Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Okay, maybe we should start off with—”

  “Teach me now. Wood.”

  Gretchen opened her mouth, but found she was speechless. Her smile faltered.

  “...Wood?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes. You teach me wood. Now.”

  Darko settled into his chair, expectant, as if in front of a favorite TV show that was about to begin, for his pleasure, his entertainment. He opened his notebook, pencil poised. She wondered briefly about his sanity. She looked at the secretary, secretly urging the woman for comfort, refuge. But all she saw were the shoulder blades, the backs of her dangly earrings and her head.

  “But...I...?”

  “I not understand wood. I want know wood.”

  Then she wondered about his intelligence, and it made her feel more comfortable, but more confused. Did he want her to explain how wood appeared on the earth? Did they not have wood in his country? Wasn't that impossible? Didn't trees grow everywhere, except maybe Greenland and Antarctica? Perhaps they never cut trees down in his country, and they only imported wood?

  “But, i-if I explain to you about wood, that's not really English, it is? It's about, erm, an industry. The forestry industry. I thought you wanted me to teach you English, not, uh, I don't know what you would call it, businesses on Earth or something. I'm afraid I'm not qualified to—”

  “Afraid? You scared? Of me?”

  Well, yes, she was beginning to be, actually, but that's not what she had said.

  “No, but wood, I mean, trees, you understand trees?” Her hands fluttered in the air as she outlined the trunk and, above, scrunched her fingers open and closed to show the branches of leaves. “Teaching you about wood is not teaching you English.”

  “Akkx!” This was an odd guttural sound Gretchen's ears had never before encountered. “You not understand. I know tree. You think I stupid?! I not say wood. I say wood. Wood!”

  His impatience was tinged with rage. His English seemed to be worse than the day before, seemed to have degenerated. She wondered if he had only memorized the sentences he had said to her at the Starbucks. Would this be a long, endless, strenuous, perhaps dangerous hill they would have to learn to climb together?

  “I-I-I—Um! Miss! Miss!” Gretchen called to the secretary. “Ma'am...?” The woman kept typing away. She seemed not to understand 'Miss' or 'Ma'am.' How could these people get around in the USA without any English knowledge?

  “I ask easy question. Wood.” Now Darko was exasperated. “Like, I wood, you wood, she wood.”

  Gretchen's brain finally clicked. She breathed with relief. “Ah! You mean 'would!'”

  “Just what I say!” His hands were balled with fury as he pounded them on his knees. “Just what I tell! Would! Would! Would!”

  “Well! Okay! Let's see.” she nibbled on a dry erase marker. “'Would' means...”

  But what did 'would' mean? It wasn't like 'apple' or 'run.' Her brain raced: “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” “He said he would be late,” “We would visit my grandparents in Ireland every summer when I was a child.” “I would like a chamomile tea with milk and honey.” “Would you please kill him for me?” Were those all the same 'woulds?' Or were they different? How could they be different? They were the same word. Did he want to know one 'would,' or all of them? Were there even more she hadn't thought of? How could she possibly explain it?

  “Would, well, it—that's very complicated. Hard. Why don't start with something easier? I can teach you 'would' later. Why don't we learn about fruit. Apple, banana?”

  “No! I pay you! I want know 'would!' Akkx! You not teach! You not know how teach!”

  Gretchen's stomach clenched with anger. Darko Trajko had put her in this position. She had told him she couldn't teach English.

  “But I told you! Just because I speak English doesn't mean I can teach it!”

  But then she realized, heart sinking, she had put herself in this position. She had practically begged him to take her on as his teacher. The things we do for money.

  Incomprehension vied with anger on Darko's face. His phone, thankfully, rang. He rattled off in his language into it. He hung up.

  “Now,” Darko said, “you not teach today more. You take package. Take package for me.”

  Gretchen was flabbergasted. Now she was a courier?

  “I'm your teacher! Not a delivery person. Maybe she,” she nodded at the swinging earrings, “your secretary can take it?”

  “She type. She can type. You no teach. You can not teach. You bring package with you. You take to address.” He scribbled down an address and tore the page out of the notebook he had marked English Lesson: wood. Except for the title, the page was blank. “You come back same time tomorrow. Know 'would.' Teach me 'would.'”

  As Gretchen waited for the elevator, she thought of all the incomprehensible things Darko Trajko would want to know. 'Would' want to know! God, there it was again! Not only 'would,' but 'for,' 'the,' 'be' (!), which he obviously needed to be made aware of, but she couldn't fathom how nobody had told him about it before. How could anyone learn English without 'be?'

  She inspected the package Darko had given her. It was about ten inches wide and five inches high. Wrapped in brown paper with brown duct tape wrapped around. Depending on what might be inside, it was either suspiciously heavy or suspiciously light. Either way it was suspicious. It felt like a felony. She shook it. It sounded like one, too. If she didn't have so many bills to pay, she'd return the money and tell him to take his job and shove it. Would return.

  She lodged it into her purse next to the blood money, happy she had taken the oversized fake LV with her that day. It only just fit. The elevator pinged and the door opened. Gretchen was relieved to see it was empty. She looked up and down the hall before she entered, making sure there were no, what? Undercover police? Lurking rival gang members? But there was nobody. She pressed Lobby and inspected her reflection in the gold plated control panel. Did she have a good poker face? Did she look guilty? Like a drug mule? No, she looked like a rabbit, a frightened one.

  As Gretchen stepped out into the lobby and smiled at the receptionist the best she could, she felt the weight of the package thumping into her side with every step she took. Was there a bulge? Could everybody see it? Did the average person now have X-ray eyes?

  She cleared the building and wanted to be swallowed up in the lunchtime throngs on the sidewalk of 5th Avenue outside. But there was only a bike courier rolling his bike by. A cardboard box was propped against the huge terra cotta flowerpot which held a wilting palm tree captive. As she passed it, the box jumped on the sidewalk like something out of a Japanese horror movie, and Gretchen screamed. But it was only a homeless man in his home. All she could see was his matted, greasy tufts of colorless hair poking out of the cardboard.

  Too assuage some of her guilt for whatever criminal act she was about to commit thanks to her new employer, and because she was the new Gretchen, she decided to engage in a random act of kindness. She had a purse bursting with money. She slipped a ten dollar bill into the empty coffee cup next to the sign propped against the box that read: AID's suffrer, lost wife, kids, job, got many sickness, please help and god blees you.

  As she passed him, the tufts of hair shifted suddenly, like a viper set to attack. She heard from the depths of the box, “Have a nice day.” It sounded like a threat.

  AN HOUR AND A HALF later, drop off completed, Gretchen sat on the subway heading into Brooklyn to meet David Lee Roth. Her purse and heart were lighter. It had been draining, taking the package to what turned out to be a Svardian auto mechanic's in the Bronx. The owner, she guessed, a swarthy man in filthy overalls that had once been yellow, snatched the package out of her hand, braying something in his language that made it difficult to discern if he were ecstatic, enraged or entertained.

  On the way back to the subway station in Manhattan, on the platform, on the train, up the stairs out into the Bronx and down the twelve blocks to the mechanic's, Gretchen kept ye
lping at the sight of people following her out of the corner of her eye, thugs in corners, cops behind turnstiles, both sides of the law malevolent presences on her tail. But time and again they were only red curls. After one shriek next to a mail box that had people staring strangely at her, she had finally relented, exasperated, and pulled out a rubber band and wound her hair into a stringent ponytail on the top of her head. She suspected she looked ridiculous—it must've looked like a red sea anemone balancing on the back of her skull—but then, she thought, in that neighborhood, in the depths of the Bronx, she had looked ridiculous anyway. She was like a little waif of a candle, flame flickering, winding her way through the drug dealers and gangbangers, the darkness in which she, the little candle, was surrounded.

  She was now on her way to Duarte Hospital, the one a few blocks from her house. David Lee Roth had called and said he was on duty after all; she could meet him for a quick lunch in the 'al fresco' dining area outside the hospital if she wanted to. She wanted to. He had asked if she liked Thai. She told him yes, though she had only had it once, years ago, with Mags and Shirl, and Gretchen had ordered the wrong thing. Mags and Shirl had wolfed down whatever they had ordered (and which smelled delicious to Gretchen), but hers was a massive bowl of branches held captive in rank sewage that wouldn't have smelled out of place heating in one of Nickel and Dime's convection ovens.

  Gretchen spied David at one of the tables under the canopy and her heart fell momentarily. In the glare of the sun on this, a mundane afternoon, he didn't look as dashing, as gorgeous, as he had swooping down from the stars above to save her. But she supposed that was only natural. She had been a chattering, deranged mess when she first laid grateful eyes on him. Now his halo looked a bit tarnished, like his hair, a bit lopsided, like his nose, a bit flabby, like his arms, if a halo could be flabby, which Gretchen guessed it couldn't. But he still had those stunning gray eyes. He was wearing his scrubs.

  David seemed tired, dark circles under his eyes, but he smiled when he saw her. He waved. She waved back, her steps and heartbeat picking up. She weaved through the field of light green scrubs and the nurses and the patients in wheelchairs and with canes and crutches and tanks of oxygen who were smoking near the entrance doors. The recreational tables were to the left of the hospital entrance, wedged between the parking lot, the tree, and a row of battered ambulances in need of paint jobs.

  “Oh, David. It's great to see you. You look tired,” Gretchen greeted him, then immediately wanted to take it back. How many times had she muttered inwardly And fuck you too, you stupid fuck, when a passenger on the plane had said that to her. He seemed to take it better than she ever had.

  “Hi Gretchen. I was called in early for a D and C and a foraminal stenosis this morning.”

  Gretchen couldn't fathom what these might be.

  “Thanks so much for meeting with me, then.”

  He was prying open plastic cartons on the table before him, his elbow holding captive the paper plates and napkins that threatened to blow away in the breeze. She was relieved she detected none of the stench of her Bad Thai Menu Mistake. Her nostrils danced with delight.

  “I got a bit of everything. Over-ordered, I'm afraid, and,” he looked at his watch, and then at the entrance to the hospital, “I haven't got long. I've got an inguinal hernia at a quarter after.”

  “I'm sorry I'm late,” Gretchen said, perching herself on the bench next to him. “I had to come from,” she grimaced, “the Bronx.”

  He looked surprised as he pried something else open.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Don't ask. Please. Anyway, what is all this? Looks delicious!”

  He rattled off some foreign names as he pointed to the dishes.

  “I—”

  She didn't have a clue what she might soon be putting into her mouth, but it seemed there were some noodles, some meat, some rice, perhaps some broccoli and mushrooms and string beans, a few of those branches, but smaller, like twigs and hopefully easier to chew, some leaves, some limes...

  “Here, let me help you,” Gretchen suggested. “And as I'm eating whatever, you can tell me what it's called. I've forgotten all the names already.” She was used to serving at speed (most of her passengers had expected instantaneous results), so soon their plates were piled high. She gripped her chopsticks and, following his lead, dug in.

  “It's too bad we haven't got much time,” Gretchen said. “But first of all, I want to thank you again for saving me.” She bit into something that tasted like ground chicken with lime and mint and a hint of spice. Her tongue danced as she chewed.

  “Gai Larb. No problem. Again. Anyway, what's this about you wanting to go to the cops? Are you sure about that?” He slurped a broad noodle between lips that, thankfully, bucked the trend and were as full and soft as she remembered them. She could easily, she thought as she slipped a chunk of beef into her mouth, imagine kissing those wonderful lips. She looked down at his firm hand with its strong fingers. The chopsticks looked like children's toys gripped in them. Hands that saved lives. Hands that could caress. “You know, the cops'll want you to go over it again and again in detail. Ba Mee. I don't know if it's the right thing to do. It might, you know, be difficult for you. Make you feel like you were locked up in that vestibule again.”

  “Oh,” Gretchen said with a shrug. “I've been thinking it over since I called you. You're right.” Noodles hung from her chopsticks.

  “Pad See-Ew.”

  “It wouldn't make sense to go to the police. After all, the little shits didn't get anything. And I think I'd prefer to forget their horrid little ugly faces, rather than sit down with some sketch artist and be forced to remember, forced to dredge up, every disgusting detail of their hateful noses and chins and cheeks and ears.”

  “Massaman.”

  She bit into a string bean and peered at him out of the corner of her eye. Was he buying it? Could he tell she was making it all up as she was going along? She would never, ever go to the police. She had a very good reason for that. And, ha ha, she suddenly thought, now with the package she had just dropped off for Darko, she wondered if she were more likely to be arrested by the NYPD rather than helped by them. Let alone being employed by them!

  “You know, I feel so stupid,” she continued, because he seemed to be falling for her lies.

  “Mee Grob,” he said as she ate spindly crunchy things that tasted like tomato, but spicy.

  “I'm probably going to become a cop, to tell you the truth. I've applied to join the NYPD, gone through all the tests, and I'm just waiting to hear back. It would be sort of embarrassing if I went to them with this. How could I ever be a good cop if I couldn't even protect myself against those two idiots? Those kids? I was useless! Useless! And, the more I think of...of...what happened, it, the more I'm sure they were amateurs. They seemed, I don't know, nervous or something. Or as if...I can't explain it, like they were doing it just for fun, that they were never going to shoot me or...or, well, you know...take advantage of me.”

  “Tau Hu Hor.

  She eyed him again. He seemed to believe her. He was spooning something that must have been soup into his mouth. She nibbled on a twig, and it was actually tasty.

  “Whatever,” David said. “It's your choice. I think you're making the right one. So...” Those amazing eyes of his gazed at her over the mushroom in the spoon. A wry smile grew on his face. “So...Where does that leave us? Where do we go from here? Not the police station, clearly.”

  Something unseen seemed to pulsate between them there at that table, through the steam rising from the Ba Mee and Tau Hu Hor. Something more exotic and more delicious. He slurped. She gulped. She shifted ever so slightly closer to him on the bench. Then she remembered herself and moved back. She placed down her chopsticks, found her purse, and dug around in its depths.

  “I hope you don't mind what I'm about to do. Oh, I feel so silly now! But, David, you must realize something. I've been burned before. Badly burned.”


  He looked in alarm at the emergency entrance to the hospital.

  “You mean...?!”

  Gretchen laughed and pressed a hand to his arm. His strong, manly arm.

  “Oh, no, not physically.” She sighed. “I don't want to make light of that, but that might have been easier to overcome. No, I mean burned mentally. By a horrible ex.”

  She shuddered at the thought of Mike Brown. It was only logical that, after him, Gretchen was wary of meeting new men. How could she trust anyone again? Traipse blindly, stupidly, that was it, stupidly, into another horror relationship. She wanted to be sure David Lee Roth was who he said he was. As he looked at her with a pity she couldn't stand, she pulled out her notebook. The night before, she had gone online and researched anesthesiology as much as her aching eyes would allow.

  “Before we go any further, if we go any further, if I'm reading the signs correctly...”

  She paused to allow him time to react. He nodded. Her limbs seemed attacked by pins as she inwardly thanked the Lord.

  “I just need to make sure you are who you say you are. Please don't hold it against me. Please don't think I'm strange.”

  “No, I understand.”

  It seemed he did.

  “I know we don't have much time left.” Gretchen looked down at her watch. “So I'll do this as quickly as I can. I have a list of questions for you, and I'd like you to answer them.”

  He wiped a bit of basil from his lips, those lips, and leaned forward.

  “Ask away.” He didn't seem put out. Which gave Gretchen strength. She had learned the night before that a patient's, her, level of consciousness was very much under the control of her anesthesiologist. She liked the sound of this. It made her feel safe. She needed safety after Mike Brown.

  She shook her head in slight embarrassment. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” she said, “so thank you for being so, er, magnanimous. For putting up with my ridiculousness.”

  “If you had a bad time in the past, it makes sense.”