Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  The third-floor rooms were turned into guest suites and two studies—one for Roger, another for her. Their computers, books and work material had all been sorted and arranged into a series of built-in shelf units. They looked like props until she looked closer to see her books, journals and files all neatly organized into bins and drawers. Someone had gone through and organized them with more care and thought than she’d ever given.

  It must have cost Roger a fortune, but then again he had one. It was too good, too nice, but he’d done it for her. She sat down in her study on a white-covered chair and phoned him.

  Roger immediately picked up.

  “I-I can’t believe it,” she said, and then quickly stood, afraid her jeans would soil the fabric. Leaving the study, she sat down on the top step of the staircase.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” He sounded thrilled.

  “I’m speechless.”

  “All summer they’ve worked on it. They finished last weekend.”

  “I’m in shock.” Paula stood and walked down to the bedroom, glancing in the doorway, studying the tapestry. “I don’t want to touch a thing.”

  “I want you to touch it. We’ll both be touching it later,” he said. The desire in his voice rekindled hers.

  “When’ll you be home?”

  “Around three.”

  “I can’t wait,” she said.

  “Me neither. I love you; I’m glad you’re happy.”

  She wasn’t sure “happy” was the right word. It was too much. She ended the call and scurried downstairs, slipped into her sandals and left—locking the door behind her.

  Hurrying over to Madison Square Park, she veered toward a bench. The wooden seat had warmed in the sun and it felt good against her back. She sat dazed and then looked up at the trees as her emotions whirled.

  She covered her face and sat for several moments, shaking her head; what had Roger done? How were they supposed to live in that house? It was created for other people. She thought of her little guesthouse in Grand Marais. Even Rick’s cabin was homey, with a warm and lived-in feel. This was a dollhouse, and Lord knows, she was no doll.

  Birds caught her attention as they flew from tree to tree. She thought of her eagle and the redtail hawk with the broken wing that Rick had admitted the day before she left. Sounds of dogs play-barking in the dog run made her homesick for Fotis. However would he live as a city dog—with all that white linen furniture, the silk duvet on the bed? She thought of him snuggled up in the loft of the guesthouse. Dried bits of mud from his paws, but she hadn’t minded. She even missed disgusting Sigmund, though she’d never let him know it, however one keeps such knowledge from a turkey vulture. Maybe Roger had meant to lure her back to New York using the new house. But what about Fotis? In all that splendor she hadn’t seen a dog bed or a place for him.

  Paula crossed her legs and sighed. She looked at her watch, imagining the eagle in the flight room, struggling to build muscle strength and endurance in order to live as a wild bird once again. The feel of the wind from his wings on her face as he’d swoop down onto a carcass—or watching the bird pant to catch his breath after circling the flight room several times.

  Rick and Maggie were both probably scurrying about doing their chores as the day began. “Oh, you can always come back and visit,” people had said, even Heavenly. And though well-meaning, the words made Paula angry. She reached into her purse and unzipped the inside compartment, digging around for her wedding ring. She felt Psyche’s golden frame; she’d forgotten about the lost cameo and picked up the empty frame, studying it for a moment before tucking it back in. She felt the edge of her wedding ring and slipped it on. It was tight. She pulled out her hand and looked; either her fingers were swollen or they’d grown larger with all the work at Northern Lights Wildlife. In the past it had always been a bit loose. Nothing felt right. A long walk might do her good, and she began the twenty-block hike down Fifth Avenue toward Washington Square and her office.

  She slowed as she reached the park, scanning for familiar faces though it was too early for her staff to be out for lunch. Approaching from the park side, she spied her office window; no birds sat on the ledge, at least at the moment, and she thought she saw someone’s head at her desk. And while she’d considered popping in to say hi, the specter of two more weeks of leave constrained her. Instead she stood there feeling hollow, studying the outside of her window, the blackened area of the screen where she’d blown cigarette smoke for years. Hard to believe she’d spent fifteen years holed up in that little room. She imagined herself walking down the grassy path along the lake toward the guesthouse—how easily she’d gotten used to that. Taking out her phone, she called Celeste.

  “So what happened?” Heavenly answered.

  “What didn’t?”

  “Miksa—I’m starving for an early lunch. Hop on the subway; meet me at The Acropolis.” It was a Greek dive with every cliché imaginable. For years they’d meet for lunch there since it was near the hospital in Queens and Celeste’s office. “I’ll buy; you can fill me in. I have a quiet schedule, so we can linger.”

  * * *

  Over a Greek salad with too few olives and the waitstaff giving Paula hell for staying away for so long, she spilled the story of Theo and Eleni to Heavenly.

  “Shit,” Heavenly said, waving a hand dismissively at her. “That was an easy one. I could’ve told you that day the old guy had a thing with your mother.”

  “Bullshit.” Paula looked up to challenge.

  “Excuse me?” Heavenly looked up at her like what are you, stupid? “Eleni’s brain freeze on the phone?” Heavenly smirked. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

  “Whatever,” Paula said with a full mouth while rolling her eyes.

  Heavenly started digging around in her salad. “Shit. Now they’re skimping on olives.” She looked back toward the kitchen. “First feta, now this,” Celeste mumbled.

  “Go bitch to Giorgos.” Paula motioned with her head toward the kitchen. “He’s back there; I just saw him.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You’re all talk.”

  They sat awhile before the waitress brought coffee.

  “So, how are you doing with discovering that Vassili wasn’t your father?” Heavenly asked with her social worker’s voice.

  “At first it was a shock.” Paula stirred in milk from the little white pitcher. “But deep down I sort of always knew.”

  “It’s funny you say that.” Heavenly looked up and smiled. “Lots of people in your situation say the same thing.”

  “I’d watch how other people’s fathers treated them. They’d look comfortable around their kids. Vassili was on guard or like he was sitting on tacks when I was in the room, like I was gonna steal a fork or something. Sometimes I’d hide in the kitchen to eat; he made me so uncomfortable.”

  Heavenly looked sad. “I’m sorry.”

  Paula took another sip of the coffee and thought of Eleni. “God bless America,” she would always say after a sip of good coffee.

  “But then a stranger thing happened,” Paula said. “After the shock subsided, relief kicked in. I didn’t say anything to her, but it did.”

  Heavenly shifted her position in the booth. “Shit, maybe I’ll find out my old man really isn’t my father,” she grumbled. They both laughed.

  “It was kind of like a liberation, Heav. Shock, then liberation.”

  “Or a birthday—’cause let’s face it.” Heavenly raised her coffee mug in salute. “Vassili was always an asshole to you,” she confessed. “I remember.”

  “Maybe now I can look back and say at least it wasn’t me.”

  “Au contraire,” Heavenly joked. “We actually now know it really was you.” They both started laughing in a way reminiscent of sitting at the Oklahoma Café with Marvelline and Maggie. They laughed until their faces hurt, but it kept on getting funnier the longer it went on, to the point where Giorgos peeked out from the delivery window with a pained expression.

&
nbsp; Paula told Heavenly about Theo’s painting and the details that Eleni had shared on the beach that day on Lake Superior.

  “Sounds like schizophrenia from what you told me before,” Celeste said.

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Poor guy.”

  Celeste looked unimpressed as Paula told her about the brownstone’s transformation. A wry little smile crossed Heavenly’s mouth. “So where do you think it’s all stashed?”

  “What?”

  “Einstein’s crap.”

  Paula looked dumbfounded and then lowered her eyes. She’d been caught up in the Roger zone after seeing the bed, talking with him. “I asked him back in Grand Marais. He says he’s gotten rid of it all.”

  “And you believe it?” Celeste held Paula’s gaze. “All right then, so you know he didn’t just snap out of it one night after much careful consideration.” Heavenly snapped her fingers. “It’s mental illness, Paula. Like Theo but different. The hoard’s been stashed elsewhere.”

  “Where?” Paula asked. Roger’s hoard could be anywhere. There were so many storage warehouses throughout the City, it would be impossible to track down.

  They both sat thinking. “Too bad you don’t have more time today, Heav; you gotta see this place. You wouldn’t believe the change.”

  “I just remember when the two of you first started dating, shit piled up in the foyer; I couldn’t even see inside. I swear to God, I thought he was moving in—all the boxes, the chaos. Check out the cellar, attic.”

  “I will.”

  “But from what you told me after you left, there was a lot more than would fit into an attic or cellar.”

  “Probably so.” Paula sighed deeply. “Some of it the designer repurposed, like the Persian rugs, the dining room table, plus some other things I recognized.” Paula looked at her watch. Maybe she could snoop around before Roger got home.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was almost two by the time she got to the brownstone. And just as she opened the front door, Roger came sailing downstairs with open arms. Their eyes met and she melted, having forgotten how he made her feel. He led her upstairs without either of them saying a word.

  They began making love in the beautiful new bedroom where he’d already drawn the shades, only there was a terrible sadness about it this time. His face and eyes were even more striking than she’d recalled and it hurt to look at him. Afterward as they dozed, the doorbell rang.

  “Stay here.” He dashed naked into the bathroom. She’d forgotten how fit and muscular his body was for a man his age, when all Roger did was sit day and night in front of computers and scientific instruments. He walked out wearing one of those thick white terry-cloth robes that upscale resorts provide and headed downstairs. She heard him talking.

  He came right back up and knelt on the bed with an impish smile. She sat up, reaching for him, and snuggled against his neck. “Everything’s being prepared,” he said. “Relax, take a bath in the new bathroom and dinner will be ready.” He crawled back under the covers with her. Her throat stung with tears as she grasped him.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, pushing back to look at her face. “What’s all this about?”

  She didn’t have words. “It’s so beautiful,” and so late, she thought but didn’t say. “I’ll always love you, Roger,” she said in a way that made him look at her strangely.

  “Well, I’ll always love you, too.” He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Wait here.” He stepped back into the bathroom. Bathtub water was running and after a while he walked out. “Go,” he said, smiling. “Go look.”

  She slipped on her T-shirt, still too embarrassed to walk naked in front of him after all these years. There was a glow from the bathroom; he’d lit the candles around the tub.

  “This is just lovely.” She covered her mouth with both hands, still in Roger’s spell.

  “You relax,” he said. “I thought this would be better than going out. We have our own little resort now.”

  She closed the bathroom door and moved the candles up onto the vanity—all she needed was to set her hair on fire. The warm water was heaven as she slipped into the tub—only it made her cry again. She did so in silence so he wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t know and wouldn’t ask more questions. Damn it, what was wrong with her?

  As she was using her cosmetics that someone had organized by function—eye shadow, mascara, moisturizer—it was weird to think someone had fingered all her things, giving more thought to them than she typically did.

  She fixed her face, put on clothes that the “personal organizer” had sorted in “her” walk-in closet. Blouses, skirts and pants hung separately. Purses and shoes were all matched and sorted into cubbies by color and pattern. On one hand, it was pleasing to see everything so beautifully displayed, yet she felt violated in the way she had when someone had broken into her old apartment years ago and went through all her things, including her underwear, looking for valuables.

  In the middle of the closet was an island of drawers devoted to her jewelry collection. She didn’t even look.

  Paula took in a few deep breaths as Heavenly would always instruct her to do when she was upset. She checked the mirror—the pink nose was a dead giveaway that she’d been crying. She loaded up her cheeks with blush.

  As she walked downstairs, the smell of garlic and rice was intoxicating.

  * * *

  They made love again late that night, this time in a very lazy way. She didn’t even remember falling asleep; the sun woke her early to find that Roger was gone. She looked at the clock. It was six thirty.

  “Roger?” She searched him out. Stepping into the master bathroom, she grabbed one of the white terry robes and slipped it on. “Roger?” She peeked in his closet and then walked upstairs to his study. The room was dark. She then turned and walked into her study. There was a Post-it note stuck to her computer keyboard. “P—Had to go in early today, see you later for dinner, love, R.” He never left for work this early.

  She dashed back down to the bedroom, searching in her purse for her cell phone, and punched his number. Of course it went to voice mail. Going back up to her study, she fired up her laptop and e-mailed him. “Why so early? I miss you already. Where are you? Couldn’t you stay?” After hitting the send key, she felt the same old gnawing ache that traveled down to her fingertips in waves of hurt. Only this time it felt worse. After six weeks of not feeling it she’d forgotten how bad it was. “Shit, shit, shit.” She walked down the staircase into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

  It felt like someone else’s kitchen. She opened the refrigerator; it was filled with wholesome food items that required more thought and preparation than she was prepared to invest.

  At least the coffee grinder and beans looked simple enough, and after searching through yards of cabinetry she finally located a coffeepot. It took several tries to figure out how to use the faucet and stove just to set a pot of water on to boil. Paula leaned against the counter, crossing her arms and tucking her fingers into her elbows. It felt like Roger had deserted her in a stranger’s house. He’d said nothing about having to leave early. As stupid as it was, she couldn’t stop her feelings from being hurt.

  While waiting for the water to boil, she remembered what Heavenly had said. Paula walked to open what had been the cellar door, only now it was a pantry, stocked with food she hadn’t bought.

  “Jesus,” she said in mild shock, and shut the door to make it go away. Behind another door was a shiny washer/dryer still with tags. Finally a third new door led down to the cellar. Flipping on the light, she stepped halfway down; it smelled like fresh paint and new carpeting. The entire cellar had been drywalled and turned into a finished basement. It was empty.

  She sprinted back up to the boiling water and ground a cup’s worth of beans, pouring it all into the French press to steep. Then she bolted up all four flights of stairs to the attic. She stood there for a moment looking around. Roger had kept it locked so that she wou
ldn’t go up there, but now there was no lock. Reaching up, she pulled the cord, and the stairs folded down. She climbed up and looked—it too was empty. She’d been half-hoping to find something, a stack of old newspapers, anything.

  Before pouring her coffee, she stopped in the bedroom and slipped on jeans, a T-shirt and a cardigan. She paused by Roger’s closet; it was mostly empty. Spotting his suitcases stacked against the wall, she wondered if he hadn’t yet unpacked. She unzipped and looked. The suitcases were empty. She then rummaged through the drawers in his island. Except for underwear and socks, they were empty, too.

  Stepping into the bathroom, she washed her face. Roger’s toiletries were as scarce as his clothes. A can of his shaving cream on the sink reminded her she’d forgotten the two bags full of his shaving cream she’d bought at Maggie’s store on her first day in Grand Marais. It was probably still dark in Minnesota. She pictured the sky beginning to lighten along the horizon as it would when she’d start walking with Fotis down the grassy path in the chilly pre-dawn hours to find Rick.

  Something felt uncomfortable. Who was this personal organizer? Maybe she’d give this person a call. Paula rifled around Roger’s closet, searching for a business card, an invoice, anything, but all she found were the typical receipts from the restaurants and bagel shops around Columbia. Walking up the stairs, two at a time, to his office, she flipped on the light and rummaged through his files.

  “Well, this is weird.” She headed downstairs, stopping to grab her purse from the bedroom.

  Standing against the countertop, she poured her first cup of coffee and listened to her messages. Heavenly had called, saying that she and Tony wanted to have dinner that night—a welcome back dinner for Paula and Roger. Another message from Eleni said that Loukoumi had diarrhea since Paula had left but that Darryl checked him out, wormed him again and that not to worry, the puppy was now fine. She smiled thinking of them. Looking around the kitchen, she left the cup of coffee standing on the kitchen counter and headed out to McDonald’s on Sixth Avenue to get coffee and an Egg McMuffin.