A Clean Slate. Laura Caldwell
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As I walked along Bissell Street again, the fall wind felt brittle instead of crisp and the city seemed cool and gray instead of filled with warm autumn tones. I didn’t notice the light on the buildings anymore or think about the photos I could take. Instead, I concentrated on figuring out what had happened. There had to be an explanation. I knew that. I hadn’t gone to college or worked in the straight-lines, think-inside-the-box world of finance for nothing. There was always a reason for things.
So I hoofed it all the way up to Ben’s place in Wrigleyville, entertaining several possibilities. One—this Beth Maninsky was a covert operative for the CIA who’d taken over my town house in order to set up an elaborate cover. Crazy, outlandish, I know, but I’m fond of spy novels, and it was the first potential that came to mind. Two—Beth Maninsky really was Ben’s high school girlfriend, Toni, who was still crazed about him and had somehow arranged to take my place in his life. This also seemed a little outrageous, since I’d only set out for the dry cleaners that morning. She would have needed to work pretty damn fast.
But was that actually true? Had I really left for the dry cleaners just a few hours ago? Suddenly I wasn’t sure. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and put my head down, concentrating on each step, each seam in the pavement. My sense of timing still seemed off. I couldn’t remember waking up that morning or going to my mother ship, Starbucks, for a Venti Nonfat White Chocolate Mocha, my usual Saturday-morning treat. Still, that kind of memory trick happened, didn’t it? It was like driving home on your normal route and suddenly discovering you’re in your driveway and yet you can’t recall the drive itself.
Something niggled in my brain—a third possibility. I really had sold my town house and I really couldn’t remember it. I felt even colder with the thought, and I turned my collar up against the wind. Ridiculous, I said silently. Preposterous.
Luckily, I didn’t have to argue with myself much longer because I’d reached Ben’s building, a squat, multi-unit place that made up for its lack of character with cheap rent and a great location, only a few blocks from Wrigley Field. I peered at the vertical list of names next to the buzzers, and, thank God, there it was. BENJAMIN THOMAS, fifth from the top, right where he should have been. I hit the buzzer.
A shot of static came over the intercom. “Who is it?” said a woman’s cheery voice.
“Sorry. Wrong buzzer.” Please, please, please let it have been the wrong one.
I peered at the list again, and with exaggerated slowness, I put my finger on the brown button next to Ben’s name and pressed.
Same staticky burst. Same woman’s voice—not as cheery this time—saying the same words.
I froze. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong. But somehow my eternal optimism (or maybe my eternal stupidity) kept insisting there was a logical reason for all of this—something I would laugh about later.
I couldn’t laugh now, though, couldn’t even manage a smile, just a simple question laden with trepidation. “Is Ben home?”
“Kelly?” the woman said, clearly irritated.
“Yes?”
“Jesus. Not again.” A fizz of static, and then the intercom went silent.
I stood chewing on my bottom lip once more, debating what to do—piss off this woman in Ben’s apartment by hitting the buzzer again or break in and kick her ass. After about fifteen seconds, someone appeared behind the glass door. I squinted and made out Ben’s small, lean frame, his rock-hard legs in blue jogging shorts. Raising my hand, I gave a half wave, then let it fall.
Ben opened the door, but he didn’t invite me in or even come out on the front stoop with me. He just sighed, holding the door open with one arm, shoving his other hand through his damp brown hair. He’d obviously just come back from running. He had that pink flush to his cheeks.
“Kell, you’ve got to cut this out.”
I tried to get my mind around his statement. I forced myself not to rush inside and hug him. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Stopping by like this, calling at all hours. She wants me to get a restraining order.”
“Who?”
A chest-heaving exhalation. “We’ve had this conversation. Don’t make me go through it again. I love you. I always will.”
Just like you’ll always love Toni, I thought.
“But I’m with Therese now,” he continued, “and you have to accept that.”
I put my head in my hands and rubbed at my temples. Another possibility came to mind—this was all an elaborate hoax. Laney would jump out from behind Ben at any minute and scream, “We got you!” The problem was Laney would never be that cruel, nor would Ben. He may not have been the most romantic guy, but he was always kind.
“C’mere, Kell.” Ben stepped out and let the door close behind him. He grabbed me in a hug, just as I hoped he would. I could smell the clean, outdoor scent of his sweat and feel the muscles of his back beneath the long-sleeved T-shirt.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand anything.” I squeezed him tight, hoping that this gesture would make it all go away, this whole horrible day, but too soon the embrace was over. He let me go, and I felt the cool air swirl around me again.
“I know it’s been rough, but you’ll get through this. You always do.” He pushed his hair off his face and gave me a smile I recognized—the one he saved for his grandmother or the restaurant managers he would cajole into giving us a table.
I opened my mouth to tell him what had happened this morning, how I suddenly couldn’t make sense of anything in my life, but he gave me that patronizing grin again.
“You’re tough.” He punched me lightly on the arm like we were buddies, like we hadn’t been lovers for four years, like we weren’t supposed to be engaged soon.
“Ben,” I said, trying to ignore his patent condescension, “something’s going on that I don’t understand. I don’t remember all sorts of things. I don’t remember us breaking up. I—”
“Kell, I just can’t do this again. I can’t rehash the whole thing over and over, okay?” He cupped my cheek for a second, the way you would a child who had food on his face.
I pulled my head away. “No, you don’t get it.”
“I do. I get that you’re going to make it through this. You’re going to be okay.” He spoke these last words in a soft, hang-in-there-kid kind of way that infuriated me.
I glanced down at a spot on the sidewalk that looked strangely like old blood, then back up at his pitying eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’m going to be fine. Fantastic even.”
“There you go,” Ben said in what was probably the smuggest tone I’d ever heard. “That’s the ticket.”
Yeah, that’s the ticket all right, I thought. The ticket out of here. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.
“I’ll see you around.” I tried to sound flip, like I didn’t care, but I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. “See you,” I said again, then turned away.
As I walked up the street, my head down, my hands in my pockets, I could hear Ben buzzing his apartment, and the woman’s voice say over the intercom, “Ben, is that you?”
“It’s me, hon. Let me up.”
I stopped at Chuck’s, the first bar I found. Inside, it was dark, with at least five different football games blaring from at least ten different TVs. The tables were full of people cheering and screaming, baskets of fries and pitchers of beer in front of them. I slipped onto a stool at the bar.
“What can