by Haylen Beck
At six o’clock, she showered, dressed in her best jeans and sparkly top, and made up her face. Part of her questioned why she went to the trouble; it was only Betsy coming over with beer and pizza, wasn’t it? If I want to look good, then goddammit, I can do it just to make myself feel good. Why the hell not?
“Stop judging me,” she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
She hummed her favorite songs as she moved around the trailer lighting the stubs of the few scented candles she owned, then she filled one bowl with peanuts and another with potato chips she’d found in the back of the cupboard. Then she sat and watched the door, waiting.
A lifetime seemed to pass before the knock came.
Anna sprang to her feet, crossed the trailer, opened the door, breathless.
“Hey, girl,” Betsy said with a grin.
Using her waitressing skills, she balanced two pizza boxes and assorted containers between her left arm and her chin and held a box of Coors Light under the other. Anna had a moment to wonder how she managed to knock on the door before remembering her manners and taking the stack of food from her.
“Come on in,” she said, her voice fluttering with a strange excitement. It confused her. It wasn’t like she’d never had company before, but still, there it was.
She carried the stack of food to the table while Betsy closed the door and followed, depositing the jangling box of beer beside the pizzas.
“How you been today?” Betsy asked, her arms outstretched.
Anna came in for the hug, meaning to say, Good, today was just fine. But instead she felt something break and spill inside, and hot tears came, sobs choked from her throat.
Betsy held her tight. “Oh, honey, what is it?”
Anna tried to speak, but she couldn’t push the words past the flood, and even then, did she know where it came from? Betsy rocked her there, a swaying motion side to side, cooing comforting whispers until finally Anna could shape the words and speak them.
“What am I going to do now?” she asked. “What am I going to do?”
15
BETSY WASHED PEPPERONI PIZZA DOWN with a swig of Coors, burped, and said, “The world needs waitresses. I mean, who else is going to feed those assholes?”
“Yeah, I know, but around here?” Anna said. “Who’s hiring?”
The tears had passed as quickly as they’d come, like a blister had been lanced inside her. Thank God for Betsy, she thought, here to shore her up and keep her right. And the beer buzz helped.
“Oh, there’s places,” Betsy said. “You know, you’ve got the looks and the figure, you’re young enough, you could—”
“Nuh-uh,” Anna said, shaking her head. “No way. I’m not doing Hooters or the Tilted Kilt or any of those places. God, I meet enough creeps in a regular restaurant. I don’t care how good the tips are.”
She helped herself to another slice of pizza, this one with BBQ chicken topping, and bit off a chunk.
“Hey, you know what?” Betsy said, her face brightening. “I saw an ad in the paper the other day, in the back with the classifieds. It said they were looking for women under thirty-five—that’s me, for a start—women who wanted a money-making opportunity. Yeah, that’s what it said. A money-making opportunity for healthy women.”
“Strippers,” Anna said. “They’re looking for strippers. Or hookers. Or models.”
She used air quotes for the last word.
“No, no,” Betsy said, “it was nothing like that. The company name was something medical, it had the word ‘clinic’ in it. I bet it’s one of those trial things, where they give you money to take some new pills, just to see what happens.”
Anna laughed, a snorting guffaw that felt wonderful. “Yeah, a medical experiment, that’s what I want to do, sign me right up. Write me a fat-enough check, and I’ll have all the side effects you want.”
“I’m serious,” Betsy said, rapping the table with her knuckles. “Those things, they pay out thousands just to take some pills or eat something or whatever, and probably you’ll get a placebo anyway, because they need, what do you call it, a control group, right? Look, do you have a copy here? You know, the Advertiser? The one they deliver for free.”
Anna looked around the kitchen area, to the corner of the worktop where she kept her mail, then she remembered.
“I think I put it in the recycling when I was cleaning up today.”
Betsy got to her feet, wavered a little. “Ooh, how many beers did I have?” She crossed to the plastic tubs in the corner. “Here? This one?”
“Yeah, but don’t go rooting through my—”
Betsy paid no attention and lifted the lid from the paper-recycling box. She rummaged for a moment before giving a triumphant “Aha! Here it is.”
She came back to the table carrying a folded copy of the Superior Advertiser. Flopping down into the chair, she pushed aside plates and cutlery and pizza boxes, spread the paper out, and opened it up. She flicked page over page, stories of dogs needing adoption, prizes won in schools, the kind of banal local chatter that fills up free newspapers that exist to sell advertising space.
“Here,” she said at last, tapping a two-column ad with her fingertip. “Financial opportunity for healthy women aged twenty-one to thirty-five. Call this number 24/7 for details, or visit our website.”
Anna sat back in her chair and shook her head. “Come on, this is nuts. Like I’d let someone from a classified ad experiment on me.”
“Why not call them? Just see what they want, and what they’re paying. Jesus, if I thought I’d get a grand for taking some sugar pill, I’d sure as hell do it. And you need the money, right?”
“Yeah, I need the money, but not like this.”
“Give me your cell,” Betsy said, her hand out.
“What? No.”
“Give it to me or I’ll kick your ass.”
Anna crossed her arms across her chest. “I’m not calling them.”
Betsy cast her gaze around the trailer until she spotted Anna’s cell over by the fridge. She bounced to her feet, grabbed the paper, and made a dash for it.
“No!” Anna raised herself from the chair, but didn’t quite have the will to stand up. “Don’t you dare,” she said, but her giggling dulled the edge of the warning.
“You’re twenty-nine, right?” Betsy said. “So you were born in…”
“Stop!” Anna said, but Betsy went ahead and entered the four digits to unlock the phone.
She squinted at the cell’s screen as she thumbed out the listed number, then put it to her ear, listened for a moment. Her eyes brightened, and Anna heard the tinny sound of a recorded voice, though she couldn’t make out the words.
“Anna Lenihan,” Betsy said at the voice’s prompt, then she recited Anna’s number. Another few moments’ listening, then she hung up. “There,” she said. “Simple as that.”
“You’re a bad person,” Anna scolded.
Betsy dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Ah, get over yourself. What’s the worst that can happen? They call back, you can tell them to shove their money up their ass.”
She placed the phone on the table, and Anna stared at the screen while Betsy opened another round of beers.
* * *
—
THE CELL BUZZED with an incoming call at ten thirty-four the next morning.
Betsy had spent the night on Anna’s couch and woken not long after eight, complaining about her hangover as if someone else had inflicted it upon her. Anna fixed them both some eggs, and neither mentioned the ad or the phone call as they ate. At around ten, they embraced on Anna’s step while Mrs. Crane from the trailer next door watched from her window with a look of shock and horror on her face.
“I think someone got the wrong idea,” Anna said, giggling.
Betsy turned and looked to the window, smil
ed, and waved. Mrs. Crane disappeared from view.
“What wrong idea?” Betsy said in a voice loud enough to be heard a street away. “It’s been an all-night lesbian lovefest over here!”
“Stop!” Anna said, punching her arm.
They hugged again, and Betsy kissed her cheek. “You stay in touch, now. And don’t worry. You’ll land on your feet. I know it.”
Anna watched her drive away in her Jetta, its exhaust rattling and sputtering. When she looked up, Mrs. Crane had returned to her window. Anna waved, and Mrs. Crane shook her head with disgust.
Inside, Anna began clearing up last night’s mess. There was plenty of pizza left over that would do for lunch; she threw the rest of the detritus in the garbage and brought the plates to the sink. Her mind was in some distant place where money and time were plentiful when the cell vibrated on the table, startling her. She dried her hands and went to the table, checked the phone’s display. Number unknown. She thumbed the green icon.
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” a deep male voice said. “May I please speak with Anna Lenihan?”
A chilling unease crept up on her. “Speaking. Who’s calling?”
“Good morning, Anna,” the voice said, adopting a lighter tone. “My name is Mr. Kovak, and I’m calling on behalf of the Schaeffer-Holdt Clinic. You left your name and number to register your interest. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to begin by asking a few questions. Would that be okay?”
Anna paused, wondered if she should hang up.
“Ma’am, are you there?”
“Yeah,” Anna said. “So, what is this financial opportunity, exactly? Is it a medical experiment or something?”
“Not exactly,” Mr. Kovak said. “Normally we like to get to know our candidates a little before we go into the exact nature of the arrangement.”
“I don’t think I should talk to you any more about this,” Anna said. “Thank you for your call, but—”
“Anna,” he said. “May I call you Anna? You should know that our selection process involves a one-day interview. Your fee for attending that interview would be a five-hundred-dollar cash payment, with no obligation or commitment.”
Anna’s mouth closed. She stared out her window, saw raindrops darken the ground where they fell, felt the temperature in the trailer fall.
“Anna, do you think I could ask you those questions now? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“No obligation?” she asked.
“No obligation,” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
16
THREE WEEKS LATER, ANNA ENTERED the lobby of the Sheraton at Station Square, in Pittsburgh, which backed onto the Monongahela River. The place bustled with smartly dressed men and women attending some kind of conference. A large flat-screen television showed a list of seminars and the rooms they were hosted in. She felt immediately out of place among these people with their good clothes and their ambition. Hundreds of them giving off the reek of desperation as they tried to look successful.
All except one.
Waiting by an ornamental fountain, he stood at least six inches taller than any man there, with shoulders twice as wide. But not fat. His suit was well cut and showed the proportions of his powerful body. He exuded a confidence that said he was comfortable with his size, and how to use it. When he moved, that confidence was carried in his stride. Anna was so transfixed by his presence that it took a moment for her to realize he was walking toward her. She froze in place, watching, wondering if this was what it felt like to be prey in sight of a predator.
“Anna?” he said.
She opened her mouth to reply, but only exhaled.
He raised his eyebrows, creasing his smooth forehead. His hair was shaved close enough to the scalp to show shining pink skin. A deep scar perhaps an inch and a half long arced out and down from his left eye.
“Anna Lenihan?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” she said.
He extended his right hand. It swallowed hers whole. His skin was dry and hard against hers. The large and meaty hands of a workman. She fought the urge to pull away from his grasp and run for the door.
“I’m Mr. Kovak,” he said. “We spoke on the telephone. I’m glad to meet you.”
Anna couldn’t form a reply, so instead nodded and forced a smile.
“We’ll use a suite on the third floor, if that’s all right?” he said. “We won’t be alone, so there’s no need to be concerned. Would you like to follow me?”
She did as he asked, walking two paces behind him, through the conference attendees who unconsciously parted for him. She remembered the questions he’d asked when they last spoke three weeks ago. Her date of birth, her height, her weight. Did she have any disabilities? Any hereditary conditions that required medical treatment? He had rattled off a list of diseases, asking if she had ever suffered from any of them, hepatitis, tuberculosis, syphilis, and more she’d never heard of. She had replied with a series of no, no, no, so many that she couldn’t count.
The elevator door opened, and he stepped aside to let her enter first. As he followed her inside, and the door sealed them in, the fear bubbled up once more.
He pressed the button for the third floor and said, “Please don’t be nervous.”
She felt then that he could see through her, no, inside of her, to the place within her chest where the fear curled on itself, waiting to uncoil into panic.
“I understand this is an unusual situation. It’s only natural that you’d be wary. Please be assured that you can end the interview whenever you want. You’ll still be compensated for your time. Oh, speaking of which…”
Mr. Kovak reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a white letter-sized envelope. He held it out to her. She stared at it.
“Please,” he said.
Anna took it from his hand, saw her name written on it in blue ink.
“Five hundred dollars, as agreed,” he said. “You can open it if you wish.”
The envelope didn’t feel like it held that much money, more than she’d ever had in her hand before. She rubbed it between her fingers, felt the bills inside.
“That’s okay,” she said, her voice sounding ever so small in the elevator. She tucked the envelope away in her purse as the doors opened.
“This way,” Mr. Kovak said as he stepped out.
Anna followed him along the hall, around one bend, through an open fire door, until they reached a door marked 3045. The desire to turn and run came at her hard, but she pushed it back. She waited as Mr. Kovak touched a keycard to a sensor, listened as the lock whirred. He depressed the handle, pushed the door open, and indicated that she should enter. She hesitated, peering inside at the furniture, like a living room in someone’s house. A fancy house at that. For a moment, she wondered where the bed was, then remembered he’d said it was a suite. She’d only ever seen those on TV, never actually been in one.
“Please,” he said, reaching his hand toward the room.
She forced herself to move, one foot in front of the other, inside the suite. As she entered, she saw the woman seated on the couch, blond hair turning gray, perhaps mid-fifties, maybe older. The woman smiled and stood, but said nothing. Anna heard the door close behind her.
“This is Barbara Strand,” Mr. Kovak said. “She’s a registered nurse. Barbara, this is Anna Lenihan.”
Now the woman stepped forward and shook Anna’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to start with taking a photograph. Would that be all right?”
Anna saw the smartphone in her left hand. And the small tripod on the coffee table, facing an empty armchair.
“I guess,” Anna said.
“Great,” Barbara said, and pointed across the room. “Can I get you to stand with your back against that door?”
Anna followed the direction of the woman’s finger, saw the door in the far wall. She supposed it opened into the bedroom, and the urge to flee rose again.
“It’ll only take a moment,” Barbara said, taking Anna’s arm. “Please.”
She guided Anna to the door, positioned her just-so, then stepped back.
“No need to smile,” she said. “Just look directly into the lens. Good. Now, please turn to your left.”
Anna remained still, her heart hammering.
Barbara smiled and said. “It’ll only take a moment.”
Anna turned, gave the woman her right profile.
“And the other side, please.”
Anna did as she was asked, then Barbara guided her back to the armchair. She sat down and watched as Barbara mounted the phone on the tripod and fussed with the touchscreen.
“Are you making a video?” Anna asked.
“Yes,” Barbara said. “I’m afraid it’s required for the interview. Don’t worry, it won’t be shared with anyone outside of the clinic.”
Mr. Kovak came to the couch and sat down. He lifted an iPad from the table, unlocked it, and tapped at the screen.
“Please state your full name, your date of birth, and your Social Security number,” he said.
Anna recited the information, thinking only of the five hundred dollars in her purse, and how much more they might be willing to give her for whatever it was they wanted. They were both well dressed, and the smartphone and tablet must have cost something, not to mention booking the suite. Clearly, they were not lacking for cash.
She scolded herself for thinking that way. She had never been mercenary, never driven by money. And look where that got you, she thought.
Mr. Kovak went through the same series of questions she’d answered over the telephone three weeks ago. Her height, her weight, her health. She said no to the same list of diseases, illnesses, and conditions. But this time he pressed her harder on drugs, tobacco, and alcohol.
“I need you to be completely honest with me,” he said, his voice kind but firm.
