Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (42 page)

“ENGLISH-AS-A
FIRST-LANGUAGE”

Setting:
Henry Stone’s office. Rae sits in the usual brown leather chair across from his desk. She holds the picture side of Spanish language flashcards for Henry to view. I enter the office, sit down in the chair next to Rae, and turn on my digital recorder.

The transcript reads as follows:

HENRY
: Okay, Rae, it’s time to go.

RAE
: We’re not done.

HENRY
: No, we’re done.

ISABEL
: I just need to rest here for a moment. Those stairs were much harder today.
¹

RAE
: What is this? [referring to the flashcard]

HENRY
: I’m not playing anymore, Rae.

RAE
: This isn’t a game. It’s about your health.

HENRY
: How many times do I have to tell you: I didn’t have a lobotomy; I had a concussion and I’m fine now, no thanks to you.

RAE
: Just answer the question and then we can move on. [Henry glances at the flashcard.]

HENRY
: It’s a boat.

RAE
: What color boat?

HENRY
: A yellow boat. [Rae moves on to the next flashcard.]

RAE
: What’s this?

HENRY
: Scissors. Isabel, wake up. [Apparently I had fallen asleep.]

ISABEL
: Oh, sorry. Rae, we gotta go.

RAE
: We’re not done. [Rae moves on to the next card.]

HENRY
: Yes, we’re done.

ISABEL
: What are you doing, Rae?

RAE
: I’m making sure Henry doesn’t have permanent brain damage.

ISABEL
: Huh?

HENRY
: I’m not playing anymore.

RAE
: Then I’m not leaving. What is this? [referring to flashcard]

HENRY
: [angry] A dog.

RAE
: And this?

HENRY
: A tree. Are we done yet? [The mixture of this being very funny and exhaustion caused me to begin laughing hysterically. I simply could not stop.]

HENRY
: After three hours, it’s not so funny. [This caused me to laugh even harder.]

RAE
: Are you drunk?

ISABEL
: No.

RAE
: Be quiet. You’re interrupting.

ISABEL
: We have to go. [still laughing]

RAE
: What’s this?

HENRY
: I’m done, Rae. You’re leaving now.

RAE
: Just answer this last one and then I’ll go.

HENRY
: I’m not falling for that again.

ISABEL
: [still laughing] I’m sorry. I can’t stop.

HENRY
: Rae, can you leave me alone with your sister for a few minutes?

RAE
: Why?

HENRY
: Because I want to talk to her in private.

RAE
: About what? [Henry walks over to Rae and gently takes her arm, leading her to the door of his office.]

HENRY
: [quietly] Have you conveniently forgotten that a week ago you almost killed me?

RAE
: Accidentally.

HENRY
: Have you forgotten?

RAE
: I’ll never forget that. Never.

HENRY
: I don’t ask that much of you, Rae. But when I say “Leave my office,” I want you to leave my office.

RAE
: But then we’d never hang out.

HENRY
: Once again, you almost killed me.

RAE
: I’ll be right outside. [Henry shuts the door.]

HENRY
: Isabel, stop laughing. [I stop. Sort of.]

ISABEL
: Sorry.

HENRY
: What’s wrong with you?

ISABEL
: I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. No, more than that, because you have to count the whole day before the first night of missed sleep. So more like fifty-six hours, or maybe sixty; I’ll have to get back to you on that.

HENRY
: Is it insomnia?

ISABEL
: I wish.

HENRY
: Were you on the job?

ISABEL
: The first two nights, yes. Then it was John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, sobbing, snoring, and sizzling.

HENRY
: Do I need to call Rae back in here with the flashcards?

ISABEL
: No. We’re leaving. [As I got to my feet, I stumbled and Henry put his arm around my waist to steady me. He felt the tape recorder in my pocket and pulled it out.]

HENRY
: Are you recording me again?

ISABEL
: Sorry. [End of tape.]

The tape ended, but the conversation didn’t.

“I wish you all would stop doing that.”

“We can’t help ourselves. Besides, Mom gets really mad at me if I forget.”

“Look at me, Isabel.”

I was feeling a little dizzy and had some trouble focusing. Henry steadied my chin in his hand and held up a finger that floated from side to side.

“Follow my finger,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to focus.

“No. You’re not. You can’t drive like this.”

“Henry, don’t be such a cop.”

“Let’s go. I’ll take you and Rae home. You can get your car tomorrow.”

Rae called shotgun, so I fell asleep in the backseat. When we got to my parents’ house, Henry briefly reprimanded my mom for letting me drive. It occurred to me that I had never seen anyone reprimand my mother and get away with it, including my father. But there was something about Henry that my mother could not resist. Before he left, Henry tried to have another discussion with Rae about giving him some space, but it didn’t take. My mom sent me up to my old attic apartment/her current guest room and told me to get some rest. I woke up in the morning, thirteen hours later.

Friday, January 13
0830 hrs

Whenever one wakes up in a different place than usual, the obvious question arises: How did I get here? Thirteen hours of sleep provided me with much-needed rest, but I woke up in a panic, seriously unable to place myself. You see, while I had lived in this attic apartment for close to nine years, it was fully redecorated into an uncluttered, hotel-like guest room once I had vacated. Having spent so few (if any) hours in there since, I truly had no idea where I was.

I got out of bed, my heart thumping in confusion. The drapes were drawn and the room was unusually dark. Darker than Bernie’s—no!
my
—place. I ran to the window, opened the curtains, and looked outside. As my slow-moving brain and newly revived senses were putting the puzzle together, I noticed Subject in the backyard of the adjacent residence digging a hole in the ground.

I climbed halfway out the window and straddled the sill to get a better view. Subject spotted me and looked up.

“Good morning. I didn’t know you lived there.”

“I don’t,” I said, now that I knew where I was.

“Oh,” he replied, not sure what to say.

“Someone is staying in my apartment,” I said, thinking an explanation was required.

“Uh-huh,” he said. Clearly, I was confusing him even more.

“Someone who snores,” I added.

“I see,” Subject said, with a bit more inflection. But I got the feeling he was still confused.

“And cries,” I added, because, frankly, I hadn’t had any caffeine yet.

“Is this person all right?” Subject asked.

“He caught his wife with another man.”

Then Subject simply stared at me, as if he were thinking of what to say next.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Gardening,” Subject replied.

“That explains the digging,” I said.

Subject seemed to think the previous statement was a joke and laughed. It was not a joke.

“Do you want to come over for breakfast?” Subject asked.

“Now?”

“In about fifteen minutes,” Subject said. “I’m almost done here.”

“Uh, okay,” I said as I noticed I was wearing my father’s XXL pajamas.
¹

“I just have to find my clothes.”

My clothes were washed and folded and left in a laundry basket outside my (no longer my) door. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed in under five minutes. When I looked out the window the second time, I spotted Subject in his kitchen making coffee.

Instead of taking the stairs and going out the front door, and perhaps being required to explain my destination to a family member, I crawled out the window and took the fire escape
²
to the ground level. Subject observed my unusual method of exit and shouted, “What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” I replied, and then motioned that I was going to use the back entrance to his apartment.

As Subject beat eggs and prepped the skillet for omelets,
³
I very briefly explained that I didn’t quite understand the big deal about doors. I casually mentioned my habit of window entry and exit as a throwback to my rebellious youth, but also as a rejection of the absoluteness of doors being the only socially acceptable mode of entry and exit.

I’m not sure I convinced Subject to give windows a try himself. He stared at me a second too long and said, “Well, that’s another way to look at it.”

Over breakfast Subject and I attempted to get each other’s vital statistics.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“I run a landscaping business.”

“Oh, that explains the gardening.”

“Does gardening need explaining?”

“I think so.”

“And you?”

“I haven’t gardened in years. Thirty, to be exact.”

“You should try it sometime. Some people find it relaxing.”

“What kind of people?”

“I’m changing the subject,” Subject said.

“Good omelets.”

“So what do you do?” he asked.

“And good coffee.”

“For a living.”

I’ve run into this problem before. I don’t want to tip my hand too soon, since my job makes some people uncomfortable. But if I lie and claim to be, say, a schoolteacher, then for the next few months I’ve got to run around in pencil skirts and sweater sets pretending to be a teacher. Then what usually happens
⁴
is the person I’ve lied to becomes very angry and doesn’t want to see me again. On this occasion I went with a new approach.

“I’m an information technologist.”

“So you work with computers?”

“Yes. And people, and the occasional dog or cat.”

“You’re being vague.”

“I talk about work every day. Sometimes I need a break.”

“Fair enough.”

Subject then suggested that perhaps gardening was what I needed to get my mind off of information technology. After breakfast we retired to the backyard and transplanted potted hydrangeas into the ground. Subject explained that the plants survive better through winter
⁵
in the soil, and so we prepped the soil with compost and laid the perennials into the ground. Surprisingly, I was enjoying myself, until my father spotted me through his bedroom window.

“Izzy, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Congratulations. You found me.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Gardening.”

“Bingo.”

“Wait there. I need to talk to you,” my dad said, and then disappeared from his window.

I got to my feet and dusted off the wet soil from my hands.

“You stall my dad,” I said to Subject. “I’m going to make a run for it.”

This time I was joking. My dad showed up a minute later. Dad shook Subject’s hand and made some form of genuine pleasantry. Subject explained to Dad our morning activity and my dad replied with “I’m just glad to see Izzy spend her leisure time doing something other than drinking.”

Subject laughed. I glared. Dad quickly changed the subject.

“Have you been by Mrs. Chandler’s place?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. This was a knee-jerk reaction to any mention of Mrs. Chandler. I will explain shortly, but suffice it to say, I really had no idea what he was talking about.

“Have you seen her dog?”

“No,” I said, growing suspicious.

“I’d like you to go by her place before she has a chance to give her dog a bath.”

Subject was confused, but I chose not to enlighten him. I held out my soiled hand and said, “Thanks, it’s been fun. See you later.”