The Lovely Chocolate Mob (6 page)

“How did you get this?” I asked.

“Mindy’s boyfriend. He works as a security guard part-time at the hospital, and this showed up on the parking lot cameras. He saw this while it happened on the viewing screens, recognized Franklin, and made a photo from the digital files.”

I looked at the picture. “This is a pretty grainy picture… why did he give this to you?”

“They’re pretty serious, Mindy and her boyfriend. He knew the woman wasn’t me, and thought Mindy should know,” she said, with some subtle disregard for Mindy’s choice of boyfriends.

I looked back at the photograph. I could see both people’s faces, with the girl’s face turned toward the camera. Even with the grainy photo, I was struck by her beauty. I remarked, “She is quite a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

This hurt Helen; she tried to hide it, but it was as if someone poked her with a sharp object. I should have been more sensitive.

“She’s young, rich, and pretty, and involved with my husband,” Helen said.

I continued to look at the photograph, thinking, “Dr. Franklin Burke, I don’t know if you’re a lucky dog or just a total idiot. You already have a beautiful wife, who seems to care for you. You’ve got an intelligent young daughter. On the other hand, you’ve picked a cute little girlfriend. I’m sitting here with your wife, and your daughter is in the immediate vicinity, so I’ll have to side with them on this one. You’re doing something wrong, but after seeing your choice, I can understand how you’d fall into an affair.” I wonder if he sought her out, or if she picked him? I guess that didn’t matter. Helen was hurt and needed some support.

“What are your thoughts on this, Randall?” Helen asked. Oh, you don’t want to know my thoughts, Helen. I think you’re getting to know the pain of rejection and betrayal. I’d like to ask you how it feels, but your daughter is near and you’d leave, and I don’t want that.

“Helen, do you love your husband?” I looked up to see her face; I wanted to know.

This question seemed to startle her, but it was a fair one. After all, we were talking about family.

“He’s my husband.”

“I know he’s your husband,” I continued. “Do you love him?”

“Yes, I love him. I think I love him. Not like when we first were married, but I’ve always respected him and his opinions, what he’s done for the community, the people he’s helped, his work, his position…”

She sounded as though she were describing an employer, or someone she worked for. Good thing Mindy wasn’t here to hear this; it might hurt her. Nevermind that he kept her and the family in comfort and luxury, I’ll bet she respects that, too. She’s had plenty of years of non-work. What does she do all day?

“The reason I asked that is because this photograph alone would probably give you an easy divorce.”

“I don’t want a divorce. I want my husband back. I want my life…” her voice trailed off.

I stayed respectfully silent. It was difficult for her to speak. I could wait. I’ve waited a long time.

“I want my life back,” she said again. She took a breath, and said, “We have children…”

“I’ve met one,” and smiled. “I think she’s quite a little girl; you two have done well. Tell me about the rest.”

“There are four of them,” she said. “Three girls and one boy, and he’s the youngest. Mindy is in college, one child is in high school, one in junior high, and one in grade school.”

“You really did have a family. Congratulations on that.”

She smiled. “Their names are Mindy, Beth, Lucia, and…”

I waited.

“J.R.”

“J.R.? As in Junior?” I asked. ”Now I was the one who was surprised. “I assume all your children are named after relatives?”

She smiled again. “They’re named after people we admire. The girls adore their father, as does J.R. I’m what you call the ‘bad’ parent. I make them mind, behave, do their chores, clean their rooms, do their homework.” She continued, “Franklin is the ‘good’ parent. He buys them gifts, takes them places, lets them do what they want. He adores them as well.”

She reached for her purse again, still on the table, and looked for her pocketbook. She reached it, opened it, and pulled out family photographs, pictures of herself and Franklin and the four children. I looked at them all closely for awhile, and listened as Helen pointed out the children and their names. They were a nice-looking family, almost perfect in appearance, and, somehow, this wound up hurting me. I was looking at a family that could have been mine, except, I’m sure any child I had wouldn’t be as pretty as the ones in the pictures. I was instantly smitten by the children.

“Helen, what the heck is he thinking?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t asked him about this. I just found out recently, and he doesn’t know that I know. I came to you for advice. I needed someone who…”

I waited, again.

“Mama needed someone she could trust.”

I looked up. Mindy had come back. I don’t know how long she’d been there.

I looked back at Helen. “You trust me? When did you decide this?”

Mindy didn’t say anything, because now she knew her Mom didn’t want her to talk. Helen looked a little uncomfortable by my question.

Trustworthy. That’s me. And loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous and kind. A nice guy. A nice guy who finished last.

I broke the silence: “Does anybody else know about this photograph?”

Now Mindy could talk. “Just my boyfriend, me, Mom, and now, you.”

“None of the other children?”

“No,” said Helen. “I don’t want them to know.”

“Now here’s a question that’s suddenly popped up in my mind,” I said, “and I’m not being sarcastic when I ask this. What do you expect me to do?”

“Randall, you were known for reasoning with people in college, making friends with different people in different groups. I don’t know what you can do. I guess I just needed somebody to tell. I need to know what to do.”

Why, you little Delilah. You’re married to this cheater and then you come crawling to me, the guy you threw over, so I can set your life straight for you.

“I’m glad you came to me,” I heard myself say.

Then I heard someone clear his throat. Looking up, I saw the manager of the restaurant, far in the distance. It was getting near to closing time, and he was hinting it’s about time to leave without actually saying it. I got the message.

“Helen, the restaurant is closing soon. I have to work tomorrow. Can we meet again, later, and can you share more information? Mindy, are you computer savvy?”

Helen said, “She knows more about computers than I do.”

Speaking to both, I said, “If you’d like, you can e-mail me your findings. Can you do this on a separate computer, one your father doesn’t have access to? Let me give you my e-mail address.”

Helen opened up her purse again and handed me a piece of paper. I wrote my e-mail down and slid the paper back across the table to Mindy. I held it to the table before she picked it up, which got her attention as she tugged on it. She looked into my eyes.

“I’m not asking you to betray your father. He may be an innocent man. I’d like to find out more about this woman, Susan Lovely. This picture really doesn’t tell the whole story. If he is innocent of any affair, we need to find out.” I released my e-mail address and Mindy picked it up, put it into her purse, and snapped it shut. “I understand,” said Mindy.

“You two contact me first and I’ll write back, if you want. Let’s find out about this ‘other woman.’ What can you tell me about her? Find out all you can, without raising any suspicions, of course.”

“Of course. Yes,” said Helen. “I know a few things, but not as much as I should. Mindy is good at research, especially on the internet. We’ll find out what we can, and get back in touch with you, hopefully soon.”

Mindy got up and left without saying a word. I guessed she was emotionally overwrought, but she’s the one who alerted her mother. After a few moments, Helen and I left the booth and walked outside, and I accompanied Helen to her car. It was dark by then, with most of the parking lot empty, and it wasn’t good to let her walk alone, even if the car wasn’t far from the building. Of course this put me in an awkward situation; in the old days, she’d expect me to kiss her goodbye. I held back so as to not crowd her, to not be too close. She got her keys out to open her car door, but before she did, she looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Randall.”

Well, I guess that took 25 years to say. What am I supposed to say in return?

“There was no ‘if,’ Helen.”

She took this well. “Then… I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I stopped for a moment, searching for sincerity in her eyes. Helen didn’t say anything more, but got in her car and drove off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.

Maybe I revealed too much. Perhaps I let my anger take over.

I got into my car and drove home, still wondering about Helen’s latter-day acknowledgement of my feelings. The more I thought the angrier I got. “Sorry?” I said out loud. “Sorry? Sorry is good, Helen, sorry is a good start, a good beginning.” I could feel my blood pressure go up and my pulse quicken as I continued, now yelling, “But ‘sorry’ doesn’t FIX things. FIXING things fixes things! If you wanna be SORRY about something, try FIXING it. How? I don’t KNOW how; that’s your problem, not mine!” By now I had changed into a driving Incredible Hulk.

I found myself yelling as I drove down the street into the neighborhood and into my driveway. I hoped none of the neighbors heard me, since my car windows had been down.

When I woke up, the first words to come out of my mouth were “Oh, no.” I had to go in to work in an hour.

People sometimes asked me, “Do you like your job?” to which I always replied, “I like getting paid.” This got me some strange looks, but hey, I’m used to that, and have learned to expect it. I’ve learned when I don’t get an unusual stare, something’s wrong, as though I’ve gone against the flow of the crowd; sometimes I’ve enjoyed that, and other times I have been caught by surprise to see that stare from other people.

My job, as I told Miss Planter, is being a civil engineer at Root and Bonham, a private engineering firm in Lovely. The bosses are pleasant enough, and they’ve learned to leave me alone in my work area, which means I usually have all day to coordinate drawings correctly. They come by a few times during the day to touch base and make sure we’re on the same page, but since I’m their best worker and really don’t care for interruptions, they only stay as long as they have to. I’m a civil engineer, and we have a civil relationship. If they ask reasonable questions and give reasonable suggestions, I’ll listen and talk with them. If they’re just talking to be talking, I have to bite my tongue to not be rude. I know more than they do about any project in the building and they know it, although it’s not said. If I chose to, I could have been one of the managers and bosses, but then I wouldn’t be an engineer, would I? Why did I go to school to learn how to be an engineer if I were going to be a people manager? I went to school to become an engineer, and an engineer I’ll stay until I retire, which, I hope, won’t be too far in the future.

The pay is fair, not great, but fair, which is why I don’t bolt and sell out to another firm. I know I could demand more money, based on the sheer quality and quantity of my work, but I don’t really like to raise the stress levels at work. Plus, if they paid me more, they might expect me to put out more work. I’m doing the best I can now, and I really don’t need that extra pressure. I give them good work. I get paid a fair wage. That’s good enough.

Another perk is the hours I work, Monday through Friday with weekends and holidays off. If a project is due, I’ll work late at my desk into the night, and the bosses appreciate that. If I want to go to the doctor, they let me go, no questions asked; if I want to take a day off, they understand that also, with minimal interference. Since I outwork and many times guide their other engineers, I’m seen as a somewhat valuable commodity, which works in my favor. Understand that I don’t cheat them; I just like to have flexible hours.

This isn’t the best atmosphere to make friends; if something goes wrong, everybody steps back so as to not catch the blame. Everybody is watching out for himself, and I guess that’s fair, too, but it doesn’t really help to build trust in this environment.

The best thing about work is, I really don’t have to talk to anybody if I don’t want to. I can take breaks and be in touch with anybody I need to contact concerning outside issues. Since I was at work and it was break time, I figured I needed to call an old friend, Walter Dale. The problem with that, though, is I don’t know how.

I do have a few other friends from high school and college who might know where he is. I immediately called Gary Byers, a friend in common and a florist in town; perhaps he could help.

I dialed, or push-buttoned, the business number, and an employee answered, “Byers’ Florist, how can I help you?”

“Yes sir,” I said, “I need to speak with Gary.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

“No, I’m an old friend from school days.”

“Hold on.”

I liked these kinds of conversations. The fellow on the other end of the line was strictly business and loyal to his employer; that’s something I could respect. About a minute rolled by. The employee returns to the phone. “Gary wants to know who’s calling.”

“Tell him it’s Randall Owen.”

“Just a minute.”

I waited another minute, then heard another line pick up on the other end.

“Randall! How are you doing? What have you been up to?”

“Hello, Gary. Everything’s fine; I need a favor.”

“Sure, anything. What do you need?”

“I need to speak with Walter.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Walter.”

“Come on, Gary. We went to high school together!”

“We’re having a sale this week on day lilies. If you’d come in, I could show them to you personally. Some of the pictures on our website aren’t as pretty as they are in real life.”

I was stumped for a second, then understood what he was saying. His phone might have extra listeners, and he was hesitant to say more. He wanted to speak face-to-face.