3 A Brewski for the Old Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  I gave it some thought. “Well maybe I’m not the best person to offer advice but I think you should tell your wife what happened to me. And tell your daughter, talk to her and let her know there are evil people out there who will try and take advantage of her. Only people who are ignorant can be preyed upon. Tell her she can come to you with anything, you won’t get mad and you won’t judge her.” I thought about it. “Kids need to trust people before they can talk to them.” “Why didn’t you tell your dad?”

  That gave me a laugh. “He’s a different sort of parent. Grandma said he went to ’Nam crazy and came back worse and he hasn’t improved with age. I never knew what he’d do or how he’d react. No telling what rocket he’d go off on if I told him this. Someone would have died for certain.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty much.” I rubbed a bite of pain in my forehead. “I spent my childhood worrying about the adults around me, adults who acted more like kids than I did. One time, when I was about seven or eight, Daddy came out late at night and started shooting a gun off outside our trailer. Dead drunk, of course — he mostly was back then — he kept calling for the new man in my mom’s life to come out.

  “It was dark, probably after midnight. I remember waking up and thinking this was it, this time he was going to kill us all. It always seemed a possibility with my dad. I hid in my closet, pulling clothes over me and hoping he wouldn’t find me. That’s where my mother, Ruth Ann, unearthed me, still curled up in a ball afraid to come out.

  “The new guy sharing her bed had already taken off, didn’t even stop to pack. I heard his car leaving as Ruth Ann carried me back to her bed. You see what I mean? If I’d told my dad he would have killed Ray John. For sure. Maybe it would have been a good thing. Back then it didn’t seem such a good idea. I didn’t want Daddy to go to jail, although it wouldn’t have been a new experience for him, that’s for sure.”

  “And your mother didn’t tell your father you’d been abused?”

  “Nope, no way Ruth Ann was going to give Tully Jenkins anything to get excited about. She knew even better than I did what a powder keg he was.”

  “A kid shouldn’t have to think about things like that, shouldn’t have to worry about what their parents are capable of…shouldn’t know the wickedness of men like Leenders.”

  “Yeah, well life isn’t perfect.” I was starting to worry about the amount of time Lacey had been gone. Teenage girls like mirrors but this was getting silly.

  “There’s no record of sexual abuse on Ray John’s file. Your mother should have told the police when they came.”

  “Remember I come from people who aren’t real comfortable telling the police anything. Ruth Ann was afraid that social services would get involved and take me away. We would have been worked over twice, once by Ray John and then by the authorities. Better to look after things ourselves.”

  Styles’ eyes slipped to the door of the john; he was getting antsy too. “Those days are gone, Sherri. Now you have to let the law handle it.” He tilted his head towards the ladies room. “Think she’s all right?”

  “I’ll check,” I said and started to slide out of the booth. Styles’ hand on my arm stopped me. He picked up his glass and dragged on the watery dregs as Lacey slid back in beside me.

  She seemed remarkably better, more composed, calm almost. Now call me suspicious, call me a worrier, but I’ve seen too much trouble not to know something else was going on here.

  I was about to find out there was one more problem to deal with…a great big ugly one.

  C H A P T E R 1 2

  Styles followed us back to the condo. He didn’t need to suggest we stay in the ultra-secure building for the night, I’d already decided on that. We weren’t even going for a walk on the beach. The sand would burn your feet anyway. It had been another scorching day and I’d seen enough fireworks for one day. I just wanted to chill, didn’t even want to talk about what had happened. Lacey had enough pain without me prodding the wound. “Let’s have a swim,” I said. The private pool down on the beach was surrounded by an eight-foot-high spiked wrought-iron fence that kept everyone but the residents of the Tradewinds out. Safe. “No, thanks.”

  “It will make you feel better.”

  “I’ve got this sore arm,” she said, rubbing her arm just above the elbow. Lacey always, even in the hottest weather, wore long-sleeved blouses. Her eyes were deeking and diving, her shoulders were hunched.

  I grabbed her arm and pushed up the sleeve of her oversized shirt. A new bandage sat among thin white lines of other cuts.

  “You’ve been hurting yourself.” Bright, aren’t I? Like I was telling her something she didn’t know. She pulled away from me and I let her go.

  “This has to stop, Lace. My god, if you need to hurt someone, make it Ray John, not yourself.” Another stupid thing to say, and one I soon regretted, but tactful and intelligent words aren’t the first to jump to my lips. God would have done us all a favor if he’d just made me mute.

  She ran into the den and shut the door. I followed her to the closed door. Sounds from the TV seeped out. I called the Sunset and told them I wouldn’t be back in. Then I went to the kitchen and started cooking up a storm, my new way of dealing with stress.

  By the time Marley arrived with chocolate cheesecake, I had steaks marinating, potatoes baking, shrimp boiled and on ice and two veggies ready to cook. Food may not solve problems but it makes them a whole lot easier to bear and it only makes you fat, unlike the nasty dangerous things I’ve done in the past to feel better.

  I whispered the highlights of the day to Marley. “Shit,” she said. “What are you going to do?” “Not sure. Any ideas?

  “You mean besides sticking to her like honey on bread? I’m there for that. If you’re not around, I will be.”

  “But we can’t be on top of her every minute.”

  “We can try,” she said, opening the wonking great fridge and taking out a bottle of wine.

  “Should we be doing that?” I asked, pointing at the bottle.

  “What?”

  “Drinking in front of the kid.”

  “Oh, you mean in case we add alcoholism to her list of problems.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  She filled a glass and handed to me. “I just escaped from a crowd of people who never let alcohol pass their lips. Even the blood of Christ was grape juice. Didn’t stop them from having all the same troubles as Lacey; in fact, looking at them, pale and pudgy and all those upturned noses, I’d say incest was a real big problem.”

  “Oh, you’ve turned nasty and bitter, Sister Marley.” She described something impossible, but colorful, that I could do to myself as Lace came out of the den. Lacey grinned.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Marley told her.

  “I’ve just been telling Marley I don’t think she’s going to be a good influence on you and I was right. Just try to ignore everything she says.”

  “I will.” Lacey slipped onto a black leather chair at the granite bar. “Can I have some of that?” She pointed at my glass of wine.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you try all the vices now, what will be left for you when you’re all grown up like us?”

  She smiled.

  “Have a soda instead. Dinner is about ready, just have to grill the steaks.” I lifted the shrimp on their bed of crushed ice to the upper bar and sat the nippy horseradish sauce beside them. “Nosh on these to start, but watch Marley doesn’t knock you off your stool to get to them.”

  “Har, har,” Marley yodeled, sliding onto the stool next to Lacey. “Let me tell you about Sherri, the giant of the food world, Travis, who is known across the state for the prodigious amount of food she can eat.”

  “Pro-whatis? Where you getting all these big words from, girl?”

  “And she’s ignorant too,” Marley added, wiping a gob of sauce off her chin with the back of her hand.

  In the
middle of disaster came a little core of sanity and delight. When Clay called, he could hear the laughter in the background. “Hey, don’t do too well without me,” he said.

  “As if I could. Where are you?”

  “The Dry Tortugas.” The Dry Tortugas are a group of islands seventy miles west of Key West. There is no freshwater on the islands, but there are lots of turtles and an old Civil War fort, plus some of the best snorkeling you’ll ever see. “We have to stay here for another day while we wait for the weather to clear.”

  “Whose stupid idea was it to hold a race before hurricane season was over?”

  “We should be all right, nothing major out there. They’re just being careful. As soon as the forecast clears, the race begins again. I’ll be glad when this trip is over with. You get a whole different view of people when you live on a thirty-foot yacht with them. One’s a control freak who has us polishing teak every spare second, and the other one turns out to be a secret drinker. It starts before lunch and goes on all day. By eight he’s passed out somewhere on deck.” “You miss me, don’t ya?”

  “You don’t know how much, which is a good thing. If you knew how much I missed you…well, my life would be hell.”

  “Oh, Clay, you are so wrong,” I protested in my best little girl voice. “I’d never take advantage.”

  He laughed. “Already my life’s not my own. Neither is my soul. I’m just trying to hold on to a little dignity here.”

  Would he come home if I asked him to? Likely, if he was able to find a way off those islands, but it wouldn’t solve my problem. I needed to do that all on my own, needed the space to make a decision. Most of all I had to find the courage to throw my biggest secret out there for everyone to see. “You just be careful. And win that damn race.”

  The phone rang. The red dial said two-thirty. Panic. No good news comes at that hour of the night. “Hello, hello,” I shouted. “Bitch. You’re so going to regret this.”

  I slammed the phone down. How had he gotten the unlisted number? Rena, it had to be.

  I was still awake when it rang at three-thirty. This time when I lifted the receiver I heard another phone pick up. I hadn’t turned off the ringer of the phone in the den. I hit the Off button while the voice on the phone was still spewing obscenities and threats.

  C H A P T E R 1 3

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Lacey said. We were in the truck and I was delivering her to school.

  I took my eyes off the rearview. “What exactly aren’t I supposed to tell? Things are piling up and I’m getting confused.”

  “About my arms.” She sat hunched up in the corner as far away from me as she could get.

  I turned left on Banyan and braked for a jogger darting across in front of me. “Can’t promise that.”

  “Just for a little bit?”

  “This is too big to hide. You need help.”

  “Even if I promise not to do it anymore?”

  “Nope. I’m not your guardian, or warden or whatever. I’m not checking you out for fresh cuts, and I can’t make sure you don’t do it again.” “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Still nope.” I parked in front of the school. “Have a good day.” Silly words.

  She pushed open the door. Reluctant and beaten, she dragged her backpack behind her.

  I kept one eye peeled for Ray John and one eye on Lacey to make sure she didn’t bolt. Lacey dragged herself into the building, not acknowledging the other kids, alone in a sea of humanity.

  I went to see Rena. The store didn’t open until ten but I knew she’d be there, tidying up, unpacking stock and doing the books.

  Rena didn’t look well. Her hair looked faded and dull, her normally impeccable makeup looked smudged over a bruise showing beneath the heavy foundation high on her left cheek. The love of her life seemed to be back to his old tricks.

  Rena and I pretended she wasn’t wearing the evidence of his cruelty, pretended life was just as it had been a day ago.

  When the small talk ended, her shock began. “Did you know Lacey has been cutting herself?” I asked.

  “What?” She backed away from me, her horror real. Denial quickly followed. “You’re crazy.”

  “Nope. I’ve seen the scars.”

  “Lacey hasn’t any scars.”

  “She has, Rena. And she admitted cutting herself, tried to make me promise not to tell you.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, slowly shaking her head in denial before asking, “Why?”

  Before I could reply, a fresh resolve gripped her. “She has to come home.”

  “What will that solve? She was cutting herself at home.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “But it’s true. We’ve got to get help for her.” Her face pulled into worried lines. “My insurance won’t cover this and I can’t afford it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for now.” Good going girl, let’s just hope psychiatrists take store coupons. “The most important thing is that we get her some help.” “How could she do this to me?”

  So stunning, it took my breath away. Maybe she didn’t mean to be that selfish. Maybe like most of us she was just at the end of her rope and was coping with all she could handle before this.

  I wanted to tell her about what Ray John was doing to her child. It was a great big lump in my throat, waiting to vomit out, but I’d promised Lacey, promised that I’d never tell her secret unless she gave me permission. I couldn’t violate that. Well, not yet anyway.

  “You try and find her some help and I’ll keep a real close eye on her,” I vowed.

  It turned out to be one of many promises I couldn’t keep in my life. But I started out with really good intentions.

  Skip Nayato, the bartender already down from Vermont for the season, was working in the stockroom, setting up the bar for the day and ordering new stock. The resort in the North where he worked in the summer had closed after Labor Day and, like lots of people in the service industry, he had made his way south. That’s how it is; lots of maids, gardeners and wait staff work the summers up in New England and Upper New York State and then come to Florida for the winter. It was early in the season to take on wait staff. I really didn’t need any more bodies until November when the first snowbirds would trickle in, but Skip and I had worked together before and I knew he was too good to pass up.

  Hurricane Myrna had not only wreaked havoc on the landscape the winter before, it had kept the tourists away. People saw the pictures of the destruction on television and didn’t realize Jacaranda was open for business. Many businesses that survived the hurricane failed in the tourist season that followed, including the place where Skip had worked. I was sure hoping the tourists would forget about hurricanes and come back in droves for the winter to save my ass.

  Given the situation with Lacey, I was glad that I’d taken Skip on so early. I asked him to work extra hours and cover for me. Hee Haw, bring on the debt.

  I checked the receipts from the night before. Not bad. I was mildly optimistic about my ability to stay afloat, and then I got on the phone and called Cordelia Grant, my friend who was a grief counselor. She’d know what to do for Lacey.

  “She needs a child psychiatrist but I have to tell you there is a real shortage of them in this area. It may take months to get an appointment.”

  “I don’t know why I say this, but I don’t think she’s got months. Lacey needs help now.”

  “Then call the family doctor. He may be able to treat her with antidepressants until she can get real help. You’ll need to talk to him anyway, so that’s a good place to start.”

  I called Rena. The phone rang in the store but no one answered.

  There was nothing more to be done for Lacey; it was time to look after my own business. At the Stop and Shop, I went inside to pay for the gas. The clerk asked, “Will there be anything else?”

  A six pack of Coors landed on the counter beside my hand. “And a brewski for the old man,” a baritone voice said behind me.


  C H A P T E R 1 4

  I turned around to face my father, Tully Jenkins.

  “And a brewski for the old man,” I told the clerk.

  “How you doin’, Sherri?”

  “Not bad.”

  My cautious reply didn’t change his grin. “You?” I asked just to be polite.

  He gave me a ragged charming smile, “What can I say? I’m old, ugly and mean, but still able to get out of bed come morning.”

  He looked better than his assessment. Tully has every bad habit a man can have, some of which he’s taken to an art form, but he’s been strangely unaffected by them. When I looked at him for signs of change there were very few. He’d looked much the same throughout my whole life, a few more wrinkles from the sun and the cigarette that always hung from the corner of his mouth, but that’s about all. Sometimes I felt that one day I’d pass him in aging and while I grew old, he’d do a Dorian Gray and stand still. Only now was grey beginning to show in his dark hair.

  Still dressed head to toe in denim and still wearing a black straw cowboy hat pushed back on his head, he was still handsome. No denying it. A parade of women had been taken in by his chiseled features and laughing black eyes. He’d never worried much about those women wising up and moving on, knowing there was another one in the next bar, truck stop or marina. Ruth Ann was the only one he couldn’t seem to get over. In the past he’d gone to great lengths to get her back, even stopped drinking and catting around for a while. Then he’d get back to his old ways and Ruth Ann would throw him out again. Very entertaining, although ultimately tiring, but even that seemed to have died down.

  He had turned sixty the summer before but was still all bone and sinew. His dark skin stayed the same color no matter what the time of year, but then he was outside all year round, seldom making any concession to the weather except to pull on a jean jacket if the temperature dipped below fifty. He was as dark and mean as the feral pigs he loved to hunt illegally in the scrub brush out around the state park east of Sarasota. Every Thanksgiving and again in March he’d have a pork barbecue. The pigs went on a spit over a hardwood fire early in the morning and cooked all day. People started dropping in around three, the women bringing potato salads and desserts, the men carrying twelve packs of beer and some lawn chairs. They’d sit themselves down and drink and laugh and make a little music while they watched the spit turn. When Tully decided the pigs were done, two men would lift the spit onto a scrubbed picnic table and they’d begin carving them up. Served on a fresh bun with some brown mustard, it’s as sweet and tender a meal as you’ll ever get.