Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  “Ah, someone you probably wouldn’t know. Did she find her jewelry? She told me someone jacked it!” Wolfe and I look at each other.

  Tharcia looks confused. “I don’t know. Nobody here would take it, just costume jewelry.”

  “Not fucking fake shit. The most precious thing in the world.”

  “What is, Mick?”

  His next line is calmer, not quite syrupy sweet but verging on it. “You, Diamond Girl. You are the most precious diamond in all the world. When did this happen?”

  “It was Tuesday night. In the parking lot at Spartan Stadium.”

  Mick is silent. “Hey baby are you on speaker?”

  Tharcia is shaking her head. Her eyes dart pleadingly from me to Wolfe, asking. What do I say?

  Mick’s voice comes, a grated snarl. “You greasy little twat.” The connection goes dead.

  Tharcia recoils from the phone, mouth open in shock. Shaking her head, her expression hardens. She screams.

  She keeps right on screaming. Unintelligible sounds of wounded anger and betrayed trust. She’s stomping her feet against the hardwood floor with her fists clenched. I stand and pull her in. She grips hard, screaming into my chest and shaking with rage. People are trying to push into the small bedroom. What’s wrong what’s wrong? Wolfe does a good job of traffic control. He lets Ricky in. And Rayne. They sit on the bed, trying to help Tharcia get through.

  I turn to Wolfe. He’s checking his phone, his recording.

  Wolfe says to me softly, “What are these jewels?”

  “Montana was wearing them. Then last week she started accusing everybody of taking them.”

  “What were they? Where were they last seen?” Wolfe wants to know.

  “She said in here, on her night table. A necklace with some colored stones. I saw them, she accused me too. Matching earrings.”

  “I have to get downtown, go over this recording. Mr. Clay, not a word to anyone.” I close the door after the detective, Twyla’s envelope an ominous weight in my shirt pocket.

  Voices at the door. Followed by Ricky, Tharcia goes out, people wanting to say goodbye, final round of hugs. I am hoping that Tharcia can tell the trauma specialist what Mick did to her as a child. She must tell.

  I sit alone, looking around Montana’s room, how neatly kept it is, her beautiful things. Never thought of her as ladylike but now I see she has refined taste. Nothing here I remember, it’s been too long. True what they say, you can’t go back.

  Then I see it, something that couldn’t have been here before. Gracefully shaped, glazed maroon with gold leaf decorations, a crematory urn sits before Montana’s dressing table mirror. To think of all that vibrant life burnt to nothing in a jar.

  In her adjoining bathroom I turn both taps in the sink. For the noise. Then I’m twisted over, speared by the pain of it, unable to make sense of anything. No matter how conflicted she was, how contrary, how bent on evil outcomes, I know I could have loved her, for the way I knew her then. Not what she since became, with Mick.

  Only a few folks in the living room now, couple gals helpfully putting away food, hugs and tears at the door. Tharcia is urging people toward the porch, still gracious though clearly exhausted. Finally the place is empty. Front door closed, we park on the sofa. She curls her feet under her, fingers twirling a strand of her hair.

  “I remember what our house felt like after Mom died. It was hard to be there.” I watch her face. “You said one time you wanted an adventure.”

  She gives me a disgusted look. “This is an adventure?”

  I shake my head. “Something you said when we first spoke. We can have a mini-adventure right now, if you’re up for it.”

  She’s thoughtful, looking around the empty house. “I wouldn’t mind getting out of here for a while.”

  “We can go flying.”

  “You mean in your airplane?”

  “One of the school gliders.”

  Soon we’re cruising out Highway 25 toward Hollister Airport. She looks more comfortable in jeans and a fleece-lined black denim jacket, baseball cap with a Red Bull Racing logo. Bulky black leather satchel at her feet, Montana’s school yearbook clasped in her arms.

  At the gliderport she’s interested in everything. I sit her in the front cockpit and show her the altimeter, the variometer, what the controls do, the towrope release. On the runway hooked up behind the tow plane, we wait as a Piper Archer shoots a landing on the intersecting runway. Sun is out, afternoon is warming. I signal the tow plane and we start to roll.

  In the decent headwind, the glider lifts off before the tow plane does, I hold us about five feet off the runway as we gather speed. She’s laughing in the front, looking around, thrilled to be gliding effortlessly over the ground. It’s bumpy on our ascent, there are thermals around, though it’s a cool afternoon. We drop the tow at twenty-five hundred feet and head for a gaggle of six gliders circling a couple miles off the end of the runway. Unusual for Hollister in winter weather, but hey it’s lift we’ll take it.

  We join the gaggle, circling with them, all turning counterclockwise centered on the invisible column of rising air. In a left bank, we can look across the spiral at other gliders. Colorful. Through their canopies we see the other pilots, passengers. I see a gap and cut across the thermal’s core, gaining altitude. Five minutes and we are above the others, Tharcia’s looking down at the floating carousel of graceful long-winged planes. Dirt roads and patchwork fields far below.

  She lifts a hand behind her head, smooth fingers wiggle at me above my control panel. I hook fingers with her as we go higher. Cloud above us, concave on the bottom where the thermal tops out. I bank steeply and for half a circle our high wing cuts graceful vortices through the cloud. We make a swooping dive across the valley. We’re picking up speed, losing altitude, feel the bumps as we again find lift. She shouts out a happy woohoo. We spend ten minutes in that thermal, working back to cloudbase at six thousand.

  Small cumulus clouds mark other thermals, we spend another 40 minutes like that, hopscotching between updrafts, soaring quietly above the tapestry of fields and fall colors far below. Finally it’s over. We fly a normal landing pattern and we’re down. The look on her face climbing out is gratitude, relief. Anything for a brief respite from the pain she’s carrying.

  Driving out in my El Camino, I remark she probably wants to be getting home. But she surprises me.

  “No. Your place. Please. You don’t mind?”

  We’re quiet on the drive, which works for me. I am picking apart my impressions of the call with Mick. Poor lost little Twyla and her thieving mischief. Driving into the setting sun. I pull out my phone. Try the twins but it’s their voice mail.

  “Hey you guys, want to talk to Carla. Something I’d like you to see.” No idea if they are around, in the swimming pool, whatever. I have a hunch.

  It’s full dark when we stop in front of my place. In the living room I build up the fire. I notice Tharcia’s forlorn expression. The universe is dealing out crap hands to everyone. Tell her I’m taking a shower. She brightens, asks can she have a tub bath.

  I wave my hand toward the upstairs, sure sure, then get a call from Darla. They are available and can come by in an hour. No details on the phone, which we all understand, but there are inquisitive spaces between Darla’s words. Bring a loupe, I tell her.

  Halfway up the staircase, Tharcia stops to listen.

  “Who is coming over?” Like she’s had enough people for today, ready to chill.

  “Good friends, old friends. They know things might be useful. High school buds.” Her expression says she’s not wild about it.

  Anyway later we’re all clean and warm. I’m putting out hummus and salt crackers. Tharcia asks about the twins.

  “You’re serious?” I smile at her. “We go back to grade school. How much you wanna know?”

  She smiles a little. She’s tired, but ready for any mild distraction, take her mind off her mom for a while. I take a swig of my beer and settle back
on the couch. She’s curled up at the other end, in my sweatshirt and an old terry bathrobe that’s way too big. Her inquisitive gaze sends me back over the years.

  “Before we go there, I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “You already told me a little about what happened with Mick. What I want to know is, how you came back from that.” What’s on my mind is, where did she hide the wreckage?

  Tharcia takes a deep breath, not looking at me. “It seems like this should be easy, I have told it so many times.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

  “You should know.” She gives me a long look. “First of all, it wasn’t the worst kind, not what people usually think. It was mostly not contact abuse. It was like peeking at me in the tub or in my room, exposure, spankings. He spanked me in front of a man and a woman. It was degrading.”

  I shake my head slow. This is disgusting. “Your mom was out?”

  “Mostly. But sometimes she was in the house. Rayne was one of my babysitters. She was fifteen. She saw my bruises. Neither of us knew what to do, I was scared. When we moved to the new house, Rayne got her driver’s license and sat with me when Mom worked late. She took me to a survivor’s group without telling anyone. I learned to meditate. My meditation teacher didn’t have to know anything, didn’t ask. He just taught me how to be silent and watch my thoughts. That was hard. Sometimes I relived everything, without wanting to.

  “I started working on letting go the guilt. Rayne got me books. By the time I was sixteen I was able to get a counselor. It was only then that Mom got involved, because she had to sign things. She told them I had a hyperactive imagination. My counselor said the other parent can be in denial. Mom had to swear she wouldn’t bring boyfriends home.

  “But Mom herself didn’t help directly. It was a taboo subject. Especially about any connection with Mick. Now Mom’s gone she can’t control me anymore.”

  “So Rayne was your babysitter, and there are records with your counselor that these things happened?”

  “I know what you are thinking. Rayne saw everything. She swore not to tell. But I’m not a victim anymore. Not for a long time. I am a survivor. Recovering was a decision I made.”

  We’re quiet for a while. “I decided something else,” she says with firm conviction. “I am ready to go after Mick.”

  I look at her. What I am feeling is pride. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  She gets up and sits next to me, leans her head on my shoulder. I put an arm around her. There is no way to describe what I feel at this moment. She looks at me.

  “But hey you were going to tell all about Carla and Darla.” She is ready to change gears. So am I, but I sure feel better we had this conversation.

  “Ho ho. That is a saga. Carl Wilton Desmond. A guy I’ve known since we were second graders in San Jose. Best buds for years. Me with my interest in airplanes, war history, and electronics. Carl liking sports, astronomy, geology. We did all kinds of wacky stuff, sleepovers at my place or his, camp-outs in the neighborhood with the other kids, hikes up in the hills, major bike rides all over the Valley and the coastal wetlands. Went to the same YMCA summer camps three years running. We managed to get in the same cabin, which helped a lot with us playing tricks on everybody else.

  “We found out from his dad that both of us were geeks. Meaning anything from computer hacker to a carnival performer. It also means peculiar or dislikable, or overly intellectual.

  “Carl decides he prefers being known as overly intellectual, while I’m attracted to the idea of being peculiar. Carl’s twin sister wanted to be a geek too, but it was our boy’s club. Girls, who needs ‘em?”

  Tharcia tries to make a stern face here but she’s amused anyway. I go back to my story.

  “Carl was a star on the football team, despite his slim build. He was one of the most precise place kickers in the history of our school. Carl drifted from being overly intellectual as a geek, to one who is highly peculiar. My geekiness had migrated first to electronics, such as radio-controlled cars and model airplanes, then to more normal kid stuff, such as getting the perfect haircut, the coolest shoes and jeans, and finding out I could say certain things to any girl and get a nice kiss. If I gave her my soulful look.”

  “Catch-dawg.”

  “Yeh. Carl and I had a severe falling out. He came in his sister’s room and found us under the sheets. The parents were away that weekend and we thought Carl was out on his bike. The look on his face was utter devastation. He didn’t seem to notice me, he just started shrieking at his sister, saying, Darla, you said you would never. Why? You said it was only me.

  “Darla is pleading with him, like, Carl honey, it’s not like that, it’s not the same. It’s not like with you at all. I love you baby.

  “Wait a minute.” Tharcia’s voice brings me into the present. “They are twins? Fraternal right?”

  “Exactly,” I tell her. “But they looked identical, even back then. They would cross-dress each other to prank people for a laugh. Of course Carl changed his name slightly since moving out of the house, adding the ‘a’ on the end. Carla and Darla. They’re about the only people I still know from high school days. They knew Montana too, sometimes we would all hang out.”

  Tharcia is thoughtful, “They were here at your party. I spoke to them, they seem nice. Thought they were lez together. You sure Carla’s a guy?”

  “Am I ever. But what’s this about ‘I love you baby’, spoken from sister to brother? That was way weird even for me. Turns out the two of them were sleeping in each other’s beds since childhood. Being twins, they had strong bonds. When puberty struck they discovered sex together. And the sibling affection became something else.”

  “Sibling rivalry begets sibling revelry,” Tharcia cracks. Her one-sided grin surfaces for a second.

  “Hah. You made an actual joke. So then Carl knows he hates me, which leads to me getting jumped by the football team a couple weeks later. There was also major split between the two of them at the time. Darla was branching out and experimenting as kids will and Carl was still hanging onto their childhood. It was a sad time for him. Puberty basically sucks for everyone. Who invented it?”

  Tharcia nods knowingly. “Worst time of my life.”

  “Roger that. After grad I briefly connected with them. Darla came to my mom’s funeral. She had become the most beautiful refined woman, and we still felt the same friendship. We sat up late and had drinks, but never got involved after that.”

  “Oh Stuka, I remember you said about your mom, but you never told much about it.”

  “Yeah. I was the same age you are now.” For a few beats we lock gazes sending that one back and forth.

  “So imagine my surprise after renting this funky house, and in the neighborhood come across a little shop with Dollhouse Furniture painted over the door, real cute little place, very colorful, and inside is this lovely chica that just has to be Darla. Long dark hair, slim build, nice boobs, lovely skin. I say her name, she shakes her head and smiles. She says, Darla’s out, may I tell her who called?

  “Then I can only stare like a dummy. This sweet looking woman lets her jaw go limp for a moment, and blushes. She’s flustered, not knowing what to say. Finally she stands up, extends her hand, introduces herself as Carla Desmond, with an A.”

  “Wait, hold up. Did she do something? Surgery? I have a friend who...”

  “She went part way. Carla is still a he, with boobs and hormone cream. Anyway the voice, the grip of the hand, the dark steady eyes, I’m looking into the face of a best friend from school days, a time portal back to another life. Carla’s wearing jeans, which fit her slim hips very well, a long-sleeved silk blouse that drapes nicely over her breasts, no bra for sure I can see her nips.

  “Then it’s my turn to blush, trying like crazy to recover. Skipping over the very obvious Topic Number One, namely his/her gender identity, I ask what they’ve been doing since high school. Carla says she hear
d about my folks. Such great people, so sorry and all that.”

  Tharcia nods sympathetically.

  “She tells me about the dollhouse furniture biz, which they’d just set up. Wanting to do something artistic.”

  “O hey.” Tharcia says, “how was it going from calling her a he to calling her a she?” You know what I mean.”

  I chuckle. “I made a few mistakes. Anyhow we talk a while, I get that after he graduated from Berkeley in gemology, and Darla got her degree in theatrical set design, they wanted to do something together. Carla suggests I come by their house. And then I get the rest of the picture, it’s them living together, no third parties need apply.”

  “What? Like boyfriend girlfriend?”

  “Yuppers. They are maxed out in love.”

  “Their kids could be genetically damaged!” Tharcia is already beyond the sibling incest part, she’s more worried about any kids.

  I laugh. “Haven’t exactly discussed that detail. I do know they love each other. So about Carla’s gemology thing. She studied geology, then gemology, became hooked on valuable and rare stones. She makes money now buying and selling gems and minerals worldwide. But like with lots of enterprises these days, it’s not enough.

  “They showed me around their house, showed me a closet grow op. I told them if they want to make some money doing that, they need to see my swimming pool.”

  “You have a pool here?”

  “Old pool, uphill, out of commission on an adjoining property. House there burned to the ground years ago, killed the entire family. The site was cleaned up and left. No one goes there. It’s a decent-sized lap pool, four feet to eight feet deep. I put a top on it, disguised it, and built a sizable grow operation inside.

  “The twins went mildly nuts when I showed them. I’m doing 20 times the production they were trying for. Guess you’d say my geekiness had leaned over to plant horticulture. Along with the mini law degree I’d studied for at the Colony.”

  “You have a law degree?” She looks puzzled, like I’d skipped a page.

  “Figure of speech. Many cons in lockup study law, for appeals and such. Spend enough time in jail with guys who know things, you can practically memorize every fact about any topic. My minor was growing pot under lights. Anyway, that is how we come to be in business together.”