Stephanie Doyle - Remembering That Night

But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?

Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.

Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.

Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.

She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

“You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”

He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.

“And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”

He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.

She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”

Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”

“Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.

Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.

After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.

You used to eat pasta off of china.

The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.

Think! When? Where? With whom?

“We need a name for you.”

The question startled her out of her thoughts.

“We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”

She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”

“What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”

She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”

“Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.

“No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Maybe you know girls named Bunny and Cherry and they are strippers,” Greg allowed.

“I hardly think I spend my time around strippers.” She was offended. Then she realized how snobbish that had sounded, as well. For all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.

Oh my God! Do I have a child?

“Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”

It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.

“For now we’ll call you Jane.”

Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.

“Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”

“What’s the other?”

“You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”

CHAPTER THREE

HE WATCHED AS JANE SCRUNCHED her face in rejection.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“You said the name didn’t feel right.”

“Yes, I know my name isn’t Jane. It’s the other part you can’t know. Look at my hair.” She unraveled the wet knot that was now partially dry and it dropped to nearly her waist. Long shimmering strands of blond on blond.

“Genetics is a crazy thing. I didn’t say you were southern Italian, only that you came from an Italian family.”

“Oh, here he goes.” Chuck groaned. “He’s about to Sherlock Holmes you.”

“What?”

“Follow,” Greg began. “You refer to the sauce as gravy, as do most Italian-Americans. You tried not to, but you winced at the bread and the container of cheese, which means you’re used to finer Italian cuisine. You instructed us on how to properly prepare it, which means you have some expertise with Italian cooking. Your back isn’t touching the chair and the paper napkin was spread on your lap in a manner that suggests you’re used to using cloth. Also, you got yourself a spoon, which indicates you were raised in a house where manners were important. Manners are traditionally more important among upper-middle-to upper-class homes. Why I say you’re wealthy is that you looked at me while I twirled my fork against my plate, and then you studied your own plate as if you were concerned for the surface. That suggests you eat on finer dinnerware, potentially china, and china for everyday eating suggests wealth.”

Jane gasped.

“I know,” Chuck said. “It’s freaky. But he’s usually right.”

Greg watched her face, as she assimilated all the information he’d given her. Eventually, she nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. I had the same thought about the china, too. And I hope you don’t think I’m not thankful for the meal...but the white bread was a little off-putting.”

“You just need to put a lot of butter on it,” Chuck suggested as he reached for another slice.

“It’s all just pieces, Jane. Put enough of them together and eventually they will start to paint a picture. When you see the picture it will make more sense.”

She nodded and reached again for her fork and spoon.

Greg’s cell phone went off and he pulled it out of his back pocket. Only a number registered, but he recognized the area code.

“Excuse me.”

He got up and walked as far away from the kitchen area as he could. The place he and Chuck inhabited was basically one large open space that comprised the kitchen and living area. Off that space were two bedrooms and a spiral staircase that led to a loft where Chuck kept all his technical equipment. By Philadelphia standards it was big and luxurious and something they never would have been able to afford without Chuck’s squirrels.

Unless Greg walked into his bedroom and shut the door, there wasn’t a lot of privacy for this type of conversation. He didn’t want his actions to seem suspicious, but he was afraid he had no other choice. He had a fairly strong inkling who was calling.

Closing the door to his bedroom, he finally answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Chalmers? This is Sheriff Danielson. That girl still with you?”

Greg imagined Jane might take exception at the description of “girl.” She might not know her birthday, but she certainly knew she was a grown woman. For that matter, so did Greg.

“Yes. She’s still with me. I told you I would watch over her.”

“Well, you’re going to need to bring her back in for questioning. We’ll need her clothes, too.”

“What good is questioning her going to do if she doesn’t remember any of the answers?”