Heather Van Vale glanced at her watch, grabbed her purse, phone, and laptop and headed out. Fridays were always killers, especially at the end of the month when her sales reps were struggling to make quota. She could count on a flurry of calls, texts, and emails full of excuses and questions.
Once in her BMW, she snapped on her shoulder belt, wedged her phone into the dashboard holder and took off. It had rained during the night, and the roadway was slick with wet leaves. She sped along the straightaway, then slowed to turn onto Mountainview Drive that snaked down the steep hillside to Grandview and the interstate.
She was about to turn on the radio to catch the news, when she got a call.
“Heather, it’s Becca Stein. . . uh. . .uh… I had Glenco on my charts for this week, but they’re closed till the 30th on inventory audit. I can call on Fredrico and Cross early, so it falls in October. Is that OK? It’s not due for renewal until November, but can I call early and have it count for this month?”
“No problem, thanks for the head s up. I should have told you about Glenco. We can make the switch.”
“It’s not that big an account, but I think I can squeeze in Palmento this week before close of month.”
“That’s good, just touch base when you sign them, so I can book it.”
Heather twisted her neck back and forth, sensing she needed a massage with her afternoon workout.
Her phone rang again.
“Heather Rondeau?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, having not been addressed by her parents’ name in decades.
“I know it was Dickerson, then Goldman, and now Van Vale. Three husbands, two nice alimonies.”
“May I help you?” Heather asked sharply.
There was a pause. The woman sounded young, maybe a college kid. “You probably don’t remember me. Nancy Farber.”
“Should I?”
“Staples High. You were friends with Jessica Payne and Pamela Goodman. Boys called you the Playmates of Westport. Everyone said you looked like Niki Taylor, but I thought you were more Cindy Crawford.”
“Can I help you …? ”
“You don’t remember me, do you? Nancy Farber.”
“I’m afraid I don’t…”
“I voted for you to be prom queen. I always liked you. But you told everyone I looked like a cross between Elvira and the Pillsbury Doughb oy. That wasn’t nice, Heather. I just wanted to be your friend. You made fun of me for not having a date for prom.”
“Listen,” Heather said curtly, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t remember any Nancy Farber. That was thirty years ago. W hat kind of gag is this?”
Gripping the wheel, she slowed as the road curved sharply. “I have to go. Have a nice day.”
“Heather, you ruined my life. So, now, I have to ruin yours.”
Heather reached up to end the call when the car lurched forward, gathering speed. She took her foot off the accelerator and frantically pumped the brakes, but the car raced forward, and the steering wheel locked. Cursing, she jerked the wheel back and forth for control. Ploughing straight ahead, the BMW slammed into the log guardrail, flipped over, and slid down the hillside, coming to rest against a clump of oaks that showered the shattered car with yellow leaves.
The weather was perfect for a walk, so Jessica Miller dismissed her driver and crossed Rockefeller Center, pausing to watch the newsgirl doing a remote in front of the skating rink. She smiled, recalling her on-air days with NBC. So much work, but so much fun then. So much easier to get ratings in those days. No competition from YouTube, podcasts, and Netflix. Now in marketing, she faced the constant battle with sponsors who threw social media in her face at every negotiation.
As usual she stopped at the Big Apple for coffee. As soon as she entered, a new waiter pointed to the lone vacant table.
“Black French Roast, large,” she said briskly.
“Of course.” The waiter nodded with a lingering smile. Returning quickly with a steaming pot, he poured the coffee slowly, giving her a longer smile. A strange, smug smile.
She took a burning sip, then slipped out her phone to check her email. There was the usual stream of ads, reminders, and routine messages. She sipped her coffee, noting a bitter taste. At least it was hot. She scrolled up and down her inbox, looking for replies from GM or Allstate. Nothing.
Hearing a beep, she tapped her message logo.
Jessica Payne, am I right?
It’s Miller now. Can I help you?
You probably don’t remember me. Nancy Farber, Staples High?
I’m sorry. I don’t recognize.
Here’s my yearbook picture. Remember me now?
Are you sure you have the right person? Were we friends?
I wanted to be your friend. I had such a girl crush on you. You were
so beautiful and had so many boyfriends. I never had anybody.
Look, I don’t understand
You were so mean to me. I heard you call me Piggy.
I don’t remember.
I do. I do. They say sticks and stones… words don’t hurt me…
No, words hurt. Words kill. Your words killed me. Now, you have to
know how it feels.
Who is this? What is this about?
Enjoy your coffee.
WTF? Some GPT prank? Some weird alumni message? She hadn’t heard from Heather in eight or nine years. Was this one of her goofs? She sipped more coffee. It tasted bitter, so she sipped from the Fiji bottle in her bag, then chewed a stick of Spearmint Extra. She slipped money under her cup, stood, stretched, then left.
Noticing the bright sunlight, she paused at the door to don her glasses. Glancing back, she noticed the smiling waiter was gone.
She pushed through the revolving door and headed down the block. Crossing Fifth, she suddenly felt her stomach clench as if she were about to retch. The sun seemed suddenly bright and hot, and she felt faint. Seeking shade, she ducked under the black awnings of Saks, leaning against a window to catch her breath. An intense spasm made her double over and pant for breath. Her mouth filled with bitter fluid, and she felt her knees buckle.
“Hey, lady, are you OK?,” a man asked, then shouted to his companion, “Babe, call 911, I thinks she’s . . .”
Jessica looked up but only saw black spots against the sky just before she hit the pavement.
A late afternoon breeze blew across the narrow balcony. Juan Les Pins was so much nicer in early fall. The beaches and streets were clear of summer tourists, and it was still warm enough to bathe or just lie on the sand. Pamela Jozan chuckled. On her first trip to Antibes with her new husband, she’d told him it reminded her of La Jolla, with its curving streets, pricey shops, and views of the ocean. Louis sighed, “Comme c’est américain!” then squeezed her with a kiss.
She put down her book and glanced at the clock. She’d agreed to meet Louis at Le Crystal for drinks at five. She went to the bathroom to freshen up, brushing her hair and putting on lipstick. When her phone beeped, she expected it to be Louis or perhaps her daughter in Boston.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, then a girl’s voice. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“OK, and you are?”
“Nancy Farber.”
“Mmm, I don’t recall. You have the right number?”
“You’re Pamela from Staples High. Friends with Heather and Jessica, right?”
“Oh God, sure, high school! The old gang, for sure!”
“But you don’t remember me? Nancy Farber?”
“Well, it was a long time ago, you know.”
“Not for me.” The voice deepened.
“Oh.”
“You girls were so special. I remember when you all dressed up like the girls on Baywatch for the talent show. Those red bathing suits. You all looked so hot. Everyone said you were prettier than Erika Eleniak.”
“Those were the days,” Jessica chuckled.
“And you were in the school plays. I saw every one of them. And senior year, you were at the Westport Country Playhouse. I saw that play three times. You were so good, and you got your picture in the paper with Paul Newman. You were so popular.”
Something in the voice was eerie, unearthly, and troubling. “Well, look, I still can’t place you. Were we in drama class or cheerleading?”
“No, I wasn’t in anything. Nobody liked me. I didn’t live in a big house on Old Hill Road like you. We just had a ranch house on Greens Farms Road. Your father worked with Goldman Sachs. My father sold shoes in Norwalk, and my mother managed a bakery. We weren’t special like you. I really liked you, and I thought you were nice and not stuck up like Heather and Jessica. You never called me names, but you went along with them. Both of them. Like a conspiracy.”
“Look, that was over thirty years ago. We were teenagers. . .”
“It still hurts me.”
“Look, where are you calling from? Who a re you?”
“I know where you are. That’s all that’s important. Where you are and what has to happen. Don’t bother trying to call Heather or Jessica. They’re gone.”
“They’re gone?”
“And you will be, too. Then, my work will be finished. I’ll be able to rest.”
The call ended.
Pamela shook her head. What the hell was that? She couldn’t wait to tell Louis.
She grabbed her purse, left their hotel room, walked to the end of the corridor and pressed the down button on the elevator. The golden doors slid back, and she entered and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, then the elevator car, all braking and safety devices disabled, fell five flights and crashed on the basement floor.
In the back of the SUV roaring down I-87, Frank Miller worked on his laptop and his phone. He had wanted to catch a flight from Albany. The governor had offered use of a state plane, but his assistant assured him driving would be faster. Using his flashers, the state trooper sailed past slower vehicles, hitting 90 and sometimes 100.
His phone rang.
“Frank, how are you holding up?” his assistant asked.
“I’ve been trying to get the kids. Jerry’s at Princeton, and Moira’s still in Chicago. The police found Jessica’s phone. She got some threats just before it happened. The police sent me screenshots. Did you get them?”
“I have Kelly in security working on the info now. No dice on the number yet, but following up on Nancy Farber. Kelly’s talking with Connecticut now. One sec. . .”
Frank heard a murmur of muted voices. “Are you sure? Double checked? For sure? Really? OK.”
His assistant cleared his throat. “Frank, this is what Kelly found out from the state, the Westport paper, and the school district. I’m sending you something. That’s Jessica, right? That’s her yearbook picture?”
“Yes.”
“Then, scroll up. See Farber? That’s the same picture someone sent your wife.”
“Yes.”
“They were both seniors. Class of ’91. But Frank, Nancy Farber killed herself shortly after graduation, over the Fourth of July holiday. Death certificate had a name, address, and date of birth that match the school records. Paper had the article and obit in their files. Did you get that, Frank? Frank, you still there?”
Frank glanced at his wife’s teenage face, then looked out the window at the October trees racing past in a shimmering blur of green and gold.
The End
About the Author
Mark Connelly teaches English at Milwaukee Area Technical College. His fiction has appeared in Bristol Noir, Mobius Blvd, Cerasus, Indiana Review, and several anthologies. His novella Fifteen Minutes was published by Texas Review Press in 2005 and received the Clay Reynolds Novella Award.
