The Art of Crash Landing

by Melissa DeCarlo

“They changed the name of Brontosaurus. It’s Apatosaurus now.”

  “Karleen?”

  There’s a pause, then she says, “I couldn’t find a Rolodex.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “So I went through his trash and didn’t find anything with your number on it, but when I listened to the messages on his answering machine, there you were.”

  I find myself impressed by her resourcefulness and her ruthless nosiness. She’s Nancy fuckin’ Drew.

  “And for your information,” she continues, “I have been drinking, but I’m not drunk.”

  I suspect she’s wrong about that, but I decide to take advantage of the situation. If she’s lucid enough to sleuth out my phone number, she’s lucid enough to answer questions.

  Thinking back on my visit to the nursing home and my newly discovered resemblance to my grandmother, I ask Karleen, “Do you know Fritter’s brother?”

  “I’m sorry I called so late.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. So do you know Jonah Jackson?”

  “Yup. Mr. Jackson used to work on the church van for free until he got too old and sick. I think he’s in a nursing home.”

  “He is. I met him.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay, I guess,” I reply. “Listen, did my mom ever meet him?”

  “Who?”

  I take a breath and back up a little, speaking slowly. “Jonah Jackson. He’s Trip’s dad, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “So did Jonah Jackson and my mom ever meet each other?”

  “I don’t see how. He grew up here, but he moved off after college. He didn’t move back until he retired. Genie was long gone by then.”

  Hmmm. Now I’m doubting my theory. “So he never met my mom.”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Not even when Trip was here that summer? Could his dad have come for a visit?”

  “Trip’s family lived in one of the M states . . . a cold one. Minnesota. Michigan.” Karleen pauses for a minute and I hear thumping in the background, like she’s opening and closing drawers.

  “What’s going on there, Karleen?”

  “Hey, it was Maine. I remember now. And Trip’s dad did visit that summer. I remember because he brought a Maine snow globe.”

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift. “Snow globe?”

  “You know one of those things where if you shake it—”

  “I know what a snow globe is, Karleen.”

  “He brought it for Trip, but Trip didn’t want it. I guess it is a pretty lame gift. Mr. Jackson probably shoulda gotten him a watch maybe, or new sneakers, or maybe a baseball glove—”

  “So what happened to it?”

  “To what?”

  I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “The snow globe.”

  “Since Trip didn’t want it and your mom was there, his dad gave it to her. It had a lighthouse, and when you shook it instead of snow it had—”

  “Birds.”

  Karleen laughs. “She kept that ugly thing?”

  My eyes fill with tears.

  “Hang on,” Karleen says, and then there are more thuds and banging sounds on the line, louder this time.

  “Karleen?” Now I hear only silence on the other end and I worry that I’ve lost her. “Karleen?” I ask again.

  This time she answers with, “Damn it.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m looking for a cigarette.”

  “Can I ask another question while you look?”

  “I found matches.”

  “Great. Listen, what did Trip look like?”

  She laughs again. “Why are you asking me? You’ve seen him.”

  “That photo is black-and-white. What did he look like in color?”

  “Auburn hair. Hazel eyes maybe? Green? Shit. I can’t remember. I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid—”

  “Orten says I am.”

  “Karleen—”

  “His hair is gray now, but his eyes should be the same. What color are they?”

  “Orten’s?”

  “No, silly,” Karleen replies. “Trip’s.”

  She’s obviously had more to drink than she’s admitting. “Karleen, how should I know?”

  Her reply is lost to a rattling smokers’ cough. “Hang on.” She sets the phone down, presumably on Father Barnes’s desk. I wait, straining to hear. After what feels like twenty minutes, but was probably only twenty seconds, I hear the phone scrape against the wood.

  “I’m back,” she says. “But I really need to get going.” She sounds tired, the slurring worse.

  “Wait, Karleen—”

  “Hey, I almost forgot what I called to tell you. I found a postcard.”

  “A postcard?”

  “From your mom. I still have one. It has a picture of a beach on the front. And on the back it says . . . shit. I left my glasses at home.”

  “You can show me later.”

  “It’s okay, I memorized it. It says, Having a great time with my beautiful daughter. Wish you were here.”

  I wipe at my eyes again.

  “Maybe I could come by tomorrow and see it,” I say.

  She gives me a dangerous-sounding chuckle. “That might not work out so good.”

  I’m getting a bad feeling about this. “Karleen, what’s going on?”

  She heaves a sigh deep enough to start another coughing fit. “I need to get home,” she finally chokes out. “I need a cigarette. And I should check on Orten.”

  Something in her voice sets off a warning. “What do you mean check on Orten? Where is he?”

  “I can’t believe I forgot my cigarettes.”

  “Karleen, answer the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Orten, Karleen. Where is he?”

  She sighs. “He’s at the house.”

  “Your house?”

  “Well, technically it’s his house. The lease is in his name. That’s what he tells me all the time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen the lease . . .”

  “Are you sure he’s at your house—his house?”

  “He wasn’t moving when I left.”

  “What?”

  “I took your suggestion.”

  “My suggestion? What did you do?”

  “I found my old softball bat.”

  I feel a sickening twist in my stomach. “What happened, Karleen?”

  “I hid behind the bedroom door, see, and—”

  “Wait. Take it step by step. Start at the very beginning.”

  “Okay, okay.” She sighs and then says, “Step one. Elvis died.”

  I’m momentarily at a loss for words. Of course, to be fair, I hadn’t specified what I meant by the very beginning.

  “I don’t think we have time to start in the 1970s. Why don’t you start with what happened after I saw you this morning.”

  “I am,” she insists. “I finished cleaning and then took out the trash. That’s when I saw him behind the Dumpster.”

  “Oh my God . . .” She’s talking about soup kitchen Elvis, the man with a cat named Colonel Parker.

  “His eyes and his mouth were half open, and flies were all in his—”

  “Stop. Please. Stop. I get the idea.” I sit down on the bed, hard. It was her mentioning the flies. That’s what weakened my knees and turned my skin clammy and cold. “Okay. Go on.”

  “The cops came, and they talked to everybody, but they talked to me for a long time. I mean, it’s not like they thought I killed him or anything. Elvis still had a tourniquet on his arm, and his kit was laying there, so it was pretty obvious what happened, but they still gave me a hard time. They kept hassling me about my black eye . . .”

  “Oh, Karleen . . .”

  “It was bad. Anyway, after all that I went home early and . . . Wait. What step am I on? Two?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “S
tep two. Orten came home. He was drunk. And because I was upset about Elvis and the cops, I’d been drinking a little, too. Is that a step?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just keep going.”

  “Okay, step three. No, wait, four?” Her voice sounds even worse, and I’m starting to worry that the slurring is from more than booze—maybe a split lip or missing teeth. “Can we please do this later?” she says. “I really need to get home.”

  “Wait! Don’t go. What if Orten is awake? Call the police—have them go.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve had enough cops for one day.”

  “But—”

  “Besides, I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Karleen—”

  “Don’t interrupt me. I’ve been thinking about your mother. If she’d stayed, Genie never would’ve let me marry a man like Orten. And if you’d grown up here, you’d have a family.”

  I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but if she’s talking at least she’s not on her way home. “I had a family, Karleen.”

  “Just you and your mom? That’s not a family. No brothers, no sisters, no grandparents, no real dad, just some asshole bartender you don’t even know.”

  “I have a real dad, Karleen,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “His name is Herman, but I call him Queeg.”

  “If Genie had stayed here and married Trip, you’d have a big brother or sister, and everything would be just fine. I would’ve gotten over being mad, and Genie and me would have been friends forever.” She gives a giant wet sniff. Her voice has gone from drunk-blurry to crying-drunk-blurry. “Instead, now I’ve got to go home and take care of Orten—”

  “You do not need to go take care of that man, Karleen. Just stay where you are for tonight. He’s probably fine.”

  “That’s just it,” she says. “He was still breathing when I left. I’ve decided that’s unacceptable.”

  “Hold on now . . .” Holy crap, she’s going to kill him. My mind is racing. I need to figure out some way to keep her away from her house. “Did you drive to the church?”

  “What do you think? Have you seen the weather?”

  “You’re in no condition to drive home, Karleen. Let me come get you.”

  “It’s only a couple blocks.”

  “But if you get pulled over, your whole plan is ruined. Let me drive you. I’ll help you with Orten.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course I will. I promise. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “But I thought you didn’t have a car—”

  “I’ll use JJ’s truck.”

  “What?”

  “He lives right next door,” I explain. “He’ll loan me his truck.” I put a lot more certainty in that statement than I actually feel.

  “Mr. Jackson is living there? I thought you said he was in a nursing home.”

  “Wait a minute, hold on . . .” My mind shuffles facts around, trying to make sense of what she just said. “Are you telling me that Fritter’s brother, Jonah Jackson, is JJ, the owner of JJ’s Auto Works?”

  “Sure. JJ—Jonah Jackson. When he got sick a few years back, his son moved to town and took over the business.”

  With an almost audible click the pieces fall into place. I close my eyes and picture the boy in the photo and add thirty-five unhappy years to his face.

  “Karleen, the man who lives next door to me is Trip, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” she replies. “How could you not know that?”

  “How would I? He never introduced himself. He drives around with the name JJ on his truck, why wouldn’t I assume he’s JJ? What the hell kind of a name is Trip anyway?”

  She chuckles softly. “Jonah Joseph Jackson III. What other nickname would he have?”

  CHAPTER 49

  Outside, the rain and wind are back in full force. By the time I get to JJ’s porch—Trip’s porch—my jeans are so wet that I don’t know why I bothered to dry them at all. There are lights on, so I’m hopeful that he won’t be too angered by my late-night visit. In fact now that I’m up close to his house I hear music. There’s a light coming from the window to the right of the door, so I walk over and peer inside. I expect a television, or a stereo, but it’s JJ, aka Trip, seated at an upright piano on the far wall of his dining room. The song he’s playing is familiar, probably recognizable as something other than the soundtrack of a car commercial by somebody classier than me. It just makes me want to buy a Hyundai.

  I rap on the glass with my knuckles. He jumps and spins around, looking in my direction, but I suspect that he’s not able to see anything other than his own reflection in the dark glass. I knock again for good measure.

  I hear barking coming from inside the house.

  He stands and leaves his dining room, so I hurry over to meet him at the door. He opens it a crack and scowls at me over a security chain. At his feet is a Winston, its little pig-nose pressed into the three-inch gap between the door and the frame.

  “You have the dogs?” I say, feeling a mixture of anger and relief.

  He has a strange look on his face as he nods. “Yes I do. One in here and one in the garage.”

  “The garage?” I lean over and tickle the neck of the dog. It’s the smaller Winston. He’s snorting and licking my hand. After a final scratch under his chin I straighten and glare at Trip.

  “So, you’re hiding one in the garage?”

  “I’m not hiding—”

  “Were you afraid I’d hear them barking?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “I bet you had a good time watching me worry.”

  “No, I—”

  “Chewing me out for being irresponsible, while all the time you—”

  “Damn it, would you just shut up a minute?” he says, with enough force to make me shut up a minute.

  “The other dog is in the garage in a trash bag. He’s dead. I found him out on the loop.”

  I look down at the dog still snuffling at the doorjamb. “How’d you find—”

  “He was there, lying next to him,” he says. “At first I thought they were both gone.”

  We stare at each other for a second. He’s angry and at the same time he’s trying not to cry. At least that’s what I think is going on, judging from the one eye peering at me above the chain.

  “Is this one okay?”

  He nods.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Yes you are,” he replies.

  The look he’s giving me makes it clear just what a sorry sack of shit he thinks I am. But even though I’m not the one who left the gate open, I’m not ratting out Tawny. I’m good at guilt; I’ve got room left on my shoulders for a little more.

  “Thank you, for . . . um bringing them home,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply.

  “And I need a favor, a ride, actually. It’s important.”

  Trip laughs, shakes his head, and then before I can say anything else, he closes the door.

  At first I assume that he shut it to take off the chain, but after several seconds pass I see the light switch off in his dining room. I’m wrong. He’s not letting me in, or coming out on the porch; he’s going to bed.

  I ring the doorbell, several times, which starts the remaining Winston barking again. And again the door opens a crack, but Trip isn’t laughing anymore.

  “I really do need your help,” I tell him.

  “I’m not interested.”

  “It’s Karleen Meeker. She and her husband got in a fight. I think it’s bad.”

  “Orten and Karleen have been trading punches for years without your help.”

  “But she’s waiting for me at the church.”

  “Is Orten there with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’s fine.” He takes a step back, and I can tell he’s about to shut the door again. I quickly wedge my foot in the gap, giving a little gasp when he presses the door into my wet shoe. This trick doesn’t work so well with Converse sne
akers.

  “Please, just this one thing—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, I know you don’t like me, and you’re pissed at my mom, but—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Not interested.”

  “But I figured it out,” I say, my voice raised against the sound of the storm. “I know why she left you, Trip.”

  His face changes as soon as I call him Trip. His eyes narrow and when he lifts his hand up to the door, I wisely slide my foot out of the gap. The slam of the door shakes the porch.

  I consider my options. I pull out my phone and try Luke, but again it goes straight to voice mail. I think of Father Barnes, but the only number I have for him is at the church—that’s no help. And even if I find his home number, I suspect he’ll be in no shape to drive. I look at the darkened houses along the street. Would any of them offer a ride to a wet stranger at two a.m.? I don’t have Tawny’s cell phone number, but I try, with no success, to use my phone to look up Fritter’s number—I even call 411 but she’s not listed. Shit, don’t I have anybody else’s number?

  Ah! An image of a pen gripped in thick fingers . . . I frisk my jean pockets and sure enough there is something there. One pocket still holds the phone book page, which is now just a stiff gray wad, but Gordon Penny’s card in the other pocket fared better. It’s crumpled and faded from the laundry, but the phone number he wrote on the back is still legible.

  A woman answers on the third ring. I convince her to put her husband on the line, but I have a feeling he’s going to have some explaining to do later. My conversation with Mr. Penny mainly consists of me pleading with increasing desperation, and him refusing with increasing firmness. He’s not interested in helping Karleen, and he’s not interested in helping me. As we go round and around I’m wishing that I’d paid more attention to Karleen when she explained Gordon Penny’s grudge. It was something about a costume party and a nickname . . . A superhero, I think . . . Maybe . . . I’m almost sure . . .

  “I don’t understand what your problem is,” I say once I’ve pieced together what I remember. “Flash Gordon isn’t that bad a nickname.”

  There’s a silence, one long enough to get my hopes up. And then I hear Gordon Penny sigh. “I was large, even back then, you know.” His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him. “It was Flesh, Ms. Wallace. The nickname your mother gave me was Flesh Gordon.”