The Other Mr. Bax (15 page)

“Pam.” He gave her a nod.

She turned, stumbled, then disappeared through a door at the back.

Frank said, “It’s Offer. Remember him?”

“Yeah, I remember him.”

“What a pain in the ass.”

A moment later, Pam returned. “He says he only has a minute and is tired of being avoided.”

“The god damn twit. Tell the asshole I’m with clients.”

“Okay.” Pam stood there, waiting, as if she expected more.

“No, tell him I’ll be with him in a second,” Frank added.

She produced a quick shrug of her lips, then again disappeared.

Roland glanced at Joyce. She lifted her eyebrows and smiled.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “Let me take care of this gentleman. I’ll be right back.” He stepped over to the desk and picked up the phone. “Offer, what can I do for you?”

Scanning the walls, Roland was drawn to a group of three small paintings. He leaned in close to the first of the three, admiring its loose and gutsy style—loose, but also painterly. The quirky combination of abstract temperaments and subtle sense of humor seemed somehow familiar. He looked at the painting to the left of it. “These are kind of witty, aren’t they?”

“You think you could do that?” Joyce said.

He tipped his head to the side. “Yes… but no.”

“I knew you were going to say that. You did these.”

“You wish to buy one of these gorgeous, little master works?” Frank came up from behind, surprising them both.

Turning, Joyce said, “No, we wish to sell these gorgeous, little master works.”

“Aha! It is far easier to buy art then it is to sell art, but… yes, indeed. A big-o hairy butt. I can do it. And I will. Selling things that are beautiful is not so difficult.” He grinned.

Roland glanced back over his shoulder, toward the three paintings, a little embarrassed at having been caught admiring his own work, something he would only secretly indulge in.

“You been pumping out any more of these little gems, my friend?”

“Well, no, I’ve taken a break.”

“Ah… recharging the batteries?”

“Oh my god,” Joyce said, looking at her watch. “I forgot about Valerie. We were supposed to meet her at four.”

Roland of course couldn’t have known what to expect once in Phoenix, having only a sketchy impression of Joyce, based upon a few phone conversations. It presently seemed his sketch was flawed, however. Doing his best to hide his puzzlement, he wondered how much of the next three days would be spent rushing around, filling some mysterious itinerary Joyce had cooked up?

“Do you want to call her? You can use
my
phone.” Frank pointed toward the desk in the corner.

“Thanks, Frank, but no.” She again looked at her watch. “We’ll just be a few minutes late.”

They stood at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to change. “You were uncomfortable. I could feel it.”

“Yeah, well…”

Joyce gave Roland a playful nudge and a quick smile. “I hope that wasn’t too crazy.”

“I’m getting used to crazy.”

“Frank can be a bit much, at times, but you’ve always got along with him. He has a lot of respect for you.” Joyce cocked her head to one side. “So, you liked them? Your paintings?”

“Actually, I did.”

“Are they similar to what you were doing in New York?”

“Hmm…” Roland brought a hand to his chin and lightly tapped his cheek with his index finger, appearing thoughtful. The light changed. He and Joyce stepped out onto the crosswalk. “Kind of,” he said. “The technique was different, but I could still see myself in them.” He nodded. “Maybe that’s what it was… why I liked them.”

“Like a recognized kinship?”

“I’ve never thought of it that way, but I think you’re right.”

A short while later, they arrived back at the public garage. “How’re you doing?” Joyce said. “Should we stop for a snack on the way home?”

“What about Valerie?”

She stopped and looked into Roland’s eyes as though she was attempting to gage his sincerity. “Oh… no, that was a ploy.” A smile came to her lips. “I thought you knew I was making it up. An excuse to get away.” Her smile broadened. “I don’t really know a Valerie.”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t know.” He threw his hands up. “I don’t really know you.”

The smile on Joyce’s face fell away. “Oh… right.” She swung back around and marched on.

Roland followed a half-step behind, his careless statement souring in his mind, where stunted apologies and justifications struggled to take shape. They arrived back at the car, climbed in, and pulled the doors shut.
Thump
! Joyce twisted the key in the ignition switch. The car shuddered, then smoothed to a low hum. “Roland…” Her hands dropped from the wheel, her gaze, straight ahead, somewhere beyond the windshield. “I do forget. This… you. Being with you… it’s like dancing with a broom.”

Roland’s chest collapsed as though the weight of his regrets was upon it. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m nervous. This thing in me, this tension and, I don’t know… I’m trying, but I just can’t shake it. I feel like I’m no longer in control of my life.” He shook his head. “I hate where I’m at.”

Joyce sat there, staring forward.

“I mean, figuratively. I hate where I’m at, figuratively.”

“I’m just trying to help, you know?”

“I know,” he said. “I’m reacting. I can be a baby at times, overly sensitive. You might already know that. I feel sorry for myself. A lot lately. All the time.” He stared out the window, over the hood of the car, drawing in breaths, letting out breaths. “The gallery… the Valerie thing… that was thoughtful. Really. And I was being… well, mostly selfish. And now I’m sorry.”

Joyce’s eyes wandered about, as if they were chasing thoughts.

“So, can we please go to Valerie’s now?” Roland said. “She has food?”

Roland watched as the desert panned by the window on his right. He had once hitchhiked through the Southwest, fresh out of high school, a different lifetime, an adventure, which had left him with a trove of memories. Perhaps it was
that
experience that accounted for the feeling of familiarity he now puzzled over.

Joyce steered the car into her driveway. One of two garage doors rose, revealing an empty bay. Parked in the other bay was a station wagon—Roland’s motive for making the trip—or was, originally. As the door came down behind them, they climbed out. Roland stood there studying his surroundings. Cardboard boxes and camping gear lined the shelves mounted to the back wall of the garage; two mountain bikes hung on racks to his right. Even they seemed familiar, though he was certain he’d never been there before. Joyce was quiet as she came around to the front of the car. Roland could only assume she had her own set of peculiarities to sort through, and that that was where her mind was just then—sorting. But then, perhaps he was only projecting.

“Would you like a tour?” she said.

“I
would
, but I’m afraid I’ll not make it all the way through. My knees are shaky, and my vision is blurring.”

“Oh, you’re ill?”

“Hungry.” He feigned a stumble—“Famished”—and gave her a smile.

“Me too. Come. I’ll rustle us up some vittles.”

They entered a small foyer. To the right was the front door of the house, and opposite that, an archway, which opened to a spacious living room. Roland followed Joyce into the house and was again struck with déjà vu.

“The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.” She pointed.

As he returned from the bathroom, the smell of ginger and tamari teased his growing appetite. Joyce stood at the kitchen stove stirring shrimp in a sizzling wok. A large bowl of sliced vegetables waited on the counter next to it. A bowl of rice, which she’d apparently cooked earlier, sat on a warmer.

“Anything I can do?”

“You want to put on some music?”

He returned to the living room and began looking over shelves of compact discs.

“Do you have any jazz?” he called.

“Bottom shelf.”

He found a CD of Bill Evans’ music, stepped up to the stereo cabinet, but then stopped after noticing the pen-and-ink drawing hanging above it, a quirky barroom scene—a drawing he recalled doing nearly two decades before, shortly after meeting Dana.

He leaned in close. Every mark on the paper was familiar. The hand written date next to his signature confirmed his recollection.

“Joyce?”

“The CD player is to the left of the TV, top shelf,” she yelled.

“This drawing. How’d it end up here?”

“The one above the stereo? You did that… long time ago.”

“I sold it at an art festival.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, a woman bought it at an art festival in Florida.”

Joyce stood in the entryway of the kitchen—her right hand in an oven mitt. “The Main Sail, in Saint Pete?”

Roland again studied the drawing, trying to recall the particulars. “It might’ve been.”

She stepped up alongside him. “That’s where I first saw it, where I met you. The first time I’d seen you since grade school. That was my favorite drawing. You gave it to me just before you returned to Illinois.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Ding!
A timer went off. Joyce returned to the kitchen.

Roland stood before the drawing, recalling Dana’s excitement over his having sold it along with two others. He’d rarely sold anything in Illinois, which was what prompted their move to Florida.

“It’s ready,” Joyce called.

He dropped the disc in the CD player, and hit the play button.
Song for Helen
began playing. He returned to the kitchen and leaned against the food-prep-island. “Does it make sense? The drawing?”

Moving dishes to the table, Joyce said, “Maybe. I mean, you and my husband share the same history, up to a certain moment, right?”

He nodded. “That seems to be the case.”

“Perhaps your histories converge around the time of the art festival.” She set a bowl of stir fry on the table.

“Yeah… that could be.”

They sat across from each other, at opposite sides of the table. Joyce lifted the cover from the serving dish and handed Roland a large spoon. Dishing rice onto his plate, he said, “I’m glad you have the drawing.”

She appeared lost in thought as he spooned veggies and shrimp over his rice.

He leaned in over his plate. “Smells good.”

She nodded absentmindedly.

Roland took a bite, chewed, swallowed.

“Doesn’t it make you wonder?” she said. “I mean, everything you do, every choice you make? Not only
that
, but the choices other people make that affect your life.” She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip.

“But in my reality,” Roland said, “Dana left her husband and moved to Illinois where she met me at just the right moment in my life. The timing was so curiously right. We ended up married. It all seemed right, like fate. Whereas in your reality, it’s something entirely different—you and I. The timing again like fate.”