She said this as if she truly understood. We went back to eating, and our conversation turned to lighter topics, mostly the experiences of the day: her conquering the Ferris wheel, the number of bruises I’d gotten ice-skating, and the true identity of the woman in the Grant Wood painting American Gothic.
“I always assumed it was a picture of a farmer and his wife,” I said.
“No,” April said, “It’s his spinster daughter.”
“How did you know that?”
“I study art.”
Later in the evening, a Beatles song, “Norwegian Wood,” came on over the restaurant’s sound system. About halfway through the song, April said, “I like this song. It’s pretty.”
“I like it too,” I replied.
“I wonder who sings it.”
“It’s the Beatles,” I said. “But it wasn’t one of their bigger songs.”
“Oh,” she said. “The Beatles.” She took a bite of sushi, then asked, “Are they new?”
I looked at her to see if she was kidding. She just looked back at me.
“No. They’ve been around awhile.”
“I’ll have to find some of their music. They’re pretty good.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Some people think so.”
It was nearly eleven when April yawned and checked her watch. “Oh my, it’s late. We better get on home.”
“It’s been a nice day,” I said. “Thank you for the . . . tour.”
“It has been nice,” she said. “And it was my pleasure.”
I paid the bill, then, with our waiter’s help, found the nearest Blue Line station.
As we neared the Irving Park stop, April said, “This is my stop. Yours is two down. After Montrose.”
“Should I walk you home?”
“No. It’s safe.”
As the train approached the station, I asked, “Can I see you again? For another tour?”
She reached into her purse and brought out one of the diner’s business cards and scribbled a number on the back of it. “That’s my phone number.”
The train stopped and the door opened. April hesitated, looking at me, almost as if she wanted a kiss. Then she said, “Call me, please.” She touched my arm, then stepped out onto the platform.
I watched her out the window. She just stood there, looking at me with a sweet, sad look. She waved as the train pulled out.
I couldn’t figure her out. She had been most adamant that today hadn’t been a date, but then she wanted me to ask her out.
The train reached the Jefferson Park station just five minutes later. As I walked home, I realized that even though we’d talked all day, I didn’t really know anything about her—except that she seemed to have a peculiar disconnect with popular culture. She knew Rachmaninov and Grant Wood but had never heard of Hitchcock or the Beatles? How could you not know who the Beatles were?
There was more to this woman than met the eye. I was looking forward to finding out what that was.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Nothing is so predictable as the dominance of the unpredictable.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
The next Monday morning I had been at my desk for less than an hour when Timothy buzzed my cubicle.
“Come see me,” he said.
I walked to the office. He was packing the contents of his desk into a box.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Did you get the memo?”
“What memo?”
“Leonard’s gone.”
“That was fast.” I leaned against the back wall of his office. “Potts said he was going to fire him. I didn’t know if he was serious.”
“Potts is always serious,” he said.
“Leonard told me he fires people a lot.”
“Actually, he’s never fired anyone,” Timothy said.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s too much red tape in firing people. So he demotes them, then transfers them to some remote hellhole, hoping they’ll quit.”
“Does it work?”
“Usually.”
“Is that what he’s doing to Leonard?”
“Yes. He’ll send him to some satellite office to languish in obscurity. Writers’ purgatory.”
“How is Leonard taking this?”
“Not well. He’s blaming you.”
“Why would he blame me?”
“Because Potts told him that you’re now in charge of the creative team. So, presumably, it’s your decision.”
I sat down in one of the chairs. “He said he was going to put me in charge. I have no idea what that means.”
“It means you’re my boss,” Timothy said. “Welcome to your new office.”