by Anne Pfeffer
She hung up saying, “You want whack-a-doodle? Try dealing with a bunch of actors.” She dabbed at the counter with a dishrag. “God knows I love ‘em, though.”
I couldn’t believe the life this girl led, the things she was able to do. Dr. Abbot’s voice: You can do those things if you want to, Pru.
I jumped to my feet. Time to seize the day before it seized me.
If that cash in my backpack had escaped the fire, I needed to find it. “What’s happening? With the fire, I mean?”
“Volunteers are here today, helping people who need to go through their homes.”
I remembered my firefighter. The thought of him carrying me down the ladder made my body twinge in a way it hadn’t since I last watched investigator Sam Mancuso in The Love Detective.
“Is that where the others went?” I had finally noticed that all of last night’s guests were gone.
Ellen’s face wore a neutral expression. “They’ve all left. The Potemkins’ daughter came for them, and Krista went to her boyfriend’s.”
I was the only one who had nobody, and she knew it.
I would not go limping back to Mom and Dad. I had an idea.
I liked Ellen. She was easy for me to talk to, which almost never happened. I grasped at something that she had said last night.
“You take the bus?”
“Right now I do.” She sighed. “My car’s in the shop and won’t be fixed for another week. It’s bad, because our show opens in ten days and we’re rehearsing all the time. And the bus takes forever.”
The sweat began to trickle. The ants were waking up. I forged ahead. “I have a car.” The few functioning parts of my brain were whirring and clicking.
“Really?” Ellen got a hopeful look.
“But I need a place to stay. Just temporarily.”
“So….?”
“So, I’d let you use it for a week if I could stay with you rent-free. And if you’ll cover gas for the car, too.”
“You don’t need it?”
“For a little while I can get by without it.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t been able to make myself drive since Dr. Abbot died.
Ellen beamed at me. “You’ve got a deal!”
BOOM! One daily goal met, if only temporarily, and it was still morning.
“Great! Excuse me.” Equally flushed with pride at my accomplishment and nauseated by my little surge of initiative, I ran to the bathroom and hurled. I stayed there for a while, rinsing out my mouth and sponging off my sweaty face and neck and counting by sevens to calm myself down.
When I finally came out, twenty minutes later, Ellen was organizing things to take to the theater in my car. She peered at me from behind what I guessed was a pile of orange prison uniforms.
“I need to get some more pills,” I said. Both my prescription and my doctor had expired. I needed somebody living to write me a new one. “Would Adam have a doctor I could talk to?”
Ellen pointed to a list of phone numbers on a corkboard. “His number’s on there. You can use my landline for anything you need.”
“Thanks. And also—sorry to be so demanding— but I have to get some clothes.” This was so embarrassing.
Ellen looked like a size eight, compared to my sixteen. “You’re not demanding. Besides, I know the perfect person.” She eyed me speculatively. “Carrie, in 235. She should be about your size.”
Poor thing. “Should we call her?”
“She’s in Tibet. But she won’t mind, since it’s a total emergency. We’ll wash anything we borrow and put it back, of course.”
Ellen was so much more experienced in social matters than I was. How would I know how people were supposed to behave? Still, I squirmed. “Shouldn’t you ask her first?”
“She said no texts or emails. She’s having her soul purified.”
“But….”
Ellen stood up. “Look. She travels all the time. I’ve been feeding her fish and picking up her mail for two years. She’d be glad to do me a favor.”
“Okay.” It seemed to be my best option. “But before we go, can I just call my folks really quick?” On a Monday morning, Mom would be grocery shopping, and Dad would be at his job with the SCBAC, of which he was president. It stood for the Society and Council for the Betterment and Advancement of Clayton, but I privately thought of it as SuckBack. As in Suck Back every opinion you’ve ever had and keep it to yourself.
Using Ellen’s landline, I left a message. “Listen, I lost my cell phone. I’ll replace it as soon as I can.” Like in a month? I wondered how long I could get away with it. “I’ll call every day, but don’t worry if I miss you and just leave a message.”
Clearly, I would not be mentioning my new status as a homeless moocher. If I did, Mom and Dad would arrive with grappling hooks to bring me home.
A few minutes later, I stood staring into Carrie’s closet. Or more accurately, her closets, as she had all the storage in her apartment, plus a couple of big armoires and a hanging rack, given over to wardrobe. She had a lot of clothes—at least fifty pairs of shoes, several dozen belts hanging from a rack, rows of color-coordinated pants and tops, drawers of sweaters and lingerie, a wall of dresses, and even hats and funky accessories.
“She’s a total clothes horse,” Ellen said, unnecessarily.
“But… isn’t she a big girl?” I didn’t think larger women wore anything but caftans and sweat pants.
“I guess, but she works in fashion.” Ellen nodded to the jam-packed closet. “Pick out something pretty. She won’t mind.”
It was a new idea to me, that I could dress well and even maybe look good at a size 16. Still, it seemed wrong to take her nice clothes. I didn’t even know this girl.
From the back of a bottom drawer, I selected two worn t-shirts and a single pair of jeans. Elsewhere, I found a pair of rubber flip-flops.
“That’s not enough! You’ll be back down here tomorrow.”
“These’ll do. They fit me fine.” I insisted on making a list of the few items taken, signing it, and leaving it behind, with a promise to return them.
BOOM! Another daily goal met. It felt good. I hadn’t done any goal work since I heard of Dr. Abbot’s fatal heart attack. He was fifty-seven. He had been my rock. In a lot of ways, he’d been my best friend.
I’m doing it for you, too, I thought.
“Thanks again,” I told Ellen. “Now, I guess I better go see my apartment, what’s left of it.”
Chapter Five
From Pru’s Journal
“Some people find it harder to manage than others do,” my parents would say. “Maybe you were just born to do less, and that’s okay.”
**
My former kitchen was an empty, charred hole. In the living room, my sofa lay blackened and flattened almost beyond recognition.
The ceilings and walls bore a black patina that faded out to gray, then almost white down by the floor. It reminded me of those commercials that started with the Before Image of a disgusting, grungy wall. Hey homemakers! Troubled by annoying four-alarm fires? Just use Power Clean to get up those nasty soot stains. After a few quick swipes, presto change-o. An immaculate white wall.
I was aghast to think of me and my kitty, trapped here, the flames closing in. “Do you think we can do this fast?” I blurted to the volunteer.
I was able to salvage my driver’s license, car keys, and the small amount of cash in my wallet. My cell phone and computer, of course, were a total loss. Clothing, ditto.
“That all?” he asked.
“There’s a backpack in the closet, behind the laundry hamper. I really need it, if you can find it.”
He waded away from me into the closet and pulled out the hamper, which leaked water from its seams. “This it?” He held up the dripping blue canvas bag.
“Yes!” How long did it take a twenty dollar bill to dry? Would merchants accept wet currency? I hoped at least some of the money was usable.
I rode the elevator back to Ellen’s, my eyes prick
ling and my throat burning, telling myself how grateful I was to be alive.
Dr. Abbot and I had planned my move to LA, which I’d chosen because it seemed the single place most unlike Clayton within a radius of a thousand miles. I’d leased an apartment sight unseen over the internet, paying the deposit with some of the cash from my one savings bond, the only money I had. In theory, a job would have supplied more, but that hadn’t yet materialized. I put some of the bond money toward a bus ticket to LA and spent most of the remainder later on yard sale furniture, a TV, and the car.
Only the car was left now. At noon, I helped Ellen load it up with assorted weaponry and ammunition and watched her climb into the driver’s seat. “Don’t get pulled over,” I warned her.
“Oh, c’mon, these are toy guns,” Ellen said. “I’ll be back around ten.”
I waved goodbye as I watched her go. Alone, back in her apartment, I found Adam’s phone number and left a message asking him to call me at Ellen’s number.
A yowl and the skittering of toenails brought me back into the room. I caught a flash of orange and black—Chuck running for his life with the kitten in hot pursuit. I watched them as they circled the living room and vanished back into the bedroom. Funny, for a split second, I almost thought I saw Chuck sneak a sly peek over his shoulder and even slow down a little, to make sure she stayed with him.
My stomach growled, vying for my attention. I decided to go out on a limb and make scrambled eggs. How hard could it be, really? I’d seen Mom do it a million times.
She had never let me work in our kitchen, telling me I should put my energy toward “getting better.” But I was a grown woman now, just like Pepper Hathaway. On my own—and with a roommate!
Humming, I dug around for a pan and a potholder, then lit one of the burners. Maybe I should start watching some of those food shows, if I was going to become a cook. Maybe I would learn to throw pizza dough. I twirled the potholder into the air, caught it, and expertly flipped it in the direction of the counter.
Time to look for the eggs. I found them in the refrigerator and turned back to the stove, only to see the potholder go up in flames. It must have landed on the burner. A blaze crackled before my eyes—for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
The eggs hit the floor with a splat. I shrieked, but there was no one to hear me.
Water. I needed water.
Somehow the spray hose leaped into my hand. From a distance of two feet, I blasted the potholder, spraying the whole area for a good thirty seconds just to make sure the fire was completely out. Then I stopped, breathing heavily.
Hallelujah! I did a little dance. I had put out the fire and saved the day all by myself!
I would replace the potholder and eggs. And clean the kitchen. No one needed to know about this, I thought as I wiped water off the walls and cabinets.
A crazed pounding came from Ellen’s door. Adam burst in. “Who called for help? Where’s Ellen? Is she okay? ” He coughed and looked around in horror at the smoke that drifted through the apartment. “My God, this place is a cancer den!” He rushed around, opening windows.
“Ellen’s not here. Everything’s fine.” I tried to look innocent as he flung open another a window.
Adam was a tall guy, maybe six foot four, with an overall look that I would have to call rumpled. His sandy blond hair, although cut short, still tried to billow in all directions. He looked like he’d gotten home from his office and taken off his jacket and tie, leaving behind an expensive-looking but wrinkled button-down shirt, collar open, that was starting to come out of his dressy wool slacks.
He was minus handkerchief today, so I could see the bottom half of his face. His lower lip had an intriguing curve to it. Actually, the top lip wasn’t bad either. Why hadn’t I changed my clothes after going through my apartment? Probably because I didn’t see the point of switching from one tired tee shirt to another. But at least the new one would have been soot-free.
“Does Ellen know you’re in her apartment?” He bristled like a protective guard dog.
“Of course! I’m staying with her while she uses my car. She went to work.”
A strange look came over his face. “She’s borrowing your car?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
Ignoring my question, he headed for the kitchen. I ran after him. I should have realized that nerves were running high after last night’s disaster.
We came to a stop by the stove. “What happened in here?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Just a little….you know…..” I trailed off.
He took in the charred remaining nub of a potholder and water dripping down cabinet doors onto the floor, then wheeled around to face me. “Did you start yesterday’s fire?”
Horror filled me. “No!”
He looked me over, glowering. “It started somewhere over on your side. No one’s come forward with any information, but the investigators are looking for the cause.”
“Well, I didn’t start it, I swear!”
He whipped out his cell phone and took some shots of the mess I’d created, then, using a pair of barbecue tongs, dropped the blackened potholder nub into a clean Ziploc bag. Sandwich size.
“What are you doing?” I squealed. “How dare you?”
Rat-a-tat-tat! A woodpecker pounded on my skull. This was what had happened in my favorite made-for-TV movie, Unjust Passion, when the beautiful Isobel was falsely accused of compromising her virtue with the scoundrel Antonio de las Flores. Like her, I would be wrongfully imprisoned, then taunted and violated by guards of both the male and female persuasion.
“I’m just preserving the evidence.” Adam folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re truly innocent, you have nothing to worry about.”
He obviously had not seen Unjust Passion. The woodpecker pounded mercilessly against my cranium. The ants began to bite. I ran into the bathroom and jumped into the tub, where I huddled with my arms around my knees, rocking forward and backward.
I deny and uncreate you, I said to all the negative thoughts and fears running through my head. I deny and uncreate you. Still, I couldn’t help but think what a jerk Adam was being, assuming I had set a building on fire and lied about it, and all on account of a measly potholder. I hated him. I hated everything about him.
The door opened a crack to show his despicable nose and one of his detestable eyes. “You okay in there?”
“Get out!” I shouted, hurling a bar of soap at the door. It closed.
It opened again approximately twenty-two minutes later. I knew because that’s about how long it normally took me to reach ten thousand, counting by sevens.
Through the crack in the door came a hand wearing a rubber kitchen glove and holding a piece of white paper towel. It waved the white thing back and forth a few times. Then the gloved hand stopped, so the paper hung straight down. On it, printed in black, was the word “Sorry.”
I contemplated Adam’s white flag. Even my well-padded bum was starting to hurt in this hard, cold bathtub. And I still hadn’t had lunch.
I crept out of the bathroom and opened my mouth to yell at Adam, only to find him wearing not just rubber gloves, but also a mask over his nose and mouth and an apron imprinted with the words It’s for the play.
I snapped my mouth shut. “What’s all that?”
“I cleaned Ellen’s kitchen. I didn’t want her to come home to a big mess.” He pulled the mask off his face and let it hang around his neck.
“You’re not cleaning up nuclear waste, you know.”
His eyes widened at my ignorance. “Are you aware of all the dangerous household bacteria, particularly in kitchens? Staph, salmonella, E. coli ….” Holding just the edge, he pulled off each rubber glove and held them gingerly out from his body. “I have to get rid of these things.”
I followed him to the kitchen, where he disposed of the gloves and mask, putting them into a plastic bag and tying it up securely.
“You could re-use those gloves,” I offered.<
br />
“And be riddled with disease? I don’t think so.” He took off the apron. “This is Ellen’s,” he said, hanging it up. “The gloves and mask came from my apartment.”
I suspected he had a large supply of them.
He moved over to the sink, lathered up his hands, and began to wash them. “Look,” he said over his shoulder, “maybe I overreacted earlier.”
“Maybe! You accused me of arson!”
“No, I inquired as to whether you might have set an accidental fire yesterday, just as you did today.” He rinsed his hands and lathered up second time.
“I did not set that fire!”
“Okay, then I believe you.”
“Okay then!” I glared at him, while he returned a look of pure exasperation.
He finished the second rinse and lathered his hands for the third time. “Nice, huh?” He looked around the now pristine kitchen, all surfaces wiped dry, all traces of egg removed.
“I would have cleaned it up,” I said, feeling my face grow warm. “But thank you.”
He turned off the water and waved his hands in the air.
“What are you doing?” I asked, distracted.
“Air-drying my hands. I can’t risk using Ellen’s towels.”
I gulped a little, thinking of Ellen. On my first day here, I’d practically torched her place. And now I was going to have to beg this nosy neighbor guy for mercy. “Would you mind not telling her? I mean, since everything turned out alright?”
He took a step backward. “There’s no way I’m going to lie to her.”
“I didn’t mean lie. I meant, not mention it.”
He shook his head. “We’ll see.”
He had rolled up his sleeves. I found myself eying his hands, which—in addition to being very clean—were surprisingly broad and strong for a guy who wore a suit to work. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. If you included the firefighter, that meant I’d ended up in close proximity to two attractive men in the last twenty-four hours. It was the most testosterone I’d encountered since my folks and I accidentally sat next to the OSU football team one night at the Olive Garden.
