Flipping Fates

by A. C. Williams

Every inch of me is sore now. Even the parts that had started to stop hurting are hurting again.

  “It’s not fair!” Mr. Barry screams as the police wrestle him to the car. “It’s my house! It’s mine! My father took from me!”

  I glance up the street where a few neighbors are milling around, all of them stopping to watch the disturbance with mild curiosity.

  “I’ll sue you all.” Mr. Barry thrashes. “Brutality! Brutality!”

  “Brutality is right.” I mutter, glancing at the bruises already re-forming up and down my arms. “No sympathy from me, Mr. Barry.”

  I move to stand by the RV near Aaron, and Mr. Barry gets a good look at me as the police are trying to get him into a squad car.

  “You may have the keys, but you’ll never find the treasure!” Mr. Barry screeches at me. “The old man left the treasure for me, and none of you can take it away!”

  The police finally get the old man into the car and shut the door.

  It’s sad, really. I do feel bad for Mr. Barry, but the burning scrapes all over my skin and the throbbing knot growing on the back of my skull convince me to stop.

  Speaking of keys—

  “Aaron?”

  He moves toward me with an arm outstretched. I take his hand and smile at him in spite of my aching muscles and bruises.

  “Did they get my keys from him?”

  He nods at the RV. “In the ignition.”

  I stand on tiptoe and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Clever thinking with the wheel blocks.”

  “Are you okay?” His eyebrows lower.

  “Just more bruises.” I squeeze his hand as I head for the RV.

  Aaron speaks to the police some more as I climb the steps. Wincing at the horrible rotting smell that pervades the inside of the RV, I reach for the ignition where my keys are jammed. But I’m at a bad angle, so I have to come in further. The rearview mirror has lost most of its adhesive and hangs sideways off the windshield, so I rip it all the way off just because I can, tossing it onto the dashboard with a sigh.

  What’s behind us isn’t important anyway, right?

  The carpet crunches under my feet, and I look down.

  “What is—?” I pick up my foot.

  Dog food?

  At least, it looks like dog food.

  Why is there dog food all over the floor of the RV?

  “Oh, I don’t want to know.” I bend down and wrench my keys out of the ignition.

  Aaron meets me as I come down the stairs.

  “Police are taking him down to the station,” Aaron says.

  “Good. Do we know why he wanted the RV?”

  Aaron shrugs. “No clue. He’s crazy?”

  “Are you asking?”

  “No, he’s crazy.”

  I nod. “As a loon.” I wrap my hands around his. “Aaron?”

  “Yeah, Trish?” He leans in.

  I smile up into his face. “I have a question.”

  “Yeah, Trish?” His eyes are warm.

  “Why is there dog food all over the floor in the RV?”

  He blinks. “Dog food?”

  “I think it’s dog food.” I grimace. “And it smells like something died in there.”

  Aaron sighs and presses his lips against my forehead. “I know there are mice in the RV. Maybe they aren’t mice and they’re pack-rats instead.”

  “Great. Even the old owner’s rats were hoarders.”

  He laughs and folds me into his arms. “Go sit down. There might be another 70-year-old guy out here who feels the need to knock you down.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  We stand there quietly for a moment.

  “Aaron?”

  “Hm?”

  “You have to let go if I’m supposed to go inside and sit down.”

  “I’m thinking about it.” A gentle thumb brushes my shoulder blade.

  He bumps his nose against mine and jerks his head toward the house. Then, he steps back and heads into the RV, waving at Nathan to come give him a hand.

  I stretch my sore back and walk toward the house.

  Why Can’t I Go to Tahiti?

  Eisenhower National Airport is new, recently opened, and it actually looks like an airport. Our previous airport looked more like a junior high school building with a runway.

  When the city had announced construction of a brand new, state-of-the-art airport, all the citizens of Tonkawa had rejoiced at the prospect of new airlines and more available flights.

  So much for that.

  Tonkawa, a centrally located city in the most centrally located state within America, only had direct commercial flights to about six cities. It was a pain in the butt, it was super expensive, and the only planes that could fit on our brand new, state-of-the-art runway were puddle-hoppers and jungle-jets.

  No leg room. Believe me.

  Thus the reason why people from Kansas drive everywhere.

  I stretch my legs out and lean back in the comfortable chair on the mezzanine of the terminal building. Laurel’s flight is on the ground, and she should be rounding the corner from the gates at any time. But until then I’ll take advantage of the brand new, state-of-the-art upholstery in the waiting area.

  Her flight, Delta 2280 out of Atlanta, was one of two stops she had to make between Tonkawa and Tahiti.

  Yes, Tahiti.

  It’s a magical place.

  Seriously.

  Of all the places her office could send her for a conference, why couldn’t it have been Moscow? Or Alaska? Or even Canada? I could have teased her about all of those. But Tahiti? Not for the first time, I wonder exactly why I’m still working for my dad’s church when I could be an administrative assistant for a doctor who would take me to Tahiti for conferences.

  The most exotic place Dad has ever taken me for a conference was Chattanooga, Tennessee. We ate barbecue there, and it was covered in coleslaw. I don’t like coleslaw by itself, let alone smothered on top of a pulled pork sandwich. I demanded a stop in Kansas City on the way home just to eat some kind of smoked meat without sauce-laden cabbage on top of it.

  A mass of passengers round the corner of the hallway, all dragging wheeled carry-on luggage, and make a beeline for the escalator. Laurel isn’t among the first mass. Nor the second. Knowing her, she probably had started a conversation with someone and didn’t want to stop until she had all their life history.

  Aha.

  Yup. There she is.

  Laurel, my best friend, rounding the corner walking alongside an old woman in a wheelchair. They’re gabbing up a storm. As they cross the line into the public waiting area, Laurel bends over and hugs the woman. They wave at each other, and Laurel starts bouncing toward me.

  “Trisha!” She waves happily and stops short, staring at me with eyes that grow wider and wider. “Trisha?”

  I pause in the middle of waving back.

  Oh.

  The bruises.

  No wonder all the people in the airport had been staring. I’d thought I’d had spinach in my teeth.

  “Hey, Laurel.” I shrug.

  Laurel rushes up to me and gawks at me. “Trisha, what happened? Are you okay? What have you done to yourself?”

  “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Look at yourself! You look like you fell down a flight of stairs!”

  I wince. “Well, I did.”

  “Oh, Trisha.”

  “I’m fine.” I take her arm. “How about you? You look tan.”

  Laurel rolls her eyes. “It happens when you go out in the sun.”

  “It happens to you,” I say. “I burn to a crisp.” I gather my purse. “And what about your new friend?”

  “Gladys!” Laurel bounces for the escalator. “She’s 95. Flew out of town to visit her great grandkids down in Atlanta. Can you imagine?”

  Laurel chatters a mile a minute as we walk to the baggage claim. She jabbers on and on about the conference, about what she learned, about the clothes, about the food, about the weather, about the water, about the be
ach. I honestly tune most of it out. Not that I don’t care. I do. But I’d care more if I’d gotten to go with her.

  She finally runs out of breath by the time her bags come round the bend.

  I help her gather them up, and we make our way outside.

  A wall of 103-degree heat bowls us over.

  Laurel wails. “I want to go back to Tahiti.”

  “Wasn’t it hot there?”

  “Sure. But you could go jump in the water.”

  “You could jump in a lake here.” I point out. “Or the river.”

  “I’m not jumping in our river,” Laurel says sourly. “The mercury content in the water is so high you could use it to take the temperature.”

  I giggle as we approach my old Buick. I stab the key into the trunk and open it so we can toss her luggage inside.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.” Laurel moves for the passenger side of the car.

  “Mind something fast?”

  “No.” Laurel opens the door. “Fast is good. I’ll get home and get changed, and I can still be back at the house this afternoon to help with whatever I can.”

  I bite off a chuckle.

  “Speaking of the house.” Laurel sinks into her seat.

  I open my door and get settled in the driver’s side.

  “Yes?” I glance at her.

  Laurel purses her lips. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “About why you look like you went ten rounds in a prize fight?”

  “You should see the other guy.” I start the car.

  And freeze.

  Oh.

  Why did I say that?

  Why did I even think that would be funny?

  Because the other guy? Well, the other guy is dead.

  My stomach turns over.

  “What other guy?” Laurel looks more worried than she did before. “Trisha, what happened?”

  I turn the air conditioner on and check the gas gauge. Full tank. That’s good. I glance at the clock. No time. If we leave now, I won’t have to pay the parking fee.

  I pull out of the parking spot and head for the exit.

  “Well, we figured out all the weird noises in the house,” I say.

  “Not ghosts?”

  “Squatters.”

  “Oh, Trisha.”

  “Yeah, and that’s not the worst of it.” I stop at the automatic gate, stuff my ticket into the slot and wait for it to tell me to proceed. It does, and I pull forward.

  “What’s worse?” Laurel is resting her face in her hands.

  “Well,” I start, “they were all upstairs packing up boxes of cocaine.”

  Laurel barks a wild laugh. “Of course they were. And who found them?”

  “Aaron and me.” I offer a smile.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He looks about the same as I do, but yeah. He’s okay.”

  “And you?”

  “Just roughed up, Laurel. Don’t worry.”

  She leans toward me. “And the other guy?”

  My stomach turns over again. I could lie. Tell her there wasn’t another guy. Tell her that I was just clumsy enough to get my face bashed in by a drug dealer and then tumble down the stairs. She would believe that.

  I sigh.

  “Trisha.”

  I merge into traffic and point the hood of my car toward the nearest fast food joint.

  “The guy who was beating me up was heading for the stairs,” I say. “I grabbed his leg. We both fell down. And—”

  “And?”

  “And I walked away with some bruises. But he broke his neck.”

  Laurel falls silent.

  For a long time.

  There’s no talking for much longer than I’m comfortable with, but I can’t bring myself to look at her.

  Finally, she sets her hand on my knee. “Oh, Trisha, I’m so sorry.”

  The road is blurring in front of my face. I desperately pull my Buick into the restaurant parking lot and throw it in park, leaving the engine running so the air conditioner keeps cooling. I dash the tears off my bruised face.

  “It’s okay, Laurel.”

  “No, it’s not.” Laurel gathers my hands in hers. “Oh, Trisha, I’m so so sorry. I wish I’d been here.”

  I squeeze her hand. “It’s worse still.”

  “How can it be worse?”

  I glance at her. “Keith was arrested.”

  “What? Why?”

  I shake my head. “They suspect him of dealing drugs. That this was why he volunteered for the project.”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous.” Laurel huffs. “Is Cecily okay?”

  I smile at her.

  Leave it to Laurel to see what I only guessed at.

  “Yeah, she’s okay,” I say. “She’s worried. But all of us are.”

  Laurel sags into her seat. “I’m never going to Tahiti again. Everything falls apart without me here.”

  I laugh. “Right. Yes. It’s all your fault.” I wipe the tears off my face again. “Chicken meal?” I nod at the restaurant.

  “Chicken meal.”

  As we wait in line, I fill her in on the particulars of the house, like the latest weird things we’ve discovered (plastic lunch containers with mold-covered lunches still inside, fake Confederate currency, sewing patterns, film canisters, etc.) and the more positive progress. Like the cleaners coming today.

  “Do you have to do anything with that?” Laurel asks.

  “The cleaners?” I blink. “No, I just have to be there to let them in. They’ll take care of all the carpet upstairs.”

  Laurel sets her hand on my knee.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Trisha,” she says.

  I pay for the food and take the bag the woman in the window hands to me. I give it to Laurel and pull us back onto the road.

  “Are you—are you sure you’re okay?”

  I glance at her. “I’m all right, Laurel.”

  “But shouldn’t you talk to someone about it?” Laurel shakes her head. “You saw a man die!”

  “I’ve seen some scary things before, Laurel.”

  “Not like this.”

  I pull into traffic. “I don’t want to talk to a therapist. I don’t think that will do any good.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  I laugh. “Can you imagine what the church will think if I do? Wow. Pastor’s daughter kills a drug dealer and goes to therapy because she can’t deal.”

  Laurel’s eyes are turning misty.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m a kicked puppy or something.”

  “You’re acting like a kicked puppy.”

  “Eat your chicken.”

  The paper bag rustles as Laurel digs into her chicken sandwich miserably. It’s like a cloud forms over her head as she takes a big bite and sniffles like I’ve just told her Santa Claus isn’t real.

  I turn my car down her street and pull into her driveway. I take her elbow and look into her face.

  “I’m okay, Laurel. I promise.”

  Her teary eyes meet mine. “Promise me that you’ll think about therapy.”

  I sigh.

  “Please?”

  “Fine.” I release her. “I’ll think about it.” I point to her house. “Go change your clothes, and if you want to talk more I’ll be at the house until the cleaners are done. It’ll probably be late.”

  Laurel leans across the seat and hugs me gently. I pat her back.

  She crawls out of the car and grabs her bags from the trunk, lugging them up the sidewalk to her house. I wait until she has her door open before I back out of the driveway and point the hood toward West Maple.

  I haven’t made it out of her neighborhood before my phone is ringing.

  I spy Dad’s number and lift the phone to my ear. “Dad?”

  “Trisha.” His voice is smiling. “Hey, I know you’re meeting cleaners at the house today, but
would you come get Gran?”

  “Now?”

  “I have a meeting with the trustees that came up unexpectedly, and Gran doesn’t want to sit in my office with nothing to do.” He lowers his voice. “I don’t want her sitting in my office with nothing to do.”

  “Ask Mom.”

  “Mom’s at a hair appointment.”

  “What about Ruth?”

  “At work.”

  “Clara? Or Lizzie? Shouldn’t they have to pull their own weight?”

  “Patricia.”

  “Dad.” I stop at a red light.

  “Patricia, your sisters have children to watch or jobs to do. There’s nothing stopping you from picking up your grandmother and taking her to the house that you’re waiting for someone else to clean.”

  I sigh.

  “I thought you like hanging out with your grandmother.”

  “I do.” I signal and move into the next lane. “We’re pals. I’m heading your way. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Good girl.” He hangs up.

  Great.

  It’s not that I don’t want to spend the afternoon with my grandmother. I actually do like being around her. I’m just not sure if bringing her into this chaotic rat’s nest of a house is the best idea. If Dad doesn’t want her puttering around his office, why does he think that her puttering around the ugly orange house will be any better?

  Granted, there’s no phone line she can use to crank call church members.

  That’s probably his biggest worry. That’s only happened once, but knowing Gran she’s looking for the chance to do it again.

  It’s out of the way and takes me longer than I’d like, but I pull into the parking lot of the church. Dad waves at me from the foyer doors, and Gran starts hobbling toward the Buick. I climb out and help her inside, folding and chucking Cordell into the back seat.

  “Your father needs to lose about fifty pounds,” Gran says as she fastens her belt.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “And how did this come up?”

  “It didn’t.” Gran snorts. “I just thought you should know. Your mother insists on feeding him all the time, and it might do him good if he had to starve once in a while.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

  I pull the car into traffic and start toward West Maple again.

  “Patricia?”

  “Yes, Gran?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We are going to the house that I’m helping fix up,” I say. “There are some cleaners coming in, and I need to be there to open the door for them and to lock up after they’re done.”