Time Off for Good Behavior (13 page)

I tried to keep my voice even, but i
t was a task. When I returned from my visit with His Holy Hard-Ass, there were three messages on my machine. I had picked up a paper to continue my job search and listened to the messages as I grazed through the classifieds. I assumed the first message wa
s
a wrong number, just some guy rambling about his job. Then there was a woman who said my name and asked if I was a reporter. My eyebrows furrowed and I shook my head, figuring it was time to make my number unlisted, and then I looked back to the classifi
e
ds and I saw it.

Then I called Jennifer.

“
If you
’
re unhappy with the ad, Ms. Lane, you can write a letter to the paper and we can process a refund.
”

“
Refund! How about you process all the goddamn phone calls I
’
ve been getting from people telling me who the
y are!
”

“
Have people been calling you? Like who?
”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and gave it an
“
Are you nuts?
”
look before tossing it back on my shoulder and sputtering,
“
What?
”

“
Who
’
s been calling you?
”

“
Oh, for crying out
—
I don
’
t know. People. Stra
ngers. Weirdos. Someone named Laura. It
’
s really not the point.
”

“
Maybe it is?
”
she said.
“
Maybe this is your chance?
”

I was expecting either attitude or acquiescence. Jennifer
’
s conversational, coffee shop tone was throwing me off.
“
What?
”

“
Your chance? T
o do something meaningful?
”

“
That
’
s it!
”
I stomped through the apartment, slamming doors for effect.
“
Take the ad out of the paper. Now!
”

“
Well, it
’
s too late to stop it for tomorrow, but I can have it out of the paper by... Tuesday?
”

I breathed through my
clenched teeth.
“
Fine.
”

“
Okay, then? Is there anything else I can help you with today? Are you trying to sell a pet, home furnishing, or car? Because the
Hastings Daily Reporter
has competitive rates
—
”

I pushed the talk button so forcefully that my thumb
hurt, and tossed the phone onto the sofa. I thought briefly about going to the store to get another bottle of Albert, then busted out crying.

My life was a Lifetime movie. I was an out-of-work single woman naming bottles of Scotch, receiving death threats
from an abusive ex-husband, and getting phone calls from strangers. They probably wouldn
’
t even be able to get Farrah Fawcett to play me. It
’
d probably be Kathy Najimy
’
s first dramatic role, and the critics would pan it, saying it
’
s unbelievable that anyo
n
e would be as stupid as that Wanda Lane, and then I
’
d have to move to Tijuana and change my name to Lupe.

And I
’
d probably still be unemployed.

I sat down on the sofa and leaned my head back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes and whining,
“
My lif
e is a Lifetime movie.
”

And we all know they only get worse before they get better.

***

The next day started out pretty well, considering how totally fucked it was by 11 a.m. I went to my mailbox promptly at ten for my daily verbal sparring with Manny th
e Mailman. There are three things in life you can count on: death, taxes, and Manny at ten o
’
clock.

Manny
’
s a guy in his late fifties from the Bronx. Catholic, with a wife and like fifteen kids and a combative sense of humor. We met at the mailbox not long
after I moved into my apartment. He had told me to move my fat ass out of his way; I
’
d responded that he could move it himself if he didn
’
t mind losing a hand. We
’
ve been buds ever since.

“
You got a real letter,
”
he said as he handed me my mail with a loo
k of feigned disgust.
“
I never figured you for the type who had friends.
”

“
Bite me, butthead.
”
It was a lame comeback, but I was more concerned with rifling through the junk to get to the letter. Thoughts of my mother, unrealistic as they were, skirted thr
ough my head. She used to write to me when I was in college and even a few letters after George and I moved to Tennessee. I caught sight of the letter, the familiar chicken scratch etched into the paper with the force of an angry pen, and my stomach turne
d.

“
Who
’
s George?
”
Manny asked. I didn
’
t respond.
“
Fucker
’
s got some scary handwriting.
”

I stared at it. I felt Manny
’
s hand on my shoulder.

“
You okay, Wanda?
”
he asked. For the first time since I
’
d known him, Manny looked concerned.
“
You
’
re not breathing.
”

I inhaled, shrugged his hand off.
“
Don
’
t touch me, skeeze-ball.
”

Manny
’
s face fell into a relieved smile, and he continued sorting the mail into the boxes.
“
They don
’
t pay me enough to deal with people like you.
”

I wandered back up to my apartment and sat
at the counter, the letter lying unopened in front of me until I worked up the courage to reach for the letter opener. George didn
’
t write. George called. I
’
d gotten only one letter from him in my entire life, and that ended very badly.

I skimmed the lett
er, then read it more carefully. I paced back and forth in my living room, getting jumpier by the minute. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Albert, then put it back. The last thing I wanted was to be drunk when George found me.

When George found
me.

Jesus.

I went into the bathroom, pulled Walter
’
s card out of the corner of the mirror, and dialed.

“
Walter Briggs.
”
His voice was professional. Businesslike.

The voice of a person whose life had never been threatened by a psychopath. I was quiet. I al
most hung up. Then, after a moment,
“
Wanda?
”

“
How
’
d you know it was me?
”

“
I heard the television in the background.
”

“
Lots of people watch television.
”

“
I know.
”
He paused, waiting for me to say something. When I didn
’
t, he went on.
“
Is everything okay?
”

“
No,
”
I said.
“
George lost his job.
”

“
George?
”

“
My ex-husband.
”

“
Ah. The one you want me to sue for not being dead yet?
”

“
That
’
s the one.
”
I gave a tinny, high-pitched laugh.
“
Apparently, someone overheard him threatening me on the phone at the refinery off
ice, and he got fired, and he thinks it
’
s my fault. He
’
s on his way to Tennessee to make good on the threat.
”

Walter
’
s voice tightened.
“
What was the threat?
”

I paused, looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember that last phone call.
“
Slit my fucking thr
oat, I believe.
”

Even tighter.
“
Wanda? Are you okay?
”

“
Define okay.
”

“
Is he there?
”

“
No. It
’
s just... He wrote me a letter. A crazy fucking psycho letter. When he writes letters, he means it.
”
I put my hand to my forehead and began to babble.
“
You
’
re the o
nly legal person I know. I have a restraining order, but those are really no good because when someone
’
s crazy, what the hell do they care about a restraining order, right? I mean, if you
’
re going to kill someone, violating a restraining order is like pea
n
uts, right?
”

“
Wanda. Take a breath.
”

“
I
’
m okay. I
’
m okay. Really. I
’
m fine. I just... I
’
m wondering what I should do. Are you sure we can
’
t sue him for being alive? Because that would make me feel better. You know, make me feel like I
’
m doing something.
”

“
Wanda. Listen to me. Are you listening?
”

I looked around the apartment, trying to focus.
“
Yeah.
”

“
I want you to pack a bag, quickly, and get over to my house. Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?
”

I walked over to the kitchen counter.
“
Yeah.
”

He gave me
the address.
“
I want you to meet me there in twenty minutes. Okay? Can you do that?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
Twenty minutes. If you
’
re not there, I
’
m calling the police.
”

“
Twenty minutes,
”
I repeated. I took a deep breath and hung up the phone, then went to my room to p
ack.

***

Walter put the letter on his kitchen counter. I wrapped my fingers around the mug of coffee he
’
d poured for me. I couldn
’
t drink it
—
my stomach was too knotted up to allow for that
—
but the smell held a little comfort.

Walter
’
s house was nice: woo
d floors, tile in the kitchen, refrigerator with an ice-maker and a water dispenser. Immaculate. Luckily, I was too freaked out to be embarrassed about the state my apartment had been in when he stopped by. Walter was a pipe dream, anyway. Right now I had
bigger fish to fry.

“
What does this mean? This part about
‘
I know you remember last time
’
?
”
he asked. He was watching me like a hawk, looking for signs of a lie.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
I lied. He watched me for a few seconds more, then reached for the phone. I ju
mped up.