“But they don’t usually do that, do they? I don’t remember ever seeing the picture of anyone else who found a dead body.” I stood up and paced. In my narrow trailer house that’s a three-step procedure. The fact of the matter was, I couldn’t call to mind a single example of anyone else finding a dead body, but I’m sure it had happened lots of times. I didn’t remember the finder’s picture being shown, ever. Not once. “It makes me look like I’m the one who killed her, not the one who found her.”
“See, that’s what I’m saying,” Frank said.
“That’s not right. They shouldn’t have done that. Should they?” Maybe they were just trying to give me credit or something, l
ike a screwed-up attempt at making me a hero. But I didn’t think so. I switched over to Channel Seven. What were the odds G-Ma would really be able to record it anyway?
Channel Seven had a better scoop: my 9-1-1 tape.
I watched my own words scroll across the bottom of the screen. That was weird. “I need to report,” I said a couple of times. Then I garbled a bunch and the screen said, “unintelligible,” so I looked like a complete idiot. We finally got to me blurting that I’d found a dead body.
The anchors on Channel Seven shook their heads in sympathy. The female anchor even tssked and murmured, “Bless her heart.”
“Yes,” said the male anchor solemnly. “Obviously, very upsetting.”
“Right on,” I said to the TV. “Very upsetting.” They thought I was hysterical from crying, but that was okay. I mean, different people react differently to stress, right? So I giggle. Didn’t mean I didn’t deserve a “bless her heart.”
They ran the same clip of the department spokesman saying it was being investigated as a homicide, then they added some new information. Lucinda Cruz was one of the custodians at the church.
I mulled that news and flipped back to Channel Eleven, but of course they were on to other matters by then.
“I ought to sue them or something.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” I sunk down in my chair. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t said anything that was an outright lie. I probably shouldn’t try to claim defamation of character, because I’d handled defaming my own character with impressive skill and expertise. Surely it wasn’t a good thing for them to show an arrest photo unless it was actually connected to the story.
“Call Patrice Watson and ask her why she did it. Ask her to go out with me while you’re at it. I like chubby chicks.”
I studied the anchor. When I was waiting tables I worked with a lot of college girls; probably I’d worked with her years before but –
“Hey!” I jumped up and turned up the volume. “What did you say her name was?”
“Patrice Watson. I think she’s French,” Frank said, although clearly the girl had as thick a Texas accent as I did.
“No, she’s not. She’s Trisha Thompson, from Idalou!”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized her, but in my defense she did look way different. She’d gained a lot of weight, too, as much as I had, if not more. She was blonde now, a really pretty, natural-looking dark blonde. She had on nice clothes, of course, the kind of clothes she’d always looked at in the magazines when we were in school. We’d look at those dresses that were supposed to “take you from the office to the party with a few simple accessories.” Trisha focused on the office part while all I cared about was the party look.
We’d grown up together, spent pretty much every waking moment together all through elementary, junior high and the first couple of years of high school. Then I started partying all the time, and she decided she was too good for me. She was, but still…
And she pasted my arrest photo all over the news.
“No,” Frank was saying. “Her name is Patrice Watson. See?” He pointed at the screen where the male anchor – who really did bear a slight resemblance to Lee Harvey Oswald, I think it was the chin – was saying, “Thanks Patrice. In other news…”
I wanted to curl up in a ball in my chair but I was too fat, so I just sprawled there and tried to figure out what was going on. It was like one of those times when I used to wake up in a strange place with people I didn’t know. People telling me I’d done and said things that made no sense, and I couldn’t argue with them because it was most likely true.
I lugged Stump into my lap and scratched her ears and belly while I tried to think. It had been ten years since we graduated high school, but I was fairly sure I’d seen Trisha more recently than that – within the last five or six years, anyway. But try as I might, I couldn’t come up with anything concrete, just a vague uneasy feeling that we’d had some kind of run-in.
There was no telling what it was about. I did a lot of stuff when I was drinking that made people mad. I have kind of a smart mouth even when I’m dead sober, and when I’m drunk I mix in a warped sense of humor and turn the impulse control all the way down. It’s a deadly combination.
I was still trying to remember what I’d done to make Trisha mad when the phone rang.
“I recorded it, I think,” G-Ma said. “Were you laughing?”
“Of course not. I was crying hysterically. Why would I laugh about finding a dead body?”
“You know how you get.”
The phone beeped (thank you, God) and I said, “I have another call. Hang on and I’ll be right back.”
She wouldn’t hang on. G-Ma doesn’t believe it’s actually possible to put one person on hold and talk to another one, no matter what nonsense the phone company was trying to peddle.
It was Les. Les is…well, it’s hard to explain. He’s kind of an unofficial, self-appointed mentor. He’s the one who found me in jail the morning after that infamous DUI picture was taken and introduced me to Christianity. That was his calling, he told me, to find the down and out and give them hope through Jesus Christ. Since I was fresh out of hope and seriously contemplating jumping off a bridge, I latched on to him with all I was worth.
I think there’s some ancient Eastern proverb about if you save someone’s life, that life becomes your responsibility. Les is a solid Bible belt Christian, as far from East as West can get, but he’s bought into that philosophy from somewhere, and am I grateful for that. God knew I needed someone to look after me long after that morning in jail.
“Watching the news, Salem,” Les said. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. I just found a dead body.”
“So nothing unusual.”
“Same old same old.”
“Talk to me.”
So I talked. I probably sounded a little self-involved, but I’d gotten wrapped up in my own public humiliation and outrage and forgotten again about the poor dead woman at the bottom of the stairs. Talking to Les made me remember that there were actually bigger problems on the table than wondering why Trisha would take a picture of me looking like a hag and shoot it out to a few hundred thousand people.
“Want to explain why they had an arrest picture up of you?”
Ugh. So now we were back to my problem. That was quick. “I’d love to, and as soon as I find out why that was shown, I’ll let you know.” I chewed my thumbnail. “I have a nagging feeling, though, that the anchor who ran that story might have a personal grudge against me, and this is how she’s dealing with it.”
“Why would she have a personal grudge against you?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I think I might have gotten into an argument with her while I was drinking.”
“I see.” He did see. He’d told me stories of bar fights he’d gotten into, and the family members who still refused to talk to him because of what he’d said or done while he was drinking.
A picture flashed in my mind of Trisha, face screwed up with rage, screaming at me. She shoved me and I fell, but that’s all I could remember.
“Yep,” I said with a sigh. “She hates me and she used that picture to get back at me for whatever I did.”
Les was silent for a moment
. I hated those silences.
“Sounds like a Step 9 day to me.”
Step 9 of the famous AA Twelve Steps, Make Direct Amends to People We Have Wronged. Possibly the most awkward of all the steps. “Undoubtedly. I just don’t know exactly what I’m making amends for.”
“One quick way to find out is to ask.”
One quick and painful way, yes. “You know, what she’s upset about has nothing to do with the dead body.” Maybe if I steered the topic back to the dead woman I could avoid dealing with my own ugly past.
No such luck with Les, though. “I’m sure it doesn’t. But think of it this way. This has given you the chance to right a wrong and heal an old wound – a golden opportunity.”
“Yay.”
“You could ignore it and hope it goes away.”
“That’s worked so well for me in the past.” I groaned and slumped in my seat. “I think I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Good idea. Keep me posted. Are you okay?” Meaning do you want a drink?
I did. I’d made it a hundred and forty-seven days. Some of those days had been good and some had made me want to rip my own hair out. But I hadn’t had to go through a day when I found a dead body, faced an old crush, and then was humiliated on television. So this was a new test. I had a foreboding feeling I wasn’t handling it very well.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Is your house clean?” Meaning no alcohol.
“Of course.”
“Is someone there with you?”
“Frank. And Stump.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” I decided that more than a drink, what I really wanted was to go to bed and sleep for a couple of weeks. If I kept telling myself that, it might become true.
“Call me, Salem, if you need me. I mean it. No matter what time it is.”
He did mean it, and I said one of a couple thousand thank-you prayers to God for sending Les into my life.
“Thanks. But I think I’ll be fine.”
“Okay girl. Get through tonight. Tomorrow you can deal with whatever you need to deal with.”
I hung up and considered that happy prospect. My memory might be fuzzy, but I knew there was something with Trisha that had to be resolved, and it undoubtedly involved me apologizing for something stupid I’d done or said. I’d learned in AA that a big part of moving forward with life was cleaning up and putting things right with the past. Things have a tendency to cling to you till you clean them up. Especially things that stink. And this had all the markings of something rank.
But that didn’t make the prospect of facing Trisha – Patrice, sheesh! – any more enticing. Standing in front of her so she could tell me what I’d done or said – or stolen, good Lord help me – to make her want to get revenge.
Frank went home and Stump and I went to bed. She curled up on the pillow beside me and shoved her big wide nose down in the space between the covers. She always slept like that. Maybe the near asphyxiation helped her sleep better, I didn’t know. I measured one time and learned that the width of Stump’s nose and the length of her legs was exactly the same. She was truly one of a kind. I told her every day that God made her special. No other dog I knew had such strong self-esteem.
I scratched her ears and told her goodnight. “Tomorrow is our early day,” I reminded her. We opened the shop for Flo on Tuesday mornings. I hated getting up so early but I was flattered that Flo actually trusted me with a key, so I made sure I didn’t screw up and oversleep or anything.
Stump’s not really a morning person either, so we reward ourselves on Tuesday mornings with breakfast burritos and extra-large coffees from PakASak.
I closed my eyes and said a prayer. “Lord, thank you for…well, okay, thank you for this day. It’s been a crazy one, as you may have noticed. But Les says to be grateful in all things, so I thank you for this day, weird as it was. Lord, please be with that woman’s family, Lucinda Cruz.” I remembered the picture of that beautiful young girl. “They’re going to need comfort, God. Please be with them.” I chewed my lip. “And I could really use some help, too. I know this isn’t about me but I’m still finding it a little hard to deal with.” I’d asked for so much help over the past year that I was in danger of wearing out my welcome. But Les insisted that God wants us to ask, and I really did need the help. “Keep me from screwing up. And please be with me tomorrow when I –” groan groan groan – “call Trisha. Amen.”
That night I dreamed I was back in jail and this time I wasn’t getting out. The judge came by and watched me through the bars, his arms over his chest and his face grim. After he stared at me for a minute, I realized it was Charles Pointer, the man that G-Ma said was my real father.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to put into words that I was a big disappointment to him. I wanted to hide, but of course there was no place to. So I just hung my head and wished I could die.
I woke up feeling awful, and had to remind myself that I really wasn’t to blame for the beautiful Lucinda Cruz’s death. Such a great way to start the day!
That’s not a good frame of mind to be in when you have to face the mirror in the morning. I studied my reflection. Ugh. The weight I’d gained didn’t exactly add to my overall appearance. I did still have my dimples going for me, and even with the weight gain, my skin and hair looked much better sober than they had drunk. The brown of my hair was a shiny brown, and my brown eyes didn’t have those nasty bags under them anymore. But still…could I lose a quick 30 or 40 pounds before the afternoon?
Trisha had gained weight too, I reminded myself. That made me feel only marginally better, since Trisha also had what looked like a pretty expensive haircut and tint, plus a fancy newsroom wardrobe. I sported a perfectly respectable, but not exactly impressive, combination of ProCuts and Walmart.
I brushed my teeth and hair and tiptoed past Stump – snoring into my pillow – on the way to the tiny second bedroom at the other end of my trailer. I’d made a kind of little chapel for myself there. My Bibles were in there – both the King James Version Les gave me and the New Living Translation I actually understood – my devotionals, and some big fluffy pillows I’d thrown on the floor. I had a small end table with a candle tower thing I’d bought at Garden Ridge, and during the past year I’d developed my own ritual where I read my daily devotional and Bible passage, then lit the candle while I meditated and prayed about how the devotional applied to what was going on in my life.
I had to admit lots of times I’m clueless as to that part of it – how the devotional pertains to my life – except in the vaguest sense. But Les says God speaks to us through His word and I’m determined to hear something. If I was going to do this Christianity thing, I wanted to do it as deep as I could.
I took my devotional out and turned to today’s date.
Matthew 5:23-24. “So if you’re standing before the altar in the Temple, offering a sacrifice to God, and you suddenly remember that someone has something against you, leave your sacrifice there beside the altar. Go and be reconciled to that person. Then come and offer your sacrifice to God. Come to terms quickly with your enemy before it is too late and you are dragged into court, handed over to an officer, and thrown in jail. I assure you that you won’t be free again until you have paid the last penny.”
Yikes! So maybe God really was talking to me through his word. Dragged into court and handed over to an officer and thrown in jail? Come on!
Except I’d already decided to come to terms with Trisha. I couldn’t help but think this might be a little overkill.
I flicked the long fireplace starter lighter and lit the twelve candles, taking deep breaths. That might seem a little…cosmic, lighting candles and centering my thoughts on God. But it works for me and I always feel myself become calm and focused as the candles take flame.
When they were all lit I sat back on my heels and bowed my head.
I prayed for Lucinda Cruz first, her family and frien
ds. I didn’t even know if she had family and friends, but I found it highly unlikely anyone that beautiful went through life alone. I hate to start my prayers with requests, but since it wasn’t for me I guessed it was okay. I usually start out with thanks, though. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. “Thank you for another day. Thank you for the roof over my head, a job to go to, a car to get me there.” Saying that reminded me of something. “But it did get hot yesterday – the gauge went almost into the red. As you might remember I just put water in on Thursday. I don’t know what the problem is but if it costs over twenty bucks to fix, I’m going to need a little help here. I’ve got two, maybe two-fifty in my checking account, and rent is five hundred. My check will probably be around three-fifty. So that leaves, say…”
I wrinkled my nose and tried to remember how much the light bill was. Plus I was almost out of groceries, and gas had gone up a dime a gallon over the last week, plus Flo’s son was in Boy Scouts and they were selling those big tubs of popcorn and I promised him I’d buy one of the Butter Toffee Nut ones, and they were a ridiculous nineteen dollars and fifty cents. When did he say he had to turn the order in? Did I have another week?
I suddenly remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. I grimaced and pictured God sitting there in his long robes, white beard down to his lap, tapping one foot and checking his watch.
“I’m sorry. I got a little sidetracked. Suffice it to say that, although at first glance it might look like I make decent money, things have gone up considerably since you were here. So if you could see fit to throw a blessing on either my car or my checking account, I’d really appreciate it.”
I felt like an idiot, like a grownup kid asking her parents for money. My money problems were in large part due to the fines I had to pay every month, and that was nobody’s fault but mine. Les assured me that if I needed something I should ask God, even if it was a self-induced need. Besides, where else was it going to come from?
I took another deep breath. “Okay, God. I really appreciate your reminder this morning. I already decided to go see Trisha this afternoon after work, but I suppose it can’t hurt to have a little confirmation in that direction, you know? So…you might as well know I’m going to need your help there, too. I’m not exactly looking forward to this. It’s going to be awkward.” I thought again about the rage on Trisha’s face when she’d knocked me down. The look on her face chilled my blood. Horror, hurt, betrayal. I felt sick, wondering what I’d done. “Whatever she’s mad at me about, it’s bad. I don’t remember what it is but I know it’s really bad.”
The Middle Finger of Fate (A Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 3