Stone Cold Fox (72)

I was already at the top with zero effort.

“I feel restless,” I told Syl at happy hour, our reunion finally coming to pass. Her schedule had been a nightmare, apparently, so I let her take the lead, feeling pitiful when dates I suggested were not amenable to her. Irritating.

“Why’s that?” she asked, glancing out the window behind me. Was she even listening?

“Well, I’m not having to work as hard.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“I just don’t think complacency is ever a good thing for anybody. Idle hands and all that.”

“Oh, but I think you’d be a fun plaything for the devil,” Syl said, tossing back the rest of her drink. She was ahead of me by at least one. She seemed nervous. Fidgeting. Coping with cocktails. “What about any home projects? Could you take on some of those to pass the time?”

“There’s nothing to be done. I suppose we could start exploring a new vacation house, just for us, but I don’t know. Our home life right now is still a little fraught, as you know.” I was unnerved by my candor with Syl, but I couldn’t help myself. I was starting to trust her.

“Whatever, Bea, don’t stress. Men are on their own fucking planet. He’ll come around.”

“Have you noticed anything else at the office?”

“I don’t know much more than what I already told you,” she said.

“Right. I’m sorry I asked. I know it’s a weird line to cross.”

“It’s fine. We’re friends,” she said. That’s right. We were. So we should act like it, too. I was tired of talking about myself anyway. A first.

“How’s John doing?” I asked her.

“Oh, the same. Noncommittal about setting a date. My dad thinks I should break it off with him, too. He’s on your side.”

“Well, we are correct, but don’t all dads believe their daughters are too good for their boyfriends?” I asked, not really having any firsthand knowledge about what dads are prone to do.

“Yeah, but I actually trust him. He’s a good man. My dad.” She stared at me intensely, willing me to engage further on the subject. I complied.

“I believe you, Syl.” I sensed she might want to talk about her incarcerated father in more detail and that I should indulge her if I wanted to continue our developing friendship.

“He shouldn’t be in there, in case you were wondering. He didn’t do it,” she said forcefully.

“Okay. I said I believe you.”

“I’m serious, Bea,” she said, her eyes growing wide. “It’s actually fucking crazy that he’s in prison. My dad. He’s basically been there my whole life and I still can’t wrap my head around it. He’s the sweetest man. Just so fucking sweet.”

“I’m so sorry, Syl.”

She inhaled and exhaled quickly. It was bizarre to see her so upset. “What about your parents?” Syl asked in a more accusatory tone than I would have liked.

“I told you. They’re—”

“Dead, I know,” she interrupted, on a mission. “But what were they like?”

“Nice,” I said, knowing how to weave this particular web without much thought. “Sweet, too. Older. Just sort of normal people. Their main hobby, outside of me, was ballroom dancing. They even traveled to competitions sometimes. It was cute.” Specifics are always convincing, just not too many, lest you lose track in a future conversation.

“Were you close with them?”

“Close enough,” I continued. “I was an only child so it was always the three of us. That said, they treated me like their child, not their friend. They had healthy boundaries, which I always appreciated.” What a dream scenario that would be. I found myself daydreaming about what that would have been like. Healthy parenting from not just one, but two people. Syl didn’t know either. Maybe that’s why I felt so connected to her. I hadn’t spent so much time elaborating on my made-up parents because most people didn’t ask further once they learned of their deaths. But Syl wasn’t most people.

“What was your mother’s name?” Syl asked.

I never knew Mother’s real name because she refused to tell me. Only the first letter. I asked her every so often, during the in-between times when it was safer, no man to overhear us, but I suspected she liked holding it over my head. A mystery, along with my own given name.

“Alice,” I told Syl.

“And your father?” Syl prodded.

“Bob. Robert,” I added, getting uncomfortable with revealing all of these details. I motioned to the server for another drink. I was feeling forlorn, sad for a version of me as a child that didn’t exist, would never exist, and longing for people that didn’t exist, would never exist. “What’s your father’s name?” I asked Syl, wanting to turn the tables on her.

“Giles. He just had a birthday. Almost thirty years lost inside.”

“That’s a very long time,” I said, hoping it would put an end to the conversation. Some happy hour.

“Anyway,” Syl said, clearly picking up on my signals. “I’m sorry you’ve been feeling restless at work. I’m sure things will pick up soon.” Her tone was flippant, suggesting my problems were frivolous. Maybe so, but it was a nice change of pace. She didn’t know what I had gone through, but I was dying to tell her. I dreamt about comparing dark family pasts with Syl. She would understand me on some level. Her father was in prison, leaving her to grow up in the system. Syl and I both had the same hard edges that we could soften on command to the untrained eye. Me with a made-up story. Syl with that sunny disposition. We let people think they had us figured out. It was a lot easier to be a woman in the world if you weren’t a puzzle to be solved.