When he dropped them home, Penny insisted on giving him a big hug good-bye, asking, "You gonna come see me again?"
"I'd like to," he told her, swinging her around in a circle before setting her down on the driveway. "Maybe next weekend. Your mom and I will talk during the week and see what we can work out."
"Okay," Penny said, already running toward the door. "Bye, Dennis!"
Bobby thanked him, then stood awkwardly, saying, "Thank you for taking us. It was real … really nice."
"She's a great girl," he said, his eyes on Penny, who was letting herself in the back door. "So," he turned to her, "want to eat out one night this week? I thought we'd try Mexican this time."
"Okay," she said. "That'd be nice."
He held out a hand and she stared at it a moment before realizing he was offering to shake hands with her. Uncertainly, she put out her hand and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her heart seemed to jump forward in her chest, and she was so scared she could hardly breathe.
"Take it easy," he said, letting her go. "I'll talk to you in a day or two."
"Okay," she managed to say, her heart beating so fast it was hard to speak. His hand had been smooth and warm; his lips had merely grazed her cheek, yet she felt scalded. She told herself he was only being friendly, but it didn't slow down her heart or ease the panic that had her scanning the property, fearful of spotting Joe lurking in the shrubberies.
Dennis drove off with a toot of his horn and she stood in the driveway, trying to catch her breath and telling herself it was okay, she and Pen were safe, nothing bad was going to happen. Becoming aware of the cold, able to smell snow in the air, she turned and ran to the back door. She should-n't have said she'd go out with him again. She was just begging for trouble. Joe would find out; he'd know somehow, and then he'd come after her and kill her.
She stood inside the kitchen door, her face stinging from the heat and from Dennis's kiss, and wished her memory could be cleaned, erased like a blackboard. She had a chance at something here, and she wanted it. But every time she took a step forward, the past wrapped itself around her like a black blanket, reminding her of what could happen when you let your guard down.
*
It was eating him up, trying to figure out where Bobby'd gone. In the evenings he cruised by Lor's place, by her Aunt Helen's, expecting to spot her. He saw Lor coming out one time and tailed her but she was just going to the supermarket. He waited where he could keep an eye on her car in case the market was a cover but twenty minutes later she came out with a couple bags of groceries, dumped them into the back of her Chevette, and headed home. He followed. She pulled into the driveway, carried the bags of groceries into the house, closed the door, and that was it. He gave up, drove on over to check out that bitch Helen's place.
Her crummy Ford Escort was in the driveway. Lights were on in the living room. He parked a block or so away, then walked back up the street. No one around. Ducking down, he crept along the side of the house, checking the windows. The TV was going in the living room, Entertainment Tonight, but the room was empty. Staying tight to the wall, he eased around back of the house, grabbed a look through the kitchen window. She was cooking, standing by the stove stirring some shit in a pot. He studied the room looking for something, he didn't know what, didn't see fuck-all. But he knew there was something in the house that'd tell him where Bobby was. And he was going to get it.
Creeping back, he made it to the street, and headed to the Firebird. He had to think it through, come up with a way to check out the house. Once in the car with the motor running and the heater on full, he tried to pin it down.
Helen was out every day at work. He figured she left the house by eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. No good. He clocked on at eight. His lunch break didn't give him enough time to get out here, to go through the house, and get back. She got home by five-thirty, six the latest. He clocked off at four-thirty. Again no good.
Finally warmed up, he took off. It was starting to snow. He hated the stuff, hated coming out in the morning to find the Firebird covered with ice and shit and the driveway blocked off by a big mound left by the snowplows. As he headed home he wondered if maybe Bobby had called his fucking mother. Doubtful. Bobby couldn't stand the old bitch. Nobody could. In the twelve years since his dad died she'd stopped pretending, let her true colors show. She didn't give a shit anymore. If he went asking her did she know where Bobby was, she'd laugh right in his face. He wouldn't give her the goddamned satisfaction.
He was hungry. All this sneaking around, he hadn't had anything to eat since lunch. But he didn't feel like going to Garvey's. He was sick of goddamned hamburgers, limp half-cooked frozen fries.
Pulling into the driveway he took the key from the ignition and sat looking at the house. Pitch dark. Snow already covering the walk and front steps. He'd have to get up early in the morning to shovel the goddamned snow. He felt like burning the fucking place down.
He'd spend a few more nights checking out Helen's house, then if nothing happened he'd call in sick. Having made up his mind, he locked the car, then headed for the back door. That Helen knew where Bobby was, and one way or another he was going to find it out from her. Slamming the door shut he stood looking at the sinkful of dirty dishes, outraged. He opened the fridge. No beer left. Nothing to eat. He'd either have to go to the goddamned market or hit Garvey's again. The thought of wheeling a fucking cart up and down the aisles at the market made him crazy. That was a damned woman's job, not his. When he found her, he'd fix her ass once and for all.
Seventeen
Bobby dreamed she and Dennis were walking through a snowfall, leaving a trail of footprints. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see they'd come a long way. The trail followed a bend in the road and disappeared out of sight. Thick flakes caught in her eyelashes and coated her clothing. There was no color; everything was glaringly white. An occasional clump of snow would slip from the branch of a tree and fall noiselessly to the ground.
She was holding Dennis's hand. It felt right. She turned inward to search for signs of anxiety but there were none. Everything was okay. She looked at his profile, which had an almost childlike sweetness. There was nothing to fear in the high rounded forehead, the small tidy nose, the squared chin. He turned to smile at her and she saw more of his sweetness, his face containing the only color in the landscape: brown eyes, pink mouth.
"Why was I so afraid of you?" she asked him, astounded by how calm she was.
He laughed, snowflakes caught in his eyebrows, and said, "Everybody's afraid, but of different things. See how beautiful this is?" His mittened hand lifted and indicated the snowscape before them. White smoke drifted from the chimneys of the houses on either side of the road.
"It's wonderful," she said, her gloved hand warm inside his.
"We have good winters," he said with satisfaction. "It's why I live here."
"Very good," she agreed, feeling better than she ever had; feeling young and healthy and free. She couldn't wait to get home to tell Pen how happy she was. From now on everything was going to be fine. She had wonderful new friends and she wasn't afraid anymore. There were people who cared about her, who were teaching her important things about herself.
"Anybody ever tell you you've got a great speaking voice?" he asked. "It's pretty funny. On the telephone you sound as if you'd be about five-ten, maybe one-fifty." He laughed again. "But here you are, big as a minute."
"That's what my grandpa used to say."
"I know. He told me."
"He did?" She blinked snow out of her eyes to look at him. She could tell it was true. He'd talked to her grandpa, and it made her feel even happier. She looked ahead, up the road. Something dark was coming. It seemed to be growing to fill the horizon as it approached. Dennis's hand tightened around hers.
"We'll have to run for it," he said, urging her toward the side of the road where the snow was deep and thick. She squinted, trying to see, instant fear spreading like heat inside her
chest. It was Joe, in the Firebird, barreling down the road at a tremendous speed. Dennis was pulling at her hand but the heaviness rooted her in place. "It's no good," she told him, her throat thick with despair. "I should've known he'd never let me get away. You go," she said, her hand slipping free of his.
"Come on!" he insisted, trying to take hold of her.
She pushed him and, with an expression of disbelief, he fell into a snow bank. The car was closing in on her, so close she could see Joe's face through the windshield. She started walking forward to meet the car, thinking, let's get it over with. I'm tired of being afraid of you. She stopped in the middle of the road and waited, wanting to close her eyes but keeping them open so he'd see and know what he'd done.
The car kept coming. She braced herself for the impact, and at the last moment her eyes closed of their own volition. She waited, teeth clenched. Nothing happened. When she opened her eyes the car was gone and Joe was standing naked in the snow, the rifle under his arm. "See what you made me do!" he screamed. "It's all your goddamned fault!"
"I didn't make you do anything," she said, her voice muffled by the snow, tears hot on her cold cheeks. "If you're dying, it's your own fault, not mine."
"You're going to come over here and help me!" he said, lifting the rifle.
"No, I'm not," she said, and turned her back on him. Dennis was nowhere in sight. Good, she thought, and started running, following the trail of footsteps back up the road. Keep on going, she told herself. He can't get far without any shoes or clothes. She lifted one booted foot in front of the other, taking care to keep to the trail. Behind her Joe was screaming, but she ran on and after a few more steps his voice got swallowed up in the wind. It was okay. He wasn't going to come after her. Keep going, she told herself. He's already starting to freeze.
A stitch in her side, the cold air cutting into her lungs, her booted feet growing heavier, and sweat coating her torso under the bulky jacket, she ran forward, her eyes on the trail she and Dennis had made in the snow. Not too much farther and she'd be safe.
When Dennis called on Monday afternoon, Bobby smiled at the sound of his voice. "How about Friday night?" he asked. "We could do Mexican and maybe take in a movie." "I'll ask, but I guess it'll be all right," she said, unable to think of any reason to say no. "We had a nice time yesterday. Thank you."
"My pleasure. Penny's a great little girl."
"She liked you, too," she said. It was true. Penny had spent an hour telling her "granny" all about Dennis and their trip to the Maritime Center.
"I'm between calls," he explained, "so I've got to run. But I'll see you Wednesday."
"Wednesday?"
"Thursday's Thanksgiving," he reminded her, "so this week I'm seeing Alma on Wednesday."
"Oh! Okay."
"Catch you later," he said, and hung up.
She put down the receiver and looked around the kitchen, hearing Ruby running the vacuum cleaner in the living room. She wished she could actually see Lor, talk to her about what was happening. She and Lor had discussed everything from the time they were in the sixth grade together. Lor was the only one of her friends Joe hadn't scared off. For years she'd been telling Bobby to take Pen and get away. Now she'd done it, and for the most part she was feeling better about herself every day. But this business with Dennis was confusing. And while she could talk to Alma, Alma didn't know the way Lor did about the things Joe had done to her.
Even Lor didn't know all of it. No one did. There were things she doubted she'd ever be able to tell anybody, things she wished she could forget, that came back at her in the dark as nightmares that would probably have her up two or three times a night for the rest of her life.
She got herself some coffee, deliberating whether or not to take a cup up to Eva in the office. Better not. Eva had been a bit grouchy at lunch, and had snapped at Alma when she'd observed that Eva was wasting precious time these days. She'd left most of her lunch and gone back to the office obviously upset.
Best to leave her alone, Bobby decided, staring at the wall phone. Lor would be at work now and an incoming call could get her in trouble. But Helen's boss at the dealership never made a fuss about her getting personal calls. On impulse she picked up the receiver and punched out her aunt's work number from memory, smiling when Helen came on the line.
"It's me, Aunt Helen. I just wanted to say hi, see how things're going."
"Things're fine. Everything okay with you?"
"Really good," Bobby answered, then paused. "Any word on Joe?"
"I'm pretty sure he's driven by the house a time or two," Helen told her. "I could tell from the way he peels rubber when he takes off. Nobody around here drives like that."
"But he hasn't been bothering you or anything?"
"Not a peep out of him."
"Good." Bobby breathed deeply with relief.
"How's my Pen?" her aunt asked warmly.
"She's great, loves her new school, has a bunch of new friends. I know she misses you, though."
"I miss her, too; I miss the both of you. But you're better off where you are. You did the right thing, Bobby. I know it's probably hard on the two of you, but it's for the best and you know it."
"Yeah, I do."
"One of these times we'll get together, have us a visit."
"Yeah," Bobby said softly. "One of these times."
"Oops. I've got another call coming in, dearie. Gotta go."
"Okay, sure. Oh! And have a happy Thanksgiving. You going somewhere?" "Uh-hunh. To the boss's annual turkey party. Call me again soon," Helen said. "Love you, babe." After a moment Bobby hung up, retrieved her coffee from the counter, and went to sit down at the table with her book.
Eva sat with her fingers resting on the keyboard, unseeing eyes fixed on the screen, where a sentence hung unfinished. It had been hanging there, dangling, for nearly a week. She couldn't make herself complete it. Slowly she removed her hands from the keyboard and let them fall to her lap.
Why was she going on with this? What was she trying to prove? She'd demonstrated that she could write commercial fiction and had been paid top dollar for her efforts. The contract had been satisfied and now she was working on an option book. If the publisher liked this one, they'd go to a new contract, which would mean another book, then another, on and on. But what was the point? They didn't really need the money. Alma had a lifetime's savings and investment income, as well as a pension. Melissa's college fees were covered, and then some, by the insurance Ken had left. Eva had her own savings and the money from the sale of her New York co-op. She had to admit that the reasons she'd had at the outset for writing these books had never been valid. Her aunt's stroke had frightened her, the fear of losing Alma prompting her to sell the co-op and move back here in an attempt to repay her aunt for seeing her safely into adulthood. Taking on the new writing had been a noble gesture, but, she now saw, an unnecessary one. It wasn't something Alma had wanted or needed, nor had she approved.
Leaving the desk, Eva crossed the room, threw herself into the old armchair, and turned to look out the window. Random snowflakes drifted in the air. She couldn't keep on with this. It was turning her into a low-level monster, growling at Alma every time her aunt raised the subject, taking an adversarial position to defend something she no longer believed in. The truth was, if Alma hadn't started raising objections, she'd probably have quit of her own volition after the second book.
Letting her head fall back, tired, she thought of Deborah as she'd known her at the beginning in London. Young and so beautiful that people had gaped at her on the streets; slim and elegant Deborah who stood behind a microphone in clubs and sang in a low smoky voice, who performed supporting roles in West End shows, and appeared in full-color layouts in upscale women's magazines, modeling sequined evening dresses and minuscule bikinis that revealed her enviably long perfect body. "The first black woman, darling, in a British fashion magazine." She could still hear her friend's jubilant laughter.
What happened? Why
did it end the way it did? She looked over at the desk, at the computer screen where the cursor blinked like a pulse, awaiting her. She was tempted to cross the room and erase the disks, wipe out every word of the nine chapters she'd done so far. But, she thought, her heartbeat quickening, she couldn't just stop and erase it all. Could she?
Melissa called after dinner that evening. Bobby was downstairs putting Penny to bed, and Eva and Alma had just moved into the living room. At the sound of her daughter's voice, Eva felt herself lifting, a smile automatically reshaping her mouth.
"Hi, Mom. How's everything?"
"Fine. How are you, Mel?"
"I'm really dead. I've been up every night till two or three, working on this philosophy paper in the library. I've got to hand it in by Wednesday morning."
"Is it almost done?" Eva asked, knowing full well that Melissa put everything off until the last possible moment. During her freshman year, Eva had advised her repeatedly to get a little work done every day and her papers would be ready on time. But Melissa couldn't function that way, just as she couldn't be bothered taking the time to do her laundry and could never manage to balance her checkbook. By Melissa's second semester Eva had stopped trying to change her and now hoped that time and experience would bring her daughter around to a less chaotic way of doing things.
"I'm staying up tonight to work on the computer," Melissa said. "I wanted to let you know I'm not going to make it home until Thursday morning. I've got too much to do. And I'm only going to be able to stay until Saturday. I've got an economics paper due next Monday."
Let down but not entirely unprepared for this eventuality, Eva said, "All right. I understand."
"I've got to run," Mellie said tiredly. "I'll see you Thursday. Okay?"
"Okay. Have you got time to say hello to Aunt Alma?"
"I really don't. Just give her my love. Okay?"
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