The air outside is oddly unsettled.
I walk down Walnut, toward Mother and Daddy’s house. I’m not sure how much longer I can take being there, but I’m not sure how I feel about leaving either. It’s been nearly three years since the divorce. I check the rentals every day in the paper, but I am decidedly uninspired.
Besides that, Mother, it seems to me, has lost a step or two since I’ve been home. A recent spill in the kitchen left her with a turned ankle, which has meant waiting on her hand and foot, if you’ll pardon the pun. I hope that’s just me and my paranoia. And as for Daddy, well, he hasn’t changed – still thinks I married down, still thinks very highly of Carson, despite all the rigamarole. Delusional, for sure.
To him, it’s the money, but for me, it’s a lot more than that. I could easily get out now, even buy a nice place. It just doesn’t feel right.
I’m seeing Bernie for dinner tonight. A simple meal. I think we decided on the Golden Pillar, just for something different. I’m always running into him at the Riverside, so this’ll be a switch. He’s supposed to pick me up in about 30 minutes.
I turn onto River Road. I can see Daddy, about three blocks down, sitting on the side porch. Mother has probably driven him to an early cocktail hour.
My phone begins to buzz, breaking my trance. No caller ID, but the ring suggests it’s an international call. Against my better judgment – and that of most in the world these days – I go ahead and answer.
“Elyse … Elyse, it’s me. Carson. Can you talk? Are you free?”
I stop immediately and duck behind Mrs. Parker’s oak tree where she has a bench next to the sidewalk. Must be too muggy for her out here today.
“Carson, where are you? Everyone is asking after you! You need to tell me what is going on!”
“I can explain, dear. Just relax and let me explain.”
“Carson, you need to come back here and take responsibility.” (How many different ways can one woman beg, I ask you?)
“No, my love, no I can’t … I can’t come back there, not ever. Are you enjoying the money?”
The money!
I had eliminated him from my brain and my home. Anything he ever gave me, I sold or donated. The work I had to do to be rid of him, but the money …
“Don’t you dare call me ‘my love,’” I say. I can feel my tongue trembling. “Bernie is on your behind, my friend, with a budget and a purpose – to bring you back here, face the music, and own up to everything you’ve done. In fact, he just got back from California, where all your little tech friends had a lotta choice words for you. … Your greed and your twisted brain have ruined everything!”
My voice has turned into a growl. Two children on their bikes look both ways and cross the street, clearly uninterested in watching a middle-aged woman melt down.
“Well, well …?!?!?!?! What do you have to say?”
Apparently, nothing, as he’s no longer on the line.
I stand and wave to the kids and apologize to them.
I take a deep breath – my head is pounding. I cannot go into the house like this.
And just as if I had divined it … a familiar blue sedan pulls up.
Bernie.
“Going my way?”
I nod. “Yes, as it turns out, I am.”
I climb into the car, look in his direction, and then let the emotion fall over me. I can’t stop the tears. I blurt out the entire interaction, start to finish – everything from ‘my love’ to him hanging up.
“Wait, can I see your phone?” he asks.
I hand it to him. “There is no number, nothing traceable.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says. “Ever hear of *57?”
He keys it into the keypad. I shake my head. “No, what does that do?”
“It traces specific calls,” he says. “What time is it?”
“5:29.”
“So he probably dialed you sometime between 5:25 and 5:28, yes?”
I nod and grab a tissue from his dashboard. “So what?”
“Well, all we need now to nab the guy for real is to file a police report with the phone company so we can find out where that call originated.”
“I already know he’s in Vietnam. I can’t protect him anymore,” I say. “This isn’t news, and it doesn’t sound like it’s much news to you either.”
He shakes his head. “No, but whatever firm he’s with over there may be able to give us more information or at least drive him to leave so he’s back out on the lam, where he won’t be so insulated.”
As I take my phone back from him, I open the mirror and check my hair. “Well,” I ask him. “Do you want to call Silas or should I?”
I don’t wait for his answer and begin to dial.
Gunnar Olafsson