I bit my lip and fought back sudden tears. I’d cried so much over the past year and a half, it was pathetic. I really did not want to get started again. But the truth was, I was afraid. And I hate being afraid.
“God, I don’t want to go. I’m scared and I don’t want to go.”
There. I’d admitted it. And saying it out loud helped me see that although I didn’t want to go, I had to.
“I don’t want to see her, God. I don’t want to know what I did to hurt her so much, and I don’t want to feel guilty anymore, I don’t want to think about what I’ve done. And I don’t want her to see me so fat. So please be with me.” I was really crying now, wiping furiously at tears as they raced down my cheeks. Geez, it wasn’t even six o’clock in the morning yet and already I was exhausted. “Please…just, pour out some Holy Spirit or something on me and on Trisha and help us find some peace or agreement or something. Please give me a humble heart to approach her” – because whenever I thought about her using that picture I really wanted to slap her first and ask questions later – “and give her an open heart to receive me. And courage. Courage would be good right now.”
I sat back and waited for that courage to sweep over me. But in the back of my mind, the clock ticked closer to opening time at Bow Wow Barbers, plus I had to stop and get a quart of oil and breakfast burritos for Stump and me. Maybe the courage would come later, when it got closer to time to see Trisha.
I started to stand then stopped. “In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.” Sometimes I forget that part.
I got ready and dragged Stump – playing possum – out of bed and carted her out to my car. It started (thank you God) and we drove to PakASak. Stump woke up when we drove under the fluorescent lights at the gas pumps. She can smell a breakfast burrito at a hundred yards.
My friend Virginia worked overnight at the convenience store and she knew I’d be in on Tuesday mornings. She always had our food ready and she usually threw in an extra piece of bacon for Stump. I started to tell her I was feeling fat and maybe I ought to just skip breakfast altogether. But that burrito looked pretty good.
“Morning Doll,” Virginia rasped. I’ve known Virginia a long time. She used to work at this hotel bar where I hung out for a while. I even worked at the bar for a while, but I got fired, probably because I thought it was a place to hang out rather than a place to actually work. Virginia had tall blonde hair, long skinny legs and a big round belly. Kind of like Humpty Dumpty’s bar-hopping, chain-smoking aunt.
She played guitar and sang in the bar’s house band. I used to crack up over her songs, except I really couldn’t because she didn’t intend for them to be funny. She took her craft very seriously.
She looked tired this morning. “Almost quitting time?” I asked
“Yes, thank the good Lord,” she said. She’s the type who actually means it when she says things like that. “I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. It’s time for me to go home and look at the inside of my eyelids for a while.” She slid a couple little tubs of salsa across the counter to me. “So what’s this about you killing someone?”
“Ugh! I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I didn’t figure you did, since you’re going to work, but some people were saying last night that you were at the police station and you’d been arrested for killing someone.”
“I wasn’t arrested. I was taken in for questioning.”
Virginia raised a penciled-on eyebrow.
“Because I’m the one who found the dead body.”
“Bless your heart. Who was it?”
I shrugged. “Some girl named Lucinda Cruz. I don’t know her.”
“Was she murdered?”
“I don’t know. All I know is I was walking into the church and I saw her there and I called the police.” I checked the Marlboro clock behind Virginia and jumped. “I’m late.”
Chapter Three
After I finished my dogs that afternoon I called Channel Eleven to see if Trisha was there. I almost didn't get an answer because I forgot to call her Patrice. The girl on the phone said she'd just gotten there. I hung up and thought about going home to change clothes. After seven hours of wrestling with dogs I didn't look or smell like I was ready to step onto any red carpets, but I knew if I went home, I'd find some excuse to put it off another day. When you put something off once, it's twice as easy to put it off again. It's the exponential law of procrastination.
Besides, God had told me that morning to go clean things up with Trisha, right? I drove across town, my mind mulling the concept of God talking to me through some story about two ancient guys I'd never met. Was he really speaking to me? Maybe and maybe not. I mean, who was to say? Maybe I just thought that was God speaking to me because the situation with Trisha was on my mind. Maybe that’s what everyone did when they thought God was speaking to them. We all just want to believe so much that God gives a flip about the pitiful details of our lives.
I was always curious when everyday people say God told them something. I wanted to know what that sounded like, what that felt like, how they could be so sure. And so far no one had been able to give me a solid answer. It made me crazy.
And if it wasn’t God, if it was my conscience, wouldn’t it be as effective to send Trisha a card? It didn’t have to be face-to-face stuff, did it? Trisha was probably busy and maybe seeing me at work would only make things worse. I'd probably be disturbing her.
I almost had myself talked into a card and a little gift, maybe a gift certificate for a manicure or something, by the time I got to Channel Eleven, but I didn’t go home. I pulled into the parking lot around to the side so Stump would be in the shade. I sat there and debated with myself about going in or going home until I finally turned the key and ground the gears into reverse. I backed out of the space.
Then I pulled back in. I knew that if I left now, I would spend the rest of the day arguing with myself about how I hadn't really chickened out, about how I was being perfectly reasonable. I've argued with myself enough for one lifetime. It's exhausting and gives me a headache and makes me want to drink.
Of course, I wanted a drink right then, too. I killed the motor, climbed out, and flapped my arms around a little to dry out the sweat and let the breeze carry away some of the dog smell. I prayed again for courage, then did a gut check.
Nope, still scared. Hmm. Courage wasn't working. So instead, I dragged up a little bit of outrage.
After all, who did she think she was, putting my picture on the news? Yes, I was there to resolve some conflict, but a part of me said that while I was there I might as well get all that was coming to me, including an apology.
That got my feet moving. I did make a feeble effort to remind myself to stay calm, but truth be told, I didn't try very hard. Righteous indignation is a lot more appealing than approaching someone with hat in hand, begging forgiveness. By the time I got to the front desk, I was practically stomping.
You would have thought I had asked to see the Pope or the President or something. While I was standing there trying to convince the girl behind the desk that I meant no harm – I guess the fury tactic had its drawbacks – three or four people came and went through a swinging door to my left. I figured Trisha was probably through that door.
Finally the girl paged Trisha. “She's not answering her phone,” she said after a second. As if that might make me give up and go away.
I sat on the padded chair across from the desk. “I'll wait.”
She looked at me like she wanted to get her fly swatter and swat me away. Then a guy with white Ken doll hair poked his head out an office behind her. “Amy, can you come in here for a second?”
“I'll be right back,” Amy whispered to me.
“Okay,” I whispered back.
As soon as she was gone I hopped up and hustled through the swinging door.
I followed a narrow hallway until I found a room with people in it. I don't know what I was expecting; maybe the set from All the President's Men, with Dusti
n Hoffman and Robert Redford types running through, dodging desks and waste baskets with their hot scoop that would ignite a national scandal. Then I remembered that was newspaper, and this was television. This placed looked just like any other other big office, with four or five desks and people milling around.
I saw Trisha toward the back of the room, angled toward a bank of televisions that lined the wall.
“Trisha!” I said, not quite a shout but loud enough to get the whole room's attention. I wanted them all to know that Patrice wasn't her real name.
She spun around, eyes wide.
I gave her a goofy grin and a wave. “Surprise!”
Her face closed up so fast you could almost hear it slam. She crossed the floor, her lips thin and her nose in the air.
“Can I help you?”
“I don't know, Trisha. Can you? Don't act like you don't know why I'm here.”
“What do you want, Salem?” She folded her arms and smirked, looking up and down my body. “The friends-join-free coupon I just got from Fat Fighters?”
“You know what I want. Do you want to talk about it in front of all these people?”
She shot a look around the room. A couple of people were watching but not exactly staring. I could change that, though, and she knew it.
She pointed back the way she'd come. “Back here.”
I followed her around another corner and into a room the size of a closet, with one wall of fancy looking equipment with a few thousand buttons, switches and knobs.
Trisha closed the door behind me. “Before you begin, you should know I have the station's full support. We have unlimited resources to defend me through any legal action you might try. I was very careful to say only what I knew to be factual. You have absolutely no chance of winning a lawsuit, or of getting the station or our parent company to settle for so much as a penny.” Her eyes flashed as she spoke.
I blinked. She actually thought I was here to threaten a lawsuit. “All I want is an apology.”
She stared at me for a second. I swear she looked almost disappointed. “You're not getting one.”
“Why did you put that horrible picture of me on the news? People think I actually killed that girl!”
Her teeth clenched so that she had to spit every word through her teeth. “I did it because I could. Because I wanted the world to see your trashy face and know what kind of person you are. And believe me, if I ever get the opportunity to hurt you again, I will take full advantage of it.”
Ugh. I really wanted to hang onto that righteous indignation. But clearly the time had come to get to the root of the problem.
I took a deep breath and told myself I couldn't fix it if I didn't know what was wrong.
“What did I do, Trisha?”
Trisha rolled her eyes. “Go to hell, Salem.”
“I'm serious. I need for you to tell me what I did. All I remember is a fight and you pushing me.” She'd been crying then, I suddenly remembered. Red face, red eyes, tears streaming.
I was so scared. My heart thundered and I felt a little queasy. I did not want to hear her answer.
Suddenly I remembered something else. “Was I - was I putting my clothes on?” That had to be it. I remembered her pushing me and I fell because I had one leg inside my pants, trying to tug them on. I remembered scooting across the floor, trying to get my clothes on and dodge all the things Trisha was chunking at me at the same time.
“Give me a break, Salem.” She turned and reached for the doorknob.
“No, wait.” I stepped and put my hand out to stop her. She looked at my arm like she'd chop it off if she had half a chance.
“Listen, Trisha –”
“You need to call me Patrice.”
It was time for another prayer, for patience and humility this time. I obviously needed it. “Listen, Patrice.” The patience and humility came through better than the courage had. I let my mind go back to that time when I was a walking screw-up, when I managed to alienate everyone around me and shame myself. Humility isn't so hard if you really look at yourself. “I was messed up for a long time. I drank a lot. I was a drunk. I did a lot of things I wish I hadn't done.”
“You poor thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I'm an alcoholic.” Man. Even now something in me wants to qualify that, wants to deny it. Even after saying it every week for over a year. “I'm in recovery now. I've been going to AA and I'm sober and I'm getting my life together. One of the steps of AA is to right whatever wrongs you can. I came here today to do that.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was this huff that said she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.
“Trish – Patrice, I know I did something to hurt you. I remember that we had a fight or – or something. But you have to believe me when I tell you, I do not remember what it was about. You'll have to tell me before I can make it right.”
“Make it right? Salem, there is no way to make this right. It's wrong and it's going to stay wrong because you're a complete waste of human flesh who destroys everything around you.”
My heart thudded in my chest and I heard Les’ voice, felt his hands over mine, assuring me that God's grace was big enough to cover any sin.
“Tell me,” I said quietly. “Tell me what I did.”
“You honestly don't remember?”
I shook my head. I was so full of dread I felt sick with it. Whatever it was, it was worse than I thought.
“And you really want me to tell you?”
Again, I shook my head. “No, I don't. Because I know when you do I'm going to feel horrible and want to crawl into a hole. But it's the only thing I know to do.”
Trisha looked at me for a long time. Then she shook her head, turned and opened the door.
I stood to stop her, but suddenly she slammed the door shut and whirled on me. “You had sex with Scott!” There was murder in her eyes, and for a moment I thought she was going to slap me.
I took a step back as her words sank in. “Scott? Your boyfriend Scott?”
“Yes, you idiot. My boyfriend Scott. You whore.”
“But – “ I didn’t even like Scott. “When?”
“The night before our wedding. God, you are such an idiot. You ruined my wedding, you almost ruined my life, and you don't even remember it. That's what pisses me off as much as anything, Salem.” She jabbed her finger at me, stuck it hard into my chest. “You slept with the man I loved, you ruined my wedding day, you took everything that was precious to me and screwed it up just like you do everything else, and you don't even remember it. You are unbelievable.” Her eyes got shiny and her voice tight. “When I think of all the sleep I've lost thinking about you two together, when I think of the hours I've cried over that, and to know you went on your merry way, never giving it a second thought.” She shook her head, her eyes red and full of tears. “Get out of here. Get back out of my life.”
I couldn't move. I remembered then more about that scene. Trisha screaming and crying and pushing me, me trying to get dressed and get away from her, hungover – or still drunk, probably – confused and scared. Scott jumping up, naked and groggy too, hair sticking up, his hands up, trying to calm Trisha down. Telling her, “Wait baby, no baby, don't Trish, don't, I love you, wait wait wait.” Horror and heartbreak in his voice, regret like I've never heard, before or since.
I've done a lot of lousy things in my life. I've lied to people, gossiped to people, driven drunk and wrecked people's cars. I “borrowed” money I never intended to pay back. I let people down. I hurt people.
But I've never done anything I felt as horrible about as I did right then.
The lump in my throat and the shame in my heart were so big I could barely speak. “Trisha,” I whispered, and the word felt like a hot, jagged rock coming up from my throat. “I am so sorry. I am so…sorry.”
She glared at me, eyes full of rage and hot tears. Her jaw clenched, and I thought if she had a knife right then she would
plunge it into my heart.
“I came here –” I had to stop and swallow. “I came here to confront you about putting my picture on the news, for intentionally humiliating me. Now I understand why you did it. I came here to try and put things right. But like you said, I can't make this right.”
“No kidding. And if you try you're just going to screw it up, too.”
“I can only tell you how sorry I am. I was messed up. I know that's not an excuse, but you have to know I'd never intentionally do anything to hurt you.”
“Oh, I know that, Salem.” She looked at me like I was a bug. “You never do anything intentionally. You just don't care. And that's all it takes.”
“I didn't care. You're right. I didn't care about anyone or anything, including myself. But I do now.”
“Too late.”
“Please don't say that. I know I can't undo what I did, but…” But what? What do you do to make up for ruining someone's life? I was starting to understand the whole sackcloth and ashes thing.
“Scott always loved you. If he had sex with me, he must have been drunk, too.”
“Of course he was drunk too. He got drunk at his bachelor party and you showed up.”
“He loved you, Trisha. Patrice. Maybe you could… maybe it's not too late…”
Again Trisha shook her head. “You are the stupidest person I've ever known in my life. How do you even make it through the day?” She stuck her left hand out.
Only then did I notice she wore a wedding ring. A really nice one. Scott must have shown his remorse with diamonds. And her name was Patrice Watson. Scott Watson. Scott and Patrice Watson. Mr. and Mrs. Scott Watson. “You married him anyway? Even after I…”
The Middle Finger of Fate (A Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 4