Slick (47 page)
Authors: Daniel Price
[pr_demon]
Okay. To answer your query: I’d be upset and angry.
[mrvl_girl]
How upset and how angry?
[pr_demon]
Upset enough to kick you out of my life and angry enough not to miss you. Is that a satisfactory answer?
She took a few long beats to process my words.
[mrvl_girl]
You know what? It is. Wow.
[pr_demon]
Good.
[mrvl_girl]
I really, really believe you, Scott.
[pr_demon]
Glad to hear it.
[mrvl_girl]
Yeah. Wow. You just killed my biggest fear. You don’t know how happy that makes me. I mean it. I’m crying a little.
[pr_demon]
I swear, woman, you get stranger by the minute.
[mrvl_girl]
Would you like me to kill your biggest fear? Or are you willing to take on faith that I am not my own teenage daughter?
[pr_demon]
I don’t think you’re Madison!!
[mrvl_girl]
Yes, but there’s still that tiny seed of doubt in your mind. I can see it. I can kill it.
[pr_demon]
You can prove you’re not Madison.
[mrvl_girl]
I can prove it in four words. No, make it five.
[pr_demon]
Five words, huh?
[mrvl_girl]
I’m giving you a choice: proof or faith. What will it be?
[pr_demon]
I don’t know. I’m tempted to say “proof,” but it feels like the wrong answer.
[mrvl_girl]
This isn’t a quiz show, Scott. I’m only asking for your benefit.
[pr_demon]
Yeah but I can’t imagine anyone choosing faith over proof.
[mrvl_girl]
Neither could I. But I just mustered up some faith in you and it feels REALLY good. Care to try some?
[pr_demon]
No. I’ll take the proof.
[mrvl_girl]
You sure now?
[pr_demon]
I’m sure.
[mrvl_girl]
You want the proof then.
[pr_demon]
If it’s not too much trouble.
[mrvl_girl]
It’s not. But I’d be remiss in not giving you one last chance to back out.
[pr_demon]
I’m not backing out! Will you give me the damn proof already?!
[mrvl_girl]
Okay! I’ll be right over!
She disconnected. The lower half of my screen went blank. For a minute I sat there, staring at my laptop like an idiot, wondering why she couldn’t just deliver her proof through the computer. Then I reread her last five words. Damn. I guess she did. Whatever made me think I was dealing with an adolescent? This woman was far too smart to be a child in disguise. This woman was smarter than me.
________________
For the eighth time in seven days, Marvel Girl pulled up in front of my building. She left the lights on and the motor running. She didn’t get out. I watched her through the window. Why was she just sitting there?
Soon my old but trusty cell phone emitted a short series of beeps. I pulled it off the kitchen counter. I had a new text message.
You coming or what?
I had no idea what she had in store for me, but I liked the way she spared me the thorny issue of inviting her in. By no means did I want her in my duplex. I didn’t want her by my stairs. I didn’t want her any where near the concept of escalation. Apparently the feeling was mutual. That was all I needed to know before putting my night in her hands.
After clutching my wallet and keys, I took a somber look at my other cellular—the Bat-Phone, that red, clunky, overembellished rigamajig that had come to symbolize my secret relationship with Harmony. I’d been carrying it around all week like a ten-pound sack of flour. For God’s sake, it was Saturday night. The news flow was just a trickle, and Harmony was rich in friends. Wouldn’t it be nice to leave the phone behind for once? To leave
her
behind?
her
behind?
No. With my luck, Harmony would need me the minute I became inaccessible. I was already two steps in the doghouse with her. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes. I took her with me.
As I approached the SUV, I could see the inscrutable Mrs. Spelling smiling at me through her window. I hadn’t laid eyes on her since last Saturday, back when she was little more than a bad driver, a worried mother and, naturally, a Deaf Woman. Now that I had at least eighty more colorful terms to describe her, she looked completely different to me. She was still forcibly cute in that Katie Comic/chipmunk sort of way, but there was a deep intricacy to her face that I had definitely missed before. It made her almost impenetrable. She was what Katie Couric might look like in a weird and cathartic mood. She was the world’s most complicated chipmunk.
At the moment, her face was dedicated to making fun of me. Feigning confusion, she lowered her window and flashed me her handheld.
Madison said I had to rush over here. Any idea what this is about?
“Read my lips: you’re not funny.”
She grinned and jerked her thumb at the passenger seat.
Get in.
Get in.
“And where are you taking me, exactly?”
She didn’t catch that. Another thing I’d learned from her this past week: lipreading was hard. The human mouth was nowhere near as versatile as the human throat. Many word sounds were doubled, tripled, quadrupled in a single phoneme. Even veteran readers like Jean still routinely missed or misread at least twenty-five percent of everything said. Try....sing or mass-reeding......twenty-five....cent of everything ridden. Not fun, is it?
So when she motioned again, I shut up and followed. As I closed the door, Jean turned on the interior light. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse, turquoise capri pants, and old white sneakers. Her short black hair was held back by a plastic green hairband. She was dressed more for a day of spring cleaning than a night on the town. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly a fashion template, but there was something wonderful about the way she existed in her own continuum, far beyond the reach of
Marie Claire
and Laura Ashley. None of her insecurities, none of her neuroses were media fueled. She was her very own mess.
Marie Claire
and Laura Ashley. None of her insecurities, none of her neuroses were media fueled. She was her very own mess.
And she was still one fine-looking mess. Nature may have stolen one of her senses but it left her a number of gifts: perfect skin, a seductive jawline, and what I could only assume was a divine metabolism. She had an incredibly nice body for a woman who sat at her computer all day.
She studied me for a moment, then scribbled into her handheld.
It’s nice to see you.
“Thank you. You, too.”
You ready?
“Where are we going?”
Just trust me. You’re in for a real experience.
She locked the doors and turned off the light. Before pulling away, she closed her eyes and crossed herself. Whether she was really praying or just messing with my head, I didn’t know. She didn’t clue me in. But as always, I had my suspicions.
________________
There’s an electronic device known as an Emergency Response Indicator that picks up the noise from police, fire, and ambulance sirens and signals it to deaf drivers through a series of blinking red lights. It even indicates the proximity of the emergency vehicle. I got to see it in action on the way to our mystery destination. What a magnificent age we lived in. There was clearly no better time to be deaf.
At half past ten we arrived at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, only two blocks south of Harmony’s hotel.
With covert glee, she held my arm and led me through the bustling crowd of pedestrians and street performers. She took me down an alley, between two restaurants, then up an unobtrusive stairwell. There, on the second floor, across from a Greek optometrist’s office, was the entrance to Club Silence.
She adjusted my collar at the door, then retrieved her handheld from her purse.
You are now leaving Earth
, she wrote,
and entering my world.
, she wrote,
and entering my world.
She wasn’t kidding. Never in my life had I been to a place where everybody was talking but nobody was saying a word. All throughout the posh little establishment, patrons cut their hands through the air in quick, elegant motions. There didn’t seem to be a single verbal conversation transpiring, yet there was more than enough noise to keep the scene from becoming eerie. The shuffling of clothes. The clapping of hands. The clumps and clods of footsteps. And the normal human interjections: moans, sighs, laughs, cries. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life. I didn’t even have a film or television reference to compare it to. I was completely off-script.
Jean paid my cover charge (she insisted, although I suspected my expression alone was worth the price of admission), then pulled me to a row of small tables on the east side of the room. Fastened onto each surface were numerous laptops linked together by LAN cables.
It cost another ten dollars to score us an hour of table time. We sat across from each other. The setup was very similar to EyeTalk, with one major difference. From behind her screen, Jean threw me a small and mysterious grin. I had no idea what was fueling it. Reading her face was like reading the NASDAQ page. There were too many details. Too much going on.
Unlike her, I wasn’t a touch typist. I had to look down at my fingers.
She shrugged.
Jean rested her chin on her fist, studying me through a squint.
Jean raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.
She made a vast sweep with her hand.
Jean rolled her eyes.
I grinned.
The overhead lights flashed on and off, until everyone turned to look at the middle-aged man at the switch. He stepped onto a small wooden stage and cheerfully signed to the room for a few moments.
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