At any rate, threatening to sue Domenico had been the wrong tack for Enrico Visconti to take. The professor, usually pretty easy-going, got plenty mad and extremely stubborn. Now, no one was allowed into our attics, not even food delivery people or the guy who lugged the water bottles from the freight elevator so we wouldn’t dehydrate in the heat. Domenico himself had paid to install major locks on the doors, and just in case, had gotten the college to increase security guard rotations through the attics and upper floors and to put in an alarm system. Every time I had to cart pieces over to the other attic, we had to go through an elaborate unlocking/locking/unarm/arm sequence that was driving me crazy. But in spite of all these changes, air conditioning didn’t seem to be in the budget. So we roasted.
“What are you going to do this weekend, Daisy?” the professor asked me. “Something fun?”
“Not much,” I answered, a little listlessly. “Study for my test on Asian American art. I haven’t looked at anything for that class.” I hadn’t actually even been to the last two periods of that class, because I was also picking up extra shifts at the library, covering for Solomon while he took his vacation. It didn’t seem to matter.
Really, the whole summer had felt a little listless. I had been excited to see my brother and his wife for a week or two, but then a sports network had asked Dylan to contribute to their broadcast for the upcoming Continental Championships swim meet, which would be held in Antwerp. It was the first time in many years that my brother wasn’t going to swim there himself, and his old rival, Iván Marrero, was looking to smash a few of his records. It meant that Dylan was spending the summer in New York preparing for the big event with some tutoring on how to be a broadcaster, and also doing commentary at smaller meets around Europe to practice. Of course, Julia went with him.
They had wanted me to go, also, but I just couldn’t. “I have class. And work,” I had told them. “Sorry, but I can’t.”
Those things were accurate, but there was a deeper truth, and it was that I was scared. I was scared of the airport: the size, the noise, and the crowds. I was scared of flying, because I had never done it before. I was scared of being in a city—any city—and of being in a taxi, of being in a subway, of a hotel that wasn’t familiar, of the giant buildings that would loom over me, of crime, of everything. I shook, terrified and paralyzed, when I even thought about any of it. Even if I had taken the summer session off, and asked for a leave from work and my internship, I couldn’t have done it. There were just too many worries, so many variables I couldn’t control.
I was furious with myself for having missed the chance, for letting the opportunity slip away. I felt like I was letting everything, everyone, get away from me.
Tatum had taken her chance to get away for the summer. Because she had been very subdued for the little bit of time left of the spring semester after her incident in Ginger’s Tavern, she had somehow convinced her father that she had turned over a new leaf. That led to a big present from him, a trip for the two of them to Croatia, Corsica, Capri, and other fun C-named places that I would never get to visit, because I was a C-word myself: chicken.
I looked up from this latest crate to see Domenico watching me, worried. “You should go out and have fun with your friends, Daisy. Too much work isn’t good for you. You’re only young once.”
“I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.” Impulsively, I stood and kissed his cheek, which seemed paler and thinner than in the spring. “It’s been quite a summer, hasn’t it? Maybe we both need a break. What are you doing this weekend?”
“Well, well, well.” He stood also and straightened his shirt, smoothing a hand over his clip-on tie and a few vanilla mocha coffee stains. “I’m taking out a lovely lady for lunch, and then, who knows what will happen.”
“You sly dog,” I told him. “Good luck with that.” We cleaned up some and left, locking and arming all the doors, and it was a relief to get out of the attics. Domenico trotted off to start his weekend, and I went to job number two.
But the library was equally stifling, since the air conditioning had gone down a few days before, which had apparently opened everyone’s eyes to the fact that the cooling unit put in 30 years ago was a rusted box of bolts that was bound to fail again. They were looking to replace it but it was going to take a while, which was fine for everyone who just visited the library—they could go elsewhere to study in coolness. It was fine for Solomon, on vacation with his husband in the Outer Banks, and for our boss Kathleen, huddled in her office with a window air-conditioner going so hard that sometimes she wore a sweater. It wasn’t so nice for me, working in the sticky stacks, or standing and sweating behind the circulation desk.
My first task that afternoon was to check out a huge pile of books for a guy who looked like he was going to melt into a puddle on the floor. The library was practically empty, so when he was gone, I hung up the sign for patrons to ring the bell that buzzed back to Kathleen if they needed assistance, and walked back to talk to her. “I’m heading down to the basement to do the book searches,” I said, basking in the frozen air of her office for a moment. “I’ll be up in a while.”
“Take your time,” Kathleen told me sympathetically, then directed herself back to online shopping. She had an incredible wardrobe.
I was spending as much time as I could in the basement, first because it was cooler there than the heat-soaked upper floor, but also because it was so peaceful. It seemed full of good memories, like when the motion-sensor ceiling lights had been flashing in the row of books next to mine and I had thought it was a shape-shifter come to kill me, but it had been Knox. Or when the cabinets had all fallen over and I had been covered in dirt and spiderwebs and gotten bruises up and down the front of my body. Knox had righted the cabinets and we had gone to dinner later. Maybe when the lights had scared me out of my mind and the furniture had fallen, it hadn’t been great, but thinking back, those were happier times.
It was cooler in the library basement, but my mind still seemed to be running hot, harried, rushing from thought to thought. “Breathe,” I said out loud into the silence, and I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and put my hands on my stomach and chest, forcing my lungs to fill up with air. I didn’t listen to music anymore when I came down, so I could hear it if someone happened to come in. Not a shape-shifter, just a friend, maybe. I waited, but like always, it was quiet except for the sounds of my own breathing.
I looked at the first book request slip, frowning at the messy handwriting. Was that myiasis? No, My…Life, that was the second word, My Life in the, then something in Spani—and a light came on in the ceiling across the room, over by the door to the outside, the door that Knox had used. I froze.
“Hello?” I called.
I stood totally still, watching for the next light to illuminate, indicating that someone was walking there. I listened for the answering greeting. I held my breath; I waited.
The light went out. It was just malfunctioning again. I looked in that direction for a moment more then went to find the first book on the list, a memoir called My Life in the Sierra Nevada: Five Years Alone in a Cabin. Then I moved into the social sciences section to pick up Topics in Attachment Theory and Social Isolation, Loneliness, and Mortality. I looked at the cover of that volume for a while before I put it in the tote bag and decided I had spent enough time in the basement. The rush of hot air as I opened the door to the main floor made my cheeks feel cool from the tears running down them.
∞
“Nico! Nico! Just a few questions?” The reporter ran to lean over the metal barrier at the end of the road that separated him from the parking lot of the Woodsmen training facility. There was also a row of bushes, a drainage ditch, and about 50 yards between himself and the team, but with the camera focused in, viewers could see the football players emerging from their afternoon practice. “Nico!” the reporter called, his voice rising. “Nico?” The other people waiting for the Woodsmen also started yelling and waving the signs they had
made.
As per usual for anything Woodsmen-related, the local paper, TV and radio stations, and sports websites were breathlessly reporting every moment of the return of the team. The week before, the players had been photographed up on Mackinac Island, some of them riding in the horse-drawn carts (since no cars were allowed there), some of them sitting together on the front porch of the Grand Hotel, smiling for the camera. If you looked closely at one of those and zoomed in on the right corner, you could see a large figure in the back, standing in the shadows. His dark hair fell on either side of his face.
Then they were back in training here, at the giant facility a few miles away from Woodsmen Stadium. I had followed that story, too, watching players get asked about what they had done in the off-season, where they had been, what they had eaten and drunk…no detail was left unexamined. The news shows were full of interviews, because if they weren’t talking to the players themselves, then there were team trainers, assistants, and even interns to try to interrogate for more information. The new Woodsmen Dames were introduced, and that had a lot of airtime as well, with long profiles of each of the women. But no one spoke to the person that I was wondering about.
I watched the TV screen as Nico Williams raised his hand and waved to the reporter and the crowd, flashing his megawatt grin. “Hi, Channel 67! Go Woodsmen!” I could hear him faintly answer. I leaned forward like the reporter as the camera stayed trained on more big bodies as they left the building painted in bright Woodsmen orange. There was the quarterback, Davis Blake. The second option wide receiver, the starting fullback, the right guard. More offensive players followed, but no one from the defensive side, no one that I recognized from the time I’d spent studying their lineup.
The camera went back to the reporter, who flushed with excitement due to the acknowledgement he’d received from Nico. He beamed into the lens and announced he was Austin DeJong, signing off from the training facility. The reporter looked like he was about 12 years old; probably he had spent his whole life in hero worship of the Woodsmen.
Ding, said my phone, the text notification I’d heard a lot this summer. I turned to it quickly because it had turned into a major source of entertainment as I lived vicariously through the group chat.
Eeyore: You guys, the Hamptons suck. I thought celebrities, but the biggest star I’ve seen was on a gas station sign. I have sand in every crevice from doing that guy on the beach in Quogue last night and it wasn’t worth the chafing. I’ll always be alone.
She got an answer almost immediately:
Dory: Take it all in! Enjoy! Tell more about the Quogue guy!
They had all changed locations for the summer, but their focus had stayed the same. Oh, but Benedict Arnold had been officially cut off, removed from the chat. Guru had explained her absence to the rest of the group when she and Caffeine had pulled the plug on their former friend:
Guru: It was a number of things that made us realize that we just weren’t mentally and spiritually compatible with Tressa [Benedict to me].
Caffeine: Like, that bitch did my brother. My little brother! I’m going to the gym for a few hours to work off my anger if anyone wants to join me before our power yoga at 4. Namaste.
A movement I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye made me look away from both screens. Dusk was finally falling, and the air outside my cottage was cooling down a little bit. I made my way out onto the deck and looked around the yard.
There he was. “Hi, buddy,” I said softly. “Come here, I have your dinner.” The grey cat wandered a little closer. “That’s it. Come on over. I’m a friend, I swear it.” I carefully pushed the dish of food nearer to him, and then stepped away. He edged closer and closer, took one last look around, and dug in. I sat down on the deck to watch him. Maybe he would let me touch him tonight. He was letting me sit with him while he ate, close enough that if I reached out, I could brush his fur. I watched for a moment more then slowly stretched my fingertips toward him. His muscles jumped under his fur but he didn’t run.
“Yoohoo! Daisy, honey, you home?” My summer neighbor, Shelby, had arrived right after I finished my exams for the spring semester. Now she slammed the screen door on the side of her house and came across the lawn, cocktail in hand. The grey cat was gone before I could blink and I stared off after it. Damn.
“There you are!” Shelby hollered. “I brought something for you. Now, I know you don’t do too much drinking, so I put a lot of juice in this for you. It’s my new Shelby Special.” She handed me a glass. “Bottoms up!”
It looked like grape juice, but it smelled like alcohol. “A lot of juice, right?” I asked.
“Exactly.” She waited, expectant, so I took a sip.
“Oh, my God!” I sputtered and coughed. “What made it taste like that?” My mouth was on fire.
“Just a little vodka, rum, tequila, and gin. The grain alcohol shouldn’t have any flavor.” She took the glass back from me. “No good? Back to the drawing board! Come on over. We’re having hors d'oeuvres on the veranda.” She chugged down the rest of the Shelby Special.
“Hors d'oeuvres on the veranda” meant that Shelby’s husband, Jerry, was having a snack on the back porch. Right now he had a bowl of what appeared to be potato chips balanced on his bare stomach above his tiny jean cutoffs. He gave me a wave when he saw me looking over.
“Come join us!” Shelby commanded.
“Oh, thank you, but I—I’m—”
“You’re sitting at home by yourself, trying to lure some flea-bitten cat!” she finished. “I won’t get too loud, I promise. Just come sit with Jerry while I cook. Keep him company.”
Shelby had a good heart. She had been worrying all summer about me being alone, and I knew she had been emailing with Julia’s mom, my landlord, about me. Going over to her house was the last thing that I wanted to do, but I also knew she wouldn’t give up until I did. “Ok, thank you. That sounds nice.”
“Maybe you could even stay for a late dinner with some friends,” she added casually. “Male friends. I’m making ten-alarm chili. We’ll need lots of Shelby Specials to wash it down!” That wasn’t going to happen, but I did trail after her over to her cottage and sat under the wisteria vines as Jerry munched on his chips. He didn’t ever say too much, but we could hear Shelby’s steady stream of conversation from inside as she cooked dinner. I drank more Shelby Special, grimacing through the first few sips, then letting the rest slide down. By the time some of their friends, the male ones, started arriving to share the 10-alarm chili, I was more than a little tipsy and also ready to go. I told Jerry that I wanted to head home and he accompanied me across the grass.
“I know a guy who would love to meet you,” he mentioned as I wobbled over to my deck. “There you go, step up. Steady.”
“Did Shelby make you say that?” My words slurred a little. She had been whispering to Jerry in the kitchen before we left, but her whisper was about the level of a shout and I had overheard.
“Yeah, she made me say it,” he admitted. “She wants to have a surprise party for you to introduce you around to the boys.”
The “boys” were the 50- to 60-year-old members of Jerry’s motorcycle club, and a surprise party was my idea of an absolute nightmare. I shuddered. “Can you talk her out of it?”
“I can try,” he said doubtfully. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t be around tomorrow night. She’ll get you to come one way or another. Some of them aren’t so bad, if you’re interested.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate it, but no.” I lay my hand against the siding of my cottage, dizzy. “Thank you, Jerry.”
He nodded back, his long beard dipping down then back up. “Ok by yourself?”
I almost started to cry. “I’m fine,” I told him, and then a few tears did escape. “I shouldn’t have drunk those Shelby Specials. They’re making me overemotional.”
He patted my shoulder. “You let me know if you want to test-drive one of the boys.”
“Thank you,” I told him again. I wen
t back inside and turned on music to make the quiet go away, and looked at the messages on my phone, imagining myself on a yacht in the Mediterranean or on a beach in the Azores like these women were. I had to shake this off, the malaise, the sadness. Really, my life hadn’t changed from what it had been before, and before, I had been happy with it. Thrilled with it. I resolved that the next day, I would go have some fun of my own and pull myself out of my slump. Maybe the beach, or a hike in the dunes. Anything different.
But that night, the heat broke. I watched drowsily as the weak morning light showed rain pouring against the windows, the big branches of the white pine in my back yard bending down under the weight of the water. I wasn’t going to the beach today. I lay in my bed, listening to the droplets rattling on the roof, wondering where the grey cat had gone to stay dry, wishing I hadn’t drunk so much Shelby Special. My head thrummed steadily with the rain.
Someone pounded on my front door, and I pulled the sheet over my face. Oh, God. Shelby was already at it, trying to get me to come to the “surprise” party. And knowing her, she wouldn’t leave until I came to talk to her, so I might as well get up. I rolled my unhappy body out of bed and padded through the house to open the door.
“Daisy!” Tatum launched herself at me from the porch, throwing her arms around my waist and squeezing. “I’m so glad to see you! I missed you so much!”
“Tatum!” I was happy to see her, too. “I didn’t know you’d be home so soon.”
“Well, things happen,” she answered vaguely. She pulled away to stare at me. “What’s wrong with you? You look so weird!”
“I’m hungover,” I answered shortly. “Welcome back.”
Tatum followed me into the kitchen and I made the requisite coffee while she chattered about her amazing trip, the people she had met, the things she had seen. “But then, it was time to go,” she concluded. “They’re very serious about embezzlement in Portugal.”
The Big Hit Page 12
