SAMUEL
The Hewitt project is situated on the outskirts of a new suburban development about thirty minutes outside the city. Thirty minutes when there isn’t traffic. But at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, the freeway is the usual crawl, commuters ending their workweek, sitting behind the wheels of their cars, imagining the taste of their first cocktail, checking their phones to see if their wives have texted them last-minute needs, which they won’t be able to fulfill for an aeon due to the gridlock.
The carpool lane moves a little more quickly. My idea to caravan was squashed when we met in the parking lot forty minutes ago. Greta hopped into my car, telling me it would be better to carpool. She was right. We’ll cut fifteen minutes off our time in this lane. But it probably wasn’t a good idea.
Her perfume isn’t cloying, it’s lovely—reminds me of peach cobbler. And her long legs stretch out into the shadows beneath the glove compartment. I keep my eyes studiously on the road, but every so often, when I catch her looking out the passenger window, I steal a glance at the smooth porcelain skin of her thighs. I am not an adolescent. I am able to control myself. But I am a man.
Fuck. This is wrong.
And yet, I have willingly stepped into this situation. Ha, no, I invited this situation, orchestrated it. But why? Why?
Greta has undertaken to act as DJ for the ride, switching stations and choosing songs she likes, singing along with them in a soft but perfectly pitched voice. She hasn’t launched into conversation, save for the occasional question about whether or not I know the song playing, and if I do whether or not I like it. Every once in a while, I feel her gaze on me, and when I glance at her, she wears an inquisitive or intense expression, as though she wants to talk. But so far, thankfully, she hasn’t broached any taboo or uncomfortable subjects, like, for example, why did I ask her to join me on this trip?
The answer to that question is as complex as it is simplistic. The answer is, I don’t know.
I am happy. I have a good, solid marriage. I have wonderful kids. I have an existence that would be envied by half the population on the planet, at least. So what on earth compelled me to introduce chaos into the otherwise perfect landscape of my life?
Again, I am a man, and we are ruled by base urges, dominated by our dicks. And don’t forget about our egos. Monstrous, fragile egos.
But those are excuses, and poor ones at that.
What’s interesting and ironic, equally, is that I wish I could talk to Rachel about this. She is my best friend and my sounding board. She listens thoughtfully to me when I spew to her about work problems, or complain about age-related challenges such as the bursitis that plagued me most of last year and wreaked havoc on my already mediocre golf game, or my frustration with the predominance of stupid people in service positions these days. She listens and offers me clarity. She gives me insights into my own character, and those insights are often laced with humor. She helps me to laugh at myself.
I have friends. Buddies, acquaintances. Carson and I are fairly close. Frank DiSilva is my oldest friend, lives back east, and we talk every month or so. But Rachel is the one I turn to regularly.
Rachel, whom I’m about to betray. If Sister Johnna from eighth grade is correct, and the thought is as bad as the deed, I have betrayed her already.
We reach the turnoff just after five. I drive through the newly minted downtown area—a patch of strip malls and fast-food restaurants built rapidly to accommodate the quickly rising population of this suburb, the paint barely dry on most of the buildings.
“Oh, a Ross Dress for Less,” Greta chirps. “My mom loves that store. Ooh, and a Raising Cane’s. Yum!”
I have never seen my assistant like this. At work, she is a consummate professional, always meets her deadlines, goes the extra mile, stays late and arrives early. She comes across older than her years. But now, she stares out the passenger window with excited anticipation, like a child visiting Disneyland for the first time.
She is a child, Sam.
I follow the directions of the GPS to an as-yet unmarked street. The Hewitt project stands at the end of the street.
When Marshall Hewitt came to me with the idea last year, I declined. The location was outside Carson’s and my geographic perimeter, and the job held little appeal. Architecture has been good to me. But over the past few years, I’ve found less fulfillment in it. With two kids and a stay-at-home wife, a career change would be impractical, so I resolved to only take on projects I was passionate about.
The approach to the rehabilitation facility was cookie-cutter at best—private lodging, a gym, a theater, a cafeteria, and half a dozen conference rooms for AA and NA meetings, seminars, and lectures. The board wanted simple, industrial, practical, user-friendly. Although I wasn’t interested, I was moved by Marshall’s speech, by his passion to give something back to the world, his entreaty that we should use our gifts for the betterment of humanity as a whole. Then Carson signed on. He had a sister who overdosed many years ago. So I took the assignment. And here we are.
This is not my most creative design. I don’t take great pride in the edifice before me. But hopefully, it will be a safe haven for those willing to repair and rebuild their demolished lives.
A dozen or so men loiter outside the building, shooting the shit, all of them wearing the regulation construction helmets. I recognize Javier, the foreman, and throw him a wave. He straightens his posture and walks toward me.
“Mr. Davenport. Como estas?”
I put out my hand. “Bien, gracias. How’s it going?”
Greta stands beside me, and Javier is careful not to ogle her. His eyes shift quickly from her back to me.
“Good, you know? Really good. I know Mr. Hewitt’s worried—he’s out here like every couple of days. But we’re on schedule, swear to God. Most of the drywall is finished, and Marcello should be done with the electrical by end of next week, latest. Rodney’s crew’s working on the pipes. Another few days. We got the inspectors coming the week after. We’ll be ready.”
“That’s great, Javier. Terrific.” Hewitt wants a May Day grand opening. Shouldn’t be a problem if Javier stays on schedule. “Mind if we take a look around?”
Enthusiastic nod. “Go for it. We’re done for today, but I’ll hang out.”
I smile at him and slap him on the shoulder, glance up at the luminaires that are blazing even though daylight savings has rendered them ineffectual. “You can take off, Javier. I’ll make sure everything’s dark before I go.”
The man gives me a sideways look, then turns toward Greta. Glances back at me with a knowing expression that I resent only because he’s not wrong.
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Davenport. Okay.”
“Javier, I’ve told you before to call me Sam.”