If I was a bad mother, I wasn’t above using it to my advantage. “Maybe you should—”
“I’ll go help her find something suitable to wear,” Evelyn said. “Otherwise, she may end up dressed like you.”
“Good plan.” I didn’t argue. I wanted them both out of the room.
“Okay. What’s going on?” Jim said as soon as they were out of earshot.
I handed him the phone. “The last pictures.”
“Who took these?”
“How the hell do I know? Whoever stole my purse.”
“When—”
“Yesterday. How did he find us?”
“They took your wallet. Your driver’s license.”
“It was Blevins.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“I saw him. Oh, god.” My keys.
Jim didn’t say anything.
“I used Abby’s key to get into the house yesterday. I don’t know where mine are.” After Abby lost one house key after another, we hid one in the garage. Back when I still went to work, she used it after school. “He has my keys. He can get into the house.”
“I have them. You left them in the Jeep.”
Why did Blevins take my purse and not my keys? I stood.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to leave the spare in the garage. He knows where we live.”
“It’s on the counter. You didn’t put it back yesterday.”
I sat back down. “It is Blevins.”
“I’m not going to have this discussion with you.”
Jim’s refusal to discuss—argue—always worked like Abby’s Idunno, except it pissed me off. I couldn’t fight with someone who refused to fight back.
“I want the locks changed.”
“All the keys are accounted for.”
“I don’t care. I want new locks. And keys.”
“Look. I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re both cranky. If you insist, I’ll do it tomorrow. If you want it done today, you’ll have to do it yourself.” He reached for the last sticky bun.
“That’s mine. You had toast.”
He backed down. He was stubborn, not stupid.
He put my phone into a zippy-bag. “I don’t know that it’ll do any good, but there might be prints. I’ll run it to the station.”
“Not now. You need sleep.” I was angry, but I still didn’t want him to leave. I wanted to kill him for not believing me about Blevins, but I wanted him home, with me, protecting me. Maybe Evelyn was right. Maybe Abby did inherit her issues from me.
“As soon as I get back.”
“Take it tomorrow. If you can’t change the locks, you don’t need to be driving. Humor me. Do I look like a sane woman?”
“You don’t sound like one.” Evelyn was back. Yippee.
Jim had his back to me again, but I was sure I heard him snicker.
Abby would be the best dressed kid at the cinema-plex. We’d bought her dress for going to weddings not to the mall.
“We’ll do some shopping, have some lunch, then see a movie. If there is a suitable one playing,” Evelyn said. No worries about Abby picking up any more unsuitable storytelling while she was with her grandmother.
“Gramma says I need new clothes.”
She didn’t, but I bit my tongue and didn’t respond. I’d be nice to Evelyn and save my battles for Jim.
Abby wore ballet flats. The snow was melting, but the weather was still cold and the ground covered in slush. I made her change into more appropriate footwear. Not such a bad mom after all. One point for me. Minus one for Evelyn.
“Be sure to get receipts, and come back here for dinner.” I waved them out the door.
“Maybe I’ll change and go to Home Depot,” I said. How hard could it be to change the back door locks?
“How are you going to get there?”
Oh, yeah. No Jeep. “I’ll take your car.”
“Not until you get more sleep.”
Whether it was heredity or environment, Jim did a fine job of matching his mother’s tone. She’d left, and I was in no mood to listen to her voice coming out of her son. He looked and sounded like a smug, condescending jerk, and I geared up to tell him so.
I froze at the sound of the back door opening. Locks didn’t do any good if you didn’t use them.
Abby stuck her head into the kitchen. “You should ignore him. It is okay. You will not be in trouble,” she said and disappeared. The back door slammed. Evelyn revved the Lincoln, and they left.
“I’m not even going to try to work that one out,” Jim said.
Neither was I. I ignored him and locked the door.
Jim went to bed. Sami and I curled up on the couch. I nodded off a few times, but when I slept, I dreamt about the photos. I stood at the door. I waited for Abby to get off the bus, but she never did. I tried to find whomever took the pictures. I found him, but he disappeared before I got a good look. Each time, I found him in a different place, and each time he vanished as soon as I found him. I knew it was Blevins.
On my few forays off the couch, Sami stuck to me like Velcro-pup. A walk would do us both good, but I couldn’t work up the ambition. In the backyard, she did her business and raced back to the house. I was grateful. I didn’t want to be outside either.
After Jim took my phone to the station, I might never see it again. I didn’t care about the phone, but I did care about the pictures. I backed them up. All of them, including the mystery photos. I should have worn gloves, but my prints were already all over it, so I didn’t bother. If Jim found out, he’d tell me a cop’s wife should know better. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and I didn’t plan to tell him. I copied the pictures to my laptop without looking at them and went back to the couch.
“Come on, Sami. Time for another nap.”
An hour later, I got the laptop back out. I was still staring at the photos when I heard Evelyn’s car in the driveway.
I let them in the back door.
“You should have combed your hair and put on real clothes.” Abby had spent the afternoon with my mother-in-law.
I ordered pizza for dinner.
“I would have come back earlier and cooked if I’d known you were in that bad of shape,” Evelyn said.
While we waited for delivery, Abby showed off her new wardrobe. After Evelyn-directed shopping trips, I always let Abby choose one thing to keep, and the rest were exchanged for clothes more suitable for a seventeen-year old than a sixty-plus-year old. Abby couldn’t tell the difference and didn’t care, but I did. She unerringly chose to keep the thing I hated most. My money was on the lavender sweatshirt—embroidered butterflies and a built in mock turtleneck. I predicted it would soon meet the bleach bottle in a horrible accident.
Abby explained why each piece was proper attire for a young lady. I made phony oohs and aahs. Jim’s approving noises might have been real. Evelyn looked smug. The arrival of the pizza—deluxe, with all the good stuff—rescued me before I said something I shouldn’t.
“My favorite!” Faced with pepperoni, mushrooms, and olives, Abby dropped her Evelyn-act.
I hoped Evelyn would decide the pizza was too much for her delicate system and leave, but Abby begged her to stay and grandparent-syndrome prevailed. She acted like she enjoyed her single slice, after she picked the onions off.
Abby went into happy-overload. She doesn’t process emotions in the typical way, and overload was usually bad, but when she was really happy, it took over her entire body. Her hands flew to either side of her face, palms forward. She pulled her elbows into her body, scrunched over, and quivered, as if she was trying to draw in all the good feelings around her and keep them inside. Her eyes shone, and her smile was as wide as the Grand Canyon.
I hadn’t seen happy-overload in weeks. It was contagious. I basked in her glow, and my chills went away. I was finally warm again.
“Abby, stop that,” Evelyn said.
“Let her be,” I spoke softly, not wanting Abby to hear,
but Evelyn heard me and, for some reason, listened.
We opened a bottle of wine and spent the rest of the evening pretending things were normal. By the time we opened the second bottle, well after Evelyn was gone, I almost believed it.
Jim suggested we take shifts with Abby. “I’m off tomorrow. There’s no reason for you not to get some sleep.”
“I’ll take the first shift this time.” Wine tends to make me agreeable.
It also makes me sleepy.
I’m in my Jeep, on Betchel Road. Blevins looms in front of me. He has my phone and holds it up to take pictures as I hurtle toward him. I jam my foot on the gas pedal instead of the brake. He is laughing when I hit him.
The impact woke me. The four triple-shots of expresso in under an hour kind of awake. I wanted to jump out of my skin and run laps around the room and bounce off the ceiling. Lights—like I’d looked into the sun or a camera flash, but the wrong shape—danced in my eyes. I didn’t know what time it was, and the lights blinded me, blocked out the numbers on Abby’s clock. She was asleep. I didn’t think I’d been out long enough for her to have woken up.
Sami put her paw on my knee.
“You would have let me know if she woke up, wouldn’t you?” I scratched her chin and closed my eyes.
The bright spots didn’t go away. I concentrated on the biggest one. A jagged crescent like a backwards C, it floated just at the corner of my vision. If I could push it away, make it fade—
“Mom. Mom. It is 12:32.” Abby was awake.
“I’m not sleeping.” I opened my eyes. She stood right in front of me. I never heard her get out of bed.
“He does not like pizza.” She handed me her book. “We should read now.”
We’d read Little Women so many times, I barely needed the book. As I read, filling in the words I couldn’t see from memory, the spots faded, but I read on autopilot until she interrupted me.
“I’m not listening.” She sat straight and stiff in her bed, her hands on her ears.
“I thought you loved this book.”
“Not you, Mom. You should keep reading.”
“I like grapes.”
She lay down and closed her eyes. “And bananas. Read. Finish the chapter.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I love bananas. One in particular.” I did as I was told.
Except, I never woke Jim.
[17]
The Ceiling Man
HE LEANED AGAINST THE BUILDING, watched the sun rise, and listened to his stomach growl. His new housing needed food, but the snack cakes and chips available inside the Gas-N-Git held no interest for him.
“Ho Hos are good,” Blevins said.
«No. Not what I need.»
Two men stood and chatted by the pumps. They’d filled their tanks before he arrived, and he didn’t know who belonged to which car. Not that it mattered. The cars weren’t what he was after. Still, the driver of the Prius would no doubt be missed sooner than the driver of the whatever-it-was. A rear bumper held on with a bungee cord was seldom the mark of a solid citizen. Bungee-man would buy him some time.
The girl and her family were solid citizens. He couldn’t stop thinking about the brat. If it weren’t for her, he’d feed and move on. If it weren’t for her, he’d already be gone.
The men’s clothing provided no clues. Both wore nearly identical jeans, sheepskin-lined canvas jackets, and work boots—the local uniform.
He nudged Blevins, asked if he knew either of them. No answer.
«First you’ve got diarrhea of the mouth and now you’re missing in action?»
“I’m not listening,” Blevins said in perfect imitation of the girl. “Not until you buy me a Ho Ho.”
Irritating.
He focused on the men. Odds were one of them would meet his needs.
“I left with an extra forty in my pocket. They didn’t rip me off this time,” the short, tubby one said.
“It’s a casino. They don’t rip you off. You willingly feed them your cash.” The scrawny one had a point.
“Yeah, but they’re always announcing winners. ‘Betty Boopsy won $1000! Joe Ass-wipe won $12,000!’ Someday, I wanna hear, ‘Congratulations Artie Galpin, winner of millions!’”
The tubby one’s name was Artie. Good to know.
“Don’t you stick to the penny slots?” Not-Artie laughed. “How much do you think you’re gonna win?”
“Screw you. I came home with forty more than I went with. I’m thinking positive,” Artie said.
“How much have you lost on other trips? Ever add it all up?”
“Doesn’t matter. Forty bucks, man. I’m a freaking winner. Thinking positive. I went there thinking positive, and I came home a winner.”
Artie had to belong to the beater. Maybe he’d buy new bungees with his fabulous forty, if he got the chance. The sensible one would belong to the hybrid. Probably had a wife and kids at home. People, so predictable.
Too bad both sounded sober. Drunks were pushovers, but then, so were the stupid.
He reached out and tickled them, just a little.
Artie flinched. No surprise there. Not-Artie didn’t move. Didn’t completely rule him out, but he’d take more effort. Easy was better.
“You okay?” Not-Artie said.
“I dunno.” Artie rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I felt. . .eh. Bet it’s the stuff the casino pumps into the air. You know, to keep you gambling.” He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “I need to head home, get some sleep.”
Artie would be easy. Sleepy and stupid was as good as—or better than—drunk.
“Hey, Artie.” He spoke from the shadows, his face hidden.
“How-ya-doin?” Artie said.
“Need a ride, man.”
“Sure thing. Get in.” Artie opened the door to the Prius.
Imagine that. Sometimes, they surprised him. He stepped into the sunlight.
“You know Blevins?” Not-Artie asked.
“Nah. Random act of kindness,” Artie said.
“You better hang on to your fat wallet. Guy’s an ass.”
“I’m thinking positive,” Artie said.
Moron. They never knew he played them. They just did as they were told.
“Unless some little girl stops you.” Blevins buzzed in his head like a mosquito. “Oh, Mrs. Lamb? Please open the door. Baaaaaa. Baaaaaa.”
«Enough.» He slammed the door on Blevins.
“Should’ve bought me a Ho Ho.” Blevins voice was muffled and distant. Easy to ignore. He had other things to concentrate on.
“Yeah. Sure. See you Monday.” Not-Artie got into the bungie-mobile and roared off in a cloud of exhaust.
Monday. They worked together. Artie wasn’t wearing a ring. With any luck, no one would miss him before Monday. With any luck, he’d finish the girl and be long gone before Monday.
“Better hurry up,” Blevins was back, loud and clear.
«Enough!» The cretin went dark, but he didn’t know for how long. He’d think positive, like Artie.
“Where ya going?” Artie asked.
“You know Netcher Road?” One of Blevins’s hidey-holes.
“Off Workman? With the big pond?”
“Exactly.”
They rode in silence until Artie turned onto Netcher.
“All the way to the pond.” Car was quiet. He’d give it that. “So, what kind of mileage do you get from this thing?”
“Hasn’t lived up to expectations.”
“As last words go, those work,” the Ceiling Man said.
• • •
A SNACK AND two hundred dollars. Not bad. The Prius and the leftover Artie rested at the bottom of the pond. Even if someone missed him, it should take a while to find him.
On Workman Road, he visited the abandoned trailer. Yellow police tape hung in strips on the dented and unlocked door. Whoever broke in was long gone. He wanted to clean up. Blevins’s personal habits left a lot to be desired. Should have let him take a shower the last time
they were there.
No lights, but the water was hot. He didn’t need lights. He needed soap.
The grime rolled off and swirled down the drain. Some remained, embedded in wrinkles and crevices, and he knew he’d carry it as long as he wore Blevins. A drawback of taking only the throw-away people, but worth it. Fewer complications. Nobody missed his pets.
The place was a mess, ransacked, but it appeared the previous visitor was only after cash or drugs and electronics. Wires hung from an empty cabinet. The television was gone, but the day-to-day detritus of the late and unlamented Tits—Blevins did have a way with names—littered the trailer. He found shaving gear and got rid of the beard.
Not exactly a handsome man, to put it mildly. No wonder Blevins went for the cover of chin hair. It wasn’t only for lack of shaving opportunity.
“Yeah. Fuck you.” Blevins was awake and out of his cage.
«Eloquent. Back in your crate.»
The hair was beyond help. He thought about shaving it, but Tits’s disposable razors weren’t up to the task. Instead, he found a rubber band and pulled it into a ponytail. Slightly less wild man, not quite mellow hippy. Blevins might be recognized, but not with a casual glance. He counted on nobody looking closely, another advantage of using the throw-aways.
Blevins’s clothes were so crusty they stood upright in the corner where he’d left them. Time to shop the Tits Discount Store for Redneck Attire.
If the dead man left any heirs, they hadn’t claimed his collection of T-shirts with stupid sayings. Understandable. Half Man, Half Horse and It’s not a Beer Belly, It’s a Gas Tank for a Sex Machine stayed on the floor. He found a thick flannel shirt and a couple of sweatshirts he was willing to wear. Tits got good marks for keeping up with the laundry. The clothes were clean.
Blevins wasn’t a big man, but Tits had been a scrawny guy and the shirts fit. Jeans were a different matter. He considered rolling the cuffs. With Blevins’s leather jacket, the look was comical. His standards were low, but they were still standards.
In the open junk drawer—there was always a junk drawer—he found a pair of scissors and cut two inches off the pant legs. Raggedy, but better than looking like an extra in an amateur production of Grease. In the same drawer, he found a Swiss Army knife and pocketed it. Might come in handy.
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