Chapter 34
— Chapter 34 —
I always get kind of sick to my stomach pulling into the parking lot of Hans’s office. And I always sprint from my car to his building, key out, ready to open the door, because even though the Bailey House is on the other side of the lot, I’m terrified of Charlie catching sight of me.
Once I get into the building, I do a pretty good job of pretending I’m somewhere else, and it’s nice to get paid for work that doesn’t leave me smelling like beer. Hans is rarely at the office while I am, but when he is, he’s quiet and kind and thanks me for my time, even though he’s paying me.
I found my Discman and a bunch of CDs in one of the boxes in the basement. It almost fits in Step’s old fanny pack, so I use that as a holster. When Hans isn’t in the office, I blast old albums through my flimsy foam headphones and power through the paperwork he left me. I probably look ridiculous, but it keeps me productive. Today I’m listening to the Gin Blossoms, and as I work my way through New Miserable Experience and a stack of probate paperwork, I smile every time I correctly anticipate the CD skips. Those scratches upset me so much back when they happened, but now they’re like my own secret track over all the songs.
After I finish filing the paperwork, I sit at Hans’s desk to stuff and stamp invoices that need to be mailed. The intercom buzzes. I can’t figure out where the receiver is. It’s not by the door. I don’t see it on his desk or in the closet. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer anyway, since I’m just here to push papers around. By the time I hear the buzz again, I have convinced myself that it’s actually my job to ignore it. But then a moment later someone is in the hallway knocking on the frosted glass door. First a little knuckled rap, then flat-palm slapping.
I freeze. No one knows I’m here. Whoever is knocking on the door cannot be looking for me, unless Charlie happened to peer out the window of his office at the exact moment I was racing from my car. Maybe I should have walked slow. Not called attention to myself. Maybe he didn’t come by right away because he wasn’t sure it was me, so he called one of his cop buddies and ran my plates and they just called back to say, “Yup, that’s her,” and now he’s at the door.
There’s no escape route in this office. I feel my sight narrowing, brain speeding up. The shadow through the frosted glass is strangely wide—too big to be one person, too small to be two. The slapping stops. The shadow bobs up and down, and I can make out the silhouettes of two heads. The smaller has round ears like a teddy bear. Is it a person holding a stuffed animal? A balloon?
“I know you’re in there,” a woman’s voice calls. “Come on, Hans! It was on the calendar!”
I get up from the desk, inching forward until I can see through the clear border around the frost. It’s a woman about my age carrying a toddler who’s dressed in a panda-spotted jacket with ears on the hood. The woman is slight and pretty, has local-news-anchor hair and perfectly contoured cheekbones. She’s holding the handle of a small rolling suitcase.
I unlock the door, opening it a crack.
“Hans isn’t here,” I say. “Can I take a message?”
The woman pulls the door open, pushes the suitcase handle into my hand.
“Oh, thank god,” she says. “I have to catch my train. Tell him not to lose her giraffe this time!”
She shoves her child into my arms. I try to step away, but the toddler reaches for me, and I worry she’ll fall if I don’t take her. It must be raining, because there are droplets of water balanced on her panda fleece, not yet soaked into the fabric.
“I’m just here to file,” I say, but the woman is already walking down the hall.
She calls over her shoulder, “Tell Hans I spent all that time setting up the calendar so this wouldn’t happen!”
The toddler is sleepy-eyed and cuddly like she just woke up from a nap. She has chapped cheeks and a stuffed nose and breathes through her red-stained mouth. Her breath is sweet and fruity.
“I just work here,” I shout.
The woman turns back to look at me. “I can’t miss my train!” There’s a tilt toward desperation in her voice.
“I’ll get him on the phone for you right now,” I offer.
“Great,” she says and walks out the front door.
The little girl whimpers, “Ma-ma-ma-ma,” her eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s all okay.”
“Ma-ma-ma!” she whispers back.
I sit in Hans’s chair as gracefully as I can manage, trying to keep my heartbeat slow and steady because I know that she can feel it. I dial the phone on his desk with one hand, and when Hans answers, I say in a singsongy whisper, “I’m at your office and I need you to come here.”
“On it,” he says instantly, without asking why. I wonder what he thinks I’m calling about. I have not had any reason to call him since I started working here.
“Thank you,” I sing.
When I hang up the phone, the toddler leans back to look at me. I smile, trying to get every ounce of kindness in my heart to well up to the surface. She reaches out her sticky hand and pats my cheek, then leans against my shoulder and starts sucking her thumb, curling her index finger over her crusty little nose. I rock back and forth in Hans’s chair and look at the pictures on his desk. There’s a framed photo of a young man, slight and finely featured like Hans, standing next to a Rutgers sign, autumn leaves at his feet. Another of a grinning teenager in a Cornell sweatshirt sitting cross-legged on a bed in a dorm room, her curls the same ruddy brown as the strands of Hans’s hair that haven’t yet gone gray. Between those photos is a small silver frame with a picture of this child grinning on a white-sand beach, wearing a pink bucket hat and a diaper, sand dusting her chubby legs like sugar. I’ve seen the picture before. I’d assumed it was his Cornell student as a baby, but now I see that the resolution is too high to be an old photo. She could be his granddaughter, but college kids from wealthy families don’t have babies. Hans hasn’t mentioned her, but our conversation is limited. Usually, he asks me how the house is. I tell him it’s mostly the same and that I’m trying to make it better. He nods like he approves and then we get awkward as we run out of things to say. I’m not great at chatting when I’m not behind the bar, and I think he might have a similar issue when he’s not lawyering.
Ten minutes later, when Hans bursts into the office, his sweet little girl is asleep, her thumb-sucking hand resting against my neck. I can feel her diaper leaking into my sweater, stinging my skin. He takes her from me, peeling her little body off my shoulder with gentle precision, the wrinkles between his eyebrows reaching up to meet the ones that run lengthwise on his forehead, like a cross-tide of concern.
“She’s wet,” I whisper.
He nods. She clings to him as soon as he’s finished the transfer, her sleepy eyes opening the slightest bit.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to wake her to…”
“Good call. Thank you.”
“Dadadadada,” she murmurs, grabbing at his beard in a lazy way, like it’s something she does all the time to calm herself.
Hans pats her back, shifting his weight from side to side to rock her to sleep. “Oh, my little Emmeline,” he sings softly. “Oh, my little Emmeline. Daddy loves you. So. So. Much.” It’s the kind of song you make up when you’re holding a baby—words that grow from the need for them to hear your soothing voice. I used to sing like that to Aubrey when she was little. Songs about Aubrey June and the beautiful moon. I wonder if anyone ever made up songs like that for me.
I’m debating going through the suitcase to see if I can find a diaper and a change of clothes. Then Hans points to the bottom drawer of his desk and nods at me. I find a stack of diapers, a box of wipes, a changing mat, and dinosaur footie pajamas.
“Can you stay another moment and help me?” Hans asks. “I know this isn’t in your job description.”
“Of course.” I have a little over an hour before I need to be at The Aster for lunch, so even though I have to stop home to change my shirt, I’ll be okay.
“Can you lay the mat on the couch? She probably won’t stay asleep, but I can try.”
I get Hans set up, then go down the hall to the break room to pour warm water on a dish towel so he can clean her face.
When I come back, Emmeline is changed and awake, holding Hans’s chin with both hands, rubbing her snotty little nose against his. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Here,” I say, handing him the dish towel.
“Good thinking! Thank you!” As he wipes her face clean, she licks the cloth. “Don’t eat the towel, silly,” he says.
She giggles and does it again. They are delighted by each other.
“Thank you so much,” he says to me. “I’m sorry for the drama. I remembered to book the babysitter but forgot to pick up the baby.” He seems embarrassed and I don’t want him to be. Step used to forget to pick me up from lots of places all the time, but I don’t think he ever once looked at me the way Hans looks at his daughter.
“All I did was watch her for a sec. It’s not a problem.”
“I’m going to get her home,” Hans says. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
Emmeline grins at me over his shoulder as Hans opens the door to leave.
“And you make sure you charge me for all this time,” he says.
A few hours later, Hans walks into The Aster, shaking rain from his jacket. He sits toward the middle of the bar, as far as he can get from the other patrons, flashes a shy smile, and orders a ginger ale.
“I felt like I should explain,” he says.
“You don’t have to.” I serve his ginger ale in a rocks glass with a skewered slice of fresh ginger to make it look like a real drink, since bar people are always suspicious of non-drinkers.
“For me, I think I have to?”
“Alright.” The lunch rush has slowed to a trickle. I can spare a moment to listen if he needs it. I’m used to hearing confessions.
Hans takes a deep breath, puffs out his lips as he exhales. “After Natasha, our daughter, left for college, my wife went to Paris for an oil-painting intensive and decided she didn’t want to come back.” He swishes the ice cubes around in his glass to avoid looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, using the earnest tone I’ve mastered over the years—concern without a hint of pity.
Hans bobs his head to acknowledge my sympathy but keeps going like if he doesn’t get the whole story out, he won’t tell me at all. “So, the day she called to say she didn’t want to be my wife anymore, I realized I’d spent my whole life playing it safe. The most reckless thing I could think of was to go to Atlantic City.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “It’s like the little boy idea of excitement. And when I got there, I realized I hate gambling. I hate those rooms. I hate all the bells, and dings, and fake coins spilling out of machines. I ended up in some dive bar with Mira sitting next to me. She’d just found out her fiancé was cheating. I kept buying her drinks, which meant I kept drinking.” He rolls his hand in a speed-up gesture like he’s fast-forwarding through their inevitable tryst. “I must have given her my card, and about two months later she showed up at my office. At that point, both my kids were siding with my wife—or at least they liked her better. Of course they did—I spent their childhood sleeping in my office in Manhattan more nights than I can count. I didn’t go to school plays, teach them how to ride bikes, or make soup when they were sick. Of course they love their mom more. And of course they’ll visit her on their school breaks.” His voice wavers a little. “She earned that. I wasn’t a parent. At best, I was a patron. When Mira showed up, I was in the middle of imagining the rest of my life as a lonely person. She liked the idea of half-time parenting, so we… had a baby. I left the firm, set up the new office close to home. Mira moved up to Katonah. We’re not together. We’re not even necessarily friends, more like parenting colleagues. She’s an excellent colleague, and I’m trying to be. Most of the time we work well together, but Mira’s an actress, so her schedule varies.” He finishes his ginger ale. “I’m a bit of a Luddite and she can’t keep track of paper. So you were caught in our one constant argument, and I am sincerely sorry for that.”
I refill his glass. I think there’s probably something unhealthy about Hans needing this moment of confession, but I also think it doesn’t matter all that much. Who knows how we’re all supposed to be?
“What’s that look on your face?” Hans asks. “What are you thinking?”
I shake my head.
“Truly,” he says. “I want to know.”
“I kind of assumed you were Mr. Conventional.”
Hans laughs.
“I’m sorry—that’s obnoxious for me to say.”
“No. It’s not. I was Mr. Conventional, and certain I was doing it right until the wheels fell off. I’ve come to believe that people who appear to have their lives all buttoned up spend significant energy on that illusion at the cost of all the good stuff. Not a single client has come to me in need of estate planning and had every part of their life figured out. We’re all woefully finite, trying to pretend we’re infinite.”
Since he seems to have his guard down, I ask, “Why were you so set on helping me?”
He lifts his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s giving it a good think. “In my big firm days, I would have sided with your parents. I thought my children were difficult. My wife was difficult. After I lost them, I realized that when they were angry with me, what they felt was true to them, and even when I didn’t understand, I should have listened. I should have listened because I didn’t understand. When your father had me set up his will, when I had to deal with your sister after your parents died, I could see quite clearly no one had listened to you.”
I didn’t see Bee come in, but suddenly she’s sliding onto the barstool next to Hans. “God, it’s already a shit show! Can I have a cup of tea, Frey?”
Hans smiles at her, holds up his glass. “Ah, a fellow teetotaler saddling up to the bar!”
Bee raises her eyebrows like she’s not sure what to make of him, but then she laughs. “Well, teetotaling today at least. Those roads are getting slippery.”
Just as I realize it’s early for Bee to be done with school, Aubrey walks out of the bathroom and sits next to her.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask.
“School let out early.” I can tell Aubrey feels awkward, like she might not be wanted or allowed. I pour a Pepsi in a big glass and slide it across the bar to her so she has something to fiddle with.
“I figured I’d bring her to you,” Bee says, “and get a good meal before the world shuts down.”
“Because it’s raining?”
“Temperature’s dropping.” Bee walks over to the TV. She stands on her tiptoes to reach the buttons, flipping to the Weather Channel. “See?”
The ticker on the bottom of the screen shows a winter weather warning.
“It’s April!” I say, feeling queasy. I have a kid and a house and a cat to keep safe. I should be paying attention to the weather. I should have kept Coriolanus inside and filled the bathtub and all the pots with water.
I get called to cash out a lunch check, but as I walk away, I hear Bee introducing herself and Aubrey to Hans. And then I hear her say, “Hans as in Solo?” Hans laughs more than is warranted for something he’s probably heard a million times.
Sam comes out of the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and looks around the bar.
“That’s my niece,” I tell him, pointing to Aubrey before he can notice her. “School let out early.”
“Oh, no problem, Frey,” he says. “She’s always welcome here. Actually, if she ever wants to wait tables, we could use—” He looks up at the TV, where the weather map shows a giant mass of freezing rain heading toward us. “Shit. We need to close, don’t we?”
He asks like maybe it’s my call. When he does that, I’ve learned it’s best to respond as if it is. “Yeah. We probably do.”
Sam shouts, “Last call, everyone! We want you to get home safe!”
When Hans, Bee, and Aubrey are the only people left at the bar, Sam and Carlos come out from the kitchen with towering stacks of take-out containers for each of us.
“Eat up! It’s all going bad if we lose power,” Sam says, and I can tell he’s feeling queasy too.