by Tabitha King
One of the policemen, Patrolman William Kerry by the name tag on his breast pocket, is young enough to have been one of the teenage beach lords in the recent past. He would have been perpetually sunburnt, as he is now, for his skin is naturally whiter than the beach sand, whiter than the sun. He is losing his crisp, curly hair, exposing more white scalp to the merciless rays, and is thickening in face and body, working on a policeman's belly. But he seems content to be so close to his own careless youth.
The other is older, slimmer, indeed a man who will never grow fat, inheritor of the leanness of people who have never been fat and sated. And he is a middling shade of brown, born a color the teenagers, obsessed with the depth of their own tans, will never achieve and in fact universally scorn as evidence of inferiority. He has a military bearing the other cop can only fake. His badge identifies him as Sergeant Emery Ratcliffe.
He and Bill Kerry share a laugh as they finish their lunches. Bill Kerry's laugh is high, almost a giggle, and he blushes like a maiden aunt whose drawers have let go in the middle of Woolworth's. The hectic red on his cheeks stand out like round spots of rouge against the translucent sheen he has built up out of sunburn after sunburn. Ratcliffe's eyes crinkle when he laughs from his belly. He shows a mouthful of minstrel-white teeth, capped at government expense during military service, when he grins.
Ratcliffe wraps up sandwich baggies and paper napkins in a brown paper bag and disposes of them in the trash barrel at the side of the scenic turnout. His empty soda pop bottle goes into a small wastebasket fixed to the dash of the patrol car. Bill Kerry chews up the last of his salami sandwich, belches resonantly, and goes through the same ritual of housekeeping.
"I'm going to report in," Ratcliffe tells Kerry.
"Okay if I take a leak?" Kerry asks.
Ratcliffe grins. "In the bushes, man, where the tourists can't see you. The chief wouldn't like that."
Kerry laughs again and wanders away toward a footpath that leads into the woods.
Ratcliffe slips into the front seat of the cruiser and takes the radio mike. He identifies the car to the dispatcher. "We're still at Pillsbury Beach," he reports. "The natives are quiet."
He listens to static and then a clearly audible message. "Hold your position." Then, "Message from home, Rat. Give Myrna a call, will ya?"
"Ten-four," Ratcliffe answers and clips the mike to the dash.
Kerry is wandering back to the car, checking his zipper.
Ratcliffe sticks his head out of the car. "I got to call home, Bill."
A cloud of concern passes over Kerry's features. He is a single man, contemplating marriage. Its responsibilities seem awesome to him.
Ratcliffe walks to the open phone kiosk at the edge of the turnout, feeds a dime to the machine, dials home, and talks to his wife.
"Hi, babe," he says. "What's up?"
"Oh, tiger, it's you," his wife greets him. "I don't know, it's a message."
Ratcliffe becomes very still. "Tell me about it, Myrna."
"It's from Denny. Except it wasn't Denny who called, tiger. It was that girlfriend of his, the one he had with him in Florida last winter."
"The trash," Ratcliffe says.
"That's the one. Barbie Sue, took off her top when we was out on the boat. She said he told her to call you and tell you Court was coming your way. He said to tell you Court took out Jackson and Taurus done it for him, which doesn't make any sense to me. Anyway, he said to tell you right away pronto, it was urgent."
Ratcliffe closes his eyes.
"What's that mean, tiger? All that Barbie Sue knew was Denny said it was real important and then he took off and she don't know where he's gone to."
"Yeah," Ratcliffe says. "It's real important. Look, I'll be home in fifteen minutes. Start packing for me, babe. I'll explain when I get there."
He hangs up quickly without giving her a chance to respond or ask any more questions, and trots back to the cruiser.
"Take me home, Bill," he says, slipping into the passenger seat. "I'm feeling poorly."
Bill Kerry inserts himself quickly behind the wheel and starts the car before peeking at Ratcliffe curiously.
"Sure. Rat, you okay?"
"Sick to my stomach," Ratcliffe says shortly, laying his head back against the head rest. "That chicken sanwich musta gone over. Feel like I'm going to lose it."
Kerry sneaks another glance at his partner. There is a sheen of perspiration on Ratcliffe's face, and he is ashen. Either he has really gotten a bad sandwich or he has gotten some kind of news from his wife that is bad enough to make him as sick as if he had food poisoning. If one of his kids is hurt or sick, he'd say so, wouldn't he? Or if Myrna had had some kind of accident. But that wasn't likely, he'd been talking to her, so she must be able to talk to him. Kerry hides his troubled imaginings behind his customarily cheerful expression.
One arm held against his stomach as if it pains him, Ratcliffe reaches for the mike and raises the dispatcher.
"Rat here," he says. "Sicker than a dawg, I think I got a bad sanwich." His voice is faint and shaky.
"Read you," the dispatcher says. There is a staticky pause while the dispatcher reports to the day officer. "Chief says for Kerry to take you home and report back to the station to pick him up. He'll sub for you today. He says take care of yourself Rat and you owe him one."
"Much oblige," Rat says. "Ten-four."
Kerry pulls the cruiser into the driveway of a well-kept suburban ranch house. Parked neatly next to the garage is a small G.I. Joe bicycle. A little girl in a ruffled romper, straddling a pink Strawberry Shortcake HotWheel cycle, cries "Daddy!"
The front door is open, the screen door closed. A young woman, darker than Ratcliffe, frowning with worry, opens the screen.
"Tiger?" she says. Then she sees Ratcliffe, who has heaved himself out of the cruiser and is supporting himself against the open car door. The little girl hops off the cycle and heads for Ratcliffe. Ratcliffe bends hastily over a rhododendron bush to vomit.
His wife hurries to him, crying "Tiger?"
The little girl stops in her tracks, confused and suddenly frightened. Bill Kerry reaches her in two giant steps and picks her up. "Sylvia!" he exclaims. "How'd you get so big? I ain't seen you in a week and you went and grew three inches at least!"
The distraction works. Sylvia giggles.
Ratcliffe leans on his wife briefly, then pushes her gently away. "I'm awright, Myrna."
He stumbles toward the door. She follows him, smoothing her skirt nervously.
Hoisting Sylvia to his shoulders, Bill Kerry carries her inside.
There are gargling sounds from a nearby bathroom. Myrna stations herself in the hallway outside it, wringing her hands. Bill Kerry deposits Sylvia on the sofa and takes a seat. On the mantel is a gold-framed photograph of the Ratcliffes' eight-year-old son, Joey, in a Boy Scout uniform. On a day like this, Joey is probably splashing with his buddies at the nearest public swimming pool. Kerry looks around at what is a women's-magazine-perfect living room, except for Sylvia's crayons and coloring books on the coffee table. It is tasteful to an extreme. Ratcliffe calls Myrna houseproud and says she is overcompensating, which Bill Kerry takes to mean Myrna is worried the neighbors will think she is a nigger slut if she doesn't keep a fastidiously clean and tasteful house. Bill Kerry's own housekeeping is haphazard, though he tries. He wishes his fiancee Doreen's place gave some evidence that she would be as good a housewife as Myrna. His mother said with more accuracy than bitchiness that Doreen's place could qualify for federal disaster relief funds. Myrna's neighbors would definitely class Doreen as a slut. But they wouldn't be saying "Uh uh, what do you expect, they're all like that, bunch a animals," not about Doreen because he and Doreen wouldn't be the only wrong-colored folks on the block.
Ratcliffe comes out. "Thanks," he says. "I'm a lot better now."
He looks better.
"Good," Kerry says. "I'll be going then. You take care."
Kerry climbs into the cruiser.
He can hear Myrna through the open bedroom windows.
"Tiger?"
"You'll be okay, hon. You got the checkbook. I'm just taking this one check."
"But why? Why are you running off? Where you going, Tiger?"
"He coming for me, babe. He coming for all of us. I'll let you know where I am when it's safe. It's better you don't know for now."
"Tiger, damn you, you can't just run off and leave me. Who's coming for you?"
"Court," Ratcliffe says. "He's coming for me."
Myrna was crying now. "What about Sylvia and Joey? What do I tell them?"
"I'll call you when it's safe." Ratcliffe's voice was gentle, reassuring, guilty as hell. "Court won't hurt you," he says. "He only wants me."
Kerry turned the key in the ignition. He didn't want to hear anymore. He didn't want to know what kind of trouble Ratcliffe was in. It was enough to make Rat sick. Whoever Court was, Rat was scared of him, and somebody Rat was scared of was too goddamn scary for Bill Kerry, that was for sure. He just hoped Rat could take care of himself. He hoped nobody else got hurt.
Sarah folded the dish towel and hung it over the chrome bar on the oven door. She looked around at her grandmother.
Marguerite finished polishing the last glass and closed the cupboard door gently on the shining ranks. She cast a critical glance around the kitchen. With her glossy white hair tied up in a black-and-red houndstooth-checked scarf, Marguerite wore a no-nonsense unbleached cotton baker’s apron over tailored gray wool trousers and a black cotton knit turtleneck shirt. She sported short red boots with flat heels. She moved with something less than her normal crisp assurance, as if she were tired but was not about to show it.
“Good enough,” she said. She squirted hand lotion into her left palm and massaged it into her hands. “We’ll have to get the windows tomorrow.”
Sarah grimaced. Except for her jeans and T-shirt, and her long hair hanging loose around her face, wisps of it glued with sweat to her brow, her temples, the back of her neck, she looked a fifty-years-younger version of her grandmother. “Let Mrs. Fuller do them.”
Marguerite smiled. “Mrs. Fuller won’t be in, Sarah. With your mother and Travis away, and your father leaving today, I told her to take the week off. You and I can do all that needs doing.”
“Jesus,” Sarah muttered. She backed up against the counter and crossed her arms.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Nothing,” Sarah answered. “Nothing.”
“Well, I’m ready for a cup of coffee,” Marguerite said. She reached into a cupboard and took out a cup and saucer. “What about you?”
“Yuck,” said Sarah. “You make it too strong. I’d rather have a Coke.”
“That’s not good for your teeth or your complexion,” Marguerite said, examining the cup for dust by delicately swabbing its interior with one finger.
“Jesus!” Sarah bounced off the counter into the center of the kitchen. Unconsciously, she touched a red bump on her chin where a pimple was forming under the surface. One always seemed to come up right there a few days before her period started. She examined her nails, which were painted luminescent celery green. The housework had chipped and scarred the polish.
“Sarah!”
“Well, doesn’t coffee stunt your growth?” Sarah said.
Marguerite pursed her lips but calmly went about filling the glass carafe and pouring the water into the reservoir of the coffee maker before answering, “I hardly have to concern myself with stunting my growth, young lady, but you had better concern yourself with your language. And your attitude.”
Pat put down his suitcase in the door from the hall and cleared his throat. He was freshly shaved and dressed for the long plane journey, wearing comfortable shoes and a suede jacket that wouldn’t wrinkle even if he rolled it up into a pillow to sleep on. Just lately, what he wore seemed to be the only thing over which he had any control. He hoped to be able to sleep on the plane; last night had been endless, restless. He had been alternately too cold and too hot, as if he were feverish. Liv had not called and he had been afraid to call her, though he did finally call Walter McKenzie to whom he had lied about not being able to reach Liv, but at least now Walter would check on her.
Marguerite turned her back on Sarah and opened a cupboard. She took out a two-pound can of Maxwell House, and examined it critically. She preferred Folger’s.
Sarah rushed at Pat and threw her arms around him.
He hugged her tightly.
“Coffee, Pat?” Marguerite inquired brightly.
He patted Sarah’s back and released her. “Sure,” he said. “Sure.”
Marguerite closed the can opener on the lid of the Maxwell House. The can opener bit into it and chewed it open with a buzz saw whirring. The instant the vacuum was broken, the kitchen was full of the rough, granular spice smell of the coffee.
“Please can I go with you, daddy?” Sarah said to Pat in a low voice.
He slumped into a chair. “I’m sorry, hon.”
“I hate her,” Sarah said through her teeth.
Pat stared at the floor, chewing his lower lip.
Sarah clenched her fists. “Nobody cares what I want. Nobody.”
“That’s not true,” Pat said.
“That’s enough, Sarah,” Marguerite said.
Sarah burst into tears. Pat reached out and took her in his lap. She buried her head in the shoulder of his suede jacket, spotting it with hot tears, the thought of which irritated him and then made him feel guilty for being unduly concerned with appearances. He wished for the kind of soft, worn old diaper Liv had always handed him, when Sarah and Travis were infants, to throw over his shoulder for a burp cloth. He patted her back awkwardly. He had not realized she was getting so tall, as well as filling out at the bosom and bottom. It was uncomfortably like holding a grown woman on his knees.
Marguerite ignored them. She finished measuring coffee into the coffee maker and replaced the plastic lid on the Maxwell House. She plugged in the machine and turned it on. It began at once to bubble. Then she sat down opposite Pat and Sarah at the table.
“Sarah,” she said, “go check the dryer, will you?”
Sarah bounced out of Pat’s lap and slammed out of the room.
When the sound of her stomping down the hall faded, Marguerite bent across the table and squeezed Pat’s hand tightly.
“Pat,” she said, “stop this foolishness now before it becomes a habit. Do you want to live like this?”
Pat looked up at her. “She’s under a lot of stress,” he said. “She’s got a right to be upset.”
Marguerite sighed. “If you mean Sarah, Sarah’s going to go on playing you against Liv forever if you let her. If you go live in California in your new house without Liv and with Sarah, you’re going to be raising a thirteen-year-old who wants the freedom of an adult with the responsibilities of a ten-year-old. You’ll be living with a world-class blackmailer. Working your guilt, taking advantage of your obsession with your work and your anger and guilty feelings for Liv. It’ll be very expensive, Pat. Not just a housekeeper for that fancy house and a cook, but there’ll be Sarah’s private school, her clothes. Her allowance, commensurate with what her friends have, for which she does nothing. Not so long from now she’ll have to have a car because all her friends have one. There’ll be the dope, the marijuana and the coke, that she’ll buy with her ridiculous allowance. Then she’ll steal yours, Pat.”
“Wait a minute,” Pat said. “Just a goddamn minute.”
Marguerite held up her hands. “Let me finish, please. And spare me the goddamns. Don’t think Liv told me. I’m not stupid. You think I don’t know what the baby laxative is for, you keep in your desk? I’m married to a pharmacist forty-one years, Pat. And I wasn’t snooping. I couldn’t find the telephone book and there it was. You don’t even bother to lock it up, Pat. Are you foolish from it, already, or do you want Liv to find it so you two can have something more to fight about? You think Sarah doesn’t know a
bout it?”
“About what?” Sarah said, coming down the hallway.
“Don’t be smart with me,” Marguerite said. She stood up and went to the coffee maker.
“It’s a stupid law,” Sarah said from the doorway. “The government doesn’t want anyone to have any fun.”
Pat stared at Sarah. “Sarah,” he said.
“Is that so?” Marguerite said. “Well, Pat, what are you going to tell her?”
“Look, Sarah,” he said, “I tried the stuff, yes. But I don’t do it anymore. It can really mess a person up. I may not think the government is handling the issue just right, but that doesn’t mean I think you or anyone else should be doing that stuff.”
Sarah shrugged and slumped against the door frame. “You’re a grown-up. Grown-ups are always saying ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ If you can handle it, so can I.”
Pat closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “You are not an adult, Sarah, not yet, whether you think so or not.” Even if you look and feel like one.
“Your coffee,” Marguerite said gently, putting a cup in front of him.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“You’re welcome,” Marguerite said. “There’s another saying, Sarah.”