by Jason Melby
Lloyd grabbed a stack of napkins by the counter. "Did it get you?"
"I'm fine," said Jamie. Her hand throbbed from the scalding burn, but the initial pain wore off quickly, courtesy of the mild sedative in her system.
Lloyd offered the napkins. "You should run it under cold water."
"It's fine."
Lloyd fed a dollar in the drink machine and pressed the button for a twenty-ounce Dasani. He gave the cold bottle to Jamie. "Hold this on your hand. It will take the sting away."
"You keep it," said Jamie, noting Lloyd's sweat-soaked shirt. "You look like you need it more than I do."
Lloyd sniffed the air. Immune to his own fragrance after working in the sun all day, he felt nervous and euphoric at the same time, as if he jumped from an airplane naked. "I'm Lloyd," he said, his smile beaming at Jamie. "You've been here twice this week, and I still don't know your name."
"Do you know all your customers by name?"
"Only the ones that matter."
Jamie blushed. "You're the only car wash in town."
"So I hear," said Lloyd. He wiped the spilled coffee from the counter.
Jamie looked away. "How long have you worked here?"
"A couple weeks," said Lloyd. "How long have you been married?"
"That's kind of personal, don't you think?"
"Not really," said Lloyd.
Jamie twisted her wedding band on her finger. "Twelve years."
"Do you love him?"
"Of course I love him. Why would I marry someone I don't love?" She stared at Lloyd's forearm and the cross tattoo sketched in black ink. "Where did you get that?"
"That's kind of personal," said Lloyd, his radiant smile slowly melting the wall of ice in front of him. "Don't you think?"
"Not really," said Jamie, in lock-step with Lloyd's overt attempt at mockery.
Lloyd strained his imagination to think of something funny to say, anything to coax a reaction from the woman who held his undivided attention. "I got it in prison," he confessed.
"What did you do?"
"I broke the law."
Jamie sipped her coffee. Light cream. No sugar. She felt threatened and secure all at once. She'd done what her husband asked her to do and washed the car. A task she completed with no repercussions to fear, aside from a tinge of guilt for conversing with a man who spent time behind bars. A man with penetrating eyes and a stimulating aura about him. "I should check on my car," she said in an effort to disengage the conversation.
"Do you use the library?" asked Lloyd.
"Excuse me?"
"I go there to read. Thursday nights, usually. It's quiet. And private."
Jamie blushed. She toyed with her necklace, light-headed and anxious to abandon the awkward conversation.
"Your car's ready, Mrs. Blanchart," Sonny announced outside the waiting room.
Jamie dropped her cup in the trash and excused herself.
"You better be clocked out," Sonny harped at Lloyd. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."
Lloyd pulled his time card from the rack and held it for Sonny to read. He waved the bottled water. "Just came to get a drink."
"Where's your brother? I haven't seen him in days."
"He's sick."
"He better be on life support. No work, no pay. Comprender?"
"I'll tell him."
Sonny took the time card from Lloyd. "I have your brother on the schedule every day next week. If I catch him playing hookey, you'll both be looking for another job."
Chapter 32
Josh waited outside Sheila's trailer home, watching her car make the turn at the entrance. Cigarette butts littered the ground at his feet.
For the first time in years, he finally had his shit together. He worked a steady job, earned a steady paycheck, and found a woman to take care of him. He lived in the present. He planned for the future. He deserved a second chance. A clean start like the one his brother got when he walked out of prison.
He sent Sheila flowers. He left her messages on her phone. He stuck notes on her windshield. He sent her cards in the mail. And yet despite his best intentions, he failed to change her mind about tossing him out of her home and out of her life forever.
"Where the hell have you been?" he asked Sheila when she pulled up beside the trailer and got out.
Sheila lugged her bookbag on her shoulder. She looked haggard, her eyes sunken and dark in the absence of sleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I need my stuff."
Sheila went inside. "You've been drinking."
Josh followed her. "No, I haven't."
"I can smell it on your breath."
"So I had a couple beers to take the edge off. Big fucking deal. You're not the only one who's suffered over this." He tripped on a phone book used to prop the screen-door open. "Where's Logan?"
"Child services won't release him until the judge signs the order."
"I'm sorry," said Josh. "For everything. I never meant to hurt him. You should know I would never hurt you or Logan."
"Save it—"
"I'm serious. I'm really sorry about what happened. You have to give me a second chance. I can make this work."
"It's too late, Josh."
"No, it's not. Please... I can't lose you now. Not like this. My sponsor says I need to reconcile and make amends."
Sheila dropped her bookbag on the floor. "Sounds like a personal problem. Your stuff's on the floor in the other room."
"So that's it?"
"You're lucky it's not on the street. On fire."
Josh shook open a plastic trash bag and stuffed his clothes inside. He searched the trailer for anything else that belonged to him and found a pair of old sneakers, a broken umbrella, and a faux leather jacket he'd bought himself for Christmas. He packed what he could and rifled through the junk in the closet, snagging the loaded revolver when Sheila wasn't looking. "Where's my TV?" he asked when he noticed the empty space on the wall.
"I sold it."
"I paid two grand for that flat screen!"
"I needed the money for school."
"Then sell your own shit."
"You nearly killed my son, Josh. Now you're worried about a stupid TV?"
"I care about getting paid. You at least owe me half. I never meant to hurt Logan. What else do you want me to say?"
"I have class in an hour," said Sheila.
"If I could take back what happened, I would. But I can't. Where the hell am I supposed to go now?"
"Not my problem," said Sheila.
Josh reached for a Coke from the fridge.
"Those are mine," Sheila groaned. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the trailer's stuffy air.
"I bought these before I left," said Josh.
"Whatever... Just take them and the rest of your shit and get out of here."
"I need a ride to work."
"Are you serious? Take your own car."
Josh scratched his arms. He could feel his world tearing at the seams. "I'm almost out of gas."
"Then buy more."
"I'm broke."
"Then hitch a ride."
"I don't have time. I could lose my job if I'm late again."
"Again, not my problem."
"Stop saying that," Josh whined. "You keep saying that like I'm some kind of stranger to you." He clicked the ceiling fan on high. "I'm not asking to borrow your car. I just need a ride to work. I'll come back for my car when I get my paycheck. But I can't get my paycheck unless I get a ride to work."
"Sucks for you."
"What do you expect me to do?"
Sheila flicked her ash in an empty can and shrugged her shoulders. "Call a cab."
"I told you I'm tapped out."
Sheila folded her arms. "I don't have time to take you."
"You can drop me on your way to class."
Sheila scowled at Josh. Her eyebrows arched. "Tomorrow's trash day. Whatever crap you leave behind is going in the dumpster."
"Why are you being such a
bitch about this? After all the money I spent on you and all the times I fixed your car—"
"Are you finished?"
"You owe me."
"Get out."
Josh lifted his bag of clothes and watched the bottom split open. "Shit!" He shook open another bag and stuffed his belongings inside.
"Hurry up," Sheila spurred him.
"The bag broke."
"Not my problem."
"Stop saying that!"
"It's my house. I'll say whatever the hell I feel like saying."
"Shut up!"
"You shut up!" Sheila snapped back. She kicked the bag. "I'll call the cops."
"Stop shouting at me."
Sheila pushed him backwards. "I said 'Get out!'"
Josh slammed his elbow on the corner of the wall. "You stupid bitch!"
Sheila flicked her cigarette at Josh and missed.
Josh punched her in the mouth.
Sheila fell backwards. She touched her fingers to her bloody lip and came out swinging, her fists thrashing wildly at Josh's head.
Josh fended off the blows with his long reach before he grabbed a porcelain gnome from the bookshelf and smashed it on Sheila's head.
Sheila collapsed on the floor. Blood oozed from the jagged cut above her ear.
"Get up!" Josh shouted. He stood over Sheila's body and nudged her in the back with his foot. "I barely touched you."
He knelt down and put his ear to her chest. "Get up!" He slapped her face and put his hand on her mouth to check her breathing.
Nothing.
He cupped his mouth over hers and blew. He laced his hands and pushed on her chest, mimicking the CPR technique he saw on television.
He leaned in closer and put his shoulders into it, driving the palm of his hand against her breast plate.
He checked her breathing again.
Still nothing.
He dialed 911 on his cell phone but canceled before the operator answered.
The room swirled around him like an Oklahoma twister, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. It was an accident, he told himself. A stupid accident! I didn't mean it...
He peeked out the window overlooking the neighbor's trailer and saw the vacant carport.
This isn't happening... You were never here.
He opened the cello case, shoved the cello into the bedroom, and stuffed Sheila's body inside the velvet lined container. He folded her arms at her chest and crammed her head inside the padded neck partition.
He folded her legs backward at the knee and pushed.
Then he closed the lid and secured the first latch at the bottom. When the top refused to shut completely, he sat on it for leverage, using his body weight to seal the deal. He rinsed his hands in the sink and wiped away any blood he could find on the case's plastic exterior.
He grabbed a bag of kitchen trash for appearances and wheeled the hidden body outside the trailer. The length of a football field spanned the distance to the dumpster—and the first stop on the garbage truck's morning route.
First the baby and now this, he thought. He had gone 0-2 before and watched his brother go to prison. This time he manned up to his own problems and did what he had to do. His years of drug-free existence negated by a single, stupid mistake, he had no one to blame but himself.
He carried the trash in one hand while he pulled the hundred pound load with the other, his progress impeded by the weight of a guilty conscience and the bitter taste of his own remorse.
Chapter 33
Doctor Lacy nudged the designer glasses on her button nose. "Are you ready?" she asked Varden.
Varden shifted uncomfortably on the leather sofa. He thought about his answer and why he came to her office in the first place. No matter how hard the climb or how far the fall, he needed the one thing he hoped Doctor Lacy could provide—closure.
"Mr. Varden?"
Varden held the young doctor's gaze from across the room. "Sorry." He leaned back on the sofa cushion and let the supple leather cradle him. He tapped his heel to vent his nervous energy. "I haven't seen my daughter Trisha since she disappeared. There you have it. Am I supposed to feel better now?"
"When did she disappear?"
"July 11th, 1999," Varden recalled. "I still remember Trisha running around the back yard chasing that mutt her mother bought her for Christmas. The dog wore a purple collar with a nametag. The tag always jingled when he ran. Trisha loved that dog's pug nose. She named him Elvis, but she always called him Elvi. A stupid name for a stupid dog I never wanted her to have in the first place. Trisha's mother never learned to say 'No.' I said from day one the dog was too much responsibility for an eight-year-old."
"What happened?" Doctor Lacy asked directly. She kept her notepad on her desk and her hands in her lap.
"The dog got through the fence. Trisha went after it. Neither one of them came back." He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
"And you blame your wife."
"Ex-wife. She filed for divorce a year later."
"How did that make you feel?"
"How do you think? My wife was weak. She couldn't handle the stress anymore."
"And what about you? How do you handle the stress?"
Varden undressed her with his eyes. "I take small bites and chew."
Doctor Lacy restrained herself from reaching for her pen and paper. "And the police never found your daughter?"
"I wouldn't be here if they had."
"That's a lot to carry."
"It's what I don't know that hurts the most," said Varden. "I can accept my daughter's gone. What I need to know is why?"
Doctor Lacy crossed her legs at her knees and toyed with the pearl necklace at the front of her satin blouse. "Would it bring you closure?"
Varden sat up. His shoulders tensed. He stared into a void only he could see. "When I find the man who took my baby... I'll find closure."
"Vengeance won't cure the hurt."
"No, but it will take the sting away."
"You don't strike me as the violent type," said Doctor Lacy.
"You don't know me very well."
"Is that why you harbor such resentment for the men in your care?"
"It's not my job to care for them," said Varden. "It's my job to enforce the rules."
Doctor Lacy pushed a lock of hair away from her face. "Do you blame them for what happened to you and your daughter?"
"I blame myself for my daughter. That one's on me. I know she's gone, but part of me... Part of me thinks maybe there's a chance. You know? A small chance she's still out there waiting for me to find her."
"Is that what brought you here?"
"You tell me."
Doctor Lacy turned away to face the window. "I can't bring your daughter back, Mr. Varden. And I can't explain why she disappeared."
Varden leaned forward. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"
"You're invested in the grieving process. That's a good sign. The process takes time."
Varden settled back in the sofa. "Until I know for certain she's dead, I have to believe she's still alive."
"At some point you have to let go."
"Do you have children, doctor?"
"No."
"Then try to imagine for one second what I'm dealing with here."
"I imagine it's a lot."
Varden cupped his face in his hands and mumbled, "You have no idea."
Chapter 34
Lloyd dreamed in vivid colors, his restless movements constrained by the massive erection in his pants. He could feel Jamie's warmth pressed against him, the scent of her perfume so strong he could almost taste it.
He rolled on his side in a pole-vault motion, careful not to bend the swollen appendage under his own weight. He touched his hand to Jamie's face and kissed her painted lips, moist and sweet. He felt her tongue tease his mouth as he pulled her closer to embrace her warmth and devour her like no woman he had ever known before.
He touched her delicious breasts, enriched
by her flawless figure, soft and pliant in his powerful hands. He kissed her nipples, brushing his tongue along the textured contours of her skin. Pressure swelled inside him. His heart pounded in his throat when his energy met her glowing aura, sustaining a sexual connection beyond the physical plane—a spiritual bond consecrated by their unbridled passion for one another. Then as quickly as her image came to him, it faded.
Lloyd rolled on his back, his euphoric state obliterated by a shrill announcement piercing the early morning hour.
Varden blew the whistle a second time. His face turned red. "Rise and shine, ladies." He kicked Lloyd's bed frame and flicked the lights on. "Up and out," he yelled across the hall. He pounded the mattress by Marvin's head. "You too, Sunshine. Let's go."
"What time is it?" asked Lloyd, blinded by the rows of overhead track lights strategically placed to maximize their assault on his eyes. He shoved the blanket aside and stood up from the lower bunk. He tucked his somewhat diminished, but still ample erection in the side of his boxer shorts.
"Stow your junk, Mr. Sullivan. That's the last thing I need to see."
Lloyd adjusted himself again, his jubilant fantasy supplanted by the angry warden's callous demeanor.
Varden waited for Marvin to comply. "Let's go, Mr. Tate. I'm not getting any younger."
"Why you gotta run this drill three times a week?" Marvin whined.
"Mind over matter, Mr. Tate. I don't mind, so it don't matter."
Marvin joined the group while Varden tossed the sheets and mattresses on the rack assigned to Tate and Sullivan.
Men grumbled and pointed from the hallway outside, but no one interfered with Varden's mission.
A one-man wrecking ball, Varden tore pillows inside out, turned dresser drawers upside down, and scoured every inch of Lloyd's foot locker until he uncovered what he'd planned to find all along: folded pages from Playgirl magazine. "Would you look at that, Mr. Sullivan." He unfolded the glossy photos and displayed his discovery to the room of spineless observers praying the next bunk Varden searched wasn't theirs. "Looks like Mr. Sullivan enjoys playing for the other team. Who knew?"