School of Fortune

by Amanda Brown

  Pierce let Gordon read for thirty minutes then asked Tom the lit-terer to take over at the Anatomical Gifts paragraph. Having eaten a large breakfast, Tom didn’t enjoy reciting about organ, tissue, and eye removal but did as he was told. As his monotone pushed the class further into narcosis, Pierce’s gaze returned to Perdita. Her parts didn’t add up to the whole. She looked smart but lost. She didn’t seem the type to have a drug problem. Runaway was possible, but who in her right mind would run away to Dallas? Pierce studied her tattoos. The blobs on her left arm looked like Minnie Mouse; everything else was a blurry mess. He wondered if she sported a few rings on her nether body parts, as did many women with tar-black hair. She wore a huge ring on her left hand. Pierce presumed it was one of those cubic zirco-nia monstrosities because he knew that rich people never took this course. They hired lawyers instead.

  When Tom’s voice gave out, Pierce asked Lola to come to the front of the class and read about Court-Ordered Suspensions, Alcohol-Related Offenses, and the Point System for Moving Violations. After thirty minutes Pierce turned to the young man who had never removed his eyes from Lola’s microscopic Santa costume. “Seymour, tell us the fine for a first DWI.”

  The graffiti artist replied, “I never heard of a dwee. Is that a bird or something?”

  “D.W.I. That’s shorthand for driving while intoxicated. Drunk driving.”

  “Oh, that,” Seymour pooh-poohed. “What about it?” “What is the fine?” Pierce repeated through clenched teeth. “Fifty bucks?”

  Pierce tapped his fingers on his desk. “Let’s take a ten-minute break,” he suggested. “Fresh air. Coffee. Bagels. Don’t forget to use the litter basket, Tom.”

  The classroom emptied except for Perdita, who seemed eager to tell him something. “The fine for a first DWI is one thousand dollars a year for three years.”

  “Very good, Perdita. I notice you’ve been paying close attention to everything.”

  “That’s because I really need to pass this course. My whole life depends on it.”

  When women confided such things to him, they usually shoved their decolletage in his face. Apparently Perdita’s mind didn’t function that way. Pierce was relieved because in her case, the temptation to barter would be great. “I’m sure you’ll do very well,” he replied. She had pretty green eyes, he noticed. Soft and trusting. “May I ask what is that perfume you’re wearing?”

  “It’s called Thayne. There are only fourteen bottles in existence. It was custom blended in Paris.” Pippa almost showed him the flacon in her purse before realizing that a waitress would barely possess hand lotion, let alone French perfume. “I got it at a garage sale for ten cents.”

  “I see.” Not really. “Why does your life depend on passing the course?”

  “My grandfather will—” Her face went cherry red. “Increase my allowance. I’m a waitress,” she added for no reason whatsoever.

  He watched her skitter out of the room. Perdita’s rap sheet said she was driving a Lexus SUV when she was pulled over: that was a hell of a lot of tips.

  When class resumed, Carrie-Jo the trailer trash got things off to a rocky start by hoisting her boobs in Officer Pierce’s face and asking, “Is parallel parking going to be on the driving test? Like, it’s not my particular favorite thing to do in the car, if you know what I mean.”

  “Just for you, Carrie-Jo, I’ll make parallel parking fifty percent of your driving test.”

  “That’s not fair! I won’t do it!”

  “You’ll automatically fail if you refuse to follow instructions.”

  Pierce turned to the class. “FYI, you’ll fail the course if you have a crash between now and your exam.” He noticed Perdita scribbling furiously in her notebook. “It’s all on page fifteen, Perdita. You don’t have to recopy the entire manual.” She put down her pen. “Sorry, sir.”

  He made her read two chapters covering Vehicle Inspection and the Liability Insurance Law, written in English but incomprehensible to anyone but a judge or William Shakespeare. Finally his wristwatch beeped: noon. “Let’s break for lunch. See you at one o’clock sharp for a review of road signs.”

  Pippa followed Pierce down the hallway. All was dead quiet except for the embarrassing squish of her flip-flops as she gained on him. Although she was sure he could hear her, Pippa saw Pierce walk faster and faster away. “Officer Pierce! Stop!”

  He obeyed, of course. He’d have to be made of stone not to. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you tutor?”

  Every molecule of testosterone screamed in protest as he answered, “Absolutely not.”

  Humiliated, Pippa fled to the parking lot. Her cell phone rang as her key turned in the ignition. She recognized Lance’s number. If he was calling for sympathy, this was not a good time. “Let me guess,” she snapped. “You want your SMU varsity pin back.”

  “Pippa?” a man asked.

  “Yes!” Wrong answer, in case it was an enemy. “No!” Wrong again, in case it was a friend. “Maybe! Who is this?” “Woody. Lance’s physical therapist.” “Emphasis on physical.”

  He let that pass. “If it’s any comfort to you, Lance is catatonic with grief and guilt.”

  “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.” “What rage!”

  “Just shut up, okay? You two weasels deserve it.” Woody sighed. “Yes, we do. Pippa, you’re the most selfless woman we’ve ever met. Mother Teresa doesn’t even come close.” “What is the purpose of this call?” “How would you like to have Lance’s Maserati?”

  That sounded fantastic. However, on second thought, “That sounds like a bribe.”

  “A more gracious person would call it a gift.”

  “A more grateful person would have offered the gift himself.” Pippa turned up the air-conditioning: Woody’s voice made her blood boil. “As you may guess, I’m not looking for souvenirs of our relationship right now. Thanks to Lance, Thayne will disinherit me. My grandfather’s dead. I’m hiding out like a criminal at Ginny’s. Enriched plutonium has more friends than I do.”

  “I feel your pain. Lance has been banished to Brazil until Cowboys training camp.”

  “I couldn’t care less about your pain.” Pippa felt an invisible hand squeeze her heart. “I want my mother to know the truth. She’ll forgive me when she knows the whole story.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Not totally. Thayne would not be above strangling Pippa for terminal nai’vete.

  “Thayne must first get past her fury,” he counseled. Besides ministering to Lance’s knees, Woody considered himself a gifted amateur psychoanalyst. “She must want you back. Need you in her life again. Your mother must understand why your wedding meant so much to her in the first place. That’s going to take a lot of self-analysis.”

  “And meanwhile I disappear and wait for the Second Coming?”

  “That’s a good way of putting it. Yes.”

  Pippa sighed: Jesus had already taken two thousand years. Thayne wouldn’t settle for a minute less. “I can’t believe I was so blind. Lance really had me fooled.”

  “He didn’t do so deliberately.”

  “You mean he honestly thought he was AC-DC? Give me a break.” Woody sighed. “Can you move on, Pippa? Find someone else?” “Just like that? It’s going to be a long time before I trust a man again.”

  Women were so messed up, Woody thought; they actually had to know and trust a guy before they could bend over for him. “Lance wants you to keep the ring. Keep everything. He told his mother under no circumstances was she to ask for any jewelry back, even if she wins the lawsuit.” “That is so heartwarming, Woody.” “What about the Maserati?”

  “Take the tailpipe and shove it.” Pippa snapped her cell phone shut. Woody help her? That was like Henry VIII offering to sew Anne Boleyn’s head back on.

  Carrie-Jo rapped on her window. “Can you lend me three bucks for lunch?”

  Pippa looked in her wallet. All she had was a pair of hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll com
e in with you,” she sighed.

  They entered the motel’s humid, moldy coffee shop. Pippa got a cup of coffee that tasted as if it had been simmering since St. Patrick’s Day. While paying for that and Carrie-Jo’s lunch, she happened to glance at the television above the cash register. She gasped to see Thayne, her father, and another woman emerging from a limousine. Thayne’s black veils floated in the breeze as she and Robert followed a horse-drawn wagon into a cemetery. Pippa recognized the gravestones of the Walker family plot in Crockett, Texas. She saw Anson’s favorite horse, Scamp. That big long box in the wagon must be his coffin. On top of the coffin stood his alligator boots with the six-inch spurs. Anson claimed they spun a bit whenever he was standing on top of oil.

  Pippa’s father, back from golfing in Morocco, looked as if he had just swallowed a divot. Thayne seemed emaciated and unsteady on her feet, perhaps because she was wearing a pair of Guccis with four-inch spikes, not the best choice for walking on grass.

  A television reporter appeared and said, in case any of his viewers were totally blind, “This is a sad day for the Walker family.”

  Transfixed, Pippa watched live coverage of Anson’s funeral. The Reverend Alcott, back for an encore, read from the family Bible. Cedric the substitute wedding planner was there, standing tall in a tartan kilt and reflective sunglasses. Pippa was surprised to see Kimberly, her erstwhile bridesmaid, standing at the graveside in a strapless black dress and her Mad Hatter hat, recycled for a second media blowout. For the benefit of the paparazzi’s zoom lenses, Kimberly dabbed at her dry eyes with a handkerchief at regular intervals. At Thayne’s elbow stood a vaguely familiar woman in a black hat with a swooping brim. Pippa finally identified the face behind the sunglasses as that of Dusi Damon, her mother’s college roommate. Dusi hadn’t been able to make the wedding because she was having plastic surgery in Rangoon. Now sufficiently mended to be seen in public, Dusi wore a low-cut black sheath, three-quarter-length black gloves, and a neckful of rubies. Whenever Kimberly whipped out her handkerchief, Dusi gazed stonily at her. Pippa recognized some long-lost cousins from Corpus Christi, all fatter than ever. There were so many fluttering veils and hankies at the graveside that each time the wind picked up, the mourners looked as if they might sail away.

  At the height of the ceremony Thayne wobbled over to the coffin and heaved Anson’s boots into the open grave. Pippa bit her lip so hard that it bled: Anson had promised her those spurs! Now they, and his oilman’s luck, would be buried with him? She watched in horror as her mother threw a handful of dirt on top of the boots. Her father tossed some more dirt on top of that. Dusi picked up a handful of dirt and, completely missing the large hole in the ground, sprayed Kimberly with soil just as Kimberly was pretending to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. Fascinated, Pippa watched Dusi guide her parents back to their limousine.

  “Anson Walker has joined the oilfields in the sky,” the reporter said. His next attempt at poetic utterance was cut off by a commercial for dog food.

  “From dust to dust,” the little old lady at the register said.

  Realizing that she had been staring at the television for almost half an hour, Pippa headed into the hallway.

  “Hey! You in that driving school? You be goin’ the wrong way.” The cashier sped after her. Before Pippa could prevent it, she was marched back to class.

  The shades were drawn. Officer Pierce sat behind a slide projector, whence he was flashing a series of geometric shapes against the wall and barking, “Octagon: stop signs. Triangle: yield signs. Circles: railroad warnings. Pentagon: schools.” He paused. “Yes, Millicent?”

  “This one tried to get away,” the cashier reported. “She was watching a funeral.”

  “Don’t just stand there, Perdita. Come join the party.”

  “Hey, doesn’t she automatically flunk?” a voice whined from the dark as Pippa returned to her front-row seat. “You said we had to be here on time every time.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Pierce answered. “Did I neglect to mention that each time you’re late, you have to score five points higher on all four tests? That means seventy-five, Perdita. Across the board.” Watching a funeral? That was pretty twisted. “Let’s review colors for the latecomer. A red sign means stop. A yellow sign means warning. Orange means construction. Brown, recreation area.”

  “This is too hard, man,” Seymour muttered. “There are like a hundred signs in the book.”

  “You’re an urban artist, aren’t you? You’re supposed to have an eye for shapes and colors.” Pierce turned off the slide projector and had his class recite another five chapters from the manual. “Homework: duh! Traffic signs. We’ll have a quiz tomorrow.”

  “Does it count?” Billy the farmer groaned.

  “Absolutely.” As Pierce yanked its cord, a window blind zipped upward, emitting a cloud of dead beetles as it slammed into the top of the frame. “Class dismissed. Perdita,” he called as she was bolting for the door. “One moment.”

  She stood quietly in place as her classmates shuffled out. Pierce thought she looked pale, trembling almost. Maybe she thought he was going to smack her. His voice softened. “Were you really watching a funeral?”

  “My grandfather,” she blurted.

  The poor kid was delusional. Nothing was on this time of day but the soaps. “The one who was going to increase your allowance if you passed the course?”

  “Yes.”

  Pierce reached for his wallet. “How much allowance were we talking about? “

  “A billion dollars,” she said with a straight face.

  “Would you settle for ten bucks today and ten tomorrow?”

  To his surprise she didn’t snatch it out of his hand. She simply gasped and ran out.

  Bawling, Pippa blasted the SUV out of the parking lot. Officer Pierce had no doubt meant well, but mistaking her for a charity case was humiliating beyond belief. Attending her grandfather’s funeral via television had been equally crushing. And all the while she was enduring this unearned tribulation, Lance was in Brazil working on his tan! Well, it was time to spread the misery. Houston was four hours south of Dallas. If she started now, she could be kicking down Rosimund’s door by sunset. That seemed like an intelligent plan, so Pippa drove onto Route 45 and engaged the cruise control, careful to stay under the speed limit. Through her tears she studied the shape and color of every passing road sign: homework. She rehearsed exactly what she was going to say and imagined the look on Rosimund’s face when she heard the truth about the perfect son who had ruined Pippa’s life.

  After an hour of vindictive nirvana Pippa was startled to drive past a large green sign for Crockett, where her grandfather had been buried just a few hours ago. She screeched over three lanes to the exit ramp: Rosimund could wait while she paid her last respects.

  Thirty minutes later Pippa arrived at the cemetery where her great-great-grandfather Cougar Walker was interred along with his wife and four generations of progeny. Dinnertime was the high point of the day in Crockett, therefore the place was deserted. It was also one hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit on the open prairie, which tended to curtail lingering expressions of grief. Pippa parked the SUV beside the mound of fresh dirt in the family plot. She had almost convinced herself that the funeral had been an elaborate hoax when she saw a bunch of square holes in the grass where Thayne had been standing. Those punctures had been made by four-inch Gucci heels.

  It really happened.

  Pippa sank to the dry grass and sobbed anew. When she could see again, she read the names carved into the surrounding gravestones. She knew all their stories by heart: Uncle Landon had slipped into a vat of crude oil, lost his dentures, and gone toothless for the next fifty years. Despite getting struck twice by lightning, Aunt Eliza had outlived three husbands. Great-grandma Patsy, who never finished eighth grade, tripled the family business while her husband was fighting the Japanese. Cousin Jeb, aged seven, had shot and killed a thief making off with one of his mother’s famous shoofly pies. The tal
es went on and on: the Walkers were proud, smart, strong people. Generation after generation had proven it wasn’t the money, it was the attitude. Pippa could almost see her forebears shaking their heads, wondering how their superior genes had produced such a dud. She heard Anson’s voice: Get that diploma. She heard her great-grandma Patsy: Don’t blow a billion, honey. She even heard Officer Pierce: You are not a victim.

  Chastened, Pippa drove slowly back to Dallas. Screw Rosimund. The Hendersons were losers.

  Stanley, the guard at Ginny’s gate, motioned for her to roll down her window. “A Maserati was dropped off for you today, ma’am.” Pippa had told Woody to go shove the exhaust pipe. Apparently he had taken that as a yes. “We parked it in a corner of the garage. Under its cover.”

  “Keep the keys. It might be there for a while.”

  Pippa microwaved a few frozen dinners. She opened the Texas Drivers’ Handbook and began cramming her brain with road signs. That beat thinking about her grandfather’s spurs buried under six feet of prairie dust.

  Eleven

  The phone rang at seven o’clock sharp. “Good morning,” Sheldon said. “How’s driving school?”

  “The teacher is really tough.” Pippa yawned. Her legs felt like logs. “Officer Pierce.”

  “He’s got an excellent reputation. Stern but fair. How’s your alias working out?”

  “I’m getting used to it.” Pippa removed the manual lodged between her ear and the pillow. “I saw Grampa’s funeral on television. I can’t believe Thayne threw his spurs away.”

  “As I said, she’s not herself.”

  “That’s why I need to be with her.”

  “Most unwise, considering her reversal of fortune. Speaking of which, I’ve transferred sixty thousand dollars to your money market account. An envelope containing petty cash and a driver’s license in the name of Perdita Rica has been delivered to the Happy Hour Motel. You are a student, after all.”