by Theresa Weir
“It’s noisy.”
“You like it quiet.”
“Yeah, mostly. What about you?”
My turn to take a fortifying drink. “Me?”
“Ever do anything for fun with anyone in particular?”
“I work. Or I did. There hasn’t been time for anyone in particular. You don’t have anyone in particular in your life?” It seemed important to nail this down.
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Married, once, for about six months.”
“She must have tired of your incessant chatter.”
He laughed. “She tired of my empty bank account the moment she emptied it.”
“Oh, sorry.”
He rose to clear our plates.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’ll get it later.”
He deposited the dishes in the sink and returned to his seat. I liked that. I hated it when someone insisted on clearing up instead of sitting and chatting. Dirty dishes could wait. Conversations like this…okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scintillating conversation I’d ever had, but it did feel comfortable. Usually, I was out to dinner in a restaurant, either by myself or with clients, pasting on the smile and toeing the company line.
“You ever had anyone particular in your life?” he asked.
Seemed like it was important for him to nail down this fact about me, too. Good. I thought back. “Didn’t even go to prom.”
He snorted. “I did. Wore a tux and everything. Waste of time.”
“The dance or the tux?”
“Both. We didn’t dance. We weren’t even dating. I hardly knew her.”
He glanced out the window and smiled. Fondly remembering? But no, the smile was too grim for that. The sun had gone down, leaving us in the almost dark of twilight, robbing the room and his face of color.
“There was someone else I wanted to ask, but she didn’t know I was alive.”
In the chiaroscuro shades of dove, slate, and silver that had overtaken us, the angles of his face stood out in stark relief, making him appear younger. Or perhaps it had been the statement and raw vulnerability it brought to his features. A vague memory stirred, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I find it hard to believe there was a woman who didn’t know you were alive.”
“Believe it.”
“She must have been dead.”
He didn’t say anything to that, and I held his gaze even though the intensity of it made me squirm. “I wanted to go to the prom, or on a date,” I continued. “There was this one guy…I was…I thought I was completely in love.” I waved my hand at that sentimental notion and forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “But I was too shy to talk to him.”
Gabe leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes never straying from mine. “What was he like?”
Now, why did he need to know that? But I was in a strange mood, and sharing this intimacy didn’t faze me. A sure sign of my mental decline.
“Oh, he was cute, of course.” I pictured the young man who had held my heart. “Kind of kept to himself. But there was just something about him, you know?” Gabe nodded. “Every time I got near him I’d go all fluttery inside and lose my voice. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would croak like a frog.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, but his voice remained sober. “You were in school with him?”
“No, he worked for my mother once in a while. That’s the only time I saw him.” I played with my napkin, folding it until perfectly square, remembering those glorious days like yesterday. “I’d watch him from my window while he pulled weeds or mowed, always hoping it would get hot enough for him to take off his shirt.”
A nervous giggle escaped my lips, and I covered it with a gulp of wine. William rooted under my elbow, seeking—offering?—reassurance. I scratched him under the chin, thankful for the distraction. Gabe emptied his glass, refilled it, and drank again.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Again, that niggling sense of the familiar pricked me. It was his profile, I decided.
“This kid have a name?” he asked.
I stacked my hands over my heart like a swooning teenager. “Oh, yes, it was perfect,” I gushed in a deliberately breathy tone. “Ridiculously romantic.”
He sat very still, looking at me expectantly, and inside, I felt a pendulum swoosh from one extreme of its range to the other. There was a vital piece of information I was supposed to know, a vital something I’d missed. I grabbed a handful of William’s wiry coat to steady myself.
“Rafe,” I said after a moment. With a little click, the missing piece fell into place. “My mother called him Rafe.”
Chapter 6
The light dimmed and the air stilled. Even William held his breath. Gabe’s figure swam and danced before me with the image of Rafe—young Gabe—next to it. Behind. In front.
Gabe. Rafe. Gabriel Michael Raphael. How had I not known this? The error—the total lack of awareness, wholly insignificant and enormous—couldn’t fit in my head. It slid down the back of my neck and shoved into my body cavity like a fat lady elbowing space at an already full pie-eating contest. Gabe and Rafe merged; I felt my balance slip, the room tilt.
* * *
Gabe had been fairly certain Stephanie hadn’t figured out who he was, but he hadn’t expected this reaction. She looked like she’d swallowed a whole tomato patch, and when her eyelids fluttered and she listed to one side, he jumped to catch her before she landed on the floor. But the big dog beat him to it, bracing his paws against the table edge and gently pressing against her.
She slung a noodley arm around his body and rested against him for a moment. Where had this savior dog been hiding, and how had he managed to edge out Gabe just as he finally had a chance to be the one for Steph to lean on?
“Are you okay?” he asked. At least he could talk to her. So far, William hadn’t shown any talent for that.
She patted the dog and stood. “Need a cold drink.”
This time, Gabe did reach her. He put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back down. “I’ll get it.”
He brought her a glass of water. She downed it all in one gulp. Some leaked over her chin and she swiped at it with her arm.
“You must think I’m a complete and utter idiot.”
Gabe found his chair, fighting the urge to gather her in his arms and use his body to reassure her. So much easier than talking. Maybe the dog had the right idea after all.
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged, decided to stick with the truth this time. “Remember I said there was a girl who didn’t know I was alive?”
She smiled. “The one I said had to have been dead?” Then her eyelids snapped open. “Oh dear God.”
He nodded.
“Oh dear God,” she repeated. “That was me.” She covered her face with her hands. “But I wasn’t. I did know you were alive. I was just too scared to talk to you.”
Gabe wouldn’t lament time lost in the past. They had the present. She said she’d been in love with him, or thought so. But he was getting ahead of himself.
“And I was too scared to talk to you, then.” He hadn’t made a whole lot of progress on that front, either. He became aware of how hard his heart beat, an almost painful throb that made it hard to breathe.
“Oh, but you’ve been working here all this time and I never knew. How could I be so stupid? My mother never said anything. Why didn’t she ever say anything?”
“She believed in letting life take its own course. And I didn’t want her to.”
Stephanie went to refill her water glass. He left her to it wishing he had a chore to busy his hands at that moment, like a cord of wood to split. His palms itched and his shoulders felt tight. Maybe he should leave. Let her rest. He made eye contact with William. The dog gave him a look that clearly communicated he could take care of her. The man’
s presence was neither wanted nor needed. Gabe frowned. The dog’s actions when Stephanie had been attacked were one thing, but there was something strange about how attentive he was. He didn’t know too many dogs that were so tuned in to their humans, even after being with them from puppy hood. His own mutt would throw him over in a hot New York second for a juicy bone.
That was it. He’d bring Lucy over to meet William. That should get the dog’s mind off Stephanie and leave a little room for Gabe to get close to her.
Steph turned from where she’d been staring through the kitchen window.
“I think—”
“I think—”
They both laughed.
“You need some rest,” Gabe said.
* * *
He left without fuss or ceremony after a too brief and awkward hug. I could scarcely look at him, I felt so senseless. I corked what remained of the wine, let the dishes rest in the sink, and sat on the edge of the couch. William jumped up, licked my ear, and curled next to me, laying his head on my leg. But he didn’t close his eyes or doze. Exhaustion curled against my other side, and a nervous current ran through me. Beneath my hand, William hummed with the same force, like a tuning fork resonating with one clear note. I could feel his eyebrows lifting, first one, then the other. My insides vibrated like electrified Jell-O, jumbling my thoughts. I wanted to be numb, to sleep, but couldn’t make myself sit back or lie down.
At some point, though, a deep-seated instinct for survival must have taken over for morning found me uncomfortably twisted into the deep cushions with one foot still on the floor.
I hear birds singing, faintly. We have been in the dark cellar with our freshly stored roots and grains all the night, but the birds wake with the sun. So, it is morning. Muffled voices above. The invaders. They have returned from defiling our holy site. The old beams creak under their weight. Shouting. Then, crackling like winter’s warm hearth. The others begin to scream or whimper. Smoke whispers through the floorboards from above. Coughing and choking.
He will come. My love. My own warrior. This is not our fate.
I raise my voice in supplication to the goddess. The crones join me.
I can no longer hear the birds.
Barking. In my face. It pulled me out of sleep, sputtering, into the day’s light. The hair on William’s back had turned into a Mohawk, and he barked and howled at me. I sat up quickly.
“What? What’s wrong?” I sniffed the air. No smoke.
With relief, I sank back to the couch, breathing deeply to root myself in reality. My dog licked my hand. Always reassuring me with his presence. I must have been making noises in my sleep. Again, the dream. The same but different. And not quite a dream because I was half awake. Who could this woman be who was frightened but strong and so sure of her love? It was as if I had felt everything she experienced, but of course I hadn’t. I’d never been that sure of anything, let alone the affection of a man.
I’d stopped feeling long ago when my father left. Which is why my therapist spent so much time trying to tease emotions out of me. She’s sure they’re buried inside me somewhere. Despite the number of tears I’d shed in the last day and a half, I’ve never really been afraid or sad or happy. I’d made sure of that by working. All. The. Time. Look where that’d gotten me. Well, now I had a working knowledge of anger and maybe something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, yet. Jean would be proud, though. William sat and wagged his tail, and I petted his head. I could be sure of him.
“Good boy.”
I decided to go see Mrs. Spangler, and after tidying myself up and walking William, I knocked on her door. The welcome smell of coffee greeted me when she opened it.
“Stephanie, how nice to see you so early.” She beamed at me.
Early? I didn’t even know what time it was.
“Come in, come in. How are you? Thank God you weren’t hurt.” She took my hand and pulled me in. “And a good thing dear Mr. Fagen was here when that nice lady policeman brought you home. Where is that lovely new doggie of yours? I bought some treats to keep here for him. You know I’d be happy to look after him when you’re working. Would you like some coffee?”
She pulled out a chair, and I sat, and in front of me she put a delicate china cup filled with coffee, and a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.
“You stay right there and I’ll get him. Isn’t he part of the family?”
She went out but continued talking. Our back doors were right next to each other just like our front doors, so she didn’t have far to go.
“The angel saved your life, after all. Nice doggie, there you are. Is that yummy? What was Stephie thinking leaving you here all by your lonesome. Come on, Biggun. Good boy.”
She returned with William in tow, licking his chops. He proceeded to ignore me and shadow her around the sparkling kitchen. Unlike mine, Mrs. Spangler’s had been updated with a new floor and countertops. I should consider remodeling while I was off work. A good excuse to keep Gabe handy. A good way to stay busy.
“I think I have posttraumatic stress disorder,” I blurted.
I felt the woman of the dream hovering nearby, still and watchful. Something about her made it clear she wouldn’t complain of PTSD. Probably no such thing wherever she was, nor any tolerance for whining. Oh, I was losing my mind. Mrs. Spangler finally settled across from me with a cup of coffee to which she added three teaspoons of sugar.
“Excuse me, dear?”
“I said I think I have PTSD.”
“Is that something you got from the attack?”
Like the woman from the dream, PTSD probably had no place in Mrs. Spangler’s vocabulary, either. “Actually, I think it’s from getting fired.”
“They fired you?” Her hand splayed over her chest. “What’s your boss’s name? I’ll call him first thing in the morning. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You are the hardest working person I know. Furthermore—”
“Her name is Janet Siegal, but you don’t have to call her. Technically, they laid me off, and I think she maybe did me a favor. But I haven’t figured that part out yet.” I did feel some relief, but Monday morning loomed in the very near future, and my anxiety grew the closer it came.
Mrs. Spangler’s usually perfect posture faltered and she slumped to the back of her chair with a dramatic huff. “Did you a favor? How so? By giving you this PBJ thing? I don’t think I understand, dear.”
“What?”
“That P-whatever you said.”
“Post-trau— Well, not exactly. More like a psychotic break.” I should call Jean. Jean would know. Might even welcome the opportunity to dig deeper into my psyche.
How are you feeling, Stephanie?
How, exactly, does crazy feel?
“I got this dog and now I’m having strange dreams and visions and did you know that when Gabe was a kid he worked for my mother sometimes but she used to call him Rafe?”
Mrs. Spangler’s eyes widened a little at that. Wasn’t sure if it was the abrupt change of subject, the run-on sentence, or the information it contained. I think it was because I was late to the party. She had the grace to smile kindly instead of looking at me like I rode the little school bus for not recognizing dear Mr. Fagen all along.
Her coffee tasted good. I helped myself to more. When I returned to the table, she was talking to William again.
“You know, I used to have a little doggie. His name was Blackie. He went with me everywhere and everyone loved him. Look…”
She got up, went to a shelf near the window filled with knickknacks, spices, framed photos, and rooting plants, and brought back a small box.
“This is Blackie. He hasn’t been gone that long. I miss him terribly. I know I should bury him or scatter his ashes…dear Mr. Fagen never complained when Blackie dug up the beds. I just can’t seem to let him go. I like having him near.”
She stared at the box with a wistful smile for a moment, then held it out and William sniffed it and licked her hand.
I hadn’t even noticed Blackie was gone. Poor Mrs. Spangler. Oh, I was a bad person. How had I found such a good dog? Oh, right, he’d found me. Which reminded me that I needed to call Heather and let her know how it was going with him. Maybe she could help with the dreams. She was my resident expert on weird stuff. Although I’m sure it was easily explained by my abrupt change of circumstances.
“Now, I’m going to put this right here.” Mrs. Spangler put the box on a lower shelf. “That way, you can visit whenever you come over. Okay?”
William noted where the box now sat and lay on the floor next to it.
Mrs. Spangler turned and patted my hand. “What you need, dear, is to find your whetstone. That’s all.”
“My what?”
“Something or someone to hone yourself against. You think it’s your job, but that just makes you dull. You need to find the thing that makes you sharp.”
I blinked. Was she saying work wasn’t important?
“For me, it was dance.” She patted my hand again. “Still is.” She stood and cleared our dishes. “My, my, listen to me. Dispensing advice like Dear Abby. I’m sure you have enough on your mind without me muddying the water.”
* * *
William and I went for a run in the park. If there were any bad guys around, they didn’t show themselves. For the first time, I considered moving out of the city. William would do better with a big yard. I could keep the house, no reason for Mrs. Spangler or Mr. Weinperth to move. First things first, I reminded myself as we got home. Must find new job before thinking about anything else.
I gave William a bath outside. He stood stoically while I sudsed, rinsed, and toweled him off. I left him loose to dry off the rest of the way. He rolled and wormed in the grass, twisting this way and that before doing the big dog shake. He rubbed his whole body along the stockade fence and pushed through a row of dense bushes, sneezed a few times, then commenced to nosing the garden beds, digging here and there, as if Blackie had given him an idea, but he didn’t show real enthusiasm for it. He marked all four corners of the yard before coming to sit next to me on the steps.
We sat together for a while, enjoying the sun before it got too hot, but I had to move, had to lengthen my to-do list, simply had to find something to do. The Sunday paper would be a good place to start looking for job openings.
