I shook my head. “No, I’m not going to introduce you because I’m done being polite and pretending I’m not disgusted by the way this lady exploits her kid.”
I expected some kind of reaction from the mother, but she didn’t even blink. “You may have always been polite, but you’ve made your dislike very clear from the first time I met you.”
“Mommy?” a little girl voice’s called from inside the house. “I’m all done.”
The mother glanced over her shoulder, then back at me. “Wait here.” She shut the door, but it didn’t close all the way.
The Tylenol I’d taken earlier had begun to wear off and I rubbed my aching head.
Bud laughed. “Pretty clear you two don’t shine to each other.”
“No decent person would shine to her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem so bad to me.”
“You haven’t seen her in action with the kid. It’s disgusting.”
Bud sighed and the twenty years reappeared on his face. “You may be right, but that don’t sell the sugar on market day. We came here so’s you could get a lead on Sinclair, and you just pissed off the lady who could be fixed to help us. What if she decides to leave us standin’ out here all night?”
I used my foot to push the crack in the door open wider.
“Hold on,” Bud whispered.
I ignored him and peeked into the house. After a short entryway I saw a great room with an open kitchen. The little girl knelt on a dining-room chair while the mother stood next to her. But with the exception of the dining room table, the entire room was empty.
I pushed open the door and entered. “Where is all your furniture?”
The mother jumped at the sound of my voice.
I continued toward them. On the table, different-colored beans sat in piles, and it looked as if the little girl had been sorting them by touch.
“Who’s that?” the girl asked, and reached for her mother, who picked her up.
“Our friend from the TV station stopped by.” The mother’s voice sounded friendly and relaxed, but her body language was the opposite.
The girl noticed. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”
Bud followed me into the room. “Nothin’s wrong. We just heard the cutest little patch of sweet pea was livin’ here, and I reckon it’s true ’cause all them beans must a jumped clean out of their pods just to get a glimpse of you.”
A high-pitched giggle came from where the little girl had her face buried in her mother’s denim shirt.
Bud stepped toward them. “What’s so funny?”
The girl pulled her head away from her mother. “You are.” She quickly hid her face again amid a geyser of laughter.
“What’s so funny about me?”
She turned her head in Bud’s direction. “You talk funny?”
“I reckon it’s everybody else who’s talkin’ funny.”
“Silly.” She reached out and grabbed for something in the air.
“Sweetie,” the mother said, “do you want to touch the man’s face?”
“I bet he’s got a silly face.”
“You’re darn right about that.” Bud took hold of the girl’s hand and placed it on his cheek. “Cute and smart.”
She giggled and pulled back. “Mommy buys the beans so I can pick them out.”
The mother kissed the girl on the forehead. “And you did a fantastic job, sweetie.”
She tilted her head up toward her mother. “Did I get them all right?”
“Almost all of them.” The mother picked up a black bean from a pile of green peas and put it in the little girl’s hand. “Don’t worry. Next time you’ll get them all.” The mother set her down. “Now why don’t you run along and get in bed.”
The girl disappeared down a hallway, running her hand along the wainscot for guidance.
I waited for the sound of a door closing, then turned on the mother. “What happened to all the stuff people gave you? What about that giant TV with the special audio channels?”
She ignored me and began placing the beans in Ziploc bags.
“You sold it,” I said. “Go on. Admit it.”
I watched as her posture changed. She seemed to draw herself up, plant her feet, and prepare for battle. “I did sell it. I sold all of it.”
“All of it? Everything people have been donating for months?”
“So what if I did? I had every right.”
“People all over Bakersfield gave those things to your daughter, not you, your daughter, so she could have a better life.”
“We didn’t need those things.” She raised her hand and gestured to the ceiling. “We needed a roof over our heads.”
“You dragged your daughter around town like a circus freak and made everybody feel sorry for her. You gobbled up as much attention and sympathy as you could and then turned around and made a quick buck.”
“How dare you?” For the first time she looked really angry. “Who are you to judge me? You think you know everything?”
I laughed. “I know you care more about yourself than your kid.”
“When we got the diagnosis, I quit my job so I could work full-time on Chelsea’s condition. It’s rare, and forty percent of cases end in death. Did you know that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I thought if I worked myself hard enough, I could find a way to fix it. More research, more reading, more clinical trials, more holistic therapies—if I just kept going long enough and hard enough, I’d find something.” She clenched her fists as tears formed in her eyes. “We spent every penny we had on treatments and cures and crackpot theories just in case something might stop it. And nothing did.”
She took a breath and tried to continue, but the words choked in her throat. “Then one day I came home to find my husband’s wedding ring sitting on the kitchen counter. His note said he was sorry. He couldn’t even face us to say good-bye.”
She looked me directly in the eye. “So, yes, I asked for help and people gave it and I take as much as I can get because I’m trying to hold on. I’m not even trying to fix it anymore. I don’t even have hope anymore. All I’m trying to do is hold on.”
She broke down into sobs. Bud gently placed an arm around her shoulders. “There, there, little lady. You been carryin’ a heavy load.”
After a few moments the mother lifted her head. She was still crying, but her words didn’t hold any anger. “I sold all those things because I need money, not a big-screen TV. I sold that video of you throwing the baseball because I’m behind on the mortgage and if I missed another payment, I could lose the house.”
Bud guided her to one of the dining-room chairs. “I’m sure you did what you had to do to keep a roof over your little girl’s head. And I know Lilly, and she might have been madder than a cat in a room full a rockin’ chairs, but she’s not the kind who’d grudge you for doin’ that.”
She looked at me. “I’m trying to sell the house, but my husband’s name is on the title and I don’t know where he is. If I default on the mortgage before I divorce him, we’ll lose everything.” She wiped away more tears.
“And maybe you’re right,” she said quietly. “Maybe I do enjoy the attention. Maybe it went to my head, but I’m all alone. I need something.”
Bud sat down in the chair next to her. “Of course. It’s just not right for a pretty lady like you to be all alone.”
For a moment I thought she was going to cry again, but instead she smiled.
“Lilly,” Bud gently ordered, “why don’t you wait for me outside.”
I went out to the car and lay down in the backseat.
Barely thirty seconds went by before I heard the front door open and close and then Bud’s footsteps on the pavement. He got in and settled into the driver’s seat.
“Bud?” I asked without moving my cheek from the cool maroon vinyl.
“Yeah?”
“Am I stupid?”
“Nah.” He started the car and backed us out of the driveway.
“Am
I stupid about people?”
He put the transmission in drive and moved the car forward.
“Am I really, really, irreversibly stupid about people?”
“Understandin’ folks maybe ain’t—”
I sat up. “Because the odds that I could be wrong about Marcie, Teddy and Freddy, David, Rod, and now this, all in one day, and not be so cosmically stupid, so completely worthless at understanding people …it’s not possible.”
“I think you oughta get credit for Rod. You had him pegged from the get-go. I’m the one who convinced you he was okay.”
“Am I stupid?”
“If I say somethin’, promise you won’t take it too hard?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“No, you won’t take it too hard?”
“No, I won’t promise.”
He chuckled. “I love you, Little Sister. You don’t got no falseness in you.”
I flinched remembering Rod’s similar words in the bar. “What’s the thing you want to say that I’m going to try not to take too hard?”
He stopped the car at a stop sign and turned around to face me. “To understand folks you gots to be interested in ’em. You gots to be doin’ more than just puttin’ in your time.” He handed me a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Compliments of Annette. It’s that jackass fella’s cell-phone number.”
SEVENTEEN
I felt the car pull into a driveway, stop, and idle. I recognized the hum of the freeway nearby and sat up. My body felt as if it were made of cement. We were in the parking lot of the Crystal Palace, which meant we couldn’t have been driving for more than fifteen minutes, but I felt as if I’d slept for weeks.
“Rise and shine, Goldilocks,” Bud crooned. “This is your stop.”
I gazed down the street at Zingo’s neon sign calling to the drivers on the freeway. The parking lot full of big rigs was well lit, but the blazing light coming from the restaurant’s windows made it look dim and full of shadows by comparison.
“Why are we here?” I asked. “Aren’t we meeting your friend at Zingo’s?”
“I’m meetin’ him.” Bud half turned to the backseat. “What time you got?”
I used up what felt like my last drop of energy and looked at my watch. “It’s quarter past eleven.”
“That’s about right. You can kick up your heels here while I take care of business.” He glanced at the parking lot across the street. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
“You mean wait here without you? Why?”
“’Cause Rod’s probably blabbin’ all over town what this here car looks like. If there’s trouble, I’d just as soon you was out of it.”
“But—”
“Not to mention my friend ain’t goin’ to be exactly pleased if I show up with company. An audience ain’t proper protocol for this kind of transaction.”
I forced air in and out of my lungs, but my overwhelming fatigue made even that a chore. “Can’t I wait in the car?”
“No.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get takeout. What you havin’?”
I looked back across at Zingo’s and then at Bud’s determined face. I was in no condition to win an argument with this man. “Tuna melt with fries.”
“It’ll be waitin’ for you like a dog at the mail slot.”
“Thanks.” I reached for the car door and stumbled slightly getting out. I had the presence of mind to reach back in and retrieve my blue coat.
Buck Owens built the Crystal Palace to be an upscale honky-tonk—the kind of place where you could bring your family for a steak dinner or get a drink and listen to music. Its Old West architecture and interior design is a great showcase for Buck’s memorabilia, and the stage has hosted some of the biggest names in country music. Even Buck’s death a few years back hadn’t lessened its popularity.
I went into the main showroom mostly because the lighting was dim and I didn’t want anyone to recognize me from KKRN’s news. Things were jumping even with an empty stage and no live music. Waiters darted back and forth between full tables on the first floor. A Dwight Yoakam music video played on the jumbo screens above the stage, and several couples had taken to the dance floor.
I headed for the stairs. The second-floor bar functioned more like the balcony in a theater with great views of the stage. A large group of friends were celebrating someone’s birthday, and I took a seat as far away as possible.
The bartender came right over. “What can I get for you?”
“Mountain Dew.”
“Sorry. How about Sierra Mist?”
“No thanks. You got Jolt cola?”
He shook his head. “Coke okay?”
I looked up to tell him no thanks, but noticed for the first time a large convertible mounted on the wall above the bar. The cream-colored car had horns attached to the front bumper and an old-time cowboy-and-Indians seat covering. “Whatever you’ve got will be fine,” I said.
He glanced up at the car and smiled. “Some view, huh?”
He brought me my order and returned to the group at the other end of the bar. I sipped my soda. The song changed to Buck Owens singing “Santa Looked a Lot like Daddy” and everyone clapped. I found myself regretting I hadn’t come to see Buck play before his death. A living legend had performed every Friday and Saturday night a few miles from my house and I’d never gone. Maybe Bud was right. Maybe I was just putting in my time.
“Are you a freebird or just looking for your sweet home Alabama?”
A good-looking cowboy type had sidled up to the bar next to me. His tan skin matched the light brown of his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
He pointed at my shirt. “Skynyrd, babe, all the way.”
I looked down and remembered I was wearing Bud’s Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. “It’s not mine.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. They rock.”
Before I could warn him he’d caught me on the absolute wrong day, he sat down. “I’m so into all that old-school Southern rock. The Allman Brothers too.”
I nodded. “That’s great, but—”
“Hey, I’ve got a couple of their CDs out in my car. I could introduce you to them. It’s nice and comfy in there too. . . .”
Suddenly his voice changed. “Maybe I better head back to my friends.” He began backing away as if I were the creature from Alien.
Had he recognized me? I tried to stay calm. “You don’t have to go.”
He stopped. “You’ve got a strong go-away vibe.”
“What kind of vibe did I have when you came over?”
“I don’t know. Lonely and kind of sad.”
I barely had time to digest this before a disturbing thought occurred to me. What if that’s how people always saw me? Was I the lonely and sad girl? “If I ask you a frank question, will you give me a frank answer?”
He glanced nervously at his friends. “I guess.”
“Why would you hit on a girl like that? Lonely and sad doesn’t sound very appealing.”
“If they’re pretty, it’s great.” I must have sent out another bad vibe because he frowned. “I mean …they’re just …those girls …it’s easier to call the shots with them. You’ve got the upper hand from the get-go. If they’re good-looking too, that’s like the holy grail.”
I felt my face harden. “So lonely and sad translates to undemanding and grateful?”
He turned his fingers into guns and shot them at me. “Not in your case.” He started to walk away, but said over his shoulder, “And I don’t think it would take a guy long to figure that out.” He returned to his friends.
Was that why I routinely got dumped after the first date? Were the few men who asked me out expecting a pushover? And why would I go out with a guy like that?
I slid off the stool, picked up my coat, and navigated my way down the stairs. In the women’s room I ran cold water on my neck and hands, careful to avoid my face where the makeup covered my black eye. The bru
ises on my neck were darkening, but they weren’t noticeable yet. From one of the coat’s pockets I pulled a bottle of Tylenol and swallowed two with water from the tap. I placed both hands on the sink, letting most of my weight rest on the porcelain, and dropped my chin onto my chest.
The door opened and a nice-looking woman in her forties walked in. She reflexively paused at the sight of me, the way anyone would when confronted with something not quite right, but recovered and went into a stall as though nothing had happened.
I dried my hands and headed for the parking lot to check for Bud.
What I saw outside sent a ripple of shock through my body. An army of cops had invaded Zingo’s.
I turned and walked back into the lobby trying to suppress a primal scream. Rod’s voice echoed in my head counseling me not to panic. It was good advice even if the source was dubious. Bud knew how to handle himself. He may even have got away.
I went into the gift shop. I used the last of my money to buy a cheap cowboy hat. Back in the bathroom I took the ponytail out. My hair fell down in an avalanche of long black curls. I took the hat out of its bag and put it on. I’d purposely bought it a little too big, and if I tilted my head down and let my hair fall forward around my face, it did a pretty good job of hiding me. I crammed my blue coat into the gift shop bag and left.
Outside I made an immediate left in the opposite direction from Zingo’s. I wanted to run, but knew it would draw attention. After a few blocks I began to relax and think about my next move. I needed transportation. Everything depended on it. I continued walking through Westchester, the residential neighborhood between downtown and the freeway.
I stopped at the end of Teddy and Freddy’s block. The van was still parked outside. No sign of the police. Keeping my hat low, I walked briskly down the street and directly to the driver’s-side door of the van. It was unlocked, as I suspected it would be, so I got in. With an eye on the apartment building I began searching for a hidden key. This was Teddy and Freddy’s van, after all. They lost keys all the time. They’d have to stash an emergency one in the van somewhere.
A Bad Day’s Work Page 19