The Long Wait for Tomorrow Page 9

  “What things? Andy Kaufman was an actor—”

  “Performance artist.”

  “Performance artist, he had an excuse.”

  “So?”

  Patrick threw his hands up. “So I want to know why Kelly is suddenly in a … I don’t know, whatever it is that allows him … Does he even know he’s …?”

  “Patrick …” Jenna lowered her voice. Put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Calm down.”

  “I am calm,” Patrick snapped. “And if I weren’t, I’d still have every right to not be. What I’d like to know is why you’re talking about performance artists, when it really has nothing to do with the reality of … Aren’t you even concerned?”

  “Hold it …” Jenna withdrew her hand, taking back all sentiment along with it. “Are you saying I don’t care about what’s happening to Kelly?”

  “Well, you and the New Kelly McDermott get to relive first love all over again. It seems to be working out pretty well for you.”

  Patrick felt those final words doing their best to scramble back down his throat, but it was too late. He stared at Jenna, hemorrhaging all prior defiance. Train whistle giving it one last go in the purple distance.

  Jenna’s eyes didn’t hint at any real offense.

  If they had, maybe Patrick could’ve found it in him to keep right on hammering. Instead, he saw confusion, concern. Ambushed, uncertain, it was a checklist of his entire day, now written across Jenna’s face. It was nothing short of what he’d been asking for, only this wasn’t because of Kelly.

  Jenna was looking at him as though this were the New Patrick Saint.

  Patrick swallowed what felt like sandpaper. “Jenna, I’m sorry—”

  “No.” Jenna raised her hand, cutting him off. “No, you don’t get to apologize. Now that you’ve said what you have to, I get to air my own laundry, thanks.”

  “Jenna—”

  “Maybe this isn’t all that bad for me.” Jenna folded her arms. Southern accent shaping her vowels, a sure sign she wasn’t about to be cut off. “You say you don’t know what’s going on, you ask for my opinion. I give it to you, and you get all in my face because I didn’t let you know how I feel about it. Well, sorry if I haven’t actually decided yet, Patrick. But you clearly have. So why don’t you tell me; why are you so concerned?”

  Patrick knew hesitation would put him at a disadvantage. But there wasn’t any way around it, he was already at a loss. His angels whispering in a frenzy of overlapping words. Fragments of ideas from all directions. Hardly a chance to understand one when another cut in, weaving in and out. Hopeless as trying to follow a single thread through an immense woven tapestry.

  Nothing to do but step back, and view the whole pattern.

  “Because,” Patrick said, aware that his face had given his ineptitude away. “Because it is frightening.” He grasped for something further.

  “Because he’s asking me my opinion,” Patrick said. “Because he’s encouraging me to do things instead of telling me to do them. Because he’s standing up for me … Because he’s just letting me be.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it feels so …”

  Jenna nodded. “Dangerous.”

  “Undesirable,” Patrick concluded, quietly.

  It was getting dark.

  Hard to read Jenna’s expression, though her voice seemed to accept what she’d heard: “I know.”

  Patrick nodded. “Can we not fight anymore?”

  “I don’t know.” Jenna remained with her arms folded, torso swinging lightly from side to side. “We’ve never actually fought before … ever, I think. Is that possible?”

  “When you think about it, I guess. We’ve never really been alone together.”

  “No, I guess we haven’t.”

  “First fight …,” Patrick agreed. “First time alone.”

  “We were alone on the bleachers today.”

  “Twice in one day is even more impressive.”

  “Another unexpected side effect of the New Kelly Mc-Dermott.”

  Patrick let out a tired laugh. He wasn’t sure what to add, very much conscious that this was as long as he’d ever managed to keep his eyes trained on Jenna’s. Which must have gone for her as well, another first. Definitely not appropriate to comment on, but the secret was well worth keeping to himself.

  “So you saw me in The Comedy of Errors?” Jenna ventured.

  “I was sitting at the back.”

  “Who did I play?” Jenna asked slyly.

  “The Courtesan.”

  “I know, right?” Jenna laughed, embarrassed. “Get the cheerleader to play the whore, isn’t that always the case?”

  “When you put it like that, I feel kind of bad telling you how good you were.”

  Jenna looked down. “I wanted to play Luciana.”

  “Hey.” Patrick bent his knees, tried to catch a glimpse of her face. “Next time.”

  Jenna lifted her head. “Next time.”

  The familiar roar of an engine put an end to their conversation.

  Patrick glanced over his shoulder and saw a pair of headlights flood the driveway.

  They cut out, along with the engine.

  “Well, he found his way back,” Patrick commented. “That’s something, right?”

  “You should ask Kelly.”

  “What?”

  “Just ask …,” Jenna said, filling their remaining seconds with fast words. “You want to know what’s going on with him, you might as well do it now.”

  Patrick wrung his hands together, turned toward the driveway. “Every time I’ve tried, he’s just …”

  “Moving too fast?” Jenna suggested.

  “Hasn’t given me much of an opportunity.”

  “They say there’s no time like the present.”

  “I could’ve told them that.”

  “I’ve got your back.” Jenna laid a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “This is us now.”

  No time for Patrick to relish the sound of that last statement.

  Kelly was already bounding up the path connecting the driveway to the deck. Ignoring the steps, he leaped up onto the attached bench and triumphantly stretched his arms out. Each hand clutching a hanger. Each hanger displaying what might as well have been twenty-dollar bills all sewn together.

  Patrick’s mouth refused to open, brain demanding more time to get past what his eyes were seeing.

  On the right, a slender red evening gown hanging by a pair of lace straps.

  On the left, a perfectly ironed burgundy shirt covered by a perfectly tailored black jacket. Underneath, a pair of pants peeked out, swaying lazily.

  It didn’t take a fashion designer to appreciate how scandalously expensive they were.

  “Kelly.” Patrick already knew it was going to be the wrong question, but there was just no stopping curiosity. “What is that?”

  “Armani,” Kelly replied, hopping off the bench. “The dress: Versace.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Just asked the guy what was best …” Kelly shoved the suit into Patrick’s chest. “And I did the rest.”

  “Kelly, I don’t know …”

  “Sorry, the dress is spoken for,” Kelly informed him, handing the second hanger over to Jenna. “This is for you. And both of you”—he jumped back, pointing at the pair—“get on into the house and change. We’ve got a seven-thirty reservation at Spiro’s, so I’d like to be out of here at seven-twenty. If either of you want me, I’ll be in the shower.”

  Kelly winked and bolted for the back door.

  The outdoor lights came on, spotlight on Patrick and Jenna. Holding on to their new threads as though they’d just been handed a child in a wicker basket.

  Music began to blare from the open window to Kelly’s room.

  Patrick glanced up and cleared his throat.

  “Kelly,” he managed weakly, finally forcing the question out. “What is going on?”

  “OK …” Jenna nodded, watching along as they saw
Kelly jumping on his bed, stripping off his clothes. “That’s a good start, Patrick.”

  Patrick nodded, neck still craned. “You still got my back?”

  “Believe it or not.”

  “Well …” Patrick threw the suit over his shoulder. “Doing anything for dinner?”

  Jenna did the same, didn’t answer.

  And if it weren’t for the mosquitoes, the two of them might have stayed that way, staring up at Kelly’s window, well into the night.

  er name tag read Savannah. A few raven strands of hair had freed themselves from her thick ponytail, the signs of a busy evening. The only signs of a busy evening; her wide smile, set in red lips against dark skin; the willing sparkle of her eyes as she stood at the podium; the rest of her was taking it all in stride. Looking over the floor plan, doing what she could not to triple-set any of her waiters.

  When she looked up, her enormous hazel-brown eyes overtook Patrick, and all previous delusions collapsed under her gaze. His new suit had managed to fool him for a while. That slick burgundy shirt, sharp black pants, black jacket that inauspiciously gave the impression of wide, well-developed shoulders; for a while there, Patrick had actually felt a strange sense of improvement.

  But as he followed Savannah across the restaurant, Jenna and Kelly leading the way, Patrick began to sense the make-believe. He began to shrink in his suit. A loose shoelace came undone, whipped against his lower shin. Every table they passed was occupied by well-dressed couples, families, people who belonged. Stray splinters of conversation lodged in his ears, everyone far too comfortable. Patrons far too at ease, the hostess far too beautiful and accommodating. Their table was far too elegant, forks far too numerous. Napkins folded into a geometric improbability. Thirty-foot-high ceilings crisscrossed with industrial vents and water pipes painted a soothing, dark copper hue. Even the babble of conversation rang with an exclusive lilt, politely hinting that perhaps Patrick would be more comfortable sitting at the children’s table.

  Patrick took his seat, accepted his menu with a quiet nod.

  He glanced over at Jenna as she picked up her menu.

  The red dress looked perfect on her.

  Maybe because she was made for it, his angels muttered. Maybe because everything looks perfect on her.

  The waiter came up and introduced himself.

  Timothy. Spiky blond hair, white shirt, black apron.

  Kelly stepped up to bat, producing the wine list.

  “It’s been a good day,” he told the waiter. “We’re looking to celebrate.”

  “Good to hear, sir …” The waiter held his hands behind his back, at the ready. “Anything to drink?”

  “Got a favorite bottle of red wine?”

  The waiter hesitated.

  “I’m not talking about something you think we can afford,” Kelly assured him. “I mean, pick your favorite bottle of red wine. Even if you’ve never tried it, just heard about it. Hell, you could lie to me and pick the most expensive one you’ve got. Life is an illusion, and I’m looking to be deceived for as long as I’m here….”

  The waiter thought he’d give it a shot.

  He pointed to the bottom of the list. “I’d have to recommend the Beau Vigne Cabernet 2003.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have….” Kelly slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the wine list and snapped it shut. “With our meal … Time being, we’d like your most expensive bottle of champagne … It’s all right if it’s not your favorite, we’ll take it anyway.”

  “That would be the Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Yellow Label,” the waiter told them, all concern swept beneath a broad grin as he collected his bribe.

  “Excellent.” Kelly smiled. “Have it at the table in two minutes and Ben Franklin gets a playmate, catch my drift?”

  The waiter practically sprinted for the bar.

  Patrick felt himself grow back into his suit, but only for the time being.

  “So, Kelly …” Jenna picked up her menu, casual as can be. “You want to tell us what this is all about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kelly reached for his glass of water. Took a sip and crunched on the ice. He stared into the candle, flame reflecting off blue eyes. “There was this man I met once. Name of Bond. James Bond.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “OK, Kelly.”

  “I know, believe me,” Kelly assured them. “He was used to it. Got that same reaction his whole life. He was a detective. Used to be a detective for the LAPD. Way back when, in the nineties. When I met him, brother was long gone from that scene. This was in Louisville, Kentucky. I was working in a bakery.”

  Jenna snorted in midsip, sent water and ice back into her glass. “Did you say bakery?”

  Patrick heard a burst of enchanted laughter at a nearby table. It seemed everyone was having their moments that night.

  “Bakery, that’s right …” Kelly smiled, still staring at the candle. Marveling almost. “I was working at a bakery.”

  “In Louisville,” Patrick added. “Kentucky.”

  “Home of the man himself, Mr. Muhammad Ali.” Kelly frowned. “At least, I think it was Kentucky. Can’t really remember the year … or the place, I must have been young still. I remember Bond was turning fifty, that was the occasion.”

  “Detective James Bond,” Patrick added. He undid the top button of his shirt. “And you were working at a bakery.”

  “Can’t imagine you working in a bakery,” Jenna said.

  “Well, it’s not exactly what you’d think,” Kelly told her. Told the center of the table, reached up to run his hands through his hair, as though remembering he had any to speak of. “Don’t get me wrong. It ain’t easy. It’s a hundred-mile-per-hour job, especially if it’s one of those more-than-bakery places. The kind with a full menu, a restaurant-bakery. You’re constantly working in those places, between orders for lunch, or breakfast. You’ve got orders to take care of, special orders like cake for birthdays, anniversaries. Making brownies, cookies, muffins, all the crap that goes in those glass display cases.”

  The waiter, Timothy, arrived with the champagne.

  Three glasses.

  He cradled the bottle in both hands, showed off the orangy yellow label for Kelly’s approval.

  Kelly nodded without looking. “Truth be told, you don’t need any real experience to work in most kitchens. Not at the level I was. Most times, it’s just someone telling you what to do anyway. So I found myself working at this bakery in Louisville, and anyway, there was Detective James Bond. Ex-detective James Bond, I can’t … quite remember what he was doing there.”

  A muted pop signaled the flow of champagne.

  Three glasses, poured all around.

  “Would you like to hear the specials this evening?” Timothy asked.

  “We are dying to hear the specials,” Kelly assured him.

  “Excellent,” Timothy cooed, before launching into a calm, rehearsed litany. “Tonight we have a very special salad of crab apples and Roquefort tossed with baby greens, fresh cracked pepper, and a sweet-and-sour lemon vinaigrette. Our soup is a cold sweet potato, served with a three-berry garnish. And the catch tonight is tilapia—”

  “Sauteed in butter and olive oil, served with fresh tomato ceviche and basil-roasted jicama,” Kelly concluded, finishing off in perfect unison with Timothy.

  Neither one of them appeared to notice what was happening until the silence that followed.

  Patrick and Jenna shared a glance, then cautiously eyed Kelly, who wore the same confused look.

  With his tip on the line, the waiter broke out of his amazed silence with an impressed smile. “Well, that’s some talent you’ve got there.”

  “Must’ve read the specials on the chalkboard,” Kelly said with bewildered modesty.

  “We don’t have a chalkboard,” Timothy informed him. He turned to Patrick and Jenna. “I’ll give you a bit of time to look over the menu. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll come on over and … see if I can guess your orders.”

&
nbsp; Timothy left the champagne in an ice bucket nestled on a metal stand.

  Patrick tried to push through any further distractions. “So what’s this detective James Bond got to do with us?”

  “How about a toast first?” Kelly said, raising his glass.

  “No,” Patrick insisted. “I want to hear this.”

  Kelly paused, glass in midair.

  Jenna did the same, put her glass down and withdrew her hand.

  “Well …” Kelly put down his glass, folded his hands in his lap. “Point is, Mr. Bond and I ended up going to dinner together. Well, he treated me, truth be told. Being nice, I suppose; that was also the day I got fired, but that’s neither here nor there. I asked him the same question, what the occasion was. He told me that he was simply trying to enjoy one last night before everything changed for him. I thought this was a bit on the strange side, but he made it pretty simple. He said he’d done the same thing when his wife was about to divorce him. He’d go out to top-tier restaurants, order the best cigars. As though he knew that, pretty soon, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything anymore. Told me of another time, when he was on the road through the southern states. Tracking down a group of kids who had burned their school to the ground, back in ninety-nine.”

  “I remember hearing about those kids,” Jenna said. “Back when I was, like, nine.”

  “Me too,” Patrick said, frowning. “It happened, I don’t know, maybe a day before Columbine…. There was a detective named Bond involved.”

  “I don’t remember all the details …,” Kelly told them. “But Bond was working against his department’s orders. After a huge mishap in New Orleans, Bond got mixed up with a con man and his girlfriend. He needed to get them down to Key West, and on the way, he did the same thing. Had a feeling it was all about to end for him. Badly, it seemed, and so he treated these strangers to a glorious meal at a high-end Italian restaurant. Went all out, charged it without a second thought, he was just that certain that it would be the last meal he’d be able to enjoy in a good long while.”

  Patrick reached out and toyed with a miniature saltshaker. “That’s some story, Kelly.”