More Bitter Than Death (7 page)

“Right. Because you were both exactly the same, that’s all. That’s not love, that’s narcissism. Maybe even masturbation. You felt the same way about enough things that it seemed like you had a lot in common. And it was probably the sex, too. I never asked, but I assume it was at least acceptable—”

I looked away, even though there was no one to make eye
contact with, and felt my face burn. I wished I could blank it all out, I hated knowing that other people knew how young and weak and stupid I’d been. I hated how it could still affect me, that it wouldn’t just go away.

“—and I am certain that was the extent of it. There, that help?”

I stared at the numbers on the phone for room service and the concierge. “Oh, sure, as much as having my nearest and dearest tell me what an idiot I am ever helps.”

“I was dumping on him, not you. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, okay, sure, right. So, how’re things with you?”

“Good. Busy.”

I heard a muffled voice in the background saying “Carrie? What is it?”

A suspicion struck me. “And Joel?”

“What about him?”

The wariness in my sister’s voice told the whole story. She’d gotten back together with a perfectly decent guy she’d been scared enough to ditch, and still didn’t have the guts to admit that I’d been right about him, and about her, and how good he was for her. It took a sister’s perspective, I suppose, to cut through the ego and get to the real story. I didn’t mind; it was good for her to be challenged once in a while.

“How’s he doing?”

“Good.” She paused then admitted it. “He’s right here.”

“Oh, jeez, if I’m interrupting something—”

“No. He lives here now.”

I lost interest in the hotel phone numbers. “He lives—what? What do you—?”

“He moved in. Two weeks ago.”

“And just when were you going to tell me?” I could barely keep the disbelief out of my voice.

“Don’t get all huffy with me! I’m telling you now. Why, did you plan on stalking him at his old address or something?”

“No, you know what I mean! Well, I’m glad. Congratulations.”

“Why? For what?”

“It’s nice, that’s why. Don’t act so suspicious. He’s a good guy.”

“It’s nice, okay. It’s also late. I want to get to sleep.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’ll talk to you later, okay, Em? Bye.”

She didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye. I hung up, thought about calling Brian at Kam’s, but I didn’t want to disturb them; it really was too late for anyone but a Fielding. All I wanted was my bed; I was grateful for the exhaustion and the cooler room. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. Luckily for me, I fell asleep almost immediately and I wasn’t subjected to an endless playback of my every personal interaction, past and present.

T
HERE WAS A BLURRED BUZZING IN MY HEAD THAT
wouldn’t go away. I began to realize that it wasn’t just a part of some vague dream and found myself being dragged from sleep by the alarm clock. It took me three or four tries to focus my eyes: the burning red numerals spelled out the horrible truth. It was six fifteen
A.M
., Thursday morning.

You’ve got to be kidding.

With a moan, I rolled over and burrowed under my pillow, but I didn’t turn off the alarm, and eventually the country music and static that was playing instead of the NPR station I thought I’d found last night wore its way insistently into my brain until I was convinced that I really wasn’t going to go back to sleep again. Why did I tell Brad that I would meet him so damn early? And in the gym? For God’s sake, Emma…

I threw the blanket back and, with a yelp, pulled it back over me again in a hurry. The room had gone from being subtropical to arctic frigidity overnight. I summoned up my courage, dove out of bed, grabbed my parka, and stood in front of the thermostat. It was now fifty degrees in my room.
I’d set it for sixty-five. I fiddled with the controls but never heard any indication that more heat was heading my way. I went to the bathroom and saw the coffee maker, but there were no coffee packets to be found.

I stared. No, God. You can’t be serious.

I looked in the closet by the iron, I pawed through the little bottles of conditioner that I never used, but there was no coffee in my room. Disgusted, I threw on my workout gear, made sure I had my room key, and went downstairs to the hospitality suite. Passing the mezzanine, I saw that there was no one in the lobby yet.

My heart leapt—the door to the hospitality suite was open. There was, however, nothing on the tables besides empty coffee urns.

I went to the lobby, where at least it was warmer than my room on the third floor.

There was no one at the front desk, and no one appeared when I rang the little bell. I cursed and headed behind the desk and past the offices for the fitness room.

There, at least, was heat, and so far seemed to be one of the only parts of the hotel that had actually been renovated. That was nice, but not nearly enough to make up for the ghastly hour and the debilitating coffee deficiency I was now forced to cope with.

After I did fifty jumping jacks, I began to work on my shadow boxing. It’s great for keeping yourself warm, and I always need the practice, since I am terribly self-conscious about pretending to hit and kick someone who isn’t there. It’s a whole lot easier when there’s actually someone to provide the target for you.

I felt better than I deserved, late night and emotional turmoil considered. For a while, I’d thought about letting my training with my instructor Nolan go—it took up an awful lot of time and just saying the words “martial arts” felt overdramatic—but was glad that I decided to stick it out.
The workout I got with Krav Maga was great, and I realized that not only had my posture and energy improved, my attitude had changed for the better as well, and you couldn’t beat that with a stick. Plus, it was more fun than running. When I let too much time go between our sessions, I even miss how much I ache after. I didn’t know what missing pain indicated about one’s psyche, but so far, it was working for me. Go figure.

Brad gets five more minutes, I thought grumpily. I hated returning from that happy place that distraction takes you when you’re working out. Two more minutes, just to polish my form, and then I’m out of here. He should know better than to mess with—

“Ah, good morning, Emma!”

I kept staring at myself in the mirror, trying to keep my stance correct. I threw a very nice left hook, followed by a rather impressive, fully loaded right uppercut. Too bad all my best moves were always made out of the sight of my instructor, Nolan. Can I help it if my native modesty keeps me from doing my best when someone is watching?

And he knows full well that cheery crap is
exactly
the wrong tack to take with me, I thought, sighing. “Yeah, morning, Brad.” I glanced at the clock: six forty-eight. “You’re late. What’s up?”

“Still not a morning person, Em.” He shook his head and slung his towel over a chair. He was wearing loose drawstring trousers and a T-shirt with a Chinese dragon on it. “I wouldn’t have asked to meet you so early if it wasn’t important.”

I personally couldn’t think of anything important enough to warrant being out of bed at this hour. Or even in bed, not asleep. Brian and I had an agreement: I wouldn’t try anything when
American Chopper
was on, and he didn’t make a pass at me before ten or eleven in the morning, if we had the opportunity to sleep in. I nodded, but I also pretended that it was Brad’s head I was smashing with my knee, before I fi
nally stopped and got a drink from the water cooler. “No. What’s up?”

Instead of answering me, though, Brad started doing yoga stretches. He made some interesting breathing noises, but sticking his butt out in the air like that was extremely ill-advised considering my present state of mind. I’m pretty good at kicking, especially when someone offers me a target like that. I drank some of my water and tried to think past my burgeoning headache.

A few moments later, he looked up, dreamy-faced. “Sorry, I needed to get some good, deep breathing in. Breathing is so important.”

“Yeah, I’m fond of it myself. What’s up?” And if you don’t answer me this time, I’m leaving.

He sat up and twisted to one side, exhaling deeply before he answered. “It’s really important, and a bit personal. I didn’t want to talk in front of the others.”

I nodded, trying not to cross my eyes with impatience. I also attempted one of his poses, the one I recognized as “the tree.” I made it, barely getting my right foot against my left knee as I stayed balanced, but it was harder than it looked. As I sat down, I revised my opinion of Brad’s perpetual look of anxious malnutrition; he was stronger and more flexible than I thought.

“I’m thinking about making some changes in my life, Emma. I was wondering whether you would be willing—Hey, Carla!”

Carla stuck her head inside the door; she was dressed in another abbreviated suitlet and already had makeup on. “Hey, Brad, Emma. Em, you look like shit.”

“Don’t start with me, Carla, I’ve already got Brad over here picking on me and he—”

“What can we do you for, Carla?” Brad interjected hastily. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes this time. He was worried I would reveal what we were talking about, and he hadn’t even told me yet.

“Either of you seen Scott?”

“Hell, no,” I began, but Carla looked really serious, even more so than she usually did before a session. For which she was also up too early. “Why would he be up yet? What’s wrong?”

“I just gotta find him, in a hurry. Tell him I’m looking for him, if you see him, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Anything we can do?” I asked.

“Just let him know I need him.” And she vanished.

“She needs to relax a little,” Brad said absently. “I wonder if she’s getting enough fiber.”

“Brad, if you don’t tell me what you called me down here for, at this ungodly hour, I will scream. Then I will hit you repeatedly until I feel better about us both.”

He was foolish enough to think that was hyperbole, and did more painful-looking stretches and deep breathing. Thing was, I could tell he was trying to get himself screwed up to deal with something important. “Emma, it’s hard for me, okay? But I appreciate your eagerness to help.”

“Let’s not confuse it with an eagerness to get out of here and get some coffee.” As soon as I said it, I felt bad. Brad’s face fell. He wasn’t the dearest of friends, and his earnestness was excruciating at times, but that didn’t mean I could treat him so casually. “I’m sorry, Brad. I’m a jerk. I’m not really up yet. What is it?”

He took another deep breath, and the door burst open again. This time, it was Lissa. Her eyes were barely open. “Scott?”

“Not here,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Carla’s looking for him” was all she muttered, and turned around to leave, walking straight into the doorjamb. “Aaoow.” She found her way out, but clearly not by sight. The door clicked behind her, and I looked expectantly at Brad.

“Okay, now, quick.”

“This isn’t going the way I wanted,” he muttered. “I’m usually much more together than this.”

That much was true: If Brad were any more together, he would collapse in upon himself and implode. “You had a favor you wanted to ask me?” I tried.

“Yes.” Relief on his face was palpable. “It’s just that I was hoping I could get you to—”

The door opened a crack, and Chris stuck his head in. “Emma, have you—?”

“No, I have no idea where Scott is,” I said. “Look, if you could just give us—”

“I don’t care where Scott is,” he interrupted back. “I was going to ask if you had anything going during the first session. Something’s come up, and we need a moderator, post haste.”

I did have something, but it was recreational and not nearly as important as whatever was making Chris look so worried. “Yeah, sure I can do it. What session is it?”

“It’s the session on early sites assemblages, eight-thirty. It’s first thing, over in the Manchester Ballroom A.”

I frowned, trying to recall the schedule. “So where’s Garrison, that he can’t moderate like he was supposed to?”

Chris shook his head. “No one can find him. Scott went round to get him for the breakfast meeting—past presidents and board—and he wasn’t in his room. We have no idea where Garrison is.”

Garrison was missing? That wasn’t so unusual—like his performance last night, he pretty much came and went as he liked—but it was strange for Scott to be concerned about it. “Okay, I’ll go get dressed,” I told Chris. He nodded, a look of relief on his face.

“Thanks, Em,” he said, slipping back through the doorway.

I turned back to Brad. “Okay, I’ve got to get going. Is it something you can tell me real quick?”

He hesitated, weighing the unsatisfying choices, then he blurted, “Yes. I want a letter of recommendation from you. I’m thinking of moving from Pennsylvania to Connecticut, and I don’t want it to get around. I’d appreciate your discretion in this, Emma.”

I wasn’t surprised that he wanted to be discreet; this would be a big move, from one tenured position, presumably to another. “Where to?”

“The Connecticut University job.”

“Lot of competition, I’ll bet.” I wondered why I hadn’t heard about the opening there yet. Not that I was particularly interested in moving from Caldwell College in Maine—it had the advantage of being close to my areas of study and I’d recently gotten tenure—but one always liked to keep an ear to the ground. What did surprise me was that Brad was willing to uproot his perfect family from their perfect home and resettle them in a different state. Still, it was good money, I’d bet, and a lot of prestige. It had been Garrison’s first tenured position. “Wow. How’s Francine feel about it?”

He wobbled a bit as he moved through a “moon salute.” “I haven’t said anything to her yet. I don’t want to, until I know I’ve got a chance.”

Well, he’s going to have to tell his wife when he starts flying off for interviews, I thought. I’d be nervous if I had to spring something like that on Brian, too, but Brad was good at what he did, and the job would be a good fit. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said. “We can talk about this later, okay? I guess I have to hustle, if I’m going to help out with the session.”

“Sure, thanks, no problem. I’ll catch you later.” And Brad went back to happily tying himself up in knots, smiling sincerely for the first time that morning.

I ran back upstairs, took a brisk shower—it started out okay, but the water came in cold bursts as more people woke
up and caused competition. I got dressed as quickly as I could because it was still freezing in my room. I called down to the desk while I toweled my hair, and this time, got an answer and reassurances that they were working on the problem with the schizophrenic thermometer and would have it fixed soon. A few more minutes of preening, and it was just past seven-thirty. I had time for a cup of coffee and a muffin before it was time to go on, if they still needed me. That was good, as I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors if I went down to the session sans caffeine.

The General Bartlett Hotel had two restaurants, one a diner-themed coffee shop that did quick breakfast and lunch items. The other was a fancier sit-down affair, all dark greens and heavy wood, that seemed to be having a breakfast buffet at the moment and was packed to the rafters. I didn’t care about anything so much as coffee now, and found that the coffee shop was full, too. Luck was with me in the guise of Lissa. I forced my way through the crowd as politely as I could—which was straining it, by this time—and found she’d saved me a seat at her table for two.

Whatever else we did not agree on—and sometimes that seemed to be almost everything—Lissa and I understood that there were some things that were sacred. For both of us morning coffee and its worship was one of them. Lissa nodded at the chair, and I nodded back as I took it. I turned over the mug and poured from the carafe on the table, sniffing at the coffee before I sipped. So far, I’d been unimpressed with the workings of the hotel, however great it might have looked on the outside and in the public spaces. To my surprise, the coffee was great: hot, strong, flavorful. I didn’t focus on the exact nature of the flavors because I was functioning only on lizard brain; gourmet identifications came only after more basic functions were up and running.

Lissa waited until I’d got through the first cup, and then didn’t bother with the preliminaries. “I still haven’t seen the
waitress since she dropped that off. We’ll have to stand on the chairs and scream if she doesn’t show up soon.”

I nodded. Drastic times called for drastic measures. More coffee flooded into my system and I began to acknowledge my extremities.

I’d made my way through the second cup when our server shuffled over.

“HiI’mEleni.” She said it all as one word, looking away from us to the cashier, who seemed to be of far more interest to her. “I’ll be your server. What can I get you?”