All for a Story (29 page)

“Well, look who found herself a champion.”

By now they’d attracted the attention of everyone in the restaurant, including the gentlemen from the lunch counter, who cracked their knuckles, appearing ready and eager to come to Max’s aid should he need it.

He didn’t.

Easily twisting Charlie’s arm into an unnatural angle with one hand, Max dropped enough money on the table to not only cover the bill but also to compensate their waitress for the trouble caused by their uninvited guests. Monica quickly slid out, careful not to brush up against either of them, and wished the blonde good luck.

“Don’t act like I wasn’t good to you.” Charlie’s lips took on a sinister twist, and he craned his neck to look around Max at the blonde. “Be a good enough girl, and you might get yourself a little fox coat just like that one.”

Monica felt every bit of herself drain away, like her head had been split wide open, leaving everything exposed to Charlie’s acidic revelations. She burned from the inside, her face red from the volcanic rush, too hot for tears. Whatever Max said next was lost, but his meaning came through unmistakable as he drew back his free hand and landed a punch squarely against Charlie’s nose.

“Baby!” The blonde rushed to his side as he staggered into a chair that was far too fragile to absorb the impact.

“Max!”

She grabbed his arm before he could deliver another blow, should Charlie find the strength to stand.

“Sir!” The waitress was at his side, wrapping an ice cube in a cloth napkin. “For your hand, so it don’t swell up.”

“How about a steak for his face?” the blonde said, cradling Charlie’s head in her lap.

“Give me eighty-five cents, and it’s yours.”

“Come on,” Max said, tugging Monica out the door. Once outside, he kept hold of her hand, walking swiftly enough to force her to run until they reached the nearest streetcar stop.

“Are you all right?” he said, studying her face in the streetlight.

Her champion, Charlie had said, and she forced herself not to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him.

“You’re the one who socked him. How are you?”

He held up his hand, and she could see the knuckles still red and already swollen. This, without a thought, she kissed. “No one’s ever defended me like that before.”

“’Twas an honor, milady.”

“He’s . . . Charlie . . . He was an old boyfriend.”

“So I gathered.”

“Not so old, I guess. I mean, it’s only been a little while since —”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Of course she didn’t. Any questions he might have had about her character were answered in the revelatory light of Charlie’s lewd suggestion. She’d never be able to wear this coat again.

A car arrived and came to a stop, emitting a few passengers onto the street.

“Is this one yours?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Do you have a dime?”

She nodded again, not wanting to let go of his hand, despite
his obvious dismissal. “I suppose you’ll want to cancel our —” she hesitated to use the word
date
 —“dinner tomorrow.”

He grinned and recited a series of numbers on Ninth Street. “Seven o’clock. Bring the cat.”

And so, slowly, beginning at his hands and feet and creeping along his limbs to the vital centres of his body, that strange change continued. It was like the slow spreading of a poison.

H. G. WELLS,
THE INVISIBLE MAN

WHY HAD HE SAID ANYTHING about dinner? For that matter, why did he say anything about anything?

And those were the more innocuous questions that pestered him as he lay on his narrow, cold bed.

How “old” of an old boyfriend was that Charlie guy? Before Max met her? After she started on this ill-fated anti-flirt espionage? And just how long did it take for her to figure out he was married?

Dear Lord,
he prayed,
there have to be half a million girls in this city. Why did you have to cross my path with hers? And just what am I supposed to do with her now that she’s mine?

“Not that she’s
mine
,” he said into the darkness. Just because he thought about her, prayed for her, protected her, saw her face and heard her laugh when she was nowhere to be found. Didn’t every pretty girl make a guy choke on his heart when he saw her standing with him in a church? Couldn’t a fellow punch another
fellow in the face without laying claim to the girl in the middle? After all, he had no desire to sock it to Miss Alice Reighly, and
she’d
hurt Monica as much as anybody. No, in that matter he wanted to smack himself for starting that whole ball rolling.

If any woman ever seemed like one who should send him running, it was Monica Bisbaine. She had none of the qualities his mother had urged him to look for. Her life was a living example of everything Sister Aimee warned the world against. Loose, if this jokester tonight were to be believed. A lush, given her ease with and desire for drink. Even lazy —wasting a quick wit and sharp writing on a crummy last-page column in a two-bit tabloid.

But she’s mine.

This time the words didn’t belong to him.

She’s mine, Max.

He tried to imagine anyone else levying that same list of accusations against her. Charlie called her loose, and he socked him. Alice Reighly insulted her writing, and he’d burned a little in anger, wishing to rise to her defense. As for the drinking? Well, even he couldn’t defend the government’s interference there.

She’s mine, Max. And I love her.

“I know you do, Lord. I wish she knew that too.”

And despite all the reasons he shouldn’t, Max knew he loved her too.

Knowing he’d pushed sleep further away than before, he sat up in bed and reached for the chain on the bedside lamp, turning his eyes away from the initial illumination. Books were stacked on the table, his Bible among them, and while he knew his first recourse should be to look for comfort and clarification in God’s Word, he couldn’t help but dread what he might hear.

Two wandering souls, they were, each orphaned and alone. The hunchback and the gypsy, though their roles seemed
interchangeable. She fancied herself, he presumed, the twisted, unlovable soul, yet here he harbored an unspoken love.

His mind went back to that first day, those first moments before he knew what a quagmire lurked behind those big brown eyes, when she’d called him Griffin. The Invisible Man. Little did he know then that she lived just as invisibly as he did.

That novel, too, lay on the bedside table, marked with the ribbon where he’d left off at his last reading. He grabbed it now, put on his glasses, and smiled at the chapter title: “The Invisible Man Sleeps.”

“Not likely.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped his feet into his slippers. His thick robe hung from the bedpost. He put it on, took his book, and headed into the dark kitchen. A glass of warm milk was in order; he’d take it back into bed with him, feeling defiant in doing so despite the years he’d spent without accountability for his behavior.

As the milk warmed in the pan, he thought about all the responsibilities he would have for tomorrow’s evening with Monica. A “date,” as she might call it. As anyone might call it, actually. The house remained fairly clean between Zelda’s visits, though he might straighten the bookshelf. And perhaps a new oilcloth for the table. Something pretty —women liked those things. Flowers for the center. And food.

He thought no further than
food
.

Whatever had compelled him to agree to making dinner?
Bewitched
might be more accurate. He wasn’t even sure what he should get for the cat.

This was the disadvantage of living invisible. A stranger in a strange land. He’d never invited a woman to his home before, having gone from his parents’ house to Army barracks to a one-room apartment under the scrutiny of an evangelist with a strangely personal
reach. Maybe he’d assumed Monica —a bachelor in her own right —would be satisfied with a can of soup and a ham sandwich.

Then he remembered the way she’d tucked into that shepherd’s pie.

First thing in the morning, after the hours of restless sleep that finally came, he called the
Capitol Chatter
offices, knowing Zelda Ovenoff would be there, straightening and dusting, no matter her new responsibilities as a contributing writer. Whether or not she’d answer the phone, however, was a different question altogether.

He was in luck.

“Hallo. Is Zelda.”

“Zelda. It’s Max.”

“Mr. Moore?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, the phone! It has been ringing and ringing all morning. At first I did not answer, but over and over.”

If this were a regular Saturday occurrence, it was the first he’d heard of it. In fact, he could count at the most twenty phone calls to the office since he’d arrived. His mind flashed back to the image of Doc King’s gun-wielding thugs, and he winced. “Who’s been calling?”

“So many people. They want to buy advertisement, and I tell them I’m only the cleaning lady, to call back on Monday. So be prepared that day to be very busy.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“Nothing, Mr. Moore. Not about any of that business.”

He laughed. “That’s all right, Zelda. You did just fine. I don’t know why they would be calling this time of week anyway.”

“
You
called, Mr. Moore.”

“For completely different reasons, I assure you.” Over the next minute, he explained his predicament to Zelda. That he’d invited a friend to dinner, and he had no idea what to prepare.

“It is a woman?”

There was no lying to Zelda, not even over the phone. He cleared his throat. “It is.”

“It is our Miss Monica?”

Had he not already set a precedent of truth, he might have denied it, but already he’d hesitated long enough to confirm her guess.

“It is, actually.” He felt no compulsion to tell her about the cat.

“Oh, Mr. Moore. I will be there in one hour to take care of everything.”

Zelda didn’t exaggerate. By late afternoon, Max was sitting in a spotless house with the smell of pork shoulder and turnips roasting in his oven. Foolproof, Zelda had said. “Just don’t touch it until you eat it.”

The kitchen table was covered with a crocheted cloth the color of champagne and set with china decorated with flowers painted in gold.

“I have four sets I took from my sister,” she’d said with a hint of triumph. “I convinced her no-good husband to give them to me so I’d keep my mouth shut about his shenanigans.”

A modest number of carnations stood in a clear cut-glass vase, but he’d drawn the line at candles.

“But, Mr. Moore,” Zelda had implored, “they make for such romance.”

That’s when he told her about the cat, and they agreed the risk of fire would be too great.

Every book on Uncle Edward’s bookshelf stood upright, spine out —a task Zelda had been wary of until Max convinced her he didn’t share his uncle’s overprotectiveness toward them. After she left, he’d spent the afternoon in the soft leather chair staring at it. A lifetime’s collection. He settled in to read
The Invisible Man
, hoping to finish it before Monica arrived. Then, perhaps, he’d lend it to her, giving them another book to share. And when she finished, she could bring it back. Choose another. When he looked at the vast array of titles on the shelves, he saw nothing but endless opportunities for visits and conversation. He could be the Rudy Valentino of librarians.