Chapter Six

The night of the meeting, Rachel and I wrapped up early. She wasn’t planning to go– she had said the angle seemed ‘militant’, leaving it at that and shrugging. I said I’d report back to her regardless. But she was doing enough– involved in enough, doing enough, she didn’t have to do one more thing if she didn’t want to. Unfortunately, I guess I could be called a little “militant” so I might fit right in. Quietly militant, if that was possible. 

I’d have to go by Zevi’s building again, unless I wanted to take a massive detour– which I really didn’t. I meant to change back into my usual tennies for the walk, but for some reason, I wanted to be wearing pumps when I saw Baron again, so I hadn’t bothered to change. And I really didn’t want to be running all over town in heels. 

Unfortunately, Zevi was unloading something from his truck as I went by.

“Hey!” he called.

I didn’t want to be a coward or ghost him so I slowed but didn’t stop.

“Can I catch you on the way back home?” I asked, walking backward along the sidewalk. 

“Catch me whenever,” he yelled, hand cupped around his mouth. “You’re a woman with things to do and I am willing to just wait upon your patience!”

I smiled wanly and continued on my way. I didn’t want to be late.

Walking into the old building was kind of sad. It was very shabby inside and only lit in a few areas. Not including the foyer, which made it seem like a haunted house. Very spidery, very unclean, very shadowed. But I heard conversation from a far office and went in there. Hitching my bag up higher on my shoulder, smiling nervously, fiddling with Rachel and I’s business cards in my blazer pocket. Looking around to see if I’d know anyone. 

I didn’t. Mostly men, my age and older. A few men I knew passingly as having their own businesses. I spotted the one other lawyer in town besides Rachel, Ed. Who mostly specialized in estate law. 

I went over and shook his hand and then stood near him to listen to the conversation. Nothing terribly interesting; a lot of talk about people I didn’t know. Which was fine. I wasn’t particularly willing or interested in starting or having a conversation. I was content to nod and look engaged. 

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder and I gasped aloud, freezing in place in the circle I’d been standing in. Before I could react or unfreeze, the hand was pulling me bodily away. Finally, I managed to look over my own shoulder, feeling the tendons in my neck creaking. 

“Betta,” Baron said, voice rumbling. “Come meet the organizer.”

Catching my breath, hand on the collar of my shirt I nodded, following him back to the door with a weak wave at those I’d been talking to.

He introduced me to a Ted. A smiling gnome of a man with a dandelion puff of hair. I wondered if he’d chosen Baron because they were as opposite as they could be. Baron continued to steer me around, introducing me to a few other people. Often repeating, “she’s from the neighborhood” as if this were code for “she’s a member of the gang” or “she’s with me.” 

He rarely took his hand from me. While at first it had frozen me with fear, I started to like it. I liked how he could physically move me across the room. I liked how he could batter through knots of people, dragging me after him. I liked that his hand on my shoulder felt so heavy that it felt like my arm was dropping out of its socket. 

We sat in a circle, but I felt the pull of gravity toward Baron, as if the arranged circle would slowly become oval-shaped as everyone fell into him. 

It was interesting. It was exactly the kind of work I liked. And this was the exciting part– the brainstorming, blue-skying time. Toward the end, they started talking about a few concrete projects they were considering. Campaigns and outreach and the like. Someone mentioned hand-outs for local businesses, or anyone who recently got a loan.

I waved a few fingers in the air, and was about to be ignored when Baron saw my movement.

“Yeah?” he said to me, chin tipped upward.

“I do some copy-writing,” I peeped. I cleared my throat. “I can do things like that. I can create that kind of thing; email outreach, informational packets. Whatever you need. I’d be uh… I’d be glad to do it.” 

“Consider yourself on it then,” he said. 

The conversation clacked onward while I bit the inside of my cheek, leg crossed over knee bouncing, rubbing my cuticles mindlessly. 

The meeting broke up, but while many people left, not everyone did. And they gravitated like flies to sugar to Baron. I gathered my bag from where it had been sitting beside me. Kind of vibrating nervously still. I went over to the knot around Baron, waiting to get his attention like I’d managed to earlier. It took a while. He was looking over my head toward the door while someone was talking to him. I wiggled my way past a few people in another conversation and rested two fingers on his wrist. He looked down at the touch and then back up at me, raising his eyebrows. 

I waited for whoever was talking to him to finish.

“I just wanted to say good night,” I said breathlessly. “Thanks uh… Thanks.”

He grunted again. I was moving to leave when he caught my wrist. Reaching into his back pocket he handed me a very creased business card.

“Call me,” he said.

My face went cool for a second with surprise.

“To talk about the work,” he clarified. 

I blushed, nodded, and tucked his card into my bag. 

While I was walking back home, I suddenly remembered telling Zevi I’d talk to him on the way back. Hopefully the lights would be out in his building as I went by and I could walk by guilt-free.

But of course, that wasn’t the case. He was standing right in that curved display window, his back to the sidewalk. I went up to it and knocked. He turned around smiling, holding up a ‘one minute’ finger at me.

He came banging through the side door. 

“Really working hard,” I said.

“You ‘bettah’ believe it,” he said, grinning at me. I smiled weakly back, and his face got soft and searching.

“You all right?” he asked me.

“Um–” I said, shifting from hip to hip.

“Are we all right?” he asked.

I bit my cheek again, grinding down a little.

“Hey,” Zevi said softly, stepping a little closer, but not invading my space. “Just because we went on a singular date doesn’t mean you owe me anything, you know.” 

He seemed sincere about that. It broke my heart how gently he spoke, how honest he was. Why couldn’t he just be a bit more like me, though? 

“What I mean,” he said. “Is that there never has to be another one. You don’t have to be worried about me hounding you. Showing up where you don’t want me.” 

I looked up at him, loving his light skin and black hair under the flickering streetlight. Wishing I hadn’t bothered to ask him his intentions. That I could just float along like he could float along. Wishing he had more principles. 

“Yeah,” I said sadly. “I don’t think there should be another one… I don’t… I don’t think it will go anywhere.” I swallowed loudly, hearing a click in my throat and feeling a dangerous heaviness across the skin of my eyes. 

“That’s okay,” he said, offering me just the palm of his hand. I took it desperately. 

“Really?” I whispered, gulping compulsively.

“Really,” he said. “I’d want you to want it, not be obligated. How terrible.”

I nodded up at him, unable to speak, feeling my eyes shining. 

“Still friends?” he asked.

“Really?” I asked again. 

“Yes, of course, really. I’m not a monster. Good God,” he said. “I like you Betta. You’re interesting. I’m new in town. If you want to be friends, I want to be friends.”

“I really want to be friends,” I said, two tears escaping, one right after the other. I hated the idea of never talking or playing with him again. “I really like you.”

“That’s settled then,” he said, giving me just his usual smile. Reaching out to brush away tears, and then his hand flew away from my face. 

That too broke my heart. Apparently, we could be friends, but ‘just friends’ to him clearly meant no more contact. Oh well, that would only lead to trouble. In my heart of hearts I was still crushing on him. But he couldn’t be my man, so what was the point of trying to make him fit?

“Go home, Betta,” he said softly, still smiling. “You look worn down.” 

I nodded, gulping again and walking back to the sidewalk.

“Thank you!” I yelled, once I made it to the corner. He waved through the display window. 

Chapter Seven

And he was– he was my friend. We waved to each other nearly every morning, and many evenings. I brought him lemonade or tea pretty frequently. He stopped by a few times in the next week to drop me off little snacks or bring me back my empty jars. I thought he was lying, or just being kind when he said we could be ‘just friends.’ Or that it would be weird, or that we’d just quietly and mellowly drop out of each other’s lives. But we didn’t. Even exchanging numbers and sending each other dumb texts sometimes. 

And nothing changed, not really. He remained as he had been– charming, funny and easy to be around. He still made me smile a lot. And I never felt disappointment or pressure from him. I’d almost even forgotten that the best kiss of my life had come from him. Just sometimes, when sunset hit him just the right way, or when he smiled at me the way he sometimes did, his eyelashes sooty against his skin– then I’d remember that kiss. That felt like opening a book that you didn’t know was going to be your favorite. 

I managed to wait two days before I called Baron. He was short on the phone as well– no surprise there. We talked about expectations, what he thought was necessary. I could hear he was about to sign off. 

“Um, could I maybe have your email?” I asked in a hurry, sensing how he was detaching through the phone. “You know… Then you can see the first drafts and tell me if I’m moving in the right direction?”

“You need direction?” he asked.

“No-o,” I said. “Not that so much as for you to put a second set of eyes on my first run-through and you can tell me if it looks good. Or has the tone you want.” 

“All right,” he said, and rattled off his email.

I scribbled it in my notebook, and read it back to him. 

“Right,” he said.

“Thanks,” I squeaked.

“Have a good night, Betta,” he said, hanging up before I could wish him the same.

I was uncomfortably swoony and unsure why, exactly, I was feeling like that. I admired him. But I seemed to be mixing up admiration and a desire to be like him with attraction. That had happened to me before– but back when I was a kid. Back when I was still crushing on teachers or coaches or other unsuitable adults. This felt just like that again. Winding myself up over some man who couldn’t possibly pay me any mind. Who couldn’t even think about looking at me in that way. 

I shook my head, sat down at my desk, and started outlining the project he’d assigned to me. 

I sent him off an email a few days after that. Waiting with bated breath for a response. After an hour of waiting for the little dinging notification on my computer, I left my house. It was Saturday. Rachel didn’t need me. Today was the perfect day to do errands. Besides, if I was out and about for a while, by the time I returned, maybe he would have had time to answer me. 

I started walking– the dry cleaners, the pharmacy. I knew I had to go to the post office, which was just past Zevi’s building. I dropped by his place, knocking on the side door. One of the workmen answered it, blocking me from entering.

“Yeah?’ he asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. Diamond?” I asked hesitantly. 

“Hey-y, Betta!” I heard Zevi calling from further inside the building. “Come in.”

I walked in carefully, dodging paint cans and garbage pails, and boxes of nails. 

“How’s my bettah half doing?” he asked, as I made my stumbling way toward him. 

“Pretty good, good-lookin’,” I laughed back. “Was going to the post office, figured you’d need to send bullshit off.” 

“I do indeed,” he said, holding up a ‘one minute’ finger. 

He went over to a corner that had a box that was being used as a desk. A couple of phone chargers tangled on it, a battery backup and one of those locking clipboards. He pulled out a few things and walked it over to me. 

“If you really don’t mind,” he said.

“I’m going in that direction. And I know you put it off. And I know you’re busy,” I said, shrugging. 

“Ugh, she knows the gross and crawling underbelly of my soul,” he groaned theatrically. “I do! I do put off the stamps and the important business documents and all my other responsibilities! What would I do without her?” 

I threw an elbow into his ribs, scooping his mail from him as he bent forward in play-pain. I shuffled through it, tucking it into my tote alongside my own. There was a postcard among the more regular white envelopes and legal-sized packets. 

“Where did you even find a postcard in this day and age?” I asked.

He laughed.

“I’m surprised you don’t know, Ms. Local,” he said. “Right off Main street, the old pharmacy. They have both a spinner of postcards and cowboy paperbacks.” 

I rolled my eyes. Of course, he was right– once he said it, I could easily picture what he was talking about. But I also pretty clearly remembered a thick covering of dust on both those things. Hardly as stocked or touched as the makeup, baby formula and aspirin. Curious about what they could possibly have for tourist-style postcards, I opened the side of my tote again. A black and white topographical map of the state with a little gold heart stamped over approximately where our town was.

“My dad and I have always sent each other postcards when we’re away,” he said. “No matter where we are.” 

My heart swelled as my eyes went watery. Loving once more his tenderness and his ease with tenderness. Missing my own father terribly. Thinking of little habits and traditions and routines that were usually just between two people. That he shared with me. 

“I like that,” I said.

“Me too,” he said. “I thought I’d have to make my own but happily found those the other day. Not that I haven’t made my own previously, but it’s better if you can find one.” 

“Oh, agreed,” I said. “See you later.”

By the time I got home, Baron had responded. I tried to not do a little jig as I bent over my laptop. Short, as expected. The message boiled down to, “fine, continue.” At the bottom, he had added another, “call me.” 

Still bent over my desk, I glanced at when he’d sent the message. About two minutes before I had walked into the door and set down my bag. Better to call right away? Not leave him waiting? Or would it look crazy to do so, as though I’d just been watching my inbox all Saturday morning? I decided to put away the few things I’d purchased, and take off my shoes, and then make my decision.

I decided to call right away. 

He picked up on the second ring. 

“Hi!” I peeped when he grunted, “Baron.” “You said call?”

“Mm,” he agreed. “I like a girl who stays organized and is prompt.”

Privately, I congratulated myself on appearing too eager and weird. 

“It’s important work,” I said. “No sense playing around.”

“That’s right,” he said as I began pacing the floor. “It is. I also don’t like playing around. Was hoping I could borrow you some time to talk about what next. What you’ve done so far is fine, I’d like to utilize you for more.” 

Again, giving myself a little pat on the back. I’d tried hard and was careful and glad he’d noticed. Surprised he’d noticed at all. I’m sure he made everyone around him do good work and that he’d barely notice it from me. 

“Okay!” I said. 

“Monday, late,” he said. 

“Um,” I said.

“Does that not work for you?” 

I shivered, picturing his frown as he said that. 

“Oh, uh, no, absolutely, that’s fine,” I said.

“Good,” he snapped. “I keep an office on Main. Come by at eight.” 

“Uh-huh,” I said. 

He said a short, “bye” and hung up. 

On Monday I told Rachel I was going to work late because I was going into ‘downtown’ late and rather than go to work, go home, and go back out I’d just go straight from our office to his. She frowned.

“Nothing else is open on Main at that part of the night. And it’s going to be pitch dark. At least take your car,” she said.

“It’s such a pain to park out there,” I said.

“Betta,” she said gently. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to be walking around out there alone, okay? Take your car. I can’t believe he’d ask you out there that late.”

“Don’t be silly,” I sighed. “I’ve never felt unsafe here. Everybody knows me here.”

“I hate to play big sister with you,” she said. “But for me, take the car. I appreciate how you feel, and I’m glad you feel that way. But just do me a favor.”

I rolled my eyes but nodded. 

First I had to walk all the way home. Then retrieve my car from the back alley. I just didn’t drive that much– I rarely had to. I tried to stick close to home, so there was no real need to. I knew I was going to be too early. I didn’t mind sitting and waiting for him, though, if that’s what happened. I’d listen to the rumble of his voice through an office door, if that was the case. I’d be happy to do that. 

I was about fifteen minutes early. Having to circle around the block several times to find parking had made me anxious, though. Because Main street was a classic Main Street; both business and residential. The ground floor spaces were offices– dental, law, shipping. A lot of the spaces had become check cashing places, convenience stores and tobacco stands but there were still a few other businesses. There were usually two or three apartments overhead. So parking was difficult. 

And his office was a little hidden away. Pushed back from the sidewalk, just the unassuming ‘Godsson Conciliation and Resolutions’ on the front door in plain black typeface. I knew why Rachel knew him– they both did law, just different branches of it. I didn’t know if I could really picture him as someone who could mediate a dispute. He struck me more as King David suggesting for the child to be cut in half than a cool-headed judge. 

I walked in nervously. The front room was nearly bare. Two chairs, one bench. A water cooler. The lights were out in the front room. Just a yellow glow from further back, presumably his office. I glanced up, seeing movement. A sweeping camera in the corner of the room. 

“Betta,” was called from where the glow was emanating. 

Feeling like the eighth wife peering through the keyhole of her husband Bluebeard’s locked room, I walked back slowly. There was a door nearly closed over, rimed in light. I knocked and heard a thump. Impatiently, he opened the door, his hand over the outtake of a phone, and gestured me to a chair.

His office was decidedly not bare, but rather very cluttered. Boxes overflowing with folders everywhere. Two filing cabinets, most of the drawers open. I couldn’t say what color the top of his desk was because it was so littered with more paper and tech. He continued on his call, as I sat in a chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. I looked around the room nervously, avoiding his face, trying to not listen to his conversation. Just paying attention to the cadence of his voice. He hung up, literally tossing the handset onto the desk loudly enough to make me jump a little.

“Is ‘Betta’ your full name?” he asked, ignoring the conventionalities of a greeting. 

“No-o,” I said slowly. “It’s Elsbetta. My parents were–”

“You ought to go by your full name,” he interrupted. “Firstly, yours in particular is lovely, secondly it tends to make people take you more seriously. Shortening your name leads to nicknames.”

“Mmm,” I said. Flashing suddenly to Zevi’s New England incantation of ‘better’ whenever he saw me. 

Baron leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Blue oxford, navy blue slacks. Looking more enormous and more like a bodyguard than a counselor. He stayed silent, eyes hooded, staring at me as I vibrated in my chair and shifted my purse a little with the side of my foot.

“I like what I hear of you, Elsbetta,” he said.

“Are you building a dossier on me?” I laughed nervously. 

“Frankly, yes,” he said, eyes rolling heavenward. “I tend to do research on anyone I plan to work with. Or spend any kind of time with. Don’t you think that’s wise?” 

I rocked nervously again. Focusing in on the part where he’d said ‘spend any kind of time with’ instead of the whole. Thinking perhaps it was less wise than merely expedient. 

“I suppose,” I said instead, dropping my eyes to my fidgeting hands in my lap. 

“You have the right kind of politics, you do the right kind of work, you associate with the right kinds of people and you’re active and available in the neighborhood,” he said, ticking off my good points on his upraised fingers. 

I let my hands come to rest and raised my eyes to look at him. Getting pulled into his deep set eyes, the scar he had where his nose met the inner corner of his eye. Wondering what had caused that. 

“Where did you do your digging?” I asked, feeling a little braver for being praised.

“Everywhere,” he said, shrugging. “Besides, I ask around.” 

“Oh,” I said. Trying to picture who he spoke to, how he asked. What he said. 

He turned abruptly, waking his computer screen back up.

“Here’s what I need you to do next,” he said. 

I scrambled for my notebook and started taking notes. 

We talked for about forty minutes. The few edits he wanted on what I already finished. What he wanted round two to look like. When he wanted it. He let me ask questions. He was good at clarifying, or rewording things. Finally, I started to feel my nervousness sliding away from me. Now that I was more in work-mode, I could feel some measure of professionalism and adulthood returning to me. Not the wiggling, wrestling fingers in my lap or avoiding his eyes. Though they were piercing. I imagined a lot of people avoided his eyes. 

He leaned back away from his desk as I was finishing taking notes. I began to get anxious again, feeling the heat of his eyes on the crown of my head as I scribbled. 

“Do you not do your own research?” he asked.

I looked up at him. Locking eyes and doing so purposefully.

“I didn’t feel the need to,” I said. “I like what I know of you.”

“How much could you know?” he asked. 

“I’ve seen you speak six times… Before that seed meeting,” I said. 

“That’s hardly anything at all,” he said, leaning further back, kicking his shoes up on his desk, a little snowstorm of notes falling to the floor. 

I sat upright on the chair, carefully folding my hands over my notebook. 

“It’s enough for me,” I said. “It lets me know you ‘have the right kind of politics, you do the right kind of work, you associate with the right kinds of people and you’re active and available in the neighborhood,’” I mimicked back at him.

I instantly bit the inside of my cheek, wishing I hadn’t thrown his words back at him. But he tipped his head back, almost until he rocked against the back of his chair and let loose a thunderous laugh. 

“Touché, Elsbetta,” he said. “Perhaps you’re a better person than I. See, I am nosy, I am jealous of information. I want the leg up. Thus– research. And I therefore assume that others behave similarly. Which makes me defensive.” 

“What’s to be defensive about?” I asked, shrugging. “What could I dig up about you to make me admire you less? I admire you a great deal.” 

“Ah, you may be from the neighborhood, but clearly you’re hardly a neighborhood historian,” he said, crossing his ankles the other way. 

“We’re separated by a few years,” I said, still shrugging. “And as a kid, I was hardly as involved as I am now. I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know.”

“And your parents must have kept you carefully away from the swill,” he said. Now comfortably lacing his fingers behind his head. 

“Are you calling yourself swill, sir?”

“To an extent,” he said easily, still watching me, though. “Godsson is my mother’s name. My father didn’t deign to give me his, though he was in my life, in a piecemeal fashion, until his imprisonment.”

“Oh,” I said. Not sure what to say to that. He still looked utterly relaxed, more interested in watching my reactions than in what he was saying. 

“To wit, he was the most successful drug dealer in our neighborhood until the aforementioned imprisonment,” he said, as though unveiling something. 

“We can’t answer for our parents' deeds,” I said.

“If we can, though, we ought,” he said. “My mother answered for his sins. She opened her home to many children over the years. And she always had an especial place in her heart for the children of users. Do you see how this is? She took that man’s money and she used it the best she could. I think we do answer for other’s sins. I believe that failing to answer the call is in itself a sin. And I believe an imperfect miracle, such as my mother, is worthier than no effort at all.” 

“Oh,” I said again. Turning my own eyes upward. “I agree that action is better than inaction. That doing what you can is better than pretending there is nothing you can do.” 

“Certainly a softer way of putting it, certainly a designed, sort of cautious way of putting it,” he said. While he didn’t scoff, I could almost see the noise in his throat anyway. He thought I was too diplomatic, too equivocating. 

“I see what it is you’re trying to convey to me,” I said, trying to not sound impatient or guarded. “I understand why the work is important to you.” 

He finally let his feet go back to the floor, though his hands remained behind his head. It just made him look bigger. Like the width from spread elbow to elbow was just as long as his desk. Especially in this overloaded room, he appeared hulking.

“Good then,” he said. “I trust your judgment.”  

He turned back to his computer, and I could see I was being dismissed. 

“Good night,” I said, standing up and bending to put my notebook back into my bag. 

“Are you available to do dinner this weekend?” he asked, while my back was to him. I stood upright but didn’t turn for a long second.

“In what capacity?” I asked.

Once more, he threw his head back, laughing again.

“Forward, Elsbetta!” he laughed. “Very forward. In what capacity do you think I’m asking? And in what way do you want me to be asking you?”

I blushed furiously and slung my bag over my shoulder.

“Forget–”

“No,” he said, holding up his hand to stop me. “Answer the question.”

“Forget I said anything,” I tried again, so red it felt like my face would catch. He got up, leaning forward, hands on the desk in front of him.

“Answer the question,” he said, low, near me. 

I bit the inside of my cheek, a thin trickle of blood chasing down my molar. 

“Are you not going to let me leave if I don’t?” I spit. 

“Perhaps not,” he said. 

I could tell he was teasing, though his tone hadn’t changed. And now that I knew he was teasing, I felt a little more confident, a little more willing to be flirtatious. Or at least obviously coy. 

“Well, as I would like to get home at some point tonight,” I said, cocking a hip. “I asked you because I genuinely wasn’t sure. Because I couldn’t imagine why you’d want dinner. Because dinner is an entirely different matter than meetings or your office.” 

“Fair point,” he said, nodding and standing back up. Leaving me in his shadow. “And as to question two, Elsbetta? I noticed you thoroughly answered the first, and I’m sure purposefully avoided the second.” 

I blushed but held my ground, and my pose. 

“I was hoping you were asking in a personal capacity, not political, not business, not colleagues, but personal,” I said. 

“In that case,” he said slowly. “Are you available for dinner this weekend?”

I could feel myself about to suck my cheek between my teeth and stopped it before it could happen and smiled instead.

“I could be… If this were a personal matter.” 

“I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, smiling dangerously. 

“Yes,” I nodded. 

“Good,” he said, opening his hand toward the door. “Then you’re free to go.” 

I walked back to my car in the dark, wildly thrilled with myself. I hadn’t carried myself well– he intimidated the hell out of me. But at least I’d held my ground. And I’d gotten what I wanted. I couldn’t imagine what a date night would be like with him, however.