Again (9 page)

Rhea got up from the bed, put the letters back in the drawer. She turned out the light, got into bed. As she drifted off to sleep, she willed herself to dream about a beautiful ballroom with women in beautiful gowns and distinguished men, all glamoured up in their tuxedos. Instead, she dreamed of groping hands, and someone trying to kiss her, someone with a bad case of halitosis.

C
armen Carvelli sat at the table watching her son take another bite of the
mezze pennette
. Some people she knew held back on the butter. But she always added extra butter and jumbo shrimp prebasted in white wine, not too much garlic, double the olive oil. That was the way she liked it. Watching David attack the plate, it was obviously the way he liked it, too. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, and she drew in the nicotine much like a crack addict sucking his pipe, eyes half closed as the smoke invaded her lungs.

David peeked at her disapprovingly, but he had long ago given up trying to make her stop smoking. If she was going to die of lung cancer, she wasn’t going to fight against luck or providence. She was set in her ways. The only thing she could do was make her monthly confession, do some penance.

“Aren’t you going to eat something?” he asked, his plate still half full.

She shrugged. “I ate earlier. I don’t want any more. Go ahead and finish.”

He had dropped by unexpectantly just as she was about to sit down to her meal. She’d only made enough for one, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It was enough that he had felt guilty enough to come over. She would keep her hurt to herself.

David wasn’t a mama’s boy. But he did look after her. His not returning her calls was unlike him, and she knew things were wrong. Things he wouldn’t tell her. She could see it in his coloring. The red was almost blood, tinged with green, a darker green. What was it? Red could mean any number of emotions, but with David, it usually signaled anger. It could also mean passion. When she moved her head slightly, she thought she saw a hint of purple around the edge. Frustration?

She stood up, walked past him as he ate. Stood over him for a moment to tousle his thick hair. He’d cut it shorter, but it curled nicely around her fingers.

He looked up, smiled. “Don’t you think I’m a little old for that?”

She gave him her irritated mama’s face. “It’s a mother’s privilege to touch her child’s hair, no matter how old he thinks he is. So what have you been up to these past weeks?”

A woman. The flash had told her that much. But it’d been too quick. Not Karen. That had been over for weeks now, thank goodness. Someone darker…black? Hmm.

“Ma, you’re going to get smoke in my clothes,” he admonished.

“Sorry.” She walked over to the china cabinet, pretended to sweep away a speck of dust, but instead studied David’s reflection in the glass. His usually genial features were hardened.

“You haven’t told me why you called,” he looked over at her. She inhaled, turned around.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s been so long.”

“Ma, I told you I was sorry. I forgot to call. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“See, people forget,” she said going back to her seat. “If it was important, it’ll come back to me.”

David put down his fork.

“I know you’re worried about something. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called twice.”

“I didn’t know my calling would upset you. I’ve just been worried about you, is all.” Then almost beneath her breath, “Your dreams…”

He fixed her with a stare, his eyes questioning. “Dreams? What are you talking about?” His voice lowered an octave; it always did that when he was upset or threatened. Something sparked from him, shifting his aura. The green was totally suffused in crimson. A dark, menacing red.

She should tell him. Now. Finally. Tell him that she could see things, that she could see things about him. That she always had.

If he didn’t believe her, she could recount the time she had kept him from going on his high school sophomore trip to the Rockies. She would tell him how she’d known that one of the buses would swerve, hit the railing, and topple over the embankment—the same bus he would have been on. Bus number 7—a fact never reported in the paper or mentioned by the school administrators.

Or she could tell him how she knew he’d secretly given a girl money for an abortion. Although not the father, David had wanted to help. He promised never to tell anyone, and he hadn’t. But Carmen knew even before the knock on the door that evening. She opened it to find a young blond girl standing there, her eyes reddened from crying, asking if “Davey” was home. David never liked being called that.

The older she got, the less attuned she was to her son. It wasn’t so much her getting old as it was his pulling away from her, closing her off.

Because deep inside somewhere, he knew. He didn’t want to know, but he did. As she looked at him, she realized that he would never admit it to himself, no matter how hard she tried to convince him.

“Call it mother’s intuition. I just thought you weren’t sleeping well. If I was wrong, I’m sorry. I worry too much.”

He nodded slightly. She didn’t know if he agreed that she was a worrier, or accepted her explanation. He picked up his fork, polished off the
pennette
within bites. As she smoked, she nearly dropped her cigarette as David’s features began morphing into someone else’s. Someone handsome, brooding—and very angry.

She blinked the image away with a dawning realization. This wasn’t his future she was seeing. It was his past.

His past was catching up with him. No, more like it had already caught him, and was refusing to let go now that it had its quarry.

When he looked at her and smiled, he was David again. The green was chasing away the blood.

It was clear what she had to do. She needed to find out who the other man was. The man whose color was violent red, who for a moment looked at her with torment in his eyes. Begging for release.

Tyne lay the inspirational calendar on top of her stapler, the one she bought to replace the stapler that “walked away” one day and that Stan had refused to replace. Cheap as usual. Inside the box were other items accrued during her four-year tenure at the
Clarion
—her coffee stein, several multicolored pens, a framed quote that said “Believe in Yourself.” These were all she had to show for four years.

Four years that she’d included in her resume. She hadn’t faxed it yet, and David’s card was still burning a hole in her purse. It was deep in the nether regions, jumbled in with her schedule book, her cell phone, her compact, lipstick and keys. The resume was on the screen, waiting. She pressed print and the inkjet groaned to life, and began inching out her professional life, line by line.

If she was going to do this at all, it should be today when she had a fax readily available. Everyone was packing up, getting ready for a quick exit tomorrow when the
Clarion
would close its doors for the last time. There would not be much time then for anything more than carting their possessions to their cars. There would be hugs, some tears, final good-byes. Not for Stan, though, who had sequestered himself in his office, barely peeking out. Probably looking through vacation brochures.

She heard sniffling across the way. She picked up the printed resume ready to walk it over to the fax, but then heard another quivering intake of breath. Gail was taking this hard.

Tyne didn’t like the woman, never had. Foul-mouthed, nosy, vindictive when she didn’t get her way, Gail had been one of the thorns to working at the
Clarion
. Still Tyne felt for her. Gail’s only son was in military school, and that cost. As did her apartment in Chatham. How she had managed all that on an administrative assistant’s salary, especially at this paper, Tyne had no idea. She put down the resume, walked over and stood in Gail’s doorway. The woman had her back to the entrance, but the steady shaking of her shoulders indicated smothered sobs.

“Gail” she said softly. Gail turned around, tears streaming down her face. Then a torrent spilled forth.

“What the fuck am I gonna do? I got bills to pay, too many of ’em, and Chris’s daddy barely sends us what he owes as it is! Damn, that fucking Allen Jr.! His father would’ve never fucked us over like this!”

Tyne winced at the venom, but entered anyway. “Gail, you’ve got to stay calm. You’re a good assistant and you’ll find another job, probably even better than this one. You’ll survive.” That was the same thing she had been telling herself.

“I know.” Gail said. She blew her nose into a tissue she held in her hand. “My son and I will get through this somehow. God won’t let us down. Not like this shit-ass paper, taking all your time and energy and giving nothing back in return. I’m glad I’m leaving this shit rag.”

Tyne smiled at the woman’s about-face. Yeah, Gail was a survivor. She went back to her cubicle to get her resume. Then reached deep inside her purse and dug out David’s card. It was nicely embossed with gold lettering on cream-covered paper. Not the cheap kind, but the more expensive stock. She studied his name
David Carvelli, Partner, Gaines, Carvelli, and Debbs, LLP, Designers and developers of residential and commercial properties
. The fax machine was in an empty cubicle just outside Stan’s office, but she didn’t care at this point. Let him come out and see her using office property for personal reasons. She dialed in the fax number and placed the resume along the ledger.

Her stomach fluttered as the machine fed the paper through. It was too late to stop it. Soon it would be in his hands. Soon he would be calling.

“That’s bullshit!”

David paced around the two occupied chairs facing his desk. The window of his office looked out on the beige block structure of the Water Tower and its surrounding park. A survivor of the 1871 fire that devastated the city, the octagonal tower stood as a testament to the resiliency of the past. Across the street, farther north, the black-steeled edifice of the Hancock building hovered over the sidewalks streaming with North Michigan shoppers. The sky was pale blue, no clouds. But a storm was coming. He could feel it brewing inside. A headache blazed behind his eyes. His fingers tightened into a fist.

He rounded his desk and sat down again. Both Rick and Clarence stared at him, one chastened, the other defiant.

Clarence, after having sat silent while Rick tried to stammer out an explanation, spoke up. “What can I tell you, man? It’s like I said. Kershner called, said he wanted me to design the condominiums. He’s comfortable with me since I designed his home a few years back. Dave, I don’t see what the problem is. We’re partners and any job I get is one for the partnership.”

David looked at Clarence and wondered at his balls. Wondered at Rick’s lack of same. Did they really think he was going to eat the bullshit they were trying to feed him?

He sat back in his seat, hands behind his head, a stance more casual than what he was feeling. “Then why the secrecy?” he asked, his voice more controlled than a moment ago. “First, you blow off the meeting Kershner scheduled with
all
of us, and Rick and I walk away with egg on our faces. Then you go and meet with Kershner by yourself without telling us.” He looked at Rick, noticed the hangdog expression, “Or at least me.”

Clarence leaned forward, putting on his let’s-see-reason face. David thought Clarence resembled a ferret. A sneaky, backstabbing ferret. “Look Dave, stop acting like this is some kind of conspiracy against you. Rick and I contribute as much to this business as you do, if not more.”

David slammed forward suddenly. “What the—”

“Let me finish, man! I don’t see where you get off acting like we’re
your
employees! This is an equal partnership.”

“That’s right, a partnership!” David rose. “Not Debbs, Inc. but
Gaines, Carvelli and Debbs
.”

Clarence stood, too. “Oh, I see now why my name’s last, the reason why I’m supposed to just keep quiet and take shit! A black man goes out, gets him some props and all of a sudden his white
partners
can’t stomach the fact that they’re not heading the game.”

David felt the pulse deepen behind his eyes. His breath quickened, missed a beat. “Don’t give me that racism shit! You know this isn’t about race! It’s about respect!”

“Exactly!”

Rick stood. “OK, guys, your voices are carrying outside this office. You both need to cool it.”

“Man, I just need to get out of here,” Clarence said. “Rick, I’ll call you later.” He strode to the door and slammed it behind him.

David felt his anger turn on Rick. Friend or betrayer? He didn’t know, couldn’t decide right now. But the one thing he knew was that Rick no longer had his back.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” David was surprised at the calm in his voice because inside the storm had broken. He wanted nothing more than to shake the man standing in front of him. Or throw him out the window.

Rick’s usually elfin face seemed to shrink. Rick was a shrewd businessman, but David had always known the man’s spine wasn’t as stiff as it could be. That with a good downpour, all the strength would wash away. Rick might be supportive, but without sterner stuff, that support wasn’t worth a damn.

“I only found out yesterday about the meeting. Look, I’ve sat down and tried talking to Clar, but, well…I think you were right the first time. He doesn’t want to be in this partnership. I think we ought to buy him out.”

David snorted. “Last year’s news. The way I see it, his actions forfeit his right to any damn thing! If he wants outta here, let him walk. I don’t give a fuck. And if he thinks he’s getting any more out of this arrangement, then let him take us to court. The contract’s on our side. He’s harmed the partnership with his little side dealings, so he loses his third of the business
and
his investment!”

Rick’s usual five-feet eight-inch height actually seemed to shrink. His head shake mimicked the movements of a marionette controlled by an unseen manipulator. “Look, you know that’s not going to go down well with Clar. He
will
take us to court, and you and I both know we can’t afford to get tied up in litigation. It’ll hurt us. You got to see reason—”