by K J Steele
Victoria erupted, arms wildly waving away his words. “No way, Elliot! Forget it.”
“Victoria, wait,” he pleaded. “You said you’d hear me out.”
“Well, there’s no point in hearing you out, Elliot, because it’s just not ever going to happen.”
“Why do you insist on slamming doors shut before they’ve even had a chance to open?”
“I don’t,” she defended hotly, crossing her arms and bracing for an argument.
Nodding his head in apparent agreement, Elliot slid back onto the boxes, steady and silent as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.
She stood watching him, coiled inside herself, searching for any sign of hostility. In its absence she started to become acutely aware of her own, percolating ferociously through her veins. Standing in the presence of his peaceful demeanor, she began to feel self-conscious and foolish.
“So, are you going to finish telling me, or not?” she asked, twirling her hair back into a thick ponytail and then letting it go.
“Are you going to listen?”
She wished he would open his eyes. She felt blind when she couldn’t at least try to see what he was thinking.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll listen. But, just as long as you know that it won’t change anything.”
Elliot’s blue eyes sparked open as he shook his head and laughed. “You are quite possibly the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met, do you know that?”
“Well, that’s not much of a compliment,” she said, making a face at him.
“Wasn’t intended as one,” he grinned. “Here, come sit down and I’ll tell you my idea.”
Reluctantly she got back up on the boxes and looked at him.
“Okay, so this is my plan. I want to do a painting of you. . .” he paused to intercept her objection with his eyes. “And then I’m going to sell it and use the money to set up a scholarship fund for your studio.”
Victoria’s face crumbled with emotion, and she instantly hid behind her hands as tears pushed free. She had not expected this. Something as foreign as a scholarship fund had never even graced her thoughts. Memories of her own constant struggles to find ways to keep dancing swirled around her. What a gift this would be for her studio. Perhaps it could one day even enable one of her own students to dance forward with the flag of her own dream to perform on some of the most esteemed stages in the world.
She looked up at him through blurry eyes. “Elliot, I don’t know what to say. That is such a wonderful offer. . .”
Elliot sighed. “But?”
She took a deep breath, her mind scrambling for words that could help him understand the predicament in which he had unwittingly placed her.
“This really is such a wonderful offer, such an amazing thing for you to do. And having a scholarship fund would open up so many opportunities . . .”
“But?” he grinned half-heartedly.
“But, I can’t have you paint my picture,” she whispered, looking down at her hands.
“Why not?”
She picked absently at a hangnail, embarrassment creeping over her.
“Your protective husband, again?”
Victoria nodded softly.
“Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t tell him. I can just slip in that side door after your lessons are finished and no one will be the wiser.”
She looked over at the side door, which led into a deserted alley. “But, what if he sees the painting after it’s sold and recognizes me?”
Elliot laughed out loud, startling her. “Victoria, I can promise you that the place where this painting will be sold is not a place your husband or anyone else from Hinckly is ever likely to be.”
“But . . .”
“No. No buts. Just trust me on that one.”
She allowed herself a small moment to consider this. She thought of what a scholarship would have meant to her when she was full of dreams and short of finances.
“But still, Elliot, it’s not impossible that someone could see it and recognize me, right?”
“Right. Not impossible, just completely unlikely.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, dropping her head forward.
“There!” Elliot said excitedly, as he turned toward her. “Just like that. How about if I paint you like that, with your hair falling in front of your face. No one would ever be able to recognize you like that. What do you think, Victoria? Why couldn’t that work?”
She played the question over and over in her mind, then slowly smiled up at him. “I don’t know, Elliot. Maybe it could.”
“Perfect! That’s great,” he exclaimed energetically. “We can get started just as soon as I can get this stuff hauled out of here.”
“No, wait, Elliot. I don’t know if I feel good about you going to all this work for me. Let me think about it, okay?”
Elliot slid off the boxes and looked at her. “Nothing for you to think about. I’m going to be working for Pearl.”
~ Chapter 12 ~
The car was a ‘64 Barracuda, sanded down to a January gray and, with a generous fistful of imagination, just oozing with potential. She was permanently parked among the greasy spare parts and stacks of empty bottles that littered the floor of JJ’s toolshed. Three pairs of work boots poked out from her undercarriage: Bobby, JJ and Peter already hard at it, ripping out the transmission JJ had just put in so they could spend the next weekend replacing it with the new one Bobby had ordered. JJ was forever second-guessing Bobby about each new part he suggested, constantly wondering if something else wouldn’t be better. Although he denied it, the boys had heard that he already had a possible buyer lined up for the car and, if it was fast enough, that he’d be willing to pay him top dollar. The on-going dissension between Bobby and JJ was one of the reasons it was turning into a never-ending project, the half-empty case of beer sitting next to the toolbox being the other one.
“You guys drinking already?” Sam asked, careful to mask his dismay. The boys had no patience for any do-gooder raining on their good times just because his own had come up dry.
Three grimy, black faces popped out from under the car and peered up at him.
“Yeah, we’re drinking already, Grandma. What the frick’s it to ya?”
“Ain’t nothing to me. Just early yet, that’s all.”
“Early? Ain’t early. You just frickin’ late. Us guys been working half the morning already. What time is it anyhow, ya big peckerhead?”
“Don’t know. ‘Bout nine I guess.”
“Nine!” shot JJ, jumping to his feet, eyes wide as if he’d forgotten something vitally important. “Bobby, ya hear that? It’s nine bloody o’clock already.”
“So?” Bobby frowned back thickly, mopping at his face with a rag and smudging grease over the spots that had initially been clean.
“So! So, you pinhead. Ain’t that tell you something?”
Bobby’s black face crumpled up like the rag he held in his hand as he strained to find an answer. He stood up, Peter’s snide chuckle mocking him quietly from below but, unfortunately for Peter, not quite quietly enough. Whirling around, Bobby seized him by his chicken neck, hoisted him up against the side of the car and dangled him just high enough so he wouldn’t need his feet.
“What you laughing about, asshole?”
Peter’s eyes bulged from rage and a serious lack of air. He screwed up his face and winced as if the answer was so obvious it was painful. He looked at JJ and rolled his buggy eyes, hoping to inspire JJ to barge in and avert Bobby’s attention, but to no avail. Amused, JJ leaned back against the wall, wrapped a sarcastic smile around his cigarette and settled in to watch the show.
“Hey?” Bobby gave Peter a sharp shake like a dog would to a cat held by the scruff of the neck. “Hey, dwarf-pecker? You tell me, huh? You tell me what’s so special ‘bout nine o’clock, huh?”
Peter squirmed and wriggled, finally worming his way free. “How the hell would I know, ya asshole? You wanna know, ask him.” He jut
ted his chin toward JJ, who received the gesture with a nasty grin, amused at Peter, who was usually fish slippery, getting caught in his own net. Peter’s eyes shot hot darts at all of them in turn as he clambered back under the car muttering foul things.
“So,” Bobby turned his attention back to JJ, who was reaching down for a bottle of whiskey lying beside the sack of beer. “What is the frickin’ big deal ‘bout nine o’clock?”
JJ stood up slowly, stretched and yawned loudly, his hairy black stomach puffing out from under his shirt like a pregnant porcupine. “Johnny time, you moron,” he announced, draining a stiff drink straight from the bottle. “Petey, ya little cockroach! Get out from under there before you get your finger stuck up some place it don’t belong.”
Peter offered no reply.
“Peter, come on! Time for a drink that’ll put a little hair on your scrawny chest. Hell with your chest! You need a drink that’ll put some hair on your baby-ass head.”
Still no response filtered out from under the car, Peter’s legs sticking out as motionless as if they’d been chopped off at the knees. JJ offered the bottle to Bobby as they exchanged looks. Catching their meaning, Sam sighed. Pulling a chunk of wood and his carving knife from his coat pocket, he resigned himself to a spectator’s seat on a pile of dusty tires. Clearly, work was not to be the order of the day. He half watched out of one eye as Bobby and JJ stealthily lowered themselves on either side of Peter’s legs and gathered up his feet into tight handfuls.
“Come on, Petey!” They gave a good hard tug but didn’t even budge him. Repositioning themselves, they grappled on a bit tighter and attempted to winch him out from under the car. Again, he stayed fastened tight. A squeak snuck out from below, and it was obvious the little bugger was laughing at their efforts.
JJ’s face reddened. “Let go that muffler, dickhead,” he warned, then gave the leg he was holding a vicious jerk hoping to snap Peter loose.
“Screw off!” Peter’s voice muffled out as he reaffirmed his grasp and pulled himself up tighter. “I ain’t bloody drinking with you assholes!”
“Whoo-ee!” JJ whistled, rocking back on his heels. “You hear that Bobby? Little whistle-prick’s got too good to have a drink with us. What you think ’bout that? Sounds to me like we’s mighty overdue to bring the bugger down to size, hey?”
Sam watched as JJ let go of Peter’s foot then wrapped his fist around a handful of frayed jean bottoms. Catching on, Bobby grinned and did the same.
“Hey! Hey, frick-heads! What’re you doing? Don’t you dare! Don’t you friggin’ bloody dare—” Peter hollered, panicking to grab at his belt a split second after a massive, coordinated effort ripped his pants and shorts clear down to his knees, leaving his nether regions unceremoniously exposed to the uproarious hoots of his friends.
“Frickin’ peckers! Frickin’, perverted peckerheads! Sick sons-a-bitches,” he fumed over himself as he struggled out from under the car, face flare-red as he tried to quickly cover himself up.
“What’s the panic, Petey? I didn’t see nothing. You see anything, Bobby?” JJ crowed, taking a deep slug that dribbled out the corners of his mouth and ran down to the crease in his chin.
“Ain’t much to see. Hey! Hey, maybe our little Peter’s a friggin’ “morphadite.”
“A friggin’ what?”
“’Morphadite.”
“What the hell’s a ’morphadite?”
“You know. ’Morphadite. Like a dually.”
“Not ’morphadite, you idiot.”
“Bloody is too.”
“No, it bloody ain’t.”
“What then?”
“It’s a—” JJ hesitated for a fraction of an eighth note. “It’s ’aphrodite, you ignorant moron.”
“Bloody is not!”
“Is too!”
“Bullshit!” Bobby proclaimed, picking up a wrench and firing it into the toolbox next to JJ’s feet.
“Hey! Bloody watch where you’re chucking that thing.”
Bobby ignored him, snatched his cap off and scratched his head with some agitation. “Well, maybe it ain’t friggin’ ’morphadite, but it sure as hell ain’t ’aphrodite neither.”
“No? You think not, hey? Well, tells you what. Why the hell don’t we just ask Petey then? Petey!” He looked over at Peter who looked away pointedly, arms wrapped up tight, legs crossed, a steady creak coming from his jaw as he slowly ground away his back teeth.
“Peter!” JJ tried again but was again stonewalled. A sardonic smile slipped onto Peter’s face.
“Hey! Dick-face! I’m bloody talking to you,” JJ bellered again, but this time with as much velocity as he could muster, straight into Peter’s ear. Peter’s hands flew up to defend against certain deafness, his body flinging involuntarily around to face John Jr.’s growling grin.
“Hey! What’re trying to do, ya asshole? Trying to make me go completely friggin’ deaf?”
“Naw, I ain’t trying to make you go completely friggin’ deaf, worm-dick. I thought ya’s already was completely friggin’ deaf ‘cause you didn’t seem to be hearing me when I was talking to you.” He offered Peter the bottle of whiskey but pulled it up above his reach at the last minute, laughing as Peter’s hand-grasp closed around a fistful of air. “Unh-unh Petey. First ya answer the question, then ya get a drink.”
Peter pretzeled himself back into his defensive stance, clamped his jaw shut and focused on the floor.
“Come on, Petey. Help us out. What are you? An ’aphrodite or a ’morphadite?”
“Piss off!”
“It ain’t bloody Aphrodite,” Bobby said, grabbing back the bottle. “Ain’t that some bloody Greek god or something?”
“Some bloody Greek god or something!” JJ scoffed. “Yeah, he was some bloody Greek god. The bloody Greek god of dual friggin’ citizenship! That’s who he friggin’ was. That’s why they call it ’aphroditism, ya moron.”
“Ya? Really?”
“Ya! Really friggin’ really.”
Bobby slid off his cap, scratched his head with greasy fingers. “Makes bloody sense, I 'spose.”
“Course it makes sense, genius. It’s the frickin’ bloody truth.”
JJ snapped the top off a beer and clanked it against the whiskey bottle in Bobby’s hand. “To our friend, Petey! The best little ’aphrodite in the valley.”
“An’ now we knows why he was always dressing up in his mama’s clothes,” added Bobby as they chugged a cheer.
Peter’s face wriggled and seethed like a pocket-load of worms, but he held his tongue.
Sam sighed. “We gonna work on this thing or just stand around and b.s. all day?”
“Why? What the hell’s your panic?” fired back Bobby.
“No panic. Just got some stuff to do, that’s all.”
“Ya right! Like what?” chided JJ.
“I don’t know. Just stuff.”
“Just stuff! What kind of frickin’ stuff?”
“Just some stuff I said I’d do for Vic, that’s all.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed as JJ and Peter shared a malicious glance. “Vic? What the hell you doing for my old lady now?”
“Not much,” Sam reassured slowly, looking down at his boots. “Just gonna fix up the dance floor a bit at the hotel.”
“Now why the hell you gonna do that?”
“She asked me to, Bobby. Since you’re too busy and all. It isn’t much. I don’t mind.”
“Ya? Well, maybe I mind, Sammy. Ever think of that? I told her right from the get-go I didn’t want her wasting a buncha money on some stupid studio.”
Sam shuffled his feet. “I wasn’t ’specting her to pay me—”
“No? Then what was you ’specting?”
“Nothing, Bobby. You know I don’t mind helping you guys out. Besides, she seems real excited about it. She was telling me she’s already got eight kids signed up.”
Bobby shrugged the surprise off his face. “That right? Well, that still don’t mean she’s gonna make any money.
”
“Maybe she’s not really doing it for the money” Sam started, then hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t continue on. Knew he should just lay the words back down and let the moment slip away as he usually did. But for some reason he didn’t. Maybe the planets had perfectly aligned that day. Or perhaps Zeus had chosen to pass overhead in a flaming chariot, baptizing him with a brief moment of courage that clouded his judgment. Whatever it was, it proved to be a colossal mistake as he let his words trip on.
“Maybe sometimes she gets a bit lonely out—”
“Lonely!” flared Bobby. “Why the frick would she be lonely, asshole?”
Sam sat quietly but Bobby was pissed.
“You wanna hear about lonely? You should read the bloody paper, Samson. Story in there ’bout some poor bugger locked up for eight years for something he didn’t never do in the first place. You want friggin’ lonely? That’s friggin’ lonely. Here, ya wanna read it? It’s in my truck. I’ll even go get it for ya.”
Sam said nothing, his eyes sliding away to the ground.
“Hey, it ain’t no problem, Sammy. I don’t mind. I’ll jus’ go an grab it for you,” Bobby shot as he headed for the door. Slamming the truck door behind him he reappeared in the shed, pranced over to Sam and flung a ratty paper in his face. “There! Read it for yourself, Sammy boy,” he stabbed, his grin breaking into a nasty snicker as Peter and JJ’s voices joined in from behind.
Sam took the paper from Bobby’s hand and set it down on the workbench beside him.
“Oh, that’s right, ain’t it? You can’t read. Now why am I always forgetting that?”
It had always been this way for Sam. Raised in the earthy tongue of his Cree grandmother, he’d been deposited at six years old into a classroom of strange people speaking strange noises, which they assumed he understood. But he hadn’t understood and, unsure of what was expected of him, had quickly developed the lifelong habit of looking away and smiling shyly whenever he was spoken to. Which had, along with his unnatural size, helped to fasten a permanent label of slow across his young back. Sam was however, not slow.
And yet somewhere between conceptualization and delivery, there existed a dark moment that swallowed his sentences before he could deliver them back out his mouth. The problem, simply enough, was that while Sam spoke in English, his thoughts were in Cree. Alcohol had set him free. Freed his tongue and his lips and his fists so that even if his words got too jumbled up, a right hook could still adequately convey his expression.