by Jeff Vrolyks
“You aren’t the least bit wicked,” Bob said sincerely.
“That eighteen-wheeler sure was wicked.” Breuer’s two cents.
“But I do think that’s an interesting thing to say,” Bob pursued. “I suppose why you feel that way toward them isn’t very relevant anymore. Mae, why and when did you write this?” He produced a folded over piece of paper roughly the size of A Tale of Two Cities page and showed her.
“It’s Maeve, not Mae.” She read what was scrawled on top of the page in pencil: I am Mae Clark.
“I probably should’ve mentioned that,” Breuer said.
“What’s this?” asked Maeve.
“You didn’t write that?”
“Tell him you wrote it,” advised Breuer.
“I guess I did. I don’t remember, with the accident and all.” Was that her writing? She didn’t think so, but it may have been.
“It was in your pocket. Is that your name?”
She looked to Breuer. He nodded. Maeve then nodded at Bob. A flash of pain.
“Your name is Mae Clark?” he asked once again.
“Yeah-yeah, Mae Clark. Why?”
“What can you remember of your early youth, when you were much younger. What’s your oldest memory?”
Maeve looked over to Breuer without moving her head this time.
“You keep looking over there,” Bob remarked. “Is something bothering you?”
“No.”
“Tell him you’re tired,” counseled Breuer, “and you’ll answer his questions later. He’s avoiding the meat and potatoes of this whole thing and is taking his sweet time doing so.”
She repeated what Breuer said and Bob accepted it with a sympathetic grin. He said something but Maeve wasn’t listening. Instead she asked in her head what the meat and potatoes of this whole thing was.
“I’d rather not say. Call me romantic or just plain old-fashioned, but I’d rather not say.”
What’s that mean?
“Nothing. Just hang in there, peach. You’re doing great.”
Bob left the room for a moment, returned with more people. More brand new faces. A pair of them. They had one thing in common from the onset: their eyes were puffy and cheeks tear-stained. For no reason at all they began weeping at her sight. Maeve looked over at Breuer with a raised brow. He grinned shyly and shrugged.
The woman nodded at lieutenant Bob and hugged him. A hug so brief it could’ve set records. She tore away from him and rushed to the bed, wrapped her arms around Maeve as gingerly as she could manage (which wasn’t gingerly enough).
“Ma’am! Careful!” a doctor rebuked.
“Sweet child, are you okay? Are you in pain?” The woman’s voice was wet and broken from emotion.
“I’m okay. Who are you?” From the resulting sob, Maeve deduced that she probably said the wrong thing.
“That’s Rebecca,” Breuer said. “She’s your mom, li’l Minnow. You could just pretend to remember her. She’s been through hell. Huh,” he mused, “she comes out of hell just as your two works-of-art are entering it. Poetic, isn’t it?”
“My mom?” she said aloud. It was intended for Breuer but received by the woman soaking Maeve’s gown and sheets with tears.
“Yes!” Rebecca cried. She beamed at her. “You remember!”
Maeve looked over at Breuer with a comical expression that made him laugh. “You need to stop looking at me,” he said. “People will think you’re crazy. Just tell her that you vaguely remember, but nothing concrete.”
“Kinda,” Maeve said. “It’s hard to remember. You’re my mom? I mean… you’re my mom.” She fixed on the man and decided that he must be her dad. He lit up merely from obtaining her attention. He asked if she remembered him, too. “Sort of. My head hurts, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” her mother murmured. “You haven’t a thing in the world to be sorry for. It’s we who are sorry. Sorry for allowing this to have happened. For more than six years your father and I have been trying to find you, and we never gave up, even when people told us we should make peace with your… I’m so sorry, Mae. I’m so, so sorry.” She rested her head tenderly on Maeve’s chest, stroked her hair with the loving care of a mother.
You could’ve told me, you know. So I was kidnapped?
“Turns out that you were, yes,” Breuer replied. “Things aren’t so bad after all, eh? You lose a pair of rotten parents one day and pick up a pair of quality ones the next. Did I say things would work out or what?”
I’ll never doubt you again. But I don’t know about this Mae business. I’m Maeve, not Mae.
“You’ll always be my brave li’l Maeve Minnow, but to everyone else you’re Mae Clark, the little girl who was snatched up at a mall on Christmas eve six years ago and long forsaken by everyone except these two people. They cry more than you do, if that’s possible. Must be in your DNA.”
When should I be expecting my kitten?
“It’ll be waiting on your doorstep. How’s that sound?”
Perfect.
“How much do you want to bet that a few dozen news vans are on their way over here?”
Why? What happened?
Chapter 9
Tag strolled into the Saucy Minx at dusk and was greeted by the daytime bartender Dallas. The pub was long and narrow, plainly decorated and clean; a small joint with no real ambitions. There were three patrons present, each nursing a pint of beer. Tag didn’t need to check the kegs, garnishes, or bathrooms: Dallas was a pillar of reliability. The amiable bartender was on his way out when a young woman was on her way in. From behind the bar Tag gave her the standard grin; hers looked more forced than his. She perched herself up on a barstool. She wasn’t especially attractive by Chico State University standards. She might be found in a Penny’s circular modeling a pair of Capri pants; fifty-percent off this weekend only.
She ordered a Jack-and-coke and Tag got on it. He couldn’t recall having seen her at the Saucy Minx before. “You look like you could use a double. Bad day, huh?”
“You’re right, make it a double. Got my grades today. I don’t know if I’ll be graduating this year unless I sleep with at least two professors.”
Tag wondered if it was a joke or unabashed honesty. “Sorry to hear that. Name’s Tag, by the way.” He shook her hand and added, “Haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Never been. I usually go to Mr. Lucky’s but I have a running tab and I’m short this month. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a tab.”
“Good, because we don’t give them. As a formality I have to see your I.D.” Not a formality unless you look less than twenty-one, which she did. He put her drink on the counter and waited as she produced her license and handed it to him. He checked it, returned it. She drank half her drink in one swig and gazed around the bar, which was less than half the size of Mr. Lucky’s. On the busiest night of the week there might be a head-count of fifty, forty or so of them being students.
A man entered the pub from the restroom. “Ta-aaag! What’s up?”
“Evening, Tank. I should’ve guessed you’d be here.”
“Why, because Thursday is payday? You think you got me all figured out, don’t you?”
“You’re a tough nut to crack. How you doing, bud?” His tumbler was almost empty. “Another gin-and-tonic?”
“You know it.” He almost took to the nearest stool when he noticed a marginally attractive girl at the other end of the bar. He swaggered over and sat with one seat between them. She stared blindly at her drink, lost in reverie, and thus she didn’t notice his appraising stare.
“Where’s Dwayne been these days?” Tag inquired. “Haven’t seen him in here all week.”
“He’s been sick. Did he tell you that he’s transferring to Sacramento State next semester?”
“No, first I’ve heard. Are you getting another roommate?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Good luck finding another Dwayne, huh? Bastard writes at least half of my papers. I might actually have to st
art studying. What a prick.”
“What a selfish bastard, that Dwayne.”
Molly punished the last of her Jack-and-coke like a woman who enjoyed her booze. She glanced up at the clock.
“Another Jack-and-coke, Molly?”
She asked how he knew her name.
“Your license.”
Tank faced her and said, “Cool name, Molly. I love that song Molly by Sponge.”
She grudgingly acknowledged him before saying she’d have another Jack-and-coke, single this time.
“So you say you’re single?” slurred Tank.
“No, I’m not,” she replied, eyes forward. “And I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate you ogling me.”
“Boyfriend? Ha! That’s the oldest one in the book. You don’t have a boyfriend.”
Tag would be hearing the same version of this shameless bit later that night. It’s the unofficial Chico State University comeback for rejection.
“Oh? Why don’t you ask him?” Molly directed a nod at Tag.
Tank blinked. “I’m not ogling your girlfriend, bro. I didn’t know she was your woman.”
Molly winked at Tag. Please help me here, her eyes said. I’m having one of those days and this guy is pure shit. “It’s all good, Tankster. Our relationship is pretty damned new. You couldn’t have known.”
“Cool.” Tank sipped his new drink. “So Tag, you write. How about you take Dwayne’s place writing my papers? Might be some Benjamins in it for you.”
“Sure, if you want to fail your classes. Just because I write doesn’t mean I write well.”
“Don’t say that.” Molly was offended. “That’s what attracted me to you in the first place. Your beautiful words.”
“Thanks, doll. If only publishers echoed your sentiments, I wouldn’t be damned to pour drinks for eternity.”
Tank’s cellphone rang. He fished it from his pocket. “Sup, dude?” A pause. “Damn, man. I totally forgot. You need it now? I just got to the Minx fifteen minutes ago.” Another pause. “All right. I’ll be there in ten.” He ended the call and said, “Don’t let the gin get too comfortable. I forgot that I was supposed to pick up toilet-paper. Dwayne’s shitting soup and it’s my turn to buy the Charmin. Be back soon.”
After he left Tag said, “So, Molly, when do I get to meet the parents?” He handed her a new drink.
Her mood turned playful. “Normally I’d say it’s too soon to meet them, but I’ll make an exception for you.” She sipped.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since we’ve been dating.”
“What can I say? You’re easy on the eyes.”
“I tend to become easier on the eyes as drinks are consumed. You should see how ugly I am outside the Saucy Minx.”
“You really write?”
“Unfortunately. I’m not any good but it’s fun.”
“What do you write about?”
“Anything and everything.”
“Examples, please.”
“I’ve written two novels and about a dozen short stories. Do you want to know how good they are? I’ve sent samples of them to probably every agent in the country and have gotten nothing but rejections. Pretty impressive, eh?”
“Aww, that blows. That doesn’t mean you aren’t any good, though. I’m sure your time will come. What are your novels about?”
“I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Please?”
“They’re fiction. Suspense, mystery, relationship crap. The protagonist in both novels is the same woman: Mae Clark. She’s a smart, sexy thing who was dealt a bad hand in life but plays her cards well. Original, huh? How many times can that tale be re-spun? I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a shot of Jägermeister on the house if I don’t have to talk about my shitty writing.”
“If you take one with me you got a deal.”
He poured two shots and toasted to Mae Clark. They tossed them back; she chased it with her Jack-and-coke, Tag chased it with the relief of evading the loathsome details of his writing.
“So when are you taking me out again?” Molly asked. “It’s like we never go out anymore.”
“I hate to break this to you, but I’ve been spending time with another woman. Are you pissed?”
“Who, Mae? I’m being serious.”
“So am I. I’ve spent more time with Mae than any girlfriend I’ve had.”
“You want to go see a movie this weekend?”
His hesitation would’ve been answer enough. “I’m pretty busy this weekend. I’ve got to—”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to justify rejecting me.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing a flick with you.”
“It’s that you aren’t attracted to me. No big deal. I’m a big girl, I can handle rejection.”
Tag stared raptly at her a moment, then took the bar towel from his hip and wiped the counter mindlessly. “I’m not accustomed to that degree of forwardness from someone not yet drunk.”
“Well, we had a good run, I guess.”
Tag chuckled. “I’m off this Sunday. How does seven sound?”
“Please, don’t do me any favors. I don’t need a pity date.”
“It’s not a pity date. I’ve never taken a girl out on a pity date.”
“That calls for another round, then. On me this time.”
He poured two more. Then two more.
At midnight she stumbled out of the Saucy Minx and into a cab.
Chapter 10
Mae was walking the two blocks home from middle-school when Breuer manifested beside her, skipping as he loved doing. “Hi, Breuer.”
“Hi, my lovely Maeve Minnow. You’re looking smart today.”
“I try. What’ve you been up to? Haven’t seen you around much lately.”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Nothing worth mentioning. I’ve been thinking… you know who’d make a cute couple?”
They rounded the corner. Mae could see her dad pulling weeds in the flower-bed in the distance. “Pray tell.”
“You and Michael.”
“Michael? Michael who?”
“You know perfectly well Michael who.”
“My neighbor? Why do you think that?”
“I just do. Why shouldn’t you like him? He’s a good looking boy, isn’t he?”
“Not really. Maybe a little. His brother Chris sure is cute. Even Jake is cuter than Michael, but he’s only twelve I think. Maybe thirteen.”
“I know you think Chris is cute, but he’s two years older than you. He’s not your type, anyway.”
“Two years older than me is my type. He just turned sixteen and is getting his driver’s license. You see that old Chevy truck in the driveway? That’s his. He could drive me to school and back.”
“Lazy! It’s two blocks away!”
She laughed. “I am not. This fall I’ll be starting high school, which is too far to walk.”
“So how about Michael? You admitted that he’s at least a little cute. Why don’t you go hang out with him? Get to know him a little better, instead of only talking to Chris.”
As they neared the house, her dad noticed her and waved. She waved back. “You’re not telling me something, Breuer. Remember you promised you’d never lie to me.”
“Holding back information isn’t lying, my love. I’ll never lie to you.”
“Then spill it, Breuer.”
Mae’s father was frowning at her. Breuer said, “Not now. Your folks are worrying about you, you know. Of course you know. Talking to yourself isn’t normal for a beautiful girl of fourteen.”
“Almost fifteen. Beautiful? You know how to sweet-talk the ladies, don’t you? And I don’t talk to myself, I talk to you.”
“Shhh. David is watching. Why can’t we just go back to how we used to do it?”
“Okay.” Then she thought, I told you, I don’t like you reading my mind anymore. Are you listening right now?
“Yes. But I promise I hav
en’t done it once since you asked me not to.”
I know, Breuer. I trust you.
“I love you, Minnow. I know I don’t tell you enough.”
You don’t need to tell me. I know you do. I love you, too. You understand why I don’t want you in my head, right?
“Yeah,” he sighed. “You don’t want me hearing your personal thoughts. Maeve, it’s normal to think about kissing boys and all that lovey-dovey stuff. You shouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”
I can’t help it. And it’s not just boys, it’s the thought of having nothing private. A woman needs her privacy, Breuer.
“Hi, sweetheart,” her father said. “How was school today?”
“Boring. Can I go to Lisa’s for a while before dinner?”
With a pensive frown he tipped his hat back and wiped his forehead. “I don’t know, we’ll see. Your mom and I want to talk to you. I’m done here. Meet us at the table in five minutes?”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Is it because of the change I took out of the jar?” she said desperately. “Because I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”
“No, Mae. If you need money, all you have to do is ask. Five minutes, okay?”
“Okay.” She went inside where she was greeted by Pancho the cat. She picked him up and squeezed him, kissed his furry head and set him back down. It seemed to have gotten warmer in a hurry. The first beads of sweat dotted her brow.
Rebecca was on the couch reading a magazine. She inquired into her daughter’s day at school.
“Good am I in trouble?” she said all at once.
“Trouble? For what?”
“I don’t know. Dad said you guys want to have a talk with me at the table.”
Understanding washed over her motherly face. As fast as it came, a somber expression replaced it. “You’re not in trouble. Is your father coming inside now?”
Mae nodded and felt her eyes stinging. The heater must have been set to high-high. “What did I do? I’m sorry for everything. Don’t be mad at me.” She writhed off her backpack and rushed to her mom, hugged her on the couch.
“Sweetheart, we aren’t mad at you,” she said reassuringly and hugged her back. “You have no reason to be upset.”
The front door slammed shut behind Mae. She flinched and in a single movement sprang off of her mother and spun around with cat-like agility.
Rebecca unseated and turned Mae around. Her daughter’s wide eyes, glazed and wrought with fear, broke her heart. She hugged Mae and whispered, “We’re never going to hurt you. Never-never-never. Do you understand?—never.” Rebecca felt her nod.