More Than A Maybe (8 page)

I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”

She laughs. “Well, enough about my unlucky ass. Check your phone already. This guy must have left you about a million sexy booty call texts so far.”

I sigh. “I dunno . . . ” I say, slowly unzipping the gym bag and rummaging around for my iPhone. “I’m kind of afraid. What if he didn’t call? Or what if he
did
— what am I supposed to say?”

Jayla points her fork straight at me. “Either you get that phone out and check your messages, or I will stab you in the eye with this fork. My hand to God.”

I raise my hands in front of my face in mock terror. “Whoa there, crazy! I’ll check already.”

I manage to locate my phone and fish it out, then lay it solemnly on the table between us. I take a very deep breath. It’s driving Jayla nuts, I can tell — but I haven’t had a moment like this in . . . well,
ever.
I want it to have a sense of occasion.

“Okay, then,” I say, trying with very little success to keep my pulse in check. “I should just do it, then. On what — on three?
One, two, three?
”

Jayla squeezes her eyes shut tight and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Will . . . you . . .
do
. . . it.”

“Okay.” I grab the iPhone, unlock it with a quick horizontal swipe of my finger, and look around in frantic expectation for the message that should be,
must be there . . .

And there it is! From a half-hour ago:

> Hope you slept well.

> A special courier is currently in front of your building, anxiously awaiting your return. He has something for you — along with instructions to wait until 1:00 PM.

> If you’re unable to meet him . . . well, another time, perhaps.

> X

Jayla slaps her palms on the table, sending the dishes clattering. “It’s already after twelve, girl! You’ve got to get your ass home!”

* * *

Jayla gives me one more big embrace as we say our goodbyes. I’m dying to see what the delivery is all about, and she’s got to go off to class. It’s a class we used to share, I realize — one I’ve now had to drop out of. She looks suddenly sleepy as she makes to leave; a moment ago, she’d been so wrapped up in my story that she didn’t look tired at all. I’m struck by just how exhausted she must usually be.

I make double sure that I remember my doggie bag of half-eaten rigatoni, then start to walk home at a brisk pace. The sun is warm, there’s a nice bit of breeze against my face, and there’s still plenty of time until 1:00. I don’t have to wait tables until later in the evening, and bed still sounds heavenly. I decide that when I get back I’ll just crawl under the covers and wait for my night shift to begin.

When I arrive at my building, there’s a thin man waiting for me . . . navy blue work cap, company polo shirt, khaki pants, and an enormous black cardboard box covered with EXPRESS — SPECIAL stickers. He sees me approach, waves me over.

“Do you live here?” he asks.

“Sure do,” I say. “Is that for me?”

“I hope so,” he says. “Do you know anyone living here by the name of Veronica Kane? Or possibly Alice White?”

I nod, smiling inwardly.
Xavier had remembered both names after all.

“That’s me,” I say.

“Oh, fantastic,” he says, breathing out with relief. “Can I just see an I.D. real quick?”

I search around in my purse for a moment, then flash him my driver’s license. It’s almost expired, I realize . . . but then again, you don’t need a license to ride the bus.

“Sign here, would you?” the delivery man asks.

He holds out a plastic pen, and I more or less make my signature in the little box on his electronic package-delivery-guy doodad. He thanks me and leaves, and I struggle the box into the foyer of my building. I grab the wad of mail that’s been collecting in my mailbox, shove it in my purse, and begin the climb up the stairs to my apartment.

I have a pretty good idea who the package is from, of course, but I try and put it out of my head. It’s a habit left over from when I was little — when I’d get something I wanted, a bowl of ice cream or a Christmas present, I’d always hesitate just a bit before I’d let myself enjoy it. It helped me appreciate things more, maybe. Desire them more. Something like that.

Anyway, I decide not to open the package until I’ve at least dealt with the pile of mail in my purse. I’ve been avoiding it for the past few days. I decide to make the package my reward for finally facing it.

I dump the mail onto the kitchen counter to try and make sense of it all. Most of it is the normal flood of junk mail, the usual demands for money.

Water bill. Electric bill. One of mom’s unpaid medical bills. An offer to subscribe to StudentMedNow, the “premiere magazine for today’s modern pre-med students”. More medical bills . . .  

The next letter, however, makes me go rigid. As soon as I see who it’s from, I immediately want to ignore it, bury it under the other mail, crumple it up and stuff it in the trash . . .

But I don’t. I’ve promised myself that I’ll deal with the mail, and so I do. I rip the envelope open with my little finger and begin to read:

Dear Ms. White —

I would like to express my sincere condolences on the recent passing of your mother. Please know that my thoughts and best wishes are with you during this difficult period.

Unfortunately, the nature of my business dictates that I must sometimes be the bearer of bad news during times of difficulty. I am afraid that this is one of those times.

Our records indicate that your monthly rental payments for the last two months have not been received. If you are unable to rectify this situation in the next two (2) weeks, I am afraid that we will have no choice but to begin formalized eviction proceedings.

I wish you the very best of luck in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.

Sincerely,

Charles M. Fenton
Building Superintendent
Cloverdale Apartments

Eviction.
My emotions surge. I’m sad, I’m angry . . . I’m frightened. I look around the little two-bedroom apartment where I’ve lived for so long, and it’s like I’m seeing it with new eyes. I’ve always thought of this place as my home . . . but it isn’t. Not really. It doesn’t even belong to Mr. Fenton, the sad-eyed man who says hello to me in the hallway and occasionally stops by to fix my toilet. It belongs to Cloverdale Apartments, some faceless entity that hardly knows I exist.

Except, of course, when the rent is overdue.

I’m breathing quickly now — my hands begin trembling, and I rub my palms together to try and stop them. It’s fear, real fear — nothing like the stagefright at Mirages, but actual real honest-to-goodness heart-pounding terror. I’m having the beginnings of a genuine panic attack — it’s all I can do to keep myself in check. I start to pace, back and forth and back and forth, my eyes scanning the room wildly . . . as if any of the battered furniture or mom’s old knick-knacks are going to be of any help to me right now . . .

And then my eyes fall on the package.

Truth be told, I’m not at all in the mood for a reward anymore . . . but it’s easy to see the value in a distraction from my pile of new problems. The package seems so much more substantial than anything else in the room at the moment. I focus on it, concentrating, until I feel my breathing begin to slow and my hands start to steady themselves.

The box is made of thick matte-black cardboard, roughly chest-high, sealed with tape. It’s scuffed a bit from its journey, but somehow it still manages to be the most dignified-looking thing in the room.

I pull the box into my bedroom and flop it down on my bed. I find a pair of scissors, slit the packing tape, and hold my breath as I gently ease it open.

Inside is a dark mass of neatly-folded purple tissue, expertly tied with a thick cord of soft braided rope. There’s a small tag hanging from the center knot:

K E I J I   Y O S H I D A
Fashion Concepts
Tokyo — Paris — Milan — New York

. . . and below that, in the crisp, whippy stroke of a fountain pen:

I pause for a few long seconds, allowing myself to dance into the moment.

A beautiful thing.

I let my fingers trace their way along the surface of the expensive wrapping paper. I’ve received presents before — but never anything like this. It’s been prepared with such obvious care that I almost don’t want to disturb it.

Curiosity quickly gets the better of me, though. I untie the knot, unfold the paper.

Inside is the most remarkable dress I’ve ever seen. The material, though dark as the box and the tissue it came in, seems to actually shimmer in the light of my bedroom. It’s a dark, semi-iridescent purplish-black that reminds me of Xavier’s handkerchief. I hold my breath as I lean forward to pick it up. The lavish material is an exquisite kiss against my fingertips. The dress is so light it is almost weightless — a decadent thing from some unimaginable dream.

I hold it to my chest and look at myself in the mirror. It’s sleek and sultry — completely unlike anything I own. Something to wear on the deck of a yacht at sunset, at a private table of a three-star restaurant . . .

I so need to try it on. Now.

My sweatshirt and jeans are off in an instant. I’m suddenly worried that it won’t fit, that it’ll sag at my A-cups, and I say a soft little prayer that one thing will go right for me this afternoon.

Please. I need this.

With the greatest of care I pull the dress over my shoulders.

It fits!

It fits, and to absolute perfection. The sensation of the fabric is very nearly erotic, and I’m suddenly glad about my recent close shave. The dress is silk, I suppose, but I’ve never felt silk like this — its caress is softer than a whisper. It reaches down to mid-thigh . . . provocative, but certainly appropriate for an evening of clinking champagne flutes together.

Except . . . something’s missing, and my reflection tells me what it is:
shoes.

I’m pushing my luck, but I decide that another look in the box is in order. Sure enough, there they are: a glossy pair of hand-stitched heels in a deep shade of violet leather. They compliment the dress wonderfully, and fit just as well. It’s as if they’ve been crafted just for me.

Which seems, on reflection, strange.
They couldn’t have been made just for me . . . and certainly not so soon. Could they?

I look at myself in the mirror again, and for a moment I’m reminded of a custom black dress I saw in a book, one made for Greta Garbo. She’d said it was the most expensive dress she’d ever purchased. Perhaps money could do anything, though — get things done, just as soon as you wanted them.

Still, what kind of man can look at a girl and immediately know her dress AND shoe size?
I find myself wondering how a person can function at that level of precision; it seems almost frightening.

Almost.
As I turn to look at myself from every angle, however, I feel another thrill crowd out any other emotions. I find myself feeling a little like royalty . . . or a debutante, on her way to her very first ball.

That thought makes me just a little bit sad, though. I’m all dressed up with no place to go. I let out a heavy sigh.
Okay — playtime is over.
I make up my mind to take off the dress, crawl under my duvet, and sleep until it’s time to go to to work.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a white edge of paper peeking out from the dark crevasse of the tissue wrapping. I’ve clearly missed something.

I pull back the tissue with hesitant fingers, and there it is: a crisp, cream-colored envelope. It’s monogrammed, marked with an elegant
X
.
At last — some mail I actually want.
I feel its reassuring weight in my hand for a moment, then eagerly tear it open.

It’s a letter, written in Xavier’s precise and controlled hand:

Veronica,

Hello. I hope you have recovered from our shared excitement last evening.

Enclosed please find a dress of my choosing. While I’ve not the eye for fashions that Mr. Yoshida does, I am quite sure that you will look absolutely radiant in his work. I should very much like to see you wear it myself.

I’m meeting an associate of mine and his wife for drinks. Your company tonight would make me very happy. For tonight — and longer, if you so desire.

Do pack light, Veronica. Everything has been arranged.

X

I feel my pulse quicken.
Everything’s been arranged? Pack light? What could he . . .

I check the envelope again, and feel a renewed elation at what I find:

• One first-class ticket on Virgin Airlines, Chicago to Los Angeles
  
• A confirmed reservation to the Thousand Arms Hotel in Beverly Hills
  
• A laminated schedule
  

My heart leaps. The effect is not so unlike the panic attack I’ve just experienced in the kitchen — the thumping in my chest, the trembling hands — but it’s not panic, it’s joy . . . the sheer thrill of anticipation, pure and lovely and exciting.

I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to force myself to breathe at a more normal pace. My eyes fall on the schedule card. It’s a thin column of neatly-printed items:

11:00AM 
-
 1:00PM: PACKAGE DELIVERY
1:30PM: TRAVEL PREPARATION
2:00PM: PICKUP, TRAVEL TO AIRPORT
3:00PM: ARRIVAL AT AIRPORT (CHICAGO MIDWAY)
4:35PM: DEPART FOR LOS ANGELES, VIRGIN AIR FLIGHT 432
8:46PM: ARRIVE AT AIRPORT (LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL)
9:30PM: COCKTAILS

I can only stare blankly at the card as the avalanche of questions tumbles into my mind:

Is he serious? Drinks in California? Today? Tonight!?

Just like . . . just like that?

My eyes fly from the card in my hand to the plastic alarm clock that does its best to wake me up every morning: