The Watcher

9

Incredulously I stare at the sign bearing the company name. Of all the intersections in the city, how did I end up at this one? Had I remembered the address? Did I somehow subconsciously navigate my way here? And if so, why?

I look around, spot a café across the street, and realize once again how thirsty I am. Plus my legs could really use a rest. Now that I’m here, there’s not really much point in dwelling on why I came this way. I cross the street and enter the café, order chicken salad and mineral water, and sit down at one of the tables closest to the window. I should probably have settled for tap water, I think as the bubbly liquid pours out of the bottle and into the glass. I’m still living on the money from my last book, the only one of the four books I’ve written to date that became a commercial success, but my royalties will be drying up soon. And the editorial gigs don’t pay all that much. Especially when I don’t even have any to work on. I poke at the pieces of chicken and romaine with my fork, and despite having been so hungry just a minute ago, I quickly lose my appetite.

I put down my silverware, push the plate away, and lean back. This motion causes one of my chair legs to scrape loudly against the floor. A man at a table across the room looks up from his computer, and from the corner a few teenage girls giggle loudly. My cheeks flush, and suddenly I feel like everyone is staring at me. I feel transparent, as if every thought and every emotion inside me is visible.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man turn his attention back to his computer, and I regret not having brought my own computer. That’s what normal people do. They keep themselves busy, look like they’re doing something. Feeling unsettled, I drink the last of my mineral water and wonder if I would do better to walk back home or if I should maybe take the bus. But then my sister calls. She’s at work, between meetings, and is calling to talk about what we’re going to do for Papa’s birthday, which is this week already. Should we send a card or not? Papa. The muscles in my face stiffen.

Mama’s coffin was hardly in the ground before Papa met a new woman and moved north with her. In the years since then, he hasn’t shown much interest in getting together with my sister or me. When he does occasionally get in touch, it’s with a postcard depicting an active, outdoorsy life. The kind of life he’d probably always dreamed of but didn’t really have a chance to pursue with Mama. While she enjoyed her quiet life surrounded by her books, he was an active person who became restless when he had to sit for long periods.

One of his favorite sports was skiing, and I remember when I turned five or six how he taught me downhill skiing on the little neighborhood sledding hill. He set up a long line of ski poles down the side of the hill, then pulled me up to the top and let me ski down the slope over and over again. A few of the other fathers teased him, laughing at how he schlepped me up the hill again and again, but he didn’t care about that. He was tireless in his efforts.

On the phone, my sister vacillates. I listen to the various arguments for and against getting a card as my gaze drifts out the window to the intersection. I haven’t been skiing in years. I’ll probably never want to do anything that reminds me of Papa again, just as he seems content not to have been reminded of my existence any more than necessary.

I’m about to tell my sister that, as far as I’m concerned, we can skip the birthday card, when I spot a familiar face. Philip Storm steps out of his building and strides quickly down the sidewalk. My back straightens, as if on its own.

“Hey, can we talk about this later?” I say, standing up. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

My vest is hanging over the back of my chair. I grab it and hurry out the door. My sister can’t conceal her surprise.

“In a hurry? For what?”

That’s a question I don’t care to try to answer, so I just hang up.

I cross the street and hurry after Philip Storm. Despite my stiff joints and sore muscles, I soon catch up to him. His phone is pressed to his ear as he obviously talks to someone. When he turns a corner and crosses yet another street, I do the same.

Am I following him? Is that what I’m doing? If I am, I convince myself, it’s inadvertent. He’ll soon reach the restaurant he’s surely heading to for lunch, meet up with whomever he’s meeting—probably a bunch of people in suits—and vanish into a murmur of voices and the smell of fried food. Then I’ll continue down the sidewalk, passing by without slowing or even turning my head. I’ll walk until I reach a stop for the right bus, wait for the next one, ride it home, and shut myself in and not go out again for a very long time. Not until it’s necessary.

But no. We pass several different restaurants, and Philip Storm doesn’t stop at any of them. He’s removed his hand from his ear and put his phone in his pocket. Has he sped up as well? There’s eagerness and tension to his steps. Finally he turns onto a small cross street with neither car traffic nor restaurants. A red-haired woman in a tight knit dress is standing outside a door on the right side, smoking. She isn’t wearing a coat and obviously works or lives on the block. When she sees Philip, she straightens up and puts out her cigarette. I linger at the corner, pretending to study an ad posted in the window of a real estate agency, as I observe them from a distance.

Philip Storm stops in front of the red-haired woman. The distance between their bodies can’t be more than a couple of yards. They’re close enough that I can hear that he sounds cheerful, and she laughs quietly in response. She puts a hand on his arm, and it looks like he’s about to hug her, but then he stops. He hastily looks around instead, as if he’s afraid someone will see them together. A second later, they’re gone, in through a doorway. I turn around and stare at the door, which is just closing behind them. What if I hurried over there and managed to grab it before it closed all the way? What if I surprised the two of them in there when they thought they were finally alone, shielded from the world’s prying eyes? What would I see?

The bus ride home is bumpy. My stomach lurches. Something comes loose and bubbles up into my chest. The bus driver brakes again abruptly. I don’t feel well. Maybe it’s motion sickness, maybe something else entirely.