Adelaide Confused Page 10

  So I set about cutting Reed free from his chair. He kept a wary eye on our captor but didn’t attempt to touch him.

  “Well should we,” I waved vaguely at the body, “I don’t know... kill him, or maybe call the police?”

  Reed stared at the inert form while rubbing the blood back into his wrists. “Kill him or call the police? Those options don’t fit in the same sentence.”

  “Well we can’t just leave him!”

  Reed turned, heading for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I hated being dismissed. Obviously I had more to say, but for the moment I was willing to shut up and get the hell out of there.

  I followed Reed out the door and up a flight of stairs. They were plain concrete, solid and sterile. I couldn’t decide if that room was meant for shelter or storage. The stairs spit us out on the first floor of a farmer’s barn. It was filled with hay and everything. The town car was outside. Reed found the keys in the ignition, I found my shoes and purse in the backseat, and together we left.

  Chapter 16

  A persistent scuffing sound woke me. I very much wished it hadn’t. I had an ache for every muscle, my joints protesting any and all movement. Was this what it felt like to be old? If so, I hoped to die young. Maybe I was meant to have died yesterday.

  The scuffing droned into a dull scraping. My mind cleared instantly, pushing away the sleepy daze of first wake. Unexplainable noises were irregular in my home. Suitably alarmed, I lurched from bed.

  It was Gap-tooth, it must be. My heartbeat picked up its pace as I glanced around for some sort of weapon. Cursing myself for not having killed him when he was unconscious, I grabbed the slim glass thigh-high vase I’d never gotten around to filling. Yesterday I wasn’t capable of killing anyone. Today I thought I’d give it a try. Hefting the vase, I held it by its narrow top like a baseball bat.

  Reed and his bullshit about taking care of it, he never did explain. Even after the adrenaline had worn away and I’d stopped feeling strung out and shaky I’d continued to scream a bit, demanding answers. He had ignored me, leaving me clueless beside my car.

  I lowered the vase, feeling like a jackass. If Gap-tooth really was coming then he’d already know I was waiting for him, vase in hand. Damn it! I couldn’t even defend myself. If Reed was any kind of man, he’d have killed Gap-tooth when he had the chance. Calling the police hadn’t seemed like a permanent enough solution. And he hadn’t even done that!

  The sound continued, odd though, it didn’t seem to come from inside the house. Cautiously I walked to the window, using the vase to push the curtain aside.

  Lucas sat on the lip of my roof, a leg dangling over. He scraped at the gutter, scooping up a handful of sludge, the wilted, wet leaves clumped in his gloved fist. I watched his arms and back flex, mesmerized. There was something bold about him; maybe it was just his masculinity. I didn’t deal with men like him often, and I found he intimidated me in a way others couldn’t, not even the charming Reed Wallace.

  I put the vase back in its proper place, wondering if perhaps I’d overreacted. No, I decided, I hadn’t, and I couldn’t live like this. Reed was going to tell me exactly how he’d taken care of the situation, at which point I’d decide if he’d done enough. I guess I was going to have to eat my words, the last being, ‘Shut the fuck up! And don’t ever speak to me again!’ He’d been about to apologize. I hadn’t been interested.

  I pushed aside the curtain and opened the window. “If you want to take a break I can get you something to drink,” I offered.

  Lucas spared me the briefest of glances. “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  I left the window open, like trying to coax a stray cat, hoping he’d climb through instead of using the ladder. I grabbed some clothes and ran to the bathroom, cursing when I saw my reflection.

  Yesterday I’d done nothing more than drive home from the motel and fall into bed. My hair was a knotty mess, my face crusted in dry blood, and the dress ruined. I slipped it off, changing into a pair of jeans and T-shirt. I ran a brush through my hair, gave up, and tied it into a ponytail. Lastly, I washed my face and hands, smoothing away the blood and leaving behind two ugly gashes. I’d shower later.

  I dug my first aid kit out from under the bathroom sink before hurrying back to the loft. Lucas was still outside. I pretended to ignore him, choosing to sit on the floor and patch up my wounds.

  My hand was easy enough. I lathered on some antibiotic ointment and covered the cut with a band-aid. I was indecisive about my face though. Vanity was not my personal vice, but even I didn’t want to wear a band-aid on my cheek for the next week. I used the excuse ‘the cut needed airing out’ and settled for gingerly rubbing it down with the same ointment.

  I didn’t know if either cut needed stitches. I knew they were deep, being able to see the pink flesh inside. But if they stopped bleeding and didn’t get infected then I didn’t need a doctor. I could live with the scars, but not without the money a doctor would cost.

  Lucas stepped through the open window. It was large, taking up most of the triangular shaped wall, he hardly had to stoop. I tried not to look too happy. “Finished?”

  He nodded somewhat aloof as he stared around the room. I tried to imagine what his impression might be, attempting to look at my things through a stranger’s eye.

  It was a large bedroom, but the sloping walls made me feel as though I was in a constant hug. The wood was dark, almost black. The linen curtains and bed sheets were light, creamy, matching the rug. I had left over furniture from Mary, Ben’s wife, an antique armoire, standing mirror, and trunk. The room felt old, but airy and fresh.

  Lucas still hadn’t said anything. Frustrated that I couldn’t guess what he was thinking by gauging his emotions, I blurted, “What?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t look like my bedroom.”

  I nearly laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

  He looked at me as if waiting for more.

  “I’ve seen your kitchen,” I explained. “It was, well, like a bachelor’s house, I guess. Or at least the way I imagine a bachelor’s house should look, you know... bare.”

  He moved to the chest of drawers, eyeing the doodads arranged on top. “You like perfume.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. “No, not really. I wouldn’t wear half of those, they smell like old lady. I like the bottles, they’re antiques.”

  “Who’s this photographer?” He wandered around looking at my meager collection.

  “Weegee, he was a photojournalist, among other things. His photos are black, white, and gritty, often taken at crime scenes. I try to hang the less depressing ones in the bedroom.”

  “The puzzles?” he questioned, staring at my stack of boxes.

  “They fill the time.”

  “You don’t have a TV?”

  “No.”

  He was silent, and it became awkward. “You can use the bathroom to wash your hands,” I offered. “Or I can get you a drink or something.” I couldn’t recall a time I had ever played hostess, it didn’t come naturally.

  He moved as if he’d just remembered where he was. “No, I’ll clean up at home.” He left the loft, moving down the stairs.

  I followed him to the front door. “I can clean your kitchen tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine,” he said, stepping outside to collect his ladder. I thought he’d take it and leave, but he turned back before walking around the house. “You can use mine if you want.”

  “Use your what?”

  “My TV.”

  Chapter 17

  “Sterling’s Motel, how may I help you?”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  I hung up.

  Francesca called back.

  “Sterling’s Motel, how may I help you?”

  “Alright, alright, that was a stupid thing to ask. But how was it?”

  “I barely survived,” I
replied honestly.

  “Did you put in a good word for me?”

  I struggled to maintain that honesty. “I did mention you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “He knows you’re interested.”

  “Do you think he’s going to ask me out?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I can’t say. We didn’t discuss it for long, most of the time I was focused on working.”

  “So you figured out why he asked you there?”

  “Not quite. I was confused the entire night. Reed doesn’t really share information.”

  “You are so lucky,” she gushed.

  In an attempt to change the subject, I said, “You know my neighbor, the mechanic? Well I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

  “He asked you out?”

  “Um, no, it’s not... like... a date. I’m cleaning his kitchen.”

  “WHAT!” Francesca shrieked.

  “We have an arrangement,” I said defensively. “He cleaned my gutters out this morning.”

  “That had better be code for something sexual.”

  “Ew,” I said somewhat repulsed. “It’s not.”

  “Adelaide,” Francesca said, matching my disgust. “Men appreciate what they work for.”

  “I’ve heard this speech before.”

  “Alright then, let me phrase this differently. Do you know why I like men to buy me things?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  She ignored that. “I like men to buy me things because it defines our relationship. A man doesn’t buy a woman something expensive unless he’s really interested. So my question is, did the mechanic clean your gutters as a romantic gesture, or because he felt a neighborly obligation?”

  “Neighborly obligation?” I echoed.

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, Adelaide. You may be misinterpreting things.”

  “Francesca, our ideas concerning relationships are bound to differ,” I excused. “We aren’t looking for the same things.”

  “It’s not about our views so much as experience. And how much do you really have?”

  Feeling like total shit, I said, “Someone’s just pulled up, I’ve got to go.” I hung up before she could protest.

  I would have liked to say that Francesca didn’t know the first thing about a real relationship. But I couldn’t use that as an excuse because, well, neither did I. Lucas was the first man to catch my eye since the accident. I wanted to think the attraction was mutual, but I couldn’t say that either. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought Francesca had a point. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only thing I found troubling about the phone call.

  I was finding it harder not to lie to Francesca. Even the truths I told felt like lies. I blamed Reed Wallace, totally and completely. Before he came around my empathy wasn’t an issue. Francesca knew I had a few fits, we just didn’t talk about it. But now the empathy was more of a secret, and I was actively keeping it from her. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Reed was ruining the rest. Francesca was becoming equal parts obsession and jealousy.

  Maybe I should just tell her. I imagined multiple scenarios, different wording, but I could never picture her reaction, and therefore remained reluctant.

  Brooding didn’t help my mood any, so I went looking for Ben, a suitable diversion. I guessed right, he hadn’t left yet. I found him puttering around the picnic table.

  He hadn’t seen me approaching. I watched as he took aim and threw. The sparrow hopped forward, barely avoiding the hit.

  “What are you doing?”

  Leaning back to look at me, he said, “What’s it look like? I’m feeding the birds.”

  “It looks more like a game of darts. And what’s this?” I grabbed the box from his hands.

  “Bread crumbs.”

  “Croutons!”

  He snatched the box back, rooting around inside. I remained silent as he went through the process once more, taking aim before he pitched. This time he doinked the little creature right in the head. It fluttered its wings, but stayed grounded just long enough to seize its treat.

  “Oh sheesh,” I muttered.

  “What’s got you so uptight?” Ben asked, before shoving a few croutons in his mouth.

  I shrugged, noticing his melancholia was gone. He was feeling slightly amused at the moment, no doubt at the bird’s expense. “I guess I’m having boy problems,” I said lamely.

  He munched a few more, dusting off his shirt. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

  “Neither did I.” He offered me the box and I ate a few before halfheartedly throwing some at—I mean to—the few birds that had gathered. “What’s got you...” I stumbled over the words. “...nearly cheerful?”

  He scowled at the personal question, but wasn’t angry. It was his turn to shrug. “I’ve been doing old people things. It started out as a joke, I guess, but I’ve managed to entertain myself. Today I’m feeding the birds bread crumbs—”

  “Croutons,” I cut in to correct.

  “—tomorrow, hell, who knows, maybe I’ll play bingo.”

  “Or chess in the park,” I suggested.

  “Nah, I never learned how to play.”

  “Me neither, way too hard.”

  I stayed out under the big oak with Ben for a while. It was nice. I was feeling slightly better by the time I went back to the office.

  Ben had been living in the past. All it took was the decision to move forward and already he was feeling better. When would I do the same? When would I give up hiding? When would I give up merely surviving and really start to live?

  * * *

  Stephen breezed into the office while I was sorting through the mail. “How was the party?” he asked, plunking his backpack down behind the counter.

  The ghost filtered through the door, a murky mass come to hover. It was the first time I’d seen him since the torture incident, and if we’d been alone, I would have thanked him. I couldn’t remember ever being this grateful to a person, let alone a dead one.

  “So how was it?” Stephen repeated, assuming I hadn’t heard.

  “The food was good.” He was feeling unsettled, so I didn’t beat around the bush. “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed in relief. Apparently whatever it was, he wanted to talk about it. “It’s about the money Mr. Wallace gave me.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I don’t feel good taking it. I mean, just because he’s rich doesn’t mean I should take advantage. I mean, all I did was cover a few hours. I stay late most nights anyway. It was—”

  “Stephen,” I cut in, unwilling to hear any more of his moralizing babble. “Mr. Wallace loses more money while sneezing than what he gave you last night.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  I huffed. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter anyway. My point is, it’s all Reed’s fault.”

  He cocked his head, simultaneously sliding his glasses back into place. “How do you figure?”

  “You didn’t take advantage. I did. I was in the position to take advantage because I had something Reed wanted and was willing to pay for. And do you know who put me in that position?”

  “Mr. Wallace?”

  “Mr. Wallace,” I agreed. “So you see, he only has himself to blame. Not that he does, because as you’ve said, he’s rich and has no doubt already forgotten about the measly three hundred dollars.”

  Stephen stopped feeling guilty.

  I threw the keys at him. “Now go away.”

  He did.

  The ghost drifted over, seeping behind the counter. He wasn’t his usual light mist or fluffy cloud; today he was like a moving shadow. I didn’t know what to think about it, but since his emotions were normal I didn’t worry.

  He came to settle behind me, giving the impression that he was peeping over my shoulder. I squirmed a bit and finally spit it out. “Thank you,” I all but yelled.

&nbs
p; I knew he couldn’t answer, but I waited for a response all the same, and when it didn’t come I went back to sorting through the mail. I did my best to ignore his hovering, but my gratitude was beginning to wear thin and feel heavy like a burden.

  I flipped over a piece of junk mail and nearly jumped out of my chair when the ghost went wild. His shape began to shake and twitch, like a cloak being blown in the wind. His emotions were all over the place. I didn’t bother trying to sift through, I knew enough. He had a sense of urgency about him. He wanted to show me something.

  His shadow came to linger over my desk, boiling and churning. I waved my hand through him the way a nonsmoker tries to beat back a cigarette’s waft. “Calm down, you’re making me feel crazy.” He moved aside, allowing me to pick up the local ad. “This?” I asked, and his emotions confirmed it. It was an ad for Singh’s Dry Cleaning. “What do a ghost and a dry cleaner have in common?” I wasn’t smart enough to deliver the punch line.

  Chapter 18

  Francesca’s doubts became my own. Had I misinterpreted Lucas’ motive, taking charity for interest? Maybe I’d been too forward. Lucas probably thought I was too forward. Shit... I’d just have to kill myself.

  My thoughts continued to move in nonsensical circles. I became aware that I was obsessing like Francesca, except I didn’t have some charming superpower to conveniently blame it on. Perhaps I was just compensating for all those teenage years I’d missed. I was beginning to understand the term teen angst, it was wonderfully terrible.

  I was still adult enough to be properly ashamed of my crush, though it didn’t make much of a difference. I continued reliving every word he spoke, searching for a hidden meaning. Such as his brusque goodbyes, which obviously meant he didn’t want me to know just how much he’d miss me.

  By the time morning rolled around I’d come full circle, deciding it was time to end my foolishness. It was simple really. I needed to ascertain his feelings, and for that I needed to be a bit more forward.

  Lucas answered the door wearing grease stained jeans and a raggedy brown T-shirt. He pushed the door open, stepping back to usher me inside. I almost flaked, but I knew I had to do this before I was all gross and sweaty from cleaning.