Hotter than Helen (The Bobby's Diner Series)

by Wingate, Susan

  Helen shook her head, rolled her eyes and giggled at his comment. It was obvious the men were showboating on her account. Helen was eating up the attention.

  The comment brought Georgette back into the group. “Good lord, Martin. I can honestly say I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “Why, Georgette, when a man is surrounded with this much beauty at one time, he forgets he’s not in an art museum.” His lip twicked up at one edge and he winked.

  “I see. Is that how you feel too, Hawthorne?”

  “Only when I look at you, Georgette. Only when I look at you.” She felt his hand slide down along the curve of her back and rest on her rump. He grabbed a handful of her butt, moaned and guided her through the door, his had still on her rear end.

  When Georgette saw that Martin noticed, she objected.

  “Hawthorne!” But she giggled too.

  At the booth, both men began what sounded like an inquisition about Helen.

  Where were you born?

  What is your favorite time to do your grocery shopping? What degree did you get again?

  How long were you and the mayor married? How did your husband die again?

  What kind of stories do you write?

  It bothered Georgette when she began to realize they were excluding her. She pulled Hawthorne’s shoulder, gently leaning into him and whispered.

  “I hate to sound like this, Hawthorne, but I kinda feel left out.”

  He darted a look at her and his eyes softened. “Oh, sorry, honey. I just don’t want Martin and Helen to feel at all uncomfortable.” His whisper, while low, still boomed from his rugged voice.

  Georgette nodded that she understood and sat back up. “Tell me, Martin. How did you and Hawthorne meet again?”

  The men looked at each other. Martin’s eyes squinted for the briefest of seconds.

  “How about I tell the ladies, Martin.” Hawthorne interjected.

  “You always did tell it better.”

  “Oh, this sounds interesting,” Helen added.

  “It’s very interesting, Helen, Georgette.” Hawthorne made it a point to include his fiancée in the conversation. She nodded her delight at him and poked her fork at the bean burrito in front of her.

  “We played football at USC. Did I ever mention that to you before, honey?”

  “No. I don’t believe so.”

  “Well I played center, ‘cause I’m a big fellow, you know.” He glanced quickly at Helen. “And this guy here, Mr. Martin Tanner, played wide receiver because he’s so light on his feet.”

  “Like a dancer, they used to tell me.” Martin added to the story.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Hey, you guys …” Hawthorne flashed a smile that could make your heart melt.

  Georgette looked over at Helen. She seemed to glow and her look, at that moment, made Georgette happy beyond words. Helen even touched her diamond locket the way she did when she got embarrassed or excited. It was like her security blanket. Her face blushed.

  “Now, see what you boys have done? You got Helen all in a-dither.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  Helen dabbed the sides of her mouth with the red cloth napkin.

  “I have to say this is the most fun I’ve had in years. Really.” She lifted her wine glass in a toast. “Here’s to new and old friends.”

  The glasses clinked when they touched above the center of the table and when everyone was just about to take a sip, Martin grabbed Helen’s arm for one final toast between the two of them.

  “Here’s to you, Helen. Enchanté.”

  “Oh my … enchanté, Martin.” She looked over at Georgette and raised her eyebrows. “Enchanté, no less.” She giggled and everyone joined her when she said the word again, enchanté.

  10

  “Helen, I’m back.”

  Gangster slipped inside, between her legs, before she almost shut the door on his tail. It was funny but she thought she had left him inside before leaving that morning. When she petted him, she noticed a light dew covering his fur. It was a rare day when desert air found moisture. She gazed backward toward the sky. A series of long thick white clouds had grown. They were weak against the sun but still present. A wind sped through the door as if racing in to see what was going on inside and Georgette followed it, closing the door behind her.

  She and the cat both headed straight for the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee wafted in the close quarters of its confines and she looked over at the counter. There was still half a pot left.

  Since Helen had returned, she’d pretty much taken to staying in her room or scooting off for long walks alone. She was gone a lot. And if she was home right now, she was being mighty quiet about it.

  Georgette unzipped a can of Fancy Feast for the cat and scraped its foul contents into the bowl, then set it onto the floor next to his water.

  “Here you go, bud.”

  She reached over him up into the cupboard, fished out a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee. Gangster’s heavy purring resounded through his nose and mouth while he masticated his food with utter purr-filled enjoyment. She bent down to pet his back.

  “Aren’t you glad mommy came home early?”

  She laughed quietly and watched as she caressed his back. Her eye was drawn instantly to her gorgeous engagement ring. Flexing her hand up, she held out her arm straight with the other hand on her chest. She still couldn’t believe her luck in finding such a wonderful man.

  When she turned toward the living room, there he was, Hawthorne, standing there, big as life.

  “Oh, lord, Hawthorne. You scared the dickens out of me.” That’s when Helen walked out from behind him… in her bathrobe. Her hair was mussed and her mouth looked red and swollen, like she’d lost the war in a kissing match. She grabbed at the top of her robe.

  “I’d better leave, Helen.” His face turned ashy and his eyes looked grey.

  She nodded to him and smiled demurely. Then he looked at Georgette almost as an afterthought.

  “Oh, Georgette, I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” Helen’s voice lacked any penitence and like it had been going on for some time now. Helen had only been back two weeks. She scoured her mind as to when it might’ve started but became so flustered that her legs gave out. Georgette felt herself lose balance backwards only a few inches but landed hard against the counter. It was the only thing supporting her. Her body had reacted, her mind was grappling with the truth of what was happening in front of her.

  Georgette hadn’t yet gotten a word out.

  Hawthorne touched Helen’s shoulder to check if she was going to be okay in a shameless display of disloyalty.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “You go, now. I’ll call you later.”

  “Yes. She’s fine.” Georgette’s words sounded insincere and sarcastic. But now she wondered if he would come over to check on her next—to see if she was okay too.

  In what seemed like slow motion, Hawthorne turned back from Helen, tipped his head at Georgette, cast his focus down to the floor, then turned to the door— one foot in front of the next, one, two, three, four—opening the door, walking through it and closing it behind him. Not a word.

  When the door clicked into place, Helen began to explain. “Georgette, we didn’t plan for this to happen. It just happened.”

  “How convenient for you.” Georgette pushed past her to try and get to her bedroom.

  “Georgette, please!”

  Helen’s words stopped Georgette cold, but she didn’t turn around. In fact, she didn’t do anything. She just stood there.

  “We kept bumping into each other.”

  Quickly Georgette snapped out the words. “Bumping? Is that what you call it?” Her sarcasm bit hard.

  “Georgette, don’t be vulgar!”

  “Georgette, don’t be vulgar? How about Helen, don’t be vulgar! I invited you into my home. That does not mean you are free to sleep with my fiancée!”

  “Georgette, I’m sorry. I don’t
know how it happened.”

  “Well, then that makes you the stupidest woman alive!” She turned back around continuing en route to her bedroom. Georgette’s voice didn’t pitch. It didn’t waver. She spoke low and calm. She spoke in pain. “You will leave my home immediately. Get your… clothes on, Helen, pack your things and leave. Immediately.”

  Helen just stood there when Georgette finally looked at her. Tears streaked her face. She looked helpless—as always—helpless Helen. Always needing help! Always needing someone else. Always wanting someone else’s husband.

  It was funny that she despised her own late husband so much. They truly were cut from the same cloth.

  “Immediately,” Georgette reiterated. “Like in, now.”

  On that, she walked into her room and sitting on the bed, Georgette could hear drawers opening and closing, the closet sliding open and shut again, the medicine cabinet being emptied of its contents, bathroom cupboards slamming and, of course, she could hear Helen crying. It was soft. Then she heard her luggage roll off the carpeting, onto the cold Saltillo tile and stop at the door. A couple of minutes passed before she heard the unmistakable sound of the front door open and shut.

  Once she heard the car’s engine turn over and Helen backing out and drive away, Georgette got up to check on Gangster and to lock the door.

  Helen’s key sat next to a note folded in half. Georgette refused to read the note. Not now. Not until later after she was gone forever, out of her life, out of town. When Helen was dead to her.

  Georgette reminded herself to move the spare key she had outside in the potted plant. Both Hawthorne and Helen knew where that key was and she didn’t want any unexpected visitors.

  She crumpled the pathetic note into her palm and walked back to her bedroom. After setting it on her dresser, she dropped the entire weight of her body into bed, sitting up only once to call for her cat, then dropping off into a quick and depressed sleep.

  11

  Georgette heard, while falling in and out of her restless sleep, a reverberation of some elemental disturbance, maybe thunder along the outskirts of town. Or had she dreamed up the storm?

  It was four hours later when the phone rang, waking her. The digital display brightly showed Hawthorne’s cell phone number in her dark room.

  Then a call came from Helen, well, she assumed the call came from Helen. The caller ID showed the Sunnydale Extended Stay Lodge. Georgette refused to answer either call.

  The second call came quickly after the first from the hotel.

  Then calls alternated between the hotel and Hawthorne’s cell for an hour before finally stopping.

  She didn’t listen to their messages. She didn’t delete them either. She would wait to deal with it later.

  There was no way she wanted to speak to anyone. She felt utterly humiliated.

  “Gangster? Come here, kitty.” Georgette’s spoke through her sniffling. She sounded like she was surviving a ten-year-long cold. Her crying had not subsided once that day and at that point she could see no end in sight.

  She let the damned phone ring on and off the rest of the evening. And, after drinking a bottle of cabernet and slipping her diamond ring from her finger lying it next to the crumpled note on her dresser, Georgette moved into the living room where she fell asleep on the couch with her cat on her chest.

  What had she been thinking, anyway? Who would want to marry a middle-aged woman?

  12

  After re-opening and re-reading the message, he re-crumpled the note, slamming it into his palm with his fist and wadding it up into a tight ball. Tossing it hard into the corner of his cell, Pinzer screamed.

  “Ahh!” Jumping to his feet, he pressed his face in between two iron bars. “I need a cigarette!” he yelled to anyone. “Hey, can anyone hear me!” He pressed his face harder against the bars. “Can anyone frickin’ hear me!” he repeated. “I need a cigarette!”

  The day guard clad in a blue uniform walked at an even slow pace in front of Pinzer, stopping, standing with his shoulder in front of him and looking straight down the hall. He patted a front pocket on his shirt and, lifting the flap, withdrew a cigarette. He slid the white rolled paper under his nose and breathed in deep, as if he enjoyed it. He placed it in-between his lips, holding it with all five of his fingers and licked the butt with his tongue.

  He patted the other front shirt pocket and this time withdrew a red plastic lighter. He flicked it and a bright blue and yellow flame shot an inch high. Holding the flame to the end of the cigarette, he sucked in. Then he breathed in and held his breath for four hard beats of Pinzer’s heart. He expelled a chalky cloud of pungent air into the hall and it wafted in all directions, making Pinzer stand back an inch from the bars and sniff the air.

  “Oh, that’s good,” the guard taunted, knowing cigarettes weren’t allowed. He pushed his cap up off the front of his forehead and took in another deep breath. Again, he puffed out another peppery cloud of smoke, this time pissing off Pinzer, who leaned his shoulder against the bars.

  “Nice. Very nice,” is all he said. Then, the guard dropped the lit cigarette just outside Pinzer’s cage on the floor about two feet away from the bars and, stepping over it, walked down the corridor.

  Pinzer’s arm proved just long enough to reach the cigarette. The butt-end felt wet against his lips but dried out after finishing half of his smoke.

  “Stupid Biggs.” He sat back on his cot and stared at the mash of paper on the floor. He looked away. Thinking, he set his gaze at the ape in the cell directly across from him, staring at him but not seeing him.

  “What are you staring at, faggot?!” the man yelled and stood up, attacking the caging that held him back. He ripped open the Velcro around his waistband and yanked his bottoms down. Wagging a red penis at him, he accused, “Is this what you want, faggot? Is this it?!”

  Pinzer didn’t react, but swapped the target of his gaze to the wall that separated the animal from another cell next to him.

  “Faggot!” the man said again, pulling up his pants and refastening them.

  But Pinzer cared about the criminal as much as he cared about a cockroach. He was busy concentrating on his problem, the new issue about Biggs and the Pyle woman. The note stated Biggs had it “under control,” but Pinzer doubted him now. Plus, in the note, he referred to himself as “we” as if he might not be working alone, something Zach had specifically instructed him to do.

  “This is between you and me, only. It’s my job. You work alone.” He remembered their conversation when Biggs came to the prison. Biggs had assured him he would stay in line.

  Now this.

  Now, he’d gone and slept with Pyle’s widow. Was everyone stupid? Biggs reasoned he’d had sex with her to make her vulnerable. She had finagled the Carlisle woman into giving her half the diner.

  His body shook. He wiped his face with one hand and sucked again on his cigarette, nearly finishing it off in one breath. He dropped it under his foot and crushed the ember with his toe, twisting it to extinguish it completely. He blew out a long, solemn stream of air, filling his 8-foot-by-8-foot room, sitting like a ghost within it until it dissipated. If this plan fizzled, he thought but then gave up the worry. He sat forward on his bunk, considering the idea that his plans might dissolve into oblivion. He couldn’t lose the diner, that property again. Wait. He corrected his thinking. He wouldn’t stand to lose it again.

  He stood and placed both hands on the bars, staring at the man across from him.

  The man looked up from where he was seated.

  Pinzer glared into his eyes and, whispering the words so only he could hear them, said, “You ever show me your dick again, you sick motherless retard, I’ll rip it off and feed it to you, rectally.” He didn’t turn away. He pressed his glare harder at the man who let his hands fall from the caging. He stepped backward and deep into a corner, sinking into the darkness.

  13

  Georgette refused to close the diner. Not for this. Death, yes, but not for inf
idelity. Your fiancée screwing around with your friend? No way. The customers would have to deal with a few harsh words and some burnt meat. She’d been through worse. There was nothing that could compare with losing Bobby and then Vanessa. Losing Hawthorne to Helen? Well, that was just a weak excuse for pain. Anger poured from her thoughts as she chopped at a pile of mushrooms. She manifested scenarios of what she might say, manifesting the awful-ies is what she like to call how she was thinking. The awful-ies distracted her into carelessness and before she could move her hand, the knife landed on the tip of her left thumb, barely slicing the skin, like a papercut, enough to hurt but more than hurting her it irritated her.

  “Dammit!”

  Danny, the busboy, jerked around from spraying off dishes to look at her and gunned water onto the wall and counter where he worked. “You okay, mees Carlisle?”

  “I cut my freakin’ thumb.” Danny turned back to his dishes. “Sorry, Danny.”

  “S’okay, mees Carlisle.” He kept his back turned. She couldn’t see his face and it irked her.

  “No big deal.” Her words pressed like paste through her teeth and she held her thumb checking it to see if it would bleed. It didn’t. She got lucky.

  Danny shrugged his shoulders, keeping his focus on the sink, on his task.

  “You know what?” She slammed the knife down onto the wooden counter and walked over toward his work area. Her steps thudded to him at a quickened pace. He backed away as she approached. “Look, why don’t you go out and get more plates. I’m sure there are some empties.” She pulled the long hose from his hands. “I’ll finish this.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Danny skipped out, almost knocking down Roberta on her way into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, Danny.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s in a hurry.” Roberta directed the words at Georgette, who didn’t turn around.

  “Yep.” Georgette lifted her wrist up and wiped her eyes.

  “Okay. What’s up. You’ve been a total bitch all week.”

  Georgette lifted her arm again, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. She refused to look at Roberta, not now.

  “Answer me.”