by Amber Foxx
“Mae’s psychic? Seriously?”
“Come on, you’re in Santa Fe, you believe this stuff. She really is.”
“If you say so.” A soft sigh. “Is that enough to keep you grounded? Hoping to get him? Having your flutes back?”
“Yeah. I’ll be all right. Got to take the van in for some work in the morning, but aside from that—”
“I thought you had it checked.” Scolding again.
“I did ... In August. Got some new parts.” A big knot made him squirm as the brush jammed. Pain coming, or a lot of patience. Or a pair of scissors. “But it’s old, y’know? Stuff breaks.”
“So you held back on your mental health. And the van’s health. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Didn’t tell you I’m a liar.” This struck him as funny, and he laughed, letting go of the brush, which remained stuck in his hair. Also funny. Wendy didn’t share the humor. Dead silence. “Sorry. Not a liar, really. Guilty of incomplete confessions, that’s all.”
“It won’t look good to a bankruptcy court if you buy a new car. Try to save the van.”
The possibility that the van was less than immortal had never crossed his mind—not with belief, anyway. It would be like the roo falling apart. Certain bad things just didn’t happen. “Right. No worries. Catcha.”
He ended the call and sat to struggle though the hair. Maddening. So much to worry about. The van. Gasser. Sylvie. He rose and turned the radio on, searched for a classical station. A weather report described a rare late-season hurricane stalled off the coast. Mae said it couldn’t happen. Or had she? No, she’d said it hardly ever happened. He didn’t want to worry about one more thing. The storm would have to stay stalled. Like the van.
At least the music that followed was Elgar. Listening to the subtle, wandering melody, Jamie finished untangling his hair and felt a trace of peace.
After rechecking the curtains, he undressed and walked to the bathroom, to be confronted with his flaws in the mirror, triggering a disconcerting memory of the way Sylvie had grabbed that inch of fat like a handle. As if she wanted to call attention to it. In the shower, he tried to imagine the water washing Sylvie’s touch off him. She clung to his thoughts, though, like an annoying tune.
When he was clean, he combed his hair again and tried to like himself in the mirror. Hadn’t his therapist told him something like that, back when he really was fat? Got to love what you are before you can change. And then when he’d lost the weight and gotten together with Lisa, Doctor ... Doctor G—what was his last name?—had said, You’re not done yet. You’ve got months, even years to go. Don’t think because you’ve lost fifty pounds and got a girlfriend that all your problems are solved. I’m proud of you, don’t get me wrong, you’re making progress, but you’re only getting started. Jamie had quit therapy anyway.
All that unfinished business was creeping up now, along with the inch. It wasn’t just Wendy he kept things back from—it was himself.
Wrapped in a towel, he walked into the bedroom, checked the curtains yet again, scanned every corner of the bed and pillows for bities, and got in with a book. No, he needed the roo. Bloody stupid, but there it was. Sure sign of how much unfinished therapy awaited if he ever had the money or insurance again. Grown man sleeps with stuffed toy.
Halfway between finding himself funny and hopeless, Jamie got back out of bed, walked to his backpack where it lay by the triple-locked door, and got out his roo and his phone. The gift bag was still in there. He put it on top of the TV. Whose handwriting? He didn’t recognize it. He stared at the yellow bag. Was this creepy, or innocent? The cookies still smelled fresh. Bad idea. He put them in a drawer and took the roo back to bed with him. It felt good to hold it, so familiar in this strange place, with this episode of Sylvie plaguing him. Clean sheets, clean teeth, untangled hair, the roo, and a good book. Phone by the bed in case he needed someone, or someone who loved him called. Bathroom light on for a little glow while he slept. Everything was as safe and peaceful as it could get, without Gasser. Might even be able to sleep.
Jamie lay down, and after reading a few pages, he turned off the bedside lamp. Thoughts piled up like a highway accident as soon as the room was near dark. Money. Sylvie. Fat. Lying to Wendy. The van. Every bone he’d ever broken ached, as if cold mud were pouring into the fusions of metal and skeleton. His left hip had earned it with the drive and the dancing, but his left shoulder and right shin howled along in the chorus. He felt like the old people who predicted bad weather with their bunions. Bloody fucking East Coast constipated weather. Hurricane stalled off the coast. Sleep stalled off the coast as well.
Discouraged, Jamie turned the light back on and resumed his book. He didn’t have pain pills, never bought them, not with his history. Jesus. Probably had the aches all night and didn’t notice until he held still. All sorts of crap always going on that he didn’t notice until he was alone and quiet. Becoming aware of it then was no good. He could only solve problems with someone to talk to, someone like Mae, who listened. Or his Mum and Dad. Or a therapist. No therapy in sight for years, though. He had to save the van and pay a bankruptcy lawyer.
Reading became difficult, interrupted by blasts of worry. If only the pool was open. Jamie set the book down.
If only Mae wasn’t dating that Greek. Would she mind that much if Jamie called? At one in the morning? It was only eleven at night in New Mexico. No, she was on that trip now. With the Greek.
Better call the oldies. Dad could be nocturnal while his college was on break. As Jamie reached for his phone, the four-note text-arrival tone rang.
Sylvie. He opened the message.
That is one sorry kangaroo, cowboy.
Chapter Ten
Had she touched it? The idea appalled him. Made the roo feel desecrated. He wanted to cleanse its energy like his Mum’s people did with smoking ceremonies—like the Indians in New Mexico did with sage. Smudge the roo. Have Mae heal it with crystals. While he’d been outside the bar breathing away a borderline panic attack, Sylvie had fossicked around in his pack and then had the nerve to ask what he had in there, when she knew.
Maybe to her it was funny, a harmless tease. He should just answer her, tell her to mind her own bizzo—except, she had his didg and his wheels and his drums. He needed her good will.
What to do, then? Tell her it was a good laugh? Explain the roo? Ignore her? Why such an inner struggle over this? He paced, found himself opening the drawer with the gift bag in it. Bad idea. But he was stressed, ridiculously stressed. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t eat this crap.
Three giant cookies delivered a sweet moment of comfort. Followed by anxiety. Fear of fat now along with fear of Sylvie. He had to call his parents and talk this all out, after he brushed his teeth.
When he opened the pack, there was no toothbrush or toothpaste. Strange. His phone and the roo had been there—Sylvie. She wouldn’t ... steal his toothbrush? Would she? No one was that fucking crazy.
He searched again. Nothing. What kind of madwoman goes in your stuff and steals your bloody toothbrush? Brushing his teeth would undo the cookies. Undo the stained and tainted feeling of everything. Jesus—he could feel cavities and gum disease attacking, and see the dental office, smell it, feel those arse-puckeringly awful metal things in his mouth. Jesus. Sleep was out now.
Then he remembered the friendly, helpful sign in the bathroom. Forgot something? The hotel would give guests combs or toothbrushes. Rescued, he yanked his jeans on, felt in his pocket for his room key, and ran downstairs, his hip protesting.
An obese young white woman with limp brown hair stood at the front desk typing, watching her computer monitor. As Jamie stepped out of the stairwell door, she looked up. Her eyes widened and her neck stiffened. She reached for her phone.
Bloody hell. He didn’t have a shirt on. To a Southern white woman, alone in the middle of the night, a tall, scarred, half-naked black man with weird hair who came flying out of the stairwell—worried about his stuffed toy and about to panic for lac
k of a toothbrush—must look dangerous.
“Sorry, I’m a sight.” He stopped and flashed his best smile. Gold tooth didn’t help him look normal, though. “Should have covered up.” He folded his arms over his belly. “I need a toothbrush. Sign says if—y’know—um—Hate to bother you ...”
“Of course.” She blushed, opened a drawer with a key, and brought out a toothbrush in a thin plastic wrapper. “Did you need toothpaste, too?”
He didn’t even remember. “Yeah. Think so. Sorry. Bad night. Can’t sleep.” He walked to the desk, but kept a distance to reassure her. “Really—sorry about the ...” He gestured to his exposed torso, and realized he’d come down barefoot as well.
“It’s all right. You kinda startled me, that’s all. Where you from?”
He came close enough to pick up the toothbrush. “Mars.”
She smiled and gave him a small tube of toothpaste from the drawer. “Come on, where?”
Now he liked her, even if she had acted afraid of him. Might not be racial after all. She had a right to be shocked at the sight of him shirtless. “I’ll show you my passport. Landed at area fifty-one, Roswell. “
“Come on. Are you English?”
“Fuck, no. Sorry—language. Australian. We’re a foul-mouthed nation. Live in New Mexico now. Legal alien, not green, not from Roswell.”
Her little smile suggested a courteous effort to appreciate his sense of humor. “What brings you here?”
“Touring musician. Somebody stole my toothbrush after my show.”
She shook her head and laughed warmly, more amused than she had been by his jokes. “You sound like my five-year-old. Any time he loses something, he says someone stole it. He leaves his crayons on the bus, and it’s ‘Mom, someone stole my crayons.’ ”
Of course. He’d only lost his toothbrush. “Yeah. Must have left it in the bathroom of the restaurant where I ate dinner.” Sylvie might have peered at the roo, but she wouldn’t steal his toothbrush. “I’ve got this kind of neurotic thing about it, can’t wait too long after I eat or I get, dunno, bothered.” He didn’t want to say anxious, it sounded too clinical, though it was more accurate. “If someone wanted to torture me, they’d make sure I couldn’t brush my teeth.”
Her smile faded. “Sometimes people do take my son’s things to torment him—bullies—so I’m not always sure if he lost it or if someone took it.” She relocked the drawer. “But I don’t think you have bullies on your tour bus.”
“Nah—nobody on the bus but me.”
Having been targeted by bullies as a child himself, Jamie felt empathy for her son and an urge to talk with her more. After excusing himself to brush his teeth in the bathroom off the breakfast area, he came back to the desk.
They talked for hours, and he cadged a few ibuprofen tablets from her personal supply. He learned about her family and her hobbies of gardening and drawing. She showed him sketches she did to pass the time at night, and then asked him about his music. He even ended up sitting on her high counter, telling stories that made her go all round-eyed in fascination. With enough parts missing, his life made a good story. He didn’t even feel self-conscious with the inch exposed, or the scars. At four a.m. he finally felt tired, safe, calm, and almost free of pain, and went to bed.
“Housekeeping.” A series of loud raps. A woman’s voice calling. “Housekeeping.”
Bloody hell. He hadn’t put the Do Not Disturb sign out. Worse—he hadn’t set the alarm. Jamie bolted from the bed, looked for a towel he’d thrown on the floor, but it wasn’t there. “Wait—not decent.” The clock read ten thirty a.m. Ten thirty? He was supposed to be at the Ford service center at eight. “Can you come back when I check out?”
“Yes.” The cart rattled and rumbled to the next room, followed by the rap and the call “Housekeeping.”
I need someone to do that to my head.
Jamie sat on the edge the bed, his muscles sore from dancing, joints aching anew with the oppressive weather. He’d slept through the breakfast downstairs, so his meal would have to be the rest of the cookies. No—one cookie, if he had any sense. Feeling like a battered old man, he went into the bathroom to brew the strange round pad of coffee in the tiny pot.
While it hissed and gurgled he called the Ford place. The service manager sounded like a Southern grandmother. “Thought you’d be here first thing if you couldn’t leave it last night.”
“Yeah—um—so did I. Can you still take a squizz at it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ellerbee, but Chiggy’s getting ready to leave for the day. Got a field trip with his girl’s school.”
“There’s only one bloke that could do my van?”
“You need an older mechanic to look at an older vee-hickle like that. Knows his way around an engine with a carburetor. Anyway, parts on an eighty-six, you’d prob’ly have to wait. Did you try Durham or Cary?”
He might make it to one of those places by eleven or twelve if he didn’t get lost or the van didn’t take a long nap, but they might not have the parts or some old bloke who could even understand the van. Maybe—or maybe not—he’d get repairs in time to leave for Richmond the next day. What if the van was up on a lift with all its insides taken out and declared terminal? No, that couldn’t happen, but what if he couldn’t afford all that was wrong with it? That was possible. “Thanks. Guess I’ll drive it to Durham and see what happens.”
Decision made, he had a breakfast of weak coffee and giant chocolate chip cookies, making the doubtful rationalization that eating all three would get rid of them, and started to dress in the jeans he’d left on the floor last night.
Jesus, he was getting chaotic. What was he thinking? He had to make himself decent. He couldn’t go out wearing last night’s dirty clothes. Looked like housekeeping had come in—when? While he’d been down talking with the clerk? Why had they come back now? Did they really have a night shift? They had to. His shirt wasn’t on the floor, nor were the towels he’d used. Had they accidentally taken his shirt to the laundry with the towels? He’d have to ask for it on his way out.
After showering in haste, he opened his suitcase to get clean clothes, and stared, stunned.
It was full of the used towels. What in bloody hell? Who would do that? He threw them out. Nothing behind them. He shook them, but nothing fell out. His new books were gone. His clean clothes, gone. They weren’t expensive or valuable. Who would want them? Why would they put the fucking towels in the suitcase? So it would feel full and he’d grab it and end up stealing? Or just not notice until he got to his next hotel?
Fuck. He didn’t have a shirt. At all. Not even any grundies. At least his swim trunks were still in the van, and he’d gotten the new toothbrush, and still had the roo—he turned to the bed. No. He couldn’t see it.
Tossing the pillows aside, he found it under them, and lay down, dizzy. Breathe. Don’t panic. Breathe. He closed his eyes and focused on the roo’s texture, the feeling of normal and safe, and his breath. When he’d recovered, he packed in what felt like slow motion. The roo, his new toothbrush and toothpaste, the book that had been by the bed, and his phone. That was it. He had shoes, but no socks. At least he’d had his wallet still in his pants and the flutes were in the van.
Numb, he walked down to check out, and told the man at the front desk about the theft. The middle aged East Indian man in a collared shirt and tie wore a name tag that identified him as the manager. “This is very unusual. We have never had any problems here. Did you have your spare room key?”
Jamie checked in his pack. “Don’t remember. Did you give me two?”
“Yes. We always issue two.”
He felt his pockets, and his wallet. No spare key. He had never given it any thought. “Might have left it in the room.”
“If you dropped it somewhere, someone might have gotten in. These were valuable things that you lost?”
“Not very. I mean, the books were new, but I get my clothes at thrift stores.”
“I can call the police for
you. I feel very bad that this happened.”
Jamie looked at the clock behind the desk. If the Ford place in Durham would take the van and had to order parts, the sooner he left the better. “Can’t hang around for that.”
“Please, then can I reimburse you for your loss?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Please, let me pay for your books at least.”
The man took a key from his pocket and started to unlock a drawer. The pieces fell into place. Jamie could hear the night clerk, opening and closing that drawer, telling him that bullies took her son’s belongings. Not for the value, but to harass him.
No. That was insane. No one was bullying him. He’d left his toothbrush in a restaurant bathroom and must have dropped his spare key trying to put it in his pocket when he checked in. Someone had used it to slip in and steal. That was the only explanation that wasn’t paranoid. Some desperate soul was so broke they would steal his clothes.
The manager said, pulling bills from the drawer, “I know it isn’t much money, but I’m so very sorry—”
“Nah, I’ll hit a thrift shop when I get to Durham.” Jamie waved away the couple of twenties. “Don’t suppose you’d have a shirt for me, though? Spare the world the sight of this?”
Knitting his eyebrows, the man held up a finger, stepped into a back room and returned with an enormous plain white T-shirt. “I’m sorry. It’s not nice, but it’s clean. From the lost and found.”
“Bloody hell. That’s it?” Jamie took it, put it on, and burst out laughing. It hung on him like a tent. “Thanks, mate. Makes me look thin.”
On the van’s first stall-out stop, he got out and called Wendy. Sitting hurt worse than standing. The drive to Durham was only thirty minutes on the highway, and yet the van already sat exhausted on the side of the road while trucks roared past. After describing the probable means of theft, dropping the spare key, he admitted, “I feel persecuted. I know that’s paranoid, but it’s like someone’s after me.”
