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Blue Moon Bay -- Feb 2012
Chapter 1
The future is a blank page, but not a mystery.
--A Tinker’s Riddle
(Written on the Wall of Wisdom, Waterbird Bait and Grocery, Moses Lake, Texas)
Is
it possible for nine months and three days of your life to haunt you
forever? Can memories become like restless spirits, their long,
thin fingers always reaching, and tugging, and grabbing? Their
fingernails, in my case, would be some variation of floral pink, nicely
manicured. Perfectly matched to a shade of lipstick and possibly
a purse or some other
accessory. Undoubtedly, this is not the norm for personal demons, but try telling them that. They won’t listen, I promise.
There is no escape from those graceful Moses Lake ladies, with their
embroidery-adorned pantsuits and their languid Southern drawls.
When they whispered in my mind, their sentences rose and fell and rose
again, filled with long vowels, padded and powdered with cheerfulness
they couldn’t possibly be feeling all the time. They became the
stuff of my darkest recurrent nightmares—the kind that reprised the
most awkward teenage years and found me wandering the halls of Moses
Lake High School with no idea where I was supposed to go, suddenly
aware that I’d arrived in my Pooh Bear pajamas, or even worse, I’d
forgotten the pajamas altogether. Yet, somehow, I was just now
noticing…
Even
from thousands of miles away, after the passage of season after season,
the High School dream lingered, along with the feeling that somewhere
in the tiny town of Moses Lake, Texas, the ladies were still talking
about me. “Such an odd little thing,” they were saying, a
purposeful twang on the last word morphing it into tha-ang.
“All that eyeliner and that tacky, tacky purple lip gloss. Why,
those black T-shirts didn’t help her figure, one little bit, I’m
tellin’ ye-ew. But how much can you expect, considerin’ what
happened?” I wondered if their conversations turned darker,
then—if the women whispered behind their hands about things I was never
allowed to know. Did they discuss theories, or facts, as they sat
at Lakeshore Community Church, making greeting cards, or knitting
scarves for orphans, or boxing cans for the food pantry? Did they
know what happened?
In
the dreams, sometimes I was running toward a door. I heard the
ladies on the other side, whispering amongst themselves. I
recognized the door--large, white, with heavy, intricate molding.
A double door. It was made to open inward, to allow the crowds to
funnel through.
Then
the door grew smaller, and it was a cellar door. It was plain and
brown. There was a spider on a web in the corner. I reached
for the handle.
I’d
awaken in a sweat at that point, still hearing the echoes of the ladies
chattering in the dusty corners of my mind.
Their voices found ways to carry into the daylight, sometimes.
Occasionally, I heard them talking to me, those Moses Lake ladies, whispering in my ear. Suga’, now, sit up straight, they’d
admonish as I hunched over the table in some meeting, bleary-eyed while
watching a computer create a building in 3D from an architectural
rendering I’d been tweaking all night. Oh, Heather, hon, put
that foot down. A lady never crosses her legs at the knee.
Darlin’, don’t swing your toe like that. Some boy might think
you’re a hussy. Mercy! Didn’t your mama teach you any-thang?
How,
I wondered, is it possible for such a small part of your childhood to
linger so persistently? Do we choose the ghosts that haunt us, or
do they choose us? If we choose them, shouldn’t we be able to
banish them?
The
questions were scrolling through my head again as I sat in a meeting
room, watching Mel generate a virtual walkthrough of a big box retail
store. He was explaining how customer traffic would flow, how the
layout allowed for excellent point-of-sale potential. He laughed
and said, “It’s about capturing those impulse buys.” Leaning
across the table, he inclined his head toward the Japanese contingent
on the client side, as if he were sharing valuable trade secrets with
them. “Of course, we all know that sixty-six percent of buying
decisions are made in the store, and of those, fifty-three percent are
pure impulse buys. Our research shows that with this layout, your
percentages could increase to…” he paused, looked down at his notes,
tapped the tabletop with the eraser of his pencil.
I
was only vaguely aware of the glitch in his presentation. I’d had
the Moses Lake dream again last night. The past was floating like
a cellophane overlay in front of the video screen, scenes dripping and
blending with the reflections from the floor-to ceiling windows behind
me. It was raining outside again, typical for Seattle. Not
the best weather for a critical presentation that could mean millions.
I’d
dreamed all the way to putting my hand on the cellar doorknob last
night. I’d curled up on a yoga mat behind my desk to catch a
couple hours’ sleep before the office came to life, and suddenly there
were the doors. The white ones, then the brown one.
It
had been a while since I’d seen the door. Maybe a year or more
since I’d awakened with a start and moved through the day wondering
what really happened at the bottom of those cellar steps.
“Heather, did you pull together the rest of that research?” Mel
glanced my way expectantly, as if he hadn’t already been given the
numbers. My boss was slipping. Seven years ago, when I’d
started at CTI, Mel was a lion, a giant of retail and industrial
branding and facilities design.
“Sure, of course,” I said, and flipped through the paperwork to save
face for Mel. In reality, the numbers and I were on intimate
terms. “The consumer research indicates a potential seventeen percent
increase in impulse purchases, as compared with your existing
stores. Considering that we’re discussing stores that are already
running at a, brisk I might add, average of $350 sales gross per square
foot, that increase would be…” Mel caught my eye and gave me a look
that warned me not to start running calculations in my head and
spouting figures. This was his meeting. Letting the papers settle back into place, I finished with, “Significant, of course.”
Mel
took over the meeting again, but two of the principals were clearly
more interested in hard facts than Mel’s sales talk about Environments that perform and Brand iconography.
Mel was pushing hard, borderline desperate, but after seven years of
paddling in a man’s wake, I understood his nuances. It’d been
over a year since Mel had brought a project of substantial size into
the firm, and partners must produce.
It
was hard to know how to feel, sitting there watching Mel struggle to
revive the old magic. On the one hand, Mel had plucked me off the
bottom rung of the ladder seven years ago. On the other hand,
every time I tried to climb the ladder, Mel’s foot was squarely on my
head. I wanted to move up, to eventually achieve what he had
achieved—project leader, junior partner, partner. I’d never get
there with Mel in the way.
My
cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I slid it out to look, glanced
while everyone was watching virtual customers move through stainless
steel checkout lanes. The customers started at a normal pace,
then gradually sped up, buzzing by like bumble bees exiting a hive,
having sacrificed nectar for shopping carts filled with fifty-three
plus percent impulse buys. They smiled and chatted as they zipped
through the virtual door, moving so fast, they never even knew what hit
them.
The text message on my cell was from Richard. Problem. Call me ASAP.
The
phone vibrated with an incoming call as I was tucking it away.
Why was Richard calling now? He knew how long these meetings
could take. One advantage of dating a guy who was in the real
estate business was that he understood. When clients come to
town, the clients come first.
I
took a peek at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but I
knew the area code. 510. California. My mother,
undoubtedly. Suddenly, Richard’s text message made sense.
My
foot vibrated under the table as the meeting slowly worked toward a
close. When it was over, I gathered my files and politely excused
myself from the room. Somehow, Mel and I ended up on the elevator
together anyway.
“They left quickly.” He sit-leaned on the handrail, his head falling
against the wall as if he couldn’t hold it up one more second.
“It
was a long meeting.” But we both knew what a quick exit usually
meant. “They won’t find a more comprehensive proposal than ours,
though.”
“Guess we’ll see.” He sighed, letting his eyes sink closed, like
he was already trying to figure out how he’d survive if we didn’t get
this Itega contract.
The
doors opened, and I hesitated. Watching him there, crumpled
against the wall, I felt the need to say something more. I
pressed the elevator button, holding the doors open, so as not to be
ferried to the executive suites along with Mel.
“It’s a good proposal,” I offered. “Slick design. Perfect
fundamentals.”
He didn’t react.
Like a pocket puppy, I stood there pathetically waiting for a pat on
the head, for some acknowledgement of the countless hours I’d put into
the proposal, of the devotion I’d given to managing all aspects of the
design package. Finally, there wasn’t much choice but to step
through the door onto my floor. The one nicely above the
designers in their Spartan cubicles, and squarely below the posh
executive level.
“What’s going on with that thing in Texas?” Mel’s question
followed me. I pushed the button to open the doors again.
“What?”
“The
thing in Texas. The processing plant… Proxica Foods. What’s
happening with that?” Mel cracked an eye open. “Your project.” Was it my imagination, or did the emphasis on your
come with an underlay of resentment—an insinuation that I was
overstepping my bounds by insisting that, if I could bring this project
in, I would be the project leader.
“Everything seems to be right on target. The principals at
Proxica are happy with the design concept. The property deals are
in the final stages. They’re looking at a state-of-the-art
processing plant and six corporately-owned production farms—three for
poultry, and two for grain crops.” The phone message crossed my
mind, and an uncomfortable sensation crawled underneath my favorite
blue blazer. The biggest event in my career, and I was banking on
something that involved my mother….
Mel’s lips pursed, smacking slightly, as if he were tasting the
potential of the deal. Maybe, now that the Itega bid had soured a bit,
Mel was looking to take over my Texas project. Would he really do
that?
“Keep me apprised,” he said, rubbing his chest as the elevator doors
slowly closed.
“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” I answered, trying to lend a lightness to the
conversation. The minute the doors were closed, I raced toward my
office, digging my phone out of my pocket as I went, thinking of the
Texas deal, and my mother.
A
pair of interns, chatting as they passed by with mailing tubes, stopped
talking and sidled to the wall as I passed, clutching the tubes like
Roman shields. I had the momentary pang of regret that comes from
knowing someone finds you humorless and slightly frightening, but it
quickly passed. Interns rotated through the firm
constantly. If they were here to learn architecture and design in
the real world, they might as well see how things really were. No
point filling them with the warm fuzzies. It was a long, hard
climb before you got to take on a project of your own. Even then,
there were customers and suppliers and a half-dozen levels of
management to deal with. Those fresh-faced college kids were
better off seeing the truth now, and then deciding how badly they
wanted it.
I
dialed Richard’s number while rounding the corner into my office.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, an odd little sing-song in my
voice. Maybe I just felt the need to be girly and cute, so as not
to send him scurrying, like the interns. In the dating world
intimidation is not considered a desirable quality. Normal men
tended to see me as slightly work-obsessed and hyper-focused. Or,
as my friend and former roommate, Trish, liked to put it, married to my iphone.
But
Richard was as normal as they came. Normal, and successful, and
he liked me. He’d never been divorced, and he was with a
respectable law firm. An especially rare find among the
over-thirty set, where pickings became slim.
He
sighed into the phone, and I knew the news was not good. I loved
him for hesitating a minute, as if he felt the need to break it to me
gently. In general, Richard hated conflict, which was probably
why he was in real estate law, and not prosecuting murder cases.
“Well, I know you said she was unpredictable, but…”
I
didn’t even wait for him drag through the rest of the sentence.
Poor Richard. I should never have brought him into this. My
mother was probably lighting incense in his office, hanging crystals,
or reciting dark, dramatic, obscure poetry by some writer only English
professors had heard of. “What happened? Did she sign the offer?”
“She’s not here. Not coming… well, not today, anyway, she said.”
“What?” My voice echoed into the corridor, and I closed the
office door, keeping the conversation inside. No one knew about
the Texas project except Mel, Richard, and the real estate broker who
was quietly shopping for land he would then resell to Proxica for their
new facilities. Proxica had insisted that their expansion plans
be kept confidential. Strange things happen when communities find
out that a company with deep pockets is sniffing around. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I
wish I were.” Richard sounded frustrated, tired,
uncharacteristically irritable. He’d put in countless extra hours on
this real estate deal and managed to get my family more than the
property was worth. He’d sorted out the convoluted deeds for the
land that had been in my family since just after the Civil War.
Once the property was in Proxica’s possession, my part of the project
came in—designing Proxica’s new flagship facility, where big pieces of
raw meat would become little pieces of cooked meat, neatly sliced and
packaged in deli bags for people like me, who don’t like to think about
where meat actually comes from.
“Where is she?” Within reach, I wished. If my mother were
within reach, I would… I would… What? What, exactly, would
I do? Talking to my mother was like talking to one of those
gauzy, diaphanous scarves the street vendors sell in India.
Anything I said would go right through, my breath barely creating a
ripple in the fabric.
“In
Texas, apparently.” I could hear Richard typing on his computer
as he replied.
“In Texas?
Why?” My mother hated Texas, Moses Lake, and the portion of the
family farm that had passed into her hands after my father’s
death. “Is Uncle Herbert all right? Uncle Charley?” A
mental scenario materialized in which my dad’s uncles had driven to the
family farm, fifteen miles outside Moses Lake, and were holed up with
shotguns in hand. Even though they both now lived at Uncle
Herbert’s place in town, they had grown up at the farm and were
sentimental about it.
“As
far as I know, your uncles are fine. Your mother is down there
with them, apparently. She said they were talking about some things.”
“What things?” I heard the high-pitched whistling sound of a
pressure cooker about to blow. No wonder Richard was
irritated. He’d worked so hard to convince the broker to take not
only the farm property, but to make a package bid for various other
real estate holdings, as well. Altogether, my great uncles owned
four plots of land and two businesses. Uncle Herbert ran the
Harmony Shores Funeral home in town, and Uncle Charley was famous for
the fried catfish at his floating restaurant, Catfish Charley’s.
Now that both Uncle Herbert and Uncle Charley were in their
eighties, the family farmland and the businesses had to go. That
was all there was to it. Uncle Herbet and Uncle Charley had made
plans to relocate to Oklahoma to be near my father’s cousin, Donny, and
his progeny. Selling the property all at once would allow them to
leave Moses Lake behind in one clean sweep.
Why
had my mother suddenly decided to swirl her big toe in the pool,
muddying the waters? She couldn’t possibly have gotten wind of
Proxica’s plans to acquire the farm property, and, quite frankly, I
couldn’t imagine why she would care. She’d hated Moses Lake even
before we lived there, and she never wanted to see it again after we
left. If my father’s portion of the family farm hadn’t been
squarely landlocked between Uncle Herbert’s property and Uncle
Charlie’s, it would have been gone shortly after my dad’s passing,
sixteen years ago. Now, the old dairy farm would be quietly
recommissioned as a Proxica location, I would get my first design
project, and the town of Moses Lake would see sorely-needed new
jobs. It was a win-win, if you didn’t count the fact that
everything hinged on my mother’s cooperation.
“I’ll call and talk to her about it,” I said, and then apologized
profusely to Richard, privately admiring his composure. He was,
of course, accustomed to issues like this. I’d met him while
testifying as an expert witness in a case. He was the lawyer for
the opposition. My side won. He didn’t hold it against me,
fortunately.
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll have her here tomorrow.” I had
that feeling you get on your first ski trip when you realize you’ve
accidentally turned onto a double black diamond slope.
“The
drop dead date on the offer is a week away. The broker offer
expires February 15th.”
February 15th. February 15th…
The
day after Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day was less than a week
away, and Richard and I hadn’t even talked about it? That was
odd, considering that Richard was a planner, and in Seattle, restaurant
reservations on Valentine’s Day were a must. Maybe this little
silence wasn’t purely accidental. Maybe Richard had something
special in mind, a surprise.
Could there be a certain little trinket attached to the hush-hush
Valentines Day… maybe something that comes in a little ring-sized
box? We’d been dating six months. Having turned thirty-four
last month, alone in my apartment with a cat that wasn’t even my own, I
was feeling the nudge. Richard was six years older than me, ready
to find someone and settle down. He’d said so sometime early in
our relationship. It was one of the things I liked about him.
Neither of us had time to play the games that went with dating.
I
realized he was waiting for me to reply on the broker issue. “So,
the offer expires the day after Valentine’s Day, then, right?” Hint, hint.
He
didn’t pick up on the nuance, unfortunately. “Yes.
Right. February 15th.”
“Got
it.” First things first. Right now, both of us were focused
on the property deal. Between all the confusion about easements,
lost deeds, discrepancies in ancient surveys, and my mother’s failure
to update the deed after my father’s death, we’d come way too close to
letting the offer expire.
I took a patience breath, then let it out. “Don’t worry.” Which, of course, is what people say when they are worried. “If I have to go down there and drag my mother back here myself, I’ll take care of it.” The words held a false sense of bravado, like a threat from a schoolyard bully who’s really afraid to fight. The last, last, last part of my life I ever planned to revisit were those terrible months in Moses Lake. I’d shaken off the Texas dust sixteen years ago, and nothing short of the apocalypse would ever drag me back there again....
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