by Jodi Thomas
The man tapped his hat once more in salute and vanished toward the street. Blaine never saw his face but she would guess that his eyes were gray.
She closed her eyes and tried to think herself invisible. They were talking about her, she knew it. If Winslow or the thin man saw her now she’d be as dead as they already seemed to think her to be.
Four
“How are your pancakes, Mary?” the tiny bag lady beside Blaine asked.
Blaine carefully swallowed. She couldn’t have eaten anything more solid than the mushy syrup-covered pancake. Her throat felt as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper. “I haven’t had these in years,” she managed to answer. “I forgot how good they taste.”
The large bundle of rags from across the table nodded.
The little old woman, who’d shown her how to move through the line at the shelter, now lost interest in talking to anyone. She finished her plate and licked the plastic fork clean before sliding it into her pocket. When she saw Blaine watching her, she frowned. “They don’t care if you take it. They got plenty more.”
Blaine nodded and lowered her head. She needed time to think and for once she felt safer in a crowd. The conversation she’d overheard replayed itself over and over in her throbbing brain. She told herself they had to be talking about something else. Maybe the man had been Winslow’s mechanic and Winslow had asked him to pick up his wife. The statement “You got the wife?” almost made sense. Almost.
But what about the rest!
Blaine glanced up and noticed a scarecrow of a man in his fifties stand and tap his glass with a real fork. “Welcome,” he shouted over the sound of a hundred hungry people eating. “If you’ll bow your heads, I’ll thank the Lord for our food.”
Everyone but Blaine followed orders.
She stared at the man belting out his prayer. She resented the fact that he’d been given a proper fork. Not even pancakes were easy to cut with plastic. She watched the others at the head table. They didn’t look as if they were homeless. Preachers maybe, or shelter workers. One, a young man of about twenty, sat at the corner of the table. He wrote in a notebook while he crammed food into his mouth. Sociology major, she’d bet. Probably writing a paper on the eating habits of the homeless.
She studied the head table more closely, as always, picking up details. They all had flatware, not plastic, and they all had little sausages.
The scarecrow announced showers would be available for anyone who wanted to stay and help clean up. Then he moved toward the door without taking his paper plate to the trash. He talked with the other members of his table as they prepared to leave.
Blaine almost laughed out loud. Even among the homeless, she worried over details. The people at the head table would never be invited to her home. But, if they were, she certainly wouldn’t eat steak while serving them bologna.
“I got to go, Mary.” The old woman beside Blaine stood, pulling a handful of napkins from the dispenser in the center of the table. “We got our place in the park.” She nodded toward the other bag lady who stood without a word. “If we don’t get there soon, someone will take it. You have to watch out for squatters around here, Mary, but you’re welcome to come for a visit if you’ve nowhere else to go.”
The large black woman across from Blaine nodded once in agreement then began collecting bags they’d stashed under the table.
“I think I’ll stay here,” Blaine answered then remembered the slippers the little bag woman had given her. “Thanks for your kindness.”
Blaine hardly recognized her own voice. The smoke, or maybe her screams, had changed it somehow—made it rougher and deeper. It was time for her to go home. If Mark noticed she hadn’t slept there, or if he’d seen the note, he would be worried. She had to face her problems, hiding wouldn’t solve anything. She’d talk it out with Mark, even tell him what she’d heard his law partner whisper to a man who’d been about the same build as the man on the lawn mower.
Mark would know what to do. After they’d talked, she’d go see her regular doctor, as she should have done to begin with. Feeling as if she’d nearly died yesterday, the possibility of pregnancy or even cancer didn’t seem the Everest it had been before.
“You’re welcome, Mary.” The tiny bag lady patted her on the shoulder. “You owe me one, girlie. Those are fine slippers. I got them from the hospital Dumpster and they don’t even look like they were used at all.” The woman shuffled off, picking up forks and unused napkins as she moved to the door where the preacher stood, his hands clasped firmly behind him now that all his “guests” had departed.
Blaine stood, wanting to take a bath more than she’d ever wanted to in her life. It was almost 8:00 a.m. Mark would be at his office by now. She’d give him a call and have him pick her up. He’d be bothered, but once he saw her clothes he’d be glad she didn’t come by his office.
She walked toward the front. An old library-style partners desk was wedged between the front door and the beginning of the serving line. It sagged with stacks of files and pamphlets. As the last stragglers departed, a breeze from the open door ruffled papers across it as swiftly as nimble fingers run across a keyboard.
The scarecrow preacher flopped atop the piles, a human paperweight, until the door finally rattled closed.
Blaine stepped closer, picking up a few slips he had let escape.
When he didn’t look up, she asked, “Mind if I borrow the phone?”
He stared at the door, frowning at an adversary he knew waited to strike again. “It’s not for public use.”
“I only need to call a local number. It won’t cost you anything.”
“It’s not for public use.”
Blaine tried not to let her frustration show. She was well aware she looked no better, and maybe even a little worse, than the homeless, but surely he would help her. That’s what places like this did, after all.
“Is there a phone I can use?”
“There’s a pay phone outside.”
Blaine touched her pocket wishing she had change. “Would you mind calling someone for me?” She hated being nice to this creep, but he was the only one with a phone.
Finally, he looked up. “I’m sorry, it’s against the rules.”
She caught a glimpse of the tiredness in his face and turned away. The cold blue of his eyes told her he was dead. Oh, he might still be walking around, breathing, talking, eating pancakes with a real fork, but he was as dead inside as she’d ever known a person to be. It occurred to her that maybe he hadn’t given up the fight, maybe he’d never got involved in the first place.
Blaine looked over at a lone woman starting the process of cleaning up after more than a hundred people. She could be only a few years older than Blaine, but life weighed heavy across her face. For a moment their gazes met, both feeling sorry for the other.
“Want some help?” Blaine asked out of kindness.
The woman shrugged. “It’s my job. I get a room in the back for cleaning up. The shower Brother Ray offers ain’t worth all the work.”
Blaine threw plates into the huge trash. “I’ll help anyway.” She needed to keep busy while she thought of what to do. If worst came to worst, she could walk back to Mark’s office and hope no one noticed her dirty clothes, scraped face and hospital slippers as she made a mad dash to his office. A shower would help to make her more presentable when she went to Mark.
An hour later the work was done. Except for introducing herself as Chipper, the lone woman didn’t have much to say. Now she turned to Blaine with a face that had forgotten how to smile. “Want that shower?”
“You bet. I’ll feel a lot better after I clean up.” She realized how strange she sounded. Her voice reminded her of an old radio announcer who’d yelled out one too many football games in the cold air.
Without smiling, Chipper handed her two towels and soap as she pointed her toward a room off the kitchen. “There’s supposed to be a fifteen-minute limit on the shower, but take the time you need. You earned it.”<
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Blaine thanked her, wondering how such a sad woman could have such a name. Chipper sounded as if it belonged to a small dog, not a woman.
Chipper pulled a tube of antiseptic cream from her pocket. “You might need this for those cuts on your hands and face. I’m sorry, I don’t have any Band-Aids. They give me this in case I cut myself cooking or cleaning up. Wouldn’t do to have the kitchen help serving with an infected wound showing. And if I don’t work, I’m back on the streets.”
Blaine had to ask, “Why this job?”
Shrugging, Chipper said, “I get food, a room and a TV that gets over sixty channels. If I worked anywhere else, I’d make money, and I don’t do too well with that. Tend to spend it on the wrong things. You see, I got a problem. I’m one of those compulsive shoppers you hear about, only I never get to the mall. I can spend all I have at the first liquor store.”
The woman could have been talking about the weather for all the emotion she used. Without another word, Chipper moved to the TV propped atop the refrigerator so that she could sit and watch both it and the front door.
Blaine walked into the tiny white bathroom realizing she’d forgotten about the cuts. She set the towels down and looked up at the mirror. The sight before her almost made her bolt. A monster with her eyes stared back. Her navy pants and shirt were dusty gray with rips and holes beyond repair. Her hair looked far worse than the preacher’s did. Some sections were burned while others were matted with ash and dirt.
Walking into Mark’s office like this would probably end his career. He’d never forgive her for such an act.
As she undressed, Blaine smiled. Bruises covered her body, her hair was ruined, her voice cracked with hoarseness, yet in a strange way she felt as if she was free. She knew it was only for a few hours, but she’d touched death last night and this morning she was amazed how good it felt to be alive. The possibility of pregnancy, the problems between her and Mark of late, the fear she could no longer be the kind of wife he needed, all floated somewhere outside this little world she had found.
Here, she was nobody. Here it felt good just to stand beneath hot water and let her problems wash away.
She took her time, even brushing her clothes with the damp towels, but in the end, she looked at her reflection and realized she could not embarrass Mark by walking into his office. With that option gone, she figured she had two choices. Walk the ten miles home to Cat Mountain, or charm the preacher into letting her use the phone.
She must know a hundred people in Austin, but calling them might put them in danger. Talking to Mark was the best move to make. He would know how best to proceed. He always knew the right move to make. Yet, the thought of calling him was dreadful. In the ten years they’d been married, they’d always practiced the “politeness of strangers” policy. Since both had lived alone for several years prior to their marriage, they’d learned to be independent and strived not to slip into the pitfalls of leaning on one other.
She’d had a flat tire once out by the airport. When she had called him on her cell, he’d said simply, “Call Triple A.” Well, almost dying might be the one incident worth asking for a little help.
Her cell! Blaine tapped her pocket before remembering that, like her wallet, it was in her jacket.
She washed her scarf and used it to tie back her wet hair. If she walked down the center of the highway in rush-hour traffic, not one person would recognize her now.
Taking the time to clean the shower, Blaine practiced what she would say to the preacher. There must be some way to get through to the man. All she wanted was to use the phone.
Her planning was wasted, for when she stepped out of the bathroom Chipper was the only one left in the hall. She was mopping between the tables using long S strokes that missed as much floor as she cleaned. A tiny black-and-white television blared from the kitchen.
The phone rang on the preacher’s desk, but Chipper showed no sign of noticing. After a few rings, it stopped. Evidently she wasn’t one of the chosen ones allowed to use the phone either.
Blaine thanked her for the antiseptic cream and walked straight to the preacher’s desk. With any luck, she could make her call and be gone before the preacher returned. If he caught her, what could he do? After all, borrowing a phone wasn’t a crime.
Her broken nail dialed the private number to Mark’s office.
Usually he answered on the first ring, or an answering machine picked up telling her where he was. Not this time. She leaned against the desk as ring after ring echoed in her ear.
Finally, someone picked up. Muffled tones. Then, almost as if he were far away, Mark answered, “Yes?”
“Mark!” Her voice cracked and she swallowed, trying to make her vocal cords work. The real world came crashing down as she tried to think of how to begin to tell Mark all that had happened.
“Who is this?” he snapped.
She tried again and, in a hoarse whisper managed two words. “It’s me.”
She heard him take a deep sigh then say in an icy voice, “I don’t know who this is, but you can go to hell.”
Too shocked to respond, she took the full blow as he slammed the phone down on the other end.
Something was wrong. He sounded like Mark, but where was the polite stranger she’d always known? Maybe he didn’t recognize her voice? Maybe he thought she was some kind of crank caller? She couldn’t picture her husband being so rude. It wasn’t his nature. She’d always thought of Mark as a huge paper doll. Stiff, proper, shallow. The perfect man to stand beside a paper-doll wife.
Trembling fingers dialed again. Maybe it wasn’t even Mark? She could have reached the wrong number.
As the phone rang once more, Blaine looked down at the morning paper piled atop the desk. There, spread across the front page was a photograph of the burned remains of the clinic.
Her hand absently unfolded the corners as the smell of the fire returned to her lungs. She remembered screaming, crying, hiding as the panic of the night returned. She’d been sleepwalking since before dawn, blocking the horror of yesterday from her mind. Now the paper brought it all back.
In a corner of the shot, framed in on top of the scene, was her picture. A bright professional Blaine Anderson stared back. She recognized the shot as one she’d had made for a passport that she and Mark had never gotten around to applying for.
The phone continued to ring as she read, “Prominent attorney’s wife one of four killed in bombing.”
Slowly, she unfolded the rest of the page. There, in a full-color shot, was Mark standing beside a body bag. The guard, Frank Parker, stood on one side of him, a policeman on the other. Words blurred as she tried to read. “Mark Anderson identifies his wife’s body at the scene. ‘My wife must have just started volunteering at the clinic,’ he told reporters later.”
Setting the phone back in its cradle, Blaine scanned the rest of the article. It was impossible. She knew the clinic had been bombed, but the night before had somehow been more dream than real, more about her than the world. Mark must have read her note, if he was at the scene. But how could he have identified the wrong person?
She stared at the photo once more. There, beside the body bag lay the rumpled remains of her leather coat. Her ID had been in the pocket. Her rings. Her cell phone. All were inside the coat or with the nurse, Sindi.
Realization dawned with cold certainty. The nurse must have tried them on a moment before the blast. She’d said her office was just beside Blaine’s room.
“Terrible, ain’t it?” Chipper said as she mopped around Blaine and the desk.
“Yes,” Blaine whispered, thinking she had to get home. She had to find Mark. He must have thought her phone call was some kind of cruel joke. Her fingers trembled as she began to dial his private line again.
“Strange thing about that guard in the picture, that Frank Parker,” Chipper mumbled as she worked.
“What about the guard?”
“They said this morning on the news that he reported seeing a
man mowing the lawn at the clinic just before the bomb went off. Someone checked. The lawn-service guy claimed he left the mower out back the night before and was still in traffic trying to get to work when he heard the blast.”
“So the bomber used the mower and Frank Parker may be able to ID him?”
Chipper shook her head. “Nope.” She shrugged. “Parker fell asleep on the way home after working all night. Missed his exit going seventy. They interrupted The View for a special report.” Chipper plopped the mop in dirty water and began to wring out the strands. “I was enjoying their talk today, all about how women on the Pill are more likely to participate in extreme sports.”
“About the guard?” Blaine fought the urge to grab Chipper by the neck and squeeze.
“Reporter said he was dead before they could cut him out of his car. Said he was going so fast he must not have touched the brake.”
Angry gray eyes flashed in Blaine’s mind. Absently, she lowered the phone a few inches. She’d seen the bomber too. Not once, but twice. He’d glanced up when he turned the mower around. He’d looked through the window at her as though she were already dead. Now she knew why. He knew that in a few moments the blast would strike.
“Hello! Hello!” Mark’s angry voice shouted from the dangling phone. “Who is this?”
Blaine placed the phone back in place. She had to have time to think before they were both dead. The gray-eyed man had been willing to kill innocent folks in the clinic, then Parker. She had a feeling he wouldn’t hesitate to murder her, and Mark, if he knew she was still alive.
Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what the guy speaking with Winslow had said. Something about making some adjustments under the hood to take care of a problem.
And Winslow had said something about Mark being watched. He’d indicated that if “the wife” wasn’t taken care of then someone would get to Mark.
Blaine fought back tears. She had to stay dead. At least until she could think. If she didn’t, they might get to Mark.
