CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Hey, hey, hey, let’s get this going!” A heavily tattooed, shirtless black man pushes to the middle of my subway car as the train takes off. One of his friends presses play on a boom box.
Music thumps and a third man starts jumping—a one-handstand, a back flip, a front flip, all executed with unbelievable precision as the subway car rattles and shakes.
It’s my first-ever ride on the subway and I’ve built this up in my mind as a terrifying and confusing experience. The guys jumping around freak me out a little, but mostly I’m elated. They’re spinning around a pole, bodies perpendicular to it, all muscle and grace. I’m enthralled and grinning like an idiot and scrambling to get them a dollar.
This is a New York show.
And I almost missed it. If I’d been Eugene-Beryl, I would have taken the time to read the subway map, study the routes, and decide precisely how I should get to work.
But now I’m New York-Beryl. A little less ready, aim and a lot more fire. I decide “try new things” will be my motto.
I arrive at the office before Dan and work on copy for a flier we’ll send to residents we already work with and to people who have access to those we don’t.
I make up services we could offer if someone asked for them, such as organizing closets and pantries, dry cleaning drop-offs and pick-ups, fully stocking fridges for the residents’ return, supervising plumbers and building professionals who make repairs in their absence, and a slew of other personal-assistant type tasks.
I imagine that these people have more money than time, so they’ll be willing to pay me to take care of details. And I realize that I’m going to need references, so I decide Gavin’s apartment makes a good proving ground. I compose a letter based on his last request.
Mr. Slater,
I can assure you we’ve been discreet about the state of your apartment and it has now been professionally cleaned. Additionally, we are pleased to provide our extended services in addition to your house sitting and property management package.
This will include removal of the clothing and personal items you mentioned from the gray guest room. We are also able to organize your kitchen, pantry, and closets. We will proceed unless otherwise instructed.
Sincerely,
B. Sutton
Keystone Property Management
I hit send and head to Dan’s office to pick up new files. He tells me my second house sitting gig starts tomorrow. It’s for one of his regular clients, a woman on the Upper East Side who’s headed to Los Angeles for a few weeks.
When do these people work?
When I get back to my desk, I see a new email from Gavin.
I don’t care. You figure it out.
Gavin’s abrupt reply spurs my simmering resentment to a full boil. Before my brain can rein in my fingers, I click on his email address and attempt to Google Chat with him.
Me: Mr. Slater? Are you there?
Gavin: Who’s this?
Me: Beryl Sutton. From Keystone Property Management.
Gavin: I thought it was Barry.
Me: Never mind. I want to talk to you about your place. I have some questions.
Gavin: What kind of a name is Beryl? Are you a guy or a girl?
Me: It’s a good name. I was named after a famous pilot who crossed the Atlantic in her airplane, solo.
Gavin: A woman? I thought that was Amelia Earhart.
Me: There’s more than one woman pilot in history, asshole.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard and adrenaline shoots through me. What the hell did I just do? After all the horrible things I’ve been thinking about Gavin, that word just flew from my fingers.
I want to bang my head on my desk. I am so screwed.
Me: Oh my God, Mr. Slater, I am SO sorry. I did not mean to type that. I meant there are more women pilots than *Amelia.* Please forgive me!!
Gavin: Liar.
Me: Excuse me, sir? I am truly sorry. That was totally unprofessional. It must have been autocorrect?
Gavin: You’re a rotten liar. You meant to call me an asshole. Admit it.
Me: No. I meant … it’s been a rough morning. PLEASE forgive me. I don’t want Keystone to lose your business because of my mistake.
Gavin: Look, Beryl, it’s not like I haven’t heard it before. And if you lie about it, I’m not sure I can trust you with the rest of my business.
Me: Mr. Slater, I am very, very, very sorry I called you an asshole. I totally did not mean to offend you. (Are you very mad?)
Gavin: No. It actually made me LOL, and I don’t remember the last time that happened.
Me: I’m sorry. My brain is always two steps behind my mouth. Fingers. Whatever.
Gavin: Stop apologizing. And stop calling me Mr. Slater. I’m twenty-five. Mister makes me sound like a geezer.
Me: Yes, sir.
Gavin: Sir sounds like I’m a drill sergeant. Just Gavin, OK?
Me: OK. May I ask you about handling your apartment? Do I have your approval to proceed?
Gavin: Yes. Now you sound like a drill sergeant. How old are you?
Me: I don’t think that’s relevant.
Gavin: Do I need to play my asshole card?
Me: Twenty-three. Almost. My birthday’s in a few weeks.
Gavin: See? That wasn’t so hard. I’m pretty good at interrogation. Do you think I could make it as a spy?
Me: You’d probably need to live a little more … subtly. Ugly yourself up. Put on a shirt.
Gavin: ROFL. How would you know?
Me: A mysterious invention called the Internet.
Gavin: You’re feisty. I like that. Don’t worry, Beryl, I won’t tell on you about the asshole thing. And for the record, I’m not an asshole all the time.
Me: I guess I don’t have much to go on. You *were* kind of an asshole to leave your apartment such a dump.
Gavin: I have my reasons.
Me: Name one good one.
Gavin: No.
Me: OK. When are you coming back?
Gavin: Wondering when I’ll kick you out?
Me: There is some planning needed, yes.
Gavin: Not anytime soon. I’m in Kenya now. It’s hot as hell, and I’m drinking coffee at an Internet café in Nairobi. Hot coffee. I must be crazy.
Me: That thought has crossed my mind. What are you doing in Kenya?
Gavin: Looking for something. I’m not sure.
Me: Well, look for something about Beryl Markham. She died a long time ago, but she grew up in Njoro in the Rift Valley and she’s who I’m named after. She trained racehorses and flew elephant-scouting missions and all sorts of amazing stuff.
Gavin: Why’d you get named after her? Family connection?
Me: My dad was a pilot.
Gavin: You fly with him a lot?
Me: No. He died in a plane crash.
I blink hard. I’ve been “handling” my dad’s death fine for nearly a decade, but every once in a while something unexpected shocks a round of fresh tears out of me.
Gavin: I’m sorry.
Gavin: Beryl? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.
Gavin: I lost someone close to me, too.
Me: I’m here.
Gavin: I thought I lost you.
Me: No. I just needed a breath.
Gavin: That’s what I need. That’s why I’m out here.
Me: For a breath?
Gavin: Yeah, a breather. From the life and the music and the band and everyone.
Me: What are you looking for, exactly?
Gavin: I can’t tell you that.
Me: Do you want me to do all that stuff I said I could do in the email?
Gavin: Yeah, whatever.
Me: You don’t sound too thrilled.
Gavin: It’s complicated.
Me: Try me.
Gavin: It’s better if you don’t know.
Me: Tell me anyway.
Gavin: You’re a complete stranger.
Me: So are you. And anyway, I’m bonded and I signed a zillion-page non-disclosure form, so I can’t tell the tabloids, if that’s what you’re worried about.
Gavin: Actually, that’s not it.
Me: What are you worried about?
Gavin: You wouldn’t understand.
Me: I told you. Try me. What was so fucking awful that you wrecked your apartment and ran away from your life?
My fingers are flying faster than my internal filter.
Me: Because from where I sit, that life is pretty fucking charmed.
Gavin: Fucked up, is what it is.
Me: So tell me.
Gavin: No. Just throw out the stuff like I told you.
Me: And then what?
Gavin: I don’t now. Maybe it’ll come to me.
Me: Gavin?
Me: Gavin?
Still no answer. Google chat still shows his green button active, though.
Me: Don’t be an asshole.
Me: OK, I’m sorry I called you an asshole. Again.
Me: I’m going to go now. Take care of yourself.
***
I go home—check that, I go to Gavin’s home—replaying our conversation in my head. I know I crossed a line, pushed him too far, and fear churns in my core. Why can’t I think first? Speaking (or typing) my mind gets me in trouble. Every. Damned. Time.
I push the knot of worry down and decide that if he gets me fired I’ll deal with that when it comes. I don’t have the guts to tell Dan what happened.
Jasper baroos a greeting when I open the door and I quickly change and take him out for a walk. We run into dogs of every size and color, but not another basenji.
On our walk, my mind can’t escape the riddle of Gavin. He’s searching for something, but he doesn’t know what. He wants me to “just deal with” personal stuff in his apartment, yet he’s cagey about the details.
I want to know why.
When we get back to the apartment after high-fiving Charles and collecting Jasper’s piece of cheese, I go in the other bedroom and take a look at the clothes piled on the bed. They really are exquisite.
I run my fingers over some delicately knitted material. Cashmere, I think. It’s an unusual shade of blue that makes me think of Gavin’s eyes. Even just touching these rejected things, doomed for a dump or a secondhand rack, makes me feel closer to him, like I can understand him a little better.
I try on the sweater. It fits.
The tops fit. The dresses and T-shirts. And with a little wiggling, even the jeans fit.
I can’t throw all this stuff out. A greedy part of me I don’t like very much whispers this could be my brand-new New York wardrobe and the perfect replacement for my Bumpkin Fashion.
But another part of me wants to be wrapped up in his things, even if they belonged to someone else at another time. I touch the blue sweater again gently, reverently, and let the girl full of yearning and desires I’m only just realizing win.
If Gavin wants me to get rid of it, it won’t matter if it goes to my closet instead of St. Vincent de Paul.
With everything he’s wasting, he’ll never know the difference.