He pulled out of the Vernon Ford lot with his wipers on high, pushing sheets of water aside with each pass. Down a couple of blocks the Sentry Market sign had cracked right down the middle, and the left half was lying in the road. Hack steered around it and drove on, past the Dairy Queen and Burger King and Fred Meyer store, past the social services agency and state employment office, and pulled into the parking lot of the Flower Blossom.
Agatha Thompson was in the window, putting more fake snow on her nativity scene, a plastic one she lovingly cleaned with a toothbrush and faithfully repainted once every five years. Hack could see that baby Jesus had His eyes painted shut in the manger and felt an instant of vicarious panic. He had a horror of being killed when his eyes were closed. If he was going to die— and there had been a number of times when he thought he might—he wanted to see it coming. Probably the baby Jesus could see, though, right through the painted eyelids. Hack wasn’t personally acquainted with either God or Jesus, but he usually cut them a wide berth in case they really were up there doing miracles and damnations. You never knew.
When she saw him coming, Agatha backed out of the window display and pushed the door open for him against the wind. She was in her sixties now, small and round, fluffed up and bright-eyed as a chickadee, always generous with a smile now that she’d had her dentures refitted. She lived just a couple of blocks away from Hack and Bunny in Hubbard, up on Chollum Road.
“Hi, honey,” she said, clapping him on the back in greeting, making a shower of raindrops. “You in trouble again?”
“Yeah.”
Agatha shook her head fondly. “What did you do this time?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Nothing. Got a phone call at the wrong time of day.”
“Aw, honey,” Agatha said, seeing his face. She’d always had an eye for him, called him a long, cool drink of water. Hack set out her garbage can every Tuesday, plus he hauled away yard junk and did heavy lifting for her four or five times a year. Sometimes she’d call him in between too, if she was having trouble with a stuck window or jar lid.
“You want roses again?” she asked him now. “She liked those ones last time, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He might as well send a bouquet of stinkweed, for all the difference it was going to make.
Agatha fussed inside her refrigeration case. “How about we send her these peach-colored ones, honey? They’re real unusual for this time of year. You want me to just put it on your account?”
“Yeah.” Hack sent flowers home so often Agatha just kept a running tab and billed him whenever it reached a hundred bucks. Not that it ever helped much. Bunny knew how to hang on to a snit.
“Okay. I’ll have Jimmy deliver them so they’re there before you get home. That should sweeten her some.”
“Thanks, beautiful.” Hack gave Agatha a one-armed hug. “When do you want to do Christmas lights?” Hack put them up for her every year and then took them down when Christmas was over.
“Aw, you don’t have time for that, do you?”
“Are you kidding? When have I ever not found time for a beautiful woman?”
Agatha blushed and fussed like a teenager. “Go on, you shouldn’t be saying something like that to a woman my age.”
“Saturday?”
“If you’re sure. I don’t want to get you in trouble, honey, especially if Bunny’s already on you about something.”
Hack winked. “She’s always on me about something, you know that. I’ll see you Saturday. Are you going to want that big sled up there on the roof again this year?”
“Only if you think you can manage it.”
“I’ll manage it. Santa’s reindeer have to hitch themselves to something. It wouldn’t be the same if they were just hauling some big garbage bags full of gifts.”
Agatha tittered. “You’re one of a kind, honey.”
“Well, thank God for that, huh?”
“Naw.” She squeezed his arm. “You just keep your chin up. Whatever it is, she’ll get over it.”
Hack pushed through the door backward, out into the freshening storm. Over at the Texaco station across the highway, the huge canopy above the pumps was rippling like a bed sheet. Hack wouldn’t give two cents for its lasting out the hour. Bits of fir trees were scattered over Highway 101, and an occasional seagull sped overhead, blown sideways toward God only knew where. Hack fought his way into his truck and back to Vernon Ford, pulling into Bob’s empty bay so he wouldn’t have to go outside again. As he came through the showroom, he tapped on the wall of Rae’s cubicle to say he was back. He heard her jump but kept on going to his office. There were no phone messages. When he looked up after checking, she was in his doorway. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
“You okay?” he said.
She nodded, but her eyes teared up.
Hack said gently, “Look, it’s a dog of a day. No one’s going to be buying anything until the weather clears. Why don’t you go home?”
She looked away.
“No?”
“I hate this,” she said. Hack had no idea what it was she hated, but he couldn’t stand the thought of hearing any more misery right now. He nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d known exactly what she was talking about. “I know, but it’s going to get better. You’ll see.”
“Do you think so?” She smiled bravely.
“I know so, pretty lady.”
Rae nodded and walked back across the showroom. A minute or two later he heard her close the desk drawer where she kept her purse and then fight her way out the front door without saying good-bye.
Hack picked up the phone and speed-dialed his house. No one answered. He called Francine’s extension, and she answered on the first ring. When she said no customer had driven in or called in the last hour, he sent her home. She drove a little beater car, and he didn’t think she’d be safe on the road much longer. Then he taped a sign to the inside of the dealership’s door, saying the showroom and service department would open as usual the following morning. He tried Bunny again to tell her he was on his way home, but there was still no answer. That was okay; now he could pick up the dirt bike without her convincing herself that he was off screwing Rae Macy between leaving the dealership and arriving at home.
He fought his way up and over Cape Mano, rejecting the idea of stopping at the overlook; the wind was too strong for him to see more than a few feet ahead through his windshield. Instead he drove straight to the kid’s house on Adams Street and left the truck idling. Dickie Leonard answered his knock. Hack could see four or five toddlers behind him in the living room, playing with bright plastic toys and making enough noise to raise the dead. Myrah Leonard, Dickie’s mom, must be doing day care again. She took in kids during the winter, when Pinky’s tips were too light down at the Anchor.
Dickie ducked outside and opened the garage door. Inside, even from a distance, Hack could see the bike glowing in the dark like a jewel. When they went in to inspect it, he asked Dickie if he was still sure he wanted to sell it.
“Yeah,” the kid said. “I got a speeding ticket that’s going to cost me a hundred and eighty-five bucks.”
“Piece of shit,” Hack said sympathetically.
“Yeah. Mom said my insurance is going to go up again.”
“She’s probably right. That’s the way it usually works. Any accidents?”
The kid shrugged. “Just a fender bender, you know.”
“Your fault?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Did the driver file a claim?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, you’re fucked.”
“Yeah,” the kid said gloomily.
Hack ran his fingers over the finish on the dirt bike. It was a beauty. “You did a fine job with this, Dickie. You could be a detail man at Vernon Ford, if you’re ever looking for a job.”
“No kidding?”
“Sure. The old man’s always looking for somebody to do detailing.”
“I didn’t detail
it, though.”
“No?”
“No.” Dickie looked confused. “Your wife came by. She spent a good hour and a half working on it. She didn’t tell you?”
“Nah. That Bunny—always one for surprises,” Hack said.
“Yeah. My mom, she’d never do that for my dad.”
“Yeah?” Hack backed the bike out toward his truck. “Well, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. If you come across a good bike again, just let me know.”
“Okay.”
Hack secured the bike with cargo straps. By the time he was done, he was wet through and his head was pounding. On the spur of the moment he pulled off at the Wayside Tavern for a quick shot of whiskey. Maybe it would soften his migraine a little bit or at least numb the pain. He knew from experience that nothing else would help. Bunny had been after him for years about going to a doctor, but he didn’t believe in seeing doctors unless a limb was falling off. After Vietnam he had a dread of them, last-minute bastards who came too late and did too little, like high-functioning angels of death.
Hack plunged gratefully into the Wayside’s muggy, dark interior. The outside world got no toehold here; there were no windows, not one, except for a little salt-crusted porthole by the door that no one could see through. The paneling was the color of cardboard boxes, and so was the shag carpet, chosen to hide the traces of a thousand spilled beers. The old fir tables were deeply notched and gouged, full of cigarette burns, dart wounds, and graffiti.
As Hack’s eyes adjusted, he spotted Bob in the far back corner. No one else was in the place besides Roy, who was standing behind the bar polishing glasses with a cotton diaper. Hack got a shot of Jack Daniel’s from him and brought it over to Bob’s table.
“Hey,” Bob greeted him. He seemed fully absorbed in blotting up the condensation on his beer bottle with a paper napkin.
“How’s it going?” Hack said, dragging up a chair.
“Going great.” Bob smiled congenially, leaned forward, and stage-whispered, “I’m stinko.”
“Yeah, I could have guessed that.” Hack threw back his shot of whiskey. Stars replaced the wavy lines in his peripheral vision, and the pain took his breath away. After it had subsided, he said, “Who gave you the money?”
“Found a little bit extra in Nita’s purse.”
“She know you’re here?”
“Naw. Hell, she’s so pissed off at me anyway, I didn’t think it would be nice to tell her.”
“That was damned thoughtful of you.”
“Tha’s me,” Bob said. “One thoughtful son of a bitch. You ask anyone, they’ll tell you that. Hey, Roy,” he yelled. “You think I’m a thoughtful son of a bitch?”
“Sure, Bob.”
“See?” Bob subsided, frowning at his beer. “I got some friends who aren’t so thoughtful, though. Gave me a present, a fucking nasty little present.”
“I’m not following you,” Hack said.
“Nobody better follow me,” Bob muttered. “I don’t want anybody following me.”
“You going someplace?”
Bob nodded seriously, canted to one side in his chair. Hack positioned himself so he could catch him if he started to fall. “Yeah, I’ll be going someplace. Could be real soon.”
For the second time this afternoon Hack found himself in a conversation he understood not a single word of. On the other hand, his head hurt so much he didn’t care. “Okay, traveling man, I’ve got to get home,” he said, punching Bob on the shoulder lightly. “You want me to drop you off?”
“Nah. You got any money, though? A five, maybe?”
“I’m all cleaned out. Anyhow, bud, you better get home. This storm’s a bad one.”
“Yeah,” Bob said, nodding glumly.
Hack drove through blowing gobs of spindrift the color of tobacco spit and turned up Chollum Road. Five blocks uphill, and he was in his own driveway, surveying the wreckage of a spindly pine that had fallen across his roof. It looked messier than damaging; he’d cut it up once the storm had passed.
Hack was proud of his house. It was a double-wide manufactured home, but he and Bob had raised the pitch of the roof last summer and put new, expensive cedar shingles over the old cheap factory stuff. The only way you’d know it was a factory-built house now was if you went back to the county and looked at the deed. When he was growing up in Tin Spoon, Nevada, he and the Katydid—Katy, his kid sister—had never had a decent house to live in.
Bunny opened the garage door for him, so she must have been listening for his truck. He could see that she’d cleared a place for the dirt bike. He backed up the truck and unloaded it as fast as he could, then closed the garage door and dried his face on a rag from a neat pile of them he kept on his workbench. Most of them were old pajama bottoms.
“Did you have any trouble coming over the cape?” Bunny asked.
“Nah. Wind’s blowing pretty damn hard, though. I wouldn’t want to be out tonight driving around. Has Vinny called?” He’d heard the weather was going to be bad in Portland too. Vanilla lived up there now, but she kept in close touch.
“About an hour ago,” Bunny said. “She said she was going to stay in tonight.”
“Yeah. Good.” Hack regarded the bike under the fluorescent lights. “You did a real nice job shining it up,” he said.
Bunny looked startled. “How did you know?”
“Dickie.”
“Shit.”
“Now, don’t blame him. You did good, and he wanted you to get the credit for it, instead of him. No harm in that.”
“Still,” Bunny said. “You want a beer?”
“Nah,” Hack said. “My head’s splitting.”
“But you told that woman not to call anymore,” she said softly.
“She won’t call,” Hack said. Their eyes didn’t quite meet.
“It’s important,” Bunny said.
“Hell, Bunny, I know it’s important. You think I don’t know that?”
“Okay,” she said.
But it wasn’t okay, not really. It wasn’t, and it hadn’t been in a very long time.
chapter three
Something was wrong with Bob. Moored to her kitchen table but drifting, Anita lit her forty-eighth cigarette of the day from the burning tip of her forty-seventh. They were generics, and they tasted like shit, but she had stopped noticing that a long time ago. What she did notice was the fact that when this pack was gone—and at this rate, it would be gone before the end of the day—she would be out of both money and cigarettes. Ever since Bunny had quit smoking a couple of years ago, Anita had lost a mooch buddy. Before that she could call Bunny day or night and run over for a pack in her slippers. Now her only hope was to go through her underwear drawer again and see if she’d missed one the first time, but she knew damn well she hadn’t.
For as long as she and Bob had been married—and they’d been married for more than twenty years—Bob had been taking his little mystery trips to someplace he never gave away. Darlin’, I’ve got this life with you, and then I’ve got this other obligation, goes way back, something I’ve got to handle alone. It isn’t another woman. Hell, honey, how could there be another woman after you? Anyway, it don’t mean a thing as far as you and me goes. Not a thing.
Anita had fought these disappearances at first, thinking it might be a bastard child, maybe, or a mistress, but he always came home, he was always sober, and eventually it just got normal for him to go away now and then. Some men hunted; with Bob, it was this. Except that this time he wasn’t sober when he got home and he hadn’t gotten sober in the three days since. Even more peculiar, he didn’t want sex. He always wanted sex when he came back, sometimes twice a day. She went along with it, knowing it would wear off within a few days and they’d go back to the occasional lackluster hump just before they went to sleep. Either way, she didn’t enjoy the sex particularly, but the attention was nice. But worst of all, Anita had heard him crying twice. No one, at least no one she knew, cried for joy; sadness, even in a drunk, c
ame from some deep and honest well of sorrow. And he was normally a happy drunk, everyone’s long-lost friend and biggest fan. He slapped backs, kissed cheeks, cooed at babies, danced the mambo. If he was at the Anchor and Pinky Leonard was playing the keyboard, he’d grab the mike and sing a sloppy song for the folks. If he was a lousy provider—and he was a lousy provider—it was nevertheless true that everyone liked having him around, drunk or sober. There was a sweetness to him, a fragility.
Squalls beat on the little piece-of-shit house that she and Bob had rented ever since they were evicted from the place on Adams Street a few years ago. Anita’s fantasy life wasn’t about sex but about housing; in her dreams there was a brand-new double-wide with a lawn that was mowed, hedges that were trimmed, and not one single car part in the yard. Bob was always hauling home some oily piece of junk and dumping it in the back to work on later, except he never got around to it. Anita figured they could probably put together a stretch limousine by now with all the parts that were out there rusting in the rain. In the meantime, they drove a sprung Chevy Caprice with blown-out upholstery and a mildew problem.
Every few minutes the wind found a vulnerable place in the gutters, and the resonating metal screamed like something cornered. Places in the rotten exterior siding were so saturated with rain you could drag a butter knife through them without even bearing down. Anita pictured the whole place folding up like a waterlogged cardboard box. She’d call and yell at the property manager at Century 21 again, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere; it never did. The landlord was some rich bastard over in Salem who used the place as a tax write-off. Anita figured he’d put a total of maybe eighty-five bucks into the house since they’d moved in, and that was to change out the pipes under the sink so the subflooring didn’t get flooded every time they turned on the hot water. The garbage disposal hadn’t worked in five years, the four-burner stove was down to two, and four months ago she’d found a rat in the toilet. The property manager had told her to just put something heavy on the toilet lid and give it an hour. That was when Anita knew she might as well stop waiting for her real life to begin, the life that included a nice yard and a man who could maintain it. This was her real life, right here, right now, waiting in a piece-of-shit dump for a rat to die in her toilet.
Homesick Creek Page 4