The Monday After the Flight
The townhouse felt extra cold. I had already turned the heat up to 70 degrees, two notches higher than I ever kept it. The electric fireplace was more for show than heat, but I put it on for the ambience and even grabbed some fingerless gloves in my mudroom drawer. Powering up the teakettle, I prepared a cup of chamomile, always a calming and warming favorite, especially with honey and lemon.
I thought of Steph’s side of the place, even colder. She had turned her thermostat down for the trip, as she always did. Poor Fred. I had gone over three times already that day and was contemplating one more. Was it my imagination, or did he look forlorn when I was there to feed him dinner? He seemed to be moving extra slowly, and his meow was plaintive.
Settling on my couch with a favorite Mexican blanket I had gotten in the streets of Tijuana, I was just about to turn on my TV and start flipping mindlessly through a thousand channels when my phone rang.
Steph? No. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was Madison.
“Hello?”
“Is this Robert? Are you Stephanie Monroe’s neighbor?”
“Yes.” I sat up straighter and the blanket slid off one leg. “Who is this?”
“This is Dave Jenssen, the general manager from Channel 3. I’m sorry to bother you in the evening. I met you at Stephanie’s barbecue on the Fourth last year.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. Is everything OK, Dave?”
“Well, actually, Robert, this is kind of awkward, but Stephanie didn’t show up to work today and sent us some texts that quite frankly were a little out of character for her. I thought if you were watching her cat, maybe she told you more?”
“What did she tell you?” I asked, grabbing the remote control and clicking the TV off.
“She didn’t actually talk to me. She told Bruce, our assistant news director, that something had come up and she needed to go to Atlanta for at least a week. She wouldn’t explain and didn’t even give us a heads-up before the workday started. Do you by chance know anything more? We just want to make sure everything is OK.”
My mind flashed to Trent and his white condo with the perfectly plucked trees outside of it, to the two of them sharing a latte and a stroll through the sites of Atlanta, maybe hand in hand. To the imaginary bed I had conjured in my mind, bodies perhaps tousling in sheets. To how excited she had seemed in her first text to me that was so filled with exclamation points about this new guy.
Should I share all of that with her boss? She clearly didn’t want her workplace to know all of the things that I knew or she would have told them herself. But they were worried too— I could see that. For a moment, all I could do was to take a deep sigh as I contemplated it all.
“Dave, ummm … I do know a bit more. Not a lot.” I hesitated. This whole conversation felt like trying to open a car door with a pinky. Not impossible, but awkward and a little painful nonetheless.
“Go on,” said Dave, and I took a deep breath.
“I believe … I believe she met someone in San Diego. That’s all she shared with me. I don’t know anything else, not a name or an occupation or an address…” I don’t know why I said all of that. Why would he expect an occupation or address? I had diarrhea of the mouth and had to tell myself to stop talking.
Dave was silent and then let out a low whistle.
“She met a man in San Diego?”
“Yes … she’s been divorced for three years,” I added, as if to justify the whole thing.
“I am aware of that, but this is certainly unexpected,” Dave said. His voice sounded annoyed. “I can’t believe she would shirk her work duties. She wouldn’t answer my phone calls. I called three times, Robert.”
“I’m sorry, Dave, I don’t know what to say. I’m only the cat-sitter.” That seemed to snap Dave back into professional mode. His voice changed.
“Yes, of course. You’ve been very helpful and I appreciate it. Does her son know about any of this?”
And that’s when I realized that I had no idea. It didn’t seem like something I needed to tell him now. His mom was off having a fling. Would any kid want to know that?