by Tawni O'Dell
“Yes. During that time we’ve worked together on several projects. She recently broke one of our business agreements, and that’s why I’m trying to find her.”
“What kind of business?”
“That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.”
“You said you had something you wanted to give her? What is it exactly? A bullet in the head?”
“No. Nothing like that. I don’t want any harm to come to her. On the contrary, I want her healthy. I don’t have anything to give her. I just want to talk to her and try and convince her to come back to New York with me.”
I wonder if he’s the father of the baby, but if he is, why would he say they have a business arrangement? What could Shannon possibly do that would lead her to get professionally involved with a lawyer? Then again, he could be lying about everything.
“What makes you think she’d be here?”
He doesn’t answer for a few minutes. I can tell he’s trying to decide how much he should tell me. He doesn’t trust me either.
He takes a sip of his drink, then leans over the table so I can hear him better.
“In all the time I’ve known her, she never told me anything about her past. Nothing about her family or the place where she grew up.
“Then one day a couple of months ago I was visiting her at her apartment, and she had the TV on. An ad from General Electric came on. It was a group of sweaty, half-naked, gorgeous models—male and female—strategically streaked with dirt, pretending to be coal miners. The point of the ad was to say that now there’s technology that can make coal a viable energy source again. The catchphrase was something about coal being beautiful.
“She flew into a rage. I’ve never seen anything like it. Especially from Shannon. She started ranting about how there’s no way coal can ever be a clean fuel. There’s no technology that can accomplish this. Anyone who’s ever lived in a coal town knows this. It’s all lies. And the new technology they’re talking about is all automated so it’s not going to bring back any jobs. It’s not going to help any of the people living in coal mining regions, but what it is going to do is continue to ruin the land that’s finally begun to heal and contaminate the water and pollute the air. And for what? To make rich people richer. All the coal companies are owned by oil companies now. It’s all the same thing. They’re all owned by the same men. It’s not an alternative to oil. It’s not going to give us cheaper energy. It’s going to kill us. They’re trying to kill us.”
He pauses to take another drink.
“I couldn’t believe it. Shannon is the least excitable woman I’ve ever known, not to mention I’ve never heard her utter anything that could even remotely be construed as political. For the longest time she thought Condoleezza Rice was the name of that little Hispanic actress on Desperate Housewives.
“After she calmed down, I was able to get her to talk a little bit about what set her off,” he goes on. “That was when she told me her father was killed in a coal mine in Jolly Mount, Pennsylvania, a long time ago.”
“Twelve years ago,” I supply for him.
“I asked her if that wasn’t the same town where the miners had been rescued a couple of years ago. She said it was. She never talked about the town again, but I’ll never forget how upset she was and how attached she seemed to be to the place. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she’d just left it a couple of months ago instead of years ago and that she was terribly homesick. It was so out of character. Coming here was just a hunch.”
His attention swings away from me. He’s watching someone walk toward us.
He stands with his handshake at the ready.
“I’m heading out,” I hear E.J. say.
“It was nice meeting you,” Kozlowski says.
“Same here,” E.J. replies.
He looks down at me, says nothing, and walks away, the son of a bitch.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting up out of my chair.
“Where are you going?” Kozlowski asks me.
“I’ll be right back,” I assure him.
I rush out the front door and down the porch steps. E.J.’s already around the side of the building heading for his truck in the parking lot.
“Where are you going?” I shout after him. “Looking for fresh meat? Nothing left for you around here? Pretty soon you’re going to have to start crossing state lines to find someone new to plug.”
“Look who’s talking,” he replies over his shoulder. “You had to cross state lines twenty years ago.”
“Go to hell!”
He keeps walking toward his truck. I can’t believe he’s not going to stay and fight.
I run after him.
“So it’s okay for you to screw around because you’re a man, but it’s not okay for me because I’m a woman,” I say once I catch up to him.
He takes his packet of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and taps one into his waiting fingers.
“Don’t start this again, Shae-Lynn,” he says, looking tired and annoyed. “You know I don’t feel that way. You just want to get in a fight. You don’t even care what the fight’s about.”
“And why would I want to get in a fight?”
“Because it’s the only thing you’re good at.”
His words stop me cold. I feel like I’m ten years old again and he’s just made fun of my inferior aim with his BB gun, or he’s beat me again in our daily race to the top of Union Deposit Road where we used to throw down our bikes and walk to the guard rail, with our lungs bursting and our T-shirts stuck to our backs with sweat, and stare across the valley at the railroad tracks cut into the mountainside waiting for the 4:05 freight train to go by.
He seems to sense how much he’s hurt me and once again he looks sorry like he did in the bar, but he doesn’t apologize.
He lights up his cigarette, takes a drag from it, and blows a frail stream of smoke into the thick black country night.
“There’s nothing wrong with me getting laid now and then. I never use anyone,” he tells me.
“Depends on what you consider using someone. I have a feeling acid-washed Blondie in there feels used,” I say more to myself than to him.
“I never lie. Women are the ones who lie,” he responds, his voice turning unexpectedly harsh. “They’re the ones who say they don’t mind if it’s just for one night, when actually they do mind. They think if they can get you to sleep with them just once, you’re going to be under their spell for life, and they can make you do whatever they want. I’m not looking for a wife. I’m not even looking for a girlfriend. I have sex with women because it makes me feel good. And I don’t have to justify myself to anybody. Least of all you. Why don’t you go back to your date?”
“He’s not my date. He’s a client.”
“You don’t have to make up a reason to be with him. You think I care about you hanging out with that guy?”
“She’s back,” I announce before I can stop myself.
I feel a lump in my throat, and I swallow it quickly.
“Shannon,” I further explain. “She’s here. She’s sleeping in my guest room right now.”
“You’re kidding. When did this happen?”
“She just showed up at my house today after I talked to you.”
“Holy shit. So what’s she got to say for herself?”
“Not much. I didn’t really push her. I wanted to give her some time.”
“What’s her tie to this Kozlowski guy?”
“I still don’t know. I didn’t tell her about him, and I didn’t tell him I know where she is.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure what’s best for Shannon. I think she’s in some kind of trouble, but I don’t know what. I’m pretty sure she’s lying to me about everything. And it turns out there’s someone else here in town looking for her besides Kozlowski: a woman who’s running around with Shannon’s photo but knows her by a different name and is accusing her of something criminal.”
“For Chr
ist’s sake, Shae-Lynn.”
We’ve reached E.J.’s truck. He leans against the hood and smokes for a minute before he offers any more advice.
“You can’t let Shannon jerk you around. Tell her what you know. See if her explanation makes sense. If not, get Clay involved.”
“Why are you against her?”
“I’m not against her. I just don’t want her taking advantage of you.”
I can try and convince myself that Shannon never meant much to E.J., that to him she was just my pesky younger sister who I had to let tag along with me a lot since she didn’t have a mom at home to watch her. For the most part, I think he regarded her as less interesting than a puppy and more burdensome than a shadow, but he understood she was as devoted to me as the first and as impossible to get rid of as the second, so he tolerated her presence.
Yet at the same time, I know he cared about her, too, in his way. He would have never dreamed of giving her a hug or calling her by her name instead of “midget,” but he built a toy box for her in junior high wood shop, and he used to sneak out of his own house on Christmas Eve after we were in bed and stand below our window with a string of sleigh bells pretending to be Santa’s reindeer for her, and he was always available any time she had something that needed to be fixed, whether it was a flat tire on her bike or the mysterious inner workings of the Easy-Bake oven I found for her at the Goodwill Store for a dollar and fifty cents.
When she left she hurt him, too, even though he’d never admit it. He’s entitled to his opinion of her, good or bad.
“She’s a grown woman who hasn’t wanted anything to do with you for almost twenty years,” he continues. “She’s not your responsibility anymore. If she got herself into trouble, let her get herself out of trouble.”
“It’s not that simple. She’s pregnant. She’s going to have a baby any day now.”
He shakes his head.
“So that’s why she came back. For help with the baby.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The baby’s not your responsibility either.”
“It will be my niece or nephew.”
“It will be her son or daughter. She’s the mother.”
He tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the parking lot blacktop and stubs it out with the toe of his steel-toed boot. He’ll wear the same boots—only an older, more broken-in pair—into the mines tomorrow. I’m suddenly seized by a spasm of terror. I want to grab him by his arm and cling to him and beg him not to go back inside.
Instead I watch his hand reach out and grab my arm. He shakes me gently as he speaks.
“You believed your dad killed her. You believed your own father killed your sister. Do you understand what a fucked-up thing that is to have to carry around inside yourself all these years?”
“Do you realize how fucked up things were to begin with in order for me to be able to believe that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
I meet his eyes. In the dark they look silver, not blue, like a pair of liquid nickels.
In all our years of friendship, we never discussed details. I never described my home life to him. I blamed my injuries on my clumsiness like I did at school, but this explanation was destined to fail eventually with E.J. because he knew me better than my teachers and he also didn’t have any reason to want to believe the lies.
He spent a lot of time with me. He knew I was athletic and coordinated. He knew I couldn’t possibly fall down stairs and run into walls as much as I claimed to when he wasn’t around.
I don’t know exactly when I began to realize that he knew I was lying and that it wasn’t necessary for me to do it anymore. This didn’t mean I was going to start telling him what was really going on. Somehow I knew he couldn’t stand hearing it any more than I could stand saying it. It was simply enough for me to know that there was someone who knew the truth about me and didn’t find me repulsive.
We used to talk about running away together without ever stating the reason why. We talked about taking Shannon with us. We made lists of supplies and grand plans for living off the land. But in the end I couldn’t let him do it. He had a great mom and dad. We each had to accept that we were prisoners of our own lives: his a good one, mine a bad one. He was powerless to save me from mine, and I was unwilling to lead him away from his.
I never stopped to think what it must have been like for him to accept that there was nothing he could do to help me.
My cell phone rings. I’m tempted not to answer it, but it’s my business number and I’m also a mom so I always have to answer.
“Jolly Mount Cab,” I say.
“Hello. I’m trying to get in touch with a Shae-Lynn Penrose.”
“That’s me.”
“Hello, Shae-Lynn. This is Pamela Jameson. We met earlier today.”
We met—that’s a nice way to put it. Sounds like we attended the same tea party.
“I remember,” I say. “I changed your tire.”
“Yes, you did. We also talked a little bit about why I’m here. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have a proposition for you. I’m meeting Jamie Ruddock tomorrow at ten A.M. at a place called Eatn’Park.”
I smile to myself despite the fact that I’ve just received further proof that Shannon is continuing to lie to me. She used to love Eatn’Park pies. Especially the coconut cream. I can picture her as a little kid sitting across from me in a booth with dabs of toasted meringue glistening on the end of her nose and the bottom of her chin.
“You said you were going to trap her.”
“Yes, something like that. It occurred to me that I might need protection.”
“Protection?”
“Yes. I thought since you have a law enforcement background, and you’re obviously a woman who can handle herself in unorthodox situations…”
I hardly consider changing a tire to be an unorthodox situation, but I don’t point this out to her.
“…I thought maybe you could help me. I’ll pay you, of course.”
“Okay,” I tell her without even thinking about it. “I’ll meet you at your hotel about nine-thirty so we can discuss details before you meet with her.”
“That sounds fine. Good night.”
I put my phone back in my pocket. E.J. has wandered away from his truck toward the street.
I follow him. He’s walking aimlessly, breathing heavily through his nose, his fists and jaw clenched, his eyes open but not seeing.
He’s having one of his panic attacks.
He described to me what they feel like once. He begins to doubt where he is, then he stops doubting and he’s certain that he’s having a dream. The sky, the space, the fresh air, the freedom: it isn’t real; it’s one more cruel illusion his failing brain is playing on him before he suffocates.
The terror grows inside him. He’s sure he’s back inside Jojo. He’s sure he’s going to wake up soon inside that horrible backward new world where only sleep brings scenes of life and waking brings nothing but fathomless black. Reality is darkness until death arrives with eternal darkness. Sight is not reality. Sight is insanity.
I put my hand on his arm and talk to him softly, hoping the sound of my voice will cut through his mounting hysteria.
He takes his cap off. Beads of sweat have gathered along his hairline.
He turns his head in my direction. The frantic glitter begins to fade from his eyes and he unclenches the jaw that was holding back the useless screams of a trapped man.
Chapter Eight
IN MY DREAM, I come downstairs after hearing my dad’s truck drive away and see his dinner pail still sitting on the kitchen counter. The sight fills me with horror, and I blink my eyes hard several times to make sure I’m really seeing what I think I’m seeing.
It’s true. He’s forgotten his dinner pail.
I quickly recount the morning’s events, looking for any way the disaster can be blamed on me. I remember packing his lunch while his coffee was brewin
g like I do every morning. I left the pail sitting in the exact spot on the counter where I leave it every morning. His breakfast was ready on time. He wasn’t in a hurry because he was running late. We didn’t have any type of conversation that distracted him. Our only interaction was the kiss I planted on his coarse cheek. It always tickles my lips like they’ve brushed across sandpaper.
It’s not my fault. This knowledge should make me relax but instead my stomach heaves with fear. It’s his fault. This is worse. Because my dad doesn’t believe anything is ever his fault. If he can’t find a way to blame a problem on me or someone else, he blames it on Fate or as he prefers to call it, his “shitty luck,” and the rage that grows out of this idea is incredible.
I know he won’t notice he’s forgotten his lunch until he gets to work. Beverly is only a few miles away, but he won’t drive back. To drive back will be finding a solution to the problem, which will be admitting it’s his fault and he has control. By going into the mines and working a grueling eight-hour shift with no food, he will be accepting that he is the eternal victim of Fate’s cruel whims. He will suffer in silence and when he unleashes his anger later, in his mind it will be justified.
I’m still standing in the kitchen when I hear Shannon at her toddler gate at the top of the stairs.
“Shae,” she calls. “Shae. Come get me.”
I look back and forth between the silver bucket and my baby sister, back and forth between the fear of what might happen to me if I don’t go and the fear of what might happen to her if I do go, back and forth between my duty to him and my duty to her.
I decide I have to take Dad’s lunch to him. He needs it. He can’t work all day without a meal, but I’m going to have to ride my bike and Shannon can’t come with me.
I grab a box of Cheerios so she won’t be hungry and I run upstairs with it. I explain to her that I have to take Daddy his lunch and if she stays in our bedroom like a good girl until I get back, we’ll do something fun when I get home from school.
I make sure the windows are firmly latched. I make sure she has her blanket and some toys and the Cheerios, and I tell her she has to stay in the room no matter what.