While she waited for her sister to pick up, two questions clawed at Trudy’s brain: Who was the woman at Dub’s grave? And what was her connection to him?
CHAPTER 5
Dub
October 1974
THE BATON slams into the middle of Dub’s broad back. The blow barely fazes him. If anything, it riles him up. With Georgia pinned in his left arm, sobbing hysterically, Dub swings his upper body around and swipes the baton from Trudy’s grip with the power of a gorilla.
For a second, she stares at her empty palm, shocked by his brute strength. Her hand stings from the force. Still in her maxi coat, she tries to tackle him from behind, but she is no match for his body. Slamming into him is like hitting a thick tree. He doesn’t budge.
His eyes graze over her when her coat flaps open. “Whew-wee, show me your titties.” His voice is the growl of a predator. It sickens her. She has looked the word up in the dictionary after reading a story in the newspaper about a man who preys on people.
Georgia’s hair is a tangled mop of spun gold and copper in the crook of Dub’s left arm. Trudy can barely make out her sister’s face, hidden from view. But what she sees is enough. Georgia is petrified, utter panic in those hazel eyes normally brimming with life. Her long legs, the legs of a dancer, are supposed to be leaping about, kicking the high step and not kicking at an attacker. Georgia’s feet, clad in her sparkly dance shoes, scramble for escape.
Shocked by her own building rage, Trudy yells at Dub, “Shut up, you creep.” She has never talked to an adult this way. She has been raised to respect her elders.
Aunt Star comes at Dub from the other side, pushing her heft into him. “Let her go, Dub. You got away with it before. Not this time.”
He yanks Georgia around like a rag doll and snarls at Aunt Star. “Get away from me, heifer. You’re not worth a poke anymore.”
Aunt Star’s complexion is still smooth at nearly forty, her soft smile and pleasant features always a comfort to those she encounters. But Dub’s words twist her face into someone Trudy doesn’t recognize. A face full of scorn, shock, and complete hatred for a man she is related to by blood. “You pervert. You make me sick.”
Georgia is pleading for “Mommy,” her mournful sobs reminding Trudy of the sounds her sister made when Daddy’s plane went missing, and even worse, the night their brother died.
“Mommy’s at the funny farm,” Dub spews out, his cruel laughter sending revulsion through Trudy’s bones. The whiskey he had consumed earlier seems to fuel his nastiness. He is a crazed animal torn loose in their home. A home he is not allowed to set foot in, and yet he got in.
“It should’ve been you that died instead of your sister!” Aunt Star hisses, her face as red as the terra-cotta tiles. “You’re a waste of protoplasm.”
Dub scowls at Star then jams the baton against Georgia’s throat. “You’ll pay for that, cuz.”
Georgia makes a choking sound that hacks at Trudy’s heart. She glances around for another weapon. No time to wait.
The soles of Aunt Star’s thick shoes squeak as she bustles toward the turquoise phone on the wall, the long cord dangling in a twisted mess from the girls wrapping it around the corner into the hallway. Even from here, Trudy can see the muscles in Aunt Star’s thick calves flex beneath her white support hose as she reaches for the receiver and dials.
“You better not call the po-leece,” Dub warns. He hurls the baton through the air, hitting Aunt Star in the rump. “Hang up that phone! Or I’ll wring her scrawny neck.”
Aunt Star drops the receiver, sending it crashing to the tile floor.
Georgia’s pleas are more of a whimper. She is struggling to breathe.
“You’re crushing her windpipe,” Trudy screams, ramming into his side again, trying to throw him off balance. “If my daddy were here, he’d beat the daylights out of you.”
Her words seem to stoke his anger. “Where’s your flyboy daddy?” His cruel taunts mock at her core. “Got himself shot down.”
From somewhere inside comes Daddy’s voice. Calm. Reassuring. He is telling her to think clearly, to ignore Dub’s insults. They are the insults of a coward, a failure jealous of another’s success.
“Three o’clock,” Daddy coaxes her in pilot speak. Trudy imagines the number three on the face of a clock. Her head swivels to the right, her eyes fix on the heavy cast-iron skillet on top of the stove, its handle turned outward. The skillet is empty, the stove off. For Aunt Star hasn’t had time to change out of her uniform and start supper.
Aunt Star is a blur of white coming toward her. Trudy swallows.
They both reach for the handle at the same time.
CHAPTER 6
Georgia
October 2016
“LUPI SAID to tell you hello.” Trudy fiddled with her earpiece and shoved her hands in the pockets of her daddy’s flight jacket.
Georgia sounded out of breath, like she was scurrying about performing some task. “I try an’ keep up with her on Facebook. Can you believe she gave up a lucrative marketing career to come back to run her grandmother’s diner?”
Maybe she wanted to come home, Trudy thought, thinking of herself and reflecting on how she’d flown all over the country, from sea to shining sea, looking for a paradise that never existed and always seemed out of reach, beyond the horizon. From city to city, pushing the drink cart up and down the narrow aisle inside a metal tube crammed with people, she’d felt a tugging, a longing like a voice on the wind, calling for her to come home. She’d wanted to ask Lupi if she’d heard it, too, or if she was back strictly out of obligation.
Under the glow of the carport light, Trudy paced, doing circle eights between Momma’s Chevy minivan and the Camaro. “I think she’s trying to keep the overhead down. Momma said one of Lupi’s cousins comes in to help her out from time to time.”
“Yeah, she mentioned something about it on Facebook,” Georgia replied in a faraway voice as if she’d been half listening without trying to appear rude.
The clicking of high heels echoed in Trudy’s ear. Ever since they were little girls playing dress up, Georgia loved to traipse around in high heels. She’d even worn them with jeans back when that style was so popular. But with age, she’d switched from pointed stilettos to round- or square-toed pumps, and as they chatted, Trudy pictured her sister prancing around in a pair of fashionable Mary Janes.
The storm clouds from earlier ushered in a cold front but no rain or snow. Trudy blew imaginary smoke rings into the frigid air like she’d done as a kid, back when she thought it would be so cool to smoke. “She looks good, feisty as ever,” Trudy picked up where she left off. “I can still see you two strutting around the school like it was one big discotheque.”
Georgia laughed, her voice growing huskier with age. “I remember stopping in front of the principal’s office one time to do the hustle. I think it was Lupi’s idea.”
“What did Mr. Scanlon say?”
“He poked his head out and said, ‘Ladies, save it for the pep rally.’”
“He was such a pushover. Hey, did I catch you at a bad time? Sounds like you’re busy.” Trudy could hear rustling in the background, her sister whispering to someone in the room.
“My hands are giving me fits today. Gil’s here helping me with my zipper. We’re going to a play at his new theater. Tonight’s the grand opening.”
A year ago after Trudy had landed at LAX and was stepping into the crew van, Georgia had called, breathless and giddy with news. “Sis, I just met Gilbert Miguel Vargas. He was on my tour at the Castaneda. He wants to meet for lunch at Charlie’s.”
Packed shoulder to shoulder in a van full of flight attendants and pilots, Trudy had blurted into her phone, “You mean that old guy with the craggy face who plays all those bad hombres on TV? What’s he doing in Las Vegas, New Mexico?”
“He lives here,” Georgia had gushed, explaining how the actor had returned to his roots and built a hobby ranch on a piece of land outside of town. A ten-minut
e drive to the community theater he planned to open on Bridge Street, right off the plaza.
On weekdays, Trudy’s sister taught dance at Luna Community College. On weekends, she worked as a Harvey Girl reenactor, donning the crisp black and white uniform of the legendary waitresses who served meals to hungry passengers on the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe Railway.
“What are you wearing to the play?”
“A slinky dress with lots of sequins. Only cost me ten bucks at a new thrift store in town. I’m overdressed, but…”
Trudy imagined her sister all glammed up in a shimmering gown clinging to her svelte figure. At five seven and well into her mid-fifties, Georgia had worked hard the last decade to restore her dancer’s body after years of neglect. Except for arthritis in her hands, she appeared as limber as when they were kids.
“Gil used to hang out with starlets so I have to look the part,” Georgia purred with a laugh.
“Darlin’, there’s a reason I moved back to New Mexico,” Trudy heard Gil murmur, his deep sexy drawl oozing with flirtatious undertones.
No wonder the ladies loved his films. His bad boy image and voice drove women crazy.
Listening with greedy ears, Trudy pictured the aging actor with bronze fingers adorned in turquoise and silver rings, coaxing the tongue of the zipper from her sister’s tailbone up the hollow of her back to that spot between her shoulder blades where he’d linger to fasten the eyehook. Then Georgia would wriggle her hips in gratitude and reach for her evening bag.
“You wearing your hair up or down?” Both sisters had turned to the help of a hairdresser to keep their locks the luster of new pennies.
“Up-do. French twist. In case we go dancing afterwards.”
“You and Gil could start your own version of Dancing with the Stars.”
Georgia giggled, and Trudy envied her sister’s ease at dancing with a partner. Except when it came to fast dancing or her twirling stint in marching band, Trudy had two left feet. Even in grade school, she could flub up a do-si-do in square dance during PE. “Your problem,” Preston told her years later before they divorced, “is you want to lead and not follow.”
“Everything okay there? You sound funny,” Georgia remarked, as if she’d picked up on something in Trudy’s voice.
Sighing, Trudy paced up and down the driveway, concentrating on the sound of the gravel crunching beneath her boots, the hum of an occasional car or truck whizzing past on Seven Mile Road. She’d forgotten how black it could get out here on the fringes of town. “I’d give anything for a cigarette right now,” she said as another set of headlights pierced the darkness and kept going.
“You haven’t smoked in years.”
“Since I was thirty-five.” Since I quit cold turkey and tried my damnedest to get pregnant. “Once in a while I still crave one. Usually when I’m stressed.”
“Is Mom’s house getting to you? It’s like walking into a time capsule.”
“It definitely has that seventies feel. It’s like she’s stuck there.”
Neither sister said anything for a moment.
Finally, Trudy pushed ahead. She’d been skirting the issue long enough. “Listen, Georgia, I’m sorry I caught you on your way out.” Inhaling a drag from her make-believe cigarette, Trudy held the cold air in her lungs, before she let out a long cleansing breath and started back toward the carport. “When’s the last time you talked to Mom?”
“A couple of days ago. Right before you got there.”
“Okay. When’s the last time you spoke to Aunt Star?”
“I stopped by her place Wednesday. She made me a hot toddy ’cuz my throat was sore. Why, is something wrong?”
Hot toddies, Aunt Star’s secret cure for what ails you. Even administering her bourbon-laced brew to two underage nieces on an awful night when she needed them to calm down.
Trudy took a deep breath and forged ahead. “She’s fine as far as I know. So you haven’t talked to her since Wednesday?”
Irritation crept into Georgia’s voice. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
That was their mother’s private joke every time one of their dad’s relatives used to call from Kentucky and pepper Jewel with too many personal questions: Was she dating again? Was she ever going to remarry? Did Shep have other life insurance outside of his government benefits?
“Sorry, sis,” Trudy laughed, “I was wondering when you last spoke with her, that’s all.” Trudy stared at the brown tips of her boots, noticing a scuff on the right toe. Bending over to buff it out with her finger, she winced at the crick in her lower back. All that lugging, lifting, straining, and cramming passenger suitcases into overhead bins had taken a toll on her body. “Are you on speaker?” She clenched her teeth and slowly straightened back up.
“No…” Georgia sounded more guarded this time.
“Aunt Star called Momma last night. She was appalled by the leaked tape on that tabloid TV show…oh, I forget the name.”
“I rarely watch TV unless Gil’s on some rerun or there’s breaking news.”
“Lately it feels more like breaking wind,” Trudy shot back, “especially with this election heating up.”
“No kidding,” Georgia chuckled dryly. “The media’s havin’ a field day.”
Trudy cleared her throat. “The perv came up in Mom and Aunt Star’s conversation.”
“The per…? Oh my God,” Georgia gasped. “Who brought him up? Surely not…”
“No, it was Mom.”
“Mom! But she doesn’t know…”
Quickly, Trudy relayed last night’s phone conversation between their mother and aunt. And their mother’s probing question to Trudy after Star hung up.
Then Georgia said in hushed tones to Gil, “Babe, I need to talk to my sister in private. I’ll only be a second.”
“Sure, darlin’,” came the crusty voice that conjured up images of desperadoes in dozens of films. “I’ll wait in the truck.”
After a door clicked in the background, Georgia lowered her voice. “Look, sis, I can’t talk long.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Trudy felt an invisible wall go up. She’d been expecting it, but she also felt bad for having to broach the subject in the first place. “It can wait, uh, we can talk —”
“Tell me now.” Georgia’s tone shifted from cautious to irritable.
“But Gil’s waiting and…”
“Trudy, just say it.”
Trudy closed her eyes, dreading her sister’s reaction. “Do you and Aunt Star ever talk about that night?” Trudy paused at the side door and held her breath.
“No! Never.” Georgia’s curt response was meant to shut Trudy down.
Rubbing her temples, she plunged ahead. “Something happened today when Mom and I were at the cemetery.” Trudy told her sister about the woman in the Lexus and the graffiti on Dub’s grave.
Georgia didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity. Trudy could hear her sister fiddling with her smartphone, like she was multitasking while they were talking. She heard Georgia’s labored breathing, pictured her sister huffing and puffing and fanning herself as she walked circles about her bedroom, trying to keep the shock from messing up her makeup. Georgia’s voice was hoarse when she came back on. “Sis, I checked the calendar on my phone. You know what today is…?”
Dizzy, Trudy leaned against the side of Jewel’s minivan. Since she’d retired, she quit relying on calendars to run her life. Her heart plunged like an elevator dropping too quickly as she mentally tried to grasp the day of the month. She squinted at the screen on her own phone: October 8, 2016. Surely she’d known this on some level.
Trudy knew what was coming next…
“Today’s the anniversary of the perv’s death.” Georgia’s announcement came out flat, devoid of all emotion.
Trudy searched her short-term memory. Dub’s gravestone didn’t list the day he died, only the year, 1974. In her mind, all she could see was the word rapist.
The outside light flic
kered by the carport door. “Crap, it’s Mom.” Trudy pushed up from the minivan. “She’s flicking the light on and off. Like when we were teenagers.”
“She probably thinks you’re out there sneaking a smoke,” Georgia snickered, sounding relieved to have something to laugh about.
“Or making out with a boy,” Trudy jibed, trying to lighten the mood.
“Look, I gotta go.” Before Georgia clicked off, her parting words sent chills zipping up Trudy’s spine. “That woman you saw at the cemetery… I wonder who she is? And if there are others?”
Stuffing her phone into her pocket, Trudy looked up as Jewel opened the door and peeked out.
Her mother shrank back as if caught off guard, her mouth hinged open and her hand clutching her chest. “It’s one thing to see that old flight jacket on a hanger, but…” Her voice dropped off.
Trudy glanced down then back at her mother. “Oh, Momma, I didn’t mean to… I hope you don’t mind.”
Jewel held the door open wide. “It must be the cold,” she said, sniffing the air around Trudy as she stepped inside.
Gliding across the kitchen, Trudy retrieved her wine glass and took a long sip, letting the alcohol seep into her system. Twirling the stem, she gazed at her mother. “I wasn’t outside sneaking a smoke if that’s what you’re implying?”
With eyes glistening, Jewel padded toward her. “Who said anything about smoking?” She reached out and brushed her fingers over the puffy sleeves. “After all these years, I can still smell him.”
Unzipping the jacket, Trudy bent her head and breathed deeply into the lining. “You mean that musty smell?”
The Flying Cutterbucks Page 5