Madeline Mann Page 2

  Jack looked ready to hare off in the other direction, but I was quick.

  “What are you doing under my hood?”

  “Checking your oil.” He was a bold one. He wore a look of complete indifference.

  “What gave you the—who do you think—this is just so unbelievably—”

  “You never check it, Madeline. Just because you're mad at me doesn't mean I'm going to stop caring about your safety.”

  “Good timing, Jack. You couldn't even wait a day before you displayed still another controlling behavior. I'm tempted to call the police. Really. You've committed a crime.”

  That got his goat. “All right. Call the police. Tell them I checked your oil—which is fine, by the way—and gave you new wiper blades and filled your windshield reservoir. Tell them you're my recently ex girlfriend, and some old habits die hard!” Jack was the kind of guy who didn't get loud when he got angry, but he did develop some facial twitches. His one dimple would appear, just as it did when he was happy or mischievous. I stared at his dimple, too upset to meet his slate blue eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “Besides. Technically, I didn't ‘break into’ your car—you left it unlocked again.” He shrugged, as though my carelessness cleansed him of all responsibility.

  I lowered my voice, aware of the long, curious nose in the window behind me. “This is what we're fighting about, Jack: not because you're not a good person or I don't love certain things about you, but because you have this pathological need to control my life!”

  “A lot of people would be grateful—”

  “That's not the point. All you had to do was come to me and offer, as a friend. I might have said yes, thank you, how nice of you. But you didn't, and I'll tell you why. Because you didn't want to give me the option of saying no. Right, Jack?”

  I had the brief satisfaction of seeing him squirm. “I didn't mean to make you upset, Maddy. I just wanted—I felt—”

  “You love her!” yelled Mr. Altschul, impatient with our labored conversation. “Mein Gott!” He slammed his window in despair, sending some very offended birds shrieking away.

  We stood in silence for a moment, and then we began to laugh. It was a nice release. I was able to admire again how wonderful Jack looked when he was smiling—friendly creases at the corners of his eyes, straight white teeth, and the solitary, beloved dimple in his clean-shaven face.

  “He's taken our troubles very personally,” I said softly. “After all, that's one hundred percent of his tenants with unhappy love lives. But I know we're another soap opera to him. I hear him yelling at his TV all the time, like, ‘Don't let her walk avay! Tell her you were drugged when Carly seduced you!’”

  I imitated his German accent to the best of my ability, and Jack, grinning, nodded in recognition.

  “He summarizes the plots for me when I'm stretching before a run. I guess I should stop stretching in front of the Old School.” This is what Jack called our building, because I told him that's what Altschul means: “old school.” I realized I was softening, so I looked at my watch. “I've got to fly. I have to do some, uh—research.”

  His eyebrows went up; he was curious. I could forgive that, because I happen to be very nosy about everything Jack does as well. However, he wasn't going to make the mistake of asking what I was up to, not after two arguments in a row.

  “Have a nice morning,” he said.

  He looked rather forlorn, standing there with his windshield fluid. Things like that tempt a person to give in, but I had my principles. “Thanks.”

  He touched my arm. “I have some bad habits, Maddy. I'll work on them. You've been happy with me for a year, haven't you?”

  “Yes,” I acknowledged.

  “Just tell me it's not over. I don't expect you to hop back into bed with me. Right away. Just tell me you're not going to leave me over this, okay?”

  “I…” I hesitated, confronted by the dimple in a truly earnest expression. “I'd like to see us work things out. We'll see.” I opened the driver's door of my rehabbed Merkur Scorpio, a car I'd chosen because it bore my astrological sign.

  “Dinner tonight?” he asked, with an appealing amount of humility.

  “We'll see.”

  “I'm cooking.”

  I shut the driver's door and rolled down the window a crack. “Let me see how the day goes. If you're planning some kind of seduction …”

  “I'm not, Maddy. I said I wasn't.”

  “Because what we need is communication, not sex.” This wasn't entirely true, as one thing Jack and I had in common was a healthy zest for making love, but I was trying to make a point.

  He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Can you at least call and let me know? Chicken Shea takes two hours to prepare.”

  Chicken Shea, I thought, suppressing a smirk. How did I end up dating a guy who named recipes after himself? Still, I happened to know that Chicken Shea was delicious, as was most of what Jack created in the kitchen.

  “Fair enough,” I said grudgingly. I started to drive away.

  He called out, “No charge for servicing the auto!” with a big, obnoxious smile. So much for humility. I treated him to a Madeline glare (we all have our specialties) and accelerated.

  I fumed for a while as I drove into downtown Webley, but soon enough Fritz's strange call was back on my mind, as it had been when I'd woken, showered, and consumed my solitary bowl of Cap'n Crunch. Logan Lanford, my old high school pal, had apparently just walked out of his own life. His wife, Jamie, had no idea where he was, nor did anyone in the band. I wasn't clear, nor was Fritz, about what the rest of Logan's family might have to say, but Fritz had suggested, not gently, that somehow it was my job to find out.

  “How can you just lose your husband?” I had protested. “I mean, Jamie must have some idea—”

  “Here's a great idea, Madman,” Fritz said testily. “Since he was your amazing contribution to my band”—I wondered here how the other Bishops would view the use of that possessive pronoun—“why don't you do us the favor of finding him? We've got this great gig next Saturday, and Lanford doesn't even know it. It's good dough too, and I think he could really use it. Otherwise the guys are going to find a replacement. I can't blame them. But I thought it would be nice to give Lanford a chance to appear. He's a fairly cool guy, when all is said and done.”

  Ah, a glimpse into Fritz's shallow well of compassion. It wasn't unusual for my little brother to make his problems my problems, and I suppose I'd gotten into the habit of accepting whatever he tossed my way, but this seemed kind of silly. “Fritz, Logan and I haven't discussed much more than the weather in the last eight years. I don't think I'm the person who should—”

  “Listen, Madman. You're a reporter. You're always following those vibes you're so proud of. This guy was once one of your best friends. His wife is freaking out over this, and the band is going to be left in the lurch—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” I yelled. “How hard can it be? Give me his phone number, and I'll go talk to Jamie.”

  That conversation with Fritz was the reason I was now on my way to speak with Jamie Lanford, Logan's wife. I'd called that morning to get permission for a visit; I had heard kids crying in the background, and she'd sounded stressed almost to the breaking point.

  “Hello?” she yelled over the din.

  “Jamie. It's Madeline Mann. From high school. I don't know if you—”

  “I remember you, Madeline,” she said, sounding a bit hurt. “We were in chorus together.” I had not remembered this until now. Suddenly I had a vision of Jamie as a sophomore, with shining blonde hair worn straight to her waist and freckles on her nose. She looked like someone straight out of Little House on the Prairie. Until, that is, she put on her cheerleader skirt as a junior and began turning the heads of all the boys.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. The Hallelujah Chorus—how could I forget?” I asked jovially. I felt a bit odd broaching the subject of Logan, yet I was far too curious not to mention it.
“Listen, Jamie. Fritz told me that Logan's been gone for a while. He hasn't by any chance returned, has he?”

  “Returned? No. I just don't know what to do, Madeline—if I should call the police, or what. And these kids…” She muffled the phone and yelled into the cacophony. It lessened slightly. “I'm really sick of the single-parent thing, I'll tell you.”

  “If you're willing to let me drop by, maybe I can help you for a while. Watch the kids, talk over your options.”

  Jamie and I had barely spoken since we were sixteen, so I knew what desperate straits she must be in when she jumped on the offer. “That would be great, Madeline. No one really…well, if you have the time…”

  I assured her that I did, and that I'd be over by noon. Never mind that I had a stack of ideas I was supposed to flesh out for my editor by Monday morning. Perhaps I was avoiding my work, just as I had been avoiding Jack. Perhaps, though, it was something else that made me feel a certain urgency about Logan Lanford.

  After I hung up the phone, I called my mom at work.

  “Mom,” I said.

  “Madeline, I'm very busy.” Since I knew this was true, I wasn't offended by her briskness. My father had told me the mayor was working poor Delia into an early grave. Of course, my father tends to be a bit protective, but working on a Saturday did seem like an imposition.

  “I'm going to see Jamie Lanford.”

  “Logan's wife? Why are you doing that?”

  If Fritz hadn't told her, I certainly didn't want to go into it now. “Just to talk. She's very stressed out and she has two kids and I'm wondering what kind of care package I should bring,” I said. No one was better than Delia Mann at making impromptu care packages. Sick people, sad people, happy people, people with new jobs, new homes, new babies—they'd all received a basket from the Manns somewhere along the line. And it always looked splendid, done up with festive bows and happy wicker accents.

  Now my mom was in her element and forgot that she was busy. “Lunch, of course,” she began. “You don't have any frozen stew or chili, do you?”

  “No, Mom,” I answered drily. “You're the culinary whiz. In fact, I could use a care package, if you're in the mood. Anyway,” I added, hearing nothing but silence, “a bucket of chicken it is.”

  “But not for you, Madeline—you're meeting us for brunch, aren't you?

  I had forgotten this. “Right,” I agreed.

  She sighed. “How old are the babies?”

  “Uh, I think one is three or four and one is still a baby. Not an infant, but not walking.” That had been Fritz's impression, anyway.

  “Mmmmm. Coloring book, box of crayons, jingly rattle. Apple juice boxes, butter cookies.”

  “Well, geez, I'm not their fairy godmother. I'm on a writer's salary, for Pete's sake.”

  “Someday people will do it for you. Besides, she is a friend of yours.”

  “I barely know her,” I protested.

  “She was in chorus with you.” Leave it to my mom to remember my memories for me.

  “Yeah, you're right. Well, thanks, Mom. Hey, one more question. Why did Logan get fired by Mayor Paul?”

  She sighed again. “Madeline, I don't know the whole story, and I don't like to go talking about the office to people.”

  “I'm not people, I'm your daughter.”

  “I don't want this in the paper.”

  “I want to know what Logan did to get him fired, because he was my friend at one time.”

  My mother's voice became hushed. “There was a rumor that there was some sort of interoffice romance. The mayor said he couldn't condone it. I didn't hear this firsthand, though.”

  I stood with my mouth open for a moment. “But he's married,” I protested. “He has little kids.”

  “It's unsubstantiated,” Mom said. “That's all I ever heard about it.”

  Logan and Jamie had an apartment in the Wellington, one of the nicer apartment buildings in Webley. It was near the center of town and was a fine example of the quaint, old-fashioned architecture that Webley boasted about in all of its literature. Centered between stately elms, the Wellington was one of the photographic landmarks on the town postcards in the drugstore.

  When I rang Jamie's bell, it took her a while to respond. Her voice seemed quiet over the intercom, and I wondered if she'd been sleeping.

  “Come on up,” she murmured, and I took the elevator to the third floor. Jack would have encouraged me to take the stairs.

  I hadn't seen Jamie in at least eight years, but I could still tell that the woman who opened the door had changed drastically. While the high school Jamie had been prettily plump with peach-soft skin, this woman was too thin, and her face seemed dry. Her nose looked red, due perhaps to a cold or a bout of crying, and what I had remembered as sparkling, cheerful eyes now looked dully out of an expressionless face. Her hair, still yellow and silky, was now worn only shoulder length and was pulled back with a rubber band. I wondered if I'd been wrong about her being a cheerleader. This woman didn't look like she had a spunky bone in her body.

  “Come on in,” she said softly. “I like your hair. You'd never know you weren't a blonde. I just got the baby to sleep, so we'll have to kind of keep it down. I sure don't want to deal with him if he wakes up too early.” She eyed me speculatively. “You have kids?”

  “No. I'm not married,” I said.

  “Oh … I thought Fritz said—”

  “Fritz probably mentioned Jack. He's the guy I've been seeing. Anyway, I brought some food, and some stuff for the little ones.”

  “That's so sweet. God, I'm starving.”

  “Here,” I said, offering up the bucket of chicken.

  She looked tempted to grab a piece but instead led me to her kitchenette, where she set down the container and dug out some paper plates and styrofoam cups.

  “I already have a sinkful of dishes,” she said apologetically. She certainly did, I noted, as well as a house full of toys and scattered piles of laundry. Her living room was awash in books and Disney videos, and in the midst of those sat a boy of about four, who stared at us with his mouth open.

  “Noah—food,” said his mother.

  That got him in action. He tore into the kitchen and stood on a little stool in front of the sink to wash his hands.

  “This is Madeline,” said Jamie. “She's a friend of Daddy's and mine from high school.”

  Noah stared at me over his shoulder, and the water soaked the cuffs of his shirt. Jamie noticed, and she turned off the water with an abrupt gesture and a sigh. “Go get another shirt. And don't wake up Calvin, or you're getting him back to sleep.”

  Noah trudged out of the kitchen, mumbling to himself like an old man. I went to the fridge to hunt for beverages and found only an echo inside. Trying not to look shocked, I took the apple juice boxes out of my bag and set four on the table. I unpacked the potatoes and coleslaw that had come with the chicken and steered Jamie to the table. “You start,” I said. “He'll be here in a minute.”

  She did so. I felt a stab of intense anger at Logan as I watched her eat. The woman was hungry, which meant that her kids probably were too. “I ran out for some things yesterday,” she said apologetically. “I should have picked up food too. All I got was some dinner to go. I'm just not thinking, Madeline, I'm just not thinking. It's like I can't function.” Her eyes were very blue as they looked searchingly into mine, and I realized with a jolt that they were beautiful. A memory came to me, unbidden and ten years in the past.

  Logan had started to date Jamie. He confided to me that he liked her one cold spring day as we waited for a bus home outside school. I remembered the way he stood over me in that proprietorial way that some teenage boys have, his dark hair hanging over his forehead, his hazel eyes merry under dark brows. “I like her, Mad. She's not you, babe, but who is? And you just want to be friends. So I think I'll pursue a blonde now. Jamie has the most amazing eyes, cornflower blue. Maybe someday we'll have blue-eyed babies,” he joked as he gauged my reaction. I pee
red down the street to see if the bus was coming. I was jealous, of course, as I always was when Logan talked about his conquests. It was true, though, that I didn't want to be one of them. Even in my attraction to my friend Logan, I understood the folly of falling for him, and I resisted. The longer I did so, the more appealing I think I became to him. Wanting what he couldn't have and all that. Logan usually got what he wanted. Sometimes he dated several girls at once, although he probably lied to them all. It really bugged me, the way he treated the girls at St. Roselle, but he was my friend: handsome, intelligent, musical, creative.

  He had plenty of good qualities, which was why he never had a shortage of girlfriends.

  I wished now, as I thought about Jamie's empty refrigerator, that I'd made more of a point of befriending her then, and warning her that Logan wasn't all he seemed. She probably found that out anyway. We both made the decision to let Logan get away with things. Eight years later we were both still dealing with it. My way of dealing with my growing awareness of Logan's selfishness, even at the age of seventeen, had been to distance myself from him. By the time we had both graduated from college, we'd become almost entirely out of touch, so that when I saw him in town or at my mom's office, it felt awkward, despite the occasional stab of nostalgia. We'd josh around halfheartedly, but we both understood that we lacked anything in common but our past.

  Noah appeared in the doorway with a new shirt on his little body.

  “Come here, honey. The nice lady brought us some lunch,” Jamie called.

  Noah sailed to his chair, and Jamie filled his plate. Watching the boy eat made me feel like a UNICEF volunteer. I sat down with them and toyed with some mashed potatoes. I tried to broach the subject of Jamie's problem husband.

  “So Logan gave you no idea—”

  “He said he was going out for some diapers,” Jamie said tonelessly. “And the thing is, we really needed them.” She started to cry, but even that didn't stop her from eating. She wiped at her runny nose with a napkin in her left hand while she held her food in her right. “I had to take the boys out to get some the next day.”

  I looked at Noah, who seemed more cheerful than his mother. He had already polished off his chicken leg. Not in a way that would satisfy my dad, who believed in munching a chicken bone until it gleamed in the light, but in a manner pretty impressive for a four-year-old boy. “I like chicken,” he said to me, kneeling on his chair for a better view of the table.