Allie got out of bed, carrying the bread bag and her purse. She was in her Flashdance shirts and her acid-wash jeans but she was barefoot. The door to the room (more stickers) was ajar. There were fingerprints and peanut butter and other shiny viscous smears on it, so Allie toed it open. “Hello?” she called into the hallway that faced her. Framed photos hung from both walls. Jorge? Allie stepped closer. Yes, there was Jorge and two children, a boy and a girl. And a wife: black hair, overweight but curvy, a smile like a giant glittering diamond in the middle of her face.
The hallway smelled of coffee and burned cheese. Shag carpet wormed through Allie’s toes. “Hello?” Allie crossed the length of the hallway and stepped out into a living room. There was a radio on somewhere. It sounded like it was playing the news in Spanish. Allie followed the sounds of the radio into a kitchen where the woman from the photos was talking on the phone. She jumped as if she were excited to see Allie, waved enthusiastically, then did a few uh-huhs into the phone.
“Mami, I have to go now, the girl is up.” She switched to Spanish then, which to Allie sounded like acata acata acata acata ack. And then she hung up the phone and walked toward Allie.
“Hey,” Allie said, and she waved with the hand that wasn’t holding the bread bag.
“Are you okay?!” The woman put her arm around Allie’s shoulder and led her to a red wooden chair at a linoleum-topped table. There were pots steaming on the stove. The radio had an antenna and sat like a giant insect on the chipped plastic countertop.
“Yeah, I guess.” Allie slumped into the chair and stared at this woman as if she might be the better judge of Allie’s state of mind. Currently, Allie only felt a strange disorientation, and fear that something even worse than her having stolen a bag of cocaine had gone down.
“Jorge said you were a friend of Roger’s and you passed out from shock after he—” The woman smiled and lifted her shoulders as if she didn’t want to say the word died. Allie felt like she had to vomit. What sort of karmic revenge would come at her for smearing a palm-full of cocaine into the face of a drunk quadriplegic?
“He didn’t know where to take you,” the woman said. She seemed not to notice the guilt that was pushing Allie into the chair with such force that she expected at any minute to be spiraling through the linoleum floor into the chalky earth below.
“Yeah, of course,” Allie said.
“And he thought maybe the best thing for you was to just sleep through it, so he brought you here.”
“Yes,” Allie said, although she had no idea where here was. For all she knew Jorge had driven her across the border into Mexico. Allie hoped it wasn’t going to be too hard to get back to the Prelude. Although, she thought, she certainly deserved whatever difficulties came upon her now.
“I’m Consuela. I’m Jorge’s wife.” Consuela sat in the chair opposite Allie and stared at her with a questioning smile, as if she expected Allie to burst out in tears.
“I’m Allie,” Allie said, though just then she wished that she weren’t. She’d love to be any normal non-drug-thieving person who hadn’t possibly killed a man in a wheelchair and didn’t have some thug named Vice Versa after her.
“What’s in the bread bag? It sure isn’t bread, but I didn’t want to open it. You were clinging to it like it was your blankie.”
“Oh, yeah.” Allie’s heart pounded. “It’s my parents’ ashes.”
Consuela gasped and put her hand to her heart. “Oh you poor thing. I bet after what happened with Roger—” She stopped, as if she couldn’t bear to continue.
“Did the police come?” Allie could feel her head swirling.
“Yeah, Jorge said the police came, Roger’s assistants came, there were people all around and you were just sitting in that front seat sleeping it off.”
“They’re not going to arrest me or anything are they?” Allie’s voice cracked and she felt a cry creeping into her throat.
“Arrest you? What for!” Consuela took Allie’s hand from across the table, and Allie started crying. Really crying. Head on the table. Snot dripping into her mouth. Strange choking animal sounds. Sobbing.
Consuela rushed around to the chair and pulled Allie’s head into her soft, deep, warm belly. She rocked Allie back and forth. “Roger will be fine,” Consuela said. “My father had a heart attack and now he’s like Charles Atlas or something, running in marathons and everything.” Consuela separated Allie from her middle and held her wet face in her hand.
“You mean he’s alive?” Allie was so relieved she wanted to laugh.
“Yes, he’s alive! He’s in the hospital. He’ll probably be out in a week.” Consuela stared at Allie as if she were trying to make sure Allie understood what was being said.
“Oh god, I thought I killed him!” Allie’s voice broke on the last two words, kill-ed hi-im. “I gave him the coke that gave him the heart attack!”
“Someone always gives it to him. He has a problem!” Consuela scooted into the chair beside Allie. “He’s addicted. Jorge tells him every night to stop doing it, but he does it anyway. If it hadn’t happened last night with you, it would have happened tonight.”
“But he probably never does as much as he did with me.” Allie sniffed.
“Listen,” Consuela said. “You probably saved Roger’s life. Maybe now he’ll stop doing coke. He was either going to die or have a heart attack from it. It’s his good luck that he had the heart attack!”
“Maybe.” Allie sniffed and tried to smile.
“Don’t think about it now.” Consuela stood and went to the stove. “Now you eat tamales. I’ve got cheese and I’ve got beef.” Consuela put two on a plastic plate that had a picture of a teapot in the center. She set the plate in front of Allie, then handed her a fork and a knife, each with a fake wooden handle. Then she sat across from Allie with her own plate of tamales. “Is there anyone you need to call? I hope no one was looking for you last night.”
“No, no one’s looking for me.” The only person who wanted to find her, Allie thought, was Vice Versa. She had no idea what he looked like but she pictured him as a blood orange–colored gryphon: half-lion, half-eagle, with claws that would slice through her flesh like a box cutter into butter.
“You can call anyone from our phone. Roger gives Jorge the codes for calling long-distance so that we don’t have to pay for it. I think Roger’s company pays for it. And, you know, I hate that dirty movies are paying for my phone calls to my mama in Mexico, but Roger is a good guy, and he treats our children well. They don’t know he makes dirty movies.” Consuela laughed.
“He seemed like a good guy.” Allie unwrapped the corn husk off each tamale and took a bite. They were so good she didn’t want to talk. She tried forking a little of each together to get just the right salty-savory balance.
“Yeah, he gives pornos to Jorge and Jorge brings them home and gives them to the garbage men. They think it’s better than the six-pack of beer our neighbors leave them at Christmas.” Consuela was watching Allie as she ate. “You like that, don’t you?”
“They’re amazing,” Allie said, taking another bite. She couldn’t say anything else. She was too focused on eating.
“Have some more.” Consuela got up and went to the pot on the stove.
“You know,” Allie said, “if you really don’t have to pay for long distance, there are a couple people I should call.”
“Honestly!” Consuela plopped down two more tamales on Allie’s plate. “It doesn’t cost us anything.” She rubbed Allie’s shoulder and looked down at the Wonder Bread bag. “It’s nice that you always have your parents with you.”
“Yeah,” Allie said. “It’s like free long-distance day and night.”
Consuela let Allie use the phone in her and Jorge’s bedroom. The bed was made with a poinsettia-red quilted bedspread that reminded Allie of a roadside motel. There was a thick wooden cross over the bed, with a dried brown palm frond stuck behind it at an angle. On the dark, wide dresser were framed photos and a small c
olorful statue of the Virgin Mary with a crown on her head and a cross at her heart. Allie imagined it would be nice to have Catholicism, to believe in the power of a Hail Mary. Wai Po’s words had always been Allie’s prayers—incantations she repeated over and over again, the rabbit foot clutched in her hand like a rosary.
Allie sat on the edge of the bed, dropped the bread bag down next to herself, and picked up the receiver. She looked at the telephone number printed in the center of the dial. Area code 213. Wherever she was, she was still in Los Angeles. Allie dialed the long-distance code Consuela had written on the back of a business card that had NOBGOBBLERS, INC. printed in cherry-red. Roger’s name and a telephone number were also on the card. When the dial tone returned, she punched in Beth’s number. The digital clock on the nightstand said it was eleven thirty-eight.
Beth answered with a quiet, trembling voice.
“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.
“What do you mean what’s wrong?!” Beth was whisper-yelling. “There’s, like, a fucking seven-foot black man taking a dump in my bathroom right now. And the guy isn’t fucking leaving my apartment until you come back with my car and the, like, seven tons of coke you stole from Jonas!” Her words came out like the swish of a washing machine.
“Is it Vice Versa?” Allie whispered, too, although there really was no reason.
“No. His name’s Rosie.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!” Beth’s whisper was sounding hoarse. “And where the fuck are you? You were supposed to be back in two hours! Are you on, like, the fucking Gilligan’s Island cruise with my car?!”
“Are you tied up?” Allie pictured Beth bound at the feet, with her arms tied behind some chair and duct tape over her mouth. Then, since Beth was talking on the phone, she erased the duct tape.
“No, I’m not tied up! I just can’t leave. This guy is fucking living with me until you come back. And he eats, like, nonstop? I swear he had, like, two large pizzas for lunch. TWO. By himself. And it’s not even noon yet!”
“You didn’t have any pizza? Not even a slice?” Allie tried to stop whispering, but her voice kept slipping there in reply.
“Allie, where the fuck are you?! I swear I’m going to call the police the next time this guy takes a bathroom break and the only reason I haven’t called yet is because you’re carrying, like, a suitcase of coke and, like, I totally don’t want you to get arrested. They told me that if you called I’m supposed to, like, tell you to just come back, return the coke and they won’t hurt you?”
“Do you believe them?” It seemed impossible to Allie that Jonas would employ a guy named Vice Versa and a seven-feet-tall-double-pizza-eating man if he didn’t intend to use them in violent ways.
“Not really. This guy has a gun down the back of his pants. Like you know when people have, like, plumber’s butt? He’s got gun butt. Every time he bends over I see a pistol sitting there above his crack just wedged into his pants. And he’s huge. I swear. Totally enormous.”
“So what should I do?” Allie felt her face going hot. Her hands started to shake.
“I don’t know.” Beth’s hushed voice sounded so sad, Allie wanted to cry again.
“I’m trying real hard to figure this all out,” Allie said, although she had yet to formulate a plan that seemed good enough to share with Beth.
“I know,” Beth said. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Your dad called? He said he moved and he wanted to give you his new phone number.”
“Did he say anything about his restaurant? I’m in L.A. now. I went to his place and it’s closed.”
“He barely said anything about anything.”
“I know,” Allie said. “He doesn’t like talking on the phone. He doesn’t even like talking in person. But at least I know he’s alive now.”
“You ready for the number?” Beth said.
“Yeah.” Allie grabbed a black Magic Marker off the nightstand and wrote it on the bread bag as Beth recited it to her. “Why do I have to have a father who never lives in the same place long enough for me to memorize his phone number?”
“Why do I have to have, like, a seven-foot man who just ate two large pizzas taking a ten-hour dump in my bathroom?” Beth asked.
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Listen. I’m going to start by calling my dad to see if he can help somehow. I’ll try to get the pizza-eating-dumper out of your apartment as soon as possible. I promise.” Allie picked up the bread bag and looked at her father’s number. It was smeared from her hand. “Shit. Give me my dad’s number again, I can’t read what I wrote.”
“Oh my god!” Beth said. “I just heard the toilet flush! He’s coming out!”
“Didn’t he hear the phone ring?”
“I don’t know! He probably has the fan on in there—it’s like a jet engine. And I, like, picked up in the middle of the first—” Beth hung up.
Allie held the phone against her ear as if Beth would reappear on the line. The phone started beeping and then an electronic voice asked her to hang up and dial again. Allie hung up but she didn’t dial again. Instead she went to find more tamales.
Back at the kitchen table, Allie ate and stared at the smeared number on the bread bag. Even if she did get a hold of her father, what would she tell him? By the way, Dad, I just stole a few kilos of coke and I’m trying to figure out how to give it back—minus the salary Jonas owes me, of course—without getting murdered, killing anyone else, or going to jail.
Consuela was at the kitchen sink, wearing pink plastic gloves and a half-apron with oysters printed on it. She was doing the dishes and singing along with Spanish-language radio. When the song ended, she removed the gloves, wiped her hands on the apron, and looked at Allie. “You look so worried,” she said. “I promise you, Roger will be fine. Do you want me to take you to see him?”
“Um . . .” Allie barely knew Roger. But she did feel she should go see him. She needed to apologize.
“It won’t be scary. Jorge stopped by and said he’s sitting up and pointing and everything.” Consuela smiled.
“Okay, I guess.” Allie looked down at the newspaper that was folded open on the table. There was a boxed-in square with the dates and times for bands at the Hollywood Bowl. Mighty Zamboni was listed. Allie snatched up the paper and looked at the date. It was three days old. Her mother had played here only two days ago.
“It takes me forever to read the paper,” Consuela said as she started to put away the clean dishes that were drying on a dishtowel on the counter. “I just got to that today!”
Allie stood up, holding the paper. “Can I use the phone again?”
“Sí, sí!” Consuela said. “I promise you, it’s free long-distance!” She waved both hands at Allie as if to shoo her back into the bedroom.
Allie dialed the number for the Hollywood Bowl. A man answered. He sounded whiny.
“Hey, do you know where Mighty Zamboni went after they played there?” Allie asked.
“I’m not Mighty Zamboni’s manager,” the guy snorted.
“I know but they were just there, so they’re probably doing the whole state, right?”
“I have no idea what they’re doing. They’re not a band that interests me.”
“I really need to find them,” Allie said. She switched to a whisper so Consuela wouldn’t hear, and added, “My mother’s the tambourine girl for Mighty Zamboni and I need to find her.”
“Why on earth are you whispering?” the guy said. He talked to Allie as if they’d known each other for years and he was allowed, entitled even, to be irritated with her.
“Because the woman whose phone I’m on thinks my parents are dead,” Allie whispered.
“What is wrong with you that you tell people your parents are dead if they’re not?”
“Please just tell me where Mighty Zamboni is now,” Allie said in her normal speaking voice.
“Fine. Hold on.” There was a clanking sound as the guy let the phone fall.
Allie opened the drawer of Consuela
’s bedside table and poked through it while she waited. There was a red leather Bible with a pink feather bookmark. There were also condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Most of the Catholics Allie knew used birth control in spite of the pope’s insistence against it. But she didn’t know anyone who kept their birth control and their Bible in the same place. Allie loved imagining that Consuela and Jorge had a vigorous, hearty sex life. Eat some tamales, put the kids to bed, say a little prayer, and then BOOM. Roll around and make each other happy.
“Miss?” The guy was back on the phone.
“I’m here,” Allie said.
“Leonard, the gaffer, said he talked to some of the Zamboni roadies and they mentioned they were playing the Santa Barbara County Bowl next. He thinks they’re opening for either Blondie or Billy Idol.”
“Blondie or Billy Idol?” Allie said. “How do you confuse Blondie with Billy Idol?”
“Both blonds, I guess,” the guy said.
“All right, well, thanks,” Allie said, and she hung up the phone and stared at it. She had the slightly jittery feeling under her skin that she always had when she knew she was going to see her mother. Allie had spent hours, days, years fantasizing about being with her mother in a traditional way. Fantasy Penny would cook for her, feed her, push Allie’s face into her belly as Consuela had, and let her cry. In reality, she’d never experienced her mother like that. But there was a difference between their past encounters and now, Allie thought. In the past, Allie had never been in a tough situation in which she honestly needed Penny to help her out. But now, with the bag of coke, Rosie holding Beth hostage, and no clear plan, maybe Allie’s mother would rise up and be a mother. A mother, Allie assumed, would never let her daughter be murdered by a man named Vice Versa.
Allie picked up the phone, called 411, and asked for the Biltmore Hotel. When she was ten years old, she and her father had driven to Santa Barbara to see Mighty Zamboni play. Allie and Frank had stayed in a tiny, tar-and-gravel-roofed motel just off the freeway. But her mother had stayed at the Biltmore Hotel, on the ocean. Allie had loved visiting her mother at the Biltmore. That night, when she lay awake on the cardboard-feeling mattress in the motel, Allie entered an hours-long fantasy in which she was staying at the Biltmore alone with her mother—breakfast in bed, afternoons at the beach, evenings sitting outside on the patio, eating what was then Allie’s favorite food, mac ’n’ cheese with bacon bits and bread crumbs baked on top.
The Wonder Bread Summer: A Novel Page 8