5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
Kate
I bang my hand on the edge of my desk as the Internet indicator on my laptop winks over to “no connection.”
So far, I’ve managed to keep up with my classes in spite of the clunky old router and the inefficient wi-fi booster. James had relented after the first night and moved his office stuff out of my old bedroom so I had a place to stay. But it is far from ideal. Finals week starts on Monday, and I desperately need to get all my work done.
With exaggerated care, I turn off my laptop, close it, and pack it into its carrying case. Then I pick up my book bag, laptop, purse, and clatter downstairs.
James is at his desk downstairs, his “work” music blasting away at full volume from the vintage sound system. It used a turntable to play Dad’s old vinyl records — no Internet required.
“Where are you going?” he yells, looking up from the giant columnar paper spreadsheet he is working on.
“I’m going to drive into town where I can use my mobile net card to actually connect,” I yell back at him. “I’ve got assignments due that can only be completed online.”
I stomp out of the house and fling myself into my rusty Ford Escort wagon. The engine stutters, then comes to life. It sounds like it is trying to miss on one cylinder. My poor car is long overdue for a tune up, needs tires, and could definitely use an oil change.
I could have asked James or Mom and Dad for a loan to get an overhaul or even a new vehicle, but I don’t want to be dependent, especially now. The late spring rains are making a mess of the winter wheat and delaying spring planting of just about everything else. So I put-putted into Olathe where my mobile Internet connection could get a signal.
I pull into the Grocery and Farm Exchange parking lot and find place along the side of the building where I wasn’t being blinded by the afternoon sun or chilled by the cold rain.
I plug my so-called solar generator into the cigarette lighter outlet. It is really just a rechargeable battery set up with outlets and charging ports that could work off a solar panel or cigarette lighter. Since the late April sun is behind a cloud bank, cigarette lighter is the only option.
I lock the doors, turn my back to the driver’s side door, stretch my legs out across the seat, and open my laptop.
I buckle down and work steadily, until my mobile connection starts beeping. A message blinks on my laptop: Connection timed out, minutes expired. Followed by another message: No Internet Connection.
I gulp. I still have two classes to go. I could buy more time on the mobile, maybe…I use the store’s free network connection to log into my bank account, then realize that no, I do not have enough money to buy more network time.
I check my phone…no. I’m out of data on it. James will throw a hissy fit if I try to get more .
I draw a deep breath. Well, I am already logged into the store’s customer network…I’ll just keep working.
I am more than halfway through writing the paper for my early childhood psychology class, when someone taps on my window.
Gregory Jones peers in. He is just as handsome as he had been ten years ago, when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. His skin is a warm brown, his eyelashes long and dark, his eyes are large, liquid and dark brown like some shaded forest pool. He kept his curly hair cut short.
I was often the student first-aid assistant at games. When he’d gotten tackled and hit his head on something metal on the edge of the gym, I discovered his curls were soft and fine, almost like a baby’s. I day-dreamed about running my fingers through those curls for weeks after that.
That daydream was right in there with dreams of him ditching Debra Sue and asking me, a lowly sophomore, to go to the Senior prom with him. I would float into his arms, and we would do a sensuous and dreamy tango that would stun everyone with its passion and beauty.
Of course, nothing of the kind ever happened.
Resolutely, I lift my laptop, swing my feet around so I am sitting correctly in the driver’s seat, and place my open laptop on the passenger seat. I hope he will interpret my flaming cheeks as embarrassment or alarm at having someone tap on the glass.
I roll down the window. “Hey, Greg, what’s going on?” I ask.
That is when I realized Gregory is wearing a uniform that he filled out to perfection. He still has the physique that had made him an outstanding athlete. His mask gives him an air of mystery and turns his normal good looks into super badass mystique. Maybe he would remember me?
“Sorry, Kate.” His voice is as kind and gentle as ever, a sort of Sidney Poitier baritone. Clearly, he does remember me. “But the management asked me to do a sweep of the parking lot. Your phone was flagged as spending too much time on the store’s customer access.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling myself flush even redder with embarrassment. “Just let me log out . . .” I reach over, save my work, log out of the university system, then out of the store’s customer Internet access. “I’m sorry. I ran out of time on my mobile network card. And I’ve got classwork I need to do.”
“Hey, I get it. I’m taking some classes online myself, and you aren’t the only one out here tonight. It’s lagging the store system,” Gregory says sympathetically, his left hand, with the wedding ring glinting on his finger, resting against the open bottom of my window.
“I got some more bad news,” he goes on. “We got a parking lot curfew now, and we’re getting ready to close. I gotta ask you to leave.”
I can feel tears starting to form behind my eyelids. I was so close to being finished. And to be caught piggy-backing on the store’s network — by Greg, of all people!
I look away and take a deep breath. Did the entire world hate me? Then I collect myself and turn back. “It’s all right, Greg. Thanks for telling me.”
He steps back, a charming, gentle knight in rent-a-cop blue. If the earth could only swallow me…of all the ways to get someone’s attention. At least I didn’t say anything stupid.
I start my car, guide it out of the parking lot, and head back home.
When I trudge into the house, book bag on one shoulder, laptop bag on the other, James is on the landline, using an old rotary phone that was connected to our party line.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I get it. Way more than a sensitive kid needs to hear, but not something you can email or hand over to the secretary. ”
He pauses, listening. “I could ask her again, or I could let you talk to her.”
Before I can say no or put my bags down, James thrusts the handset up to my ear. I slide my bookbag off my shoulder and take the call.
“Hello?” I say.
Charles Emory’s cultured voice comes over the phone. “Kate, I need your help.”
“I really don’t think . . .” I start to say.
“No, please. Hear me out. Cece is here, in my office. I need to make confidential calls to people, and some of the content might not be suitable for her to overhear.”
“What kind of content?” I ask.
“Um. . .” He pauses. Then I hear him say, “Cece, sweety, can you go get Daddy a glass of water from the kitchen sink? Is your steppy stool tall enough? You can use one of your plastic cups.”
“Ok, Daddy,” the little girl’s voice pipes clearly through the phone.
There is a minute or two of silence. I can imagine Cece dashing away to the kitchen, climbing on a stool that is probably too short, and struggling to get a plastic cup of water. Maybe she will forget that part and use a glass, maybe break it… I shut down my imaginary scenario. I love Cece, just as I had all the kids at the daycare. But I am not going to do this.
“Look,” he says, “I’ve got people calling in all over. Some of them are sick, some of them are just worried. I need to be able to speak candidly with them about death and dying, and I don’t think Cece needs to . . . hear Daddy having heffalumps and woozles over the telephone.”
I can hear Cece’s giggle, and I can just imagine her face. All the same . . .
I open my mouth to say no, when Mrs. Higgins, our nosy-parker neighbor, the one who is always glad to tell on me and James, pipes up and says, “Well I never! I don’t know who you are, mister, but if you can’t manage to talk business in front of your own kid, then you shouldn’t be in that kind of business. And here you are, asking my sweet, little ol’ neighbor girl to . . .”
Then it all comes crashing down on me. Finals week without reliable Internet, no money except what I could beg from James, no job prospects. And now this nosy old biddy thought she could dictate who I should work for? Something explodes inside me.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “And Mrs. Higgins, you get off this line right now! This is not any of your business.”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Higgins exclaims. “Just wait until your mother hears about this, young lady! And don’t you come crying to me if you get raped and killed!” There is an emphatic click on the line, followed by a moment of silence.
“Are you still there?” Charles Emory asks.
“I’m here,” I say. “And I don’t mind waiting until we are not on a party line to discuss terms.”
He chuckles, a warm male sound that sends warning signals all up and down my spine. It gets my dander up as nothing else could possibly have done, and it sets something else in motion, too. But I don’t want to acknowledge that.
“I look forward to seeing you,” he says. “The sooner the better.”
“I’ll be there.” I hang up the phone and glare at my brother. “Well,” I say, “This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”
He just grins evilly at me, waggles his fingers over his head, and says, “Sure, Ollie.”