“There was no sign on it.”
“Does it need to say Keepa Ya Hands Off? Maybe I should have written that in icing.”
Carl shoved the cake back in the refrigerator. “What’s for hors d’oeuvres?”
“Peanut butter and crackers.”
He shook his head.
“Cheese and crackers.”
He shrugged.
“Beer and crackers.”
He smiled.
I poured the beer while he changed clothes. I would ask him the latest news on Charlotte when he came downstairs. And when could I meet her? I wanted to be the one to rescue this little girl. I wanted to fix things and work it all out.
Beer froth ran over the top of the glass. I wiped up the beer with a paper towel, then arranged some cheese and crackers on a cutting board.
Carl reappeared in the kitchen. “How was your day?” he asked, hoisting his mug faceward.
“Bookkeeping all morning, recycling with Jamie after school, then researching foster care and adoption.”
A shadow crossed Carl’s face.
“What?” I said.
“Charlotte has an aunt and uncle who are going to take care of her,” he said. “They’re working with the state now. It’s called kinship care.” Carl must have seen the look on my face because he said, “Tracy, the aunt is the mother’s sister. Her goal is to restore Charlotte to her mother once she’s gone through rehab. The caseworker is on top of it.”
I grabbed the cheese and returned it to the refrigerator so he couldn’t see my tears. My heart had been set kind of set on this idea. A little girl Jamie’s age would have been fun to take care of. I had enjoyed dreaming about it.
“There’s quite a bit of trauma there,” Carl went on. “The half-brother threatened to slit her throat if she didn’t stop bugging him. He murdered her cat to prove his point. Charlotte has nightmares about it.”
An awful thought entered my head which I voiced to the cake inside the refrigerator. “Was she sexually molested?”
“No. But she was terrorized,” Carl said. “It will take a long time to get over that. I’m not sure we’d be up to the challenge. Or Jamie. We need to think of the effect on him.”
I nodded.
He set his beer on the counter and took me in his arms. “So you see, it’s for the best.”
The refrigerator door swung shut as I repeated, “For the best.”
Sassy Morgan called on Wednesday. “I need you to come to book club again,” she said. “Even if you can’t join, come to the next meeting. I’m worried about more medicine thefts.”
“When is it?”
“Thursday night two weeks from now.”
I scrolled down to my calendar. “I’m free.”
“You’ll have to read the book,” she said.
“Packing for Mars?”
“That was last month. It’s called Wild by a girl named Cheryl Strayed who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail.”
“Is it turgid?” I asked.
Sassy laughed. “No, you’ll like this one.”
I wrote down the details. “Sassy, let’s tag team a little. If someone gets up during the discussion, one of us will follow the person to see where she goes. Okay?”
“Okay, Sherlock,” she said.
“Try to be casual about it, Watson.”
“Get another hors d’oeuvre? Pour a glass of wine? Is that the idea?”
“Just say you have a bladder infection.”
Sassy laughed.
“And sometime during the evening, tell Orchid you’ve had some dental surgery and you’re off the painkillers the dentist gave you.”
Stone silence on the other end of the line.
“Sassy?” I asked.
“Isn’t that entrapment?”
“Whoever is taking pills is addicted to them and that means they’re hurting, Sassy. Someone’s life is taking a dive. They need to get help before something bad happens.”
“All right.”
“I have my doubts about Candy too, not just Orchid,” I told her. “So I’m going to mention to Candy that I’ve got meds for dental surgery, too. We’ll see what happens.”
Book club was held at the home of Mrs. Goodrich, the elegant woman in the designer dress who lived in our town’s first gated community. Every huge home in Blue Cliffs is right on the golf course. They have breathtaking views of our snow-capped mountains and their own personal putting greens. Half the inhabitants have retired with millions made from hedge funds; the other half are executives in Fortune 500 companies.
As I drove past the palatial estates, I felt a bit uncomfortable. These homes had names like Durango Manor and Lookout Lodge. My house is just called House.
A sign on the door at the book club address said “Walk In” so I did. Female voices bounced off lofty ceilings somewhere in the back. I followed the noise to the kitchen where a dozen women were clustered around a large island. The kitchen boasted two ranges, two sinks and two dishwashers.
“Tracy’s here!” shouted Candy Fiber. “Tracy is the best hair colorist!” She patted her purple locks.
I had to admit Candy’s hair made me look good. I had balanced her natural color with just enough violaceous to make it daring but tasteful. Candy poured me a glass of Shiraz. I took a tentative sip. This was not the cheap stuff.
Orchid stood by a plate of goat cheese, grapes and water crackers, drinking rosé. Sassy was perched next to her on a bar chair, giving me a thumbs up. I assumed she’d told Orchid about her dental work.
After everyone arrived and was properly watered, Meryl Thompson shooed us into the Great Room. The sofa was so deep I couldn’t lean on the back cushion and make my feet touch the floor at the same time, so I propped some pillows behind me. We all looked uncomfortable but ready for some studious discussion.
I held Wild in my hand. My wine glass sat on the vast coffee table in front of me and I tried to reach it but Candy plunked herself down next to me and saved me the trouble. I managed to mention my fake dental troubles to Candy before the moderator cleared her throat.
Meryl Thompson extracted some printed notes tucked between the pages of her book. “These questions are from Oprah’s website. You all know Oprah loved Cheryl Strayed’s book and they made it into a movie.”
“Starring Reese Witherspoon,” said Candy.
The moderator cleared her throat again and read verbatim. “When Cheryl discovers the guidebook to the Pacific Crest Trail, she says that the trip was an idea, vague and outlandish, full of promise and mystery. Later, her soon-to-be ex-husband suggests she wants to do the hike to be alone and get off drugs. What do you think her reasons were for committing to this journey?”
She put her papers down and glanced around the room.
No one said a thing.
I shifted on my pillows. The answer was perfectly obvious—Cheryl had fucked up her life and had no idea what she was getting into. She was out of control. But I didn’t say this—I just squirmed in my seat.
Finally, a middle-aged woman said, “She’s reaching an age where she must birth herself from the confines of child personhood to adult personhood and go on her own, very intimate journey, just as the archetypal hero goes on his quest to slay his dragons and returns victorious.”
They all put that comment in their pipes and smoked it.
Orchid raised her hand. “I think she wants to get away from drugs. She needs to go to a place where there are no temptations and only hardship. She’s afraid to go on and afraid not to go on. She is afraid.”
Candy said, “I think she wants to off the husband and she needs to get far, far away so she doesn’t wring his neck.”
Everyone laughed.
“Interesting comments, all of you.” Mrs. Thompson beamed, as if we were her children. She consulted her notes again: “Walking on the trail during the first few weeks, Cheryl writes, ‘My mind was a crystal vase that contained only one desire. My body was its opposite: a bag of broken glass.’ Throughout the book she t
alks about blisters, dehydration, exhaustion and hunger. How—and why—did this physical suffering help her cope with her emotional pain?”
I watched the faces around the room. Orchid looked tired and listless. Candy looked buoyant and sunny. Sassy looked worried. Another woman looked glazed over. The rest were talking and seemed to be tracking with the discussion.
Mrs. Thompson allowed the conversation to wane before she let fly with the next question: “Cheryl’s pack, also known as Monster, is one of those real-life objects that makes a perfect literary metaphor: Cheryl has too much to carry on her back and in her mind. Are there other objects she takes with her or acquires along the way that take on deeper meanings? How so?”
This was surely a turgid question. I rolled my eyes at Sassy to see if she agreed with me. She raised her hand to her mouth and giggled behind it.
People began to talk. They were deep in the throes of reading a lot into a little, when Orchid rose from her chair. Sassy’s eyebrows shot up. I struggled up from the passel of pillows sucking me down like a kids’ plunge-pile in a McDonalds PlayPlace.
In the kitchen Orchid was pouring herself another glass of wine. I got busy with the cheese and crackers, waiting to see where she’d go next. She headed back toward the Great Room.
“Orchid,” I called.
“Yes?” She turned back, right next to a pillar of wall ovens.
“That was very perceptive of you—your remark about the drugs. How did you know that?”
“I have friends . . .” she said. “They’d do anything to get off drugs.”
“I guess they’re having a hard time.”
“They’ve tried and tried.” Her mouth turned down. “It’s their prison.” She toddled off to the Great Room. I grabbed a couple of grapes and followed.
“In the beginning of the book,” Mrs. Thompson said, “Cheryl’s prayers are literally curse words—curses for her mother’s dying, curses against her mother for failing. How does her spiritual life change with prayer? What is the meaning of God?”
The group worked hard on spirituality. Words like “nature,” “meaning,” “mysticism,” “exorcism,” and “otherworldliness” rippled around the room. I was happy to let them wallow in this discussion.
When spirituality had run its course, Mrs. Thompson broached another topic: “Cheryl wrote: ‘The thing about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail was how few choices I had and how often I had to do the thing I least wanted to do. How there was no escape or denial.’ In what ways have her choices helped and/or hurt her up to this point?” Mrs. Thompson actually said “and/or.” She was a very precise facilitator.
Sassy spoke first. “I think the most difficult thing for me to understand was Cheryl’s involvement with heroin. We all know what a hard core drug that is and how it leads to addiction. I’m sure Cheryl knew that. So why did she do it? Why put yourself in peril like that?”
I held my breath, waiting for Candy or Orchid to answer. The room was so silent you could hear the ice maker in the refrigerator filling with water.
“I used heroin once,” said a voice from deep within a sofa next to Mrs. Thompson.
All eyes turned to the rail thin, elegant woman in the designer dress, our hostess Mrs. Goodrich.
“I had a C-section when my daughter was born and became dependent on prescription pain killers. When Percocet wasn’t enough, I wanted something stronger. We were living in New York City at the time, so heroin was easy to get. I became addicted and my husband found out. He took me to the Resort and they saved my life. That’s how we ended up living here.”
Everyone started talking at once. Some women wanted to hear more; others fled to the cheese and crackers—I guessed this confession was too personal for them.
I followed one woman; Sassy followed another. They ended up in the kitchen, scarfing down hors d’oeuvres and pouring more wine. All except Candy Fiber. She had disappeared.
Sassy motioned up with her forefinger and pointed her thumb to her chest. I took that to mean she would go upstairs while I searched the lower level. No Candy.
The group was re-convening. Orchid had stayed in her chair, body pitched forward, still hanging on to catch every word the elegant lady was saying. Candy returned. Sassy returned. The group discussion continued but I zoned out. I’d had enough of school for the day. Wild was not a turgid book, but Oprah’s questions made it so.
The evening ended with one final sortie from Mrs. Thompson: “At one point, Cheryl tells herself, ‘I was not meant to be this way, to live this way, to fail so darkly.’ It’s a moment of self-criticism and despair. And yet, some belief in herself exists in that statement. How do the things Cheryl believes about herself throughout the memoir, even during her lowest moments, help or hurt her on the Pacific Crest Trail?”
One woman spoke in a fairly self-righteous tone. “Cheryl must have had a low opinion of herself because she slept with real low-lifes. I can’t understand how she could do that.”
The woman whose eyes had been glazed over earlier in the evening was engaged now. “That was during a tough period when God had dealt her some pretty bad cards—especially her mother’s death,” she said. “On the trail, she believes she can make it. She wills herself to make it. And she does.”
I put in my two cents. “Cheryl Strayed was not meant to walk the Pacific Crest Trail. She was meant to write a book. It could have been about anything. She couldn’t give up that vision of herself. Being an author was her dream and that was why she did it.”
No one seemed interested in my observation.
We finished our wine and said our goodbyes. Orchid and Candy left. I walked out the front door with Sassy. “Where did Candy go during the break?” I asked.
“She went to the master bathroom and snooped through the medicine cabinet.”
“She didn’t!”
“She did and when I confronted her, she said – ‘Just seeing if our hostess needs a re-fill.’ She pulled one of her dietary supplements out of the cabinet and opened the bottle.”
“The balls of that girl.”
“I’ll say,” said Sassy, shaking her head and giggling as she walked away.
Nothing happened for an entire week and then Sassy Morgan called. Her house had been burglarized. The thief jimmied the back door, but nothing was taken.
“That’s because there was nothing to take,” I said. “You didn’t have dental surgery so there were no pain pills. This can’t be a coincidence.”
The next evening Carl came home and told me there had been three burglaries in a neighborhood not far from ours. The thief entered the homes by forcing the back door open with a tool, probably a crowbar. Again, nothing was taken.
“Did you check to see if any prescription pills went missing?”
“It was the chief’s case,” he said.
Carl and I looked at each other. Of course, the chief would forget to ask about prescription drugs. Carl knew how worried I was about Orchid. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He headed back to the police station.
I sat down at the kitchen table. Orchid’s words came back to me: She’s afraid to go on and afraid not to go on. She is afraid.
I called Sassy. “Have you heard from Orchid lately?”
“No, why?”
I explained about the break-ins. “I can’t help thinking about her. Getting drunk at Madeleine’s wedding, maybe even high. What she said at book club about ‘friends’ on drugs. Her reaction to Mrs. Goodrich’s story. I just think we owe it to her to stay in touch.”
“Especially after these break-ins.”
“What if she did them? What if she scored and she’s floating away right now? Maybe forever. Do you know her number?”
“I’ll call her,” Sassy said.
Ten minutes later she called back. Orchid’s cell phone had gone to voicemail over and over.
“Do you know where she lives?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
I
took Jamie to my neighbor’s house. By the time I arrived at Sassy’s, she was pacing her front lawn.
Orchid rented a cottage in a modest neighborhood. Her car was in the driveway but there was no answer to the doorbell. The front door was locked.
We circled the house, peering through the windows. The curtains were drawn. I banged hard on the back door. It, too, was locked. Sassy found a sash window slightly open in the rear.
“Let’s use it,” I said.
She shook her head. “We would be breaking in.”
I took my cell phone out of my pocket and tapped on my Favorite.
“You’re doing what?” Carl said.
I put him on speakerphone and explained again.
“Tracy, you can’t break into a house on a whim. So what if she seems depressed at book club? Lots of people are depressed. And they drink too much. Do you see anything through the window?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t come over. The chief gets mad if officers go around kicking in doors. I’ve no warrant and no probable cause of any wrong-doing.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re probably right. See you at home, sweetheart.” I tapped the little red stop button.
Sassy and I traded looks.
“I’ll get that lawn chair and you do the job,” she said.
We used the Leatherman I keep in my glove compartment to cut the screen. The casement window was hard to raise but I got in. Sassy climbed in after me. We were in a laundry room.
Sassy called Orchid’s name and ran through the tiny house straight to the bedroom. Orchid was lying on the bed. We couldn’t wake her.
“Her pulse is weak but she’s still with us,” I said. “Call an ambulance.”
Sassy used her cell, then rushed outside to meet the medics.
I called Carl. Then I looked around. There were three pill bottles on the bedside table with a note. I leaned over and read it.
Please forgive me, whoever finds me here, and tell everyone not to do what I have done. Pills are a prison and I’m in it. I’m not strong enough to ask for parole. I’m sorry.
“Oh, Orchid,” I whispered. I bent over the comatose figure on the bed. “Don’t die now. There’s so much to live for.”
Petty Crimes & Head Cases Page 14
