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As the insufferably cheery notes of Wonderful Christmastime invade his awareness, Charles Seaborne realizes he has been standing in front of the uninspiring wine selection of an A&C, staring at it blankly for some time. Trying to choose between a mediocre Merlot and quite possibly an even more mediocre Pinot Noir is impossible with the seasonal jingle assaulting his ears, overriding intelligent thought.
To be honest, he’d prefer whiskey, but years spent away from his home state had made him forget grocery stores here don’t carry hard liquor. To be really honest, he could die a lucky man, if he never had to hear Wonderful Christmastime again, he thinks as he reaches for the Merlot.
Seaborne doesn’t enjoy surprises. As a rule, he doesn’t allow himself to be caught off-guard. Some might call him inflexible, even uptight, he prefers methodical and well-prepared. But as it turns out, it’s very difficult to be prepared for seeing a ghost.
He had been on his way to the checkout, before remembering his intention to pick up a proper shampoo to replace the miserable 2 in 1 his hotel offered, so he turns around to navigate back to the personal care aisle. Halfway there he spots the figure of a tall man standing in the middle of the pet food aisle, browsing dog treats. It had been years since Seaborne last saw him. His glasses are smaller than they used to be, with subtle metal rims, and he’d grown a full beard at some point, but there was no mistaking. His best friend from childhood — who he had not heard from for almost a decade — had apparently gotten a dog.
Apprehension and dread overwhelm Seaborne. He wants to run away, but his feet have stopped moving. It’s not like they had a falling out, really. He could probably just say hello, and Roach would probably say hi back. But then what?
Roach drops a bag of treats into his basket, jolting Seaborne back into action. He scurries behind a shelf and pretends to be engrossed in canned fruit until his heart stops racing. After a moment of contemplation, he decides he can subject his hair to the torture of 2 in 1 for a day or two more and makes his way out of the store, stealing glances over his shoulder, making sure he is not spotted. He doesn’t notice his hands trembling until he’s sitting in his El Camino in the parking lot, failing for the third time to aim the key into the ignition.
By the time he’s back at his hotel room, a spartan affair at a Holiday Inn near the interstate 40, he has almost convinced himself the man he had seen was actually a ghost, or possibly one of those kombucha drinking hipsters that had invaded the town since his last visit. What are the chances it was the man Seaborne specifically hoped to avoid this trip?
After watching two episodes of Magnum P.I. and polishing off most of the wine, he’s practically forgotten about the encounter. It’s as if it hadn’t happened at all. He plans to go on as usual, as if it’s just another job in just another town, not the prodigal son’s return to a place that had not been kind to him. That night he has an unsettling dream about being lost in a maze of dark alleyways, wandering endlessly, hunger and thirst eating away at his insides. Just when he expects to collapse next to a stack of pallets in some dead end that stinks like month old garbage, he notices a lonely turkey vulture on a nearby rooftop staring at him with piercing eyes, waiting.
The dream refuses to leave him alone the following day, and gloomy imagery creeps back into his mind as he sits in his car, staring out of the window and across a parking lot at an office building. It’s rainy and chilly, and the windows of the El Camino keep fogging up as he shivers in his seat, fingers wrapped tightly around a takeaway cup of some sickly sweet gingerbread flavored coffee concoction. If nothing else, the sugar and the caffeine should give him energy to keep staring at the building’s only exit. The guy he was hired to follow should be out any moment now, but Seaborne is not a patient man, so he fiddles with the knobs of the car radio, taps along on the lid of his cup after finding a station that doesn’t play Christmas songs and — after realizing the tapping will not keep him entertained for long — fishes out his phone from his pocket. He’s been doing this for years, he can easily keep one eye on the door of the office building and the other on his phone, while he idly slides his thumb across the screen to reveal increasingly inane, mostly holiday-related, updates from distant friends and even more distant family members.
“Where the hell is he?” Seaborne mutters to no one but himself and leans back in his seat. Even after all the years of working in a job with a lot of downtime, he hasn’t learned to tolerate boredom. It still makes him irritable and antsy; like each minute spent with nothing to do pressurizes the anxious energy inside him until he is ready to pop.
After a while of scrolling, he is sure he doesn’t want to see another picture of someone’s child or pet in a cutesy costume or posed in front of a decorated tree in a mockery of domestic bliss. He hasn’t been paying that much attention to the motions of his thumb, so when he looks down again he’s startled to see the profile page of a Jim Roach. After some initial hesitation he browses through the pictures, just to confirm he is in fact still with Gina and they have two kids and a third on the way. There are several collections of photos, of a vacation to Hawaii, of an anniversary party, of their children’s birthdays. Seaborne scours through them frantically, like he’s trying to find something specific, but he doesn’t know what. When he looks up from the device, his is the only car in the parking lot and the office building looks dark and empty.
That night as he sits alone in his hotel room, trying to distract himself from the strange and somewhat disconcerting damp smell lingering in the surrounding air, he googles Roach. For no real reason, just… He’s curious. He finds Roach has started a business selling commercial kitchen equipment, and all signs imply he is doing alright for himself. He lives not too far from where they both grew up and his number is listed. Seaborne saves the number on his phone. Just in case.
When he calls the number the following morning, he hasn’t planned what to say. Indeed, he hadn’t planned to call at all, but he can’t get the number out of his mind. The mere presence of the number in his phone’s memory has been burning a hole through his pocket ever since he left the hotel earlier. It’s still early, he figures. Judging by the opening hours of Roach’s store, he might still reach him by calling his home number. He hits the call icon on his screen, fully aware he has never done a single thing so spontaneously in his entire life. It rings for some time, and he contemplates hanging up.
“Hello?” Gina answers the phone.
Seaborne inhales to say… to say what exactly? His mind is blank, and his jaw is so stiff he fears he couldn’t move it even if he knew what to say.
“Hello?” Gina’s voice is more demanding and Seaborne is sorry for bothering her like this. She’s probably trying to get the kids to school or something. He really shouldn’t have called. Hanging up on her seems more courteous than creepy, given the circumstances. He decides to drive by Roach’s house later instead to satisfy his curiosity about how the man lives these days, maybe see what kind of car he drives, or if he has a pool.
The driveway is empty when he gets there a few hours later, and he can’t see a pool, but Seaborne slows down to get a good look at the swing set in the yard. It’s a nicer model, he knows after shopping for one for his niece’s birthday last year. The house is nice too; it looks welcoming and happy nestled in between others just like it, with their well-maintained gardens marred only by the occasional scattered toy. Roach has come a long way from where he was when the arrival of his firstborn pressured him into accepting a job offer from his father-in-law instead of pursuing a career with his best friend.
The twinge of something dark he felt outside Roach’s house returns to him later at night, when he is back alone in his hotel room. The feeling is hard to name. Jealousy of the pleasant, middle class family life Seaborne never accomplished with his ex-wife, perhaps, or remorse of letting all that between him and his best friend? Sleep evades him as he tosses and turns in his overly soft bed, getting up every once in a while to adjust the temperature, have a glass of water or to urinate. No amount of focusing on his breathing or imagining himself on a tropical beach calms down the heavy pounding of his vexed heart. He doesn’t know what a panic attack feels like, but suspects it might be something like this.
Even three cups of coffee cannot revive him the next day. Exhaustion is like an itch behind his eyes and sitting still in a car with nothing to do aggravates him even more than usual. The insecurity and guilt that had cursed his existence the night before still linger in him, gnawing away at his usual indifference and cynicism. Worst of all, the day has been long but futile, Seaborne has still not got any incriminating evidence against the man he has been following for the better part of a week and he is seriously considering just packing up his things and going back home. What good will it do him, another day or two in this town that only reminds him of his loneliness? As if the holiday season wasn’t bad enough already.
The passenger side door of the El Camino opens, interrupting his thoughts. Seaborne turns to scold the intruder, but the words he had held on his tongue glide to the back of his throat and he swallows them, as the intruder settles down on the seat beside him, arranges his long legs neatly under the dashboard and leans back in the seat like it’s something natural he does every day. For a while they just sit still, air thick with anticipation. Seaborne has no idea what to expect, and the questions spinning in his mind refuse to be arranged to words.
“What’s the gig? Who are we following?” the intruder says. He’s wearing sunglasses instead of the glasses he had on in the grocery store, and he looks a bit like a rock star with his big beard and leather jacket. Or a moron, considering it’s not sunny, but Seaborne lets that slide for now.
“We are not following anyone, dude, what are you doing here?” Seaborne can’t help but feel a little self-conscious about still wearing the same gray tweed coat, now sporting holes in the elbows. It’s still a good coat, though, and he was never one to throw away perfectly usable items of clothing.
“You wouldn’t have driven by my house six times in two days if you weren’t looking for help.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so what are we doing?”
“It’s an infidelity thing… You know, I only drove by your house because the guy’s mom lives near there, at the end of the cul-de-sac. I was looking for him and thought he might be there.”
“Sure. Good to see ya, man.”
“Hmm.”
Seaborne wants to say he missed Roach, working with him, or just sitting with him like this, but it might be too much. They never said things like that before, theirs just wasn’t that kind of a relationship. He suspects Roach is not expecting it either, judging by the way he leans his cheek on the side window, staring intensely at something outside. Probably some squirrels running around in the park across the street.
“So. Still investigating privately after all these years,” Roach says, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Turns out it’s what I’m good at. Or at least somewhat more successful than as a chef.” Seaborne replies. It’s not untrue, he’s made a name for himself and has a steady trickle of cases landing on his table, even if success may be a slight overstatement.
“Questioning the questionable. Missing dogs and eaten flowers, still?”
“Shut up.” A slight twitch in the corner of Seaborne’s mouth reveals he doesn’t mind the gentle jabbing. The years had softened some parts of him at least. He is no longer the tightly wound bundle of aggression and defensiveness he once was. “Still a lot of cheaters though.”
“You know I gotta ask… is the guy at least older than twelve this time?”
“Come on, man!” Seaborne can no longer contain his giggling, and the delighted grin on Roach’s face only spurs him on. “At least acknowledge my lack of mustache first!”