At Risk of Being a Fool

by Jeanette Cottrell

  But there she was, with her little phrases, words twisted around on themselves, the twinkle in her eye, waiting to see if anybody’d catch them. He’d asked her once, early on, why the hell she bothered with a dog anyway. And she’d said, he’s cheaper than a tow truck. She’d been gone for several minutes before it hit him, what she’d meant. Like if she’d been walking and passed out, the dog would tow her home.

  She’d die a lot quicker than the guard had. He had the touch now, could plan things better, to kill when he meant to, instead of just ripping off feet. It turned out that was enough with Torrez. He hadn’t needed to kill her, just take her out of action. With Jeanie, it was the mouth he had to stop. Rip her feet off, and the mouth would just keep going, and going, and going, like the Energizer rabbit.

  It wouldn’t hurt her much. It would be fast; she’d never know.

  But it bothered him somehow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sorrel sat in the classroom, her books and papers spread in front of her, her eyes darting from Dillon, to Rosalie, Quinto, Brynna, and Tonio. They all looked strange to her, after a week away from class. They wouldn’t even be together now if it weren’t for testing day.

  Sorrel had watched people all her life. She’d had to, or they’d get the edge on her. Look at all the shit Mama had to put up with, like those people trying to take Grandma away, and put her in a home. They’d tried to take Sorrel away a few times, when she was little. They said Mama drank too much, stayed out too late, and wasn’t a good mother. What did they did they know about it? Mama loved her like nobody else, and she loved Mama. Mama’d stolen food to feed Sorrel. Mama’d kicked out a boyfriend once for touching her. The shit had limped off with his dick in his hands, cussing a blue streak. What the hell, Mama said. He was just a shit, nothing like as important as a daughter.

  They’d stuck Sorrel in foster care several times, but she’d raised enough hell the fake “parents” shoved her out, and she’d gone back to Mama. That was how it was supposed to be, mother and daughter. It hurt like hell, being away from Tiffany, but at least Tiffany had Mama and Grandma.

  Kherra watched people, too. At first, Sorrel figured Kherra was looking for angles, ways to get the edge on people, but it wasn’t that at all. It was like Kherra looked for trouble spots and weaknesses, and fixed ‘em up before people knew they were there.

  Kherra would look at a mindless woman drooling in a corner, and say, Betsy’s fretting about her husband again. Before you knew it, Betsy and Kherra were putting pictures together in a photo album, and Betsy was talking in her fragmented way about vacations she and her husband had been on. Looking at photos of a grinning young Betsy in Hawaii with a bald guy, seeing her fingers trace the man’s homely features, Sorrel had felt— Well, she didn’t know how she felt.

  All those old folks, they weren’t just hunks of garbage tossed into a can. They had lives, and stories to tell. Sorrel had watched Kherra closer after that. She’d tried her own first mind-reading stunt a few days ago.

  “Leda wants to cook again,” she’d told Kherra.

  “How you goin’ manage that, girl? You can’t put her with no knives, or hot surfaces. It’s not safe.”

  Sorrel raided Jeanie’s cupboards, brought in tortillas, cheese, olives, pickles, and a little bag of those tiny carrots. She’d hauled in Leda, and put her with the plates, and wedges of food. Sorrel chopped and microwaved behind Leda’s back, and stuck the results within reach. That old woman came alive, her fingers edging tiny snacks together, neat platefuls of appetizers, just like you saw on the cooking shows.

  “Where’s the parsley?” asked Leda, looking for all the world like those women in the commercials who lived in their kitchens. They seemed to get such pleasure out of it, and Sorrel had always scoffed at the idea. But here was Leda, insisting Sorrel cut the carrots into flowers with four sharp strokes of a knife. It was tricky keeping the knife out of Leda’s hands, but the carrots had looked pretty.

  Kherra ran off to the kitchen next door at the regular retirement home, and grabbed up parsley, radishes, and whatever she could swipe. Other ladies livened up, spreading tablecloths, napkins, trotting down the halls to invite their “good friends,” and somehow the whole thing turned into a church social or something. Bill and Edward, the only men in the building, responded with pleasure to the extra attention lavished on them as the only available hosts. Leda, beaming with pride, acted as hostess.

  Kherra, the extra pair of hands, with “yes, ma’ams” and earnest nods, spared a moment for a long, glowing look at Sorrel. God, it felt so good. Not ever, in her life, had she felt that good, except when Tiffany was born.

  But Kherra wasn’t blind, not like Jeanie was. She saw the bad stuff as easy as the good. Yesterday, that old lady Livia had been in a hell of a rage at Phyllis. Jeanie would have spent a lot of time in useless soft talk. Kherra hadn’t wasted time. With strong arms and stern talk, she’d enveloped the screaming woman, and moved her to a different room, while Nadezda calmed Phyllis.

  Talk and action both, sometimes soft, sometimes stern: bunny rabbit and bulldozer, that was Kherra. Come to think of it, Jeanie was a bit of a bulldozer too, sometimes. Know-it-all Kemmerich hadn’t squeaked once since she told him off.

  Now, when Sorrel looked around the classroom, it was like there was two of every person. There was the Quinto she knew, and there was the one that Kherra and Jeanie’d see. And the same with Brynna, Dillon, Rosalie, and Tonio. It was like looking out a window, and then somebody opened it and you felt the breeze, heard the kids playing, smelled the acrid scent of burning rubber, and whiff of lilac.

  Sitting in her classroom chair, Sorrel felt a deep unease. They all seemed different from usual. Rosalie acted like she was stuck to her desk, eyes on her book, pencil moving steadily over the paper. Well, she would be different, Sorrel told herself; she was testing later today. Maybe that’s all it was, with Rosalie. Dillon was wound up, but he was testing, too. Mackie would be here in a few minutes, to drive them to the testing center.

  Brynna was edgy, like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Now, that was different. As she watched, Brynna raised her head and looked back at her. Brynna darted a quick look at the guys, and back to Sorrel. Brynna’s fingers lifted to her lips for a nibble, and Sorrel scowled at her. She’d have to lay off those fingernails if she wanted to borrow Sorrel’s nail polish again. It was a waste of good polish, if she was just going to chew it off.

  Tonio cracked his knuckles, and crossed his legs the other direction. Restlessness swept through him in waves. He’d be quiet for a bit, and then shift around in a flurry of sudden moves. That was different, too. At least Sorrel thought it was. She wondered what Kherra would make of him.

  Watching Jeanie zipping around the room, trailed by Corrigan, that was the weirdest feeling of all. She’d known Jeanie for weeks, but she’d never thought about her. Jeanie wasn’t a threat, and that was all that mattered. But for all her jokes and smiles, Jeanie was hurting. Kherra said so. Watching the dog, Sorrel realized that even Corrigan knew it. Jeanie was fooling herself, waiting for Edward to get better again. He’d never get better, only worse. Everyone knew it. Jeanie said she knew it. But she didn’t believe it, Kherra said. In Jeanie’s heart, she didn’t believe it.

  “Well, shoot,” Jeanie exploded. “I must have left your testing applications in the car. I’ll go look. If Mackie shows up, stall her until I get the papers. Hang onto the cat for me.” She bustled out the door.

  Sorrel turned her considering gaze on Quinto, and frowned a bit. Quinto hunched over his desk like a scared dog, taking up as little space as he could. It was weird, thinking of Quinto like he was a real person, not just some clown who everybody made fun of, walked past, ignored. His claim to fame was his gang, and they were all miles away. His white knuckles clenched on the pencil as it drew disconnected doodles. Maybe she was wrong, and he wasn’t scared. Maybe he was mad, and hiding it. He had a lot more muscle than she’d thought. He’d get really buff, working on a cons
truction site. He was small, quick, and probably strong.

  The phone rang. No one answered it. She waited for Jeanie to come back, but the door stayed closed. Sorrel met Brynna’s glance, and then Rosalie’s. Sorrel got up, and crossed into the office.

  “Yeah, hi. GED School,” she added belatedly.

  “Hello? Jeanie, is that you?”

  “Uh, no, she’s gone outside. You want I should get her?”

  “No, no. This is her sister, Michelle Connery. I’m calling from Germany.”

  “Germany? No shit? Really?”

  Michelle laughed. “No shit. Which one are you? Brynna or Sorrel?”

  “Sorrel. How’d you know?”

  “I know all of you. I’ll bet I could even describe what you’re wearing. Jeanie writes to me through e-mail.”

  The idea jolted her. Descriptions of her floated halfway across the world. “Uh, let me get her. She just went to the car, to get the test apps.”

  “Well— No, I guess not. I feel kind of silly, calling. Look, can you just tell me, Sorrel? Is she doing okay?”

  “I guess. She’s maybe a little stressed about her husband, but he’s doing good. At least,” said Sorrel, remembering Kherra, “as good as you could expect.”

  There was a sigh. “Yes, I know. But that’s all, as far you know? There’s nothing going on with the school?”

  “No, not really, just usual stuff.”

  “Good. You see? It was silly of me to call. Thanks a lot, you’ve relieved my mind.”

  “Why? What were you thinking?”

  “Oh. Well, I just got this e-mail from her. She wrote it last night, her time. I only just got in. It’s eleven p.m. here.”

  Sorrel blinked. She checked a clock. Two p.m.

  “And the more I read it, the more I thought she might be in danger.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s nothing, Sorrel. I’m sure if something’s going on, you’d know about it. And while I know you have your secrets, I do know this. You wouldn’t stand by and let my sister get hurt.”

  Sorrel bit her lip, heedless of the lipstick. Her uneasiness grew. “How’d you figure that?”

  “Because Jeanie knows it. It’s as clear as can be in her letters. I feel I know all of you as well as I know anyone here.”

  “What am I wearing?” said Sorrel tightly.

  “How’s that again?”

  “My clothes. What am I wearing?” A pause. “It’s important.”

  Michelle laughed. “Give me a clue. What’s the color scheme?”

  “Blue.”

  “Ah, let’s see. Hmm. Start at the bottom. Open-toed sandals, black. Dark blue polish on the toes. Then dark blue stretch pants, and a T-shirt, lighter blue, a little baggy, no slogans. How am I doing?”

  “What else?”

  “Yes, that was the easy part, wasn’t it? Bright blue nail polish, aqua, maybe, with glitter in it. Eye shadow the exact shade, with a shine to it. Dark mascara, startling black, I think Jeanie called it. Lipstick, glossy red, brighter than usual, more makeup than usual. Earrings, I think, big hoops, silver? Hair swept back, and up. In fact,” said Michelle delicately, “the entire effect is to draw the eye upwards. Jeanie says you’re astute. She’s got an amazing eye for detail, considering how little she cares for her own appearance. Tell me, did I get the entire thing wrong? Completely off base?”

  “No.” There was a lump in her throat. “There’s no glitter. I got that airbrushed kind of nails, put ‘em on yesterday. But they’re blue.”

  Michelle crowed. “Ha! The old girl guessed right! Well, thanks Sorrel, you’ve certainly brightened up my evening. I can sleep in peace. Though I bet Mackie Sandoval dashes in all worried. I left her a voice mail.” The rich chortle, so much like Jeanie’s, hung in the air as Sorrel put down the receiver.

  Mechanically, she walked into the middle of the classroom. Her cheeks were fever-hot. They all stared at her, even Dillon.

  “I just want to know one thing.” Was that her voice? Cracked and strained. “Why does it matter that there’s a train track behind Jeanie’s house?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Come on, guys. Nothing’s happened yet. I just don’t want her to get hurt. She’s a friend of mine. Why does it matter about the fuckin’ train?”

  Into the silence came the rattling roar of a motorcycle. Fuckin’ lawyer, she thought absently. Every time he saw her, he gave her that look, like she was crap. She ought to stab his tires for him. He had it coming. His bike’s rattle ebbed for a moment as he turned the corner. The motor gunned, and the bike roared past the building. The classroom windows rattled with the vibrations.

  Dillon glanced at the window. She followed his look. The blinds swayed, knocked against the window, eased their movement, and were still.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s the rattling. The train would set off the damned bomb. Oh, crap! You mother-fuckers, if she’s hurt, I’m gonna kill you!”

  Sorrel ran, slamming the door behind her. Where did Jeanie park her fuckin’ car? Sorrel careened out the side door. She paused a moment, letting the door fall into place. What if she was wrong? She forced herself to slow down, approach Jeanie’s car at a walk, as if nothing was happening.

  Jeanie’s butt was sticking out, while she rummaged through the jumbled contents of the back seat. Jeanie kept an orderly classroom, an organized desk, but the back seat of her car was a mess.

  “Hey, Jeanie? You’ve got a phone call.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute. I found Rosalie’s papers, so Dillon’s have to be here somewhere. Looks like Rita randomized them for me.”

  Sorrel strove for a casual tone. “It’s your sister. On the phone.”

  Jeanie popped out the car. “Michelle? From Germany? Is she okay?”

  “I think so. She’s still on the line,” Sorrel lied. “Come on.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I should, just for a minute.”

  Jeanie started to slam the car door, but Sorrel intercepted her, closing it with a small click. In the distance, she heard the motorcycle approaching again, this time on the street behind the building. Damned idiot, must of forgot his briefcase. The roar made her nervous, but that was stupid. The vibrations couldn’t set off a bomb, if there was one in the car. Not vibrations from a motorcycle, anyway.

  There’s no bomb, there can’t be a bomb. Strangeness descended on her, threatening her, shaking her, forcing her to listen. Michelle thought there was danger, because of things Jeanie wrote to her. Michelle could describe, to the tiniest detail, what a girl was wearing half a world away. There was danger somewhere, and it centered on Jeanie. But not here, not now. Wasn’t that the whole point of the train behind the house? That he could leave a bomb there, to explode in the night, set off by the rumble of the train?

  She had time to warn Jeanie. She’d get a security guard to check out that car, just to be sure. She’d talk to Randy and Kherra. Maybe they could talk Jeanie into moving for a few days, until it was safer. She could sleep at the Nest in a spare bed. It would be all right, she’d found out in time.

  The relief was enormous.

  Sorrel skipped up the steps to the back door and opened it. She looked back impatiently. Jeanie was still leafing through the papers in her hand, looking puzzled.

  “Come on. She’s waiting,” said Sorrel, as irritated as though her lie were the truth. She’d have to get in there, and take the phone off the hook. She’d pretend they’d gotten disconnected. “Move it, Jeanie, it’s long distance from Germany, for God’s sake.”

  Jeanie trotted towards the door. Sorrel held it halfway open, tapping her foot.

  The car exploded with wrenching shrieks of metal and a ball of fire.

  “No!” screamed Sorrel. Waves of rolling heat enveloped her, blocked by the door. The car was in flames, spitting glass shards and metal chunks into the air. Jeanie fell forward onto the steps and stopped moving. Sorrel threw the door back, and jumped forward, the furnace that had been the car searing her flesh. S
he grabbed Jeanie’s unresisting arm, dragged her inside, and yanked the door shut. The spreading explosions beat on the door with the hypnotic sound of a heavy metal rock band.

  Frantically, Sorrel ran her hands over the still, bloodied form, fingers searching for injuries, as Kherra had insisted she’d learn. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she screamed into the empty air.

  “You fuckin’ son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill you!”

  ~*~

  Rosalie stood transfixed as the reverberations shook the room.

  Dillon shot out of his chair. “Holy shit!”

  He tore through the door. To the right, a door closed to the sound of Sorrel’s curses. Dillon bolted the other way. Sudden comprehension hit Rosalie, and she flew after him. She raced down the hallway, rounded the corner, passed him, and threw herself against the front door to the building, blocking his exit. She leaned there, quivering with fear.

  “Get out of my way, you fuckin’ bitch.”

  “No.” She could scarcely hear herself over the pounding of her heart. “You did this, you hurt her, you killed her.”

  “Move, or I’m gonna kill you.”

  His huge hands approached her throat. She watched them, mesmerized, a deer caught in the headlights before certain death. She could see the callous ridges at the base of his fingers, the webbing spread between his fingers and thumb, the slicing scars across the palm of his right hand.

  “No. You are a bad man,” she whispered. In the midst of her fear, a sunburst flashed in her mind. Daddy, I love you. “My father would say so. Un cabrón,” she said with soft certainty. She was going die; she knew it, even as his arm drew back sharply for the punch that would break her neck.

  The fist came towards her, lightning fast, curved, and slammed into the wall next to the door. Unbelieving, Rosalie watched Dillon drop to the floor on his knees, head and neck bent, a coiled spring ready to free itself. For a long moment, nothing happened.

  He sat back on his heels, dug into his pocket, and ripped out his cell phone. “Randy.” The voice was harsh. “Get the fuck over here. Tell Grandma I didn’t do it.” A strangled breath. “Shit, Randy, move your ass. I need you.”