Fate and Ms. Fortune (10 page)

Once again, the dog gave me the cue, as he tried to get the cordless phone from Ken’s hand. “Smart doggy.” I dialed 911. Fifteen hundred my ass. Madeline would owe me more than that.

Queasy me was afraid to look down, though I couldn’t help but notice his crisp, white shirt, now covered in blood, and realized he was the guy I’d spotted on the street. And yet with his gaunt eyes and shorn hair, he no longer bore a resemblance to the sexy, bring-it-on guy in the pictures.

I felt his wrist, and at least he had a pulse, which was more than I could say for my last blind date.

“Help operator!” I said. “A man fell on his terrace. He’s bleeding and he’s not moving…I’m so scared…Wait. Now he’s trying to get up…Yes, that’s the right address…Second floor.”

“I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Help me up…hey boy.” He tried to pet the dog.

“He’s talking,” I said. “He wants to get up…They said don’t move. They’re on their way.”

“I’m fine. Just give me a hand…come here, Rookie. Come here boy.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Ma’am, he’s insisting he can get up…Uh huh. Okay. Right.”

“Please.” Ken reached for my hand.

“No wait. The lady said you could injure yourself worse if you move.”

“I swear to God if you don’t help me up, we’re through.”

“Wow. I thought my last relationship was short.” I knelt down with the dog barking in my face. “Here. Try to grab on to my waist. No wait. I don’t think I’ll be able to lift you myself…”

“Robyn, just give me your hand. I can do this. I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve tried to kill yourself before?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

“Well that’s good,” I said as I slowly helped him off the ground and into the chair. “Usually men don’t try to jump until after we’ve had sex.”

An awful thing to say, but at least it got Sourdough Boy to smile. “What happened?”

“I was looking for my phone but guess I found the table first.”

“Oh my God. You poor thing. You’ve been through so much.”

“Spare me your sympathy. And call 911 back. I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. You’re bleeding. You could have a concussion. Or a broken collarbone.”

“Are you a doctor?” Rookie jumped on his lap and licked his face.

“No, but I dressed up as one for Halloween…Shouldn’t we try to stop the bleeding?”

Ken touched his blood-soaked face and looked faint.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” I asked. “Are you in pain? Where’s your Advil?”

“In the kitchen. Make sure to take them with food.”

“Not for me. For you.”

“I’m fine. Just get me a towel with ice.”

“Good. That’s good. A towel with ice. I’m on it…By the way. I’m Robyn Fortune.” I shook his hand. “We went to the same college, and possibly the same camp.”

“Well, that’s better than the last girl Madeline fixed me up with. The only thing we had in common was a last name.”

“She fixed you up with your cousin?”

“No. My wife.”

I’
VE BEEN ON
some first dates that involved unusual modes of transportation, like the time Rachel fixed me up with a Wall Street friend who thought I would be impressed if he took me for a quick spin over Manhattan in his twin-engine Cessna (I threw up after take-off and spent the rest of the flight writing out my will).

And last month I’d agreed to go out with an Englishman I met on the show, who showed up in a brand-new, 475-horsepower Porsche, then insisted he would get the hang of driving on the left by the end of the night (I jumped out before he got on the FDR).

But I’d have to say that speeding through the streets of midtown in an ambulance took the prize. Particularly since my date assumed we were strangers, and I now knew otherwise. The proof was in the picture of the three boys I’d seen in his apartment. A picture I had taken fifteen years earlier, though I hadn’t known the subjects.

I would never forget the December afternoon that I walked out of my dorm at Penn State and had a camera tossed in my
face. “Hey chickie, take our picture,” one of them shouted. What jerks, I thought, until I looked through the lens and realized my cafeteria honey was in the shot.

I hadn’t been much of an eater until I went away to school, laid eyes on this adorable guy who lived in my dorm, and realized I had three meals a day to run into him. Which explained how the Commons became my second home, and how I gained my freshman fifteen.

Sadly, in all that time, I never worked up the courage to say hello or ask his name. And that picture I took? It was the last time I ever saw him. So you can understand my excitement at getting this out-of-the-blue chance to solve the mystery of who he was and where he went.

But once inside the ambulance, an oxygen mask was placed over Ken’s nose and mouth, making it impossible to study his face, let alone grill him with questions. Instead, I was being asked to focus my attention on the paramedic’s questions. How did this happen? How long was he blacked out? Was he taking any prescriptions or did he have any allergies?

I tried to sound informed because if I confessed that I knew the patient all of twenty minutes, I couldn’t very well pass myself off as his wife once we got to the hospital. And that was key, as I didn’t want to be relegated to the waiting room for the nonfamily, you-don’t-count folks.

Actually, selfish as it was, I wanted to stay by his side so that I could find out more about the picture. And more important, if, by some miracle, he was the eighteen-year-old boy/man for whom I ate rice pudding every day so I had reason to hang around a noisy dining hall.

It blew me away that I might be looking at the same person, though with the mask over his face, much shorter hair, a bigger body, and fifteen years since the last spotting, it was hard to tell if I was on to something, or if I was back to fantasizing, as I had during those few months I kept my eyes riveted to the
hall entrance, hoping to see the tall, lanky boy swagger in with his friends.

“So you guys have any kids?” The medic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Ken’s arm.

Ken’s shook his head just when I said, “Two. Breanna is three and Tristan is nine months.”

From beneath the mask, Ken turned into Darth Vader, spewing ominous messages through an echo chamber.

“Aw, he misses them already.” I patted his hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. My mom will be fine with them. I just hope she lays off the vodka tonics until I get back.”

The great thing about being a comic is you learn to ignore those who don’t appreciate your sense of humor. “What happens when we get to the hospital?” I asked.

“Basically, they’ll run him through a bunch of tests, look for internal injuries, broken bones. They may keep him overnight. But his vitals are good. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Oh thank God.” I sighed. “My poor husband has been through so much already…”

Ken squeezed my hand so hard I let out a cry. And though I could understand him being a bit annoyed that I was misrepresenting our relationship, he should only know how many times men had done that to me.

Speaking of the shoe being on the other foot, I looked down and freaked. In all the chaos, I’d forgotten I was Cinderella at the ball. If I didn’t return Gretchen’s things before midnight, I would wind up with a pink slip as a souvenir. Difference was, Cinderella didn’t have bloodstains on her clothes and Jimmy Choos cutting off the circulation in her feet.

If only a fairy godmother was circling the neighborhood now. Preferably one who had connections with a twenty-four-hour dry cleaner and flip-flops in her bag.

Meanwhile Ken was air scribbling. He must have noticed I was concerned about my soiled clothes and wanted to suggest
I drop them off at his dry cleaner’s, which was sweet. But after I handed him a paper and pen, I learned otherwise:

“Breanna and Tristan?” Rachel howled. “Weren’t they on
General Hospital?”

“I don’t know, but you had to see the look on his face. He was so pissed…How do you know when a dog is done walking?” I asked as Rookie sniffed every bush along Sixty-sixth.

“What kind of dog?”

“How should I know?” I studied him. “He’s white, he’s small, he has four legs.”

“That’s very helpful.” She laughed. “Show me on your camera phone.”

“Don’t have one. My cell is so old it has a rotary dial.”

“Well did he do his business yet?”

“Did he do his business yet?” I repeated as if I was unfamiliar with the local customs.

“Did you bring his pooper-scooper?”

“No. That was not in my instructions…You know, he’s not very nice.”

“The dog?”

“Yeah. The dog. No, Ken.”

“Oh c’mon. You’re not exactly meeting him under the best of circumstances.”

“I know, but I’m just saying. He’s very snotty and he’s got this whole anger thing going.”

“Well, I can solve that mystery,” she whispered. “I did some checking and oh my God, it’s amazing he’s not dating men yet.”

“What do you mean…Rookie!” I pulled his leash. “Must you sniff other dog’s poop?”

“Well first of all, his apartment isn’t his apartment. It belongs to Showtime.”

“That’s a relief. Even the books looked fake.”

“Exactly. Showtime keeps it for celebs when they’re filming in New York…I found out they’re letting him use it until he’s more mobile.”

“Who told you…Rookie, slow down, babe, or I’ll put these shoes on your feet and see how fast you walk.”

“I have my sources, but wait. That’s not all…He also dated Mira Darryl.”

“Are you serious? I love her. She was so amazing in
Fall of Pompeii.
”

“Never saw it. But yeah. She dumped him for…are you ready? Kyle Rider.”

“Oh my God. Can you blame her? Wow. I can’t believe Ken actually knows Mira.”

“Knows her? They practically lived together. I guess it was before his ski accident. Anyway, a few months ago she hooked up with Kyle at some charity thing, moved back to LA, and it was adios Kenny Boy. I heard he didn’t take it well. Called her constantly, flew out to LA, the whole begging scene. No wonder he’s a mess.”

“I can’t believe you found all this out in an hour. Oh wait. Call waiting. Maybe it’s him. Call you later. Thanks for the poop. No, not you, Rookie. Yes, yes. You’re a good boy.” I petted him.

It
was
Ken, and who saw this coming? He was as crotchety as ever, for in spite of his protests, he was being kept overnight for observation. But good news. They weren’t making him wear the I-See-You gown, so now I could pack him a bag and bring it back to the hospital. Oh, and then in the morning after work, I could swing by his place, take in the paper, then feed and walk Rookie. “And if you’re there when UPS comes, it’s fine to sign for any deliveries.”

Um, hello? Was I a date or employee of the month? And didn’t he have friends who could help him (although given his conduct, maybe not)? And what about my early curfew? A girl whose wake-up call was in the middle of the night needed her sleep. And I should really get home in case my mother hadn’t taken a key. Plus I had to stop at my office to switch clothes, and please God, to get out of those podiatrists-love-’em heels.

And yet I mentioned none of this as the thought occurred to me that Ken would owe me if I cooperated (“Really? You’d call Billy for me?”). And too, the possibility that our lives had been randomly crisscrossing for three decades was starting to freak me out. I wondered at what point coincidence ended and karma began.
Hello Rachel’s psychic? Do you ever have clearance sales?

Yeah yeah. Curiosity killed the cat. But what harm could come from snooping around a man’s apartment? Technically it wasn’t even his apartment, and was it really snooping if I had his permission to put together a bag of personal belongings? Naturally this involved going through his closets, dressers, and the tell-all medicine chest.

Then again, how could I violate this man’s privacy even if he’d never find out? And how would I feel if someone did that to me? Come to think of it, someone probably had. For all I knew, my mother had spent the morning sifting through my things and discovered that her precious daughter had two vibrators, an ounce of pot, and an addiction to La Perla bras.

Still, I was only human, and this might be my only chance to find out if beneath Ken’s gruff exterior, there was a warm side. So I made a deal with myself. Given I was on borrowed time, and I wanted to believe I had some integrity, I’d only poke around a little…starting with the box on his closet shelf marked “KMD: Personal.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I said to a barking Rookie
as I carefully placed the box on Ken’s bed. “You’d do the same thing if you could reach…”

As I stripped away the masking tape, I had to laugh. Only last week, Gretchen interviewed this actress, Claire Green, who was pitching a movie she made with her mother called
Claire Voyant.
She told a funny story about how she broke into a guy’s apartment to use his shower and ended up casing the joint. Now they were married. So see? The story didn’t have to end badly.

But minutes later I was not only shame-faced, I was bored. If the contents of this box held this man’s prized mementos, he had the sentimentality of a gnat. All I found were science projects, a bunch of old letters, and a shoe box filled with baseball cards.

Maybe Rachel was right. Just because I worked in television didn’t mean I had to watch it all the time. Not everyone lived on Wisteria Lane and had deep, dark secrets. Speak of the devil. She was calling to see where I was now.

“I’m back at his apartment,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because they’re keeping him overnight for observation and he needs his medication and things.”

“Lucky girl. Now you can case the joint and he’ll never know.”

“I’m sorry, but a lawyer who condones trespassing should be brought up on charges. Besides, I would never do anything so…oh my God.”

“What?”

“Oh wow. He was an adorable kid.”

“What are you looking at?”

“I took a box down from his closet and found these old pictures.”

“Robyn, did you or did you not just say—”

“Oh spare me. I was just looking for clothes to throw in a bag and I found it.”

“Right. And don’t forget to check out his medicine chest…”

“Did that…In two months they’ll be forwarding his mail to Betty Ford…You should see the picture of him and his two little friends…so cute…Oh my God. They look familiar too.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Long story…I don’t even know what I’m saying myself…I found a picture of him and two friends at college, and now here’s one of them as little kids. At least I think it’s them.”

“You lost me.”

“Sorry…I’m a little freaked out. I’m saying I think I might know Ken.”

“Really? How?”

“From Penn State, and maybe my sleepaway camp.”

“Then how come you didn’t recognize his name?”

“Because I never knew it…I only knew him by sight. Isn’t that so weird?”

“No, it’s perfect! The
Times
loves the wedding stories with all the destiny stuff going.”

“Would you stop? I spent maybe twenty minutes with a guy who was not only mean, he was horizontal the entire time, so it’s a tad too soon to interview florists.

“But don’t you see? It’s
bashert
.” She laughed. “You were meant to be together.”

“Because we might have gone to the same camp and college?”

“Because it’s time you had someone to dream about other than David.”

I call it a brain fart. My mother,
farmisht
. Either way, it’s when you are on such overload, you can’t think straight. Drop Ken’s things off at the hospital, go to the office to change, then head
home? Nope. Couldn’t take one more step in these shoes. Take a cab to the office, a bus to the hospital, then try to reach my mom? Nope. She didn’t have a cell.

I decided to walk to the office first and borrow Ken’s size twelve Adidas slides. Didn’t care that they were huge. At least they wouldn’t send a blood rush to my ankles. And so what if I looked unfashionable, I thought as I charged into Gretchen’s dressing room, turned on the light in her walk-in closet, and said hello to Gretchen and Kevin, who were screwing on the floor.

“Oh my God.” I screamed. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I was just—”

“Christ!” Kevin rolled over, leaving both him and a panting Gretchen exposed. “Oh thank God it’s not Anne…It’s not what you think, Robyn.”

You’re right. You’re better hung than the Mona Lisa and Gretchen would make a great spokesperson for Wonderbras.

“It’s not what you think.” A sniveling Gretchen reached for her shirt. “That’s right. We’re in here doing local promos.”

“Well sorry.” He looked at his watch. “Damn! It’s late…”

“Robyn! How dare you just barge in here like this.” Gretchen glared.

How dare I? Am I the one having sex with a married man in a closet at work?
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”