to my hotel, I open the door to find a vase of plumeria on the desk. Blush pink and white on the edges of the petals and bright, sunny yellow in the center—they’re lovely. And from Crispin. No one else would send me flowers and certainly not plumeria. Too soft, too sweet, and I’m not exactly an island getaway kind of girl. Anyone else would go with something more apropos. A client sent me a cactus once; it made me laugh. They hadn’t liked me much—loathed me, actually—but I’d kept them from getting fined by their auditors. A prickly gift for a prickly girl who saved their asses.

  I move the bouquet to the bathroom, fill up the big tub, and when I’ve sunk into the bubbles, I call Crispin.

  “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “You like them?”

  “Of course I do. They’re so pretty and they remind me of you. What’s not to like?”