by Adam Sifre
I walked quickly to the desk, got on my hands and knees with some difficulty (being a bit sore from my morning Maggie workout), and found the keyhole to the floor safe. Like she said, there was a lot of cash. $55,000 and change. I took it all, together with a Movado watch, the museum piece. I love Movado watches. If there’s a silver lining to this story, it’s this: I got to keep the watch.
Anyway, I took it all. Easy peasy. I put everything in a “Kings Supermarket” reusable shopping bag and stood up, ready to get the hell out of Dodge and start spending my hard earned cash.
Lucky. The four footed walking wind bag sat in the doorway, looking at me. It was a German shepherd and Maggie wasn’t lying when she said he was old. His eyes were filmy, his hair was matted, and his breathing sounded like my Grandpa Manuel when he watched the showgirls on Telemundo, Nueva York. Lucky was big enough, but I could tell there was no fight in him.
And he wore a silver studded collar, black.
My mouth went dry at the thought of Maggie on her knees wearing nothing but that collar.
“Hiya boy. Who’s a good doggie?” I cocked the gun and took a few cautious steps toward the door. Lucky sensed my hesitation and immediately took the opportunity to lie down and pass a fart. He looked at me with those watery eyes and yawned.
A few steps closer. Even a rube like me couldn’t miss at this distance. I stood there, gun in hand, eye to eye with the Methuselah of the canine world. Lucky sighed.
I don’t’ know how long I stood there, but it was for quite some time. Maybe I was hoping the poor dog would die on its own. The promise of untold forbidden treasures dangled before me. All I had to do was shut Lucky.
But I couldn’t do it. I had fifty-five thousand dollars, a watch and a beautiful woman. Why should I kill a dog? I’d just stop by PetCo on the way to the motel, buy a damn dog collar and have my fun.
“Today’s your lucky day, Lucky.” I put the gun away and stepped over pooch. I was halfway to the stairs when I heard the front door open.
I quietly ran into the first bedroom on the left. The house may have been opulent, but the bedroom was Spartan. My choices were under the bed, in the closet or in the bathroom. I chose under the bed.
Footsteps up the stairs. A brief pause. A man’s voice.
“Lucky! How ya doing boy?”
I heard Lucky panting, working up the energy for a half-hearted bark. Then the soft clicking of doggie paws.
“Where you going, boy”
Dog paws slapped against the wood floor. Then the sound of a good size fart. Then paws scratching at the bedroom door.
“What’s wrong, boy.”
A door opened.
More paw clicking. Excited whining.
A long, wet nose peeks under the bed, sniffing and searching for its new friend.
“Lucky? Out of the way boy.”
I should have --
CHAPTER 7
THOSE WHO WAIT
Here's how she fell in love.
He was the first man she dated since leaving her husband. She had the misfortune of marrying a mean and petty attorney who treated the bedroom, and all life when she thought about it, like a court room. Everything was a dispute and any action she took no matter how small, required, if not an argument, at least a judgment. What shows she watched; what she fed their daughter; even setting the thermostat. In everything she was an adversary first, and wife ... well, a wife never. For thirteen long years she was the woman who did everything and did it wrong.
He never hit, only belittled, and so it was just a matter of time before she forgot how beautiful she was. She did not notice how she lit up a room or how other people looked at her. She knew only that life was slipping away from her; that she was living in quicksand, but as so many others will tell you, knowing doesn't always help. There was no hallmark drama -- no defining moment. One day, alone in her kitchen, she realized she could escape. So she did.
Now she was on her third date with this man. My rebound man.'
The first two were the traditional dinner and a movie. The second night he kissed her. It was both sweet and passionate. Lying in bed that night, she fell asleep trying to remember the last time she’d been kissed.
That first kiss was wonderful. It was exciting. It was not what made her love him.
He sent her the most charming e-mail the next day, telling her how much he enjoyed seeing her and how wonderful he found her. A bit much, some might say, so early in a relationship. But she soaked it up, every delicious word, and why not? There is no greater thrill for the wilted, then being showered with attention. For the first time in her life, she understood this: by just being, she made someone happy.
Denied affection for so long, she drank in his attentions with a greedy thirst. It was not what made her love him.
It was the third date. They originally planned on lunch and a movie, but it happened to be a spectacular early summer day. A cloudless sky, so blue it hurt the eyes. Blue, blue sky. Warm, warm sun. She suggested a day at the beach.
"Whatever you want," he smiled.
So off they went, joining the multitudes in search of their square of sandy paradise. They took her car but he drove. Parking was a nightmare, of course. After much circling, he gave up and expanded the search. Eventually, they found a space about half a mile from the promise of a sandy beach and blue ocean. The day might again be spectacular, but right then it was only a scorcher.
She opened the trunk and fished out two beach chairs.
I’ll take those."
It startled her and it took her a moment to realize why. It had been forever since anyone wanted to make things easier for her.
She smiled and handed him the chairs. I wish I could describe the smile she gave him.
He took them, as well as the beach umbrella and a small cooler, filled with ice, two Coronas and carrots and humus. He even took her beach bag, heavy with sun block, books, Chex Mix, water bottles and an assortment of mysterious items that men will never be privy to.
He let her carry the camera.
He struggled under the awkward load, navigating the crowds jammed on the narrow sidewalk as best he could. There was no room for them to walk side by side, the preferred method of transportation for new lovers, so she followed behind. Six long blocks for him, a drunken hermit crab struggling with a new shell.
"Are you ok?"
"No."
She laughed.
I wish I could describe her laugh to you.
"My Gunga," she whispered.
And, for that day, they lived happily ever after.
CHAPTER 8
HOTEL PEOPLE
It's 6:45 a.m. A gritty, mundane sort of magic pervades the air at "Valentine’s" in the Hamilton Hotel. The silver troughs are already filled with thick wedges of French toast, pounds of flattened, cardboard-like bacon, mounds of shiny sausage links, and piles of other artery-clogging goodies. Urns of strong coffee stand guard over the holy of holies--the omelet station. The priests, disguised as waiters, carry pitchers of iced water and cold pewter creamers to their individual altars and stand ready.
Sylvia, the matriarch of the Weissman family, is the first to arrive. She rolls in, older and dustier than the pharaohs and flanked by two Sumo wrestlers dressed as tired tourists. This morning she is decked out in powder-blue sweat pants and a faded yellow blouse. Behind the wheelchair, her son staggers as he pushes her majesty further into the room; a zombie stumbling toward coffee and salvation. Everything about the first family screams "buffet veterans."
"Make sure the tea isn't so strong this time. It's always too strong. No one knows how to make tea anymore," she declares. The zombie rolls his eyes further back into his head. Since forever, he has been serving her "tea" consisting of a cup of hot water with a dry tea bag on the saucer. Always she complains that it is too strong.
The two Sumos break off from the procession and attack the omelet station, shouting out their demands while the zombie manhandles Queen Sylvia into position at the t
able. He collapses into a chair while she mutters something disparaging about the air-conditioning.
Royalty seated, the audience wanders in. A small army garbed in shorts, sandals, and mismatched socks. A few sport t-shirts with pithy sayings like "Obamanation," and "I'd trade gun control for bladder control!"
A family with three noisy children burst onto the scene, descending on the cereal station like crows on a battlefield. Eventually, everyone settles in and the familiar music of forks on dishes and clattering ice cubes against glass precedes the main event.
No one actually stops eating, but there’s a familiar flavor of anticipation in the air. The waiters move just a little faster in, replenishing the troughs and re-folding those magical beige cloth napkins that refuse to absorb or clean.
Lee enters the room, filled with equal parts of desperation and determination. A large man just starting to turn to fat, he moves as if he is perpetually walking against a strong wind, sometimes dispensing his own. Today he wears slightly grimy blue jeans and a black Izod shirt, which hides a small gut, the foreshadowing of years to come. He is alone, armed with a dog-eared Dean Koontz novel (the one about a child in danger and a pet dog). There's less than a full day's growth peppered across his face. Whatever hair he sports is hidden under a faded Yankee's baseball cap. He has stayed in many different hotels but Sunday mornings from 7:15 to 9:00 am are always the same. For Lee, every breakfast buffet is a personal challenge.
Valentine's buffet is $15.95; about $5.00 more than breakfast would cost him at the Broadway Diner just down the road. He knows that he can hit the breakeven point by the second serving if he loads up on the bacon, but he's unsure of the quality of today's pork. It glistens with the promise of smoky satisfaction, but Lee has been fooled before by buffet meat products. He could pile on food, ignore it, and get a second plate, but it would be a hollow victory.
Instead he chooses a cheese and onion omelet and three pieces of French toast. This is also not without risk. While more satisfying, they are more filling and always make him feel sleepy.
"This tea is too hot," her highness announces. Mummified, shaky hands, replace the cup. Some hot water splashes over and the lonely tea bag finally achieves its life's purpose, darkening the small puddle in the saucer.
Across the room, Lee takes his seat and digs in. In a concession to culinary preference over economic interests, he piled the eggs on a toasted bagel, strings of cheese hanging over the end like Spanish moss. He alternates between the omelet and French toast, and by the time her majesty is satisfied with the temperature of her water, he is up for seconds. He is already full and a little tired, but he knows he is still about seven dollars in the hole. Lee, the Rainman of the buffet circuit, throws caution to the wind and loads up on the bacon and Danish. He knows this will ruin his day, but he also knows he’ll finish this morning in the black.
He piles the bacon so high that even the Sumo wrestlers take notice. Frick and Frack are on their 3rd plate already, but their portions are smaller and they are not members in good standing of the clean plate club. Amateurs.
Lee opens his Koontz novel and reads about the damaged but cute doggie. He quickly takes a chunk of bagel and eggs, then folds over a piece of bacon and sticks in the corner of his mouth like chewing tobacco. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he repeats the process until only the Danish remains.
A waitress glides over and refills his cup with hot, black lubricant. He gratefully takes a swallow and then attacks the pastry. His blood sugar has spiked to a little under 400 and he’s having difficulty concentrating. He keeps rereading the same sentence over and over, and his vision is getting a little blurry. But he has the presence of mind to know that he's eaten close to $22.00 worth of breakfast. He pauses to gently massage his chest. After a few moments and another large swallow of coffee, the pain recedes and he pops the last bit of Danish into his mouth.
Finally, he can breathe easy. The anxiety and tension disappear and the pain in his chest recedes and the caffeine kicks in. He is rewarded with that false sense of immortality that surrounds all hotel people. Mission accomplished, Lee gets up for some window shopping at the cold cereal and yogurt parfait table.
"This grapefruit is sour," Sylvia announces.
CHAPTER 9
I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
It was an unseasonably warm, bright and sunny Christmas morning,or maybe the day after Christmas. She’d lost track. Something about the quality of light made the graveyard look almost cheerful. Still, she hugged herself as if she were fighting against an icy wind.
It felt odd, standing in front of the open grave on such a fine day. All sorts of superstitions tugged at the more suggestible corners of her imagination, but Adina hardly noticed. It had been some time since she took notice of anything. The world was grief, loss and numbness. If there had ever been anything else, she couldn’t recall.
She’d skipped the service and come straight to the gravesite, unable to stomach the thought of sitting in the small chapel. She’d been to enough funerals to know how that would play out. The loved ones always sat alone, islands of misery amidst the familiar yet unsettling mixture of genuine tears and false sympathy. Sorrow spiced with whispered gossip was a cocktail she would not stomach today of all days.
There wouldn't be many mourners. People, even people that meant well, were selfish at heart, and nobody looked forward to attending a funeral on Christmas. It surprised her that the cemetery was even "open for business" today and she thought again that she must have lost track of the days. She assumed there would be a fair turnout at the chapel, with lots of people willing to pop in to make an appearance. At the grave side, however, there’d be only family and a few friends; more than enough and about as much as she could handle.
Not for the first time today, she felt like dying. Not even in the grave yet, and she missed him like crazy. It would have been easier if they had been in love for years and years, she thought. If they had a chance to grow comfortable with each other -- take one another for granted. To fight over finances, fawn over grandchildren; fall asleep on each other as years slipped by. Then her loss would be manageable -- terrible but manageable.
With unaccustomed grace, Adina sank to her knees, ignoring the feel of wet grass soaking into her dress. To lose him now, after less than a year, when their love and passion were still growing -- in the all consuming “Romeo and Juliet” stage; when she still expected to receive those wonderfully horrible love poems he wrote to her all the time; when every meeting ended not with coffee at Applebees, but with their bodies hidden beneath white sheets, dancing to the music of urgent whispers and sweet pleading...
She started to smile at the memory and then the enormity of her loss came crashing down again, obliterating everything.
To lose all that now was to lose everything.
The first of the cars arrived at the gate at the bottom of the hill. After a few minutes, the Hearse, with four or five cars in its wake, started to make its way up the winding road. Such a small turn out. Not unexpected, but sad nonetheless. She didn’t care.
Nobody warns you how hollow a death can make you feel. She felt as if everything had been scooped out of her and replaced with dust. She wouldn’t be surprised if the next soft breeze carried her away.
The tiny procession of cars stopped a few hundred feet away, but no one got out. Maybe they wanted to give her some privacy -- some more time to be alone. The thought almost made her smile. There would be no shortage of loneliness now. Never again.
They had loved each other fiercely, but never discussed their future – never would discuss their future. From the day he first kissed her, everything was sealed. They were in love. The first of many beautiful, woozy moments that young lovers think they will never grow accustomed to. Then too, she felt like she could float away on the wind, disconnected from the world's mundane workings. She was too young to learn that love and loss were two sides of the same unique coin, shared by everyone at one time or another. Too young to
understand that sometimes love and loss have a weight to them.
The cars kept their silent vigil. She started to wave, her hand half raised, then stopped, unsure of the etiquette for these things. They were all waiting in their cars, perhaps hoping for the arrival of more mourners. Perhaps giving her time to reflect and say goodbye.
They needn't have bothered. There would be time enough for that later, after everyone had left. She wasn't going anywhere.
She was home.
CHAPTER 10
TOP TEN LIST
Two days before Christmas and Jonathan’s mother had been crying. Even with his door shut and her bedroom at the other end of the hall, he heard her sobbing. First the phone call, dreaded but not unexpected. Then the sobbing. Then... and then what?
Then I woke up here.
He woke up in the cave with the other children. He was lying on some sort of cot. It wasn't exactly dark. There was a little light everywhere but no real light anywhere. The first thing that struck him was the sound. He’d awakened to a low, electric throb that seemed to be coming from the floor, felt as much as heard.
"Mom?" It came out soft and raspy. His throat was dusty dry and made soft clicks when he tried to swallow. "Mom?" A little louder this time. The word came back as a soft echo, a chorus of other pleas accompanying it.
"Hello?"
"Where am I?"
"Who's that?"
Jonathan sat up, taking his first good look around the room. It was large and roughly circular. His first impression was that it was more of a cave than a room. The walls were natural stone and glistened with condensation. If it was a cave, it was a heated one.
