What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  “Covey Hamilton is living in his estate in the hills of Portland awaiting trial. He has been charged with embezzlement, fraud, theft, and money laundering. He is on house arrest. His wife, Dina Hamilton, is no longer living at the house and has reportedly filed for divorce via her attorney, Cherie Poitras.

  “A neighbor, Felice Donegard, says that Dina has gone to live with her sister on a remote southern Oregon ranch.”

  I laughed. Felice knew I didn’t have a sister. She was trying to cover for me. I loved Felice. Wealthy. Trust-fund baby. Eccentric. She’s built like a china doll and is a math professor at a university. She told me that to conquer her insomnia she does math equations at night, each more complicated than the last so her brain will fizzle out. “Thank you, Felice.”

  I read the rest of the article.

  “The list of investors who are suing Covey Hamilton and Hamilton Investments continues to grow.

  “Michael Yeable, 55, a dentist who said he gave $100,000 to Covey to invest, stated he has already been interviewed by the authorities. ‘They tell me they’ll do what they can to get me, and the other victims, our money back, but I’m not holding my breath. There are too many of us out there.’

  “Another victim, Vivian Sorley, 82, said she gave Covey $1 million. ‘He said there were three start-up tech companies that already had angel investors, including him, and that I would triple my money by the end of the year. He lied. I want to kill him. I may kill him. What? I’ll be dead anyhow by the time my trial comes around. What have I got to lose? Plus, I’ll be doing all the other people who were ripped off by Covey a favor.’

  ‘Covey and Dina Hamilton will receive a fair trial and justice will be served,’ Assistant U.S. Attorney Dale Kotchik said.

  “The assistant U.S. attorney would not comment on questions about where the money went, although sources say that Covey Hamilton was into high-stakes gambling in Las Vegas, was involved in heavy betting on sports events, gave lavish parties with his wife, artist Dina Hamilton, had three homes, including one in Mexico, and lived a luxurious lifestyle. He also made poor investments and did not seem to understand the stock market.”

  I wanted to puke.

  I didn’t know that Covey was gambling that much. Yes, he’d been to Vegas in the year we’d been married, but he said he was meeting clients. He did say he gambled, too, and once won $1,000 and another time won $1,500. Clearly, he was lying through his teeth.

  I didn’t know, until the Assistant U.S. Attorney Dale Kotchik told me, about the heavy betting on sports games. I did know about the “lavish” parties, because I gave them. Covey had me hire a caterer, or made me cook for the smaller parties. We had lobster, steak, fancy stuff. He bought expensive liquor and wine. He had me hire a band or some sort of musical entertainment, and he bought “guest gifts,” which could cost thousands. Covey invited his happy clients, and people he wanted to become clients.

  “It’s all about making them feel included,” he had told me. “Like I’m their best friend and if they invest with me they’ll make more friends, be with the cool people.”

  What an arrogant son of a gun. I had never been cool in my whole life, and I was smart enough to quit striving for something so inane and shallow when I was a kid.

  “My wife and I are innocent of all charges,” Covey said in the article. “This is a personal attack by the U.S. Attorney who is trying to make a name for herself so she can run for governor. Dina and I have always had the utmost respect for our clients and are honored that they have trusted us to invest their money wisely through Hamilton Investments.

  “We made our clients a ton of money, through careful deliberation and sound, safe investment practices. Now, when the stock market tumbles, when the real estate market takes a plunge, through no fault of our own, we’re blamed. Our company, Hamilton Investments, is blamed. I cannot control the economics of the nation and the world, neither can Dina.”

  I so wanted him dead. “Dina and I” and “we” and “our company”? This was a direct message to me. He was including me in his business, as if I’d had anything to do with it at all.

  I was grateful there was no photo of me and my ex-blond hair in the newspaper article.

  I am rebuilding my life from scratch because of him. Done it before, will probably have to do it again.

  Holy mother of fire and brimstone, I wish an asteroid would hit his house and explode.

  I used my sketch pad and charcoal pencil late that night to draw a girl with a gash on her head. I drew her putting out a fire on a man with her hands. I drew her cowering in a corner. I drew her sleeping under a bridge. I drew her alone, alone, alone.

  My heart thudded, my tears rolled.

  I drew until the memories settled down.

  It is the only way I know how to deal with them.

  If I don’t deal with them, they bring me to my knees, one way or the other.

  The past must get back.

  When I was released back into the general jail population, after being relegated to solitude for my battle with Neanderthal Woman, most of the women I’d met earlier were still there.

  My mind was fried, my emotions a ragged mess. Solitary means solitary. The room is small, tight, claustrophobic. The walls inch in. You don’t talk to anyone except a guard who brings you meals three times a day. Your bed is a slab. Your silver toilet is attached to your silver sink. There is no space.

  The male guards can check on you through the window whenever they want. They can watch you pee. I did not shower when I was there because there were two creepy guards, Juan Polovov and Brett Masterson, and I did not want to give them the satisfaction of catching a glimpse of me.

  No thank you to Juan and Brett.

  The first two hours in solitude, I was okay being there, alone, my head in my hands, but by the end of the second day, I started to disintegrate.

  I had been arrested.

  I was in jail.

  I had been in a fight.

  I was in solitary.

  My past came rushing up, swirled around, and threw me down flat. I had no defenses against all the harsh memories I worked hard to keep at bay.

  By the third day in solitary, I was semicomatose and felt that was the best place to be. Depression hit like an elephant dropping from the sky. I was not there, almost completely out of it.

  When I came out of solitary, I was allowed to take a shower in my unit, then I joined the same group of women. Although I was supposed to have been released on Monday, via a judge, which usually overrides discipline in jail, I had been charged with assault, so I couldn’t leave.

  Two days later Neanderthal Woman was released from solitary, too. I learned her name was Pat. Her chin was bruised where I’d pounded back. Her eye was black. I was somewhat of a jail hero for hitting her. I learned that the other ladies hated her because she was a bully. I hate bullies. I hate that they pick on people more vulnerable than themselves. I had been the vulnerable one when I was a kid.

  “Hey, Barbie princess, you like solitary?”

  I didn’t answer. I walked away, but damn, my temper switch flipped on, roaring bonfire style again. Barbie princess? Bite me. She followed me, taunting me.

  I turned to her. “Look, you ugly, sick freak. I don’t want you around me. If I have to go to solitary again for slamming you, I will. I don’t care. I liked it there because then I didn’t have to hang out with you.” Now that was a roaring lie.

  She grabbed my ass and put her hand between my cheeks. I was sickened, absolutely sickened. No one is allowed to do that to me again. No one.

  I hit her so hard, I felt my knuckles crack. She felt straight back and hit her head. We both ended up in solitary. Again.

  Three days. Charged with assault. Again.

  Three fingers swelled to sausage size. My memories came and lashed me again, harsh and insidious. I peed in my silver toilet attached to my silver sink. I did not shower. The depression elephant came back.

  That night, in my dreams, under my comf
orter in my pink room, I felt the red, crocheted shawl wrapped around me. I felt a kiss on my forehead, a kiss on my cheek. Look up at the sky, Grenadine. Do you see the Big Dipper? The Little Dipper? Come paint with me . . . come draw with me.

  I woke up, clasped the lily bracelet around my wrist, and went back to sleep.

  “Hendricks’ Furniture,” I said into the phone.

  “Hi, I need to talk to Marilyn in sales.”

  “Marilyn won’t be in for a few days.” Marilyn was in trouble. Marilyn had literally whacked her husband with a frying pan. She was going for his head but hit his shoulder, lucky for both of them.

  Marilyn swung a second time and hit his butt, and on the third swing she tripped off her front porch, landed on her face, and broke her collarbone. Good thing because her husband was down for the count, holding his butt.

  Marilyn’s frying pan debacle took place in front of their house, and a neighbor called police and said that the husband was “being beaten like a dog on the fanny.”

  Her husband did not want to press charges. He had come home drunk and Marilyn was sick to death of it, but it was out of his hands. She had been charged with assault. I found out why Kade had hired her, too. She had come from Georgia about a month before I arrived, from a company there, and had great recommendations, which he later found were written by the owner of the company, her sister.

  “The recommendations were glowing,” Eudora said, “because they wanted her out of there. I know Kade was planning on getting rid of her this week.”

  “Can I take a message?” I asked.

  The man on the other end of the phone sighed and said, “Dagnabbit.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Sure. My name is Sid McNulty and I have a ski lodge I’m opening up in Montana, and we wanted to commission a front check-in desk from you all. We’ve seen your work, we love it, and I was told to talk to Marilyn.”

  “Hang on a minute.” I walked back to Kade’s office, but he was gone, and so was Sam and Rozlyn and Eudora. I remembered they were in a meeting together. “Okay, Kade Hendricks is not available. Can you tell me what you’re thinking about and I’ll get back to you?”

  He did.

  “Let me sketch your ideas out while we chat.” I asked about the weather in Montana, I told him I liked to fish, he liked to fish, too, so did his wife and kids, I told him I always wanted to go to Montana, he said his wife made a mean steak and I should come and have one and bring Kade with me, he always wanted to meet him . . . chitchat, chitchat . . . then I was done with my drawing.

  “Can you Skype me?” I asked. He could.

  I held up the drawing I made. “Like this?”

  He was bald headed and reminded me of a bull. He beamed. “Hey, hey, hey! Yeah. Like that. Montana-y. That’s what we wanted.”

  I had drawn a ski scene for the check-in desk—one man, one woman, flying through the air over the slopes, trees in the background. I framed the carving with skis and wrote “Welcome to McNulty’s” across the top.

  I also sketched a pair of wood skis on top of the check-in desk and drew ski poles on either side.

  “You are one smart lady. It’s like you got into my head and picked out what I was thinkin’ about and made it better.”

  “Thank you. Kade does excellent work.”

  “I’ve seen Kade’s work, that’s why I called. It’s been my dream to order something from him.”

  “Do you want a table for the front entrance, too?”

  “What are you thinkin’?”

  I drew a picture of the top of the table, a chair lift, three people in it. The legs of the table were carved with skis and poles. “You put this table in your lobby, use it for a vase of flowers and for a large photo of you, as the owner of the lodge.” I played to his vanity; I could tell he had an ego. “This is a classy way to welcome people. Rustic, outdoorsy, but it also says luxurious. Rich. Successful.” I pandered to that ego again.

  “I want both. Tell Kade.”

  We had a great conversation. I told him I’d get back to him about pricing, the time line and schedule, etc., and he told me I was “as pretty as my daughters . . . if I had an unmarried son, I’d set you two right on up.”

  After we hung up I returned the calls I’d let go to voice mail and passed on messages. Two hours later Kade walked back in. I waited for another hour before going to talk to him so he could get settled. I knocked on his door. I was already nervous. I had probably totally overstepped my job. I was presumptuous and pushy. I should have left Kade the message from Sid and hung up.

  “Hi. Come on in, Grenady.”

  “Hello. Kade, a man named Sid McNulty called when you were out. He asked for Marilyn.”

  “And Marilyn is not currently here . . .” He sighed. “Marilyn has got to learn how to control that temper.” He turned his head to the window, distracted. “And control some other things, too, although she will not be doing that learning here. Anyhow, who is he and what does he want?”

  I told him about the conversation. “I didn’t mean to step on Marilyn’s toes. I won’t do this again.”

  “Let me see the designs you drew.”

  I handed them over.

  He said, “Nice,” quietly. “We can do this, Artist Lady.”

  Artist Lady. I liked that. “It’s a draft only, that’s it, based on what I’ve seen you do already.”

  “I like the way you attached carved skis on top of the check-in desk.”

  “Gets ’em thinking about the slopes.”

  “And the skis and poles for the legs of the table.” He put my drawings on his desk. “I don’t think you’ll be our receptionist for long, Grenady. I’ll forward this to Sam and we’ll get together a price sheet and a time line for the finished product. I’ll give Sid a call.”

  I sagged in relief and laughed. “So I still have my job as the receptionist, though?”

  He looked puzzled. “At the moment. Sales might be better for you. There’s commission in sales, too.”

  I smiled.

  He smiled back. Oh, mobster man, you are delicious.

  On Monday evening, as the snow floated down, I found three different, ugly wood lamps with beige shades for about seven dollars each and two seven-foot-tall, ugly, puke green bookcases for ten dollars each at the thrift store. The man at the thrift store said he would have his son deliver the shelves to me in his truck.

  We put the bookcases on either side of my gas fireplace. They sure needed a makeover.

  I related to that.

  I put the magnifying glass canvas aside because I couldn’t grasp what I was trying to remember, what I was trying to get the magnifying glass to magnify, but I knew I didn’t like it. I started painting the circular glass vase with the lilies, the quaint village, the church steeple, the cobblestone streets and the crack up the side.

  Covey called, semihysterical with fury, and left a message for me to call him. Then he swore at me and called me a “white trash bitch.”

  Millie called. She said, “Prepare for a trial.”

  Cherie called. Covey was fighting every inch of the divorce for asinine reasons. He would make me go broke. She said, “You married a lunatic. I will slay him.”

  Marilyn and her husband moved to Coeur d’Alene. Marilyn told me she didn’t need “the chicken ladies’ tongues wagging” here in Pineridge. I don’t know why she called the women “chicken ladies” and didn’t ask. She also said, “Tight jeans, Grenady. Are you sure you have the figure for them?”

  I said, “If I can’t wear tight jeans, you should be in a tent.” She had one more comment, as her eyes dropped to my chest. “Tell me, before I go. Those are fake, aren’t they? They look so fake.”

  I lifted my sweater, boobs encased in a purple lace bra. “All mine, Marilyn. Au naturel.”

  I loved that choking expression on her pinched face.

  Her husband came in with her to get her last check. “Her momma’s in Coeur d’Alene,” he whispered to me when Marilyn was saying
good-bye, pretending people would miss her. “Her momma’s the only one who could get her to see reason, so we gotta move. I can’t get hit in the butt again. She dang near snapped my tailbone. Snapped my ass, that’s what she almost did. I can’t live with a snapped ass.”

  I didn’t think he should stay with anyone who hit him, but he apparently had made his choice, and they left together after Marilyn shot me one more hate-filled glance. She grabbed her husband’s hand as if I’d run out and steal the man. Poor guy.

  Kade came out after they left.

  “Congratulations, Grenady. You are now head of sales for Hendricks’ Furniture. You get a raise, an office, commission, and more vacation days. Can you find me someone to be the new receptionist?”

  I could! I was so happy I wanted to hug him, but he’s pretty serious and reserved, so I wrapped my arms around myself and gave myself a hug. “Thank you.” I laughed. “Thank you.”

  His eyes softened, I could see it. “You’re welcome. Thank you.”

  Working at The Spirited Owl that night, making hot buttered rums for a group of women and highballs for a group of men, was easier for me. I had a new job. I was head of sales for Hendricks’ Furniture.

  I about clicked my darn boots together.

  I had a divorce to finance and an attorney to pay. This was on top of, quite possibly, being told to pay back the victims over the course of the rest of my life, post-prison, after all of my savings and retirement money was sucked in to Covey’s black hole.

  If there was a miracle, however, and I wasn’t found guilty, then I could keep this money. I was hoping, like a drunk fool, for that outcome.

  My mind was taken off my new position when Rhetta stalked in, grabbed a beer bottle, and charged toward her ex-boyfriend, Wayne, who had broken up with her because of her temper.

  I saw her coming, teeth bared, and I climbed over the bar, between Grizz and Chilton, and grabbed the bottle in the nick of time.