by Sue Grafton
“What’s wrong with Nashville? We’ll be there by midmorning, which is perfect for me.”
“You’ll slow us down. Check the map if you don’t believe me. We’ll be coming in on 40, taking 65 North across the state line. The Nashville airport is over on the far side of town. We’ll lose an hour.” She passed the map back to me, folded over to the section she was talking about.
I checked the relative distances. “You won’t lose an hour. You’re talking twenty minutes max. I thought you didn’t want to go to Louisville, so what’s the big hurry now?”
“I never said I didn’t want to go. That’s where I live. I said that’s where Gilbert’s going. I want to get my stuff out of the apartment before he shows up.”
Ray said, “Forget your stuff. Buy new. Stay away from there. You make a trip to the apartment, you run right into him.”
“Not if I can get there before he does,” she said. “That’s why I don’t want to waste time taking her to the airport. She can do that in Louisville. It isn’t that much farther.”
I could feel my body heat up with rising irritation. “It’s another three hours.”
“I’m not stopping,” she said.
“Who put you in charge?”
“Who put you?”
“Ladies, hey! Knock it off. You’re getting on my nerves. We got Gilbert to contend with. That’s enough.” Ray turned to look at me, his manner solicitous. “I have a suggestion. I know you’re anxious to get home, but a few hours’ delay isn’t going to make any difference. Come to Louisville with us. We’ll take you to my ma’s where it’s safe. You can take a hot shower and clean up while she runs your clothes through her machine.” He glanced at Laura. “You come, too. She’d love to see you, I’m sure. How many years since you’ve visited your gramma?”
“Five or six,” she said.
“See? She probably misses you like crazy. I’m sure she does,” he said. “She’ll fix a great home-cooked meal and then we’ll take you to the airport. We’ll even pay for your ticket.”
Laura took her eyes off the road. “We will? Since when?”
“Come on. She’s only in this because of us. Chester’s probably never going to pay her, so now she’s out the bucks. What’s it going to cost us? It’s the least we can do.”
“You’re very generous with money you don’t have,” she remarked.
Ray’s smile faltered. Even from my position in the backseat, I could see the shift in his mood. “You saying I’m not entitled to what’s in there?” he said, indicating her belly.
“Of course you’re entitled. I didn’t mean it that way, but this is costing us plenty as it is,” she said.
“So?”
“So you could at least ask me first. I got a stake in it, too. In fact, the last I heard, you were giving me the whole eight grand.”
“You turned me down.”
“I did not!”
“You did when I was there,” I said, practically sticking my tongue out at her.
“Would you tell her to stay out of our business! This has nothing to do with you, Kinsey, so mind your own beeswax.”
I felt a laugh bubble up. “Be a sport. This is fun. I’m the adopted daughter. This is ‘family dynamic.’ Isn’t that what it’s called? I read about this stuff, but I never got to experience it. Sibling rivalry’s a hoot.”
“What do you know about family?”
“Not a thing. That’s my point. I like all this bickering now that I’ve got the hang of it.” Ray said, “Is that true? You don’t have family?”
“I have relatives, but no one close. Some cousins up in Lompoc, but none of this day-to-day stuff where people crank on each other and make trouble and act ugly.”
“I lived a lot of years without family. It’s my one regret,” he said. “Anyway, will you come with us as far as Louisville? We’ll get you home. I swear.”
I’m a sucker when someone asks me nicely, especially an honorary father who smelled as good as he did. I said, “Sure. Why not? Your mother sounds like a trip.”
“That she is,” he said. “How long since you’ve seen her?”
“Seventeen years. I was out on parole, but I got picked up on a violation before I got this far. She never came to see me in prison. I guess she didn’t want to deal with it.”
Having negotiated our agreement, we drove on in peace. We reached Nashville at 10:35, all of us hungry. Laura spotted a McDonald’s, the golden arches visible off the Briley Parkway. She took the nearest off-ramp. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw her reach a hand under her jumper, where she made a discreet withdrawal from the Belly Button National Bank and Trust. Since mine was the only face unmarked by recent pounding, I was elected to go into the restaurant and purchase our lunch. To ensure variety in our diet, I bought an assortment of hamburgers, Big Macs, and Quarter Pounders with Cheese. I also bought two sizes of French fries, onion rings, and Cokes large enough to make us pee every twenty minutes. I also picked up three boxes of animal crackers, with nifty string handles, for those of us good enough to clean our plates. To show how refined we were, we ate while the car was still parked at the rear of the lot and then took advantage of the rest rooms before we hit the road again. This time Ray drove, Laura moved over to the passenger seat, and I stretched out in the back and took a nap.
When I woke, I could hear Ray and Laura talking in low tones. Somehow the murmuring took me back to the car trips of childhood, my parents in the front seat, exchanging desultory remarks. That’s probably how I learned to eavesdrop originally. I kept my eyes closed and tuned in to their conversation.
Ray was saying, “I know I haven’t been any kind of father to you, but I’d like to try.”
“I have a father. Paul’s already been a father.”
“Forget him. The guy’s a turd. I heard you say so.”
“When?”
“Last night in the car when you were talking to Kinsey. Said he criticized the shit out of you growing up.”
“Exactly. I had a father. So why do I need two?”
“Call it a relationship. I want to be a part of your life.”
“What for?”
“What for? What kind of question is that? You’re the only kid I got. We’re blood kin.”
“Blood kin. What bull.”
“How many people can you say that about?”
“Thankfully, not many,” she said with acid.
“Skip it. Have it your way. I’m not going to force myself on you. You can do what you like.”
“No need to take offense. This is not about you,” she said. “That’s just how life is. Let’s be honest. I’ve never gotten anything from men except grief.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
The conversation trailed off. I waited a suitable few minutes, then yawned audibly as if just rousing myself. I sat up in the backseat, squinting out at the countryside as it whizzed past the car windows. The sun had come out, but the light seemed pale. I could see rolling hills, carpeted in dull November green. The grass was still alive, but all the deciduous trees had dropped their leaves. The barren branches created a gray haze as far as the eye could see. In some areas we passed, I could see hemlocks and pines. In summer, I imagined the land would be intensely green, the hillsides dense with vegetation. Ray was watching me in the rearview mirror. “You ever been to Kentucky?”
“Not that I remember,” I said. “Isn’t this supposed to be horse country? I expected blue grass and white fences.”
“That’s closer to Lexington, northeast of here. The fences these days are black. Over in the far eastern part of the state, you have the coal fields of Harlan County. This is western Kentucky where most of the tobacco’s grown.”
“She doesn’t want a travelogue, Ray.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. She was always taking cuts at him, which made me feel protective. If she was going to be the bad daughter, I was going to be the good. “Show me on the map.”
He pointed to an area no
rth of the Tennessee border, between the Barren River Lake and the Nolan River Lake. “We just passed through Bowling Green, and we got Mammoth Cave National Park coming up on our left. We had time, we’d do the tour. Talk about dark. You go down in the caverns, when the guide turns out the lights? You can’t see for shit. It’s blacker than black, and it’s dead quiet. Fifty-four degrees. It’s like a meatpacking plant. Three hundred miles of passageways they’ve found so far. Last time I went was maybe 1932. A field trip in school. Left a big impression on me. When I was in prison, I used to think about that. You know, one day I’d come back and take the tour again.”
Laura was looking at him strangely. “That’s what you thought about? Not women or whiskey or fast cars?”
“All I wanted was to get away from overhead lights and the noise. The racket’s enough to drive you nuts. And the smell. That’s another thing about Mammoth Cave. It smells like moss and wet rocks. Doesn’t smell like sweat and testosterone. It smells like life before birth… what’s the word, primordial.”
“Geez. I’m sorry I have to go back to California so soon. You’re talking me into it,” I said dryly.
Ray smiled. “You joke, but you’d like it. I guarantee.”
“Primordial?” Laura said with disbelief.
“What, you’re surprised I know words like that? I got my GED. I even took college classes. Economics and psychology and shit like that. Just because I was in prison doesn’t mean I’m a fool. Lot of smart guys in prison. You’d be surprised,” he said.
“Really,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
“Yeah, really. I bet I can work a sewing machine better than you, for starters.”
“That wouldn’t take much,” she said.
“This is very uplifting sitting here talking to you. You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re the one complains your stepdad is always putting you down. Why don’t you do better, improve the situation instead of acting like him?”
Laura said nothing. Ray studied her profile and finally looked back at the road.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, and I could feel myself squirm. “How far from here?”
“About an hour and a half. How’re you doing back there?”
“I’m doing good,” I said.
We reached Louisville just before noon, approaching the town on Highway 65. I could see the airport on our left, and I nearly whimpered with longing. We took an intersecting highway west through an area called Shively, bypassing most of the downtown business district. To our right, I could see the clusters of tall buildings, sturdy blocks of concrete, most of them squared off on top. Ahead of us was the Ohio River, with Indiana visible on the other side.
We exited in an area called Portland, which was where Ray Rawson grew up. I could see his smile quicken as he took in the neighborhood. He turned toward me halfway, putting his arms across the seat back. “The Portland Canal’s down that way. Locks were built a hundred years ago to take river traffic past the falls. My great-grandfather worked on the construction. I’ll take you over there if we have time.”
I was more interested in catching a plane than seeing any of the local landmarks, but I knew the offer was part of his excitement at coming home. Having been incarcerated for most of the last forty-five years, he was probably feeling like Rip van Winkle, marveling at all the changes in the world at large. It might be a comfort that his immediate neighborhood seemed untouched by the passage of time. The streets were wide, trees showing the last vestiges of autumn leaves. Most trees were bare, but down the block I could see smatterings of yellow and red leaves remaining. On the street we’d taken, coming off the freeway, many house fronts had been converted into businesses: signs for child care, a hair salon, a tackle shop selling live bait. The yards were uniformly small and flat, separated by chicken-wire fences with dilapidated gates. Dead leaves, like scraps of brown paper, choked the house gutters and littered the walks. Ten-and twelve-year-old cars were parked at the curbs. Older models were lined up in driveways, with For Sale signs painted on the windshields. Telephone poles were more plentiful than trees, and the wires cut back and forth across the streets like supports for tenting that hadn’t been erected yet. Down a side street, I could see railroad cars sitting on a side track.
I would have bet money the neighborhood had looked this way since the 1940s. There was no evidence of construction, no indication of any old structures torn down or condemned to make way for the new. Shrubs were overgrown. The tree trunks were massive, obstructing windows and porches where once the overhanging branches had provided only dappled shade. Sidewalks had buckled, broken by the roots. Forty years of weather had picked at the asphalt siding on some of the houses. Here and there I could see fresh paint, but my guess was that nothing much had changed in the years since Ray had been here.
As we pulled up in front of his mother’s house, I could feel a heaviness descend. It was like the low droning note in the score for a horror movie, the minor chord that betokens a dark shape in the water, or something unseen, waiting in the shadows behind the basement door. The sensation was probably simple depression, born of borrowed clothes, junk food, and erratic sleep. Whatever the genesis, I knew it was going to be hours before I could get on a plane for California.
Laura turned off the ignition on the rental car and got out. Ray emerged on his side, searching the front of the house with wonderment. I had no choice but to join them. I felt like a prisoner, suffering a temporal claustrophobia so pronounced it made my skin itch.
Chapter 16
*
Ray’s mother’s house was situated on a narrow lot on a street occupied entirely by single-family dwellings. The house was a two-story red-brick structure, with a one-story red-brick extension jutting out in front. The two narrow front windows sat side by side, caged by burglar bars and capped with matching lintels. Three concrete steps led up to the door, which was set flush against the house and shaded by a small wooden roof cap. I could see a second entrance tucked around on the right side of the house down a short walk. The house next door was a fraternal twin, the only difference being the absence of the porch roof, which left its front door exposed to the elements.
Ray headed for the side entrance with Laura and me tagging along behind like baby ducklings. Between the two houses, the air seemed very chill. I crossed my arms to keep warm, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, eager to be indoors. Ray tapped on the door, which had ornamental burglar bars across the glass. Through the window I could see bright light pouring from a room on the left, but there was no sign of movement. Idly, he talked over his shoulder to me. “These are called ‘shotgun’ cottages, one room wide and four rooms deep so you could stand at the front door and fire a bullet all the way through.” He pointed up toward the second story. “Hers is called a humpback because it’s got a second bedroom above the kitchen. My great-grandfather built both these places back in 1880.”
“Looks like it,” Laura said.
He pointed a finger at her. “Hey, you watch it. I don’t want you hurting Gramma’s feelings.”
“Oh, right. Like I’d really stand here and insult her house. Geez, Ray. Give me credit for some intelligence.”
“What is it with you? You’re such a fuckin’ victim,” he said.
Inside the house, another light came on. Laura bit back whatever tart response she’d formed to her father’s chiding. The curtain was pushed aside and an elderly woman peered out. In the absence of dentures, her mouth had rolled inward in a state of collapse. She was short and heavyset, with a soft round face, her white hair pulled up tightly in a hard knot wound around with rubber bands. She squinted through wire-frame glasses, both lenses heavily magnified. “What you want?” she bellowed through the glass at us.
Ray raised his voice. “Ma, it’s me. Ray.”
It took her a few seconds to process the information. Her confusion cleared and she put her gnarled hands up to her mouth.
She began to work the locks – deadbolt, thumb lock, and burglar chain – ending in an old-fashioned skeleton key that took some maneuvering before it yielded. The door flew open and she flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Ray,” she said tremulously. “Oh, my Ray.”
Ray laughed, hugging her close while she made wordless mewing sounds of joy and relief. Though plump, she was probably half his size. She had on a white pinafore-style apron over a housedress that looked hand sewn: pink cotton with an imprint of white buttons in diagonal rows, the sleeves trimmed in pink rickrack. She pulled away from him, her glasses sitting crookedly on the bridge of her nose. Her gaze shifted to Laura, who stood behind him on the walk. It was clear she had trouble distinguishing faces in the cloudy world of impaired vision. “Who’s this?” she said.
“It’s me, Gramma. Laura. And this is Kinsey. She hitched a ride with us from Dallas. How are you?”
“Oh, my stars, Laura! Dear love. I can’t believe it. This is wonderful. I’m so happy to see you. Looka here, what a mess I’m in. Didn’t nobody tell me you were coming and now you’ve caught me in this old thing.” Laura gave her a hug and kiss, holding herself sideways to conceal the solid bulge of her belly harness.
Ray’s mother didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. “Let me take a look at you.” She put a hand on either side of Laura’s face, searching earnestly. “I wish I could see you better, child, but I believe you favor your grandfather Rawson. God love your heart. How long has it been?” Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she finally pulled her apron up over her face to hide her embarrassment. She fanned herself then, shaking off her emotions. “What’s the matter with me? Get on in here, all of you. Son, I’ll never forgive you for not calling first. I’m a mess. House is a mess.”
We trooped into the hallway, Laura first, then Ray, with me bringing up the rear. We paused while the old woman locked the doors again. I realized no one had ever mentioned her first name. To the right was the narrow stairway leading up to the second-floor bedroom, blanketed in darkness even at this time of day. To the left was the kitchen, which seemed to be the only room with lights on. Because the houses were so close to one another, little daylight crept into this section. There was only one kitchen window, on the far left-hand wall above a porcelain-and-cast-iron sink. A big oak table with four mismatched wooden chairs took up the center of the room, a bare bulb hanging over it. The bulb itself must have been 250 watts because the light it threw off was not only dazzling, but had elevated the room temperature a good twenty degrees.