Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  “Yeah. Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it okay to be scared?”

  He squeezed my arm. “Sure, hon. Just don’t show it.”

  He prodded me forward. I walked ahead, feeling my prison tether lengthening, thinning. Each step took me further from both his shackles and his safety. Half of me wanted to run as fast as I could and not look back. The other half wanted to run back to him. Odd to have my captor also be my savior.

  My senses spun in ten different directions as I passed the clamor and clatter of the kitchen. I smelled soy sauce and ginger, heard high-pitched foreign voices. Chinese? Vietnamese? I couldn’t tell if they were male or female.

  A smudged and paint-scraped backdoor lay ahead. It was a sharp contrast to the spotlessly clean hallway I’d left behind with its shiny green and white checkered linoleum floor. I stopped briefly, three paces from the jamb. For just a moment, I thought I saw a shadow off to my left. A too familiar whiff of aftershave filtered through the cooking odors. I heard an American male’s soft voice. My heart surged.

  “Robert?” I turned, but no one was there. I blinked, but only the empty hall lay in my vision. Tom was gone.

  Should I run? Something told me he’d anticipated any move I might think of making and was, like a master chess player, already at least six plays ahead of me, the novice in this spy game. The floor even looked like a chessboard. I caught the symbolism. I had to play along like a good little pawn.

  I proceeded with Tom’s instructions. The upper part of the door had a window, covered by a grime-encrusted, frosted windowpane. Sunlight etched through in a diffused, pale yellow. Street sounds—car engines, honking horns, shuffling shoes and chatter—could be heard through the exit. In the dingy reflection of the glass I could barely make out the hall I’d just traversed.

  Sucking in my breath, I reached for the doorknob. It smelled of peanut oil and aged brass. I twisted it and stepped back into the din of the real world—alone and free, yet still very much a captive.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  No Oriental girl waited by the stoop. I heard air brakes and saw the city bus pull to a stop at the corner a few doors away. Its doubled-glass accordion doors opened with a hiss, beckoning me to come ahead.

  “Get on the first bus,” he’d said. I felt the day pass in my hand, took a deep breath of fresh air, and walked up the chipped concrete steps to the sidewalk. I pushed through a few people toward the public transit vehicle. Then, I saw Tom get on the bus. I hastened my step, but an arm grabbed me. “Not this one, the next. You can’t be seen together.”

  I turned to look into two dark eyes, lashes lined above and below with bright blue, coming to a point past each pink-shadowed lid. They were soft, knowing, and kind, set in porcelain skin with pinkish-bronzed blush. She looked younger, yet in some ways older than me. Streetwise, not cubicle naive. I’d gone from a girl’s school study cubicle, to study stalls faintly reeking of cigarettes and beer in a college dorm, to teaching in a square room, to my subterranean accounting cubicle. How much of the world did I know? Her eyes answered back not much.

  She carried a large shopping bag, and shoved my backpack into a bright pink one, stuffed with tissue paper. “Here ya go.” She smiled and hooked my elbow through hers.

  I smiled back at her and matched her stride. Two friends out on a shopping spree. How grand. I followed her lead as she chatted non-stop. I couldn’t understand much of it over the clamor of city street noise, but the tone was friendly, trickled with giggles.

  A half block down and across the street we came to another bus stop. A clear-acrylic, three-sided wedge plastered with ads from professionally printed to hand-scratched messages encased a metal bench. A black man bopping to tunes on his iPod noticed the two of us and scooted over to make room. I mouthed a thank you. He broke the rhythm briefly with a nod. We sat down. My companion began chatting again as I looked up and down the street. We were facing the opposite direction from the bus Tom had boarded.

  I interrupted her in mid-sentence. “Isn’t this the wrong direction?”

  She giggled and slapped my arm. “No silly. We’re going to my Auntie’s for supper. Remember? She lives off of Bluebonnet Circle.”

  Four more people appeared—a man with a briefcase, an older woman with plastic grocery bags cascading from her wrists, and a young mother holding her child by the elbow. His stubby fingers were laden with Kleenex strands and milk chocolate. The same color dribbled down his Donald Duck T-shirt. His mother fussed with his face, clucking. “Why did I let you have that ice cream cone? And why didn’t I bring those wipes? Never mind, here’s our bus.”

  None of them looked like international terrorists, or spies, or bad guys—whoever “they” were supposed to be.

  The bus screeched to a stop, five tire rolls past the bench, of course. A mini panic of humans jostling for seats pursued mostly with apologetic smiles and grunts. I waved my day pass under the indicator, which illuminated green. The driver nodded. I broke a quick grin in response, then felt a push in my right kidney.

  “Let’s sit back there.”

  My companion swiped her pass, and then shuffled me ahead to two seats, facing the rear exit. I grabbed the pole, set my shopping bag down and sat on the hard, curved-plastic seat. The back of my knees felt something sticky. I scooched over a tad.

  “Here’s your purse, silly.” She handed me an off-white, scuffed, vinyl shoulder bag.

  “Thanks. I’ll leave my head behind someday, I think.” I giggled, getting into the role.

  My cohort winked in approval. Then, both eyes pointed to the purse.

  I looked inside to find a red wallet with two twenties, a ten, four fives and a few ones. There was a pre-paid Visa card and a driver’s license. The picture looked like me, but something was wrong. Debra Ann Fuller? DOB 8/19/86? I glanced at my new BFF and knitted my brows.

  She bobbed her head in an affirmative gesture. “I’m Mae Lin. You’re Debbie.”

  I read the rest of what was printed on the license. 5656 Bryant Irvin #1225, Fort Worth, Texas. Okay, lots of complexes along that street. Eyes: Blue. Thank you. Hair: Red. Please, I prefer auburn. My fingers thumbed through the rest of the wallet’s contents. A major medical card and three coupons. When I saw the dog-eared photo of me and Tom leaning against a tree, I coughed. Modern photographic technology at work. We were smiling and holding hands. How cute.

  A small, pink cell phone rang. I glanced at Mae Lin, who flashed me a smile and turned her head to watch the road. I clicked it on. “Hello?”

  “Hey, hon.” Tom’s familiar voice sounded through the airwaves. “Debbie, I can’t make it to Mae Lin’s aunt’s house for dinner. Gotta work late again. But I’ll meet you at ten at the McDonald’s on Berry for a hot fudge sundae, okay?”

  “Okay. But you are not off the hook yet, darling. This is the third time this month.”

  “I know. Your Travis is a bad boy. It’s my new manager, you know. I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Just meet me at Mickey D’s.”

  So he’s Travis now and I’m Debbie? Right. I was beginning to get the hang of this cloak- and-dagger stuff. “All right then, Travis.” I tried not to emphasize the name too much. “I guess. But you better bring me something good.”

  “Love, I’ll bring me. I’m always good. Bye.”

  Gross. “Ha, ha. Bye, sweetheart.” I saccharined it for effect. Mae Lin widened her eyes in mock disgust.

  I sat and watched the streets zip by us. Marquees, canopies over stores, and blurs of people walking by reflected in the sun-shaded green glass of the bus window. Mae Lin slid an emery board over her long lacquered nails. “I don’t like the shades of polish she gave me.”

  “I think it’s cool.”

  “Really?” She fanned her hand in front of her and cocked her head. White and purple streaked nails with tiny rhinestones gleamed back. “Oh, well. Auntie will have a fit. She thinks nails should be short and one color only, preferably pale pink.”

  “And no eyel
iner or large earrings, right?” I rolled my eyes. “Totally old school.”

  “Prehistoric.”

  We giggled in unison.

  “Got any gum?”

  “No. Wanna mint?” She dug in her flowered purse and brought out a small shaker. I stretched out my palm and hoped the candy wasn’t drugged.

  Two miles later, after we’d sucked on our mints, she leaned in. “This is it.” She pulled the cord above our heads and the bus whooshed to a stop. After it rocked back, I stood, grabbed my shopping bag and my purse, and followed Mae Lin off the bus.

  “This way. Not even a block.”

  I gazed behind me to see if anyone else disembarked. We were alone on the sidewalk, except for a woman sweeping her stoop a few doors down and two teenage boys leaning against a mustang, chatting through bluish-gray cigarette smoke. “Are we really going to your aunt’s?”

  Mae Lin looked straight ahead and smirked. “Yes.” She pointed to me and back to herself. “You and I work together at Pauline’s.”

  “The department store downtown?” For thirty years or more it had been an exclusive small boutique until tourists and the glam gals in Dallas discovered it. Suddenly, it blossomed into three store-lengths of chic merchandise, absorbing the children’s shop and costume jewelry store next to it.

  “Uh-huh. You work in accounting, of course, Debbie.” She put a forced emphasis on my name, as if to remind me. “Travis thought it might be more comfortable for you in conversation to have a similar job like you, well, did.”

  “Who else will be there?”

  Mae Lin shrugged. “Who knows? Auntie’s door is always open.”

  She clicked her heels a few paces faster and nodded to a Craftsman cottage with urns of tousled pink and white vinca flanking the steps. A tabby cat lay in a horseshoe shape, its tail dangling from the railing. Wind chimes tinkled when a long red card with Oriental characters printed in bold black strokes twisted in the breeze and collided with the silvery tubes.

  I sucked in my breath, plastered on a smile, and prepared to be Debbie, whoever she was.

  Mae Lin rapped twice on the knocker, then opened the door and called out in what I guessed was Chinese. She motioned me inside. Immediately my nostrils were assaulted by pungent sweet and spicy aromas, which set my salivating glands into overtime. Auntie returned the call from deeper inside the cottage, most likely the kitchen.

  We set down our packages and purses. A small, thin woman with graying hair tied tightly into a bun shuffled across the floor, hands wiping on her apron. Her narrow eyes sprang into black diamonds at the sight of her niece, then widened across her wrinkled face. She looked as old as time and eternally beautiful all at once. “Mae Lin.”

  The two embraced, and held the hug for a moment or two in genuine joy of seeing each other. Then the black diamonds focused on me. “Ah, you are Debbie?”

  I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Yes.”

  The woman bowed slightly. I folded my hands and did the same. She smiled. “Then come, come.”

  Mae Lin winked as we followed the old woman’s shuffle past a tidy living room mixed with Victorian furniture and Oriental art. Strangely, the china floral teacups, crocheted doilies, and jade dragons seemed to work well together. A happy, round-bellied Buddha welcomed all to the hearth and her home. So did the sapphire-glazed pottery filled with salmon geraniums angled to catch the afternoon sun.

  We walked down a narrow hall past a dining room with more Oriental screens and a low, red lacquered table. Scooted under it were individual benches, each decorated in unique, yet well matched, patterns of brightly colorful fabrics. Ferns flanked the windows with rolled bamboo screens. They were edged with Victorian mahogany molding, probably original to the cottage. White spider mums, delicately arranged in a cobalt blue vase, sat in the center of the table. The aromas became stronger as I entered a bright white and blue kitchen. Auntie’s place was very Zen, yet somewhat old-fashioned and cozy at the same time, perhaps due to the simmering pots on the stove and the little woman who now joyfully hovered over them.

  “Sit.” She motioned to a Formica table and chrome chairs reminiscent of the 1950s. Three round woven mats topped the table. Teacups in blue and white Oriental patterns were in the center, and a teapot of like design with a wrapped bamboo handle perched off to the side on a trivet. The woman poured steaming water into the teapot, inhaled and nodded, then clunked the lid back over the opening. A slight fragrance of oranges and roses steamed through a small hole in top.

  “No one else tonight, Auntie?”

  “No, just us. Good quality time.” She patted her niece’s hand, but frowned. Snatching it, she held it to the fluorescent light and clucked her teeth. “Purple and white. Mae Lin.” Her tone was like a master scolding a puppy who’d piddled on the ancestral rug.

  Mae Lin jerked her hand back. Playfully she said, “Want to see my toes?”

  All this time I was casing the joint, in gumshoe lingo. No doubt, this pink cell phone I’d been given was being monitored. Surely Auntie had a phone. I could slip off to use the bathroom, and instead seek it out. But who would I call? The police?

  Hi, 911. I know you think I’m dead, but here’s the deal... They’d probably think I was a nut case.

  Maybe I could call my boss, or Janet, the girl who worked in the next cubicle. But I didn’t know her number. I’d had it in my cell phone, but of course, that was probably at the bottom of the Trinity River by now. Betty, my neighbor, wouldn’t be back until, when? What day was this? Not Sunday. Maybe Monday or Tuesday?

  I felt a sharp jab to my shin. Two pair of blue-lined dark eyes bore holes into me. “Auntie asked you how you liked working at Pauline’s.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit, uh...do you have a restroom?”

  Mae Lin shot me a don’t-dare-try-it look. I smiled and followed her aunt out into the hall. She pointed to a door wedged under the stairs with a tile that read W. C. hanging on it. Right next to another door—the back door. What a stroke of luck. I had money, and ID. I could make a dash for it, then wander into the police department. If they saw me face-to-face, maybe I could convince them.

  I thanked my hostess. She bowed and shuffled back toward the kitchen. I ducked inside the tiny washroom.

  Before I closed the door, I heard Mae Lin’s voice. “Auntie, since it’s just us girls, I’m setting the alarm. It’s getting dark outside. You can’t be too careful these days.”

  Drat.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The hot tea settled my nerves. The evening went well. Mae Lin’s aunt, Mrs. Chang, was intelligent and her stories of growing up in Mao’s regime were fascinating, frightening, and unfathomable. Born into a family of five boys and two girls, she and her younger sister, Mae Lin’s mother, had been smuggled into Hong Kong, then to Seattle. Girls were not valued in Mao’s China and her parents feared for their lives. The family had decided she was old enough to take care of her sibling on the long journey.

  When they left hand in hand, Mrs. Chang was thirteen and her sister four. She never saw her parents or brothers again. They were raised by relatives who had been living in America for two generations. Her sister married a chef and later moved to Fort Worth so they could open their own restaurant.

  Graduating from the University of Washington, Mrs. Chang became a teacher. She met her husband, a Navy pilot, who later shuttled private jets. He went to his ancestors after forty-two years of marriage. They had three sons―now living in Houston, Toronto, and Fort Worth. When her husband died, her eldest son and Mae-Lin’s mother insisted she move to Fort Worth to help in the family restaurant.

  A tingle shot up my neck. It must have been where Tom, uh, Travis had held me captive. How did he know these people? Had Robert?

  My thoughts began to swirl. Perhaps our move to Fort Worth had been a set-up? A cover for Robert and Tom’s covert activities. Was Robert’s boss in on this? Was that why his boss found me the accounting job, using what Robert called his “connections”? And
why Robert begged me to take it instead of teach? The pieces of this puzzle began to fit together, but I didn’t like the picture it formed. Tom was right. My life with Robert had all been a sham.

  I heard a faint ringing coming from the front hall. “I think that’s your cell.” Mae Lin motioned with her eyes. “Mine plays Beethoven’s Fifth. I’m into Beethoven.”

  I excused myself and dashed for the white purse. On the fourth ring I punched the button. “Hello?”

  Nobody was there. I looked at the screen and saw the voicemail symbol. I tapped it and it asked me for a password code. What? I paused, then figured he’d make it easy for me. I plugged in the one I used at work to log onto my computer. Bingo. A mechanical female voice replied, “You have one message. First Message.”

  A strange woman’s voice came on. “Hi Debbie. It’s Mom. Hope you’re having fun at Mae Lin’s aunt’s house. Call me before you head home.”

  Who in the heck was this and just how many people were involved in this thing? I came back to the table and placed the pink cell phone beside me. “It’s Mom. She wants me to call her before I head home.”

  Mae Lin nodded. “Well, then you should. Besides, it’s nine-twenty. Auntie, it’s past your bedtime. Maybe we’d better say goodnight.” She hugged the narrow-shouldered woman and kissed her forehead. Then she grabbed a dish scrubber and soap. “We’ll wash these dishes for you first.”

  Half an hour later, we were all hugs, goodbyes, come back again soon, then out the door.

  I stopped a few paces past the front stoop, cell phone in hand. “Exactly who is my mother?”

  Mae Lin laughed. “This is where we part ways, my friend. Take the Number 7 bus to Berry. McDonald’s is right there. Be smart. Call your mother.” She looked both ways and dashed across the street. I watched as she disappeared around the corner.