The Understory (26 page)

Officer Sharpe had heard from the bookstore owner that Story’s mother was a multi-millionaire. After moving Story to a one-person holding cell with a small, lumpy cot, Sharpe, in hopes Beverly Easton’s wealth might somehow benefit him, removed Story’s handcuffs and let her keep her cell phone for more calls. Story dialed her mother, and after leaving five voicemail messages, came to the conclusion that by the time her workaholic mother found out she was in jail, she would’ve lost too much time. Story then tried Ivy, thinking she might help her if she agreed to come back to work for a while, maybe train a new writer. But after Story explained where she was, Ivy choked with laughter and reminded Story of her hideous infractions—arriving late every day, faking “monster” diarrhea, quitting a phenomenal job—and hung up on her.

But then a wave of humiliation started in Story’s feet, traveled up to her gut, and settled hotly in her face when she realized there was one person left she could still call. But she couldn’t really, could she? What she’d said to him came back to her in short, uncomfortable bursts.
You never stop fixing, do you? I’m not the one who needs saving.
Her face collapsed in her clammy hands.
We girls don’t want to be saved or rescued.

Maybe just today.

She dialed Hans’s number. After barely a ring, Story heard his voice on the outgoing message. “If you need something fixed, you’ve reached the Fix-It-And-Forget-It Man, handyman extraordinaire. If you need a little magic in your life, you’ve reached Sleight of Hans, magician-for-hire.” And then in true Hans fashion, he kept it short and sweet. “Talk to me.”

Suddenly, Story Easton realized the composition of a perfect man: the rational dependability of someone who can fix anything, and the magical possibilities of a conjurer.
If you need magic in your life? Well, to be specific . . .

The beep that followed was so abrupt, Story panicked.

“Shit. That was fast,” she mumbled into the phone. “Uh, hey Hans. This is Story.”
Please don’t erase this before you listen to the rest.
“How are you?”
I can’t get your smile, your great ass, or your quiet charm out of my head.
“I’m, uh, in sort of a pickle.”
Pickle?! Christ. I need your help. I need fixing. I need rescuing. I need saving. I need magic. I need everything I said I didn’t.
“There was an incident . . .”
—brawl, misdemeanor, bloody mess
—“. . . at Sundance Books in Park Ridge Mall because this bitch . . .”
I am not a violent stalker.
“. . . Anyway, oh, God, this sucks, I am such an ass . . . I’ll just spit it out. I’m in—”

BEEP!

“No!” Story threw her cell phone down on the concrete cell floor, and then checked to see if she’d broken it.
Oh, God.
“Hello?”
Crap.
Dial tone.

Story dialed Hans’s number a second time and felt a hint of vomit make its way up to her mouth. After hearing his message again, she stammered, “Sorry. Got cut off. I’m, um, sitting in a jail cell in Mesa . . . It’s no big deal . . . I’m sure this will all work itself out . . . but I’m trying to make travel plans for . . . well, you know where . . .”

Suddenly, Story shook her head and said, “Forget it, forget what I said before. You . . . are . . . really lovely.”
Ugh.
“And I wanted you to know . . .”
I don’t deserve you rescuing me.
“. . . I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have trying to fix me.”
Oh, God. Did that sound perverted? I did say “fix,” right?
After a long pause, Story decided to quit while she was behind.

“Bye.”

Story never would have guessed she could get real, quality sleep inside a jail cell, but as she waited, two hours turned into three, and when the long day’s stress caught up with her, her head hit the pillow-less cot and she fell into a deep, strange slumber. Her dream took place in the Amazon rainforest, an imaginary Amazon based on pictures she’d seen. Story, clad in nothing but a deep purple cape, ran naked through the jungle, trying to get away from a twenty-foot tall castrated Santa with his fluffy innards hanging off him and trailing in the jungle breeze.

Suddenly, Santa morphed into a giant Easter Bunny with huge, exaggerated paws, and as Story hid behind a big tree, the maniacal bunny hurled big colored eggs at her head. When Story raised her black and white wand in an effort to combat her foe with magic, she discovered the wand was nothing but a stick with weak, blurry stars, incapable of anything supernatural.

Even in her dream, Story heard her mother’s voice.
Magic is rubbish.
But before she had a chance to see how the story would end, she heard a faint key jingle-jangle outside her cell.

“Ma’am, you’re free to go,” an officer said as he swung the barred door open.

“Hello?” Story mumbled, and got to her feet, sleepy-eyed and disoriented. “What happened?” She rubbed her eyes, and smoothed back her hair. “Did my mother come?”

The tall officer wearing a badge that said
Hudson
shook his head, and when he said, “Nope,” a surprising smile enveloped his face, contrasting with his stiff, unforgiving uniform. “This place is so . . . It’s nice to have some fun once in a while,” he said, almost apologetically. He reached into his front uniform pocket and removed its contents with his left hand.

In the center of his weathered, slightly unsteady hand sat a small wooden egg—ocean-blue and vibrant.

Story fixed her gaze on the egg, and stared at it so long, she imagined her green eyes filling up with azure seas. She was not crying, and there were no tears—there were never tears—but there was maybe gratitude, maybe regret, maybe love, and at the height of it, she envisioned other people, the kind capable of crying.

It is a fact that at any given point in time, an estimated three hundred thousand people, out of the planet’s seven billion, are simultaneously crying somewhere in the world. Four percent cry out of fear, seven percent for sympathy, ten percent from anger, and the remaining sixty-nine percent? The majority of humans cry as a response to sadness or happiness, and as Story looked at the little blue egg, she realized that in life, the two emotions, supposedly opposite, are often inseparable.

Moments away from seeing Hans again, Story attempted to make herself presentable. “Did he post bail?” she said. “Did he bring a lawyer?”

As they walked down a small corridor toward the main office area, Officer Hudson gave her an incredulous look, which reminded Story who Hans was—a salt-of-the-earth guy who valued good old-fashioned common sense over money. “Nah,” the officer said. “No lawyer. No bail. Just him. Somehow, he got the lady you beat up to drop the charges—”

“I did not beat her up. She is a fucking liar!” Story snapped in a loud, violent tone, sounding exactly like someone who should be imprisoned for assault.

The officer grabbed Story’s arm, stopped in the middle of the hallway, and stared at her beautiful lips. “You talk to your mother with that mouth?”

Yes. Much worse, actually, but we’re making progress in our relationship.
“No,” she said, and when he continued his stare, she added, “sir.”

And then, as if nothing had happened, he let go of her arm and began walking and laughing at the same time. “Quite the magician, that guy,” he said. “I ended up hiring him for the Oktoberfest block party I’m hosting tonight—damn clown I signed up cancelled this morning. But this guy’s way better than a stupid clown. He made three different sets of handcuffs disappear.”

Handcuffs?
Story’s face became flush, thinking about whether Hans had retained them for personal use.

“And it was such a slow day, he even fixed Pete’s chair,” Hudson said. “Didn’t ask for a dime. Didn’t say anything, actually. Helluva guy.”

Story released her long hair from a disheveled, slept-on pony tail, and prepared to embrace her liberator. “Is he this way?” she asked, as they walked toward the main desk.

“No,” the officer said, taking a bite of an apple he’d grabbed from the counter. “He left shortly after he got here.”

A familiar sense of emptiness returned to Story, and as she stopped moving, she also tried to stop feeling. “Oh,” she said. There was a long pause. “Did he say
anything
?”

“Not really,” said the officer. “But . . .” And the officer began laughing again, this time more of an astonished laugh. “He left something for you. Normally, we don’t allow this sorta thing, leaving items, you know, we just don’t have the room, and there’s liability—”

“Left what? What is it?” Story said, grabbing the officer’s hand.

He looked down at his hand and glared until she released her grip.

“It’s the damnedest thing,” Hudson said. “Never seen anything like it. Quite the craftsman. He really is—”

“A helluva guy.” Story nodded.
I know.

The officer pointed to five other officers crouched down by the floor, near the personal effects cubbies attached to the far wall. They were looking at something, admiring something, and Story wondered what could so enthrall five middle-aged men.
It’s too big to be a Playboy
, she thought.
Too small to be a TV. Too exciting to be a six-pack.
The officer led her back to them, and she noticed they were all completely silent. Maybe it was the way the saturated Phoenix sunlight poured through the large window nearby, or maybe it was something else, but golden, dazzling sunbeams weaved in and out of the five onlookers, bouncing off them as if the object they admired was the sun itself, lassoed from the sky for close inspection. The men’s worn, whiskered faces were aglow with light and warmth, and they wore peaceful gazes—the kind you see on a child’s face when he’s witnessed something mystical.

As Story moved closer to the object, two of them got up and created a space for her. She inched her way in, but the view was still obstructed.

“What is it?” she said, unsure if she’d said it out loud.

And there it was. Like a piece of art on display at a museum, it sat proudly on the floor. With a handle made of carved vines, the majestic kapok tree came to life with each twist and turn, all of it freshly carved from deep, dark wood. African Blackwood.
Heartwood, not sapwood
, she remembered, feeling as if she could almost cry. Almost. But she knew Hans was right. Heart always trumps sap.

“It’s a box,” one of the officers said, looking at the beautiful and intricate lid, entwined with scores of creeping lianas vines and one giant kapok tree, “but don’t get your hopes up. The story ends there. It’s empty.”

And when Story could finally see the beauty that lay before her, she closed her eyes for a moment, fixing the image into her mind for easy recall in future times of doubt. And then, as one rogue cloud cast a cool shadow over the box, Story called upon a host of make-believe notions—fairy godmothers, enchanted journeys, magic wands,
abracadabra
—to give her the strength she’d need to properly fill a magic treasure box.

A
fter leaving the police station, the treasure box safely in her arms, Story took a cab to retrieve her car, and drove straight to Claire Payne’s home, arriving with five seconds to spare, and just as Martin was pulling in. When he recognized Story behind him, he tried backing his car out of the driveway, but hers was blocking him.

“No, please. Just wait. Let me explain,” Story said, hopping out of her car and knocking on his window.

In one swift, impatient maneuver, Martin shifted to park, rolled down his window, and mumbled, “I should’ve known a graduate student didn’t live in a house this nice.” When he got a look at Story’s outfit, he said, “Glad to see you dressed up.” He took a deep breath of the pseudo-country air laced with car exhaust. “Look, I get it. You’re tenacious and you have a goal. I respect that, but—”

“His dad died,” Story blurted out while leaning into the window. And when she had his attention, she continued, “Your book was the last book his dad ever read to him, and it’s part of him now . . . your words are part of him.” She stared into Martin Baxter’s sad eyes. “Just introduce yourself, and maybe sign the book for him?”