The second call was from my brother, Chris, a nurse in Orlando. I talked to him for an hour. The third call was from Royanne, confirming the cookout for tomorrow. The last three messages were hang-ups. I wondered briefly if Flash had gotten his hands on my home number.
Late Monday morning I dressed in light shorts and a tank top and, with apple pie in hand, went to Royanne and Toby’s. Royanne lived in a 1970’s split-level in the suburb of Pelham. The house was crammed with furniture and toys, and always loud with the cries and shrieks of their three kids. Royanne thrived on all the chaos, but I have to admit sometimes it drove me nuts. Her parents’ Buick was already there when I arrived, along with another truck I didn’t recognize.
Royanne greeted me with a hug at the door and took the dessert. Roy and Anne, her parents, were on the deck already, ice-cold Miller Lites in hand. The strange truck turned out to be Bo’s, the friend of Toby’s my alleged best friend was trying to fix me up with. He muttered a hi as I shot Royanne a look. Today Bo looked like a goldfish, with bright orange hair and a vacant, surprised look on his face. I spent most of the afternoon playing with the kids, talking to Royanne’s parents, and avoiding him.
After we’d all stuffed ourselves on ribs, chicken, potato salad, cole slaw, and apple pie, I helped Royanne with the dishes. “How’s work?” Iasked.
“Fine. We just had a big account come in, so I’m working a lot on that. What about you? What’d Mac say about the article?”
“Nothing good.” I summarized yesterday’s events for her.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I gotta watch it.”
“So are you going tomorrow? To the memorial?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because. Lots of reasons. I want to see who shows up, first of all. See their reactions. I’m still not buying that Ashley knew the drug was in the juice. And,” I swallowed hard, “I just want to go, that’s all.” To say good-bye.
Royanne’s kids ran screaming into the kitchen. The eldest, Alicia, squirted the youngest with a water pistol. Richard, the four-year-old, retaliated on behalf of his younger sister by hitting Alicia in the back with a foam ball. Alicia giggled. Olivia wailed. Royanne bellowed, “Outside! Now!”
That’s what childhood was. Laughing, giggling, pretending, playing. Not lying dead in a tiny coffin. I stared out the café-curtained window above Royanne’s sink and started to shake. My eyes welled. Damn it. I’d been doing so well, not letting myself go there. Not picturing Michael like that. Or Olivia. Or Alicia. Or Richard. Or any of my other clients. I brushed the tears away quickly and struggled for control as Royanne finished shooing her brood out of the sliding glass door. She caught the look on my face and said, “You okay?”
“Sure.” My voice was hoarse.
“Bullshit.”
“Let it go.”
“Fine.”
We washed dishes for a few more minutes, and then Royanne said, “I thought after a while we could send the kids upstairs to play and we could watch a new movie I got it’s a new DVD that action one with Bruce Willis —”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go soon. I’ve got a date.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really? You? With who?”
“A guy named Grant Summerville. I met him at the computer store.”
“A computer geek, huh? What’s he look like?” Her tone was skeptical.
“He has nice green eyes.”
“Well, have fun. You deserve it.”
I didn’t think I did, but I could try.
`
CHAPTER TWELVE
Neither Grant nor I were going to have much fun on this date if I didn’t haul myself out of the dumps, so when I got home I loaded the CD player with my favorite old-school tunes. A little Van Halen and some Def Leppard did the trick. I styled my hair and put on makeup. Chose a distressed denim skirt and a red cap-sleeved top to wear. Maybe the red and blue was a little bit too patriotic. To hell with it, I thought, as I slid on my shoes. ’Tis the season.
Grant arrived at seven-fifty. He looked cute, in a gooberish way, in a short-sleeved button-down, shorts, and sandals. At least he wasn’t wearing socks. He put the computer and my discs down on the stoop long enough to give me a quick hug hello. He had to bend way down to do it. He smelled good. Like shaving cream.
He carried the computer into the house and stopped for a second to take in the sage-colored walls and the beige furniture. “Nice place. You been here long?”
“About four months. It still needs a little work.”
“Where do you want this?”
“In here.” I walked him to the office, where the computer cart and
desk were back in place minus the plastic drop cloth. He put the computer in its spot and ran the cables to the monitor and printer, then plugged it all in and hooked up the mouse and keyboard. He booted it up and typed in a few things, checking to make sure it all worked. I watched his long fingers move rapidly across the keys.
“Done.” He powered down the machine. “You ready?” I wrote him a check for the repairs, got my purse, and locked the door behind us. The sun was setting and the air was cooler. Someone on the street had been doing yard work and the scent of new-mown grass lingered. I caught the blinking glow of fireflies rising in the trees, and the raspy hum of crickets. The neighborhood was gearing up for celebration, bottle rockets popped and a Roman candle whistled. Grant had come in the company van and held its door open for me as I climbed inside. No seats were in the back, but instead the walls were lined with metal racks with bungee cords stretched across the front of them. For transporting computer parts, I reasoned. The floor at the back of the van was empty except for a quilt and a picnic basket.
“Where’re we going?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise. You like surprises?”
“Yeah, sure. Well, sometimes. It depends.” He laughed. The cockpit was tricked out with gadgets. I noted a GPS system,
a DVD screen, and an MP3 player. The MP3 player softly played a Taylor Hicks song. Grant hummed along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. I started to relax.
“So, how long have you worked at High Tech?”
“I opened it about two years ago.”
“You own it?”
“Yep. I did some time after college as a corporate programmer,
then worked for a bank, then an insurance company. I decided I was tired of busting my ass for someone else when I could open up my own place. That way I could make more money and have more control over what I did.”
“That must be nice. To work for yourself, I mean.”
“It is. It’s hard work, though. Long hours. I’ve got three employees now, and I’m looking for a fourth. So we’re growing, and that’s good.”
We talked about his background as he drove toward downtown. About where he went to college and where he had worked before. He knew his way around well, which prompted me to ask if he grew up here. He told me about growing up on Air Force bases around the world until he and his parents and sisters landed at Maxwell in Montgomery. His parents still lived near there.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you from here?”
“Oh, yeah. My family’s been in Birmingham for six generations now. My great-great-great grandfather came over from Holland when the city was brand new, in the 1870s. He was a builder. My family owned a construction company for years before my grandfather sold it when he retired.”
“Is he still alive? Your grandfather?”
“No, he died when I was eight, five years before my mother. I never knew him. My father, well, he was — is — kind of a radical. He and my mom were real active in the civil rights movement. They went to protests, worked with CORE, Dr. King, did the march on Washington, and all that.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, it is. I guess it’s where I get my do-good mentality. But my dad and grandfather didn’t get along so well because of my dad’s beliefs. My grandfather liked the ol
d status quo, and my father couldn’t stand that. So I never got to know my grandparents. Not that I agree with my grandfather’s racism, of course, but sometimes I wonder why my father couldn’t find some sort of middle ground with him, you know?”
“There is such a thing as being too radical.”
“Or too dedicated to a cause.”
Grant headed for Southside, toward the University of AlabamaBirmingham campus. He found a place to park, then took the basket and quilt from the back. We had to walk a couple of blocks before reaching a quarter-acre patch of grass outside one of the dorms.
From here we could see the top of Red Mountain, home to the giant statue of Vulcan. The Roman god of fire and metalworking symbolized Birmingham, celebrating our iron and steel industry. In one hand, Vulcan held a completed spear to the sky, and in his other a hammer. The fireworks would be launched from the ten-acre park around the huge statue. We would have a great view.
Grant spread the quilt on the ground. “This okay?” he asked.
“Perfect.” The quad wasn’t too crowded since most of UAB was on summer break. Only a few other student-age groups sat on blankets nearby, their outlines just visible in the streetlights. Grant unlatched the picnic basket. “I brought wine. I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
He took out a small corkscrew and opened the Chardonnay, pulling the cork out with a pop. The basket held two wine glasses snapped securely to the lid. He poured a glass for each of us, then went back to rummaging in the basket. “I didn’t know if you’d be hungry, so I brought some cheese and crackers. And some fruit.” He laid the fare out on an oval plate on top of the basket. I checked my watch. The fireworks wouldn’t start for a few minutes.
“So,” Grant asked, after munching on a cracker, “How long have you worked at DHS?”
I didn’t want to spoil the evening by thinking about work, but I answered him anyway. “Five years.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah.” I sipped the wine. It was crisp and sweet.
The silence was awkward for a second, and I realized that I was making him uncomfortable.“I’m sorry.” I checked around us to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard.“I’ve had a really rough week at work.”
“I saw your name in the article in the paper yesterday. The kid that died, he was your case?”
“Yeah. And my bosses were furious about the article. I almost got fired.”
“Why? I didn’t think it was that bad. I thought it raised some good points.”
“My bosses didn’t see it that way. They said it made us look like we were shifting the blame.”
“Were you?”
“No!” I snagged a slice of apple from the platter and played with it a minute, then voiced what I’d been thinking deep down for nearly a week. “Maybe Michael’s death was my fault.” I ate the apple.
Grant pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “How do you figure that?”
“I should have been more attentive. I should have been there more. I should have been able to see what could happen.”
“Well, when you learn how to predict the future, be sure and teach me how. I could make a killing.”
I gave him as much as of a smile as I could muster, took another sip of wine, and voiced the other thought that had been nagging me, day and night: “What if it happens again?”
With a sympathetic look, Grant reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. The first of the fireworks exploded with a pop, lighting the mountain in a starburst of red, white, and finally blue. The people around us oohed and aahed. Grant stretched his long legs out, leaning on one hand, his wine in the other. I followed suit, throwing my head back to see the sky explode again and again into streams of color. Reds, golds, greens, blues. Grant and I reclined shoulder to shoulder, taking in the beauty.
The finale, twenty minutes later, was an amazing frenzy of sound and color. After the last report echoed over the valley, Grant packed the picnic basket and folded the quilt. When we reached the van he asked, “Do you want to go get a drink somewhere?”
“Sure.” We discussed the fireworks as he drove down University Boulevard. After University changed to Clairmont, he took a left into the Lakeview District. The bars and restaurants there were crowded. The patrons tended to be a bit older than the ones who frequented Southside and the UAB area. More yuppies than college students.
Grant parked next to a place called Fuel. The name was a tonguein-cheek homage to the fact that the lot was a gas station in the thirties. Where pumps once stood, a patio was filled with wrought-iron tables. Inside the rock-faced building, dim lighting and dark wood gave the small place a pub-like feel. Posters of vintage cars decorated the walls. I’d been here several times before, hanging out with coworkers after a long day.
“This okay?” Grant asked.
“Oh yeah, I love this place.” We walked to the terrace where I said, “Why don’t you grab us a table out here and I’ll get us some drinks.”
“Okay. A beer for me, I think. Something dark.”
“No problem.”
I opened the heavy wooden door and went inside. Most of the tables were occupied, tops laden with empty bottles and glasses. Someone laughed loudly. I elbowed my way to the bar and held out a ten, trying to get the bartender’s attention. He eventually made his way over to me and I ordered a Michelob Ultra and a Negra Modela. I was tipping him when it dawned on me where I was. Lakeview.
“Hey,” I called to the bartender, “You know a place called Kaleidoscope?”
He nodded to the door, his hands busy mixing a gin and tonic. “Two blocks north, one block west.” He topped the G&T with a lime wedge and passed it to a woman in a black halter.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the beers and went to where Grant had found us a table near the railing. I sipped the Michelob, the ice-cold liquid chilling me through, then rested the cool top of the bottle on my bottom lip.
“What?” Grant asked.
“What?”
“You have a look on your face. Like you’re planning something.”
I laughed. “What if I was?”
“I’d like to know what. And if I’m involved.”
“You want to be?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“You mind if we take a little detour?”
“Where to?”
“There’s a place around here called Kaleidoscope.”
“I’ve heard of it. You want to go dancing?” He looked horrified at the thought.
“No, no, no. I don’t dance. In public. Anyway, I just want to check the place out.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Okay.” We took a few minutes to finish our beers and decided to walk the ten minutes or so to Kaleidoscope. “You sure you don’t want to tell me why we’re going here? I mean, if we’re not going to dance —”
I was tempted. “Just bear with me for a while, okay?”
“If you say so.”
The nightclub was a curvy, two-storey structure made of glass and steel. The front windows were painted with bright neon colors in geometric patterns, with Kaleidoscope in small white letters on the glass door. A bouncer dressed in all black stood sentry, checking IDs. Another man, smaller in stature but dressed the same, took everyone’s money. The cover charge was ten bucks. I paid a twenty for me and Grant — over his protests — and went in.
Crowded and loud was my first impression. And the girls outnumbered the guys nearly two to one. Most of the girls were dressed in tight, sexy clothes. Some had thongs peeping out above their pants and skirts. At nearly thirty, I was at least five years beyond the average age. The dance floor, in the middle of the space, was jammed with bodies grinding together to a song by Pink. Lights in every color of the rainbow flashed with the beat of the song. I glanced at Grant. His eyes were fixed on the massive wall of television screens at the back of the room that surrounded the deejay’s window. Each TV was playing an ever-changing pattern of colors and lines that swayed
with the tempo. All the movement made me dizzy.
The bar was to the left, a metal staircase to the right. As we walked past the bar, I asked Grant if he wanted a drink. He declined. The bartender was frantically busy, hands flying as he mixed cocktails and popped open bottles. His head was shaved and on his neck was a large tattoo. It took me a while to discern that it was some sort of bird with flames around its feet. A phoenix.
The staircase led to a balcony that overlooked the dance floor. I nudged Grant and pointed to it. He nodded. We eased our way up the crowded stairs slowly and found a spot to lean on the rail and watch the action. On benches along the wall behind us a few couples were making out.
“Here we are,” Grant shouted. “What are we looking for?”
“We’re just looking.” Truth was, I had no idea what I was looking for. Someone dealing drugs, I guess. Although I had no idea whether they’d do it openly in such a public place. Or someone I could talk to about it, maybe. Come to think of it, this was really a bad idea. I was just about to suggest that we go when someone behind me yanked my arm.
“I thought that was you, but I couldn’t believe it.” Russell. My cubicle-mate was dressed in a vintage, flowered button-down and tight jeans. Behind him was Heinrich, his current boyfriend. Heinrich was a big blond from Germany, a graduate student in chemistry at the university. Heinrich kissed me on both cheeks in the European fashion. “Hey, Russ. Hey, Heinrich.”
“ ’Allo, Claire.” Heinrich said in his thick accent.
“What are you doing here?” Russell asked.
“Just hanging out. This is Grant.” I gestured toward him. He nodded to the guys and went back to studying the wall of electronics. Russell leaned in so he could talk with me without being overheard. Not that you could overhear much with the music blaring. “He’s your date?”
“Yes,” I said in his ear.
“He’s kinda cute in a really nerdy sorta way.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Really, what are you doing here?”
“I told you, hanging out.” The music switched to a song by the Black Eyed Peas. The lights strobed faster, like colored lightning.
“Bullshit. This isn’t your scene.” He scoffed, “Or his.”
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