CHAPTER
FORTY
Monday, December 17
Are you being honest, Jessica?
You keep assuring me that Thomas has not responded to your invitation.
This strains credulity. Thomas has an almost Pavlovian response to the ding of an incoming message. He might have rebuffed your invitation. Or he might have accepted it. But it seems highly unlikely that he would simply ignore it.
It is now three P.M. on Monday. More than twenty-four hours have elapsed since you departed my town house. Three have elapsed since you last communicated.
Another phone call is required.
You do not answer.
“Jessica, is everything all right? I am . . . disappointed I haven’t heard back from you.”
You do not return the phone call. Instead, you send a text: No word yet. I’m not feeling well, so I’m going to try to rest.
It’s impossible to accurately ascertain tone from a text message, yet yours carries the feel of impetuousness.
You are trying to slow down the rhythm of communication with your thinly veiled excuse. It’s as though you think you are the one in control.
Why do you need to hit the pause button, Jessica? You’ve been so eager and accommodating until now.
You were carefully selected because of your anticipated appeal to Thomas.
Did he exert a similar pull on you?
Since his unexpected visit yesterday, Thomas has not followed up on his promise to review his forthcoming week’s schedule.
Aside from a brief call to say good night, he has not been in touch at all.
It takes a deliberate, sustained effort to slow the raggedy inhalations of breath. Swallowing food is impossible.
There is a slightly loose floorboard in the area just outside the kitchen; it gently creaks with every step. The sound forms a mesmerizing rhythm, like the chirping of a cricket.
A hundred creaks.
Then two hundred.
Thomas’s schedule remains murky, but he knows mine.
On Mondays from five to seven P.M., my presence has been reliably required in a classroom at NYU, just down from Room 214.
However, since a leave of absence was granted a few weeks ago, a substitute will conduct my seminar.
Doubting Thomas is an unfortunate but necessary side effect resulting from his actions.
But doubting you, Jessica . . . now, that is intolerable.
Impulsivity, or acting without forethought or reflection, can lead to disastrous consequences.
And yet at 3:54 P.M. a somewhat rash decision is made.
It is time to remind you who is in charge, Jessica.
You didn’t say what ails you, but chicken soup is considered to be a universal remedy.
Nearly every deli in New York sells it, including one just down the block from your studio apartment.
A large container is selected, and several packets of saltine crackers are added to the plain brown paper bag. A plastic spoon and napkins are included.
Your apartment building, with its peeling yellow plaster facade and the metal fire escape snaking up the side, comes as a bit of a surprise. You always appear so chic and alluring, and it is difficult to imagine you emerging from such a discordant environment.
The buzzer is pressed for Apartment 4C.
Judgment is suspended; perhaps you are resting, just as you indicated.
The buzzer is held for a longer stretch of time.
In your small studio, the noise must be reverberating loudly.
No response.
Even if you had fallen asleep, it seems extremely unlikely you would not have awakened by now.
Remaining on your stoop provides no answers, yet it proves difficult to depart.
Then, by chance, another glance at the main door to your building reveals it is ever so slightly ajar; the lock isn’t engaged.
A push against it is all that is required to gain entry.
There’s no elevator or doorman. The staircase is dim and bleak, with its steps covered in a frayed gray carpet. Still, residents of this building have brightened the hallways with amateur-looking pieces of art. Christmas wreaths adorn a few doors, and the aroma of something savory—a chili or stew, perhaps—fills the air.
Your apartment is toward the end of the hall. There’s a welcome mat in front of the door.
A firm knock causes your dog, Leo, the little mixed breed you adopted from a shelter, to erupt in sharp, almost staccato barking.
But that is the only indication of sound or movement within.
Where are you, Jessica? Are you with my husband?
A crackling noise erupts as the paper bag is crumpled.
The parcel is left in front of your door, where you will see it the moment you arrive home.
Sometimes a simple gift is actually a vessel utilized to issue a warning shot.
But by the time you receive it, it may be too late.
Your loyalty has been methodically cultivated. You have been paid thousands of dollars for your services. You have received carefully curated gifts. Your emotional state has been attended to; you have received the equivalent of intensive therapy sessions for free.
You belong to me.