by Anna Jeffrey
When she opened her eyes and turned, Mama was standing at the kitchen counter, holding the phone receiver, her brow knit into a frown and a distant look in her eyes.
“Who’s on the phone?” Marisa asked her.
Mama looked at the receiver, then at Marisa. Tears welled in her eyes and she began to cry.
“I don’t know.”
Marisa went to her and hugged her close. At the same time, she put the receiver to her ear and said, “Hello?” She heard only a dial tone, so she would never know if someone had called, if Mama had made a call or had simply picked up the receiver.
Her mother’s body shook with sobs and Marisa cooed to her and rubbed her back. When Marisa had first returned, Mama cried often, knowing she was losing touch with the world and grieving over it. In those days Marisa heard her say things like her body was going to outlast her mind or that she was becoming a prisoner in her own skin and Marisa had even feared she might do something drastic, like take her own life.
Lately the fleeting moments of awareness occurred less often. Now it was Marisa who grieved, functioning in a constant state of stress and debating in the deepest recesses of her heart if Mama was better off alive and crazy or dead and at peace.
“I don’t know, Marisa,” Mama said again, sobbing. “Oh, Lord, I don’t know.”
Chapter 9
Marisa headed for Pecos Belle’s too late to catch breakfast customers who might have spent the night in the motel. Sessions like the one she had just had with her mother always left her drained. It had taken one of the knock-out pills to calm Mama and now she would be out for the rest of the day.
Marisa entered Pecos Belle’s through the apartment’s back door and made her way through to the café, then through the flea market to the front door, sidling past and stepping over this and that. Mr. Patel, Bob Nichols and Ben Seagrave were standing on the sidewalk by the front door waiting for her. Knowing--and dreading--that an impromptu meeting of some kind loomed, she unlocked the front door and let them in.
The three men passed in front of her single-file and silent, with Ben bringing up the rear. She hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks. He wore a silly grin and reeked of whiskey. His gray T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts looked as if he had been wearing them for days. Both were covered with stains, the origin of which Marisa dared not speculate. Bob had been right. Ben was drinking.
“Hello, Marisssa,” he said. In his cups, he always pronounced her name as if it were spelled with three Ss.
“Hi, Ben,” she answered, unsmiling.
As she dragged mugs off the shelf, the men sat down on the padded vinyl stools at the lunch counter. The trio made an odd-looking group if she ever saw one. Ben, tall and skinny with leathery skin tanned to the color of toasted almonds; Bob, short and pale, his face and tiny no-color eyes almost hidden by a bush of white hair and beard; Mr. Patel, short, thin and dark and intense.
Ben declined coffee. He had brought something over ice with him. She allowed him to drink liquor in the café if he brought it, but she refused to serve him. She had no license to sell or serve alcohol.
The men sat grim-faced and silent, sipping their respective beverages. When no one said anything, she threw some crushed ice in a cup and drew a Diet Coke for herself. “Okay, y’all, what’s this about?
Bob’s eyes bored into her in an accusing way. “We saw you go to the new owner’s trailer.”
“Lemme guess. You want to know what we talked about.”
“Yes,” they said in chorus.
She sighed. Of course they were worried. Knowing that was the only reason she tolerated their waiting at her front door for a report. “Well, if you must know, Gordon mentioned the guy might close down the trailer park, which would leave poor Gordon in a pretty bad spot. So that’s what we talked about. The man said he would leave the RV park alone temporarily and he won’t can Gordon.”
At least not right away, she didn’t say.
That is all?” the East Indian asked, suspicion evident in his tone.
Though she liked Mandan Patel’s wife and his two daughters, his evident distrust of everything and everyone annoyed her. In fact, he irritated her so much, she didn’t feel comfortable calling him by his first name. “Yes, Mr. Patel, that’s all. What did you think, that I’m plotting against you somehow?”
“We don’t know how to approach him,” Bob Nichols said in his usual soft voice that served to apologize for Mr. Patel’s sharpness. “He hasn’t spoken to us at all. I know his name only because he stayed in the motel.”
For the first time Marisa realized she didn’t know the new owner’s name, either. How had she had two encounters with a sexy guy and not even learned his name? “What is his name?”
“Terry W. Ledger is what was on his credit card. It was a Master Card, as I recall.”
“Hunh,” Marisa said, the name jingling a distant bell in her mind. She pictured a serene landscape on a billboard standing alongside Interstate 30 between Fort Worth and Dallas, advertising ANOTHER LEGENDARY COMMUNITY BY TERRY LEDGER. Oh, Jesus. Did he intend to sub-divide Agua Dulce? “Did you say he’s from Fort Worth?”
“He doesn’t own my motel or Mandan’s service station,” Bob continued as if he hadn’t heard her question, “but what he plans will affect us. We just want to know what he’s going to do.”
“It is only fair that he buy my business,” Mr. Patel said. “If he will take away my income, then he should pay. I have already been cheated.”
Marisa had no idea if that was true. Mr. Patel had bought his service station and the squatty stucco house behind it from Harvey Skillern the year Marisa graduated from high school sixteen years back. Marisa only vaguely remembered Harvey, but talk had always swirled among Agua Dulcians about his shady deals.
“I hate to bust your bubble, Man-dan,” Ben said, “but you ain’t been cheated. You took your own risk when you bought that service station. And this Legend fella don’t have to pay you jack. That’s the American way, buddy.” Ben followed that pronouncement with a long glug from his drink.
“If he’s congenial,” Bob said, ever the peacenik, “perhaps he wouldn’t object to all of us inviting him to a meeting. He might share his plans with us. Perhaps you could arrange a forum, Marisa.”
This morning’s meeting with Mr. Ledger had left her with a funny feeling in her stomach. Not enthusiastic about another encounter with him, Marisa grunted and opened her palms. “Look, y’all, I don’t know him any better than you do. But he won’t eat you. Just go knock on his door and ask him your questions.”
Bob and Mr. Patel shook their heads. They had a lot to lose, she supposed, but they were in no worse position than her mother—or for that matter, than herself. Now she berated herself for not taking up her own problem with the new owner when she had the chance.
Ben drained his glass, then reached into a pocket of his cargo shorts, pulled out a silver flask and poured himself another drink. “Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass what he does. If I have to, I’ll just pack up my shit and toodle my sorry ass back to Tennessee.” He sipped another drink, then frowning, set the glass on the counter with a clunk. “I wouldn’t like that much, but I could do it.”
Ben had stayed put in Agua Dulce ever since Marisa had returned to take care of Mama, unlike his lifestyle in the past when he had yo-yoed between here and Nashville. They all sat in silence, sipping. She could almost see wheels turning behind Bob’s eyes, just as she could almost see steam rising from Mr. Patel’s scalp.
“You could discuss our issues with him,” Bob said. “Perhaps voice our concerns and ask him his plans.”
Marisa felt her eyes widen. “Me?”
“It’s what your mother would do.”
“Guys, I know Mama did stuff like that, but I’m not my mother. I have no influence with this man. What do you expect me to tell him? I’m sure he bought this place for a reason. Do you think anything I say is going to make a difference in what he does with it?”
“You should
discuss,” Mr. Patel said.
“You made a difference for Gordon,” Bob said. “And you used to live in Dallas.”
“Gotcha,” Ben said, giving her a reptilian grin.
“Listen, you three. I’ve got all I can do figuring out what me and Mama are facing. I see no point—”
Abruptly Mr. Patel rose and stalked through the flea market, out the front door. They all stared after him.
“Well, la-dee-dah,” Ben said, pulling a crushed pack of Camels from his T-shirt pocket.
“You can’t blame him for being upset.” Bob’s gaze swerved back to Marisa. “He has a family. This is a serious problem for them. Every penny he has is tied up in his service station.”
“But I’ll bet that ain’t true of you and that hodgepodge you call a motel, is it, Bob?” Ben’s mouth flattened into another evil grin. “It ain’t the money that bothers you, is it?”
Marisa’s attention shot from Ben to Bob, her curiosity renewed as she awaited Bob’s reply.
The motel owner’s shoulders squared, his chin lifted. “It’s true, money isn’t what interests me. I’m on the brink of profound discovery. I don’t want to see all of my work destroyed.”
“Jesus Christ, I knew it,” Ben growled. “You’ve been talking to little green men again.”
The front door opened again and Tanya came in. She sauntered toward them, six feet tall in high-heeled sandals. She was wearing low-rider khaki pants and a knit shirt, it’s V-neck cut low enough to show the upper half of a blue lizard tattoo and the bottom cropped short enough to show several inches of midriff. A diamond-studded navel ring was the center of attention.
An image flew into Marisa’s mind again of those long legs astraddle Woody’s lap in the front seat of his pickup. She couldn’t let it go, even knowing the encounter was ten years back. She was struck in a way she hadn’t been before by the hairdresser’s blatant sexuality and how she moved with an assurance that was almost feline.
Tanya braced a hip against the counter edge, planted a hand on her hip and ordered coffee. Her breast shifted in a way that made the lizard tattoo’s long head seem to crawl out of her neckline. Marisa had seen the whole tattoo, roughly eight inches long. It slithered down the slope of Tanya’s right breast, with the tail curling around her nipple. Today, that part was hidden, but barely.
Tanya had several tattoos, including one on her innter thigh where it joined her torso that said HARD AND FAST. Marisa couldn’t let herself be judgmental about them or the navel ring. She had a navel ring herself and two tattoos—a tiny yellow rose on one ankle and a quarter-sized happy face at the edge of her pubic hair.
Tanya took the mug of coffee from Marisa and plopped down on a stool beside Ben. “Jeez, Ben, you smell like hell. How long you been drinking?”
“Not long enough,” Ben said and belched. He leaned back and looked at Tanya’s back. Marisa knew he was looking at the long tramp stamp that spanned Tanya’s back a couple of inches below her waist.
She also knew Tanya didn’t mind if he looked. The woman seemed to have no inhibition about exposing her body.
“I had the weirdest phone call from Raylene,” the hairdresser said. “The phone rang, I picked up and said hello and she said, ‘I was going to call you, but I can’t find the phone.’ I said, ‘Why, Raylene, you’re talking on it, aren’t you?’ Then she said, ‘I don’t know where I put it.’”
Tanya shook her head as Marisa set a mug of Cowboy Breakfast Blend in front of her. “I’ll tell you, Marisa, you’re not gonna be able to leave her all by herself much longer.”
Such remarks about Mama had ceased to bring pain. Still, Marisa, along with Bob and Ben, stared at Tanya as if they couldn’t believe her callousness. Oh, well, Marisa thought at last. No harm done. At least she now knew who her mother was on the phone with earlier.
Bob finished his cup, set it on the counter and stood. “You won’t forget us,” he said, looking into Marisa’s eyes as he dug money from his wallet.
Marisa let out an audible breath. “If I get an opportunity to say anything, I will.”
“What was that all about?” Tanya said after Bob disappeared.
“Nothing. Just worry.”
“They probably want you to fix everything for them. Like Raylene used to do.”
Marisa didn’t answer. Instead she picked up the empty cups and carried them to the kitchen. Ben and Tanya exchanged a few barbs, then Ben left. Tanya lit a cigarette. “Ben’s hopeless. He is such a drunk.”
“I know,” Marisa said, preoccupied with all that had transpired in only a few hours.
“Marisa,” she said, “do you think we’re gonna get kicked outta here?”
Bingo, Marisa thought, but she said, “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I heard the dude’s here, staying in the new trailer at the back of the park. I’ll bet he’s a fat old fart that sweats. Have you seen him?”
Before Marisa could answer, the “dude” sauntered through the front doorway and Marisa felt a surge in her pulse. A royal blue crew neck sweater a little brighter in hue than his eyes topped well-washed Levi’s that molded around his thighs. A wide black stripe crossed the front of the sweater, emphasizing his wide chest and shoulders. “That’s him,” she whispered.
Tanya glanced in the new owner’s direction and her jaw dropped. “You’re shittin’ me.”
As Terry Ledger weaved his way through the flea market the hairdresser eyed him up and down. Marisa thought of one of those predatory South American plants that trapped bugs and ate them.
When the victim reached the lunch counter, Tanya stuck out her hand and tilted her head sideways, letting her long hair cascade over one shoulder. “Hi, I’m Tanya Shepherd. I’m the stylist next door? And I own the museum. Art of the West?”
A blind man could see the hairdresser’s interest had little or nothing to do with this stranger being her new landlord. There was no missing Mr. Ledger’s assessment of the view of Tanya’s phony boobs and the tattoo, either. Marisa crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes. Maybe Tanya should introduce the lizard, too.
The new guy shook Tanya’s hand and smiled, which seemed to come so easy. Too easy. “Charisma.” That was the word. A special charm or allure that inspires fascination and devotion. She had seen it in crossword puzzles many times. And he had to be a bastard. Most men with that special quality just were.
“Terry Ledger,” he said. “I haven’t been into your establishment yet. I intend to drop in today.”
Tanya smiled back and shrugged, shifting the site of the lizard’s head. “Cool.”
She held her cigarette poised between two fingers, her elbow resting on the countertop as her eyes roved down Mr. Ledger’s lanky frame. Marisa wanted to pinch her, but she kept her hands and her thoughts to herself, unable to resolve why this guy’s unexpected appearance sent a jiggle through her whole system. Well, she might not know the answer to that, but at least she now knew his name.
He turned her way and took a seat beside Tanya at the lunch counter. “Didn’t you say you served breakfast all day? Sometimes I like breakfast for lunch. How about a couple of eggs, bacon and toast? Maybe a shot of that coffee.”
“You should try one of Marisa’s special coffees,” Tanya piped up, turning her head and blowing out a cloud of smoke. She turned back and extended such a blatant invitation to Mr. Ledger with her eyes, Marisa had to turn away, embarrassed. “She buys all these special beans and grinds and mixes them up herself.”
Marisa felt a blush crawl up her neck and wished she handled compliments better. Terry Ledger smiled again and it came back how his smile had affected her the day he appeared beside her in the tiny café kitchen. Yep, charisma. That was the word.
“Really?” he asked. “Why go to the trouble?”
Marisa figured what he didn’t say was, Who cares, out here in the boondocks?
“She’s one of those gourmet types,” Tanya said. “She went to this fancy cooking school in Dallas.�
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“Tanya,” Marisa said, “stop—”
“Really?” Terry asked again. “Which one?”
What he didn’t say was, If you’re such hot stuff, what are you doing out here in the boondocks?
“She’s only here because she takes care of her sick mother,” Tanya said, as if she, too, had read Terry Ledger’s mind and thought an excuse was in order.
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” he said. “Well, I hope she recovers soon.”
Tanya snubbed out her cigarette. “She ain’t gonna recover. She’s—”
“Tanya.” Marisa drilled the hairdresser with a lethal look. She turned to Terry. “I’ll get you that breakfast.”
Marisa went to the kitchen, aggravated that the confused zebra, the married confused zebra, was sitting at the counter flirting and carrying on with Terry Ledger as if she had no husband and were as free as Marisa. Marisa wouldn’t put it past her to take her interest in Mr. Ledger further than just flirting. And that thought got under Marisa’s skin in a way nothing had for a very long time.
As the bacon strips she laid on the griddle began to sizzle, she heard Tanya say she had to get back to her shop for an appointment. Then the hussy invited Terry Ledger to come over any time, even after she closed if it was too inconvenient for him to drop by during the daytime. For an instant Marisa wondered if Woody and Tanya had screwed around because Woody had seduced her or if he had been attacked by her.
When breakfast was done, Marisa carried it out to her customer.
He smiled up at her as she set his plate in front of him. “I heard her call you Marisa. You must not be Raylene Rutherford.”
“You must be right.” Marisa bent and picked silverware from the bin under the drainboard. “Raylene’s my mother.” She placed the silverware and a large paper napkin beside his plate. “This place is her business. I’m helping her out.”