Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  He stopped biting his nails and scratching. Stillness overtook him again. After a brief pause, he nodded. “All right, man. All right. I’ll try.”

  Donning my hat, I offered my hand so he could stand up.

  “This is happening,” I said. “Let’s go see your family.”

  “They’re gonna fight us on this. They don’t think she’s missing.”

  “I’m in the mood for a fight.”

  Chapter 5

  We arrived at the Bacon house twenty minutes later. The late afternoon sun threw a golden light over the orchard of mango and pomegranate trees.

  “No sugarcane?” I said.

  “Actually, grandma hates the smell of the stuff. She doesn’t allow rum or sugar in the house.” He inspected his thumbnail, which he’d already bitten to the quick. “She uses honey in her tea.”

  “You’re really worried about her.”

  It was rhetorical, but he answered anyway. “I have concerns. You know, it’s tiring when no one believes you about something like this.”

  I did know. All too well.

  He rubbed the back of his hand under his nose then wiped whatever it was on his pants. Once inside, Junior excused himself to use the restroom.

  Five fans with blades the size and width of a pelican’s wing swirled the air, but somehow it still smelled musty.

  A Victorian couch littered with buttons beckoned. All the furniture looked antique, like museum pieces from the turn of the nineteenth century. Everything was so busy it made me feel like I should remove my shoes and sit with my legs sideways on the flowered couch. I rapped on the coffee table.

  “Yes, it’s real marble, straight from England. Nineteen-twenty,” said a Caucasian man with slicked back hair and a mustache. He wore natural-colored linen pants, a matching shirt and sandals.

  “Herbie, you are such a bore,” said a woman.

  Feeling naked without Junior to explain my presence, I bolted off the sofa. I waved and grinned like I’d just entered a ballroom clad in boxers and a tank top, which wasn’t that far from the truth.

  “Hi, I’m Boise.” I coughed, then stammered on, “I’m, uh, here with Junior.”

  The man she’d called Herbie looked at me suspiciously. “I’m gonna call security. I don’t know how you got into this house, but ... ”

  Junior returned. “Hey, Papa,” he said dourly.

  “Junior! What the hell are you doing here?”

  The woman smiled and took a sip from her wine glass, “Yes, Junior, your father did not tell me you were coming down today.” She threw an icy stare at Herbie, then the ice melted as she turned back to Junior. “Give your auntie a kiss, dear.”

  Junior obliged, pecking the woman on both cheeks. She did not hug him and her kisses were the air-type.

  “Nice to see you, Aunt Hill.”

  “My, I think you’ve gotten taller since last I saw you. What is that you’re wearing?” She glanced down and put her hand over her mouth. “Is that blood on your leg? Are you hurt, boy? Wilma!”

  It was the same spot as the original blood he’d wiped off, but there was now a small cut from his continuous rubbing.

  A woman scurried in from the back of the house, wearing a navy smock and rather tight jeans. “Yeah, Miss Hillary. I right here. What you need?”

  “Wilma, call Doctor Schneider. Junior’s hurt!”

  She leaned over, her pink finger shaking above the cut like an angry insect.

  “No, Wilma, don’t worry, I just scratched it too hard. I’m fine. Don’t call the doctor.”

  Wilma planted her hands on her hips. “Junior, when you get here? Come give me a hug, boy!”

  Junior and Wilma hugged warmly, a marked contrast to the greetings offered by his aunt and father.

  Herbie piped up. “See, there it is, Hill, overreacting again to nothing. That’s what you’ve taught my son with all your hysterical outbursts. And you wonder why he has trouble letting go of this fanatical concern for mama. Is that why you’re here, son?” Herbie’s jaw clenched and unclenched, as if he strained to control the need to use the restroom.

  My knee ached, so I settled back onto the hard couch. Another man entered from the garden. The smell of marijuana and sage wafted in with him.

  “You reek! Get out this instant.” Hillary pointed to the back door from whence he’d entered. “You know there’s no smoking in the house.”

  The man choked out a hoarse reply, “I’m not smoking. I already smoked, bitch.”

  He stalked around her, punched Junior in the shoulder with a cocked grin and a wink, then plodded up the carpeted steps in black and white Chuck Taylors. A door slammed.

  “That’s Uncle Harold,” Junior whispered as he returned to my side and Wilma headed back to the kitchen.

  “You see what it’s come to,” Hillary said, sticking her chin up at the second floor. “He thinks he can do whatever he wants when she’s not in residence! I could wring her neck for leaving again with no warning and not taking her lapdog with her. Gurr!”

  She pronounced gurr as a word, not as a sound. This woman struck me as one of the most contrived people I’d met in some time. Even in Los Angeles, at the law firm where I worked, she would have kept pace.

  “You see why I don’t feel confident we’ll convince them?”

  “Convince us of what, Junior?” said his father.

  Hillary gazed at her nephew then danced into the kitchen, returning with a fresh glass of white wine in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “Wine anyone?” No one spoke. “Fine, more for me.” She downed the glass and filled it again then parked the bottle on the bench by the grand piano.

  “Hillary,” said Herbie, “you know that can stain the wood. Mama would not approve.”

  “Hmmm. Well, no one else around here seems interested in the rules anymore, so why should I care?”

  Snooty rich people, yay! Keep cool and get a retainer.

  “Mr. and Ms. Bacon?”

  They turned in unison as if the family dog had just spoken. Hillary leaned against the piano, striking a key on the end. A deep bong filled the room.

  “I’m Boise Montague, a private dick Junior has asked to look into the disappearance of your mother.”

  At this they looked at each other and for the first time seemed to connect as siblings. Hillary erupted with laughter. She clanked her glass down on top of the piano and pounded out three dramatic notes.

  Herbie stroked his mustache in a downward motion as he realized I wasn’t joking.

  “Junior, do you really expect us to continue indulging this paranoid fantasy about mama? Really?” The last word came out as “rally.”

  A door on the second floor creaked open. Harold descended the curved staircase. Hillary sneered at him over the rim of her glass as she guzzled more wine. He seated himself on the bottom step, leaning back on his elbows and throwing his legs straight out. Lounging. After casually smoothing back his wavy locks, he slid a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped them against his knee. The box made a hollow pop, pop, pop on his tattered jeans. He opened it and held the cigs out to each of us in turn. Although I didn’t smoke, I took one. This seemed to please him.

  He said, “Boise, huh?” as he lit my cigarette. His lighter had little green palm trees on it.

  “Oh god, the prince has deigned to grace us with his presence,” slurred Hillary as she poured another glass of wine. The liquid in the bottle looked dangerously low. Her forehead matched the yellowish tint of the white wine and had an oily sheen to it. This family descended from colonial landowners, probably a mix of Spanish and Danish ancestry.

  “Hey man, let’s hear what the little dude has to say. So, Junior, what’s the haps? Why’d you bring Private Dick Boise by?”

  “I think grandma’s missing. Something’s not right. You know we talk regularly and she didn’t say nothing about a trip or ... ”
He paused, seeming to search for more things she could be doing on the sly. “ ... I dunno. What do you think Uncle Harold?”

  “Well, little man, you’re a thinker and a damn observant hombre. You had your ear to the ground on mama. If you say something’s amiss, I’m inclined to give it a ride.”

  “Good God, Harold. You’re stoned. What do you know?”

  Harold belted out a plume of grayish smoke and declared into the cloud, “And you’re drunk.”

  At this Hillary shot off the bench, knocking the wine bottle to the floor. The bottle didn’t break, but white wine seeped out onto the baby blue rug. That rug probably cost more than I made in a year.

  “Look what you made me do!” She marched away calling for Wilma. The wine bottle remained on the carpet, the buttery smell of chardonnay melding with the cigarette smoke.

  “See, Junior, it’s never too late to act like a child,” Harold said with mock enthusiasm. “Mr. Montague, welcome to our slappy home!” He lifted his arms and slouched against the stairs, taking another drag. “So, what are we talking about, Junior and Boise? You guys sound like a dream team. The Samoan and the Southerner. Like some kinda movie.”

  “I wanna hire Boise to find grandma. I miss her and I’m missing school on account of I can’t focus with this on my mind.”

  Herbie sneered and wrung his hands. Hatred dotted his cheeks like acne as he glowered at his younger brother while addressing his son.

  “Oh no. Junior, this ends now. Your grandma has been doing shit like this our whole lives. We are not ... ”

  “I dunno, man,” interrupted Harold. “She hasn’t done this since I was in my twenties.” He threw me a sideways look. “That was a while ago. Definitely since before Junior was conceived, which is why he doesn’t know about that side of her. Give the kid a break. Let him have some ideals.” As he finished this last plea, he mouthed at Junior and me, fuck ‘em, then stuck out his tongue.

  “I saw that,” Herbie declared. “F-you too little brother. You always did lack class.”

  Harold put his hand over his open mouth in mock shock. “My virgin ears are burning! Three business degrees and that’s the best you can do, dude?”

  Hillary charged back into the room, arms akimbo, the now empty wine glass clutched in her right hand by the stem. As she rounded the corner, the top of the glass struck the wall and shattered.

  “Ahhh! That woman’s crazy! She means to bash me. Help! Help!”

  Behind her, Wilma held a wooden rolling pin still covered with flour aloft, while casually following the hysterical Hillary. Not quite as threatening as Medusa, but I suppose close enough for Hillary.

  “I ask her leave me alone. Jus’ leave me be. I making food and she want me to drop everyt’ing to come clean she mess.” Wilma pointed the rolling pin at the bottle Hillary had left on the carpet. Flour dusted the bottle like a snowfall. “You mean to tell me you can’t pick that up by yourself, Miss Hillary?”

  Hillary cowered behind Herbie. Harold let out a peal of giggling that matched his stoned demeanor. The only sane ones seemed to be the eighteen-year-old and the housekeeper brandishing the rolling pin.

  “What do we pay you for?” asked Herbie with solemn authority. The volume on Harold’s giggling turned off abruptly. His torso became rigid as he rose off the steps and moved to his brother. Harold cocked a fist at Herbie’s flushed face. Their noses nearly touched. I could almost feel the steamy warmth of Harold’s bull-snorts from the sofa. The physical contrast between Harold’s muscled and tanned body and Herbie’s lithe, pale features belied the stereotypical differences. A man of the earth who on some level detested his wealth and a colonial invader hell-bent on keeping the European family fortune intact. I wondered which son Francine felt closer to.

  “You do not pay anyone, Herbie,” Harold growled. “All of this. All of it. Is paid for by mama. We are tenants, and poor excuses at that.”

  A whimpering sound emerged from Hillary as she held the broken glass by the stem out to ward off her enraged younger brother.

  “And you, Hill, what are you gonna do with that?” Harold ripped open his shirt, a white button landed on the smooth black surface of the baby-grand, spinning like a top before settling. He stuck out his chest, daring her to stab him with the shattered tip. “Maybe you’ll whine and dine me to death.” He let out another peal of laughter.

  “Crazy people,” muttered Wilma. She picked up the wine bottle and headed back into the kitchen, her head shaking as she continued to mutter the word “crazy.”

  Then, as if things could get any stranger, Hillary fainted. The wine stem bounced across the carpet, rolling to a stop under the piano.

  Harold insisted she was faking it to get attention, that she’d done the same sort of thing a thousand times whenever she didn’t get her way. Herbie and I carried her upstairs and lay her down in bed. When I returned, Junior and Harold stood outside in the orchard dropping bits of bread into a koi pond as a dozen of the bulbous fish lazily gulped the proffered crumbs. An open field with arrow bullseyes mounted at the far end stretched off to my right. The field was also marked with soccer goals at each end. It appeared to be a regulation sized soccer field. The place reminded me of a cartel boss’ estate in Colombia or Mexico I’d once seen photographed for an architectural magazine. In the distance, a section of grass was fenced and marked as a tennis court. Two barren net posts stood guard outside the doubles alleys.

  “So, my little man tells me he wants you to find mama. You up for that? I mean ... ” He nodded toward the French doors behind us. “ ... we ain’t exactly the Swiss Family Robinson. You sure you want in on this fiasco?”

  Harold started a second cigarette. Mine smoldered in a ridiculous green ashtray on their marble coffee table. He offered me another. I waved him off.

  I nudged Junior. “It doesn’t sound like your family is much for your theory. Not your dad and aunt, anyway.” I addressed Harold. “What do you think? Could she be missing, or were you just saying that to get a rise out of them?”

  He pointed the business end of the cigarette at me. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Cool. Cool. Yeah, well, I don’t really believe she’s missing, but who cares? I’m happy to help my nephew out with his beliefs. All the better if it pisses them off. So what, you came here to ask for an investigative bankroll?”

  “Yeah, Uncle Harold, I was praying you’d indulge me on this seeing as I’m really concerned about her and she’s your mother. I mean, what if I’m right?”

  “Yeah, kid, or maybe you wanted an excuse to ditch school.”

  “Man, you know I like school.”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m inclined to say fuck it and pay this man for his services.”

  “Really?” Junior’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that?”

  Harold nodded and his nephew hugged him. I felt like hugging both of them; I had a paying gig.

  “I see you have an archery range over there,” I said.

  “You shoot?” Harold asked.

  “No ... well, once at a camp.” Something small and brown scurried across the open field. “Was that a rabbit?”

  “Yeah, when we were kids, we had a pair of rabbits get loose. That saying about multiplying like bunnies is for real.” Harold sniggered. “What say, champ? Should we show him the ropes?”

  “Sure,” said Junior.

  We made our way over to the range where a small shed housed the equipment. Harold brought out a complicated device that resembled a bow.

  “Funny looking, huh? These things have gotten pretty high-tech. When I competed, they were much more like this.”

  From the back of the shed, he brought out a bow painted army camouflage and sporting a more traditional look, but made of some high-tech alloy.

  “I use this for hunting, not competition.”

  He let me hold it.

  “Wanna try?�
� He winked at Junior. “What about you? Been practicing?”

  Junior shrugged. “More into biking lately, but I go shoot sometimes. I’m gonna get some water.”

  Once Junior was gone, Harold dropped his cigarette on the ground. He pulled a quiver out of the shed, and we positioned ourselves next to a painted brick marked with a white “20.”

  “Dude, archery one-oh-one. You put your hand here. Nock the arrow here.” He hadn’t given me an arrow yet, probably a good idea. You don’t give a loaded gun to a child. “No, like this, man.” After adjusting my hand, he pointed at the multi-colored target. “This is a pretty rookie distance, but if you don’t shoot it’ll be tough enough.”

  “It seems plenty far enough to embarrass me,” I muttered.

  My left arm had some bend in the elbow. He straightened it. “Extend your bow arm.” He tapped under my right elbow. “Elbow up. Level. Good.” He handed me an arrow. I nocked it. “Turn more sideways, like this.” He demonstrated. “Nice, except, ah never mind. Let ‘er rip.”

  I pulled back, trying to control my breathing as I’d learned to do when shooting. The arrow flew, hit the edge of the target and careened off into the grass.

  Harold pursed his lips and rubbed his hands together. “You almost hit the target.”

  I held the bow out to him. “Let me watch you.”

  A grin spread across his tanned features. He appeared ruddier and more rugged-looking than his siblings. He gripped the bow with practiced ease, shook his right hand like it was a wet rag, set the arrow, and released. The arrow hit between the first and second gold ring.

  “Too much weed today.”

  “What do you mean? That’s amazing.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I hear you’re an Olympian,” I said.

  As he picked up the stuff and dropped it back into the shed, he said, “Why would Junior be telling you about my archery exploits?”

  “We had an archery-centered discussion at lunch today.”

  Harold sighed. “I’ll bite.”