A Different Kind of Valentine

by K. J. Dahlen

  Only Max was in the control room. He had some ear phones on with a dark sweater that bulged in the middle. But he saw the box, lifted an eyebrow, and came out in the lobby.

  "Smells great," he said, ear phones hanging from his neck. "Is that for me?"

  "Well, I really brought it for Sara. Is she around?"

  Max shook his head and looked up at the clock. "No, but it’s getting close. We’re on in 20 minutes."

  "Great." T.R. looked down. "She’s usually on time isn’t she?"

  "Always."

  "Think she’s at her office?"

  "You can call." Max slid the ear phones back in place. "Let me know if you hear anything."

  T.R. slid a cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial.

  A mechanical voice answered. "You have reached the office of Dr. Sara Aspen. Our office is closed. If you have an emergency, please stay on the line."

  T.R. paused. Another voice picked up. "Dr. Aspen’s answering service."

  "Yeah, I’m a friend and need to talk with the doctor. Can I call her at home?"

  "What’s your name?"

  T.R. paused. "Trent."

  "I’m looking at her list and don’t see that."

  "Is her number in the book?"

  "No, it’s unlisted."

  "Where does she live?"

  "We can’t give that out."

  T.R. clenched his jaw and looked back into the sound booth. "Fine, thanks."

  He hung up and tapped on the glass. Max lifted the ear phones and walked over to the door.

  "Yeah?"

  "What’s her home number? I’ll call."

  "Don’t know. The secretaries would have that but everyone is gone now."

  "Address?"

  "Believe she lives out in the Alcove," he stopped and watched the confusion on T.R.’s face. "Group of condos on the slope."

  "Which one?"

  Max smiled and then eased his expression. "Wish I could be more help."

  ~ * ~

  Sara had a towel on her hair with a bathrobe wrapped and tied at her waist when she stepped from the bathroom. The apartment was cold with a wind that came from the living room.

  "I forgot to close that," she whispered.

  Neil was looking at her from the kitchen and his back was tense. His eyes went from her to the couch and then back again. Sara saw that and stopped. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

  A shadow appeared on the wall of her living room. And it moved as the cat ran from the kitchen.

  Her heart began to pound. The shadow moved again and a man appeared in the doorway.

  It was Blake in a white lab coat, green scrub pants, and surgical white cap on top of his head. He also carried a small box.

  "Hello, doctor," he smiled.

  "How did you get out?"

  He lifted one arm. "Creativity. Happens when you get a lot of time on your hands."

  "What’s in the box?"

  He smiled. "Bomb."

  "What do you want?"

  "Answers."

  "You are crazy."

  "No," he came closer. "Just tired of lies."

  Her breathing quickened, eyes flickering as if to gather data. "What do you really want?"

  "A talk." He stepped closer. "You, me, and the writer."

  "That’s just a box."

  He opened the lid. Several batteries connected to plastic pouches and wires in a tangled mass. "Want to find out?"

  "No. Listen, there’s a better way to handle this."

  Blake backed out. "Have a seat out here. This could be a long night."

  ~ * ~

  T.R. pulled around corners and accelerated the old truck. The box sat beside him as the Chevy strained under the need for speed.

  You’re overdoing this. Rushing out to her house when she’s probably on her way to the station.

  So I’ll look like a fool. He responded.

  You already do. Calling her every chance. Dropping by all the food and coffee. What are you after?

  He pulled at the wheel as the Chevy began to lean on a curve that started upward. Where do these ideas come from?

  Look at yourself, the voice added. Pretending to be someone you’re not.

  As in?

  Mr. Writer. When will you tell the truth about that?

  T.R. scanned the road ahead and saw the Alcove entrance. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and tried to force a plan into his mind.

  Answer the question, the voice said from within.

  I’ve got to find her house… He turned into the driveway as an image came to his mind. Sara was at her door in a business suit and was about to leave when he came running up with his "box" of goodies.

  How did you know I lived here? This is getting creepy.

  Well I was worried when you didn’t show up at the station. He said in the daydream. You see I’m a fake. And I need to be honest.

  The woman walked past him in the daydream and then climbed into her car with a strange expression. T.R. imagined himself standing at her door with a foolish look on his face.

  Other images came to mind from the past: his Italian parents on the deck of their sailboat, hallways at new schools. There was always a new town to adjust to before they moved on to other shorelines or storms at sea. The movement left him off balance and awkward.

  Why can’t we be like other people, he remembered asking his mother when he was small. Live in a house. Have friends.

  Because we’re on the way to something better, she told him. Your father is a master carpenter and this boat was his dream.

  Why can’t he work like other carpenters, he remembered asking her as he looked up. On dry ground--in a building that we can live in…

  He remembered her smile as she pulled him in an Italian mother hug. We will. Soon as we find it.

  T.R. slowed to look at all the cars. The condos were in clusters with large amounts of pavement between them.

  This is crazy. I don’t even know where to start looking.

  Even the cars looked similar. He stopped and squinted to remember her car.

  Nothing but a blank...

  His own parking lot came to mind at the café. He remembered the night before when Sara fell asleep on the deck and he left early for the radio station. There was only his truck in the lot that morning with hers across the pavement. He began to fill in the details in his mind when Bob barked in the back of the truck.

  T.R. stopped the truck as a cat appeared off to the side between two cars.

  No way. She did have a cat, but… Sara’s not the kind to just let it run free.

  And yet he looked back in the rear view mirror and saw it: Sara’s car.

  He pulled in and got out the box.

  ~ * ~

  Blake was on the couch when a knock started on the door. He looked at Sara and then down at the box.

  "Go on," he motioned. "But one pull of the trip wire and we’re all history."

  She nodded and got up from the chair. Blake saw the door open a crack with Sara standing in the narrow opening.

  "Sorry to bother you right now," the voice said.

  "How did you know where I live?"

  "Well, I didn’t. I stopped by the station with this." He paused. "Max said you were late for your radio show."

  "Look, I’m busy." Her voice was sharp. "That’s a nice gesture but…"

  Blake got up and pulled the door open. "Well, look who’s here--the very person I wanted over."

  He waved a hand in and kept the bomb extended in his other hand.

  "Why are you asking him into my house?" Sara kept the door open.

  Blake paused. "Both of you said you were coming by to see me at the hospital."

  T.R. remained frozen, eyes moving from Blake in the hospital uniform to the towel on Sara’s head then to her bathrobe. His eyes were wide with questions.

  "I need to confess something," Sara continued back to Blake. "This is not who you think."

  Blake wrinkled his forehead. "What are you saying? T
here’s MORE LIES?"

  T.R. extended a hand. "I hate to interrupt anything, but I need to come clean also."

  Blake and Sara snapped their heads in his direction. Sara spoke up and lifted a hand as if to block him.

  "I don’t even know your name." She turned to Blake. "He came from a café out by the river and stopped by that night I went by to see you in the hospital. There was no famous writer around so this guy offered to pretend and I let him."

  Blake opened his mouth wider. "He’s not who I thought?"

  "JUST LET HIM GO!" Sara shouted. "Your problem is with me."

  "No way," T.R. pushed deeper into the hall and closer to Sara. "I’ve got to tell both of you something. I didn’t plan to do this now, but I’ve got to come clean."

  "PLEASE DO!" Blake said.

  Sara clenched her jaw and tried to push T.R. back out the door. Her body was up against his in a shove that pushed him and his box into the door frame. "Go back to the café, OKAY. This is NONE of your business."

  "NOT SO FAST," Blake held up the box and started to undo the top lid.

  "HE’S GOT A BOMB," she snapped at T.R. "I tired to get you to leave but you didn’t listen."

  Blake motioned with his head for T.R. to close the door. "Both of you step in here and sit down. We’ve got a lot to talk about."

  T.R. shut the door and followed them both with the crushed box of food still in his arms. His mind took in the details: scrub pants and lab coat, small box with wires.

  "Look," he said to both. "I’ve got to say this right now."

  Sara lifted both hands. "Go ahead now that you’re involved in something that could take BOTH OF OUR LIVES."

  He watched her sit back in a leather chair with the white bathrobe and her head still wrapped in a towel. "I didn’t want to say this yet."

  "OUT WITH IT MAN! WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY." Blake looked from one to the other.

  "Okay," he swallowed and looked at Sara again. "I am T.R. Stallion."

  "No..." She glanced up him and let her eyes drift. "No way. I would have known."

  "I didn’t want to say anything because I’ve got these feelings for you."

  Blake looked at her and then at T.R. "What do you have to say about that?"

  Sara took a deep breath. "So you were playing some sick game all along where you pretended to be Mr. Nice at the café and Joe Writer on the radio who was looking for some special woman to teach him all about LOVE."

  "Well, yes and no."

  She took the towel off her head and threw it at T.R. Blake and missed. Sara then picked up a book off the table and heaved that also. Pages flapped open in mid flight. "You jerk," she got up and started for Blake. "Give me that bomb. I’ve got someone I want to use it on."

  He turned away. "No, not yet." A smile crossed his face as Sara looked back at T.R. and then covered her eyes and left the room, her wet hair now disheveled.

  "Where are you going?" T.R. asked.

  "TO GET DRESSED," she snapped back at him. "DO YOU MIND?"

  "No," T.R. took a deep breath. "Look, I didn’t mean any harm." He looked at Blake. "I was going to tell her later this week…"

  "I see lies everywhere," Blake answered. "That’s what set me off. Both of you said you were heading back to see me today."

  T.R. listened and let his eyes widen as if linking the events. "What’s this all about?" he asked.

  "You can’t trust anyone anymore."

  T.R. took a deep breath and looked down at his own box. "Hey, you hungry. I brought this for Sara but," he looked up at her closed door. "She may never talk to me again."

  "What have you got in there?"

  T.R. lifted out the coffee, sandwiches, and fruit bowls and handed one of each to the odd looking man in a doctor’s uniform.

  Blake opened the wrapper. "Club sandwiches on wheat, my favorite." He sat back on the couch and opened the lid on the coffee. "Got any cream and sugar?"

  "Sure." T.R. pulled several containers from the bottom of the box and then reached back for a spoon. The room began to fill with the aroma of coffee and toasted wheat bread with turkey slices.

  T.R. set the food box on the table and slid a chair out as he sat down and pulled up a lid on the coffee. He began to drink then paused. "What kind of work are you in, Blake?"

  "That’s the problem." The man talked with food in his mouth. "I work for the IRS." He smiled. "Writing procedure manuals."

  "That’s why you’re upset?" T.R. opened a sandwich and tore open a mustard package and he slid it across the bread.

  Blake took another bite. "I hate the job--really. There are jerks everywhere. You can’t get anything done. All the meetings, procedures and bubble heads with their own spin on everything."

  "So, you’re frustrated?"

  "YOU BET."

  "And you want something better."

  "OF COURSE." He took more bites from the sandwich followed by loud slurping from the coffee.

  T.R. lifted his own sandwich to his mouth and bit into it. "I assume you still want to write."

  "Absolutely."

  "Fiction?"

  "Well, yeah," Blake began to calm. "Someday."

  T.R. took a sip from his own coffee. "Well, your job is a goldmine then."

  "How you figure?"

  "Look at all the great problems and people you can draw from now." T.R. took another bite of the sandwich. "That’s the essence of great fiction."

  Blake looked off in the distance as he chewed. "Never thought about it like that."

  "I’ve had many jobs that I hated but later used in stories when I needed something bad to pull from."

  "That so?"

  T.R. nodded with another bite of his sandwich. "Nothing is ever wasted in life, Blake. You can always get another job."

  Blake nodded again. He finished off the coffee.

  "I can show you how to do all that." T.R. lifted a fruit bowl and fork and handed it over. "We can go over that later. But not if you’re in a jail cell."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well," he pointed the sandwich at Blake’s box, "if that really is a bomb then you’re holding two people hostage with some potential charges that could tie up several years." He raised both eyebrows. "But if we were to take you back to the hospital, then no one was harmed. You’d just spend another couple of days in the behavior unit, and you could go on with that great writing career I could help you with."