Page 54 of Bend
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you have a lot on your mind.”
“No it’s not.” We skate side-by-side, and somewhere nearby, there is music; and all around us, people slide by wearing clothes they got from their dressers and closets, talking to people they care about, smiling because they are happy; and suddenly I know—I just fucking know—that things are about to change for me. Big time. I’m not sure how, and I’m too afraid to want to know, but I can feel it. I can sense my path diverging from Katie’s, even as we skate here, side by side.
My throat feels thick and tight. I think I’m going to cry. Not because I’m scared or sad for myself, but because I really will miss her and the gang from work. We will never be friends the way we were.
I need a distraction. “Do you think he did it?”
“Wuh?”
“James Wolfe.”
“Aaaah.” She shakes her head, blonde pigtails bouncing. “I never did.” We bump elbows as we move around the perimeter of the pond. “Mainly because of the whole voice thing. You might not have watched it closely enough to see all the evidence, or not evidence, but there were some pretty serious holes in the case. Most notably this bit about a butler who supposedly heard a man’s voice that didn’t sound how James Wolfe’s voice actually sounds. But as far as whether he actually did it, or ordered it done…” She shakes her head. “I guess I’m just going on a gut feeling.”
That’s all anyone can go on. James Wolfe hasn’t been seen in six years. “Where do you think he went?”
Katie shrugs. “Could have been anywhere. I’d get the heck out of the country if I were him.”
I think once more about the clean-shaven, hard-jawed man with dark brown eyes, and then I push him from my mind. I want to enjoy this night with Katie. So I do. We talk about work, gliding and twirling through the crowd. The head copy editor, Jane, just got engaged to her longtime girlfriend, and last night, Katie got called out to a big heroin bust. We talk about a controversial editorial in The Boston Globe. We pull off our skates and put on our shoes and walk to a coffee shop, where Katie orders a cinnamon bagel and a hot cocoa and I ask for tea; it’s only $2.10.
“Why aren’t you getting coffee?” Katie bugs her eyes out.
I smile proudly. “Gave it up.”
I’m a liar. But I make it home without having to tell her I’m giving up the apartment, without bursting into tears or freezing to death. I don’t even have blisters from the skates.
The first thing I do is check the job boards and my professional, Sarah Ryder e-mail address. I’ve got four confirmations from the job apps I put through yesterday, but nothing good. No call backs; mostly just spam.
I check my Red account, the one I used to e-mail Gertrude. No reply. Emboldened by my desperate circumstances, I send another e-mail telling her I was drunk but really would like to meet. Then I read some of her poetry. It’s beautiful stuff, with lines about flowers like solemn children and the terror of a lone cloud.
I wonder what she’s like now. I wonder if she’d remind me of my mother. It’s that particular curiosity that, first thing Monday morning, drives me to phone Strike magazine in New York City. Gertrude founded it in the mid-1960s: “a journal of enlightenment and issues” aimed at “the contemporary woman.”
I get an operator and ask for the managing editor, a woman named Zoey Cruella. I’m put through to her assistant, Thomas, a polite guy who seems a few years younger than me. I tell Thomas my sad story, starting with my single-mother rearing and ending with Mom’s untimely death, at 38, of pancreatic cancer.
“I was thinking of my mom today and I figured, why not try to get Gertrude’s address? I thought you guys might have it. She’s on the magazine’s board, isn’t she?”
Thomas confirms that indeed she is, but he says he can’t just hand it out.
“So there’s nothing you can do for me?”
“Just a moment.”
He returns and says, “I think my boss has found a solution. I’m going to quiz you.”
“Okay.” I chew my lip. “I’ll do my best.”
“What was your mother’s full name?”
“Georgia Anna Deckert.”
“And your full name?”
“Sarah Lynn Ryder.”
“Okay. You’re in business. Please don’t share this, though. It’s only a mailing address—not physical—but Ms. O’Malley values her privacy.”
An hour later, I’m walking to the mailbox with a good ole fashioned hand-written letter. My hungry stomach hurts with nervousness. Things are feeling more real now that I’ve got less than two weeks with a roof over my head. What if she never replies? What if she does, and she invites me to come see her? What if she could help me get a job?
I forfeit my pride and call Thomas back, asking if there are any openings at Strike.
