by Julie Hyzy
He waited till she sat down again. “You haven’t really been listening, have you?”
“No,” she said with a smile, “I haven’t.”
Gary flung his hands out, annoyed. “Then what’s up?”
She took a deep breath. “Remember that night we went to dinner?”
* * * * *
Half of Annie’s barbeque back ribs sat on the plate next to her, cleaned completely of meat. She could have finished the entire slab, but decided she’d take it easy and save the leftovers for lunch the next day.
Gary’s patty melt sat untouched. He’d been attentive as Annie talked between bites, she sometimes gesturing with a half-eaten rib. She’d apologized for talking with her mouthful a couple of times, then had just decided to give up worrying about it as she plunged on.
“Gary?”
His eyes registered that she’d spoken.
“Close your mouth.”
He sat back in the oversized booth, pulling his lips together in a thin line. Annie was happy to have such tall seat backs give them privacy. Gary gazed upward, his face reacting to his unspoken thoughts. Curiosity made her wonder what he was thinking. But she discovered, to her immense surprise and relief, that she really didn’t care what he thought. She was here to handle this—not to seek guidance.
When his eyes finally met hers again, they’d changed from the shocked, fearful look they’d worn a few minutes earlier. “I’m gonna get off that burglary charge, you know.”
Annie wiped her mouth, then tore open the little wet nap packet to clean her hands from barbeque sauce. “Okay . . ?”
“When I do, there won’t be a problem getting a new job.”
Annie could only hope her face expressed the skepticism she felt.
“No, really,” he said quickly. “There’s a guy I can call. All I gotta do is get acquitted. No big deal.”
“That’s great, Gary,” she said without enthusiasm. “I hope it works out for you.”
“Now you sound like, final, when you said that. I should have some say-so in this too, you know.”
“Why is that? I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Listen,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his head pulled in low, “this baby’s gonna grow up in a two-parent household. And have it better than I did, okay?”
“This baby will turn out better than you did, all right,” Annie said, her voice rising. She took a breath to calm herself, to lower her voice. “But the divorce is still on track. That isn’t going to change.”
“Come on, Annie, think about it. Remember the night we . . . Well, remember dinner that night? I said that there was going to be some way I was going to get you back? Well, this is it. See? We probably shouldna gone to bed together that night . . .”
“Shhhh. Geez Gary, can you say that any louder?”
“Okay,” he stage-whispered, “what I’m saying is, most people getting divorced don’t go and have sex together, so like, the fact that we did, and you got pregnant out of it, says something.”
“What exactly do you think it says?”
“That we’re supposed to be together, what else?” His face tightened up at the words; he looked away for a moment and she thought she saw his eyes well up.
“Don’t shake your head like that,” Gary said, continuing. He sat back again, his back making a whump sound as he did. “I’m not giving up this time. You’ll see. Maybe this ain’t the right time, but you’ll understand soon.”
“Understand what?”
He moved forward, hands outstretched. “That I can provide for you. I can provide for our baby. How much money can you really make designing walls, Annie? And how long is it gonna take till you get picked up by a gallery for one of your paintings? I mean, you’re good, hon, but face reality.”
He was feeding into the very doubts that had kept Annie tossing in her bed the night before. Why was it that everything seemed bleaker, even small problems overwhelming, at night? Rubbing her eyebrows, she remembered the morning’s sunrise and the boundless feeling of possibility that had engulfed her. Life lay ahead, still beautiful, still exciting, even with all the bumps she knew she’d encounter along the way. Sitting there, with the emerging rays making their early appearance, she’d known that everything would work out. No, better than that. She knew she’d make everything work out. And Gary wasn’t going to change that.
He must have seen the resolve on her face. “Okay, so maybe this isn’t the time or the place to discuss this. And maybe you have to do this painting thing for a while before you come to your senses.”
Come to my senses? She almost laughed as she stood up. If he only knew. She finally had. “You ready to go?”
He grabbed the doggy bag that held his entire sandwich. “So, where’s this next job you got lined up? At some rich chick’s house?”
“Yeah. Come on. I’ll even drive you home.”
“Pete’s apartment? That ain’t home.”
“Well, buddy, it’s all you got.”
Chapter Seven
Annie pulled up in front of the DeChristophers’ house and wished she knew how to whistle. In her mind she could hear the long, slow, appreciative sound she’d make if she could. Although being able to hear it above the din would be another matter, since the Escort was making wretched noises, puffing out dark bursts of smoke as she sat there idling. It wouldn’t do to have Mrs. DeChristopher look out that immense picture window and see her sitting in her little blue car gawking and sweating. She pulled forward to park along the curb, having to ease down the block a bit to avoid parking next to a fire hydrant. The perfectly manicured and verdant lawns made her feel all the more conspicuous driving the pollution machine she called her car.
Grabbing her lightweight portfolio, she walked up a neighbor’s driveway in order to keep from stepping on the grass. The homes had to be at least fifty feet apart from one another, with the DeChristophers’ centered in a cul-de-sac, its wide three-car garage bordered with shrubs and trees arranged with artful precision, sporting a portable basketball hoop that could be adjusted for height. Red brick, the home was three stories tall, and judging from the side view, had a walk-out basement. Four levels in one house. With only two kids. Annie wondered if she’d ever be so well off.
“You coulda parked on the driveway,” Mrs. DeChristopher said as she answered the door.
Momentarily startled by the woman’s appearance, Annie answered, “Uh . . . that’s okay.” She didn’t want to mention that her car sometimes leaked oil.
Turquoise sandals with three-inch heels made Mrs. DeChristopher taller than Annie remembered. She looked older too, standing in the bright sunlight. The little lines by her eyes probably wouldn’t have been so noticeable if she hadn’t caked so much designed-to-look-natural makeup on her face. Her sleeveless midriff matched the shoes with uncanny precision, but left a pouch of stomach showing over low-slung black shorts. The outfit would look iffy on a teenager and Mrs. DeChristopher was well beyond that.
“My husband’s home today, ain’t that great? Now he can meet you, too, and we can get all this taken care of in one day.”
Annie wasn’t quite sure what Mrs. DeChristopher meant, but she was so taken by the interior of the home that she wasn’t paying strict attention. To her right, the living room gleamed. It was at least twice the size of Annie’s. Sunlight reflected from the high-gloss cherrywood furniture and sparkled when it hit the gold and crystal table lamps. Both it and the dining room beyond were done like the kind she’d seen in interior decorating magazines. From the lush carpet to the coffered ceilings, they achieved cozy beauty. The living room furniture looked soft and welcoming, the dining room ready for a party, but one where jeans would be just as welcome as evening gowns.
The deep, wide foyer led back to the kitchen and as they walked that way, Mrs. DeChristopher’s turquoise heels made sharp clacking noises against the marble tile floor. Annie snuck a look up the curved central stairway, marveling at the beauty of the white bal
usters and how they coordinated with the pale striped wallpaper. She wondered if Mrs. DeChristopher had decorated this herself, or if she’d had help.
They passed an open den on the left on their way to the kitchen, where a man sat, only the top of his head visible over the back of the computer monitor. Mrs. DeChristopher leaned into the room, both hands on the door jamb, her left leg lifting into the air a little. “That painter girl is here, honey,” she said in a sing-song voice. She whispered to Annie, “This is the downstairs den. He uses this room for meeting clients and stuff, but when he’s working he usually uses the upstairs den.”
Annie saw his eyes as they snapped up in answer to his wife’s call. Even without seeing the rest of his face, she could tell he was angry at the interruption. Shifting his glance, the eyes swept over Annie, and she got the decided feeling that he disapproved of her appearance. She’d worn navy blue dress slacks, and a cream-colored sleeveless cotton blouse. All those years working downtown had provided her with a decent business wardrobe and she wondered what about her could possibly have won such immediate dissatisfaction.
Apparently taking his silence as encouragement, Mrs. DeChristopher touched Annie’s arm, leading her into the den. “Do you wanna talk in here . . ?”
He cut her off. “You know when I’m in here, I’m busy.”
Mrs. DeChristopher pulled Annie back out of the room, rolling her eyes. When they reached the kitchen she said, “He gets in such a mood sometimes. Do you want some coffee or somethin’?”
“No thank you.”
“Naw, really, you wanna Coke? Or you know, we got drinks too. Even though it’s kinda early, I’d join you in a beer.”
Annie put her portfolio down on the table and rested her hands on top of it. “You know, a glass of water would be great.”
“Water, sheesh. That how you stay so thin?” She grabbed a glass from her shining cherrywood cabinets and moved to the fridge. Annie wouldn’t have realized it was a refrigerator if Mrs. DeChristopher hadn’t opened it to grab a can of diet pop for herself, and gotten ice water for Annie from the dispenser built into the door. The refrigerator had been outfitted to blend in perfection to the rest of the cabinetry.
“He’ll be out in a coupla minutes, I think,” she said, sitting down and gesturing for Annie to do so as well. Annie sat facing into the kitchen, her back to yet another immense space, the family room. It too, had been decorated sumptuously, with big overstuffed floral couches, ornate tables, and knick-knacks and family photographs arranged so artfully that it seemed as though they’d been purchased with a particular positioning in mind. Maybe they had. And everything was so clean. How much time did it take her to dust all that stuff?
Mrs. DeChristopher stared at her nails. The palm trees were gone, replaced by moons and stars on a background of navy. Then it dawned on Annie that this woman wouldn’t be the type to do her own dusting. The only question was whether the maid was live-in or come-and-go.
Mr. DeChristopher walked in just as Annie took a sip of her water.
“I’m Richard DeChristopher,” he said with a slow nod of his head. “You must be the artist my wife has been telling me about.”
His voice was raspy, polite. He was a tall man, slim, with brown wavy hair touched with gray and dark eyes that weren’t brown, but maybe a very deep blue. Annie couldn’t tell for sure. Looking as though he’d had a bad complexion as a youngster, with sunken cheeks that played up his bone structure, he reminded Annie of the actor, Christopher Walken, whom Gary once referred to as “our generation’s bad guy.” Age-wise, it was close. She’d put him in his late forties, early fifties.
The man moved with precision, as though calculating each gesture, and yet he seemed quite at ease as he did so, smiling as he took one of the open chairs at the table. He glanced at Mrs. DeChristopher briefly before speaking again. “My wife informed me of the small incident that occurred at your place of business,” he said, folding his hands together and resting his forearms on the edge of the table. He did this slowly, drawing out the movement, as he directed his gaze to Annie.
Annie wanted to say that Millie’s wasn’t her place of business, she just freelanced there, but he hadn’t finished, and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d appreciate an interruption.
“Let me assure you, Ms. Callaghan, that our sons have been dealt with regarding this matter.” He gave another graceful nod. The smile was gone and the eyes were serious. For a fleeting moment, she felt sorry for little Kevin and Drew.
Annie cleared her throat, “I’ve brought my portfolio,” she began, drawing her hands over the fake leather cover of the photo album, “If you’d like to see . . .”
“Ms. Callaghan,” he said, in a way that was both condescending and friendly at the same time, “I have every confidence in my wife’s ability to judge excellence.” With controlled care, he leaned back, raising both hands nearly to shoulder level, gesturing to indicate the beauty of the home’s interior. “Does she or does she not have impeccable taste? I suppose I’m just fortunate that she saw something of value in me.” He smiled then, almost self-deprecatingly, but Annie thought it forced.
Mrs. DeChristopher smiled at the compliment, and Annie noticed for the first time that her teeth were stained, as from cigarettes. But the house smelled clean. Too much coffee, maybe.
After Mr. DeChristopher’s gentle, measured tones, his wife’s voice broke the silence with a shrillness Annie hadn’t noticed before.
“How bout we go upstairs and I show you the room?”
“Great,” Annie said, happy to be doing something.
Mr. DeChristopher stood, giving yet another slow nod as they left the kitchen. Turning first to his wife, he said, “I will leave you two women to decide what you will for my humble abode. If you need my assistance, I will be in the den.” Then directly to Annie, “It was delightful to meet you.”
As they walked up the stairs, Annie remarked again at how beautiful the home was and at how it reminded her of pictures she’d seen in magazines.
Mrs. DeChristopher turned, holding onto the high-polished handrail as she did. “Call me Gina, okay? Every time I hear ‘Mrs. DeChristopher,’ I think about my mother-in-law. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to be confused with her neither.” She glanced at the den door, which was now closed, and continued, in a whisper, “And my husband don’t know, but I had a decorator lady in here to give me just a little help. She took all cash, so I never had to tell him. He thinks I’m some kinda decoratin’ genius and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell him otherwise.” Wrinkling her nose, she pulled up her shoulders in a silent giggle and started back up the stairs.
There were four rooms stretching around an expansive landing at the top, another turn, and then an additional set of stairs leading them higher in the home. The fourth level that Annie had spotted from outside. She’d assumed it was an attic, but upon entering, found that it was a large room, nearly apartment-sized, with several dormers jutting out in three directions. Despite the profusion of toys that occupied the shelves along one wall, the room was white-walled and immaculate.
“Well,” Gina said, winded from the walk up, “this is it.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda nice. The boys use this as a playroom. I had it cleaned ‘cuz you was coming today, but usually it’s a pigsty. I figure if maybe you paint something they like, maybe they’d try to keep it clean once in a while. Hey,” she shrugged, flipping her hands out in a way that let Annie know that she didn’t really care one way or another. “You never know.”
Annie pulled out her measuring tape and started to write down the room’s dimensions. “You said dinosaurs, right? I’ll come up with some sketches for you to approve. Then you can decide if it’s what you want.”
“Whatever pictures you come up with is fine. And don’t sweat it. The job is yours.”
“But I haven’t given you a price yet.”
“I don’t mean to say nothin’ honey, but does it look like we’re hurtin�
��? Whatever you think’ll be fair is okay by me.”
Annie’s head was swimming, digesting that last bit of information when Gina moved to the far end of the room and cracked open a window. She reached between her breasts to pull out a single cigarette. “You don’t mind?” she asked.
This was her house, Annie thought. “No, go ahead.”
“I don’t have no more, ‘cuz I have to sneak ‘em and I can’t fit more than one at a time in here.” She gestured and giggled. “They get kinda smashed if I try. So, I’m sorry I can’t offer you one.”
“That’s okay. I don’t smoke.”
Annie watched surreptitiously as Gina fished further, pulling out a book of matches. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out the window. Annie saw her shoulders drop and her eyes close in obvious pleasure.
“Dickie don’t like me smokin’,” she said, eyes open now, taking a second pull.
“In the house?”
“He don’t like me smokin’ at all. But he don’t let no one smoke in the house. Gets him really mad.”
Pursing her lips to direct the smoke outward, Gina spoke again, breaking into Annie’s thoughts.
“You got any kids?”
“Er . . . no.” There was no reason to tell her about the pregnancy.
“It ain’t no walk in the park, let me tell you.” She touched at her hair, as though to straighten out any wayward pieces.
Annie kept measuring.
“You married?”
Annie hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m getting divorced.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. He cheat on you?”
Why was she peppering her with so many questions? Annie glanced over at Gina, prepared to politely, but firmly, tell her that it was a subject that she didn’t want to talk about, but the look in the woman’s eyes was one of friendly curiosity. Like Annie was her girlfriend. She wouldn’t have thought it possible for a woman like Gina to look guileless, but she did.
