Casually I wave to the landlord as he rakes invisible leaves. I have always suspected that he watches for renters with cable to leave so he can watch ESPN or the cooking channel. He picks up his shears and moves to the side yard to trim the shrubs, and I make my move over to Yvette’s unit. I realize I have stumbled over her name because the initial sound is that of “E” not “Y.” How trick-e.
Her sole window is level with the sidewalk. From my crouched position I can see worn, ugly linoleum the color of sludge running beneath a thirdhand table. There are books beneath two of its legs to keep it level for the computer and the short stack of dishes that burden it. Yvette passes just below the window and I pull back. Flattened against the stucco exterior wall, I realize that my body is casting shadows into her one room. I step over the length of the window to the other side. Dozens and dozens of flowers fill vases, many of which are mine, and cups, buckets, and the rust-stained sink. Lots of them are past their prime, and Yvette is gathering the dead leaves and petals into a paper bag. These endless bouquets are proof of her involvement with my site, though I hadn’t expected the direct link to the bizarre phone calls.
Why would someone concoct such a scheme to get flowers from strange men?
I rap on the window and a startled Y looks up into the shaft of sunlight. I wave but she does not know who it is. I hear her release the chain lock and wait a moment for her to peek her head around the corner.
“Mari!” She swallows big and makes a Donald Duck sort of quack.
Watching her squirm is not as satisfactory as I had imagined.
“Yvette. Yvette. It’s so good to see you. I was just passing by and thought I would ask if I could get a couple vases back. Out of the blue I received a ton of flowers. And a big platter of sushi from some guys in Japan. It’s the weirdest thing.” I pause to see if she will understand that I am on to her.
She closes the front door behind her and spends a moment figuring out a plan, an excuse, a distraction. “I could bring you some later today. I…they’re kind of full right now. Would this afternoon be okay?”
Though it goes completely against my initial mood, I’m feeling nothing but compassion toward her. Here’s a girl who spends hours on end in a one-room closet with a chair, a lopsided table that holds her computer and a few plates, and a rickety cot. Her only decor and view are posters that promote skateboard parks and software.
“Do you work with computers for a living?”
I think back to when her father carried those large, heavy boxes that must have been filled with cables, monitors, hard drives, and other tools used to pry into another person’s life.
The rise and fall of her adam’s apple gives away her self-conviction. “Yes. I design purchase sites for retailers.”
Of course.
I typically avoid confrontation, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my time living in these apartments avoiding her. “Yvette, I know about the postings on my site. That you have been discussing my life with total strangers.”
Her eyes grow big and her hand goes to the doorknob. “Oh,” she says meekly.
I wait for an explanation that doesn’t come.
“How did you even find out about the site? This is all so strange.”
“After we met, I did an online search of your name. It’s a habit of mine. I search anyone I meet. I figured I would see mostly the usual…any appearances in the daily paper, any arrests…”
“Arrests!”
“Well, anything that is public record. But then I see several sites with your blog listed and wham! It didn’t take long to see that most of this site was falsified, but the posted snail-mail address was yours.” She shrugs and giggles. “Cecilia Jade. That made me laugh.”
“And the flowers?”
She shrugs again. “After a few conversations with you, I figured that the site was not your doing. And I don’t know anyone around here, so I went online and started chatting with folks at your blog-turned-site.”
“And the flowers?” My patience is thinning.
“Look at this place. I barely get any light. It’s a gopher hole. Where I used to live, with my mom, we had a huge garden. I missed the colors, so I started to mention your floral preferences.”
“But how’d you manage to…?”
“I said you could only receive deliveries on Tuesdays.”
“The day I stay late at work. Smart. Then you would just sign for them.” I feel as though I am reciting the closing scene of a Scooby-Doo episode. “I have been plagued by weird men calling me!”
Yvette’s small hand rises to cover her mouth. She is shaking. “I am so sorry. They must have looked up your number. I never gave it out…promise. Oh, Mari. I hope you didn’t get frightened by anyone.”
I decide to leave out my many fearful visions of Sal, Warren, Ken, and the others. “No, but I was starting to wonder who was out to get me.”
“You know that first day I came by to borrow a vase…I almost told you everything. But you were acting sort of strange, and I thought maybe you already knew and were mad at me. I stopped interfering with the site after that.”
Her confession evokes my compassion once again. How could anyone stay mad at the girl with Y on her chest?
A big idea sprints into my mind. Maybe I could interfere in her life. “I want you to come to my place tomorrow night. Say, around seven? I’m having a couple friends over, and I’d love to have you join us.”
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. The back of her hand pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose so they can slide back down. It’s the first time that I notice more than the Y or the distant look of preoccupation on her face. She has beautiful eyes with rich, thick lashes. Like Caitlin, she is a fortunate soul born with the look of eye liner and mascara.
“Yeah. That’d be okay. You aren’t mad?”
“I won’t have the SWAT team waiting or anything. I’ve wanted to invite you over several times before. Why not start off on a new foot?”
“Okay, see ya. Thanks.” She opens the door with her hand behind her back and promptly ducks into her cubbyhole.
The girl doesn’t have to pretend to be me to find happiness. God only knows I am struggling with that objective. But she does need something I do have—friends.
I spend the afternoon tidying my apartment as a way to control some kind of mess in my life. I keep the television on for company, though this isn’t necessary because every half hour I get calls from my concerned friends. Incuding one from Angelica, who says she printed the entire website in case I need to go to the police.
Then the call from Rae, who sounds puffy and full of whatever it is she uses to keep her meanness afloat. “The deed is done per your request, Mari. I’m so appalled that you threatened this place. You talk so much of service, but when push comes to shove, you only care about yourself. Don’t think I don’t know about the résumés you have circulating.” She pauses to breathe her heavy breath pattern.
I take in her toxic words because she reinforces the question I ask of myself: Are my efforts all about me?
Even during this unpleasant stay in the state of guilt, I recognize that Rae’s next line is undoubtedly all about her.
“You don’t know the meaning of service.”
She huffs and she puffs.
And she blows my little job away.