Alligators in the Trees (15 page)

“Can you close that door?” Tobias asked anxiously. “That thing makes me nervous.” Priscilla regarded him cautiously before swinging the door shut. “Thanks,” he said, relieved. “You’re not really going to burn all this, are you?”

Priscilla shifted her feet, uncomfortable at the thought of Tobias Jordan, of all the people in the world, going through her lyrics. It was akin to having Julia Child snoop through your recipe box. “Yeah, that was the idea behind putting it in the incinerator,” she replied cheekily. Though she meant to sound tough, Tobias was not convinced.

“You can’t do it. I read a few of these poems—”

“They’re lyrics, actually.”

Tobias regarded her solemnly. “I assume you wrote them.” Priscilla nodded almost imperceptibly. “They’re very good, some of them. I mean it.” He picked up a notebook and Priscilla had to forcibly resist grabbing it from his hand. “How long have you been writing like this?”

“A long time. Since I was ten,” she answered, acutely embarrassed.

“No kidding. Is this everything you’ve ever written?”

She nodded. “The oldest stuff is in those shoeboxes on the bottom,” she said, chewing a fingernail self-consciously. Tobias ran his tongue around his teeth meditatively as he processed this extraordinary information.

“Have you ever had anything published?”

Priscilla reacted as though he’d asked if she’d visited Mars lately. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis.

Tobias took the notebook over to the banister, which he used for support as he flipped through the pages. “If you’re serious about getting rid of the whole lot, I’ll buy it from you.”

Her dream was now bordering on psychotic. “You want to
buy
my lyrics?” she asked in disbelief.

Tobias nodded. “I’ll give you twelve-thousand dollars for everything…”

Priscilla’s knees nearly buckled under her.
“Twelve-thousand?”

“Make it fifteen, but you’ll have to sign a binding legal document assigning all rights over to me.” Priscilla could feel all the blood drain away from her face. “Are you all right?” Tobias asked, alarmed by her sudden pallor.

“It’s kind of stuffy in here,” she said, pulling her collar away from her neck.

“Look, this must be really strange for you, me coming here unannounced and everything…”

Priscilla let out a breathy wheeze. “It wasn’t exactly what I expected to see when I climbed those stairs,” she confirmed.

“If you don’t want to sell me your writing, I understand.”

“No…no, that’s fine. I fully intended to get rid of it anyway.”

“Can I ask why?”

Priscilla looked at the great heap of her work, and then at the famous songwriter. “I don’t have any use for it now.”

Tobias nodded solemnly. “I don’t have my checkbook on me,” he said, patting his pockets for his wallet, “but I do have six…seven hundred in cash. I can bring you a check tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

“Uh, yeah—sure,” Priscilla said, as she hesitantly took the money from Tobias’s outstretched hand.

“Well, I guess I should figure out how to get all this back…home. If you could give me a hand, I think we can get it all down stairs in one trip. I guess maybe I should use your phone and call for a cab,” he suggested, setting the bags back down.

“I don’t have one,” Priscilla shamefully admitted.

“Oh. I left my cell at home. That’s all right—I’m sure I can flag one down.” Priscilla had her doubts, but at this stage of the game, she felt the situation was well beyond her control.

She picked up a stack of shoeboxes—boxes she had been toting around since she was a teenager—and grabbed one of the brown paper bags. Tobias was balancing two bags on the cardboard box while trying to seize the two remaining bags. Gingerly, like a couple of novice equilibrists, they navigated the three flights of stairs with slow, unsteady progress. Once outside, they set the parcels down by the curb.

“So, I’ll come by tomorrow…around three, if that works for you.”

“Yeah, fine,” Priscilla agreed. She kept her eyes averted from the pile resting at their feet.

“Now, you realize that by buying your lyrics, I will have the sole rights to them.”

“Uh huh.”

“Which means that some of what you’ve written could wind up in one of my songs.”

Priscilla was dumbfounded. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. She nodded that she understood, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself.

“Okay. Cool.” Feeling something more was needed to seal the deal, Tobias extended his hand to her. “See you tomorrow, then.”

After a business-like handshake, Priscilla backed away. Tobias turned his sights to the street, just as a cab came barreling toward them. He waved his arms and the cab came to a screeching halt. Tobias briefly consulted with the cabbie, who got out and gave him a hand with his loot.

By this time, Priscilla had edged to her entrance, where she stood looking on in stunned silence. She watched as Tobias gave her a quick two-finger wave before ducking into the backseat, and she continued to stare down the street long after the cab had peeled away.

With the most profound lack of energy she had ever experienced, she tugged at the front door, only to discover she had gone outside without her key. She buzzed Mrs. Kay, who eventually let her in, but not without a protracted lecture.

By deploying every ounce of her willpower, she finally made it to her floor, where she nearly dragged herself through her door, which was gratefully unlocked. She sat slumped in her bedraggled chair, utterly dazed by the events of the last thirty minutes.

She sat unmoving for what seemed like ages before her head had cleared sufficiently. She forced herself into a more upright position, while she commanded her mind to properly catalog what had just transpired. She pinched the bridge of her nose hard, then shook her head vigorously, as if trying to shake some sense into herself.

“All right…let’s see now… I woke up this morning, decided to move to Florida…threw out most of my clothes, and virtually all of my other stuff… then I decided I couldn’t haul my lyrics all the way to Florida on the bus, so I decided to burn them. Okay.” She took a deep breath.

“But on my way back from Mrs. Kay’s, I ran into Tobias Jordan, who was
reading
my songs. Then when he sees that I intend to burn every last word I’ve ever written…Jesus…” she sighed deeply, “he offers to buy it all from me for twelve, no—make it
fifteen
…
thousand
…
dollars
.” She shook her head in disbelief. “And then, naturally, I sell it to him. No way—this did not really happen.”

Frantically, she jumped out of her seat and looked for evidence to the contrary. Of course it happened. She poked her head out the door, but there was no sign of her notebooks. But that didn’t mean she didn’t burn them, as she had planned. Maybe the experience was so painful, her psyche checked out, inventing this preposterous scenario to take its place.

The money. She crammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the seven crumbled twenties she had stuffed in there earlier in the day—surely that was a lifetime ago—the money she had committed to spending on a new outfit for her date with Phil.

“Oh, Christ!” she wailed, as she remembered that forgotten wrinkle. Just as she was about to concede her insanity and hightail it to Bellevue, she tried her left pocket, pulling out seven one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Okay…okay, I’m not crazy. Yes, I am crazy. I sold my innermost thoughts and feelings, my life’s work, to Tobias Jordan. Oh,” she moaned, sinking down on the arm of her chair. “Fifteen thousand dollars. Oh, my God—that is so much money! I can buy a car and drive to Florida!” She was struck by the irony that she would now have transportation for the very items she had just sold, really, for no other reason than lack of transportation.

She got up and walked to her bedroom window. It was done. She had made decisions, real decisions, and she was now propelling herself down an entirely different channel, with only her at the helm to steer her away from the rocks.

She took several deep breaths, but despite her brave efforts, tears streamed down her face. There was nothing to do but go forward. She had to continue on with her new high-wire act, net or no net.

Philip navigated his SUV into a tight parking spot directly in front of what used to be his home. He almost never had the good fortune of finding a space when he lived here, but that was only a small rub compared to the fact his home was no longer his.

“Good job, Daddy,” Caitlin said, as she oversaw his progress in her side-view mirror.

“Thank you. Got everything?” he asked as he unfastened his seatbelt.

“Yep. Are you going to pick me up for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

“Sure, if you want me to. But we’re going to have to find another place to eat.”

“Why?”

“Because Priscilla doesn’t work at the coffee shop anymore,” Philip said, before seizing the break in the traffic.

“Let’s go to where she’s working now,” Caitlin suggested when Philip opened her door for her.

“We can’t. She’s not working anywhere right now.”

“Oh.” Caitlin pondered this problem as they climbed the front steps together. “When she gets a new place to work, can we go there then?”

“You bet.” This seemed to satisfy her. It gave Philip a pleasant tingling sensation to discover his daughter’s fondness for the woman he was so enamored with. “You have your key?” he asked. He had his own, but since he had moved out, he felt awkward using it. Some cruel twist of fate had made him a guilty trespasser on his own turf.

“Right here,” Caitlin said, pulling it out of her backpack. There was no need for it after all, as Marianne pulled open the door before she could get the key in the lock.

“Hi, Mommy,” Caitlin said as she stood on tiptoes to kiss her mother’s cheek.

“Hello, darling. Go and ask Paulina to give you a snack before you do your homework,” she told her daughter, conveniently shooing her off so she could speak to Philip privately.

“Bye, Daddy. See you in the morning.”

“Bye, sweetheart. See you then,” Philip said affectionately. He watched over his wife’s shoulder as Caitlin disappeared down the hallway. As if to stymie his pleasure, Marianne pulled the door closed behind her, forcing the two of them out on the front steps.

“The school called me this morning. They’re quite displeased by your illegal abduction of Caitlin,” Marianne said in a flat, hostile tone.

“What are you talking about?” Philip replied, indignant at her accusation. “That’s rather an overstatement, don’t you think?”

“Not according to Dean Lowell, who called me to let me know it was against the school’s policy to allow a parent to remove a child from a school sponsored function, unless that parent was the child’s sole guardian, or he or she has permission in writing from the other parent authorizing such an action. He was calling as a courtesy warning, so the school would not be put in such an awkward position again,” Marianne said haughtily.

“What did you say?”

“I told them the truth. I said that you absolutely had no right to take Caitlin away from her class, and that I would hold the school personally responsible if they ever allowed such a breach of security in the future. And if you pull a stunt like that again, you’ll find yourself with extremely limited visitation privileges, if any at all,” Marianne hissed venomously.

“You seem to be forgetting she’s still my daughter, regardless of what’s going on between you and me.”

“And you seem to be forgetting I’ve been very lenient with your visitation rights, so far,” she retorted. To Philip’s disgust, he could see in her eyes how much she enjoyed exercising her power over him.

“Since we are her legal parents, we will both have equal custody rights,” he maintained calmly.

“Oh really? Says who? Frankly, my attorney is baffled by my generosity in this matter. He finds it quite surprising I’m not suing you for full custody.” There was a heavy-handed threat in her words, despite the false sweetness in which they were delivered.

Philip barked out a laugh at her audacity. “That’s pure crap, and you know it,” he said, making Marianne’s eyes bat at his vulgarity. “There would be absolutely no cause for you to have sole custody of Caitlin, none whatsoever,” he said harshly, fighting to keep his voice to a whisper.

“Oh, I think a judge might see it differently. What sort of stable home life can you provide for Caitlin? You’ve been mooching off the kindness of friends since we separated.”

“I’ll find a place of my own just as soon as I sell off a few things and get my capital together —”

“Which brings up another matter. What guarantees can you offer the court regarding child support payments, if you are dragging your heels on my settlement? Surely, you must know how the courts frown on deadbeat dads.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Philip said, turning away from Marianne as he fought down his anger. “I have plenty of assets. Even when you and your blood-sucking attorney are through draining me, I’ll still have plenty of money to live on,” he said.

Marianne tittered condescendingly. “I’ll be sure to mention that to Mr. Michelson. I bet he’ll find it very enlightening.”

For the first time in Philip’s life, he had to control an almost overwhelming desire to cause physical harm. It would have been a downright pleasure to place his hands around her neck and wring it slowly, till her head flopped lifelessly like a rag doll… He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, just in case they acted of their own accord.

“You do that. And I think I’ll have a little chat with my attorney, see if maybe I should be pursuing sole custody of Caitlin myself,” Philip replied once he had recovered from his fantasy throttling. “I suppose if I did have full custody, I wouldn’t be forced to pay you such ludicrously high child support, would I?” It was satisfying to watch Marianne’s jaw muscles tighten.

“Watch your step, Philip,” she croaked, exposing a tiny fissure in her well-constructed façade.

“Are you threatening me, Marianne? Because, I honestly hope you’re not. I’m getting a little sick of it. Through all these trials and tribulations, I’ve tried to be more than fair and considerate of you. But now I have to ask myself ‘why?’ One of my buildings collapses, and bam, you toss me away like I’m one of last year’s ball gowns. I never cheated on you, I always gave you everything you ever desired, I couldn’t have treated you with more kindness or respect. And this is how you pay me back, by going for the jugular at the first sign of weakness. I guess your provincial, bourgeois parents neglected to pass on to you the concept of standing by your man, instead of hopping on the first bandwagon to bring him down.”

Philip cringed as the door slammed violently in his face. But soon a smile replaced his shock. How good it felt to tell her off! How long he had denied himself that pleasure. With a surprisingly light heart, Philip sauntered back to his vehicle.

Though he had planned not to order anything before Priscilla arrived, Philip realized he needed something to quiet his nerves. Now that he had time to digest his tête-à-tête with Marianne, his ire had been increasing. He was so incensed by the way she treated him, it had caused him to completely reevaluate his strategy in regards to their divorce.

Maybe there was no real reason for him to lie down and die, fork over everything he had worked so hard for. It had been his concern for Caitlin that had motivated him to be so generous and considerate with Marianne, but she had turned his concern around and was using it as a way to extort every cent she could from him.

How could I have been so blind to her spitefulness?
he asked himself.
How did that sweet, uncultured woman turn into such a cold-hearted, condescending witch?
It was pointless to try to solve those riddles now; it wasn’t as though anything could be done to make amends at this juncture.

Even if the miraculous happened and Marianne decided it best to reconcile, he didn’t think he could look upon her the same way as before. He would constantly be second-guessing her reactions to him, wondering what was really going on in her mind.

Ah, ignorance truly is bliss,
he acknowledged, realizing he been living in a fool’s paradise. No woman would jilt her husband just over a business scandal not due to greed or intentional malice on his part. Marianne’s contempt for him had to have been brewing for some time. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own pursuits, he might have seen it sooner.

He removed the stir from his drink before killing it in one toss. It wasn’t pleasant to discover he couldn’t deposit all the blame at Marianne’s feet. He shook his head and conceded his culpability where his ruined marriage was concerned. After shouldering all the guilt for the collapse, it would’ve been a relief to claim innocence in the breakup of his marriage.

All right, so he could have been a better husband to Marianne—less preoccupied with his own agenda and more attentive to her needs. But did his shortcomings entitle her to ravage his assets and leave him groveling for even the most basic right of joint custody of his child?

Even with this fresh serge of culpability, Philip had trouble reconciling Marianne’s greed and hostility. Maybe he was just a stupid oaf when it came to reading people. Maybe her grievances were greater than he realized.

Philip stared morosely at his empty glass. Here he was, poised on the brink of his first date with Priscilla—which he shouldn’t be classifying it as a date, though it sure felt like one—and all he could think about was Marianne and how furious she had made him.

He had been looking forward to spending time with Priscilla for months, yet now that he had the chance, he felt filled to his molars with a bilious mix of resentment, contempt, anxiety and fear, garnished with a mere sprig of joyous expectation.

It should have been the other way around, with the thrill of seeing Priscilla pushing all other emotions to a safe distance in the back of his brain. He found himself longing for another drink, but abstained. The last thing he wanted to do was get soused and end up grousing about his wicked future-ex-wife all evening.

Philip looked up from his empty glass in time to see Marcello escort Priscilla to his table. His shock at seeing her caused him to spring from his chair, setting it rocking precariously beneath him.

“There you are,” he exclaimed as she approached. His cloud of dread dissolved with one look at her. Priscilla stood nervously in front of him as Marcello pulled out her chair. Philip reserved all further comments until the maitre d’ had seated her and inquired about a beverage.

“Just water,” Priscilla said, fidgeting with the handbag that she couldn’t find a home for. She gave up and let it lay on the lap of her expensive, but plain new dress. “On second thought, I’ll have a vodka and tonic.”

She had given Philip the barest of glances, all she could manage in her over-wrought condition. After the surreal encounter with Tobias Jordan, she had gotten ready in a fugue-like state. The decision to go through with this assignation had been insisted upon by an alter ego, the one that had stepped in to govern her actions when her conscious mind took a powder.

If she found it disconcerting to be sitting across from Phil in a swanky Italian Ristorante wearing a dress the likes of which she had never felt before, let alone put on, it was no more perplexing than having a famous songwriter appear out of the clear blue sky and purchase all her accumulated works for fifteen thousand dollars. If King Kong had reached through the roof and plucked her out of her seat that very moment, she could not be more astonished than she already was.

But amazement was a minor component to what she was feeling. The last thirty hours had conjured so many perplexing concerns she could hardly put a name to them all. Besides bewildering disbelief, she sensed growing apprehension over committing to the bargain she had made with Tobias.

It was still settling in that she had separated herself from the thousands of words she had written in an effort to make sense of her life. In one small corner of her brain, panic was brewing over her rash act. Plus, she was still questioning her decision to abandon New York City in favor of parts unknown.

And to top it all off, she capitulated to her sense of guilt and honor, spending a ridiculous amount of money on a dress for dinner with a man who had an absurd and unreciprocated crush on her.

Priscilla took measured breaths and met Philip’s gaze in fleeting intervals, as she waited for her drink to arrive. The taxi ride over had been excruciating, as her emotions tugged her this way and that.

She had long been accustomed to bobbing along on the prevailing current, wherever it had taken her, but never had she been caught in such daunting, conflicting riptides. So real were the forces bearing down on her she could feel her muscles twitch from the strain.

“I can’t get over how breathtakingly beautiful you look tonight,” Philip said after an awkward silence. Instead of breaking the tension, his heavy-handed compliment had the opposite effect.

A waiter placed the vodka tonic on Priscilla’s plate, and she did her level best not to lunge at it. In her most ladylike manner, she took a sip and daintily returned it to its resting place. Once she had performed this sequence several times, she had regained enough composure to make simple chitchat.

“This is a really nice place,” she managed to say. She was so appalled at the lameness of this remark, she immediately regretted coming. Her anxiety was so palpable, Philip started losing his regained optimism. In an effort to guide the evening away from a crash landing, he asked the waiter to bring the menus.

Priscilla was grateful for the diversion, yet the menu produced another wave of concern. She studied the italicized type in pale sepia, trying in vain to decipher its meaning. A translation of each dish appeared underneath in a font so small she had to squint to see it. And nowhere on the menu could she find such staples as Fettuccine Alfredo or Spaghetti with Meatballs.

All she could find were dishes and ingredients she’d never heard of before: Veal Sweetbreads in a Marsala demiglaze; Sunchokes on a bed of braised fennel and radicchio, with a lemon-walnut oil dressing; Tortelloni stuffed with black truffles, served in a foie gras reduction. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

“What sounds good to you?” Philip asked sociably over his menu.

“Uh…” she replied hesitantly. She had been in the process of striking a deal with herself in which she’d get through this evening by any means possible, her reward being a plane ticket to Miami just as soon as she received her payoff the next day. “Gee, it’s so hard to decide…” she truthfully admitted.

“Tell you what we’ll do to make it easier—when I can’t make up my mind, I leave it up to the chef. Takes all the work out of it, and you never know what kind of surprises he’ll come up with.” Priscilla smiled blandly, wondering what bizarre concoction she would be forced to consume. Philip instructed the maitre d’ and ordered a bottle of wine, while she drained what little watered-down vodka remained in her glass.