Nowhere to Run
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
And again, for Elizabeth and David
and
for the achievable dream of finding a treatment or cure
for the most common inherited form of mental impairment,
Fragile X syndrome.
Friday, November 14
The silver New Jersey Transit commuter train slid to a stop at the red brick station. Only one passenger alighted. Pulling the overcoat collar up against the brisk night wind, the passenger stood on the platform, trying to get some bearings. The passenger pulled a folded piece of paper from a coat pocket and opened the computer-printed directions.
On the walk to the stairwell, images of the friendly cohosts of
KEY to America
smiled from a billboard illuminated by the station lights. There was no escaping those two. Constance Young and Harry Granger. They were everywhere.
Down the concrete stairs and through the spray-painted tunnel beneath the railroad tracks, past the graffitied messages. A hand-drawn eyeball wept from the cement wall with tears marked
FEAR, ANGER, ANGUISH
, and
TERROR
, as if the artist had somehow known that those emotions were the very ones to bring the traveler to this comfortable town tonight.
Another set of stairs led up to the main street. Friday night moviegoers were filing out of the old Maplewood Theatre. It was easy to mingle among them, eavesdropping on their critiques of the film that was setting box-office records.
The post office sat across the street. It would have been so easy to go that route instead of hand-delivering the envelope that lay triple-wrapped in plastic inside the coat pocket. But those poor postal workers had already been through enough. The goal tonight was not to reach some random target. This time, the lethal white powder was intended for one very specific person.
At the first corner, the smell of roasting garlic wafted from the Village Trattoria, inviting passersby to come and enjoy the delectable pleasures that waited inside. But there was no chance for that now, or even for a cup of coffee from the nearby Maple Leaf Diner. It was important to stick to the plan and return to the station in time to make the 12:39 back to Manhattan.
Plush stuffed turkeys and overflowing cornucopias decorated the windows of the gift shop on the corner of Highland Place. A baseball cap was donned as the right-hand turn was made, as the map indicated. Past the liquor store and Cent’ Anni and a much-too-quick perusal of its menu.
OSSO BUCO MILANESE: VEAL SHANK WITH RISOTTO AND SAFFRON
.
Mmmm.
They were eating well in the ’burbs.
Out of the business district now, the road began to incline. One wooden Victorian-style house followed another, each nestled behind well-established shrubs and giant old trees. Porch lights revealed the odd numbers on the right-hand side of the street. A teenager walking a dog passed. A double sneeze in the cold night air.
Straining legs reached the very top of the hill. Number 31 was the last house. The streetlamp cast enough light to see the house number, but there was no light coming from within the house.
He wasn’t home.
Perfect.
It couldn’t be going better. After a furtive look around the deserted street, it took just a few seconds to unwrap the stamped envelope and stash it in the mailbox on the porch landing.
Back at the station, with time to spare, the leather gloves were peeled off, along with the nitrile ones beneath them. Both sets were plunked in the deep trash barrel that rested on the platform, just as the city-bound train rumbled into view.
Saturday, November 15
The phone rang all morning. Well-wishers celebrating his thirty-sixth birthday. But there was no call from Annabelle.
He pulled on his sweatpants and tied his running shoes, determined to get some exercise, get those endorphins pulsing and work off that beer he’d guzzled the night before. He was feeling strong and optimistic that in the year to come things were really going to start going his way again. With his manuscript finished and the prospects for selling it good, his spirits were high. He well knew what made a best-seller, and his project had all the earmarks of a hit.
The fun part was imagining what he was going to do with all that money. Maybe, on his thirty-seventh birthday, he’d fly some friends down to the islands to bask and party in the Caribbean sun. If only Annabelle could come along.
At first, the cold air shocked him; then he welcomed it as his body temperature rose. The last of the leaves floated from the elms and pin oaks, landing on the pavement beneath his feet. He panted as he hit his stride, soft clouds of white, steamy breath puffing from his nostrils. It was good to be alive.
After completing his three-mile circuit, he stopped for a cup of coffee and bought a newspaper, walking the rest of the way home, cooling down. By habit, he checked his mailbox, finding only a lone envelope inside. He had expected more on his birthday.
He went into the house, kicked off his running shoes, and collapsed in his favorite upholstered armchair. Examining the purple envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand, he speculated that the sender might be a female and, for an instant, he fantasized that Annabelle had sent it.
His eyes wandered to the silver-framed picture that he still kept on the mantel. He had taken it at the water’s edge in Bay Head. Annabelle, caught grinning as a wave knocked against her, the sun shining on her brunette head, her white teeth flashing and her blue eyes sparkling against her suntanned face. She’d complained about her freckles and wished for thinner thighs. He’d laughed and teased her. Didn’t she know by now? He liked his women with some meat on their bones.
The two birthdays he had spent with her had been his happiest by far. But those were years ago. Now, Annabelle had married someone else and mothered two little kids while he lived as a bachelor in this house he had inherited from his parents. He supposed it was an okay life, as lives went. He had an interesting job and was paid well to do it. He had a book that could take off big time, friends to share happy times with, and good health to enjoy it all with. But as the years went by, he doubted more and more that he’d ever find the right mate. None of the women he dated ever seemed able to meet his exacting requirements—the “Annabelle” standard.
Intrigued, he held the letter to his nose. Musky, almost intoxicating. There was no return address. A stamp was affixed but not postmarked. Maybe the post office had fouled up and hadn’t inked it. Or maybe someone had meant to mail it but decided to drop it off instead. He hoped it was the latter. That would mean the mailman hadn’t delivered the rest of the mail yet.
He ripped open the flap and pulled out the card. A shower of shiny silver confetti spilled from inside, falling onto his sweatpants and shirt. He brushed the tiny bits of paper away, glad that the cleaning woman had asked if she could come in on Saturday this week.
It was signed,
A SECRET ADMIRER
.
He took another long whiff, trying to conjure up an image of the dream woman who might smell this way.
No.
He shook himself. He had promised himself to swear off females for a while. They were too much work, and he couldn’t be distracted.
With resolve, he tossed the card into the trash basket, but not before taking one last, long sniff.