by Autumn Piper
“Yeah. See ya.”
With a friendly pat on the hood of the Caddy, he stepped back, bike jacket slung over one big shoulder. I felt a pang of heartbreak at leaving him there, all alone. Even after the way he’d acted that morning. As we pulled away from the curb, he put thumb to ear and pinkie to lips, mouthing “call me”.
“Call you!” I mumbled to myself as I put the window up. “What the hell for?”
“Ever been married, dear?” Grandma asked.
“Yes. Once.”
In the way of the unapologetically old and snoopy, she asked, “How’d it end?”
I bit my tongue on the smart answer that came to mind: divorce. “There was something I wanted to do that he thought was dangerous. I insisted on doing it, because it was really important to me, so we parted ways.”
Without conveying an ounce of opinion, she said, “Mmm-hmm,” and flipped on the windshield washers. “Ever regret it?”
“Not yet.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Satisfied her windshield was clean enough, she turned off the wipers. “You won’t.”
How she could know that, I wasn’t sure.
She shoved a cassette in the player and Anne Murray came on, singing Danny’s Song. “I have a sister who divorced her husband because he bought her a new washer to replace her old wringer model, but wouldn’t spring for a dryer.”
“So what are you saying? That it’s hereditary for women in our family to blow off marriages over trivial matters?” God, this conversation got better and better.
She shook her head. “If it’s that easy to let go of somebody over a disagreement, it wasn’t meant to be. And don’t ever forget, he let you go, too.”
That was small comfort.
“Now, on the other hand, if it hurts this much just saying goodbye to somebody temporarily, despite a disagreement, then I’d say it’s love.”
“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s infatuation.”
“In which case,” she retorted, “you’d be blind to any of his faults and get along famously until the moment you said goodbye.”
“—or simple lust?”
“In which case, you wouldn’t care about his faults. You’d be too busy doing what you needed to so you could do the horizontal mambo.”
“I’m not sure things are meant to be for us. It’s…complicated.”
“Complicated,” she scoffed. “When any young couple has troubles, they think they’re the first ones in the world it’s happened to. They’re the only ones ever to go through it!”
If I bit my tongue any harder, it’d be a goner. “So. What kind of car are we looking for? Another Cadillac?”
“All I’m saying, dear, is listen to your heart. There’s a reason you feel so miserable right now. If you want to make him suffer, give it a sensible amount of time and then call him. But don’t let your heels sink so long you end up digging them in and letting him go. He’s got too cute a tushy to let go.”
“Oh my.” I cracked up. “Good point. It looks even better in a Speedo, although I’ll never admit it to him.” Shit. Would she notice I’d all but confessed to knowing Mitch before?
“That’s right. Never let him know you worship his body as much as he worships yours. You’ll have the upper hand.”
What would she think about my “upper hand” if she knew he’d confiscated and read my journal, where I referred to him as Goodbody?
* * * *
Grandma ended up with hot red ’79 Z28 someone had previously owned and put two hundred and seventy-six miles on. She all but stole it from the dealer, for the criminal price she bartered him down to. Maybe that’s where I got my knack for bargaining with the vendors in Mexico.
Clinging to the door handle on the passenger side as she raced home, I knew precisely where my wild side came from.
She had dance practice with Stu this evening, and since Dennis wasn’t around, I decided to use the TTR to phone Mitch. It took a few minutes for me to figure out how to adjust the channel to the one he’d told me to use.
“Hello? Hello?” No answer. I fiddled with the buttons some more. “Hello? Mitchell?” Maybe it was the switch on the side. Mumbling to myself as I worked, “Calling Mr. Goodbody. Come in, Goodbody…” Nothing. Damn. I’d really hoped I’d get to talk to him. And maybe he’d be over whatever he was mad about. Or at least willing to apologize for being such a jerk that morning. “Big hunk o’ shit!”
“Which is it, Goodbody, hunk, or shit?”
“God. How long have you been listening?”
He was quiet so long, I started to think he wasn’t going to answer. “At first I was surprised you actually called.” Another long pause. “Thought maybe you were giving up on me.”
He was probably only talking about the TTR, but I’d try and rally him to the subject eating at my insides all day. “Funny, it seemed that was what you wanted, earlier.”
“So. Did you girls buy a car today?”
I sighed at his change of subject. “Yes. Dennis will shit himself, but that’s okay. I bet Stu’s lovin’ it tonight.” I could almost imagine him and Grandma up at some lookout point, watching the submarine races from her new muscle car. “She bought a fully loaded, cherry-sweet Camaro. I’d love to hide that baby away someplace safe and dig it out in 2010.”
He cleared his throat. “About 2010…”
“Yes?” Was he going to ask me on a date when we got back? Did he want to pick up where we left off?
“I think you need to go there. Like, soon. Because now Rico wants you along for the big deal later this week and—”
“Oh my God! You are so not going to ship me out before I get my answers.”
“It’s not safe for either of us when I can’t trust you to follow orders.” His tone brooked no argument.
Mitch and his damned self-ordained authority. “Orders! Are you forgetting I got here all on my own, not with the help of you or anybody else? And you do realize if it wasn’t for me, you’d have been the victim of more brutal beatings last night, most likely resulting in a hospital stay if and when the cops decided to let you go? Meaning you’d have missed out on quite a lot of time on this case, Mitchell Goodman.”
I heard rustling sounds and immediately pictured him scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “I saw that bitchin’ tumble you did on the way out of the patrol car you crashed. Pretty cool move.”
My back didn’t think it was so cool today, but I’d be damned if I’d say so. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I could hear the smile in his voice. And it sounded almost like he admired what I’d done.
“I, um, had to learn how to fall without getting hurt. For skydiving.” Too bad I couldn’t figure out how to keep from getting hurt when falling in other ways. Speaking of getting hurt, “How’s your head tonight?”
“It was just a little bump. No big deal.”
Was he being tough for my benefit or was he irritated with me for caring?
“Mitch?”
“Hmm?”
“You gonna tell me how I pissed you off this time?”
“What do you mean this time? You make it sound like I’m always pissed.”
“Well, are you?”
“Where’s your dad, this evening?”
“Um…I have no idea. Care to come keep me company?”
“I think that would be a really bad plan.” When I fumed, rather than beg him to explain, he said, “Father dearest seems rather opposed to us dating.”
“Oh, Mitch. I’m sorry. It’s because of who he thinks you are.”
Mitch answered with a nasty laugh I couldn’t interpret.
“Seriously, given the facts, I bet you two would get along and—”
“Let’s not bank on it. So I guess you can hang with him later. We’ve got a meeting tomorrow night…on a boat. Did he tell you about it yet?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to wait for him to tell you, then. Or he’ll know we talked.”
“He knows I’ve got a thing for you and I’m worr
ied about your head. So what if we talked?”
“Not happening. Take care tonight, huh?”
“Mitch? Wait!”
“What?”
“Venus…she’s just rising. Can you see her from where you are?”
I heard a clunk as he moved the radio. “Yep.” It might have been my imagination but his voice sounded softer to me. “There she is.”
Hopefully he was remembering that evening under the stars, like I was.
He cleared his throat. “Enjoy your time with your dad.” No mistaking the gentleness in his tone. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
A quiet evening with the TV, exactly what I’d longed for the night before.
Just where the hell was that father of mine?
Chapter 21
Dear Randi,
Life’s little mysteries keep getting bigger. Dennis came trotting in a few minutes before midnight. Obviously I’m only his “cousin” so why he’d make up a story for my benefit, I cannot guess. But I believe he did, for he said he’d been at the library. Yeah. ’Til after eleven? Maybe at a college library, but I truly doubted it.
He smelled distinctly like donuts, even had a bit of glaze at the corner of his mouth. And being the nosey wench I am, after he went off for a shower, I found receipts in his jacket pocket. Seems he bought 3 cups of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, one at 8:05, one at 8:45 and one at 10:00. Someone else paid for his donuts though, unless he tossed that receipt away. How very strange.
He did have a stack of books in his backpack. Well, yes, so I rifled through them too!
Oh hell. Here he comes.
Dennis bestowed his usual half-scowl, half-“you’re nuts” look on me as I hastily shoved my journal under my pillow. He appeared wide awake and perhaps a bit wired, rather than ready to head off to bed like I’d expected him to do. Why wouldn’t he be buzzing? He’d spent the last three and a half hours consuming caffeine, carbs, and probably quite a helping of nicotine, too.
“News, huh?” He pointed his lit cigarette toward the TV as he settled into the easy chair. “You’re a regular party animal, Cuz. So this is what I can look forward to when I’m old.” Only his grin kept me from giving him a smart remark. “Where’s Ma at?”
“Practice with Stu.”
“Not this late, she ain’t.”
I didn’t ask where he figured they’d been. Maybe at Dunkin’ Donuts, where some people hung out ’til all hours of the night.
More coverage about the counterfeit money started playing, but was somewhat drowned by the sound of Grandma’s new car pulling into the driveway.
“That’s no Caddy.” He rose immediately and headed to the window. “You really got her to trade it off?”
He’d pulled the curtains aside by the time I’d stood to follow him. “It wasn’t like I talked her into anything, she—”
“What the hell is that? A fuckin’ Firebird?”
As we watched, Stu climbed from behind the wheel and walked to the passenger side.
“It’s a Z28, not a Firebird.”
“What is she, twenty-one?”
Stu opened the door for her.
“Christ. She’s blitzed.”
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“It’s after midnight,” he muttered under his breath. Then, looking sideways at me, “Hear her laughin’? That’s her drunk laugh. We’re in for a treat.”
Good thing Stu was there to help Grandma walk in, because she’d never have made it alone, teetering on her high dance heels.
“It looks like he’s sober at least.”
“One thing he’s good for,” Dennis conceded, letting the curtains fall closed.
They made a noisy entrance, bouncing the front door into the wall. Stu “Shh”ed her and then whispered rather loudly, “In a minute, baby, one minute.” With little more than a wave over his shoulder in our direction, he helped her down the hall toward her room. Their walking seemed impeded as much by her amorous groping as by her tipsiness. Her door shut with a bang.
Dennis rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. “Jesus. I think I’m gonna need a drink. C’mon.”
I followed him to the kitchen, unsure whether I found Grandma’s current state hilarious or appalling. Or, if it really happened on a regular basis, sad.
He’d started pouring vodka into glasses of 7Up, when someone knocked. Only it was on the wall, rather than the door. Dennis didn’t even pause in what he was doing. Oh. It wasn’t someone knocking—a headboard banged against the wall. I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle, while my dad shook his head and stirred the drinks.
Poor guy. I’d have been mortified too, if it was my mother.
“Let’s get outta here.” Handing my drink to me, he made for the lanai. When we’d shut the door and settled in our chairs, city sounds settled around us. Traffic, sirens, a dog barking down the street. Yet, like the sounds from a distant construction site, the noise from within crept out.
Dennis took a long drink and then set his glass down. “Jesus Christ. I have got to get my own place.”
We sat in silence for several minutes. All the while, his fidgeting and smoking grew faster and faster.
The pounding, while rapid, was steady. Stu had staying power, I’d give him that.
“Fuck this.” Dennis rose in one quick, decisive motion. “I’ll be right back.”
I cringed, fully expecting that he planned to go initiate an argument.
The staccato from within grew louder for a moment as he opened and shut the French door on his way back.
“This’ll take the edge off.” As he sat, he held up a tiny pipe in one hand, and a bag in the other.
“Oh. I don’t know. What is that?”
“Finest weed Mexico can grow. Compliments of our friend Rico and his compadres. And let me tell ya, Cuz, this is some good shit.”
“Yeah, but I’m not really—”
“Oh, come on. Don’t make me get mellow all by myself!”
Smoking pot with my dad. Now there was a page of my baby book left intentionally blank.
With expert ease, he stuffed the pipe full. He withdrew a matchbook from his pocket, but paused before striking it. Looking over at me, he must have seen my hesitancy. “C’mon. You can’t tell me you went to college in the early seventies and didn’t smoke ganja! From what I’ve heard, they practically handed it out with textbooks back then.”
It may not have been the seventies, but my college experience had definitely included Marijuana 101. “Well…”
He shook his head and struck the match. “Don’t know what you’re so fuckin’ uptight about.” Sulfur fumes drifted my way as the flame dipped into the pipe bowl, drawn by the soft sucking of his breath.
When he stopped sucking in and handed me the pipe, I still hesitated.
Exasperated, he blew out a lungful of smoke. “Fuck, Drew! Hurry up or it’s gonna go out.”
The smoke was hotter than I remembered. I choked, hacked and nearly retched. Through my watery eyes Dennis doubled over, laughing at me.
“Jesus,” he finally gasped between guffaws, “if I’d known it was gonna kill ya, I wouldn’t have pressured ya.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I rasped. A long, soothing sip of my drink, and I was good to go. “Give me another match.”
“Maybe you’re too old.” He held the matchbook just out of my reach, wearing a troublemaker’s grin, which was really quite attractive. If I wasn’t his cousin, er, daughter…
“Look, dude, give me the match.”
He handed the matchbook over. As if prepared to be entertained, he crossed his arms and sat back.
Acting the expert, I lit the match and sucked in, this time getting smoke past my seared throat and into my chest. My throat must’ve taken quite a burn, for it was mercifully numb.
His eyebrows raised in silent tribute as he accepted the pipe and took another toke.
To further impress him, I held my smoke ’til several seconds after he’d relea
sed his.
After a short burst of coughing, I asked, “Aren’t you, like, worried your mom will catch you?”
“Fuck. She’ll pass out as soon as they’re…done.”
Not to be outshone, or possibly because he’d remembered what was going on inside, he lit up and sucked in again.
I snatched the pipe from him and took another hit too.
“You got the lungs of a whale?” he asked when I’d finally let out my smoke.
“Practiced holding my breath, part of the training for some of the extreme sports I do.”
“Extreme sports,” he muttered. “Weird talk. Whattaya, hold your head under water in the Grand Canyon as long as possible? What the hell is an extreme sport anyhow?”
“I learned to hold my breath for cliff diving. But you never know when it’ll come in handy.” Another sip and my drink was gone. Possibly to my head, since the branches of a certain bush in the yard seemed to be moving with no wind. “Such as…” I waved my hands around me, “…when my long-lost, da—er, cousin challenges me to a pot-smoking contest.”
“You went cliff-diving? What are you, fuckin’ nuts?”
I laughed and got a step ahead in the smoking challenge by taking the next hit.
“Seriously? Like those guys on The Love Boat, you cliff-dived?”
I let out my smoke, quite hopelessly messed up. The bush was still moving, but none of the citrus trees behind were. “Yep. I’ve been to the same place they always show too, in Mexico. Jumped on my honeymoon, while my husband took pictures from a boat below.”
From inside, the banging—pardon my pun—got faster, louder, then stopped.
“Thank Christ!” Apparently satisfied with his buzz, he lit a cigarette. “You want one?”
“Nah. Never touch ’em. Too tough on the body. Besides, where I come from, it’s really inconvenient to smoke. It’s illegal in most public places.”
“Get the fuck outta here!”
“Yep.” I nodded, itching to take the pipe again, but knowing it was a bad plan. Instead, I laced my hands around my knees and looked up at the pinkish night sky. Was that Venus over there? It sure was bright, but maybe it was a different planet. Or an airplane. Was it blinking, or was I? And would I ever look at the stars again without thinking of Mitch?
