Foxy's Tale

by Karen Cantwell

  Amanda made a face at her mother but thought this wasn’t worth arguing about right now. Let Foxy take credit for something. It was not like either of them had any illusions about who was a homemaker here.

  “What about me?” Amanda asked.

  “What about you what?”

  “What about me while you’re in – where are you going?”

  “Palm Beach.”

  “In California?”

  “No,” Foxy raised her voice, exasperated. “That’s Palm Springs. Palm Beach is in Florida. It’s where rich people go for the winter. And every year there’s a big antique show. Lots of dealers from all over the world.”

  “Antique people probably,” said Amanda. “With antique money.”

  “Ha ha,” said Foxy, as she polished off the last bit of her second fajita.

  “So, what about me? Who’s going to stay with me while you’re away? Or are you going to leave me here alone? Which is okay if you want to. I mean, there’s nothing I can’t do for myself. Except pay taxes.” She gathered up the plates. The griddle was still too hot to wash.

  “Kuh-not is going to stay with you. It’s only three days.”

  “Oh.”

  “What is the ‘Oh’?”

  “Nothing. Kuh-not’s okay. We can cook together. I just hope he doesn’t invite any of his boyfriends over.” Amanda turned on the tap and ran water onto the plates. “Foxy,” she said slowly, “do you know anything about the history of this house?”

  Foxy sighed. Here comes another barrage, she thought. “Not much,” she answered and hoped it would end there.

  “I was wondering, you know, when the house was built. I mean was it built before or after the Civil War?”

  “You mean the war between the states?” Foxy corrected her.

  “Good God, Foxy. All of a sudden you’re right off the plantation? How about the war of northern aggression? Let’s all go back to Fort Sumter and toss the damned Yankees out.”

  “You watch your mouth, Missy. I warned you about sounding coarse.”

  “What about the house?”

  “All I know is, it was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds. I do remember that from the papers I looked at with the realtor. Or maybe it was the early eighteen hundreds. I can’t remember exactly. Why?”

  “Today in history class, we were talking about the Civil War,” Amanda emphasized it just to annoy her mother, but Foxy let it pass. “And my teacher was telling us about the Underground Railroad, and he said there were houses in the city that were used during that time. Is it possible this was one of them?”

  “How would I know? And more importantly, what does all this have to do with my trip?”

  “Oh nothing,” Amanda said with a vague look sideways.

  Foxy shrugged and turned to the calendar she kept by the kitchen phone. “I’m going to leave this Friday. It’s only a two-hour flight to West Palm Beach. I’ll get there in the afternoon and stay at a hotel near the show. I’ll be back Sunday. Now, you have to behave yourself.” She gave Amanda a stern look.

  “Right,” Amanda nodded slowly. “I won’t order the beer keg until after you’re on the plane.” She left the kitchen and Foxy stared after her, not sure if she should take her daughter seriously. But that only lasted a moment . . . just until Foxy realized she didn’t have a thing to wear in Florida.

  “I’m going to run out to Saks for a little while,” she yelled after Amanda. “They have cruise wear in now. And they’re open until nine. Want to come?” She listened but Amanda didn’t answer.

  Upstairs in her room, Amanda heard her mother but chose to ignore her as she plopped down on her bed and flipped open her American history book. She followed the text with her finger until she came to one paragraph about the Underground Railroad. She read it over a few times, then popped open her laptop and clicked to Amanda’s Life in Hell.

  I wonder, (she wrote) if it’s possible this house Foxy inherited because of that bum Pete Anders is really historic? That would be so cool. But I can’t figure out why that funny man upstairs wants to know about how it was built. I mean, what is that about? I bet he thinks there’s something valuable in here and he wants to find it himself. But what would make him think that? Maybe I should ask Nick what he thinks. Or ask my history teacher. I sure can’t ask Foxy. She’s only thinking about Florida, clothes, and spending more money. Well, I guess she has to spend money to get more old stuff to sell.

  Someone said he likes me. Yes he did! J

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Amanda rummaged around in her backpack to find the book report she’d started over the weekend. She was supposed to hand it in Friday, and it was still a mess. She lifted the pages out in a bunch. Before she could set them down they slid out of her hands and fell apart on her bed. They were out of order and she began sorting through them, arranging the pages in numerical order. As she placed page after page one on top of the other, she came upon a folded note that she didn’t recognize, so she opened it and sat dumbfounded on her bed when she realized it was written to Nick. It was handwritten – beautifully in long, artistic strokes by someone with controlled penmanship. Amanda had never seen such beautiful handwriting. It was not the handwriting, however, but the words in the note that made her heart pound and the blood rush to her cheeks.

  Dearest Nicholas, it began. How I miss you tonight. How I wish you could be here with me now, by my side, in the cool air, under these stars so bright. Why won’t you come to me? Why do you hold yourself far apart from me like this when you know it is inevitable that we will join into one soul forever? I know, far better than you, the ecstasy that awaits you when you finally succumb. As you must. And soon, my love. Soon.

  There was no signature, only what looked to Amanda like a teardrop drawn on the paper.

  Amanda stared at the note in disbelief. Her hands shook and her throat went dry. She could barely breathe and felt as if she was cascading downward. She let the note fall from her hand and stood, backed as far away from her bed as she could. She had a strong desire to run to Foxy, to bury her head in her mother’s lap, to cry and wail like a baby. In the space of one hour she had gone from feeling sheer joy to complete betrayal. How could he? And who wrote this note? It couldn’t be someone from school.

  Her mind ran wild. She’d been so careful in high school. A crush here and there but nothing major. She didn’t ever want to be one of those girls who got dumped and laughed at all over the place. Not like Foxy. Humiliated and left for some bimbo, or worse, pregnant. Now this. She made her way slowly back to her bed and picked up the note. She read it again carefully. Whoever it was, she was begging Nick. So why did she have to beg him? And who waited for someone on a cold night outside under the stars? Who said things like that? Amanda’s imagination was really going now . . . she was not some high school girl. Maybe she was some older woman. Oh, that was disgusting, Amanda thought. She’d heard of older women who were into high school boys.

  And then she thought something really awful. Maybe a teacher. These things happened, after all. You heard about it in the news all the time. Suddenly, she just wanted to take a shower.

  She picked up the book report. The assignment was to read Bram Stoker’s Dracula and analyze it in the social context of late nineteenth century England, when it was written. She tried to organize her thoughts but kept coming back to the note. She couldn’t think about anything else. She didn’t know what she’d say to Nick when she saw him, which would be tomorrow morning when he picked her up at the Metro station. She’d never be able to face him now. She’d be so embarrassed. No matter what she tried to talk about, she’d be thinking about that note. Then she remembered the way the book was written in diaries and letters. It was ironic, that’s what it was, she thought. That she was supposed to write about that book on that night.

  She wanted to call Nick, to tell him she’d found the note and to ask him what it was all about. But no, she couldn’t do that. They didn’t really have a relationship. He only said he liked h
er. That could mean as a friend. A buddy. Someone to keep him company on the way back and forth to school. She didn’t really know anything about him except what he was like in school. He could be a real jerk. He could be . . . she couldn’t keep her mind on a straight track. It kept going back to that note.

  Finally, she gave up on the Dracula report and took that shower. She needed to wash away all of those horrible thoughts. When she had run out of hot water, she got out, pulled on an old t-shirt, and climbed into bed. She slept fitfully the rest of the night and awakened earlier than usual. For the first time in weeks, she did not look forward to meeting Nick before school.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Foxy went all out for her three-day trip to Florida. Three new outfits, one for each day of the show. Matching shoes of course. And two new dresses for evening. She figured she’d be meeting people and going to dinner. Antique dealers are a sociable lot. And there might be parties. She spent the morning trying on her outfits with jewelry, shoes, bags, jackets in case it got chilly at night, one long silk wrap that was really a big scarf but was very sensual. She took out her traveling makeup case and rearranged the compartments. Her suitcase was open on a chair. The packing would go on all day and, when she heard Amanda leave, she went to the window to look outside. She saw her daughter, dressed in the usual black. She shook her head. When would that girl outgrow this phase, she wondered. She went back to the mirror to admire the way the turquoise color of this new blouse set off her flawless skin, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Amanda. It was such a fine line she was walking between her own needs and her need to be a mother to her daughter.

  Foxy gazed at her reflection in the mirror. As she admired herself she looked for signs that the stress of the past year showed in her face. But she still had it, she reminded herself. And it was not just looks. She had a lot to offer. And one of these days, she’d be using it again. To hell with her vow of post-divorce chastity. She was too pretty to go to waste. And still too young. What was the cutoff age anyway, she silently asked her reflection. Stars having babies in their forties. Famous women dating younger men. It was all too confusing for a Southern beauty. All this role reversal. And yet it did leave certain doors of opportunity open. Whatever was behind door number one, Foxy was going to get it for herself. Palm Beach would be her launching pad.

  A clinking sound like empty bottles rattling together snapped her back to reality. It was an odd sound and now there was thumping with it. She went downstairs to the door of her apartment to investigate. She couldn’t see anything through the front door peephole, and then she heard a loud thump, so she opened the door and looked out and down the stairs.

  Halfway between the first and second landing, Myron had fallen in a crumpled heap on the steps. Foxy ran out, still wearing a new pair of high heeled sandals.

  “Mr. Standlish,” she yelled. “What happened? Are you all right?” She clacked down a few steps to where he lay immobile.

  He raised his head a bit, looking dazed. “Oooh,” he tried to talk but he was pale and shaky. “Oy, my head is not correct,” he muttered. His left hand was still grasping the handle of a small Igloo cooler.

  “Here, let me take that for you,” Foxy reached out to grab the cooler so he would have both hands free to steady himself.

  “No, no, I am okey dokey. Just a little spilling on the steps here. Not a thing to vorry about it.” He pushed himself up with his right hand, not letting go of the cooler. When he stood, Foxy heard that clinking sound again.

  “What do you have in there?” she asked. “Wine bottles?” She placed her hand under his elbow as he stood. She assumed the clinking must be wine or hard liquor bottles. That must be the reason the little man looked so pale and wasted. And why he’d fallen.

  “Ha ha,” he said without laughing, “you must be thinking of me a drinker man.” He didn’t answer the question and Foxy let it drop, especially since he looked so pale.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hurt yourself?” she asked him and looked closely at his face. She was afraid he might faint, and then what would she do? Suppose he fell down the stairs? She’d feel much better once he was safely in his own apartment, but she was not so sure he could make it all the way up there. “Come, sit down in my living room and rest for a few minutes before you tackle the stairs again.” She led him up the last few steps and through her open door.

  He sat on the edge of her couch, balancing gingerly as if he was waiting to bolt in case a growling dog leapt out from the bedroom.

  “How about some coffee?” Foxy asked. “I have a warm pot right here.” She pointed to a half filled Mister Coffee machine on the kitchen counter. It was still on from an hour ago, with a couple of cups still in the pot.

  Myron was occupied glancing around the apartment and seemed not to have heard Foxy’s offer. He turned almost completely around to take in the entire room from the bay windows to the kitchen, the entryway, and the closets.

  “Excuse please for such a small qvestion for a quick moment. Vass this building alvays built as you have it? Or maybe vass it changed at some time, perhaps by you or maybe somevone elses?”

  Foxy poured a mug of coffee and brought it to the couch. But Myron made no move to take it. “It was like this when I inherited (she made half an air quote with the hand not holding the mug, but this was lost on Myron) it but I’m sure it’s changed many times over the years. It’s quite old.” Since Myron seemed uninterested in the coffee, Foxy sipped at it.

  “Vell,” Myron said as he stood. “So now I’m feeling much better, thanks to you and such kindness as you offer.” He picked up the cooler and once again there was the clinking sound. He tried to steady it. “I must get these into the cold now. I have had such a day as you vouldn’t believe even. A day like that I vouldn’t vahnt to have again in a lifetime of days.”

  “Maybe those bottles broke when you fell,” Foxy wanted to see what was in there. After all, it was her building and she had a right to know what was going on in it. “Do you always take a cooler with you to the grocery store?” she asked as she followed him to the door.

  “Vell,” he shrugged and sighed as if there was a great weight on his soul, “you never know vaht’s vaht, do you?”

  He ambled into the hall and climbed the stairs slowly. Foxy heard his door open and shut. The clinking was gone and so was Myron.

  *****

  Amanda sat on the Metro train between a fat woman reading The Star and another munching her way through a bag of barbecue flavored Fritos. The smell this early in the morning made Amanda feel slightly queasy, and she thought this must be what pregnant women feel like. To take her mind off the numbing ride to school, she propped her laptop on her knees on top of her backpack.

  Amanda’s Life in Hell – as in the ride to school (she wrote)

  I don’t know what to say to Nick. He texted me to take the train today because of something. He didn’t say what. Maybe I should just let it pass and say nothing. Anyway he’s going to meet me at the station and drive me to school. So I have to say something to him. But what?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There he was, in his car waiting as Amanda emerged from the long escalator ride up to the station entrance. She could tell his car was still running from the slight vapor escaping the exhaust pipe. He didn’t see her right away, but when he did he waved a little and smiled like he was glad to see her. She almost dropped her backpack but shifted the weight back onto her shoulder where she carried it half on and half off. The sun was weak. A layer of thin clouds high up in the sky turned the world a little gray. Amanda did not hurry to the car.

  When she got in, Nick said, “Hey.” She shut the door and Nick steered the car into the street.

  They rode in silence. Amanda considered sliding the note back onto the floor where she must have picked it up with her book report. She tried to imagine how she could do it without Nick noticing. First she had to get the note out of her backpack and then onto the floor.

  “What’s
up?” Nick said out of nowhere.

  Amanda jumped a little in her seat like she’d just gotten a shock. “Nothing,” she said and stared straight ahead out the windshield. “Why?”

  “You seem, like, I don’t know. Moody.”

  “No,” She said. “I think I didn’t get enough sleep. I was working late on a book report.”

  “Oh yeah? What book?”

  “Dracula,” Amanda said, relieved that the conversation had moved to nice, safe, school stuff. But then the car lurched suddenly and she looked over at Nick. His face was contorted and he seemed to have lost control of the car.

  “Watch out!” Amanda yelled as they came perilously close to a truck in the left lane.

  Nick swerved back, overcompensating, and veered into the right lane. A car horn blasted from near them and there was a screech of tires and Nick got them back into their lane again. Amanda noticed his hands shaking.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked him. But he didn’t answer. His face looked grim, as if he was trying very hard not to let her see any emotion. They drove in silence up to the school entrance. He pulled to a stop and didn’t say anything as Amanda gathered her stuff and got out. He pulled slowly away from the curb and she was left standing there, wondering what was going on with him. No holding hands today. No feeling happy. She was so depressed now, she wished she’d never left her house. And she still had that note in her backpack, hidden inside like a time bomb, ticking, ticking, ticking.

  In English class she handed in the book report. Her next class was American history and then she had lunch. But she was not hungry, so she dawdled after class and when everyone else was gone she stood at the teacher’s desk.

  “Don’t you have lunch now, Amanda?”

  “Um, yeah, but I wanted to ask you, Mr. Warden, remember you were talking about the Underground Railroad the other day, and you said there were houses in D.C. that were a part of it and they could be anywhere in the city if the houses were old enough and . . .”