Mind Tryst, Page 4

  “Has he dated anyone around here?”

  “He dated a woman named Elaine for a while. She was a decorator; her business wasn’t profitable and she moved away. They were steadies, I guess you’d say. Tom didn’t seem traumatized by her departure, that I noticed.”

  It didn’t seem to bother Roberta that I sat motionless in the chair, thinking. I could barely deal with my own catastrophic losses, much less take on someone else’s. Alternatively, if I entered this friendship or whatever it was going to be, couldn’t I count on a superior level of understanding for my darker moods?

  “So, you don’t advise getting involved with people who have a lot of ugly baggage to drag around, right?”

  “I didn’t say ‘advise.’ I said I wouldn’t.”

  “The same statement could be made about me. You know my circumstances. I’m dragging around a real dung bucket that some poor unsuspecting fool wouldn’t want to have to deal with.”

  Again I got her eyes. Her glasses came all the way off, a sure sign of wishing to be heard. “Your situation isn’t the same, Jackie. You were the victim of terrible timing and rotten luck. In Tom’s case, he is the victim of an intentional, horrendous, violent crime. There’s a deep, psychological difference. You look both ways; you maybe don’t trust armored cars. What changes do you suppose he’s made in his behavior after a client murdered his family? What barriers do you think he’s built up? What personality disorders could exist?”

  “Answer me one question. Do you like him?”

  She made an unpleasant face.

  “He thinks of you as one of his friends,” I pointed out.

  “I don’t dislike him,” she said. “I have very few real friends; I wouldn’t count Tom Wahl among them.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth about what happened to him?”

  “I know he is. I looked through some of the newspaper clippings he saved from the original court case. It’s not a question, in my mind, whether he’s telling the truth. It’s a question as to how screwed up he is because of it.” She put her glasses on. “Go slowly.” Then, after looking at me for a second, she lowered her gaze and muttered, “Figures.”

  I thought I knew what she meant by that last freezing statement. I assumed she decided she had misjudged my need for sex. Strangely, sex hadn’t figured in this at all. That was still a long way off for me.

  “I’m not going to tell him I know about this,” I announced.

  She didn’t respond. It wasn’t as though Roberta were going to be gossiping about it. Getting her to discuss it at all had required perseverance.

  ***

  For the next few weeks, while I worked beside Tom as we tore out and replaced bathroom tiles and linoleum, and sanded down oak floors, I damned my luck. He laughed so easily; he was so pleasant to be around. He made flattering but not suggestive comments. “That’s your color — yellow.” “I brought burgers and guessed you would want a shake.” “When we’re finished, this place is going to feel as sophisticated and yet as warm as you are.”

  We didn’t talk about deeply personal things, and in all truth he was the only companionship I had. I’m cautious. I didn’t invite any deeper relationship. And he didn’t ask.

  I did read the brief file that Roberta had initiated on his proposed lawsuit. There were no newspaper clippings in the file and Roberta had prepared a standard intake report. It described the event as Roberta had, with one additional piece of information. Tom’s name was Tom Lawler. Since the California incident he had changed it to Wahl.

  I made a close study of his behavior. I was looking for a sign of depression or guilt. Nothing could be further from his character. He wasn’t verbose; he seemed to choose his words carefully and spoke with sincerity. I began to get glimmers of his counseling experience. He would say things like “How do you feel about that?” “Would that feel good if you did it that way?” And “I hear you.” He seemed, if anything, more sensitive than the average guy.

  I had no prejudice against a person who had had troubles. How could I when I didn’t want to be avoided because of the tragedies I had endured? I don’t mean to hint at the concept of silver linings. However, people who have endured great hardship tend to be stronger, more resilient.

  That’s what I thought I saw in Tom. Recovery.

  I had been a resident in Coleman for three months before anything that resembled a date came up. We had worked together for weeks. It was late August and we had finished the master bath, hung new closet doors, and sanded down all the upstairs floors. We were finished and not planning another weekend of work.

  “I’m a half-decent cook,” he said. “Why don’t I make you dinner next Saturday night?”

  “What a nice thought,” I replied sincerely. I had begun to wonder if Tom’s only problem was hesitancy. “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be here. I’m treating myself to a quick trip to L.A. to visit friends. I’ll leave Thursday evening and be back late Sunday.”

  “Oh,” he said, becoming morose instantly. He was quiet for a minute. “I suppose there’s a guy back there —”

  “Oh no,” I hastened to assure him. “No, Tom, I’m not dating anyone.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t want to get in the way of anything. I don’t want to — Ah, hell.”

  “Were you thinking of us having more than one dinner together?” I asked. Blunt has always been more natural for me.

  “I’d like that... and don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting anything serious, permanent, or anything like that. Don’t think the wrong thing. If you’re dating someone, that’s no big deal. We can have dinner, be friends...” He shrugged his shoulders, appearing almost shy. “Friendship would be welcome. I don’t want any complications in my life.”

  ‘“I think I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. It must have shown in my eyes or been carried in my tone.

  “I was dating a woman who came here to start a decorating business,” he quickly went on. “I was starting to enjoy myself and so was she and then all of a sudden she admitted she had left a long-term relationship for a breather. A breather, she told me, because they had run into trouble. The whole time we were dating, she was keeping this other relationship alive, by phone, letters, visits. She was also keeping it a secret from me. And she decided to go back. That’s something I would have expected to hear about early on in our dating.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. That sort of thing happens to people like us, people who have never had a relationship go the whole distance. The same thing had happened to me. In law school I dated a man, though time with him was rare because of my work load. He had broken up, he said. Over, he said. It wasn’t over in the least. He had managed to keep two busy women lurching over their schedules to fit him in.

  “I don’t want to sound like a wimp,” Tom explained. “It’s not like it ruined my life. It was disappointing. It would have all turned out different if she had told me from the beginning that she wasn’t completely sure about the guy she left behind. All the same things would have happened, I’m sure, except my perspective might have been different.”

  “You felt she lied to you?” I asked.

  “Well, Jackie, she did lie to me,” he said. “She told me right off that she had no commitments and nothing going on. Then later she amended that and said she had recently come out of a serious relationship. And still later, the truth — that they’d separated to see if they should give it up or try to work it out. They’d been in touch all along.” He shook his head. “I wish she had told me she couldn’t talk about it, or it was none of my business. I’m stodgy. Old-fashioned. I have a problem with games and manipulations. I don’t lie, I don’t like lies.”

  “I don’t either,” I said, somewhat emphatically. “And I am not fresh from a breakup, I’m not seeing anyone, and although I am definitely not looking for a serious relationship at this point in my life, I don’t think dinner would be risky at all.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile, though I sensed that h
e was putting too much pressure on us both when only a dinner together was at issue. For some reason I excused this idiosyncrasy. I did wrap it up and tie a knot on it. “So, let’s make sure there aren’t major expectations on this.” It wasn’t him I was trying to avoid or keep at bay, it was how the two dates become twelve, et cetera. “Friendship would be welcome, but let’s not get radical.”

  “Radical.” He grinned. “The kids say that all the time.” He laughed, sounding more comfortable. “Good. Dinner is all I have in mind. I don’t want to load up on expectations. You’re not opposed to seeing where our friendship goes if I’m a halfway good cook?”

  “Oh, definitely not,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll call you when you get back.”

  3

  My reason for going to Los Angeles on Thursday evening had to do with my desire to have Friday, a workday, to drop in to the law office that had employed me. My old colleagues fawned over me; some of them took me to lunch and I entertained them with homespun small-town tales. I told of the cousins who shared water rights and a long-term family feud, intermarriage, and fistfights, and had graduated to drag racing along country roads. I had heard their properties were strewn with car parts and rusting kitchen appliances, and there was usually one family member in trouble with the law at all times.

  And on the upscale side, I told them about the artists’ commune twenty miles up the road, where the most wonderful pots, sculptures, paintings, and bric-a-brac could be had at a bargain. And about the heiress to a multimillion-dollar candy company who turned her back on the huge family enterprise, escaped her corporate roots to operate a country-style bed-and-breakfast on land where she also grew organic vegetables and herbs.

  They complimented my color, my twinkling eyes, my healthy appearance, my restored humor, and I inhaled these remarks like a person long without breath. People said things like “Colorado is good for you” and “All that mountain air must be what you needed.” What they meant was they thought I was coming out the other end of the long dark tunnel of pain. I sensed a perverse relief among some of them, particularly the other women, who must have been secretly relieved when I took myself, my practice, and my enormous grief away from their scrutiny. Women, nurturers all, whether high-powered execs or maids, feel innately responsible for each other. My pain was their pain on some level. I returned like the girl who had gone off to college and made good. I returned restored. It was my secret that I was the same person.

  I got the gossip and gave it. I spent the weekend with Barb, one of my few single friends, while visiting others. I wasn’t closest to Barb, but her lack of additional family meant that my coming and going did not disrupt her lifestyle. She armed me with a house key and I traveled around in my rented car, returning late at night to her town house and spare room. It was so successful a trip that I never thought about the one piece of suspicious news dropped on me.

  “I trust you had no trouble getting your furniture,” Janice, secretary to the senior partner, said.

  “What furniture? My furniture arrived with no problem.”

  “No, the furniture you were financing. Coleman Home Finance called here to check on your past employment.”

  “Who?”

  “Coleman. I’m sure it was Coleman Home Finance Company.”

  “I didn’t apply for any financing. What did they want to know?”

  “Whether you had been gainfully employed here prior to moving to Coleman.”

  “My salary? My marital status? What?”

  Jan shook her head. “You know I wouldn’t give out any personal information. There was nothing suspicious at all; I would have contacted you if there had been. The call seemed routine. The guy had your phone number, address, work number, et cetera. Merely a credit-card check, I guess.”

  “Except I didn’t apply for any credit,” I said, unnerved by that.

  “You know what happens when you move into a new house,” she said. “I had calls from carpet cleaners and water-softener salesmen, and dozens of free gifts, none of which were free at all. I’ll bet a local business was trying to check you out to see if you were approachable for credit. Or maybe it was the lawyer you work for; could she have done that?”

  “Roberta? Her manner is much more direct. She wouldn’t disguise her questions. Are you sure that’s all they wanted to know?”

  “Employment verification. The caller provided the address. Maybe it was your local homeowner’s insurance guy. I would have called you immediately had it been the least bit unusual.”

  I dismissed it from my mind then. I’ll never know who made that call. Jan easily calmed me; I do remember, from when I bought my little house in L.A., the number of leading phone calls searching for information. “Can we do a run-down on the basic security of your home as a free gift?” What do they expect you to say? “No thanks, I have four Dobermans and a Magnum”? Then, I guess, they can cross you off their list of people to burgle. This is so much an L.A. or New York mindset, I decided then and there to let the phone call go. It didn’t even cross my mind later, when I got home and had a legitimate concern.

  Another thing we talked about, briefly, did come to mind later — though it was over a week before I recalled it. When Janice asked me if I’d met any potentially datable single men, I mentioned Tom. I said he’d come from L.A., where he’d experienced a terrible tragedy and lost his family. We had this in common; it was unnecessary to draw the common lines for Janice. I did say his old name and his new name.

  I don’t consider myself a ‘fraidy cat. I’m not big and I’m not strong, but I’m clever and I’ve never been easily upset. Things bumping in the night can always be attributed to the house settling or the cat. I had only called the police twice — once when a jogger stopped jogging in front of my house and seemed to be loitering there and once when I got home to find the door standing open. I say this because my reaction to what I found at home was to panic and feel seized by helplessness.

  ***

  Back in Coleman, when I got in the door, flipped on the lights, and saw my lovely, warm, remodeled living room, I was elated to be home. Home. That felt good to me; I had left wondering if I would ever feel that way about this old house in a town where I had clients and acquaintances but no friends. I left my bags and purse sitting inside the front door and kicked off my shoes. I went straight to the stereo and flipped on my “easy listening” channel, then rummaged about in the kitchen for a glass of wine and a plate of crackers. I sat there for thirty minutes, enjoying the solitude and comfyness of my little house, plagued by nothing. The phone rang.

  “Good, you made it back safe and sound,” Chelsea Alexander said.

  I fought an irritated grunt. Checking up on me, I thought. “I was unwinding with a glass of wine. I had fun, but I’m exhausted. You really didn’t have to call.”

  “Oh, don’t get your undies in a bunch, sweet pea. I know I don’t have to. You’re so goddamn defensive sometimes. I’m not worried about you, Jackie, and if you hadn’t answered the phone, I would have tried later or tomorrow. There is nothing wrong with someone knowing where you are. It’s different from someone telling you where you’re supposed to be.”

  To avoid getting into that whole argument, I changed the subject to my flight, which was uneventful, and the long drive southwest from Denver, over sixty miles through and around the Pike National Forest. It took me two hours from the airport and was enough trouble to keep me from running back to L.A. every time I grew lonely.

  Mike got on the phone very briefly; I had seen Chelsea and the girls in L.A., but Mike had been working. “Jack,” he said.

  “Mike,” said I.

  “You doin’ fine?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Okay. So, when you coming back?”

  “I don’t know. Come here. Learn to ski.”

  “Aw... maybe the girls. Me? I’m lucky I learned to walk.”

  I didn’t let him hear me laugh. He was the luckiest man alive and I wasn’t sure he deserved us,
Chelsea and me. Nothing in his character should have landed him Chelsea, the most stable, rock-solid, nurturing, dedicated person alive. She came back on the phone.

  “So, baby-cakes, you glad to be in your new-old house?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said, sounding surprised.

  “I suppose even the towels are matched already?”

  “No, they’re not, but I’m ready for you and that asshole... I mean you and Mike and your doll-babies to come see me and learn to ski.”

  Chelsea, who never called him an asshole, loved it when I did. She laughed. “I’ll bring the little dolls out and see you this winter, when there’s snow... if you’re sure.”

  “Oh, kiddo, am I sure. I’m settling in, meeting people slowly. I think I did the right thing in moving here. It’s so peaceful and wholesome. I’d love to share it with you.”

  We talked on — did a partial postmortem on my visit. I had been lulled into a kind of serenity — my new-old house around me, the wine hitting my gut, Chelsea’s humorous and warm voice on the phone. I felt relaxed; tired and rested all at once. An hour had passed from the time I got home until I trudged upstairs with purse, hang-up bag, and suitcase.

  I dropped the purse, hung up the hang-up bag, and was just about to toss the suitcase on the bed for unpacking when I stopped short. There was an impression on the bed — an indentation from the pillow to the foot. I had made the bed, smoothing the thin, patterned chenille spread flat, and there was a dip and ripple down the bed the length of a body. The spread was old and fragile and white; it had been my mom’s. Someone had lain down on my bed while I was away.