Chapter 10 Logan
LOGAN
Turns out, it was a metaphorical ladder.
“Nine weeks? For a broken wrist?” Mrs. Walker asks on the other end of the line.
“It could’ve been twelve weeks or longer,” I say.
Huh. Maybe my luck is turning around after all.
After my fall down the stairs, Hazel insisted on taking me to the hospital, refusing to hear my I’m fines.
Nothing about the sharp, burning sensation felt fine, but she didn’t need this burden, especially with all that she has going on with her brother.
She stayed with me the entire time at the hospital, asking the doctor questions and typing notes into her phone.
A couple of hours later, I was sent home with a cast. Hazel picked the color: lucky red.
And now I’m home earlier than usual from work on a Friday. Not only did I break my wrist, but my entire body is sore. I should still be at the theater managing my crew, moving things along, but Richie promised to make life hell for me if I kept pushing through the pain.
“Tell the doctors you need it done faster,” Mrs. Walker says in her no-nonsense British accent.
I make a face she can’t see. “What can the doctors do? It’s the body’s timeline.”
“Then will your body into obedience. At the beginning of any cold, I tell my body, No! You do not have time for this. And it works. I’ve had mild colds that only last two days since 2010.”
Nothing about that sounds healthy, but I don’t fight it.
Celine Walker is a powerhouse in her personal and professional lives.
A former actress headlining in shows, she’s now transitioned into producing them, mostly on Broadway or the West End, and she doesn’t have time for whining or excuses. Which, apparently, includes my wrist.
“I suppose I’m being a smidge dramatic. You’re taking time to recover, I hope?” Mrs. Walker asks, her tone a warning. “The theater will still be there next week, you know.”
If she had seen what’s been happening, she wouldn’t be saying that.
“There’s still a lot to do, but I’m managing,” I say, keeping it vague. I flick the waving arm of a lucky cat figurine that Hazel had delivered to me this morning.
Mrs. Walker groans. “Spare me the bullshit. Is everything okay over there?”
“Okay? It’s better than that. It’s fantastic. This show’s going to be… great.” I don’t need to worry Mrs. Walker about her most personal show and biggest investment to date when she’s halfway across the world. No one wants to be around negative people.
“Okay, well, good,” she says. “Because I’ve decided that this is my last show.”
I’m so glad this isn’t a video call because then she’d see the look on my face.
“Your last show?” I ask, hoping she can’t hear the panic vibrating through me. The final show she produces cannot be this one. Not when it’s on the verge of crashing and burning. “But aren’t there still so many stories you want to tell? You’re just getting started!”
“Roman will never get to see it come to life, but I’ll get to. I figured, why not go out on a high with the musical my husband spent half his life working on?”
“Half his life, wow,” I say, tapping the lucky cat’s arm so hard the whole thing falls over. “Great. Well, can’t wait for you to see how things are progressing. You’re going to be…” Disappointed. Upset. Alarmed. “Surprised.”
“Pleasantly, I hope,” she says.
“Yep! Totally.” This comes out so emphatically that I kind of believe myself.
Mrs. Walker doesn’t seem to be buying it. “Logan, you’ve always had a can-do attitude, but not everything you can do. Not everything you should do. Which reminds me, please don’t make me Christmas biscotti again this year, I beg of you.”
I huff out a laugh. Each holiday season, Mrs. Walker and her late husband made biscotti for their neighbors. Ever since I met her, I’ve been baking her a batch during the holidays since she no longer wants to do it without Roman.
Something I learned about Mrs. Walker is that she prefers her biscotti burned to a crisp. According to her, my perfectly golden ones were “expected.” Mrs. Walker’s a don’t-follow-the-recipe kind of person.
“This year you’re getting two boxes,” I say as she laughs and goes uh-huh. Little does she know, I’ll probably unintentionally burn every batch of biscotti I make, even if I set a timer for a shorter bake time. Maybe she’d actually eat them this year.
“Roman couldn’t stand it. To him, golden was overbaked,” Mrs. Walker says with a rare laugh in recollection.
“You were married for a long time. What’s your secret?”
“Share all your pieces with each other,” she says right away. “The beautiful, the ugly. The messy, the shiny. Don’t live your life in hiding.”
I vocalize my head nods with an mmm to acknowledge I’ve heard her.
“How’s my Mr. Mistoffelees doing?” Mrs. Walker asks, her voice still soft. It loses its edge whenever we talk about her husband or her cat.
“I thought he was with you,” I deadpan. Toffee meows from on top of my shoe where he’s lounging.
“Hah. Those birds better not have traumatized him too much,” she says. “You’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie, right? Birds can be vile creatures.”
I still worry those sparrows are going to find me one day.
“Oh, Logan, you added too much to rent this month,” Mrs. Walker says, the sharpness in her voice back. It’s not that she’s unkind; she just doesn’t put on unnecessary niceties.
“It’ll take some time, but I’m going to pay you back for the discounted rate you’ve been giving me all these years,” I explain. “And will, from this point forward, be paying what you could be renting this place for.” It’s a staggering amount—Tribeca isn’t cheap—but it’s fair.
She groans. “But then it’s not a good deed on my end. You know I’m nothing without my good deeds. How are you affording this?”
“I won the lottery.”
Mrs. Walker laughs at this for a long time. “Logan, I’m serious. I know what carpenters make,” she says once she catches her breath.
“I’m serious, too.”
Now that the money’s cleared, I update her on my situation. I’ve already spoken to a financial advisor, but she offers to put me in touch with hers. She also insists I, at the very least, cut off $1,000 in the rent for cat sitting.
We end the call agreeing on a happy medium of $500.
As I’m leashing up Toffee, I hear a knock at my door.
Hazel’s on the other side, holding a large bag and two to-go cups. I attempt to take them from her, awkwardly placing my cast under the bottom of the bag to steady it, but she pulls back before I get a good grip.
“You’re”—I look at my watch—“three hours early. I’m about to take Toffee on a walk.”
“In your texts, you said you were home,” she says, setting everything down on the counter. “I just got off from the shop. I thought I’d come by to see if I could help with anything?” She hands me one of the cups. “I’m a cinnamon latte girl. I got you the same. I hope that’s okay.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I couldn’t show up here with just a beverage for me,” she says. “I know it’s a little late to be drinking coffee but the craving hit.”
I take a sip from the cup. It’s delicious. “I think I’m a cinnamon latte boy.”
Hazel smirks as she takes the end of Toffee’s leash from me. “I can do that. You need rest.” She guides me back to the living room.
I grab my hat from the entry table. “I need fresh air, and my body needs blood flow, movement, something vertical.”
She shoots me a look that says, Fine, you win. “No more than ten minutes, tops.”
As soon as we enter Rockefeller Park, it’s clear the walk is going to take more than ten minutes. Toffee insists on smelling every blade of grass and soaking up each ray of the lowering sun.
“Let him have it. He only has a couple of months left,” I say.
Hazel drops to her knees and gives Toffee a side hug. “I’m sorry I was ever mad at you.”
I play my words back. “Oh no. Like, he only has a couple of months left before temperatures drop too low for his toe beans to touch pavement, and he’s taking full advantage.”
She releases Toffee from her grip. “I’m still kind of mad at you,” she whispers to him. She accepts my outstretched hand to help her up, her eyes lingering on me. “You’re always wearing that hat.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“What’s the story?”
I lift my hat to run my hand through my hair. “I’ve worn it during some tough times. Ever since then, I guess it’s kind of become a habit.”
She nods slowly. “Your lucky hat. I’ll note it in the tracker.”
We continue our stroll through the park, taking small steps to keep up with Toffee’s pace. “Hey, uh, did you also get the interview request?” I ask. “For AARP?”
“Like the magazine for retired people?”
“Yeah. They want to put us on their cover.”
Hazel’s eyes widen. “The disguises were good, but they couldn’t possibly have been put-you-on-a-cover good.”
“If there were a Tony Award category for Best Makeup, my friend would win,” I say.
“And maybe we’d get a nomination for Best Actor and Best Actress,” she says. “We must’ve been a pretty convincing married couple.”
I can’t explain why my first thought is being married to her wasn’t hard.
A pigeon lands in front of us, and Hazel grips Toffee’s leash tighter. “How do you even know this?” she asks. “You’re not actually listening to all your voicemails, are you?”
We wait for a biker to pass before crossing over to the water’s edge.
“I can’t help it,” I admit. “You’re not a little bit curious?”
She scoffs. “I know what they’re all saying: We want something from you.”
“Not all. Some people want to give us the chance to help them.”
Hazel makes a face. “While we’re on the topic of helping, I saw that you got a goldfish. That’s information I need to know, Logan.”
“Yeah, but… wait, you were in my apartment for ten seconds. How did you see that?”
“I’m visiting your apartment alone. I was assessing it for danger.”
My mouth quirks at this. “But you’ll go on a roof with me alone?”