by Brinda Berry
"I mean the bag is no longer in my possession. The guy … there was an old guy who was at the hospital. He said—"
"Well, he didn't. And I trusted you to keep it for me." Once the inappropriate, accusatory statements come out of my mouth, I cringe. I'm usually so polite. All the time. Most of the time. Okay, definitely not this time.
More silence weights the line. “The man has it. Unless he left it at the hospital."
He sounds certain Billy has it. He's waiting for me to respond. Traffic noises buzz in the background and a horn honks twice. A female voice says something and I can't tell if someone’s with him or if someone is standing close. I imagine him holding up one finger to a girlfriend or a wife. He didn't look married, but I'm not sure how married people look. More responsible? Less like a male model for sexy body spray?
"I'll check with him," I say because I need to hang up. I know Billy didn't leave it. The man never makes mistakes. It's been his job to remember every detail, every task, every part of mine and JT's lives.
"Listen, I'm sorry about your unc—"
"Thanks. Really. Sorry to bother you." I press the END key.
Leaning back in the chair, I close my eyes and try to imagine where my present could be in the house. Where would Billy put it?
My cell phone jitters on the surface of the table and I open my eyes, stare at the display for two seconds, and press the button. "Hello?"
"I wasn't finished." Ace's irritated voice comes across the now quiet background and stuns me.
My mouth drops. "I … umm … what were you…"
"I was offering my condolences."
We sit there, sharing air on the phone line, playing a conversation game of chicken.
He breaks. "That's all I wanted to say."
My throat tightens. "Yeah, well, thanks." I sound like a real bitch. I don't want that hateful voice, but the alternative is crying.
"You're not the first one to ever lose someone. It will get better. Things like this take time."
I hone in on one word. "Lose? Like misplaced? Or do you mean I'm not the first one to watch someone they love gunned down and bleeding. Is that what you mean?"
"No. And you sound like you need to talk to someone."
The nerve. “Like I'm going to listen to advice from a stranger.”
"But I'm still sorry. I wish I could say the right thing, but I'm no good at this," he says. "The whole thing really sucks."
My throat convulses as I swallow and allow my head to drop to the table onto my arm. It's not his fault and I don't have to be so awful.
"Thank you for going to the hospital with me. I didn't have a chance to tell you that before." I’m ashamed my voice is so small and weak. "Bye."
"Take care of yourself." And then he clicks off and I'm left holding my phone.
* * *
I stand in JT's bedroom with my hand clutching my throat. Billy had no right to pack JT's things for storage. Every light is on since I don't walk into dark rooms. One entire wall consists of packing boxes marked with a black sharpie in block letters. The word DONATE mesmerizes me. Heat rushes my face in an angry tide.
The boxes will leave the house over my dead body.
The top box, holding music, is at eye level. I run my hand along the bottom edge, testing the weight, looking around for any way to dislodge it from the stack without actually lifting it or killing myself in the process. My shoulder still hurts if I move too much, so I wrap the arm from my uninjured side around the box. I pull an inch at a time until I think I can lean it against my side.
The box topples, bumps my hip once, and splats into the floor. The lid flips off and music CDs fly across the wood floor.
My heart strikes against my chest and more CDs sploosh out, emptying the box. The mountainous pile of plastic mess continue to avalanche—so much like my life. I lean my back against the wall of boxes, rake my head against sharp edges, and slide slowly to the bottom.
I'm paralyzed by the emptiness inside me. The cavernous, bottomless feeling that extends to the outside, numbs my skin in a Novocain layer. It takes me several minutes to move again. I rub the top of my left foot and notice a red welt from the impact of the box. My hand brushes across a CD and I can't help but laugh bitterly.
He knew I lived for music. Rock, pop, classical, country, blues. Anything with a beat. He'd once said I could have all these someday. Someday is now.
I plan the method I'll use to get the box upstairs. Twenty boxes or so and I want—no, I need—to look inside every one. Hobbling on the good foot and avoiding using my bad shoulder, I begin the task of tearing off the lids of boxes like I'm racing a countdown. There's clothing and miscellaneous items you'd expect to find in a man's bedroom. All things that will end up with someone who won't care about the original owner.
Opening the closet door, I spot a box hidden in the back. Lifting the lid sets panic loose in my chest. The bag I recognize from the restaurant sits on the top.
A flash of JT pushing the bag toward me.
One handle is torn and the entire thing is misshapen and crumpled like a discarded fast food bag. I remove the gift bag and my gaze is drawn to a reddish brown smear on one side. Clutching it to my chest, I rise, stagger, steady myself. I'll return for the other things later. The mission of stealing this precious parcel away to my room is the only thing I can focus on.
Due to my recent release from the hospital, Billy's moved me to a downstairs room. Inside the room that's about as friendly as a five-star hotel room, with its crystal-base lamps and oil paintings, I lock my door and sit cross-legged on the far side of the bed. My hand shakes when I lift the contents from the bag. It's a box—maybe for jewelry or something you'd see in an antique store. Something JT wanted me to have more than new cars or diamonds or any of the other things he could afford. Something special.
JT’s love for archeology and history gave him an appreciation for old things that your average person would discard as boring or luddite.
Noises from across the house signal that I'm not alone, so I scurry around to find a hiding place for the box. The box fits easily under my pillow. The doorknob jingles, being tested.
"You in there, Malerie?" Billy asks.
"Yeah? What do you need?"
"Can you open the door? We need to talk. Why is the door locked?"
"To prevent guys from walking in on me?" My smartass remark is met with silence. One second. Two. Three seconds pass and I'm hoping he walked away.
"I have keys to all the doors. Are you all right? I know how upset you've been."
I sigh loudly. "Coming." Smoothing the pillow and straightening the comforter, I make a lot of noise going to the door in case Billy's thinking about coming in on me.
He stands in the doorframe and doesn't back away when I open it and step forward. Instead, he moves toward me and I back up, a quick foxtrot of authority and control on display.
"I see you've destroyed all the packing in JT's room." His colorless lips thin and I wonder if it's difficult to speak through his gritted teeth. He’s so different now. I barely know him.
I don't back up. "And I see that you didn't even ask me about giving away his belongings." We’ve butted heads over and over about the big things and the small ones. He constantly follows me around and watches me with microscopic intensity.
Now, his eyes look as thin as his lips. "Malerie. I'm worried about you. You don't need the stress of that. I'll take care of everything."
I close my eyes. "I trust you. You know that." Lie, lie, lie. People don’t change personalities like you have. I open my eyes and fake a very small smile. "But, I want to go through JT's things myself."
"And I want to protect you." He reaches forward to touch me and I take two steps back. He shrugs. "See how skittish you are?"
He’s hiding things from me like he hid my bag. "I'm just tired. Really tired. I think I'll lie down."
"Good idea."
The minute he leaves the room, I leap forward, lock the door, and pul
l the box from under my pillow.
6
Ace
“Luck has found me and she wears a dress.” ~ Jelly Bean Queen
Two days after talking with Malerie, I sit at my kitchen table and think about our conversation. I've thought about her some after the shooting, and as much as I try to resist it, her face in those moments after the shooting haunts me. The media's gone wild with tweets, posts, and even video. Someone actually shot footage from a cell phone.
Local news stations called me five times after finding out I'd been a witness.
The police found me sooner. I was dead tired after leaving the hospital but agreed to meet with a detective for questioning about the shooting. At 2:00 a.m., I went downtown to the police station to answer more questions. They said it would be best to get details while they're fresh. They also reminded me that I left the scene without permission and that I could have avoided the trip in the middle of the night if I had stayed put.
I didn't know anything that would help. They wasted their time on me.
Instead of worrying about her, I have more pressing issues. I need to search for a job to supplement what's not happening with my security business. Contacting commercial contractors takes time and a Tower of Pisa pile of bills wobbles precariously on the table.
The phone rings and I glance at the display. I hesitate and think about answering the unknown number. A feeling tells me I should. The feeling you get right before the rain starts to pour in a storm. An electric buzz of awareness, a quiet premonition of something brewing. The knowledge that the world is alive with change.
"Mr. Sloan." Although I've only spoken with him once, I recognize the voice. Billy clears his throat. "Do you mind if I call you Ace? This is Billy Vandol. I met you at the hospital after the shooting. I didn't introduce myself properly. I am—was—JT's personal assistant."
I stay silent for a moment and he adds, "I found your number on a note on JT's desk. You didn't mention that you knew JT."
His voice is low and gravelly. I adjust the volume on my cell phone to be able to hear.
"I submitted a job bid. I didn't know him." I realize I sound defensive, but his accusing tone is out of line.
I feel a tingle of guilt over leaving when I told Malerie I'd stay. But she doesn't know me from Adam, so she's probably already forgotten she asked. "How is the girl? Is she healing okay?" It's too personal saying her name.
"She's home and doing as well as expected." Billy waits like I'm going to say something. I'm not. He continues. "I hope you don't mind me calling you. It's important."
I dread his next words. He's going to want something.
"No, no, I don't mind at all," I answer, keeping my tone even and casual. It's the thing that polite people say, right? "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Well, two things actually. And both are things I'd like to talk with you about in person, if possible."
"Are you sure you can't ask me over the phone. I’m sorry, but I have a lot going on today."
"I don't like to leave Malerie alone. She has a nurse here, but she might become agitated if she realizes I've left the premises. It's very important and it involves a job for you."
"What kind of job?"
"I apologize, but after all that has happened, I needed to know if I could trust you.”
My cat mewls, commanding I feed her.
"I checked into your professional credentials. I had a background check done as well. I have the power of attorney over Malerie's trust until she turns twenty-one."
He did a background check?
"Sure," I say, although I feel like I've fallen into an episode of 'Lives of the Rich and Famous'.
"I think you may need the work.”
That just pisses me off. "Billy, I have a lot to do tonight. I really don't think I'll be able to help you." I keep my voice low and restrained.
"Give me a chance to make you a generous offer for a security setup, Ace. Malerie's asked about you."
My brain stutters over the fact that she's even thought about me. I move to the window and study the cars moving toward the park down the road. It calms me to look down at the busy people coming and going. An image of Malerie's outstretched hand on the floor and JT with his blood soaked shirt flashes into my mind uninvited.
"Ace? Can we talk in person?" he asks.
Billy wants to give me a job.
"Okay, I'll come there. You're right. She probably doesn't need any stress from you leaving."
"Thank you. You won't regret it." He starts rattling off the address and I stop him.
"I have the address from when I prepared a job quote for JT."
"Oh, yes. And you'll come now?"
"Half-hour. I'll be there." I hang up and rub the back of my neck.
In thirty minutes, I'm looking around at the perfectly manicured lawn, the massive stone fountain centered in the circular drive, and an enormous Doberman pinscher studying me like I'm a Scooby snack through the side panel glass of the front door.
So, this is Malerie’s house.
I knew Toombs had money. The house's blueprint told me that much. But seeing the layout on paper versus staring up at the Tudor style front is like comparing a travel brochure to standing in the actual African bush with elephants crossing the dirt road.
The smell of money drifts around the bricked entry that's missing a welcome mat. The doorbell in the center of an iron lion's head gongs when I press the button. Talk about swank. I hear a voice from somewhere inside, and I look down at the sparkling black eyes of the dog who waits for the door to open.
Through the glass, I see Billy making his way to the door at a snail's pace. The dog never takes his eyes off me.
Billy points to his right and makes a sound that's low and muffled through the door. The dog immediately obeys and trots off in the direction Billy commands. I exhale and begin to breathe again.
"Come in, come in." Billy extends his arm and places one hand on me as if I might make a run for it.
I walk inside and stand, waiting for Billy to close the door. He looks to his left in the direction the dog walked and I see two Dobermans in front of a fireplace in the next room, seated on their haunches but alert. Both dogs wait. One of the animals cocks his head when Billy begins to speak.
"Join me in here for a drink." Billy leads the way into the room with the dogs. He extends an arm in invitation toward the sitting area.
"How is Malerie doing?" I look up the staircase that is partially hidden now that we're seated.
"She'll join us in a little while. Iced tea? Soda? What can I get for you?"
"I'll have the same as you." I sit back and get comfortable on the white sofa that looks unused. The Dobermans haven't moved the entire time I've been inside the house. The dogs are identical and I can't determine which drooled while looking at me through the door. The beasts appear ready to pounce.
Billy leaves for a moment and returns with a glass, the ice tinkling as he moves unsteadily across the room and hands the drink to me.
"Malerie has been through a lot. JT and I have been the only life she has known. The short story is that JT became her guardian after she lost her mother. You know about the bombing in Chicago eleven years ago?"
"Yeah. I think I know the one. I was a kid, but it sounds familiar." It’s more than familiar. I don’t mention that I also lived in Chicago during that time. I remember when it happened. My little brother and I were glued to the television, home alone and listening for the scrape of the key in the door lock. Mom had stayed out all night. It was in the days before the boyfriends stayed at our place.
Which was how we liked it.
"She never even knew her father," Billy says.
I take a sip and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "She doesn't have any grandparents?"
"No. And JT was a very wealthy man."
"Figured that out." I look around the room at the fireplace mantel lined with black and white photos in silver frames. "That chandelier in the fo
yer probably cost more than I make in a year."
"Exactly."
"Listen. I feel sorry for the girl. I do. But what does this have to do with me?
"Malerie has spent much of her life here and she suffers from anxiety about her life before JT. She is also very naive about the world and will most likely want to go out into it. I'm old and won't be around much longer to protect her." Billy sits in the nearest chair. "I trust you for some reason. You took care of Malerie as a stranger because you're a good man. You also have the exact skills I'm looking for."
"What kind of skills might those be?"
"You've worked in security, right?"
I chuckle at the thought of my last job as a night watchman at a casino. "So, you want me to…?"
"Malerie needs a companion to protect her. Someone to take her places."
"Like a male escort? I'm not a dating service." I can't help but be amused at the thought. My body temperature notches up along with my interest.
"And it's a good thing. The last thing she needs is a date. Malerie doesn’t date. She’s not comfortable in unfamiliar places. We need better security here and you have a security background. Malerie might need a driver. We would pay you well."
"Did you say she doesn’t date?" My eyebrows rise and it's difficult to hold back the disbelief. Not possible. The way she looked at me that night in the restaurant tells a different story. Toombs was probably so strict that lying was the only option. She lied or Toombs kept her locked up 24/7.
Billy waves his hand around to indicate the non-importance of the last question. "Will you take on this job or not? You might be able to buy a chandelier or two." Billy nods his head in the direction of the foyer.
Yeah, not many chandeliers on my want list.
"Again—why me? I gave Mr. Toombs a bid on a security system. And I'm not too fond of playing the lead role in Driving Miss Malerie."
"She never leaves the house. I'm hoping that will change soon. But for now, I doubt you'll be driving her anywhere. She’s finished her homeschooling and now should be leaving for college. We need to help her with this transition. Especially after all that’s happened."
