Eye Spy

by Jenna Mattison

  “Oh, Jackie pooh, my darling hubby. Can I get a little help over here?”

  I sound drunk. Or retarded. The nurse eyes me with disdain for spoiling her coffee break husband hunt, turns on her heel, and promptly struts away.

  Jack saunters towards me with a wide grin. “I think my little wifey pooh got a little jealousy pooh.”

  Flustered and embarrassed, I manage to slur, “Sorry, must be the meds.”

  “Right, Toots. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

  “But my car...”

  “You can hang out at my place till you’re sober enough to drive yourself home.”

  Jack puts his manly arm around my waist and helps me down the corridor. I notice a tattoo that says “Mom” on his bicep, peeking out from under the worn T-shirt.

  What a sweet guy.

  “You’re a sweet guy, you know that?” I think I may have spittled on him. I seem to have developed a lisp as a side effect of the medication. “How come a guy like you isn’t snapped up?”

  He squirms, looking a bit uncomfortable by the line of questioning. So of course I press on. “What are you, one of those confirmed bachelors with a woman at every port?” It’s clear from his flat expression and tense body language that Jack does not want to discuss this. So I definitely can’t stop now. “You are, aren’t you? You’re totally the heartbreaker type. I spotted it a block away,” I say with a pious nod.

  Jack stops dead in his tracks, grabs a firm hold of me by my waist, turns me so that I’m facing him square, and says under his breath angrily, “I was married once, okay? She left me for my best friend on our third anniversary. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to never discuss it again.”

  Oops.

  “Oops…sorry. I’m really just...I didn’t mean anything. It’s just the...”

  “The meds talking, yeah, I know. How about we let the meds take a break from yappin’ for a bit, shall we?” He wraps his arm tighter around my waist, like a buoy keeping me afloat, as we head out to a waiting cab.

  Boy, do I feel like a high heel…atleast I think that’s how the saying goes.

  22

  Nothing like waking to the smell of sizzling bacon. I scan the dim surroundings and slowly get my bearings. Jack’s apartment is nice in that lofty-warehouse-exposed-brick-walls sort of way. It’s connected to the shop by an old freight elevator and a flight of stairs that haven’t been swept since the Nixon era. There’s a massive, primitive wood four-post bed against one wall and a well-worn leather chair and ottoman on the opposite wall, tucked under a large skylight near a huge window.

  The floors are a glossy concrete and the walls lack artwork. But he’s painted the ones that aren’t exposed brick in a rich, milk chocolatey brown, which gives the place the appeal of a snug den. There’s a large, tri-colored cowhide rug that lies in the center of the room. It’s the type of cozy, relaxed atmosphere that makes you want to curl up with a good book on a rainy day. Plus I bet walking downstairs to work has got to make for a stress free commute. I notice the sound of rain hitting the tin roof as I wander to the bathroom.

  I feel hung-over. Checking my cell I notice that it’s two in the morning and that Bernie’s called eight times. I don’t know how the heck I’m going to explain this, but I’ve got to get the sleep out of my eyes before I can even think about it. I wash my face and give myself the once over in the mirror. I even look hung-over.

  As I limp back into the living room, Jack is setting down a fried egg sandwich on a rustic picnic table, his version of a dining room.

  “Hope you like mayo on yours.”

  “I do.”

  I sit and he pours me a tall glass of milk as I take an oversized bite of the fried egg sandwich. A bit of egg yolk dribbles down my chin.

  “Mmmm, you made them runny.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  I study his face as I chew.“What do you make of the seal or crest or whatever that was on the letters? Maybe it’ll lead us to Mr. Calligraphy.”

  “Maybe…but it’s a long shot.

  “Hmmmm. I still want to look into it. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  I take another bite of my sandwich as I watch him eat. He’s really handsome, in that rugged, outdoorsy, blue-collar sort of way. And he makes a mean fried egg sandwich. An errant strand of dark hair falls into his eyes and it dawns on me that I’m shamelessly ogling. He glances up and gives me a playful wink as our eyes meet.

  Uh, oh, attack of the nether region tingles.

  “I should go,” I declare abruptly.

  He gives me a quizzical look with his mouth full. “Okay…”

  “Thanks for everything, really, but I’ve got to get home. Bernie’s probably worried sick.”

  I plop the rest of my barely eaten sandwich on the plate. Jack takes his napkin and wipes the egg off my face, literally. The figurative egg is most definitely still there.

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugs.

  He reaches for my sandwich with little finesse, and adds it to his plate. I quickly grab my purse, pull on my shoes, and robotically make my way out the door as I shout, “Bye. Thanks again!”

  I hobble down the stairs, out the door, into the rain and take a deep breath, opening my mouth wide enough so droplets of rain land on my tongue. Wow, I kept my pinky swear promise even with a head injury and hopped up on narcotics. Not too shabby, Liza.

  23

  As I stand outside in the rain I dial Bernie’s cell and hope for the voicemail but he picks up on the first ring. “Liza where the hell…?”

  I try to think fast but my head still feels full of cement so I blurt before I can stop myself, “ I fell down the stairs and I broke my leg.”

  “What? You broke it? Are you okay?”

  “Well….I didn’t exactly break it, it just felt broken and I got a bad cut so I went to the hospital and they pumped me full of a bunch of drugs. Which was actually kind of fun, and then I just fell asleep and that’s why I didn’t call.

  Pleaselethimbuythispleaselethimbuythis…

  “Where were you when you fell Liza?”

  I freeze, unable to get my dulled brain to think of a believable response. “Ummmm…the market?”

  Silence.

  “What kind of market has stairs?”

  “Ummm, one of those gourmet kind in the city…?”

  “Since when are you interested in cooking?”

  All these questions are making me woozy so I plop myself on a bench, careful to keep my leg extended. The storm is getting intense but I don’t care. I simply can’t walk and talk at the same time right now.

  “You seem like you don’t believe me.”

  “Well…I just…Liza, I know I haven’t been around lately but I hope you’re not…”

  “You hope I’m not what?”

  “You know, seeing someone else.”

  I feel a sudden rush of relief. “That’s crazy. Come on Berns, how can you even ask me that?” I sit on the park bench outside of Eye Spy grinning like an idiot in the pouring rain because I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my husband isn’t cheating on me. I mean, what kind of freak would accuse his wife of cheating if he was doing it himself. Right? I should do something really nice for him like an extended back scratch or something. I just feel so guilty about all this snooping and flirting and lying. I wish I could tell him about Jack, the fire, Poncho and Frizzy, and all the other bizarre stuff that’s been happening lately. But I can’t. He’d never forgive me for invading his privacy this way. I’ve got to carry this secret with me to the grave.

  “I’ll be home soon Berns.” I say and drop the cell into my bag. My leg throbs so me thinks I should fill that prescription on my way home.

  And I’m thinking that back scratch may not happen after all. Maybe I’ll take a picnic to his office tomorrow to make it up to him. That’s sweet, right? Tonight, I have got me a date with a bottle of Vicodin.

  24

  Whoever thought making a picnic basket could be so much fun? Mamma
was right. As I finish cutting the crust off Bernie’s egg salad sandwich, I feel a profound sense of satisfaction. My husband is faithful, I have friends who care about me, and I still look pretty darn good in a dress, regardless of this huge bandage on my leg. I even put on some hooker-red lipstick that Mamma would say makes me look like “I’m askin’ for it.” Maybe I am.

  I tucked the spy equipment into my hope chest this morning, locked it, and hid the key inside the old sunflower-painted vase I got from a flea market years ago. I saved the stuff because, sadly, I’m sure one of the girls will need it someday. And now I’m officially ready to put all this crazy cheating business behind me and get on with my life and my marriage.

  I hear the phone chime from the den. Crap, who could that be? It’s probably a telemarketer. I give in, answering after the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Liza, it’s Jack.”

  “Jack?? How’d you get this number?”

  “I do sell spy equipment, remember?”

  “Yeah, anyway. I’m in the middle of fixing my perfectly faithful husband a picnic. What do you want?”

  “Still holdin’ on to that pipedream, huh?”

  Aargh.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Private Dick? ”

  “Clever. Look, doll, I need your help on this arson thing. I mean, the notes are obviously connected.”

  “Look, you. I’ve got to focus on what’s important now, i.e. my marriage. And that note pretty much said that I shouldn’t hang around you anymore. So no, I can’t help you. And I need both hands to put mustard on this croissant, so I have to go!” I bark and abruptly hang up.

  I guess that was pretty rude. And I lied; I don’t even have any croissants. Oh, well. Jack is not a distraction I need. What I need is to focus on Bernie and remind him of why he fell in love with me in the first place. Shoot, it’s almost noon, don’t want to miss his lunch hour!

  25

  Bernie’s office parking structure’s pretty empty except for a silver Mercedes that pulled in at the same time I did. I could swear I saw that exact car parked across the street in front of the house this morning,. But I’m probably just being paranoid, with all these cryptic notes and fires and stuff.

  I grab the picnic basket, rush towards the service entrance, and pull open the heavy metal door. As I enter the dimly lit shaft, that’s been painted a glossy, tangerine orange, I’m practically skipping I’m so happy (and the pain meds aren’t hurting matters any). I can’t wait to see the look on Bernie’s face.

  A door opens and closes somewhere in the distance, which probably means there’s a delivery coming to one of the six offices. I hope it’s not to the Foot Health Clinic because Bernie would insist on going through the entire order before lunch. And frankly that egg salad sandwich is starting to sound pretty good.

  Brisk footsteps approach as I near the doorway to the inner offices. As I turn to see who’s behind me, I see the outline of a body down the long narrow hall. The figure stops mid-stride then disappears into a recessed fire exit. Hmmm…weird.

  I enter the inner hallway where the walls are painted a lighter shade of the same orange but in a matte finish. There’s short fiber, commercial-grade tan carpet lining the halls, and the doors are a medium-colored oak wood with an opaque glass. The one that leads to Bernie’s clinic reception area is usually wide open. Today it’s closed, but unlocked.

  Hmmm. Jen’s not at her desk. She must’ve taken an early lunch. I hope I haven’t missed Bernie.

  As I make my way down the hallway towards his office, I hear noises coming from exam room two. My spine tingles as I turn the door handle. I guess I can use the picnic basket as a weapon if it’s a burglar. Though I can’t imagine what one might want to burgle at a podiatry office.

  I hear more rustling coming from inside the room and fling the door open to use the element of surprise...and boy am I surprised. I get an eyeful of Bernie’s hairy white ass in mid-thrust and a woman whom I assume to be Jennifer—judging by the dark hair and perfect Barbie body—under him…doggy style.

  Everything switches to slow motion like I’m witnessing some sort of violent accident as Bernie scrambles to pull up his boxers and Jennifer struggles with her skirt. The room seems to tilt onto its side. Dropping the basket, I bolt for the door. My knees are about to buckle. I hear Bernie call out after me as I stumble down the hallway towards the front door.

  Dammit. Of all the days for me to wear three-inch heels!

  I fling them off my feet and leave them lying there on the front stoop as evidence of the gruesome incident. I can barely see through the tears as I trip over my own feet, stubbing my toe on the sidewalk.

  I need carbs.

  26

  The second donut goes down in two bites. I can’t stop sobbing as I chew, which makes the sweet dough taste salty from the tears running into my mouth. I’m sitting on the curb barefoot, my face covered in crumbs and sugar glaze, weeping uncontrollably.

  Heck, can’t imagine why any man would want to cheat on me. I’m quite the catch.

  Donut number three makes me wish I’d bought some milk. Even though I’m crying, I feel numb. It’s all so surreal. The whole scene takes on that Tilt-O-Whirl quality again as it flashes through my mind, just like the third grade spelling bee finals when I realized I’m not so great under pressure.

  My cell vibrates. It’s Bernie again. I let it go to voicemail. I really need the girls right now but if I hear any semblance of an “I told you so,” I’ll probably do something semi-violent so I’ll suffer alone.

  After the seventh donut I finally feel like my knees are getting their feeling back. I contemplate the rest of the dozen and realize that no matter how many of them I eat, it won’t dull the pain. This pain is one that sugar and fried dough can’t put a dent in. I need something to take the edge off. To dampen this feeling that’s coursing through my veins like corrosive acid. I could always get sloppy drunk. But I’d probably end up drunk-dialing Bernie and I’m not ready for that talk yet.

  I could take a couple more of those handy dandy Vicodin thingies, but then again, I should probably nip that addiction waiting to happen in the bud. One vice is quite enough. And the sugary dough kind is probably safer in the long run.

  Suddenly I get a jolt of inspiration, drop the remainder of the donuts in the trash and head for the car.

  I know exactly what to do.

  I’m a woman of action now…for better or for worse…

  27

  I pull up to Eye Spy and park in the red zone. I have to act on this impulse now or I’ll talk myself out of it when the dust settles.

  I fling open the door of the shop, and luckily Parella’s not with a customer. He looks at me, confused.“Hi, Liza. I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

  I quickly close the gap between us, putting my index finger to his lips.“Shhh, don’t speak.” Bullets Over Broadway is one of my all time favorite movies. I channel Dianne Wiest as I give Jack my sexiest come-hither look. I’m not exactly a come-hither sort of gal so it feels a bit awkward and forced, but I commit to it wholeheartedly.

  “Liza, I’m a little…”

  “No, no, don’t. Shhh.” I go in for the kiss. His lips are so soft and…Wow…this is way better than donuts. I stop and take a long, much-needed breath, and as I go in for round number two, Parella pulls away. I try to give him the old, “don’t speak” number again, but he grabs my wrist gently and looks deep into my eyes. The effect is unsettling at best.

  “You caught him, didn’t you?”

  The question burns through me like a hot poker. I turn away, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist. Suddenly I feel like we’re playing out a scene from Days of our Lives. My life has become so dramatic in the last few days.

  “I’m sorry, Liza.”

  “Yeah, me too. I’m such an idiot. I guess the signs were there, you know, the ‘I’m working lates.’ He’s a podiatrist, for God’s sake. How many emergency hangnails can’t wait till morning?
What a dummy I am.”

  There is a long beat of silence while Jack presumably ponders my stupidity.

  “No, you’re not a ‘dummy,’ an adjective which, by the way, I haven’t heard since the third grade. You’re just a romantic broad. You wanna believe that people are good. As naive as that is, it’s nice.”

  I let out a snort. “Yeah. Well, no more of that crap, I’ve learned my lesson. All men are cheating... cheaters.”

  “Come on, where’s that rose-colored glasses wearin’ Liza?”

  “She’s gone. She’s dead to me.” I think I may have actually heard that dialogue on a soap opera once. Jack turns me so that I’m facing him square. He brushes the crumbs off my cheek and licks his finger.

  “Always with the donuts,” he says, eyeing me curiously. “Didn’t realize you were such a Bullets Over Broadway fan.”

  I nod. “In my top ten.”

  He considers me before responding. “You know, I could really use some help before my store catches fire again.”

  I give him a half grin. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Good.”

  I know exactly what he’s doing, and I adore him for it.

  “Alright, fine. Since you really need me.”

  “I do, but don’t think that this means I’m gonna sleep with you, Toots. This is strictly business.”

  I roll my eyes and let out another snort. “Please, that’s an opportunity that’s not going to come by again in this lifetime, mister.”

  “My loss, I guess. I should have taken advantage of the vulnerable dame. But I happen to be a nice guy.” Jack slowly brushes some more crumbs off of my face.

  I tingle from head to toe. It’s really sexy.

  I mean as sexy as crumb brushing can be.

  “I missed a couple.” He says with a smirk.

  “You know what they say about nice guys finishing last.”

  “Oh, well.” He shrugs. “Now if you’re done with all this temptress ballyhoo, we’ve got an arsonist to catch.”