Going to the Bad

by Nora McFarland

  I also thought Leanore, with her sweet grandma demeanor, would make more headway than me with my pit-bull routine.

  She smiled. “I assume you’d prefer I avoid talking about how we just trespassed on their land?”

  I smiled back. “I wouldn’t volunteer it.”

  The structures turned out to be a pair of matching mobile homes. A paved driveway ran from the public road, divided the buildings, and continued as a dirt road into the property’s interior. It presumably led to the abandoned farmhouse.

  Someone had put a lot of work into planting garden beds and grass around the mobile homes. Several mature bougainvilleas bloomed in front of each structure. Their red flowers popped in front of the white siding.

  Unfortunately, the yard had been overrun with weeds during the previous growing season. Whoever the gardener was, that person had abandoned his or her hobby or moved away.

  A woman stood on a ladder hanging Christmas lights from the home on the right, so I parked on that side of the driveway next to a Cadillac Escalade. I spotted a lost-dog flyer taped to the vehicle’s window. The word LOST had been crudely written in big letters with a felt-tip pen, but the flyer did include a picture of what it claimed was a purebred Labrador retriever.

  Leanore took lead while I stayed inside the van. She kept a hand on the open passenger door. “Happy holidays. I hope we’re not intruding.”

  The woman didn’t descend the ladder. It wasn’t out-and-out bizarre, but I would certainly have been more interested in the strangers appearing on my remote property.

  “Does this look straight to you?” The woman indicated the section of lights she’d already hung. The strand was plugged in, and the rainbow of large bulbs glowed. “I need it to be straight for Christmas.”

  “It looks perfectly straight,” Leanore said. “Much better than at my house.”

  From my place in the van, I couldn’t see the woman well, but she appeared to be pushing the higher end of middle age. Her pear-shaped body was decked out in a sweatshirt, white sneakers, and “mom jeans.”

  Leanore waited a moment, but when the woman didn’t respond, she said, “I’m sorry to interrupt. We’re looking for Mida King.”

  “I’m Sally King.” The woman turned fully for the first time and looked at us. “Why do you want to see Mom?”

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Sally. My name’s Leanore Drucker.”

  Leanore stepped toward the ladder. She offered her hand to the other woman to shake. Sally only stared at her. After an awkward moment Leanore was forced to drop her arm. “I do stories for KJAY about Bakersfield’s history. I’d like to interview Mida for one of my pieces.”

  Sally turned back to the lights. “Why? She’s an old lady.”

  “Most of the people I interview are older. My series is called Tales from Bakersfield’s Past. Right now I’m doing a story about old unsolved robberies.” Leanore glanced back at me. “A man named Carter King was involved in one many years ago. Is he your uncle?”

  Sally took a moment to process Leanore’s statement. “Oh, that old scandal?” She removed a section of the lights from where it rested on a nail. “I guess I heard some stories a long time ago, but Mom has never liked to talk about it.”

  I got out of the van and shut the door. “Has your uncle ever been in contact?”

  “No.” Sally pulled the string as tight as she could and then hung it again. “I don’t know why this won’t sit right.”

  I joined Leanore at the base of the ladder and pointed to the lights Sally still fussed over. “I think those are for indoor use. You probably shouldn’t put them outside where they might get rained on.”

  Sally kept her gaze focused on her task. “I have to get ready for Christmas.”

  “But it could be dangerous,” I said.

  She turned and looked at me for the first time. “How can celebrating Christmas be dangerous?”

  Her thinning hair was up in a ponytail exposing her face. This was where her soccer-mom look went off the rails. She had acne scars and even a few zits that were red from recent picking. If she’d been a teenager or even in her twenties, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but it looked weird in a woman likely to be going through menopause. Her teeth were in need of a good brush too, which only added to the feeling that Sally was a little out of control.

  “I know how you feel,” Leanore said. “Christmas is my favorite time of year.”

  Sally gestured to another handmade flyer taped to the mobile home. “I’ve been so busy trying to find my lost dog that I missed getting ready this year. I woke up this morning and realized how behind we were, and now I can’t get the lights to run straight. Do you think I should put another nail in?”

  She already had a nail every six inches, but instead of telling her she was crazy, I changed the subject. On occasion, I can show a little tact.

  “Is your mom here right now?” I glanced at the other mobile home. The lights were off, but I thought I saw movement at one of the windows. “We could talk to her and leave you to do your work.”

  “There’s no one else here right now, and Mom doesn’t know anything, anyway.”

  Leanore stayed upbeat. “We’d be very happy if she just talks about her memories of her brother before he left.”

  “She doesn’t remember like she used to.” Sally removed the strand of lights and began hanging them again. Her voice rose. “And I told you, Mom’s not here.”

  The words Stop lying, you lie-faced liar were on the tip of my tongue. I’d like to say that I was stopped by a mature awareness that antagonizing Sally wasn’t a good way to get what I wanted. I’d like to say that, but then I’d be the lying lie-faced liar. Instead it was Sally herself who stopped me.

  “Why can’t I get this straight?” She jerked the string with such force that one of the nails came out of the siding. She cried just before losing her balance.

  Leanore and I each rushed to steady the ladder, but we were too late. All we could do was help her off the ground.

  “I want you to leave. You’re distracting me.” She picked up the lights and tried stretching out the cord. “That’s why I can’t get it straight. Because you two keep cackling like hens.”

  “Of course we’ll leave,” Leanore said. “If that’s what you want, but—”

  “You should go now before my son gets back. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  Leanore looked at me and raised her shoulders in a silent question. I reluctantly nodded and turned back to the news van. We had no choice but to leave. It was private property and the owner had ordered us off her land.

  Leanore gave Sally one of her business cards and told her to call if she changed her mind.

  We’d only driven a short distance from the mobile homes before I said, “What do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know. Something is wrong there, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with Carter King or the stolen jewelry.”

  We reached the main highway and turned back toward the freeway. “Sally is strung tighter than those Christmas lights.”

  “I wonder if she might have a mental condition.” Leanore looked uncomfortable, as though she were gossiping. “There was something . . . off about her. Something unsettling, but I don’t know what.”

  I spotted a large casing near a power pole on the side of the road. The metal box probably housed transformers or some other electrical equipment for PG&E. It appeared large enough to at least partially obscure the van from view.

  “Why are we stopping?” Leanore said. “Is the car all right?”

  I drove behind the casing and turned off the engine.

  “I want to know why Sally King won’t let us see her mother.” I grabbed my gear bag and opened the door. “Stay here. If I don’t come back, call Callum.”

  Leanore tried to stop me, but I was too fast for her. I hurried through the brush in a straight line for the mobile homes. It only took me a few minutes to get within sight of them. I crouched down and watched. The e
mpty ladder still leaned next to the dangling string of lights, but there was no sign of Sally. Since the door to her mobile home was opened, I guessed she’d gone inside to get more nails.

  I ran as fast as I could to the rear of the other home. I paused to catch my breath, then peeked around the side.

  Still no Sally. I hurried around to the front door. Just as I raised my fist to knock, I heard a noise inside.

  “You already ate.” It was Sally. “How can you not remember? It’s crazy.”

  A light came on inside and the door handle turned. There was no time to run.

  I dove behind the bougainvillea and lay flat. The door opened. Footsteps descended the short steps. I tried to keep my breaths slow and shallow, but my heart felt as though it were smashing up against my chest trying to get out.

  The door closed and I heard keys in a lock. Was Sally locking the door from the outside?

  After a moment, footsteps receded. I heard the door to Sally’s mobile home close. I thought this might be my only chance, so I jumped up and knocked on Mida’s front door.

  “Hello?” a tentative voice said from inside. “Who’s there?”

  “Are you Mida King?”

  “Who are you?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Can you let me in? I need to speak with you about your brother, Carter.”

  “Carter has polio.”

  Despite the urgency of the situation, that gave me pause.

  Mida continued, “That’s why he doesn’t get along with other young men his own age.”

  I glanced over my shoulder again. “Can you let me in?”

  The door handle moved but didn’t open. “It’s locked. Can you open it? I haven’t been to the drugstore in ages and I need more Jean Naté.”

  I had no idea what Jean Naté was, but I doubted Sally would allow her mother to go buy it anytime soon. I was even beginning to wonder if the older woman was ever allowed out.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have the key.” I glanced behind me to Sally’s mobile home. “Is there a window on the back side of your house where we could talk?”

  “Go around to the bathroom. I’ve tried to climb out there before, but I can’t get over the sink. I have osteoporosis, you know.”

  I ran around back. Being out of sight was a huge relief. I heard a window open so I went and stood underneath.

  An old, thin face smiled down at me. Mida’s white hair had been cut short by someone who hadn’t tried very hard to make it even. Some of the tips were still brunet so I guessed that the hatchet job had been done because Mida had stopped dyeing her hair.

  “I’m Lilly.”

  Her face lit up with a huge smile. “Lilies are one of my favorite flowers, second only to bougainvilleas, which are actually shrubs.” She thought for a moment. “The only trick with lilies is to make sure they get enough light. If it’s too shady, the stems will stretch and lean toward the sun.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “God plants everything where it needs to be, and we stretch toward the light.”

  “That’s very poetic.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you come in.”

  “You mean through the window?”

  She nodded. “Yes, please. I’d love to have company.”

  I judged the distance up to the window and shook my head. “That may not be a good idea.”

  “I’ll make you coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee. You don’t happen to have any Mountain Dew?”

  “You really should come in.” She looked into the gray, rocky land behind me as though the bogeyman were out there. “It might not be safe for you.”

  TEN

  Christmas Eve, 3:23 p.m.

  Vague threats of danger are a terrific motivator. The window was higher than I would have liked, but at least my being petite made fitting through the opening a cinch.

  Once my torso was through, I took a breath and had second thoughts. The foul, stuffy air was so thick that I thought I might be able to push it away from me like water. The base of the odor seemed to be mildew, but layered on top of that I smelled air freshener, burnt plastic, and something else I feared was urine.

  I knocked over an empty plastic bottle while dragging my legs into the house, but otherwise made it in without breaking anything.

  “Thanks for speaking with me, Mida.” I picked up the bottle from the pink carpet. The label said Jean Naté by Revlon. “Is this what you’re out of?”

  “Am I?” She raised the empty bottle to her nose and inhaled the crusty remnants. “I’ve always used this instead of deodorant. I know vanity is a sin, but sometimes it’s nice to feel like a lady. You know, pretty and pampered.”

  Seeing Mida up close revealed a person far removed from the rituals of physical beauty. Not only had her hair been cut in short, uneven clumps, it was so thin in places that I could see her scalp. In a mean bit of irony, she had an excess of hair growing from her chin. A teenage boy attempting his first beard would have been jealous.

  “I’m still a woman, you know.” Her eyes stayed locked on the bottle as a ripple of emotion went through her face. “It may sound silly to you, but a person needs these things. Otherwise they start to feel like they’re not a human being anymore.”

  I felt that I was intruding somewhere deeply private. I was in her bathroom, after all, and she wasn’t even dressed in real clothes. Her faded pink housecoat was marked with old food stains, as well as recent ones. This was not how a woman, especially one of Mida’s generation, would want to be seen by a stranger.

  I placed a hand on her arm. Her thin flesh sagged under my hand and I felt the bone. “Do your daughter and grandson help you? Do they make sure you have everything you need?”

  “I think I have an aide who helps me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The Escalade was the only car, so I doubted anyone else was there.

  “And if I ever need help, all I have to do is press this emergency button I wear around my neck and an ambulance will come.” She reached to her chest, but there was nothing there. “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe you forgot to put it on today.”

  “I hope they didn’t get mad at me for pushing it by accident. They call before the ambulance comes, and I say bougainvillea if it’s a false alarm. That’s my secret code.”

  I gestured toward the bathroom door. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

  Her face lit up. “Where are my manners? I bet you’d like some coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  I followed her out of the bathroom and down a hallway. Fake-wood paneling covered the walls, and small paintings of butterflies covered that. They were nice, but the gold frames had a layer of dust.

  “I’ll get you something else then.” She glanced over her shoulder as she took uneven steps. “What’s your name?”

  “Lilly.”

  She stopped in the kitchen and turned around with a big smile on her face. “I love lilies. They’re one of my favorite flowers.”

  The burnt smell was strongest here. Behind Mida I saw a large swatch of charred wall next to the stove.

  “But you have to be sure and plant them in the sun,” she continued. “They don’t tolerate a lot of shade.”

  She turned back to the kitchen. “How about I make a pot of coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  Mida didn’t hear me. She was staring at the stove where strips of duct tape covered the burner controls. “I don’t understand. Do you know where the coffeemaker is?”

  “Come with me into the living room.” I backed up. “I’d like to talk with you about your brother, Carter.”

  She relaxed and followed. “Carter has polio.”

  What would it be like to live with and care for someone with dementia? Would I have the endurance to navigate this same treacherous path through mistakes, corrections, and frustration a million times a day? What if it were Rod? If we got married, I’d be mak
ing that kind of commitment. Could I do it?

  “It must have been very hard for Carter.” I stopped in the living room. “Why don’t we sit down and have a talk about him.”

  Mida took a seat on the sofa. The blue fabric, like her housecoat and the rug, was covered in stains. “Carter didn’t die like a lot of polio victims, but his one leg is all shrunk and bent back. Mother says it’s why he doesn’t have any friends, but I think he doesn’t make an effort.”

  I set down the gear bag and took out the camera, but changed my mind. Not only was it unethical to interview someone with a diminished capacity, but putting images of her on television looking the way she did would be heartless.

  I zipped the bag up again. “Carter’s friends are exactly what I’d like to talk about. Was he close with two men named Bud Hawkins and Leland Warner?”

  Given her condition, I wasn’t expecting to get much information, but she surprised me. “You mean Cousin Leland and that fellow who worked on their orchard?”

  “Warner’s your cousin?”

  She nodded, but looked uncertain, so I said, “Are you sure? How exactly are you related?”

  She fumbled for a moment, then got angry. “I can prove we’re family.” She pointed to a glass display case at the end of the room. “He gave me all those Hummel figurines. They belonged to his wife, and when she died, he gave them all to me.”

  The case was empty, but Mida didn’t seem to realize it. I decided to change the subject. “What about Warner’s friend Bud? The one who worked at Warner’s orchard?”

  Her anger faded. “I think he only did that when he was young. When Bud became a man, he left to go somewhere. I can’t remember where, but it seemed important.”

  Not knowing appeared to trouble her, so I said, “The war?”

  Relief spread across her face. “Yes. The war.”

  I doubted she knew which war, but then she surprised me.

  “I didn’t have business with Bud until after he came back from Korea.” She nodded again. “You see, Leland knew our farm got into trouble after my parents died. He thought we could use the extra money Bud was willing to pay.”

  “What was Bud paying for?”