Stellan: “Here. No seriously, take all my candy. You deserve ALL my candy.”
I didn’t disagree.
The boy-girl gave Stellan a stare down with a cat like meow and left as dramatically as he arrived. We were both speechless for a moment, and down to our last bag of candy.
I checked the clock – quarter to nine. We were well past Trick or Treat hours, and the dwindling sounds in the distance gave evidence to it. Stellan and I shared the glory of the drag princess as though we both thought we’d imagined him. Stellan declared the boy his hero.
Further reason to love my Swede.
It was chilly, and the threat of snow was sharp in the air. I headed inside, but noticed as I reached the kitchen that Stellan wasn’t following. I turned to face him, still standing by the open front door.
“Wanna do something?” He asked.
I stared at him blankly. Stellan was the king of ‘sit at home and do nothing’ if the opportunity arose. I shrugged, letting one side of my baggy sweater droop down my shoulder. It was pretty early for us, but given the empty state of my pockets, I naturally faltered. “Like what?”
“I dunno. You hungry?”
Truthfully, yes. I wouldn’t be saying so though, obviously. “I’m alright.”
“Liar. You haven’t had supper. Come on, let’s grab something, go see What’s Under the Bed? afterward.”
What’s Under the Bed? was a hokey horror movie I’d been hoping to see since catching the trailer.
I faltered for a moment. Stellan wanted to see What’s Under the Bed?
I attempted to argue, but Stellan already knew damn well that I was pocket pulling poor. Confessing that wouldn’t change his course in the slightest. I pursed my lips, but I nodded and slipped into the kitchen to put the last of the candy into a zip-loc bag for Stellan to devour at the movies. In the living room he shifted, the familiar sounds of my car keys jingling as he grabbed them from the table. I stood frozen, almost petrified to spend time with him – time out in the world.
You stupid cow, I thought.
I grabbed my phone and started texting. By the time I reached him I was finished writing and pressed send.
“Who’s that?” He asked.
“Meghan. She’s been dying to see What’s Under the Bed? for weeks.”
My phone buzzed as though on cue.
Home alone on Halloween Meghan - I’m so down. Where we eating?
Stellan stood in the doorway a second, watching me. He closed his eyes before he spoke. “How delightful.”
I laughed, honoring his sarcasm. “But I thought you loved Meghan?”
He shook his head with slow deliberation and held the door for me to pass. I grabbed my purse, knowing how pointless it was, and led the way out to my car.
I’d never been more relieved to see Meghan in my life that night. After a quiet and almost heavy ride, we found Meghan waiting in the parking lot of the restaurant and from that moment on, she never stopped talking. I enjoyed her banter, even laughed a few times when she started yelling at the movie screen – she was in her glory that night.
All would have been perfect save for one glaring detail.
Stellan didn’t speak the entire night.
Meghan set him up for insults, jabs and affronts, but he never took the bait. He sat quietly listening, chuckled here and there, but stayed mute. I might have said he was simply in a quiet mood, but there was a clincher.
When we arrived at the theater, Meghan demanded that she buy my ticket, leaving Stellan to pick up his own after us. She paid, collected her purse and ushered me toward the theater.
Stellan’s voice stopped us. “Meghan!”
We turned in surprise to find Stellan pointing at the counter. Meghan forgot to take our tickets. She returned, grabbed them, and dragged me toward concessions. I’m not even sure if she noticed it, but I couldn’t shake it for the rest of the night.
He’d called her Meghan.
Not Trotsky, not vagrant hobo prostitute - Meghan.
I sense you mocking me, gentle reader.
“What’s the big effing deal?” you say?
The big effing deal is that this had never happened before. Stellan has never in his life referred to Meghan by her first name. Just the idea of it had always been practically an affront to his nature. Since the second hour of their first meeting when their friendly battle began, he’d never called her anything outside of Trotsky, or on a good day, Spawn of Cthulhu. Something wasn’t right.
Still, I didn’t probe him on the quiet ride home.
Something was definitely wrong, and now it seemed even he was aware of it.
I dropped him off that night and waited as he would for him to get in the front door. Then I drove away.
Damn it Faye, what have you done?
I felt somehow distant from everything. I walked into my house and stood there in the dark for a long while, letting my purse drop to the floor. There was no one to seek for solace, no one to grieve to.
My life long partner in crime had gone straight. I felt like John Dillinger meeting eyes with the lady in the red dress, only to see she is me. The phrase, I’m so fucking stupid came to mind a few times.
I sought something to still the thoughts, someone to reach for. Then I did the only thing I could think of to quiet the ache in my chest.
I retrieved my phone from my purse and texted Cole.
When do you want to see me?
In the morning, I found a missed call from Cole. I didn’t call him back. Somehow the thought of having such a conversation with the sun up churned my stomach. Instead I called Meghan.
“Dude, he called me Meghan.”
Yeah, she’d noticed.
She dropped in on her lunch hour, eating a cobb salad from the grocery store while I feasted on a bologna sandwich. Mayo, mustard, alternating cheese and bologna slices, cut diagonally – that sandwich was delectable. I had to assure Meghan of this several times while we sat at my kitchen counter.
Meghan took a generous bite before she spoke. “So I gotta say it – I think it’s finally happened.”
“What?”
“He finally realizes he wants my shit.”
I laughed, given the glob of salad dressing and egg stuck to her chin. “He did call you Meghan.”
“I know, right?”
I grabbed the bread down from the cupboard, ready to make a second sandwich. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was delectable. “It’s just that latent sexual tension that finally got to him.”
She scowled at me. “Bitch, do the two of you wiseasses share a brain or some shit?”
I shrugged. “Could be.”
She poured the rest of her salad dressing packet into her food. “It was inevitable. No one can resist my womanly charms forever. They fight it and fight it, but then Bam -”
“-they’re calling you Meghan?”
“It’s unfair really. He never had a chance.”
I smiled, ignoring her glare as I slathered mayonnaise on my bread. I slapped on the bologna and cheese as she watched.
“So, any clue what’s really up with him?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t ready to tell her. Unlike Jackie, this woman would pull no punches. Well, not that Jackie had either, but – never mind. “No clue.”
She slammed her fork onto the counter. “You lying bitch.”
“What?”
“Jackie fucking told me, you slut.”
I slumped onto the counter. “She’s dead to me.”
“I can’t believe you were just going to sit here and not tell me.”
My phone buzzed in my jeans, and I pulled it out, grateful for a distraction. “It’s not something I really run my mouth about -”
“Run your mouth? You whore. You owe me for last night. That was fucking awkward as hell. Thank God Jackie told me, otherwise I might have said something.”
I glanced at my phone as a reprieve from her scolding. Tho
ugh I hated having to defend myself, the realization that she had known and still came along drew both my gratitude and affection. I nodded as she regaled me. Still, I couldn’t help but laugh when I read Evan’s text.
Unnaturally charming Evan - My spider senses tell me you desperately need to hear my voice.
Meghan noticed the chuckle and demanded to know who was texting me. My answer resulted in a two minute wrestling match as she tried to steal my phone for Evan’s number.
“You whore! How can you deliberately try to keep me from my soul mate?”
“A second ago I thought Stellan was your soul mate.”
She lunged for my phone again “No, that obnoxious fuck just wants my shit. Evan and I are in love!”
I laughed and fought until I was shrieking at her. I finally pried it away. “I’ll let him know.”
“You better!” She said, straightening her perfectly pressed button down shirt.
She made her point with a purposefully angry bite of her salad, letting half of it fall down her chin. I laughed and responded to Evan’s text.
Me - It’s true. You should fight crime.
He texted back sometime before Meghan left, letting me know he’d be calling that evening. I looked forward to it.
Meghan was an adept woman - she caught me texting and assured me before she left that she’d destroy me if I so much as imagined Evan naked. I assured her right back that though I didn’t need to imagine, she had nothing to worry about.
And with that she threatened my life and left.
I was alone again. Alone with my thoughts – the kind that make you shudder when you lie awake in your bed – with no means of distraction. I checked my email for word from Chalice, knowing full well that I’d programmed my phone to alert me if they were to send a message. I checked a social networking site and was quickly deterred by old high school friends’ posts about happiness – house shopping, pregnancies, cute things their children said – and ended up staring at my empty drafting table. The urge to draw was severe – extravagant images of cannons, guillotines, racks, and M80s all aimed and set on blowing up a disheveled and unmotivated cartoon version of yours truly, but I didn’t pick up my pen. Instead, I picked up the living room, loaded the dishwasher, did laundry, filled the bird feeders and finally started going through the fridge for something to eat. It was only 2:30. I’d just eaten.
Fuck.
This was the hell of the unemployed. There was no mindless escape from yourself. When your pockets are empty, you can’t go bury yourself in the idleness of shopping, or matinees, or renting a canoe down at the South Bridge so you can go out on the Concord River with a cinder block tied to your feet and drown yourself. Both the canoe rental and the cinder block cost money. Sure, as my mother would remind me, I could borrow a few bucks, but let’s be honest – borrowing money from your mother to go buy a cinder block and drown yourself would be unkind to say the least. She’d much prefer the company of her intolerably self-loathing daughter.
The productive spree quickly died, and I ended up in front of the TV, as per usual. I was happy to remain there. I could have gone for a walk, brought a book out to Sleepy Hollow and read by the three brother’s tomb, but what is it they say about an object at rest?
I’m not sure. Stellan would know.
The phone rang right as I was wiping tears away after watching the most recent episode of the Biggest Loser, and I hopped up to answer it.
“No matter what I say during this conversation, you are hereby ordered to refuse,” Evan said.
I was startled by the opener, but not enough to show it. “Okay? Drama queen.”
“Promise.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I mean, I refuse.”
“Good. So, I’ve seen the early stages of ‘Gorilla Warfare’ and as a business man, I’m required to offer to buy your artistic rights to the game.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What you talkin’ bout, Willis?”
The boards I’d done were apparently animated into game form, and Evan proceeded to regale me with his ‘unmitigated adulation’ in the form of attempted ‘hostile takeover.’
“Why would I refuse that? I could use the money.”
“You just refuse,” he said. “You fucking promised.”
“Well, it would depend on how much you offer – And why the hell would you tell me to refuse?”
“No, no it doesn’t matter how much I offer, and I’m not prepared to make an offer now, I’m waiting for beta.”
Beta meant an early, playable version of the finished game, sent to early testers to find and hash out any glitches. The thought of something I was working on being unleashed on actual testers stopped me in my tracks. “How close is it?”
Evan went quiet a moment. “Stellan isn’t keeping you updated?”
I couldn’t help but pause myself. I tried to gauge how telling my answer would be. “No. I sketch, he programs. And really, I’m just sketching what he tells me to.”
“That’s not what he says.”
I paused. “Why, what does he say?”
The phone beeped into my ear, and I looked to find an incoming call.
Cole.
I didn’t want to answer, but I’d put it off long enough. “Evan… I’ve got another call, can I talk to you later?”
“You ok, Jensen?”
How did he know? “Yeah, why?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Nobody important.”
Evan paused. “Take care of yourself, goose. Love ya.”
“Love you too.”
I pressed the accept button. Cole had hung up.
I stared at the phone a moment, waiting – no voicemail.
I felt like a coward. I fretted over the manner in which I would answer, planning my phone voice – soft, calm, but perhaps a little deeper.
No, no Faye, we don’t want to sound sultry. Just “Sorry, I was in another room,” will suffice. Makes you sound busy. Gives a distinct, “clearly I wasn’t waiting around on the remote chance that you might call” vibe.
And yet, I didn’t call back. The prospect of that phone call felt like the trigger to some quiet bomb. In an attempt to distract myself, I settled at my drawing table.
Having cleared the remnants of all my doodles, I created the blankest space in the house, like fresh paper or a wet chalkboard. I picked up my pen, turned to the shelves where the sketchpads were now waiting, and set my hand on the pile – a pile my mother and Stellan provided against my requests.
I didn’t open the notebook, I didn’t fiddle with my pen to get it settled in just the right nook of my thumb and forefinger. No, I turned to my computer, opened my email, and began to write.
Dear Dennis,
I am just dropping a quick note to check in with you. How are things at Chalice? Any news on the position?
I hope you’re all well, and I hope to hear from you soon.
-Faye
It was breezy, right?
Wait, was it? Was it too breezy? Aah, fuck life.
The next move of the evening was a choice – ignore Cole, call him back, wait on the chance that he might try again, or play Words with Friends on my phone with a complete stranger and cheat like a toothless sailor.
I did none of the above. I chose not to decide.
It’s funny how difficult it is to recall the events of an evening in which you did, literally, nothing. Jackie was cooped up at home and wanted company the next morning, so I threw on a floppy knit hat over the travesty that was my hair, and headed toward Arlington.
She was waiting at the door when I arrived.
“Tell me you’re baking? I have expectations when I drive out here, god damn it,” I said.
She threw the door wide open for me. “You’re gonna love me.”
The house smelled like heaven itself.
The counter was strewn with the shrapnel of her baking project. In the center of the counter there was a piping
bag filled with a white substance. I wondered if it was frosting, but more importantly, whether she’d be willing to squirt it directly into my mouth.
She reappeared from the oven, apron clad and double fisting a set of apple oven mitts. In her hands she held the source of the amazing smell.
I stared at her. “Cannolis? Are you kidding me? You made fucking cannolis?”
She smiled and removed the shells from the pan. “It’s only my second attempt, they might not be all that good.”
“Is that my purpose here, to test Operation Cannoli, take two?”
“Yes.”
I feigned apprehension. “You’re a terrible person.”
She took a shell, still warm from the pan and piped in the cream with a steady hand. She dipped each end into chocolate chips before handing the beast to me.
I went at it hard. Warm, crisp shell with the cool burst of cream at its center, then the texture of the chocolate – that first bite was enough to make the earth move. Before I took my second, I moaned as the concoction combined and congealed in my mouth to create this smooth mixture. I licked my face as best I could, assured her that I would be hiring people to kill her, and took another bite.
It was quite possibly the best cannoli I’d ever tasted, which was a big deal, given that I was in a truly foul mood. “My god, it tops the Boathouse by miles.”
“Really?”
“Oh, by far.”
I did my happy food dance – an uncontrollable wiggle that happens when I eat something yummy - and made rhythmic humming sounds as I ate, “Mhm mhm.”
She piped the cream into another shell before me as I struggled to hold the pastry together. She asked if the Boathouse had any signs of reopening. I hadn’t left the house, so I didn’t know. We considered whether a new bakery or some other business would take over the shop. I made some joke about a hipster bakery cum bodega called “Thoreau-ly Baked” in homage of Concord’s beloved son, Henry David Thoreau.
She laughed. “That’s not a bad name for a bakery. In Concord anyway.”
I shrugged and set into a second cannoli. Don’t judge me. I knew in a moment I would return to the thoughts that woke me from a dead sleep twice the night before.
I woke without reason the first time, but the second time I woke from having had a terrible dream.
Catch My Fall Page 24
