Part 16 (1/2)
Back in my little stenography booth looking, to all the world, like the picture of industry.
I listened to Allison's message over lunch hour: ”Oh, h.e.l.lo, uh, Heather, this is Allison. I think you might have been trying to reach me. I couldn't find your number because it was in the cell phone's memory and the phone was in the car, which died, and so I've been trying to rustle up some money to get the starter motor fixed, and, well, you know how complicated things can get ...”
Do I? Do I? Allison, stop feebly toying with the trivialities of your life, accomplis.h.i.+ng nothing, pretending that your tasks are so complex that only G.o.d could handle them. Just go fix your effing car, and shut up. And yes, Allison, I do know how complicated things can get, but they could be b.l.o.o.d.y well easier if you'd stop pretending to be a cretinous fake helpless girly-girl about matters that take only ten minutes to solve.
”. . . Anyway, yes, I did have a remarkable statement for you come through last night, and it was for you, no mistake there. Would you like to get together maybe at the end of the day? I know you work nine to five. Here's my number, give me a call . . .”
Hag.
As if I didn't know her number. I phoned it and got no response. Lunch hour went by in what seemed to be three minutes as I dialed it over and over, for a few minutes from the bathroom because I got a bit dizzy and had to sit in silence. What is it about Allison that has me sitting in public bathroom stalls all the time?
So now I'm back in the courtroom supposedly doc.u.menting this frivolous and endless land deal trial. These men should all be tarred and feathered and be flogged as they walk naked down the street for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with the lives of common people the way they do.
In my peripheral vision I'm also noticing that people are looking at me to see if my cell phone is going to ring again. As if. But I have to admit, it's a bit flattering to be the temporary star in the courtroom, instead of these blowhards who drag things out so they can bill for countless hours.
The law is a lie. It's a lie. A lie.
Tuesday afternoon 2:45
Back in my little booth stenographing away.
My phone just rang again. Right in the middle of a freighted moment engineered by one of these hawklike balding Glennoids. The judge spoke to me quite harshly -too harshly, really; I mean, it's only a cell phone ringing in front of the court. Professionally it's a huge humiliation, but you know what? I could care less. I told his honor that I'd just signed up for a new cell phone program and that I was unfamiliar with their system. And he bought it.
And so here I am, chastened, and to look at me, I'm beavering away at my job, humiliated and belittled by the powers above. Sure. I just want to get out of this psychic garbage dump.
Tuesday night 10:00
Allison finally answered her phone. I pretended to be all-innocent, as if I hadn't phoned her two thousand times in the past forty-eight hours.
”Allison?”
”Heather. We connect. How are you?”
Like a Ryder truck full of fertilizer and diesel fuel, with a detonator set at thirty seconds and ticking. ”Okay. Getting by. The usual. You?”
”Oh, you know - this car of mine. Cars are so expensive to maintain.”
”What do you drive?”
”A '92 Cutla.s.s.”
Well, of course it's expensive to maintain. It's a decade old - what do you expect? The quality revolution hadn't happened then. It's one big hunk of pain you're driving. Throw it away. Buy a Pontiac Firefly for $19.95 -I don't care what you do, but for G.o.d's sake, don't drive the wind-up toy you're using now. I said, ”Cars are getting better these days, but they can still be a bother.”
”The money I make from being a pretend psychic is so small.”
”I could help you out, maybe.”
”Could you?”
I said, ”Sure. It's probably going to cost less than you thought. I can set you up with my repair guy, Gary, down on Pemberton Avenue.”
”That'd be kind of you.”
”So can we meet tonight?”
”I think so.”
I asked, ”What time works for you?”
”Seven o'clock”?
”Where? How about my place?”
”Oh . . .”
”Allison - is everything okay?”
”It's just that seven is when I usually eat dinner.”
We agreed to meet at a slightly formal Italian place on Marine Drive. When I arrived, it was evident she'd been there a while, as only the dregs remained in what I already saw was a bottle of the restaurant's priciest merlot. She told me I looked relaxed, which is always a successful ploy, because it invariably relaxes the person you say it to. I asked if she liked the wine; she did - she'd better - and she ordered another bottle, although you'd never imagine such a tiny dragon could hold her booze so well.
Heather, try to be nice to this woman. You're only jealous because Jason chose to speak through her and not directly to you.
As soon as there was wine in my gla.s.s I asked her what message Jason had given her, but she raised her hand in a warding-off motion (very professional) and said, ”It's not good to mix eating with the spirit world.” It was all I could do not to throttle her. She talks about the afterlife like it was Fort Lauderdale. As Allison didn't want to contaminate her perceptions by asking me about my life, I learned - over the appetizer, the lamb entree, and some Key lime sorbet - about Glenn, who had worked for the Port Authority's inspection division, further details of which make me ache for sleep. She has three ungrateful daughters, all in their twenties, who seem to shack up with anything on two legs.
To hear Allison's side of the story, her life has been nothing but person after person abusing her sweet, generous nature. Of course, I don't believe her for a moment, but that doesn't get me anywhere. She's got the sole existing phone line to Jason, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if some pa.s.sive- aggressive menopausal old bat is going to cheat me out of hearing what Jason's been saying to me.
When the dishes were cleared, Allison did what I used to do back in college, which was keep a sharp eye attuned to the restaurant's till so as to see when the check might be arriving, and once the check was in motion toward the table, flee to the bathroom. When she returned, she found me putting on my sweater and readying my purse.
”Oh, did the bill come?”
”My treat.”
”How sweet of you.”
”Maybe we could go to a coffee place and discuss, you know - these things you've been receiving.”
”That's an excellent idea.”
We found a nearby cafe inhabited by local teens primping and strutting and turkey-c.o.c.king, all of which made me feel older than dirt. Allison ordered the most expensive coffee on the menu, whereupon I gave her my most penetrating stare. ”Can we talk now about Jason?”