By then I had moved into a comfortable one-bedroom apartment on the lower slope of Russian Hill. I owned a three-year-old Ford, a small portfolio of conservative stocks, a twenty-one-inch TV, a stereo system to satisfy my taste for classical music, a closet filled with Arrow shirts and Roos Atkins suits, and a shelf of books about sailing and seafaring adventure, subjects that had interested me since my teens. I ate dinner fairly often in medium-priced restaurants. I went to an occasional movie or play or symphony performance, alone or sometimes with a date. Sports bored me; I left the only baseball game I attended before it was half over. I paid no attention to politics, or to what was going on in remote places like Vietnam. (I'd avoided the draft out of high school because my vision is less than perfect and I had an inner-ear problem that made me prone to mild dizzy spells.) I was sympathetic to human rights and environmental causes, but never to the point of activism. I lived in a tight little world of my own choosing. I was neither happy nor unhappy. I had few experiences and no expectations, and so there was little to judge happiness by.
Most of the time I was accepting of my life, if not completely content with it. It was what it was; I was what I was. But there was a restlessness in me, a vague, persistent yearning for something else, something more. I thought I'd like to learn how to sail, but I never got around to doing anything more than daydreaming about it. I had other daydreams, too, usually triggered by a book or magazine article or TV show: faraway places, islands in the sun, tropical breezes and sunset voyages on dark blue water, a life of luxury and ease. I made tentative plans for trips to Tahiti and the Caribbean, but I didn't follow through on those either; faraway places seemed too expensive and too far away. The only vacation I took outside California was six days on Maui. It wasn't what I'd expected and I had a lousy time.
This Life I was leading, by conservative standards, was exemplary. By other standards it was pedestrian, dull, empty. I broke no laws of any consequence, I paid my bills and taxes on time, I was a model citizen by every measure. The only difference between me and millions of other model citizens was that I had never been married and I lived alone, not so much by choice as because I'd never met anyone I cared to share my life with. That, and inertia.
Not that I led a monkish existence. There were women before Annalise, a few casual relationships. Some women seem to like quiet men of average height, average weight, average looks; men who wear glasses that give them a studious appearance. We come across as nonthreatening, I suppose. Blue eyes had something to do with it, too. My best feature, Annalise said, and she wasn't the first. Now and then one of the women would consent to go to bed with me, and this happened often enough to satisfy my normal carnal instincts if not theirs. I considered my instincts normal at the time, anyway, but I see myself now a lot more clearly than I did then.
None of the affairs lasted beyond a month, and I suspect one of the reasons is that I wasn't much of a lover. I'd never felt completely comfortable with my sexuality, had a fairly low sex drive as a result. I didn't get laid for the first time until I was nineteen, and it wasn't much of a confidence builder. I don't remember the girl's name or what she looked like. All I remember is her saying, "Not so fast, not so fast," and "Oh God, couldn't you wait," and thinking there must be something wrong with me because I wasn't able to do it right.
But for all of that, I was ripe for someone like Annalise. Not just someone to fall in love with, to fill the void in my life. A kindred spirit, a kind of female alter ego, even though I didn't realize it until months afterward. Alone I was nothing, would always have been nothing. With Annalise, because of Annalise, I was capable of anything, any possibility.
I met her at a wedding reception in Sausalito at the beginning of June. The groom was a young guy named Jim Sanderson who also worked for Amthor Associates, in the research and development division. I knew him casually—we'd had lunch together a few times, more by accident than design—so I was surprised when he included me among the dozen or so coworkers he invited to the reception. When the day came, I almost didn't go. I'd never felt comfortable in large crowds, among strangers; never been much good at small talk. At any sort of social gathering I tended to hide in corners or to wander around aimlessly, avoiding contact as much as possible. Sanderson and his bride both had large families and a broad circle of friends and acquaintances, very few of whom I knew.
But the day turned out bright and clear, balmy, and I didn't feel like holing up in the apartment and I didn't want to hurt Sanderson's feelings by not showing up—not that he'd have noticed. So I went. The reception was held at the Alta Mira Hotel, on the hill overlooking the waterfront and the bay. Tables groaning with food, an open bar, waiters circulating with glasses of champagne, a five-piece orchestra. The swarm of guests was as thick as bees in a hive, setting up the same kind of constant, pulsing buzz.
I located Sanderson and his bride and congratulated them. Then I filled a plate and snagged a glass of champagne and tried to find a corner to hide in. There wasn't any inside, so I wandered out to the far end of the terrace. I'd finished the food and champagne and was looking out over the harbor, about ready to make my escape, when a voice behind me said, "You look a little lost, standing there." I turned, and there she was.
The effect she had on me was cumulative, not immediate. The first two things I noticed were her size and how much hair she had. A couple of inches over five feet tall, so that I had to look down into her face; hair the color of dark honey and worn in a thick feathery wave the way Farrah Fawcett wore hers in Charlie's Angels, the top-rated TV show that year. Then: Nice smile. Lightly tanned and freckled skin. Brown eyes, heart-shaped face, a bump of a nose with a slight upward tilt. Slender body, small breasts, slim legs. White dress with a red flower pinned to it, and a string of pearls at her throat. It was minutes before I realized just how well her features blended into a harmonious whole, that she was close to being beautiful.
Usually I was at a loss for any kind of clever repartee; I don't think well on my feet. But that day I managed to summon a reasonably bright response.
"I was lost," I said, "but now I'm found."
"What? Oh," she said, and laughed. Nice laugh. Rich and deep, not one of those tinkly giggles that some small women have. Then her eyebrows pulled together and she said in serious tones, "Did you mean that Uterally?"
"Literally?"
"What you said about being found. The way it's meant in 'Amazing Grace.'"
"You mean am I religious?"
"If you're a born-again . . ."
"I'm not. Being born once was enough."
"Good. I have a problem with Holy Rollers."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"As long as you aren't one." She smiled again. "You know, this is a pretty odd conversation."
"I guess it is."
"Not that I mind. I find odd appealing—up to a point."
"Is that why you came over to talk to me?"
"No. Because you looked like a lost stray."
"I don't deal well with crowds," I said.
"Shy?"
"You could say that."
"I'm just the opposite. Outgoing. I love parties, the bigger the better." She sipped from the glass she was holding. "Champagne, too. But I think I've about had my limit. What's your limit?"
"One or two glasses. I'm not much of a drinker."
"Mine's five or six. This is number six."
She was a little drunk, I realized then. There was a flush across her cheekbones, and the brown eyes had a glaze.
I asked her if she was a friend of the bride or groom, and she said, "Neither. Friend of a friend who went to school with the bride. You?"
"I work for the same company as the groom."
"Which company would that be?"
"Amthor Associates. In the city."
"That's an engineering firm, isn't it?"
"Yes." I didn't tell her what I did at Amthor and I was glad she didn't ask. Some people equate being an accountant with being dull, uninterestin
g, and the fact that I fit the stereotype embarrassed me in situations like this. "What do you do?"
"I'm a buyer for Kleinfelt's. The department store. Well, assistant buyer. Women's lingerie."
"That sounds interesting."
"Actually," she said, "it's a pretty shitty job."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"Bad Annalise," she said. "Six glasses of champagne makes me say and do things I shouldn't."
"Annalise. That's an unusual name. Euphonious."
"What's that, euphonious?"
"It means pleasing to the ear. What goes with Annalise?"
"Bonner. Is your name euphonious?"
"I doubt it. Jordan Wise."
"You're right, it's not. Are you a wise Wise?"
"Not as often as I'd like to be," I said.
"Me, either. Who is? Well, Bert is. Thinks he is, anyway."
"Who would Bert be?"
"The fellow I came with. But he seems to have disappeared."
"Boyfriend?"
"Jury's still out on that. Why? Are you interested?"
"Yes," I said. Bold. And I'd never been bold before. She brought that out in me right from the first. "I'd like to see you again."
"Are you asking me for a date?"
"Lunch, dinner, a movie, whatever you like."
She thought about it, her head tipped to one side. "Well, maybe," she said. "Jury's still out on that, too."
"When will there be a verdict?"
"After due deliberation. Which just began, so it might take a while. You never know with juries."
"How do I find out?"
That was as far as it went. She didn't have a chance to respond, because another voice said loudly, "Annalise, there you are," and a blue-eyed blond guy, half a head taller and a yard wider than me, came barreling up. He didn't even glance at me; as far as he was concerned, I wasn't even there. "I've been looking all over for you. Come on, there's somebody I want you to meet." He took hold of her arm and started tugging on it.
It cought me flatfooted. I didn't have a chance to say anything more. She smiled at me and shrugged as if to say "What can you do?" and let him drag her off into the crowd.
I felt a rush of anger at the blond guy. Asshole! Yanking on her like that, taking her away! But the anger didn't last long. The dull acceptance that had characterized so much of my life replaced it. So what's the big deal? I thought. She'd probably have said no anyway. Forget it. Forget her.
But I hung around the reception for another half hour, working my way through the crowd. Annalise was gone, or at least I didn't see her anywhere. Finally I left and drove home, feeling flat, putting the flatness down to the crush of strangers even though she was still on my mind. She stayed on my mind the rest of the day, and I dreamed about her that night.
Forget her? Even then, at some level, I knew I never would.
***
It took me nearly a week to work up the nerve to call her. I would've done it sooner if she'd had a listed phone number, but she didn't and nobody I knew who'd been at the reception knew her. I was reluctant to call her at her job. Amthor Associates frowned on personal calls on company time, and I thought Kleinfelt's Department Store would probably feel the same. But it was either that or give up without trying, so I rode the elevator to the lobby on my morning coffee break and called Kleinfelt's on one of the public phones.
She answered with her last name and a Miss in front of it. I identified myself and said that we'd met at the Sanderson reception on Saturday—"Lost and found, if you remember."
"I remember," she said. Not as if she were glad to hear from me, but friendly enough. "I didn't have that much champagne."
"I was wondering," I said, "if the jury has come in yet."
"Jury?" Then she got it and it made her laugh. "Oh, the jury. Bight. Well, let's see. Which case were you interested in?"
"Mainly the one involving me."
"Mmm. Just now, as a matter of fact."
"What's the verdict?"
"In favor of the plaintiff, I think. Why don't you call me again tonight to confirm it?"
She gave me her home number. And when I called her that night, she confirmed the favorable verdict. She was busy Friday and Saturday, but Sunday would be all right for dinner as long as it wasn't a late evening.
She lived in an eight-unit apartment building near Golden Gate Park and the University of California Medical Center. I picked her up there and we went to Castagnola's on Fisherman's Wharf for dinner and then to the Top of the Mark for drinks. Annalise wore white again—a white flared skirt and a pale-blue-and-white blouse under a white jacket. If white is a color, it was her favorite, with pale blue a close second. She drew a lot of male eyes. Being with her made me feel proud and privileged and a little possessive, feelings I'd never had with any other woman.
It wasn't like most first dates: there was no awkwardness between us. She was as easy to talk to as she had been at the wedding reception—naturally gregarious, so comfortable in her own skin she put you at ease right away. She talked freely about herself, but without the constant ego focus of a lot of attractive women. She was twenty-six. She'd grown up in Visalia, in the Central Valley. Her father, a career soldier, had been killed in Korea when she was a baby; her mother died two years later, she wouldn't say from what. She and her younger sister, Ariane, had been raised by their mother's sister—"one of those religious fanatics who quote the Bible fifty times a day and think all men are sex fiends and girls shouldn't be allowed to wear makeup or date before the age of twenty." That was the source of her dislike of Holy Rollers. The aunt had dominated her husband, treated her nieces like "a couple of heathen slaves." Annalise's sister had been brainwashed into following the same path—she ran a Christian day care center in Visalia—but Annalise had moved out and away as soon as she was of age. She'd gotten a sales clerk's job at Kleinfelt's in Fresno, showed initiative, was promoted, applied for and was given the assistant buyer's job at the store's main branch in San Francisco, and moved to the city three years ago.
She didn't like the job; she used the word "shitty" again. It was demanding, time-consuming, barely paid enough for her to afford her apartment. She was on the lookout for something better, more challenging, in the fashion industry. Not as a buyer; as a designer of women's clothing. Her ambition was to move into the world of high fashion. She'd designed dozens of outfits in her spare time, a few of which she felt were quality work, but so far she hadn't had any luck in interesting a potential buyer. Not even Kleinfelt's, she said with some bitterness.
Eventually we got around to me. My background sounded pretty mundane when I related it. When she asked what I did at Amthor, as I was afraid she would, I told her the truth. She took it well enough, but I could tell she was disappointed, that she'd hoped I was a design engineer or even a junior executive. I couldn't Ue to her, either, about whether I had ambitions to be anything other than an accountant. I had none at that time, beyond a promotion to chief accountant someday, and I said as much.
I didn't try to kiss her good-night when I took her home. I felt I was on shaky ground as it was and I didn't want to do anything that might make her like me less. When I asked if I could see her again, I half expected her to say no. But all she said was "Call me."
I waited two days. It was a big relief when she agreed to another date. Saturday night, this time—a step up on her social calendar. My self-esteem was low enough for me to wonder why a woman as attractive and desirable as Annalise would bother with somebody like me. Pity, maybe? Or maybe a quiet, average-looking numbers cruncher was a respite from the usual macho type she dated. It didn't really matter. All I cared about was seeing her again.
That night we ate at a French restaurant on the bay side of Powell Street. Drinks and dancing afterward in the Tonga Room at the Fairmont. She liked to dance close and the feel of her in my arms was as intoxicating as the mai tais we drank. The evening went well enough so that I risked a brief good-night kiss. She didn't object. "Call
me," she said again before I left.
It went on like that for three months. I'd call her early in the week, and she'd tell me whether she was free and on which weekend night. Three weekends she was booked up, or said she was. I knew she dated other men; she'd been open about that. One of them was Bert, the big blond guy she'd been with at the reception. Was she sleeping with him, with any of the other men she saw? The one thing she didn't talk about was her love life, but it seemed certain she had one. She wasn't the virginal type. It made me jealous, but all I could do was bide my time and hope to be favored someday. Her game, her rules.
The Crimes of Jordan Wise Page 2
