The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 3

      “Hello...Lucille? Hi there. This is Clayton Powell. Yes, I've been thinking and...I'd like you to remove my request from your file. Yes, that's right. Maybe another time. I'll call you.”

     Harv stood from behind his desk and reached a hand across, grabbing Clayton's firmly in his palm.

     “Sit down...please.” He motioned to the empty chair. “You know, Mr. Powell, just to put you at ease, it's not at all uncommon for first-timers to get cold feet. I'm glad you came, though. We can just talk if you like. I can show you some pictures of other clients and you can make a decision when it feels right for you. Does that sound good?”

     Clayton nodded, wondering whether he'd remembered to put on deodorant, moisture collecting in large orbs on his Nike jogging shirt.
      Harv turned the computer monitor to face Clayton where neatly organized rows of female faces stared back at him. The mouse in Harv's hand scurried across the mouse pad, clicking here and there and finally bringing three of the faces to the forefront, large and in perfect focus. Clayton removed the glasses straddling his scalp and pressed them firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

     “These are the clients I feel would best suit you, Mr. Powell. Do you see anything you like? This is just the first step, of course. You'd have a chance to meet and get to know them before your trip. We can arrange for a private meeting here or you can make your own arrangements - a restaurant or bar. We recommend that you don't meet, for the first time, in a residence.”

     Clayton rubbed his cheeks firmly with both palms, the morning's growth bristling sharply on tender skin. He leaned in for a closer look. They were all in their mid to late sixties, he deduced. Paxton wasn't a big town but he didn't recognize any of them, thank God.

     “I don't know how to do this.” He leaned back in his chair, hoisted an ankle to his knee and then dropped it back to the floor; rubbed a closed fist against his scalp.

     Harv smiled. “That's all right, Mr. Powell. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and print these copies and you can take them home to think about it. O.k.?”

     “O.k.” The response left his mouth encased within a sigh, airy and unsure.

     Clayton pulled the manilla envelope out from concealment - the underside of his shirt - and shoved it beneath the newspaper on the table like a top-secret document. He checked the mantle for Rhonda. She was still gazing at the mottled brick fireplace, back turned.

     Withdrawing to the bedroom he removed the smelly jogging attire and climbed into the shower, rinsing away his iniquity under prolific bursts of hot water and soapy slather.

     Pouring a cup of steaming tea he settled in at the table drumming his fingers in rhythm with his accelerated heart rate. Stuff like this is what likely gives a guy a heart attack. There may be no need for Oxycontin. A wicked pointer finger ran along the table, made contact with the corner of the concealed envelope and drew it out into the open. He lifted it, shook it gently and the photos fell to the table surface.

     Lined up now like a firing squad, Clayton's eyes moved from one to the next. He wondered what they were thinking as they stared back at him. They were all smiling – smirking, maybe - seeing right through his cool veneer. He couldn't get past the idea of being a witness behind a concealment window, looking for the perpetrator - “That's her! Yes, officer, I'm sure.”

     Clayton pushed the eight by tens into a pile and ambled to the living room, standing them carefully, side by side, along the mantle ledge. He turned Rhonda's photo around and set it in line with the others.

Continued...