The Opportunist
Page 50
I set my wine down on the nearest table and walk quickly out of their lives. Some things were better left alone.
The following morning I turn on the TV only to see a familiar mug shot. I squint at the picture and groan when I hear the name.
“Dobson Scott Orchard was detained by police at the Miami airport last night trying to board a plane to Toronto. Police have taken him into custody where accused ra**st is being questioned. Among his victims are seven women whose ages range from seventeen to thirty. Five of them have come forward and positively identified him as the man who kidnapped and sexually assaulted them. Police are urging anyone else victimized to step forward at this time…”
The camera then shifts to a picture of Laura Hidleson, naming her as Dobson’s first victim. I wave at her picture and shut off the TV. Life is all about choices, I decide—good ones, bad ones, selfish ones. But, it seems the safest one I ever made was not walking underneath his umbrella, the day I ran into Caleb.
Chapter Seventeen
Turner decided to move to Florida after I won the case. He sold his house in Grapevine, bought a new wardrobe of pastel oxfords, and traded his Lexus for a shiny, yellow corvette. I feel invaded when I come home one day and find my living room filled with his neatly labeled boxes. Downstairs Closet, Game Room, Office, they proclaim in handwriting that I know must be his mother’s. I wander through the maze of Turner’s belongings and hope that he doesn’t plan on unpacking them here. I have no room for dartboards and autographed pictures of Diego Maradona. We argue about it for a week and eventually he agrees to put his belongings in storage. With the boxes gone, I work on adjusting to my new ‘live in’ who patrols the hallways of my condo in white jockeys, singing show tunes in a Texan drawl. My fridge is filled with beer and salsa, and for some wild reason this annoys me more than the piles of dirty laundry that I find tossed around the house.
One morning I wake up to find the words ‘You’re Hot’ scrawled on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. I grit my teeth throwing away the destroyed fifty dollar tube of Wine Gum and then spend ten next minutes scrubbing away the residue with vinegar. When it happens a second time, I hide my lipstick. Between the months of March and May, I find seventeen curious stains on my ivory sofa, twelve shoe scuffs on my wall and thirty seven bottles of beer left haphazardly around the house. He takes me out to dinner on our anniversary and wears a teal button down, with white pants and white crocodile loafers. I remember Caleb’s tasteful choice in clothes and I feel embarrassed by Turner’s flamboyance. This is not a game of comparisons, I remind myself. He tells me he loves me a whole lot and each time I inwardly cringe.
Oh, what do you know about love? I silently complain. You’ve never cheated to have it.
Handsome Turner, who adores me and treats me like an expensive accessory, I even hate the way his pillow smells.
Caleb brought this on, damn him. I was happy, in a delusional sort of way, but happy nonetheless. And now—and now, all I can think about is his crooked smile and his smell and the way his eyes rake over the world in amusement. I psychoanalyze my relationship with Turner and when I can come to no sound conclusion, Cammie and I meet to discuss the matter.
We chose a small French café down Las Olas Avenue and drink coffee from a French press.
“He’s a filler,” Cammie says with more conviction than a suicide bomber.
“What does that mean?” I am studying the menu, contemplating an almond croissant.
“You know—stuff something into your heart quickly to stop it from cracking open…from bleeding out...”
“Like, I dated Turner to stop thinking about Caleb?”
Cammie nods.
“Why couldn’t you just say that?”
“Because, when you speak figuratively, it makes you sounder smarter.”
I blink at her a few times before tossing aside my menu.
“So what do you suggest I do, smarty pants? I already had his wife acquitted of her crimes.”
“Wait,” Cammie says. “I’m not even talking about Caleb, here. All I’m saying is that Turner is wrong, wrong, wrong for you.”
I sigh. Why does everyone keep saying that?
Two weeks later, I am at my absolute wits end with ‘faking it.’ Turner is all over me and I am tired of pushing him away and finding excuses. I decide to take a day to myself. I part with my frowning fiancée at the front door, giving him a hasty kiss on the lips. He’s calls after me, asking when I am going to be home, but I ignore him and keep walking. When the elevator doors close, I slide to the floor and place my head between my legs. I feel like I can breathe again. Shopping sounds nice or maybe some time at the spa, I know a girl who can get me in at the last minute. But then my thoughts titter and drift to the man that I am still in love with, and I know that a day anywhere, is a day away from him. So, I settle for the next best thing, something that I haven’t done in a very long time. I pull my cell phone from my too expensive purse and hit number ‘one’ on my speed dial.
“Cammie, it’s me,” I whisper into the phone, although I am obviously alone and no one can hear me. I feel guilty for what I am about to say. “Do you remember the old days in the Detective Gadget mobile?” There is a long pause in which I check the screen to make sure we are still connected.
“You’re out of your mind,” she says finally. Then after a long pause, “Who are we spying on?”
“Who do you think?” I ask, toying with the strappy thing on my purse.
Another pause.
“NO! Absolutely…NO! I can’t even believe…where the hell are you?”
“Come on Cam, if I had another friend to ask, I would…”
“You certainly would not ask anyone else to do something so psychotic. And, if you did, I would be highly offended.”
“I’m on my way to your house,” I say throwing my car in reverse and curtailing out of my spot—diva style.
“Fine. I’ll be ready and waiting. Make sure you pick up the coffee”.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at Cammie’s neat, cul-de-sac house and park my car haphazardly in her driveway. She has flower boxes on the windows and garden gnomes in the peonies, a lovely cottage for such a witch to live. She opens the door before I can ring the bell and pulls me inside by the waistband of my pants.
“What car are we taking?” she says all businesslike.
The following morning I turn on the TV only to see a familiar mug shot. I squint at the picture and groan when I hear the name.
“Dobson Scott Orchard was detained by police at the Miami airport last night trying to board a plane to Toronto. Police have taken him into custody where accused ra**st is being questioned. Among his victims are seven women whose ages range from seventeen to thirty. Five of them have come forward and positively identified him as the man who kidnapped and sexually assaulted them. Police are urging anyone else victimized to step forward at this time…”
The camera then shifts to a picture of Laura Hidleson, naming her as Dobson’s first victim. I wave at her picture and shut off the TV. Life is all about choices, I decide—good ones, bad ones, selfish ones. But, it seems the safest one I ever made was not walking underneath his umbrella, the day I ran into Caleb.
Chapter Seventeen
Turner decided to move to Florida after I won the case. He sold his house in Grapevine, bought a new wardrobe of pastel oxfords, and traded his Lexus for a shiny, yellow corvette. I feel invaded when I come home one day and find my living room filled with his neatly labeled boxes. Downstairs Closet, Game Room, Office, they proclaim in handwriting that I know must be his mother’s. I wander through the maze of Turner’s belongings and hope that he doesn’t plan on unpacking them here. I have no room for dartboards and autographed pictures of Diego Maradona. We argue about it for a week and eventually he agrees to put his belongings in storage. With the boxes gone, I work on adjusting to my new ‘live in’ who patrols the hallways of my condo in white jockeys, singing show tunes in a Texan drawl. My fridge is filled with beer and salsa, and for some wild reason this annoys me more than the piles of dirty laundry that I find tossed around the house.
One morning I wake up to find the words ‘You’re Hot’ scrawled on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. I grit my teeth throwing away the destroyed fifty dollar tube of Wine Gum and then spend ten next minutes scrubbing away the residue with vinegar. When it happens a second time, I hide my lipstick. Between the months of March and May, I find seventeen curious stains on my ivory sofa, twelve shoe scuffs on my wall and thirty seven bottles of beer left haphazardly around the house. He takes me out to dinner on our anniversary and wears a teal button down, with white pants and white crocodile loafers. I remember Caleb’s tasteful choice in clothes and I feel embarrassed by Turner’s flamboyance. This is not a game of comparisons, I remind myself. He tells me he loves me a whole lot and each time I inwardly cringe.
Oh, what do you know about love? I silently complain. You’ve never cheated to have it.
Handsome Turner, who adores me and treats me like an expensive accessory, I even hate the way his pillow smells.
Caleb brought this on, damn him. I was happy, in a delusional sort of way, but happy nonetheless. And now—and now, all I can think about is his crooked smile and his smell and the way his eyes rake over the world in amusement. I psychoanalyze my relationship with Turner and when I can come to no sound conclusion, Cammie and I meet to discuss the matter.
We chose a small French café down Las Olas Avenue and drink coffee from a French press.
“He’s a filler,” Cammie says with more conviction than a suicide bomber.
“What does that mean?” I am studying the menu, contemplating an almond croissant.
“You know—stuff something into your heart quickly to stop it from cracking open…from bleeding out...”
“Like, I dated Turner to stop thinking about Caleb?”
Cammie nods.
“Why couldn’t you just say that?”
“Because, when you speak figuratively, it makes you sounder smarter.”
I blink at her a few times before tossing aside my menu.
“So what do you suggest I do, smarty pants? I already had his wife acquitted of her crimes.”
“Wait,” Cammie says. “I’m not even talking about Caleb, here. All I’m saying is that Turner is wrong, wrong, wrong for you.”
I sigh. Why does everyone keep saying that?
Two weeks later, I am at my absolute wits end with ‘faking it.’ Turner is all over me and I am tired of pushing him away and finding excuses. I decide to take a day to myself. I part with my frowning fiancée at the front door, giving him a hasty kiss on the lips. He’s calls after me, asking when I am going to be home, but I ignore him and keep walking. When the elevator doors close, I slide to the floor and place my head between my legs. I feel like I can breathe again. Shopping sounds nice or maybe some time at the spa, I know a girl who can get me in at the last minute. But then my thoughts titter and drift to the man that I am still in love with, and I know that a day anywhere, is a day away from him. So, I settle for the next best thing, something that I haven’t done in a very long time. I pull my cell phone from my too expensive purse and hit number ‘one’ on my speed dial.
“Cammie, it’s me,” I whisper into the phone, although I am obviously alone and no one can hear me. I feel guilty for what I am about to say. “Do you remember the old days in the Detective Gadget mobile?” There is a long pause in which I check the screen to make sure we are still connected.
“You’re out of your mind,” she says finally. Then after a long pause, “Who are we spying on?”
“Who do you think?” I ask, toying with the strappy thing on my purse.
Another pause.
“NO! Absolutely…NO! I can’t even believe…where the hell are you?”
“Come on Cam, if I had another friend to ask, I would…”
“You certainly would not ask anyone else to do something so psychotic. And, if you did, I would be highly offended.”
“I’m on my way to your house,” I say throwing my car in reverse and curtailing out of my spot—diva style.
“Fine. I’ll be ready and waiting. Make sure you pick up the coffee”.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at Cammie’s neat, cul-de-sac house and park my car haphazardly in her driveway. She has flower boxes on the windows and garden gnomes in the peonies, a lovely cottage for such a witch to live. She opens the door before I can ring the bell and pulls me inside by the waistband of my pants.
“What car are we taking?” she says all businesslike.
