by Amber Foxx
It had traveled the world with him as a child and he’d never lost it. Touching it sometimes brought back the dim feeling of the person he’d been before any traumas, when he could barely wrap his little hand around the toy’s thick tail. He put it into his backpack along with the toothbrush and toothpaste and his phone. Might be nice to have the roo tonight before the show. He wouldn’t take it out, of course, but it would be there.
Running back downstairs to the lobby, he clutched the list in his hand. Triple security—toothbrush, roo, list. The night would be manageable. Through the glass door, he saw a silver Volvo pull up. The driver, a woman with long wavy steel-gray hair and a round, cheery pink face, waved and leaned over to open the passenger door. Deeply grateful, Jamie returned her smile and wave, and exited the hotel.
Hearing his phone ring in his backpack, he signaled his rescuer to wait a second, and answered the call. Hope and relief sprang up. It was from Sylvie’s number. Calling her and making a plan was the biggest thing on his list. “Sylvie?”
“Howdy, Cowboy. Hope you got your britches on.”
Jamie’s nerves jerked. Could she have seen him? That was crazy. She lived in Austin. “What are you talking about?”
“Your trip back to get your things. Saddle up for the ride.” She paused. “What do you think I'm talking about?”
Seeing me in the nuddy. “Nothing.” He let out his breath, walked to the car and got in. “Had a rough day, that’s all. Forget it.”
The driver reached over and shook his free hand, whispering her name, Naomi Petersen. She handed him a wrapped sandwich and a Blue Sky vanilla cream soda, started the car, and pointed at the seat belt he had forgotten to buckle. With a flash of his best smile and a nod of thanks, he buckled up and opened the soda after wiping its lid clean on his shirt. Its sweetness and bubbles soothed him like some kind of medicine.
Sylvie drawled, “Hope you’re happy to talk to me.”
Jamie sucked down half the soda as she spoke, and a belch eructed as he opened his mouth to answer. “Sorry. Drank too fast. Yeah, I’m glad you called. Need to know what you paid for my stuff, and if you’ve called the police. My manager thinks we have to.”
“You’re not drinking beer, are you?”
“Vanilla cream soda.” For some reason this struck him as funny. She probably thought he was a serious drinker after his night in Austin, and here was this neurotic bloke with his roo and his candy soda. “Did you want me to pay for my stuff?” She had a way of digressing from his questions. Not that there was anything wrong with that. His mind caromed around a little, too.
“Don’t worry about the money, honey. I got it covered. But we can’t call the cops on this poor kid. This isn’t a hard-core thief. I feel sorry for this person, really, being so desperate and all. Can we make a deal on that?”
“Jesus. I suppose.” Jamie had been poor. Still was. Never stolen anything, but he could understand being desperate. If his parents hadn’t been able to help him, or if he’d been an addict, or more seriously mentally ill, it might have come to that. Hard to tell. “Yeah. Decent of you to think of that. How can you afford to pay for my stuff, though? I remember you now, y’know. You’re the server at Locally Loco who helped me unload, right? Little short girl with black hair.”
“That’s me all right.” She paused. “Is that all you remember?”
“Um ... yeah.” He remembered those sharp dark eyes, the tiny hands like little paws, the snobby attitude about country music as if it was the only thing worth listening to. What else did she want him to say? You look like a ferret? He didn’t remember anything positive other than her help, though he wished he could. “I got kind of off my face that night.”
“No wonder you got robbed.”
“I know. My manager thinks it was you, though, and that you have to be up to some sort of scam, like holding the instruments for ransom or something.”
Sylvie whooped a rowdy little laugh. “Does she? Isn’t that something.” She stayed silent a while. “Want me to send you a picture of them? Show you they’re okay?”
“Would you? That’s great. Yeah. Thanks. Jesus, you’re an angel. And send it to Wendy Huang, too. You can contact her through the booking link on my web site. It’d prove you’re all right.” His heart began to settle, beating more slowly. “You’re a good person. Thank you. But I can’t get to Austin ’til—” He thought of the itinerary of his tour. Counted cities and days as best he could, but his weakness with math was so extreme that he might miscalculate this simple thing. “I think it’s like three weeks or something. No—two. Hate to ask, but is there any way you could get them to me? You have a truck or something?”
“Of course I do. I’m a Texas girl.”
“That’d be great. But it’s a bloody awful drive, and you’d have hotels, and Wendy doesn’t want me to pay to get them back, see, I’m ...” He didn’t want to tell this stranger he was broke, and his anxiety rose again, winding up his body and the speed of his speech. “Dunno. I’ll talk to her. But we’ll do this. You saved me. Thanks. Send the picture. And where to find you in Austin or—”
“Slow down, relax. I said I’ve got it covered. I’ll see you.” Sylvie paused. “Sooner than you think.”
“You mean you’re coming?”
“Might be Raleigh. Maybe Durham. One or the other. Bye-bye.”
Those were his next two stops. Melting in relief, Jamie leaned back. Sylvie hadn’t said exactly when, but she was coming. Soon. Bringing his things. How could she not want repayment? She must be doing something like a random act of kindness, some kind of spiritually motivated goodness.
For someone who’d blown everything, he was getting an incredible second chance. Now if Mae could find Gasser ...
Naomi glanced over at him with raised eyebrows, and he realized he’d fallen into a thought-fog. Not spoken to her.
“Sorry—it was about getting my instruments back. Didn’t mean to be rude. You’re a life saver. Thanks for the lift—and the drummers.” Suddenly so hungry he felt he could turn wrong side out, he unwrapped the sandwich. Tofu with cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions on whole wheat. Mayonnaise as thick as the bread almost. He bit into it, letting the mayo run onto his hands and into his beard. The anxiety over his instruments and Sylvie, now relieved, dissolved into this ravenous appetite. “And the tucker.”
Naomi reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re most welcome.”
“Fuck.” He looked at the mess on his fingers, laughed at himself. “I hope that’s Vegannaise.”
“It is. Napkins in the cup holder,” Naomi said. “Hard to travel vegan, isn’t it? Were you starving?”
He grabbed a napkin and wiped his hands and face. “Dunno. Guess I was.” Catching himself talking with his mouth full, he swallowed. “Sorry. Manners.”
Naomi chuckled. “Don’t worry.” She stopped at a light and smiled at him as if she took a maternal pleasure in watching him eat and drink. “I’m glad you like the food. My ex is Harold Petersen, you know, with Blues Ridge.” Jamie was impressed. That band was a classic, and still big. “Harold used to tell me all about life on the road. Bad food. No sleep. Cooped up. Took him years to get used to it.”
“Years? Jesus.” He didn’t want to spend years feeling this strange. “I’m a tour virgin. This is my first.”
Chuckling at his joke, Naomi almost missed the green light, then responded to a honk behind her and turned left. “Wendy said it’s been a rough one. We’re happy our drum circle can help you out. Do you know when you’re getting your instruments back?”
“Nah. Soon, though, one or the other of my next stops. Sylvie—lady that has them—she’s got a truck.” As he finished the sandwich and the soda, sudden fatigue grabbed him. He leaned back and pulled his hat over his face. “Jesus. Think I could go to sleep.”
“Can’t.” Naomi tipped the hat back up. “We need you awake.” She pulled into a parking lot behind a large stone warehouse that looked like it dated to the nineteenth century
. “What else can I do to get you ready? You’ve got less than an hour.”
He saw the list lying on his lap, with mayonnaise spilled on it. “Just need to get in and warm up, tonight. Run through some things with you. But tomorrow ...” Reluctantly, he showed her the list. The blob on it embarrassed him as much as the request. “You don’t have to. You’ve got a life. Just directions, y’know, something to get me ... dunno. Less confused.”
She looked the list over. “Laundry? Use my washer. Bike? Got that.” She smiled. “Good food? You’re in good hands.”
“You don’t have to do that—Jesus—”
“Let me. I own a bookstore, I’m my own boss, and I can work a half day. I know what you’re dealing with. I was married to a musician for twenty years. You need to feel at home for a little bit.”
Miraculous. Women were coming out of the woodwork, rescuing him right and left. “Thank you. Can I say that fifty times? Thank you.”
Naomi gave him a tender look that turned into a broad smile. “All righty, then.” With a burst of energy, she opened the car door and stood, shaking the wrinkles out of her dress.
What a bloody huge bum. She didn’t look fat while she was sitting on it, but that was a substantial following. In a bright purple dress, no less. Reminding himself not to stare, Jamie got out of the car. Naomi unloaded two drums from the back seat. “Wait. Don’t pick it up yet. I know what you need.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Flinging her arms open, she announced, “You need a hug,” and clasped him, her head to his chest, her breasts pushing into his belly, her short soft arms squeezing hard.
At first he was too startled to respond, but then gave in, returning her hug full strength. It felt wonderful. “I did need that. Thank you.”
Each picked up a drum, and Naomi led Jamie to the back door of the warehouse, her wide backside wagging saucily.
The warehouse’s cellar was a vast stone-walled cave of a room, a cross between a bar and a dance club. Jamie met the manager, excused himself to go brush his teeth, and took that time alone to regroup as well as to address onion breath and stray vegetables. He still had to get through tonight without instruments, get used to the bar’s sound system, and summon the confidence to pull this off with only a short time to get ready. No one was looking. He took the roo out for a quick little hug. Much better. He packed it back up.
When he came out into the bar, Naomi had gone to the front door, probably to look for her drum group arriving. The manager, a man about Naomi’s age, stood on the stage with a young man who was setting up a microphone and amplifiers. The manager said to Jamie, “I have something for you.”
Payments went to Wendy. Jamie didn’t handle the money. He couldn’t imagine what the man would have for him. “What is it?”
“Hang on.” The manager held up a finger, and disappeared into an office to the far right of the room.
Jamie started warm-ups while he waited. It felt good to use his voice. Loose parts of his soul reassembled, even when he was just running through scales. As usual, the sheer range and volume of his voice made the servers look at him with a kind of awe and pleasure while they went about setting up the bar or their wait stations, and he remembered the strange look Sylvie had given him while he warmed up in Austin. Not exactly displeased, but not admiring, either.
The manager returned with a bright yellow paper gift bag. “This was on the front door with your name on it.”
Jamie peered inside the bag. “Fuck me dead.” A bar of vegan red chile dark chocolate, and a big bag of green chile pistachios. New Mexico food, in North Carolina. His favorites. Who would know to do that? “Was there a card or anything?”
“No.” The manager shook his head. “Just the bag addressed to you.”
Someone had written on the bag in bold, heavy print Jangarrai. Strange. Anyone who knew him well enough to know he liked red chile chocolate would call him Jamie.
Maybe they’d had someone deliver it to the only name most people could find him by in Asheville. Wendy might have done it, to make him feel better after all the disasters. His parents might think to do something that sweet. It’d be hard to organize, but it wasn’t past them. Maybe—maybe Mae could have sent it. He’d introduced her to red and green chiles, shopped with her and cooked for her. He put the gift bag in his pack and resumed warming up, feeling as warm inside as if he’d eaten the red chile chocolate.
Chapter Eight
Dear Mae, thnaks for doing this for me. Sorry if it stinks. I love him aynwya. Miss him. Miss you too. Sorry—not same category as cat. Incorehently yours, JEJE.
James Edward Jangarrai Ellerbee. Jamie. His handwriting sloped like trees in a hurricane bending in the wind, leaning into his words. The scrambled letters were not misspellings, but the misfiring of something in his brain. The note, scrawled on a torn-off piece of his directions to San Antonio, made Mae feel him in all his messy warmth.
She took the cat-hairy shirt out to the back steps, and sat and opened her pouch of crystals. A cool breeze stirred a little dust from the bare dirt yard and rattled the mesquite leaves over the hot spring tub. The view of the serene shape of the sleeping turtle formation on Turtleback Mountain quieted her mind, as if the big brown mountain gathering sunset shadows into its shoulders was a healing crystal itself. This was a good spot for psychic work.
Holding her grandmother’s amethyst for stronger clairvoyance, Mae contemplated the turtle, and then closed her eyes, her free hand resting on Gasser’s nest. The sense of traveling through a tunnel came quickly.
Her vision cleared into the interior of a large van with a carpeted floor and shelves on which animal carriers were strapped in place. A slim black woman in khaki pants and a polo shirt stepped in through the open rear doors carrying a small, crated cat. She placed the crate on one of the shelves and attached a strap.
Standing in the open door, a narrow-chested young man asked, “How often do you stop to feed them and give them water?”
“Ever traveled with a woman? It’s plenty often. Every time I need a rest stop, I check on my passengers. Don’t worry. Your kitty will get to your mom in good shape.”
“Mind if I come in and say goodbye to Felicity? I hate to give her up, but ...”
“Go ahead.” The worker checked the strapping on other carriers. “Just don’t undo anything.”
As the youth approached, he stopped, looking at the carrier next to his cat’s, and burst out laughing. “Whoa. I guess you don’t have to feed that one.”
“Of course I do. Fat cats get hungry, too.”
“Someone should arrest the owner for animal cruelty, feeding it that much.”
“Say goodbye to your kitty. I need to get on the road.”
While the young man cooed a few parting words to his Felicity, Mae’s vision zoomed in on the fat cat. She’d found Gasser. He blinked and laid his chubby chin on one paw. The driver reached though the grate of the carrier with two fingers and touched the paw. “Ready to ride, Fats?”
Gasser closed his eyes, and the driver and the customer got out. Was Gasser normally so lethargic? Mae hoped he was all right. The driver closed the doors, and the interior of the van became pitch dark. Unable to see more, Mae pulled out of the vision.
The good news of course was that Jamie’s cat was alive, but where, she had no idea. The driver had no company name on her shirt, and the customer had mentioned nothing other than sending his own cat to his mother. Maybe Jamie could look up companies that shipped cats in vans, and find out if anyone had picked up an obese orange cat in Oklahoma. How private could that information be? It wasn’t like asking for a human’s medical records.
Glancing at her watch, she saw it was almost five o’clock. She just had time to call Jamie before his show. He was on the East Coast now, so it would be seven o’clock there. She went inside to get her phone, leaving the amethyst on the back steps to cleanse and balance in the sun.
“G’day, love.” Jamie sounded breathless. “Should I brace
myself?”
“Gasser’s alive.”
“Alive?” The squeal of bicycle brakes. Jamie, who wouldn’t even leave his phone turned on while he drove his van, was riding and talking on the phone at the same time, probably without a helmet. She’d never seen him wear one. It had to be after dark where he was. “Really? That fat bastard made it?” Mae imagined Jamie’s huge, bright smile. “Jesus. I love him. Where is he?”
“In some cat shipping van.” Mae stepped back outside to sit on the steps and gaze at the mountain. “Somebody’s sent him somewhere. I can’t tell where, but he’s traveling.”
“Jeeezus.” A long silence. A subtle crunching and whirring sound suggested he was riding again. When he spoke he sounded anxious and sad. “How do I get him back?”
“I have no idea. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see the name of the company shipping him, and no one mentioned any destination. It looked like the lady driving the van takes good care of the animals. You could look up all the companies that do this kind of work and ask about him. Did he have his name on a collar or anything?”
“Nah, I’d just got him. Didn’t think of it. Don’t think he’d like a collar, anyway, his neck’s so big.” A heavy sigh. “I could try, still. Tell the shippers I’d lost him. Wonder if the person who found him would want to give him back, though.”
“I bet they would if you asked.” Mae suspected that whoever had rescued Gasser might be happy to send him to Jamie. The charms of the flatulent cat might not be as powerful as his owner thought. “I can keep checking in on him and see if I can tell where he gets unloaded. It’s a long shot but I might see some kind of address or something. You’d probably have better luck calling the pet shipping companies. How many cats that size could have shipped out of Oklahoma lately?”
