Today Will Be Different(14)

“And teal,” Spencer jumped in. “And forest green and yellow.”

“But orange,” I said. “This is precious cargo.”

“I want to see!” Timby grabbed the pen.

“How wonderful and unexpected.” I looked Spencer in the eye. “Thank you.”

“How do you know my mom?” Timby, my wingman.

Before he could open his mouth, Gah!

Spencer Martell!

From Looper Wash!

It had been over ten years since he’d shambled out of the office.

“I worked with your mom a long time ago.” The warmth in his voice belied the ugly memory that was reloading in my brain with alarming speed.


When Spencer walked into the bullpen that first day, he looked the part: Moleskine notebook, Blackwing pencils, vintage glasses. He dropped the names of the right artists: Robert Williams, Alex Grey, Tara McPherson, Adrian Tomine.

However…

He was so nervous and eager to ingratiate himself that his presence was excruciating. He’d arrive each Monday having scoured Brooklyn swap meets for items we animators might add to our various collections. I mentioned once that I liked caramel brownies and the next day he brought in a tray, homemade…

How could I have even hired him? Oh, that’s right! I didn’t hire him! We got him for free, through the network’s minority hiring program. Then it turned out he was just a quarter Mexican and that he’d gamed the system to get the job! Oh, and he couldn’t even draw! He kept badgering me with questions about every tiny gesture and expression. I wasn’t there to help him. He was there to help me. I needed people to shut up, churn out drawings, and stick to the model sheet.

Spencer quickly realized he was in over his head; his flop sweat made him radioactive. When his eight-week option was up, his spirit was so broken that he’d already packed his boxes. He sat in his empty office waiting to get fired. I gutlessly made someone else do it. But Spencer didn’t come out for an hour. The only sign he was alive was sobbing through the door. I went in. I gave him some career advice. It came out wrong.


I waved over the first person dressed in black. “We need to order.”

“We do?” Timby said.

I turned to Spencer. “And just so you know—”

“You don’t share,” he said. “I remember.”

“Can I get two things?” Timby asked.

“One.”

We ordered. And there we were, me, Timby and my quarter-Mexican, nattily attired Ghost of Christmas Past mooning at me from across the table. Someone had to say something.

“Spencer Martell!”

“I can’t believe you answered my e-mail,” he said. “I’d always assumed you’d rather forget me.”

“Of course not,” I said with an insouciant wave that knocked my water into the dipping oil.

Timby was starting to look concerned.

Spencer mopped up the water with his napkin and moved his phone to the dry side.

It gave me an idea.

“Timby,” I said. “Go wash your hands.”

“But—”

“Fish poop,” I said. “Or you’re not eating French fries, and they have the best French fries.”

Timby burned me with a stare and left.

“Spencer.” I leaned across the table. “If I dial a number from your cell phone, will you try to make a doctor’s appointment?”

“Uh—” The poor guy looked poleaxed.

I’d already grabbed his phone and dialed Joe’s office. “I don’t want them to know it’s me. Just ask when the next available appointment is.” I held Spencer’s phone to his ear.

I could hear Luz answer. I motioned wildly for Spencer to start talking.

“Yes—hello—” he stammered. “I’d like to make an appointment.”

Luz explained something on the other end.

“Ask when he’s coming back,” I whispered.

“When’s he coming back?” Spencer said weakly.

“Monday,” said Luz.

That’s all I needed to know. I snatched the phone from Spencer, hung it up, and placed it on the table.

He looked down at it, then up at me, uncertain if the last minute had actually happened.

“Dr. Wallace…” Spencer said. “Isn’t that your husband? Joe? Are you divorced?”

“Pshaw. We’re happily married.”

Timby slid back in beside a thoroughly charmed or slightly disgusted Spencer, it was hard to tell which.

I’m kidding! He was disgusted.

“Spencer,” I said. “Tell us about you.”

“Well, that’s a three-hour tour!” he said, reassuming his happy-to-be-here persona.

“The abridged version will do,” I said.

“When I left Looper Wash…”

I had to heave my breath up and out. “I was trying to be helpful.”

“What did you do?” Timby asked.

“It’s not important,” I said.

“The difficult people are our most valuable teachers,” Spencer said.

“What did she do to you?” Timby was dying.

“Don’t you have music to listen to?” I said.