She snorted, smirked, and waved the heed away. A good sign.
“What, then?” I said, “Where’s the honor in being a coveted waitress?”
“I’m fast and the customers like me, hence the return business.”
“But you hate them.”
“I never said I hate them,” she snapped.
My jaws clenched. No more questions.
***
The diner looked vacant when I parked nearest the entrance, a rectangular structure with a row of see-through windows and a huge pulsing neon sign perched above its sole access.
“Doug’s Diner” it hollered. How pristine. It was 11:30 pm. Wendy entered the diner first, me trailing. I spotted two cooks who apparently had arrived earlier.
Wendy shot me an over the shoulder glance and trooped to a back room to change into her uniform. I sat on a stool at the counter and waited. Doug was due just before midnight.
By 11:45, customers had filed in for their late-night chow-down. Outside, a Mack truck pulled in, followed by several jeeps and cars of every make and model. A fat woman, perhaps fifty, sauntered in from outside, waving at the already seated patrons, who waved back. She disappeared into the rear of the kitchen where Wendy had gone. She was the other waitress Wendy had once mentioned. A third woman entered, stoop-shouldered, with a leathery face, and sat behind the cash register, setting things up.
By 12:03, the joint was packed.
Where the hell was Doug?
I scanned the booths. Just as Wendy said: Burly, middle-aged men, seated in hushed conference, poring over the plastic menus, all of them patiently awaiting the arrival of their servants. The fat waitress appeared first, sporting a striped shirt and red apron, order pad at the ready, beaming. The section to my left was hers. She breezed through it, jotting down each table’s choice of drink. “Where’s Wendy?” someone shouted to my right. This query was echoed by the construction worker behind him.
“We want Wendy!” this from a farmer in dirty overalls by the corner. The murmur was contagious.
“Yeah, who she be wearin’ tonight?” yammered an old guy in a noisy red shirt.
What was going on here?
The only component missing was a spotlight when Wendy finally appeared. The applause cascaded east to west, punctuated by whistles and good-natured catcalls.
Wendy wore the Bad Witch costume from Wizard of Oz. My mouth parted. I suddenly remembered it was mid-October. Halloween loomed.
This was Wendy’s performance piece for the night, I imagined. I realized then why she wouldn’t let me go near her secret closet in our basement. “Please respect my privacy,” she’d told me after I inquired of its contents. I let that one go, wanting to avoid a fight.
Now here she was, order pad poised, grinning, slapping shoulders, gliding down the booths, taking their orders. One slob reached for the sleeve of her robe and she slapped his hand away. She savored the attention, basked in it. I felt depressed. She needed a good talking to. I raised my hand to get her attention but she ignored it, too busy going over her order list.
Just as she vanished into the kitchen, a tall, gray-haired man wearing a black suit and thin tie entered. I had never seen a stonier face. I guessed his age to be about sixty, maybe more. He had the aura of a distinguished diplomat, clean-shaven, immaculate, full hair slicked back. He surveyed each booth as if making sure it was occupied before marching into the back room. A third waitress I hadn’t noticed approached me. She was blonde, thin and worked the counter. “Get you anything, handsome?” she asked, exposing checkered teeth.
“Uhh-yeah. Coffee, please.”
“Comin’ up, hon.” It took only a half-minute. She poured my coffee, black, no sugar, just as Wendy re-emerged with a tray of bottled beers. The tall gray-haired man returned and moved towards me while Wendy conducted her business. He extended his hand.
“I’m Doug. You must be Gil.”
I nodded and shook his hand. “Right you are.”
He smiled, his cold blue eyes appraising me. “How’s Junior?” he asked, his thick eyebrows arched. What the hell. I played along.
“He’s good. What else has my wife told you?”
He frowned. “About what?”
“I’ll be blunt, Doug. My son’s grades are falling. He’s been acting peculiar the last eighteen months and I think he should spend more time with his mother. I work a nine–ten hour shift in the city making cold calls to deadbeats and by the time I get home I have to wet-nurse a kid who keeps me up nights.”
Doug had been staring at me steely-eyed throughout my monologue. “What do you mean by acting peculiar?”
“Well, at night, Doug, he’s pretty lively, even going so far as to venture outside the lawn and stare at people while I’m taking a shower or cooking a meal for two. One time, Doug, I had to look for him. I spotted him two blocks away following some guy walking his dog. Does that sound normal to you?”
His eyes shifted. “Following people?”
“That’s what I said, Doug. If Wendy wants to work in your establishment, fine. But during decent business hours.”
He cleared his throat, dipped his head for a second, then fixed me a look that chilled.
“This diner opens at midnight, closes at dawn.”
Wendy returned, exchanging glances with Doug as she headed for her customers to take their orders. “Then I’m afraid my wife’ll have to stop what she’s doing and come home with me.” I said.
His wide brow formed thick grooves. “Stop what she’s doing?”
I glanced over at Wendy. Okay, maybe not right this split-second. “Soon as she finishes bringing over their food, then,” I said. “She can live without the tips.”
“Their tips are extremely generous, Gil.”
“Oh, I’ve got that covered, trust me. She can afford to be unemployed for a spell.”
“You don’t seem to understand. She’s the showstopper. She’s the reason these folks come here, besides the food.”
“You don’t understand,” I shot back, my poise melting, “I need my wife home.”
His gaze dropped. He faced a losing battle. I was Wendy’s husband.
“Then let me ask a favor of you,” he said.
I stiffened. “What kind?”
“I’d like to meet your…son.”
I jerked my head forth. “Meet Junior? The hell for?”
“Wendy’s face lights up whenever she speaks of him. She’s become, well, like a sister to me and—”
“—And you feel like an uncle. An uncle to a kid you’ve never seen.”
His mouth curled into what looked like a smile. “She’s shown me his photos.” Aha.
I couldn’t see the harm, despite the weirdness of it all. “This weekend, or the weekend of your choice, Doug, would be best.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Doug, for understanding my situation.”
***
Wendy simmered during the ride back. After ten minutes of iron curtain sulking, she turned to me from her death seat. “Did you hear how they booed my hasty, unscheduled exit?”
“Show’s over, Wen. You have a son to think about.”
She pushed her face towards my profile, her eyes blazing. “You seem to have forgotten, asshole, that I’m there for Junior before and after school!”
“After school, maybe. Not before. I’m the one cabs him to school while you’re climbing into bed, so don’t gimme that horseshit!”
She folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. She knew I was right. The next five minutes seemed like fifty. Her silence was choking me. I forced myself to soften a bit, if that were possible.
“Jesus, Wen, can’t we come to a compromise? Can we stop all this fighting?”
I glanced at her. No response. Her eyes-on-the-road boycott persisted. I forged a smile when I asked, “How many costumes in all, babe? One for each night? How do you work it?”
“Daddy wants to know,” she sing-songed, her eyes unswerving, her head tick-tocking to each costume
. “Little Bo Beep for Monday. Vampirella for Tuesday, Wonder Woman Wednesday, Bride of Frankenstein Thursday, Wicked Witch Friday, and Margaret Thatcher on Saturday night. For the college crowd! I’m not just prancing around, Gil, I’m doing stand-up! I’m singing! I’m dancing!” She looked at me. “And I never felt more alive,” she bellowed, “‘till you went and fucked things up!”
I refused to wither from the verbal storm. “Well, then, if performing is that much in your blood, Wen, I suggest you scan the casting notices in Backstage, or, better yet, find a venue for your one-person shows. Loads of rental spaces in the city. Hell, I’ll even finance them.”
She uncoiled her arms and examined her deep violet fingernails the remainder of the trip.
***
Nora stood by the front door as I rolled into my driveway. Her twisted face said “bad news.”‘ She hovered over me before I could even climb out. Wendy’s eyes widened and she raced inside the house. Nora clutched her right hand by the wrist and swung it towards my face.
“Your son just bit me,” she said. The top part was swollen, with two bite marks indented over the purple mass.
“My God, Nora, did you call an ambulance?”
“He bit me just before you arrived. I’m scared. All I did was slap his hand away.”
“Away from what?” I was scared enough for the both of us. I had never seen a hand balloon so quickly.
“I feel faint,” she said, “gotta lie down. Gotta—” Her eyes rolled up and she swooned, plopping to the ground before I could catch her. I punched in 911 frantically on my iPhone.
***
The emergency room was, of course, crowded. They whisked poor Nora to a bed despite some overheard protests. A grim-looking dark-haired woman, mid-forties, I guessed, approached me. Her name plate read Dr. Goodstein.
“Are you a relative of Mrs. Clemente?”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“What happened?”
I told Dr. Goodstein what I saw and what Nora told me after I’d parked my car. She squinted.
“Bitten by who?”
I nearly stuttered. “My son.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Before passing out, Nora said she slapped Junior’s hand away.”
“Did you speak to your son?” she asked, staring at me like the whole thing was my goddamn fault.
“Uhh-no, I stayed with Nora until the medics arrived. My wife’s with Junior.”
She nodded gravely. “Uh-huh. Well, I took a look at her hand, Mister Navarro. I’ve never seen bite marks like that, I assure you. And she was foaming at the mouth.”
I grabbed a nearby table to keep from tottering.
“I need to have a look at your son,” she said.
***
I ran through three red lights before my car screeched to a halt at the curb. My heart pumped acid as I opened the door. Wendy had just finished wiping a section of the white rug when I padded towards her. She hid the rag from view.
“Where is he?” I asked, then shouted in the direction of my son’s door. “Junior?”
“He’s resting.”
“No shit! We need to get him to the E.R. A-fucking-SAP! Doctor’s orders!”
“What for? He’s okay.”
“Now!”
She raised a hand. “Don’t get a conniption. I’ll go fetch him.” She entered the boy’s bedroom and guided him towards me. Junior stared at the rug.
“Junior? Look at me,” I said. He obeyed, his eyes vast, his body shaking.
“Why did you bite Aunt Nora?”
“She’s not my aunt! Stop calling her my aunt!”
I hunched closer to study his face. “Why’d you do it, son?”
“She–she cut her hand. From one of Mom’s safety pins.”
It was bound to happen. Wendy had this annoying habit of leaving the damn things, unhooked, laying around the coffee table, or on the floor. I had stepped into one myself barefoot and hobbled for hours afterwards.
“How’d she manage to do that, Junior?” I asked, glaring at Wendy.
“She was shuffling some newspapers around. She brought some stuff with her to read or somethin’ and she, like, cut herself.”
“Pretty clumsy of her, don’t you think?” Wendy said. I ignored her and concentrated on my boy. He looked on the verge of tears.
“Then what?”
He shook his head, eyes down.
“What happened then, Junior?”
“I told her I wanted to suck on the cut.”
I drew back. “Wanted to what?”
“To make it better.”
Wendy made a noise from her throat and hugged herself.
“To make it better?” I asked, feeling the walls close in on me.
“I didn’t wait for an answer,” Junior said. “I grabbed her hand and put her cut finger in my mouth and she slapped me with the other hand, and then—”
“And then what, boy?”
“I bit her. Bit deep. And it tasted good.”
Wendy suddenly pulled Junior towards her. “That’s enough!”
She hugged him, staring at me like I was the bad cop in an interrogation room. My face screwed. “Tasted good? The hell is he talking about, Wendy?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Get him dressed.”
“He ain’t going to no goddamn hospital!”
Before I could react, she seized Junior and pulled him back to his room, slamming the door just as my hand throttled its knob. I pounded like a madman. “What’s gotten into you? Open the door!”
“Go away,” was her muffled retort.
Go away? Last I heard I owned this house. It sounded like a dismissal, like a mother protecting her child from a monster. I took out my cell phone. Call an ambulance. After two digits, I stopped. A gigantic lawsuit for sure. Questions from the police. Dr. Goodstein’s somber appraisal of me. Wendy was on to something I was totally in the dark about.
So let the cops bang on my door.
Let Wendy do the talking. Let her explain why she locked herself in with my son. I sat on the edge of the sofa and imagined Goodstein commandeering an army of cops and medics to my front lawn, thumping at my door like I was a fugitive from justice.
Well, shit, Nora didn’t have to slap the kid. Should’ve known better than to slap a kid.
That was my ace in the hole.
And it tasted good.
I rested my head against the thick cushion armrest, shut my eyes, and brooked the inevitable.
***
The eastern sun’s blaze warmed my cheeks as it filtered through the yellow curtain’s slats. I swiveled my head towards the distant kitchen clock: eight-forty two of a Saturday morning.
My plaid shirt and Dockers felt damp. I sprang to my feet. I peeked through the window and gazed at nature’s gallery: sparrows and squirrels scurrying and leaves dropping like feathers, trumpeting a new day. Last night seemed like a lucid nightmare. But the sight of Junior’s bedroom door jarred my memory. I tapped on the door. No response. “Wen?” I rapped harder. I heard shifting on the bed, followed by prudent footfalls. The door slid open a crack. Wendy’s face looked puffy.
“He’s sleeping,” she croaked.
I peered over her shoulder. A heavy cloth lump colored the kid-sized bed.
“Why’s he covered up like that?”
“Shhh.”
“Don’t shush me. Come out of there.”
She joined me at the kitchen table. “Some coffee?” she chirped.
“Later for coffee. I want answers.”
She shrugged like news to me. “Answers to what?”
She wore a white t-shirt over beige nylon panties and under normal circumstances, like many years ago, the sight would have inspired lust. But I was scared and clueless.
“Answers to a myriad of questions, Wen, that you seem to know.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Like…?”
Her nonchalance confused me. “Like why aren’t you as freaked about what
happened last night as I am? Why did you barricade yourself from me when all I wanted was for our son to be looked at by a doctor?”
She sighed just the cordless phone rang. I picked up. “Hello?”
“I was expecting you.”
Dr. Goodstein. I recognized her dull, peering voice. I could feel Wendy’s eyes burning into my forehead.
“I–there was a problem with my car,” I lied.
“Ever hear of car service?” she asked. “You either bring him to me or I will call the authorities.”
“How’s– how’s Mrs. Clemente doing?”
I heard her exhale. “I’ll tell you how she’s doing, Mr. Navarro. She jumped out of her bed last night and bit one of my patients in the neck. We had to forcibly sedate her. I expect to see you and your son within the hour.” Click.
Wendy’s face twisted. “Did I hear her right? She wants my son at the hospital?”
“Our son, yes!”
I shot up and headed for Junior’s room. She was faster and blocked my path, slamming her back against the door, her arms spread like a soccer goalie.
“Wen, step aside. I’m not kidding.”
“Go to hell.”
She shoved me with such speed and fury that I teetered back, giving her enough time to slither inside and bang the door shut, locking it from the inside. I didn’t bother to knock. I kicked instead. “Open the fucking door, you stupid cunt!”
I wouldn’t wait for the law to show up.
I grabbed my jacket and drove to the nearest precinct.
The droopy-jowled desk sergeant didn’t take kindly to having his morning coffee suspended.
“You say she what—kidnapped your son?”
“She’s locked herself in with Junior. It’s a cover-up.”
He squinted. “A who?”
“Look, sergeant! My boy bit someone and that someone ended up in a hospital! I need to get him to that same hospital, unless you want to report a wife-beating!”
He nodded and scratched down a note. “I’ll get a squad car.”
***
I jumped out of the squad car and raced for the front door. The young uniformed cop trailed me, his hand clasped over the holster, primed for a shoot-out. Junior’s door was ajar. I looked inside. The bitch had taken my boy.
***
I made Gomez, my cop/escort, drive me to Doug’s Diner. Despite the closed sign, I asked him to break down the entrance. He shook his head. “Need a warrant. Sorry.”
Protectors of the Veil Page 15
