Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  “Hey. You having fun tonight?” I asked. I didn’t know what to say or what I was doing. Part of me wished Liz was there to guide me, as if that would help, God bless her single soul. “What’re you up to?” I sent after no response after a while. Looking through the door, I could see he was still awake and active. Whatever was going on with the game must’ve been too interesting.

  “nm. u?” he finally said. The grammar, or lack thereof, made me cringe.

  “Husband’s ignoring me,” I said. “Too busy drinking.” Nothing hurts like the truth, right?

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Maybe I should find someone else who’d appreciate me for a night.”

  The “Typing...” icon went crazy, so I took the opportunity to make a round through the living room, making sure everyone’s cups and stomachs were full. Jerry kept glancing at his phone, nervously rubbing and tapping the sides. I asked him if everything was all right in the sweetest, most caring way I could muster, but he grumbled and said something about his stomach bothering him without making any eye contact. I dug out a container of Tums and sat it on the end table beside him just to be smart. By the time I sat down again and checked my phone, he’d sent a response.

  “Seems rash. Maybe it’s better to think about with a more sober mind.”

  I left him with that, letting the thought simmer and rot in his mind. Jer stared at the rest of the game that night with glazed eyes—in part, I hoped, thanks to me. I went to work the next morning the happiest I’d been in ages. Something about the lies and teasing, the games and turns of it all, got me riled up. Now I just had to wait. So that Monday, I let Liz tell me her horror stories of dating that weekend, keeping an eye on my phone’s notifications the whole time.

  But nothing came. And nothing came Tuesday, where Helyne took me to another cafe outing. By Wednesday, I was preparing a message to send to him as I drove to Team Carol Lee. At this point, I can’t even recall what line it went along, because when I got to the office, I found Liz had left a copy of the Courier Times out on the desk. She liked to do the crossword and Sudoku in the Entertainment section, leaving the rest until the end of our shifts, when she’d ball it up and throw it in the recycling bin. But that morning, the headline “Mysterious Man Murdered” caught my eye.

  My heart pounded faster and faster as I read the words “unidentified man,” “body found in Levittown apartment,” and “multiple aliases.” When I turned to the Local section to continue the article, a gray picture was included of my mystery man. I dropped the paper to the floor and let out a sob, running out the door and patting myself repeatedly to make sure my pack of cigarettes were still in my jacket. After my third one, my hands steadied enough to go back inside, but I didn’t think I’d get much done that day. I hadn’t even clocked in yet.

  I went back and reread the article, discovering I wasn’t the only one who never learned his name. The police were looking for anyone with helpful information, but I didn’t have anything to add. He treated me like a lady and gave me the attention I needed at the time. But no, officer, I never learned his real name. I didn’t even know he lived that close to me.

  Jerry came online shortly after I clocked in, and I messaged him—as Violet, of course—with, “It’s a long story, but just tell me it’s going to be all right. Even if it’s a lie. I just need to hear it.” After another round of the “Typing...” icon, he did as I asked. Then after a pause, he asked if I wanted to talk about whatever was going on. The man I should’ve been talking to weeks ago asking me why I was upset over the man I wound up talking to instead. The thought clenched my stomach.

  Liz and I chatted for the rest of the shift about nothing in particular. At home, I threw together some finger foods to pacify the boys if they came home and cocooned in the bedroom with my blankets and a Mary Higgins Clark novel the boys bought me for Christmas. Wine found its way into the mix at some point in the evening, and the next thing I knew, it was an hour before my alarm goes off in the morning. Jer snored beside me, and the house was filled with that gentle sound of a full house—people turning in their sleep, the occasional cough, and so on.

  The sun wasn’t even up yet, but it was one of those “Well, I’m up” kind of moments. I didn’t want to wake anyone with the television, so I played on my phone and smoked in the kitchen. The app Liz installed popped up a notification saying I received a message on the Violet account from someone named Herbie Storing with a profile photo strangely ambiguous like mine. Jer was asleep, so I wasn’t sure who else would contact me that way, but when I opened the message, I nearly dropped the phone.

  “Rita? Rita Rizzo? Is that you?”

  I nervously typed in, “Who is this?”

  “I told you Carl Frahm at first. And the next night I said Richter.”

  That time I dropped the phone. It clattered on the kitchen table, and the chair screeched across the linoleum as I backed away, grabbing the edge of the counter and trying my darnedest to catch my breath. Oh, Dottie, my head swam like I’d drunken all the wine in the house. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, and lights turned on throughout the neighborhood. A newspaper delivery person drove down the road tossing bags into driveways. And a dead man was messaging me on Facebook.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” I asked when I got more composure.

  “For people who can’t figure out what my name is, they’re pretty confident in my vitals.” Lord knows he had a point. “It’s a long story, but I’m fine. Perfectly healthy. But hiding. Don’t know who to trust. Someone’s after me obviously. Thought I could trust you. Can I trust you, Candy?”

  “How did you find me?”

  My husband made me hate the “Typing...” icon, but the lack of it can be much worse sometimes. After a while, the dot next to his name indicating he was online turned off, and I sat much longer than I’d care to admit, waiting for the dot to come back. Eventually the men stirred, so I cooked a hearty breakfast like I would have on one of their birthdays. Anything to keep my hands and mind busy, not to mention keeping me away from my phone.

  After hours of staring blankly at my work computer, having listened as politely as I could manage to Liz describing the ins and outs of using AshleyMadison.com, I received another message from the supposed Richter, the mystery man who kept getting more and more mysterious. It simply said, “Do you remember dancing?”

  “When?”

  “The first night we met. You had had a few drinks, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

  “Was I fresh?” I asked. I’m not experienced with being black-out drunk, Heaven knows, so I couldn’t imagine what me would come out. But he told me I was quite the lady.

  “You just wanted to move,” he said. “And I liked the way you did.”

  I could feel myself blush. Jer and I had spent so much of our early years together, right up until Dommy started kicking, going to the Paso Doble Ballroom where the old A&P was. I’d tire him out, even when he was a young man. I may not care much about music, but my younger self definitely loved to move to it. Black-out me apparently did too. And here was someone complimenting me on it after Lord knows how long since the last time. It made me pine for the old ballroom, which shut down and turned into an aquarium a few years back.

  “I want to give you a present,” my mystery man said.

  Oh, Dorothea, promise you won’t think less of me. An eye for an eye, right? That’s what the Bible says. A fair portion of its beginning seems to be about vengeance. So I’m sure the Lord wouldn’t judge me too harshly for what I did. Not after what that Latino queer did to me, that is. See, the present the person on the other side of that profile gave to me was the address and schedule of where the Latino worked. Even gave me his car’s make and model. Lord, help me, but how could I resist?

  While we worked on the dishes that night, Helyne asked if I was okay. I seemed to be somewhere else all evening, she said. “A girl at work got me thinking about revenge,” I told her. “Vengeance. Balance and the such. Eyes f
or eyes leaving everyone blind, you know?” I watched for some reaction in our reflections in the window over the sink, but her face didn’t seem to emote anything. “What do you think about getting back at people who’ve hurt you?”

  “F’ ‘em,” she said. The timing between question and answer, combined with the lack of time to contemplate it, startled me. She caught my face in the reflection and giggled. “Sorry, Mrs. D., I mean, I get what you’re asking. But you need proof, ya know? Without evidence, you’re only being a jerk. But you see something yourself, find a letter... It’s not enough to smell the perfume on the collar ‘cause that can be explained away. You get all knife-y without a smoking gun and you’re the crazy lady. But with a little proof? Even that Lorena Bobbitt lady got off, right?”

  Helyne kept glancing over her shoulder toward the living room, and I realized she assumed I was talking about Jer. Him I didn’t have any evidence on. Yet. Mrs. Violet Jessop would help me with that, I hoped. The Hispanic kid obviously crossed me. No proof necessary. He ripped the money that I needed—that I deserved—right out of my hands and ran off with it. Probably used it to buy more garish clothing or, God help us, little boys to do his ungodly sins. Oh, Dottie, don’t get me started on those filthy homosexuals. The Lord will take care of them in the end, I pray. But I could do my part as well.

  The next morning, before my shift started, I drove over to an office building in Newtown and found the car unlocked in the parking lot. As the person behind the Facebook account told me, I focused on what he’d done to me: stolen the money I would use to escape or rebuild or however I would make life better for myself. And I know what you’re thinking, Dottie. How did Richter know about the robbery? I asked the same question, but as he pointed out, “You’re asking a manufactured social media account from another manufactured social media account how information was found? Facts have a fluidic way of spreading.”

  The money wasn’t anywhere in the car, but maybe I didn’t dig deep enough. Everything just felt so disgusting, making me pull out my gloves even though it wasn’t cold. That filthy boy having touched everything in that car... Disgusting. A strange layer of those fake neon feathers you’d find in a boa caked the floor of the car, but otherwise, it seemed like any other car used for a 9-to-5 job. Discarded bottles of Mountain Dew piled up behind the passenger seat, and wrappers from 7-11 breakfast sandwiches filled most of the driver’s door compartment.

  His center console yielded the best find: a large pill bottle without any label but filled with little white, round tablets. They could’ve been medicine. Could’ve been something legitimate that could’ve been keeping the dirty sinner alive. But he didn’t look like the type to be taking anything for his health. They had to’ve been drugs. With all the revelations I had recently with my family, he could’ve been the one providing marijuana or Lord knows what else to my boys. At first I thought I’d just throw them in the garbage where they belonged. But another thought struck me. Digging through my purse, I found a bottle of my own medicine that came closed to the little tablets: Lasix. Whether he took them to save his life or sold them to his buddies, eventually he’d realize his heart felt healthier and his bladder full.

  “If these are the same as the ones up in Connecticut, these oughta be good.” That’s what Liz told me after I got to the office. I didn’t want to bring the pills home, but she seemed happy to take them. I told her she could go crazy with them, but she responded, “Oh, no, not me. I’ve got so many SSRIs flowing through my body right now, those pills wouldn’t do much for me. Make me want to DJ myself for a couple hours maybe. But my brother can move ‘em. He works at a head shop over in Ambler.” I didn’t know what she was saying, but the pills were out of my hands. And Ambler sounded a safe distance away from my boys.

  When I got home, Jer cornered me, telling me to put on a dress since we’d be going out. “Don’t worry, the boys have enough money to get themselves some food. Get yourself fancy. We’re going to the Melting Pot tonight.” When I asked what the special occasion was, he just said I’d find out. “Good news. Promise.” He seemed a bit manic, tapping his fingers on every counter or door frame his hands could find. The cerulean tie around his neck meant he wanted me to wear a dress I knew he liked. Intended more for autumn, but I managed, using the right coat and shawl for inside the restaurant. Part of me wanted to revolt, but I wanted to see where he was leading us, so I followed along.

  We didn’t speak the entire ride to Warrington. Instead, Jer hummed along to the radio and drummed on the steering wheel. Freedomme came to mind, saying. “Who played drums on that song? Mmhmm. Maybe it should stay that way, honey.” It wasn’t until after we sat down and ordered, tucked away in those private tables for couples they have, that he finally settled his eyes on me and asked how my day was. “I replaced my drug dealing mugger’s supply with pee pills” might’ve brought up a few questions, so I said it was fine and asked about his.

  “They’re opening a department in Cedar.” He practically whispered it, leaning in to tell me and then sitting back in his seat, spreading his arms and raising his eyebrows in a “There ya go” manner. But honestly, Dottie, I didn’t know what the hoot he was talking about.

  “So... You have to fly to Iowa again?” Jerry had done that once before a few years back. His company awarded him a plaque for his customer service and asked him to fly out for a week to train a team on handling difficult callers. But looking back on it, I think they suckered him in, ruffling up his feathers just to trick him out to the other office. Everyone rumbled about layoffs, and Jer caught flack for helping the so-called “enemy.” If he did it again, he’d be a portent of things to come. My own cheating harbinger of doom. It turned out to be even worse.

  “Well, yeah, but this time it’d be to stay. They want me to be senior manager of the DSCs out there, babe. Three or four associate managers underneath me, each of ‘em with twelve to sixteen people under them. They’re doubling the sales force and need a support team to handle the influx of calls.” A waitress brought our drinks, and Jer nearly knocked the glass over in his excitement. We both thanked her, but before she could even turn around, he was at it again. “We could finally get out of this crappy town. I mean, think about it, babe. You want to retire here? We’re not that far from that age, and the neighborhood ain’t exactly getting better.”

  I grabbed hold of my drink—a mojito, I think. They have the best mojitos there. And I just stopped listening. To Jer, at least. I heard the normal restaurant noises. Dishes clattering, people conversing over banal stories, a cacophony of sneezes and coughs. You’d think the place would smell of cheeses and proteins, but the ventilation proved too strong. Waitresses and people looking for the bathroom passed by. Some made you wonder what they considered formal or semi-formal wear. Jer could’ve been telling me the cure for cancer, but I just let him drone on like white noise. And when my glass was empty, I looked him straight in the eye and asked, “What about the kids?”

  “Dom’s got one foot out the door already. He may not have us to wash his clothes every weekend, but he’ll make due. Joe Bear can enlist anywhere, and who knows where he’ll be shipped off to once that gets going. And Dan will get away from all the potheads around here. I mean, there’s drugs everywhere, but those flyover states have gotta be better than here, right?” He actually reached over and slid his hand around mine, maybe because he caught me wincing at the mention of Danny’s drugs. I couldn’t remember the last time Jer had tried holding hands, but I allowed it, more out of sheer shock than anything else.

  “But... What about the house?”

  “I’ll fly out to Cedar and look for a place while you sell off or pack up the house. Cost of living should be just about nothing compared to what we got here, and the raise opens up more options, I’d think. We can fly out to each other over the weekends to stave off the loneliness, but we’ve been through worse, right?” It was about then that the waitress showed up with our food, going through her spiel of how to work the fondue pots and
so on. When she stepped away, Jer tried to talk again, but I held up a hand and shook my head.

  Something in my mind began to gel as we ate in silence. Months apart? The promise of seeing each other on weekends? Of course, something would come up. Last minute meeting or trouble with the flight. And the whole time, he’s partying with his trollop. Or maybe finding a new one in Cedar Rapids. Maybe they’d find him exotic. A big city man, you know? And while I’m working at tearing down our life in Pennsylvania, I’d get the final call telling me, “You had to’ve known this was coming, babe. We both did, right?”

  We drove home in silence, me staring out the window the entire time so he couldn’t see me tearing up. And that’s where we stand now. He’s upstairs, trying his best to avoid me, and I’m in the kitchen with a slice of cheesecake, a dwindling pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of wine that’s barely more than a memory at this point. Keep me in your prayers, hon, because it can only go up from here, right? “The enemy always fights the hardest when he knows God has something great in store for you.” Bless me, but something incredible must be coming soon.

  Fondly,

  Candy

  Manny 8

  From: Emmanuel Quinn (emmanuel.quinn@episync.biz)

  To: Rolando Ortiz (rolando.ortiz@episync.biz)

  Sent: Friday, February 8, 2013 02:33 PM

  Subject: Re: gimme one shot, I turn trife life to lavhish

  > On Fri, Feb 8, 2013 at 11:11 AM, Rolando Ortiz