Second Self

Swish ... Swish.

Gingerly he swiped his fingertips along the tabletop. First in one direction, then against the grain.

After a few seconds more following a pervading stillness, he feigned an attempt at wiping away non-existent dust with his entire palm in a flourish. The narrow surface above his knees was ablaze in white formica reflected against the sun rising outside the vertical window at his right. The glare made him blink, unforgiving as it was, so he pushed slightly back from the table to an arms length, tilting against the seatback until the chair creaked against his weight. He puffed out his cheeks and blew a stale raspberry against boredom in which he found himself currently ensnared.

God, it was too early for a tie.

Across the table sat a prim looking, darkly attractive lady of latin descent with her hair pulled back into a tight little bun, adorned in a particularly pristine, gray suit ... complete with a tie.

At no time did her eyes ever rise to meet his as he waited.

Patiently.

He let the chair pitch forward abruptly until all four legs were equally, firmly planted into the low, gray, industrial carpet.

He rubbed his face with both hands, pulling at his temples until he'd satisfied his inane feeling his skin was just that much tighter. He groaned audibly. He exhaled his exhaustion. He yawned against the glare of the incoming early dawn mixed within the blinding white from the overheads.

Still, nothing. At the table opposite, she stared straight into her paperwork occasionally paging back before revisiting her current place open atop the tabletop before her.

Alice? No. No, Ana. That's how she'd introduced herself. A whole lotta names after that, but he'd caught Ana.

He drummed the tabletop briskly but briefly. Stared straight into her face. Leaned forward, puffed out his cheeks. Stuck out his tongue. Still nothing.

Tough audience. he thought.

He stood, just to see what she would do. Jammed his hands into his pockets.

Nothing. She turned another page. The new section appeared to have photographs down one side. He looked away, strolled casually toward the window. He'd only gotten a brief glance, but he'd recognized those photos.

Dread began to well within as he gazed out and down at the awakening city preparing to go about his day.

It had been about a million years since he'd been called in like this.

The phone'd buzzed his awake at around 4:30. It'd been so early and likewise had been so long that he had forgotten his name. But he'd pinched his nose, slapped his face and answered all the same. Didn't hardly have to even talk other than to agree he was the recipient, the number was correct, and he knew the correct response. "Longino tortoise on the march."

Then it was the barest spritz of a shower, quick toothbrush, draping himself his cleanest sportcoat, and out.

Here he was across from Ana.

He glanced back from the window. She'd turned the page again.

He honestly hadn't expected to get the call at all. He honestly hadn't expected to get the call at all. Ever.

But, he supposed, all things must come to an end.

He pinched at the bridge of his nose again as the sun continued its upward arc. He took in its warmth, tried taking some comfort from it, but unease continued to mount and rise. He turned on a heel back to the table, grabbed at his empty seatback and was about to resume his seat, when the latch behind his chair sounded and the door behind where he'd been sitting swung inward.

Another suit appeared, sliding past the partially opened portal. This one was dressed as starkly but decidedly more darkly, in a navy pinstripe. Immaculately coiffed, an older male with short white hair and a tight little beard. Perfect little wire framed rims accentuated his gray eyes, crinkling at the corners. His eyes sparkled, older, maybe a bit tired with age but brimming with mischief.

As he cleared the threshold, and the door "ka-klatched" back into place, one corner of his mouth hitched slightly into some subtle version of a grin. He paused, flipped open a folder of his own, appeared to take in a few details from his opened page and gray eyes peering above circular spectacles uttered a singular phrase.

"Ok, now where were we."

God, that voice. I KNOW that voice.

"Stan?? Can't be. Nah. Stanley? Is that you?"

The gray eyes flicked back to the folder. The man assumed to be Stanley sucked at his upper lip and slowly crossed to a chair beside "Ana"'s. He placed his opened folder beside hers and slowly lowered himself into the seat.

"Yeah, Anton. It's me."

"My god." Anton exclaimed running thick fingers through his decidedly thinning hair while simultaneously retaking his chair. "Has to have been 30 years? No, 40!"

Stan placed a finger upon some line on the page in front of him, and Ana nodded.

"You've met Ms. Velara-Camilo?" he offered motioning toward his colleague.

"Yes, we've met. Ana. Wasn't it."

Ana Velara-Camilo nodded curtly.

"Well, you look fantastic Stanley."

"Thank you." Stan said unfolding an ambient microphone and placing it upon the countertop.

"But I thought you were ..."

Stan raised a single finger, his visage flooding with a cold forboding. Anton understood and sat back in silence.

He regarded the pair. Stanly thumbed through a few pages. Pointed at something else. Flipped up a photograph. Ana parroted his motion until she felt as though they were on the same page.

Stan leaned forward across folded hands.

"Shall we begin?"

Stan ... Stanley ... Stanley Price. That was his name. He and Anton had been at the same college together. Stanley had been a year ahead. But Anton remembered standing shoulder to shoulder next to the guy the day they had answered all the questions in the dark little basement room beneath the dining hall commons.

The day that had changed both of their lives forever.

The day they would never a be allowed to talk about. With anyone. Ever.

Anton steepled his thumbs, adjusted his posture, and leaned slightly forward as the microphone pivoted in his general direction.

He cleared his throat.

"Yes. That would be fine."

Ana flipped to the front page of her file.

"Anthony Treadlin Urich otherwise known as "Kemp". You affirm on this, the 23rd day of September, the year 2022, the testimony you are about to give is the truth to the best of your recollection no matter the consequences to you or those affected by you."

Anton swallowed. His lips parted absently, and he found all he could do was stare in reply.

What is happening here?

He felt a bead of perspiration roll from his ear to his jawline. Figured he'd really need to stay away from the tequila from now on.

His eyes darted to his contemporary found those gray eyes, accentuated by those round frames, staring back unblinking and in expectation.

Anton began to nod absently.

He raised a hand. "Well yes, of course, but what does this have ..."

Ana cut him off, "Let the record show Anthony Treadlin "Kemp" Ulrick consents to questioning, September 23rd 2022, at 7:49am."

Stanley sat back in his chair, opened his hands toward Anton. "You have the floor."

"The floor? Well, ok, sure, I suppose ... but what's the question ... exactly?"

"Can you detail the events concurrent and leading up to your departure from Savannah Georgia, on or about the 7th of April, 2010."

While Anton remained wholly unsure as to the purpose of his "office" visit, that didn't stop the skin prickling along the lengths of both his forearms at the mention of Savannah or the year in question. He felt a flush creeping up his neck.

"I, uh." he stammered and then stopped. He glanced around the room. Locked onto the window suddenly interested in how thick the glass might be ... as ridiculous as that might sound. Narrow pane like that. His body would carom off it like a pingpong ball.

But maybe the attempt would add a bit of parody.

His eyes shot back to Stanley.

"Stan. C'mon now. Savannah was a total 8ball. You KNOW that. Your division ... you guys set it all up for christs sake. Took years to lay in that cover and moments for it all to go sideways. But the job got done, didn't it? Job done. And me and mine. We went to ground. Per protocol. No harm, no foul."

Stan Price flipped a few pages further into his folder.

He nodded absently as his eyes poured over lines and pictures.

"So ... Richmond."

Anton scratched at his cheek, glanced at the ceiling. Glanced at Ana who was locked onto him with a pencil poised over a page.

Anton shrugged.

"Yeah ok. Richmond. So?? What about Richmond?"

Stanley crossed a leg, his knee appeared just above the tabletop. He drug his folder into his lap, raised one eyebrow.

"You purchased a townhome just outside DeerRun Park? No requisition or request made for it. Just moved in there. Just like that?"

"Yeah man. You KNOW I have kids. They needed a place to be ... let alone, and let's not forget, one a my kid's autistic for chrissakes. What's wrong with that?"

"You paid cash?"

"Well, y'know, you do what you have to do. Don't remember it that way at all. But sure, if you guys say so."

Stanley nodded, flipped to a few photographs. Nodded some more. "Nice place." he muttered.

"It was small. But it was clean. Too small for all of us if you ask me."

"How so?" Ana piped in, scribbling furiously.

"Well, we went from a 3200 square foot Victorian in Savannah. 5 bedroom house. 2 car garage. To a townhome, half that size. You guys try 4 people, 2 dogs and a cat in a space about the size of the garage we left behind. Not the most comfortable situation. Couldn't have been more that 1100 square feet altogether."

Ana flipped a page up. "Look like 1526 square feet actually."

Anton rubbed at his jaw as if in thought; the window was looking to be a more and more desirable option all the time. If he threw the chair first ... maybeeee ...

"... was it really? Well it really was tight. That's all I know."

"But the way you bought it." clucked Stanley.

Anton heaved a sigh. Held it. Settled back into his chair.

"And ..." he stated flatly, hands folded in his lap.

Stanley gazed up at him above his circular rims. He flipped his file folder shut and tossed it back onto the table.

He leaned back just a little, never removing his probing eyes from his contemporary. And then, all at once, he seemed to relax. He folded his hands behind his head and looked out the window, focusing upon the orange silhouetted buildings.

He appeared to assess the daylight filtering into the room.

"Do you remember school Anton?" he asked as he gazed out at the sunrise. "Remember what it used to be like?"

Anton let the question hang in the air a moment.

"Yeah. Yes I do."

"Man, I hated that place."

The comment took Anton completely off guard. Anton looked on in astonishment.

"All that petty preppiness. The attitudes. That guy Chip? From Chicago or whatever. Convinced everybody he had more money than god?"

Anton pictured a chicken-necked, curly haired blond with a pronounced Adam's apple riding around in his convertible. Different girl on his arm every weekend.

"Yeah actually. Never liked that guy. Called the RA on me once because I went into his room to read a comic book without his permission. Threatened me with Honor Court over it. Guy was a real douche."

"Well maybe it'll surprise you to know, he wasn't what he appeared to be. He had no money. He came from nothing."

Anton nodded. Yeah, it made sense. Guys like that, the ones who talk too much. All the braggadocio. They never amount to anything.

"In fact, he did a stretch for beating up a girl."

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"Yeah it is."

"Like that Vandepump guy ... or whatever."

Stanley nodded, pulled his eyes away from the window, pulled forward into the table.

"Thing is. You just never know what people are going to do. But there's always a reason for everything. Events lead to decisions, decisions lead to actions, actions have consequences. So on and so forth."

Anton agreed; he nodded absently. He was starting to desire a glass of water. There should be some water somewhere in the building, shouldn't there?

Stanley leaned further into the table until his chin was over the microphone.

"So Anton. This is your chance. Why don't you take us through it. Where did you go, and how did we get here. What lead us to this moment right here."

Anton leaned back a smidge a little concerned his personal space might be violated in the next few moments.

"I ..." he stammered, "I really wouldn't know where to begin."

Stanley's brows shot up, but he sat back as if in exhaustion. Ana began her scribbling afresh.

Man, this was going to be a long day.

"Well," said Stanley intertwining his fingers behind his head. "Why don't we just start with your wife."

Anton gulped.

Yeah, a long day indeed.