Maybe that would score me some brownie points.
Once home, I unplugged my phone, fended off a cat attack, took a long shower, slapped on some burn cream, tugged one of Latham’s old T-shirts over my head, and crawled into bed.
I was exhausted, but unable to relax. Sleep mocked my attempts, keeping me awake with thoughts of Caleb’s basement, of my mother, whom I hadn’t visited in a few days, of Herb, of Harry’s wedding, which I had to get ready for in just a few hours, of Holly, who was still being questioned as far as I knew, and still hadn’t bought a wedding dress.
I managed about ten winks out of a possible forty, and at nine a.m. I got up to face the day. It began with a call to Herb, who was being prepped for his bypass surgery.
“I saw it on the news this morning. You’re catching psychos without me. I’m obsolete.”
“Sorry, Herb. Next time I’ll wait until you’re feeling better before I do my job.”
“I appreciate it.”
“How was my sound bite? Did I look okay?”
“Thin. You looked too thin. Have you been eating okay?”
Bless that man.
“Thanks, Herb. Have yourself a good operation. Don’t give the doctor any trouble.”
“I’ve got it easy, compared to you. Aren’t you standing up at that idiot McGlade’s wedding today?”
“Yeah. Lucky me.”
“Can you swing by the hospital and pick up the gift I made for him? I haven’t wrapped it yet. It’s still in the bedpan.”
I laughed, then realized I hadn’t gotten McGlade a gift myself. The ceremony was at noon, at the Busse Woods forest preserve in the suburb of Elk Grove. Maybe I had time to pick up something on the way.
I bid good-bye to Herb, rushed through a shower, and spent all the time I saved on the shower staring dumbly at my closet, wondering what the hell to wear. A formal gown? Not to a forest preserve. Slacks and a blouse? Not dressy enough. I didn’t own a clown outfit, so that was out, and finally decided on a Bob Mackie brocade suit, pink, with a white blouse. The skirt was knee length, the jacket had shoulder pads and a rounded collar, and I never wore it to work because it was, well, pink.
I matched it with a strappy pair of DKNY two-inch heels with an open toe, but had no nylons without runs in them. I used some scissors to get a good leg from two separate pairs, and held them on with a garter belt that Latham had bought me during the inevitable “naughty underwear” phase of our relationship. I didn’t expect to have as much fun wearing it this time.
I kept the makeup fast and light, refreshed the cat’s food and water, and rushed out the door, almost running into my weirdo neighbor, Lucy Walnut from the Sanitation Department. She was wearing the same crusty uniform I’d seen her in the last few times. Perhaps she slept in it.
Before I had a chance to ask why she was standing in front of my apartment, she bent down and picked up a flower arrangement that had been resting between her feet.
“This is for you.”
Taking flowers from creepy ex-cons set off all kinds of warning bells. Walnut must have sensed it, because she shook her head.
“It’s not from me. Got delivered to your place last night. You weren’t home, the florist guy asked me to hold it till you got back.”
I took the flowers, a vase full of roses, carnations, violets, mums, and baby’s breath.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Whatever.”
She trudged back to her apartment, and I brought the arrangement inside.
It had a small card, and the envelope had been torn open. Walnut? I could knock on her door and yell “J’accuse!” but didn’t see the point. Instead, I took it out and read the message.
I still love you too. Let’s talk. Latham.
I’ll admit to a very unfeminine whoop, and maybe a few fist pumps in the air. I won’t admit to grabbing Mr. Friskers and dancing around the kitchen with him, giving him kisses on his nose. I won’t ever admit to that.
I immediately called Latham, and got his answering machine. I thanked him for the flowers, and invited him to come over tonight. My cell was almost out of juice, so I turned the power off. I’d recharge it in my car.
Energized for the first time in weeks, I practically ran to my Nova and pointed it northwest, taking the Kennedy expressway to Route 53, and exiting on Higgins Road at the giant mega-mall known as Woodfield. With almost 300 stores, I was bound to find one that had a wedding gift.
Or so I thought.
If I’d been buying just for Harry, I would have gone to a toy store and bought action figures, or some kind of toy that expelled slime. If I’d been buying for only Holly, I could have gotten some sort of designer accessory. But what would be appropriate for them as a couple?
I considered bedding. First silk sheets, then rubber sheets. Since I didn’t know their bed size, I passed.
Then I looked at towels, televisions, easy chairs, the complete Planet of the Apes series on DVD, a lamp shaped like an ostrich, his and hers golf clubs, and a large stone that you could plug into the wall and watch water trickle over the edge, which was guaranteed to relax you, though it almost put me into shock when I saw how much it cost.
I left Woodfield at a quarter to twelve and went off in search of the universal gift, booze. Luckily there was a liquor store nearby, and I blew two bills on a bottle of bubbly and managed to make it to the forest preserve with a full minute to spare.
Busse Woods occupied a good portion – over ten square miles – of Elk Grove, which did indeed have real live elk running around in it. I followed the crude map Harry had scribbled on a beverage napkin at Mon Ami Gabi a few days earlier, taking the second entrance off Higgins. It was like being transported into another world.
Chicago had many parks, and those parks had trees, but even the densest concentration of foliage still felt like it was in the middle of a city. After turning down the twisty, thin road, the woods swallowed my car up. The forest canopy was so thick in certain parts, I couldn’t see the sky. I felt like I’d driven into the movie Deliverance.
I took the road into the thicket for nearly a mile, finally ending up at a tiny clearing with a small eight-space parking lot, two weather-beaten picnic tables, and a rusty garbage barrel. Two other cars were already there, Harry’s familiar ’67 Mustang and a Volkswagen Jetta. Standing beside one of the tables were three men.
I parked next to the Jetta, checked my makeup, forced on a fake smile, and went to meet the boys.
Phin wore the same charcoal suit as the other day, but had switched the blue shirt for dark gray. His black cowboy boots were polished, and this was the first time I’d ever seen Phin in a tie. He looked good. Since Phin didn’t own a car, especially not a Jetta, I assumed he took a cab here.
The man next to him – the judge or reverend or justice of the peace or ship’s captain or whoever McGlade had conned into overseeing this happy union – was a short man in his sixties sporting a white beard and a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows. Hadn’t seen those in a while.
And Harry… Harry had crammed himself into a tuxedo, one of those new styles that had a large black button instead of a bow tie. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were so bloodshot, it looked like he’d poured ketchup in them.
“Hey, Jackie.” McGlade gave me a half-assed wave.
“Holly’s not here yet?”
He shook his head. “She’s running late. Didn’t get out of the police station until this morning, then ran out to find a dress. Heard you had some night last night.”
“You too. How was your bachelor party?”
He winced. “Those little people sure can drink.”
Phin raised an eyebrow. “Little people?”