Allie loved that Betty always smelled of sandalwood incense and wore loose, flowing clothes in natural fabrics. Today she could have been a run-way model displaying a long dress made of raw silk in shades of purple and blue with an uneven hem line. The sweeping, abstract pattern of the cloth and ripple effect of the hemline reminded Allie of ocean waves.
Heidi and her new boyfriend, a local sheriff’s deputy, were the last to arrive, bringing salad and rolls. Allie kissed Heidi on the cheek and shook Mike’s hand. “Don’t let me forget to serve the rolls,” she said to Heidi. “I don’t know why, but I always put them in the oven to warm, then forget them.”
Later, when she looked around at her guests, she missed the sound of children gathered around a smaller table and the aura of closeness that only family could create. She reassured herself that this dinner was traditional in at least one sense, obligatory overeating and mutual compliments about the food.
They consumed second helpings. When everyone complained they were stuffed, Allie herded them to the living room for conversation, dessert and coffee.
Mike and Heidi sat on the sofa with Sue. Allie and Betty took the easy chairs. Allie offered a choice of pumpkin pies. The one with pecans or the one with whipped cream. After she served them, for several minutes there were no sounds but the clink of silverware against china and a few murmurs of appreciation.
Allie again noticed Mike’s huge frame. She wondered if he might want a second piece of pie. He wore blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a blue shirt whose color paled in comparison to the electric blue of his eyes. Set in his warmly tanned face, those eyes were arresting, she thought, then inwardly smiled at her unintentional pun. He did make a virile contrast to his fair-skinned, soft-figured girl friend.
“Would you like another piece of pie, Mike?” He nodded.
“Were you born in the Verde Valley, or did you come from back East, like most of us?” she asked, as she handed him the plate.
“Thank you ma’am. It’s good pie. My momma used to serve it with pecans, too. And no ma’am,” he added, “I’m not from around here. I’m from Texas.”
She smiled. “Whenever someone calls me ‘ma’am’, I know they’re either ex-military or from the South.”
“Yes ma’am. Ah...no ma’am. I mean, I was in the Air Force but I don’t really think of Texas as part of the South.” To her questioning look he said, “We’re just--Texas.”
The others laughed at his implication that Texas deserved a locational category of its own. To ease any embarrassment he might feel, Allie said, “I’m from New York State, Long Island.”
“Delaware,” said Heidi.
“Colorado,” Sue said.
“Well, I’m from here,” Betty finally told them. “Near here, anyway. I was born in Prescott, believe it or not. Most of us born here have the good sense not to leave the Rim.”
“Some of us don’t want to leave even to go home for a visit,” said Heidi.
“How about you Allie?”
“My son is with his father for Thanksgiving. My only other family is two sets of elderly aunts and uncles and several cousins that I hardly know. We're not a big enough incentive to each other for a long flight for a short visit. What I do miss is the fall color this time of year.”
“Gone by now, probably,” Heidi said. “It’s cold and dreary back there.”
“It’s late in the season, but remember the leaves? The red, gold and scarlet, the smell of them, the crunch under your feet, and the big piles kids jump in?”
Betty said, “If you want fall color, take a drive up Eighty-Nine A, along Oak Creek to Flagstaff. The oaks and maples are gorgeous this time of year. Fall comes a little later here than back East.”
Mike turned to Allie. “That drive up Oak Creek Canyon is pretty, but be careful on the way down, especially on the switchbacks near the top. One in particular is a killer. Literally. Not all the cars landed there by accident, either. So many wrecks down in that ravine it looks like a junk yard.”
“I wonder what the locals here do on Thanksgiving,” mused Sue, “besides drive up Oak Creek for the foliage or watch football on TV, of course.”
“They drink beer, smoke dope and beat their wives and kids,” said Mike. “Just like everywhere else.”
Heidi tilted her chin at him. “I thought you weren’t into that cynical cop stuff,” she said.
Mike nodded at Allie’s offer of more coffee. After a thoughtful sip, he turned to Heidi. “It’s because people do such danged, stupid ass things. Uh, excuse me ma’am. Yesterday we had a guy sittin’ on his front porch, threatening to kill himself.
“He had a rifle to his forehead for God’s sake, a nice little Remington Varmint twenty-two made for hunting, not blowing your brains out. For more than an hour, we tried to get him to put the thing down. When he finally lowered the gun, he covered the end of the barrel with his hand and shot himself right through the palm. Made a hole as big as a golf ball. Why would someone do that?”
“Therapists never ask why,” said Betty. She smiled when she saw a question form in his mind. She explained, “When we ask why, clients see it as a challenge. We get excuses, rationalizations, justifications, instead of honest answers.”
“Or outright lies,” said Heidi. “I’ve learned that when you ask someone if they’ve thought of suicide and they say no, it’s a lie. Everyone has thought about it.”
Betty said, “It works to ask the reporter questions, 'what, where, when, who' and maybe 'how'. The most important question is, 'what comes next?'”
Allie had great respect for the older woman’s clinical judgment, yet she felt as if someone had just told her the sky was green. She said, “Isn’t 'why' the most important thing of all? If we help people understand what motivates their behavior, they gain control, they make better choices. 'Why' is the heart of it.”
Betty pursed her lips. “If you have the luxury of working with people who are not seriously mentally ill, people who just have existential issues, I guess that’s true.”
The others appeared thoughtful but no one commented until Heidi spread her arms wide in an emphatic gesture. “The holidays! They drive people nuts, even the opposing team.” She glanced at everyone in turn except the neighbor Sue, a bookkeeper who she obviously did not consider a member of the opposing team.
Allie cocked her head at Heidi. “Wait a second, let me get this straight. The opposing team is us, mental health professionals, law enforcement, and the other team is...?”
“The rest of us, I guess,” said Sue.
Heidi shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult anyone, but sometimes it does feel like a game, people trying to hurt themselves or someone else and us trying to prevent it.”
“No offense taken,” Sue said. “But if you’re the 'opposing team', then who are we? What’s our team name?”
Heidi said, “Depends. We used to call clients 'patients' but that represents the medical model for mental health treatment, driven by psychiatrists. That’s old fashioned. These days some agencies call them 'customers'. In some places they’re 'consumers' or 'members'.”
Sue smiled. “Nothing new about being a 'customer' I can identify. If you call me a 'consumer' it sounds like I could gobble up mental health services like someone wolfing down a burger. Who in heaven’s name would want to be called a 'member'? A member of what, the local 'crazies' club?”
Heidi said, “Good point. I still like 'client' although the guy who shot himself in the hand could start a fine
'crazies' club.”
“Wait a second,” Allie interjected. “I’m a little confused about which team I’m on. The reason I’m a pretty good therapist is that I’ve either suffered from or have friends or neighbors or family members who’ve suffered from just about every issue or diagnosis in the book. I refer to the DSM, of course.”
She started to explain to Sue and Mike that DSM stood for Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the reference book for psychiatrists
and other mental health professionals. Before she could speak, Betty said, “You’re not alone, Allie. A lot of us got into the field that way. It can be compelling to find a perfect description of Uncle What’s-His-Name or even of yourself on page something-or-other in the DSM.
“What most of us don’t realize is that even though we have certain features of a diagnosis, like being obsessive about certain things, that doesn’t mean we have the diagnosis. There are many criteria for any diagnosis. Together they have to interfere with daily life in order to reach the level of a mental disorder.” She smiled at Heidi, her eyes soft with compassion. “And it really isn’t an 'us against them' game, even though it does seem that way at times.”
Sue pursed her lips, gave a little 'humph', then said, “Maybe the guy who shot himself went to Sedona and some guru told him that all the spiritually advanced people have holes in their hands.”
Heidi said, “Or maybe he tried for a stigmata look without realizing he wouldn’t be able to shoot the other hand.”
Mike grinned. “We joked about it, too. I told the guys, 'That hand sure would be a loss in a game of peek-a-boo'.”
“Or a 'handicap' in a game of catch?” said Allie. A few amused groans from the others followed her pun.
Betty smiled. “I like the Sedona explanation. I had a client who went there to see a psychic. She told the psychic, among other revelations I’m sure, that her sister had recently died. Then, that she had a lot of pain in her feet. The psychic said her sister’s ghost was attached to her feet. That was causing the pain.”
Allie managed to say, “For heaven’s sake.” She noticed the expression on Sue’s face and wondered if Sue regretted that her comment had headed the conversation in this direction. “Black humor,” she said to Sue, shrugging her shoulders in apology.
“Darn right,” said Heidi. She leaned forward to put her glass of water on the coffee table but almost lost her balance, several inches short of the target.
“Sorry,” said Mike.
Heidi realized they had pushed the table further away from the sofa to accommodate Mike’s long legs and feet with size thirteen boots.
She smiled at him and turned to Sue. “You know, tasteless jokes are an occupational hazard or maybe a defense mechanism. I guess we all get a little calloused. We see such horrible things and hear such horrible stories. Sometimes we have to laugh because it helps us cope, helps us forget. Otherwise, some of those images would haunt us.”
Her face softened. She looked away, then down at her feet clad in Teva sandals and green socks.
Sue put a hand on Heidi's shoulder. “You’re too young to be cynical, Heidi. I wouldn’t do your job for all the money in the world. It gives you such a limited perspective on life.”
“Ah, ha,” said Mike, looking at Heidi, “Someone else noticed you being cynical. I reckon that means the pot called the kettle black.”
“Yeah, maybe I am cynical or maybe I’m just worn out. Here’s one on me. I got a call from the hospital at about three in the morning last week, to come and evaluate an attempted suicide. I was sound asleep because I was really tired, but I had no choice. I dragged myself out of bed and drove down there. I went in and started to do my job but when I saw the look on the nurse’s face I realized I was still in my pajamas.”
Within an hour, the conversation lost its momentum. When the guests began to leave the coffee pot was empty and only crumbs remained in the pie plates.
Allie saw Mike and Heidi out the door, then Sue, making sure they had the dishes they had brought. The containers had been washed and refilled with leftovers covered in foil.
Only Betty lingered to help with the clean-up. Allie insisted Betty wear one of her own seldom-used aprons to protect her beautiful dress while she scraped plates and helped load the dishwasher. They chatted about past Thanksgiving holidays and about the weather.
“Hey,” Betty said, “did you notice how Heidi and Mike looked on the sofa together?”
The question took Allie by surprise. She shook her head.
“Six feet four inches of brown skin over bulging muscles next to peaches and cream. Beefcake and cream puff. Can you imagine what their children would look like?”
Allie laughed. “I’m picturing some little dude in diapers with size thirteen feet and a ten gallon hat. But we may be jumping the gun. So far, I think they’re just friends.”
“Friends or more than friends, I hope he’s able to give her some TLC, some support. I worry about her. She works too many hours at a tough job. She seems just too stressed out.”
“I know. She should cut down on the crisis work and increase her individual therapy sessions. I think I’ll have a talk with her.”
Betty nodded her approval.
Allie put the table cloth and napkins in the washing machine then turned to Betty. “Done. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re always welcome, Allie. Now I have a favor to ask of you. Can you cover for me with a fragile client while I’m out of town next week? He may not be able to make it by himself for ten days. ”
“Of course. Tell me about him.”
Chapter 4
Night fell early this time of year. The gathering hush of twilight yielded to the distant hum of a few cars on the road, and the first tentative yip-yip of a coyote.
When darkness completely curtained the land its lone voice was joined by another, then another, until the wild celebration of night climaxed in an ululating chorus from the whole pack.
Strangely, it comforted her. She remembered an old film in which cowboys around their lonely campfire called coyotes 'song dogs.' The Navajo, who knew them more intimately, called them tricksters. A creature of many guises, she thought, like me.
The luminous hands of her watch said eight-fifteen. No one had entered or left the house. She was reasonably sure he would spend the rest of the evening alone.
She gathered herself upright on legs and feet stiff with cold and inaction then took off her gloves. She warmed her hands with her breath then worked her feet and legs until the muscles were warm and flexible again. Tenderness in her shoulder and hip reminded her of her clumsy fall just an hour or so ago. There would be black and blue marks tomorrow. She wondered how she would explain them as well as the newer scratches and bruises inflicted by thorny mesquite branches and sharp rocks that lined her hiding place.
Ignoring the discomfort, she patted her jacket to feel the hardness of the little thirty-two weapon in the inner pocket. For backup. She felt good. She felt ready.
She made her way on silent feet toward her car, which she had parked a hundred yards away, downhill and behind a crumbling adobe shack, where it couldn’t be seen from the road. The interior of the car was pitch black. She fumbled with her key to find the ignition switch but resisted the automatic reflex to switch on the dome light. She took what appeared to be a cell phone from her jacket pocket. She engaged its tiny flashlight to see how to insert the key to start the engine.
When she pulled up close to the house, she was careful to allow enough room for his car to exit the garage, then turned off her headlights. Beside the front door, a small light fixture cast an anemic glow on something she hadn’t noticed earlier. The skeleton of a cactus, that virtually indestructible native of the desert, stood in its coffin of concrete and dry soil. It was long dead.
The slab of concrete that served as a porch stood beneath a flat roof. It sloped downward from the house, supported on either side by battered four-by-four timbers.
Stepping onto the porch, she put what looked like a cell phone to her ear while she pressed the door bell with her left hand. She began talking into the phone as if to a friend, aware that he might peek out the front window to see her. After a few seconds, she heard his footsteps. As soon as he opened the door and she was sure he heard and saw her, she finished the charade by pressing the gadget with her thumb as if to end a call.
“Uncle!” she said. “They told me you were in town again.”
Nothing. Then he s
tarted in recognition. His eyes darted around then behind her into the darkness. He saw her empty car. His brows drew together in a question.
“Just me,” she said. “I was thinking about old times, you know, the things we used to do together?” She shrugged and raised an eyebrow. He read the expression as an invitation. Without speaking, he backed away and opened the door wider.
She stepped over the threshold into the narrow hallway. He closed the door. She noticed something else she hadn’t earlier. This wasn’t the house she remembered from childhood but it smelled the same, a stink of sweat, dust and sex.
The dark and quiet in the hallway was relieved only by the blue flickering light of the TV set in the living room with its background noise of screeching car tires and gunshots.
She felt him behind her. She turned to press her back against the wall of the hallway, as if to let him lead the way. Instead of passing, he turned to face her. A sudden chill pricked her scalp, threatened to rise into panic. She hadn’t expected fear.
She pressed the safety switch on the gadget in her hand. A tiny red light indicated 'enabled.' Without a word, she jammed the two metal prongs of the stun gun against the side of his neck, sending four and a half million volts of electricity into his body.
He jerked backward, slammed against the wall. Expecting it, she went with him, keeping the stun gun against his neck. His leg muscles were useless against the surging current. He slid down the wall, his arms and hands jerking. His mouth opened, dripping spittle.
She straddled his right leg to bend down over him, keeping her fist and the stun gun still hard against his neck. She felt his muscle spasms travel up her arm but no chargeback entered her body.
Adrenalin-infused, panting, she stood upright and backed against the wall. He remained slumped in a half-sitting position against the opposite wall, feet and legs twitching, eyes unfocused, moaning.
According to the product information he would be helpless for at least the next two or three minutes. She put the stun gun in her pocket and ran outside to grab her other supplies. In the open air, the soft sounds of the night were like a ripple of far away applause. The surge of clean, cold air against her face felt like a blessing.
The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy Page 6