The Debt Collector

by Lynn S. Hightower

  Judice lifted her head. “We sent him a check for fifty dollars three months ago when he asked for help. My art is only just getting to the point where the money is catching up with my fame.”

  “Did he cash the check?” Sonora asked.

  “Yes. Sent us a real nice note,” Eddie said. “Promised to pay it back as soon as he could.”

  Poor desperate bastard, Sonora thought.

  Judice opened both arms. “I cannot take this child unless there is compensation. It is the best I can offer—a nanny to care for the child, maybe do some light housekeeping, so that I can do my work.”

  “They’ve made other arrangements.” Sonora spoke slowly, hoping it would sink in.

  “Then I lay down my Karmic burden.”

  That tore it. It was past time for her to go home anyway. Sonora stood up and shook their hands. If they had information, she’d get it somewhere else. “Mr. and Mrs. Stinnet, I’m afraid there are reporters camped outside. I’ll get a uniform to show you the back way out and get you safe to your car.”

  Judice looked at Eddie. Sonora saw it pass between them, the psychic communication inherent in people who knew each other very well. Eddie Stinnet stood up, fingering the black plastic camera strap.

  “We’ll be okay.”

  26

  Sonora, who had been sorting through the freezer looking for something to cook, glanced up at the television screen, catching sight of Eddie Stinnet. “Damn. Like I didn’t see this one coming.”

  “Mom?” Heather was growing up beautiful, wearing pigtails today, hip-hugger jeans and a monkey T-shirt.

  “Heads up, Heather, it’s sound-byte time.”

  “You could cook that for dinner.”

  “Sound bytes?”

  Eddie had more camera presence than Sonora would have guessed, Judice oddly small and shy at his back. But any wife might shrink behind the red-faced anger Stinnet modeled for the camera.

  “Is that a threat, sir?” A pretty brunette with lush red lips had the grace to look appalled. Probably new in the business.

  Eddie edged sideways. They had caught him in the street next to the Board of Elections building. “He was my brother.”

  “Half-brother,” Sonora muttered.

  “… I don’t know what folk around here do, but Carl was family, and back where I come from, we look after family.”

  Sonora went back to the freezer. “A man from the clan, who’d’ve thunk it? Bet you five bucks Judice holds up one of her pots.”

  “Judice who? Mom, are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I am.” She wasn’t, though.

  “I mean, Susan is such a feminist, and she’s in the Virgin Club at school, she actually thinks you should never have sex till your wedding night, like is that for real in this day and age?”

  “Feminist is not a dirty word. If you—ho, ho, wait a minute, what’s this about having sex?”

  “Mom, you’ve said yourself you should never marry anyone you hadn’t ever slept with.”

  “I never said any such a thing.”

  “Yes, you did, to me and Tim, one day in McDonald’s.”

  “Had I been drinking?”

  “Mom, you did, I remember. Tim thinks it makes good sense—”

  “I just bet he does.”

  “Mom, it’s my life, you’re just going to have to accept that.”

  Sonora shut the freezer with her foot. “Speaking of Tim, he’s not going to be here tonight, it’s just you and me. What say we grill a couple of steaks, that sound good?”

  “But I’m sleeping over at Megan’s!”

  “Not on a school night.”

  “We’re finishing our Egyptian project and the costumes are over there because we have to dress up, and you already said I could last week. Her mom’s going to drive us to school in the morning. I mean, it’s not like you ever have time to drive me anywhere.”

  Sonora put the steaks down on the countertop. Had they had this conversation? The children knew all too well how absent-minded she was, and they milked it.

  “Are you in the Virgin Club?”

  “Me? No way, Mom. If you join the Virgin Club, you get clique-kicked and have to hang with the Christian right. They pray in the lunchroom. Lots of kids do it.”

  “Pray in the lunchroom?”

  “Have sex.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Heather, most of them are lying. There aren’t that many eleven-year-olds out there having sex.”

  “You wish. Don’t worry, I don’t even want to right now. I’m waiting till high school.”

  “High school? Heather, you’re not going to have sex in high school.”

  “But why not?”

  Sonora knew when she was being baited, which did not give her any particular guidance. “How about AIDS?”

  “I’ll use a condom.”

  “Don’t forget pregnancy.”

  “Condom.”

  “Be sure and belch the alphabet first.”

  “Mom, you are like so trying to sabotage me. I haven’t done that since I was eight years old.”

  “Heather, girls in high school who have sex almost always regret it. They get taken advantage of. They’re not ready to handle the—” Sonora realized that Heather was making a hand puppet with her fingers and mocking every word.

  “Sorry, Mom, but you’ve like told me this a thousand times.”

  Sonora rested her elbows on the countertop and beckoned her daughter closer. “Okay, Heather. Here’s the real truth. You can’t have sex till college because no boy in high school is good enough at it to be any fun, and I guarantee he will go right back to school the next day and tell all of his friends, and hurt your feelings and embarrass you in front of the whole school.”

  Heather frowned. Sonora, a veteran of interrogation technique, knew when she’d scored. “Get your stuff together, hon’, and I’ll take you to Megan’s. Load the dishwasher first.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Make time.”

  27

  It was going to be an all-alone night, but Sonora was not panicked. She was looking forward to it with at least three-quarters of her heart, the other fourth still crumpled up over the Jerk. The worst thing about that relationship was the void.

  But tonight she had Clampett and the mice and the house to herself.

  She put her hair up on her head, allowed herself a brand-new pair of thick white cotton socks, and shrugged herself into a gray T-shirt that she’d bought at the Gap when it was still the Gap. The white stenciling on the front was a distant memory, the sleeves and neckline frayed and as soft as a baby chick. It had turned cold out again, but she wore the cutoff jeans from Abercrombie & Fitch that were loose and comfortable. She stopped for a quick look in the mirror and decided that she looked pretty cute. She felt damn good when she could keep her mind off that Jerk.

  Sonora stole the boom box out of Heather’s room and turned it on to whatever CD was in the slot. Tubthumper—Chumbawamba. She cranked up the volume and opened a bottle of wine that she had been saving and began chopping garlic.

  Halfway into her first glass of wine and she was dancing, just a little, garlic flying from the wide blade of the knife—Chicago Cutlery, an indulgence—and sticking to the bottom of the cutting board. Clampett started barking. Sonora ignored him. The kids were safely tucked away at friends’ houses and there was no one she wanted to see. Unless …

  She headed for the door. It would not be the Jerk, but she had to check.

  A car in the driveway, something familiar about it. And the man on the porch. Keaton Daniels. Her past coming back to haunt her.

  “Oh,” Sonora said. Her stomach immediately filled with butterflies and her hands started shaking. Dammit, she thought.

  “Hello, Sonora.”

  Something about the deep throaty way he said her name made the butterflies die on the wing. The drama of it, the lurking sympathy.

  “Come in?” she asked.

  He gave her that old half
smile she used to love. “Depends on what you plan to do with the knife.”

  She looked down. “You would only have to worry if you were a clove of garlic.” She waved her hand, and he smiled and followed her in.

  “Letting your hair down tonight?”

  Sonora put her hands behind her back, pinking the palm of her left hand with the damn knife. She felt blood trickle across her palm, wet and oily, and she made a fist. She looked down at herself, the loose old cutoff jeans, trailing threads, the ancient ratty T-shirt with the hole under the arm. She felt dumpy all of a sudden. Sloppy. Definitely not cute.

  She was closing the door with her hip, hands fisted behind her back, when a huge white Cadillac convertible, 1958 maybe, with the top down, pulled into the street in front of her house.

  Keaton walked back to the door and looked out. He was a handsome man, tall, big-shouldered, dark curly hair, and brown eyes. He had lost an estranged wife and a beloved brother to the same psycho who killed Sonora’s brother, Stuart. It had been a year of portents and the winds of change, and the small blond serial killer who had brought them both such unhappiness still wrote to Sonora from her cell at regular intervals. Nothing was ever over in police work.

  “That guy in the car.” Keaton inclined his head to the Caddie. “What’s he doing? I saw him at the stoplight, he cut me off. I’d be surprised if they couldn’t hear his stereo system all the way to Cleveland. What the hell is he doing?”

  Sonora looked out the window. Damn if she didn’t like that car. She’d always wanted a convertible, and that one could pull a horse trailer. Imagine riding in it with the top down, a saddle piled in the back.

  “Do you know this guy?”

  Did she imagine the note of disapproval in his voice? Had he been this … pompous before?

  He looked wonderful. Freshly showered, crisply ironed khakis and a blue striped shirt and gray sweater. He headed through the small foyer and up the stairs to her living room, and she caught a tiny whiff of familiar cologne.

  The bastard.

  She ran up the stairs behind him, slipping in the socks, catching herself on the handrail. She executed a round-end maneuver behind him in the kitchen and ran to turn down her own music, which also probably could be heard all the way to Cleveland.

  “There’s your friend,” Keaton said, and Sonora looked up and jumped sideways. Opened the sliding glass door.

  “Gillane, dammit, what are you doing on my back porch?”

  He pulled back. “Did you or did you not leave a pathetic little message on my machine saying you couldn’t sleep and if I had anything that would help—”

  Sonora felt the heat creep from her neck to her face, though why it was an embarrassment to be too stressed to sleep she did not know. But nightmares were private, as far as she was concerned.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Keaton was standing almost at attention, as if he had caught her with her neighborhood connection and was embarrassed to witness the deal.

  Gillane looked at him over his shoulder. “It’s just Benadryl, prescription strength. And only one a night, Sonora, as small as you are. You won’t need much, and you don’t want to start taking any of the serious stuff.” Gillane wandered into the kitchen, literally sniffing around. “What you cooking? Hey, how’s the horse?”

  Keaton was staring.

  “I bought a horse,” Sonora said. “Hell-Z-Poppin.”

  “You what?”

  “A horse.”

  “You bought a horse?”

  Gillane opened the cabinets till he found wineglasses. “Clos du Bois Pinot Noir 1996. Whoever you are, can I get you a glass? Good stuff.”

  “Sure. Keaton Daniels, by the way.”

  Gillane served. “No need to introduce me, Sonora.” He turned and held out a hand. “Gillane.”

  Sonora liked it that he didn’t push the doctor bit.

  “I’m a physician at Jewish, work in the ER.”

  Sonora rolled her eyes.

  “You speak English like a native,” Gillane told Keaton. “I can’t hear your accent at all, and I’ve got a pretty good ear.”

  “Those of us over in Mount Adams have learned to blend in.”

  Gillane frowned.

  “It’s not him,” Sonora said. “He’s not the Jerk.”

  Gillane gave her a look. “You mean this is another one?”

  It was at that precise moment that Clampett streaked by, moving like a young dog, hot on the trail of three desperate mice.

  28

  Gillane was clearly enjoying himself. Sonora was not. Neither was Keaton, who was holding one end of the couch very high off the ground to expose the mice who had taken refuge beneath it. Clampett, hot on their scent, had them cornered, and he laid down, tail wagging.

  “Can you please get your dog out from under there before I drop this thing?” Keaton did not sound happy. Sonora knew the couch was heavy.

  “Clampett. Heel.”

  Clampett exercised his ability to perform selective doggie hearing. Either that or he was ignoring her.

  “Clampett!” Sonora grabbed the dog’s collar and dragged him into the bathroom and shut the door. Clampett yelped and scrabbled at the door.

  “He’s going to mar the paint!” Keaton yelled.

  “Oh shut up,” Sonora said.

  “What was that?” Gillane’s voice, angelic.

  “Nothing. How are the—” Sonora walked back into the living room, saw Gillane on his stomach after the mice, and both men turning to look at her feet as the three tiny brown rodents ran to her for sanctuary. “Dammit, no! Why are they coming to me!”

  “I’ll get them,” Gillane said.

  “Don’t hurt them!” Sonora, holding a dish towel, draped it over the top of the mice and scooped them up in the cloth. “Open the front door, quick, they’re hopping around!”

  Gillane opened the door and Sonora ran out like a freight train. She went straight for her neighbor’s yard and laid the dish towel gently in the grass. The mice wiggled out but showed no inclination to run for the woods.

  Sonora squatted down and looked at them. “Don’t come back. Find another home. If you come back, I’ll let the dog get you.” She reached for the dish towel, changed her mind, and headed back to the house empty-handed.

  Gillane was sitting on the couch, wineglass in hand, and Keaton stood over the fireplace, arm resting on the mantel like he was posing for Town & Country magazine.

  Gillane stopped mid-sentence, something about his car speakers, and grinned at Sonora. “What did you do with them?”

  “I let them go.”

  “They’ll just run around back and come in again,” Keaton told her.

  “She’s probably hoping they’ll go into the neighbor’s house.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” Sonora said. “They ran to me for help, am I supposed to just kill them?”

  Gillane looked at Keaton. “This woman carries a gun. She probably kills people.”

  “Not people who run to me for help.” Sonora took a sip of wine, mentally counting steaks. Plenty for everyone.

  “Don’t forget to let the dog out,” Gillane said. As if she could forget, with the ruckus Clampett was making.

  “Please don’t,” Keaton said.

  Sonora, who had no intention of letting the dog loose, felt a prick of annoyance. “Gillane, why don’t you start the grill and I’ll cook.”

  “I can’t stay.” He stood up, set the half-full glass of wine over the fireplace. “Sonora, your Benadryl is in that cabinet of junk over the stove. I make no comment except to warn you that cold medication becomes inert three years after the expiration date. Bye, sweetie, don’t get up, I’ll let myself out. Call me if this doesn’t do the trick.”

  Sonora walked him to the door anyway, marring his exit line, mainly because she wanted another look at that car. He drove sedately away, waving, and she locked the door behind him and returned to the living room, where Keaton had taken Gillane’s place on the couc
h.

  She sat in the rocking chair. Her feet were cold, even in the new socks. “So,” she said, taking a sideways look at Keaton’s face. He had lingered in her subconscious all this time, and she had not even been aware he was there, he was so much a part of the landscape of her mind.

  She wanted to run upstairs and put on that red lipstick Sam liked. She laughed a little, nerves, the wine, and the man—and the realization that she had lost sleep and shed tears over that stupid Jerk, who was insignificant, and hey, one door closes and another door opens, isn’t that what they say? She was glad to have this door open.

  He smiled at her very gently. “Something funny?”

  “Just glad to see you.” She had always known he would come back.

  “Sonora, I can’t stay for dinner, but thanks anyway.”

  “No?” Had she asked him?

  He put the wineglass down, rubbed his hands together. “Did I tell you I’m getting married?”

  “Are you?” Her lips felt stiff, like she’d been standing on a corner in cold weather. “Congratulations. Who is she?”

  “Another teacher …”

  He kept talking but she did not listen. She got up and let Clampett out of the bathroom. The dog raced for Keaton, shed some hair, and drooled on the khaki knees, before returning loyally to Sonora, who was back in the rocking chair.

  She rubbed Clampett’s ears and he gave her a look of pure love that made her feel a little better, but not a lot.

  “So why are you here?” Sonora asked, then realized from his startled look that he must have been mid-sentence. Pull yourself together, she thought.

  “Trudy—”

  “And Trudy would be?”

  “My fiancée.”

  “Ah.”

  “She teaches high-school biology. She has this student, kind of a marginal kid, an alternative kid, not a regular attender, but he’s doing better. Doesn’t get along with his dad, so he’s been spending a lot of time with his grandmother. He absolutely worships the woman, Trudy says. Anyway, he’s been worried sick, and she got him to tell her—Trudy is so good with her kids, they really trust her.”