Sisters of the Road

by Barbara Wilson

  “Wow, you’re some painter,” she said enthusiastically. “You’ve really caught, like, the essence of the city in that one. Those skyscrapers, they really show technology out of control—and then the animal quality of it all…”

  I guessed she meant the dog muzzles.

  “Go take a close look, Pam, I mean, that’s technique! Where did you study?”

  Don’t lay it on too thick, Carole, I warned her silently. But I wandered over anyway. The half-opened suitcase was right underneath it, and there was still something about it that bothered me.

  “You really like it?” Wayne sounded pleased.

  “I love it. It’s so—primitive, but high-tech, know what I mean? You don’t usually see stuff like that in Seattle.”

  He was warming to her by the minute and she was pouring on the sex appeal like crazy. “No really,” she said, “I think you’re talented. I’m sort of an artist myself,” she added modestly. “More the plastic arts though…they’re more sensual, you know.”

  I was in front of the painting but looking down at the suitcase. Something caught my eye. Part of a laminated card with a photo. I glanced over at Wayne and Carole. He had his hand on her arm and was explaining that he’d been influenced by the East Village school, that he didn’t have time for the Seattle art scene, and Carole looked like she was eating it up. I bent over as if to tie my shoe, grabbed the card and shoved it in my pocket without looking at it. My heart was pounding as I strolled back to them.

  Wayne looked over at me and something in my face must have showed, because he suddenly said, casually, but with a tightening of his mouth, “So where’d you say you met Trish? I forgot.”

  “Hitchhiking,” I said brightly, but my mouth was dry. “Near the airport. My sister was going to Nicaragua. Boy, the airport was packed, I couldn’t believe it. But you must know that—you just came back from somewhere yourself, didn’t you? Where’d you say you’d been?”

  “South,” he smiled, staring at me.

  “Well, you got a great tan, wherever it was,” I laughed. My laugh sounded a little wild to me; it echoed slightly.

  Wayne’s face came closer, a little too close. His blue eyes were strangely large. I jerked back. “Whoa,” I said, and laughed again, almost dementedly. Carole looked at me worriedly. I wasn’t sure if I were high, or just petrified.

  “Not bad, huh?” said Wayne, and then, “I’m glad you stopped by again tonight. I thought the other day that maybe Trish had given you the wrong idea about me. She’s done so much dope that her thoughts tend to get a little screwed up.”

  I could understand how that could happen—I could feel my own thoughts screwing up dangerously.

  Wayne put his hand intimately on my arm. “Earth to Pam, hey, baby, you like it, you want to make a deal?”

  I closed my eyes and opened them again. With an effort I said, “Okay.” I took out my wallet and handed over the bills, all of them. Carole had gone back to looking at the paintings.

  “Listen Wayne,” I heard myself saying. “You know the Green River killer?”

  “Personally?” He laughed and went over to the stereo so his back was towards me. He put on a record by the Talking Heads. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Why?”

  “He kills young prostitutes, at least he used to… and there’s this girl, Rosalie…,” I stopped. Wayne didn’t seem to be listening. He was moving to a track with a hard rocking beat.

  “I’m worried about Trish.” That wasn’t what I’d meant to say.

  But he stopped dancing and looked concerned. “Why is that?”

  “I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Nah,” he said, coming back over to the table and wrapping up the coke. “Trish can take care of herself. What’s your interest in her anyway?”

  I shook my muddled head. “She’s just a kid.”

  “So?”

  “We’ve got to look out for kids. The streets are dangerous.”

  “No more dangerous than anyplace else,” he soothed me.

  “I’d feel better if she had a place to go,” I mumbled. The coke was acting on me like a truth drug and I couldn’t help it. “Oh, there’s your suitcase still,” I said inanely.

  “Yeah, I haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”

  “Well I think you’re really talented,” Carole broke in, coming over and putting sharp fingernails into my arm. “And I’m going to look for your stuff in the galleries. I mean, I think you could really make it. I’m impressed.” She started dragging me to the door.

  I kept staring at the suitcase, and suddenly it struck me what was wrong. I should have seen it before. It didn’t have a baggage tag. It hadn’t had a tag last time either. And nobody who hadn’t had time to unpack would have removed the tag. Most people left them on until the next trip rolled around. Wayne hadn’t come through the airport. He’d been someplace closer. Overnight to Portland, Karl had said.

  “Did you know Trish’s real father lives in Portland?” I asked out of nowhere.

  Wayne gave a start—or was he just dancing around? No, he was shaken somehow. I started to say something else, but I felt Carole’s elbow in my side and knew that I had gone too far.

  “Yeah, I think she’s mentioned him a couple of times… Well, enjoy your party. And you know where I am if you or your friends decide on a little more recreation. Nice meeting you, Carole.”

  “This has been one of the great experiences of my life,” Carole assured him fervently. “When you’re famous I’ll be able to say I knew you when.”

  But Wayne was dancing with his back to us and didn’t seem to notice as we stumbled out the door.

  25

  “YOU’RE A NEVER-ENDING SURPRISE,” said Carole, when we were safely back in the street.

  My high was failing me now and I felt a little foolish. In my mental script it had been Carole who was supposed to act the innocent kook, and me who was going to be cool and rational. “Well, at least I found out that Wayne has been in Portland, and that that’s probably where Trish is.”

  “Yeah, you made it pretty clear that you made a connection, all right,” Carole said. “It freaked me out the way you kept staring at his suitcase. I thought he was going to notice that I’d been standing by it too.”

  “I thought you were staring at his painting. I thought you liked his painting, for godssakes.”

  “I hope he thought so too,” sighed Carole, twirling her blond lock worriedly. “You idiot! He’s no more an artist than I am. No, I saw something in the suitcase, something I thought you’d be interested in.”

  My mind was cruising low to the ground now, ready to make a bumpy landing. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this,” she said, and pulled a half of a plastic laminated card out of her linen jacket. It was part of a Washington driver’s license and the name said Abby Simmons. Female, weight 125, height 5’5”.

  I slowly took out my own little piece of card, the half with the photograph. The memory of a slack look under a black hat with blood running out from under it returned.

  It was Rosalie.

  “I think you should go to the police,” Carole said, as I numbly got behind the wheel of the Volvo. I was feeling sick to my stomach and I wasn’t sure why. This is evidence, Pam. You’ve got evidence.”

  I nodded, but part of me still resisted it. “Rosalie is dead now,” I finally said. “It’s Trish I’m worried about. I’ve got to do something…” I was realizing now how stupid I’d acted, letting Wayne know I’d figured out he took her to Portland.

  “What are you trying to do, protect him or something?” Carole bounced up and down in her seat. “Call the police, Pam!”

  Okay.

  We drove to a phone booth and I asked to speak to the detective who’d interviewed me at the hospital, Lieutenant Logan I thought his name was. Sorry, he wasn’t in. Did I want to leave a message?

  “No,” I said. “I’ll call back later.”

  I went back to the car, and Carole and I drove in
silence. We were supposed to be eating dinner, but she didn’t mention it and I still felt sick to my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was the cocaine or the weight of Carole’s—Carole of all people!—disapproval. I had handled myself badly with Wayne. I’d gotten high and said a lot of stupid things, and I might be putting Trish into an even worse situation than she was already.

  And both Carole and I knew it.

  Somehow we ended back up on Capitol Hill, in front of my apartment.

  “Well, thanks for the date,” said Carole.

  I was surprised. “Don’t you want to come up with me, hang out?” All of a sudden I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’ll be honest with you, Pam, this wasn’t fun. I thought it would be but it was just weird. And anyway, I think you need to do some serious thinking about what you’re involved with here. I mean, you’re not a detective and you just can’t go around acting like one. Really!”

  She was more serious than I’d ever known her, but I didn’t want to acknowledge that she was right. All the same, the evening felt totally thrown off balance. If I hadn’t been so confused and depressed and lonely I don’t think I could have said what I did just then. “Carole,” I said. “I want to sleep with you. Don’t you want to sleep with me?”

  She stiffened and her padded shoulders seemed to grow even larger; even her short blond hair appeared to bristle. “But Pam, we work together,” she finally managed. “What can you be thinking?”

  “You bought some coke off Wayne?” asked Beth. “You gave him eighty dollars of your hard-earned money?” She rocked back in her chair, large and unbelieving. “And here I thought you were a pretty smart cookie.”

  “Hardly,” I said. I’d come directly to the Rainbow Center after Carole had driven off in a huff. “I think it was cut with something,” I added. “My hands are shaking and I feel sick. But Beth, I think I’ve got an idea where Trish is, where she’s hiding or where she’s been taken. And I wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t gone over there. I had to have some excuse.” My stomach heaved.

  “Put your head between your knees. I’ll get you some tea and a cold cloth. The bathroom’s across the hall if you need to use it.”

  I did. But when I finished retching, my head was finally clear. I returned to her office and gratefully accepted a cup of tea.

  “Thanks, Beth. Sorry….”

  “Don’t mention it. I see it every day.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her short strawberry hair. “So, you were saying?”

  I told her what Karl had said about Wayne going to Portland and about the baggage tags and Wayne’s start of surprise when I mentioned Trish’s father. I told her about the two pieces of Rosalie’s fake ID, how Karl had known her as Abby and said she was a real bitch. I told her I’d tried to call the detective.

  “You haven’t called him back?”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to… but I’m more worried about Trish, afraid the police won’t find her, won’t even look for her. I want to go down to Portland, Beth.”

  “I guess it’s worth a try,” she said. “There’s a lot of traffic between Seattle and Portland. Things get too hot for prostitutes down there, they come up here and vice versa.” She rummaged around on her crowded desk. “I know a lawyer down there if it’s any help to you. Janis Glover. You might be able to stay with her and I think she could help you. Here’s her number… she and I had an affair last fall. But we’re still talking.”

  So she was a lesbian. Our eyes met and for a minute I forgot that I felt as emptied out and unlovely as a garbage can, that I’d just been very painfully rejected, and that my heart was eternally in Houston.

  “I’ll call you when I get back,” I said.

  “Pam?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d get rid of that coke if I were you. Fast.”

  “It went down the toilet with my stomach lining.”

  “Good. I don’t like to see people messing with drugs, even in the line of duty.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not my style.” I paused ruefully. “I should have known that Wayne’s standards of purity were pretty goddamned low.”

  26

  DEALING WITH THE POLICE reminded me of going to the dentist. You knew you were supposed to, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. Like dentists, detectives could make you feel small and guilty and unimportant, as if they knew what was best for you, and, most of all, as if they could solve your problems. When you went to the police it was all on their terms. You couldn’t tell them what to do. You just sat there and then went away feeling numb.

  At least this is how I was thinking on the late morning train to Portland. I could have driven my newly cleaned car, but I didn’t think the engine would make it. And car problems in another city were something I could do without.

  I had met with Lieutenant Detective Paul Logan that morning. He was the same man who had asked me questions at Harborview and he didn’t seem too happy to be up so early on a Sunday. I gave him Rosalie’s fake ID and told him where I got it. I told him that Wayne had been and was Trish’s pimp and possibly Rosalie’s and that Wayne was also a coke dealer. I had to tell Logan that I’d bought some coke, but I didn’t tell him that it had turned me into a total fool. I told him about Karl though, and my underlying suspicion that he was involved in some way, and that he had known Rosalie under the name of Abby. I gave him the address of Rosalie’s hotel and the addresses of Karl and Wayne.

  I told Logan all this and he said, “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked, a little too meekly. Remove all my teeth or just fill the cavity?

  “We’ll be investigating,” he reassured me professionally. I’ll do the right thing for your mouth, Miss, and maybe we can stop this gum disease before it gets too far. Trust me.

  “Well give the Portland police her description,” said Logan. Then he asked me, “Just what is your interest in this girl?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t told him about Trish’s diaries or the way she didn’t eat green vegetables or the way Ernesto had taken to her immediately. “I’m just concerned… Will you let me know what you find out?”

  “Give me a call later. But I can’t promise anything.”

  So much for the police. I supposed it was only on television that they rushed over and arrested people right away. As Logan had explained, they’d have to get a search warrant for Wayne’s studio, tell him his rights and allow him a lawyer. It was lucky Wayne was a dealer and not just a pimp. The police were definitely interested in drugs.

  Still, I’d done my duty as a citizen, I hadn’t kept anything back … Well, one thing. I hadn’t told him that I also wondered about Rob Hemmings. I didn’t want to come across as a paranoid man-hater. And besides, I had no real reason to suspect him; he’d said he hadn’t seen Trish in months, that he wouldn’t have anything to do with her.

  At the train station, just before leaving, I tried to call Melanie, to tell her where I was going, to ask if she’d ever met Rosalie, to ask if there was any possibility Trish might have fled, on her own, to her father’s house in Portland.

  Rob answered the phone. “Melanie’s at church,” he informed me gruffly. He sounded like he’d just woken up.

  “So sorry to bother you. This is Nancy Todd, the researcher from the other day. I just have a couple more questions about your stepdaughter.” I continued quickly before he could interrupt. “One aspect of particular interest to us in studying adolescent delinquents is the tendency for interracial friendships to develop on the street. Can you tell me if your stepdaughter had any Black friends?”

  Maybe it wasn’t the best approach; at any rate Rob roared into the receiver, before I even got a chance to mention Portland, “I don’t know who the hell her friends are. And this is Sunday morning!” Slam went the phone.

  Some people weren’t at their best in the morning, I guessed.

  The Coast Starlight moved smoothly southward
s, through forests of dark green firs and pines, along the Sound. The snow of a week ago was gone now and it was sunny; when I looked down at the pebbles glinting under the clear water, or off at the misty blue islands, I could almost imagine it was an early spring. It was soothing, it was calming; it almost enabled me to forget where I was going, what I was coming from. Not quite. If I was anxious about Trish, I was also bummed out about Carole.

  Rejected. Rejected by Carole. How had I let myself get into that position? It brought back all those feelings of last summer when Hadley had walked away, all those feelings I’d tried to erase this winter with my various affairs, affairs where I was in control, where I got the chance to back out.

  How had it started with Carole; what had led me to misjudge her? That story about turning a trick maybe, her telling me she was a sexual person. I’d let my fantasies run away with me—as in, Why would she be telling me all this if she didn’t want to get it on?

  But the fantasy had been in my mind only; I’d projected on to her the image of accessibility, when all Carole had been doing was telling me a story. It was pretty embarrassing.

  I hoped Penny would never get to hear about it.

  It was funny, my relationship with Penny, and I could see it more clearly now she was gone. There were so many things I’d never told her, so many things I’d never wanted her to find out about me. I took it for granted that she’d be there, that she’d go first and make everything easier, that she’d protect me. Just like an older sister. In return I defended and emulated her, rarely noticing, almost never questioning that I had to hide part of myself to do it.

  Once we’d been walking home from school and she’d been talking about whether it was a good idea to have babies when we were young and closer to their age, or when we were older, after we’d had a chance to do something on our own. I suddenly said, out of the blue and without having thought about it, “I don’t think I want to get married,” and she said, “Oh, of course you will.” She wasn’t trying to contradict me; she was just stating what to her was obvious. And that was that. Of course I will, I thought. I’ll have to, because Penny will, and she’ll want to raise our children together. And I’ll have to do that to, because she expects it.