by A. J. Lape
Like Liam, Murphy was (or had been) a fastard. How did the universe pay back those reformed fathers for their wanton, selfish, and unfeeling behavior? It gave them daughters. But the universe wasn’t totally without mercy. It balanced out that judgment by giving you the special ability to sniff out other bad-boys like a dog could sniff out a bone. You saw it in their stride, the hidden messages in their everyday talk, the way they held your hand or even avoided your hand. You saw all those little innuendos both verbal and nonverbal, then shot out a warning scent to take a hike, or prepare for a physical reminder that it was wisest to stay away.
Liam swallowed so loud it practically bounced off the sidewalk and echoed up into the air. Talk about a red flag. If he couldn’t handle Murphy, no way in the world would there ever be a relationship, real or fictitious.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened his door. I followed suit, trying to be supportive, wondering why Murphy was home three hours early. I almost asked, but the white heat rolling off him knocked me back to a respectable distance. Murphy didn’t have introductions on his mind. All he needed was a torture rack because it was obvious he wanted to rip Liam from limb-to-limb.
“Liam Woods,” he murmured, extending his hand to Murphy. “You must be Darcy’s father. She’s such a great girl; I’ve been dying to meet her parents.”
See, he hadn’t done his homework, had he. Number one, Murphy was a single father. Number two, if he knew Murphy, he’d pee his pants.
At first Murphy stayed put, leaning against his silver Camry. After a pause where you could hear a feather drop, I swear, he circled him like prey and started sniffing. Sniffing, for God’s sake. A breath caught in Liam’s throat, but point for him, he never wavered or shrank away. When Murphy finished, he turned to me and belted out a string of expletives, the only one repeatable was of the h-e-double toothpicks variety.
I ducked; Liam ducked even lower.
I didn’t know whether to faint, cry, hold Liam’s hand, or tell Murphy he was being rude. I was so confused between the four alternatives I did the usual and nervously giggled. Liam honestly didn’t appear fazed, which made me think he had some major cojones or was out-and-out stupid. Murphy glanced to the sky and mumbled, “Help me, God,” then boomed, “Five minutes, Darcy. You’ve got five minutes before I’m up for murder.”
Jeez, Murphy behind closed doors with no supervision. Made me wonder if his pistol was loaded.
As I turned toward Liam, I expected some visage of repulsion, something other than the full-faced grin plastered on that perfect face. “Single father, eh?”
I didn’t respond, fearing he’d ask for details. “I have no complaints,” I shrugged.
Liam closed the gap between us, brushing his fingers against mine, his lids growing heavy with emotion. This was it. He was going to kiss me. Did I look okay? Was my coffee breath offensive? As I worried about a million different things, I had the abrupt realization your first kiss shouldn’t be like this. It should come after some magnanimous occasion where the guy went all-out to impress you. Your hair should be pretty, your lips nice and moist, it should be...perfect. Beggars can’t be choosers, I heard my inner idiot scold. The moment his lips parted and slanted toward mine, his cell phone cranked, immediately killing the moment.
Ergh, figures. The universe hated me.
Jumping, he checked his watch, sighed then promised, “I’ll call you.”
Famous last words, I thought. Suddenly self-conscious, I shoved my hands in my pockets, wondering what kind of absurd tricks my mind was playing on me anyway. Murphy would never agree to any sort of relationship, and his bad-boy radar was definitely in working gear. But how bad was bad? The truth of the matter was Liam scared me...and I didn’t scare easily. Maybe that was half the thrill.
15 POWWOWS
REALITY CAME UP and bit me in the butt.
It was Easter time, the season of miracles, and I needed a miracle like a ditzy bimbo needed a special on two-for-one hair color. All I knew was Murphy said if you didn’t believe in miracles, you wouldn’t recognize them when they happened.
But Jesus on a cookie? Even that was a stretch by my sense of humor’s standards.
Slumming in my red, snowman-clad flannel pajamas (I didn’t want Christmas to end, people, I just didn’t), I was standing in the middle of the kitchen watching Claudia and her local priest. Evidently, as she was having a snack this morning, she pulled a chocolate chip cookie out of the Keebler bag that looked like Jesus. Seriously? I guess it could happen, but I didn’t expect a man of the cloth and a camera crew to be filming “live.”
Wearing black priest clothes and a white collar (and so giddy it was disconcerting), he snapped on surgical gloves, holding the cookie to the light like he was inspecting a one-of-a-kind diamond.
I popped open the refrigerator, pulling out a can of Coke, eying the crumbs in the Keebler bag. No one had to tell me they were off-limits, but my body needed a sugar fix like its next heartbeat depended on it. When I took an overly loud swig, Claudia made a hissy sound in my direction, motioning that I go upstairs and change...guess what, wasn’t going to happen. I took another sip, making a very dramatic, broad-sweeping motion with my arms. “What’s all this?” I asked.
The living room was squared-off with portable floor lighting, the wattage alone capable of powering the state of Rhode Island. It must be a slow news day to put this kind of equipment power on a human-interest story.
Claudia’s explanation was simple. “He’s returned, Niña,” she said ecstatically, referring to the Christ child. Then she and bald Father-what’s-his-name had a stolen moment where they acted privy to Heaven’s secrets, and we were just the little people.
I looked them both square in the eye. “I thought He was supposed to return in the Eastern Sky, Claudia,” I smirked, referring to my limited knowledge of prophecy.
“No, Niña, just to visit. Look,” she said, pointing to the cookie. On a gold charger plate on the countertop was the lone cookie in question. I must say, the distribution of the chips did resemble a dying Jesus on the cross. At least in all of the pictures I’d seen. A clump made up his hair, two flecks were eyes, and it was distributed on a portion of dough that purposely looked bleached-out for his body. It was too uncanny to dismiss without a thought, but to call a priest? And a camera crew? A little farfetched, if you asked me.
Claudia immediately dispensed the niceties, introducing Father Phillip. Father Phillip had that look in his eye like he was wondering if I was a Believer or bound for Hell; I had that look in my eye like I was wondering if he were legit. After we both gave up on the not-so-subtle discrimination, he introduced everyone.
Odd that he knew their names, but hey, maybe he was the friendly type.
“This is Richie,” he said, pointing to the cameraman. “Jack,” he motioned to the one with the furry microphone, “and Rainn Webster.” Richie and Jack were fresh out of college; both had medium blonde hair and builds, baby faces, and looked completely worn out. Rainn was a pretty boy with perfect brown hair, a blemish-free face, and big brown, intelligent eyes. Rainn acted like Cincinnati was his feeder market to the big time.
I rolled my eyes in my mind. This guy was in love with himself.
Apparently, he was the roving reporter because he was clad in a white dress shirt and green tie, his bottom half in khaki shorts and three figure sneakers.
I gave them a cheesy smile as my six-year-old sister waltzed into the room wearing black patent leather shoes, white tights, a pink ruffled dress, and cockeyed bow on the top of her head. I stifled a laugh; she thought this was her big break.
“Sit, M,” I told her, patting the space next to me.
As soon as her tail hit the counter, she grabbed my hand and began with a, “Well…” Oh, Sweet God. I wasn’t much of a praying person, but I felt the need to drop to my knees. Whenever the girl began a conversation with “well,” it was a 30-minute recap of what was probably a 30 second exchange.
I nodded appropriatel
y and even offered a couple of “oohs” and “wows.”
Once she finished, we listened to Claudia and Father Phillip wax on about the wonders of God’s miracles and how it took faith and belief for them to happen. Rainn couldn’t hide his skepticism. Say what you will, but I’d always felt the person needing the miracle would be the best judge, but far be it from me or the Keebler elf to protest otherwise.
After ten minutes, Rainn made a whirly signal over his head to wrap up. He then fished his cell phone out of his pocket, checking a text. “Come on, guys,” he beamed, excitedly. “Some man showed up in a dumpster, and it looks similar to the Juarez and Hughes cases.”
Wait...WHAT?!
I jumped off the counter. My word, that right there was a miracle for Darcyville. “Was he dead?” I butted in.
Rainn looked at me like I was part nuisance, part kindred spirit for even entertaining the thought. A smile lit up his face as he expelled a laugh that grated to my core. Maybe that’s what crazy people sounded like. “Gee, I hope so,” he said. “The ’burbs kill me. There’s nothing up here except a frigging Jesus Cookie.”
All I knew was he’d just insulted Jesus. I was going to shower as soon as he left.
Vinnie brought over a MoneyGram for $200; it emptied my savings. We were pseudo friends again, but I wasn’t exactly back in his good graces. While he frothed at the mouth at how horrible of a person I was, I stood there and took it like a woman. I deserved a medal for making it through that conversation without stabbing him...or myself. I then called 1-800-PAYTELL and set up an account.
When Marjorie was fast asleep, Murphy and I had a family meeting. He called them powwows. Last one we had was when we changed from crunchy peanut butter to smooth. This one, however, involved who I was allowed in the car with...long and short of it? A demon was preferred over Liam Woods.
Murphy left my room, stupidly assuming I was in total agreement. “I’m beat, kid. My tank’s on E.”
I faked a yawn then sufficiently waited until he was snoring like a rhinoplasty-gone-bad and pulled on my white terrycloth robe, stepping barefoot into the cool, night air. Like clockwork, Oscar and Frank “picked” through our garbage around midnight. I needed to get word to Oscar that my phone line was open, and the best way to do that was via Frank.
Clutching my robe to my chest, I stared up at the moon. The crescent shape was filling in nicely, almost to a full circle. Even though it was partly illuminated, you could see the rocky ruins and craters made by the onslaught of atmospheric elements. It reminded me of life and the way your insides were permanently affected by the forces around it. The “man on the moon”—the face you could make out during a full phase—was the only face we ever saw. It was never changing, but what was on that other side? What personality was it hiding?
If your past defined you, it’s no wonder Frank and Oscar were looked upon as potential problems. Oscar’s latest escapade had criminal-in-training all over it, but he didn’t have any of the telltale signs of psychotic behavior. I couldn’t speak to bedwetting, but he wasn’t an animal torturer, nor did he blow up…
Shi-i-i—I almost cursed out loud.
Oscar did like to blow things up. He brought fireworks to school last week and took out a porta-potty. Then there was the incident where he stuffed a chipmunk in a locker. He didn’t kill it, but he sure as heck scared it. I hyperventilated so fast and hard it hurt my esophagus. Maybe I am defending someone that shouldn’t be defended, I thought. I quickly talked myself out of the idea. This was Oscar. Oscar was good—weird, but good.
To take my mind off the confusion, I gave the nightly news top billing in my brain. Another victim had been found in downtown Cincinnati in a place called Over-the-Rhine. Over-the-Rhine was no place you’d visit just to visit. Unless you came strapped with explosives, wearing a flak vest and wanting to have dinner with the local gangs. It was bad decision after bad decision gone awry. Here lately, there’d been a local effort to revitalize the area and some nice restaurants and housing were built. It hadn’t totally lost its bad reputation yet, though. Things like that took time.
This man, according to a less-than-detail-oriented Rainn Webster, was shot twice with a broken neck. Although he never mentioned a severed hand, the method of death was eerily similar, but was it similar enough to take some heat off Oscar? If law enforcement even remotely felt they were the works of the same person, then shouldn’t they be looking for another killer? You couldn’t pin another murder on someone currently incarcerated. I could only hope the death of victim number three placed a morsel of doubt in the back of Reese Sanders’ mind.
Right on cue, Frank crept up the street in his old, gray Chevy pickup truck. White smoke poured out of the tailpipe, and the engine purred so loud it sounded like it belonged on an airplane. The tailgate was already down—the bed full of scrap metal, a rusty refrigerator, tires, a strand of Christmas lights, and a naked female mannequin. God only knew the story that accompanied that one.
Frank stopped at the oversized black mailbox at the end of our driveway. We had nothing of value tonight, just four black trash bags. When I gave him half a smile and wave, he screeched his car into park, creaking his door wide to stand in front of me. I found that odd. We could’ve spoken through the window, but it’s almost like he was running away from perhaps what got Oscar in trouble in the first place.
“I saw him,” he mumbled.
The “him” in question was Oscar. After a few silent seconds, Frank told me what he did today, what he and Oscar would’ve done if they were together, and I realized he just needed to connect with someone. Frank was the needy one in the relationship, and my guess was, he was totally lost without Oscar telling him which foot to put in front of the other.
“Is he okay?” I asked.
Frank kicked his dirty, white sneaker at some imaginary pebbles in front of him. “He’s scared, but Frank can be scary, too.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, only that he’d found a way to coexist without getting killed in the process.
A few hours ago, a storm front rolled in. A large cloud was overheard, and right then a burst of rain sprung from its core, deluging us as if we were standing underneath a waterfall.
“Great,” I mumbled.
Frank just stood there, not even trying to shield himself. It might have been a mistake (since trees draw lightning), but I pulled us underneath the big maple in our front yard. Its skeletal remains were sprouting leaves but not enough to keep the pounding rain from drenching us. “You have to think, Frank,” I screamed, over the torrent. “Why would someone think Oscar was easy to frame?”
God love him, Frank had an airhead quality I thought was only reserved for females. All he could do was shrug and lick the water that was running down his nose.
“What do you do every night?” I asked. “You have to have crossed paths with someone.”
He grabbed my gaze as though he’d suddenly remembered something. “We only pick on Mondays and Tuesdays, but sometimes we travel to new construction sites. Once we saw…”
Frank sucked in a breath like if he didn’t get one he’d pass out. He was legitimately scared, and Frank was...well, sometimes I think he was too dumb to be scared. “Who?” I asked. When he wouldn’t answer, I said, “Okay, where?”
Frank pitched his head north. “A few miles up the road.”
“And what do you do at the construction sites?”
Frank’s hands were shaking, and it wasn’t from the chill. “It’s not always legal,” he confessed embarrassed.
Well, duh. Not for one minute did I think it would be.
I grabbed his hands. “I’m not here to rat you out. That’s your business. I’m just trying to help Oscar...because I can,” I added cockily.
Frank vigorously nodded his head up and down, believing every word, but the fact he put his faith in me so readily put me ill at ease. It dawned on me that he had no one. I didn’t know anything about his parents, but not once had he mentioned how they were han
dling things and what their plans were—if they even had any—of getting Oscar out unscathed.
“Get in,” he said, nodding to his truck, “I’ll show you what they do.”
Frank waited while I grabbed some jeans, laced up my Chuck Taylor’s, and shoved my head through a black hoodie. All the while I had that little angel on my shoulder telling me someone needed to medicate me, lock me up, and throw away the key. There was no method to my madness. I usually let my urges take the verb in me places. Trouble was, there were people all over the world with impulse control issues that were on Death Row and in padded cells.
Trying to stave off sleepiness, I shoved a stainless steel travel mug underneath Murphy’s Keurig. I punched the button, and within minutes had two piping hot cups of Black Tiger; one for me, one for Frank. You gotta love science.
The entire time I wondered what I should take on an excursion like this. Rat poison? Arsenic? Antifreeze? When I sat down in the truck, the best I could come up with was to tell Frank to lock the doors.
We left BTCC and after a few turns were on Valley Road. It ran North to South with potholes big enough to swallow a semi. Frank didn’t seem to mind if his tire fell into one, so I just held onto the dash and crossed my fingers that I didn’t lose a tooth in the process.
As the storm picked up, we rocked like we were on a rollercoaster, tree pollen hitting the windows, the weather not lenient in its assault whatsoever. One of the wipers hung like a broken bird wing, so there was a segment of windshield that didn’t get cleared. Frank hunched over the wheel, peering through that small, smeary space and humming to himself like a crazy person.
Right about now, I realized how stupid this was...especially if the storm woke Murphy. Before I could tell Frank to put the skids on the stakeout, we hydroplaned and went airborne over a hill. My stomach bottomed out as we came down so hard the load shifted in the rear.
