More Than Anything

by R. E. Blake

  Her eyes widen. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to rattle Mr. Love Bug’s cage. Old and creepy ain’t my flavah, anyhow.”

  “I won’t say a word,” I promise, and I mean it. I don’t want trouble. I actually don’t want to be within five hundred miles of here, but a deal’s a deal, and my father seems happy I’m going along with his plan. I’m actually having serious second thoughts, but it’s a little late now, and with my dad there, what’s the worst that could happen?

  Which freezes me mid-bite. This is a really bad idea. Ralph’s a cold, calculating psycho. Of course I should be scared of him. We all should. For all I know he plans to pull the old murder-suicide trick.

  I wonder if I’m just letting my imagination run buck wild, but can’t shake the image of Ralph, shaking with rage, screaming bug-eyed as he pumps a Winchester.

  “Do you think there’s any chance he might be letting us into the house so…I don’t know, so he can go all mass murder on us?” I ask, giving voice to my fears.

  Melody drops her fork on the plate with a clatter. “Maybe I’ll sit this one out. Go see a movie or something while you and Uncle Krazee break bread and talk over the bad old days.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen,” my dad says, his voice calm.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  He chews on the last bite of his sandwich thoughtfully and sips his iced tea before answering. “Guys like Ralph are punks. You see them all the time in prison. Cowards. I wouldn’t put it past him to put a knife in me in a dark alley, but he’s not going to do anything in broad daylight when he knows it would land him in jail, being passed around the cell block like a joint at a concert.”

  “Maybe you should let the cops know we’re going over there?” Melody says.

  “That’s actually not a bad idea. I’ll stop by the station.” He looks at me. “On second thought, they might not be all that cozy with the idea of helping out an ex-con. Sage, you’re famous now. I think you should go in, tell them what we’re doing and where we’re going, and let them know it’s on their ass if anything goes wrong.”

  “They’re all buddies with him,” I say.

  “Maybe, but nobody wants an incident on their watch, and even if they’re dating, they’re going to watch Ralph like hawks to make sure nothing turns sour. Just make it clear that you’re underage, you’re scared of him for good reason, plus you’re a celebrity, so anything that happens will get exposure – they can’t just sweep it under the rug – and that you’re making a formal request to them to help you.” He looks hard at me. “That phone of yours record sound?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  “Let them know you’re recording the request, too. That ought to get their attention. Nobody’s going to risk their job by ignoring you. Good jobs are too hard to come by these days.”

  Melody shakes her head. “But he hasn’t done anything. So you can’t file a complaint or whatever. And I doubt the cops are going to push their way into his house and stand around while you ransack it.”

  “Good point,” I agree.

  My dad nods. “Well, true. But you can ask them to have a patrol car sitting out front for a few minutes while we go in. That’ll put him on notice. With a guy like Ralph, that should be enough.”

  I resume eating. Can’t hurt, and I am a bona fide celeb now, even if a minor one. My dad’s not so stupid after all.

  We stop at the police station, and I go in by myself, phone in hand, and explain to the duty officer what we’re getting ready to do, why we’re doing it, and what I’m asking for. I don’t tell them I’m recording it – I’ll save that as my ace in the hole in case they tell me to get lost.

  Surprisingly, they don’t. The duty officer, who’s maybe twenty-nine, gets a disbelieving expression on his face as I talk. When I’m done, one eyebrow cocks.

  “Wait. You’re Sage. I saw you on TV,” he says, and for once I don’t mind being recognized.

  “Oh, right. Good. Then you know me,” I say, trying a smile in case the dog collar didn’t get enough sympathy.

  “Yeah. I’m new, but I know you. So does half the country. You’re awesome.” He tries a smile, and I realize he’s flirting with me. Instead of shutting him down, I play along a little.

  “Officer…”

  “Jacobs. Mike.”

  “Officer Jacobs–”

  “Please. Mike.”

  “Mike, this is kinda my stepfather’s place I’m going to, and last time I saw him, when my mom was dying, he tried to punch me. I know he’s drinking buds with some of the police here, but I don’t want to get assaulted or shot because he’s got nothing to lose. I’m scared. And I’m hoping you can at least have a car waiting at the curb when I go in, so he sees that you know I’m there.”

  Mike looks confused, and I realize he might not have graduated at the top of his class. Not that I’m one to talk, having skipped the part where I bothered to finish school at all.

  “Then don’t go,” he says.

  “Excellent advice. But the attorney handling the will arranged for me to get her photos and some other stuff, so I kind of have to, or lose it all. I’d be super grateful if you’d pull some strings and send a car by.”

  “I can’t condone you knowingly going into a dangerous situation, Sage.”

  “I understand.” I hesitate. “For all I know, it could be nerves. Can you please just humor me? One car, five minutes?” I bat my eyes and look as forlorn as I can. I want to scream, “Look at me. I’ve got a frigging whiplash collar, you dick!” but I rein myself in. I need Officer Mike to like me. So I do my best ‘likeable Sage’ act and wait for his response.

  “I suppose, seeing as you’re famous and all, we could maybe do it,” he says.

  “You’re so awesome. I’ll dedicate a song on my album to you, Mike.” Pouring it on thick, I know, but this is an emergency. Sort of.

  “Aw, you don’t have to do that,” he says, and he’s blushing. Officer Mike is afflicted with the same condition I am, and I love him for it, if only in a momentary, sisterly way. “I’d settle for a thank you.”

  “Mike, if I didn’t have this collar on, I’d kiss you.”

  “Tell you what. You come back when you’re not wearing it and I might just let you.”

  Score. I wonder if I should pay more attention to Melody’s deadly skills, because they do seem to work wonders compared to my full-frontal assault tactics. Officer Mike murmurs into his radio and then looks at me. “What kind of car are you driving?”

  “A green Dodge Attitude. My dad and I are parked out front. Should we wait?”

  His eyes narrow. “How old are you, anyway, Sage?”

  I give him my best Melody look. “I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months. Right around the time my neck’s healed.”

  He blushes again, and I know I own him. I’d do a fist pump and let out a whoop, but it might be misinterpreted; and besides, my neck’s kind of sore from the bumpy drive over the mountain.

  “Will you, now?” he asks, but I’m already walking to the exit.

  “See you in a couple of months, Officer Mike,” I say as I push through the doors, not waiting for a reply. Officer Mike will be looking forward to my next visit for a long two months and, when I don’t show back up, will attribute it to my busy touring schedule. But for a minute he was a contender, and you can never take that away from a guy.

  My euphoria fades as I approach the car. Now comes the sucky part – a very real Ralph, with who knows what evil on his mean-spirited little mind.

  Chapter 24

  A squad car follows us over to the house, which is even more dilapidated than I remember, hard to believe. It’s in an area of town that the more charitable might call ‘working class’ and which I refer to as ‘white trash slum.’ It’s a fifty-year-old ranch house with crap siding peeling off, a dead lawn, and an overall air of disrepair. The only thing missing is a car up on blocks. Probably because Ralph’s too cheap for luxuries like that.

  We park in
the driveway and get out, and the patrol car stops at the curb in plain sight of the front door. As we approach the porch, every bad memory I have about the dump rushes back with the force of a tsunami. A visual of Ralph’s hand lashing out, fast as a pit viper’s strike, springs to mind, and I choke back acid. Melody seems to sense my discomfort and takes my hand.

  My dad knocks on the door, and it takes several minutes for Ralph to answer. When he opens it, he’s staring over our shoulders at the police car, a scowl on his face.

  “What the hell’s that doing here?” he growls.

  “Just some friends making sure everything goes off smoothly,” I say.

  My dad fixes him with a calm stare. “Be a shame if anything happened while we’re inside, Ralph. Not that I expect anything to, but everyone knows we’re here, and why.”

  “You got some nerve, don’t you?” he snarls at me.

  “We’re here to get my wife’s things, Ralph, like the attorney arranged for. Not to fight. Is there a problem?” my dad asks.

  Ralph’s beady little rodent eyes dart back to the police car, and he tilts his head and gives me a blood-chilling smile.

  “No. No problem at all. Come on in. All her stuff’s in some boxes in the bedroom. She didn’t have much to speak of.”

  I’m worried by Ralph’s reversal in attitude, but I don’t say anything. With my dad and Melody here I’m not as concerned, even though he manages to radiate menace with his every word and gesture. I turn and wave at the policeman, who waves back but stays in place, the silent message unmistakable.

  “We won’t be more than a half hour, tops,” I yell, and the cop nods.

  Checkmate, Ralph, you shitgrub, I think. You lay a finger on any of us, and in thirty minutes your life goes from bad to prison rape.

  My only worry is he might like the change of pace.

  “Only you two can come in. I didn’t invite no tour group,” Ralph says, eyeing Melody like the pervert he is.

  She smiles. “I do hate to miss a chance to see how the rich and famous live, but I’ll just wait out here, then.” I almost laugh out loud, but bite my tongue.

  The house is clean inside, but it still has the sour smell I remember all too well, like years of spilled bottles and vomit soaked into the dingy carpeting and were never cleaned adequately. Which is probably true. We pass the sad living room, the beaten easy chair where my mom routinely passed out now empty. The furniture’s junk, even worse than I remember.

  My room’s on the right, but I have no interest in anything I didn’t take – okay, maybe I could use a few more tops, but I’m sure Ralph has either thrown all my stuff away or, more likely, sold it in a yard sale, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of showing any curiosity.

  We’re here for my mom’s belongings, nothing more.

  “It’s all there,” he says, pointing at a collection of boxes by the walk-in closet.

  My dad nods as I approach the cartons. “Can we go through it here, or do you want us to take it all and do it later?” he asks.

  Ralph shrugs. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want. Just keep away from anything else. Never trust a con is my motto.”

  My dad ignores the dig. “We’ll just take it, then. That way we’ll be out of your hair sooner,” he says, and Ralph nods. I have a totally bad feeling about this, but so far it’s all normal, in a bizarre Twilight Zone kind of way.

  I lift a box, and my dad does the same, and Ralph follows us with them to the entry, not offering to help. The prick doesn’t even open the front door for us, so I put my box down and do so. There are eight boxes, so four trips. If we’re lucky, we can be out of here in two minutes. The cop is still parked out front, with Melody now holding his attention, her jeans and skimpy top more than enough stimulation on a slow day. Ralph eyes him and seems to deflate a little, and I’m now sure he had something ugly planned for us.

  On the last trip, I take a closer look into the living room and see his shotgun leaning against the wall, between the sofa and side table. Could be he just likes carrying it around the house. Could also be he was thinking about using it.

  Every step I take to the door seems like I’m pushing through molten lead. I don’t know whether my dad saw the gun, but he’s as calm as ever. I exhale with relief when I step across the threshold and can’t make it to the car fast enough, where we’ve piled the boxes up next to the trunk. I whisper to my father as we near it.

  “You see the shotgun?”

  He doesn’t say anything, telling me everything I need to know. When he sets the box down, he leans into me. “Keep that cop here while I load up, okay?”

  He doesn’t sound especially alarmed, but something about his tone moves me to Melody’s side in record time. The cop’s a younger guy, maybe early thirties but in good shape, probably a jock in school who still works out every day. Just Melody’s type, I think, and then correct myself. Most decent-looking guys are Melody’s type.

  “How are you today, Officer?” I ask, and Melody beams a high-wattage smile in his direction.

  “It’s Jeff. Officer Jeff,” she says, pronouncing the word officer like it’s rife with sexual possibility.

  “Hello, Officer Jeff. I’m Sage. Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Nice to meet you, Sage. Shoot.” He’s got a pleasant voice with the local twang, subtle, but if you grew up here, you recognize it.

  “If I was to tell you that the guy in the house has a shotgun by the couch, would it worry you?”

  His eyes narrow, and the smile leaves his face. “No law against having a shotgun in your own house.”

  “That’s what I figured. I mean, it would only break a law if he went on a berserk killing spree with it, right?”

  “Are you saying he threatened you?” Officer Jeff asks quietly, his hand reflexively dropping to his pistol as he eyes Ralph in the doorway.

  “No. I’m just asking if you find it odd to have a shotgun next to the couch when you’re expecting company. I don’t remember that being part of the way we greeted visitors, but maybe the local custom’s changed?”

  “Maybe you should hurry up and finish up here,” Officer Jeff says, now all business, any hint of friendliness replaced by stress.

  “My thinking exactly. I just wanted you to know why I’m a little on edge. We should be out of here in a minute. I really appreciate you staying till we’re away safely.”

  My message delivered, I return to help my dad with the last of the boxes, which have to go in the back seat, since the Dodge’s trunk isn’t big enough to hold them all. Once they’re loaded, we go back to where Ralph is standing. The fury on his face isn’t hard to read.

  “Nice gun you got there, Ralph. Keep it handy, do you?” my father asks.

  “You two think you’re pretty slick, huh?” He spits by my dad’s feet. “This isn’t over.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Ralph. It is over. We’re out of your life now. No need to hold any grudges, is there?” my dad says, his tone an unmistakable warning.

  Ralph fixes me with a dark glare before his eyes dart to where Officer Jeff is watching him. He leans in close enough that I can smell the sour tang of perspiration on his shirt and the faint odor of tooth decay.

  “This isn’t over, you little bitch. You think you’re all that, don’t you? You’ll see.”

  My dad steps forward. “What was that, Ralph?”

  I force a smile that’s cold enough to freeze Ralph’s blood. “Nothing, Dad. Ralph was just wishing me luck, and suggesting that I buy a firearm for my eighteenth birthday, just like the ones my bodyguards carry. Excellent suggestion, Ralph. I bet I’m a crack shot in no time.”

  My dad nods. “Ralph should concentrate on having a nice life, because the prison system’s full of guys who threaten to hurt people. Especially underage girls in listening range of their father.” His smile is as dangerous as a crocodile’s. “But no need to explain that. You take it easy, Ralph. We won’t be seeing any more of you, I’m sure.”

&nb
sp; Ralph doesn’t say anything, merely glances back at the cop a final time and goes back into the house. The door slamming is as loud as a grenade, and I have to keep myself from breaking into a run back to the car.

  “Melody, come on,” my dad calls, and she wastes no time returning and climbing into the passenger seat. He almost floods the engine when he starts it, and it starts with a groan. As we back out of the driveway, the last thing I see is Ralph watching us from the grimy window, his face a mask of rage.

  Chapter 25

  We pull over at a rest stop and sort through the boxes. Most of it’s junk – her clothes, which are Kmart bad; boxes of knickknacks that would have been at home in a high school version of The Stepford Wives; a jewelry box; and stacks and stacks of papers and photographs. Apparently Mom didn’t get with the whole computer revolution and scan her images, and the result is a hundred pounds of fading shots on cheap photo paper.

  I’m not especially interested in the papers, which are garbage as far as I can tell. This was a woman who didn’t throw anything away, exhibiting the packrat tendencies of the mentally ill I’ve seen on a reality show. Page after page of newspaper clippings of local events, sales, coupons, scrawled reminders cheerfully ignored, I’m sure…a litany of the collected leavings of a disturbed mind.

  I open the jewelry box, sort through the jumbled stuff, and find the one item I can remember her wearing when I was a child – a silver charm bracelet. I try it on my good wrist and it’s a fit. I have no use for the rest of the junk – cheap earrings and costume jewelry. There’s absolutely no hope that her wedding ring is in the box. Ralph would have pocketed that immediately since it was the only thing of value she would have passed on to me.

  I’m still a little freaked out over the whole Ralph-with-gun thing, and his threat is ringing in my ears as I consider the sad collection of trash that represents everything my mom accomplished and accumulated in almost forty years on the planet. I’ve always believed that we shouldn’t get too attached to our material possessions, but this is plain pitiful.