Stevan Mena - Transience

She checked her watch, Randall would be there any minute. She swished and spit her mouthwash, rubbing the static of her dress a few times, trying to straighten it out. No good, just made it worse.

The doorbell rang. “Shit.” She shut off the bathroom light and went to the front door, checking her reflection as she passed the hallway mirror. She pulled at her dress, trying to flatten it one last time, wanting to make a good first impression. Okay, ready or not. She moved to the door, her feet throbbing already in her high heel shoes.

When she opened it, she saw nothing but flowers.

“Teresa?”

She craned her neck to see his face through the bouquet as he barged into her living room. “Randall?” The voice wasn’t familiar.

He extended his hand and revealed himself. Her expression turned to horror. He anticipated that, violently shoving the flowers into her face as he slammed the door closed, deftly covering her mouth as she attempted to scream. He smashed her atop the head with a closed fist.

The last thought that pulsed through her brain as she fell unconscious was how could I have been so stupid?

Jack stalked through the halls of The Lansing Metropolitan Recreation Center, which was filled with inner city kids playing basketball in the gym and working with computers in the library, staying out of trouble. He approached a receptionist perched behind a tall gray counter, she was typing away at a computer.

Jack tapped on the counter with his fingernail to rouse her attention. She was engrossed in her work and didn’t respond. He cleared his throat.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, continuing to type at blazing speed.

“The art gallery, where is it?”

She spoke without taking her eyes off her screen. “You go down that corridor,” pointing in the direction Jack had just come from. A woman stepped around Jack and handed the receptionist a cup of coffee.

“No sugar?” Still locked on the screen.

“In it,” the woman said, moving past Jack and down the hallway.

The receptionist reached for her coffee and finally looked at Jack, curious why he was still standing there. “You go down the corridor, turn right, just up the stairs.”

“Thank you.” Jack turned and doubled back the way he came. He saw the mistake he made and wondered how he’d missed the bright green sign pointing the direction towards the Gallery. He shook his head and climbed the metal staircase.

The gallery was very simplistic, just a single corridor with a white divider down the middle. The partition created two long hallways of artwork on either side. Every few feet, there was a space in the partition that you could pass through to go from one side to the other. No one else there seemed to have an appreciation for fine art, so the area was very calm and quiet.

Jack admired each framed painting, searching. They were all good, but seemed pedestrian compared to Rebecca’s work. Or Carmen’s . He knew, if it was still there, it would stand out like a gold brick atop a pile of coal.

He didn’t even bother to check the names, confident he would know it when he saw it. Finishing one full aisle of art, he turned around to come back up the other side. The third picture in caught his attention.

On second glance it nearly floored him.

It was a painting of a little girl holding her mother’s hand. The little girl was wearing a bright yellow dress.

She was the spitting image of Rebecca.

Jack’s eyes went wide , his lips curled into a tight seam. “It’s not possible,” he said softly . But neither was the diary . He reached out and touched the painting with his fingertip. He slid it down to the inscription on the bottom. C.M.

Under the frame was a bronze banner which read: 1st Prize Awarded to Carmen Muniz. There was a small plaque alongside the portrait with a black & white photograph of Carmen. The plaque was titled: Follow Your Dreams.

Jack took a seat on a small two-sided white bench in the middle of the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off the painting, off the image of Rebecca. He was shaken to his core, but excited at the same time. He felt privy to something extraordinary that most would dismiss as ridiculous fantasy. But here was more firsthand proof. His head spun with theories, attempts to inject some rationality into what he had experienced over the last few days. He now fully comprehended Leonard’s trepidations; this is why Leonard made him walk in his shoes first. It wasn’t something he could describe — he had to see it for himself. It’s very hard to dismiss something when you’ve seen it with your own eyes. But had Leonard gotten this far? No, he hadn’t dug this deep.

Rebecca’s clues had solved Carmen’s disappearance and her story had opened his eyes to new possibilities about life. But was this exercise solely for his benefit? He bit down, grinding his teeth, angry and frustrated at himself. Jack hadn’t been able to piece together the clues he’d been given and somehow solve the greater mystery. Something is missing! A clue he’d overlooked, an interpretation he’d gotten wrong. The answer was there, right in front of him, staring him in the face. Dammit, Jack, think!

Jack sat for a long while, feeling worthless. He’d begged for a chance to solve this case, to make good on his promise — and he’d been granted that opportunity in the most amazing of circumstances. He was getting closer, he could feel it. But his detective’s acumen wasn’t up to the task. He was blowing it.

He wanted to call Leonard, discuss it, get his thoughts, tell him maybe he would get a chance to re-write theology after all. But that conversation was miles long, and Jack didn’t have the time. He had a murder investigation to solve, a killer to catch.

His cell phone rang, he let it buzz a few times. He was going to let it go to voicemail — But what if it’s Laura? The guilt was still fresh from the other day.

“Hello?”

“Jack, it’s Harrington. Get back to the station, quick.”

“What’s going on?”

“We got him.”

Laura paced in the kitchen, holding the phone to one ear and her other hand to her forehead. Her hair hadn’t seen a shower in days. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ted.”

She listened to the answer.

“What about Val, can’t she fill in?” Laura tensely twisted the cord with her fingers. “Well, I have a situation here, I just can’t make it right now.”

She looked out the window at a potted plant wilting in the cold, dry winter air. She had meant to bring it inside. It was all but dead now. Just another thing that had taken a back seat on her priorities list. Can’t even care for a potted plant. What am I doing in charge of a human being?

“Fine, do what you have to. I’m sure I can get another job in a grocery, it’s not like it’s a fucking career. Yeah, fuck you too.” She hung up and peeked over her shoulder, hoping Rebecca was not in earshot. Not that she hadn’t heard her utter that phrase to her father a thousand times during their divorce.

Laura hung up the phone. She sighed weakly into her hands; no strength left, even for outbursts of frustration. She lit a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling angrily, falling deeper into depression.

She picked up the phone again and dialed, inputting the last known number of her nomadic ex-husband. The operator came on to tell her that the number was no longer in service .

She moved through the living room to the back door. She looked out into the yard, thinking Rebecca was on the swing, but the creaking metronome she’d heard was a persistent wind blowing it back and forth.