Dark Rooms (9 page)

At last he says, “Miss lunch?,” pointing his chin at the Wheat Thins pack in my hand.

My “Yes” back is absurdly eager.

“On purpose or by accident?”

“The second thing. No windows in the A/V Department. Easy to lose track of time.”

“That's right. The A/V Department's not on the main floor. You don't mind that you're spending most of your day in a basement, do you?”

“I like being underground. It suits my mood,” I say, realizing a second after I say it that this could be interpreted as a complaint rather than a joke—a complaint disguised as a joke, even worse.

He nods at me seriously. “The link between emotional health and social setting has been well documented.”

I hesitate, then risk it. “Or antisocial setting, in my case.”

There's a long silence in which he stares at me and blinks. I begin to panic: another joke he doesn't get. He's going to think I'm an ingrate, not to mention a bitcher and moaner. I'm about to mumble an apology, explain that I haven't been sleeping much and it's making me weird, not fit for human company, when a burst of laughter blows out his mouth. Then a second burst. Soon his head is thrown all the way back and he's laughing and laughing. Finally he wipes his eyes and claps me on the shoulder. “Wow, Grace, I can't tell you how nice it is to have another Baker on staff at Chandler.”

Pleased, I say, “Oh, well, thanks.”

“It wouldn't feel right starting a school year without one, you know?”

I hear these words and, all of a sudden, I can't hear anything else. A sweat breaks out under my arms, behind my knees, on the palm that holds the strap of my bag. Within seconds I'm in the middle of a full-blown flashback.

After Nica's murder was solved and the stench of scandal grew less pronounced, the Chandler administration discovered it had another smelly problem on its hands: us, me and my parents. We drifted around campus, faces pinched and sallow, clothes billowy since we scarcely remembered to eat; and not eating enough meant we gave off an odor, the bad-breath putrid stink of bodies consuming themselves. People at school pitied us, but the pity was soon mixed with
revulsion, so they looked down on us, as well. Anger was in there also, because their sense of duty obligated them to at least try to do right by us, wouldn't let them just abandon us as they surely wanted to. I think, at bottom, they found us morbid. I can understand why. We
were
morbid. We were beyond morbid. We were ghouls, going about our daily routines, alive yet lifeless—sordid, unwholesome, obscene, crimes against nature.

And Chandler was stuck with us. Well, not with me. I was headed off to college. With Mom and Dad, though. Between them they'd racked up nearly forty years of service, would have to give the administration one seriously good excuse to get rid of them.

So they went ahead and did.

Mom held it together at first, arriving at the art studio on time, keeping up with her teaching responsibilities, but then she began calling in sick two, three days a week, and when she did appear, would dismiss her classes halfway through the period. And Dad started to develop a reputation for serious weirdness. Stuff he normally did, like pounding the back of a student struggling for an answer, as if the number or equation were caught in the kid's throat like a fishbone, would go on for too long or, worse, would turn into a hug that also went on for too long, until the kid said, “At least buy me dinner first, Mr. Baker,” or “Hey, Mr. Baker, I can't breathe!”—something to snap him out of it. A couple of complaints were lodged and—voilà—the administration had all the ammunition it needed.

Chandler was generous in triumph, though, I'll give the school that. Mom and Dad were each offered a severance package that included a full year's pay, excellent references, and assistance in searching for a new position. The catch was, both had to accept or neither could. And if either did decline, both would be forced to take a one-year unpaid leave of absence. “A grief sabbatical,” it was called.

That my parents would acquiesce to Chandler's wishes seemed a foregone conclusion. No way could they afford not to generate income
for that long. Besides, a clean slate was probably just the thing for them, and for the school. It was in everybody's best interest that they say yes.

Which, apparently, was not a compelling enough reason for my mom to do so. The fight between her and Dad over her answer was an epic battle that lasted from the day the offer was presented in mid-May to the day their response was due on the first of June, the final day of the school year. I should say, in the interest of full disclosure, that I was well into my drug phase at this point, and I more felt the quivering mouths and hostile glances, the barbed words and tense silences, than saw or heard them. I was on my dad's side, of course. Not that I was much of an asset in my narcotized state. Not that I would have been much of an asset in any state. Not against my mom. She was too determined to get her own way. And I certainly wasn't surprised when I found out that she'd won and that the severance packages had been turned down. The only surprise was that Dad had managed to hold out as long as he did.

Two days after Mom declared victory, she was gone, off to some artists' commune. A fellowship she'd applied for at the beginning of the year had come through. Six months of room and board, plus a living stipend. It was just so typical of her. She'd made her point, her grand gesture, happy to fuck herself if she could fuck Chandler, too—who cared if she was also fucking my dad?—then ducked the consequences, left that part, the no-fun drudgery part, to him.

Shep must sense the movement of my thoughts because he suddenly turns pale. “Oh, Grace,” he says, raising a hand to his mouth. “I'm so sorry.”

“That's okay,” I say quickly.

“I didn't mean to upset you.”

“No, I know you didn't.” And I do know he didn't, but he did, and I feel angry at him for it, then angry at myself for feeling angry at him. “It's my own fault,” I say. “I have to learn to be less sensitive. It's
just”—and here my voice falters, tears sting my eyes—“the thought of my parents, of my mom, really, gets me riled up and weird.”

He starts to say something, then just nods his understanding.

“I'm not kidding,” I say. “All I have to do is think of her, and I go cross-eyed, basically.”

Softly, “Yeah, I'm sure you do. I mean, I get it, Grace.”

I drag my sleeve across my eyes, try to smile. “Of course you do. You're a guidance counselor. You know how it is between mothers and daughters. All those petty jealousies and pent-up resentments, arguments about missed curfews and wire hangers.”

“Is that how it is between you and your mom?” he says.

I feel another kick of anger at him for not allowing me to make fun of my situation, lighten the mood, for insisting on speaking the language of the inner self at all times.

He watches me pick at a loose thread on my shirt. Then he says, “Does she know you deferred admission at Williams for a year?”

“If she knows, it's not from me. The reason I gave the school was family emergency so maybe someone in the admissions office contacted her.”

“You haven't heard from her then?”

My no is hard, sharp, short.

“Has your dad?”

A sullen shrug. “You'd have to ask him. We don't really talk about her. I'm sure she's fine, though.”

“I'm sure she is.”

Shep and I stand silent for a while, long enough for my guilt to reawaken. Why do I keep directing my anger at him? He hasn't done anything wrong, is just trying to help. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Anyway,” I say, once more attempting a smile, “what you said before isn't true. I won't be the only Baker on staff at Chandler this year. My dad's bartending at the downtown Holiday Inn nights, but he's SAT tutoring here in the afternoons.”

“Speaking of afternoons, what are you going to be doing with yours? The A/V room closes before three. You want me to put my feelers out, see if any of the coaches are looking for an assistant? I'm sure you could use the extra cash.”

“I appreciate the offer. I really do. I think I'm all right, though.”

“Okay,” he says, but I see the look of worry in his eyes.

“Honestly, I am.”

“You know best, Grace, obviously. I just feel like it might not be good for you to have too much free time on your hands, time to brood, think about things.”

“No, I mean, all right as in I've got a lead on a second job. Like you said, I could use the extra cash.”

That ear-to-ear smile again. “Well done, you! Jobs are tough to come by these days. Especially in Hartford.”

“I don't have the job yet. I'm heading over there this afternoon for an interview. In fact”—I twist my neck to read the face of his watch—“if I don't get going, I'll be late.”

“Then I guess you better get going.”

I nod, grateful to have a legitimate, non-trumped-up excuse to end the conversation.

“Good luck,” he says, as I start off down the hall. He says something else, too, but it doesn't make it across the growing gap between us.

I throw a wave over my shoulder. Then, pushing the bar on the door, I step outside.

Fargas Bonds is located in Blue Hills, the worst neighborhood in a town full of bad ones. The building it's housed in, which also contains a liquor store and a Check N' Go, looks like the kind that's standing only because it's too much trouble to tear down—moldy blue-green paint peeling from the cracked concrete, bars on all the windows, fast-food wrappers trapped in the knobby branches of the bushes out front. Above the door is a neon sign that says
OPEN 24 HOURS
, next to it a handwritten one that says
HELP WANTED
.

I get out of the car. On my way to the curb, I step over a shattered pint bottle and a used condom, floating bloated and corpse-like in a puddle of drain run-off. I start to wonder if maybe this isn't such a hot idea. The inside of the office, though, immediately puts my mind at ease. It's nothing like the sleazy outside. In fact, it's sort of homey, like walking into someone's living room. Behind the receptionist's desk is a shelf lined with knickknacks: a box of dominoes, a shot glass filled with toothpicks that are also Puerto Rican flags, a photo of a grinning
kid in a Little League uniform. In the far corner is a minifridge, a Mr. Coffee machine, a potted fern not doing too badly.

I think that I'm alone, that the receptionist must have ducked out, gone to the bathroom or something, but then I hear, coming from behind a closed door, the faint, stutter-step sound of hunt-and-peck typing. “Hello?” I say. “Mr. Fargas?”

“In here!” a voice calls out.

I don't know what I'm expecting to see when I open the door, what image of a bail bondsman I'm carrying around in my head, but whatever it is, the person sitting at the desk doesn't match it. He's a neat, quiet-looking Latin guy in his late forties or early fifties. Clean-shaven, dark suit, no tie, reading glasses. A little heavy in the gut, maybe, but heavy in the shoulders, too. He's poking at the keyboard of a computer with two index fingers.

“I'm just finishing filling out a Power of Attorney form,” he says, eyes on the keyboard. “Have a seat. I'll be right with you.”

I lower myself into a chair. Eyes still on the keyboard, the man nudges a bowl of Hershey's Miniatures toward me. I take a couple to be polite, slip them in my bag. Slip, too, one of the business cards stacked on a metal tray at the desk's edge.
BONDS, FARGAS BONDS
, it says, followed by a phone number and an e-mail address.

Finally, the man hits the Return button, looks up. “Thanks for waiting,” he says. “Let me tell you how we work. We accept collateral in the form of—”

“Actually, Mr. Fargas—”

“Max.”

“Max,” I say, “I'm here about a job. I saw your advertisement.”

“You mean, on the door?”

“No, on Craig's List. I called yesterday, talked to a woman, she said to come by at three. Actually, she said to come by any time after three.”

“That must have been my assistant, Renee. So, I have an advertisement on Craig's List?”

I nod.

“Huh,” he says, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. “What does it say?”

“Not much. Just that you need someone from three
P.M.
on. And that a driver's license is necessary, but experience isn't.”

“Oh.” He takes off his reading glasses, folds them, tucks them in his breast pocket. “Are you available after three?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a driver's license?”

“Yes.”

“Then congratulations. The job's yours.” When I ignore the hand he's holding out to me, “What, you don't want it?”

“It's not that I don't want it. It's just, I still don't know what it is.”

“And I'd pay you a dollar over minimum wage, under the table.”

“Pay me for doing what, though, exactly?”

“Nothing for me. What you'd be doing, you'd be doing for my nephew.”

“Okay.”

“My nephew works for me, as a runner mostly. Usually he's a smart guy, very responsible. But a couple months back, he got tanked, decided it would be a good idea to go for a spin. He smashed up his car, smashed up his leg, lost his license for six months. Renee's been taking him around all summer, but starting next week she's got to pick up her kid after school, so she can only take him around till three.”

“So, what,” I say, “I'd be like his afternoon chauffeur?”

“And sometimes evening.”

“When would you want me to start?”

“Today. Now.”

This time when he holds out his hand, I shake it. As I do, a sound comes from the front room: a door opening, and two voices talking—one male, one female.