Karen Bender: Refund: Stories

She saw the cars lining up in front of her. Now she was here; she had made it to this life. She clutched the steering wheel so hard her hands ached.

Her cell phone rang.

“Hey, Annie,” Warren Vance said, in a soft voice.

SHE MET HIM, TWO DAYS LATER, A HUNDRED MILES AWAY. SHE told the babysitter she would be working late; it was absurdly easy to arrange. She would meet him at his work — he said he wanted to talk business.

The sky was white with smog above the freeway, which cut through San Bernardino, City of Industry, passing superstores selling electronics, discount clothing, sporting goods; she passed parking lots shimmering like dry lakes, warehouses containing patio furniture, used tires, drugs, mirrored cube office buildings, palm trees with thick furry necks. Fast-food franchises loomed off the freeway, hawking fried chicken and burgers and fries with bright orange and red signs. The freeway stretched on and on; she could see forever and she could see nothing. She turned off into an industrial area, aluminum warehouses lining the empty streets. Vance’s office was located in a storefront in a crumbling mini-mall. It was a treeless block, and the sky above the street looked infinite. His office was bordered by a Subway sandwich franchise and a Family Dollar store.

When she walked into Vance Real Estate, she noticed that he had a steel desk balanced on a tennis ball on one side, a glass coffee table with a crack in it, and that the ventilation between this office and the Subway store was so faulty that the room smelled of salami and sliced ham. Taped on the windows were posters of palatial homes perched in glamorous destinations: Beverly Hills, Paris, Monaco.

He was sitting in his chair, which was made of a maroon material that resembled leather. “Anna,” he said, standing up. “How are you?”

He stood, towering over her, and shook hands firmly. She felt her hand vanish into his. She was encased in the moment, perfectly still. Then he released her, and she felt the cool air again surround her hand.

“This is where you work?” she asked, concerned.

“Temporary,” he said. “Renovations at the main office.”

He was a little out of breath.

“How are you?” she asked. “Since the reunion, I mean.”

“Fine. Vance is always fine,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” He strode over to a poster of the Eiffel Tower that was starting to peel off the wall and tapped it down.

“You told me where to go.”

He shrugged and adjusted a big silver watch around his wrist.

“Did you hear about Harry? Tiffany?” she said. The room was silent. Nothing was the right thing to say. “Sandra Scone lost an eye,” she said. “They don’t know if Carl Blandon will ever walk again—”

“Eh,” he said, shooing something in the air.

“Don’t you care?” she asked.

“They got in his way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vance knew better,” he said, proudly.

She looked at his face, the pores of his skin mottled like the peel of an orange. “You don’t really think that,” she said, wondering.

He swept his hand through his hair. “Vance doesn’t think too hard.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

He shrugged. “Fear’s a luxury,” he said. He clapped his hands. “You’ve got to move. Margie,” he called. “Bring some coffee for my first love.”

A girl with yellow hair so dull it looked gray came out of the back. She had the overly obedient manner of someone who had recently been released from something: mental hospital, jail. Smiling, she held out a Styrofoam cup with some instant coffee.

“Margie’s been with me — two years,” he said.

“Usually I work at the Subway,” said Margie.

“Ha, ha,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly. “It’s been too long. Sit down. Glowing. You define the term—”

“Oh, please,” she said, wanting him to go on.

“Others — not so good. Georgia Haring? Sun damage. Looked like a leather suitcase. Brian Smith? Bald as an egg.”

This appeared to be unchanged, his certainty about others’ failings, as though that hostility gave him a clear view of humanity. His confidence amid the bareness, the dirty windows, calmed her.

“What do you do here?” Anna asked.

“Vance is a real estate agent,” he said.

“For what?”

“Glamour properties. Lots. From bitter divorces. No money down. Good deals. Why should only the rich live like kings?” He set some brochures out on his desk. She picked one up: a half acre, beachfront, near Santa Barbara.

“That’s a good one,” he said. “Rock star caught with seven assistants, quote unquote, wife sues him for every penny, he’s trying to get rid of this lot before she learns about it. Quick. Worth ten million dollars, he’s unloading it for five. From heartbreak comes opportunity.”

They sat across from each other in the milky fluorescent light. Warren’s voice was hoarse with the same excitement it had as a young man. The sameness of his voice, its stubborn ignorance of the passing of the last twenty years, was somehow touching. How had he not aged like the rest of them? It seemed a supreme, thrilling force of will.

A voice in the adjoining room cried out for a turkey sandwich. Warren lined up photos of beaches, vineyards, mountain lakes on his desk like cards in a deck. “How long have you been married?” he asked her.

“Eight years,” she said.

“I’ve been hitched for fourteen,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “How is your wife?” she asked, lightly.

“Great. Hot. We’re off to Cozumel. Next week.” He whipped out a wallet and handed her a photo. She had expected to see a thin, glamorous starlet type, but the woman was perfectly ordinary, with a Dorothy Hamill haircut, purple sweat suit.

“Why did you marry her?”

“She said yes.” He howled with laughter. “We went to the Riviera last year. A dream, Anna, my life is a grand dream—”

“How did you know where to go?” she asked.

“Hard work,” he said. “Vance turned down no offers, he shook hands—”

“No,” she said. “Out of the hotel.”

“Oh, that,” he said. “Instinct. Vance keeps his eyes open. His mama taught him that by not giving a fuck about him. I saw the door, and I ran.” He paused, slightly out of breath. “Anyone can do it.”

She did not know why she had followed him. Talking to him now, it seemed a questionable choice, but at that moment it had been correct. He was gazing at her, squinting, his eyes bright and his mouth just smiling. He leaned across his desk. “I have a secret,” he said. “Don’t limit yourself. Reach. Grab what you can.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Move, Anna Green. Don’t just sit. That’s how Vance got out of there.”

She listened. Move. He knew, somehow, how to say what she wanted. There was the faint, sad blast of a truck’s horn on the freeway. The walls rumbled. Warren Vance tilted back in his fake leather chair and lovingly examined a photo of a cliff overlooking a pure blue sea. “Wouldn’t you love to live here? Malibu. Fall asleep to the sound of waves.”

“Someday,” she said.

“What if we had been here, Annie. You and me?” he murmured.

The husky intimacy of his voice intrigued and frightened her. She looked at her watch; she had a two-hour drive home.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Wait,” he said. He stood up. “Hey. Call anytime. Been too long!”

She walked slowly to the door. When she turned, he was standing like an enormous, discarded boy, arms dangling; her heart rose with sympathy.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and she drove the hundred miles home.

TWO HOURS IN THE TRAFFIC’S WHITE GLARE MADE HER HEAD FEEL light. When she returned home, she felt blurry, unreal, the way she had when she returned from the shooting, but now she was also embarrassed. She hurried inside to find her husband at the kitchen table with the children. They were digging into a frozen pizza. The ceiling lamp cast a stale glow upon them. She walked into the room briskly, holding out presents she had purchased earlier for the children.