Who Took Hannah

By CJ Knapp

He's a Bad Boy. She's wealthy. Their daughter's gone! Can they find her before it's too late?

Mandy Rose Bokum wanted to go home. Her mind and body were getting sicker. Three lonely years living in one room in California were enough. She yearned for peace. She craved love. She wanted answers. Why was her child stolen? Did the thief know her? Was it somehow her fault?

The townies blamed her. Accused her of murder.

It was time to tell Clyde Boudreaux that he was Hannah's daddy. Clyde fought his own demons. He was seven when he'd watched his granddaddy get lynched.

Mandy struggled for years with her own dark secrets. Secrets that lay hidden in the Louisiana mansion where she was raised. Maybe two halves could make a whole. Was Clyde on the straight and narrow now? He was no choir boy. If Clyde was willing, there was a chance to find Hannah alive.

Or, sadly, a chance to bury her sweet remains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CJ Knapp
• Release date: Jan 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735467436

Book preview

Chapter 1

When the man lying on the city sidewalk scratched his inner thigh, Mandy Rose Bokum watched. She stood at the second floor window across the street and gasped as he pressed on the top of his navel with both fists. Skin and bones. That stomach’s a shrunken hole, she thought as she rubbed her own flat taut belly. Why’ve I never noticed him before? What’ve I become?

The red neon lights over the man’s head blinked, advertising fresh coffee and all-beef burgers. A dark night, a few lonely stars, the moon hidden, tucked behind the four story brick building Mandy Rose now called home.

Wait. Did he just look up? Could he see her shape in the window?

She took a sharp breath and leaned back from the waist, yanked her head to one side but kept her eyes on the man.

The homeless man propped himself up on one pointy elbow and squinted, tried to focus with eyes sorely in need of glasses. His stomach growled. The busboy’d left early tonight. No leftovers.

The red pulsing beams earlier had turned the dimly-lit windows in Mandy’s building a warm homey orange. It was late and lights were all turned off for sleeping. His eyes itched and watered as he targeted that one particular window. He knew behind that window lived a young woman. He’d seen her coming and going. She always wore the same white blouse, short black skirt and stained lavender apron.

Night had claimed the city. His eyelids drooped, becoming two lead weights. He fell to one side, pulled two bony knees up into his sunken stomach then, certain no food would be coming his way, he waited for sleep to claim him.

Living in one dark room that smelled faintly of mildew, Mandy Rose Bokum spoke out loud to the peeling walls and shadowy shapes. Santa Ana. What’m I doing here? I’m an idiot. What was I thinking? She resented being forced to flee Louisiana and bit the inside of her already raw bottom lip. Death changes things. Maybe Hannah’s not dead. Oh God, what if she was? Another bite, a bit too deep, she tasted her own blood.

Hannah was gone. A stabbing pain invaded Mandy Rose’s chest. She grabbed the front of her blouse, squeezed the material and pressed it into her heart. Her cheeks went wet with a familiar hot downpour. She despised these thoughts. Pressing her palm down hard on the top of her head, she mashed her hair into her scalp, willing every memory pulverized.

She couldn’t sleep. Not wanting to, she swiveled her head around the room, eyeballing the walls, scant furnishings and ceiling, painfully aware it was the size of one of the bathrooms from her childhood home. She groaned. Two a.m. She’d been lying in this sweat-soaked bed since eleven. Those red lights forced their way through the threadbare shade on her only window, attacking her, making her head hurt. Narcissus flowers on the ugly bedspread looked like splotches of dried blood. Sleeping pills were useless. Didn’t work. Never killed the agony or erased the memories. God, it was 1982. She’d been here for what? Three years. A lifetime for some species.

Running her hand down the slight stubble on her leg gave her permission to skip shaving in the morning. Mandy felt her face tighten, crinkled into what was probably a scowl. She heard her grandmother’s voice. Don’t frown Mandy Rose, you’ll get wrinkles.

She hated waitressing. The rancid grease from the deep fryer that never got changed. The brown-stained counters. The smelly moldy mop she splashed around to wash the floor made her eyes burn and her nose drip. Mostly she hated the customers. The smirk on the faces of the stingy women who left no tip because she was prettier than them, or worse, they tucked a penny under their plate, a copper symbol for the middle finger. Arrogant witches. And the men, with their smutty double entendres constantly demanding coffee refills. The pile of others who either chirped on and on about their perfect Mickey Mouse lives or complained loud enough for God and the devil to hear. She was sick of it all. Needed a change.

She turned the radio on.

The high-pitched squeal that floated out from the pocket-sized transistor made her shudder. But then, a clear male voice broke through. She listened.

Okay night owls, this is the call-in show you’ve been waiting for. Contest time! Get your sleepy little dialing finger ready. As most of you know, we pick different locales for finding our new contestants. Tonight we’re looking for folks relocated to Santa Ana from Kentucky, Louisiana or Tennessee. Is this your lucky night? Be the first person to call in saying, ‘KAZX, my favorite nighttime radio show’ and be willing to accept our challenge. For one glorious night, we want you to be our online advice consultant. The date is one week from Saturday night, but first this Friday night, you and I’ll have dinner at the restaurant of your choice. And of course, you’ll receive a year’s subscription to Radio Times.

The heat of the night felt as if it’d climbed another five degrees as she swung her legs over the edge of the lumpy bed. She’d decided to enter the contest.

Mandy yanked her shorts on and forced her feet into clammy slippers. Using a menu from the diner, she fanned her face vigorously, then plucked the dime up that was almost stuck to the nightstand. She stumbled a few steps, then unbolted the door to her room. She shook herself to wake up, then stepped into the somewhat cooler hallway where the payphone was located. The darkness was ominous but in some weird way, fed her courage. As though this wasn’t really her.

She chose to overlook the nervous clamor in her bowels—felt like a pack of tiny foraging mice. Ignoring that, she scuffled over to the payphone.

She held the dime up to the rose colored light and inserted it into the coin slot of the community wall phone. A slight breeze moved the old lace curtains on the long window at the end of the hall. She took this as a sign to continue.

She straightened her back, watched the rotary dial swirl in the half darkness and heard the sharp clacking noise it made. She listened. Two short rings and one long. Breng, breng, breeeng. She jumped when they answered. Her eyebrows shot up and she gave the obligatory salutation. KAZX, my favorite nighttime radio show.

Hi there. You’re our first caller. Are you from Kentucky, Louisiana or Tennessee, Miss?

She heard a squeaky voice say into the mouth piece, Louisiana on her second try now church bell clear, Yes… I’m from Louisiana.

Well, you qualify. Are you familiar with how this goes, Miss?

Yes, I’ve heard the show before. I guess I’m gonna go to dinner with Johnny Talker and also be your guest consultant.

Yeah, sounds like you understand the gig. Try not to be nervous and do speak clearly when you talk to Johnny. Remember not to hang up after you talk to him, so we can get your information. I’m gonna put you through now. Turn your radio down if you’re right next to it, ’cause there’s a seven second delay.

She wasn’t worried about the delay. Should she just hang up? She’d been hiding and sticking to herself for so long, she’d forgotten how to be sociable. What was she doing? Was she out of her mind? Then it was too late.

Hello. This is Johnny Talker. You’re on the air.

Silence.

What’s your name?

More silence.

Hello, are you there? We have a shy one here folks.

Her head pounded—kept perfect time with the blinking lights coming through the hallway window. Her sleep deprived eyes itched and burned and she felt like she had to swallow a red rubber ball before she could speak. She pinched her neck with a sweaty thumb and forefinger to relieve the pressure. Finally, she croaked, Yes… I’m here.

Great. Can you tell us your name and where you’re from?

Yes, Mandy Rose Bokum, from… slight pause… Louisiana.

He repeated the name, and she thought or imagined she thought there was a taunting note in it.

Then he said, Shall I call you Mandy Rose or just plain Mandy?

Mandy’s fine. She bristled at the way people from California, not unlike Northerners, sneered at the Southern habit of having two first names. This bit of anger pushed her shoulders down, tightened her lower back and provided an energy jolt. She shifted her weight to the other foot, listened and waited.

Okay Mandy, are you ready to be our next guest advice consultant?

Bolder now, Mandy took control. "Well Johnny, I used to play ‘Dear Abby’ with my sister. She’d read me a question from the newspaper’s advice column, and I’d give my solution. Most of the time my answer was the same as Abby’s."

"Did’ya hear that audience? We’ve got ourselves the next best thing to a professional advice columnist. I may tell her my problems! Okay, let’s find out about Mandy Rose Bokus’s romantic life."

Johnny, it’s Bokum, spelled U M not U S. And I’m single… was married once, she lied, but my husband died.

She must be losing her mind, talking about herself on the radio, but people had computers in their homes now, could locate anyone anywhere. Maybe her family had one. She was sure her sister would. She couldn’t remain a woodchuck in a woodchuck hole forever.

I’m sorry I mispronounced your name Mandy, but I’m sure not sorry you’re single. As you may know, I’m currently between wives.

She heard a soft raspy chuckle from his co-host.

As you know, when we have a call-in talk show for folks seeking advice from an impartial party, someone who can be an objective listener, Dolly Deals is our regular advice counselor. Dolly has a master’s degree in social work and is always here alongside our ‘guest’ consultant for any problems that might arise. She’s a dedicated professional. This show has kept marriages together, reunited families, helped teenagers who were contemplating running away or worse. One caller said he was planning to murder his wife. Usually it’s just run-of-the-mill husband or wife doesn’t understand me stuff. If the situation warrants it, we always suggest outside professional counseling. Do you have any questions Mandy?

You’ve addressed my concerns—situations that could be potentially dangerous. Now that I know a social worker’s there with me, I’m not worried. I’ve taken some psyche courses—always wanted to take more.

Okay Mandy, sounds like you’ve got a good handle on what we do. We’ll be getting your address and phone number shortly, so don’t hang up after we say goodbye. Our limousine will pick you up Friday at six o’clock in the afternoon for dinner with Johnny. One week later, on Saturday night, we’ll pick you up at four p.m. and bring you to KAZX. So get off work early for the Friday night dinner. The sound crew will be there. After we dine, the microphones depart and you and I are on our own. How’s that sound Mandy Rose?

What was she getting herself into? On our own, huh? Bet the audience was titillated by that left hanging in the air. This guy sounded like a used car salesman. Yet, she was intrigued.

Johnny, guess I’m ready. How about Champaign Charlottes for dinner?

Whoa Mandy, I believe you want to break the bank. We said you could choose the restaurant, another sleazy chuckle, the tiniest of pauses, Okay, Champaign Charlottes it is. Wear something fancy—I know I will. Can’t wait to meet you and your little dog Toto. Oops nope, wrong state. Don’t hang up now. Our station rep is standing by to get all your information. I’ll see you Miss Mandy Rose Friday night. Goodbye for now.

Johnny whispered conspiratorially into the mic, I can’t wait to meet Mandy Rose Bokum. B-O-K-U-M… from Louisiana. I don’t know what your impression was folks, but I think she’s a pretty little gal with long chestnut colored hair.

Mandy gave herself one more chance to hang up the phone before they had her information. She held onto the receiver.

Yes, this is Mandy Rose. Her replies to the radio show’s lisping questioner were wooden but accurate. She was once again standing almost exclusively on one, stiff-as-a-knotty-pine plank, right leg. She grimaced as she unstuck the phone from her right ear and sweaty cheek, switched her feet and relieved her scrunched up toes and crumpled ear in one movement. Another breeze passed all the way to the far end of the coffee-colored wall that stared at her with blank accusations. The woman taking down her personal information had a hard time believing she didn’t have a telephone number. Well, what did she know? She probably had a pink princess phone and a husband who paid the bills. Mandy pursed her lips and said under her breath, At least I don’t slur my esses. She cringed at that meanness in herself. She didn’t like who she’d become. It was time to do something different.

She was bone tired. She was middle-of-the-night, hanging on a cross, tired. She had to be to work at six a.m. After she’d hung up the sticky receiver she slipped back into her darkened room. She took off her shorts for the second time that night—her slippers came off with them. It was cooler in the room with those damn red lights turned off. She almost felt good.

Her brain vacillated wildly, a crazy pinball. Who was she trying to kid? This could be a disaster. Then, her sunny practical voice mused, They can’t find out who I am. Just a local radio show—listening audience—maybe 20,000. Yeah, but… she scratched her head and popped her eyes, a long discarded habit from childhood. Was she burning bridges? Blowing her cover? Finished hiding out from her home, her family? She wasn’t thrilled with the way she was talking to herself.

She still didn’t want anyone poking their noses where those noses didn’t belong.

Completely enervated, she placed her forearm over her eyes and dropped off to sleep.

Driving home later to Garden Grove, Johnny Talker, born Jerry Walker, enjoyed the quiet inside his posh full-size Cadillac. True to habit, he didn’t turn the radio on. The softly creeping silver from the moon, seen through his windshield, turned Jerry thoughtful. No, not thoughtful… lonely. When his wife Kimberly died, his unborn child also died. And with them, his zest for life. What was it about this Mandy Rose woman that triggered those feelings he’d worked so hard to leave in the past, to bury like so many happy movies with sad endings. Something in her melodious voice? Jerry allowed the sludge to settle on the bottom where it could torture him no longer, but like a swirling brown undertow, the joy also got sucked down. He didn’t drink for over a year after the fatal accident. His fault they died. He was the one who’d had two vodka tonics that night., maybe three. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t charged or found at fault. Completely innocent, the police said. He still agonized over not seeing that eighteen-wheeler cut in from the left. Poor bastard had been driving for almost forty-eight hours. Can’t even blame him. Not after the guy hung himself in his cell after being convicted and held responsible for the death of a mother and unborn child.

Jerry reached down and felt under the seat and the knot in his stomach melted a tad. His fingers felt the neck of the bottle. The vodka was tucked way under—out of sight. He pushed his thumb and forefinger down farther until he could grasp the pint by the metal cap.

Relief began as soon as the cool glass rim of the bottle touched his lips. The tepid liquid started to work its magic, the first swallow… always the best. Addressing himself, Jerry muttered, No good. Can’t go back to this. However, Jerry continued upending the bottle until it was empty. He held the clear pint up to the light of the silver moon in a theatrical salute. Afterwards, he pushed it under the driver’s seat where it nestled next to its unopened twin.

Jerry pulled into his California bungalow’s ample parking space, parked his Cadillac, doused the lights and listened to the pinging of his still warm engine. He looked around at the quiet upscale neighborhood, pleased with himself, then yanked the emergency brake and got out. He staggered up to his front door and grabbed for the massive copper handle. When his hand slid off, he started to chuckle but quickly put his palm over his mouth to stifle his amusement.

Working nights had its rewards. The morning sun was spreading orange cheer when Jerry slammed the room-darkening shades down to the sill, pulled off his shoes and pants and flopped onto his two-thousand-dollar king size bed. He pressed his face into his pillow and ended the day.

Chapter 2

The vintage mirror in Mandy’s boarding house room was cloudy but adequate. The dreaded date with Johnny Talker filled her mind.

She’d wear her little black dress. No decision needed there. It was the only dress that hung in her closet amidst the empty metal hangers. She’d accessorize with the rectangular-shaped ruby earrings Mama had given her for her twelfth birthday. She slipped her hand under the mattress and retrieved the little white satin-covered box. Sitting on the bed she opened it and took the pink-tissue wrapped earrings out with reverent slowness. Tears blurred her vision, making the earrings in her hands throw little sparks. She’d rolled the pink tissue paper around the red earrings so many sad months ago.

Didn’t matter. She shook her head. Wiped her tears on the edges of the soon to be discarded tissue paper. Stopped. Her nose twitched. Her mother’s perfume. She covered her face with the crinkled paper and inhaled deeply.

She couldn’t throw the peony-colored paper away. She folded it first one way twice then the other way three times, smoothed it out with her fingers, then kneeled and slid the flat pink rectangle under her mattress. She patted the mattress several times before she stood up.

This ridiculous date was a one-shot deal. A step in a new direction? Starting to live her life again? Was she ready?

Johnny Talker was scheduled to call on the shared hallway phone, so she had to be out there. Luck was with Mandy Rose as she locked her room’s door, dropped the key into her small purse, snapped it shut and stepped into the hallway. Lucky because no one else was standing around in the hall, waiting for a call. Not that any of them got calls. Well, hardly ever.

Naturally, old lady Sullivan’s door opened a smidgen as soon as she detected the sound of footsteps in what Mandy was sure she thought of as her hallway. Did the old woman think she was invisible? Her gnarly fingers grasped the edge of the door and were quite visible. One beady eye glinted in the opening.

The phone rang, a loud, obnoxious blast.

Mandy jumped. She sprang to grab the phone, knowing it had to be the talk show host.

Hello… Johnny Talker?

A gentle soft-spoken voice said, Ms. Bokum, is that you?

Yes, yes it is. Is this Mr. Talker? Mandy’s brows creased.

The man sounded different.

With a soft chuckle he said, Well, that isn’t really my name, but yes, it’s me. I’m in the car on my mobile phone. I’ll be at your address in about five minutes. I’ll have the chauffeur circle the block while I come in to get you. Okay?

With a noisy swallow that embarrassed her, she said, No, I’ll be waiting out front on the bottom step of the porch. No need for you to bother coming in. She was regretting this whole thing.

It’s no bother Ms. Bokum, I’ll—

Mandy snapped, I’ll be out front. I’m sure you’ll be the only chauffeur-driven limo pulling up in front of this rooming house. I have brown hair and I’ll be wearing a black dress. See you in five.

Knowing when he’d been bested, Jerry just said, Okay, see you soon, but his thoughts were churning like an old Whirlpool washer. This Mandy Rose person didn’t seem like the usual un-educated, un-sophisticated radio winners he normally had to escort as a result of those stupid contests. It was the least favorite part of his job. But the station paid well, and he wasn’t looking to make any career moves.

His curiosity piqued, he found himself taking a final look at his reflection in the vanity mirror located in the refreshment console in the back of the stretch. Maybe it wouldn’t be the usual dull time he’d come to expect. "Madison, just stop in front of the address. Our latest contest winner will be waiting out front. Madison touched his crisp blue chauffeur cap with a large meaty hand in acquiescence and the evening was underway. Mandy Rose stood there on the worn brownstone steps. Her father had always taunted her, calling her the little matchstick girl. That sentence played with her mind. She was a forlorn matchstick girl in a black silk cocktail dress and bright red jewels.

What a fool.

Watching for the limo, portions of her mind drifted back to Louisiana. Louisiana and Hannah’s father.

She’d just completed four semi-sweet years of private high school. Then, against her parents’ wishes, insisted on starting classes at the local university. There was where she met Clyde Boudreaux.

It was an insane overpowering physical attraction.

She’d never dated much. Her family’s wealth created resentments. He was a poor Black man who practiced Voodoo.

Their mutual beguilement held them spellbound.

What was love? A powerful sexual attraction? People got married and started families under a delusion. Well, she’d given birth to Hannah, but marriage was never an option.

Glad to be spared further thoughts, further painful memories, Mandy was impressed, in spite of not wanting to be, as the long white stretch limo glided up to the curb like a cigarette boat chugging up to a sun-drenched dock.

Awkward smiles and cursory handshakes were exchanged.

Mandy Rose entered the soft cool world of the radio celebrity’s limousine and slid across the smooth leather seat in one fluid movement, creating a delicious whooshing sound. As one shiny auburn forelock dipped down and almost covered her eye, Jerry reached over and lifted the errant curl back into place over her left temple.

Her breath caught as she inhaled the aroma of his aftershave—a sweet mixture of spice and musk.

For five seconds that seemed like an hour they stared into each other’s eyes. It’s hard to say which one was the more mystified by this unexpected, electrical exchange.

Johnny found his voice first. Hi Mandy, it’s great to meet you.

Two seconds… three… went by and then, Uh, hi. Was that tiny shy voice hers? What was happening? Was she attracted to this man? She vowed to get control of herself and the situation. Hi Johnny, it’s nice to meet you. Should I call you Johnny? Is that your real first name?

Johnny had recovered somewhat also and said simply, Jerry, my real name’s Jerry. I usually just continue to use the professional name, but I’d like to have you call me Jerry.

The rest of the trip to the restaurant proceeded as well as could be expected. A few questions about the contest, short conversation about where they would be dining and then more quickly than either of them would have predicted, they were there.

Madison pulled expertly up to the smooth marble steps of Champaign Charlottes, and Mandy Rose looked up at the gargantuan aquamarine awning that sheltered the entrance. To her left was a multicolored back-lit six-foot high champagne glass, busy spraying a fountain of greenish-blue, banana yellow and rosy pink water another twelve feet into the air. This rainbow waterfall splashed into a pool at the base of the statuesque glass. The spewed water glistened and shimmered with curly snakes of color—festive and inviting. Mandy Rose realized with a jolt just how long it’d been since she’d done anything remotely resembling fun.

A group of people, including the owner, rushed over to them as they entered and fawned over Jerry. She was surprised and a little pleased to note they all called him Johnny.

Seated at a glass table for two, the tiny replica of a champagne glass fountain at the center of the table between them, she took a brief moment to look at Jerry’s face. Didn’t seem at all like the wise-guy joke-cracking character he portrayed on his radio show. She looked down at the wine list and doing a tiny wiggle settled into a very comfortable satin-like cushion that topped a seat appearing to be made from some transparent plastic material closely resembling the champagne glass at the entrance.

Neither spoke until the wine came, was taste-tested by Jerry and approved. Then as though rehearsed, two glasses lifted and met with a rather loud clink. Two shy smiles.

Jerry leaned over, colors from the tiny fountain playing on his handsome features, to tell her the Peking duck was always exceptionally good. This time it was his turn to have a stray lock tumbling forward, a shiny question mark of chestnut bang making its way tantalizingly toward a masculine, shaggy brow that protected one of the two most beautiful warm amber eyes she had ever seen. It was the tiny apple-green flecks ringing the irises though that caused a lump to form in her throat. Her hand headed towards that lock, but she stopped herself and plucked her creamy linen napkin off the table and opened it onto her lap. A long forgotten notch between her legs made its presence known.

The waiter reappeared, dressed for all the world like a penguin. He took their order in a swirl of black-and-white efficiency then floated majestically off toward the kitchen. Surely an angel in some other life.

Mandy experienced simultaneous bubbly feelings of elation and heart wrenching flashbacks of despair. Jerry smiled with alarming ingenuousness and said, I’ve never had such a strikingly beautiful contest date before.

She half-smiled and murmured in a shaky voice, Thank you, and thought this couldn’t be happening. I refuse to let it. The secret pocket between her thighs pulsed like the neon lights outside her room’s window at her apartment. Did it show on her face?

Later that evening as they sat in the private darkened cave of the KAZX limo’s passenger seat, Jerry gently took Mandy’s hand and held it on the seat between them. Mandy was awash in conflicting emotions, lightning bolts of yes and no crashing into each other. She felt fearful and terrified, then a wave of wonderful melting warmth filled her entire being with excitement for the possibility of a happier future she had long ago ceased to hope for.

The rest of the evening passed easily. Then she was home.

Mandy’s high heels made tapping noises as she hurried up the brownstone stairs to her apartment. She touched her face with the hand Jerry had held, smearing some of its scorching vitality to her cheek. Once inside, she took her time ascending the stairs, refusing to touch the lumpy over-varnished banister in the dimly lit interior of the ancient apartment building. Even the now-familiar odor of pressure cooked dinners and stale tobacco smoke couldn’t break her spirit. She tucked her wallet-sized purse under her chin, unlocked her door and floated into her apartment.

She wished she had someone to tell about this magical evening. Her sister Laura, who would be a young woman now, came to mind. Mandy wondered what Laura’d be like. Wondered if Mom and Dad had also micro-managed a professional career and life for her. Laura was five years younger than Mandy and seemed even at the tender age of eleven to be stronger and more independent than Mandy. Did the teen years produce a rebel? Somehow this didn’t seem to be much of a stretch. Blended thoughts of Laura sneaking cash from the wallet Mandy always left on her yellow Louis XV French dressing table emerged. It never made any sense because they both had as much money as they could ever use and then some. Yes, Laura seemed a puzzle to Mandy even in those long ago days when they were both growing up in that obscenely monstrous albatross of a house. It had been a long time since Mandy allowed herself to entertain thoughts of her sister. Ages since she’d fought back the guilt that crowded her chest and threatened to gag her. She’d felt in those days that Laura’s only chance to turn out okay lay in her hands—the big sister. She’d wanted to protect her, save her. The mind boggling egotism of youth. Did Laura hate her? Did she abandon Laura to the same fate she’d suffered? The putrid legacy in that house of horror?

Mandy smelled her underarm, sniffed twice and decided, yep still clean and sweet. She’d shower in the morning. She knew she might not get a turn at it. She didn’t care. She ran her nose along her finely haired forearm, breathed in hungrily. Jerry’s aftershave. Could he still smell her knock-off White Diamonds perfume?

The tiny porcelain sink with the cracked rim waited. Her room’s one concession to civility, she turned the tap and let barely warm water run copiously over her fingertips, her knuckles, her palms, finally climaxing over her wrists. It was so soothing. Then abruptly she splashed some on her face, and with face and forearms still dripping into the little sink she loaded her lavender colored toothbrush with Colgate toothpaste and brushed languidly. She dried herself thoroughly with her fat pink terry-cloth towel. Suddenly overcome with fatigue, taking just enough time to reset her alarm clock one hour earlier, hoping for that early morning shower, Mandy dropped into bed, a hundred pounds of contentedness. She fell into a deep sleep, her dreams featuring turquoise, yellow and pink clouds.

Chapter 3

The day that followed was filled with more than its share of cranky, demanding customers. Mandy felt more like her usual mildly-depressed self.

She’d snatched the curled copy of Newsweek from the counter at work, ignoring the accusatory frown her boss shot her. His usual look. She knew he’d never fire her. Ogling creep.

After entering her building she trudged up the stairs, grasping the railing tightly and staying to one side, as always considerate of downward travelers. She planned nothing more than eating the still-warm meatball grinder she’d fixed for herself at work. The spicy sauce-laden sandwich was wrapped in two plastic bags to prevent leaks. The bulky shape now rested in her pocketbook. Never sure why, she always refused to use the brown paper lunch bags. Her intension for the evening was just to park herself in the wooden Captain’s chair in her room, put her feet up on the bed and dine in blessed solitude.

Her face a white blank mask, she zombie-walked toward her room until the fluttering of a small yellow piece of paper caught her eye. It jiggled again, the breeze from the window at the end of the hall making it wave at her. The note was speared with a red thumbtack pushed into the wall behind the communal telephone. It screamed Mandy in big black capital letters.

What the?

This was the first time she’d ever had the distinction of being on the receiving end of the message system used by the rooming house. Whoever heard the phone ring, answered it, used the pencil that hung by a string attached to its own white thumbtack, then left a message for the proper party. Most of the people who lived here led inordinately estranged lives so the messages were few and far between. But here was a message for her.

Her face flushed. She produced a silly smile and a dry tongue—her body flooded with adrenaline and feelings of hope and possibility mixed with dire warnings of fear and vulnerability. She held her head high and with new energy, walked over to the phone. The yellow note was folded in half with the text hidden inside the paper sandwich. None of the message was visible. She hiked the strap of