by Kristen Lamb
As if reading my mind, Kim said, “The walls really need to be painted, though.”
“Yes, they do. But I’m only here for a little bit.”
“Why’s that?” JC asked as he screwed a silk shade onto one of the new matte metal floor lamps.
I was surprised he didn’t know. “The trailer park is no mas .”
“What?”
“City’s claiming imminent domain. Making way for a new vineyard,” I said, not quite remembering all the details, and the words vineyard and Bisby still refused to go together in my brain.
“A vineyard?” Kim and JC blurted in chorus.
“That’s what Heather said. Thirty days then bulldozer time.”
JC frowned. “Makes sense why this place seemed so empty. I just thought they all got better jobs and moved. What’re you gonna to do?”
“Haven’t been here long enough to make a plan.” I let out a long, steadying breath. “Do what I’ve been doing. Take it one day at a time,” I said. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had fun. I was afraid to let them leave.
Kim gave me a sisterly hug. “We’ll help any way we can.” Then she reached for her husband’s hand. “The kids are passed out in the truck. We should get going.”
“Thanks for everything,” I said.
Kim did a yoga stretch. “There’s more headed your way tomorrow. I might be here closer to lunch. Sleep in. I left a couple more bottles of wine. Relax.”
“Sounds lovely.” After Cesar, the FBI, Meyerson, bailing out Nana, and the Mattress of Death? Fine wine and good sleep seemed like heaven.
“Tomorrow we’ll bring over that futon and some other extras,” Kim said. “I have all kinds of cute things that don’t sell at the shop. No one here buys anything on Clearance .” She whispered, “Word might get out.”
“Which means Kim hoards the leftovers in our garage. Really. Take what she offers,” JC said.
I frowned. “Wait. Heather’s supposed to get me a job, maybe as early as tomorrow. In case I’m not here, let yourself in.” I handed them the spare key. Anything worth stealing they’d just given me.
I walked them both out to their vehicles and hugged them good-bye. JC hung back until Kim and the boys drove away in a grand pearl white Escalade.
He asked the dreaded question that had been hanging in the air for the past four hours. “What’re you going to do about your mom?”
“Nothing now. Need to sleep on it. A lot to process.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Good thing your wife’s short. I spent half the night keeping her away from that particular cabinet.”
He chuckled. “That’s Kim. No space left behind. You know you made her day.”
“What? How?”
He shrugged. “She tries to fit in, but she’s trapped between worlds. To the locals, she’s an outsider. To her customers, she’s ‘the help.’ We can’t complain because they’re our bread and butter, but she gets lonely.”
“I know how that feels, and she’s welcome over any time. You did good. She’s a keeper.”
“Can you do us a small favor?” he asked.
“Um, duh. Yeah.”
“Your sister promised the boys they could go dive for golf balls at the resort, but Kim and I can’t take them. Need to open our shops. It would mean getting up early.” He made a face like he was expecting a no.
“You think they can wait a day? Let me get some rest?” I said, swatting mosquitos away from my arms.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Never—”
“No, it’s fine. I’m a morning person, but need to catch up on sleep and we’ve all been up a little too late tonight.”
“True.” He yawned. “Boys probably won’t be conscious until noon. You sure?”
“Happy to. Heather left me the keys to Nana’s Olds.”
“You sure?” he said again.
I shoved him playfully. “Yes, yes I’m sure. Stop asking me that. Heather only gave the kids a two-hour window. How bad can it be? The least I can do.”
“That’s a huge help.” He took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled his address and basic instructions to their home on the back.
I studied the directions in the faltering glow of my broken porch light and tried to make sense of roads I’d never seen. “Tell them I’ll be there at 5:45. They need to be ready or I’m going back to bed.”
“Works for me,” he said. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“When my folks passed away, we had to go through their stuff. They had tons of pictures, which Kim is now scanning and organizing, of course. One of her many projects.” He shook his head. “Anyway, there were photos of the old town, the old farms and homesteads, but we also found some pictures of your mom.” He retrieved a large manila envelope out of the floorboard of his truck.
“I appreciate it. Appreciate everything,” I said, trying not to cry. Whether it was fatigue, wine or sadness, I could tell I was going to lose the emotional wrestling match soon. I waved good-bye, but JC, ever the gentleman, refused to back out until I shut the door.
When I stepped into the trailer, it was a different world. The carpet was fluffy, clean, and at least four shades lighter. The rooms smelled fresh and flowery from the scented warmers Kim plugged into my kitchen and living room. Lavender to make me relax, she’d said. I uncorked a new bottle of wine and poured a glass as I stared at the cabinet over my fridge. JC had brought me two nice barstools so at least I’d have somewhere to sit, and even a spot for company. I took a deep swallow of my wine to boost my buzz that had waned with all the cleaning. I didn’t want to look at the necklace right now. I wanted my mom. When I’d left home, I didn’t take any pictures. Only so much room in my Duffel bag. Later I regretted that decision more than almost any other, aside from the whole waiting on Cotton Ferris then falling in love with Phil. According to my sister, Dad, in a fit of fury and grief had burned every picture of her, every memento that might remind him of the woman who’d abandoned him and their children. It had been so long, I couldn’t even recall her face. I’d tried to hold onto it as long as I could, but time had nibbled the edges of my mental images until they were all but gone.
I shook open the packet of pictures onto the bar, and sadness flooded over me. My mom was so young, and we looked eerily alike. In fact, had the pictures not had that orangey tinge of age, one could have argued those were photos of me. Same smile, same eyes, only she was busty and her thick blonde hair hit right above her waist like Heather’s did when she was little. Mom wore her hair bone-straight and parted in the center, whether it was down or in a ponytail. In most of her pictures she wore an apron, since, like me, she seemed to always be cleaning something. But all her aprons had been handmade at her sewing machine where she patched our clothes.
I flipped through the pictures, but only recognized a handful of people. Then I came to a picture of my mom and dad together with friends at a bar for some kind of party. I spotted a familiar face in the background, and that frightened me because this face shouldn’t have been familiar. He was a menacing mountain of a man in full biker leathers. Even though he was clean-shaven with short hair and wearing sunglasses in a dim bar, I could still see the thick scar through his right eyebrow.
Ed.
Chapter Seven
Early sun slanted through the blinds, slicing deep gashes in my skull. I held my arm across my eyes to ward off the morning’s assault on my hung-over brain and struggled to my feet in search of water and aspirin. At first I wondered why I’d drank so much, and then it all came rushing back and I puked in the bathroom sink. I ran cold water over my face, rinsed my mouth with Listerine at least five times, and tried to un-remember all I knew. For years, I’d been the lone voice protesting Mom hadn’t run off, that something happened to her. Something bad. I alone had expressed the belief she was dead, not living a life with a new man and a new family since we weren’t good enough. Yet, through all my protests, I still wanted to believe like the
others. A small part of me wanted to hold onto the fantasy she was safe and happy and living a better life than in a trailer park.
Last night that part had died, and at the time, I failed to appreciate how much hope died with it. The little piece that hoped I’d one day run into my mother at a fabric store or a farmer’s market was finally gone, like everything else. I’d finished off the entire bottle of wine to numb the grief enough to stop sobbing and go to sleep. My eyes felt like marshmallows, so swollen I could hardly see. I wandered to the kitchen, filled a salad bowl with water and ice cubes and dipped my face twenty seconds at a time until I could no longer take the bite of cold.
I gulped down a glass of water and some aspirin then reached for the stool so I could take one more look at the clues, one more look at the photos stowed up in the cabinet. Maybe I’d been too tired or emotional and seen things that weren’t really there. It wasn’t possible. Little Ed was always so good to me. I simply couldn’t believe he had something to do with my mom disappearing. But he fit Ferris’s description. And why had Ed been so nice to me? Was it guilt? Had he killed my mother intentionally or even accidentally? Was he trying to make amends? All along I’d thought he liked me because of Ida, but now I didn’t know anything. Ida only randomly admitted to having babies and her husband’s name was Dick? Facts weren’t adding up. Now, thinking back, there were no pictures of Ed in Ida’s apartment, no stories. I’d assumed it was her dementia. Ed was always the one talking about Ida, but never the other way around.
Was it all a ruse?
I couldn’t think. My neurons were sluggish from my super brilliant plan of dulling grief with far too much wine. But, I had to see that picture again. My mind was leaping to crazy conclusions, none of them pleasant. As I stepped up to open the cabinet, a loud banging at my door startled me right off the stool.
I checked my watch. 8:30? Kim said she was going to let me sleep in. I guessed we had different definitions of ‘sleeping in,’ so I lumbered to the door and opened it without checking who it was.
“Morning,” Sawyer said. He wore a khaki 5.11 shirt, a navy windbreaker, and tactical pants and I wondered if 5.11 was the only place he shopped.
“What are you doing here?” I asked and squinted against the blaring sun that was frying my gray matter. “Come inside,” I said, too weary to defend myself against Sawyer and the daylight at the same time. For a moment, I knew what it must be like to be a vampire.
“Rough night?” he asked as I closed the door and I resented the jab in his tone.
“Hard to sleep,” I grumbled.
“Guilty conscience will do that every time,” he said as he sat on my barstool.
“Sure. Whatever.”
“You got all this packed in that little Honda? Impressive.” He scanned the small trailer, all the thoughtful knick-knacks, pillows, lamps, and silk plants.
“What can I say? I’m magic.”
“Have to be to make half billion dollars disappear.”
“Wanna let me saw you in half?” I said as I patted through the cabinets hunting for a mug and the coffee pods. Kim had given me her single-serving coffeemaker, since they’d gotten a fancy Cappuccino machine for their wedding anniversary. She’d also been nice enough to fill it with distilled water so all I had to do was load the pod and push a button. Within seconds, the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen.
“I’ll take a cup, too while you’re at it.” He offered a mischievous smile I wanted to slap clean off his face.
“All out of hemlock.”
“You’re funny.”
I scowled at him. “Do I look like Starbucks?”
“No, you look like death chewing on a cracker. Can smell the booze from here. Drinking away your guilt doesn’t work, you know.”
“From experience?” I shot back and he never lost that bemused smile, which kinda ticked me off.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” he asked, resting on his elbows.
“Because you can’t.” I sipped at the steaming hot coffee, then set down my cup and made another. I was a sucker that way and it made me hate myself a little more. “If you need cream or sugar you’re SOL,” I said as I handed him the Go Bearcats mug.
“Black’s fine. What’s a Bearcat?” He stared at the mug.
“Bisby High School mascot, and no idea. Didn’t understand it when I went there,” I replied as I peeled an orange. The aspirin and black coffee were not helping my roiling stomach. Needed food. I halved the orange, giving part to Sawyer, then dug through the cabinets for the cinnamon buns I swore I’d bought at the Piggle Wiggle. I was struggling to remember if I’d left them in the basket or put them back.
He sipped his coffee as I searched. “Why do you think I can’t help you?”
“A-ha.” I finally located the buns in the microwave.
“You store your baked goods in the microwave?”
“Casa Linda always had mice,” I said as I plated two large sticky buns. “Little buggers never finish what they eat and I don’t care to share. Old habit.” I shrugged and slid a cinnamon roll his way. “Besides, you did see Mount Frigidaire outside, right? Probably safe to assume there’s a rodent or two around somewhere.”
“Why do you think I can’t help you?” He tore off part of the cinnamon bun.
“You always repeat yourself so much?”
“Only when people refuse to tell the truth.”
“All right.” I smacked my mug down and the scalding liquid splashed over my thumb and hurt like hell, but I wasn’t about to let on. “I refuse to let you help me, because I have nothing you want. Your help is contingent on a trade for something of value, which is something I don’t have.” I handed him a paper towel and sat on the other stool on the opposite side of the bar. I glanced up to the cabinet, wanting so badly to kick Sawyer out so I could get back to playing detective. I swiveled around and stared him right in the eye. “Thing is, you probably know a hell of a lot more than I do.”
“Something important I’m keeping you from?” His glance darted to the cabinet over my fridge.
“Yes, like showering for one.” Any other time I might have been embarrassed to be seen like this, but Sawyer and his opinions could go to hell. I liked my Sponge Bob PJs. I did at least rinse off before bed, but had been too tired to wash my hair, and still wore it pinned up in a bun, which was probably now sprouting like a forgotten onion.
“Why do you assume you don’t know anything?” he said, his voice level, cool, disturbing.
“Because you have target fixation,” I said, working hard to keep my voice even. “You’re so sure I’m an accomplice that unless I confess and tell you what you think you know, nothing I say matters.” I inhaled the rest of my coffee and stormed over for another cup. I didn’t know whether it was the caffeine surge or the irritation making me shake.
“Fair assessment. I apologize.”
I whirled around, nearly sloshing coffee on my shirt. “Huh?”
“Let’s say you are an innocent victim.”
“Yeah, let’s start with that.”
“And we know Phil is a con-man.”
“Duh.”
“Why you? Why make you the mark?” There was that stare again, the one that made me feel like I was standing there in no more than my underwear.
“You lost me.”
“When did Phil meet you?”
It took a moment for me to bring up the information. “Um, end of my junior year at TCU.”
“And your major was?”
“You read my file. You tell me.”
He hesitated. “Information Systems with an emphasis on algorithms and data structures. Correct?”
I nodded.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why?” He studied me.
“I liked computers and math. People are irrational, but numbers?” I let out a long breath. “Numbers can’t lie.”
“Then why put you in sales and marketing?”
“I was always more interested in the theoretical. The da
y-to-day practical stuff was enough to bore the paint off the walls.”
“Then again, why that degree?”
Groaning, I said, “Job security, ironically. I had nothing to do with writing any of the code. Just understood how it worked.” I drew a shuddering breath. “Or at least how it was supposed to work. The whole stealing thing was the part they left out when I was hired.”
“Your background still makes you the perfect hacker to pull it off or at least help.”
I shot him an annoyed look. “Don’t assume you know me. Because of Verify, Whataburger won’t hire me. No one will with Cunningham on my tail.” I pressed my lips together. I hadn’t meant to let that last part out.
“Who’s Cunningham?”
“Nobody.” I busied myself rearranging the glasses in the cabinets so I didn’t have to meet Sawyer’s stare.
“Who’s Cunningham?”
I stopped shuffling around water glasses. “Let me guess, you’re going to keep asking me that until I cave.”
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Ah, Cunningham. My number one fan, next to you, of course.” I lifted my mug in a mock toast. “I never could figure out why I couldn’t get a job. Well, a legitimate one anyway. Other people from Verify got jobs, but not me. There was a time I felt, I don’t know…”