The Middle Finger of Fate (A Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Kim Hunt Harris

  “I'm having a very bad day! I feel awful.”

  “So? You feel bad. How do you think your friend felt, knowing the man she loved had sex with her best friend, the night before her wedding? Do you think she felt kind of sorry for herself for half an hour or so, and then got over it?”

  “Of course not! She was devastated. It still hurts her. That's why I feel so horrible.”

  “Good. You should feel horrible. You need to feel that. You haven’t earned the right to escape from it.”

  I stood and paced the room, wanting to throw him out, wanting to slap Frank for sitting on the barstool and staring at us both like we were this week's episode of a reality show, but I figured if I did, he'd take his cue from Les and slap me back.

  So I folded my arms across my chest and dug my fingers into my own flesh. “I don't want to feel it.”

  “Of course you don't. It's not fun.”

  “It's horrible. I want it to go away.”

  “Feel it.”

  “I want a drink!”

  “A drink would make everything all better, wouldn't it, Salem? Just one drink, and things would look a lot better. The pain would fade, you'd be back in control again. Things would be back on an even keel.”

  “Yes.” I swiped again at the tears running down my cheeks.

  “You can feel it now, can't you? Liquid warmth going down your throat, reaching out all the way to your fingers and toes. It pushes everything else back down to where it should be, out of sight, out of reach. All the bad stuff is going back down where it belongs, back down into the cellar behind a locked door.”

  I listened to Les, let the possibilities he described circle around in my brain. I waited for it to feel good to me.

  But it didn't feel good. It felt just as bad as staying right where I was. It felt like failure. It felt like the final nail in my coffin.

  I dragged my hands through my hair. “I can't get away from it.”

  “Go get a drink, Salem!”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don't have any money.”

  “I'll give you the money.”

  “I don't have a car.”

  “I'll drive you.”

  “No, damn it!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don't want to.”

  He was quiet for a long time. “Exactly. You don't really want to.”

  “You know, Les, as a psychologist you really suck.”

  “You want to get through this.”

  “I want to get past this!”

  “I know. But guess what? You have to get through it to get past it. There’s no bridge over it.”

  I rolled my eyes and dropped back down into my chair. I wanted to sink right through it, through the floor and through the ground until impenetrable darkness closed around me.

  The thing about actually experiencing stuff is, I don't have a lot of practice at it. I learned early on how to daydream, how to use my mind to get away from my body. When I was a kid my daydreams looked a lot like Sesame Street: singing puppets, patient and loving adults who kept their hands to themselves – save for the occasional appropriate hug and tweak on the cheek – and nutritious after-school snacks.

  I wished I could make up some world for me now. For a second I considered using the old fantasy world coping technique, but almost immediately abandoned the idea. Right away it started taking on “Real Housewives of Sesame Street” overtones, and that was just disturbing.

  I couldn’t concentrate very well, what with Trisha continually popping in. I wondered if my showing up at the TV station had her as freaked out as I was.

  From there my mind went to Tony, in a jail cell, I supposed, he was sitting on a metal bench with flaking burnt orange paint, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

  Frank left not long after that, but Les hung around until I finally told him I was going to bed and he was welcome to camp out on the sofa if he wanted. He didn’t trust me that I wasn’t going to take a drink, and if he felt the need to be my personal Secret Service guy, I didn’t have the energy to fight him. He settled in to watch TV and told me he would let himself out.

  Later I heard him call his wife and tell her he would be late. That woman was a saint. Les was always out helping keep somebody out of the gutter, which is nice, but can’t make him the best candidate for a husband. Later, I woke for a second when he peeked in on me, then slipped out the front door.

  The next morning I woke early, took my shower and got ready for work, then went to my prayer room for my morning devotional. I couldn't concentrate because I kept thinking about Tony. Maybe I could help him in some way, make up for all the garbage I'd given him. Maybe I could remember something from the crime scene that would help exonerate him.

  I started to ask God to help me help Tony, but I remembered the day before, how mad I'd been at God and the entire world. The Bible says if we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive them, but I wasn't sure exactly what my sin was. I mean, I knew I was wrong, but I wasn't exactly sure what to confess to. I did a mental run-through of the Ten Commandments to see what my day had fallen under. I hadn't murdered, I hadn't stolen, I hadn't lied. What else was there? Did calling God a jerk mean I’d taken His name in vain?

  “God, I'm sorry I got mad yesterday and called you…you know. I'm sorry I was rude to Les and Frank, and I'm sorry I really wanted a drink and I planned to get one. Did you send Les to keep me from going to the bar?” I suddenly remembered my car with a sick feeling. “Did you make my car break down so I couldn't get to the bar? Because if you did…well, I wish you'd thought a little longer and come up with something a little bit…not so expensive. Because you might remember, as I told you yesterday, I'm broke. I don't have money for car repairs, and I don't have money for a new car. Even a decent used one. Even a junker. I have no money. And if I have no car I have no way to work.” Okay, I was getting overwhelmed again. I hated to be rude while I was in the middle of prayer, but I looked at my watch. I had half an hour to get to work. and no way to get there except to walk. It was, what…eight or ten miles away?

  “Anyway, I need help. I really want help, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd send some help my way. Amen.”

  I started to get up, then went back down on my knees. “And, PS, if I can do something to help Tony, please let me know what it is. I owe him big time.”

  I got up and went to the front door, looking through the little rectangle window at my old junker car in the driveway. All by itself. I admit, I had kind of been hoping God was going to throw me a nice new V-6 bone with a bow on top. “Happy You’re-Not-Really-A-Total-Loser Day! Here’s your band new car!”

  I put on my shoes and grabbed my purse. Stump came trotting up on her little stub legs and danced around my feet. I looked at her and chewed my lip. I seriously didn't know how I was going to get to work, and I figured I should leave her at home. She was used to going to work with me except for on Mondays. Probably she didn't know it was Wednesday, but maybe she did. Maybe she'd be heartbroken if I didn't take her with me. Maybe in her despair she’d shred the entire house while I was gone.

  I sighed and opened the front door. She trotted down the steps, her black bottom bumping each riser on her way down.

  I locked up and said a prayer on the way to the car. “God, I would really love a new car, but if you've decided to send my miracle in the form of this car being healed, that will work, too.”

  I opened the car door and Stump, bless her ever optimistic heart, tried to jump into the seat. She lunged and hung, scrambling, from the doorway, until I put my hand under her butt and hoisted her up.

  “This will work,” I said decisively to her as I sat. “Absolutely.”

  She cocked her head and looked at me like she wasn’t buying my BS. I said another quick prayer that was really just a, “Please.” I cranked the key.

  Ruhr-ruhr-ruhr-ruhr. I turned it again. Ruhr-ruhr-ruhr-ruhr.

  Stump laid her head on her pa
ws, looking bored.

  “Okay, well,” I said, pulling the key from the ignition. “It was worth a shot.”

  I sighed and opened the door. I had to go around to the passenger side to get Stump because she refused to get out of the car. I hitched my handbag up on my shoulder, tucked her like a football under my arm, and took off walking.

  We made it out of Trailertopia and onto Llano Boulevard before I started to think maybe I should have taken the gamble of leaving Stump unattended at home. Good Lord, the girl packed a lot of weight into her little body. Plus she kept squirming around, digging her rear paws into my back for traction. I shifted her from one arm to the other, but by the third block into it, I figured by the time I got to Bow Wow Barbers my arms were going to be too exhausted to lift. I stopped dead on the sidewalk.

  At that moment, a car pulled up beside me.

  Les was leaning over from the driver’s seat, rolling down the passenger window. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, cheerful as ever.

  Because I was a complete and eternally grateful sap, I had to blink back tears. “You didn’t have to come get me,” I said, making my voice light. I had not forgotten Les’s speech about getting through the tough stuff. “We were going to walk.” See how full of BS I can be? I hugged Stump to me, partly to hide the shaking in my arms.

  “Long way to walk,” was all he said.

  He dropped me off at Flo’s and asked, “What time should I pick you up?”

  “No need,” I said. “I have a ride home.” I would get one, I decided. If I had to call G-Ma, I would do that. I could not keep imposing on Les for the rest of my life, no matter how much he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” was all he said. He drove off, presumably to get to the jail so he could find other lost lambs.

  I thought about Les as I went about my morning routine. He must have gotten a hefty emotional payoff, with all the helping people he did. It wasn’t just me. Okay, it was mostly me, because, let’s face it, I’m pretty much a full-time job. But still, there wasn’t an hour of the day when he wasn’t doing something for someone. It made me wonder what it felt like, being someone’s last hope. Which in turn, made me think of Tony. If there was anyone I would love to be the last hope for, it was Tony. Also Trisha, and Stump, because I would basically do just about anything for her.

  When I had two dogs left to finish, I worked up the nerve to call G-Ma. G-Ma is not the type to bend over backwards for anyone, but most especially not her beloved only grandchild. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me. It was just that she’d read somewhere about tough love and setting boundaries and, boy howdy, she’d taken it all to heart where I was concerned. This inconvenient attitude was aggravated by the fact that she had learned all these golden theories after she’d raised my mother, who had gone on to lie, steal, use, and beg her way through life. Even though I wasn’t always thrilled with G-Ma’s no-handouts rule, I had to admit I admired her. There were plenty of times when, if she had given an inch, I would definitely have taken the whole frigging yard.

  “I thought you said you were staying out of trouble,” she said when I told her what I wanted to do.

  “I am staying out of trouble,” I said. I remembered that verse in the book of James about not swearing on anything, just letting your yes be yes and your no be no. I’d spent so many years lying through my teeth that I could swear on the original stone tablet, with my hand firmly on the “Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness” part, and it still wouldn’t hold a lot of water with G-Ma. “I am staying out of trouble. I just want to go visit a friend, and my car is in the shop.” See? Even when I was telling the truth, I couldn’t help but lie a little bit.

  “You don’t need to go be seeing any friends that are in jail. You need to stay away from friends in jail.”

  “But G-Ma, it’s Tony. Remember Tony?”

  “Your husband Tony?”

  “My ex-husband Tony. Yes, that’s him.”

  “He didn’t do anything.” She said it with all the conviction of the close-minded. Like most people – most people including me – G-Ma believed that Tony was much too good to have married me.

  “I know,” I said. “I want to go visit him and find out if there’s some way I can help him.”

  For me, G-Ma would have said no, but for Tony, she relented.

  One of the things I really like about G-Ma is, she believes in having the best, whether she can afford it or not. She'll go without before she'll buy generic. I think there's an intrinsic sense of worth in her that failed to trickle down. I feel like a spendthrift if I buy Charmin instead of Walmart brand toilet paper.

  The best car, in G-Ma’s eyes, is a Lincoln. Not as showy and obnoxious as a Cadillac. Cadillacs are for people who just want to get attention, she says. For the discriminating person who simply wants luxury, it's got to be a Lincoln. She manages to slip into conversation at every opportunity that Lincolns cost just as much as Cadillacs.

  After I finished my dogs I sponged off with the brown paper towels in the bathroom and tried to fix my makeup, then waited out on the sidewalk for the maroon Lincoln to come careening into the parking lot. I paced up and down with Stump and tried – without success – not to stare at my reflection in the shop windows. I wondered how Tony would see me. Probably he'd be too preoccupied with possible long-term prison time to notice that my bangs needed a trim and that my thighs had grown to enormous proportions.

  Of course, this was extremely shallow thinking about when there were much bigger issues than the size of my thighs on the table (so to speak), but I never professed to being that deep. I tried to be deep. I wanted to be deep, but the fact was, I felt better when I fished the lipstick and powder out of my purse and freshened up a little. I also said a prayer for a thirty-pound weight loss miracle on the way to the county jail, but the Bible does say that prayers without faith don't really work.

  G-Ma bounced the Lincoln into the parking lot and pulled up beside me. She hit the button and the passenger window slid halfway down.

  “You're bringing your –” The window slid back up. G-Ma’s not very proficient with buttons, or technology in general.

  I saw her mouth the word “dog,” though. I nodded.

  The window slid back down.

  “I can't leave her here because Flo’s going to close in an hour and I don't know if we'll be back before –”

  Whirr. Window going back up. I waited until it slid partway back down. “Is it okay?”

  Experience told me that it would be okay, as long as I groveled and gave her a few minutes to complain about it.

  “This is a nice car. This is a quality car. I don't want it full of dog poo.”

  “She's not going to poo in your car, G-Ma. She's trained and besides, she already did her poo for the day.” I'd walked her after lunch; I knew firsthand the poo issue was taken care of.

  “Does she get nervous riding in cars? Because getting nervous does bad things to a dog's stomach.”

  “She rides everywhere with me. She's never been nervous before.”

  “Once that smell gets in you can't get it out, you know. Doesn't matter what you use. It's permanent.”

  “I promise you she won't go in your car, G-Ma.” I looked at Stump and mental-telepathy-ed what I'd do to her if she made a liar out of me.

  “I'd have to sell the car and I love this car. There's not another one this color within two hundred miles.”

  Now we were off on that fable. The guy at the dealership had fed her that line, and despite the fact that I'd seen at least five cars exactly like G-Ma’s in town, she clung to the notion that she had the only Midnight Maroon Lincoln between Dallas and El Paso.

  “I'll hold her in my lap,” I said. “So just in case it will get on me and not the seat.”

  G-Ma pursed her lips and didn't say anything else, and I decided that meant she was through arguing. I opened the door and belted myself in, holding Stump tight on my lap.

  The Lincoln was a V-8, and G-Ma
liked to make sure all eight cylinders saw action between every red light. A lot of people grumbled when Texas made it illegal to sit in the front seat without your seatbelt on, but I was relieved to have a reason to strap myself in when I rode with G-Ma. She played a little too fast and loose with the driving rules – such as staying between the lines and using only the middle lane for turning – for my comfort.

  She hit the divider in the jail parking lot and shoved the gearshift into park. I climbed out with a silent prayer of thanks for a relatively safe arrival – along with another plea for a new car so I wouldn't have to keep bumming rides – and told Stump to be good while I was gone.

  G-Ma raised one penciled-on eyebrow. “It's not staying in the car.”

  I lifted my hands. “I can't take her inside.”

  “It's not staying in my car.”

  I cleared my throat and chewed my lip to push back my frustration. I was well-versed in G-Ma’s looks and tones. Stump wasn't staying in the car.

  I opened the door and hooked Stump's leash to her collar. She hates her leash. She screams like she's dying and fights so hard she makes herself throw up. And yet up against G-Ma’s stubbornness, the leash hooked to the bike rack in front of the jail became the path of least resistance.

  Stump began to whine and gag as soon as the leash was attached. Never mind the fact that the collar around her neck was exactly the same size as it had been five seconds before, and that absolutely nothing was restricting her air flow in the least. She detected a leash, and she wasn't having it.

  Be firm, I told myself as I sat Stump down by the bike rack and looped her leash over the bar. Just act like it's no big deal; you're the parent here.

  Before I could figure out a way to get the leash knotted, she'd tugged it off the pole and was barking furiously at me.

  I gave her the hairy eyeball but, as usual, she was unfazed by that. If I ever had kids I would have to learn how to be more menacing.

  I tucked her, squirming, under my arm and unhooked the leash from her collar. She stopped wriggling immediately and licked my jaw. With my free hand I looped the leash over the pole, threaded the clip end through the looped handle, and pulled the clip back up. I clicked it back onto her collar and sat her down on the sidewalk before she knew what happened.