Been There, Done That Page 15

  “I’m not a cop,” I told her. “I’m a reporter.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And that guy you were with? The nerdy one—Tim?”

  “He’s a reporter, too.” We stared at each other for a moment. “Do you really think he’s nerdy?”

  She laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Nerds usually have the biggest dicks.”

  I was speechless for a moment—I don’t discuss penises very often, even (or especially) Penises I Have Known—but then I stuck a hand on my hip and tilted my head in a world-weary way. “Actually, it’s pretty average.”

  We ate at the Denny’s just off the highway. It smelled of disinfectant and grease. I’d suggested the restaurant because I was reasonably sure I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew there. I assumed Chantal would share the same desire for anonymity, but when the hostess greeted her with a warm, “Hey, Cheryl,” she smiled back. As the hostess seated us in a window booth (which boasted a view of the highway off-ramp), she said to Chantal, “You’re cuttin’ out of work early,” to which Chantal shrugged and said, “Business is slow today. The rain.”

  We slid into a slippery brown booth. She pulled a laminated menu from behind the sugar shaker and began to read. I stared at her. “Cheryl?”

  “Mmm?” She looked up.

  “I thought your name was Chantal.”

  “I thought your name was Kathy.” She went back to the menu.

  “How do you know the hostess?” I finally asked.

  “Our daughters are in the same class. First grade.”

  “And she knows about your, um, business?” Chantal—Cheryl—had finally admitted to being a pro—her preferred term—after she’d taken me into her apartment and checked me for a listening device. Then she’d changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt and stuck her tangled blond hair into a messy ponytail.

  She looked up from her menu. “Some parents at the school, the accountants and professors, people like that, don’t think much of me being a palm reader, but they don’t say nothin’.”

  “A palm reader? But what if someone shows up and actually wants a palm read?”

  “Then I read it.” She shrugged. “I’m good, too. This one lady, I looked at her hand for a long time then said, now don’t be upset or nothin’, but I think your husband’s steppin’ out on you. So she goes home and confronts him, and sure enough, he’s got a little cupcake on the side.”

  “And you could tell that from her palm?”

  She tightened her mouth, considered lying, then decided to tell the truth. “Nah. Her husband had been a client for years, then he suddenly stopped showing up. Figured he must be getting it for free.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He cried a lot, told her he never loved anyone else and broke off the affair.”

  “So you saved their marriage!”

  “Sure. Plus I got one of my best clients back.” She grinned slyly.

  The waitress brought us ice water in cloudy glasses. I almost didn’t order anything since it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but even Denny’s food had to be better than whatever cornstarch-thickened mess they were preparing at the dining hall. I ordered a club sandwich, while Cheryl chose a grand slam breakfast. “I never get to eat breakfast,” she said once the waitress had gone. “Too many early clients.”

  “I would have thought you’d be busier at night.”

  She shook her head. “They like to catch me on their way into work. The lunch hour’s pretty busy, too. I’d get a lot of after-work business, but I’ve got to pick up Destiny. When I had her, I swore I’d always put family ahead of work, and I’ve stuck to it.”

  “Is Destiny—was Destiny—from, um, working?”

  “I don’t follow.” She took a gulp of water.

  “Do you know who the father is?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being offensive.

  “Oh! You mean was I on the game. Nah, that came later. I had this boyfriend, Brent, we went out all through high school, then the summer after we graduate I get pregnant and he splits.” She shrugged. “It don’t matter. Destiny and I, we do okay. It was rough the first three years, before I got in the game. All these dumb-shit minimum-wage jobs. Every time Destiny got sick and I had to take off work, I got fired. Now I make my own hours, make good money. We do okay.”

  The waitress brought our plates. Cheryl dumped syrup over her pancakes, bacon and sausage, careful to leave the scrambled eggs unsoaked. I glanced at the other diners—not many at this odd hour, but there were a few, nonetheless. We were the only ones who weren’t either dangerously obese or wearing trucker hats or both. My club sandwich could have fed me for the next two days, if only I had a fridge.

  “What about competition?” I asked, extracting a frilly toothpick from a towering triangle of my sandwich. “Are you the only game in town?” I took a bite. A tomato slice slid out of the sandwich and onto my plate, followed by a piece of bacon. I never have mastered the multi-decker sandwich.

  She shoveled some scrambled egg into her mouth. Still chewing, she speared a piece of bacon and a wad of pancakes. She lifted her shoulders at my question then gobbled the next bite before pausing to wipe her mouth with a paper napkin. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m hungrier than I thought. I’ve heard there are other girls around, but we don’t exactly get together for coffee.”

  “Any chance”—I checked to make sure no one was listening—“could any of them be from Mercer?”

  I expected her to look shocked, but she merely shrugged. Cheryl was a big shrugger. “Could be.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise you?”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  I nodded. “But you haven’t heard any rumors?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. Give me your number, and I’ll call if I hear anything.”

  twenty-four

  I discouraged Tim from coming to the concert by saying it was too risky. He wanted to ask Gerry, the bartender at The Snake Pit, about the encounter I’d seen by the bushes, but I urged him to do it some other evening. I’d played that scene over in my head so many times that I’d started to wonder if there wasn’t an innocent explanation. Maybe the man was just saying good night to his daughter. His favorite daughter. Who he really, really, really liked.

  Still, I had the jitters. It was stage fright, pure and simple. Backstage, I plucked at the chrysanthemums in my hair (this being fall, mums were plentiful and cheap). I smoothed my peach lace and scuffed the floor with my high-tops. I tried to tell myself that this was just another night in the life of an investigative reporter, that I would spend my time scanning the audience for any potential johns who were dumb enough to confuse us with the Red Hots. But I knew, of course, that I had no good reason to be here. The Alternative Prom Queens were a bunch of nice girls who liked to harmonize. They took up too much time and provided no clues about the elusive prostitution ring, which I was starting to suspect was a fiction anyway. But I was enjoying myself. Singing in a college a cappella group, I was doing something I’d always regretted missing out on. It was one of the points on my mental grievance list against Tim. I was reclaiming a college experience I’d never had: one that had nothing whatsoever to do with my future—as either a reporter or Tim’s lucky wife—and everything to do with having a good time and making the most of my youth, which was more fleeting than anyone around me could suspect. I would never cut a record, I would never belt out tunes on Broadway. Even if I had the ambition, I lacked the talent. A college concert was the pinnacle of my singing achievement. It made my head buzz with excitement and my stomach churn with fear.

  There were forty-two people in the audience. I should have lost myself in the music and passed on the counting, but I couldn’t help it. Anyway, it didn’t take long. Thirty-one female, eleven male (two of whom appeared to be faculty). The auditorium seated five hundred.

  I desperately wished for latecomers until the forty-third audience member slipped in: Tim.

&nb
sp; Perspiration dampened the polyester lining of my dress. My throat constricted (good thing I didn’t have a solo). I couldn’t put a label on what I was feeling, but it was much, much worse than stage fright.

  The concert was a success—at least as successful as it could be without much of an audience. But no one screwed up, and the forty-five people in the audience (there had been three latecomers) applauded enthusiastically. Okay, forty-four did, anyway.

  After our last number, we walked in a line backstage, taking turns pushing the curtain aside (we’d been unable to find someone to actually open and close the curtain for us). There were giggles, squeals and something that resembled a group hug. “People were actually smiling!” Vanessa gushed. “Did you see?”

  Eventually, I trudged up the long, now-empty aisle to Tim, who leaned against the back wall, his arms crossed casually in front of him. Only his tight-lipped smile betrayed any tension.

  I was trying to figure out the best way to break the news about the Prom Queens, but he did it for me. “Those girls aren’t hookers.” He didn’t sound angry or even irritated. Rather, his voice was controlled, slow and patient, as if he were telling an especially dim child, “First put on your underpants, then the trousers.”

  “I was just about to tell you,” I said, as if this were a piece of late-breaking news.

  I heard a giggle behind me. Relieved at the interruption, I turned to Shelby, who squeezed my arm and did a little jump. Her smile was quite literally blinding, as her braces reflected the stage lights. She wore a studded leather jacket over turquoise satin, and her brown hair hung in ringlets. She looked like a child who had raided her trampy teenage sister’s closet. “I am so pumped!” she said. “I am so jazzed! This is, like, the best day of my life!”

  “You ought to get out more,” Tim purred.

  Shelby shot him a look of purest disdain and turned her attention back to me. “Mother’s boyfriend?” she whispered in my ear.

  “Mmm,” I replied, vaguely.

  “Mine’s always trying to act cool, too. Just ignore him—it works for me.”

  “I was Kathy’s high school music teacher,” Tim said casually. “It was so nice of her to invite me to her concert.”

  Shelby looked at him strangely. “I’ll see you at practice,” she said as she left.

  I tried to look at Tim but couldn’t stand it. Instead, I examined my high-tops. What had appeared fun and quirky an hour ago suddenly seemed trite and regressive.

  “I’m called Katie here,” I said finally.

  “I wish you had mentioned that.” We were quiet for another moment, until he asked, “Want to go for a drink?”

  “You have no idea.”

  The Snake Pit was packed and noisy. We claimed a corner near the bar so we could grab the first available stools. I was relieved at the crowd, as we couldn’t possibly discuss my incompetence among so many potential eavesdroppers. I felt a little ridiculous in my reconstructed prom outfit, but no one seemed to notice. “You still a wine drinker?” Tim asked with much more practicality than sentiment.

  “As long as it’s not white zin,” I said. “They guzzle that stuff by the caseload around here.”

  Tim ordered a beer for himself—some obscure import—and the wine for me. The bartender—not Gerry, our informant—jerked his head in my direction. “She got ID?”

  Tim stared at him for a moment, smirked briefly, then looked over to me with mock concern. “You are twenty-one, right?”

  “Of course,” I said. For a moment, I longed for my license, which was hidden in the glove compartment of my car, but I knew I could never pull it out and blow my cover. “I just, um, left my ID at home.”

  “Lotta that goin’ around,” the bartender sneered.

  “How about we go back to your room and get it, then,” Tim suggested.

  The bartender guffawed. “Better make sure she’s eighteen before you take her home. Don’t want to be getting into any trouble.” Tim leaned back to the bartender, and they exchanged words I couldn’t hear.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, once we were out on the street.

  “Actually, it is,” Tim said, as he walked briskly to the liquor store two doors down. “Your roommate around?”

  “I doubt it. Her boyfriend’s speaking to her this week, and his roommate usually goes home weekends.”

  The door of College Liquors jingled as Tim opened it. “Wait here,” he instructed.

  Back in my room, he opened the brown bag. He took out a six-pack of dark brown beer and set it on the floor. Then he reached back in. “For you,” he said, presenting a bottle of very pink wine.

  “My favorite,” I sneered.

  “You were expecting an oaky chardonnay with vanilla undertones? You’re supposed to be eighteen. Consider yourself lucky. I almost bought you peach wine.”

  I grabbed the bottle of white zinfandel and reached for the corkscrew that I kept in the top drawer of my desk. “You won’t be needing that,” Tim said. He took the bottle from me, and with one quick turn of the wrist, it was open. I retrieved the single wine glass that I left out on my desk and held it out to be filled. Then, I settled onto my bed. Tim sat on my chair, even though it was much harder than my bed and much farther away from me. Perhaps that was the point. “You could just drink wine out of your mug like all the other freshman,” he suggested.

  I snorted. “College isn’t quite the same as in our day. Kid down the hall? Very into his port—tawny, not ruby. Has to be at least twenty years old.”

  “The kid?”

  “The port.” I gulped my wine. It tasted much better than I’d expected it to. “But I think it’s because of all those years in France.”

  “The port?”

  “No, the kid. He went to high school in Paris. Port’s from Portugal.”

  “I know that.” He smiled, or softened, at least.

  I drank some more. Maybe Jeremy was right; I was getting a bit too attached to my booze. “As for my sophisticated tastes, I’ve got it covered.” I held my glass up in a mock toast. “Ever since my parents’ separation—this was sophomore year of high school—my mother, who’s a borderline lush but not really an alcoholic, has taken me on three wine tasting vacations. Two in Napa, one in the south of France.”

  “This would be your Jewish mother.”

  “The very same.”

  “And how did she get a fifteen-year-old on these tours?”

  “She was sleeping with the tour coordinator.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Oh, male. I’m the only lesbian in my family. And even that may be just a phase.” I smiled, and so did he, although he still didn’t move over to my bed. I drained my glass. It was actually kind of tasty if you thought of it as juice.

  Tim took a swig of beer and squinted at my Matisse poster. “You know, Kathy, you don’t have to be quite so—creative. Your father can be a banker. Your mother can be a part-time office manager. Home can be a brick colonial in Connecticut. Sound familiar?”

  “Vaguely. But then tell me this: why don’t my parents ever call? Why aren’t they coming up for Parents Weekend? Why am I the only girl on the hall who doesn’t want to sleep with our Greek god of an R.A., who, by the way, thinks I’m quite the hot little number.” I looked for signs of jealousy and came up empty. “Because I come from a dysfunctional family, that’s why! Mine’s not even the weirdest around, judging from the stories I’ve heard.”

  “Look.” He put his beer on my desk. “I just think that the less you say, the better. And borrowing from your real life may not be such a bad idea. Half-truths are generally more believable than total lies.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?” I snapped. Our reconciliation was sliding further and further away.

  “Let’s just—oh, Christ.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Can we just talk about the investigation?” Thus he steered the conversation away from my relationship screwups and back to my career screwups, where it belonged.

  �
�I joined the wrong singing group,” I announced.

  “So I gathered.”

  “But it still gives me an inside perspective.” I yapped for a bit about the microcosm of college singing groups. He bought the argument for the same reason I thought of it in the first place; at Cornell, a cappella groups were an elite, trendy group. At Mercer, there were only two girls’ groups, one of which had nothing better to do on Saturday nights, the other of which had too much. (They had yet to give any kind of performance.) “There will be tours to other colleges, joint events”—this I claimed because Penny had said that the Red Hots sometimes sing at nearby schools—“and if they ever get invited to something like that again, maybe we can ask to be included.”

  Tim went along with it. As he drained his beer, he nodded through a gulp and wiped a touch of froth from the corner of his mouth. If only I’d joined the Red Hots, maybe I would have had the nerve to lick it off before he got to it. That’s the kind of behavior that would come naturally to that set. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever. I guess it’s a done deal, anyway—it would look suspicious if you backed out now. Just try to find out something worthwhile. Time’s running out.” He stood up and reached for his jacket, which he’d thrown next to me on the bed. “Enjoy your wine.”

  “You’re not staying?” My voice cracked. Whenever I get upset, I acquire the voice of a fourteen-year-old boy. I lowered it an octave. “I thought we might work on our notes, plot strategy. Something.” I paused. “We didn’t get very far the other night.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologize.” I tried to catch his eye. He focused on finding his car keys. “I thought we were having—fun.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob. “The bartender at The Snake Pit said Gerry would be coming in around now. I’m going to check back with him, see if he’s heard anything. I’ll be back in D.C. on Monday. You can e-mail me. Plus I’ll be in Boston again next weekend in case you want to meet face-to-face. I shouldn’t hang around the college too much. People might get suspicious.”