by Lisa Sandlin
Cheryl lifted her chin, stretching out a faultless jawline. “I don’t have cooties.”
He unzipped. “Frank has cooties.”
He stepped out of one leg of pants and underwear, left the other puddling, and with one hand twined in her hair, kissed her lips, her neck. Murmured, “You don’t even care if I mark you up, huh?”
“Not really.”
She kissed him a while and then reached for him. Phelan bent his knees, hoisted her against the door.
“Stating for the record that you’re using me, Cheryl,” he said into her ear.
“Use me back, baby.”
Her breasts rubbed him. Frank Jr. jumped to mind but then her legs clamped his waist, squeezing.
He got a better grip on her thighs and put his back into it. His knee wailed once, then shut up. Slow, hefting her, bringing her down on him. Lifting her again, pulling out. Bringing her down. Gradual as he could manage.
Until finally she groaned his name and his name again and they rattled the door. They rammed the door, they battered it. Cheryl’s shrieky panting climbed the scale, accelerated until her face seized. She gripped the back of his shirt, wrenching it out till a button pinged off, while her thighs almost cracked his ribs. Cheryl’s face crumpled tighter and then her lips popped open and then she was ticking regular ubn…ubn…ubn sounds like a hot engine once it shuts down.
Phelan took a little while more. When his vision returned, he quit mashing her against the door, lugged her a couple steps, and splayed her down into a client chair. Her eyes were closed.
His weren’t. He jerked upright. Jesus Christ, his dick was shellacked red and his shirt tail streaked, smears on his thighs. He stepped back, warning, “Cheryl.”
Her eyes opened. He pointed at her.
Her neck bent, and she caught sight of the thin line of blood, like a live thing, determinedly making a right angle to continue tracking down onto the chair seat.
“Oh shit. Oh shit.” She jumped up and cupped her crotch. “Grab my purse, will you?”
Phelan stepped out of his other pantleg and disposed of the rubber in his office wastebasket. He skinned off his underwear, wiped himself with it, then whipped his pants back on. Went and snagged the leather-fringed bag lying beside the door and held it out to her. Still cupping herself, she clamped the bag under her right arm and rummaged with her left hand. Grabbed out a scrap of print cloth—panties?—and a white cylinder and let the purse fall onto the floor. Its contents scattered.
“Turn your back. Ow, now here they come. Now the cramps show up.”
Phelan turned his back. After about twenty seconds of ripping, rustling, silence, and elastic snapping, she said, “OK.” When he turned around, she was standing, the paisley mini pulled down to its maximum length, and her face no longer sparkled. It was raw and dragging.
He saw, sinkingly, that Cheryl Sweeney was crying.
“Oh God, I try,” she said, a hand sheltering her brow. “I try so hard to do the smart thing, and it just never turns out smart, no matter what. Got this smart birth control and now when I have the curse, I bleed like Niagara Falls…” She swiped her wet face furiously.
“I made sure Frank didn’t go to jail, and what do I get? He hates me for saving him. So I go get a little something for me because a human person can only go so long with no attention, you know? You know, with nothing? Then you got to put yourself in front of somebody, you need to. And I can’t even do that right. I humiliate myself all to kingdom come.”
Phelan set aside that he was a little something. He could forgive that thoughtless assessment because by his running lights good golly miss molly battering a door like they had was not short shrift. She wasn’t wrong about the attention, either. Felt like his personal interior spanned a wider territory now.
“I’ve been around girls before, OK?” He found his handkerchief and squatted, steadied her chin and tamped the tear marks, scrubbed a smear of blood near her hairline. “All better,” he said and gave her the handkerchief.
She crumpled it.
“Cheryl. That woman that came to my office a while back, wanting to keep her husband outa jail, she was smart. I’m telling you. And you wanna know who says so, besides me?”
Cheryl rolled damp, dour eyes toward him.
“My uncle, the police chief. And right this second, that woman is in my office again, and she is sitting in the very same chair you are. Listen up. You got a lot not to waste. Know what I’m sayin’?”
The eyes stayed on him, verifying. Her eyebrow, the corners of her lips quirked upward. “Oh,” she whispered. “I ’preciate that.”
She scooped up her purse and raked stuff into it, made a fist and grazed Phelan’s belly with it. Then she turned toward the door and left, giving the V-sign. Victory, peace, he didn’t know which, but she didn’t check to see if he gave one back.
Phelan admired her exit. Cool woman. He hadn’t lied about her smarts either.
He walked over by his wastebasket—he’d empty it now before he forgot—and bent down to pick up an object on the floor. Little bitty plastic change purse, the kind you squeezed to open. Inside, a folded ten and Cheryl Sweeney’s driver’s license.
Gazing down at her official photo, he thought about what she had said. A person can only go so long without attention.
And about Xavier Bell or Sparrow or whatever his name was.
Bell liked attention, and he didn’t. He’d put himself in front of Phelan Investigations, seemed like he’d relished the interview, the idea of “allies.” But then he’d dropped out of sight. Invisible, like Delpha had said. Hard to get attention when you’re invisible. Must be a wingding of a conflict, when you love feast and famine just the same.
Had Bell ever been looked for? By a wife, a lover, a family member? Police, even? Or had nobody in his whole long life come looking for Xavier Bell?
And why would that be?
He should have been crawling but felt only twinges from the sore knee. Phelan was sobered up, loose as a goose, and twenty-five minutes late to a seven o’clock game. He knelt on the sidelines to double-knot his sneakers.
They played half-court because the north basket was already claimed by a gaggle of black kids playing ABA style, minus the fouls. They were maybe fourteen, fifteen years old, skinny boys made of rubber hanging loose at the line then snapping into choreography, no-shirt guard chesting the shoulder blades of a t-shirt forward, who’d launch into crossover dribbling, shoot an alley-oop to his t-shirt teammate. Tallest no-shirt kid spearing down shots to boos and aws, a t-shirt kid seizing the rebound, one bounce, superstride, hello net, and he’s dangling from the rim.
As the dangling boy landed, Phelan saw past him to a dark sedan parked on the corner. Mercury Montego. He took off runnin though he hadn’t finished tying the shoes.
The sedan made a tight U-turn, blazed.
He wouldn’t catch it on foot, laces flapping. He jogged to a stop, stomped the sidewalk. Mistake. Wrong knee to stomp with. But at last, another fucking thing verified. Course the Mercury coulda been a boy-lusting sightseer with his fist in his lap. But probably not.
Score one for the younger Mr. Sparrow. Likely the double P.I. story was true. And if the Mercury was still on Phelan, then he’d missed that day Phelan had found the Anderson-Sparrow house. He grinned. This info on a competitor went a ways toward making up for a couple of his own professional misjudgments: not taking a gun to catch the snack boys. Turning his back on Frank Sweeney.
Though Cheryl had graciously made up for that.
Phelan walked back to his game. He finished knotting his sneakers, then edged in, palming the ball from under Fred Kruikshank, shift manager out at Goodyear. Six-foot-five Joe Ford as usual dominating, talking trash from high school—but puffing some, hauling around a new pot belly. Joe might could still dunk ’em, but even with a wrapped knee, Tommy Phelan could outrun and out-dodge him.
At least until time got him, too.
XXXVII
DELPHA FANNED
THE tiny pages of the plastic dictionary, uselessly stopping on bell and sparrow, then locked up. Didn’t have the heart to stick around the office. She sat for a little while in one of the Rosemont’s outside chairs and mulled over the conversation with her boss about her raise. Leaves blew past on the sidewalk. Finally she got up and went on into the lobby in time for the five o’clock news.
Elderly Mrs. Bibbo, fetching in a red-and-white checked shirtwaist accented with a red breast pocket in the shape of a heart, patted the couch beside herself. Delpha sat and was brought up to date on the Watergate affair.
President Nixon had refused to turn over the tapes to the Special Prosecutor—remember that?
Delpha remembered.
Well, a few weeks ago the liar had gone on TV and before the nation sworn he knew nothing about any break-in at the Watergate or any cover-up or any illegal activities. Mrs. Bibbo made a breathy noise indicating scorn. “And now we’re hearing about the Vice-President. Both of them!” A federal grand jury had met recently to consider charges against Vice President Spiro Agnew, from back when he was a governor of Maryland.
“What they got him on?” Delpha asked.
“Bribes!” Mrs. Bibbo’s face was fixed in incredulous folds. “A sitting Vice-President of the United States of America. Who has extorted bribes. How does such a person rise to the second highest office in our country?”
Simon Finn, former doughboy and high school teacher, sat next to Harry Nystrom at the game table, building a fence of checkers between them. “Agnew’s a Greek, Roberta. It was a Greek that said ‘We hang petty thieves and put big ones in office.’”
Mrs. Bibbo glowered at him.
“It’s true,” Mr. Finn said. “In baseball you’re out if you get caught stealing. Not in politics.”
Mr. Nystrom, retired from restaurant supply, frowned at Mr. Finn. “You don’t know how to discuss, Simon. Jokes are the mark of a simpleton.”
“For the first time ever I agree with The Big Mouth,” Mrs. Bibbo said, meaning Mr. Nystrom, “because you know what’s not funny?”
“Roberta”—Mr. Nystrom spun a checker—“I know so many un-funny things that it’s not even funny.”
“Ha ha, Harry. Listen, I’m making a point. I gotta point here. Where were you when FDR’s funeral train was carrying him home? You probably don’t even remember.”
Mr. Nystrom slapped the table, toppling the checker fence. “Shreveport, Louisiana, in the kitchen of the Mayfair Hotel. Radio was broadcasting from Washington D.C., and Arthur Godfrey broke down on the air. Most of the kitchen broke down too. I didn’t like the man, all right? But I stood there solemn with the rest of ‘em. So that’s how much you know.”
“I was at the Orange shipyards,” Mr. Finn said, his eyes on the window where a loose line of cars constituted the evening rush hour. “Boss yelled to stop. Told us the caisson was at the White House. Everybody stopped.”
Mrs. Bibbo spread her hands. “This is my point. This is what I’m talking about. You did that from respect. Roosevelt didn’t take bribes. He gave people some relief, he put people to work. Those crowds in the newsreels, we all saw them lining the tracks. Don’t pretend you don’t know why they were there. Respect.”
Her voice roughened. “Now tell me, Simon. Who-all will stand along the railroad tracks when the coffin of Richard Nixon rolls by? You tell me, Harry, is this the way it is supposed to be in America?”
The intense face held for a moment, then like a strongman crumpling under barbells, Mrs. Bibbo’s chin and cheeks quivered. Her parted lips quivered. She bowed from the waist, laid her forehead in her hands, and wept. The only sounds in the lobby were the muttering television and the old woman in the red-checked dress, sobbing.
Mr. Nystrom scowled and turned away. Delpha scooted over, slipped her arm around the narrow shoulders. After a minute, she sought out Mr. Finn’s worried face. Delpha glared loudly at him.
“Point taken,” Mr. Finn blurted. “Point taken, Roberta.”
Mr. Nystrom turned back around and opened his mouth.
“Time to eat,” Delpha said.
Supper was the spirit-raiser. Oscar served up ham with red eye gravy, biscuits and salad, pans of macaroni and cheese spiced with sautéed onion and peppers. Passing dishes, chewing, truce.
Delpha cleared and stacked, submerged the macaroni pans in hot water and soap flakes. Before she tackled the kitchen, she told Oscar, she wanted to run over to the library real quick. Ought to be back here by eight. Or so.
“Counting on it.” Showily, Oscar consulted his watch. “I gave you that advance.”
’Sides home and work, only other place you ever go, she said to herself, walking over to the library, and felt bad.
Then some other voice said, So far.
The wood floor creaked as she passed green-lamped tables, looking for Angela. Stained-glass windows spread the day’s fading light into warm colors. Opal stood watch at the front desk, wearing a pink knit shirt a size too small for her.
“Hi, there,” Delpha said.
The girl lifted some fingers.
Delpha tried conversation. “You interested in advancing in your new job, Opal?”
Opal’s brown eyes pearled. Her lips turned down.
“My goodness. You don’t like it?”
Slow rotation of her head, left then right.
“What is it you’d ruther do?”
A whisper. “Bakery.”
“Well. Whyn’t you go do that?”
“It’s low-class to wear a hairnet to work.”
“Says who?”
“Mother.”
“Honey.” Delpha laid her hand on Opal’s pink shoulder. “Sometimes mamas make mistakes. But you know one thing that’s never a mistake?”
Opal’s head raised.
“Cinnamon rolls. Where’s Angela this evening?”
The girl’s eyes rolled to the left. Delpha turned that way. A pale, brown-haired woman in a navy-blue church dress with a lace collar had fanned several books on a table in front of a man who pushed his eyeglasses up on his head. Farther on sat a white high school girl gnawing a yellow pencil. That was it. At second glance, Delpha noted the church dress was vintage 1959 Butterick, except for the skirt grabbed the curve of the woman’s butt like a roughneck fresh off a rig.
“Where?” she asked again, and again Opal shifted her gaze leftward. Then she brought up a chubby finger and pointed.
The woman with the lace collar turned toward the desk. Brown hair held back with a black headband. Nice complexion except for a couple spots on her chin. Features so regular the oval face was like an outline in a coloring book, all ready for Crayolas.
The woman smiled with one side of her mouth.
Delpha said, “Angela?” The only dab of makeup she could see was the nude lipstick, which contributed to the blank-page look.
Angela skirted Delpha to install herself behind the desk, but then waved her over.
“So,” she said, her gaze smoldering, “the regional director paid us a visit. In front of God and everybody he told me my makeup had to go, and if I wanted to keep my job, I better dress like a lady. Might just as well have said no buggy rides and keep out of pool halls.” Her chin wobbled once, and she hiked it to the side to stop that nonsense. “Said this was my one warning.”
“What a peckerwood. I like how you dress.” Delpha could recall clearly the winter that the television set in Gatesville’s common room was replaced with a color one. When the set was brought in—well, the raised eyebrows, the whoops, the amazed studying up-close of the rainbow-tailed NBC peacock. Angela had always provoked amazed studying upclose. “Where’d your dress come from?”
“Friend of my grandmother’s passed on, and her son brought Meemaw all her clothes. Meemaw tightened ‘em up for me.” Angela tugged punitively at the lace collar. “You don’t think I paid for this?”
Delpha was grave. “I didn’t think that. You know, lotsa people wear uniforms. That’s your work uniform.”
&n
bsp; Angela’s chin raised. “But some good-looking guy comes in here, spies the old-lady clothes, tell me how that’s gonna work for me, Delpha. Ha, you can’t, can you. Didn’t think so. Well, anyway. What can I help you with this evening?”
“Just an idea I had. Probably a waste of time, but I wanna know about sparrows.”
“Oh, I do heaps of bird questions.” Angela didn’t seem to notice how she forgot the dress and perked up. “You know the Marbled Godwit’s out at High Island this time of year? Had a call about them. Cross between a sandpiper and a sandwichsize turkey. Sparrows, though. Try outside, they’re hopping all over the place.”
“Yeah, but they all look the same to me.”
“That’s because that’s how they look.”
“So there’s only one kind.”
“Kind. You mean species? Animals come in species and families and other…categories.”
Delpha thought brown bear, polar bear, grizzly bear. “OK, species.”
A woman in a kerchief and blue jeans hefted a stack of hardbacks onto the desk. “Be right with you, ma’am,” Angela said. She went over and spoke to Opal, the brown hair falling across her naked cheek. Opal skedaddled and rushed back with a book. After consulting the table of contents, Angela passed the book back to Opal, who peered at it and marked the page with her finger.
As her mentor had done, the girl read the first page of the book, thumbed, scanned a couple pages, and set the splayed book on Delpha’s table. She stood waiting as if next she would be sent to fetch a heated brick to warm the patron’s feet.
Delpha took her time. She followed the labeled pictures of fat little birds: black-chinned sparrow, black-throated, Botteri’s sparrow, Cassin’s, field sparrow. At Harris’s Sparrow, she bounced her eraser against the tablet. Harris. That was the name, the alias, that Rodney Bell had used in his long flight from his brother Xavier. And maybe there were more. She used her finger on the page, tracing slowly.