Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  She blocked the entrance with her Aigner loafer. Anya stood behind her, looking from one of us to the other. Her eyes were filled with misery. She’d been crying and was one blink from starting up again.

  “Cut it out, Sheila. They had no reason to hold me. You knew I’d be here. I’ve always called when something’s come up.”

  “Something’s come up? Like getting arrested and going to jail? Hmm?”

  I was too tired for this. I wanted to get my daughter and go home. Anya was hanging on to every one of Sheila’s words. Her eyes blinked rapidly and her hands twisted together. She was wearing a new pair of shorts and a matching shirt. Her hair had been trimmed and her nails were painted. I was glad that Sheila was able to give my daughter some of the luxuries I couldn’t afford.

  “I was falsely accused.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Well, you know more than you let on. You paid a housekeeper and a restaurant manager to keep their mouths shut.”

  “I did not! How dare you! You never deserved to be my son’s wife!”

  “Sheila, don’t do this. You are hurting your grandchild.” I pointed past her to where my child stood, tears streaming down her face. Her nose was red and raw.

  Sheila stopped to glance at Anya. When she turned back to me, a feral expression crossed my mother-in-law’s face. Her fingers gripped the door and door frame, her knuckles white with the pressure. She spat out, “My grandchild needs protection from you. You’re a common criminal.”

  “That’s not true and you know it. Someone lied to make a problem for me.”

  “You are the problem. You’ve always been the problem. You tricked my son. You cheated him out of a good life, and now you want your child to pay for your mistakes. I won’t let that happen.”

  Sheila stood between me and my daughter.

  I needed to get a grip. The temperature had dropped rapidly since leaving work, and the air was thick with moisture that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. The sky was full of mischief. A greenish cast of light forecast possible tornados. I needed to get us home and into the basement for safety. Gracie’s pink tongue lolled out the rolled-down window. She couldn’t wait in the car much longer.

  “Anya, please get your belongings,” I called past Sheila.

  “She’ll do no such thing! She’s staying here!” Sheila screamed. Her face contorted with rage. The words were barely out of her mouth when her expression changed. “Oh-oh!”

  A black-and-white blur streaked past me. Gracie had climbed through the car window. She raced up the lawn. The big dog skidded to a stop between Sheila and me. A ridge of fur on her back stood at attention.

  “Woof!” Her bassoon bark reverberated through the marble foyer. “Woof!”

  “Eeek!” My mother-in-law turned and ran.

  I grabbed Gracie’s collar. I swear, that dog looked up at me and smiled as if to say, “See? I can bark if it’s really, really important.” Her tail began to wag slowly as if this was all a great joke.

  Anya looked from Gracie to me in amazement. “I’ll go get my things.”

  ___

  We didn’t talk on the ride home. Gracie lounged in the back seat as if nothing had happened.

  At the house, I opened the Styrofoam containers from Antonio’s to discover a huge wedge of lasagna, a salad with balsamic dressing, tender spears of asparagus, and a thick chunk of garlic bread. I heated the food on plates while listening to the tornado warning on the radio. Anya and I loaded backpacks with water bottles, flashlights and blankets, put kitchen towels on trays, and carried our food to the basement. Brushing away cobwebs, we descended the rickety steps. Our vision adjusted slowly to the dank and dark. Anya picked over her dinner as the buzzing alerts of weather updates interrupted local radio shows.

  Gracie whimpered softly at first, and later with real alarm as the drum roll of thunder shook the house. A loud boom caused her to shriek, an ungodly noise between a bark and a scream of pain. Both of Anya’s arms were wrapped around the Great Dane when she jumped up and howled.

  “What’s wrong with her, Mom?”

  “Remember, she’s a rescue dog. Maybe her previous owners left her outside during a storm, and she has bad memories.”

  My big girl became more and more agitated, turning in tight circles and crying. A spank of thunder rocked the house. Gracie lifted her head and sobbed, running to cower in the farthest corner of our underground safe space.

  Anya and I moved our things closer to her. The sight of our poor girl-dog, so frightened and miserable, made us feel helpless.

  “I’ll be back.” I dashed out of the basement, following the beam of my flashlight. Up in the bathroom, I found an open box of Benadryl left over from my run-in with the bees. I’d heard dogs had a metabolic rate four times that of humans. Gracie and I weighed roughly the same. One Benadryl put me to sleep for eight hours. I calculated that four—plus one to grow on—would get her through the storm.

  From a cabinet, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and scooped out a tablespoonful. I closed the kitchen door behind me and moved carefully down the narrow, wooden stairs to our hideaway in the basement.

  Prying Gracie’s mouth open was a trick. The moment she relaxed her jaws, I slapped the thick paste and the pills as far back as I could. I stroked her throat until she swallowed. My timing was terrific. A lull in the storm followed.

  I set up Scrabble. Anya and I played without conversation. My kid beat me soundly.

  Shortly after midnight, authorities announced an all-clear. AmerenUE promised electricity would be restored shortly. By then, Anya and Gracie were snoozing side by side on the pile of blankets. I decided not to wake them. I wadded up a kitchen towel under my head and fell asleep on a small carpet sample left by previous tenants.

  My uncomfortable position didn’t allow for deep sleep. I was rolling over when I heard a noise in the floorboards. The storm had ended, but the night wasn’t quiet. A soft creak-creak-creak told me we had a visitor. Cautious footfalls picked their way across the kitchen floor directly above us. Feet moved to the back hall.

  I dialed 911 and told them we had an intruder. Gracie slumbered in a drug-induced fog. Anya snored lightly. Silently I picked up an empty box left over from our move and positioned it in front of the dog and child, to block them from view of the stairway.

  I perked up my ears, trying to follow any movement. A light scuffling told me someone was standing on the other side of the basement door. The flashlight with its C batteries made a heavy baton when I turned it upside down. My eyes were adjusted to the dark. I could discern a shadow moving across the threshold, flickering between the door and the floor. I crept to the foot of the stairs.

  Above me, the door handle jiggled and turned. I squatted on my heels, butt touching the damp concrete. The musty scent of old wood and damp nearly overpowered me. The basement door protested as it opened. A dark silhouette hesitated. I rose and tested the heft of the flashlight in my palm. I revived a mental picture of Mark McGwire at bat. I crouched, modeling my stance after Albert Pujol’s.

  I was ready to protect my child, my dog, and my home. Every cell in my body crackled with coiled energy.

  My heart thumped. My breathing was shallow. My lips stuck to my dry teeth.

  A big foot in a basketball shoe lowered itself to the top stair.

  I waited.

  A second shoe tapped the edge of the wood, then felt its way along. I could make out the shape of bulky ankle-high leather.

  The foot reached down, touched a toe to the next step and tested it for security.

  A warm blast of moist air redolent of dog tickled its way across my neck. I nearly toppled into Gracie. She stood at my shoulder, her jowls even with my face. Her gaze was on the feet on the stairway. Drool slid down my arm. I moved to grab her collar, to hold her back, to protect her.

  But Gracie was too fast for me. She launched herself at the form on the steps. Bump, bump, bump. She took the stairs four at a time, a moving hulk of d
ark and light. Her body sent a breeze of dog-scented air cascading through the stuffy odor of the basement.

  Thump. Gracie landed.

  “ARGGGGHHH!” A voice rent the dark in two. I turned on the flashlight and trained it toward the noise. All I could see was a black-and-white tail switching above a set of prone athletic shoes. I raced up the stairs.

  Where were my neighbors? Surely everyone on the block heard that crash.

  “Noooo!”

  I raised the flashlight over my head, ready to swing hard.

  “Help! Help!” A meek voice rose from the kitchen floor.

  I stumbled at the top stair, nearly falling over the big pair of feet. The overhead light fixture hummed. Lights flickered then stayed on.

  I stood, holding the flashlight like a weapon, staring down into a ski mask. All I could see was the whites of my intruder’s eyes.

  “Mom?”

  “Stay in the basement, Anya! Stay there!”

  “GRRRRR.” Gracie’s tail slugged my leg. Her huge paws were planted on the armpits and groin of the man she’d flattened.

  “Police! Open up!” A banging at the front door added to the pandemonium.

  “Come around back!” I yelled. I crouched next to the figure in the ski cap and showed him the butt-end of the flashlight. “Move and I’ll bash your head in! Hear me?”

  “Yeeesss.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Don’t let her bite me, please, please.”

  “Open up!” The banging started at the back door.

  “Don’t you move or she’ll have you for a snack. Got it?” I shouted over the din.

  “Yessss. Please! Please! Don’t let her bite me!”

  “Bite? She’s going to eat you!”

  “Grrrr.” Gracie was a bit mollified now. Her face never moved more than an inch from her quarry’s. A silver thread of slobber dripped from her maw to the ski mask.

  “Mom?” Anya’s voice grew louder, more insistent.

  “Stay in the basement, Anya!”

  I yanked the back door open. Two cops stood at attention with guns in hand. I managed to gasp, “He’s on the floor. My dog’s got him.”

  ___

  “Where would you like to go today? It’s raining outside, so I think we’d better skip Babler Park.” The bulk of the storms had moved on, but their legacy of rain drummed angrily on our windows. The winds had caused havoc and disaster to the south of us. Two people had died in their mobile home, and another in a flash flood. I immediately said a prayer of thanks for keeping us safe from the bad weather and our intruder.

  Huh. Some bad guy. He was nothing more than a local high school student. “Cal Kleeber is his name,” said one of the police officers. “Stupid kid. Got paid a case of beer for breaking into your place and grabbing CDs.” The cop handed over Enya, Manhattan Transfer’s Christmas album, and a Frank Sinatra disk. “They get dumber every year.”

  Finding out who hired the boy was a waste of time.

  “Could be anyone from Jennifer Lopez to Jennifer Aniston. She wore big sunglasses and her hair was tucked under a hat. He never saw her car. Was supposed to meet her back at the liquor store. Of course, she’s long gone,” sighed the policeman. “No lie, and he’s an altar boy at St. Aloysius parish. Father Bechstein is going to have a cow.”

  I didn’t explain that the boy had gotten the CD part wrong, poor dope.

  I watched Anya push pancake pieces around her plate. She’d taken a teensy trial bite of the bacon before setting it aside. Seeing that our “burglar” was a pimply faced sixteen year old with more thirst for Budweiser than good sense had gone a long way toward calming her down after the incident.

  And learning he’d peed his pants made Anya darn near hysterical.

  “Gracie wouldn’t hurt a fly!” she’d giggled.

  Now I had to get us back to normal. “Honey, you have to eat. You aren’t overweight. Remember the pediatrician said you needed to gain a few pounds?”

  I made a mental note that five Benadryl tablets only put Gracie to sleep for two hours. Our big, furry hero groaned at my daughter’s feet and closed her eyes. She’d had a busy night.

  Anya looked at me dubiously. Okay, I had no credibility when it came to what a female should weigh. Even so, I was her mother, and I needed to marshal whatever powers I had to get my kid to eat.

  “We’re not going anywhere until you have at least have a couple of bites.”

  “Mom, don’t make me eat, okay?” Under her eyes was smudged purple. Her bottom lip trembled. We were both exhausted.

  I sighed. We still hadn’t discussed my night in jail. I couldn’t even get her to look me in the eye.

  “Anya, we have to—”

  A knock at the door interrupted me.

  “Couldn’t make it here last night with the storms an’ all. Wanted to be sure you’re okay.” Mert’s face was drawn and tired. She wore a black T-shirt short enough to display a rhinestone charm in her belly button. Stretched across her bust and outlined in sequins was the word “Queen.” Her white short-shorts barely covered her rear end. She gave me the once-over before extending her arms for a hug. I thanked her for helping Dodie to remember Bonnie was an attorney. Then I told her about the past evening’s excitement.

  “No kidding? But the security lights are up!”

  “And the electricity was off.”

  “Rats,” said Mert.

  “That’s not my biggest problem,” I added. “It’s Anya. Sheila told her I was in jail. Now she won’t talk to me.”

  “Jest leave us alone.” Mert’s truck keys dangled before my eyes. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee at Kaldi’s and come back in an hour.”

  “No. I can’t. This is my responsibility. I’m her mother.”

  “Go on and get. She won’t listen to you right now, but she’ll listen to me. Don’t give me any lip about your re-spon-si-bil-i-tee. You think you’re the only one who loves that kid?” Mert’s mouth was set hard. “Listen. Sometimes you got to let others carry the load for you. You hear me? Now go.”

  I climbed into the candy-apple red Toyota pickup. Frankie, the dead ferret whose skin Mert had draped over the rearview mirror, winked at me with tawny glass eyes. “Oh, shut up,” I said to the animal, “what are you looking at? You eat your young.” The tiny American flag taped on the dash waved jauntily as I shifted gears and pulled away from the curb. I felt guilty, and I felt relieved.

  Shouldn’t I be handling this? Shouldn’t I be the one my child turned to? Was this proof I couldn’t cut it as a mother?

  Then again, maybe Mert was a better choice for talking to Anya. Maybe Anya would open up to her. They’d known each other for years. I was so tired, so spent. I drove to Kaldi’s, put an espresso macchiato on my charge card, and sat on the truck running board to sip it. As I did, I prayed.

  It was a pitiful ecumenical choice—caffeine and Toyota instead of Holy Communion and church—but if God really is everywhere, why wouldn’t he be at Kaldi’s? And if his eye is on the sparrow, why wouldn’t he be watching me and knowing I needed him?

  I asked for help. I think he heard me.

  An hour to the minute, I pulled up in my driveway.

  Anya and Mert tumbled out of the front door. My daughter gave me a shy smile. “Let’s go see WE. Mert’s never seen her.”

  “Sure, honey,” I said. “That sounds great.”

  ___

  WE is a two-headed female albino rat snake which was purchased from a breeder in Illinois a few weeks after her birth. When she came to the World Aquarium, no one expected her to live more than a couple of months. But WE is unusual; both WE’s two heads connect to her stomach.

  After showing her off for six years, the aquarium decided to sell her on eBay for $150,000. The bids never got close to that price, but the publicity did make WE St. Louis’s most famous reptile.

  The world has since learned that WE may actually be fraternal twin snakes—male and female—sharing the same body. The aquarium plans to introduce WE to a he
in the hopes of spawning wee WEs or mini-WEs.

  I had sympathy for the poor snake. I’d been married to a two-faced rascal myself. I’d read the note Olivia had given me, and it was tucked safely inside my wallet until I could follow up on the misbehavior that had led to my husband’s death.

  I love all living creatures, but snakes are definitely at the bottom of my list. And WE, well, she gives me the creeps. Her color, her quadruple glassy eyes, her twin flickering tongues make the hairs stand up on my arms. But Anya is fascinated by WE. We—Anya and I, that is—can’t visit that bifurcated animal often enough to suit my daughter.

  As usual Anya marched up the stairs immediately beyond the City Museum foyer, past all the sparkling mosaics and glittering inlaid stones that attract other kids. She went straight to the World Aquarium on the second floor, turning right and making a beeline for WE’s glass case.

  Mert followed her gamely, but the moment she saw the four-foot-long reptile, her knees buckled. “Do Lord,” she whimpered. “This is like a horror movie I once’t saw at the drive-in. Couldn’t handle it then, neither.” I led her to a nearby bench. Actually, what they need is a fainting couch. I’m sure Mert’s not the only visitor who’s felt woozy after viewing the squirming ivory body with its pair of reddish triangular heads and four beady eyes.

  “Honey, why don’t we show Mert the rest of the City Museum?” I suggested. “I bet she’d like the Everyday Circus and the crafts area.”

  “Or the jets on the roof,” Anya said.

  “Or the architectural relics.”

  Mert whined, “Anything that ain’t moving on its belly. Please!”

  ___

  That night I tucked Anya into bed.

  “We need to talk.”

  She looked down at the tented mounds that were her feet. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I know. I always knew.” She sighed. “I just get tired of hearing Grandma tell me how bad you are. After a while, I start to feel confused.” Her cool hand slipped into mine as she continued, “And I know you and Gracie will protect me, and that you would never hurt anybody. Honest, Mom. But sometimes I miss our old life, and then …”