A Favor

Don Harrison wandered in the short aisles of The Finery, a classy shop that featured pots and art and other things he didn't care about. The shop was filled with boring, light music, and the scent of flowers or something lingered in every corner. Waiting for him. He slouched through the rows, fingering with tasteful disdain the works that looked like . . .
     Well, he didn't know. He supposed to some snooty person who had his nose in the air and no chin it would look good. It didn't look very good to Don, that was sure. It made him tired.
     Everything was brown. Everything was graceful and flowing. Everything looked the same! There was a painting of a river or a stream or something that he didn't like, for reasons that escaped him, except that it was just dumb. All the paintings looked like it. No dragons or spaceships or bikers. Just water and grass and clouds and stuff.
     Don scoffed.
     Here was a row full -- full -- of pots. Big pots! Little pots. Angular pots which looked perfect for the questing shin when the lights were out. Made for that very purpose, Don suspected. Did the pots have anything in them, as a proper pot should? No! Some of them didn't even have holes in the top! Why have pots that can't hold anything!
     Filling the end cap of the row were miniature statues of people that were brown and boring and not interesting in the slightest.
     Also, they were very expensive. Don, a nearly destitute high school student, stared at the price with unfeeling surprise for over a minute, only waking from the shock when a young girl tapped him on the shoulder.
     He looked down at her, and then realized they wore the same expression. I'm only here because of someone else. Don looked at the woman that stood near the girl, inspecting paints. Already in the cart the woman pushed were brushes and canvas, and other art supplies perfect for the young artist. Don looked at the girl again and gave her a sympathetic smile; the poor girl would soon be forced to paint for her mother's enjoyment. Why couldn't the mother just paint herself? Don didn't know. He moved on.
     Don was in The Finery because of a certain someone who had a certain event coming up and he needed a certain something to make sure she was happy. The fact that she liked this sort of thing was not something that Don was sure he was okay with; it made him think that she wouldn't appreciate a gift of a more practical nature. Like Pens. Or socks.
     Everybody likes socks.
     But this girl, Kelsey, wouldn't want something like that, something like socks or pens or spray cheese. She'd want something fancy. Fancy and expensive. Don pouted in the direction of the price tags on a few items, hoping that they would take pity on him and lower themselves when he wasn't looking. It didn't work.
     Also there was the fact that he had no idea if she would like anything in the store. If he brought Kelsey a ceramic disaster identical in all but the smallest detail to every other doo-dad in this store, would she turn up her nose and say "it doesn't fit with the decor"?
     Don put the piece he was holding back on the shelf and wiped his hands on his jeans. He would have gone to get her something easy, like a sweater or something like that, but again, he expected her to say something like "I don't like this color" or "this style isn't in right now" or "why did you get a size extra large."
     He walked up and down, swinging his legs in front of him over and over, until he parked himself in front of a display and found something that he really thought that Kelsey would like. It managed to blend in with the rest of the items for sale due to its unassuming nature. Aside from that, it managed to stand out.
     It was a small statuette of a ballerina, with porcelain skin and blushed cheeks. It had a blue dress, light gold dusting in the hair, and a blue ribbon wrapping around the bun behind her head. Don lowered himself, hands resting on bony knees, until his face was level with the object. Its tiny dot eyes avoided his gaze as he inspected it. It was small, attractive, and possessed just the right amount of sophistication that Kelsey would appreciate.
     He picked it up and, after preparing himself, looked at the price.
     He continued looking at the price, wondering if he was imagining things.
     That much for such a little thing, probably mass-produced in a dingy factory while people with hairnets and aprons made sure that it didn't have any imperfections? Oh, and what would happen if it did have an imperfection? It would cost more.
     Don put the little statue back on the shelf. He picked it up again.
     He had a few options. He could let the item rest on the shelf until some rich sucker came along, proclaimed it object d'art, and brought it home so it could collect dust next to a carving of an African rain goddess. He could also trudge to the front of the store, expensive thing in hand, and hand over nearly every penny to his name, all for something that would, at best, get him a thank you and a shy smile.
     Or.
     He could take a quick look over his shoulders (he did), slip the small figurine into a pocket on the inside of his jacket (he did that also), and head for the door with his best innocent face on.
     That he just nearly managed to do. If he had been able to make it ten more feet he would have been through the sliding doors and into the air not stale with flowery perfume.
     Instead of walking out the door, free as a bird, he heard a voice from behind him.
     "Excuse me sir. Could I speak to you?"
     Don turned and laid eyes on the woman at the counter, with frizzy brunette hair and wearing a red polo and a blue apron with words stitched on it. He immediately distrusted the woman, with the reasoning that anyone who called him 'sir' was a few tires short of an eighteen-wheeler. After a moment, he stepped closer.
     The woman also took a moment before she started talking. "I need a favor."
     Don didn't say anything.
     "I need someone to follow my husband and make sure that he isn't cheating on me."
     "Why should I help you?" Don asked.
     "You know why," the woman said. She looked directly at the lump in Don's coat that was his illegal cargo. Don kept himself from looking down at his coat only through intense mental strength. "I don't call the police, and you do me this favor. Maybe I even give you a discount." The woman, at least in her forties, smiled at Don in a way that made him mentally place her in a college bar, hoisting a margarita up and trying to dance with men that she had twenty years on.
     "Why do you think your husband needs following?" Don asked, snapping himself out of his imagination. He had not expected this sort of conversation when he got up this morning.
     "That doesn't matter," the woman said. "You have two choices." She flicked open her cell phone. "Either you do as I ask or you take a trip in a blue car. What's it going to be, kid?"
     The fact that she called him kid made him feel better; the pretense had been dropped. "Fine," Don said.
     "I'll keep your little package as collateral while you're watching him. If you see something that's obviously canoodling, bring me evidence and you'll get it back."
     Don opened his jacket and took out the statue. He handed it over slowly. The woman shook her head as she took it from him. "Why would a kid like you need to steal something like this?"
     "It's for a friend," Don said. "What happens if I don't see anything that looks like he's cheating? Like he's just going out for drinks with the guys?"
     "My husband doesn't drink."
     "I bet he wants to," Don muttered under his breath as the woman opened a drawer and laid the statue inside.
     "What was that?" She asked him.
     "Nothing! So, uh, maybe he's not drinking, but what if he's not doing anything?"
     "Bring me back pictures of what he does. If nothing happens in a few weeks then you can have your friend's gift." She held out her hand. "My name's Patricia Weitz. My husband's name is Berg Weitz. I don't trust him. He's a little sneak and if I don't keep my eye on him he'll go around doing whatever bad idea gets into his little head." Don shook her hand. "You're starting tonight. According to him, he's got a late meeting. He works at Appleton Industries and you're going to go over there as soon as you can and follow him. Until he gets home. Do you have a camera?"
     "There's . . . uh . . . one in my phone."
     "Fine. His car is a white sedan with the license WGK-108. Get out of here."
     "How do I contact you?" Don asked. The day had taken a strange turn.
     Patricia sighed and ripped off a small piece of paper. She scrawled phone numbers on it, and her home address after a moment's thought, and shoved it toward Don. He pocketed it.

And so Don found himself sitting behind the steering wheel of his beat-up station wagon in the dark shadow of a tree after dinner. He didn't have any lights on and he couldn't see an elephant if it was parked on his hood. But he could see Berg Weitz's car, the white sedan with the license number WGK-108. It was still in the parking lot of Appleton Industries, a company which did any number of things that Don didn't care about. It seemed that, unless Don had failed spectacularly when locating the car, Mr. Weitz really was working late.
     Don took a practice picture with the grainy camera included in his cell phone. He aimed it at the car that belonged to Mr. Weitz and clicked the button.
     He could have taken a better picture with a potato.
     It was seven thirty before Berg Weitz made his appearance. He was a short, round man that rolled more than walked across the parking lot, dressed in a blue button-down shirt and black slacks. It was a cool, dark night, but Don believed that if he could get a good look at the pudgy face that bounced on top of the equally pudgy body, it would have been slick with sweat.
     The round Mr. Weitz waddled to the car that Don had picked out, and squeezed himself into the driver's seat. The car tilted noticeably. The engine coughed to a start and the car rolled backwards out of its spot, making a line through the deserted parking lot toward the exit. When Mr. Weitz's car was far enough away, Don started his own car and drove after him.
     In no time at all Berg Weitz's car had pulled into the drive of the address that Patricia had given Don with nothing happening on the trip more untrustworthy than a momentary hesitation when passing a McDonald's. Don stayed back as far as he could while making sure he could see where Mr. Weitz was headed, and he was able to trail him all the way until Mr. Weitz rolled his car into the garage and closed the door. Don turned around and drove home.
     On the way back he called Patricia. She answered moments into the first ring.
     "Well?" The woman's demanding voice came through the phone.
     "He left work at seven thirty and drove straight home. I waited there for over two hours. He didn't go anywhere else."
     The voice on the other end of the line sighed. "Maybe not this time. You'll need to follow him for a few more days. I still don't trust him."
     "But he didn't do anything!" Don shouted. "He went straight home!"
     "Yes. This time. I swear, do you have any kind of brain in your skull? Do the same thing tomorrow. He says he has another late meeting."
     "What about school?"
     "Don't make me laugh. You don't care that much about school." Don had to admit she had a point; if he spent more than an hour a night doing homework his mother would ask him if everything was all right.
     "What about my parents? They might start asking me where I am every night!"
     "I don't care. Lie. Tell them you're at the library or the bowling alley. You're the one who's in trouble here." She hung up.
     Don sighed and dropped the cell phone in the passenger seat. "Nobody goes to bowling alleys anymore, lady."
     Don drove home and went to bed, avoiding his parents easily. Both of his parents had decided when he was young that "a education" on the streets would benefit him more than proper schooling. Sometimes Don wondered why they still made him go to school in that case, but he supposed that they didn't have a choice. People would talk.
     He drifted to sleep wondering if he could make something up to get his statue back quickly. He didn't enjoy waiting for a fat old man to come bumbling out of his meetings every night.

Yet, much to his chagrin, again he sat in his car waiting for Berg Weitz to come out of his office. It was five thirty, the time that Patricia described as his normal quitting time. Don settled in for another boring evening of waiting for Mr. Weitz to appear: first the stomach, than the face, and finally the trembling legs with slacks flapping around them.
     To Don's surprise, just a few minutes after that Mr. Weitz appeared, heading out to his car. Don's heart jumped. Patricia had told him that he would be staying late for a meeting again! Don fully expected to be led to a back-alley hotel, where he would take a picture of Berg Weitz lying on top of a young pretty thing. Maybe she would have red hair, and Mr. Weitz would bury his face in it as the woman pretended to be satisfied. Or maybe she would have great big breasts, and Mr. Weitz would grip them as he finished in record time.
     Don grimaced and shuddered, trying to free the image from his mind.
     Berg Weitz's car pulled out of the parking lot and Don followed him at a distance just like before. But, again, Don simply followed Patricia's husband home.
     "But I thought he said he was going to be late!" Don said to Patricia later that night. "That's what you told me!"
     "He said that it got canceled until tomorrow afternoon. He said he should be home by the normal time tomorrow so you're off the hook until the next day."
     "That's good. If he sees me there's no way he won't notice I've been following him home for the last two days."
     "If he does catch you, it's on you. If you tell him I'm behind it, you can say goodbye to your statue and hello to the police."
     "Well aren't you just a happy little wife! Give it up, he's clearly not doing anything! And if he is, I'm not really surprised!" Don cut himself off. Nothing but cold silence came from the other line. "At least tell me why you think he needs following!"
     "You're a cheeky little punk, aren't you?" Patricia growled. "Step light kid, or it's off to the big house."
     "You know, I'm pretty sure that I won't be arrested for attempted petty theft, Patricia. I bet you don't even have any evidence! It's just your word against mine."
     "What am I, an idiot? There were cameras pointed all over the place! They saw you stuff it in your pocket!"
     "I'm no idiot either," Don said, bringing his mouth close to the receiver. "I looked for cameras There weren't any. Are you gonna say you had some looking at me from some of those boring pots? Why don't you just ask your husband if he's cheating on you? I bet a man that size starts to sweat if his heart speeds up an extra beat. Well?"
     "I can't ask him, moron! He'll stop whatever he's doing and be the perfect husband for weeks or months! Say what you want about his size -- I'll agree -- but my husband is a careful man. He won't risk it. You know, you're acting like you don't even want your little dancer back. What's her name?"
     "What?" Don asked. He had been daydreaming about stuff during Patricia's rant. "Who's 'her'?"
     "The girl you tried to steal the statue for, dimwit. She must have low standards if she likes you."
     "She . . . doesn't like me yet. We're just friends. I'm going to her birthday party next Saturday, and it was going to be her present. She likes that sort of thing. That's the only reason I'd go into that stupid store. I could barely get ten feet before I felt sleepy."
     "There's a reason for that. Sleepy shoppers feel more comfortable. They buy more," Patricia said. Don scowled. Dirty. "Anyway. Her name."
     Don hesitated. "Kelsey. We go to the same high school."
     "Well, I hear girls aren't that impressed by petty theft. It's a nice piece, though. I'm looking at it right now."
     "You have it with you?" Don asked, surprised.
     "Well, I wasn't going to just leave it in the store, was I? Good grief you're stupid. I-" Don suddenly heard another voice over the line. "Trish? Who are you talking to?"
     "Nobody!" Patricia said back. The sound was muffled.
     "What's that you've got? Where did you get that?"
     "I bought it from the store," Patricia said. Don heard the obvious lie like it was a slap across the face.
     "You don't like any of that crap, I know you don't! That was a gift, wasn't it? Who are you on the phone with?" Don heard a frantic scuffle, complete with low curse words, and a whiny voice that Don pictured coming from Berg Weitz's pudgy form easily emanated from the phone. "Who is this?"
     "Why, this is Karl Cannata from Hybrid Motors in Forest Lake! I just called to tell you about some of the great deals that we have going on right now here at Hybrid Motors in Forest Lake. I was talking to your lovely wife, and she was interested in a new-" Don's mind reached for the first thing that sounded like a car "-Ford Pisces! They get over twenty-five miles to the gallon and have more leg room than the leading sedan, as well as a group of spectacular features that will make any car lover squeal!"
     "Okay, you can cut the crap. He gave me the phone back and stomped away," Patricia said. "Good work, though."
     "And now, we're even," Don said. "I want that statue back."
     Again, not a sound came from the other line. It went on for quite a while. Don yawned.
     "Let's make a deal," Patricia finally said. "You keep tabs on fatso until your sweetie's birthday party. If nothing rears its ugly head by then, come by The Finery before you go to the party and pick up the statue. You're going to have to pay for it though. You said that the party was on Saturday?"
     "Yeah."
     "Good. I work most of the day then."
     "Fine. Just send me a message the next time you think your husband is going behind your back. I have homework to do," Don said, and he clicked off the call. He did have homework, but he wasn't going to do it.

After just a day of silence Don got a message from Patricia saying that her husband was going to go bowling after work with a few of his coworkers from Appleton Inc. She said that she expected Don to follow him and make sure that nothing else was going on.
     "And," Patricia said before ending the call, "that means, if he does go to a bowling alley, going in after him to make sure that he's only bowling."
     "What is it with you and bowling?" Don asked angrily. Patricia hung up without responding.
     And so it was that Don watched Berg Weitz enter a place called Leary's Bowl, a place that must have been housing every bowling enthusiast within a hundred miles that night. There were three dozen cars.
     Don waited a few minutes and followed the fat man inside. The interior was dense with smoke and the smell of fried food, lit by dim bulbs from holes in the ceiling. Don heard the crash and tumble of pins and the skirl of balls over the greased lanes, as well as the mixed cheers and curses of bowlers and watchers.
     The twelve lanes were all in use, each one taken up by a different group. A few of the groups were three or four, and a few of them were five or six, but all of them looked like they were having a good time. Don watched them to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, but yes, they all smiled and laughed.
     It was just bowling!
     He went to the counter and held out the money required for a game. "Are there any free lanes?" He asked.
     The man behind the counter, one who seemed to partake in beer and corn dogs a little too often, shook his head. "But we can see if one of the smaller groups will let you join them. This group in lane seven are good guys; I bet they'll let you in." The man pointed over Don's shoulder, and Don could guess that he knew which group it was that he pointed at. "What's your shoe size?"
     "My what?"
     "For your shoes."
     Don stared at the man in confused terror. "Why do you need that?"
     The man leaned forward, knitting his eyebrows. "Have you ever gone bowling before?"
     Don shrugged. "I just wanted to try it. I use size eleven and a half."
     The man handed over a pair of motley shoes. "Here you go. I'll ask them for you." The man opened a short swinging door in the counter and walked past Don. He went up to a group of three that included Berg Weitz. After chatting for a few moments, the man waved Don over. Don took in a deep breath.
     Don stepped up to the group, still carrying the pair of clown shoes in his hand. "Uh . . . hi. I'm Don."
     "Hi Don," One of the men that wasn't Mr. Weitz said. He was tall and buck-toothed. "I'm Alan. That's Berg, and that's Gus." Don said hello to each one and they said hello to him. He tried not to linger on Berg too much, instead tried to skate over him like he was just one of a trio of new faces. Berg Weitz had changed out of his business clothes and into a polo and shorts. He had bowling shoes on -- they didn't look like the oft used and abused pair that Don carried, instead well-kept and cared for -- and was cradling a black bowling ball in the crook of his left arm. An odd glove was strapped around his right hand. In fact, Don noticed, all three of them had a glove. The man introduced as Gus had his around his left hand. It looked like Don had just entered a team of people who had all sprained their wrists in an unfortunate water-cooler accident.
     "I've never really bowled before," Don said, a truth. "I wanted to try it out."
     "Feel free to join us. We don't really play for keeps or anything," Alan explained. "We're just here to unwind. You're in high school?"
     "Yeah. Southman High."
     "I went there," Gus said. Gus was a scrawny, short, and not entirely trustworthy looking man with black bushy eyebrows and a protruding belly in the middle of a rail-thin body. "Does Mrs. Michaels still teach?"
     "Um . . . no. She retired last year."
     "Thank God. That bitch made my life hell," Gus said.
     "Mine too," Don said, and smiled.
     Gus looked over his shoulder. "Berg, why don't you add Don to the roster."
     "Fine," Mr. Weitz said. He almost snarled. Out of the three in the group, Berg Weitz looked the least pleased to see Don. Had Don been recognized so quickly? Berg entered in 'Don' to the roster that was on the screen over their lane. Currently, it was Mr. Weitz's turn, followed by Alan. After that Don would go.
     Berg threw the ball with more finesse and grace than Don expected from such a fat guy. His right leg was hovering, suspended, as the ball crashed into the pins and knocked them all over. Alan whooped but Berg just sat down.
     "That was really good," Don said, trying to pull on the stiff bowling shoes.
     "It was easy," Mr. Weitz responded. He wasn't looking at Don.
     "Do you have a ball?" Gus asked Don. Don shook his head. "Go to that rack there and find one. A heavier one stays on course more, but a lighter one will be easier to handle.
     Don stepped toward the rack, wincing. He seemed to be wearing size tens instead of eleven and a half. He found a moderately heavy ball and minced his steps back to the lane. Alan threw his spare, and was left with only one pin standing. Alan looked over at Don. "You're up."
     Don walked up to the lane and tried to remember the way that Mr. Weitz had done it. He stuck his fingers into the holes in the ball and took a few steps forward, swinging the ball under him and nearly knocking out his right knee. The ball managed to get going in the right direction, and even clipped one of the pins on the left side. It wobbled and fell. A sad '1' appeared in the score box for that throw.
     "Not bad for your very first time," Gus said. Don waited until the ball was spat back up onto a long metal rack near the lane and scooped it out. He steadied himself along the line of arrows, heart pounding. Again, he threw the ball, but this time it dove straight into the gutter on the left. Don sat down as a dash appeared in the box and his total score -- one -- appeared far over on the right of the screen. He sighed.
     He looked over at Mr. Weitz, trying to keep his head pointed toward the lane where Gus was sizing up the pins. The big man seemed to be pointedly ignoring Don, sitting with his arms crossed and looking, unshiftingly, at the floor.
     There was obviously something on his mind. Could it be the woman that he was seeing on the side, the one that he was seeing instead of his wife? Don didn't blame him. If he had to live with Patricia Weitz for more than a day he would go mad. There was another option, though: what if he was thinking about the call that Don and Patricia had shared the night before?
     Was it possible that Mr. Weitz had recognized Don's voice here in the bowling alley? It was unlikely, but not impossible. Don guessed that at most Mr. Weitz found it oddly familiar but couldn't figure out why he thought so.
     Gus sat down as an X appeared on the screen, and it was Weitz's turn. He stood up with a heave, and as he took up his ball Don turned to Gus.
     "So do all you guys work together, or . . .?"
     "Yup," Gus said. "Appleton. We come down here every few weeks. Except for Berg. He comes over here at least once a week. You can probably tell from the score." Don looked up and, sure enough, Weitz's total was higher than the others', and ahead of Don's by over a hundred and fifty only six frames in.
     "Why does he come here so often?"
     Gus shrugged, and Alan spoke up. "It's just his thing. We've all got them."
     "Does he have a wife?" Don asked.
     "Yeah," Alan said. Weitz finally released his ball and it flew off course, prompting a torrent of curses.
     "I'm surprised she lets him stay out so often," Don said. There was a chance to get some inside information if he was careful.
     "Wives need to learn how to let their husbands have some time to their own. Me, I'm not married, but Berg tells me enough horror stories about his wife to make it seem less than attractive." Don noticed an empty beer bottle next to the one that Alan was currently drinking out of. "You should hear him talk about her. Never lets him do what he wants, always wants to know where he's going, that sort of thing. He's a grown man for chrissakes! He shouldn't have to get that sort of third degree if he wants to go out!"
     "Right!" Don said after discussing what to say for an instant. "It sounds kind of silly." Weitz let fly his second ball. He knocked over the remaining pins, earning himself a spare on the board. Without a modicum of celebration, he sat down in his chair, between Don and Alan, and their conversation was cut short.
     Alan rose and went to the return rack. Don tried to study Weitz without the other noticing. He seemed upset and distracted, and sat with his arms crossed sullenly. Alan got a strike and pumped his arm, and Don laughed. "Nice!"
     Don got up and picked up the ball that he had used earlier. He felt better as he approached the lane, and let the ball fly. It sank into the gutter immediately. "Ah! Bull," Don snarled. "I did that perfectly!"
     "No you didn't," Weitz said as Don sat in a huff. "You didn't move your leg out of the way enough. That forced you to move your arm around it in a wider arc and put more of a spin on the ball." Weitz made a hand motion, like a plane tilting on its side. "And sent it right in the gutter."
     "You know a lot about bowling?" Don asked. He had an opportunity here.
     "You bet I do. I'm the best bowler at Appleton."
     "What is it that you do at Appleton? Something with apples?" Don asked.
     Weitz glanced at him with a grimace on his face. "Why would you think that? No."
     "Well . . . uh . . . you bowl a lot. Why do you like it so much?"
     "It's a getaway," Weitz said, taking a sip from his bottle. "Gives me time to concentrate on something that's active and, ultimately, doesn't matter."
     "I can understand that," Don said, as Gus sat down and Weitz rose. "You must really enjoy it. You're pretty good."
     Weitz gave a thin smile and picked up his ball.
     "Don't worry about him," Gus said. "He's hard to get to. The only reason we go with him at all is he's the only other bowler at Appleton."
     "Is bowling all he does?"
     "Yeah, pretty much." Gus seemed not to be drinking anything except for water, sipping daintily every few seconds. A cheer came from the lane to their left. The place had emptied a bit. "I'm guessing Alan told you a bit but he doesn't have the best home life. His wife's kinda a shrew. Alan's a downer with that sort of thing though."
     "Yeah he told me a little bit. I said it didn't sound too great."
     "You got that right, kid. He's almost certain that she's cheating on him."
     "Uh . . ."
     "She's gone all the time, talking on the phone. He says that somebody gave her a present," Gus said. Don figured that these two co-workers of Berg Weitz's did not hold him in great esteem, at least not enough to keep this sort of information private. Don wasn't about to stop them, but he figured he was just going to get knowledge he already knew. "A few days ago she was holding a statue that he hadn't ever seen."
     Weitz sat in his seat and Alan got up to bowl. The conversation died.

     The night passed without much else, until the end. They finished their game -- Don got better by inches -- and Alan and Gus went home. Don was going to wait for Weitz to leave so he could follow him to wherever he went next, but instead, Weitz came up to him as Don pulled on his shoes and sighed, having rid himself of the pinching shoes that he had been forced to wear.
     "I heard you talking to Gus about my wife," Weitz said abruptly. "Their lips are a bit too loose."
     "I won't tell anyone, I swear!" Don said.
     "You'd better not," Weitz said. "But I want you to do something for me. I need you to follow my wife."
     The surreality of the moment was not lost on Don. He wondered if, perhaps, this was all an elaborate trick being played on him. Perhaps, after an awkward second, a moustachioed TV host would burst from a nearby door and declare that he was being tricked. Also likely was the idea that Kelsey was, in fact, aware of his affections for her, and these two maladjusted, distrustful adults were her parents, and it was a test to determine how strong his affections were for her. Or, maybe, it was just the one in a million alignment of random events that, now, left Don following both sides of a couple that thought the other side was cheating.
     Don, now substantially richer, watched Weitz's car speed off in the direction of his home. Don had said that he didn't feel it was proper, but then Berg Weitz, husband and respected office worker of some degree, had offered a completely unknown high school student two hundred dollars to follow his wife, the woman that had blackmailed the same student into following him. Don accepted the money with the thought that it would be more than enough to pay for the statue for Kelsey, as well as a healthy amount left over.
     After climbing in his car, Don sat with his hands on the steering wheel, grimacing out the windshield with a curled lip and eyebrows that felt fused together. He was no chessmaster; he didn't know what to do next.
     He felt like he was in a sitcom. What would someone in a sitcom do at this point? He would drive to the unexplainably popular coffee shop and sit in the rustic, comfortable seats with his diverse group of friends, explain the problem, gather advice, and sling groan-worthy jokes.
     He picked his nose.
     He couldn't do those things. He didn't have friends that hung out at a coffee shop all hours of the night. Even if he did, they wouldn't be able to tell that many jokes. In fact, none of his friends were very funny at all.
     After following Mr. Weitz back to his house, Don got a cup of coffee and drove home. The most difficult part of the new situation he had just found himself in was that he didn't really have much time to follow both of the Weitzes. As it was, his homework had been getting done even less than normal. He would have to start bringing it with him on his stakeouts. He worked on a little bit and then went to bed still smelling like the smoke and alcohol of the bowling alley. His mother had asked him why he was out so late, and he told her truthfully: he had been bowling. His mother's eyebrow had winched up, and then she had shrugged.

He was glad that Patricia didn't know what kind of car he had. Don waited for her outside The Finery that Saturday after a day had passed. It was a week until Kelsey's party.
     The night before, Friday, Don had watched for any sign of infidelity from Berg Weitz, and found none. Now he was doing the same thing with his wife, during the time she thought he was still watching her husband. He wished that either one of them would just demand to know from the other if there was anything going on; whatever the outcome was, it would result in Don being freed from his obligation to one or both of them, with either money or the statue to show for it.
     He now had both of the Weitzes as contacts in his phone, and Don wondered if Berg Weitz had found his voice at all familiar when they had talked that morning. Don tried not to say anything that could remind Mr. Weitz of cars.
     A shake of Don's head failed to clear it, and he sank lower into his chair with a book propped on his knees. He could have been watching TV or hanging out with his friends, but instead he was sitting in his car and doing homework, waiting for one half of the worst family in the world to end her shift at The Finery and walk out the doors to her car.
     Finally she appeared. Don watched her walk to the car that Mr. Weitz had said was hers. She had on the pulled, pinched expression of one who is always and forever stepping in something distasteful. It was earlier than Mr. Weitz said her shift would end, and Patricia was not going toward her home. Don perked up. Maybe Mr. Weitz was actually right!
     She drove into the parking lot of a therapist's office. After she stepped inside Don got out of his car and crept around to the side of the building, looking for the right window. His heart pounded. He had his phone at the ready as he looked inside the windows that he could reach without exposing himself too much.
     Finally he peeked his eyes over the window sill and looked through the gaps in the blinds into an office. Patricia was seated on a plush leather armchair and speaking to an older woman dressed in a suit. Emotion flowed on Patricia's face as the therapist nodded.
     Don sank down below the window, pressing himself against the building. There was nothing going on here, just the therapy that seemed to be the natural progression of people that didn't have enough problems. You never saw a construction worker going into an office like that and saying things like 'daddy never loved me.' No, it was always the well-off.
     Don crawled back to his car, trying to appear, if he was caught, that edging between two office buildings was something he was supposed to do.
     He got back to his car and thought about what to do next. He decided he'd had enough, and started his car.

When Don got home he called Mr. Weitz and told him that Patricia was cheating on him.
     "I knew it! Who's it with? Did you see? You took a picture, right?"
     "I couldn't take a picture, no. You might find this hard to believe, but she was cheating on you with a woman. An older woman. I only saw the back of the head, so I can't describe her any more than that."
     "A woman? Shit, that might explain why she's been so cold lately." Yeah, that explains it, Don thought, not because you're both royally screwed up. "What else can you tell me?"
     "Not very much. I did hear them making plans to meet next Saturday at The Finery before your wife is done with work. They're going to go somewhere after that."
     "Bitch!"
     "But that gives you an opportunity to run into them."
     "What do you mean?" Weitz asked.
     "It's simple. You stop by and tell her that you wanted to take her out for a meal. It's obvious she won't be expecting that. With any sort of luck you'll run into her and her lover as they leave. There is one catch, though."
     "What's that?"
     "You have to make sure that she tells you when she's actually leaving. What would work best is if she says she's going to leave early. That way, you have a better chance of catching her in the act. If she says she's going to be home at the normal time, or stay late, you might get there too early and she'll get suspicious. She might call it off."
     "So what's the best way to handle it?" Weitz asked. Don smiled. This man was so stupid.
     "Just ask her how long she's going to be at work one week from today. If she says that she's going to leave early, you're clear."
     "Got it. Okay, thanks." Mr. Weitz hung up and Don quickly called Patricia.
     "Patricia, it's Don. Your husband is cheating on someone. I saw them together today."
     "What? That bastard! Did you take a picture?"
     "No, I couldn't. It was a young blond woman."
     "Probably one of those bimbos from Appleton. Where were they?"
     "They went to dinner and then to an apartment. There was no way for me to get in and take a picture but it's pretty obvious what's happening."
     "You're damn right it is! Did you hear her name, or anything?"
     Don smiled again. Heat grew in his stomach. If he did this wrong, things would go badly for him. He had gotten the Mister to bend to him, but the Missus would be more difficult.
     "You're not going to believe this, but they made plans to meet at The Finery on Saturday."
     "They didn't," Patricia said.
     "They did, I heard them. He mentioned that you work there and she said she loved that place and she'd been there a hundred times."
     "I think I know who it is."
     "Well, he said that they should wait until you leave and meet there next Saturday."
     Don heard silence as Patricia processed this. There was a clicking; she was tapping her nails on a counter. "So what do I do?"
     "It's easy. Tell him that you're going to leave work early, but actually stay late. That way, he'll arrive with the bimbo, thinking you've left, thinking to buy her something to get into her pants. Instead, he finds you, witnessing him waltz into the store that you work at with a bombshell on his arm and in his wallet." Don began to realize he was pretty good at this.
     "Yes. Yes, you're right. Okay, I'll do that."
     "And remember, you promised to give me the statue back on Saturday before the party," Don said. Kelsey had better appreciate this.
     "Right, right. When does the party start?" Patricia asked.
     "Six."
     "Okay. Why don't you stop by around five? I'll say that you reserved the statue, so even if I'm not there you can buy it from whoever's working. You'll have to pay for it, though."
     "Of course," Don said. "What time are you going to try to catch your husband?"
     "I usually get off work at four, so I'll say that I'm going to come home at two."
     "Perfect," Don said, and they ended the call.
     Later that night he was watching a movie when Mr. Weitz called him.
     "She's going to be leaving early!" He said, frantic. "Just like you said!"
     "Really? Hmm," Don said. "I don't like it. It's too easy. She's lying. She's probably going to stay a little later than normal . . . maybe half an hour. I think you should get there maybe ten minutes after two."
     "You think so?" Mr. Weitz said. "Why would she do that?"
     Don didn't have an answer ready. "Well . . . she most likely will stay longer anyway and then tell you she decided to stay the normal amount of time anyway, because she didn't have any reason not to. What she'll really be doing is waiting for her lover to arrive. Instead, she'll find you walking in -- to find her -- when she said that she'll be leaving early."
     "Why would I go there, though?" Weitz asked. Don shook his head.
     "To catch her! You haven't done anything wrong!"
     "Yeah. Yeah! You're right! Okay. Two ten. I got it." He hung up. Don closed his phone and turned it off. Everything was perfect. Both halves of this awful relationship would expect to find infidelity, but they would both just find each other. And Don.

It was interesting, Don realized, that both of the Weitzes thought that he was in their confidence, and that he was working just for him or her, and yet neither of them knew what his car looked like. And so Don sat in his beat up station wagon that Saturday and watched Berg Weitz exit from his car, compose himself, straighten his collar, and march through the sliding glass doors of The Finery. Don exited his car and, after glancing inside the shop, went in after Mr. Weitz.
     The first sliding door let him into the small, pungent foyer, and the second gave him access to the shop proper. Patricia, dressed in her apron and polo shirt, stood behind the counter and register with her fists resting on the top, knuckles down. Berg stood on a black mat on the other side of the counter, red in the face and bristling.
     "Where is she?" Patricia asked as Don came into earshot. "I know you brought her with!"
     "I should ask you the same question!" Mr. Weitz shot back. "When's she going to get here? Is she here already? Maybe you should have her meet your husband!"
     Don shook his head and stepped closer. Neither of them noticed him.
     "What the hell are you talking about?" Patricia said. "Who's 'she'?"
     "Yes, who is she?" Berg shot back, thinking that this was the height of wit. After a silent pause, he went on. "And what do you mean brought her with? I didn't bring anyone with me!"
     "Well neither did I!" Patricia said.
     "Neither of you did," Don said. Both of the Weitzes noticed him at once.
     "Don!" They said in unison. Patricia and Berg looked at each other in shock and confusion. As Berg looked from Don to his wife and back quickly, Patricia's head slowly rotated to gaze at Don.
     "You tipped him off, didn't you?" She thundered. The empty store echoed her shout back. "You told him you were following him!"
     "What?!" Berg said, finally focusing on Don. "You're following me? She knew you were following her, doesn't she?"
     "You're what?!" Patricia said. One of her hands turned into a claw.
     "She didn't know?" Berg asked.
     "I was following both of you. At the request of both of you. You both thought the other one was cheating, but neither of you were! I followed both of you for a week, and Mr. Weitz, you even longer, because you both wanted to know! And you know what?" Don leaned forward. "Neither of you are cheating!"
     "You said that she was!" Mr. Weitz said.
     "You said that he was!" Echoed his wife.
     Don shook his head. "I lied. I lied to both of you. Mr. Weitz, the woman I described to you is a therapist your wife has been seeing. Patricia, there is no blond bimbo. None at all. Your husband goes to work, goes bowling, and stops at a fast food place on the way home. Maybe."
     "You know about the therapist?" Patricia asked.
     "I saw through a window. I followed you there last Saturday after you left The Finery. Mr. Weitz asked me to tail you after we went bowling together a few days before that. He thought that you were cheating on him. You aren't!" Don swiveled at Mr. Weitz, who stepped back. "And you aren't cheating on her!"
     "No! I'm not!" Mr. Weitz said.
     "How are you sure? He could just be lying!" Patricia said.
     "I followed him, just like I followed you! Neither of you did anything even remotely adulterous!" Don looked at both of them. "And yet you were both so ready to believe me when I said that the other was cheating! Mr. Weitz, you believed me when I said that your wife was cheating on you with a woman! Patricia, you not only pictured your husband with a blond bimbo, but you thought that you actually knew who she was! Here's something you should know -- she doesn't exist! I made it all up and tricked both of you into coming here, now, thinking that you would run into exactly what you wanted to see!"
     Don took his eyes from Patricia's and into Berg's. "Do either of you see what I'm trying to say here? Do either of you understand, at all, what's really going on?"
     "She isn't cheating on me?" Mr. Weitz said carefully.
     "Of course I'm not cheating on you, you idiot. You're not cheating on me either!"
     "You were both ready to accept the other was cheating. You both wanted it. Berg, did you know I was the one on the phone when you took the phone away from Patricia? I was the one that was talking about hybrid cars."
     "What?"
     "Yes! The statue she had? It was what was making me do this whole thing. I'm about to buy it. With the money that you gave me to follow your wife." Don thrust out a wrapped pack of bills. "Here's one-hundred and forty dollars back. I'm using sixty to buy the statue-" Don looked at Patricia "-legally."
     "Why didn't you just tell me that he wasn't cheating?" Patricia said. "We had a deal!"
     "I did! I told you! It was like you didn't even hear me!" Don said. "You were so caught up in your fantasy that even when I said nothing was happening, your mind filtered it out! And when I realized that I now had two people who wouldn't believe me on my hands, I set this up." Don moved his hands into a 'here we are' gesture. "Because it would be impossible to tell either of you unless you were confronted, face-to-face. Here's the deal. You both accused the other of cheating; neither of you were. That tells me you need to get help!"
     Patricia frowned at Don; Mr. Weitz frowned at the floor. The seconds ticked by. Don refused to back down. He felt like he was going to split. With a motion so slow Don could almost hear her joints creaking, Patricia turned and looked at her husband.
     "I can't believe you'd think I'm cheating, you little worm! I'm not some weak-willed sop like you are!" She said, swatting his arm.
     "You thought I was cheating too!" Mr. Weitz responded. The two Weitzes crumbled into an argument. Don watched them go back and forth: accusing, yelling, trembling. He watched two people, cocooned in their own lives and unable to see the truth, blame the other person for the misery that was their own fault. If only either of them had stopped and looked through the haze of deception they cast on themselves, this relationship might have a chance. As it was, it spiraled towards destruction in front of his eyes.
     "Excuse me," he cut in. Patricia and Berg both turned and looked at him. She had an accusing expression and he simply seemed surprised, as if he had forgotten Don was there. "I'd like my statue now."
     "No. You went back on the deal."
     "Bullshit I did!" Don shouted, finally pushed far enough. "I followed him! I talked to him! I bowled with him! You either wanted proof of him cheating, or you would give me the statue, you said that yourself! Well, here we are; there is no proof! And now I want to buy that statue!" Don lowered his voice. "Do you want your boss to find out that you refused a sale?"
     "We have the right to refuse-"
     "Oh just give him his stupid statue, you harpy," Mr. Weitz said. His arms were crossed over his body. Patricia glowered at them both and then brought out the statue. Don expected her to smash it against the counter, but she managed to ring it up.

"Hi Don!" Kelsey said, as she welcomed him into her foyer. "Thanks for coming! I'm glad you could make it."
     "Me too. Here, this is for you," he said, handing her a carefully wrapped box.
     "Oh, you shouldn't have! I hope you didn't go through too much trouble for this," Kelsey said as she took the box from his hands.
     He'd keep the trouble involved to himself. He took off his shoes and followed her into the living room, where a few other guests stood assembled.
     Don sat and chatted, beginning to enjoy himself for the first time in over a week. He had finally pulled himself apart from the Weitzes; may he never see them again.
     At one point he looked on a shelf over the fireplace. His stomach flipped, and he stood. There, in between a frolicking pewter kitten and a ceramic sea captain, was an exact copy of the statue he had finally been able to purchase, down to the light golden hair and blue ribbon. He stared at it as an unknown emotion, some mix of anger and hysterical euphoria, filled him. It was unkindly funny.
     He didn't deserve it! He'd paid his penance, and the price, and he'd done his best to show that the Weitzes needed to talk to people about their relationship! He hadn't even kept the money that Mr. Weitz had paid him, aside from the sixty dollars! He'd spent more on gas during that period than even that amount of money!
     He went through the rest of the party sullen. He kept himself looking cheerful for Kelsey, but it put a strain on him. He finally got himself to go, assured that any chance he had with Kelsey was dead and gone, but she stopped him.
     "Don! Uh, about your present . . . "
     "Yeah, uh, I didn't know you already had one. I saw it and I thought you'd like it but--"
     "I love it! It's my favorite of the pieces my mom collected! I can't believe you found another one!"
     Don didn't really believe it either.
     "Now I have my very own! You really didn't know about it?"
     Don shook his head. "Not a bit. You're welcome."
     Kelsey smiled. It held all that he had hoped, and suddenly the trouble was quite worth it.