“Am I to gather that no man has snatched you up yet? What a surprise.” He quips.
Apparently maturity isn’t his thing. I sigh.
“I prefer to be the snatcher, not the snatchee, I’m afraid.” I square my shoulders. “Can I please talk to some of the townies you have acting? I’d like to get a player’s perspective on the production.”
“That’s what all the single girls say,” Ambroos laughs.
Jerk. My voice rising, I snap, “Wasn’t your name Bob in college?”
He glares at me and mom’s eyes widen. She says, “Honey, go meet the actors-“
“Don’t tell me what to do!” My breath comes fast and my hands ball into fists.
“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m suggesting that you go meet the actors before you get yourself thrown out of-“
“Pendleton Falls Herald, you say? Our playwright is from Pendleton Falls. Why don’t you go chat with Leslie in room C and your delightful mother and I will go meet the actors.”
Delightful? Yes, that’s totally the word I would use to describe her.
He grabs mom’s arm and leads her away, saying, “I’d be honored to take my mother with me to visit the theater. Of course, she died when I was twenty-four. I took the name Ambroos after her father.”
“You poor thing! How lovely that you chose a family name. My husband is a strong believer in the power of a name.”
Jesus, is he grabbing her ass? He can’t be. I have to be seeing things. Calm it down, Piper.
I rub my hands into my temples.
Room C is actually just a glorified storage closet at the back of the main room. I peer through the glass window and find Leslie Marks. She’s sitting at a desk, pen in hand, marking up the script with one hand and flipping through pages of notes with the other.
I knock and she motions me to enter.
There isn’t a ton of space in the room, just enough for a desk and three chairs, some books and props piled up on the floor.
“Leslie Marks?” I ask, just to make sure.
She smiles, nods, a grin wide across her face, her curls back off her head with a bedazzled headband. “How can I help you?”
I explain that I’m a reporter. “So, what’s this play about?”
She grins, “It’s a surprise, actually, for my daughter. Sort of reflects my own story, you know? A mother who loses herself in a fog of grief, and the daughter that pulls her through it.”
Oh, well. That explains her radio-silence when it comes to her daughter.
“Sounds like an amazing kid.”
“She has no idea, I don’t even know that she’ll understand when she sees the play.” She shrugs, “But daughters tend to be blind to the inner workings of their mothers, hard to see outside yourself and realize that your mom is a woman. Flawed and entirely human, and not the whole universe. Your mother is the moral axis on which your world swings, and it’s hard to step back and realize she’s just Susan, or Jane, or Leslie.” Leslie smiles and my stomach sort of flips a bit.
“Does she know that you’re okay, though?”
“What do you mean?” Leslie asks, staring up from her script with a smile.
I sigh. I think I am going to have to break my very own rules here. “Look, I’m not here doing a story on the play.”
She frowns, pushes her chair back a tad.
“No, please don’t worry, I’m not some rabid fan or whatever either-“
“I don’t have any of those, this is my first play.”
“You do. You have your daughter, and she’s worried that you’re sick.” I opened the email letter that the girl sent, breaking like a thousand of my own moral dictates, and show it to her mom.
“Oh no,” She whispers, touching the screen of my phone with delicate fingers, her face twisted but reverent. “My poor baby. When Garret died, he did it slowly, like draining all the air from the tires that kept our family running. Of course she thinks I must be sick, too.”
She grabs my hand, squeezes it, and exits the room. Leaving me standing alone with a fading screen and one mother’s desperate love song to her daughter.
The daughter thinks the mom is distancing herself, dying alone, and the mother thinks she’s planning a grand surprise for her beloved daughter.
What is it about mothers and daughters that things just go so wrong, no matter how well intentioned?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: You Are Not Going To Believe This
Hey Sis,
I know you’re not speaking to me at the moment, and again, I’m sorry. For years I’ve tried to lie to myself about it, tell myself that I wasn’t weak and honestly, these days I don’t even remember if I was more ashamed of having an affair with Ted or of going back to Phil. How I ever convinced myself that staying with Phil was the right thing to do I’ll never know.
I don’t know if I kept it from you more because I was ashamed or if I was afraid that you would tell me to leave Phil for good. I wasn’t ready to leave Phil at the time, and I should have been, and now I’m ashamed of that, too. I’m not sure if my actions were scandalous or pathetic, probably some mixture of both. I’ve never kept anything from you before or since in my entire life and even though I know that this whole thing gives you plenty of reasons to hate me, I really hope that you don’t. You are not just my sister, you’re my best friend.
Oh, and speaking of scandalous, some frisky young Dutch man tried to entice me into a closet! Can you believe it? One second he’s showing me around the theater like a perfect gentleman and the next he’s dragging me into a closet telling me that married women make the best lovers!
Ambroos, I think was his name. What a cheeky thing! I told him that if he didn’t release my bum that instant that I’d shove my fist so far into his gut he’d vomit out his appendix. I didn’t tell Ted, but I should warn Piper, she seemed rather interested in him.
Oh, and I heard from Rosalind that Piper did send in the essay to the Daughters of the Royal Mountain. The essay was supposed to be about Piper’s personal hero. All of the other girls wrote about you and me, which the ladies had been hoping for, but Piper went ahead and wrote her essay about Victoria Woodhull. I suppose I should be proud that my daughter admires the first woman to ever run for president, but still, the chances of my being accepted as a candidate for membership have dramatically decreased.
Please forgive me,
-Ann
Chapter 12
Don’t Feed the Mansquatch
Dear Miss Behave,
My weekends are terribly dull, what should I do?
Sincerely,
Bored in Bartlem
Dear Bored,
I have the answer cupcake! You should go see YOU ARE NOT ALONE, a play premiering this weekend at UMASS Oakville. It’s written by a local playwright, Ms. Leslie Marks, for her daughter.
So, get your culture on, darling! Though you may have to drink a margarita before you go, as they may frown on such beverages on campus.
Love and Stagepaint,
-Miss Behave
I’ve heard that during a job interview, it's often good to prepare a list of questions that you would like to ask them about the job, so I spent half of last night preparing a list of questions for me to ask the interviewer from the Sentinel. Now, five minutes before the Skype interview is scheduled to begin, I’m fairly confident.
Mostly.
Is it time for the call yet? I fiddle with my hair and re-touch my lipstick for the three hundredth time. I'm not sure what Skype protocol is for appropriate background scenery, so I march all over the house with the laptop. Looking at myself in the camera to see which position is the most flattering and studious looking.
It’s not as easy a decision as I thought it would be. The office has great light, but the bookcases that line the walls are littered with my collection of vintage romances. I can’t expect them to notice my first edition Dostoyevsky when there are such juicy
bodice-rippers around.
I get up and move again, this time I sit in a big comfortable armchair that that is in front of a cheery yellow wall with a painting of flowers. Does that look too girly?
Why is this so complicated?
I go back to the living room and scooch the armchair over so that instead of being underneath the painting, it’s underneath the plain yellow wall.
Even though it's bright, it still looks at least somewhat studious. I'd rather say nothing than say the wrong thing.
Sitting in the chair, I push the laptop back to check the best angle. I find a safe, flattering distance and make sure that the buttons on my shirt are buttoned tight all the way up to my neck.
When I interviewed with Hunter and Abigail for this job, we met at a coffee shop and I wore the loosest sweater I could find and a long pencil skirt that came down well past my knees. Hunter put me at ease right away and we sat there chatting happily about the art on the walls of the café and the nature of the small town. Before I knew it we were discussing Warhol and Liechtenstein and I was being offered the job, Abigail sitting next to Hunter, not saying a word. Playing with her phone.
My throat tightens, I hope this job interview goes half as well.
Okay, so now it's 7:33 PM. The interviewer said that he would call at 7:30. Is my laptop working?
I don't call them, do I? No, that would be pushy. I don't know if I want to be seen as too pushy.
So I sit back in the chair and I twiddle my thumbs.
Literally, like I twiddle them. Twirling one around the other.
I grip the sides of the armchair, forcing my fingers to be still.
At 7:52 PM the Skype notification rings. Finally! I hit on and see the faces of a woman in a long sleeved Henley and a man in a hoodie and khakis. They both quickly give a once-over of my button-down shirt.
I grimace, what do I make of this? Well, I guess it's usually the interviewee who dresses up and not necessarily the interviewers, so maybe I shouldn't read anything into it.
I hope.
They greet me and introduce themselves as they flip through a pile of papers. The woman starts, "Let me find your information here, Serena? You are Serena Jessop correct?"
"Um, no ma’am. I'm Piper. I am the one that works at the-"
“Oh yes, Piper, the advice columnist. Well, that's fun. Do you enjoy telling other people what to wear?" Her sneer leads me to believe that she's not a fan.
The man, thankfully, cuts her off by asking, "Can you tell me why you think the Sentinel is going to be a good fit for you?"
I give the answer that I prepped, hoping it strikes just the right mix of enthusiasm and intelligence. The interview goes on, full of questions like what I think of their website and examples of times that I’ve chased down a good story.
The woman asks, "Tell us why you advised someone to become a cat lady? Can I assume then that your dating life isn't to be worried about?"
My cheeks burn and I place my hands together on my lap. The man turns the color of a beet and glares at his co-worker, who smiles wickedly. Huh.
"I'm not in a relationship currently."
"Well, there are plenty of cats here for you, too." She guffaws and shoves some of what looks to be trail mix in her mouth. While chewing, she asks, "On that note, who would your key contacts be here in Chicago?”
Um, right. Contacts, I would need those, “I plan to get to know people in the community, not just policeman and hospital staff, but also teachers and shopkeepers and things. You never know who’s going to give you the big lead, right?”
“Uh-huh, and how would you do that?” The woman shoves more trail mix into her mouth and a raisin droops and sticks to the corner of her mouth.
My ears ring and my hands flounder around for a glass of water that isn’t there. “Well, I guess I’d go to local council meetings, board of education meetings-“
“I think I've heard enough about enough of her, Peter, you done?"
The man smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eye.
His round face grows stern, like a pumpkin carved with a straight-line mouth, "Yes, I think that's enough. Thank you so much for your time, you'll be hearing from us one way or the other shortly." The screen goes black and I let out a deep breath. I stand up stretch my back.
It sure didn’t seem like it went all that great.
My stomach twists in an odd way. Do I want it to have gone well? I mean, if I move, then everything here is gone.
And I'm not so sure how I feel about that.
I stand outside on the sidewalk in front of Brookes Diamonds. I want to grab a few more pictures and maybe some quotes from the staff.
Reaching for the handle, I pause as a man, a burly, man-squatch sort of guy, asks, “Excuse me, miss?”
My stomach drops. “Yes?”
“You know Gary Lindquist, right?” His lips, pale compared to the rusty stubble on his cheeks, quiver like worms. I shiver.
“I’m sorry, no, I don’t.” I open the door to the jewelry shop. That way if I scream then maybe someone will hear and call the police.
He leans on the door, closing it, and I freeze. He smells like cheap aftershave and chili fries. “Look, I know that you do, so let’s not play coy here, sweetheart. He owes us, big-time. Tell him Frank was asking for him.”
I step on his toe, hard, with my boot. “I’m not your sweetheart!” I shout and run inside the store. Bolting to the girl behind the counter, who startles enough to drop the book she was holding, I take out my phone to call the police. But first, Gen. My eyes dash back to the door as I wait for her to pick up, but the man is gone. I get voicemail. “Genn! It’s me. The man, one of the men from the car, oh my God, just call me!”
Placing both my hands on the counter I look into the concerned eyes of the salesclerk. “Hunter. I need to talk to Hunter.”
“He’s in New York today, but I can-“
“Miss Anderson, how delightful to see you.” My God, not the she-beast! Mrs. Brookes emerges from the door in the back, followed closely by my father. Really, Karma? Just, really?
“No need to be so formal with my BabyGirl, Bunny!” Dad, oblivious to the fact that I’m shaking, strides out from around the counter and pulls me into a bear hug.
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, Piper, whatever seems to be the matter?”
I open my mouth, then shut it as I stare at her from over Dad’s shoulder. Now, if it were Mom and Ted, I admit that I would break down and let them see exactly how shaken Conan the Barbarian out there made me, but-
As Dad releases me, I straighten my clothes and pat at my curls. “Nothing, just some guy looking for a Gary Lindquist. I guess this Gary owes the man money, and thought that I knew him. I was just about to call the police.”
Mrs. Brookes, her words sneery, says, “Yes, well, that’s why I tried to teach my son to choose his friends wisely. Sometimes you just never know.”
Dad, his face three shades paler than it was two seconds ago, says, “Did he hurt you? Because you shouldn’t really bother the police if he didn’t actually do anything.” He looks over at Mrs. Brookes. “Why don’t you join Bunny and I for coffee?”
Oh God, no! How did I wander into this circle of hell? “I just had some coffee, I’m fine.“
Mrs. Brookes, or should I say, Bunny, adds, “You don’t have to join us for coffee if you don’t want to, but I disagree with Phil. Call the police. Can’t have men going around harassing people outside of the store.” She sets her Prada handbag down on the counter. “If Mark at the station desk gives you any trouble, pass him to me.”
I shiver. Something tells me that it sucks to be Mark. I pick up the phone.
Ann
She stands outside Elise’s door, shivering against the wind. The sun overhead does nothing to warm the fear growing in her bones. Knocking again, knuckles raw, she waits. Elise should be home, her car is here. Damn. She knocks again and again and shouts, “I’m sorry. Let me in.”
The closed door ho
ld firm, like it’s mocking her desperation. “I promise I’ll tell Piper. I will. Just don’t shut me out.” The breeze sweeps through the covered porch, whipping the cornstalks Elise has tied to the pillars, small pumpkins, sagging with rot, sway a bit. One pumpkin sitting at the base of the last white pillar has been ravaged by a squirrel, soggy insides exposed to the world. Raising her hand, she slams it into the door so hard that the pain jolts her wrists and elbows and shoulders, again and again and again. “Please!”
A car drives past, its tires hitting the pavement loud for a moment and then it’s gone. Leaving Ann alone in silence.
Chapter 13
Odd Fathers
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Advice
Dear Miss Behave,
Rumor has it that my youngest daughter may be suffering from a lack of self-confidence after flubbing a job interview. Do you think that she’d agree to have lunch with her mother and her mother’s friend Derek next Thursday? Derek, mind you, is the Editorial Page Editor for the Sentinel. I have no idea what an Editorial Page Editor does, exactly, but I’m sure it’s important.
Best,
-Hungry in Hampstead (I’m not really in Hampstead, I’m home, on the couch, next to Ted. Save me from these space exploration shows! Just get people on Mars already so I can go to bed!)
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Advice
Dear Hungry,
Don’t rush NASA, darling! They invented TANG, didn’t they? Give them time to avoid any Star Ship-Trooper, alien-massacre like scenarios and do it right.
And even though your daughter completely flubbed her interview, she’d love to meet the Editorial Page Editor and her darling mother for lunch, as long as said mother promises not to try and make any kind of love connection on behalf of her daughter. Seriously, no conning the waitstaff, said Editorial Page Editor, or anyone else within shouting distance into dating your daughter. Leave that to the professionals, like the Internet.
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 16
