Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  It was true. Tommy was planning to talk with Daisy—had admitted to trying to pressure her.

  “Yes. I don’t have a problem with that.” She hated keeping secrets from Ben, but just this once it wouldn’t hurt. He’d want to tell Tommy ...

  “Thank you. Salvador will be forever grateful. His spirit can rest easy now.” Hannah gave Julie a quick hug then stood. “I may not come back after the testing on Thursday. I promised my sister in Maine a long overdue visit. She hasn’t seen Harold since June. He’s anxious to see her, too. Will you remember to water? Just do the garden and the flowers along the sides of the house. It’ll need it twice a day if that isn’t too much. Gloria from Century 21 will manage the rest.”

  Julie nodded.

  “Thanks.” Hannah picked up the colander of peas and went back into the house.

  + + +

  Would he have eaten had there been food? Sal didn’t know. He knew he was afraid of being drugged again. He was still wobbly and couldn’t trust his memory of events for the last two days. He continued to hallucinate but no more Atoshle. That image was gone.

  He had straightened the lab, but he hadn’t worked. Probably didn’t need to because it wouldn’t save his life. The thing he knew for certain was that the claim slip was gone. Hannah had taken the receipt out of his billfold, and that as much as told her the notebook was in a locker at the bus terminal. She hadn’t found the key in his shoe, but she had won. There would be no reason to let him out. She could duplicate everything, the rubber molds, the dryers, the chemistry—she would be able to make amber. Maybe not as good as he could at first, but in time ...

  It was difficult not to be depressed even with the lights on. How would Hannah get the fetish jar without Julie’s help? And then what would she do to Julie? And why did he remember .22 as a tall man in Atoshle’s robes? He sat down at his workbench and held his throbbing head. Did he let this happen? Could he have done something differently? He cursed the amber and his own stupidity for being sucked into a plan to help Hannah ... to help .22.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A summer squall had blown across the mountains in the night, bringing the rain everyone hoped for, and the morning was decidedly cool. Overcast and muggy, if Julie remembered what humidity felt like. Keeping her word, Julie hadn’t shared with Ben her part in retrieving the fetish jar. She felt guilty, but he had been preoccupied during the evening. Still trying to decide what to do with the tape that gave .22 thirty seconds of normalcy, she guessed.

  And Julie had to admit she was a little irked that he was hanging onto something she felt had been proved impossible. .22 wasn’t normal. He had improved somewhat since childhood, learned to speak, dress himself, but that was the extent of it. Hadn’t Tommy’s mother put Ben’s doubts to rest?

  As usual, Ben left for the clinic at seven. She had walked him to his truck, and he’d promised to be a human being that evening. Suggested a movie in Gallup, dinner too, if she wanted. She did. Maybe they needed to get away, take a break. There had been just a little too much Sal and .22 and Hannah lately.

  She hummed as she gathered up her notebooks and a recorder. She meant to stop by and talk with Morley at the pawn shop, and a quick call had even gotten her an offer of lunch. She doubted if she’d have time, but she didn’t want to disappoint the old man. He was so happy to hear from her. She had the key to the locker in her pocket along with the receipt. Funny, Sal hadn’t sent his key. He didn’t know she had one, but it could have just slipped his mind. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other things to worry about.

  She had to admit she hadn’t felt this good in days. She was back to work on the script—had spent the evening on a new idea which would include a lot more of Morley and the pawn shop and maybe a couple other shops in Gallup. And she was doing something for Sal. That made her feel good. She truly wanted to help him. She thought of the amber maiden and how much it meant to her. She wouldn’t forget his kindness—and the least she could do was be helpful when he needed it.

  Hannah held the front door open for her, offering to help carry something.

  “Thanks, but I’m used to lugging equipment around. This is nowhere close to my usual poundage.”

  “Are you taking all this to Gallup?” Hannah asked.

  “Combining business with business in this case. I’m including Gallup in my piece on Southwest symbols—” Julie stopped. Earlier, she had pulled her car up to the railing just below the steps to make it easier to load, and there was .22 strapped into the front seat.

  “Look, I can’t take .22 with me. As I started to say, I have an interview set up.”

  “Please. He’s such a good traveler. I can’t get away now that Salvador’s gone, and I promised him a trip.”

  “Ice cream. Me want ice cream.” .22 was jiggling up and down in the seat. She could hear him through the closed window.

  “No. I can’t be responsible. You’ll have to get him out of the car.” Julie was adamant and using her best no-nonsense voice.

  At this .22 began to cry.

  “See what you’ve done. I’ve thought you had a mean streak. I can’t believe you could say no to him. He likes you— considers you a friend. This is such a simple thing to do for him.”

  “Friendship has nothing to do with it. This is a workday for me.” Julie chose to ignore the part about being mean.

  Hannah walked toward the car, opened the door, told her son to “shut up,” waited a split second for results, then slapped him, reached across, unsnapped the seat belt, and angrily jerked on his arm. .22 slipped from Hannah’s grasp and rolled to the ground, his face wet with tears, wailing uncontrollably and hiccupping “Me go, me go, me go” between gulps for air.

  “It would be the simplest of kindnesses to take him with you. He’ll sit quietly. He’s really well behaved.” Hannah’s voice rose above the din.

  “I’m sure he would be.” Julie was starting to reconsider as .22 waved a finger toward her and took up the chant of “You take, you take, you take.” It would be a simple thing to take him. The exposure would do him good. But still, the responsibility, the interruptions. She needed to work.

  “It’s only thirty miles into town. Here’s some money; just buy him something at McDonald’s—he’ll be fine.” Julie stepped back as Hannah thrust a five dollar bill toward her.

  “Hannah, please understand. I’m not letting him tag along on an interview. I can’t. There’d be nothing for him to do.”

  “Leave him at the bus station after you pick up the package. He loves to watch the buses pull in and out. He’s got to learn how to take care of himself. Someday soon he’ll be living in a group home, cooking, working—walking to a bus stop all on his own ...”

  “Hannah, please, it’s just impossible. I don’t want to hurt his feelings but maybe some other time.” Julie tossed her equipment in the backseat, quickly slipped behind the wheel and tried not to look at .22’s forlorn expression as he smeared tears hit-and-miss across his face. She mouthed one more, “I’m sorry” and put the car in reverse.

  Her conscience kicked in about five miles down the road and Julie had second thoughts. What harm would there be in taking .22 into Gallup? It was true he had to learn to fend for himself. Wouldn’t this be good for him—a little booster in self-confidence? And with this trip right before the test, maybe he’d feel more at ease about the trip to Albuquerque. He’d appear better able to handle himself on his own. If she remembered correctly, that was a criterion for being awarded the money.

  But the real reason she’d play babysitter was to prove to Ben—once and for all—that .22 was retarded. She wasn’t certain how she’d do it, but she would. It was the least she could do. And then she’d have Ben’s attention again—not share it with self-doubts about his competency and watch him brood over what he viewed as a possible professional error. Not that she liked to play heroine, but she was in a position to help. He would be thankful for that. And she wasn’t afraid—not really. How could she fear someone who wore ud
der cream smeared across his head? But first, Julie would try to locate Daisy Sandoval, explain how she came to store the fetish jar in the first place for Sal—if Daisy didn’t already know. And since Sal wanted his sister to have it, Julie could take the claim check and key by Daisy’s house with a note giving this woman the right to cancel the locker. Then Daisy could do anything she wanted—involve Tommy or not involve him, but it would be her decision. And Julie wouldn’t necessarily be keeping information from the authorities. The decision might come under the heading of “passing the buck,” but there was a good argument for keeping any involvement within Sal’s family.

  Julie was definitely pleased with herself as she pulled into a filling station on the outskirts of the village. Her cell phone hadn’t received a decent signal in days, so she decided to use the station’s pay phone. Please God, make Daisy be home. She found coins in the bottom of her purse and checked her watch. She could run by Daisy’s and still be back at the boarding house before nine, pick up .22 and be on her way again. She didn’t have a clue as to what she’d do with .22 but she’d find something—and hopefully some way to prove he was who he said he was.

  + + +

  Ben made a decision. And now that he’d made it, he felt better, felt it was the right one. He’d give the tape to the examiners once he found out how the testing was going to be handled. He’d let the board decide how to use it. He’d called the real estate agent around eight and gotten the name of the lawyer handling the “particulars” as she had called them. Ben had explained his part in the testing of .22, and she seemed comfortable with giving him information. The same for the lawyer—they were encouraging, in fact.

  The examination would be done by the University of New Mexico Psych department at ten a.m. the next day. Ben compiled his notes on .22, including random observations, edited the report, and wrote an introduction to the tape expressing his concerns and asking for the team’s evaluation. He sealed everything into a manila envelope; it was almost eleven.

  He’d toyed with the idea of delivering the materials himself and when Rose said he had three cancellations for the afternoon, his mind was made up. He’d drive into Albuquerque, deliver the packet of materials to UNM and then stop by the Indian Hospital and visit old friends. He felt guilty that he’d been in New Mexico over a month and hadn’t at least called. He was counting on his old mentor, Dr. Black, to understand what it was like to start a new job. He was sure Sandy could remember being in this position himself.

  And he’d take Julie. That would be a treat. He was feeling guilty about ignoring her, not being very good company lately. Dinner, movie—maybe stay overnight in Albuquerque, drive to Santa Fe for the weekend. He’d “X” himself out for Friday on the clinic schedule.

  He didn’t see Julie’s rental car when he pulled up in front of the boarding house, only Hannah’s maroon Buick. The car was backed in and the trunk was open as if someone was packing for a trip. Maybe Hannah and .22 were going into Albuquerque tonight, ahead of time.

  He pushed open the front screen and ignored the first four rings of the phone as he walked back to his room, then turned and on the sixth ring picked it up. Where was everybody?

  “Julie Conlin there?” The man’s voice sounded young.

  Ben explained who he was, and, no, he hadn’t seen Julie, was there a message?

  “Tell her I took a look at the pictures and I’m impressed. I’m sending out my ideas for some other shots and how we can get a story out of the landscape—sorry, I know this doesn’t mean anything to you. Just tell her to expect a package. Oh, one other thing. Do you know if she’s planning some kind of story on the toads?”

  “Toads?” Ben didn’t think he’d heard correctly.

  “Colorado River Toads. Latest craze. People are raising them, milking them for their venom. Then they dry the stuff for smoking. Supposed to be some kind of psychedelic high. And it’s legal, at least for now. Can you imagine sitting around squeezing juice out of toads? But it looks like she found a pretty good-sized farming operation out your way. Whoever owns them knows their stuff, too—using tea to revive them and keep a live food supply fresh after harvest.”

  Toads. Venom. Ben didn’t even remember hanging up. Where was this operation? Why did Julie have a picture of it? Wait. .22 had toads. Julie had seen them in his bedroom. But why had she taken a picture of them? Did she suspect—

  “Who was on the phone?” Hannah came out of the kitchen.

  “New York reminding Julie of a deadline. Have you seen her?”

  “She left early this morning.”

  Something was trying to surface, dig its way up through his memory ... something about venom.

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Do some interviews, I think. I don’t remember her saying where exactly. I know she didn’t say when she’d get back.”

  Venom. Vials and vials of a white, milky substance in the trunk of a car. The trunk he was looking into the night someone pounded the back of his head. The packet of money he found in Sal’s trailer. Had it fallen out of .22’s pocket? “Yes.” That wasn’t just possible, it was probable. The money never had anything to do with Sal. And wasn’t that why it had been stolen back so quickly? The owner knew who had it, watched him put it in the glove compartment.

  “I beg your pardon?” Hannah was frowning, peering at him.

  He quickly collected himself. “Sorry, I just remembered something I need to tell Rose before I leave,” he lied. “I have a meeting at IHS in Albuquerque. Can you tell Julie I’ll be back by six?”

  And then Ben impulsively said, “Let me take .22 into Albuquerque with me. He might like the ride. It might be a good idea to make a fun trip out of it—before he goes in tomorrow.” And it just might give me the time to flip a few coins, and discuss toad farming, Ben thought. There would be no better way to settle this once and for all than face to face. He wasn’t afraid of .22—at worst, he was some kid Hannah hired to help her and would bolt at the first accusation.

  Hannah looked surprised, caught off guard. Suspicious? Or was that his imagination? Quickly, she recovered and said, “I don’t think so. He hates long trips. Sometimes he isn’t very good for long periods of time—when he has to sit still.”

  “All the more reason for a practice run. Where is he? Let’s let him decide.”

  “He’s taking a nap. And I don’t want him disturbed. I think rest is more important for him today than getting him all excited before the test.”

  + + +

  They had just finished the fifth chorus of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm”—not that .22 could sing all the words, he couldn’t; it was the “ee ii ee ii ooo’s” that made him jump up and down, squealing with delight. And he did fairly well carrying a tune. Someone had taught him the song, and it seemed to be the only one he knew. Julie had tried “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer On the Wall.” Nothing. There was a lukewarm response to “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but no real interest. So, it was back to Old MacDonald—and back and back—the repetition was driving her nuts. But .22 seemed happy.

  She glanced over at him and got a wide-mouthed grin. She’d stopped at the Allsups on the edge of Gallup and picked up a soft drink, telling herself in advance she’d get the upholstery shampooed if he spilled any. And surprisingly, he didn’t. He sucked noisily on a straw but kept the cup upright.

  She parked in front of Morley’s and painstakingly explained that they were going “to visit.” But .22 twisted around and leaned over the back seat and pointed to the bus station.

  “Big car.” Even his voice sounded awestruck.

  “Bus. It’s like a big car.”

  “Me go.”

  “Not today. Remember, we have to visit Morley.”

  “No. Me go.” His fingers dug into the back of the seat.

  Oh God, Julie had visions of a tantrum. She didn’t have to go to the bus station, but maybe just a walk over by the ones under the roofed area. That wouldn’t hurt anything.

  She had to
admit that .22 walked beside her perfectly behaved as they crossed the street, didn’t bolt or dash into traffic, and it was apparent he was enraptured with the buses. He kept repeating “Wow” in rapid succession. When they neared the loading bay, he had broken into that halting run of his.

  Then he stopped, breathed in the exhaust fumes telling anyone who would listen, “Smells good.” Julie watched from a distance. .22 was beside himself with joy, hopping up and down trying to look into the high windows—once even looking under the nearest bus—scrambling as close as he thought was safe to peer into the baggage compartments.

  “That’s enough. We need to see Morley.” Julie pointed across the street. .22 seemed surprised and hung back.

  “Me go inside?”

  “Not today.” Julie started toward the street.

  “Me go pee.”

  Of course, shouldn’t she have anticipated this?

  “Okay. This way.”

  She pushed open the door to the lounge and pointed to the restrooms. How stupid, she didn’t know whether he could read. She grabbed his hand and walked with him to the back and pointed to the door marked “Señor.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  .22 wasn’t gone long but long enough to dribble water down the front of his slacks. And his hands were dripping wet. When she tried to hand him a wad of Kleenex, he pulled away and ran around the corner. Since hide and seek wasn’t on her agenda, she resolved to corral him and make it back across the street to Morley’s without any more delays.

  At first, she couldn’t tell where he’d gone. A quick survey of the benches of people in the lounge didn’t give him up even after she squatted to check for him crouched underneath. He simply wasn’t in the open area.