Looking Glass (reposted)

Chapter Four


As Thomas helped her unload the taxi, Deirdre marveled again at all the stuff she had managed to collect over the last five years. From one Shopko bag with space to spare to two big duffels, three milk crates, and a backpack jammed full of stuff. And a Shopko bag with the more portable tools of her artistic trade, just for old time’s sake. Some day, she promised herself, she would feel secure enough to leave her most prized possessions scattered around like everyone else, instead of giving in to the constant need to be ready to run at a moment’s notice. Someday.

Quite frankly, she had no idea how she was ever supposed to feel comfortable in Noah’s apartment. It was in a nice, but modest section of town. Judging by the unembellished, weathered red brick of the front of the building, it suited Noah just fine—boring. This building looked boring; Noah was boring; her whole life in Chicago was going to be boring.

If Noah ever showed up to let her start it. When his email mentioned casually that he might get off work a little late, Deirdre had assumed that he meant he would have a neighbor let her in or something. As it was, her things were all out of the car, sitting neatly stacked at the top of the steps. Deirdre herself was perched precariously on the rusty wrought-iron railing, first leaning as far back as she could without losing her balance, then forward as far as she could. Back and forth. Back and forth. Noah was half an hour late. Back and forth. Back and forth. Thomas finally shot her a dirty look at her antics, so she walked to the corner to see if she could spot Noah’s car coming. Not that she would recognize his car even if she saw it; he had always flown to New Orleans and rented a car when he deigned to visit. She walked back to her stuff and sat next to it on the top step. Five minutes later she found herself again at the corner. This time she was determined to keep her feet rooted to the spot, and remove the necessity of Thomas’s glares. Noah was fifty-three minutes late.

“Enough!” Thomas roared, nearly drowning out the thundering engine of the vintage Mustang slamming around the corner. “Jesus Christ, Deirdre! Can’t you be still for one fucking minute?” Deirdre looked down at herself, not realizing she had been moving at all. She stilled her tapping foot with guilty look toward Thomas.

There. Now she was still, not moving, not making noise. Yet noise prevailed as the Mustang screamed to a stop in a parallel parking spot barely big enough to hold a tricycle. The rumbling engine finally cut, and Noah coolly unfolded his tall frame from the muscle car.

Holy shit, Deirdre thought. I never would have imagined cool, collected, boring old Noah driving a car like that. “Nice car,” was all she said.

“Yeah, gets pretty decent mileage in the city,” Noah agreed. The laugh never escaped Deirdre’s throat, though it ached with the effort of restraining the reaction.

“Where the hell have you been? Jesus, Noah, my flight back to New Orleans leaves in three hours, and my taxi left!”

Noah shrugged. “I told you’d I’d probably have to work late. You could have buzzed one of the neighbors. They’d have let you in.”

Deirdre skewered him with a look that screamed, what planet are you from? Noah didn’t notice. He was too busy dialing a taxi service to pick up Thomas. While they waited for the cab, the three carted Deirdre’s bags and boxes up to Noah’s apartment on the fifth floor. Christ, there isn’t even an elevator, she noted with disgust. She was sweating by the time Noah finally unlocked his door, and showed her to her room. Poor Thomas was huffing so hard the vein in his forehead was pulsing with the effort, and he glowed redder than a stoplight. Those cigarettes are going to kill him, she thought as he pulled one out of a new pack. Noah shot his father a disapproving glare, but managed to refrain from telling the man that this was a smoke-free building. His taxi would be arriving any minute anyway. No need to give the old man even more fodder to guilt him into unwelcome tasks, like housing a freeloading artistic punk. That would teach him to skip Thanksgiving at Dad’s.

He sighed. Jesus, what was he going to do with her? He had to work during the days, and often in the evenings. She’d probably spend that time shooting up or whatever the hell it was her type did. His dad had assured him that Deirdre did no such thing, but she had duped the old man into taking her in, hadn’t she? She was, what, thirteen when Thomas had picked her up. The old man should have known better than to get involved with a girl more than thirty years his junior. Christ, he didn’t want to think about it. Thomas’s taxi pulled up and honked, and he and Deirdre clung to each other for a long moment before Thomas left. Well, at least she was legal now.

He watched her dump the last armful of stuff on the bed of the guest room. A plastic bag remained in her white-knuckled grasp a moment longer, and then was set gingerly by the door. Deirdre rubbed her conspicuously empty hands together and avoided Noah’s accusing gaze.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she began defensively. “I didn’t ask to be dumped here, either. I have a friend I’m sure I can stay with, if you’ll just let me use your phone—“

“So, obviously, this is the guest bedroom,” Noah said, interrupting as if the words had never left her mouth. “You’ve already been through the living room. The big remote controls the TV and VCR; the small one goes with the stereo. You can play CD’s in there, but don’t touch the radio station.” He walked out of her room and through a doorway on the far side of the living room, apparently expecting Deirdre to follow. She didn’t know whether she was irritated by his arrogance, or pleased to be allowed to stay. She followed after only a brief hesitation and found herself in a small kitchen. After the masculine grays and blues of the living room, and hard lines of steel, she was somewhat surprised to see the kitchen was painted a sunny yellow, with a checkered linen valence over the tiny window above the sink. The bowl of pears on the counter added to the cheerful, friendly atmosphere, which wasn’t quite reflected in her host’s demeanor. Still, Noah was making an effort to be hospitable, and Deirdre appreciated it. Mostly.

“Help yourself to whatever; just make sure that the dishes go in the dishwasher,” he was saying now. Deirdre nodded and tuned him out again. He was a puzzle, she decided. He obviously didn’t want her there, but he apparently didn’t want her anywhere else, either. He probably wanted to keep her close to catch proof that she was doing drugs. She had overheard him at Christmas four years ago, arguing with Thomas about her supposed “habits.” She had never so much as smoked a cigarette, but of course Noah would assume the worst about her. That fall she had painted a portrait of his mother from a photograph for him and had carefully wrapped the canvas with paper covered in bells, which reminded her of her favorite carol. The next year she had taken his cue and had given him a tie. The man at the department store had wrapped it, and Deirdre had promptly forgotten whether the tie was paisley or striped.

“Those two doors lead to my office and my bedroom. You may go in the office when I’m at work, but I’ll need that space in the evening.

“Don’t go anywhere alone without permission, and make sure you’re back by ten,” he concluded. Deirdre managed to keep a straight face. She had never had a curfew with Thomas. Then again, Thomas didn’t have a stick up his ass.

Noah spied the mocking glow in Deirdre’s green-black eyes and withheld a sigh. Twenty-three days till she was gone. Just forty-three days to get through.