Chapter Eleven

UNDER THE TABLE

Wilbur received a "buzz" from a "gentleman" in Chicago right before he placed his call to Celeste Stuart.

"This is Johnson with Allied Credit Corporation in Chicago. Your delinquent National Defense Student Loan from the University has been sent to us."

From the sound of Johnson's voice an image appeared to Wilbur. He imagined Johnson sitting at a desk in a gray cubicle. A cigar as pungent as an onion hung from the side of his mouth. Johnson was thinking about having cabbage for dinner. His lips were ruby colored. The skin on his face was pale and doubled. In Wilbur's rendition of Johnson, he wore a white dress shirt, brown pants, white socks and black shoes with thick rubber soles. There was scorn in Johnson's voice after Wilbur replied.

"I don't know why they sent it to you, Mr. Johnson. I was paying on it."

Johnson had heard this nonsense out of these graduate losers so many times that he was ready to pounce.

"You haven't paid for six months, Mr. Dobbs."

Nobody had ever called Wilbur, "Mr. Dobbs". Wilbur was shocked. He didn't know what to say.

"Oh, you're in Chicago?" he managed to blurt out.

"Yeah."

"How 'bout those Cubs?"

"Huh?"

"How 'bout those Cubs? Thanks for calling."

Wilbur disconnected as quickly as he could and then dialed Celeste Stuart's number.

When he called she was painting a picture of an empty boat dock jutting into a canal. The picture was done in watercolors. The sun, a swirl of pink and orange, ascended above the dock.

She worked on the third floor of the cathedral-like house that overlooked Tampa Bay. Her extra paintbrushes rested in discarded condiment containers on a nearby table. In the background, Joni Mitchell sang about a taxicab. Celeste brushed her flaxen, brown hair to the side as she pondered the painting. Her face was soft and her green eyes radiated.

She was distracted though by her curiosity about the strange fellow that traipsed through her house recently with a waterbed. He had little ambition it appeared, yet he seemed intelligent. He was in his mid-twenties, she imagined. He wore his brown hair in a ponytail. His brown eyes were almond shaped. She couldn't get his image out of her mind.

She put her paintbrush down and walked to the phone that hung over the bar on the third floor. She knew his voice immediately.

"Oh, Wilbur, thanks for returning my phone call."

"No problem. Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked.

The old air conditioner in Wilbur's attic apartment kicked on with a shudder.

"Well, actually, there is."

Wilbur expected her to say something weird like she wanted him to pose nude for a painting. He had heard about art students before. He was surprised by her reply.

"You know we have all this money, right?"

"Yeah, I picked up on that," Wilbur agreed.

"A lot of it is my money from my grandparents, but I don't have control over it anymore, thanks to my husband. The only money I have access to is the money in the remodeling account. My husband is strange about money. I'm his second wife so he has payments to his ex-wife and his children."

Wilbur couldn't help wondering what this had to do with him. He, like Dave Hamilton, always made it a point to stay out of other people's business. Some interpreted his remoteness as a wall around him, but to him it was a "sanctuary." There was still something that hurt.

"Would you mind doing some of the repairs around here? You seemed kind of handy, except for your driving."

Wilbur was flabbergasted.

"I guess you know I'm good at knocking things down. I don't know much about repairing."

"Here's my plan," she began. "I want to write you a check from the remodeling account. But I want to pay you extra each time so you can give me some cash back. I want to leave Arthur. I'm sure he's fooling around on the side. I want to get my inheritance from him too. I can only do that if I divorce him. I'll need some money to make a fresh start. I want to leave Tampa."

Dave Hamilton usually paid Wilbur with a check which Wilbur endorsed. Then Dave gave him the cash for it. It was all "under the table." When Celeste made her proposal, Wilbur was already a card-carrying member of the underground economy.

"Okay. I'll be glad to help you."

They spoke for a few more moments, making some arrangements about the work she wanted done. After he hung up, he envisioned this rare bird in her colorful plumage at his window trying to get in, or was it him fluttering about her window?

He couldn't tell.