Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (14 page)

The corner lamp bubbled red gelatinous globs, creating abstract shadows on the walls. Macy’s jacket lay crumpled under a homemade coffee table. When I picked it up, I couldn’t help but notice the shiny zipper of a bulging art case.

The uncirculated pot air tickled my throat, and I started to cough. Sitting back on the futon, I drummed my chest. Something lacey tickled my bare thigh, and I pinched a pair of bunched-up purple panties. “Eugh,” I flung them to the floor where they landed on the bit of the silver case that stuck out. After the panty discovery, I should’ve rushed out of there to wash my hands, but I’d fostered a new hobby, and slid the flat artist portfolio out from under the makeshift table.

I’d pegged Stewart as an outdoorsman. The kind that would sit in a tree all day to shoot a turkey. It was devilish of me to snoop, but I needed to satisfy my curiosity and wanted to know if my hunch was on target.

The case had a tricky set of closures. I had to unbuckled a clasp under the handle before I could unzip the case. I guessed he stored rifles or a bow inside.

Stewart was no hunter. My fingers slid along a row of rolled canvases. Stewart, the guy whose shoulders practically touched his ears an art connoisseur? Using my heel, I pushed the wood-pallet coffee table aside and began to unroll paintings. Peeling back heavy cling film that separated the artwork, I recognized some sixteenth and seventeenth century French artists, a few Postmodern pieces, and some early Americana folk art.

Something needled inside of me. I guessed these were varnished prints, but I needed decent lighting to be sure. My father restored art, and I’d grown up in his studio. I stared at two notable paintings. An Italian piece by Givoanna Garzoni--Baroque era. She specialized in still life. And work by another Italian, eighteenth century painter, Rosalba Carriera. I’d seen both in the Cleveland Museum the week before school started.

A third painting at the bottom of the stack hardened a surge inside me. The typed label on the back read Clementine Hunter. Over the phone, Dad said that he’d received a commission to restore some of her pieces.
These had to be reproductions.
Running my finger over her signature, I whispered, “Why would paintings be in a frat house?”

Someone in the room stirred, and I heard a clunk. From behind the futon, Stewart slurred, “Hey Macy. Whatyah doing?”

NOTE TO SELF

A key under a window sill, is as American as apple pie.

Always carry a few sheets of toilet paper.

Have developed a suitcase opening fetish.

14

D
oes
A
nyone
K
now
A
G
ood
T
herapist?

Dropping
to the floor, I pretended I was in a game of freeze tag except no one had tagged me. Huddling into a childlike cowardice, I flashed back to the time I locked myself in my room with my mom’s red lipstick. Maybe I’d go unnoticed, if I stayed quiet.

I didn’t dare breathe as my eyes darted in search of Stewart’s voice. Was I hearing things or losing my mind? I’d been inhaling polluted air in the pot loft for more than a minute, so either was a possibility. Above my pounding heart, I heard him again. From behind the futon, he rambled something in untranslatable southern. The bit of Stewart I caught sight of were his feet and they didn’t move. He must’ve found the better stuff.

Smoothing my camp dress, I adjusted my sash and looked heavenward. I began to mouth ‘thank,’ but feet stomped up the stairs and I didn’t get to the ‘you.’ 

“What the hell is taking so long?”

I pointed at Stewart. “Shish.”

“Figures. What’s in your hand?”

I pressed my fingers to my lips in an effort to get Macy to show some discretion.

“What?” she loudly asked.

“I found artwork in that black portfolio.”

“You’re going through his stuff?”

“That’s not the point. Don’t you get it? A black case? New Bern?”

“Get what? A case of artwork? So what. We don’t even know if it’s his.”

Interrupting my Nancy Drew explanation, Stewart gasped and chewed air in a symphonic compilation that ended with a shrill, whistle-snore. Sliding her hand into her jacket pocket, Macy held a tube of lipstick.

“No,” I mouthed.

She took one look at me, and I knew I couldn’t stop her. As she applied pink-shimmer to Stewart’s lips, we lost all semblance of quiet and burst into uncontrollable giggles.

Motioning to us to leave, Macy stuffed the lacey panties from the floor into her pocket.

I’D LOCKED THE BACK DOOR and slipped the key under the mat. We’d scurried to the front of the house and stood on the sidewalk. I didn’t see anyone I recognized. A guy with a sculpted jaw stepped next to Macy. He noticed the snaps on the front of her dress threatening to pop open and curled his lips in a smile. “Hey there, Ryder,” she purred.

Looking around, I asked, “Where is everyone?”

“What am I?” he asked. “Hamburger?”

Macy batted her lashes. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her pre-frat house lust interest who had walked across campus with us wasn’t my thing, but he certainly had her attention. She was a busy Girl Scout, and I didn’t care to know what badge she was working on.

Ryder jerked his neck to feather his hair. “Meredith went to check out Kappa Phi.”

“What about Katie Lee and Bridget?” I asked

“Some guy came over, and they left with him.”

“What guy?” Macy asked.

“I think his name was Nash.”

It couldn’t be. Katie Lee would’ve mentioned something. Could Ryder be mistaken? I leaned against a fire hydrant. If he were here, there’d be trouble. I had to find Katie Lee and get her away from Nash.

“Keeping everyone together,” Ryder said, “is like herding cats.” Macy purred and meowed. I was in no mood to play kitty. If I didn’t find Katie Lee, lip-gloss, a twenty and two condoms weren’t going to get me back to Greensboro.

STUDENTS PACKED THE LAWN like pickle spears in jar. An elevated stage had been erected in front of a detached garage. The closer you stood to the stage, the thicker the crowd. While I pondered how panicked I should be, Travis appeared. “Thirsty?” he asked and handed me a beer.

With his Kentucky outdoorsman good looks, he rated on my cute-odometer--the sort of distraction I needed to forget about my disappearing roommate, her trouble-prone boyfriend, and the fraternity house search-rescue-snoop operation.  

“So, art history major and business minor. What’s your plan?”

I blew the froth off the top of my cup and decided the evening wasn’t entirely wasted. “My grandparents started a furniture restoration business. My dad expanded to fine art. I grew up knowing who Henri Matisse and Raoul Dufy were before Scooby Doo and Mr. Magoo. Someday, I want to own a gallery. What about you? What’s your major?”

“Mortuary Science.”

“And do what?”

“Open a funeral home.”

“You like to dissect things?”

“I’m okay with anatomy.”

The fly-ties attached to his vest were like feathery charms that swayed with his motion. “Do you dissect things with legs or do you prefer fins and scales?”

“So far, I’ve had a go at a frog and a crawdad in high school biology.”

“Where did the funeral home fascination come from?”

“As a kid, I always buried pets.”

“Were they dead?”

He pushed my shoulder. “Yes.”

“That’s funky.”

He shrugged. “Cats, birds, hamsters. I said words of solace and laid them to rest.”

Travis tilted his head toward the stage. “What do you think of the band?”

I glanced above the heads that ebbed in front of us. “They’re pretty good,” Sipping my beer, I looked again. For a split-second, the drummer stood, and I had a déjà vu. I’d seen him before. Scanning negatives inside my head a revelation paralyzed my throat muscles. I spit the beer from my mouth onto Travis’ shoes. “His picture is pasted all over my roommate’s bulletin board.”

Travis shook his leather Dockside. “Are you okay?”

Katie Lee mentioned Nash a lot. As the one and only member of his fan club, she claimed he was a semi-professional drummer, had a natural gift to fix anything mechanical, was an expert shooter, wrote romantic poetry, and had half a dozen other talents that I’d tossed in my head-trash. But, Nash attended Carolina East, not Chapel Hill.

“I bet she stumbled upon him, and was pissed.”

“Who are you talking about?” Travis asked.

“The drummer is my roommate’s boyfriend,” I said, looking over my shoulder for Macy. I needed to tell her, but she and Ryder were lip-locked. I didn’t know how, but Nash had to be involved with Stewart Hayes and the frat house artwork. Why else would he be here? What were they doing with rolled up canvases? They couldn’t have stolen the art, they were just college students. Besides, if masterpieces had been heisted, it would’ve made national news. I hadn’t noticed the case from Katie Lee’s closet in the trunk of Big Blue, but I hadn’t looked.

THE BAND’S SET ENDED as I drained my third cup of beer. Nash jumped off the back of the stage, and I caught sight of Katie Lee and Bridget making their way to the edge of the stage, eventually vaporizing behind speaker stands. Do I care who Katie Lee parties with? On another night, in a different location, maybe. But it was Halloween, and I was getting drunk with a hot guy. Being irritated with Katie Lee and speculating about Nash’s illegal hobbies would be self-sabotage. I needed to focus. Tonight was the night.

Meredith never returned from Kappa Phi. Macy and Ryder came down with the munchies–-for one another and left. Seeing the crowd thin, Travis and I walked across campus and ended up standing next to the old well. “Take a drink.”

Suspiciously, I eyed the water fountain under the dome. “Is it safe?”

“Legend says that if you drink from the well on the first day of classes, you’ll have good luck all year. Where are you staying tonight?”

Adhering to tradition, I sipped the H2o, and hoped the Tarheel good-fortune spilled over to finding romance on Halloween. “McIver. If I can find anyone to let me in.”

He clutched my hand, and we zagged around campus buildings that cast shadows under a harvest moonlit sky. Since we’d hung out at fraternity row, I didn’t know if minutes or hours had passed.

I’d lost my directional aptitude, but remembered McIver’s entrance and the door Travis held open was not the same door. My internal organs, the important ones, pulsed. Travis, I thought, had definite plans, and I looked forward to when he revealed them. I received a faint PTT –- parental telepathy transmission--regarding the inappropriateness of fooling around with someone I’d met only hours ago. Since I had years of experience with these pesky annoyances, I scrambled the signal.

I broke out in a sweat and my head felt woozy from the Travis-n’-alcohol potion I’d been consuming. At the top of two flights of stairs, he pushed a door open. Light from the hallway gleamed on two bodies. Tucked under a red comforter, Macy’s wavy head of hair lay nestled next to Ryder’s perfectly feathered bangs.

“Ryder’s your roommate?”

“I thought you knew that.”

My stomach gurgled. “They look like cannoli’s covered in a ragu sauce. Are they naked?”

He laughed, “I’m not checking, but you’re more than welcome.”

“Psst. Macy.”

She didn’t answer.

Travis slipped his waterproof fishing vest off and hung it over the back of a desk chair. “Dorm doors lock at eleven. Unless you have a key, you won’t get into McIver.”

I noticed an additional body slumbering in a top bunk at the far corner. “How many roommates do you have?”

“Three.”

This dorm room was like a summer camp cabin. On the walk back, I’d worked up my nerve and had been ready to conquer. Now my plan had logistical issues. What guy would want to have sex in a room full of people? That thought suddenly worried me. As much as I was attracted to Travis, I didn’t want to provide the center attraction.

Travis untied his shoes, “You might as well crash here.”

The inner me nodded her head up and down. Triumphant to be spending the night with a cute guy I nestled into his bottom bunk. With my back against the cold cement wall, I watched him slip off his fishing vest and unfasten two shirt buttons through their eyeholes. Deciding not to bother with the others, he tugged the rumpled fabric over his head and shot it into a far corner. Travis moved toward the lower bunk clothed in his red-marled T-shirt and Duck Head khakis. Tucking in, he drew his flannel comforter over us, and I imagined him kissing me goodnight well into the morning. He positioned himself on his side, with his back toward me. A fan hummed somewhere in the room. He may have been tired, but I wasn’t. My fingers began an exploration of the southern territory around his navel and then below. Suddenly he gripped my hand. I wasn’t sure what that meant and bent forward to kiss his neck.

He whispered, “Rach, don’t.”

“Do I need a mint?”

He turned on his back, “You don’t need a mint. You’re perfect.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Some students shouted in the hallway, and a distant door slammed. “No. It’s just that, I’m not the guy you think I am.”

The moment wasn’t going well. I sat up, awkwardly craning my head under the top bunk. Looking into the shadow of his face I searched for an explanation. Wondering what I was doing wrong I wished that Macy was available for a consultation. I swallowed against the sandpaper in my throat. “What are you saying?”

In barely a whisper, he said, “I’m gay.”

I plopped on my back, “I’m cursed.”

He pushed the hair from my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we’d end up in bed. I mean, I thought we’d pass out.”