Unexpected Dismounts

by Nancy Rue

  “I’ll pass too,” I said. “But you go ahead, please.”

  “I will.” Ms. Willa appeared to be trying to snap her fingers, but they weren’t cooperating. She waved a hand instead, and the server scurried over and filled her glass.

  “We’re ready to get started now, Bruce,” she said to him.

  He actually bowed before he once again scurried. Ms. Willa leaned in, which wasn’t easy, since her shoulders barely cleared the table. I leaned in, too, and Mercedes followed my example. Our heads were all so close, I caught the scent of lavender in Ms. Willa’s white mane. Come to think of it, her hair had more of a purple tint today, as did her entire outfit, fingerless mitts included. Violet feathers trimmed her sweater, making her look more like a small bird than ever.

  “Do you know how old I am?” she said.

  “I’d guess between eighty and eighty-five,” I said.

  Ms. Willa pulled in her negligible chin. “Well, at least you didn’t try to flatter me. I’m eighty-four. But nobody can say I haven’t changed with the times.”

  I wanted to say that, yes, I was sure her hair hadn’t always been the color of a petunia, but I just nodded. Mercedes did too.

  “Today, we have a white waiter,” she went on. “Used to be they were all black as the ace of spades.”

  Oh, dear God, hold me back.

  “But today I’m having lunch with a colored woman, instead of having one serve me, and I’m not even batting an eye.” She gave the table a resounding smack that jittered the glass and sent the sherry splashing dangerously close to the rim. “So don’t let my age fool you. I can be very broad-minded. Very.”

  I didn’t notice any change in Mercedes’s breathing, but I still stole a glance at her. She was nodding, lips pressed together. Bless her heart. She was trying not to laugh.

  “Oh, here are our salads,” Ms. Willa said.

  I looked doubtfully at the anthill-sized pile of lettuce he set in front of me. It appeared that someone had weeded a garden and dumped everything on the plate with a curl of carrot and a drizzle of watered-down raspberry jam.

  “You know just how I like it, Bruce,” Ms. Willa said.

  Double yum. I felt Mercedes watching me as I selected the fork farthest from my plate. I hoped that was the right one, although Ms. Willa was too busy noisily sipping to notice if we ate it with our fingers.

  “Now, then,” she said. “About this ministry of yours.”

  “Miss Angel,” Mercedes whispered, as much as a cigarette alto like Mercedes can whisper. “We gonna pray first?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also witchoo.”

  “Let us pray.”

  I blessed the food, and Mercedes punctuated the prayer with an enthusiastic amen. I raised my head to catch Ms. Willa staring at us over the top of her glass. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just flabbergasted.

  But she recovered quickly and talked as she cut her salad into confetti-sized pieces with a knife and fork.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “because I told you I can be broad-minded. I’ve decided I like the idea of getting those women off the streets and into some kind of program. You said you had a way of keeping them from going back to the drugs and the men, and I want to believe that. Like I said—”

  “You’re very broad-minded,” I said. I was still bristling at “those women.” Mercedes was focusing on getting the carrot curl onto her fork, so I let it pass for now.

  “But what I want to know is, do you just give them everything, or do you teach them how to help themselves? I’ve seen those television shows where they mollycoddle people that’re on drugs and treat them like we’re being served here. I don’t believe in that, now.”

  “This is what I was trying to get across to you the other day,” I said. “If you could see how hard the women in the program work, not only to take care of themselves, but to help each other. I would be willing to take you over to Sacrament House right after lunch.”

  Ms. Willa waved her fork. A tiny piece of lettuce took timid flight and landed on the saucer of butter slices.

  “I’m not interested in rubbing shoulders with them,” she said. “Giving money is as far as I go. I just want to know exactly how it’s going to be used. And I think you’re the kind of person who will give me a straight answer.”

  She was right about that. The straight answer I had in mind was something along the lines of “People spelunk in caves broader than your mind.” But I could hear Chief saying, “You certainly have a way with people, Classic.” And India saying, “Just let all that bigotry nonsense roll off your back.”

  And God saying, These are the feet I want you to wash.

  He couldn’t be serious. Wait. Metaphor. Think metaphor.

  “All right, I’ll be straight with you,” I said. “You are already rubbing shoulders with one of ‘those women.’”

  I could have sworn Ms. Willa’s hair stood completely on end.

  “Mercedes is a former prostitute and recovering drug addict. How long have you been clean, Merce?”

  “One hundred and twenty-five days.”

  “She’s the Big Sister in our House,” I said, “which means she’s responsible for supervising two other women who are on the same journey.”

  Ms. Willa sipped.

  “She’s learning job skills,” I said. “She is a contributing member of society.”

  “Huh. Oh, no, Bruce, we’re not ready for our entrée.”

  Bruce backed away with the tray of turkey croquettes, directly into a man approaching our table. It would have been comical, if the man hadn’t been Troy Irwin.

  There was no mistaking him. The studied business-casual way he dressed, his hair obviously mussed by a stylist on a daily basis, and never any grayer in one newspaper photo than in the one before it. But his facial expression seemed different today. This wasn’t his typical, I don’t need your admiration, but I appreciate it anyway. The whimsy around his mouth, the amusement in his too-blue eyes clearly said, This is going to be too easy.

  My insides lurched so hard, I was certain I’d throw up in the salad greens. The prayers kicked in with the stomach acid. Please, God, don’t let me rip his tongue out right here. Please.

  “It is good to see you out and about,” he schmoozed to Ms. Willa.

  “Why wouldn’t I be out and about?” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

  “Exactly the opposite. I was about to ask you to dance.”

  “There’s no music.” She waved him off and licked her lips as if she’d just tasted the croquettes and found them wanting. The sour look she gave me the first time I met her? Multiply that by about fifty and you had the expression Ms. Willa now wore. Interesting. That might keep me under control for a minute, anyway.

  And I had Mercedes with me. To my knowledge she had no idea who Troy Irwin was, and I wanted to keep it that way. As it was, she was surveying him the way she did every newcomer: eyes astute, jaw clenched. And India thought I had trust issues.

  “I didn’t realize you knew Allison Chamberlain,” Troy said to Ms. Willa, his gaze still on me. “I can’t imagine how your paths would’ve crossed.” He feigned an epiphany. “Wait, she’s hitting you up for a donation, isn’t she?”

  I started to come up out of the chair, but Ms. Willa beat me to it. She didn’t stand up, but she did put one of her gnarly hands right in his face.

  “She wasn’t hitting me up for anything, whatever that means. I was offering. Matter of fact, hand me my purse, Mercy. I’m going to get my checkbook out right now.”

  I wondered vaguely if she was also packing heat in there. Her terrier voice was reaching a pitch only other terriers could hear, and once again, heads turned in the dining room. Mercedes handed over her purse, and Ms. Wil
la began to claw through it, hands shaking furiously. I was too astonished to move.

  “One thing you should know,” Troy went on, as if he hadn’t just been swatted away like a mosquito. “Allison is very picky about who she accepts money from. You probably don’t know this, or maybe you do: She and I were childhood sweethearts.”

  Ms. Willa stopped pawing in her bag and shot me a look. “I hope you came to your senses.”

  Troy didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I’ve tried every way I know to help her with her little program, and she just cannot seem to let the past go and accept what I have to offer.”

  I couldn’t have spoken if he’d let me. My mouth was paralyzed in a furious O.

  “Now, she does have passion for the things she believes in, I know that from experience.”

  He winked at Ms. Willa, who recoiled as if he’d spat venom at her. Only that kept me from spitting some myself.

  “And she’s stubborn as a pit bull, which could work in her favor. But, and here’s where you’re going to have to do some serious thinking: She didn’t stay around her father long enough to learn lessons in reality. Not like I did.” He nodded at the leather checkbook Ms. Willa now had clutched in her claws. “So you go on and write a check. I don’t blame you. I’ve always had trouble resisting her myself. But I just thought I’d give you a heads-up …”

  He reached past Ms. Willa, and before I could wrench myself away, he cupped his hand around my shoulder. His fingers sent a chill through my skin. I delivered what I knew was a death stare at his knuckles, but he squeezed tighter.

  “Remove your hand, please,” I said.

  “You see,” he said to Ms. Willa, “I told you she was—”

  “I think you better get your hands off Miss Angel right now.”

  Mercedes’s chair scraped the floor and fell backward behind her. Her eyes flashed as she curved toward Troy like a condor.

  “It’s okay, Mercedes,” I said.

  “No it ain’t! You said to get off you, and he still holdin’ on. You turn loose of her now!”

  “Ah, now here’s a program that’s obviously working,” Troy said, smirking at Ms. Willa.

  And then he made the fatal mistake. He tossed his head back and laughed, hard and cold and loud.

  I had to throw my arms around Mercedes to keep her from diving across the table and taking him down. It was all I could do not to let her go for it.

  “He isn’t worth it,” I said into her ear. My teeth were gritted so hard, pain shot through my ears. “Don’t throw it all away for this piece of slime.”

  “He was dissin’ you, Miss Angel,” she cried out, turning heads in the restaurant across the street, I was sure. “I can’t have that.”

  Troy was still laughing in short, harsh bursts.

  “Get away from me,” I said over the top of Mercedes’s head.

  “Or?” he said.

  Again, I didn’t have an opportunity to answer. Below us, Ms. Willa’s eyes popped from her tiny face, and she wheezed into a fit of coughing that brought not only Bruce but the entire serving staff.

  I flattened myself between Mercedes and Troy and tried to reach for the old lady at the same time.

  “Call nine-one-one!” I said.

  Ms. Willa glared at me and shook her head and continued to wheeze herself blue. Troy formed a synthetic smile.

  “She has the same effect on me,” he said to her.

  Mercedes tried to lunge at him again. This time he had the good sense to turn and weave his way through the small crowd that had gathered, but I was still hard put to keep her from leaping tabletop to tabletop to bring him to justice.

  “Let’s just get outside,” I said. I sounded like I was coaching a losing basketball team. “Just maintain until we get outside.”

  I checked with Bruce once more to make sure Ms. Willa wasn’t about to expire before I tucked Mercedes’s arm into mine and steered us both toward the front door amid faces that ranged from outraged to delighted to be rescued from boredom. I didn’t know whether to pray that we wouldn’t run into Troy Irwin outside or that we would.

  Mercedes was starting to breathe like something smaller than a locomotive by the time we reached the maître d’s stand. And then someone—I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female—stepped out of the darkness and flashed a camera in our faces. Mercedes flung out a hand to grab it, and only by the grace of God and adrenaline was I able to shove her out the door before she could commit assault and battery.

  Once outside, she ripped away from me and flattened against the wall beside the glass doors. I peeled her away and guided her a few yards down. I didn’t want the doorman to have the stroke he seemed to be leaning toward. I already had Ms. Willa’s asthma attack on my head.

  No. It was on Troy Irwin’s head. The man was a jackal. The hate I told Hank I wasn’t supposed to feel was burning a hole through my soul.

  “Okay, I just got to breathe, Miss Angel,” Mercedes said. “I’m sorry. I done messed things up bad. I know I did.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “You just did what I wanted to do.”

  “I couldn’t stand seein’ that—”

  She swore, and then punched her hand to her mouth.

  “I give that up,” she said. “I done give that up for the Lent, and here I am cussin’ right out here on the street.”

  “Not only did you do what I wanted to do, you said what I wanted to say.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “What do you need, Mercedes? How can I help?”

  “I think I need to talk to Leighanne. She always be able to talk me down.”

  That was what NA sponsors were for, and I was glad to let Leighanne take over. I was in need of a sponsor myself about then.

  “You take my cell phone,” I said. “Her number’s in there. Go into the gallery, see? Just next door? Go in there and call her and if she wants to come get you, that’s fine.”

  The hand that took my cell was trembling. It looked the way I felt in the pit of my gut.

  When she’d slipped into the art gallery, I turned back toward the restaurant, fully intending to find the person with the camera and take all my frustrations out on him. I almost plowed into a twenty-something guy wearing a necktie and a Bluetooth.

  I tried to maneuver around him and tripped over something, probably my own feet. He steadied me with both hands, not something I’d have expected from a kid in his generation.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “I don’t see how you could be. That was a pretty hinky scene in there.”

  I narrowed my eyes until he was a mere blur in my gaze. “Are you a reporter? Was that you who just stuck a camera in my face?”

  “No, see, I’m unarmed.” He opened his jacket and smiled a rather charming smile at me. “Actually, I’m an attorney. My name’s Kade Capelli.”

  The kid sure wasn’t Italian. New England, definitely, judging from the accent. I’d worked in Massachusetts as a taxicab dispatcher for a while in my own twenties, and I could pick up those wide vowels from a hundred yards. But he must have taken after his mother because he was fair-skinned and sandy blond and had blue eyes that were still youth clear. No self-respecting full-blooded Italian looked like a California surfer.

  “Capelli?” I said. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” He produced a business card from his shirt pocket. There it was all right: Kade Capelli, Attorney at Law, followed by a phone number with an 857 area code.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Now I really need to go.”

  “And you are?”

  “Allison,” I said, and made the decision to get Chief started on legally changing my last name. It was becoming a worse liability than a rap sheet.

  “Listen, I couldn’t help overh
earing what went down in there.” Kade gave a soft shrug. “Who could?”

  “Nice.”

  “It looks like you might need some legal representation.”

  “Are you an ambulance chaser?” I said.

  The shiny face fell, and I was immediately sorry. He seemed like a nice enough kid. It wasn’t his fault he’d caught me post–Troy Irwin.

  “Sorry,” I said. “This hasn’t been my best day.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I already have a lawyer, and you’re right. I’m probably going to need him.”

  “Okay, well, just thought I’d offer.”

  He stuck out an eager hand for me to shake and I took it. I expected a sweaty palm, but his skin was cool and dry. Somehow that impressed me.

  “So, you still have a Massachusetts area code,” I said. “You’re obviously new in town.”

  “Been here about a week.” His consonants were hard and heavy, not matching the boyish grin at all.

  “If you’re looking for work, I know an attorney who might be hiring a paralegal. Could be good for starters. It can be hard to break into a small town like this.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “If you have a pen.”

  I took the slim ballpoint he handed me and wrote Chief’s name and number on the back of his card. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it, except that he seemed so—what? So free of the stuff that everybody else I’d had contact with today was trying to operate under? Was that it?

  “I really appreciate this,” he said.

  “I hope it helps,” I said. “I’ll call Chief, Mr. Ellington, and let him know to possibly expect a call from you.”

  “I’ll definitely be in touch with him, yeah. And good luck with …” He nodded his blond head toward the restaurant.

  “I don’t believe in luck,” I said. “But thanks.”

  He looked like he was about to ask something. I might even have answered, but Mercedes reappeared and handed me my phone. It was ringing. I mouthed an apology to Kade and picked up.

  “Allison?” a female voice said.

  “Yes, is this—”

  “Yeah, it’s Erin O’Hare.”