When my thoughts returned to the real world, I was stumped by today’s news. There was no mention of a missing Fairfax County Police Officer. Hmm…of course, it would be in the Metro section. I riffled through. Nothing. Not a word. Poor Dick.
I reassembled the newspaper and slipped it into a paper grocery bag in the laundry room. Back in the kitchen, I threw the greasy paper towels away, rinsed the plate and placed it in the dishwasher. I opened another teabag, carefully removing just the bag from the wrapper, keeping the envelope in one piece. Another lesson learned from the old Scottish roomie. The lazy lassie’s secret to making tea. If you didn’t tear off the bag, then you only had one trip to the trash. Wonder what became of her? She probably drowned in her tears. I had never met such a peculiar character before. All she did was get angry at the world and then morph into tears. Poor pitiful Rosaleen Dalrymple. Every single blasted day and night. Glad her Visa expired.
I poured water from the kettle into my cup. No sugar. Not for the second cup. If I really wanted the caffeine that bad, I’d make myself choke it down black. Couldn’t go over my twenty-gram daily allowance of carbohydrates.
While the tea steeped, I took a hot shower. Always hot. The only way I enjoyed them. I dressed in business attire. For my business, that meant non-denim pants with no double stitching down the sides, a top that didn’t reveal cleavage, no push-up bras and flat leather shoes. Per my union contract.
Back in the kitchen, I glanced at the poetry calendar on the wall next to the refrigerator. I walked over, took the thumbtack out of the wall and flipped the page to August. I read the poem about a purple cow as I tacked it back up. Today was Friday, August 4. I had my freedom today, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Then my bereavement leave would be over and I’d have to go back to the paper mine. I didn’t wanna go back. Not Tuesday, not ever. There I went feeling sorry for myself again. Poor pitiful Donna, who had everything she needed. Well, a nice house, a nice—shoot, I had to call about my SUV. I finger-combed through my hair.
After sipping my tea, I dozed off on the living room couch. No dreams. I awoke with a panicked feeling. I hated that. I looked around and consoled myself. The clock over the mantel okay’d me calling the Fairfax County Police. It was after eight a.m., so everybody should be up and working. I was met with efficiency and transferred through the system with no disconnects. After taking down the particulars about the impound lot my vehicle was interred at, I thanked the lady and hung up.
The call to my automobile insurance company went better than I expected. Since I had plunked a fifty-percent down payment on it and it was near the end of my five-year loan, lo and behold, the blue book value would pay off the lender and I would break even. Break even. But no vehicle. Fine. Whatever. Story of my life. There I went, feeling sorry for myself again.
I made notes of the times, date and people I spoke to and filed it, before leaving for the mental institution.
Shaking as I inched Daddy’s old Chrysler through the gates of the compound, I nervously parked. It took three tries to get the big boat squeezed into a lined space meant for contemporary compact cars. I locked it and held my head high as I strode into the facility. I stated my name, relationship and the patient’s name to the clerk on duty at the reception desk.
The gaunt, ghoulish-looking Asian fellow with one blue and one brown eye acknowledged me with a grunt. He then did a lot of typing on a computer keyboard. Type, type, type, enter, wait. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat. He picked up a telephone and whispered in a foreign language to someone. He hung up and in perfect English said, “You, Orpha Payne, did not pay her inpatient bill. She was released.”
“What?” Half thrilled that they had sense enough to realize my momma was no insane murderess, half guilty about not paying her bill, I licked my lips. The air in here was so dry.
He said, “She walked out of here yesterday at four p.m.”
“Alone?”
“I guess. Will you be paying by check, cash or charge?”
“Paying?”
“Up to you. Pay the cashier now, over at that window, or we will submit it to the collection agency.”
“What? I’m not legally responsible for my mother’s bill. She has money. Here—” I grabbed a legal pad from his desk and a pen. I scribbled Judge Perry Payne’s address and phone number on it. “Judge Payne is the responsible party.” I left.
I darted out the automatic door and dove into the security of Daddy’s car. I drove past the hospital graveyard and observed what appeared to be patients, digging. Digging their own graves? What a macabre scene. I shivered.
I didn’t allow myself to think until I was back on the Capital beltway. All right, hooray! Good going, Momma. You are a free woman. But where are you? At home? I doubled back to her house.
Carla Calamari was leaning into a silver Lexus when I arrived. She noticed me, shook hands with the man inside the car and he sped away. I parked on the street and turned my wheels into the curb. The smiling real estate agent yanked my door open.
She said, “Well, I think his client is going to make an offer. We should hear something by tomorrow.”
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door. I stomped onto the sidewalk. She followed me.
She said, “I am such a brilliant salesperson. No one else could’ve unloaded this hovel.”
I smiled and glared into her pretty blue eyes. “No sale.”
Carla laughed. “You’re funny, Orpha.”
Mistake to call me Orpha. Second person today. I seethed behind my white toothy grin. My bottom teeth were a jumbled mess but my top teeth looked good. More or less. Once again, no money for braces for little Oh-Donna. Perry and Tammy had them.
I repeated, “No sale.”
She looked perplexed. “Come again?”
“Momma’s back. This is her home. What don’t you understand?”
Carla’s tone turned ugly. “I have worked my little behind off, cajoling all of my colleagues into unloading this dump. You will not make me the laughingstock of my industry and it is a small industry, everybody knows everybody.”
I poked her shoulder. “Sorry, Miz Calamari, but I, as the executrix, never signed a listing agreement. The house was never for sale.”
“But…but Judge Payne…but we had a verbal—”
I climbed the weedy hill to the front door.
She stammered and cackled, “You will receive a bill for my services. I still get my four percent commission. And when you do try to sell this shit shed, you will not get one offer. I will blackball you, Oprah Payne.”
Oprah. The imbecile couldn’t even pronounce my first name. The pit bull next door drowned squid lady’s indignant voice out. I rang the doorbell. And waited. I knocked and waited. Oh I couldn’t wait to hug Momma. I turned the knob. It did. I hurried inside.
“Momma? Momma? Are you home? Momma?” I scooted past the tub chair and the curio cabinet in the living room. Everything else in the room had been taken by Tammy’s boy toys. She’d have to haul everything back, now that Momma had returned. I snickered.
The kitchen and dining room were filthy and empty. They had left the copper cake keeper and the turkey platter on the dusty rug centered underneath the chandelier. Those were on my list. Daddy’s dresser was in his bedroom. I quickly rifled through it but didn’t find the insurance policy. Should have known it was one of Daddy’s tricks. Momma’s bed and lingerie chest were in her room. Tammy’s old bedroom was bare. I checked the bathrooms. No sign of Momma. No indication she’d even come home.
Then I felt guilty. Momma couldn’t even come home and make a run for it. I got her Corvette impounded. And—oh gosh I had her purse! I let out a big, miserable breath, along with a few shameful tears.
Without any hope of finding Momma, I plodded down the basement stairs. Nothing remained but Daddy’s deep freezer. His Dracula box was still there. I was surprised Tammy hadn’t sold it on eBay.
I opened the door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I yanked the brown shoest
ring. The bulb glowed, twenty-five watts worth. Good. Tammy had them leave the trunk. And the bags of books and photo albums and everything else was still here.
I brushed my hand across the cool brass plates on the old black steamer trunk. I sat on top of it and then lay down, curling up like a kitten on a windowsill with a cool breeze whispering over my fur. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Musty mothballs and sawdust. Sawdust? Tammy’s plumber boys must’ve knocked it loose from the hatch overhead when they removed the Dracula box for the wake.
Blocking that twisted scene out of my mind, I concentrated on a far-off rhythm. Percussion. Now a woodwind and brass section marched in my brain, to the tune of…of… Come on, Donna, name that tune. That’s it. “Hail to the Chief”, the song military bands played for the President at official gatherings. I tightened my eyelids, squinting shut as hard as I could. I pictured how my wrinkled-up nose must appear. But nobody could see me, so who cared? Who cared? Who cared about me? Stop it, Donna. You’re feeling sorry for yourself again. Momma really looks down upon those who have everything and don’t see it. I’ve gotta find Momma. Gotta find Momma. Gotta find Momma…
~♥~
Red swirls. White sparkles. Blue thunder. Air Force One, the military airplane the President traveled on. My dream man was standing at the top of the steps to the plane. He looked really cute in uniform. An Air Force uniform.
I said, “Hey you, Colonel Jones. Come on down here and give me a great big kiss.”
“No time for that, Cinderella. Where’ve you been? We need to get going.”
“Sweet. Where to?” I climbed the stairs.
He ushered me into the cockpit and strapped me into the jump seat behind the pilot’s seat. The co-pilot, or navigator, or whatever the second guy in the cockpit was called, had his nose in a bunch of maps. I tried to clear my throat and get his attention but he was listening too intently into some big old earphones. My mate gave me a teasing little kiss, just barely fluttering his full lips on mine.
He said, “Here, something to read. Keep quiet.”
He placed a magazine onto my lap, taking the liberty of copping a touch of leg, before assuming his place at the controls.
I glanced down, marveling at my pink skirt. Wool, but not itchy. My gaze fell down to my legs. Oh much improved stockings. Nylons. Pink pumps. Not too pinchy at the toes. My eyes traveled up to a matching suit jacket. I gazed at my hands. White gloves. Cotton. I patted my hair with my left hand, it felt stiff. Lacquered and teased. Wait a minute, I was wearing a hat too.
When I felt the plane leave the ground, I closed my eyes and said a little silent prayer. Dear God and Jesus in Heaven, please rest my daddy’s soul. Please help me find my momma, safe and happy. Please help Tammy and Perry, for they know not their sins. And thanks for my dream boy. Amen.
Feeling the forward, upward thrust as we ascended into the wild blue yonder, I opened my eyes and smiled. I looked around the tiny compartment, at all the gadgets and gizamabobs. I was so impressed that my mate knew how to fly an airplane. Hey, the President’s plane, no less. Sweet.
After a while, I pulled my gloves off. Hmm…what should I do with them? I removed my hat and shoved them inside and then popped it back on top of my helmet hair. I grinned, feeling like Abe Lincoln. History had it that he used to hide notes to himself in his tall top hat.
I perused the magazine on my lap. Life Magazine. August 1963. I started thumbing through, it looked like a new edition. Hmm…August 1963. The year before I was born. I was conceived that year. Sometime in July or August. Must’ve been a very good year, when Momma and Daddy were in the throes of young love. Well, they weren’t all that young then but they must’ve had passion. Eww…never mind. Didn’t want that visual.
Lost in the advertisements, loving the Ivory Soap ad of yore, I felt the plane bumping down on the runway. It came to a stop. Mr. Jones slid out of his seat and unbuckled me.
“Come on, Cinderella. Lots to see and do.”
I accepted his arm and he led me down the steps, onto the tarmac. Hey, it was finally sunny in this dream. Several military people were scurrying about on the ground, they looked as if they had a job to do. My man led me away. We sauntered into the airport through the baggage area and then into the main concourse and outside to a waiting car. Convertible. White. Huge. Six seats. He opened the passenger’s door. I stepped in femininely.
Palm trees. I spotted palm trees. I said, “Where are we?”
My man grinned. “Midway between Mercury and Mars.”
I remembered my last dream. We were in a rowboat in the Atlantic Ocean. “Palm Springs?”
“Exactly.”
“Wow.” I settled into the big comfy tan-leather upholstered seat.
We drove a circle around the airport. My gaze zeroed back in on Air Force One. Two men, in black suits and sunglasses, trotted down the steps. Next came a woman, also in sunglasses but dressed in a black skirt suit. No, maybe it was a sleeveless dress with a matching coat. “Hey, she’s a redhead. Like Momma. Hey, it is Momma!”
I watched as she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A guy without sunglasses came down next. Brown hair. Toothy squint into the sun. His trousers were a little short. White socks with black shoes. My stomach fluttered. Holy history. “Is that? Is that?”
My man asked, “Is that who?”
Feeling a bit guilty, trying to squash my historical pheromones in front of my dream man, I composed myself. “Is that the Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy?”
“Looks like Bobby.”
We watched as Bobby entered a black limousine, followed by my mother. The President joined them. The door closed. The little American flags on each side of the car hood flapped in a patriotic wave.
I sighed back into my seat. “Wow, Momma got to work with Bobby Kennedy.”
My mate shot me a sly smile as he shifted into drive. “Sounds like somebody has her knickers in a lather.”
“What? No. Of course not. I just admire his work. All the inroads he made for desegregation…and he is the one that got the warning labels posted on cigarettes. So there.”
“So there? So there what?”
I said, “Huh?”
My man shook his head and steered onto a freeway. He muttered, “Um…she also got to work with President Kennedy, you know.”
“Huh? Oh yes, of course she did. She was a Secret Service agent. Bodyguarded four U.S. Presidents and their wives. Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson. Oh the stories she used to tell about LBJ, the SOB—”
“Hey, that’s a very unpatriotic statement. What was wrong with President Lyndon Baines Johnson?” my mate asked.
I squirmed a little. The vision of Bobby lingered in my brain. “Oh it wasn’t anything professional that Momma had against President Johnson. He was her boss and of course she did her duty to the letter. It was just, he was…well…uncouth. A big Texan good ol’ boy. Whenever she was on duty and the first time that day the President noticed her, he’d walk up and grin. LBJ would shake her hand and say, ‘Chloe Sue, it’s so good to see you’.”
My man said, “And what’s wrong with that? She didn’t like being addressed in a familiar way?”
“What she didn’t like was the wadded-up chewing gum wrapper with previously enjoyed gum inside that he’d leave in her hand.”
My dream man laughed.
I clicked the radio on. Smoothing my pink skirt, I asked him, “So where are we off to tonight?” As soon as I got those words out, the “Donna” song started playing on the radio. I sighed and tried to lean over to peck his cheek. Alas, the wind picked up.
Chapter Nine
Rubbing my cold bare arms, I opened my eyes. The grandfather clock in the rec room chimed seven times. I’d spent another night in the closet. Saturday morning. Another day closer to eternity. Another day Momma had been missing. She had been released on Thursday. So where was she?
As I stared at the walnut paneling, I squirmed around, trying to get comfy, curled up on top of the steamer trunk
. No use. I stood up. Momma had such an exciting career. To be around the leaders of the free world. I tried imagining the aura that their power fields must have glistened with. Momma bathed in this pool of might. And she was respected. Wow. Chloe Lambert Payne, Secret Service agent. One of the first females.
Wonder what had happened in the sixties to make her take an early out. Surely she could’ve put up with President Johnson’s shenanigans. Just made for a colorful workaday in my humble opinion.
It probably would’ve been fun to be his secretary. Well, not exactly the head secretary or whatever that position was called. But a girl in the typing pool or something. Just close enough to bear witness to history. Participate in living history. Maybe change the course of the world? Okay, Donna, now you’ve gone to the other extreme. Feeling sorry for yourself is one sin. But now entertaining the notion that little insignificant you could actually impact the axis of the free world, well, that’s the other end of the sin spectrum.
That made me think about Reverend Martin Luther King. He’d changed the course of the world. But aside from a street in virtually every city renamed for him, what did I know of the man? Not much. He gave a great speech. I have a dream too, Martin. That one day, all God’s children will be treated equally. And all of Chloe and Nathan’s children will be treated equally. There I went again, Miss Pity Party.
Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia was renamed M. L. King Avenue. Momma mentioned a time or two that she used to live in a boarding house there. Back when she first came to Washington, after college. Chloe Lambert rode a Greyhound bus from Shrew, North Carolina. She had a degree in home economics but followed her patriotic duty to step into the shoes of one of our boys at war. Washington needed good girls during World War Two.
The Immaculate Deception Page 14