Running Against Traffic Page 2

  Paige crept down the stairs, each step groaning so loudly beneath her bare feet that she wondered why she was bothering to try to be stealthy. She peered into the living room and saw the chair that she had propped under the doorknob the night before was placed neatly against the wall, and the front door was again ajar. A hot breeze wafted in, carrying with it some unidentifiable insects, and she jumped a foot when a voice called to her from the kitchen.

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Davenport!” A mailman stood in the kitchen doorway, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looked like a bobble-head doll, his head was so large, wobbling about on his narrow stick frame. He was grinning at her, baring a set of oversized teeth that were growing clear out of his mouth.

  “What - what are you doing here?” Paige managed to rasp, glued to the spot.

  “I came to make sure you were all settled in! I made coffee…I’m Thomas. I brought your mail,” he added, proudly lurching forward, holding out a grocery store circular.

  Paige relaxed a little. “Couldn’t you have left it outside in the mailbox?” she asked, snatching it and stalking past him to the kitchen.

  “You don’t have one,” Thomas replied, cheerfully.

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he called after her. “When’s Mr. Davenport coming back?”

  “Good question,” Paige called back, rummaging around for a mug. She heard Thomas traipse out and close the door. What the hell was that about, she thought, filling her cup to the brim with coffee. But she couldn’t imagine what to do next. She wasn’t even sure what day it was – Saturday? They had driven here yesterday, and that was a Friday…She set the coffee cup in the sink and went back to bed.

  Paige spent the next few days wandering from room to room in a fog. She knew what time it was by the shrill songbirds and the sound of Thomas coming in and out, and then by the orange glow of sunset through the windows, followed by darkness. Once in a while she would look at her cell phone to see that no one had called, and to glance at the actual time, though it meant little to her.

  Thomas walking in and out without knocking in the mornings grated on her already shredded nerves, but she didn’t feel up to a discussion with him about it. The first time he called to her, and she hid out in her room, so he made the coffee and left. After that she just heard him come in, walk around, and leave again.

  At times her insides twisted in knots and she would break out in a sweat, and then move to a state of numbness again, and then she would sleep, deep and dreamless, or fitful and splintered by waking several times long after dark, and then she was up and prowling again. There was no purpose to her life, nothing to do, no one to talk to. Paige Davenport had disappeared, and her silent phone told her no one was looking for her. It was a hollow realization. A few times in her murky mind, flashes of her parents came and left as quickly, little waves, clear water that slides up onto the sand and as quickly slips back into the dark ocean.

  The house had quickly morphed from dreaded fate to unlikely friend, her only friend. It wrapped its rickety arms around her and hid her from the outside, not asking for anything, just shielding her from the world. Unfortunately, it couldn’t fetch her groceries. In the wee hours of one morning, as she sat cross-legged in bed, hearing the early chatter of a few birds and watching the black turn to gray, she dully contemplated getting a hold of a bottle of sleeping pills and floating away, becoming nothing, not a ripple in an ocean, not a breath of breeze, but absorbed into pure, silent blackness. No one would miss her. Thomas the mailman would be the only one to even discover her, and that was only because he let himself into her house daily.

  But she didn’t really care enough to bother.

  She noticed that she was picking at the last of a box of cereal. She was wrapped in a bed sheet that covered her matted hair like a babushka, and she pushed it to the side a bit to eyeball the empty peanut butter jar on the night stand. She grimly realized that she would have to go out for supplies. She stood and gathered the edges of the sheet up and around her to keep from tripping, and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen.

  Paige gazed at the growing stack of mail on the Ugly Table, a stack that Thomas added to each morning, and saw that there were a few bills, already. She could smell herself. There was no help for it. It was time to take a hot shower, put on clean clothes, and venture into the town for vodka. While there she would find the bank and see how little money she actually had. If the town had a grocery store, she would buy some food.

  After showering and shampooing for the first time in days, she felt raw and bleached. She pulled a short denim skirt and a black tank top out of her open suitcase and put them on. The skirt was already too loose in the waist and slipped down, catching on her hipbones. She pushed her bare feet into a pair of sandals, brushed out her damp hair, and clomped down the stairs and out the front door.

  The sun glared at her as if she was a naughty child who had just been let out of the corner. Young lady, I hope you have learned your lesson.

  But what did I do? she silently asked, squinting up at it. Never mind, don’t answer that. She pulled her sunglasses from her purse and put them on, looking up and down the street at the end of her driveway. She remembered which direction David had gone when he left, so she started walking that way, hoping it would lead her into town.

  After a five minute walk, Paige found herself at the gas station at the end of the town’s main road, again. She stared down the main street. It was lined by trees that were tall and dark, the branches growing every which way. They seemed like cantankerous old men with wild hair, standing watch. She tried to will herself to walk the length of the street, under each of the town's two hanging traffic lights, to see where the street and presumably the town ended, but all she could see was a small park backed up against a wall of thick woods.

  Paige became vaguely aware of a woman standing beside her. She turned slowly to face her.

  "What are you looking for, sweetheart?" The woman asked. She appeared to be around forty, and was wearing a white skirt and white cowboy boots. A fitted top showed off her upper assets, but Paige’s eyes were drawn quickly to the woman’s hair, and then she could not rip away her gaze, as the hair had been dyed a vivid red that made her resemble a rooster, with all layers of feathers, the top fluffed up like a mighty comb.

  “Hellooo,” the rooster said, waving her fingers in front of Paige’s face. She looked at her kindly. “Can I help you find something, Mrs. Davenport?” She spoke slowly, soothingly, as if she thought Paige might be about to flee if startled. She would be right about that.

  “How did you know that was my name?” Paige asked, looking down from the hair into round blue eyes.

  The rooster looked her up and down. “Please,” she laughed. “How do you think?”

  The two women regarded each other for a moment. Then Paige held out her hand. “Paige Scott,” she said. “Please just call me Paige.”

  “I understand all about these things,” Rooster said with a knowing wink. “We’ll talk.”

  Oh no, we won’t, Paige thought. She quickly changed the subject. “Can you tell me if there is a grocery store around here, Ms…”

  “Deirdre,” she replied, shaking her hand. “And yes, it’s my store. One block up and on your left, named after my daughter, Carmen.”

  “Carmen. Got it.” Paige nodded. “Well.” She turned and walked quickly toward where Deirdre had pointed.

  The door to Carmen’s Grocery was propped open. Wooden stands of produce lined the outside wall under a green canvas awning. Paige walked inside and looked around the small, tightly packed store. It was brightly lit, however, and a jazzy beat was bopping from corner speakers, interrupted periodically by Deirdre’s pre-recorded voice announcing daily specials. “Folks, we have a great deal on ham today. Pick up some freshly sliced Boar’s Head from the deli counter, and while you’re at it, grab some coke. Or diet coke, if that’s what you should be drinking. You know who you are!”

  Pai
ge picked up a wire basket and walked up and down the narrow aisles, pulling random items off the shelves, trying to recall what she normally ate when she was at home. They couldn’t have eaten out all the time, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what they had eaten in the condo’s sleek granite and stainless steel kitchen. She found her way to the check-out counter where a heavy-set teenaged girl was talking on the phone. Her hair was dyed black, accentuating her creamy white skin and thick, dark lashes.

  “Oh, you are bad,” the girl gurgled. “You are bad! No, I’ll see you soon, baby…Nasty boy. Shut up!” She hung up and sniffled. “Sorry, that was my boyfriend. We’re hooking up later,” she said, proudly.

  “Must be nice.” Paige waited, fidgeting with the handle of the basket.

  “I’m Carmen.” The girl spoke as if her nose was stuffed up, calling herself Carbed. “You must be Mrs. Davenport. My mom said you just moved here.”

  “Yes. No. I’m…I’m Paige Scott,” Paige stammered. “Do you take credit cards?” Her voice trailed off as she remembered that her credit cards were likely canceled. She fished around in her bag and found the ATM card that David had stashed there. The sneaky bastard.

  “Um.” She looked up at Carmen, embarrassed. “Do you have a cash machine?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Scott, right over there.”

  “Please, just Paige. Thank you, Carmen. Also, do you have a Ye Olde Liquor store around here?”

  “Yep, make a left out the door and another left onto Cherry.”

  Paige stared up at the sign hanging outside what looked like someone’s home on Cherry Street. It creaked in the hot breeze, swaying on hooks on the eave above the front stoop. Though it read Wine and Spirits, she was sure she was not in the right place. She stepped through the front door. To one side was a small counter with a large glass jar stuffed with bills, beside the cash register. There was a typed notice taped to the back of the register: If I’m on the couch, leave the money in the jar. Any change will be donated to the Wells Lake Junior Hockey team. Otherwise, ring the bell. If I don’t show in five minutes, see the part about the couch. He was there alright, toes up on the couch, snoring like a bulldog. Paige selected a bottle of vodka from the shelves of alcohol that lined the room and slid it into her grocery bag. She dropped the money in the jar and headed back out to find the bank, which she remembered David had said was also on Cherry Street.

  Money, money. She had never had to think about it before. All it was to her was a piece of plastic. Others managed it, worked for it, filled accounts with it. Now it was all worry and confusion.

  Dragging herself up the front steps of her house, Paige thought hard about the mere three thousand dollars in her bank account. The bank manager had rushed to assist her personally, but had been unable to answer her questions about any mortgage, as it was clearly in another name, with another lender. Or perhaps David had bought the house outright. He had plenty of money, and it couldn't have cost much. Paige felt a tiny pang of guilt for thinking negative thoughts about the house. It let her stay. It didn't ask anything from her. It did its best.

  Hot, sweaty and fatigued by panic, Paige pushed the front door open with her foot, dropped one bag to switch on the standing fan in the living room and carried her purchases through to the kitchen. Two o’clock in the afternoon is the perfect time for a cold, stiff drink, she thought, unloading her wares onto the Ugly Table. She was grateful for the cool quiet of the old house, soothing her from the harsh daylight of the world outside. She filled a glass with ice and splashed vodka over it.

  Chapter 3

  Paige poured herself a second drink over ice and flicked through her phone, looking for her uncle’s number. A lawyer, she needed a lawyer to make David pay.

  After just one ring a smooth, high voice answered. “Good morning, Mr. Scott’s office.”

  Paige felt as if her throat was filled with cotton. “Er, yes. Is he in, please?”

  “He is. May I ask who is calling?”

  “It’s Paige.”

  Her uncle’s assistant clicked off, and a moment later she was back. “Paige, your last name, please?”

  “Davenport. Well, Scott. I’m his niece.”

  “Please hold.”

  The minutes dragged by and finally Jeffrey came on the line. “Paige?”

  “Jeff!” Her hands were shaking in full force and her face flushed hot. “Uncle Jeff. Long time.”

  “Indeed. What’s up?”

  Paige took another slug from her drink and began burbling into the phone. “Jeff, I need an attorney. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere where David dumped me, and he left me with only a couple thousand dollars and a god-awful house that needs so much work, and I don’t know how long he’s going to make the mortgage payments, or if it even has a mortgage, but I have bills and all that, and well, he abandoned me. Can I sue him?”

  She heard low chuckling. “Well,” Jeffrey said, “you can file for divorce, and alimony, but these things take time and money.”

  “I need what he left me to live on. That’s why I’m calling you…I was hoping you could, you know, help me.”

  There was silence. Paige poked at an ice cube in her glass, watching it dunk and rise, dunk and rise. Finally, her uncle spoke. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “But…Why not?”

  “Frankly, kiddo, I haven’t gotten so much as a Christmas card from you in fourteen years since you took your inheritance money and flitted off to college. Now, I sent you a wedding gift. I think my obligations end there.”

  “But, Jeff, I was your ward.”

  “Yes. ‘Was’. You're all grown up now. Act like it."

  Paige felt a pain in her forehead and she rubbed it savagely, her uncle and aunt surfing through her brain on waves of vodka. They sat at one end of the dining room table. Jeff had the Wall Street Journal open in front of him, his thick eyebrows just visible over the top edge. Penny watched Paige sidelong over her coffee, pinched face and frothy attitude beneath her bleached bangs, always watching, most likely wondering how she had been stuck with the responsibility for this teenager, the daughter of her husband’s brother, the spawn of someone she resented for this reason or that. Paige sipped tea at the opposite end of the table, pretending to read a book, plotting her escape.

  “Now, I will give you two pieces of advice, pro bono,” Jeff went on. “One, get yourself local counsel. It’ll cost you less in the long run. Though, it’s still going to cost you a pretty penny. Isn’t David an attorney? Yeah, he’ll drag this out.”

  Paige lurched for her glass and took another slurp. “What’s th’other advice?”

  More chuckling. “Get a job.”

  A scalding cup of black coffee did not sober Paige up, but was just the thing to make her feel sober enough to place a few more calls.

  After three unanswered calls to David, she sat on the edge of her chair, drumming her fingers on the table, the gears in her brain struggling to shift.

  Ah-ha! She would enlist the aid of friends. Her momentum sagged. Rather, she would enlist the aid of the people with whom she had once spent time, who could now help her convince David to return her calls so that she could tell him where to stick it. Why not start at the top, with the Queen of the Square, Simone.

  When Paige and David had first moved to Rittenhouse Square, they had crossed paths with a certain social set led by the bejeweled, rail thin, platinum blond Simone. A year or two older, with oodles of money left to her by her deceased husband, Simone spent her days at the gym, or sipping champagne and pushing expensive lunches around her plate, and pretending to be involved in various charities while she was actually out shopping. Simone had taken an instant shine to David and drew the couple into her circle with icy fingers. Paige dreaded speaking with her ever, usually quite grateful that at parties and events, she would swoop in and draw David away with her, leaving Paige free to find a terrace or space at the bar, or a painting to look at, while pretending to listen to the other women gossiping around her.<
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  Simone’s voice was cold, still water. “Paige. I heard you moved. Why didn’t you let us know you were going?”

  “That’s not how it happened and I think everyone knows that,” Paige said, feeling like she had just fallen into that water. “Have you seen David? He won’t...He’s not answering his phone.”

  There was a pause. Paige imagined Simone in her immaculate kitchen, fixtures still gleaming from the cleaning service, checking her manicure, fingering her pearls.

  “Yes,” she finally answered. “I have seen him…Around the Square, you know.”

  Paige sighed, impatiently. “If you see him any time soon, tell him to call me. He can’t just abandon me with nothing…”

  A silky laugh echoed from the shore. “I’ll tell him this afternoon.”

  “You’re seeing him this afternoon?” Paige tread water, feeling her fingers and toes grow numb.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll run into him, Paige. Do you have a decent lawyer, you poor thing? Too bad for you David is…so good.”

  Paige felt queasy and cold. “Are you purring?”

  But Simone had already disconnected. This was the second time Paige had called after someone who was already gone. She couldn’t catch up. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  Rather than roll over and die, Paige was able to pull herself together enough to spend the next several nights drinking large amounts of vodka in front of the television before crawling up to bed just before dawn. There she would lapse into a coma, escaping the birds in the mornings, and wake to crippling hangovers in the early afternoons. She lost several pounds, choking down only a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and lying around on the pink sofa, watching whatever came on the small television between long naps.