The Ninth Step

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “She doesn’t want to get up at the crack of dawn and stand on her feet for chump change anymore.”

  “She earned more than chump change, Tim.” Livie was stung into mounting a defense. “She was Mom’s partner, a co-owner at House of Hair. Neither of them has to work for tips anymore.”

  “Yeah, okay, but she can’t earn the kind of money she needs to be happy.”

  Livie bit her lip.

  “That’s what I give her.”

  He was proud that he did this for Kat, Livie heard it in his voice. And it bothered her that he knew Kat’s greatest vulnerability, that he would use her craving for security to manipulate her. But maybe not, maybe what Tim did for Kat was out of love. Maybe all he wanted was for Kat to feel safe.

  Or maybe love was always riddled with need and dependence.

  #

  Livie stood at the window looking out. Tim had said she didn’t know Kat. So, fine. But he hadn’t been there when they were girls, when she and Kat had formed their club: the Saunders Sisters Secret Service Club, they’d called it. They’d made a rule book out of pink and green construction paper and lined sheets from a Big Chief tablet. And rule number one had been that boys weren’t allowed. Rule number two was that everything they did (What had they done exactly? It had been so long, Livie couldn’t remember.) was a secret between them.

  They’d used to confide everything in each other, no matter how stupid or silly or seemingly inconsequential. And they’d told each other stories, Livie did remember that, how they’d made up elaborate stories for each other about what their lives would be like when they were grown up. They’d talked deep in the night or in the wee hours trying to drown with their own voices the lilt of their mother’s seductive laughter, the guttural sounds of her passion, the crescendo of orgasmic shouts. In the morning, when they couldn’t look at her, they had looked at each other.

  But Livie didn’t tell Kat her secrets nowadays with the same blind, loose faith that had hallmarked their childhood. She was afraid to. Afraid it wouldn’t be of help to either of them for Kat to know about the red dress and shoes, those nights. Joe. All the Joes. Suppose Kat hated her?

  #

  “Razz is fine,” Nancy said when Livie called to ask. “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of a way to repay you.”

  “Oh, please, no, that isn’t necessary.” Livie was embarrassed and ashamed when she thought how her initial impulse had been to drive by the scene as if nothing had been amiss. “I’m glad I could help.”

  “But he’d be dead if it weren’t for you, if you hadn’t stopped. So many people wouldn’t have.”

  “I guess we’ll never know who the driver was.”

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.” Nancy said. “People like that ought to be shot.”

  #

  Livie found her keys and started out the back door, but for some reason she would never know, she stopped, retraced her steps through the house and went out the front door instead. That’s when she saw them: The dozen or so long-stemmed Japanese irises were wrapped in sepia-toned tissue and lying on the porch swing. They were beginning to wilt in the morning heat as if they might have been there a while . . . since sometime in the night. Irises . . . harbingers of hope . . . the promise of love.

  Livie set down her satchel and picked up the flowers. She brought them to her face, then fingering the stems, she hunted for a card, but there wasn’t one and her heart wallowed, even as her glance rose to follow the curve of the road.

  Chapter 4

  It wasn’t the sort of thing you could say on the phone, he could figure out that much, so he drove there, parked down the street from the Latimer’s house. It was near dusk. Dinnertime. Quitting time. Cotton imagined himself going up on the Latimer’s wide shady porch. He imagined the way he’d knock on their door. Then what? He’d deliver the knockout punch? Hah. More likely he’d be the one laid out.

  Are they into vigilante justice. . . .? Anita’s question played through his mind. He guessed he’d find out, if he went through with this, if he could make himself do it.

  Within a half hour or so, he saw an Escalade pull into the driveway and loop around to the back. Where the garage was, Cotton assumed. A man was driving. Wes Latimer? Cotton waited a while longer. Pretty soon he heard a lot of racket coming from the back yard, sounded like lumber getting tossed around. There was the whine of a saw, the pounding of a hammer. He figured some project was getting built. He rested his head against the seat liking the noise.

  In another life, he and Wes might be friends. Wes would know Cotton could build damn near anything and that he was always ready to help a buddy out. They’d have had something good going on between them instead of this screwed up mess that had Cotton skulking in a panic. Maybe Anita was right. Maybe turning himself in to the cops was best. He wished to God he knew what to do. He wished he was drunk, then he wouldn’t care.

  After a while, he drove away.

  But two evenings later, he was back, repeating the same routine. He came a third time and a fourth even though he risked being noticed, being taken for a pervert. It was warm and he kept the window down for the breeze that was laden with the sounds and smells of ordinary life, onions frying, an occasional shout or burst of laughter. And the sounds of construction that were ongoing from the Latimer house. On the fifth evening, as soon as Cotton saw the Escalade turn up the driveway, before he could stop himself, he bailed out of the Mercedes, crossed the street, and followed in the SUV’s wake. Panic fishtailed hard through his chest, tightened the muscles of his calves. What was he planning to do? his brain asked.

  Tell them, he answered.

  Tell them what?

  Something. The truth.

  I don’t know. . . .

  He wasn’t prepared to see the dog that bounded joyfully toward him. He knew it belonged to the Latimers; he’d seen it before. It was brownish gold, a mixed breed, some variety of lazy foolish hound dog you couldn’t help but like, that just made you smile. He felt the grin, the bump of his humor, start somewhere inside him and it was so out of place and time, he was unnerved by it, he felt almost disabled, and then the girl appeared.

  The Girl.

  Her.

  The vision from his nightmares. The one for whom he had been given a message.

  Nicole Latimer.

  Older now, but still very much a child. Cotton got an impression of dark hair, blue t-shirt, shorts, sneakers.

  His heart rammed his chest wall.

  “Humphrey!” she shouted. “No, don’t jump on him.” She came up to Cotton. “I’m sorry. He never minds.”

  “It’s okay,” Cotton said. “I like dogs. His name’s Humphrey?”

  “Yeah, but he acts so silly all the time, we mostly call him Doofus.”

  Cotton scratched behind Humphrey’s ears. His tail wagged in delirious circles. “I had a dog like him when I was a kid, part Black Lab, part hound. His name was Bogey.”

  “Like the actor? Oh, my gosh! Are you kidding? That’s who Humphrey’s named for. He’s like my all-time fave. I bet I’ve seen Casablanca twenty times.”

  Cotton couldn’t believe she knew who Humphrey Bogart was, and actually, in his dog’s case, Bogey had been for Bogus, but somehow, she seemed so pleased with the coincidence that he didn’t want to set the story straight.

  “Nikki. . . ?”

  She turned and in the time it took for Wes Latimer to come down the length of the driveway, Cotton had an impression of height that was tending to thickness in the middle, tan chinos, blue Polo dress shirt, pulled loose and open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow.

  He had the impression of a man who was middle-aged and harried, loaded down with obligations, responsibilities, but maybe Cotton put the weight there himself out of guilt, because from his research, he happened to know that in addition to running his own business, Wes Latimer was a single dad, that he’d never remarried.

  So, now Cotton was going to tell him, this regular guy and his little gi
rl, what he’d done. He was going to rip the roof right off their lives, peel the loose open friendliness from their faces. Yeah. That’s what he’d come for. What he had to do. Great guy that he was. He wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. He made himself stand still, made himself wait. It was the least he could do. But god, he was scared, so damned scared.

  Nikki said, “The man’s here about the studio, Daddy. He’s already passed the Doofus test.”

  Studio? Cotton looked at her.

  Wes introduced himself, giving his name, “Wes Latimer,” going on, “I see you’ve met my daughter, Nikki, and Doofus, the family flake.” He stuck out his hand, and Cotton shook it, feeling perplexed, more than a little dazed.

  “What was your name again?” Wes asked. He touched his temple. “I’m sorry, I’m bad with names.”

  “Cotton O’Dell,” he said.

  “The job’s this way.” Wes turned back toward the house. Nikki and the dog fell into step with him.

  Job? Cotton followed, bewilderment increasing. “Uh, I think there’s been some misunderstanding.”

  Wes pulled up short at the corner of the house. “Misunderstanding? I’d say that doesn’t begin to cover it, wouldn’t you?”

  Cotton came up beside him. “Wow.” He took a few steps farther into the yard, forgetting himself, intrigued by the proportions of the disaster. “What happened?”

  “Well, it’s like I told you on the phone, the first guy we hired made a good start. He got the material, lumber, shingles, everything--” Wes swept his hand at the loaded pallets that stood in a row beside what, at one time, must have been a detached garage-- “but he only stuck around long enough to start the demo. He got a couple grand off me and we never saw him again.”

  Cotton walked the perimeter of the building, thinking this was it, the source for all the noise he’d wondered about during his covert hours of surveillance; thinking the Latimers had obviously mistaken him for someone professional, a contractor or a carpenter.

  Oh, God, if only. . . .

  He paused at the separate porch entrance, flattened his palm against the column. The wood still held the warmth of the day. “What’s your plan here?”

  “It’s supposed to be my studio,” Nikki said.

  “It was the kids’ playroom,” Wes said, “until Nikki’s brother Trevor got old enough to want his own space. We remodeled then, but now Trev’s off to college and girl wonder here wants to--”

  “Dad, please. . . .” Nikki’s tone was long suffering.

  “Please what?”

  “You know, that name, I’m too old for it now.”

  Wes chuckled. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  She rolled her eyes. Cotton guessed she thought she was too old to be called “kiddo”, too.

  Wes was saying that he and Nikki had attempted to tackle the job themselves. “Didn’t take us long to realize we’re in over our heads.”

  “Dad says we only know enough to be dangerous.”

  “Nikki’s a good helper and I’m a pretty fair carpenter, but what she wants is kind of complicated, a lot of girl stuff, you know.”

  “Dad. . . .” Nikki protested again, while Cotton thought, no, he didn’t know.

  He didn’t figure Wes knew either. Mothers knew about girls. He said, “It looks like you’ve got some dry rot going on over here. You’re ripping this out, I guess.”

  Wes said, “The other guy tore that up. He was Mexican and I had a hell of a time understanding--”

  “Did you see this?”

  Wes joined Cotton, looking where he pointed. “This whole corner could collapse you don’t get something up under the roof there.” He walked over to a nearby stack of new lumber, lifted a longish two-by-four off the top and wedged it beneath the eave.

  “Patsy, my secretary, said you really knew your stuff. I’ve seen her sunroom. You did some nice work there. I told her I’d give you a try so long as you spoke English.”

  Cotton gave the two by four a last shake and said, “That ought to hold it.”

  “So, what do you say? Are you interested?”

  Before Cotton could answer, a phone rang inside the Latimer’s house and Nikki took off across the lawn shouting she’d get it as if there were some competition for the honor. Humphrey scooted along behind her, wriggling through the back screen door before it closed.

  “She’s turning thirteen in a few weeks,” Wes said raising his eyes, skyward--for help, ostensibly, but there was amused affection in his plea-- “which is part of the reason why I wanted to get with a pro on this. Nikki wants to have her birthday party out here, in her new studio, in July, but there’s no way I can get it finished by then. I’m jammed up at work for one thing. My company landed a major new account last week and you know how that goes.”

  Wes put his hands on his hips, shot Cotton a look. “I could use your help.”

  Cotton looked toward the house, in the direction Nikki had disappeared. Sometimes confession isn’t good for the soul. Cotton remembered Billy W. saying that at a meeting back in Seattle. Sometimes all the truth is good for is tearing the shit out of people’s lives. Sometimes, Billy W. had said, it’s best to leave folks alone. What if this was one of those times? What if Cotton did this job and at the end just walked away? He wouldn’t take the money. Wes would keep his cash, Nikki’d have her studio and Cotton would have his freedom.

  He could do this, or he could confess, reopen the wound, and go to jail. And the Latimers would get what from that?

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  The screen door snapped shut and Nikki rejoined them, Humphrey on her heels. She’d changed clothes and wore clamdiggers and a fresh shirt. “So, when’s he going to start?”

  “We haven’t worked it out yet,” Wes told her. “Before you take off, let me remind you that just because it’s summer doesn’t mean no curfew. Doesn’t mean you can run wild. There are still ground rules.”

  “Here we go. She crossed her arms. Humphrey wandered over and pushed his nose under her elbow, working it around.

  Wes glanced at Cotton. “She thinks she’s too old for adult supervision.”

  Nikki thrust out her chin. “Our housekeeper had to quit last week ‘cause her husband’s got cancer and Dad thinks he needs to hire a new one.”

  “Until we do, we have Linda to keep an eye on things around here. She’s a neighbor,” Wes explained to Cotton. “I don’t know what we’d do without her. Right, kiddo?” He pulled Nikki against him, planted a kiss on the top of her head.

  Cotton looked at them, the father hugging his daughter, the dog with his prying worried nose, and he felt something hot stick in his throat, something like hatred mixed with despair, a cooling clot of futility. The sight of them trying to be a family . . . the motherless girl, the single dad, their fucking bravery in the face of loss and adversity . . . it was like looking at a smile with missing teeth.

  What was he doing here?

  He couldn’t make amends to these people. He wasn’t sure he could even stand to be around them another moment. Cotton glanced toward the street. He needed a drink. He’d get a bottle when he left here, but even as he said it to himself, he knew he wouldn’t, and later, sitting in a metal folding chair at an AA meeting, he’d realize he’d crossed a line. He’d tell Anita on the phone after the meeting that it seemed as if he’d made some kind of deal with fate.

  But right now, Nikki and her dad were arguing about a babysitting job she had for the summer, the need for extra supervision. “I’m at the Stablers’,” she was saying, “every day until after two o’clock, you’re home by six. I’m old enough to look out for myself anyway,” she insisted.

  Wes was patient. “Can I finish my business with Cotton and have this discussion with you later?”

  A horn honked. “There’s Becca and her mom.”

  “Home by ten-thirty,” Wes said.

  “I know. See you.” She started to turn away and then found Cotton’s gaze and her eyes on his were so intent that his heart sta
lled. Was she remembering him? Was it possible? But all she said was, “It’s nice meeting you. I hope you’ll help us,” and waving, she ran lightly to the street where a red Ford Taurus waited.

  Wes looked after her. “All her friends are leaving tomorrow for three weeks at this high dollar dude ranch in Wyoming, but Nikki wanted a studio and I told her we couldn’t afford both.”

  The girls got into the back seat of the Taurus. When it pulled away from the curb, Nikki waved and so did Wes. And almost immediately, he waved again at the sheriff driving the patrol car that passed.

  It was knee-jerk when Cotton put up his hand to shield his face.

  Wes remarked that there’d been a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood. He laughed and said, “It’s good to see my tax dollars at work.”

  Cotton laughed too, ha-ha, like he’d never heard anything so funny.

  Wes picked up where he’d left off talking about Nikki. “It wouldn’t be so hard on her, having her friends go off if her brother was around, but Trev got a summer job coaching baseball at a kid’s camp in Tallahassee, then he’s off to college in Austin, University of Texas. Leaves her at loose ends, you know? Except for the project. I’d put the whole thing under a tarp until I could get to it, if it weren’t for her.”

  “So, what kind of deal did you have with the other guy?” Cotton asked.

  Chapter 5

  A man was sitting in the rocker on her porch when she pulled into her driveway at the end of the day and the pick-up nosed onto the apron wasn’t Charlie’s old Chevy, but a shiny new silver truck. A Dodge, Livie thought. Her foot eased off the accelerator and her heart faltered even as the idea formed that it was Cotton, that he had come in spite of her message. A surge of adrenaline spawned colder currents of dismay and alarm. She idled up the drive, sightless for a moment, lost to the confusion of her emotions. But now the man stood up and in a flash she saw that it wasn’t Cotton at all. No. It was him.