Eye Spy

by Jenna Mattison

  I don’t speak French, but I’m presuming that’s Anne’s fancy way of saying, “small apartment for a new divorcée,” so I just nod in agreement and lead the way towards the brownstone steps. There are several kids loitering in the street playing dodge ball and something that resembles motor oil runs thick in the gutter. As we approach, the air at the front step of the brownstone smells strongly of cabbage. I push the button marked “manager,” and a frail, elderly woman comes to the door and opens it suspiciously.

  “Hi, I’m Liza Radley. I have an appointment to look at apartment number nine?”

  She gives me the once-over then says, “Okay, come inside,” in a strong accent I can’t quite place.

  The door opens barely wide enough for us to squeeze though to the dingy, threadbare hallway. She leads us up a narrow flight of stairs, and as we ascend the scent becomes more prevalent. Now I’m thinking maybe Brussels sprouts or broccoli. Turning to see Anne’s reaction, I notice that she’s pulled out a handkerchief and is using it to hold the handrail. Somehow I don’t think this is going to be the “pied-à-terre” she had in mind, and frankly I agree. The whole scene, from the smelly, cruciferous vegetables, to the dimly lit staircase with the ancient brown carpet and the hunched old woman, makes me horribly depressed.

  I go through the motions of checking out the place, so as to not offend. And though the apartment has enormous closets and lovely crown moldings, it’s definitely a pass.

  Our next prospect—which I’m hoping is much more promising—is on Primrose Street. That name is reminiscent of spinsters. I can just imagine them on the front porch drinking lukewarm tea and gossiping shamelessly. But as we round the curb, I see that I couldn’t be more wrong. Tie-dyed curtains hang from the windows and college age kids mill about in ratty clothes.

  We find number 2112, and although it looks like a charming, two-story clapboard, I just don’t think this is going be my next home. I’ve always been a gut-feeling sort of gal, and with our house on Fairbanks in Andover, I just knew it was the one, even before we saw the place. When I said the address aloud, 39291 Fairbanks Drive, it just sounded like home. Bernie thought I was being a nut—of course—and didn’t see the value of my spidey-sense. But the thing with my spidey-sense is, that it’s almost always right. It’s only when I ignore it that things go horribly wrong.

  Anne gives me the fingers crossed sign as a thin, bearded maintenance man lets us into the first floor apartment. Wow. The owners have done a great job of stripping it of every bit of charm it once had and replacing it with a Home Depot chic, homogenized, Middle American, proletariat style. Needless to say this is not going to be the place I call home sweet home.

  #

  “Could you believe that horrible commercial grade carpet?” Anne asks flabbergasted.

  “Yeah. It’s probably covering up some gorgeous original plank wood floors,” I chime, sharing her incredulousness as I stomp down the front steps.

  “Evvy would say that kind of bad taste was criminal.” Anne laughs nervously, trying to sounds light, even with the daunting realization hovering over us that this may be as good as it gets for what I can afford. “Third could be the charm,” she says brightly, a bit too forced, and whisks me away to our next appointment on Spruce.

  It has one good thing going for it already: the street address is 711, which is of course insanely lucky if you’re superstitious (which I am). We walk about four blocks until I realize we have made a complete circle since seeing the first place, and that we’re just down the street and across Commons Park from Eye Spy. As we pass 723 Spruce, I notice a canary yellow, three-story walk up, with white trim and a bird feeder hanging from the front porch. The sunny color and bright trim give it a cottage feel that makes me instantly happy. I cross my fingers and toes hoping that it is in fact our destination.

  A young boy rides his red cruiser down the narrow street and there are planter boxes in nearly every window. Though there are barely any flowers blooming since it’s fall, I can just imagine how sweet it will look in the summertime. Lucky number seven eleven is in fact the canary yellow townhouse. We climb the brick steps and open the glossy red Dutch door into a brightly lit, white-tiled entry. Anne is instantly charmed by the original stained glass hanging above the stairwell and lets out a gasp of delight. After climbing three flights, we find apartment number five. And though I’m left a bit breathless at the end of our journey, the unintended exercise will be exactly what I need. The heavy mahogany stained wood door is propped wide open and there’s a dark haired woman inside, bent over, putting a baking sheet into the oven. For a moment I worry that we have the wrong place, but she turns and notices us in the doorway and smiles warmly. She has straight brown hair cut in a bob and her two front teeth are bigger than the rest, which gives her an eternal youthful appearance. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she grins.

  “Hi, you must be Liza,” she says putting out a delicate hand.

  “Yeah. What a great place,” I proclaim, trying not to gush as I notice sunlight beaming in through the bay window.

  “My husband and I live on the first floor. We bought this as an investment and it’s really turned out to be a labor of love.”

  I glance at the original plank wood floors and the white porcelain farmhouse sink.

  Anne replies enthusiastically, “It shows!”

  Our hostess takes the complement graciously and then catches herself. “Oh, what a dope. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Kate. And if you’re wondering what I was putting in the oven, it’s cinnamon sticks. Because I read somewhere that it helps make a place homier. Jonas thinks I’m a dork when I do stuff like that, and heck, I actually am a bit of a dork, so...oh, well. Guilty as charged.” She laughs.

  From her slight awkwardness and self-deprecating humor, to her keen eye for detail, Kate strikes me as someone I could be friends with. And before I can catch myself I blurt, “I’m getting a divorce.”

  Kate gives me an earnest expression that seems genuinely caring, and her warm brown eyes crinkle at the edges again. “One door closes and another one opens,” she says thoughtfully.

  She’s such a nerd. I love her.

  Kate, who sometime goes by Katy, but never Mrs. O’Leary, shows us the rest of the place, which consists of a bedroom, bathroom with a claw foot slipper tub (my version of lavatory porn), and a white tiled stall shower. The living room has a gorgeous original plaster fireplace mantle over a worn brick hearth, and there’s a tiny bedroom with a view of the dumpster (which isn’t so great, but can easily be remedied with a curtain).

  “I’ll take it,” I say, feet firmly planted on the ground.

  Anne gives me an approving nod. “She’ll take it,” she says, and claps her hands together like a child who just got her first pony ride.

  We all stand in a semi-circle and smile at each other for a beat.

  “So, do I need to fill something out?” I ask with a shrug.

  Kate considers me. “Nah, I’ll put something together. You can sign it when you move in. When did you want to? Move in that is.”

  “Ummm…well, tomorrow if that’s possible?” I blurt, which surprises even me.

  Kate wrings her hands looking unsure. “Oh. Okay…well. I was going to have it properly cleaned.”

  “Any cleaner and you’d have to see someone about OCD,” I snort, scanning the sparkling floors and counters.

  She seems contented with this and says, “Okay. Tomorrow it is then.”

  I can’t believe it. My own place! One giant leap for Lizakind.

  64

  Anne and I decided to stop and have a quick bite at Sam La Grassa’s Deli to celebrate my new pad. It’s pretty famous and has a rugged no nonsense charm. There’s a Formica counter wrapped around the open kitchen and a red neon sign on an exposed brick wall advertising the name. They’re known for serving gigantic pastrami sandwiches with huge kosher dill pickles. The place is bustling with the mid-day lunch crowd. I give Anne my order of signature pastrami and a matzo b
all soup, then duck outside to call the professor to give him an update. His voicemail kicks on immediately, which makes me think he’s probably teaching a class or doing something else equally professorial.

  “Hi there, Professor Mac Mullen. This is Liza Radley calling…you know the person whose house you rented. Well, as it turns out, I found a place and can move in as early as tomorrow. So if you can meet me in the morning I can give you the paperwork and keys and stuff. Okay. Thanks. Bye.” I press end, then make my way to Anne who’s perched at a wood table near a row of windows lining the front of the deli.

  “Professor Mac Mullen is quite the catch,” Anne declares in a sing songy fashion, while stirring her thick malt shake.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”

  “Fine, sweetie, but you can’t go off men forever. It’s just not natural.”

  “What about Josie?”

  Anne looks confused and flustered. “Well, that’s just different.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she’s just really independent, that’s all.” She shrugs.

  “So I guess that makes me dependent?” I blurt, sounding bitchier and more annoyed than I intended.

  Our number gets called and we each grab our trays and head back to the table. The matzo ball soup has green sprigs of herbs and baby carrots floating in it. Anne dives into her tuna on rye with reckless abandon, avoiding further conversation.

  “I guess you’re right. I know you’re not trying to be mean or anything. I guess I haven’t been so independent the last few years, but that’s all changing. Independent’s going to be my middle name,” I declare then take another slurp of soup. Anne gives me a tight-lipped smile and a pat on the arm. I can’t help but feel she doesn’t have much faith in my newfound singledom.

  We finish up our lunch with forced politeness; a daunting distance between us. I take half my mammoth sandwich to go, hoping Jack will take it as another installment in the peace offerings to make up for the breakfast fiasco with Mamma. I have a feeling I’m going to be making up for that one for quite a while. Oh well.

  65

  Jack is with a customer when I push open the door, so I take the leftovers into the back room. I set the brown bag on the old scrubbed, butcher-block table and lay on the tiny sofa, dangling my legs over the arm. I feel a cross between excitement and a deep fear for what the future holds as I daydream about my new apartment. I suppose I’m going to have to furnish it from scratch. The thought, once again, stirs mixed emotions inside of me. I’m presuming this is all normal—with a capital N—when one is going through a divorce. Momentarily, I allow myself to think of Bernie. I get a visual of him from college when his hair used to fall into his eyes as he read and get a sick feeling in the pit of stomach. But that was a lifetime and a full head of hair ago, and now Bernie has lost the follicle battle and I can’t even remember the last time I was actually attracted to him.

  I shake the thought and pull out a pen and paper to make a list of household stuff and furniture I’ll need for the new place but suddenly remember the note from Calligraphy Boy. I grab my bag, pulling the book from the bottom and set it on the trunk table. I impulsively flip to the back of the book and on the second to last page my eyes lock on a crest that looks uncannily close to C. Boy’s sketch. It’s a hand holding a long dagger with a red and blue intertwined rope along the bottom. The words inscribed along the border read ”Et Marte Et Arte.”

  Hmmm. Me thinks we’ve got a match.

  Jack saunters into the backroom and goes directly for the leftovers bag. “Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

  “The least I could do after pursuing that line of questioning in front of Mamma.”

  “Oh, so this is another attempt at a peace offering for making it public knowledge at Dry Dock’s that I only have one ball?”

  “Well, no. It’s not. I mean kinda, well…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “So you really only have one, huh?”

  Jack takes a big bite of the pastrami and nods. “They couldn’t save it; the bullet got lodged inside. P.S. I’m glad my dignity is only worth half a sandwich to you. Scraps from your table no doubt,” he says dramatically. Mouth full.

  “Oh, come on! I’m sorry! How could I have known? I was only trying to make you look good,” I shout, realizing immediately how rotten it sounds.

  “’Cause I was doing pretty badly, aye?”

  I shrug, “Mamma’s a bit of a snob. She comes from a world where men go to prep school then graduate cum laude from an Ivy League. She’s not used to self made men.”

  Jack gives me a grin that kind of lets me off the hook. “Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be asking for your hand in marriage, doll, ’cause I’m thinkin’ your Ma would not be giving us her blessing.”

  I let out a snort. “Yeah, it’s a good thing alright.” Like there was really any danger of that happening.

  Jack stands over me eye balling the open book. “You find a match?”

  “Yup. Says it belong to a Clan Bayne.”

  “I still don’t think it means anything, Columbo. It’s a long shot.”

  “Consider it my pet project.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “So when are we doing our illegal entry bit? I’m jonesing for some criminal activity.”

  “After sundown.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll meet you there because I’ve got a lot of shopping to do to furnish my new apartment.”

  Jack gives me a dopey smile. “Hey, you found a place?”

  “Yeah, and oddly it happens to be right around the corner. Weird, huh?”

  Jack replies smugly, “Yeah. Real coincidence. You just can’t get enough of me, can you, kid?” I lean in to give him a sock in the arm but he ducks away and laughs heartily. “Denied.”

  “Whatever. You’re an infant. I’ll see you later,” I say and slam the door behind me.

  66

  After spending way too much time racking my brain to find anyone I know who speaks Latin I decide to call Josie to have her browse the Internet for the meaning of those Latin words. At least I hope they’re Latin.

  “Hey, ZaZa,” she says, spotting the caller ID no doubt.

  “Hi, can you look up something for me on the Internet? I need to know what some words mean…I think they’re Latin.”

  “Hold on.” I hear her keypad clicking in the background. “Okay, sock it to me.”

  “Et marte et arte,” I say, feeling self-conscious.

  Clickety-click click.

  “By strength and art. It’s a motto apparently used in the late fourteen hundreds by a Scottish clan that lived at Turloch castle.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “Liza, since when do you call me for advice on medieval Scottish clans?”

  “It may be a clue.”

  “A clue to what?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m hoping it means something.”

  “Cryptic. You’ve becoming quite exciting in your singledom.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Got to go.”

  Scottish clans huh? Interesting indeed….

  67

  I haven’t been to a thrift store in years, but it strikes me as a good place as any to furnish a house quick and cheap. I’ve always found thrift store shopping to be a treasure hunt; you never know what you’ll stumble on. It could be syphilis or a sterling silver candlestick; it’s a toss up really.

  When Bernie and I were shopping for our off campus place, we found a gold plated samovar (a beautiful tea making contraption used by Russians and Middle Easterners). We used it as a plant stand until one of our neighbors pointed out its intended function. Although we never did make tea in it, we felt weird planting any pot buds in there after that.

  I find the most charming apple green gingham curtains that look about the right size for the dumpster view window. I stuff them into my ever-growing cart. Apple green and lemon yellow will be the perfect accent colors for my new place, very fresh and springtime like. Perfect for a new start. An old farmhous
e table that looks as if it’s been painted at least half a dozen times, from green to red then back again sits near the back wall. I instantly love it. In the corner of the shop, I find two mismatched white wood chairs that would work nicely with it, creating an eclectic dining area. One has wood spindles along the back, and the other looks like it belongs at a desk in an old schoolhouse. As I wander through the shop on a design-on-a-dime high I realize that I’ve pretty much furnished my whole place. Except for the bed, of course. That’s where I draw the line. No used flea-infested mattresses for me. I’ll just call that place with the annoying ads that feature the guy with the squeaky voice and makeshift crown. The self-anointed Mattress King.

  After paying for my loot, I give them my new address for delivery tomorrow between noon and three. I really despise those delivery “windows,” because they always show up ten minutes after the designated slot. What a “racket,” Jack would say.

  Jack. What an odd man. I can’t quite decide whether I love him or hate him or both, but there are definitely some strong feelings there. But we’re working together now and I’m off men so it just simply cannot be between us. Unrequited love is so much more fulfilling in the end anyway; the reality could never be as good as the fantasy. Especially since fantasizing about Parella has become my new pastime. Something about the way his broad shoulders move when he walks and that easy, purposeful saunter of his really do a gal in.

  I shake the naughty, budding thoughts; I’m too busy for whimsy right now. I have just enough time to swing by the house for a quick shower and change my clothes. I’ll don my cat burglar/ninja outfit for tonight’s adventure, which I’m sure will have Jack labeling me a nerd or the film noir equivalent.

  68

  As I lather with one of those nylon loofahs Mamma always gives me as part of my X-mas stocking, I make a mental list of everything that needs to be packed by morning and grasp swiftly that it’s really not all that much. How sad. Mainly just clothes, toiletries, the meager contents of my hope chest, and the box of pictures I took the year I thought my life’s calling was to be a National Geographic photographer. The fly in the ointment was that I really only ended up taking pictures of shoes. I was drawn to photographing feet of all colors, sizes, and social classes. Anyway, as weird as the pictures are, they mean something to me. Maybe I’ll take up photography again.