What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed a change.” That change was forced on me. I could not live in a city where people wanted to see my mug behind bars and my name was in the paper. Nor could I live anywhere near Covey.

  “What kind of change are you looking for?”

  “A new life. A quieter life. Less stress.” Not being convicted would be helpful.

  “And a break from your art?”

  “Yes.” Heck, no. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on my paints, my button collection, my sheets of music, and a history book I’d found at Goodwill with people dressed in top hats and bustles. Without my art I am lost. I am nothing.

  “So you drove out to central Oregon.”

  “Yes.” Away from jail and a soon-to-be ex-husband I didn’t want to talk about.

  He was quiet for a second, waiting for me to elaborate. I did not elaborate. I didn’t want to tell him I was separated from that son of a bitch.

  “I understand you work at The Spirited Owl, too.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m a bartender and a waitress.”

  “You need a second job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m saving for a home.” True enough. An apartment is a home.

  “What did you do before you were an artist?”

  “I was a waitress from the time I was fourteen—”

  “Fourteen?”

  “Yes. Then I was a waitress and a bartender when I turned twenty-one. I waitressed and bartended until I could support myself as an artist. I’ve been able to support myself for about twelve years now.”

  He dropped the application down on the table and leaned back in his chair. His eyes narrowed. My application wasn’t complete; there was a missing website, holes all over, and I knew it. He was no fool. He was sensing something else. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I knew Kade wanted the personal info that people can’t legally ask in interviews, but I was going to take a detour and talk only about the professional end of it. Too much to hide, too much to cover up.

  “I want a job in a company where I can learn new things.” Actually a job, any job, at this point would be good enough.

  “I think I can help you because I know how furniture can, and should, work in a home, and I know what questions to ask your clients in terms of what they need and want because I’ve worked with clients for years who bought my art. I know how to get to know people and apply it to a project.” My clients often drove me insane, and I was forced to tell them that sometimes, but I would be nicer to Kade’s clients.

  “I like that each of your pieces is personalized. It isn’t only a dresser or a bed or a desk. It’s special. It’s unique. I love how you’ve paid attention to the tiniest detail in the carvings. I like the types of wood you use. People can hand this furniture down to their kids and grandkids because it’s art.”

  I went off a little longer than I should have, but the truth was that I loved his furniture. Many of the people I had worked for had Kade’s furniture in their homes and vacation homes.

  Kade listened carefully. He heard what I did not say, which was anything personal about myself or my history. I rattled on and when I finished he let the silence hang between us. I waited him out. I tried to hold his dark gaze. I willed myself not to tilt my chin down or slump my back.

  “What job are you hoping for within the company?”

  I tried to smile. My smile felt stiff, and I worked to get it straight so I didn’t look like I was leering. “I think I could help you in sales, but I understand that you have a receptionist job available.”

  He nodded. “I do. My receptionist left to have a baby. Her water broke in the lobby here. I drove her to the hospital myself. She hates hospitals. Anyhow, this job would probably only be temporary. She may come back.” He gazed out at the mountains, then shook his head. “She probably won’t.”

  I knew Bajal wouldn’t. I launched into a short speech about how I knew that as the receptionist I would be the first person people would talk to, how the way I talked to people on the phone could encourage them to buy, or discourage them from buying, furniture; that it was important to be welcoming, friendly, and knowledgeable about the furniture, and to get the customer to someone who could help them more than I could.

  He asked me one question after another. I tried to be brief but thorough. He listened closely. I could tell he wasn’t buying me, buying what I said. “Is there anything”—he drummed his fingers on his desk—“else you want to tell me about yourself?”

  “No.” I said that too quickly, but there was nothing else I wanted to tell him.

  “Where are you staying in town?”

  “I’m staying at Talia’s bed and breakfast until I figure out where to live.” Small lie. I smiled harder. “I think I would fit in here. I work hard. I learn quick and I can talk to people.”

  “Okay.” He turned his head, and I knew things had not gone well.

  Did he know? My other name, Dina Hamilton, had been in the newspaper. My photo had been in there, too. A reporter had used one from a golf club party Covey and I had attended months before—a dreadful event—but I had longer, stick-straight blond hair then, and now it was my natural red with a fringe of bangs. I was also not in a ball gown, my boobs pushed up.

  “I would like the job. I can start today. Tomorrow. My shifts don’t start until five-thirty at The Spirited Owl and I’m only working for them Tuesday nights through Saturday.”

  “Long day for you.”

  “I can do it.” His dark eyes missed nothing. I would not want to get in a fight with this man for all the tea in China, the Netherlands, and London put together. He was one of the only truly rockin’ bad dudes I’d ever met.

  I kept my shoulders back. Barely. I knew he wasn’t sure about me because he thought I was being cagey.

  “I hear that you’re pretty tough at The Spirited Owl.”

  “I don’t take any crap.” Why did I say that? That did not sound elegant or refined.

  His mouth tilted slightly, a tiny smile. “I understand.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound so snappy.” I drummed my fingers. “The clientele can get . . . challenging.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they can.” He studied me, then stood up. “I’ll call you when I decide what to do about Bajal’s job.” We shook hands, my hand lost in the warmth of his. Part of me didn’t want to let go. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “I would like the job.” My voice came out soft, sort of desperate, which was humiliating.

  He was analyzing me, thinking, speculative. I knew he knew I wasn’t telling him the full truth. He was trying to figure out how much of that mattered versus how I came off in the interview. Would I be good enough anyhow? We were still clasping hands. I let go; he waited a second, then he let go, too.

  I thought I saw his face soften up for a minute. His eyes not quite so hard. His body language relenting, maybe there was even a hint of a smile.

  Maybe.

  Maybe I was delusional. I was still so sick.

  “Thank you for your time. It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  I turned to leave, and that was that.

  I could feel his eyes on my back as I left. I didn’t think I had the job. In fact, I was pretty sure I didn’t. I tried not to cry all the way to my car. I unlocked the door and drove out to the country. I pulled over on a side road and put my head on the steering wheel, the wind blowing in from that blasted broken window, the plastic crackling. I cried and cried until I’m sure my tear ducts were begging for mercy.

  I blew my nose, coughed, sneezed twice, and held my head as my whole body started to sweat. My fever was breaking yet again. I chugged more cold medicine.

  I hate being sick. I cannot run my life well while sick. I cannot handle what’s coming my way like a pickax to my gut while sick. I cannot fix this car-living problem while sick.

  And I had to pee. Bad.

  I climbed out of the car, peeke
d around for people, then quickly dropped my pants. I already missed my bathroom at Talia’s. It was getting colder outside, and my butt was going to freeze if I had to live like this for many more weeks. I washed my hands with my bottled water and soap, drank an entire bottle because my nerves and fever had dehydrated me, then pulled out a can of chili and ate it for lunch. I had been eating too much chili lately.

  I brushed my teeth, spitting into the bushes, then drove down the street and out of town in the other direction to apply for a job at a lumber yard. I would prefer working for Hendricks’, but that was the way it was.

  The manager was rude. She was tall, thin, and told me she wasn’t hiring. I said thank you, felt stupid, and left. I was almost down to applying at McDonald’s, though I’m sure my arrest would probably eliminate me immediately.

  Had to cover my bases. I needed more money than McDonald’s paid, but if minimum wage was all there was, that was the way it was. I could put on a blue shirt and name tag and flip a burger if I had to.

  I thought about what the press would do if they saw me in a McDonald’s uniform, and put that thought aside. I had no pride left. Freezing in a car, living in a car, will take it all away. And, at the end of all this, after a jail term, I’d probably move out of state, maybe to Wyoming or Alaska, and disappear. So, who cared? I had one goal: Get an apartment before winter hit harder.

  That night, after my shift at The Spirited Owl, I parked in a different neighborhood. I stripped off my work clothes and climbed into my sleeping clothes, then hurried into my sleeping bag and blankets. My clean blankets smelled like powder. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

  I had made $125 in tips that night, partly thanks to Moose, who left me the usual twenty-five dollars. If I was hired at Hendricks’ I would still have Sundays off to sleep and get my mind together and deal with whatever crap came up with Covey and the attorneys.

  I have workaholic tendencies. I know this. I always have.

  I assumed Hendricks’ Furniture would pay me, as a receptionist, slightly more than minimum wage, but I was pretty sure he would have health insurance, which would save me hundreds. I did not have health insurance with Covey’s company anymore. I thought of his twelve employees and their families. I felt bad for them. Except for three of the employees—Davitt, Angie, and Victor. Those three were possum scum like Covey.

  The cold medicine was wearing off again, which meant that my fever was spiking back up. I shivered, pulled on another sweatshirt, tugged my red knitted hat down, and scrunched farther into my sleeping bag, pulling it over my head. I was wiped out from my cold, my chest ached, my nose was stuffed up, and I was fighting off despair. I could feel it dragging me down, but I had a tiny morsel in me that was still fighting like a raccoon caught in a trap.

  I would have a nice house again someday, I told myself. I would. It would be a small home, something I could afford no matter what, something that couldn’t be taken from me ever. It would be yellow on the outside and yellow on the inside.

  There would be a gas fireplace that I could switch on at any time so I wouldn’t freeze my butt off like I am now, and it would have a deep tub so when I was sick I could warm my bones. I would have piles of blankets and pillows and quilts, and I would have cupboards stocked with food so Alice, My Anxiety, wouldn’t feel anxious.

  I would not live in my car again. This was it. Last time. I would not be a homeless, lost person, even temporarily.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. I had trusted Covey, and this is where it landed me.

  I would not be stupid again.

  The rain came down like a flash flood. Please, Kade, hire me.

  I woke in the middle of the night to silence. I knew I had been dreaming of the red, crocheted shawl because I felt peaceful. Not so alone.

  My fever had spiked again; my cough had deepened, thickened; and I wondered if I was dying. I closed my eyes again.

  We love you, Grenadine. Be strong.

  It was them.

  Hang in there, sweet butterfly.

  I knew it. I felt them, felt their love.

  Every night for the rest of that week, as I slept in my car, the rain and hail pounding down, I did a Personal Financial Calculation and told myself that I was getting closer and closer to a home that I could not drive. I had paid Cherie our usual monthly four-figure agreement, which had set me back, but I was still moving ahead.

  For some reason, each night I had visions of a snake wrapped around a knife shrouded in fog, which woke me up, a sense of impending doom hanging over me.

  When the plastic fell off the window, I reattached it.

  I was getting admirably adept at using duct tape.

  15

  Schollton Police

  Incident Report

  Case No. 83-2285

  Reported Date/Time: December 8, 1983/8:30

  Location of Occurrence: 6260 S.W. Fisher Ave.

  Reporting Officer: Sergeant Trina Orleon

  Incident: Found Girl

  Shirley Lyn Trumachev, 65, saw a girl walking down her street, Fisher Ave. The girl was wobbling, thin, and pale, according to Mrs. Trumachev. It was snowing, and the girl was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Mrs. Trumachev’s home is in the country and she has the only home, she says, for a half a mile and did not recognize the girl.

  Mrs. Trumachev ran out of her home to check on her, and the child collapsed in her arms. She called 911.

  When we arrived, the girl was unconscious. Breathing shallowly. She was wrapped in Mrs. Trumachev’s coat and on her lap. She was thin and her chest made a rumbling sound from sickness. She was missing hair and had purple and blue bruising on her face. Her arms and legs looked emaciated. I have never seen a child in such poor shape. Repeat: I have never seen a child that thin.

  After we ascertained that the ambulance was on its way, I briefly examined the girl. She had cigarette burns on her chest, stomach, and legs, and she had markings around her neck that might be from a rope. Her heartbeat was weak and slow.

  The paramedics arrived, and they determined, as had Lieutenant Ting and I, that the child had to be hospitalized immediately.

  Lieutenant Ting held the child in his arms because Mrs. Trumachev was shaking badly, and carried her into the ambulance. He insisted on going with her to the hospital. One of the firefighters rode along in the ambulance, as one of the paramedics seemed to have a hard time getting himself under control.

  The girl was so pale and limp and skeletal, I thought she was dying. I have never seen a child in this bad condition.

  Mrs. Trumachev was soon hysterical. We called her son when the ambulance left. She started to fall, and Sergeant Pattinser and I caught her. We laid her down and she clutched her heart, and within seconds we called another ambulance as Mrs. Trumachev had a mild heart attack. She kept saying, “That poor dear, that poor dear” repeatedly, as if she were in a trance. She was no longer able to communicate much with us.

  Schollton Police

  Incident Report

  Case No. 83-2285

  Reported Date/Time: December 8, 1983/16:30

  Location of Occurrence: 27482 N.W. Owl Dr.

  Reporting Officer: Sergeant Trina Orleon

  Incident: Found Girl

  The girl who was found at 6260 S.W. Fisher Ave. this morning is named Grenadine Scotch Wild. She is the foster child of Tom and Adelly Berlinsky, who live at 27482 N.W. Owl Dr. We were not able to immediately talk to the Berlinskys this morning because Grenadine was at St. Clare’s Hospital and unable to tell us her name due to being unconscious and, when later awake, in critical condition.

  When Lieutenant Ting, Sergeant Pattinser, and I arrived at the Berlinsky home, Adelly insisted that Grenadine was home. She was impaired from drugs and/or alcohol and unable to find the child. She repeatedly asked us if we wanted a beer but said she didn’t have any. She also kicked the cat and told her son he looked like a leprechaun. She asked if we had stolen her hair dryer and said her husband was in Hungary because he was hungr
y.

  When asked when she had last seen Grenadine, Mrs. Berlinsky could not remember. When Mrs. Berlinsky went outside in the snow to find Grenadine, screaming for her, her sons led us to a large kennel in the basement with a pink blanket.

  We assumed the kennel was for the dog, but the children said that was where Grenadine lived. There were bowls for water and food. Upon examination, the bowl for food was filled with dog food. The water bowl was empty. In a corner of the kennel there were feces and urine.

  One of the boys, Kevin, age ten, told us that that was where the human dog, Grenadine, lived. The other boy, Tom, Jr. age twelve, told us that their favorite game was to poke the human dog with a stick and whoever poked her most, won.

  There was a rope on the walls. Tom Jr. said that sometimes they put Grenadine on a rope and walked her but mostly not because Grenadine was bad and that was why she didn’t get people food and why she had to be locked up.

  Grenadine told them that her dad was going to beat them up for hurting her. The boys thought that was funny because they said Grenadine does not have a dad and that he is dead and they told her that, too.

  When we asked where Grenadine’s bed was, they said she slept in the kennel, too. When we asked where Grenadine got the bruises, the boys said mostly from their mom, and some from their dad, and the belt and the wooden spoon, but some from them because she wouldn’t bark when they told her to and whenever she was out of the kennel she snuck food so they were allowed to hit her on the head with their model airplanes.