***
He walked in to the kitchen and broke into her fantasy. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Helen. You seem to be regressing rather than maturing. Have you been to the doctor lately? Maybe you should consider seeing someone, someone in Phoenix or Las Vegas. Have you thought of that? Maybe you need therapy or something. You’ve been off and I won’t stand another bout of Helen’s needing this and Helen’s needing that. I thought we fixed that years ago. When I get back from Phoenix you’d better have some answers about your behavior and what steps you’re going to take in the realm of self-improvement. I’ll stop at Border’s while I’m there and pick up some self-help books too.
“Well, dear. I have to head out. My appointment is just after lunch and I’m cutting it close as it is. You’ll look into some doctors won’t you Helen? Call someone today and make an appointment, but again make sure he’s in Phoenix or Vegas. We mustn’t have a scandal dear. Please try to think less of yourself, you’re so selfish anymore. Must go. Good-bye, honey. Kiss, kiss.”
He smooched at her. An annoying little habit he had picked up during campaigning so that he didn’t really have to kiss babies, just the palm of his hand if his lips had to touch anything at all. He did the Nixon wave after kissing to crowds with his hand that almost Hitleresque salute with a little twirl at the end.
Helen looked away when he closed the doors past the yard, the neighbors, the trees again. She wrote in her journal again with the next line.
Away, away, away.
CHAPTER 21
Gangster was sitting in front of the television set again watching for screen birds or screen mice or whatever he watched the television screen for. The kitchen was a mess from another day racing from one place to the other; if not the diner, to the grocery store, or the post office for stamps—one of those days when you seemed to be behind your ass instead of in front it. After cleaning, I decided to relax for a second. A steaming white teacup filled the air with a sweet vanilla scent and waited for me on the cocktail table next to Gangster.
After wiping down the counter and putting away afew previously used items—a butter knife, a bag of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a plate and a used napkin—I went to the sofa and patted the couch for the cat to join me.
“Gangster, come here, pal. Sit next to me.” He simply ignored me the way cats will.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty.” His tail flicked with annoyance and his ears turned back. He refused to be disturbed from his television show.
“Gangster, come on, kitty, come here.” I was begging now. He turned slowly and rubbed against the leg of the table and slowly around it to the sofa by me. I leaned to scratch his head all the way down to the tip of his tail and he circled toward me to repeat the consideration. I did.
The TV was rambling away when the doorbell rang. Just before getting up to answer it, a commercial about Phoenix local news came on previewing a spotlight on juvenile crime and who’s face was there on the screen but our own mayor, Harold Pyle. The thought of Pyle being on TV made me giggle as I went to the door. Looking through the peep hole I could see the frail figure of Helen outside.
“Helen? Hi. You won’t believe it…” With the door open I motioned her to join me inside. “What?”
“I just saw your husband on TV.” Helen looked honestly surprised. “You did? When?”
“Just now. It was a commercial for the news coming up. Why don’t you stay and we can watch together.” “Well, I don’t want to impose, Georgette.” Gangster welcomed Helen by pushing against her legs once, then twice. “Hi, kitty.”
“That’s Gangster, he’s the welcoming committee.”
“Hello, Gangster.” She bent down and caressed his long hair and he made this breathy cat sound that had a distinct word wrapped in it, like “wow.” She smiled at me when he did.
“I know Gangster was really hoping to watch me sit and read tonight but I guess we can put up with the imposition! Of course, you’re not imposing! I’m happy you popped by. Come in. Would you like to share a pot of tea with me?”
“Sure, sounds nice. I brought this too.” She reached into that big bag of hers and pulled out a frosty bottle of white wine. “I didn’t want to bust in on you empty- handed. I think you like chardonnay, right?”
“That’s Vanessa’s favorite, but I like it too. Oh, fun! How thoughtful. Let’s have that! Would you like a glass of wine?” I headed back into the kitchen to get a couple of glasses.
“Sure.” Then, she transitioned abruptly into a previous topic. “What station?”
“Hmm?”
“What station did you see Harold on?”
“Oh! Sorry, um, five, I think, Channel five. Sit down, they may show it again. I’ll be there in a sec.” It had been so long since someone had just dropped in on me and I wanted it to at least appear like I knew how to entertain. The deep primary colors of the chanticleer hand tray were set off against the thick light wood of the cocktail table. French-styled napkins and crystal stemmed golden wine glasses added an elegant touch to my southwestern environment. Helen smiled when I presented the wine bucket filled with ice and the bottle of wine set inside it and wrapped in a bright yellow tea-towel. Returning from my second trip to the kitchen I brought back a triangle of triple cream cheese, some gourmet crackers and a bowl of grapes.
“There. Have you seen him?”
“Not yet. They’ll probably repeat the promo again in a while. Oh, cheers! Thanks, Georgette, this looks lovely.”
“Cheers.”
Gangster begged between us and I poked at the creamy cheese and let him lick it off my finger.
“He’s beautiful.”
“He’s very spoiled. He can do whatever he pleases around here, that’s for sure.”
“Isn’t that why we have pets—to have their constant and unconditional love and to spoil them for it?”
“I suppose so. Oh! There he is, see?” I pointed my attention to the television set.
“Harold.” She said it quietly like he’d committed an venial sin.
We watched and waited for the reporter to do her lead-in:
“More and more youths are committing heinous crimes. Normally, we tend to think of this is as an urban problem but urban sprawl is not only a geographical condition, it’s a social condition, as well. Mayor Pyle how do you feel about this issue?
“Well, Linda, our town of Sunnydale may not be big but we’ve seen big city issues
seeping into the skin our little community. Sad, really. We’ve recently been the victim of a series of juvenile offenses. After a string of crime we’ve collected plenty of evidence that tells us we need proactive measures to curb the problem. I’m here today, in Phoenix, to discuss these matters with a few of the good people here. Maybe if we put our heads together, we can come up with a viable solution to this sad situation.”
“Thank you, Mayor Pyle.” She turned back to the camera. “Harold Pyle is the mayor of Sunnydale, Arizona located about 65 miles north of Phoenix. Richard, back to you.”
“I thought they’d ruled out the kids. Huh.” Helen’s chin lifted as if offering judgment on his comment. “He never mentioned anything about a TV interview. That man never ceases to amaze me.” She said it almost as if she’d forgotten I was in the room, or that she was in my house. Then, she snapped out of it and looked down to gather her thoughts. “Well,” she said as she grabbed her glass and turned my way, “here’s to Harold, politician extraordinaire.” Her face showed no emotion—years of practicing in front of the mirror, maybe. Or, could it have been she was sad? There was no reading her.
“We really never know anyone, do we Helen?” “Boy, that’s a fact.”
“You know, although Bobby and I were close, there were times he’d seem to vanish from sight, poof! Gone, like that.” Snapping my fingers I continued. “And, toward the end, I didn’t even know he was sick. He never mentioned any problems with his heart. He kept it from me—a secret.”
“We have lots of secrets, some we even try to k
eep from ourselves.” The way she said it made me feel like someone had run me through with a hot poker. She took a slow sip of wine. After she blotted her lips and dug into her tote to find a tube of Chapstick, she applied it, then threw it back inside the bag, and placed that big purse down again by the leg of the table. When she did it remained open like a gaping mouth. Inside I saw a big round bottle of French perfume. There was a pair of soft brown suede gloves and a journal propped against the side of her purse with a pen attached to its cover. An envelope was slipped tightly under the pen. It had a name written on it. One I’d never heard of mentioned before, Wellen, was written on the envelope in familiar handwriting, but I couldn’t place whose. Right then she must have noticed me staring into her bag because she pushed it closed with the side of her leg.
“I write daily.”
“God, Helen. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have been
peering inside your purse.”
“No, it’s okay, really. Not too many people know I write. I’ve only told one other person.”
“Fiction?” Feeling guilty about what had just happened I jumped at her offer to change the subject, a secret subject at that.
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Fiction just seems too difficult, too creative. I don’t know—I write in my journal every day and write a few essays when the mood hits me.”
“Essays, about what?”
“Well, the last essay commented on society’s view of
beauty. I call it “Hands of Time.” It begins with a writer looking at her aging hands as she types.”
“I’d love to read it someday.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I’m an avid reader. Bobby and I used to read to each other. It was very romantic I thought.”
“Very intimate. Yes, that sounds lovely.” “May I?”
“What?”
“Read your essay one day.”
“Oh, it’s very personal. I’m not very good at all it’s just a hobby I have.”
“I bet you’re very good. What does Harold think of it?”
“Harold! He’s never read anything of mine. He’d call me foolish and I just don’t think I could ever let him see anything I’ve written.”
“Helen. I’m sure he’d love your work.”
“You don’t know Harold.”
“Please. He’s your husband. He loves you. He’d love whatever you did.”
“That’s a sweet thought, however I’m afraid we’re not like that. Most everything we do centers around Harold’s career. Politics. We eat, breath, and sleep politics.”
“Well, when you talk about your day, don’t you tell him what you’ve written?”
“Ha ha. No. No, I don’t.” She took another slow drink. I could see how very forlorn she was. “Georgette, you’re a very kind woman. I do enjoy your company.”
“Yeah, I think we get along just fine, Helen. Here’s to new friends, eh?” We clinked our glasses together and sipped to our toast.
“I know now why Bob was so entranced by you. You’re quite beautiful and you’re so very kind. You have a good heart, Georgette. He used to talk about you all the time.”
“Bobby did? You knew him.” I felt like the earth shifted.
She blushed. “Well, yes, he’d been in town forever! I knew him well, I guess. Actually, I feel like Bob was my only true friend. I knew Vanessa too. But, Bob would sit with me after the restaurant closed and we’d talk. He was a good man. And kind, like you.”
Helen was revealing a past I couldn’t quite piece the puzzle to. I felt off-balance. Like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet.
“Why, he never mentioned he knew you. I don’t know if it might have ever come up, but, you’d think…”
“He mentioned you! Lots. I’m here to tell you, Georgie, after Vanessa, you were all there was for him, ever.” Her speech was loosening up and I realized the wine was hitting her.
“So, what did he say about me?”
“Everything! Christ, it was like that was all that was on his mind. Georgie, this. And, Georgie, that. Hmm…” a little more wine and down to the bottom of her glass.
“Here, have some more.” I picked up the bottle by the towel like a sommelier in a restaurant and poured. “See! That’s what I mean. He’d mention stuff like that. He’d say, ‘She has the cutest little twang in her voice but it’s like she’s been all over the world!’ And, he’d smile and stop talking. It made me crazy. You know, jealous almost. Not because I wanted Bob or anything, but because I wanted that kind of love. You know?”
“I think I do.”
We’d been talking for nearly an hour when we emptied the bottle. Helen wasn’t a woman who could hold her liquor. She was small and probably didn’t do too much drinking around Harold. The new friendship we were making was built, in part, by the telling of small secrets through the consumption of fermented grapes. I had the feeling Helen knew more than her fair share of confidences and she parceled them out slowly and suggestively. She simmered, was hot and swampy. You’d never know it until you spent some time with her. But, this plain throw-back-type-of-woman had an edge.
CHAPTER 22
“What were you thinking?”
“You said they’d need motivation.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean to destroy their property!” “Don’t raise your voice with me, Mayor. You’re in this as deep as I am.” Zach Pinzer stared right through Harold Pyle. He knew he had tied a Gordian knot in the noose that tightened around the mayor’s neck.
“I want out. This isn’t good.”
“You want out. You can’t get out. Money’s been exchanged, I have contracts signed. We’re going through with this, understand? This project will happen, with or without you.”
“Without me.” He yanked his briefcase from the chair and stormed out leaving the door wide open.
“Leyla.”
“Yes, Zach.” She flung her long blond hair from the sides of her face and tugged at her hemline.
“Sweetheart, get me Tweeter on the phone, will ya?” “Yes, Zach.” She smiled seductively and turned her back to him. “Zach?”
“Yeah.” He looked up and she stared back at him looking behind her, he loosened his tie.
“Will you come by tonight? I have something you need to see.”
“What time?”
“Whenever you get off. Why don’t you call. I’ll have a nice hot bath ready for you with a bottle of Moet. I really need you tonight, Zach.”
“You better leave early then, sugar. ‘Cause I can’t wait.” He grabbed at his crotch and she sizzled enjoyment before she left his office. “Call Tweeter!” He leaned forward in his seat and yelled to her before the door shut.
***
He’d been under pressure for months and was still reeling about the conversation with Pinzer when he pulled onto the freeway on-ramp heading out of Phoenix. He made a good impression with the people at Channel Five and no longer had to worry about the likes of Zach Pinzer and his associates. He’d stated publicly his intentions—good intentions. He wanted the women out, sure, but not that way. He never intended when he told Pinzer to “handle it” that he would hire some ape to do his dirty work.
Traffic was treacherous and he slowed before sidling into the flow of merging cars. His mind raced around an excuse or better yet an alibi regarding his involvement with Chariot International Incorporated.
“Christ!” He yelled in part because of the speeding sedans, minis, trucks, semis, convertibles, and SUVs and also in part because he was angry with himself about getting involved with thugs. What was he thinking! How could he have let things get so out of control? His indicator blinked on and off alerting other drivers his intention to merge into the middle lane. Back-to-back traffic destroyed his composure. No one cared anymore about anyone else on the road. He barely squeezed in-between a large black vehicle and a red, white, and blue postal van. He hated city driving especially by means of the freeway.
When he returned to Sunnydale, he’d have
to lay out a believable defense of his involvement—muddle the money trail, cover his tracks. Pinzer was a loose cannon and couldn’t be trusted.
“Fuck!” He flipped-off the driver in the black car that shimmied up too close next to Pyle’s driver side and sped forward to a safe distance. Harold listened to himself, sometimes speaking aloud, about the wasted paper used to produce different documents to coordinate this deal—the intent of sale signed, the earnest money paid, a quit claim deed issued, plat recordings pulled, the closing agreement and escrow instructions filed. Destroying or better yet losing these documents would prove a tricky proposition, but it could be done. He wondered if a 1098 (or was it a 1099) had been issued yet. He’d have to check with the accounting department.
The mayor’s mind swirled around the complexity of a sale such as this one.
The traffic was relentless. He saw through his rear view the same truck that swerved toward him a few minutes earlier. The driver once again eased into a position closing in on his left. Harold put his elbow on the rim of the window and covered the side of his face with his hand. He promised he would just ignore the previous incident. Harold decided he would slow up so the driver would end up passing him by virtue of the others driving at a steady fast pace in the next lane.
With his hand hiding his face, the mayor lost himself again in a whirlpool paper trail of contracts, checks, and settlement agreements. But, his mind was diverted when he heard a repetitive insistent honking. The mayor dropped his arm and looked to the driver making all the noise. The driver of the SUV continued honking. The mayor lifted his hand and shrugged his shoulders in a question-mark gesture. The driver honked steadily every so often looking over and smiling through the dark windows of his car—Harold could see his teeth— he must be smiling.
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