Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  Sheila’s dad had to arrange to have an electrician to the house after the power outage. The technician arrived before Katie Lee, Hugh, and I returned from New Bern. Restoring power was a quick fix, once the technician discovered the scorched rat. Francine told us that replacing the gnawed wires had taken under an hour. Just the same, after the blackout and the Gas N’Biscuit fiery end to my freedom wheels, I’d taken to applying extra caution with my everyday life. There were two wounds that needed more than a Band-Aid, one required four sutures and another three. I made sure curling irons and toasters were unplugged before I left the house and as an extreme measure, I’d given up cigarettes.

  This morning, as I awoke, I had slumbering company. The lump in the bed parallel to mine slept in a mint green shower cap and wore lotion-infused gloves on her hands. This year with heavy study loads, and relationships, hers not mine, it was a rare occasion that Francine spent the night in her own bed. I guessed she had a big test or Roger had an away basketball game.

  Francine Battle was the first in her family to attend college. A lot of admiration and pressure rested on her shoulders. She took her pre-law major seriously and at the beginning of the year, she insisted I sign a contract itemizing basic, considerate roommate rules:

  Vacuum and change bedding every week. No problem as we both were clean freaks.

  No smoking in the bedroom. I’ve quit, so fine.

  Don’t mess with the opposite side of the bedroom. Whatever.

  Do not under any circumstance have guys spending the night in the room unless agreed upon by both roommates. Hasn’t been an issue for me and at this rate it seemed like it wasn’t going to be.

  I didn’t have any love interest on campus. Now that the Galaxie had morphed into a hunk of charred metal, I didn’t even have a vehicle to get away. I supposed it was for the best to avoid the temptation of Bubba Jackson since all he led me to was pain and suffering.

  Katie Lee and I carpooled most days, and if I was desperate, Sheila was always willing to lend me her car, though I avoided borrowing it. Not because I was afraid of wrecking it, but because I already lived in her killer pad, paying cheaper rent than it cost to live in a dorm, and I didn’t want to fertilize the feeling that I owed her.

  Slinking out of bed, I unplugged the heating pad. After launching through the air at the Gas N’Biscuit, I’d landed hard on Bubba Jackson. The pulsing heat helped relax my stiff lower back and ease the buttock spasm that still acted up with the first few paces in the morning.

  Since it was Sheila’s house, she had commandeered the first floor bedroom with an attached luxury bathroom. I’d only seen her quarters once. None of us questioned why she kept it locked even when she was in the house. It was her house and besides, it wasn’t like I wanted to share her bathroom. That would only lead to TMI—too much information—and I already had a fat file on everything Sheila Sinclair. It was no surprise that the second floor bathroom for four girls had become littered with beauty products that emptied at a rapid rate. Instead of accusing my roommates of generously sampling, I’d taken to carrying a plastic shower caddy with my favorites: Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific, Caress, Noxzema and a Daisy razor. With my essentials in hand, I shuffled my sleepy limbs down the hall. Below the t-shirt I’d slept in, scabs from the where Dr. Brown had plucked out scraps of my vehicle had begun to itch. On the short stroll, my mind bounced around. I’d stayed up late typing a paper and I wanted to proofread what I’d written on “The Transcendence of art from Baroque to Postmodern,” one more time before I handed it in.

  A light in the bathroom flicked off and the door snapped open. Clay Sorenson’s chest smacked into mine, causing my still-tender back to ache. In close proximity, I couldn’t help but inhale his warm, woody scent with overtones of raw sweat.

  “Clay?”

  He stood bare-chested in just a pair of blue tartan boxers. “Jesus, Rach. Don’t you knock?”

  I looked down his shapely muscular legs to his bare feet. “What are doing in my bathroom?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Don’t you have one in your apartment?”

  He didn’t immediately answer my question. His eyes avoided mine. It was before eight. Self-consciously I tugged my shirt bottom.

  “His voice lowered. “Your roommate and I. Well, we’ve become, friendly.”

  I stiffened. “You’re seeing Sheila? Again?”

  He slid his arms down mine and shuffled me to one side. “No.”

  A clonk come from Katie Lee’s room. “Hugh and Katie Lee, they’re still together?”

  “That’s gross. I wouldn’t date my roommate’s girlfriend.”

  I heard another masculine voice mumbling behind Katie Lee’s door.

  “Why are you and Hugh always over here?”

  “This house is way nicer than ours. Besides, Jet and I. We’re. You know. Seeing one another.”

  If I hadn’t been awake, I was now. My nose crinkled like it had detected spoiled meat.

  Freshman year, Clay dated Sheila, then Hugh dated Sheila. I went out with Clay and Hugh hooked up with Katie Lee. These two were circling vultures.

  “Can’t you find someone who’s not my roommate?”

  From down the hall I heard a door lock click. Jet didn’t mind showing off her neon geometric shape bikinis and a day-glow yellow tank top. “Oh, Rach. I heard noises.” She leaned over the stair railing and peered down the steps. Everything okay?”

  Was everything okay? Yes, in that we weren’t being robbed and the house didn’t have a gas leak, but NO in that you had done the deed with Clay mere feet from where I slept. It made me feel grimy.

  “I want to get in the shower. Will you be long?” she asked.

  Slipping past Clay, I locked the bathroom door. My life over the past few weeks fell in a steady decline from bad to worse. I turned the hot water high enough to wash away all the nonsense that orbited my world. It wasn’t any one particular thing, but a culmination of people and scenarios, plus the prickly edge I suffered from nicotine withdrawal. Classes and schoolwork, I had a handle on. I’d even gotten into a routine interning for Schleck. I could read her moods and knew we’d exchange a few obligatory pleasantries before I tucked into one of her cataloguing tasks. But as hard as I tried to be adult about it, I didn’t know the appropriate etiquette to deal with an ex-boyfriend dating my friend. It felt icky. How had my personal life come to this?

  After a ten-minute shower, I marched my turban head, towel-swathed body back into my room, closed the door, and stood next to Francine’s bed. A drip plopped off my elbow and splattered her lavender satin sheet. There hadn’t been any tension between us that I’d ever noticed. Jet and I were friendly. We’d spent last spring break at her uncle’s beach house. Back then, she had a hometown boyfriend.

  Why should I care who Jet dates? I’ll tell you why, the inner me spouted. She’s flaunting him in your face, parading him up and down the hall. She’s feasting on your leftovers.

  “If you’re still looming over me in three seconds, I’ve going to make you wish your mama was here to save your sorry ass.”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Don’t be making big eyes at me, I’m asleep.”

  My knee nudged her mattress. “Can we talk?”

  She buried her head under the pillow. “No.”

  I scooted my tushie on the edge of her bed. “Did you know Jet is seeing Clay?”

  “If that boy had an idea, it would die of loneliness.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  After a big huff of air, Francine sat up. She tucked three ruffled pillows behind her back and lifted her eye mask. “I figured it was a matter of time before those two got their wires crossed.”

  “How come you knew and I didn’t?”

  “For all the smarts you have, you don’t see what’s under your own nose. His backside has been around here so often he’s put a dent in the sofa cushion. If he’s not over here, he’s calling. She’s been encouraging him. Appl
ing extra eyeliner, wearing her black bra under a white tank when she knows there’s the chance that he may be trailing that Hugh clown on over here.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “Do you really care?”

  “No. It’s annoying. Having his near-naked-self using our bathroom.”

  She sat upright. “Is he still there?”

  “Probably. I want to forget Clay, but no one around here will let me.”

  “I thought you’d done that a long time ago.”

  “I had,” I blurted.

  “Then why you making such a fuss?”

  Closing my eyes, I mumbled like a child. “I don’t know. It’s just annoying.”

  A smirk pressed against the corners of Francine’s mouth. One finger at a time, she began removing her night gloves. “You’re pining ‘cause you don’t have a chocolate in the box.”

  “Roger’s a great guy, but I’m not looking for his twin.”

  A glove swatted my bare shoulder. “You can be so daft. You have a string of fellows lining the sidewalk.”

  “Do not.”

  “That young’un that came here looking for you.”

  “Mitch and I are friends.”

  “What about that detective in the fancy sports car? He’s always scheming for some sort of excuse to rescue you. Give him a call.”

  “Agent Cauldwell is strictly business.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  I sleeked over to my side of the room and rummaged for a clean pair of jeans.

  There was someone I missed.

  “Whatever happened to bird boy? The one that likes wearing stuffed cockatoos?” She was referring to my on-again off-again bartender ornithologist past hook up.

  “Stone finished his work study. Last I heard he accepted a job as a naturalist on Spring Island.”

  “For a white boy, he’s a good looker and knows how to pour a drink. Get on the phone and tell him it’s time for a congenial visit.”

  “Francine. I can’t just call him without a reason.”

  “You have a damn good reason.”

  “I am not going to grovel for an invite to visit him. Besides, I no longer have transportation.”

  “Halloween is coming up. Invite him to our party.”

  “We’re not having a party.”

  “Says who?”

  NOTE TO SELF

  I hate when Francine has a point. She gloats for days.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wag the Dog

  More leaves lay on the dormant grass than on branches, and the air held a warm earthy smell, as the sun dried the moss that clung to the trunks and the few leaves that still clung to wayward branches. Inside the flamingo house, cotton spider webs had been fastened between the staircase banisters and netted upon the light fixtures. Our place brimmed with masked and painted faces, some I recognized from around campus, others I didn’t, putting me in a festive mood. Everybody who stopped by headed toward the keg on the back deck. Whether you wanted to see or be seen, the raised wooden structure was a prime viewing locale. The railing that enclosed the raised wood slates heaved with the backsides of guests leaning and sitting on it.

  From stools at the breakfast bar Roger and I watched our house fill to capacity, while Francine stood on the other side of the half-wall cut-out inside the kitchen. Sheila wore a black Spandex body suit. As Catwoman, she also accessorized with a mask and carried a black leather riding crop. The get-up clung like Saran Wrap, and revealed more than the prominent decadence of her red lipstick. I’d spent a good half an hour attaching Princess Leia ear buns to Francine’s head. Dressed in a sheath of silver, she stirred a black rum punch that bobbed with cherry-juice-stained-marshmallows stuffed with black olive eyeballs. “Roommate or no roommate, that girl’s showing everything but her religion. It’s not right showing kingdom come your bits like that. I’m telling you she’d make a preacher cuss.”

  The tan overalls Roger had belted at the waist carried a bunch of gadgets. If it weren’t for the lightsaber he fiddled with, I would have pegged him as a zookeeper, not Luke Skywalker. “Francie, you want me to take on Batgirl? Slice her in two?”

  Francine didn’t reply, which was for the best. I’d seen Sheila playing with the crop before the party. If she busted a move, Roger would have to be on his A-game with his lightsaber ‘cause this wasn’t her first rodeo.

  In a pocket in the family room, I spied Katie Lee and Hugh standing near Jet and Clay. An anxious energy sparked about seeing Stone. My invitation was last minute and when he said he’d come, I’d been surprised. He had an interview set up on campus prior to our party, but hadn’t told me any details. He’d said he didn’t want to jinx anything, and that he’d tell me about it when he stopped by.

  I’d had to make serious concessions to Francine to get her to agree to spend the night at Roger’s. I considered not telling her about Stone at all, in hopes that she’d end up over at her boyfriend’s anyway, but last minute I’d spilled the beans and she’d worked me over in the deal. Stone was worth the extra room cleaning I’d be doing between now and Thanksgiving.

  I ladled a taste of her punch. “Blackberry?”

  She nodded.

  My elbow nudged Roger, “Don’t encourage Francine to battle Sheila. It won’t end well.”

  “Are you implying that some freckle-face, skinny chick can take me down?”

  I stink-eyed Francine’s boyfriend. If she charged Sheila, I wasn’t breaking them up. I’d leave the sorting of limbs to Roger. Endowed with giraffe height and in the middle of basketball season, he was the fittest one at the party and since he egged Francine on, I considered her his responsibility.

  From behind, I felt a tap on the shoulder and noticed Francine’s eyes squint in a peeved slant. “If you walk in the pasture long enough, you’re bound to step in some sooner or later.”

  Adjusting my plastic faux-steel wristbands, I took a sip of the punch and rotated my stool with caution.

  “Hey, Raz. Staying in trouble?”

  “Nash?”

  Katie Lee hadn’t mentioned that she’d extended him an invite.

  “Did you drive in from New Bern?” I found myself wondering if he was violating some sort of parole, for some recent offense, but decided the less I knew, the safer I was.

  “In a way. I’m working for a courier service and had a drop off in town today.”

  “Courier service?” Nash had worked a courier service freshman year and delivered fake paintings to art galleries for Billy Ray. But I knew Billy Ray was permanently out of business. He must have tracked with my thoughts when he mumbled, “It’s legit.”

  My hand rose to my neck and I thumbed my eye of Horus necklace that a voodoo maven had gifted me. Halloween brought out the crazies and now, with Nash in the house, I needed all the super powers I could summon. “Francine, Roger. Do you know Nash Wilson? Katie Lee’s old...” I cleared my throat. “friend from The Bern?”

  “There aren’t any permanent Sharpie markers in the house, so you can forget about playing tattoo artist on me at this party.”

  Roger suppressed a giggle while Nash gasped, pretending to be shocked by the accusation.

  When Francine stood in the kitchen, she liked to command the space. A few close calls with hot oil and knives, and my roommates, Roger, and I had learned to give her a wide berth. She cooked things that filled the house with amazing aromas and always cleaned up, leaving the counters and the oven cleaner than when she started. With swiftness and agility, she reached through the breakfast bar opening that separated us and grabbed Nash’s collar. “It took two days to get the serpent off my back. Roger had to use and an entire bottle of baby oil.”

  Nash plucked Francine’s fingers from his suit, one at a time until he unfastened himself from her. “That’s quite a grip you have.” He said straightening the white motorcycle helmet that had a red M taped to the front. A red bandana had been tied to his neck and I was surprised that Francine hadn’t given it a tug. Below the neck he wore a navy polo, white
pants and red socks with a pair of black Adidas sneakers.

  “Nice Helmet head. What are you? The construction dude in The Village People?”

  “Wonder Woman’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Is your bustier cutting off circulation?”

  I’d had giddy nerves for a week and pushed the envelope in my Wonder Woman swimsuit costume. I threw in wearing a flag as a cape for modesty’s sake. That and my endowments were nowhere close to Lynda Carter’s prized melons. Carrying off a strapless swimsuit was no easy endeavor for an AB cup on-a-good-day kind of gal. “If all you’ve brought are insults.”

  “Think of a famous race car driver.”

  “You’re no Dale Earnhardt,” Francine said.

  “Comic book racecar driver, darlin’,” he said, and winked which only flustered Francine.

  Roger snapped his fingers to spark his memory. “Oh that Japanese cartoon. Wasn’t there a pet monkey?”

  Nash arched his eyebrows. “Chim-Chim.”

  “Speed Racer? You were into that?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Speeding cars, lawless behavior, hanging out with a juvie and his girlfriend. The similarities between him and the cartoon were eerily close.

  You’re a starter this year?” Nash asked Roger

  “Yeah. Guard. We’re unbeaten.”

  As the guys’ conversation veered into the division standings, Francine asked, “Where is bird boy?”

  “Quit asking, it makes me more nervous. My armpits are already tacky.”

  “Flighty one, is he?” She said with an air of nonchalance. She knew I was a nervous wreck, hoping the magic Stone and I had shared hadn’t disappeared into some vortex.

  Stone had a range of talents and interests, which made him complicated. An intellectual, he immersed himself in his graduate degree in the sciences, specializing in ornithology. When we were alone, he’d revealed dabbles of information about birds, breeding, habitats, disease, and everything under the feather-mammal umbrella. When we’d hiked on Spring Island there wasn’t a critter, insect, or bird that he didn’t know. He’d been in the Navy, and I knew that he volunteered for the International Union for the Conservation of Nature—ICUN—to help stop the illegal trade of our feathered friends. It had taken three years to assemble those tidbits, and unless I asked, he kept a tight lip on his service, and his involvement saving the animals on the planet. He had a worldliness that he managed to guard. Francine asked a lot of questions about Stone that I couldn’t answer. She thought it was unnatural not to talk about oneself, accomplishments, that sort of thing. I found her insight unhelpful, and preferred to think he wasn’t the braggie type.