Badger

Chapter 6

Chapter 6And so that was it — my brief and nonexistent love affair with Boston’s worst and only vigilante.

You’d think I’d be disappointed it ended like that, me dismissed with a few scraps of secrecy — and those few tidbits likely lies — but I wasn’t. I felt special that he’d deemed me interesting enough to share a meal with, even if I’d had to pay the tab. Interesting enough to tease, and to inhabit a space with for a while.

Friday passed quietly, and I applied for about ten jobs, nine that I knew I’d hate if I got them and one that was too good for me, a dream gig writing promo copy for my favorite art museum. They wanted a senior writer though, so I was dead in the water. But I was feeling oddly positive and hopeful and, frankly, what-the-f**k? go-for-it-ish, so I hit SEND. The best thing that could happen would be a miracle, and I’d wake up with a salary in the high fifties, almost twice as much as I’d made at the ad agency. The worst case, I’d simply wake up, as always. For once I needed excuses to talk myself into not taking chances, instead of the opposite.

My stitched chin was healing, itchy and ugly but not painful. My welt had faded to a green bruise. My broken wrist was a moody thing, sometimes shrieking madly, or moaning softly, or muttering with restless discontent. I monitored its swings, waiting for the urge. Waiting for hungry, opportunistic mechanisms in my brain to suggest this was exactly what painkillers were invented for, so it couldn’t be a***e. Somehow, those urges never rose above a whiny murmur.

It was gorgeous on Saturday, and I sat on the bench outside the laundromat my apartment resided above. I closed my eyes and hugged my purse to my middle, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, the warm morning sun on my face. I breathed in that comforting dryer-sheet scent mixed with the best smell there is — autumn. Some strange guy whistled at me as he passed, but I just smiled. I was dressed up special, and I’d take whatever compliments I earned.

Amanda pulled up in her perky little Jetta, getting out so we could hug before our journey began.

“Hey, sister.”

“Hey, womb-mate.” I squeezed her tight, loving that perfumey whiff of her hair, loving her eyes as we parted, bluer than the cloudless autumn sky. I loved her so much. So much more than I loved myself.

“You look great,” she said as we got into the car.

“Oh, yeah?” I glanced at my skirt and boots. “I figured I should look presentable, since you’ll be in ball gowns all day.”

Amanda’s first wedding dress search. I’d been dreading this, before. Since I attached so much guilt to the first engagement ring, every other thing to do with her wedding — with anyone’s wedding — felt awful by association. I winced at ads for diamonds and dresses, burned bright red when I spotted couples having their announcement pictures taken in the Public Garden. I was like that with The Lord of the Rings, too. I’d overheard my dad telling my mom I reminded him of Gollum when I was on the pills. Now whenever I thought about hobbits or wizards or Ian McKellen I cringed, picturing myself as a slimy, pitiful, ring-snatching wretch. Cringed because I knew he’d been spot-on.

“No ball gowns,” Amanda said, turning us onto Centre Street. “Not my style. Is that what you were picturing?”

I shrugged. Lovely Amanda, lovely wedding, lovely white dress to wear as she starts the next phase of her lovely life. “Something bridey, is what I pictured.”

“I’ve been looking online. I think I want a strapless dress, but not a big poofy one. No train. Fitted on top but maybe sort of swishy in the skirt. I’ll know it when I see it. That’s what everyone says, anyhow.” She squinted at me, smiling. “And what I said before — you do look good, and not just because you’re dressed up. You look really healthy.”

I made a face, surprised. “Oh. Well, good.”

“How’s the job search coming?”

I laughed. “Let’s focus on beautiful frilly things today, thank you. But it’s okay. I’m doing my best.”

“And that’s all you can do,” she chimed, the second half of our mom’s favorite adage. Amanda flipped on the radio and we headed for the highway.

“What’s that on your cast?” she asked, pointing to Badger’s scrawl.

“Oh, uh. I was meeting a friend for dinner and didn’t have any paper.”

“That’s nice. Have I met—”

“I don’t know why you need to go all the way to New Haven for a dress,” I blurted.

“It’s cheaper than Boston. Plus, it’s fun to get away for a day. Like a mission.” She bobbed her eyebrows at me, meaning all the “missions” we’d gone on in the woods behind our house, growing up. To uncover the buried treasure we convinced our dad to hide for us, to save an invisible lost puppy, to rescue a wounded unicorn or slay a dragon — Oh, damn it. Goddamn you, Tolkien.

“So what else is going on?” she asked.

Badger, seated before me at the diner, flipped like a View-Master slide across my brain. Precisely when I’d dropped the “the” from his title, I wasn’t sure. Halfway through my scrambled eggs at the diner, maybe. “Not much. What about you guys?”

She groaned, though her smile was huge and warm. “Wedding, wedding, wedding. Ten months sounds like forever, until you start making lists.”

“What exactly are you subjecting me to, dress-wise?” I was going to be maid of honor, and our younger cousin and Amanda’s two best friends from college would be bridesmaids.

“I found this place with a really nice selection of white party dresses, and I think I’m going to let you pick your own styles and get fitted, then the store will dye them all the same color.”

“That’s a pretty cool idea. What color?”

“Not sure. I need your help with that, oh artistic one. Plum, maybe? Or, like, deep marine blue? Some color that’ll look good on the guys’ ties and vests. That’s your first duty as my maid of honor. Well, after helping me live through this trip.”

I perked at the assignment, and I was not one to perk. Certainly not over wedding plans. I really wasn’t feeling like myself, but that only meant I was feeling happier than usual.

We chatted about her many nuptial projects as we drove, we sang along to the radio, we grabbed lunch at Denny’s on the outskirts of Hartford and got to New Haven in the early afternoon.

My sister looked like an angel in every gown she put on, even the corny sequined one she tried just for a laugh. We knew the second she’d found the right dress, because we both started crying when she came out of the changing room. I sobbed like I never had in my life — like a mother, blubbering and overwrought and happy and pure my-baby’s-all-grown-up. Amanda got measured and paid in full on the spot, and was told her lovely dress for her lovely wedding would be ready around Christmas. Lovely.

We drove back in high spirits and ate dinner in JP before she had to head home to Woburn. I floated up the steps to my apartment, buoyed by an easy, external happiness undampened by my oft-gloomy mental forecast. There’d be no need for Nyquil tonight, none at all.

I decided to make a pot of tea and flip through my old Pantone swatch books, picking color candidates for the bridal party dresses while I was still in the mood to embrace my sisterly assignment.

As the water heated, I unpacked my purse. There was a message on my phone from a Boston number I didn’t recognize. My stomach soured, and I imagined it was the hospital calling about my bill or a fresh confirmation from one of the more courteous places I’d interviewed at, letting me know they’d decided to go with another candidate . . . and on a Saturday, too. I must have really disappointed somebody to inspire them to reject me outside normal business hours.

I dialed my voicemail, hovering my cast over the steam of the warming kettle.

“You have one. New. Message. Message one.”

“Hi, Adrian. This is Carol DeWitt.”

Oh my God. Oh my God. It was the art museum. The steam burned my shaking fingers and I switched off the stove. I stumbled to my tiny dining area and sat.

“. . . impressed with your credentials, though we really are looking for someone with seven or more years’ experience.”

My heart sank, posture crumpling.

“However—”

However?

“We’re also seeking a mid-level writer to work with our design department on exhibit and catalog materials. Full-time, in-house. I took a look at your portfolio link, and your work is beautiful. It also looks like you’re familiar with the programs our art department uses, which is a big plus. I’d love to fast-track your résumé for the mid-level position, if you’re interested. It’s not listed officially yet, so I’m not positive about the salary. If you’re interested, give me a call back when you have the chance, and I could arrange an interview with our communications director. My number is—”

I scrambled for a pen, scrawling in childish left-hand digits on a takeout menu. I listened again to confirm the number, and to confirm the message had even been real.

Fast-track? Me?

And she’d called on a Saturday?

My heart pounded as I set my phone down. I felt jittery and paranoid, but pleasantly so. I paced around the kitchen, blinking madly. I wanted to call Amanda, but she’d be driving. Plus, I was afraid. The opportunity felt like spun glass, delicate and improbable, and I was afraid to do anything to jinx it, to bump it, to wreck it. And I couldn’t get my hopes up. It wasn’t an offer, only an invitation to interview. Still, it felt . . . good. Why was everything feeling so good lately? And why did good feel so terrifying?

Eventually I quit pacing long enough to make my tea. I turned on the TV to quiet my racing brain and flipped through color swatches for Amanda’s big day. I flipped and flipped and flipped, and I tore out sample chips for nearly every color there was, far more than was useful. Because you know what? Every damn color looked beautiful. The whole f*****g rainbow.