Piano in the Dark (6 page)

“Was that your mysterious stalker lady friend?” Jacobi asked, having returned extra late from his lunch with our client Iris. Satisfied, he sat down, then put his feet up on my desk. I turned my attention away from my computer monitor, knowing I’d get no work done while he was in here.

“She’s not a stalker. But yeah…that was her.”

“
Niiiiice
. Bet if she took them eyeglasses off…” he said, his voice fading as he squinted his eyes to focus on his dark thoughts. “Anyway. I can see why you’d bail on us. Did she refresh your memory yet?”

“No, but Iris sure seems to know her.”

“Yeah. I caught that. Figured I’d pry for you. She told me they used to see the same therapist. So I might be right about her being a stalker. When you do go by her place, be sure to check her closet for shrines to you and remove all knives from the kitchen. That is, unless you’ve already been to her place.”

“No,” I said drily. “And I’m trying to avoid that.”

“Bruh, you don’t have to bullshit me. I saw that busted look on your face back at Breakfast Klub. You want to hit it and she wants you to hit it. In the worst way, I might add.”

“Man, what am I doing?” I said, putting my face in my hands and letting out a deep breath.

“If it’s stressing you that much, allow me to take that load off your hands. I can say I remember her from band camp or something.”

“It’s not just the physical shit with this woman. It’s a big city, man. If something like this was on my mind, I could’ve done it a long time ago. This…this is something else and I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I don’t know how, but it’s like she gets me.”

“You sure your dick isn’t trying to rationalize this by making it deeper than what it really is? Face it. She’s hot, she’s mysterious, and she’s feeling you. On most days, for most men, that would do the trick.”

“After my wreck, she rode with me in the ambulance, man. I was foolishly looking for her when it happened. Stayed by my side at Memorial Hermann until you and Dawn arrived. It’s like she cares. Feels genuine.”

“Okay. Maybe it’s misplaced appreciation on your part. Ever thought about that?”

“No. Just wish I could remember her from back in college. At the Breakfast Klub, she mentioned things I never did with her. Only Dawn. And she knows my favorite food over there too. Ordered it for me before I even told her anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Jacobi muttered. “Maybe there’s a reason you don’t remember this girl. You never met her before.”

“
Ooookay
. But I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Dawn, bro,” he scolded. He took his feet down, then leaned forward so as to avoid anyone overhearing what he was about to say. “What I’m saying is that maybe, just maybe, Dawn is doing this. Either testing you or wants to get leverage on you…for a divorce.”

“Dude, you’re crazy. Dawn wouldn’t do something like that. Besides, if she wanted a divorce, she’d just file. I don’t have shit in terms of assets anyway.”

“But does
she
have assets? Hmm? Easier to make you the bad guy if she’s thinking about leaving and wants to protect what she feels is hers. C’mon, we’ve seen everything in our line of work. I hate to think like that, but I’m trying to be honest here.”

“That doesn’t fly, man. I was the one who approached Ava.”

“
Ava
?” Jacobi asked with a grimace. “I thought Iris said her name was Charla Nuttier or something to that effect.”

“Whatever. Anyway, I approached her outside the pub. Not the other way around.”

“But pretty convenient for her to show up all alone at the same place as you. Maybe Dawn knew exactly where you were. Just dangling the bait for the fish to bite. Chomp.”

“And I was out drinking with you. Maybe Dawn is paying you to put me in these bad situations,” I said, joking as I turned the tables.

“Not funny, man. I certainly hope I’m wrong with my theories, but don’t want you getting blindsided. Besides, if you tell Dawn I came up with this, I’ll deny it. One of us on her bad side is enough.”

If Jacobi was aware of my wife’s less-than-stellar assessment of him, he didn’t acknowledge it to me. “Thanks for your concern,” I responded, knowing he’d put a lot on my plate for me to digest.

I looked at the name Charla Nuttier on my phone, debating over whether to call or delete it—especially after Jacobi shared his theories with me. I could just let it all go and move on. Safe, I suppose in that ignorance of what could be or what might be going on maybe being bliss in this situation. I decided to postpone that debate for another time and exited the Chevy Aveo. For another woman demanded my attention at the moment.

I walked onto the porch of the single-story, white-framed home on West Montgomery Road and knocked twice, my usual code. As I patiently waited, I watched a lady exit Family Affair beauty shop next door. She stopped and checked her fresh new do in the reflection of her tan Cadillac DeVille’s tinted windows. As she made minute hair adjustments with her fingers, she suddenly turned and waved at me. Good eyes to go along with the nice full breasts apparent under her T-shirt.

“Heeeey!” she said, pearly whites gleaming.

“Hey,” I said, politely waving back as was required. Southern politeness and all.

Just as she began to mouth something else, a man who I assume was her boyfriend exited the barbershop, carrying a little boy with a fresh cut. She quickly turned away as if I were no longer there, hastily entering the Caddy’s passenger seat. He placed the young child in the backseat, pausing to stare me down for some perceived slight.

Never a dull moment in Acres Homes.

I turned my attention back to the front door that was opening with the shuffle of multiple door locks and security chains. A diminutive yet deceptively strong woman greeted me, her deep brown skin bearing the creases and lines from years of hard work and circumstances. Her shock of thinning silver-gray hair hung freely, undone from the neat little bun she kept it in while cleaning office buildings. She still wore her uniform, but had nestled into her favorite pair of slippers. I’d tried over the years to get her to stop working and take it easy. Futility. Work was her therapy.

“Your paper,” I said, handing the folded copy of the
Houston Chronicle
to my mother Earnestine as she allowed me to enter her home. The humble abode, my grandmother’s previously, had been in the family several generations. The only time it was vacant was the brief period when my parents tried to make a go of it.

And we knew how that turned out.

Lucky for us that she didn’t sell it.

“Where’s your car?” she asked, glancing at my tiny rental parked behind her old burgundy Chevy Malibu.

“Gone. That’s a rental. Had a minor accident.”

“Don’t sound minor to me, boy. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Didn’t want to worry you with it. How was your day?”

“Same as the day before. My feet a little more sore, though.”

“Did you use that gift certificate for the pedicure yet?”

“No. I don’t like people playin’ with my feet, boy. That’s personal.”

“If you’re not gonna use it, I can give it to Dawn,” I teased. She gave me a playful tap on the shoulder, knowing she wasn’t one to part with a gift, even if it would go unused. I reciprocated by kissing her on the cheek and giving her a big hug.

“How is that wife of yours, baby?” she asked.

“She’s good, Mom. She asked about you the other day. Wants to have you over for dinner,” I answered as I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was lacking quite a bit, just as the cabinets, I’d bet. “When was the last time you went to the store?” I asked.

“A week or so. Been too busy. And you know I don’t leave once I’m in for the night.”

“That’s why I stopped by. Get your purse. I’m taking you by Wal-Mart…before it gets dark.”

“You don’t have to do that, boy. I can take myself.”

“And I don’t doubt it, but I insist.” Last time she went by the Wal-Mart on I-45, she almost got jacked on the parking lot. Security actually did its job and ran off the person before things got crazy. But I wasn’t letting her go there by herself ever again.

“In that little-bitty thing?” she asked, her face contorting over the rental car in the driveway. Her Malibu may have been larger, but it was hardly in better shape.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s bigger on the inside. Crazy space-age styling. Trust me,” I joked.

“Hmph. I guess,” she said, relenting.

On our way to Wal-Mart, I stopped at North Shepherd, waiting to make a left turn. “Saw Dad the other day,” I offered without taking my eyes off the road.

“Oh? How’s he look?” my mother inquired, her curiosity less than subdued. This was how the two communicated with one another. Indirectly and anecdotally through the one thing not destroyed by their union: Me. I was the carrier pigeon.

“Y’know,” I offered, letting her fill in the rest. “He asked about you.”

“And?”

“I told him you were good.”
Just as you’ve been the whole time without him
, I thought. At one time, Joell Hidalgo was more than a street urchin, entertaining the few that stopped to appreciate his magic. He was once magic itself—a legendary jazz musician and front man for the Asylum Seekers. Before the demons in his head and within the bottle consumed him. Even those my mother would’ve tolerated, if not for the endless womanizing that made things unbearable. I was almost in my teens when I came to learn all the sordid details. Mouthy drunk relatives at reunions say the darndest things—sometimes altering the course of stuff in unexpected ways.

“He needs to take care of himself rather than worrying about me,” my mother spouted, even though it was obvious she appreciated his interest even if from afar. We’d reached West Little York and took a right to take us to I-45. I passed the Popeyes chicken on the righthand side, taking a left beneath the overpass on the green light, speeding up on the feeder road—as best I could—to merge onto the freeway.

“Was he the one for you?” I asked as we passed the McDonald’s followed by a crowded Food Town grocery store.

“Huh? You usually not one to talk about that,” she said with a giggle I was unaccustomed to hearing. It gave me a glimpse into that fresh-faced girl who was first swept off her feet by the smooth, pretty
Cubano
music man decades past. “I think so. Problem was he was the one for a bunch of others too.”

I didn’t discuss it further, but wondered how I could feel that Dawn was the one yet be drawn to Ava in such a similar fashion. But maybe my mother had spelled it out for me. I was my father’s son, after all. And for as much as I did to avoid being anything like him, perhaps fate had other plans.

Back at home, I decided to do some research, but different from my legal pursuits by day. I figured maybe I could learn as much about Ava as she knew about me. Dawn was in the kitchen checking on her gumbo, so I used that time to slip into the home office. Not having a last name, I quickly pulled up Google on my laptop and entered the only full name I had associated with Ava-Charla Nuttier.

A few entries popped up in the search results that matched what I was looking for. The most relevant one looked to be from an online
Houston Style
article referring to an unusual new artist who suddenly burst onto the scene over a year ago. Dawn entered the office, looking over my shoulder as I clicked on the entry. I didn’t hesitate, quietly observing her for any signs of deceit or nervousness.

“Ever heard of her?” I asked of Dawn as the woman I knew as Ava filled the screen, one of her larger paintings on display behind her. It was like that of New York City, yet with the Twin Towers intact, but different. The architecture was simultaneously familiar yet otherworldly, including the strange sailboats on the Hudson River.

“No,” Dawn replied, resting an elbow on my shoulder. Her face passive, but showing interest in the article I was perusing. It stated that the mysterious Charla Nuttier’s paintings seemed to be, as quoted from the review,
inspired from the most mundane parts in the life of a child to voices from worlds beyond our own, but with both equally reminding us of our humanity.
That was all we were allowed to read without being a subscriber to the magazine’s premium content.

“You sure you don’t know her?” I asked again while she stared at Ava’s image. Felt a bit like I was deposing my own wife.

“I’m positive. Why?”

“I dunno. Figured as a new artist in the area that you might’ve heard of her. Your sort of thing.”

“Nope, but her stuff looks interesting and eclectic. Thinking about buying some pieces for the house? Didn’t peg you as an art man.”

“I’m not, but it catches the eye. Saw some of her more ‘regular’ stuff on display in the Breakfast Klub,” I mumbled, fixated more on the artist than the article. “Hmm. Don’t know her by name, but her face looks familiar. Like maybe she went to college with us.”

Dawn leaned over me, her eyes narrowing in response to my observation. “Nope. Don’t remember seeing her on campus. But she is very beautiful. Don’tcha think, baby?”

“She’s cute, I suppose,” I said, carefully treading the minefield of a spouse’s goading. Was she simply kidding or was there something more sinister? Was everything just what it seemed or was there something entirely different bearing out in our conversation? Thanks, Jacobi, for making me distrustful of my wife.

My phone, which rested on the desk, buzzed suddenly. Not a call, but a text. It was from Ava. I quickly moved away from Dawn’s line of sight, guilt eating away at me.

“Jacobi,” I said with a sigh. She was used to that sort of intrusion.

“More work?”

“I’ll let you guess.”

“I’m going check on the gumbo,” Dawn said with an apparent eye roll. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I responded with a smile.

I turned to read the message before she’d taken two steps.

I hastily replied.

I smiled, quickly deleting any traces of my conversation with Ava. Hot gumbo was waiting for me in the kitchen and my appetite was whetted. But it would be tomorrow before it was either sated or soured. Options I neither expected nor asked for. For everything has a price, whether we can afford it or not.