But the car stays together. Mostly. I hear a metallic clunk and then the car’s exhaust system becomes a thousand times louder than before. I don’t let that stop me from accelerating at breakneck speed, though. The car slips and skids once on a curve in the driveway, but I turn into the skid, and it rights itself without sending me into a nearby snow drift.
Finally, there is a little space where I can turn around. I whip the car into it and then pull out, heading toward the main road. I glance in the rearview mirror, eyes wide. The bull is running after the taillights, full force. Heart jammed in my throat, I remove my right hand from the steering wheel long enough to put the car into second and then third gear. The bull is still coming. Like a bad traffic accident, I can hardly tear my eyes away from the rearview mirror. But I do because not watching where I’m going is going to result in me seeing Bully up close and very personal. I hear noise behind me, a sort of strangled roar (do bulls roar?), and press harder on the gas.
Finally, after making the tight turn out of the driveway and onto the main road, the beast gives up. I check my mirror again two more times, half expecting to see Bully standing on his hind legs and flipping me the bird. Or a bull’s version of that. But there is only a blank, pale blue landscape.
If my fingers were shaking before, they are now jumping on the wheel. Still, a big, fat smile pulls at my lips, and I let out a whoop.
I did it! I did it! I did it!
Flicking on the radio, I sing at full volume to a Beatles song and do a car dance in my seat the rest of the way home.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The next morning, I walk up the road to Winston’s house. I made a batch of muffins (Betty Crocker helped, but I did the stirring) and they’re warm in the basket in my arms. The sun is bright, bouncing off the surface of the snow and glittering like a thousand shards of diamonds. Birds tweet and fly overhead, looking for stray seeds and whatever else they eat this time of the year.
A crow follows my progress from the top of a crooked fence post, and I pull one of the muffins free and toss it in his direction. He hits the snow so fast I never see his wings open. Caw, caw, caw he yells into the air and then grabs half the muffin in his beak and retreats to a nearby tree.
I’d just talked to Reba, filling her in on her former boss’s fate. She’d laughed so hard she’d started to cry but that had turned into sobbing which took most of the joy out of the moment. Still, she told me I’d done well and that meant a lot.
I’d let myself in last night without waking Leanne. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, bundled in blankets; a trail of orange cheese dust from a crumpled bag of chips nearby lining the pillow. Over breakfast I’d asked if she wanted to walk up with me to the neighbor’s, but she’d declined, instead taking a hot shower and settling back in for more daytime TV.
The tall fencing around Winston’s homestead is coming into view, bent and crooked after years of abuse by the elements. There isn’t barbed wire around the top, but it wouldn’t look out of place. I sneak through a side of the fence where I’m just able to squeeze through—a spot Winston pointed out to me that needed repair months ago.
A giant pig heads in my direction, spotted black and pink and behind it, a pack of wild dogs. Well, maybe not wild. They bark and yip while the pig out front, leading her troop, snorts and snuffles and makes a high-pitched whining sound. Winston takes in all the strays he finds—or rather, that find him—even though I’ve told him time and time again that it would be better to call the local animal shelter. He doesn’t have room for them in his maze-like house but has built a small colony of ugly but sturdy dog houses outside. Besides the houses, the yard is strewn with automobiles in various states of rust and dotted with a few old appliances. The dogs bound up to me barking and I clutch the muffins to my chest more tightly.
“Miss Piggy,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony of barks, “It’s just me, Tayt.” The pig waddles up closer, snuffling and snorting and then, in some language that only animals understand, gives some sort of signal to the pack of dogs, calling them off.
I give Miss Piggy a scratch between the ears, and she moans, leaning into my thigh so heavily that I nearly lose my balance. When she waddles away, I manage to pet two of the dogs, but the third one shows me teeth when I move my hand in his direction.
The front steps are covered in snow which means Winston hasn’t been out in the past two days at least.
Guilt blooms in my belly as I walk up the stairs, feet crunching loudly in the snow.
“Winston?” I call out, banging my free hand on the door. “Winston, it’s me. Tayt. Hello?”
I wait a few minutes, stamping my feet to keep the blood moving.
No answer.
“Winston?” I put my hand on the knob and feel it jerk beneath my fingers. Involuntarily I step back, nearly tumbling down the wooden stairs but catch myself at the last minute on the railing. Winston stands at the door, bleary-eyed and disheveled. Well. More so than usual. His shirt is torn on the edge hanging over pants that are covered in grime. His hair is wild around his head, like cotton balls that have been pulled apart and then starched.
“Get in, get in,” he says, grabbing my coat front and hauling me through the door.
“What the ...” I stumble on a rug that’s twisted underfoot and the basket of muffins falls to the floor.
Winston doesn’t seem to notice.
“Did you see ‘em?” He’s looking wildly over my shoulder at the closed door.
“See who?”
“Snipers. ’Bout four of them. Been in the woods the last three days.”
I sigh, and bend over, retrieving the clean muffins still ensconced in the basket and setting them on a nearby counter. I pick up the dirty ones, about to dump them in the trash when Winston grabs one and starts eating it.
“That’s been on the ... never mind.” I toss the rest and watch my neighbor for a minute. He devours the muffin like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Winston, when did you eat last?”
“Huh?” He says around a mouthful of blueberry. “No time for that.”
He continues to watch the door as though expecting it to fly open in his face.
“Do you want some tea?” I ask and pull on his arm. It feels hard as rock beneath my hands, muscles frozen. When he gets like this the adrenaline floods his system, making everything too tight. He told me once in a lucid moment that afterwards he’s sore for days.
“Winston, come on. Come sit down. The snipers aren’t going anywhere.”
I start water in the teapot that is always kept on the stove and search the cupboards nearby for the tea canister.
“Should bring the animals in, I should.”
“They’re fine. Miss Piggy is keeping everyone safe, don’t worry.”
Winston finally moves to the table a few minutes later and sits facing the door, eyes red-rimmed and overly bright.
Several minutes later I bring the tea to the table along with a plate and a tub of butter I found in the fridge. Winston hasn’t moved, except his jaws, which are working on a second muffin. I pick the remainder of it up from the table which is littered with binoculars, maps, sketches of mechanical things and old newspapers and place it on a clean saucer I found in the cupboard.
I want to ask how long this episode has lasted but don’t. He won’t know the answer anyway.
Winston, in my unprofessional, un-psychologically-trained opinion, suffers from some sort of schizophrenia or maybe PTSD. In fact, I found pills once on his windowsill in the kitchen when visiting and had asked him about them. He’d said that they were from a friend’s doctor, that they were given to him after he’d had an “episode” but that he’d only taken them for a little while because they made his brain feel gummy. “Like I’m half-asleep,” he’d said. I never saw the little vial again.
Most days it’s more of a dementia. Then occasionally a bad time like this when he is sure that there are people coming to kill him, or cats by the hundred
are living in the walls of his house, or there’s strychnine in the water supply. This is why he’s created a sort of live-in bunker complete with fallout shelter and about two years’ worth of food supplies. Unfortunately, when he’s having one of these episodes, he forgets that and stops eating after the cupboards and fridge are bare.
Without a phone, he can’t call me if he needs help. And our houses are far enough apart that other forms of communication only include walking or driving to each other’s house. Though smoke signals probably aren’t out of the question.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, refilling his cup of tea. His hand shakes just a little, as he brings it to his mouth. His lips pooch out, blowing on the steaming liquid before he sips. He shakes his head.
“Animals okay or does anyone need feeding?”
“Yup. Need food. Too dangerous out there now, though, Tayt. Too dangerous. When I saw the first man in the woods, I drug out the rest of the bag of food for the dogs and threw down some grain for Miss Piggy. But we’ll have to wait until they’re gone ’fore we go out again.”
For a second, I think he’s talking about the animals, then realize it’s the snipers. Winston is toying with the handle of his mug of tea, rubbing a big, calloused finger up and down the ceramic. Every time his thumb hits one of the chips, it makes a soft scratching sound. I watch the tree branches outside the window for a few minutes.
“We’ll just stay in here then, till it’s safe,” I say. From the corner of my eye I see the old man nod.
The snow, in a puffy layer like marshmallow fluff, glitters in the sun. Warm beams come through the very tops of the windows; the rest blocked by old mismatched wooden shutters.
“Why don’t you go get some rest,” I say, patting his arm. “I can hold down the fort for a while.”
He shakes his head.
Though the house is cramped with things—boxes and army bags and equipment that looks like it belongs in the shed—it is clean and tidy. At least Winston isn’t one of those hoarders who has dead rats or cats beneath piles of stuff. He even has logbooks which he showed me once. He uses them to track all his inventory.
The sound of his thumb on the mug begins to slow. I glance over and see his eyes shutting, but then the lids fly open, and he resumes rubbing. This lasts a few seconds and then the process starts all over again. I sit and look alternately between him and the window, pretending that I don’t see the fight to stay awake. Maybe this is how mothers feel while watching their babies try not to give into sleep.
Winston finally loses the battle, chin dropping to chest. I wait a few more minutes, just to make sure he’s out, then remove the mug from his hands and the saucer from the table. I find a flat-looking pillow on a couch in the other room and put it where the muffin plate was, then gently ease his head onto it. He may have fought the falling part but now that he’s sleeping, it’s deep and heavy. How many hours has he been awake?
I stand and then watch him for a few minutes. His back will be aching when he finally wakes up, but he’s slept in more awkward places I bet.
Putting the dishes in the sink, I walk to the basement. It’s dark and chilly and smells musty with a faint odor of mothballs. I switch the light on at the top of the stairs, a bare bulb lighting the lower floor.
Shelves upon shelves upon shelves line every inch of the space. The floor is concrete, as are the walls; both unpainted. Shelves are made from wood, metal, steel, and other materials that look like plumber piping. This is one of Winston’s supply areas. Food in cans, boxes, bags, and tins lines each of the shelves. On the end of each storage unit is a clipboard with a checklist of some kind. This is apparently how he keeps inventory, but I don’t know his system and his handwriting is even worse than mine.
I gather up some staples: rice, beans, soup mixes, a few dinner-in-a-pouch meals, some dry cereal, a tin marked dry milk, and a bag of chocolate wrapped in black and orange, from last Halloween. At least, I hope it’s last Halloween. I haul these upstairs, taking three trips as the packages are awkward and my shoulder starts to ache.
Setting the food on the kitchen counter covers the small amount of free space that was previously available. I lock the door behind me, but don’t shut it all the way. I’m not sure if he keeps the animals’ food inside or out.
Ten minutes later my hands feel like ice cubes, but the dogs and pig are happily munching away on their food and wagging their tails. The water trough is full and I make sure that even the shortest dog has access. I even dug into the trash and retrieved the muffins for Miss Piggy who gives an exaggerated sigh of pleasure as I walk by. I can’t resist another scratch between the ears. She snorts again. I’d bet money she’s saying, “sucker” in porcine.
***
There’s a message on my cell from Ezra when I get home. I’d left it charging earlier and now listen as he asks if I’ve thought anymore about the mentoring project and Shyla. I delete the message and stomp to the bathroom, brushing my hair so vigorously I almost smack myself in the face.
The last thing in the world I feel like doing is acting as surrogate sister/friend/mother to some troubled teen. I need more time to think of a good excuse, though. Ezra is stubborn and won’t give up easily.
Leanne is napping when I re-emerge from the bathroom. I call her mother on the landline phone in the other room, hoping not to wake the girl.
Reba answers on the second ring.
“It’s me.” I say. “Do you have any plans in place yet?”
There is a pause and then her voice, louder than I was expecting, “I’ll pay you soon, I promise.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” I say, cheeks getting hot. I may not be a noble do-gooder but she can’t really think I’m that heartless, can she? “I meant about your relocation plans.”
“Oh.” I hear an exhale on the other end. “Yeah. I think I’ve found something. I can’t talk now but I’ll get Leanne from you soon, okay?”
Does she mean today? Next week?
“When do you think that might be?” I ask.
“Tomorrow maybe. I’ll call you. Can I talk to her? How’s she doing?”
“She’s ...” What word best describes her daughter’s catatonic state that won’t make her feel worse? “She’s resting a lot. She’s okay,” I say and then add, “But she’ll be better when she’s with you again. A mother’s love is healing.”
Good grief I sound like a sappy greeting card.
“Let me get her for you.”
I leave Leanne to talk in private, closing myself in my bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Two days have passed since Leanne and Reba left. Reba looked better when I saw her last: Stronger and more capable. Only her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her inner turmoil.
Leanne looked like a regular teenager, sullen and quiet, mumbling a thank you to me when her mother demanded it. I’d wanted to tell Leanne so many things: that someday she’d feel more normal, that this wasn’t the end of hope, but the words got stuck in my throat. Instead, I just smiled and said, “You’re very welcome.”
Reba hugged me once, quick and hard. I didn’t end up asking for the second half of the payment. I couldn’t. Later though, I found an envelope in my coat pocket. It fell to the floor in a flurry of green bills. I stared at them, a mix of guilt and gratitude eddying in my chest.
***
I get to the office a bit before twelve o’clock. It feels, still, that I’m on autopilot. The last few days and all the drama surrounding Emerson Prescott have numbed me to my regular, everyday work. I spend the first several minutes arranging, dusting and re-arranging the supplies on my hulking green metal desk, trying to ground myself.
Phone messages next: there’s one from Henry D’Angelo, the owner and cook over at Big Daddy’s Deli Delights, my favorite eatery. Why would he be calling me? I jot down the number after listening to the message twice, caught so off-guard the first time that I missed most of what he was saying. The second message is from Molly of the cheating-fiancé
-fiasco. She asks that I call her back right away. The third message is from C.J.
“Hey, I was hoping we could grab some dinner tonight.” Pause. “Call me.”
I take the pink message slips and line them up in front of me like they do at a pizza shop. First come, first served. Coffee perks away in the old coffeemaker while I call Henry.
“Big D’s,” says a baritone Southern voice.
“Henry, this is Tayt Waters, returning your call.”
“Well, well. The great Tayt Waters,” Henry’s voice is honeyed but his tone is joking. “You made it on to any of those TV crime shows yet?”
I laugh. “Not yet.”
“Good, cause I need some help with a,” he lowers his voice to whisper, “situation involving my niece. Stop by for lunch and we’ll chat about it.”
I’m about to say that I have too much catching up to do, but my stomach is already growling in anticipation. Henry is more than a cook. He’s a magician. I glance guiltily at the salad I packed from home.
“On the house of course,” he throws in for good measure.
“Sold,” I say. “Be there in a half hour.”
I leave a voicemail for Molly and debate then ignore C.J.’s message. Just for now. I’ll call him back soon.
***
There are no other cars in the lot when I pull in, so I park directly in front. Snow is swirling around in gusty circles as I jog to the door.
“Well, hellooooo, Ms. T,” Henry says as I walk through the door. Henry is a big black guy from New Orleans. I’ve known him for years and still can’t figure out if he’s gay or just one of those guys who comes across as extremely effeminate. Today his girth is tucked into a pink dress shirt and checkered wool pants. A big, white apron covers it all and he’s sporting what looks like a plaid hunting hat on his large, square head.
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