The Kissing Game Read online

  I phone our copy guy, Conrad, who assures me that “It’s all under control,” in that slick salesman-like way that makes me worry that things are absolutely not under control. After several perspiring minutes, he calls me back and explains, “It seems we delivered the file back to your file room on accident.”

  “Oh, God, Conrad, you didn’t?” I say because sending anything to our firm’s filing department is like ejecting something into outer space. It may never be found again.

  “Who did you talk to?” I ask, my stomach feeling as though it’s perspiring.

  “Erin Livingston, your file clerk. She signed for the box.”

  I hang up the phone and take the elevator to the fourth floor, where I walk all the way around to the darkest corner of our firm. It feels featureless and hopeless down here, as if aspiring young people made an employment pit stop, desiring to just camp overnight, but ended up stuck here. Like captives without food or water, they blearily huddle over files all day, whimpering and snarling.

  Yanking open the heavy metal door, I enter hell. It smells like old paper and gym sweat. Floor to ceiling banks of shelves sprawl just as they do in a massive library, only this one hardly sees visitors.

  “Erin,” I say, trying to smile as I approach her metal desk, which sits at the end of the corridor, guarding the entrance. Erin’s chewing something. Gum? Tobacco? Lawyer limbs? She’s reading something from a ledger and clicking her pen incessantly. Her gemstone nose piercing bounces the light and matches the red-dye in her hair. Her tattoo, which displays a big-toothed bulldog, peeks out under the arm of her t-shirt. From her attire, one would think we don’t work at the same firm. She gazes up at me slowly, as if she’s contemplating stabbing me.

  I aim for a friendly tone that hides my panic. “Erin, you signed for a box this morning … and I really need to get it back. It was supposed to go back to the client, but the delivery guy made a mistake.”

  “When do you need it by?” she chews slowly, the pen still clicking.

  “Um, now? … Soon, very soon.”

  She looks as if she might call for her fellow file clerks. Instead, she gestures for me to follower her. She guides me toward the floor-to-ceiling rows of boxes. I follow, thinking that remaining silent is the best option.

  She strolls up to a shelf, pulls out a box, and asks, “This one?” The dog on her arm ripples as she hands me the box. I place it on the floor and yank off the lid, my fingers scrolling over the files. “Children’s Refuge Project, Philippines,” the file label reads, along with the Chairman’s name. I have no idea why the file clerk hands me this box.

  “No, it’s the 555 California client.” I contemplate how it will feel to call the client back and have to tell them we lost their box. At the thought of disappointing Robert, I feel that sweaty sick feeling.

  “Oh,” she chews and places the box back in its hold. Following Erin her along more rows, I visit several more boxes, none of which is the box I need. She chews and walks slowly, while I consider the effectiveness of prayer.

  “Do you think we’ll find it?”

  “There’s definitely a chance it’s lost forever,” she says gleefully before stopping. “This one?” she asks for a fifth time.

  The box reads: “555 California.”

  “Oh, thank god! You found it!” I sound as if I might hug her but I wouldn’t dare. Instead, I grab the box from her and lug it towards the door, fully expecting her to stop me. But she doesn’t stop me, even though she should because she’s supposed to keep track of all the boxes, but I know she cares about as much about that box as she does paying taxes or abiding by the law.

  When I arrive at my desk with the box, I open it to find files mixed together. The Children’s Refuge Project is all mixed in with the 555 California files. I spend another hour sorting them, leaving the files in a binder on my desk before I ensure that the client files are safely hand-delivered back to the client. Then, it’s past 7:15 PM and lawyers stride through the hallways like shapeless figures.

  My mind at last has the opportunity to think of other things. I begin to contemplate Robert sitting over his dad in the hospital, and I feel as if I should start praying again.

  Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I make my way downstairs to the street and onto the bus. The city is almost dark, office lights twinkling like distant heat lamps, and cars passing by, breathing gritty heat and rumbling sounds into the nighttime air.

  When I arrive at the hospital, I ask the front reception where Mr. Spencer’s room is and find out that he’s on the 8th floor. “Are you family?” the reception asks. “Yes,” I lie. I feel adept at lying lately. Not a good thing.

  Before I head up the elevator, I buy the last flower bouquet from the gift shop: a wilted sunflower with purple and white sweet peas around it. I can’t imagine a worse combination of flowers, but perhaps flower arranging doesn’t need to be perfected in hospitals: sick people won’t notice.

  When I step off the elevator on the 8th floor, it’s ghostly quiet, as if everyone has already died and the nurses are just waiting for the bodies to be collected. Bright lights shine through some of the open hospital room doors, spilling white onto patches of the tiled hallway floors.

  As I’m about to approach the nurse’s station, I see a familiar figure through an open door.

  In an instant, I realize I could recognize the back of him anywhere. I’ve feared it and dreamed of it so often that it’s imprinted into my psyche. In the same way I’d remember a villain who tries to kill me or a nightmare that I won’t forget. He leans over the railing of the hospital bed, his head on the metal as if he’s sleeping. He’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Perhaps, I expected him to sleep in a suit and business shoes. His hand drapes loosely over Mr. Spencer, whose face suggests he’s in a comfortable sleep. The back of Robert’s hair looks unbrushed and wavy. In his t-shirt I clearly see the lines of the muscles that almost shape a y, which extends from under each arm and disappears into his back. Briefly, I stand there, knowing he can’t see me. His shirt shakes, and I think I hear him whispering.

  Frozen there in the hallway, I begin to wonder whether I should leave. Why did I come anyway? Because Mr. Spencer was nice to me? Because I feel obligated to do something nice to Robert before I ruin his life?

  For no apparent reason, I also begin to wonder whether I was right about Mrs. Smith, my sixth grade teacher, the evil woman with the gray beehive hairdo whom I believed hated me from the day I stepped into her classroom. She was a beady-eyed creature who would not let me go to the nurse when I fractured my arm on the playground, and who never apologized when I returned to class the next day with a cast. Maybe I had her all wrong. Maybe she wasn’t mean. Perhaps she was simply doing her job? Perhaps she was just one of those dry, unemotional types unable to express herself?

  Backtracking, I take two steps back and one sideways, the flowers in my hand, backpack over my shoulder. Witnessing Robert like this is like watching monks in prayer. I definitely shouldn’t have come.

  After I take a step, Robert turns around, his eyes puffy. Instead of the fear-inducing lawyer I know, he’s just a guy leaning over his father. Does he call him his father?

  He sees me and reaches for the tissue box near him, wipes his nose, and then tosses it into the nearby trashcan.

  “Come in,” he says, looking as though he’s lost two inches in a day. And then he stands, resuming his height, strides over to the other side of the room, grabs a chair, and sets it down near his own. Wordlessly, he then takes the flowers from my hand and sets them in the water bucket on the nightstand. The hospital room is brightly lit, solemn. Checkerboard tiles on the ceiling give the room a seventies vibe.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate them. Have a seat,” Robert offers, sniffling.

  “How’s he doing?” I ask.

  Robert sits down next to me.

  “They don’t know yet. Had a stroke sometime last night. They’re just not sure. It’s a wait-and-see situation. Could
wake up any minute … We’ll see.” Robert isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Mr. Spencer, who somehow appears ten years younger lying in the bed.

  “He looks comfortable.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Doesn’t he?”

  Outside the room, the shuffle of doctors or nurses echo as they enter the elevator and the muffled sound of their voices disappears.

  “You didn’t have to come,” Robert states.

  “Would you prefer I leave?”

  “No.” He nods towards the bouquet. “You just didn’t need to go to the trouble to bring flowers.”

  We sit quietly for a little bit, both watching Mr. Spencer. The number of wires, monitors, and computer screens coming from Mr. Spencer’s body are a testament to the value of human life.

  “He’s a nice man, your father,” I say quietly. “I got a chance to talk with him that day I delivered the package.”

  “Did you? He’s not my dad,” Robert clarifies. “He is to me, but he’s not my biological father. He adopted me when I was a teenager.”

  I briefly contemplate the tape and wonder where it is now. At the thought, the Titanic rests somewhere in my stomach, full of screaming passengers on the sinking vessel.

  “He had a lot to say about you,” I add.

  “Did he?” Robert’s eyebrows do a slow dance. “It was all crap, no doubt. Have you eaten?” he asks.

  “No, I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “There’s a cafeteria downstairs. You should eat, and I’ve sat here all day, could really use a bite. Why don’t we head down?” He nods towards the elevator.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  We stand and stride out the door. He pauses at the nurse’s station to tell her he’s going downstairs to eat. Then we walk toward the elevator together, with his tall, long-legged stride and face, handsome enough to garner him free sandwiches for life, leading the way, and my criminal, sadistic, cruel, evil self pokes along behind him.

  We enter the elevator and Robert presses the button for the lobby. As we ride down together, he leans against the railing, and I stand there with my arms crossed and my backpack slung over my shoulder. A sign on the elevator reads, “Respect patient confidentiality. Don’t discuss patient cases in elevators.”

  Once we step off the elevator, I say to Robert, “I just need to stop by the restroom. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

  Robert nods and takes a right turn out of the elevator, walking like a lost man toward the cafeteria sign. It’s a long, empty carpeted hallway toward a room full of empty tables.

  With a sense of obligation pinned like a knife inside me, I slide into the ladies’ room and bend over, checking under the stalls to make sure they’re empty. I yank my cell phone from my backpack and press the “Henry” button on my contacts. It rings four times and goes to voicemail.

  “Henry,” I whisper. In the empty bathroom, my voice sounds like remorse with a hint of panic. “It’s me, Caroline. Look, you’ve got to intercept that tape before your boss gets it. It should be coming in the mail tomorrow. I just can’t do it. I’m a chicken. It’s not right. And what makes it worse is Robert’s dad is in the hospital right now. So you need to grab the envelope when it comes in, before your boss gets it. Okay? And give it back to me. Call me back to confirm you got this message.”

  Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror—I mean, really look. A legion of horribleness sits behind my eyes. All that’s missing is the bloodstained finery of animal skins, the animal bone hanging from my neck, the battered spear in my hand, perhaps Robert’s severed head clutched in my fingers.

  Where did this person come from?

  Chapter 7

  “Al desdichado hace consuelo tener compania en su suerte y duelo.”

  Two in distress makes sorrow less.

  As if one phone call could change the course of the Colorado River, I waltz out of the bathroom, fully confident that my comrade in crime Henry will make sure to intercept the tape.

  In the cafeteria, I find Robert, tall and fabled-looking, despite his casual attire and messy hair. He stands in front of the cashier, two sandwiches, two bags of chips, and two sodas in front of him on the tray. He’s handing the woman wearing a hair net a twenty dollar bill.

  “You like turkey, right?” he asks me as if he already knows the answer.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  With the tray in his hand, Robert looks at me with his chin dipped, and I think of Dorian Gray—the classic novel about a man so beautiful that an artist painted his portrait to capture that beauty before it faded away.

  “Why don’t we sit outside?” Robert suggests, one index finger pointing the way toward the glass double-doors. I follow him out of the excruciatingly lit cafeteria into the night, where a garden wraps around concrete. Several round tables cluster in a half-circle. Lampposts emit a fiery light. The long leaves of the fence-high bushes bow and spangle, revealing night in tiny circles.

  Robert chooses a table on the far right, and we sit down. Taking his sandwich and drink, he pushes the tray over to me. After peeling the white paper off his sandwich, he takes a bite, chewing slowly. He doesn’t look at me, just at the lights twinkling in an apartment buildings nearby. It seems as though we’re sitting at a corner café in Paris rather than outside a hospital cafeteria.

  Having opened my sandwich, I take a bite. It’s turkey with pesto and cranberries, the combination tasting like Thanksgiving in my mouth. Looks as though Robert has the same sandwich. We don’t talk, just eat, and I try not to stare at him because he’s my boss and I don’t like him. I’m only here because of his dad, that nice man upstairs.

  When Robert finishes his sandwich, he takes a swig of his soda and leaves the chips untouched. He leans back in the plastic chair and crosses his arms over his chest. After eating only half my sandwich, I set it down and sip my soda.

  I can’t help but wonder what Robert is thinking. Certainly he’s thinking about his dad, but I wonder what he thinks about in general. Like at night when he’s at home alone, what are his thoughts? Does he think about work? Does he contemplate conquering the world and creating a minion army of little devoted assistants? Does he watch videos of insects suffering violent deaths? Or does he think about the starving in Africa, the genocides of history, and feel pity? Maybe he thinks about a woman? Some girlfriend who comes to his house late at night. I imagine her to be a skinny brunette with a barbarous tongue. A tiny thing with sharp nails. She’d be spoiled and rich and drive her daddy’s Porsche everywhere. Maybe she’d show up at his house late at night, and when Robert lets her in, she’d stride through his entryway removing her high heels, her tight pants, her slinky little top. Then she’d just evaporate at sunrise as if she were a phantom.

  In our silence, I feel the need to say something but can’t think of what to say to Robert. We never just talk about casual things. We only talk work, and I don’t want to talk work with him now. I’ve had my full dose of work today.

  “I might know someone you went to high school with,” I say before I have a chance to contemplate whether I should. What can it hurt?

  “Who?” Robert looks at me, his arms still crossed loosely in front of his chest, giving him more muscular biceps than usual. His chair rattles a little as he loosely crosses his legs.

  “His name is Enrique—he was a freshman when you were a senior.”

  Robert’s eyelashes seem to concentrate. He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know him. It was a big high school. How do you know him?”

  “He’s a law school friend of my neighbor, Ted,” I reply, swiping my hand in the air, as if my conversation doesn’t matter.

  “What’d Enrique say about me?”

  “Not much, just that you were smart. And that you were a tough guy. That’s all.” I leave out most of the bad stuff purposefully.

  “Hmm.” Robert takes a swig of his soda. “Some people have lively imaginations.”

  “I guess.” I have no idea what he means.

  “
Like you, for instance,” he says as if he’s pointing out the weather. The wind blows a tree nearby, causing twinkling apartment lights to sprinkle light on Robert’s face. “You have a little bit of an overactive imagination.” And his voice makes me think of the legion of horrible thoughts that lurk inside his head. There’s just something about Robert that occasionally makes me want to curl up on a floor somewhere and try not to be sick. Just one statement from him has the power to unearth my darkest insecurities, open up that mirrorglass of hell.

  “How do mean?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to know and yet I really do.

  He smirks. “You don’t know you have an active imagination?”

  I shake my head.

  “Like, for instance,” he continues, “you’ve often thought me a villain and assumed I’m a horrible person.” His face is wardrobed in alternating light and shadows.

  “No I haven’t.”

  Instantly I rewind our work history together to figure out how Robert has come to this conclusion. And more importantly, how does he know I think he’s a villain? Does his negative prestige cause employees to offer up free gossip? Has he overheard my conversations with Todd? Has he heard me saying that I despise him? Have I indicated he’s a villain in our interactions? Does he know about the tape? How could he know? A helmet of concentration squeezes my head too tightly.

  “I don’t think that,” I defend, nearly choking on a small breadcrumb in my throat.

  “No? What do you think of me then?” The wind slaps leaves of the tree, sounding like rustling horsetails and making Robert’s voice quiet in comparison.

  “What do I think of you?” I repeat back to Robert. So moronic, obvious delay tactic.

  He doesn’t nod or answer me. He just waits for my response. The space between us clouds with a vapor that’s brimstone, a hot rattle of conflict tottering in the air over the table. I have the urge to grab my backpack and run, but I want to get back upstairs and see Mr. Spencer one more time. He is why I came here, after all. Isn’t he?