To Wish or Not to Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  I should have told them both that I was a free and independent woman, that I had a Master Plan. That I was stronger than either of them imagined I could be. That I could be infinitely better than either imagined.

  Beyond angry with myself, I kicked the door open.

  A white streak shot past me.

  “Dammit!” I cried, lunging for Tabitha, the cat, but I didn’t have a prayer of catching her. She flew toward the stairwell at the end of the hall with a guttural yowl that shook the corridor walls. She shot down the internal steps that led to the ground floor, the lobby and the great outdoors.

  “Tabitha!” I cried. But I shouldn’t have bothered saying anything at all. My cat was long gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE WORST PART WAS, I’D HAVE TO TELL DANI WHAT HAPPENED. I thought about just scribbling out the bad news in a note and taping it to her door. I couldn’t do that, though. I had to confess in person.

  Later. I just couldn’t face her right then. I couldn’t face anyone.

  Instead, I closed my apartment door, kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto my couch. Even with the Bentley’s ample air-conditioning, I thought that I just might melt into a puddle. It didn’t help that I started to get angry all over again, every single time I replayed my idiotic conversation with Martina. Why hadn’t I stood up to her? Why hadn’t I stood up for Timothy?

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a dozen deep breaths.

  I was exhausted. I don’t know if it was my anger at Martina, or the walk from the theater in the high summer heat, or the frustration of losing Tabitha, but I could barely keep my eyes open. What did it matter if I took a nap, anyway? It wasn’t like I had anyone actually waiting for me. Counting on me. Planning on enjoying my companionship and witty conversation.

  Somewhere between self-recrimination and self-pity, I actually fell asleep. I dreamed that I was stranded in a massive industrial kitchen, facing a stainless-steel conveyor belt that carried mile after mile of chilled puff pastry. My job was to complete an endless supply of turnovers. Each filling, though, was more disgusting than the last. I begged to be released from my obligation, but orders kept coming in, broadcast over a loudspeaker. I could hear endless braying laughter as I fell further and further behind—all the nightmare of an old I Love Lucy routine, with none of the humor.

  Suffice to say, I did not have a restful night.

  As the early summer dawn leaked through my living room windows, I stumbled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Independence Day, the Friday of what would be a long weekend for almost everyone else in Manhattan. We Menagerie! actors, though, had a rehearsal scheduled. We were slipping further and further behind; the constant blocking and reblocking was taking its toll. The entire cast had grumbled when Ken announced the change, but we were committed to spending the day in the theater.

  I was feeling sorry for myself, still running the tap to get something approaching a cool stream when the faucet disappeared in front of me. The faucet, the sink, the granite counter—all were gone.

  “Teel!” I exclaimed through gritted teeth. The last thing I needed now was to be dragged off to the Garden.

  “Special delivery!” said a crisp alto voice. Teel stood to my right, dressed as a mail carrier—summer uniform of shorts and a light blue shirt, snappy eagle logo over her breast pocket. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back in a braid, and years of walking from door to door in all weather had left deep lines beside her muddy hazel eyes. Her skin was dark with a natural tan, and freckles accented her forearms. Her tattoo stood out against her wrist, the golden flames complementing her bronzed flesh. A large leather satchel slumped at her feet, letters cascading over the side.

  “I’m not expecting any special delivery,” I said, biting off my words. I had absolutely no desire to stand in front of the invisible Garden with my genie. I wanted to get back to my apartment, to my glass of water, to my day-long rehearsal.

  “But I am,” Teel said, apparently unconcerned about anything I might desire.

  Ranting wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Raving, either. I dug my toe into the ground that I couldn’t see and asked with false patience, “What delivery are you expecting?”

  “I’m so glad you asked! I’m expecting to be delivered into the Garden. Today. To see Jaze.”

  “I’m not ready to make my fourth wish yet,” I said automatically.

  “You should wish today. Rates might be going up tomorrow.”

  “Rates? What are you talking about?”

  She shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. Isn’t that just something the postal service says? Aren’t rates always going up?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for witty banter, for genie fun and games. “Teel, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something back home.”

  “Really?” She kicked the bag at her feet, sending envelopes flying. I realized that they were all blank. Empty. Meaningless. “What could possibly be more important than helping your genie achieve her life’s goal?”

  “Life’s goal? You go into the Garden and that’s it? That’s the end of the magical road for you?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “Well, love’s goal, then. I go to the Garden and then I come out refreshed. Better able to help motivated wishers. Like you used to be.”

  I sighed at the criticism. “I promise, Teel. When I figure out what I want for my fourth wish, you’ll be the very first to know.”

  “Some people are dedicated to their tasks,” she chided. “‘Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve seen that on the post office across from Penn Station.”

  “It’s true, you know. We genies strive to complete our appointed rounds quickly. When you humans help out.”

  I refused to rise to the bait. “It’s not like you’re just sitting here all the time, waiting for me. I understand that you took care of Justin yesterday.”

  “So?” She sounded defensive.

  “So, I’m not sure I like you hanging out with my nephew. You’re not exactly a good influence, you know.”

  “What better influence could there be than a public servant, delivering mail, bringing messages of good cheer to all and sundry?”

  “You aren’t taking care of him in the form of a mailman,” I pointed out. “Teel, you know that Justin can be wild. What would happen if something went wrong? What if he fell off the roof again? If he really hurt himself?”

  She pinned me with those hazel eyes. “Then I’d pull you in. You could make your fourth wish and everyone would be happy.”

  It wasn’t a threat. Not exactly. I was the one who’d brought up the topic, who’d even initiated the thought of Justin being injured. Nevertheless, goose bumps rose on my arms. I rubbed hard and said, “Don’t even think about it, Teel. You can’t put a little boy’s safety at risk, just so you can get inside your stupid Garden.”

  She snorted. “We mail carriers are experts at the fine print, even if you aren’t.”

  “The fine print?”

  “Section thirty-seven of your contract?” I wasn’t about to admit that I hadn’t read that section in detail. Or any other, for that matter. She scoffed, “Come on—it’s nowhere near as complicated as calculating international postage. As your genie, I’m contractually bound not to injure you or anyone in your immediate family. And yes, Justin counts as immediate,” she clarified before I could ask. “I promise—he’s perfectly safe with me. Besides, he does everything I tell him to do. I taught him how to ride his bike yesterday afternoon.”

  “He’s been doing that for two years.”

  “Not without training wheels.” Wow. That was something. Amy had tried to teach Justin so that they could surprise Derek with a video, but my nephew just couldn’t get the hang of it. He got nervous when he went too fast, and he scuffed the toes of his shoes along the ground. Amy had given up after replacing two pairs of hole-worn Ked
s.

  “I’m impressed,” I said grudgingly.

  “Impressed enough to make a wish?” Teel glanced back at the bag of mail, as if to remind me of the meaning of responsibility. Of obligation. When that action didn’t draw an immediate response, she looked back at the Garden. “Can you believe it?” she asked wistfully. “The freesia never blooms this close to the fence.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Nice try,” I said. For all I knew, there weren’t freesias anywhere near us. In any case, I wasn’t going to make my fourth wish, just because my genie thought the air smelled nice.

  Now, Teel-the-doctor had a much more intriguing pitch. He was easy on the eyes. Easy on the lips.

  I thought about telling Mail Carrier Teel that I wouldn’t talk to her if she didn’t switch over to her doctor form. A tug on her earlobe, and she could do it. I could even make her kiss me, if I wanted to do that. Dr. Teel had been eager enough, in the hospital. In Garden Variety. Eager enough, and totally disconnected from the emotional turmoil of my Master Plan.

  I shook my head. What was I thinking? What sort of person would I be, if I made my genie do my bidding, solely for my physical gratification? Especially when I had absolutely no intention of giving up my fourth wish. Not yet.

  Especially when I was giving so much thought to bringing Timothy into the Master Plan—at least, when I got to the “man” stage. In a year or so, that was, if I considered myself to have completed plant, fish and acquisition of cat, despite my rather obvious failures on all three fronts.

  I made my voice as hard as I knew how, applying every acting trick in my arsenal. “Teel, send me home now.” When she hesitated, I pushed. “Now. Or I will never make that fourth wish.”

  With an alacrity I’d never seen her exercise before, Teel raised her fingers to her earlobe. Two sharp tugs, and I was back in my living room, facing the sunrise alone.

  Shaking my head, I dragged myself into the bathroom. Waiting for the water to heat up for my shower, I looked at Tabitha’s litter box. I really felt bad about letting the cat escape. I couldn’t imagine what I was going to say to Dani. And there was absolutely no way that I could tell Amy what had happened. It was one thing for me to lose a plant and a goldfish—that could happen to anyone, Master Plan or not. But to lose a cat, as well?

  I shampooed my hair twice, as if lathering, rinsing and repeating would be enough to turn my entire life around. I knew myself well enough to recognize that I was working hard to delay something, to avoid an obligation. I towel-dried my hair, pinning it off my neck in an attempt to survive the summer heat. I slipped on a cotton sundress, hoping that its cool mint plaid would be comforting in the fifth, or sixth, or seventh hour of rehearsal. I decided to skip makeup. It was far too hot for makeup.

  And then, I’d run out of excuses. It was time to deal with the mess I’d created yesterday. It was time to deal with Timothy.

  I collected my tote, double-checking to make sure that I had my keys before I flung open the front door. And I almost tripped over the cat lying in the hallway.

  “Tabitha?” I asked, as the calico leaped to her feet. She chirped a friendly greeting and began to weave herself between my ankles. “What are you doing here?”

  Of course she didn’t answer. I looked up and down the hallway, but I couldn’t see any sign of human intervention. Tabitha must have finished her walkabout, only to realize that life was a whole lot better with reliable food, fresh water and a nice, soft bed.

  I glanced at Dani’s door. Now I was grateful that I hadn’t followed through on my first impulse the night before, that I hadn’t left a note explaining how irresponsible I had been. Dani never needed to know that I’d let Tabitha out, that our cat had been wandering the busy streets of Greenwich Village on her own.

  I shooed the calico into my kitchen and opened up a can of cat food—the smelly stuff that looked like shredded high-end tuna. Tabitha was purring up a storm by the time I put her bowl onto the floor. She started to push it around with her nose like a pro.

  I could have watched her for hours. When she was through eating, we could play with a real fur mousie, one of the toys Dani had provided. Or I could brush her! Any cat deserved to be brushed after a traumatizing walk around town!

  There was more of that avoidance behavior. Like it or not, I had to track down Timothy. I wasn’t an idiot.

  Leaving Tabitha’s face still buried in Tuna Supreme, I marched myself down to Garden Variety. The street outside the Bentley was deserted; all of New York City had evacuated for the long Independence Day weekend, lured to beaches and mountain cabins. All of New York City, that was, except for us hardworking actor types.

  Timothy’s courtyard was as deserted as the street. When I turned the doorknob to enter the restaurant, it was locked.

  Well, I’d tried. That was good enough. It wasn’t like I was obligated to break down the door, to force my way inside. If Timothy had wanted company, if he’d planned on being open for the holiday, he certainly would have left the door open. No need for me to stand around, waiting to have one of the most awkward conversations of my life. No need for me to apologize, after all.

  But that was ridiculous. It was barely nine in the morning. Timothy had no reason to open the restaurant this early in the day. He was probably in the back, cooking up whatever treats he planned on bringing to our midmorning rehearsal. I forced myself to knock against the glass windowpane. I was surprised by how loud my rapping sounded, echoing off the flagstones.

  Nothing.

  He wasn’t there. He was probably at his home, wherever that was. He was sleeping in on this holiday morning. He might even skip catering for our rehearsal; who knew what arrangements he’d made with Ken?

  Almost convincing myself that I’d done all I could, I started to turn away. And that was when I heard the lock turn. I whirled back, excuses and apologies on my lips.

  “You look terrible!” I gasped. I was so surprised by Timothy’s appearance that I forgot to be nervous. I forgot to be shy. I forgot to have a mindless, Master Plan–unapproved crush.

  “And good morning to you,” he said wryly.

  He opened the door far enough for me to enter, and I slid past him, silently kicking myself for my exclamation. All of the lights were off in the dining room. The tables looked ghostly, huddling beneath their shrouds of butcher paper. The mismatched plates and silverware seemed drab, almost dusty in the dark.

  “I was working in the kitchen,” Timothy said, extending a hand by way of invitation. I followed, without saying a word.

  I felt like I was being allowed backstage in a theater. Stainless-steel refrigerators and freezers lined one wall. I was facing a huge, deep sink. A deep fryer sat beside a massive ten-burner stove.

  A center island occupied the middle of the room. Its surface was covered with papers, a snowbank of pages littered with tiny black writing. “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “A business plan from your sister. And supporting documentation.” I picked up a random page. It was a blueprint, a proposed redesign for the front room. I saw immediately that the massive fireplace was gone, that a half dozen more tables were crammed into the space. Timothy studied the expression on my face before he said, “She has a lot of ideas.”

  “She always has,” I said.

  “She included financials. And architects’ drawings. And all the statutes and regulations about running a restaurant in New York City. It took me all night to read through this stuff.”

  Well, that explained the pallor of his cheeks, his bloodshot eyes. Now I understood the hopeless set to his shoulders and the subdued way that he set his words between us. Hell, Amy’s advice had been stressful for me over the years, and I was used to her bossiness. She’d never backed up her sisterly recommendations with a library’s worth of documentation, though.

  Timothy huddled on his high stool, staring at the tumble of papers as if every page might sprout wings and take flight. He barely managed to hide a sudden yawn behind his fist
.

  Poor guy. At least exhaustion was something I could fix. Or camouflage, anyway. I crossed the kitchen to the triple-pot coffeemaker and went through the motions of brewing up some fresh, hot caffeine. Timothy started to protest. “That thing’s tricky—”

  “Yeah, the switch is hidden at the back,” I said. At his curious glance, I shrugged. “I used to work catering, remember? I’ve handled my share of tricky coffeemakers.”

  Within seconds, the rich aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. I reached for two mismatched mugs and asked, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asked ruefully.

  “Not this time,” I said. It felt good to be doing something for him, after all the times he’d waited on me. And it kept me from needing to talk, from needing to apologize about rehearsal, as I’d originally planned on doing. Instead, I made a much bigger production of the coffee than was strictly necessary, measuring out sugar into my cup, pouring a precise amount of heavy cream from a pitcher that I found in the refrigerator.

  Timothy took his black, which didn’t really surprise me. Gave me less to do, but didn’t surprise me.

  He took his first swallow, and I watched a little color return to his cheeks. Caffeine wasn’t going to implement Amy’s plans. It wouldn’t solve his landlord problems. But I no longer worried that he was going to collapse on the kitchen floor in front of me. “Okay,” I said, when I thought that he could handle more conversation. “What’s Amy’s verdict?”

  He cleared his throat, looking as uncomfortable as if I’d asked him to share his sexual fantasies. He became fascinated with the handle on his coffee cup. He reached out for a stack of papers, tapping them into a single neat pile, then turning them on edge and tapping them again.

  “What?” I finally said. “What did she tell you?”

  He finally braved my gaze. “Look, I don’t want to drag you into the middle of this.”

  “You’re not dragging me. I’m already here.”

  He sighed. “Amy’s not right for this job. She doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do here. And I don’t think she ever will.”