She waited another minute before starting the car. The engine whirred and she pushed the gearshift into reverse. Overcome by the urge to yawn, she braked, her mouth stretching wide. She backed out of the lot, regretting she hadn't seen more of Brad Pitt. She'd have to come back and see the movie another time.
Chapter Seventeen
Minerva paced, waiting for Dill to arrive. She hadn't seen him since Thanksgiving and she prepared to defend herself, if it came to that. She had always gotten along with him but didn't know what he was planning. "He's as fair as the day is long," Henry used to say of him, and Minerva made up her mind to think the best. She wondered why he chose to stop off at Piper's for a visit before visiting her. She imagined them all talking about her behind her back. It was hard thinking of Dill speaking ill of her, but she wouldn't put it past him, either, when it came down to it.
Outside, smoky clouds rolled by. Minerva checked the level on the butane tank and made a note to call the gas company for more. She hated forgetting to check it and then taking cold showers until her next fill-up. She meandered around the yard and tried rolling the frozen end of a hose up on its post, but the hose fell again when she turned away. Something caught her eye near an opening at the skirt on the trailer. Edging closer, her paced slowed.
The frozen body lay stretched, one paw curled like a hook, the eyes half-closed. Minerva turned it over with her foot and it thudded to the other side. She bent closer: a stray cat—with an open slash on its neck, and something brown and icy surrounding it. Maybe meat, maybe blood, or both, she couldn't tell. Minerva trudged through the sheets of ice to the shed and unhooked the shovel from the nail. She studied the sky on her way back across the yard. Another storm was due soon.
She didn't know why finding this nuisance of a cat made her sad. How many times had she shooed the damn thing off the porch, or cussed when she stepped in a half-covered dollop of cat shit? She scooted the shovel under the carcass and carried it to the dumpster.
Minerva jumped and dropped the shovel when she turned the corner to the shed. A man with a gray hat stood there, hands in pockets, watching her. She noticed he wore crisp jeans and a beige colored dressy jacket, without a tie.
"Sorry ma'am, didn't mean to scare you." He stuck out his hand and she stared at it, her lips agape. "I'm Mike Stroud, from the public defender's office. You should have heard from Mr. Striker, who works in my office."
Minerva frowned and brought her hand up to shade her eyes, even though the sun wasn't out. "Mr. Striker, my lawyer? Oh yes, the one the state gave me. I'm supposed to meet with him soon." She picked up the end of the shovel. "Is he a nice guy, Mister... What did you say your name was?"
"Call me Mike. I work in Striker's office. And yes, he's a nice man."
"Oh good," Minerva said, lifting the shovel. "What can I help you with?" She opened the shed door and saw the young man about to follow her in. "Oh, you don't want to come in here, it's a mess." She leaned the shovel up against the wall inside then closed the door.
"Mr. Striker wants me to talk with you about seeing the psychologist on staff, Mrs. Day." He shrugged while she breezed past him. "It's mainly procedure."
She stopped and turned to face him. "I'm no crazy woman."
"I know, Mrs. Day, but it sure couldn't hurt. The testimony from a psychologist can possibly help you. Anyway, I'm here to set up an appointment with you and to get a signature on the retention letter, if you don't mind." He held a piece of paper at the corner and it fluttered in the breeze.
Minerva eyed him, weary of all strangers, and this man looked particularly strange to her, like he wanted something. And strange men with pieces of paper were almost never good news, especially when they called themselves lawyers. "All right."
She was relieved when he left several minutes later. She sat at the table, pen still in hand. A retention letter sounded too serious for her, but she had signed it. She hated the thought of a psychologist digging into her brain. "It'll help your case," Stroud had told her. "Just be honest when you see him."
She folded her page of the agreement and slipped it in her pocket. She'd have to check the date and time of her appointment written on it later.
***
Dill arrived shortly after Stroud left and she sat with him on the couch before pushing herself up to shut off the blaring television.
"When did my family start believing I was nuts?" she snapped, returning to her seat. "When did that boat sail by and I wasn't on it? I had no clue."
"Now Minky, that's not the problem here. Hell, what does it matter what they think?" Dill's face lit up when he spoke, putting her at ease. He always knew what to say. She felt guilty thinking he'd arrive with an attitude.
Minerva grinned when he called her Minky, her old nickname. No one else had called her that and it made her feel special. "It matters a lot to me." She rolled her eyes, thinking. "Did Henry think I was crazy?"
"Don't go thinking stuff like that, it won't do no good," he said, laughing. She loved Dill's deep, familiar chuckle.
"No, tell me, I want to know. Piper thinks I'm nuts, so does George and John, and I imagine Walter thinks I'm nuts, too." She turned to Dill. "What do you think?"
She watched him scratch his nose then sniff, his blue eyes scanning the room for an answer. "You've had your problems, just the same as all of us. But I guess I'd have to say no, you're not crazy."
Minerva's face brightened. "Do you mean that?"
"I do," he said, cocking his head sideways at her and smiling. "Oh, I know times have been tough for you. Guess what I admire is your strength. You take care of your problems. You don't wait for anyone to step in, tell you what to do. You do it yourself."
"I try to, I guess." Minerva paused and crossed her arms in front of her. Her meds were all she took care of nowadays. "Are you talking about my meds, me getting on and off of them?"
"Well no, you need to always stay on your meds, but other things. You take care of other things."
Minerva thought about this, the times she opened a new prescription so quickly she felt her head spin. She wanted to feel better that much. Or the times she chunked a half full bottle in the trash, frustrated with side effects. Even though she was certain her condition didn't get in the way of her life and cause undue problems, there were times when, after tossing the pills...perhaps her condition did get in the way.
"I'd talk with the psychologist, see what he says," Dill said.
"But what if I don't get a clean report?"
She sounded like a child, but Dill smiled. "Then by god you'll get some damn help, woman. You need all the help you can get right now, that's the point. The lawyer will help you one way or another." Dill pulled himself to his feet and she watched him step to the kitchen. "You got anything to eat, Minky, or shall I treat you to a nice steak dinner?"
"I'll cook if you'd like." Minerva followed and opened the fridge. "Have some pork chops in here, newly thawed." She brought out the pack, smiled, and added, "Unless you change that steak dinner to tamales."
"It's a deal," Dill said, rising to gather his coat.
He handed Minerva's coat to her then stepped behind her to help her pull an arm through. She smiled a thank you and pushed her hands into the pockets. Dill excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.
Her fingers settled around something in her pocket and she pulled half of a ticket stub out and looked at it. The image of Henry and Fellow flooded her mind and she winced at the horror on their faces. The fear in their eyes caused a deep pain in her chest. Could she have hurt her husband and grandson? She wouldn't dwell too long on the thought creeping into her mind. She crammed the stub back in her pocket and forced the image out of her head. No, she didn't hurt them. She couldn't have hurt them. She would forget she ever let the thought of harming them overcome her.
***
An hour later, Dill took the last bite of his refried beans and wiped his lips. "I need to be getting back soon. Promised the kids I'd eat dessert with them."
Minerva dipped a chip into the salsa and brought it her lips. "Bet Piper talks her ass off about me," she said, taking the bite. She had decided on Hot Juan's Café, where the family had eaten for years. A Mariachi band played a lively tune in another part of the restaurant and she tapped her foot in rhythm. Dill said thanks to a waitress who had brought him another dark beer and Minerva sopped the other half of a sopaipilla in the tamale sauce left on her plate.
"She doesn't say much lately, in fact," Dill said.
Minerva cackled and noticed several people look over when they heard her high-pitched laugh. She dipped her head. "Bull. I know she does. That girl would put a fork in me if no one was lookin'."
She turned her head toward the waitress station when Dill held up two fingers and a waitress appeared. "Let's have a menu, see what desserts you have," he said.
"Thought you were eating with the kids."
"Changed my mind—think I'll eat some dessert with my favorite sister-in-law." He opened his menu to the dessert page and Minerva beamed. "How 'bout some chocolate mousse?" he asked.
Minerva skimmed the menu and set it aside. "I'm your only sister-in-law, but I'll settle for the pie a la mode. Piper is trouble, you know," speaking as if Dill would agree. "What about that time she ran away from home for a week, you remember that?"
"Cause you threatened to burn her clothes if she missed curfew again, you mean that time?"
Minerva cackled again. "I didn't do that."
"No, you didn't, but you threatened to."
A few minutes later, the waitress interrupted with a pie a la mode and a piece of three-layer chocolate cake with mousse on top. Minerva watched Dill spread a napkin across his lap and she did the same. "I want to ask you something I've always been curious about," he said. Minerva nodded, a smear of vanilla ice cream on her bottom lip. "What do you have against your daughter?"
She shook her head, swallowing as if the ice cream hurt her teeth. "Nothing."
"You always got something in your craw about that woman. So what is it?" Minerva coughed after she felt herself blanch and quickly loaded her fork. She looked at Dill and saw him wink at her as if to ease the tension. "Come on, who can you tell if not me?" Dill splayed out his arms and grinned.
Minerva wasn't amused. She bided her time, chewing a huge bite, running her tongue across her teeth for remains of pie. She almost changed the subject before she said, "It's not me. It's her. She's always been cruel to me."
"That's not true, and you know it."
She exhaled and tilted her head at Dill. It took effort remaining composed, but she didn't want to fight with him. "You trying to pick a fight with me? Cause if you are..." she reconsidered what she'd say next. "Cause if you are, I'm going to ignore you." She laughed, but she noticed Dill only chuckled halfheartedly. Somehow, Minerva had chosen a way to diffuse a situation and it made her feel good.
"Sounds like something Old Man would say," Dill said.
Minerva harrumphed and ran a hand across her bangs. "But he never ignored anything."
Minerva's mother, Gertrude, a meek woman, had put up with Old Man's duplicities and quirks for years before she finally packed a bag one day and left him for good. It was the only time Minerva ever saw her father cry. When he died twenty years later, the only people at his gravesite were Minerva and a few people he worked with. Even her mother didn't attend.
Minerva had said Old Man never spoke more than ten words over the course of years. She could still recall his face, which looked a little like her own, only not as prematurely old. Minerva's mother told her once she hated the son of a bitch, but Minerva wasn't sure she really heard that, or if she made it up in her own mind. He certainly was easy to hate. Her eyes narrowed while she recalled one time her father pushed her so hard she flew forward and almost landed on a lit gas burner.
The grunt of Old Man's voice had terrified Minerva when he stepped toward her. She thought she would wind up dead, but he extended a hand, a wide grin replacing the scowl, and helped pull her to her feet. Minerva held her face blank, as he liked, when he lectured her on getting the chores done the exact way he said. She had put off taking out the trash since the snow fell so insistently she couldn't see to walk several feet down the alley. But that was her mistake. She rubbed her lower back. Must have twisted a muscle when he pushed her. Where was her mother when she needed her? When her father later stormed out, lips snarled, she turned and held her cries, biting hard enough on her tongue to taste blood.
"Hey," Minerva heard Dill say, "anybody home?" He laughed and Minerva blinked back to reality.
"Sorry, just thinking of Old Man." She looked at Dill. "So you think I'm like him?"
She watched while he pushed himself away from the table. He grew quiet and seemed to freeze. Minerva's throat closed up, causing her to cease breathing while she waited for his answer. After a while, he looked her square in the eye. "I won't lie to you... I care enough to tell you this. You need to see that psychologist."
The drive back to her trailer with Dill was torturous for her. She managed to talk of the weather, or when he might come for another visit, but not much else. He tried easing the tension by making more small talk, but all she could muster was asking him again when he'd be back. "Soon," he told her before dropping her off at the front door.
Minerva stood on the porch and waved while he drove off. Her face was tired and she could imagine what she looked like when the corners of her mouth drooped down. She knew she looked like hell. All she had wanted as a child was to be loved by Old Man, something she never received. She gazed down the street, long after Dill had gone, thinking about her childhood.
"Say hi to the kids for me," she said to herself, before going inside and locking the door.
***
Sheriff Davis made a note of the third street sign he'd passed. He knew this area well, but slowed and made a U-turn in the road. Heading to Garver's Station, he spotted against the building the only working phone booth left in the county. Garver's was a quaint, out-of-the-way gas stop whose owner refused to modernize. Davis never used his cell phone for calls to potential suspects. Gravel crunched under his feet while he walked to the booth. The hoot of an owl was the only sound in the night and he pulled his hat further down his forehead as if to squelch the eerie sound. He dialed a phone number but hung up on the eighth ring. He'd drive on out to the premises without a heads-up.
Davis drove to the home of Alfred Potts, another suspect. Opening the wobbly gate, he stepped into what looked like a junkyard. Even the town's garbage dump looked better than this place. A piece of wire mesh grabbed at his pant leg while he ascended the steps to the front door. He plucked it off and sent it hurling where it landed on a heap of rusted gas cans. He knocked on the rickety door and waited for a response.
There wasn't a hint of the sun in the sky when Potts opened the door and squinted as if a glare of sunlight had shot into his eyes. The sheriff heard him grunt and step aside, motioning a stiff hand at him to come in, an invitation that surprised Davis.
"Yes, sir, I do believe you were at the carnival that day. I just want to hear it from you. So I'm asking you one more time Mr. Potts, were you there?" With a razor sharp gaze, Davis stared at the gaunt face, the beady, cloudy eyes, the white strands of hair combed to the right, barely covering his head.
His looks were in direct opposition to his front yard. Standing in a charcoal suit with a black tie, Potts looked every bit the southern gentleman. All except for the shoes, which were scuffed and worn. And his pants seemed a little too short.
Davis followed Potts inside. When the suspect sat down, Davis saw the odd pattern of the man's socks; different colored balloons against a backdrop of orange, and Happy Birthday sewn all over them. They looked faded and stretched across his ankles - God, how very strange.
"I swear to Jesus I wasn't there. Whoever told you I was there was lying," Potts said. The man shook his head and Davis thought it sounded like something rattled in his head. "I don't go to carnivals." A
haunted look crossed the man's face. "Why would I?"
Davis sighed and looked around. The living room was tidy, each couch pillow and throw rug in place, each of the two tables dust free. The aroma of lemon oil filled the air. Someone had just cleaned house, he thought. He saw no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks or books anywhere. "You married, Mr. Potts?"
Potts looked at Davis as if he were gum on his shoe. "Do you see a ring on my finger?"
"It's just the house is clean, like a woman lives here. No offense, but your yard looks like a tornado hit."
He watched Potts' face for a reaction. His expression melted from pride to disdain. "I don't get in the sun much, allergic to it. Can't clean at night."
"You're allergic to the god damn sun?"
Davis watched while Potts pulled one sleeve up about two inches. "See how white I am?" Potts bent to raise a pant leg but stopped himself when his hands neared the socks; Davis made a mental note of it. He sat up instead and mumbled, "A family trait."
"You were at that carnival, weren't you?" David asked again.
"I was not. I don't like crowds, they make me nervous." He thought Potts seemed to shrink as he spoke with a shaky lilt to his voice, and one eye flittered as if something was lodged in it. "I can vouch for that."
"Do you like little boys, Mr. Potts?" Davis didn't blink, only glared at the man.
Potts' eye flittered even more. "Why the fuck would you ask me that?"
Davis could see the old man was visibly mad now, his voice lowering to a growl. "That boy wasn't raped was he?" Potts asked.
Davis leaned in and answered in his best sheriff's voice. "Don't know...Was he?"
Suddenly aware of his demeanor, Davis thought, Potts drew back, becoming the cool gentleman once again. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Davis, but—"
"Look here Potts," Davis said, rising to his feet. "Today I came to ask questions, friendly-like, but tomorrow I'll come with arrest papers. You don't want another stint in prison, do you?"
Minerva Day Page 20