“Hey, baby. What the fuck.”
Pitman stands swaying in the doorway. His face is dark and glowering, but bemused. His jaws are stubbled; he hasn’t shaved since 6 a.m. the previous morning. The eyes are Pitman-eyes, horsey eyes, glassy but alert, interested. There’s a relief in this, I’m thinking that I will never again have to smell another woman on him. I will never again have to smell the fury leaking through his pores ... A slow smile breaks over Pitman’s face. His big horsey teeth bared, almost happy. You’d say it was a mean taunting smile but mostly it’s teasing.
“Baby, you better take careful aim with that fucker. You got one shot before I’m on you.”
~ * ~
“What we will do, Lucretia, is . . .”
He’s my Daddy come in the night to help me. Ashen-faced and shaken but taking charge. He’s in clothes he threw on hurriedly over his pajamas. Saying, licking his lips and repeating as if he’s having difficulty articulating such words, “What you will say, Lucretia, is . . .”
I called home at 1:14 a.m. Not911. Phone records will show. How soon after I called Daddy has arrived I don’t know. I was on the floor in the darkened living room where he found me. Through this roaring in my ears I am not able to hear everything Daddy says, he must grip my shoulders, shake me gently. This drawn sickly-white face is not exactly Daddy’s handsome face but of course this is Everett Rayburn. I can’t recall when his hair has become so thin. He has led me into the bathroom to wash my face. Comb out my matted hair. I rinsed my mouth, that plumy rum-taste. I could not reenter the bedroom, Daddy went inside to bring clothes for me. A pair of sandals, I laughed to see sandals! I have not looked into the bedroom since Daddy arrived. When he first came and went immediately to see Pitman where he’d fallen, I’d been frantic crying, “Is he dead, Daddy? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Dial 911. Daddy dials 911. Daddy dials the (memorized) number of his lawyer who lives in Canton.
“Yes, honey. He’s dead.”
The rifle that was too heavy for me to lift in my arms and aim is on the floor of the bedroom, where it fell. Daddy has seen but not touched the rifle. Daddy has crouched over the man’s body, seen but not touched.
Two bullets. For the first was not enough to stop him.
In the distance, a siren. It’s rare to hear a siren in the night in the country. In my skinned-alive state that seems to me a pure and spiritual state I am sitting on the living room sofa, in the way my parents wished their daughter to sit at mealtimes. Perfect posture.
Head back. Take pride, don’t slump shoulders. Not ever.
Now we’re alone in this house Daddy has never visited, Daddy seems clumsy, confused. He’s breathing so quickly. Gripping my bands in his. Before he became a builder and a rich man, Daddy was a cabinetmaker, still works with his hands sometimes, and his hands are strong and calloused. I like the feel of Daddy’s hands, though the fingers are not warm as I remember. Hands so much larger than my own.
Daddy is swallowing hard and trying to control his breathing hearing the siren approach saying again that I must tell the truth exactly as it happened why I had to fire that rifle to save my life.
And all that led to it. All.
‘Just tell the truth, Lucretia.”
Which is what I will do, so help me God.
<
~ * ~
SUE PIKE
A Temporary Grown
From Murder in Vegas
Dolores shuffled into the Solarium looking for the paper cups the nurses used to distribute the meds. It was a hobby of hers, collecting the tiny, fluted cups. She liked to put treasures in them and line them up on the windowsill of her hospital room.
Leonard was slouched on the sofa watching TV and scratching his head. Leonard was always scratching his head. It was sort of a hobby of his, Dolores thought. She spotted four abandoned cups on the card table, but just as she was gathering them up her attention was caught by an image on the TV. She sucked in her breath as Bryce and a young woman drove onto the screen riding a huge black motorcycle, the pink sand of the Nevada desert glowing behind them in the evening sun. They skidded to a stop, pulled off their helmets, and waved at the camera. The woman shook her head, catching Bryce full across the face with a sheet of long blond hair. Bryce brushed the hair away, threw his arm around the blond girl’s shoulder, and laughed. Then Leonard started laughing and Dolores had to flap her hands to shush him so she could hear the commentary.
“Bryce Campion, best known for his role in Worlds Apart, and Marie-France Lapin, of Jazz Hot, the all-girl band from Paris that’s been making waves all over the country, announced their upcoming nuptials today in Las Vegas. Bryce is currently headlining a brand-new show at the Three Crowns ...”
Her knees wobbled and she dropped into a chair, sending the paper cups skittering to the floor. That made Leonard laugh some more, but when she started to shush him again she caught herself. His eyes had that glittery look that meant something crazy was going on in his head and she’d better watch out.
She leaned closer to the screen. “The wedding will take place next week in the Little White Wedding Chapel, a Las Vegas landmark.”
Dolores began to hum two notes over and over. It was something she did when she could feel her heart beating too fast. She was going to have to decide what to do but she couldn’t think in here with the TV and Leonard scratching his head and laughing too loud in all the wrong places. She grunted as she leaned over and picked up the cups from the floor and then she pulled herself to her feet and shuffled away as fast as her swollen legs would carry her.
Back in her room, she tore a sheet from the steno pad Dr. Bradford gave her at their first session. She was supposed to be using it for a journal, writing about all the times she felt angry and all the times she felt sad. But the pages were mostly empty and every time he asked her about it she just hummed a bit and stared at the floor while he gripped the desk so hard his fingers went white.
She reached between the mattress and the box spring and fished out a silver pen she’d found on Dr. Bradford’s desk one day when he was looking at something in her file. After scribbling a few words on the paper, she reached into the crevice under the radiator where she’d hidden the blank stamped envelope she’d found a few weeks ago at the nursing station when the matron had gone to the bathroom. She addressed it to Bryce Campion, Three Crowns Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada, and then tucked it into the zippered compartment of her bag. They were releasing her to the group home tomorrow and she’d be able to slip out and mail it once the social worker was through talking to her. She sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two and then reached behind the radiator again to check the money hidden in there. She liked to think of it as her nest egg. That’s what her grandmother had called the money in the cookie tin she kept high up on the shelf over the icebox. Dolores had stood on a chair and reached for the tin one day when she thought her grandmother was lying down in the next room. It slipped out of her fingers, and the coins had clattered to the floor. Her grandmother had shot into the room and yanked the chair right out from under Dolores, making her crack her head on the table as she fell. The social worker had asked how she’d hurt herself, but she never said. Not that time. Not ever.
~ * ~
Dolores stepped out of the cool of the Greyhound Bus Terminal onto South Main and caught her breath. The noise and heat and brilliant sunshine jumbled together inside her head and made it hard to think clearly. She shuffled a few blocks before she dropped her pack onto the sidewalk and leaned against the wall of an office building. She put both hands behind her and pushed hard against the wall, feeling the stucco bite into her fingers, trying to read the bumps as if they were Braille. She took a deep breath and tried to think about the mantra Dr. Bradford had taught her, but sounds and images were jittering around in her mind so fast she couldn’t remember how it began. After a while she rummaged in her bag for a jam jar of water and with a few sips she felt strong enough to push away from the wall and pick up
her pack again. She stood for a moment and tried to get her bearings. In her letter she’d described the doughnut shop where he should meet her. It was one she’d discovered last year when she’d come here to be with him. But she didn’t want to think about that time and had to hum very loud to keep it out of her head, only the trouble with that was it kept the location of the doughnut shop out of her head as well. But it was on the Strip, that much she could remember, so she set off again humming even louder to take her mind off her heartbeat and her sore ankles.
When she’d gone to the group home the social worker had watched her unpack her bag and fold things into the dresser drawer. Dolores smiled, remembering how easy it had been to push everything back in the bag and drop it from the window the next day. When she walked out the front door she’d called to Stella, who was in the kitchen making lunch, and told her she was just going for a walk and then she’d gone around back, picked up her pack, and walked to the bus terminal. It took most of her nest egg to buy the one-way ticket.
Dolores walked on, stumbling a bit every once in a while, holding onto the walls of buildings when she was afraid she might fall. She thought about Dr. Bradford and how he made everything he said sound like he was talking to a child. “Doris,” he’d said, always calling her Doris even though she’d corrected him so many times.
“Doris, sometimes people think they have a connection to people they’ve never met. Especially celebrities. Some even believe they’re married to well-known men like Bryce Campion.” He’d looked sad when he said it, like it was one of the big tragedies of the world. “You understand you’re not married to him, don’t you?” He’d twisted his pencil between his lips, making it squeak and then he’d pulled it out with a wet popping sound and leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. “You can get rid of this obsession, Doris. You have the power to make yourself better.” She’d had to hum hard into her pillow that night, remembering the little frown between his eyebrows that made an upside-down V like the pitched roof on her grandmother’s hen house. But she didn’t really blame Dr. Bradford. He didn’t know any better. He hadn’t seen the look Bryce had given her that night in the movie theater. He hadn’t been there the night Bryce had asked her to marry him. She could still remember it as clear as day. She was sitting in the second row and he was looking down at her from the shiny, pebbly screen. There was a hurt look on his face, as though afraid she’d refuse. “Dolores,” he’d said, “Marry me, Dolores. Please.” She’d said yes right there, out loud. Some people in the audience laughed, but she didn’t care. He’d said the words she’d been waiting to hear all her adult life. After that she’d watched every movie he ever made. And she’d gone to the library and looked through all the movie and entertainment magazines in hopes of finding a photo of him. When they stopped making musical films he’d taken a job in Las Vegas, singing in one of the smaller hotels. And she’d gone along last year to be with him. But it hurt to think about that right now.
She’d managed to make her way to the area known as the Strip with its confusing jumble of moving lights and jangly music that hurt her head. The pack was scraping against her so she put it down on the sidewalk and slumped onto it, splaying out her legs.
“Hey, watch it.” A young girl veered around her, her roller blades screeching on the sidewalk just inches from Dolores’s worn plastic thongs. The girl flipped her hair and a barrette dropped to the sidewalk.
“Watch it yourself,” she shouted back, scooping up the barrette and running her fingers along its surface. It was just the right size to fit into one of the fluted paper cups she had stacked in her bag. She shoved it into a side pocket and struggled to her feet again. She had to find the doughnut shop fast in case Bryce was waiting for her. She stared along the Strip, humming to keep her heart from pounding. It was packed with people looking in shops and restaurants, but they weren’t looking at her so that was okay. She walked on, stumbling a bit with fatigue and confusion and then she spotted it, just a little way down a little side street, nestled between an adult video store and a newspaper shop.
It was wonderfully cool inside. She dropped her bag into a booth and peeled a couple of dollars from what was left of the nest egg in her pocket. A young man with acne and a tattoo of an alligator on his left arm took her order for three chocolate glazed and a large coffee and then, balancing her meal in both hands, she squeezed between the molded chair and table and began the serious business of eating. Dr. Bradford would have a fit if he saw her. He’d handed her some diet sheets at one of their last sessions and made her promise to read them. Easy for him to eat all those fruits and vegetables, half of which she’d never even heard of. He didn’t have to live on the little bit of money she got from welfare.
“Mind if I share your table?” A young woman with black hair swept back into a wide red ribbon made Dolores jump. She looked around the restaurant but almost all the other tables were empty.
She shrugged and chocolate crumbs cascaded to the white plastic table.
“Man,” the woman giggled. “Is it ever hot today.” She tossed a couple of parcels onto the bench beside Dolores’s pack and threw her cotton jacket on top.
“Looks like you could use another coffee.” The woman was still standing, the smell of perfume wafting about her. “Can I get you anything else?”
Dolores shrugged again without looking up and the woman strode away leaving her jacket and parcels behind. Dolores sneaked a peek at the top one. Neiman Marcus, it said. Well, well. All right for some, she thought, resentment pinching her lips together.
“Here you go. I picked up a couple more doughnuts as well.” She giggled again. “I’m Jennifer, by the way. What’s your name?”
Dolores pulled the new bag of chocolate glazed toward her and counted four. They would have cost a fortune, she thought, toting up the total in her head. “Dolores.”
‘Well, bon appetit, Dolores!” Jennifer smiled brightly while she dusted the bench and perched gingerly on the edge. She stacked a pile of napkins onto the table and placed a carrot raisin muffin in the exact center. She turned the napkin pile around a couple of times before breaking off a tiny portion from the top and popping it into her mouth. A couple of miniscule crumbs dropped onto the table. “Mm-mm,” she said, and giggled again while she touched the corners of her mouth with the longest, pinkest nails Dolores had ever seen. She pushed her own hands with their gnawed nails into her lap while she examined the woman across from her. Jennifer had one of those smiles that made her nose scrunch up, the kind the girls in high school used to try on in front of the restroom mirror until they caught her watching and made her leave. It was definitely the kind of smile for girls who giggled a lot.
“So,” Jennifer studied her largely undamaged muffin and then looked up. “Where are you from?”
Dolores hesitated wondering if this was a trap. “Why? What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nobody you meet around here is actually from Las Vegas. Most people are tourists.” Jennifer leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I’ll bet you flew here, right?”
Oh sure. On her budget. “Huh-uh. Bus from Chicago.”
Jennifer flapped her hand with its pink nails in front of her mouth indicating it was full, but the muffin sitting on the tidy pile of napkins appeared almost whole. “Chicago?” she said after she swallowed. “I love Chicago!”
“Um ...” Dolores looked into the doughnut bag and selected another chocolate glazed. She didn’t want to talk about Chicago. It made her think of Dr. Bradford and the little roof-shaped frown.
“What did your mother call you, Doris?” he’d asked at their last session.
“I told you, I don’t have a mother. “
“Grandmother, then. What did she call you?”
“You know,” she’d mumbled. She wished she’d never told him about the Doris Doolittle rhyme.
“Huh?” she looked up at Jennifer, realizing she’d missed a question.
“I asked if you had a place to
stay.”
Dolores shrugged.
“I could help you find a nice motel room and give you a lift, if you’d like.”
Dolores scanned the seats in the doughnut shop again. “No, thanks. I’m meeting someone.”
“Oh!’’Jennifer beamed at her. “A boyfriend, I’ll bet.” She looked around herself at the mostly empty tables. “Is it a boyfriend, Doris?”
“My name’s Dolores.” The familiar anger bubbled up, pricking her eyes with tears.
“Oops. Sorry.” Jennifer grinned. “I’ll bet he’s gorgeous. Is he gorgeous?”
Dolores shrugged. “He’s not all that young any more.”
The Best American Mystery Stories 2006 Page 35
