Sweetheart Braves

by Pamela Sanderson

  "Can you talk me back to the motel?" she asked.

  "Follow the exit signs that say City Center. It's on the main drag. I'll mention it when we get close." His voice had gone flat.

  Thinking about the two of them in the future was silly. She knew that when she’d talked him into taking them on this failure of a mission.

  21

  Linda had driven rez cars before and the green car measured up with the worst. A patchwork of exterior duct tape kept both bumpers on and the interior smelled like moldy campfire. The engine dropped into a deep rumble punctuated with gasps like the car was on the verge of dying every time she stopped at a light. She would have left it at the house and taken the bus if she didn't have two meetings, a dentist appointment, and a giant box to drop off at the shipper.

  She couldn't get the image of Arnie's house out of her head: tidy as she would have predicted, but not a sign of Katie anywhere. Not even an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, which she was ashamed to have snooped around but she was in Arnie's house, how could she not? Then Arnie's mom charging over, followed by that bizarre exchange about her staying the night as if she might have forgotten that he'd always treated her like a sister.

  But those words to his mom: "She didn't come with me this weekend."

  She promised herself she wouldn't dwell on the idea but it kept sneaking in, Katie on the rez with him and his family.

  The minute she’d gotten home she'd left a message for Virgil. Time to pour on a little gasoline and see if they could get a fire going.

  The morning's first order of business was dealing with the insurance adjuster for the bus. Tommy's greatest talent was getting out of aggravating tasks. If he were doing anything besides helping Aunt Dotty, she would be plotting a grievous punishment for him.

  The impound yard was in a part of town she rarely visited. The insurance adjuster had sent an address and her phone gave her reassuring instructions as she navigated past strip malls and older apartment buildings into a mix of warehouses and commercial sites.

  The sky was a solid block of low gray clouds that had looked ominous all morning. It finally broke and a light drizzle splashed across the windshield. Linda reached for the lever for the wipers, only it wasn't there, because Tommy had her car and she was in the automotive equivalent of a racehorse with a broken leg.

  She took her eyes off the road long enough to scan the dashboard, touching various knobs and buttons until she found the right one. The wipers whooshed back and forth so rapidly she was afraid they would fly off. She attempted to adjust the speed control, but this was it. One speed: lunatic. The defrost button was apparently decoration only because the rear window was still a foggy haze. All her hard work and smart financial sense and she was still the one driving a rez car.

  She arrived at the impound lot and waited at the front gate. The Drivemaster was easy to spot through the chain-link fence. Angie had done a number on it. The right side was a series of dents and scrapes culminating in the front with a smash of broken plastic and hanging bumper. Nothing Arnie couldn't fix with a little duct tape.

  The insurance adjuster was late. The rain picked up, and she went back to the car to grab her raincoat, forgetting that it was another item she conveniently stored in her car. The only things stored in the green car were a set of chains, a sledgehammer, and a scary blanket that looked like it had been used while committing a crime. For some reason the person she was annoyed with was Arnie. A gust of wind drove big cold drops straight to her skin. She tried to duck back into the car but the driver's side door was stuck. She yanked on it with growing fury then got the keys out, thinking it needed to be unlocked.

  The showers turned out to be true spring rain, the kind of rain that went from pleasant mist to refreshing shower to firehose blast. The cold rain dumped down on her while she struggled with the door. She slapped the window with an open palm. When the driver's door failed, she tried the passenger side, then worked her way around the vehicle. None of the doors would open. Her hair stuck to her neck and the rain dripped into her eyes. Her hands ached in the cold and there was no dry place to put them.

  Someone ran toward her with an umbrella. She hoped it was the insurance guy or any human being who could get the car door open so she could drive away. She could go to Mexico and open a little margarita stand and live on the beach.

  The person with the umbrella was an older man with a beard and a smile of patient weariness, like a school teacher. He held the umbrella over her, but with the whipping wind it didn't help much.

  "You need help?" he asked.

  "You insurance?"

  "Afraid not," he said. He handed her the umbrella and tried the door.

  "It's unlocked. It's stuck." Linda showed him the keys.

  He tried again, putting his weight into it. "It is stuck," he agreed. "You want to wait in there?" He pointed across the street to a two-story red brick building with white framed windows flanked with tall leafy trees.

  They dashed across the street. Linda followed him up the stairs and wiped her feet on the mat before entering through a giant oak door.

  The man said, "Hang on a sec and I'll bring you a towel."

  She found herself in a cozy reception area with couches and coffee tables, like a college study center. Two women about her age sat on one couch, reading. They gave her a smile of commiseration as she stood there, dripping on the floor.

  "I'm Arlo," the man said when he returned with the towel. "You new to town, or suffering a misfortune?"

  "I'm Linda. The second one," she said. "What gave it away?"

  "Most locals wouldn't be caught without some rain protection at this time of year."

  "Someone ran off with my car. That's a loaner." She mopped up the worst of the water but couldn't do much about her wet clothes. "I know who has it," she added. "He's suffering a misfortune himself, but I would be happy to kill him right now."

  Arlo found her a place to sit and brought her a cup of hot tea. The warm cup felt great in her hands.

  "Perhaps you'd like to join one of our classes," Arlo said.

  "You teach classes for killing people?"

  "This is a meditation center," he said, sitting down across from her.

  Linda took a more careful look around the room. The muted color scheme, the huge canvasses in gilded frames depicting peaceful outdoor scenes, the quiet so thick she could feel it in the back of her throat. "The frantic buzz in my head does feel threatened. What do you do here?"

  "We host retreats and practice sessions. We sell books and CDs, too, although everything is changing with so much happening online." He was still studying her expectantly.

  "I'm not the meditation type," Linda said.

  "No one is," Arlo agreed. "You said you're waiting for insurance?"

  "That banged-up short bus out there belongs to the Crooked Rock Urban Indian Center. My employee—the same one who ran off with my car, his cousin took it for a joyride."

  Arlo cracked up. "Maybe your employee would like to take a class. You're welcome to wait here as long as you like."

  "I should be out of your hair shortly," Linda said.

  Arlo floated off to do whatever calm, unhurried people did at a job that consisted of helping people relax. That could be her, peaceful and soft-spoken, deflecting panic with the power of breath and posture.

  Her spine grew straighter as she serenely contemplated her problem. There had to be a way to avoid bringing Arnie into this, having to ask him for help, forcing him to drop what he was doing and run over to fix things for her once again. She twisted the phone in her hands. The girls were at meetings. Tommy was gone. Virgil would have been happy to assist but he was working out of town. She'd blown through the automobile roadside service's annual maximum during the flat-tire incident. The options were to pay them or call Arnie.

  She searched her purse for the auto service card, envisioning how this would proceed. The roadside assistant would drive up, and they would find a rez car, a car that probably had no r
ecognizable parts or systems. She put the card away and called Arnie.

  "Your car—" she said.

  "Did you wreck it?"

  "No, I didn't wreck it."

  "Damn," Arnie said. "I would have considered it a favor."

  "I can't get in. The door is stuck."

  "That happens. You try all of them?"

  "It's raining. It isn't funny."

  "Sorry, Lulu, er, Linda. I thought you were getting your car back."

  "Tommy's still helping Auntie." She didn't have the energy to explain.

  "A few sharp kicks to the door, right underneath the handle, will do the trick."

  Inspired by her surroundings, Linda waited the space of three complete inhales and exhales. She finally said, "You're serious."

  "It's the green car. That's what it does."

  "I guess that explains all the funny dents. I was worried I did that."

  "Nope. I can be there in an hour," Arnie said. "Or I can get Henry to help. Or should I not be offering to help? Do you want to call your roadside people?"

  "The card for the roadside service is in my car," she lied.

  "It's okay if I help? Say the word."

  She could picture him standing outside some meeting, looking at his feet and admiring his smirk in the tops of his shiny shoes, relishing this moment with her asking for help. Again.

  "I'll text you the address. Insurance guy drove up." She ended the call and took her time folding the wet towel and preparing to go back outside.

  Arlo returned, waving a giant plastic garbage bag. "Better than nothing."

  She took it from him, trying to decide whether she wanted to put it on. Outside, the trees trembled in the wind. "Do you have anything I can belt it with?"

  "I'm sure there's a piece of rope around here somewhere," Arlo said. He held up a pamphlet. "In case you want to visit sometime."

  22

  Something lurched in Elizabeth's chest every time Tommy doted on Granny. He brought her old-fashioned doughnuts and a big cup of coffee and set her up at the table in the motel. Once he reiterated his promise that he would take her to the museum, she agreed to relax in the room while they ran their errand.

  On their way to the car, he offered the keys.

  "You were right," she agreed while pushing the keys away. "Once I was doing it, it wasn't so bad, and I will practice again but not now."

  "Wouldn't hurt to try again while you're comfortable with it," Tommy said.

  She wished she could drink up his calm attitude about the whole mess. She considered it, but a big truck rumbled by and the street was much busier than the night before. She said, "I promise I'll try again."

  "You're the boss," he said.

  They found a copy shop for Tommy's plan and then went to the thrift shop advertised as the best in the city.

  Inside, Elizabeth took a quick lap before guiding him to a long rack stuffed with slacks.

  "Tell me what it is you're wanting," she said.

  "I need to look nice," Tommy said.

  "Nice, as in formal wedding nice?"

  "No, nice like not jeans or athletic wear," he said.

  She couldn't help smiling at that. "Athletic wear?"

  "People call it that," Tommy said. "Linda would say I need to look professional."

  Elizabeth held up a pair of black pants.

  He glanced at them, then said, "Sure, if I wanted to go door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions."

  "Be open-minded. For me." She took his arm and guided him to another rack, part of her brain still reliving the memory of his hands all over her. She took a calming breath. "The secret to thrifting is patience." She attacked another jammed rack. The first few items were worthless. She thrust a possibility into his hands.

  He held up the hanger. "Are these skinny jeans?"

  "They aren't jeans," Elizabeth said. Now that he held them up, she wasn't sure about the color. Dark brown sometimes looked like a mistake.

  "Pants? Skinny pants? I can't wear this."

  She took them back. "I didn't want brown anyway." She handed him two more pairs. "Before you go in, let me find some shirts. Do you see the changing room?"

  "There's a sign in the corner," he said, his voice resigned. "What kind of shirt are you making me wear?"

  "It's not going to have the name of a sports team." She guided him to a rack with shirts and then ran her hands over his chest and across his shoulders.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he said.

  "That's how I verify your size," she said.

  The white button-downs were dingy, the best one had a stain on the collar, but she found a light blue one to get them started. She paused over a collection of sweaters.

  "What about this?" He used his elbow to point at a light gray Henley.

  "That's practically a T-shirt. You said professional." She pulled something else off the rack.

  "Is that a sweater vest, because I'm not wearing a sweater vest," Tommy said when he spotted what was in her hand.

  "Some might call it that. I call it cashmere. Feel how soft it is. You will look terrific in it," she said, urging him to take it.

  "Someone else will look terrific in it."

  "Fine," she said, but she didn't put it back.

  The changing rooms were nothing but tiny nooks with flimsy curtains to hide the occupant. She studied them carefully.

  "I know what you're thinking," Tommy said. "Jeez, you can't keep your hands off me."

  "Nope, I can't," Elizabeth agreed.

  "Do you like to do it in a normal place, like a bed?"

  "Yes. Do you see one?"

  "Not right this second." He paused, then gave her a quick kiss on the lips before ducking behind the curtain.

  Elizabeth couldn't help smiling.

  As soon as he came out, she wanted to rip the clothes back off him. "You look incredible. What do you think?"

  Tommy fingered the fabric. "I'm not sure about this."

  "It looks amazing."

  "I feel uncomfortable," he said.

  "Meaning the fit? Or like you're not accustomed to looking so ridiculously sexy?"

  Tommy checked out the pants again. "The second one, I guess. What is this?"

  "Pinstripes. Men's dress trousers for the professional. Total contemporary native. All the guys on the rez will be wearing it next season." She hooked a finger through one of his belt loops and considered how to complete the outfit.

  "I don't think that will happen," Tommy said.

  "I wonder if we can find a jacket," she said.

  "Now you're out of control," Tommy said. "Plus, my shoes look stupid. A nice pair of athletic—"

  "Stop," Elizabeth said. "You said you wanted to look nice and you put yourself in my capable hands."

  Tommy gave her a pained look. "Something something capable hands?"

  "Later," Elizabeth said. "Try on the other stuff. I'm going to dig around for shoes and a jacket. You might like some of those other things."

  "I won't," he said.

  "I drove on the freeway and changed lanes. Try on the clothes," she said.

  "No matter what I do or where I go in this world, there's always an Ind'n woman ordering me around."

  Her heart stuttered again. The heavy feeling in her chest was more than she was accustomed to. She pulled him closer and pressed her forehead to his. "What are we going to do?"

  Tommy knew she wasn't talking about the museum. "You said you could visit."

  "And you visit me?" Her voice had lost its confidence.

  "As much as I can. But how long can we make that go on? You want to live in the city? Linda and Arnie love finding young Ind'ns jobs." He imagined showing her around, and trying new restaurants, and going on day hikes. "I bet there are great thrift shops where I live."

  The playfulness was gone and a sad seriousness in its place. "I can't leave Granny. Would you ever live somewhere else?"

  During any number of drives, he'd considered going someplace else. Running or relocating, the di
fference was slim, but he couldn't abandon his own family responsibilities. "What about Angie?"

  "What about Angie?" Elizabeth said, something extra in her voice.

  His body tightened up, and he pulled away. "It's different for you and your family?"

  Elizabeth chose her words carefully. "She is an addict, right now, in the middle of it, manipulating and lying. You need to take care of yourself without a sick person derailing you."

  "Do I look derailed to you?" he said.

  She expelled a sharp breath. "How can you not see it?"

  Cold, sharp anger flashed through him. Whatever truth might be in that statement, he wasn't going to talk about it. He shook his head. "Not from you," he said.

  "Sorry, it's your life," she said, but it was too late.

  "It's your life, too," he said. "The whole world is in love with Dorothy Scott, but it's you putting everything on hold to take care of her."

  "I am not putting everything on hold." Her eyes gleamed with anger.

  At this rate, the day would be ruined. He took her hands and held on when she tried to pull back. "Let's not do this. There's so little time. Let's stick together for Granny. We'll sort us out later."

  "How? How will we sort us out?"

  "Maybe we won't," he said. "Maybe we say goodbye. If not now, then sometime. I haven't figured it out yet."

  He let go and returned to the changing room, sweeping the curtain behind him. But not before glimpsing the sadness in her eyes. He sorted through the rest of the clothes she picked for him, his heart so heavy he felt sick. His phone vibrated and he took a peek.

  Angie.

  Maybe she was derailing him. Or perhaps he was helping her. His finger hovered over the ignore button. They were family. She was trying. He accepted the call.

  "Where are you?" Angie said, her voice shaky.

  "Helping an elder. Where are you?"

  "I was in jail but Dad bailed me out. We got a lawyer like you said. I'm at the apartment. Are you coming home soon?"