CHAPTER FOURTY-THREE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

 

Everyone around me is in full tourist attire: straw hats, sun glasses, bright colored shirts, drawstring slacks, white cotton Capris and for the most part flip flops. Pop is over talking to a couple from Ireland. Pop and I drove my Mustang to Dulles. Our flight was uneventful. Actually, I slept pretty much the whole time and Pop read. At Orlando International, we boarded what Pop called a puddle jumper to a town named Kissimmee (pronounced a couple of ways). Anyway, Kiss-i-me is approximately sixteen nautical miles south of Orlando and only eight miles away from Walt Disney World. We’re currently waiting for a shuttle to take us to the car rental place. I sit down on a bench close to our luggage. Might as well spend the free time writing in my journal.

Friday, September 1: Surf City Here I Come...but first Disney World and shopping! Compared to the last two weeks, our flight was uneventful. Pop was cool with that. He wants zero drama on this vaca.

Pop says, “Let go love, our ride is here.”

“Wow,” I murmur. “That was quick. Me like.” A boxy red Disney World Shuttle Service van pulls up to the curb. All of the sliding windows closed. I glance around. There are a lot of people. Question is will they all fit? A tall black man ducks through the door and everyone starts mulling around him talking at once. Pop is one of them. Closing my journal, I stand up and hurry to slide it in the side zipper compartment and grab my stuff and join Pop.

The driver’s eyes grow wide. “Damn, listen up people. All you need a ride to the park?”

The consensus is overwhelmingly “YES!”

The driver shrugs. “It’ll be cozy.” He does a quick head count then snaps his fingers. “Place  your luggage at the rear of the van, I will load it for you. Ya’ll get on in and take a seat.” Speaking slowly as if we’re a group of morons. He crams the bags in the back compartment and the group boards the ice cold van. Two hefty women, sporting crew cuts and matching tats on their necks, sit down in front of us and scoot close together. The smaller of the two says, “I’m sorry honey, but this time you’re doing all of the driving Orlando traffic bites!” Then she props her head on the larger woman’s shoulder.

Her bff says, “Yeah, you’d think Florida would have monorails running every where.”

Exiting the Kissimmee airport grounds, a little yellow school bus—probably full of children in wheelchairs—makes a wide turn in front of our driver. Our driver slams on the breaks yells a string of expletatives and flips off the bus driver. Meanwhile, we’re thrown forward in our seats. Jeez and I thought road-rage was bad in D.C. We meander through the kitschy looking city of Kissimmee until the driver pulls up to a purple and yellow cement building shaped like an Easter egg. We come to a complete stop, the driver, tugs on a bar and the front and back doors glide open.

 “Okay people, give me your attention,” the driver says over a loudspeaker, waving his arm in the air. “This here is the Ace is the Place Car Rental. Ya’ll don’t leave anything behind you don’t want.” He consults a clipboard. “Next stop is the Campbell Days Inn, after that is the Ramada Inn in Lake Buena Visa.”

Pop and I stand up and move toward the front door, we’re the only ones departing. The driver gets out, pushes aside the other bags, and pulls ours out of the back compartment.

“I was thinking we would be closer to Disney,” Pop says, digging in his pocket, pulling out a twenty passing it to the driver’s waiting palm.

“The park is just a hop skip and a jump.”

We enter the ice cold rental office and Pop go to the counter. After Pop signs the agreement, we go search for our rental. We travel about a half a mile down the steaming parking lot. Pop is sweating profusely in his yellow cotton shirt and new loose fitting blue jeans. He wore a pair of top-siders thinking we’d be walking a lot. Smart.

I’m glad I wore all cotton even though I almost froze to death on the plane. My new strappy sandals look sensational.

“Holy Toledo, with the humidity it’s has to be over 100 degrees!”

“I love it!”

He complains as we toss our luggage into the rented SUV. I twirl around snapping a few pictures to document our trip. He pops opens the passenger side door and takes off his Panama Jack hat, fanning his red face.

“Hop in chickey. “Let’s get this air going full blast before I melt into a puddle!”

I climb in and buckle up. He closes my door. Then climbs behind the wheel, fires up the engine and starts twisting buttons on the dashboard.

“This is nice and roomy,” he says, wiggling around in the leather driver’s seat, checking all the controls, adjusting mirrors, wipers, lights, etc. Better, slather on sun screen before I hatch more freckles. I remove my sun glasses and check my face in the large vanity mirror under my visor. I fetch the tube of sun screen from my beach bag and squeeze out a generous amount out on my fingertips. I rub it on my entire face and bare arms.

“How far is it to the Polynesian Hotel?”

Pop unfolds a map; spreading it out over the steering wheel he runs his finger down a line zigzagging from one x to another x., “The nice lady at the desk said this is a short cut to Disney. I need you to be my co-pilot, love.”

He passes me the map and I study the pink magic marker line. “Okay, she drew a diagram from the rental car office to a pair of mouse ears. We want to take five-thirty-five until it legs off a little to the right, and then stops at a Tiki god. That must be the Poly Hotel symbol,” I say, holding the map for Pop to see. “Poly is much easier to say than Polynesian.”

“Great, just get me there sweetheart.”

“Ah, I can’t believe we’re finally here!” I lay my head on the seat and blow out a breath. “I want to roam around the park and check out all the sights. Especially that waterfall pool scene I saw on the Disney website…it is right next to the white sandy beach and you can see the lagoon and the whole park from there. They have fireworks and boat rides. You can water ski or rent a Swan shaped paddle boat…ah…” I turn my head and look a Pop. “Thank you for planning this trip. I so need to have some fun and r & r.”

“Here chatty-cathy,” he says stopping at a red light. He hands me a stack of maps and brochures. “Figure out our agenda.”

I take them and he checks over his shoulder then backs out of the spot. We meander around the vast parking lot following exit signs until we come to a sign that says DISNEY WORLD. I snap pictures of anything out of the ordinary out the window that isn’t much right now. Then read out loud tid-bits in the brochures noting places I’d like to visit. “It would be cool to work at Disney.”

Pop says, “They employ a lot of people. The Disney website said they had sixty thousand employees in nineteen ninety-five.”

“Um, this brochure says people who work at Disney are called cast members...not employees.”

“I stand corrected.”

I open the flyer on the Poly. “Their motto is: Aiita Peatea. It means, "There will be another day tomorrow, just like today." I mull that over.

All of a sudden, the traffic comes to a dead stop. We travel for a few feet craning our necks to see what’s going on.

“It’s due to toll road construction,” Pop say with disgust, “the four lanes bottleneck to one about a mile up ahead. See if there’s an alternate route.”

I check the map. “We’re on 535 (Vineland Road), a short state road in south Orange County and north Osceola County. I don’t know this area.” Pop—thinking that all roads lead to Disney World—stubbornly takes the next exit. “We’re on Interstate 4 going west,” I say reading the signs.

We get totally lost and end up in a place called Doctor Phillips on Turkey Lake Road, lined with coconut palm trees. I twist around as we pass the rear entrance to Universal Studios on our right are the backs of three story cinder block buildings. Who knew? Anyways, to avoid a quarrel, I keep checking the map and keep my lip buttoned while we back track on side streets through zero lot line neighborhoods. Every two story house has a swimming pool. After about twenty minuets of meandering, I point at a sign and shout, “Turn right! Disney five miles.”

Pop grumbles as he turns onto a two lane road. For several miles, we see nothing except palmetto bushes and pine trees. Signs keep saying Disney World this way. I put my sunglasses on and he looks at me. “You think we’re close?”

“We have to be,” I say, constantly searching the desolate landscape for signs of the Magic Kingdom. Then I whip my head around as we pass another sign with Mickey Mouse ears. I check the map for landmarks. “I don’t get it. We should be able to see The Earffel Tower by now.”

Up ahead and off to the side of the road is a little security shack, surrounded by shrub and distorted by heat waves. Pop pulls off the road, rolls to a stop, and puts down his window.

Inside the open door, is a man sitting on a stool, wearing an Indiana Jones hat. A large fan is attached to the roof of the open shack flutters the shirt of his a tan uniform. Finally, a sign of life. I lean forward, wave and smile at him. He gets up and strolls over the white sandy path. He has a Mickey Mouse name tag pined to the left pocket flap it says “Billy from Alabama”. His face is flush from the heat. His short hair is hidden under his hat. He has a ton of freckles on his forearms and face. Even more than me.

“Afternoon,” Billy says, with a southern drawl.

“Afternoon,” Pop and I parrot.

I say, “Um, we need some help.”

After a short chat about this and that, mostly the hot weather, Billy ask, “So, how can I help you?”

Pop mops his forehead with his hanky. “Just wondering if we’re close to the Polynesian Hotel.” I learned from Pop that men never want to admit they’re lost. What is the big deal? Anyway, while ‘Billy from Bama’ gives us long drawn out directions, I jot them down on the map’s margin with an ink pen. Then I repeat them back.

After all that Billy glances around and says, “Aw heck, just faller me.”

Pop puts up the window and turns up the AC while Billy locks up the shack. Then we tag along behind his open jeep, staying on the same two lane road for, quite awhile. Pop mumbles, “I hope Billy isn’t taking us on a wild goose ride.”

“There she blows,” I shout, pointing out the windshield at a water tower shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. I bounce in my seat feeling as if I’m five years old again. Billy’s arm comes out the window and he waves us on. Pop toots the horn thanking him. Then Billy makes a U-turn to go back to his little shack. Then the Main Gate comes into view and I yell, “We’re here!”

Pop stops at the Main Gate and gets instructions from a costumed Disney cast person. I fold the map and store it in the glove box.

“Thanks so much,” Pop says, lowering his sunglasses as she passes through the window a packet full of brochures, coupons, and parking passes. I sit forward, anxious to be out of the rental car reading out loud every sign we pass. “MGM Studios, Magic Kingdom, and Fort Wilderness Campground.” Above puffy white clouds sit up in the bright blue Florida sky, as if Walt put them there himself to make everything perfect for us. I put down my window, stick my head out, and howl like a dog. The warm humid air whips my hair around.

About an hour gone since leaving the Kissimmee Airport, we finally reach the Poly Hotel. Slowing at the front entrance, two men in valet parking uniforms approach us all smiles. Pop puts the rental in park just as our doors are opened. I unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my purse, and get out of the SUV. I’m instantly greeted by Mike from Michigan and Barney from Alabama. Barney resembles Billy, the shack guy. What are the odds that they’re related? Both guys look to be in their early twenties. Mike has a cute tanned face and blondish hair. We defiantly make eye contact.

“Aloha, welcome to the Polynesian Hotel, I’m Barney.”

Pop says, “Hello, I’m Christopher Blakely and this is my daughter Cookie. We’re from Georgetown, outside of Washington, D.C. and we’re not used to this bloody heat.”

I blush and ask Mike, “So, have you worked here long?”

“I’m only working here for the summer. I am going to attend the University of Florida.”

“Ah. I’m thinking about going to Florida.”

Pop hears this and gives me a surprised look. I just shrug and stand on the sidewalk while Barney and Mike pile our luggage on a rolling cart. I only half-way listen while Barney rattles off interesting facts about the hotel and the different theme parks. I can’t help it; it’s as if we flew to the South Pacific instead of Florida. Tiki torches, tropical plants, brilliantly colored flowers are everywhere you look. Steel drums are playing in the distance. The monorail swishes by above our heads and stops at the station on the second level. Mists of water and oversized bamboo fans twirl lazily overhead to help keep the guest cool. Nevertheless, Pop swipes at his forehead again and looks earnestly at the lobby doors.

Mike notices and remarks, “Sorry about the heat.”

I say, “My Pop’s from Ireland and he’s never adjusted to extremely warm climates.”

Taking hold of our luggage cart, Barney from Alabama says with a heavy southern drawl, “Yes, sir, gaud awful humidity here in sunny Florida. But it’s just as bad back home in Birmingham so I’m used to it.” My new beach bag falls off the cart and spills suntan lotion and whatnot on the sidewalk.

I hold out my hand. “Um, I’ll carry that.”

“Opps a daisy,” Barney says as he gathers up everything and hands me my beach bag. He says, “Did you know that the park first opened in October 1971?”

I nod politely and murmur, “Wow, I did not know that.”

After inquiring about our stay, Mike tells Barney under his breath, “I got this one.” I smile happily at Mike and Pop keeps fanning his face with his hat. Barney holds out his hand and Pop passes him the Valet key. We pivot as Mike swings the luggage car toward the glass entrance and points the way. “Cookie and Christopher, if you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the front desk then assist you with your things to you room.”

I’m still smiling (my face is starting to hurt). Pop says, “Super, I’m looking forward to some air conditioning and a cold drink.” While Pop checks us in at the front desk, Mike speaks with his buds at the Valet Desk. I entertain myself by thumbing through the stack of brochures the cheery ‘cast member’ at the Main Gate gave us, mapping out the park and all the choices. There is quite a line of guest waiting to check in so I wander around the Polynesian’s open-air Great Ceremonial House AKA the lobby. I make a quick lop around the massive manmade waterfall in the center of the lobby. The water flowing over lava rocks and lush plants is two stories high. I glace over and see that Pop is at the desk talking to a clerk. I quickly scope out the hotel shops and restaurants, stopping at the railing adjacent to the front desk. Pop joins me. I show him the brochure and point at the chirping tropical birds. “Check that out. Those are Audio-Animatronics birds and robot butterflies. I think the orchids are real though.”

He smiles and touches my back.  “It’s all very beautiful…even if it’s fake.”

Mike shows up with our rolling cart and asks, “Mr. Blakely and Cookie, may I take you to see your suite?”

I tug on Pop’s arm. “After that can we sightsee? Eat? Swim? Shop? Or do whatever?”

Pop laughs. “Sky’s the limit!”

We follow Bellman Mike as he maneuvers our overloaded luggage cart through the lush Polynesian tropical gardens complete with streams stocked with Koi (Japanese fishes). Mike tells us, “The Poly has two swimming pools and a white sand beach.” We pause on a raised wooden bridge to take in the view near a circular swimming pool filled with noisy kids and rock music. “This pool has piped in music, a Volcano waterslide, and a "lava" waterfall.” Mike indicates a Tiki style sign. “This is the Nanea Volcano pool.”

I frown at Mike. “Nanea?”

“It means fascinating.”

“Ah.”

“The quiet pool is for adults and mature children––non-rowdy teens.”

I pause by a glassed in wall and take in the panoramic view of the park across a wide body of water. This is where Mom’s binoculars will come in handy. I packed them in my beach bag. I lift my sunglasses squint.

Pop says, “Check out the speed boats, jet skis, and old timey paddle boats!”

Make says, “At the kiosk by the pools or in the Great House, you can rent them or buy tickets to anything Disney has to offer. Or just pick up your phone and call the front desk.”

“Too cool!” Pivoting to the right, I spot an old fashioned red train with a trail of smoke flowing out of the locomotive. Above are ornate tips of Cinderella Castle. Space Mountain’s futuristic silvery dome is to our right, in the distance. Monorail trains snake along the two elevated cement tracks coming and going to the Magic Kingdom. I watch a blue and white train glide into the ultramodern Continental Hotel. “How does Disney do it?”

Pop laughs then whispers over my shoulder, “By charging an arm and a leg to stay here.” We don’t have to worry too much—I’m aware of the checks he calls “Guilt money” that come from the government monthly because of Mom’s death. I know that some of the money helped start his catering business. Pop puts most of the money into investments for our future and to pay for my college. I’m seriously considering Gainesville. I’ll ask Josh what he thinks.

 “I see you are staying in the Tokelau longhouse.” Mike says, interrupting my thoughts. He slides the key card, opens the door for us and steps aside. I dash across the floor and open the french doors to our terrace. I love it and the view is awesome. I can see Cinderella’s castle and the whole park. I come back inside and stand in the middle of the room. Pop takes care of Mike’s tip then shuts the door and checks out the view.

“So? This shack okay?”

“THIS ROCKS!”

I hug Pop, and then swiftly stow my clothes in a bamboo closet and matching chest of drawers. Then go to the toilet and put on my new white shorts, a lime green halter top, and white flip-flops with the rhinestone straps. I gather all of my hair and slide it thru a yellow visor letting it fall around my shoulders. Freshen my lip gloss and come out carrying my beach bag. Pop is on the balcony overlooking lush gardens and pathways. He looks over his shoulder squinting. “It’s about hundred degrees outside. I think I’ll chill out here for a little while, eat some lunch and swim this afternoon.”

“Mind I shop for a bikini?” I ask, joining him on our balcony.

“I thought you wanted a bikini from Ron Jon’s.”

“Pop, After being cooped up in a plane and cars, I feel like a caged tiger. Plus I want to scope out the joint.” I wiggle anxious to go. “I can’t wait until Cocoa…I have to have a bikini now! One piece swimsuits are so old fashioned. Practically everyone here is wearing a bikini. Did you see the girls by the pool?”

Pop smiles sheepishly. “I’m old, but I’m not blind.” He points at a row of hammocks under the palm trees on the white sand man-made beach. “After lunch, I’m going to take a snooze in one of those.”

I hold out my pale arms. “Right now I want to work on my tan.”

Pop makes a goofy face. “Careful. If you bake too long, you’re going to turn into a lobster.” He pulls a room card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “That’s yours. Charge your purchases to our room.”

“Cool, thank you!” I look down on three Tiki gods, planted in the middle of a circle of dark green turf, surrounded by red and yellow hibiscus flower bushes. “I could live here. I’m sure you get used to the humidity after awhile.”

We go back inside and Pop shuts the sliding glass door.

I pass him the Poly’s room service menu and daily event schedule sitting on the desk next to the television. “Tonight we can go to a Luau and then spend a few hours in the Theme Parks. Like you said, it’s too hot to go during the day.”

“Have fun,” he says, sounding all serous, “but watch yourself. You never know where and when Fredrik Koshechka might show up.”

I peck him on the cheek and pat my bag. “Don’t worry. I have my trusty sun-block five thousand and my cell phone.” Jeez, until now, it never occurred to me that Valentine might follow us to Florida. Great.

 

I shake off the creepy feeling and saunter through the court yard. I pass a couple of nerdy boys wearing identical Goofy tee shirts hanging out by a waterfall, whistle at me. I roll my eyes and head inside the lower lobby, thinking this is what I attract? I follow the signs and stumble on a full service salon offering pedicures for only $30.00. Do I dare? Pop did say it was okay to charge my purchases to our room. I push through the glass door and the girl behind the counter talks me into buying a special on skincare suntan products for fair skin. Only $75.00 and a free tote bag! After that, I find the perfect bikini. ON SALE! I try it on and stare at my reflection for a long time. I twist around tugging at the material barely coving my bottom. Wow it’s pretty small, I hope Pop doesn’t blow a gasket. The sales girl helping me knocks on the dressing room door. “Well?”

“I love it!” I come out and show her.

“You look great!”

“Thanks. Um, can I wear it?”

“Sure. Just let me clip the tickets and I will charge it to your room.” Do you need a cover-up?”

I glance down at my bare midriff. “Okay.”

Anyway, about two hours after leaving Pop in our suit, and $275.00 (plus tax) on our tab, I head to the pool clad in my new red bikini and a sheer white ‘cover-up’. I accept a big fluffy towel from the nice girl manning the Tiki shack next to the pool and park my butt in the last available lounge chair. I can’t help noticing the “large” painfully-sunburned family using the four chairs next to mine. Their two pre-teen kids each weigh over two hundred pounds. Come on people; teach you children healthy eating habits.

I slather on the special suntan oil the Salon cosmetician recommended for my skin type, and one of the pre-teen boys wraps a beach towel around his large middle, staring opening at me with this goofy grin on his pudgy face. He comes over says, “Hey there,” in a flirty way.

Ewe!

I pretend not to hear him. I lie back, acting as if I’m sleeping behind my sunglasses, and turn my attention to a couple of cute guys in wresting in the pool. They slide down the Volcano slide and then swim toward me. As they get closer, I realize they are half my age.

“Rats!”

Is it me or is the family next to me squealing like pigs? After devouring several chili cheese dogs and chocolate ice creams shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, the large family starts packing up their stuff. Thank you, maybe someone interesting will take their place. I reach inside my beach bag for the paperback I’d tossed in without much thought and attempt to read the first paragraph. After reading the same paragraph three times, I close the paperback and my eyes. Forget trying to concentrate. I let my mind wanders in multiple directions. I miss having Josh to talk to. I find my cell phone and speed-dial Josh’s number. My stomach gets all nervous waiting for him to pick up. Not sure why. His message service comes on and my heart sinks so low, that I hang up without leaving a message. I tune into the great music playing and look around at all the vacation action. This place rocks! I tuck my cell phone back inside my bag.

“No biggie,” I tell myself, I’ll try calling Josh again later. While at the Luau. While taking in the whole Disney scene, I find myself toying with the idea of moving to Florida. I’d be on my own because Pop would never leave D.C. especially now that he has a new catering business that’s just starting to take off. I picture how happy he looked on the television show. No doubt, he’ll be very successful fast with his reputation. Suddenly something blocks my sun.

A cute Asian guy with a dark tan smiles down at me. “Cocktail?” he asks, moving to the side so the sun can tan me.

I stifle a laugh. He thinks I’m old enough to order booze.

“Just a regular Pepsi please,” I say, smiling up into the sun at him.

He smiles and looks down at me with his smiling chocolate brown eyes. He’s well built like Josh. Cute Asian guy has a name tag on his blue shirt that says Hi I’m Bane from Hawaii. “Would you care for something to eat?”

I smile back and shake my head no. “I’m good.”

Bane writes down my order on a little pad and moves to the next person. I remove my sunglasses and look at my reflection in the lenses. Hum, I guess I could pass for twenty-one. I slather on another layer of the special suntan oil and watch Bane move from chair to chair taking orders. I wonder if Bane likes his job here in Florida better than living in Hawaii. But seriously, why would anyone ever leave Hawaii? Huh. Florida must be a great place to live. About a half hour passes before Bane finally returns with my Pepsi. By now, I’m dying of thirst. He sets the sweating ice cold can and a plastic cup full of half-melted ice on the little white table next to me. I reach for the Pepsi.

“You can charge the tab and tip to your room.”

I nod.

Bane smiles and politely asks, “Room number please?”

“Um, I don’t know it by heart.” I dig my plastic key card. out of my beach bag and hand it to Bane.

Bane studies it and hands me my receipt. “You are in the Tokelau. Just sign on the line.”

“Works for me,” I say, signing my name neatly and add a generous tip of three bucks. Pop taught me to tip well.

“Thank you,” Bane says, eyeing the receipt, “Cookie.” He looks right at me. “Enjoy your stay at the Polynesian. If there is anything I can do to make your vacation more enjoyable please let me know.”

“Why thank you Bane.” I say, since we are on first name basis. “I really appreciate that.”

I sit back and sip my Pepsi. Ah, now this is the life. Yes, I get it, Bane is trained to say nice things to paying guest, it’s part of the spiel. Still, I’m finding (for the most part) that Floridians are courteous and down-right nice. The Kissimmee Airport van driver was probably just having a bad day. It must be because they love living in paradise.

The large man standing behind Cookie Blakely, dressed in a tan safari costume, starts worrying about his disguise. In this stifling heat, pancake makeup tends to melt.

 

CHAPTER FOURTY-TWO ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

After school, I come home to an empty house and go in my room. I fire up my iron to touch up some wrinkled cloths before packing them. In the interim, I take out my journal and write. Thursday August 31: I’m a little bummed. Josh is out with his father tonight so I won’t be seeing him until we get back from Florida. I miss him already. I wish Pop were home so we could discuss our trip. I don’t even know where we are going first—Universal Studios or Disney World––

My cell goes off and I put my journal aside and pick it up to see who’s calling. Shock. Char is calling moi?

“Hi Char.” I tuck my cell in the crook of my neck and start ironing my new cotton blouse.

“Hey, oh…wow…I’m surprised you answered…your, um cell.” I didn’t see her or Billy at school, but with everything going on I didn’t expect to. I must say I’m surprised she’s calling me. She says, “I mean it’s what…only one o’clock...you usually don’t answer your cell until after swimming.” She sounds spacey like she just woke up or drunk. I hope she’s not drinking in her condition. “You’re either skipping or you’re breaking school rules. Fess up my lil friend.”

I remind her. “Today was a half day at school…because of Labor Day weekend? Therefore, no swimming practice—for the third day in a row. Aren’t you happy? We have a four-day holiday. Yippee!”

Char says, “Right… I always wonder why they don’t wait until after Labor Day to start the school year. Seriously, we never really accomplish anything the first week of school except…” Char loses her train of thought. I hear her blow out a long breath. “Anyways, I was just going to leave a message wishing you bon voyage.”

“Thanks, um, so how are you doing?” I ask, folding my new outfits and place them in my suitcase.

She laughs. “Don’t ask. Look, I have to go do some stuff.” Char just hangs up.

“Okay. Well, bye.” What else can I say?

I put four disposable cameras and Mom’s binoculars into my new straw bag I plan to use as a beach bag, and toss my boring one-piece Speedo into the suitcase. After July, you can’t buy swimwear in D.C. I’m counting on Florida shops to be stocked full of bikinis. My dream is to buy a red one—or several—at Ron Jon’s Surf Shop in Cocoa Beach. I finally finish packing for Florida.

I strain my ear. The phone in the hallway is ringing. I run down the stairs and hear Pop leaving a message: “Cookie, I called awhile ago and left a message on your cell. Where are you? I thought swim practice was canceled. I left you a note I on the kitchen counter. I’m working out some issues with the bridezilla’s mother. He mumbles something about a family Crawfish etouffee recipe then says I’ll call back later Bye-bye.”

Now that he’s in the catering bus, I’ll have to get used to him being away at night. The cuckoo-coo clock says it’s almost six. I push through the kitchen door. I pick up an envelope propped against on the island. My name is scrawled on the front. I rip it open and unfold the paper. Hi Love, in the refrigerator is a plate for of scraps for Beggar. Be home soon love, Pop

I laugh and cross over to the door and peer out. It’s getting dark so I flip on the patio light. The ash gray cat is on the back patio sitting on his wide haunches licking his paw. I tap on the door and call out, “Hey fatso!”

He ignores me.

I open the refrigerator and stare at the sparse contents. We’ll be gone four days so Pop cleaned the fridge. Probably donated all the food to a shelter. A small plastic saucer covered with plastic wrap is piled high with chicken chunks. The only other items are four packs of bottled water, a bag of apples, a six-pack of boxed grape juice, and a case of my beloved Pepsi. Thank you. I grab the saucer, an apple, and a Pepsi—my first one today. The food court at school shuts down for holidays.

I bite into the apple, get rid of the plastic wrap and carry the saucer outside. I remove the apple from my mouth. “Here ya go Beggar boy, chow time!” While the cat eats, I eat my apple and glance around the shadowy yard. Even though I’m sure, the agents are watching over our house, it’s still spooky being home alone. A shiver runs through me. I crouch petting Beggar as he finishes up. “Have to fend for your self for a couple of days chubby boy.” Beggar starts licking himself. I go back inside and bolt lock the backdoor. I glance around. The house is too quiet. I flip on the little TV and turn it to the local news station hoping to catch reports on either on Mom or the deal in the school parking lot. I glance at the chef clock. It’s 6:23. Sipping my Pepsi, I perch on a stool.

“Selling pet garments has become a million dollar business,” says a reporter with short blond hair and a big smile. Sitting next to her is a lady holding up a tiny dog wearing a bikini and big sunglasses. “Labor Day Weekend attire for your pampered pet, it isn’t just about humans anymore.”

“Awe...how cute!”

Our next guest is known for his Creative, award-winning cuisine—I am sincerely honored to have Christopher Blakely with us today. But we Washingtonians know and love him as Ireland’s celebrated chef C.A.B.! The dog lady walks off set and Pop waves at the camera as he wheels out a silver cart full of food. He looks so professional in his chef’s uniform.

“Oh my gosh!” I grab the remote and raise the volume.

“Welcome to the “The Buzz around D.C. segment.” He takes a seat on the set across from the lady reporter. “Christopher, I understand you will be in charge of catering the West wedding taking place next week.

Smiling ear-to-ear, Pop rubs his hands together. “That’s correct, I’m happy to say that I am officially back in business.”

 She tastes one of the appetizers and moans. “Outstand and sinful. Looks like our whole studio audience will get to sample some of your gourmet canapés and appetizers.” She looks at the camera. “Folks in the Metro D.C. area...if want the your party, wedding, fund raiser—or whatever have you—catered by the best...you’d better book with Chef C.A.B.’s Catering Company, ASAP—before he’s all booked up!” She nods enthusiastically. “I know I am!”

I shout at the TV, “Way to go—that plug should get us a few thousand jobs!”

“The handsome, up, and coming Senator, Ethan Alexander West and his fiancée Mary Bess Rothschild will be holding their wedding reception here at the International Trade Center.

 While the reporter talks, Pop stands by the cart passing out samples to the line of people filing by on the television set.

“Mary Bess is the youngest daughter of Mayor Jacques Louis Rothschild, of New Orleans. They were on our morning show. Mary Bess is a former Miss. Universe and a member of Republicans for Black Empowerment (RBE). The couple met at the Young Republican Convention and the rest of their story is a tabloids reporter’s dream. And can you believe it? Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre are actually in the wedding party—”

“Get out!” That should be a fun reception. I wonder if I’m allowed to get autographs. They go to the stock market segment and I turn off the TV and head upstairs to scope out the Internet for shops in Orlando, and change my ringtone. I download “Ain't That Unusual” by the Goo-Goo Dolls ringtone and mess around looking at different style bikinis until my sore elbow starts throbbing. I turn on my stereo and slide in a Beach Boys CD then up in my window seat with my journal and Beal’s photographs. I pause to look out at the murky sky outside my window, and pray for good weather in Florida. The forecast is supposed to be sunny and humid, but it’s hurricane season...so you know what that means. I rest my sore arm on a pillow and write some more under today’s entry.

After I bonked my arm yesterday, I passed out and slid into the kitchen floor. When I came to, Josh was standing so close I thought he was about to administer mouth-to-mouth. He noticed that whenever I get nervous or upset I start hyperventilating. He thinks that’s why I passed out. Funny, I never knew that about myself. I think the stress is what made me faint. Anyway, Pop took Josh home a little while later and I completely forgot to show them the dark figure in the photos of Char’s crash.

I hear my cell phone play the new ringtone for first time. I jump up, dance over to my desk and pick up my phone off my bedside table. Yippie, its Josh! “Wassup buttercup,” I say happily.

“Not much. I just called to wish you and your dad a totally safe and awesome trip!”

“Pop’s not here but you can wish me one...oh, wait...you just did! I thought you were out with your dad tonight.”

“He’s grabbing a quick nap first. He’s been burning the candle at both ends.”

“Ah. Because of moi?”

Josh laughs. “Yeah. I’ve been on my computer the last hour researching former Russian KGB and GRU agents. Guess what I found—”

“Um, Josh?”

“Sorry, I know...you said that you needed a break from all this.”

Josh catches on fast. “Thanks. I don’t mean to be ungrateful for all of your help, really. I just want to think about sun and fun for the next few days. I’ll bring you back a souvenir...how about some Mickey Mouse ears?”

Josh laughs. “Cool, I’d love it!”

“You deserve so much more.”

“Well...Cookie, think about me while you’re riding the waves. I’m so used to being around you lately it feels weird being apart. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Okay. How should I take that? I ask, “Want me to call you from Florida?”

Josh says, “You better… Eh...my dad’s calling me. Peace out!”

“Bye.”  I click off and set my phone down on top of Beal’s envelope. “Forget about Valentine!” I pick up the envelope and fling it across the room. I need a break. I put my head back and sing, “Surf City here I come. Surf City gonna have some fun!”

 I fall asleep. I wake from a dream of Mom in that cage calling to me. “Where is she?” Half asleep, I get up to go the bathroom. On the way back, I notice Pop’s bedroom door is open. I peek in, his bed is still made. I look at his bedside clock. It’s almost midnight. Why isn’t he home yet?

What if Pop’s been in an accident? Horrifying visions flash through my mind.

—Get a grip...you’re losing it Cookie.

Right. He’s okay. I would know.

I go downstairs to look out the living room window and my heart stops. Fredrik Koshechka is standing in the middle of the front yard. I jump backwards almost falling. I’ve seen enough movies to know that my situation warrants a call for help.

I find my footing and snatch up the receiver off the phone on the table in the hall. Panting, I punch in 9-1-1 and try to catch my breath. I hold the receiver to my ear, my hand is shaking. Then run around the first floor in the dark house, locking windows, doors, and turning on every light. If Pop was home, the lights would already be on. Where are Agent Smith and Markowitz? I peer out the window. The van is out there, but I don’t want to go outside. “How do I alert them?” I jump up and down waving my arms.

The line is dead. I pound on the phone. Frantic, I drop the receiver, fly up the stairs flipping on lights, and grab my cell punching 9-1-1.

“Is this an emergency?” A woman with a professional tone asks me.

“Uh, yes, I mean I think so.” I hesitate wondering what I’m supposed to say. Personally—until tonight—I’ve never ever called emergency service.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“Um, (I swallow) there’s a man—a big man—standing in our front yard! What should I do?” I’m holding my cell phone so tightly that my bandaged hand has begun to ache and sweat. I quickly switch the phone to my other hand and rub my palm on my jeans. This hurts my elbow.

“Where are you?”

“At home…upstairs…alone! I know him. It’s Fredrik Koshechka. It’s a long story.”

“What is your name?”

 “Cookie...Cookie Blakely.” I tell her and creep down the stairs. It feels like I’m treading water. I step into the living room and the stupid coo-coo bird comes out unexpectedly and starts announcing midnight. I jump about a foot off the floor and spin around.

—The operator is talking.

“What?”

“Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

I glance down at the front of my shirt. “No. I’m okay, just scared,” I say, clutching the phone even tighter, my elbow doesn’t hurt anymore. I must be numb with fear. I scoot across the living-room floor and plaster myself to the wall by the front window. “To be safe, I turned on every light and locked all the doors and windows.”

“What, do you want brownie points?”

“Huh?” What did she just ask me?

“Cookie, can you describe the suspect? Did you see his face?”

“Um.” I place a shaky hand against the curtain, take a deep breath, and slowly push the curtain aside—just a sliver. “He’s gone.” Now I’m not so sure it was a person, it might’ve been just a shadow.

“So, did you just imagine you saw a man?”

The front yard is empty. I turn my head left and right. Nothing. I press my cheek to the glass to see if anyone. “I think he’s standing on the front porch. It’s shrouded in darkness; I can’t tell if the shadows are...”

The operator asks, “Cookie is the front door is dead bolted?”

“I don’t know.” My mind races and fear paralyzes me. I let go of the curtain and press my back against the living room wall trying to muster up the nerve to dash to the foyer and check the front door. I freaked out so bad that now I can’t remember if I checked the front door.

 “You need to make sure the door is locked.”

What if Valentine bursts in just as I’m approaching the door? If he has a gun or knife, I’m toast! If I don’t lock the door I’m toast!

“Check it.”

I need to hide. My eyes dart around the room. There’s no place that he couldn’t find me in seconds. My feet are glued to the floor. “I-I can’t catch my breath…I feel like I’m going to puke...or worse faint.”

“Cookie, listen to me. Try to calm down, I can hear you hyperventilating. Slow your breathing. Listen. An officer is in route to your house.”

“Thank you!” I gasp and tears spring to my eyes. I find myself standing in the foyer staring at the front door, without knowing how I got there.

“I want you to stay on the line with me. Trust me someone should be there any moment.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about the man you saw. Was he light or dark skinned?”

“It was too dark, I couldn’t see his face. However, I know that he's Russian. He was wearing a long dark coat and a hat. He was just standing out there like a statue. It’s weird. I know who he is. He is Fredrik Koshechka an ex-KGB guy.”

“Okay. Listen Cookie. If you can, go make sure all exterior doors are locked with deadbolts. I know you said you already did so but it’s important to check them again.”

The front door looks wavy. I reach for the knob and it twists right and left. I watch in sheer terror, trembling uncontrollably. “Oh no!” I whisper. He-he’s trying to get inside!” He pounds on the door. “Please help me!” I scream backing away from the door. “He’s pounding on the door. He’s trying to get in the house!” I realize the deadbolt must be in place. After Ivan said for us to deadbolt the door, I guess I got into the habit of locking it without thinking. Turning, I dash into the living room and seize the fireplace poker, again without planning to. He bangs on the door again and calls my name through the door.

“Cookie!” More banging. “Cookie...hello? Are you in there…Cookie?” A loud muffled voice comes from the other side of the door and he pounds on the door again. I hold the poker out in front of me, ready to impale whoever comes through the door. Someone is shouting.

“Help me!”

The woman’s voice in my ear shouts, “LISTEN TO ME COOKIE! An officer is at your front door.”

“No way,” I argue. “It’s HIM! It’s Valentine!” The banging on the door becomes more persistent. “Oh my god, someone is trying to knock the door down!” I scream, but nothing comes out. My throat has completely closed up. I have to defend myself. With a death grip on the poker, I skirt along the living room wall and use the poker to push aside the curtain again.

Outside, flashing red and blue lights fill the front yard and bounce off the wet black pavement. I cringe. The neighbors are gathered out on the sidewalk pointing at our house.

“Oh shoot!”

A voice in my ear shouts, “Sweetie you’d better open that door before the officers knock it down!”

Now I hear a familiar voice shouting my name.

“Okay.”

Still gripping the fireplace poker and the cell phone tightly against my ear I move into the foyer and squint through the peephole.

“Josh?”

I lean the poker in the corner under the light switch, suck in a deep breath, and unlock the deadbolt then quickly step back as the door swings open with a bang. Josh grabs me and hugs me. Over Josh’s shoulder I see his dad on the sidewalk talking to a clump of neighbors—hopefully telling them to go home and MYOB.

Holding me at arms length, Josh looks me up and down and says. “Cookie, are you all right?”

I nod and open my mouth to ask if they caught Valentine, but Josh mashes my face into his shoulder while hugging me even harder. Josh says, “I freaked when my dad got the four-fifty-nine call and the emergency dispatch operator said it was you!

I can hardly breathe. I put my hands on his chest and push back so I can breathe. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Did they get him? Did they get Valentine?”

Josh looks stunned. “He was here? Where the hell are Smith and Markowitz?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

A far-away voice says, “Hello? Hello?” We both look down at my cell phone still in my hand. It’s the nine-one-one operator’s voice. Josh gently removes my cell from my grip and confirms to the concerned operator that I am safe then clicks the end button. My ring tone immediately plays “Ain’t That Unusual” by the Goo-Goo Dolls. Josh looks at the screen and holds it up for me to see. Pop is on the line.

I take my cell. “Pop, I was worried about you!”

“I called on our land line. The phone company told me it was out of service. What’s wrong with the phone?” Pops asks, sounding tired and exasperated.”

Officer O’Dell steps up on the porch and says, “We’ve checked the premises and didn’t find anyone.”

“Hang on a sec Pop...I need to talk to Officer O’Dell.” I hear him ask, “Wayne O’Dell? Why is he there?” I frown and ask, “Did I imagine the whole thing?”

Officer O’Dell shakes his head and says, “I don’t think so Cookie…”

Officer O’Dell pauses to check his notes in his hand and Josh pipes in, “One of your neighbors may have seen your prowler though, she was slightly hysterical and spoke in rapid Spanish.”

“Daisy Rodriguez,” I offer. “She very colorful. Daisy is a nice lady but…”

“At any rate, Mrs. Rodriguez kept referring to someone named Hernando, a negro, Humphrey Bogart, and Casa Blanca. Then another neighbor, a Mr. Dobbs, stepped in and translated the best he could. He said Daisy was telling us that she was out walking her Chihuahua Hernando just before midnight and saw a dark man walking ahead of her on the sidewalk. She stood in the shadows watching him walk to the corner.” Wayne pivots and extends his arm. Josh and I crane to see where he is pointing. “A few minuets later, a taxi pulled up and the man got in and the taxi drove away.” Officer O’Dell looks flustered. “So, I presume Daisy Rodriguez saw an Afro-American man who resembled Humphrey Bogart in Casa Blanca?”

I make a face. Afro-American? Um, no way. Daisy is confused. My prowler was definitely white. Maybe she was referring to the black hat and coat he was wearing. Officer O’Dell, I’m sure it was Fredrik Koshechka,” I say with some certainty.

“Ah.”

Pop’s voice sounds like mouse yelling on my cell. “I’m sorry Officer O’Dell, can you hold on a sec?” He nods and I put my cell phone to my ear, “Pop, where are you?” Nothing. “He’s clicked off.”

We all look over as Pop pulls into the driveway and parks the van. He jumps out and rushes over. I meet Pop and we hug.

“What in blue blazes?”

I turn my head to the side to look at Josh. “Tell him.”

Josh looks at Pop. “There was a prowler standing in your front yard.”

Pop’s expression is a mixture of shock and fear. He looks at me.

“Josh and his dad came.”

Officer O’Dell says, “Christopher is it okay if we come inside? We need to get some more information.”

The neighbors are watching.

“Prowler?” Pop echoes still trying to wrap his head around the scene. He and Wayne shake hands and I follow them inside.

Josh brings up the rear.

I whisper over my shoulder to him, “I’m still confused about the Afro-American part.”

Officer O’Dell shuts the door and his shoulder radio calls him. We stand in the foyer until he signs off. We all shift to the living room as he explains, “Agent Smith and Agent Markowitz spotted your prowler and took off after the taxi. They were wondering about the heavy-set Hispanic woman in the street trying to wave them down. Apparently, the two agents were on a high-speed chase all the way to the Regan Airport where they lost the taxi in heavy congestion surrounding a multi-vehicle accident caused by the rain slick roads. When I leave here, I need to meet them at the station to set up roadblocks and put out an APB. But first, if you are up to it, I need Cooke to give me her statement.”

“I’m fine. I’m just glad the press didn’t show.”

Officer O’Dell, “The FBI has us working on a secure line to keep unwanted ears away.”

In the next the few minutes, I do my best to give them an accurate account of what I (think) I saw. “I’m not one hundred percent sure it was Valentine, but who else could it be?”

Officer O’Dell says, “Well, we should hear something soon.”

Before he leaves with his dad, Josh bear hugs me and says, “Be careful in Florida.”

My last waking thought is Ivan is right, Koshechka’s a slippery bastard! No, wait—I lie—my last waking thought is Josh’s hugs.