“He’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not poking around in anything. I really have to go.” I shifted out of neutral into reverse and started inching the truck backward.
“One last thing.” He walked along with the truck, his brown eyes narrowed into slits. “You and me, we’ve got unfinished business, and it is going to be taken care of, you have my word on that.” He slapped the side of the moving truck as if it were an animal he was releasing out to pasture and walked back toward the house.
13
ON THE DRIVE back, I rolled down both windows in the truck, letting the damp wind from the coming storm whip through the cab and cool my burning cheeks. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Clay’s words seemed to be loaded with trapdoors and how possible it was that he had killed his uncle and how I still craved the taste and feel of his lips. Well, I said to myself, you wanted answers, you got them. The problem was, nothing seemed any clearer. I was still left with a bunch of questions and two men I’d gladly strangle if given half a chance. So when I got home, after paying the two hefty college students who lived next door five bucks to carry the trunks into my living room, I did what most women do when they can’t figure out why men do what they do.
“We have to talk,” I said into the phone to Elvia. “Now.”
“This sounds serious,” she said. “Come down to the store.” In the background, Cajun music so upbeat it hurt my teeth, almost drowned out her words. “We can talk in my office. Thank goodness I had it soundproofed last year.”
“What in the world is going on there?”
“I’m downstairs. They’re gearing up for Saturday. Jose is trying out a new recipe for crawfish etouffee and needed musical inspiration. You’ll have to try some. It actually looks quite good.”
“Why don’t we meet at Liddie’s?” I said. “I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like experimenting tonight.”
“Things are pretty busy here. Is a half hour okay?”
“Take your time. I have a lot to think about anyway.”
I sidestepped the trunks on my way out the door. If I experienced another sleepless night, and I was willing to bet I would, at least I’d have something to do now.
I smiled when I pulled into Liddie’s parking lot and saw who was parked there. The blue Ramsey Ranch truck looked as if it hadn’t been washed for five years. It must be one of the cooking-show nights and Daddy had “business” in town. Business that consisted of a blood-rare steak and a double order of country-fried potatoes. In the entryway a large group of senior citizens stood at the wooden “Hostess will seat you” sign, debating on whether Howard Johnson’s was a better deal. They were having an all-you-can-eat fried chicken tenders night. Ignoring them, Nadine barreled straight for me.
“How are you ...” I started. She clamped her thin fingers onto my wrist with a powerful grip that belied her sixty-five years.
“You’ve got to do something,” she hissed. “They’re driving me crazy as a June bug and I’m too old for this. Working nights is bad enough, but there’s nothing that says I got to put up with this.” Her tiny brown eyes bulged with agitation.
A couple of the senior citizens inched closer, their faces lit up with curiosity. “What is it, Nadine?” I asked, pulling her aside.
“That’s what.” She pointed toward the back of the restaurant. “You talk to them, Benni, and tell them they’d better shape up or I’m shipping them out.” She jerked her glasses off and glared at me.
“What?” I said, following her finger, though not her reasoning. Across the room, my father sat in a booth wearing a sun-faded Western shirt, his silver head hunched over a large oval dinner plate. “Is Daddy bothering you?”
She trailed her finger across the room and the picture started getting clearer. Dove sat four booths away, a fried chicken leg poised in front of her mouth, her bright blue eyes boring a hole into the top of her son’s head.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“They aren’t speaking, is what’s going on. At least not to each other. Tell Ben this—” Nadine’s voice went into a pretty fair imitation of Dove’s gear-grinding voice. “Tell Dove that—” She imitated my father’s grumpy bass. She pointed a knobby finger at me. “You can just tell them the next time they want to send a message, call Western Union!” She whipped around, grabbed a bunch of red menus and snapped at the nosy seniors, “Well, is it Howie’s or us? Make up your mind ’cause I ain’t got all night.”
I walked slowly across the carpet trying to decide who I should approach first, thinking, I really don’t need this right now. Both their heads popped up. A choice would have to be made. I looked at Dove’s glowering face, then at Daddy’s stoic one. My feet felt as heavy as hundred-year-old oak stump. After a few seconds, I gave Daddy an apologetic look and slid into the booth across from Dove. I knew he’d forgive me—he knew better than anyone the terror of Dove crossed.
“What’s going on between you two?” I asked. “You’re driving poor Nadine bananas.”
Dove took a fierce bite off her chicken leg. “Nadine Brooks should have never stopped taking her hormone pills. I merely told her to inform my eldest son that I would be ready to leave in fifteen minutes and if that didn’t suit him, I’d find another way home even if I had to hitchhike.”
“You mean you two drove into town together?” I laughed and picked up one of her french fries, touching it to the ketchup in her plate before popping it into my mouth. “You didn’t talk for a whole half hour? That I would have to see to believe.” I reached for another french fry. She pushed my hand away.
“Get your own dinner and quit being a smart mouth. You can just inform your father I won’t speak to him again until he apologizes. I mean it.”
I snagged another french fry and slid out of the booth. “Dove, this is ridiculous. Why can’t you and Daddy resolve your problems like adults?”
She gave me a crafty look. “You mean like you and Gabe?” she said, her voice dripping sorghum molasses.
I held up my hands. “Okay, okay, point taken. But at least I don’t expect someone else to do my dirty work for me. I live and die by my own sword.”
“I’m going to take a sword to your backside if you don’t get over there and tell your daddy what I said.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said good-naturedly. “By the way, just out of curiosity. Who is this Ahmad who is wreaking such havoc in the Ramsey household?”
She lifted her chin slightly, her bright eyes flashing. “He is a very nice man with a very nice family. His wife, Farideh, is a college professor and he has two beautiful children, Mitra and Mehran, who always get straight A’s in school.”
“That’s interesting, Dove, but who are they? New members of your church?”
“Heavens, no, child. He lives in New York. He’s the star of Gourmet Cooking with Ahmad and a brilliant Persian and French chef. He cooked for the President once. I reckon your daddy thinks his taste buds are more special than the President of the United States.”
“Dove, you know Daddy just doesn’t like to experiment with new foods. Can’t you compromise and cook what he likes part of the week?”
“I’ve compromised for seventy-five years.” She folded her arms across her chest. “He eats what I cook, or he starves. Tell him.”
I slipped in across from Daddy. He continued dissecting his steak without looking up. “Got a load of hay coming in on Sunday,” he said in his low drawl. “With this rain we’re gettin’, we shouldn’t have to buy as much next year. Dang weekend ranchers and their horses drive up the price something terrible. Havin’ to go further and further to buy it every year.”
I ignored his normal carping about horse owners. “Daddy, why don’t you just apologize? You know you’ll have to eventually. Why not just get it over with?”
“I’m sticking to my guns this time, squirt,” he said, not stopping the flow of food to his mouth. “Is it too much to ask for a man who works hard all day to expect food he can eat? Food he can understand? You haven’t taste
d that crap she makes. Green stuff I’ve never seen nor heard of before. Sprinkles it with some kind of yellow powder we got to drive clean to Santa Barbara to buy. Stuff cost more an ounce than gold. You know, I’m thinking she goes out in the pasture and digs up weeds to cook. It’s crossed my mind that she might be trying to poison me.” He spit out a piece of gristle, then sawed off another large piece of steak. “I’ve put up with her for fifty-six years. I’ve done my time. I’m thinking of shipping her up to Kate’s. It’s high time one of her daughters took her.” My aunt Kate, two years younger than Daddy and Dove’s oldest daughter, lives in Wyoming on a small ranch outside of Rock Springs. Aunt Kate would love taking Dove on, she’d been itching to for years. Her husband, Rex, a part-time sales rep for John Deere, might not be as thrilled.
“Dove hates the winters up there. You know she’ll never go.”
“I’m doin’ it, I swear I am. I’m buying the ticket tomorrow.”
I sighed, not knowing exactly where to go with this now. Then I remembered a saying that Daddy always said his daddy used to say when things twisted out of a person’s control. Grampa Ramsey called it the country cure for high blood pressure: “If it starts to rain, let it.” Sounded like good advice to me.
“Well, Daddy,” I said, “I guess there’s nothing I can do for either of you and I’ve got a ton of work to do, so just let me know where Dove’s staying so I can write.” He grunted and speared a forkful of ketchup-covered fried potatoes.
“Have a nice trip,” I said, walking past Dove and giving the top of her table a sharp tap with my fingers.
“What?” she squawked, but I double-stepped and scooted out the front door before she could get another word out. Elvia was walking up the steps as I was coming down.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Place full?”
“Too full for me,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry to drag you all the way over here, but I’ve changed my mind and I think I just want to go home. Can we do this tomorrow?”
“It’s man problems, isn’t it?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You might as well be wearing a sandwich sign.”
Elvia and I walked back through the parking lot in the comfortable silence of old friends. During my conversations with Dove and Daddy, twilight had crept in, bringing with it tule fog like low, rolling smoke. The oak trees and Chinese elms cast odd shadows over the vehicles, making it look as if someone had splattered black paint over the hoods. The wind was higher now, whipping the upper branches of the pine and eucalyptus trees, causing the leaves to softly rustle. The air had a waiting feel that matched my mood, a faint rusty scent that promised another bout of rain. When we reached my truck, Elvia laid a warm hand on my arm and gave me a long, measured look.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s going on?”
I leaned against the truck and kicked at the gravel with the heel of my boot. “This is really embarrassing.”
“Come on, Benni, we’ve been friends since knee socks. There isn’t anything you can’t tell me. Don’t forget, I remember your first kiss.”
“Alberto Cirrone, third grade,” I said and we both laughed.
“So what’s the problem and I want details.”
“You know, they’d hate me for saying this, but in some ways Gabe and Clay are a lot alike.”
“As in?”
“Moody, unpredictable, irritating to the point of obnoxious when they don’t get their way.”
She laughed. “We’ve already established the fact that they’re men.”
“You know, the last time I went through anything like this I was seventeen years old....”
“I remember. So, which one really curls your toes, amiga?”
“That’s sort of the problem ...”
“Why, you little pig. Most women would pull out their acrylic nails for one decent guy and you’ve gone and grabbed two. Not bad for someone whose idea of a beauty routine is splashing her face with cold water and polishing her boots.”
“Very funny. I’m really confused here. Gabe is ... well, you know. And Clay. There’s just something about him. We have a lot in common and there’s all these old memories but...”
“But what?”
“What if ...” I didn’t want to say it out loud. That gave it too much validity. But the question remained, What if Gabe was right about Clay?
She put her arm around me and gave me a little shake. “Look, take it from someone who has lived her entire life with more than her fair share of male hormones, it’s not the end of the world. Somehow, things will all work out.”
I snorted and gave the small hole I’d dug with my heel one last jab. “Yeah, good advice. Wish it was easier to take.”
“Get back to work,” she said. “That’s the best cure I know. Let Gabe find his killer and Clay take care of whatever it is he’s here to take care of and just get back to your own work. And don’t worry about it. Believe me, they certainly aren’t losing any sleep over it.”
Her advice was sound and reasonable and I knew she was right, so when I got home, the first thing I did after changing into warm sweats was open the trunks. Armed with a notebook and a cup of cocoa, heavy on miniature marshmallows, I started separating the items into three piles—personal articles, things to do with San Celina history and items pertaining to Mr. O’Hara’s store. I could see why Clay’s family wouldn’t want most of it. The letters and photographs were primarily of people and events that took place in the last sixty years in San Celina County. During the forties through the sixties, Mr. O’Hara belonged to almost every civic club and organization in town, was even president of two of them—the San Celina Farm Bureau and the San Celina Association of Retail Distributors.
Three cups of cocoa and four hours later, I had everything separated. The rain finally arrived with the eleven o’clock news. With both chattering softly in the background, I started looking at the first pile, the one I’d designated “personal.” Most of it was old photographs and postcards, a couple of old leather photo albums, a wooden book with two dogs carved on the front and the word “Scraps” that seemed to contain newspaper articles Mr. O’Hara found important. Most of the postcards were of his travels outside of San Celina—colorful photos of Irish castles and rolling green hills dotted with plump sheep, black and white photographs of men in long Western coats watching other men in stained, ragged chaps riding bulls at the 1915 Colorado-New Mexico Fair, one of a group of mariachis on “Ave Augustin Melger” in Mexicali, one of a bullfight, blood running down the bull’s side in a black trickle as the matador held the cape out in what appeared to be a welcoming embrace.
Fortunately for the Historical Society, Mr. O’Hara was a fanatical historian. All the photographs, Christmas cards and postcards were labeled and dated. There were envelopes of money, colorful, foreign bills that reminded me of play money—long red bills 100 Cien Pesos from Chile, faded multicolored bills from France with a picture of a woman in a kerchief holding a baby and a hoe, a series 1944 Deutschland Eine Mark that he must have bought or been given during World War II. The photographs that appeared to be of family I set aside for Clay. Though he didn’t think he’d want them, there might be someone in the next generation of O’Haras who might. Halfway through the personal pile, I grew tired of looking at photographs of people I didn’t know standing in front of old Model A’s or posed behind donkeys painted with zebra stripes in Tijuana, Mexico. I moved over to the San Celina pile. Here there were pictures and memorabilia I recognized, having seen many like them through the years of helping Dove catalog and store things for the Historical Society. There was a marvelous, clear picture of the old fire house which burned down shortly after World War II, showing the wooden bell tower that housed El Toro, the same siren that was such a big part of Mariko’s memories.
There were pictures of places that still existed—the original San Celina train depot built back in the late 1870’s, now a favorite restaurant of Gabe’s serving healthy “California Cuisine” that couldn
’t stick to your ribs even if you drenched it in Krazy Glue, the old brick Safeway store with the block letters USO on the second floor, which was turned into an antique mall ten years ago, the mission-style San Celina Inn where Clay was currently staying.
Fatigue finally got the better of me about one A.M. The small, uneven print of the newspaper articles and faded old letters were becoming one big blur. I stood up and stretched, my eye catching a flat, unopened box at the bottom of the trunk. The heavy twine that was wound tightly around it was knotted and old. It took five minutes and a gold steak knife to free the box. It contained a small silky flag with tassels and a gold star in the middle. The kind that was displayed in the windows of homes where a member of the family was killed in combat. I studied it for a moment, thinking about what Thelma had told me about Mr. O’Hara’s brother. Was it his brother’s death that caused him to break up with Oralee? Grief did have a way of sometimes causing you to do things you later regret. I folded the flag back up and slipped it back into the box.
After a long, warm shower to loosen up my stiff neck, I picked up the wooden scrapbook and three ledgers from the “department store” pile, and went to bed. I flipped through the payroll ledger, mentally trying to convert the wages of fifty years ago to 1990’s dollars. Another of the ledgers listed the cost of office supplies and employee expenses. I set it aside to show to Elvia. She’d get a real kick out of it. The last one appeared to be a record of personal loans made throughout the years he owned the department store. I trailed a finger down the names looking for any I recognized. I stopped at the name Yoshimi Yamaoka and wondered if that was Mariko’s father. I continued to go through the ledger, and an odd pattern jumped out at me. Except for a scattered few Smiths, McGregors and Tripps, most of the names in the loan ledger were Japanese. I flipped through the ledger, trying to quickly calculate the amounts loaned. Beginning in late December 1941, Mr. O’Hara started loaning hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Japanese community, apparently, if I was reading the ledgers accurately, without any sort of interest at all. Many of the loans were paid back, which he meticulously noted, but many more of them weren’t. I skipped to the end of the ledger. The last loan was made in the early seventies right before the store officially closed. I set the record book down on the nightstand and turned out the light. Though I was exhausted and the lighted dial of the clock-radio read 1:54 A.M., I tossed and turned and stared at the dark ceiling, the incongruity of Mr. O’Hara’s hostile personality and his altruism as confusing to me as the two other men I was trying not to think about. I couldn’t do anything about Gabe and Clay, but I could certainly look deeper into Mr. O’Hara, though there was no doubt I’d have to do it as unobtrusively as possible.
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