I shrug. “I could use more help with the recycling.”
With us in terse agreement, the self-proclaimed Rochester drops his stack of nonsense parchment onto the table. Then he exits, slamming the door on a plush spider. Rude.
Once he’s out of sight, I beeline for Bulan’s hiding place.
With a slightly manic air, I say, “Get out. Come on. We’re going to find Baldy and get to the bottom of this tide thing.”
“Sabby, don’t be hasty,” says Bulan. “Are you truly not considering that job?”
“Of course I’m not!”
“While you two were talking, I was thinking about last night’s wedding. Against great odds, you managed a fantastic event. It was a rip-roaring success!”
Time for a friendly reminder. “Remy nearly died.”
“Sure. From behind the scenes, the wedding wasn’t seamless,” Bulan allows. “But by daybreak, the guests were raving about the party—”
“As they drained the blood from half the rabbits of Essex County. Or decimated that butcher shop. Either way.”
“—and catering quirks aside, the guests truly enjoyed the intrigue and spectacle of your decorations! They had a great time. As did Dave and Amanda.”
But not enough to pay me. I place him on the table and sling my bag over my shoulder. “What’s your point?”
“I know you’ve noticed how many members of the Community have visited you, Sabby, including this most recent fay. Now that you have your first big success under your belt, your business could take off tremendously! And some clients might pay their deposits up front, if you asked! You said you were worried about starvation. Perhaps this could ease your fears.”
Bulan waggles his eyebrows, as if that might be the final argument to convince me. It does not. I’m not particularly susceptible to facial hair.
Feeling the weight of stress bearing down on me like a pianoforte, I abandon Bulan with my bag on the table and pace my prison cell, aka Grandma’s apothecary. I refocus on the room and my reality with a miserable and near-defeated sigh. The circumstances are against me: I’m trapped in Salem, I’m hungry, I need to pay rent to Jane, I have no idea what I’m going to tell EFG, and I have shudderingly begun to make a reputation for myself here.
“I need to make a phone call,” I say begrudgingly.
“I don’t think that fay left a number, but I can check,” says Bulan. He uses his nose to rifle through the papers Rochester left behind. I force myself to inhale a shallow, pained breath. This room smells like dust and herbs and the cruelty of fate. It’s funny how when your life burns down around you, it doesn’t have the decency to leave a smell.
“I’m going to have to call Baldy. Then Steve, my supervisor in New York,” I explain to the head, as well as to Grandma’s doubtlessly listening-in spirit. “I think I’ll try to claim FMLA. Even if my company fights it or tries harder to get that a doctor’s note, that’ll buy me time. It’ll mean I still have a job to return to after… after I figure out how to get out of here. I’ll take up one or two more jobs as a wedding planner in the meantime.”
“Oh! All those words just to say you’re having a change of heart.”
“No,” I say. “This is only temporary. I’m a faux wedding planner. A hungry one.”
“Well, if you’re accepting deposits, I believe your customers will expect you to stay in business and carry out their weddings. If you ran out on them, that would be stealing.”
“I’m not stealing,” I reassure Bulan as I bring out my phone.
The last thing I want to do is commit sketchy white-collar crimes that could land me in jail. Nope. I’m going to use this unique, unfortunate opportunity to supplement my financial education.
What could be more hands-on for an accountant than to learn how to run a small business? Monitoring expenses, finding avenues for growth and all that?
A lot of things, probably. But if I’m going to be stuck in Salem, I refuse to let the paranormal world suck me into its grimy vortex, swirling me like water down a toilet. Nope. I’m going to get work experience.
Takethat, Grandma Rose. Take. That.
Baldy must be elated to bill more hours to Grandma’s account, because in spite of it being the weekend, he calls me back immediately after I send my text. Then he leaves avoicemail, which lasts so long, my phone is tied up the entire walk from the shop to Grandma’s house. According to the live transcript of the voicemail, he’s gotten to the point of quoting Proust when I text him:
that’s all really cool, thx, but all I want are pictures of the will and that section talking about the tides, up close and in high-def, ok?
At Bulan’s request, I set out a bucket of water for the head to soak in—whether this is a method of relaxation, hygiene, or (as he suggests) feeding is unclear—and pace the room while he sloshes water onto the carpet. Normal people have roommates who utilize bathrooms. Take Jane Doe, for example, who religiously showers at 11 p.m., rubs lotion on her legs, and stretches. If only last night had gone how it was supposed to, I could be joining in that routine too, while gossiping about literally nothing. If only…
No. I’ve got to stop thinking about how upset I am to be here instead of New York. What will angst do, anyway, except bring me down? Insulting Bulan, on the other hand, is a guaranteed mood lift.
