Leftovers: A Novel (5 page)

•  •  •

Across town, Stew Parker was waiting in his squad car for Babs. A bit nerdy and out of shape, he was the complete antithesis of the stereotypical policeman. A year and a half older than his sister, most mistook Stew for being Babs’ little brother. Not so much because he looked younger, it was more about the dynamics of their relationship. She was mothering, demonstrative and constantly giving Stew advice. He was always second-guessing himself, and in truth, felt overshadowed by her self-confidence and more often than not, acquiesced to her many whims. He followed her around like a tickbird to a rhino. And like the bird and mammal’s symbiotic relationship, Babs may have been the fearless and larger than life character, but Stew was the alarm system, ready to sound off noisily when danger approached. It was a good match.

Wearing black horn-rimmed glasses with lenses that needed to be strengthened, Stew brought his wristwatch up to his face to read the time. Wondering what was taking Babs so long, he impatiently followed the windshield wipers back and forth as they laboriously worked to slosh away the rain.

Babs ran out of her house with a Tupperware bowl over her head and opened the passenger’s door.

“Hope this storm doesn’t put a damper on the party turnout,” she shouted as she climbed into the squad car and threw the bowl into the backseat.

Stew rolled down his window so he could actually see if any other cars were coming, then he pulled out into the street. “I’m late for my shift.”

“Sorry for holding you up. Having trouble reaching Viv.”

A serious look came over his face.

Babs continued. “If I didn’t have these two parties back-to-back I would have swung by her place.”

“Anything wrong?”

Babs shook her head now regretting that she had brought it up. She never could keep a secret and cursed herself as she nonchalantly looked out of the fogged up window.

There was a long pause and then he hit his fist on the steering wheel. “Not again.”

Stew was an emotional man who tended to wield his hands wildly when excited, in an expressive way, but not threatening.

“Listen, don’t get in the middle . . . ”

“Who is it this time?”

Stew knew exactly what was going on. In fact, everyone at the precinct knew of Paul’s philandering ways. Some of the guys on the force found it amusing, even impressive. But Stew had morals and principles and would have found his behavior disgusting no matter whom Paul was married to. But because it was Vivian, it pushed every reaction button Stew had in his body.

Babs debated whether or not to tell him, then blurted it out. “Eleanor Gates.”

Stew slammed on the brakes bringing the cruiser to a screeching halt causing Babs and the entire backseat full of Tupperware to lurch forward. A plastic tub came flying forward into the front seat as a car passed by them blaring their horn.

Babs touched his hand gently. “Stew, please don’t . . . ”

He was seething. “I’m finally going to confront the heel.”

“But don’t do anything crazy.” Babs picked up the container and threw it into the backseat as Stew just sat there fuming. She glanced at her watch and gently reminded him of the time. “Um, we’re both really late.”

Stew turned on the car’s siren and tore off down the road blinded by his anger and the rain, with his hands flying.

“Oh geez,” Babs cried as she and the Tupperware felt the force of his car press against them.

•  •  •

After consuming copious amounts of water to counter the effect of the mystery Moody pill, followed by several cups of black coffee, Vivian managed to set the dining room table. Because she and Paul eloped, she had no bridal shower, therefore received no gifts. Not even from her mother. But there was someone who knew of her secret wedding and once she had settled into her house, sent over a brown paper wrapped boxed with a note attached that simply read:

good luck,
maid 4

Inside was a beautiful Irish lace tablecloth with bright red trim that she had crocheted herself. Maid 1 and Maid 3 were already ancient when Vivian was born and had no real relationship with her at all. And it was clear that Maid 2 disliked Vivian chatting at her because inevitably she would end up burning herself with the iron. But unlike the others, Maid 4 did speak to Vivian but only when they were on outings like to the Shepherd house. And although they never had true conversations and most of Maid 4’s orders consisted of “Hurry up!” or “Watch your step!” and “Don’t be late!” Vivian interpreted her deep Irish brogue barking as kind and protective words of wisdom.

Vivian had lovingly spread the lace tablecloth out over the dining room table. She then laid out two settings of her multi-color Melmac plastic dinnerware and matching hand-blown goblets, pairing them up with vintage silverware she had picked up at a garage sale. She gathered several candlesticks from around the house and had timed lighting the candles to coincide with Paul’s arrival.

•  •  •

Hours later, Vivian stood in the doorway of the dining room and looked at the candles that had burnt down and out. Paul had ordered her never to call him at work but worried that something serious had happened, either a robbery or a shooting, she wondered if she should dial the precinct.

Working the front desk, Stew had his head buried in a phone book while fellow Officer Pete O’Reilly sifted through a pile of papers.

“Stew, maybe she spells it G-A-Y-T-E-S?”

He shook his head. “I think the problem is, she’s just too new for the system.”

Stew took off his hat revealing a premature friar’s tuck. The perfectly round balding pattern on the back of his head looked like a child’s beanie cap had worn it away. As a policeman, what he lacked in projecting authority and brawniness, he made up for with fairness and compassion. And as much as he tried to hide it, the torch he was carrying for Vivian was blazing bright and strong. He was determined to catch Paul in the act and save Vivian from anymore heartache.

Pete got up and went to a file cabinet. “Maybe she moved here in time for the latest census.”

The phone rang and Stew answered it in a forced, gruff voice. “Precinct Four, Officer Parker.”

Vivian was on the other end. “Stewie?”

His voice softened. “Oh, um, hi Viv.”

“Can I speak to Paul please?”

“Paul?”

She half-laughed. “Yes, my husband?”

Stew panicked. “Aw, gee, Vivian. He’s ah, not here right now. He had an emergency.”

“Oh no,” she said clearly upset. “I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“No, he himself didn’t have an emergency. There was a call and he, well, um, he had to go to the scene of an emergency.”

Vivian paused, trying to take this all in. “Are you all right?”

Officer Pete came up beside Stew. “Gates, I found it.” Stew quickly covered the phone’s receiver.

“Stew, did someone say Gates?”

“Um, no, Viv. Cakes.” Stew turned his head away from the phone knowing how stupid that sounded. “It’s a couple of the guy’s birthdays this week and we’re celebrating and Pete found the cakes.”

“Oh, OK. Stew, I’m sorry for bothering you . . . ”

“Not at all.”

“But I always get nervous when Paul’s late and doesn’t call. And I’d never check up on him unless it was important but tonight is our wedding anniversary and . . . ”

This really fired Stew up. “Not to worry, Viv. Sit tight. You have no idea how sorry I am that you’re having to go through all of this.”

Vivian looked puzzled, trying to decipher what he was referring to. “OK.”

Stew caught himself and tried to cover. “I promise you he’ll be back before you know it.”

“Thank you.” Confused, Vivian slowly hung up the phone.

Stew put down the receiver as Pete came over. “She’s at 12 Morton Street.”

“Cover the desk,” Stew said as he ran out of the station.

•  •  •

The rain had just ended as Stew’s police car pulled up in front of Eleanor’s house. He got out of the cruiser and walked past Paul’s Fairlane parked in her driveway. He paused for a moment actually trying to figure out what he was going to do and say. Stew took a deep breath but held it, causing his chest to puff out as he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

He waited a moment, exhaled and rang the doorbell again. Getting no response, he knocked on the door. Then, he knocked harder. Infuriated, Stew slipped his billy club out of its holder and banged it against the door.

Finally it opened. There stood Eleanor barely wrapped in a pink chenille bathrobe and her black mane of hair tousled.

She smiled at him nervously. “Yes, Officer?”

Stew used his gruff voice. “Tell Paul Hayes to come to the door.”

“Who?”

“Cut the dumb blonde . . . ” Stew paused realizing her hair was black. “Just tell the moron to come to the door.”

Paul appeared at the door in just his boxers.

“What the . . . ?”

Stew puffed his chest up again. “Go home to your wife.”

Paul pushed Eleanor to the side and filled up the doorway. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

Making sure he kept his distance, Stew pointed his finger repeatedly at Paul as if he were digging it into his chest. “It’s your goddamn anniversary for Christ’s sake.”

Stew turned away in disgust and walked back towards his car.

“Oh that’s right, judge me and then run for cover.”

Stew kept walking, holding his breath and trying to look larger than he was while sweat poured from his armpits.

“Come back here, you sissy. OK. That’s it. Just keep walking. You’re going to regret you ever did this Parker!”

Stew hopped into his car and with a shaking hand managed to get the keys into the ignition wondering if the brute was going to chase after him.

He finally released his breath, deflated his chest and sped off.

Paul screamed at the top of his lungs, “Asshole!”

•  •  •

Vivian stared blankly at the tail end of the Miss America pageant. She tugged at the hangnail she had prepped in Dr. Moody’s office as Bob Russell, the host, stood between the last four contestants. The television was flickering and scrolling and with a touch of the rabbit ears, she could have stabilized it, but her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes focused on the coffee table where the small wrapped present sat.

Was there an emergency? Maybe Paul was hurt
.
She pinched the hangnail between her thumb and index finger and knew she shouldn’t do it.
There was obviously something Stewie wasn’t telling me. Why was he fumbling so? Maybe Paul was with another . . . 
and she ripped the skin off of her finger.

There was a moment before the pain registered in her brain and then blood began to drip. “Oh geez.”

Cupping her hand, she went into the kitchen and wrapped it in a napkin. After blotting some blood away she examined it.
Congrats Vivian. Tore this one down to the first knuckle.

The pain she understood, the waiting was driving her mad. About to jump out of the rest of her skin, she went back into the living room.

Bob Russell continued with the television show. “We’re down to our last two ladies but first we’d like to thank you, our television audience for tuning in to the first nationally televised broadcast of the Miss America pageant.” There was tremendous applause from the audience and a quick shot of the judging panel, which included Grace Kelly. “The two very excited and nervous gals standing beside me are Miss California, Lee Ann Meriwether and Miss Florida, Ann Gloria Daniel. And the winner is . . . ”

Vivian turned off the television set. She walked over to the picture window and pulled the curtain aside, looking out. There was no sign of him. She tightened the napkin around her finger and was tempted to call the station again but decided not to.

She paced the living room floor and that’s when she heard his car pull into the drive. Caught off guard, her first reaction was to run to the door. She thought twice about it and went into the kitchen, dabbed her finger one more time and threw away the napkin. Determined not to look as though she was waiting for him, she scurried over to the sofa, sat back down and picked up a copy of Anaïs Nin’s
A Spy In The House Of Love
. She flipped open to the dog-eared page and heard his keys in the door. She fought her instinct to jump to her feet and then took a deep breath.

Paul entered and was momentarily surprised that the dining room table was so elaborately set.

“Oh, you’re home,” Vivian said, sounding as nonchalant as possible. She casually got up off of the divan walked over to him. “Happy anniversary, darling.” She stretched up to kiss him but he gave her a peck on her forehead.

Trying not to react, she strolled into the kitchen. “Go, sit. Get comfortable. I’ll bring you a beer.” She took a bottle of Rheingold out of the refrigerator. “I was going to serve a roast but I’m afraid there was an incident and I’ve reheated last night’s dinner.” She took a casserole dish out of the oven and placed it on the dining room table. “I picked up your dry cleaning and had my dress altered.” She went back into the kitchen and popped the top off of the bottle of beer.