The Last Day For Rob Rhino

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “Hello? Jordan? It’s Mom.” Jordan, on the back end of twenty-nine and still single. He lived in San Francisco and wrote screenplays no one bought. The child of her youth. They’d almost grown up together.

  “No, it’s Steven.” Steven was one of Jordan’s roommates. He had two: Steven and Maura.

  “Isn’t this Jordan’s cell phone?” Steven bugged the shit out of Claire. He rubbed her the wrong way. For one thing, he always answered Jordan’s cell phone.

  “Umm... yes. Nice talking to you. I’ll get Jordan.”

  Claire wondered why Maura hadn’t answered. Maura and Jordan made such a great couple. The last thing they needed was Steven—my middle name is third wheel—Steven. Claire waited. Her skin felt loose around the edges. She started to unwind. Thank you, Doctor Edgemont.

  “Mom?” Finally, Jordan.

  “Jordan? Do me a favor.”

  “Where are you?” Jordan said.

  “Pennsylvania. Remember?”

  “I thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

  “No, but thanks for your support.”

  “I’m just sayin’. Has Liam’s mother rolled out the welcome mat for you?”

  “All in due time.”

  “I thought so. Come home.”

  “I didn’t call to get harassed. Google someone for me.”

  “Huh? Now?”

  “Yes. I don’t have access. And you’re better at this stuff.”

  “Okay. Go.”

  “You’re fast. Rob Rhino.”

  The cell went silent.

  “Jordan, are you still there?” Claire thought the call dropped.

  “Rob Rhino, the old porn star, Rob Rhino?” Jordan said.

  “That’s him. How do you know who he is?

  “Because I don’t live under a rock? What’s going on? Never mind. Don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it needs to stop.” Jordan’s voice went up three octaves.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I sat by him on the plane. He’s a disgusting crackhead asshole. I’m just curious.”

  “Well, he starred on that reality show, reality shows, I should say. He’s had a revival of sorts. He’s famous because of his... well... because of his—”

  “His giant penis.”

  “Thank you for that. I’ll make an appointment with my therapist as soon as we hang up.”

  “Are you going to look him up or not?”

  “Wow. Lots of info. He’s almost seventy. Eww. Born in Minneapolis. Real name: Raymond Horowitz. So he’s probably Jewish. The mighty sword is circumsi—never mind. Tried to make it in legit film but couldn’t. Big surprise. Started making porn well before disco died. There’s lots of pictures of him at movie premieres—regular movies—not just skinflicks.” Claire could hear Jordan clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “Here he is at the Mansion with Hef and some Playmates. Nice combover. He must dye it himself.”

  “He does,” Claire said. “Moustache too. Hideous.”

  “Good to know,” Jordan went on, “He hasn’t made porn since the eighties, but he travels the world making personal appearances. The reality shows made him a hit. He’s made several. There was that one with the evangelist’s wife last year.”

  “He told me he made appearances all over the world, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “You talked to him? What? Are you two dating?”

  “Not funny. If he’s so popular he must have money.”

  “I assume.”

  “He shouldn’t need to hitchhike. He could wear better clothes. Not to mention take a bath once in a while. The man looks homeless.”

  “Hitchhike? How do you know about his hitchhiking? For Chrissake, Mother, don’t tell me—”

  “Oh, what’s the big deal? I drove him a few miles. So what?”

  “So what? So what? You’re picking up porn star stoners in the middle of God knows where, alone, no telling—”

  “I didn’t pick him up. He just got in. I almost hit him and—”

  “You almost hit him?” Jordan was close to yelling, “With the car?”

  “That’s what I drove, yes.”

  Claire imagined Jordan standing up behind his artsy-fartsy industrial desk, red in the face, pacing back and forth his black curls ping-ponging.

  “You almost ran down a porn star, how fast were—”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds, calm down. I was trying to get a better look at the chicken and the dinosaur and he—”

  “Mother, what on earth? No, where on earth is this place?

  “Yeah, well good question.”

  “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “No. No one was hurt.” Claire yawned loud. “It’s all good.”

  “Sounds like you’re right on top of it.”

  “I usually am.”

  “Mother, come home. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for there.”

  “What do you think I’m looking for Jordan?”

  “Liam. Alive.” Jordan the know-it-all.

  “You know I have—”

  “Hey, he’s got a wife.”

  “Huh? Who’s got a wife?” Claire said relieved at the subject switch.

  “Your new boyfriend, Rob Rhino.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Oh wait. He had a wife. Gloria. They were only married three years from what it says here, in the seventies.”

  “Three years of hell. I’m sure she came to her senses.”

  “Oh well, not exactly.” Jordan clucked his tongue some more. “She died.”

  “Died?” Claire perked up as much as she could. “How’d she die?”

  Jordan went silent while he scanned for information. “Doesn’t say.”

  “That’s odd.”

  Jordan sniffed. “He probably killed her.”

  ****

  She fell back on the bed, woozy. Jordan was Claire’s son from her first marriage. Annabelle was Liam’s daughter from his. She was only eight years old when Claire and Liam married. Jordan, nearly grown by then, was sauerkraut to Annabelle’s cotton candy. When Claire went bald, Annabelle cried every time she saw her for the first six months.

  “That’s quite a cue ball you’ve got going on there, Mother,” Jordan said when he saw her. Annabelle didn’t speak to him for three months after that.

  “Bald women can be beautiful,” Steven said. He’d come with Jordan. To rub Claire the wrong way. Why Maura wasn’t there, Claire couldn’t remember.

  Claire floated in and out of consciousness. She kicked off her suede driving loafers, unzipped her jeans. Her last thoughts before going under were of Rob Rhino, his dead wife. Imagine that dolt thought she was an addict. She should’ve told Jordan what he’d said. He would’ve laughed and laughed.

  Chapter Six

  Claire wolfed down a plate of eggs and bacon. The waitress refilled her coffee cup for the third time and stared. Claire concentrated on her breakfast, threw back some chemical comfort with a swallow of orange juice.

  There’d been no point looking for a room service menu. Not in that dump of a hotel. No hotel coffee shop either. She’d walked two blocks down the street to the nearest greasy spoon that, by all accounts, did a brisk morning business. Most of the other diners looked her way. Some were subtle, some weren’t. A few pointed. They had their nerve in this hellhole. Claire doubted they’d know normal if it bit ’em in their papier-mâchéd asses.

  She felt the familiar lull. Her shoulders slumped a bit. She sipped her coffee while flipping through the Penny Saver someone left in her booth. She snickered when she saw a half-page ad for The Hair System—Guaranteed Results or Your Money Back. When Claire lost her hair she’d been desperate for a cure. She’d spent thousands of dollars those first few months. Nothing. Not even a five o’clock shadow. Her doctor tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, believe him.

  “It’s rare,” he’d said (the doctor’s way of throwing up his hands and backing away from the examination table). “But sometimes it do
esn’t grow back. Most often though your immune system is just waiting for a signal from you to start growing again.”

  “Really? And what signal would that be? I’m bald. I guess I thought that might be signal enough for Chrissake.”

  “None of those creams or potions works. So don’t fall for any of those ads. Try to relax and lower your stress level. In the meantime here’s a little something to keep the edge off.” Doctor Freidman wrote her a prescription for Xanax and kept one eye on the door.

  She’d gone for a second opinion.

  “It happened to Princess Caroline of Monaco when her husband died suddenly,” Doctor Edgemont had said as if that was comforting. As if she should expect something much worse than this, since she wasn’t someone like that.

  “No one is sure what causes it. A weakened immune system is the guess du jour. The shock of your husband’s sudden death didn’t help. After things calm down and you’ve had some time to get used to your new situation it will grow right back. Try not to stress out about it. Your anxiety isn’t useful.” He’d written out a prescription for Xanax plus refills.

  Doctor Zucker had nothing new to add other than another Xanax prescription with a lot more refills.

  Claire emptied her coffee up. That was forever ago. Forever or yesterday. She couldn’t recall.

  ****

  Moustache Rides Five Cents, his cap read.

  Claire hoped the offender would notice her, do the usual stare and glare so she could air her disgust at his loathsome chapeau. Her eyes trailed from his brim down.

  It was him.

  “Claire Corrigan. As I live and breathe.” Rob Rhino rambled over.

  He’d cleaned up. His jeans looked washed. His hula girl and palm tree covered shirt as unpleasant as his hat, but it might’ve been new. Still with the green clogs.

  Claire tried to shrink down in the booth, but it was too late. He slid in.

  “What are you doing here?” Claire bared her teeth like a snarling dog.

  Rob smiled, not the least bit self-conscious about his third world dentistry.

  “Getting coffee. Don’t worry, it’s to go,” he said.

  “That’s not what I meant. What are you doing here? In this place? Are you following me?”

  “Ooh la la.” He wriggled his bushy dyed brows. “Do you want me to be?”

  She half stood. “Stop it. Answer me, before I—”

  “Get a grip on your girdle. I come in here all the time. I stop here on my way—”

  “Hey, Doc, here’s your coffees. Black.” The waitress handed him two Styrofoam cups in a cup holder.

  “Doc? What the—”

  “I’m the doctor of love,” he cackled.

  “Of all the stupid—” The overattentive waitress bearing the bill interrupted Claire’s tirade. Was she fawning over him?

  Rob handed her his platinum card. “This nice lady’s breakfast is on me, Molly.”

  Claire didn’t protest, too dumbfounded. Was this his attempt at an apology for his deplorable behavior outside Alex’s warehouse? Well, she couldn’t be bought. Not for a ten-dollar breakfast. A nice piece of jewelry maybe. Simpering Molly took his card toward the register.

  “What are you doing here?” Rob Rhino said.

  “I have business here.” Claire scowled at the good doctor.

  “In the diner?”

  “No, you moron. I’m staying—” No way she’d tell him where. “I’m staying near here. I have family business in this godforsaken town. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “You have family here?” Rob Rhino seemed concerned anyway.

  “My husband does.”

  “Huh, whaddya know. My wife does too.” A horn honked. Rob Rhino peered out the window. “My chauffeur’s getting antsy.” He signed his credit card receipt with pudgy fingers.

  Claire glanced out at the ruby colored Corvette revving its engine in the parking lot. The blacked-out windows kept her from seeing the driver. The midlife crisis car crept forward while it idled. She could make out the personalized plates—FLESHHH. A question about Rob Rhino’s wife teetered on her lips when he ducked out the diner door.

  Chapter Seven

  “Grace? It’s Claire. I’m in town.”

  Claire called out on the hotel phone again. She’d passed out before remembering to plug in her cell phone the night before.

  “Oh. I... er... hello. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Grace’s voice shook, sounded old.

  So soon? She and Liam were married more than ten years and she’d never met Grace. “I told you I’d call as soon as I got in. I’m in. I brought Liam. His ashes,” Claire said.

  Grace started sniveling. “Oh... oh my, okay, I—”

  “Grace? Stop crying. Should we talk in person?”

  Grace sniffled and blew her nose. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.”

  “I want you to give a shit.”

  “How can you talk to me that way? Of course I—”

  Claire heard loud nose blowing, then nothing, except the sound of her whole plan going south. She tried to remember Lamaze breathing. “We talked about this already, before I left California. I want to inter Liam’s ashes in the cemetery with his father. I’d like to have a memorial.”

  “I just don’t know, I just don’t—”

  “What do you mean—you don’t know?” Claire said. “What’s not to know?”

  Grace started whimpering. “Oh now you don’t understand. It’s just, well, I just don’t know.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  More sniffles. “Well... I... you... this goes back years.”

  “Let me help you Grace. In the ten years Liam and I were married you never set foot in our home or invited us to yours.”

  “Liam wouldn’t have come if I’d invited him. You don’t—”

  “You didn’t come to his funeral or send flowers.”

  “Liam didn’t come to his father’s funeral either.”

  “You never bothered to let us know he’d died. He had to hear it from our attorney who heard it from his mother.”

  “Liam’s death devastated me.” Grace turned on the blubbering and her convenient hearing. “I would’ve come, but I can’t travel alone—”

  “His brother or sister could’ve brought you. But they didn’t come either.”

  “They didn’t feel welcome. None of us—”

  “You couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone and call. Not once in Liam’s adult life. When he died I had to leave you a voicemail. You never called back. I brought your dead son to you and you’re going to tell me you don’t know?”

  “Maybe we should—”

  “I’m coming over in an hour. I have your address.”

  Claire slammed down the phone, grabbed her pills. She went to the bathroom for water, caught her reflection. Her scalp was so red it looked like the tip of a match. The second pill of the day began its dance through her bloodstream. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

  She pulled her carry-on out of the closet and opened it. The mother lode. The box that held Liam’s ashes was bigger than she’d expected, heavier. She didn’t know what she expected. Everything about Liam’s death was heavier than she thought it’d be. It was the first day of March when she got the call. She knew as soon as she’d said hello that something happened. The phone, the air, the voice at the other end. It all had an unbearable heaviness. Then there was her pain, her rage, her heart in her chest. It was all too heavy.

  She hadn’t expected to carry his ashes on the plane with her either.

  “I don’t think you can check Mr. Corrigan’s ashes with your baggage,” Steven had said. Fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “How would you possibly know that?” Claire said.

  “Mother, as hard as it might be for you to believe, other people experience death too,” Jordan had said. “Steven lost someone he loved a few years ago.”

  Momentarily chastened, but not interested, Claire sa
id “Well, I’ll certainly check that out. Perhaps Maura knows for certain.”

  Steven was right for once. Dead people couldn’t get checked with baggage. They had to go on the plane in a carry-on for whatever reason. She wondered how many dead people she’d traveled with in blissful ignorance. How many times had she shoved someone’s granny out of the way because she took up too much space in the overhead?

  Aha.

  Claire snatched up the bottle of Absolut Mandarin she’d packed for whenever she might need a nip. Got to put it in the freezer. Probably have to settle for a fridge. After an annoying search turned major tantrum and an agitated call to the front desk, she had to concede. No refrigerator in Hades. A quick run down the walkway in both directions didn’t turn up an ice machine. She stayed on the second floor. Maybe she’d find one downstairs. What a pain in her puckered ass. Have to deal with it later.

  She lifted the box of Liam’s remains out of her carry-on and put it on the bed. The big manila envelope she’d crammed in at the last minute caught her eye. Her heart stopped midbeat for a second. She snatched the envelope out, clutched it to her chest, and sat on the bed. It too was heavier than she remembered. It wasn’t sealed shut, only closed with the metal clasp. She could easily undo it. No need. She already knew what was in it.

  Holloway, Howard, and Lennox, LLC, would have to wait.

  Time to get the cortege on the road. It was after eleven.

  She picked up the phone.

  Chapter Eight

  She drove toward the outskirts of town wishing she hadn’t slammed down the phone before asking Grace to confirm directions to the cemetery. Claire told her she’d be late, that was that. She veered past the Antique Barnyard, past the bridge on the Underground Railroad where she turned right at Bessie’s Curl Up and Dye salon. She made another hard right, meandered alongside the rolling lawns and imposing brick buildings of the private university. So far so good. At a distance the cemetery (among the many oddities of the place) where they’d buried Liam’s father Emmet loomed. If Claire got her way, Liam’s ashes would be interred there too.