Unsightly Bulges

by Kim Hunt Harris

  He tilted his head in agreement, the corner of his mouth tucked in slightly.

  I went to my room with as much dignity as I could muster, peeling off my dress before I had the door closed completely. It felt so good to get the Smaxx off that I almost wept. I lifted my boob and looked ruefully at the angry red line that circled my ribs. My poor body, I thought. I’m so sorry I did this to you.

  Tony was still sitting, scratching Stump’s fat belly when I returned, and I decided I might love him a little bit more for that.

  He was watching the silent TV. “There’s your friend.” He nodded toward the set.

  I barely had time to see Les’ picture flash by before the story went to something else. “Oh, I missed it.”

  “You didn’t,” Tony said as he leaned over and turned the volume back up. “That was just the commercial.”

  The broadcast started with the story about CJ Hardin. It was day four and Lubbock PD was sticking with the standard, “It’s an ongoing investigation” line – the money was still missing, there were still no major suspects. The family was going to hold a press conference the next afternoon where it was anticipated they were going to offer a reward for information leading to an arrest.

  The next story was about some feud between city council members, which interested me not one bit.

  Tony turned to me. “So, LPD has no suspects yet, they say.”

  “They say.” I raised one eyebrow.

  “What about – what’s it called? Discreet Investigations? Do they have any suspects?”

  After today, I checked Matt Macon off my list. That left... “The investigation is ongoing,” I said, then flattened my lips together.

  He nodded, his eyes steady on mine.

  I sighed and leaned forward. “I don’t know,” I said finally. I shrugged again. “I just...it was nice, helping you. Doing something worthwhile. I enjoyed it and I would like to do it again.”

  A few months before, Viv and I had helped prove that Tony’s aunt Sylvia and her son were actually responsible for a murder Tony had been accused of committing. Aside from rescuing Stump from the side of the road and keeping the electricity on for several consecutive months, that had been the best thing I’d done and was ever likely to do. And, with the notable exception of the bit where I thought I was going to die, it had been kind of fun.

  Tony stopped rubbing Stump to lean forward, too, his hands between his knees. Stump grunted and pawed at the air for a moment, then flopped over and gave him a pitiful look.

  “Your job is worthwhile, Salem. Your family, your friends. Your life. That’s all worthwhile. And none of that is likely to get you killed. There are people in this world who would be devastated if something bad happened to you.”

  I weighed that. “Some of them would. But nothing is going to happen to me, Tony.” I wasn’t about to tell him about the fiasco of earlier in the day. Given my track record, the most likely horrible fate to befall me would be a dread disease caught digging through dumpsters. “And after all the crap I’ve ever put people through, it’s nice to do some good for a change. Hey.” I leaned forward and swatted lightly at his shoulder. “We kept you out of prison, didn’t we?”

  “Well, maybe,” he said. “You did help Sylvia get caught, and that was a good thing. But I think the police would have caught her eventually, and they’re trained not to get themselves caught in the process.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he said. “I appreciate what you and Viv did for me. I do. I just...I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go hunting down criminals. That’s just...looking for trouble.”

  “And trouble has a way of finding me even when I’m not looking for it?” I asked. I had meant to say it lightly, but sometimes my natural defensiveness flared up around Tony.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying, life is hard enough. There’s enough danger just – you know – doing normal stuff. Driving around town. You’re just getting your life back on track, Salem. Wouldn’t it be terrible for something to happen now?”

  “Well, yes, but...” And then, as if they were just waiting for someone to leave the door open, these words came out of my mouth. I hadn’t even formed the thought, but as the words tumbled out, I recognized them for the truth they were: “It’s a distraction,” I said. “Alcohol was the distraction, partying, keeping a constant drama going around me. It kept me from thinking about life too much. But I can’t do any of that anymore. And I still need a distraction. Not 24/7, not like I used to have. I can handle life in – in smaller increments. In manageable portions. But not all the time. I need something. My brain won’t give me a break sometimes, and I can’t handle just plain life all the time, without anything. I need...I need something else to focus on sometimes.”

  I remembered suddenly what Viv had said to me while we were investigating Tony’s case. “You know the biggest threat to my sobriety, Salem? Boredom. I don’t want to sit around and wait for my number to be up. Every day I think, what difference would it make if I drank and entire fifth of Wild Turkey? I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  I had other stuff to do. There was just so much that I didn’t know what to do about. Like the guy sitting in front of me.

  “Do you know the statistics for divorce with alcoholics, Tony?” I asked softly.

  He shifted slightly in his seat and didn’t answer, but neither did his eyes waver from mine.

  “They’re not good.”

  “Marriage isn’t easy for anyone, Salem.”

  “It’s worse for addicts and alcoholics.”

  He opened his hands, gave a little shrug. “Still going strong after ten years, Salem. We’ve already beat the spread.”

  I laughed then, I couldn’t help it. We’d been married for ten years because we hadn’t seen each other after the first six months. I had thought we were divorced. I had lived like a single woman. He just...he refused to divorce me. Despite everything, he still believed in the vows he made at a shotgun wedding when he was eighteen years old and scared half to death.

  How do you deal with a person like that? I had no idea.

  Fortunately, I got another temporary reprieve from thinking about it when the reporter’s face popped up on the screen.

  “This is Les’s story,” I said and turned up the volume.

  “Some Lubbockites were honored tonight at the at the Lubbock Community Coalition Annual Awards Banquet. The event was held this evening at the Watson Building, and there were plenty of heart-warming stories to go around.”

  The tape started with one of the Millers’ more toothless and grinning kids, a little girl of about seven who twisted back and forth in her plaid dress while the reporter tried to ask her questions.

  “They buy me shoes and take me to school,” she said shyly. Then, with a start as if she’d just remembered, “And let me eat bananas!” Then she laughed and looked up at Mr. Miller, standing to the side.

  “Yeah, this one sure likes bananas,” he said. “She’s gonna grow up to be a monkey!”

  The girl laughed and scratched at her sides, trying to say, “Oooh-oooh-ahh-ahh,” but was giggling too much.

  Back to the reporter. “Patrice, the room was packed with well-wishers and grateful recipients of the honorees’ dedication to the community, and it looked as if a fun time was being had by all.” Then, as if on cue, the reporter’s brilliant smile was replaced by an expression of concern. “But as you can imagine, it was impossible to be in that building and not remember that it was the site of a controversy that began just last week and has continued to grow, and even lead to murder. So while we were at the building, we decided to interview some of the honorees and get their thoughts on the controversy that has swirled around Lubbock for the past seven days.”

  The camera went back to Les, his bald head shining on the camera.

  “Congratulations on your award,” the reporter said, at which Les nodded modestly.

  “It’s apparent from the testimonies given tonight
that you are a man who takes his faith very seriously, and believes in putting words into action.” She tilted the microphone at him.

  Les looked unsure of what to say to that. His mouth twitched a bit and then he said, “Well, that’s certainly my intention. Action is a natural outcome of faith.”

  “Is it safe to say you are a leader in the local faith community? That many people in Lubbock hold a great deal of respect for your leadership and your opinion?”

  Les blinked. “Umm...well, I don’t know that I’d say that at all. You’d have to ask those people.”

  The reporter nodded quickly, like she was done making small talk and ready to get to her point. “As you’re probably aware, this very building was the scene of an incident last week that touched off a controversy that is still swirling around Lubbock.”

  That was the second time she’d said, “swirling around Lubbock,” I noticed irritably. I was beginning to think of toilets.

  Les’s brows drew up in the middle and he tilted his head.

  “Are you aware of that story?” she asked, tilting her head this time, but not the microphone.

  Les nodded once. “Yes, I’ve heard a bit about it.”

  “So, as a leader in the religious community, what do you think of the controversy?”

  Les blinked again.

  “Do you believe that homosexuality is a sin? That God views same-sex relationships as sinful behavior?”

  Les suddenly lost his unsure look and said with a definitive nod. “First Corinthians says that homosexuals will not inherit the kingdom of God. The Old Testament actually forbids the practice of same-gender sexual relations in the same passage where it forbids incest and bestiality.”

  Seven

  One would have thought that Les had recommended CJ Hardin be stoned to death, I thought the next morning while I got ready for work. His “interview” was all over the radio. I finally had to switch it off because it became so stressful. One person would call in and proclaim Les a hero for speaking truth in the face of religious persecution, then the next would rant that he was a hater and a redneck who needed to go back to the 18th century. Actually, by my informal count the hater votes outvoted the truther votes about three to two.

  The morning DJs loved it. Another controversy! In Lubbock! That was two in one week!

  “Why don’t you tell your listeners about all the people Les has helped?” I shouted at the radio. I jabbed at the button with my index finger.

  I turned on the TV morning show, hoping for some news that didn’t make me want to throw things. Instead, the first thing that popped up was Les.

  “...in the same passage that it forbids incest and bestiality.”

  The picture switched to a close-up of a cow’s face, eyes going suddenly wide, accompanied by the sound of a startled “Moo!”

  A knock sounded at the front door.

  I groaned. Dale. There was yet another prayer not answered.

  I didn’t bother pasting on a smile when I opened the door.

  He spread his arms wide. “I made it. I probably had Hombres tailing me all the way here, but I made it alive.”

  “That’s excellent,” I said. “So now they know where I live.”

  “That’s the crazy life we chose, though, huh?”

  I glared at him.

  “Bad day already?” Dale asked cheerfully. “Better turn that frown upside down,” he said. “It’s Friday. Flo said that’s one of our busiest days!”

  “It is,” I said tiredly. Even I could recognize it was unreasonable to want to punch him for saying ‘our.’

  “So, did you find anyone else to try to get me bumped off today?” Dale grinned and jabbed his elbow in my general direction as we walked to the car.

  He chattered all the way to Flo’s, critiquing my use of the turn signal to change lanes (You’re just encouraging people in the other lanes to speed up so you won’t get in front of them), my recognition of the posted speed (They have to give you five miles over, that’s actually a law but they don’t tell anyone about it), and the way I’d worn my hair, (Too tired after your big night out to put in much effort this morning, huh?).

  Weirdly, his annoying-ness actually made me feel better. I was going to want to punch him no matter what, but if he was a jerk then I didn’t need to feel guilty about it.

  Although God had not answered my prayer to make Dale disappear, he had at least sent in an Alaskan Malamute that was blowing his winter coat, which meant Dale was going to be in the backroom brushing out undercoat for a good hour. That would give me time to corral what patience I had left.

  As it happened, I had ten minutes. Then Dale came back in the room to announce he was done.

  Flo and I looked at each other. No way could a dog like that be brushed completely out in ten minutes. Dale would require a lesson in undercoat management.

  The phone rang. I snatched it before the first ring ended. “Flo’s Bow Wow Barbers,” I said. Please take a long time, please take a long time, I prayed silently.

  Flo sighed and grabbed a rake from the basket she kept by her desk. “Let’s take a look at that undercoat,” she said tiredly.

  I felt kind of guilty because it was my fault Flo had hired Dale, but I couldn’t help it. My pride still stung from the day before, and he’d made me feel insecure about my hair that morning. Combine that with the low-level but constant urge I always felt to punch him in the throat, and I was a person in need of a short break from the charm that was Dale. I considered it somewhat like putting on my oxygen mask.

  I kept grabbed the phone and waited on customers, grooming my dogs in between, and interacted with Dale so little that I was approaching a good mood again when I heard the bell over the door ding around noon. I looked up to see Pita Brown being carried, football style, through the door.

  I like dogs. I mean, I really like dogs or I wouldn’t have chosen to work with them. Dogs are sweet and funny and cute and lovable – except when you’re trying to trim their toenails, at which time they can become cranky. Sometimes they turn into actual man-eating beasts.

  Pita Brown was a Westie of this last variety. Mr. Brown told me his name stood for “Pain in the Ass”. While I laughed and pshawed to Mr. Brown’s face, as soon as he left I agreed wholeheartedly with him. Pita was basically a decent dog as long as you weren’t doing something he didn’t like. Unfortunately, everything to do with grooming fell into the Don’t Like category.

  The bathers were terrified of him because he actually tried to bite the water. He tried to bite them, too, and succeeded from time to time. One day, in a generous mood, I’d tried to help and turned out to have a fair talent for dodging snapping teeth, unfortunately, because that meant I was the designated sole handler of Pita, every time he came to visit.

  I told Dale as much when Mr. Brown dropped him off. “I’ll bathe this one. He can be difficult.”

  “What?” Dale drew his head back and studied Pita. “This little guy?”

  Admittedly, Pita didn’t look particularly vicious. He was fluffy and white and had cute pointed ears. When Dale squatted to scratch his ears, Pita panted happily and wagged his tail.

  “That Salem is a bald-faced liar,” Dale crooned to Pita. “Isn’t she? Isn’t she?”

  Pita, happy to create conflict wherever he went, licked Dale’s hand and gave him big doe eyes.

  “See,” Dale said. “She must have just been mean to you, huh? This cute guy wouldn’t bite a biscuit.”

  He slipped his hand around Pita’s middle and lifted him.

  Pita snarled, whipped his head around, and snapped at Dale.

  With a yelp, Dale dropped him and leaped back. Fortunately for Pita’s stubby legs, he hadn’t been far off the ground. Now he stood, vibrating with rage and glaring at Dale. He took one step toward Dale. Dale backed up.

  “Are you insane?” he said to me. “What in the world are you doing, giving me a psychopath like that?”

  I bit back a satisfied smile and took a lead off the hook on the
wall. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.

  I lassoed Pita carefully and walked him back to the bathing room. My phone beeped in my pocket and I pulled it out.

  “Hey,” I said to Viv as I led Pita to the tub.

  “You busy?” she asked.

  “I have four left,” I said. “But one of them is Pita, who is like another three on his own.” The cool thing about working at Flo’s Bow Wow Barbers is, when you get done with your dogs for the day and clean up your station, you can leave. I don’t have to stay until a certain time every day unless Flo needs me to close up shop, which is rare.

  “So what do you think? Another couple of hours?”

  “Maybe three,” I said. “It depends on this guy here. Hang on.”

  I put the phone down while I tightened the leash on Pita’s neck and held it firmly forward in my right hand. With my left hand I circled his middle and lifted. He screamed and flopped like he was single-handedly fighting off a herd of wildebeest, but I had his head secured and he couldn’t get at me.

  I put him in the tub and clipped the leash to an eyebolt. Pita stepped gingerly in the damp tub and gave me a look of pure hatred.

  “Holy cow,” Viv said when I came back on the line. “What are you doing to that poor dog?”

  “Putting him in the bathtub.”

  “The Hardins are going to give a press conference at 2:00,” Viv said. “Do you think you’ll be able to make it?”

  I checked the clock on the wall, but it was already 12:30. “No way,” I said. “Even in the unlikely event Pita doesn’t try to disembowel me, I’m sure I’ll be here till around 3.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll go and take notes.”

  I frowned but didn’t say anything. Viv’s note-taking skills were legendary, but for all the wrong reasons. What little could be gained from her horrible penmanship was generally useless information, like spotting undercurrents of tension that didn’t exist or noting that someone was wearing last season’s hottest colors. She was convinced that if she gathered enough pointless minutiae, it would come together in the form of a smoking gun, a la Sherlock Holmes.