“Shit, Piper, you think you’re the only person capable of petty thoughts? Hell no. Wanting something someone else has is how wars are started. Of course he hated you. I hated my big sister because she had breasts.” He ran his hand over his torso and grinned. “I’m over it now, of course, because mine are bigger than hers.”
“You hated your sister because she had breasts?” Now, this was interesting. “Honest to God?”
“Yeah, I really did. I was horribly jealous because she had what I wanted—a female body. I didn’t really understand it at the time. It took a couple years with a good therapist before I got what was going on. Piper, that’s what you ought to do. See a therapist. I know a great one in California. He moved there a couple years ago. I can give you his number”
They’ll lock you up and throw away the key key key.
“Thanks. I’ll get the name if I think I need it.”
Dakota nodded. “Do you know where Sylvan Heights is?”
Rick looked up, surprised. “Yeah. It’s not far from Santo Verde, but I don’t care how close this guy is, I’m not interested in—”
“No, no, no. I didn’t know exactly where it was. My sister just moved there.”
“The one with the breasts?”
“Watch it, Piper. She might be able to help you.”
Rick made a face. “I don’t need any help.”
“She’s an optometrist.” Dakota wiped his lips and cocked his head. “I was just thinking—maybe you did see something weird when you were a kid. You ever get your eyes examined?”
“Two months ago. Healthy, normal, twenty-twenty.”
“Still, if you told her about it, she might be able to tell you something.”
“Dakota, if you tell her—or anybody—one word of this, I’ll—”
“Your secret’s safe with me. You won’t have any trouble, anyway,” he added. “You’ve found an outlet for your imagination with those crazy columns of yours. You’ll be fine—I guess I was just looking for an excuse to have you and Audrey meet.”
“I don’t—”
“She’s just your type, Piper. Divorced, barely fills an A cup, five foot three, HIV negative, and disgustingly well read.” Dakota grinned. “Want her number?”
“I haven’t even decided to move for sure. Don’t try to fix me up yet!”
Dakota topped their glasses. “You’d like her.”
Rick snorted into his wine. “Jesus, O’Keefe, brothers are supposed to beat up guys who try to screw their sisters.”
“Shit, Piper, I didn’t say you could screw her. You know, you’re becoming positively vulgar? I said you should meet her.” Dakota set his glass down and examined his lacquered red nails, a Mona Lisa of a smirk plastered on his face. “I’ve done that.”
“Done what?”
“Punched out a guy who messed with my sister. I pack quite a powerful left hook, you know.”
Rick grinned in amazement. “An obnoxious boyfriend?”
“Her husband.”
“Why?”
“He beat her up, the son of a bitch.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled, relaxing until the pinched look left his features. “Look, enough about that cretinous puddle of scum. I’ve got to whip these potatoes before they turn to mush. I’m positively starving.”
“You want any help?”
“Thanks, no.” Pans clattered as Dakota fussed around the stove. “You know,” he called, over his shoulder, “you’ll probably have trouble with Shelly about this, but it’ll work out eventually.”
“O’Keefe?”
“Hmmm?” he asked, stirring gravy.
“That guy, Starman, that bellboy Shelly likes? You checked him out?” he asked guiltily. He hadn’t even known the guy existed.
“Took a look, asked some questions. I was afraid he might have, you know, connections . . . to certain unsavory organizations. He doesn’t.” Dakota glanced over his shoulder. “You’re feeling like you’re the world’s worst father, aren’t you, Piper? Well, don’t. Shelly’s an adolescent, which automatically means she’s not going to tell you squat. Sometimes she confides in me a little.”
“Why you and not me?”
“Because you’re her father. Piper, plug in your brain. You were a kid once What teenager tells their parents anything?” Dakota smiled and put a hand on his hip. “She talks to me because I’m sort of a big brother to her . . . and big sister.”
“You’re right again.” Rick stared at Dakota. He wore no makeup, but his face—its features strong in a woman, delicate in a man—were disturbingly beautiful, genderless in the way of the faces of angels in some Renaissance paintings. Rick thought: Boy, am I drunk.
“What’re you smiling about, Piper?”
“Thanks for looking out for my daughter, Dakota. You’re an angel.”
“Thanks. You know, Cody’s going to absolutely be in heaven if you do this.”
“I hope so,” Rick replied, thinking about his son’s Piper blue eyes.
8
June 2
Rick’s stomach held an ocean of aspirin, and he was feeling a little seasick. Between his efforts to ease the dull headache, relax his tense neck muscles, and kill the throbbing pain in his hand, he’d taken too many pills. Now, lying on his back at four in the morning, watching the lights from the Strip splash their gaudy reflections against the bedroom window, aware of the warm weight of the cat, who had plastered his furry orange body against his side, Rick reached for the antacids and tumbled out the last two. The bottle had been half-full when he’d gone to bed.
Quint’s tail beat angrily against his leg as he crunched the Tums—the feline considered such noises beneath contempt but the thrashing gave way to basso profundo purring as soon as he began scratching behind its ears. The cat, he reflected, had trained him well.
A car alarm began wailing somewhere below. He listened briefly to make sure it wasn’t his, then turned his thoughts to the evening and wondered again if it had been worth the physical discomfort he now felt. He decided that maybe it had, in a sort of roundabout, somewhat humiliating, way.
At some point during the long, blurred postdinner conversation, Dakota had called him a control freak. Rick had laughed to hide his annoyance, but now he admitted to himself that O’Keefe was right. He’d never opened up, even as much as he did tonight—but then he’d never gotten so drunk either, not even in college. He never let himself, for fear of . . . for fear of what? Losing control, of course. Tonight’s reaction to the liquor had been decidedly weird. He wasn’t a teetotaler; he’d split a couple bottles of wine with friends any number of times, and usually it just relaxed him a little and made him sleepy. But tonight . . . tonight, probably because of the stress and moronic finger slicing, he’d slobbered sentimental gratitude on Dakota and, as a result, wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look him in the eye again, despite the fact that Dakota insisted he’d done nothing to be ashamed of.
Voices, a man and a woman arguing, passed by, and a moment later, a door slammed farther down the hall. It was never quiet here. Rick wondered if he could sleep in a place without voices and horns and sirens. And lights. Grow up, Piper.
He smiled to himself, remembering that he’d told Dakota stories about Aunt Jade’s poodles. He hadn’t thought of them in years—in fact, he’d forgotten about them until the moment he’d brought them up.
Remembering the dogs had been an eye-opener for him. He’d never seen the humor in them before. If most of the things he’d blocked were as stupid and innocuous as that, then the move home would be a very good thing for him as well as for his kids.
Then again, maybe Dakota was full of shit. Still, it was the first time he’d ever told anyone about his brother. Too, he was glad he’d talked about the dogs. Later, he’d even made a few jokes about Jade’s bizarre sexual proclivities, and he was perversely pleased with himself for making fun of a territory so long self-forbidden. The words had tumbled out, nasty little nuances seduced by a nice red wine. And he’d loved it, abso
lutely loved it, and only wished he’d done it sooner. The wicked delight he had felt—and was still feeling—was as exciting as an altar boy’s first forbidden peek in a Playboy.
All in all, he couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time, throbbing hand and all.
“What a miserable little kid I was,” he told the cat as he scratched behind its ears. “I never laughed.” God, he’d been a serious, oversensitive little—
Gonna cut your legs off icky Ricky.
“Be quiet!” he whispered. Acid, hot and burning, seeped into his throat. The unbidden words, as always, delivered in his brother’s voice, were nothing but symptoms of his own oversensitivity. He knew that most kids would have laughed off the nasty things his brother said. Most kids—like his brother, for instance—would have delighted in his grandfather’s greenjack stories, but not Rick. Sometimes he hated himself for being who he’d been: a cowardly, overly imaginative child who grew up afraid of everything and haunted by untrustworthy memories. Perhaps now, things would begin to change.
For all he knew now, Robin might have been a wonderful kid. Rick’s memories of his childhood were deformed, his imagination twisted. If he could imagine seeing and hearing greenjacks, for Christ’s sake, certainly he could imagine things about his brother that weren’t true. But why? Maybe Dakota was right. Maybe he should talk to someone.
If you tell, they’ll take you away, they’ll think you’re crazy, crazy, crazy.
The headache beat against his skull. What did he have to tell, anyway?
Secrets.
Telling O’Keefe about Jade was a joke when compared to the real secrets. There were things about Robin and about Carmen—perhaps even about himself—that were too terrible to ever recall. He hoped that seeing Carmen and Hector wouldn’t bring any of them back—he doubted that it would. They were purposely buried far in the past.
Secrets.
About death. About murder.
Silent tears blazed trails from the outer corners of his eyes to the pillow beneath his head. How much was real? Any of it? All of it? How much was imagination born of guilt? Maybe Dakota was right, maybe he did hate his brother, even though he had no right to. After all, he reminded himself, I was born with legs.
If you tell, if you tell, if you tell . . .
His brother’s voice, always his brother’s voice. He wondered if he would ever be free of it.
No, he thought, as his eyelids grew heavy. Because it’s your voice too.
9
June 8
“Ricky? Ricky, is that really you?” said the voice on the telephone.
“Yes, it’s really me.” Rick stood at his bedroom window or his office window, depending on the time of day—and squinted into the afternoon glare. After a moment, he turned the wand controlling the heavy vertical blinds and watched the slats of sunlight grow narrower and narrower. “It’s been a long time, Carmen.” This morning he’d told the boys at KBUK he was leaving the show, and now there was no backing out. He had a stomach full of butterflies as he sat down in his chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the desktop.
“Say something so I know it’s you,” Carmen ordered.
“What? Why?” Her request made him nervous. When Robin was alive, there had been good reason, but now . . .
“Please.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. No. Just tell me something only you could know.”
“Okay.” He smiled to himself as a memory came. “You and I shaved Jade’s poodle after it crapped on the couch. You told her the vet did it because it had lice.”
“Ricky, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Carmen, why did we have to do that?”
She hesitated before she answered. “I’m getting to be a superstitious old woman, Ricky. I’m scared of ghosts, that’s all. Mr. McCall told me you’d be phoning. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She’s afraid I’m Robin, back from the dead, he realized. Had she always been so superstitious? Yes, maybe she had. Perhaps this woman, the only person he trusted after his parents were killed, had unwittingly helped him become the nervous wreck he was today. “I have kids,” he added.
“Kids? More than one?”
She knew about Shelly. He’d sent her a Christmas card the year his daughter was born, but he was pretty sure that was the last time he’d been in contact with her. “I have a son, too. Cody. He’s five.”
“How is your wife, Laura?”
“She died four years ago.”
“Oh, Ricky, I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” he said simply. “Carmen? Did George tell you why I’m calling?”
“Yes, Ricky. You’re coming home. Hector and I are so happy!”
“I’m glad,” he said uncomfortably. “Uh, Carmen, what’s the situation with Jade? Is she as eccentric as ever?”
“Madre de Dios, that woman. She’s still crazy, and she’s still got those stinking little dogs.”
As her poodles had died—they seemed to meet with more accidents than anything else on earth—she had had each one stuffed. By the time Rick had left for Las Vegas, there must have been more than a dozen of them holding their various eternal positions around the house. “Does she have a living one now?” Rick asked.
“Two,” Carmen said sourly.
“That’s too bad,” he said, thinking that Quint would have a great time terrorizing the creatures.
“You’re telling me.” Carmen paused. “Miz Jade’s getting a little senile, too. She’s supposed to keep those damn stuffed dogs in her apartment, but I keep finding them all over the house. She claims she isn’t responsible.” She snorted. “She’s never been responsible, that one. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and she’s crazy as a loon.”
“Apartment?” Rick asked hopefully. “Do you mean she’s living in the cottage now?”
“No. We still live there. Miz Jade doesn’t climb the stairs so well anymore. Remember how the downstairs is built in a circle, you know, the kitchen, dining room, living room, and then you go through the wide archway into the family room, past the bathroom and laundry room, and back into the kitchen, right by the back stairs?”
“I remember.”
“Hector put folding doors on the arch between the living room and family room, and another door between the bathroom and laundry room so that your aunt has her own apartment. Remember that little room at the back of the family room?”
“Mom’s sewing room?”
“Yeah. That’s her bedroom.”
The idea of having that woman and her dogs so close was revolting. “Carmen, how would you and Hector like to live in the main house? We can put Jade in the cottage.”
“No, Ricky. She’d have a fit, and I don’t think I can live in that big house. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” he told her, deciding not to pursue it any further until he saw what conditions were like for himself. Chances were, he’d have the horrid old woman put in a rest home. “Carmen? Can you do me a favor?”
“You name it, Ricky.”
“If I can tell you exactly when we’re arriving, could you make sure Aunt Jade isn’t home? Keep her away for a few hours?”
Carmen’s laugh was hearty. “Sure. Are you afraid she’ll scare your children?”
He smiled. Carmen always knew him so well. “Cody can probably handle her,” he said, thinking of his unflinching acceptance of Mrs. Poom, “but my daughter . . . well, I want her to see the place first. She’s very unhappy about leaving her friends.”
“I understand. I think that’s a good idea.”
They talked awhile longer, making plans and arrangements. Finally Carmen announced that she would take Jade to the Melrose District in L.A., let her get her hair done, then turn her loose in the Poodle Peddler, an overpriced purveyor of useless doggie products. All he had to do was give her the high sign.
Hanging up, Rick realized his butterflies were gone and that he honestly felt good about the plans he was making. He’d thought ab
out it for a week after the binge with Dakota, then called George McCall and told Cody and Shelly. Shelly had a temper tantrum and threatened to run away, but fortunately she ran in Dakota’s direction, and he extolled the virtues of California boys, or something along those lines. At least that had turned her from teenage histrionics to accusatory glares and calm, sullen acceptance.
He’d leave the childhood fears behind and concentrate on learning to be a homeowner. His only problems would be those of the real world. He’d get a couple years worth of columns out of it, on everything from putty knives to paint to lawn sprinklers. And if Jade was too weird, he could afford to put her in a retirement home, or even rent her a small house and caretaker. He leaned back in the desk chair and put his feet up. Twining his fingers into a pillow for his head, he felt that he’d done the right thing.
He just wished the goose bumps would go away.
10
July 14
“No! I won’t have it!” A queen on her throne, Jade Ewebean stomped her foot so hard that the two white poodles at her feet yelped and shook in doggy terror. “If he thinks he can just move in here like he owns the place, then he’s very mistaken. This is my house. I live here!” She looked down, saw the poodles watching her, and instantly her expression metamorphosed from beetle-browed fury to sappy adoration.
She patted her lap. “Come here, my widdle wuvems. Come here, Mister Poo; you, too, Stinkums.” The poodles danced on their hind legs, each pawing at one knee. “Oh, what sweet wittle poodley-pies.” The dogs went nuts with joy as she scooped them into her bony lap. “Is you my babies? Is you? Oh yes, you is! Kiss mama now! Kiss mama!”
Eagerly they licked their mistress’s withered, rouge-stained cheeks while Jade giggled and cooed like the nasty old lady that she was. Carmen Zapata felt the urge to puke as she watched the disgusting display.
She disliked the dogs almost as much as she despised Jade Ewebean herself. It had been bad enough back when Jade had kept only one dog, but for the last two decades, it had been double the puddles, double the crap, and double the whining and yapping. In a way, Carmen didn’t blame her: The animals died so regularly that the old puta almost needed a spare.
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