Tammy looked down at her hips, which were a little too big for her taste.
She rubbed her denim jeans, remembering a nutty old aunt, Thelma. Aunt Thelma used to tug at her niece’s hips, smile and say, “These hips were made for having babies. You’re going to have a mess of babies, Sassy.”
Sassy was Tammy’s nickname. Her father had given it to her because of Tammy’s penchant for sarcasm.
Tammy shook her head, feeling so many things wearing her down. Not having children, missing her father, who had died of emphysema seven years ago, and dealing with a husband evidently bent on suicide.
She pledged her time to local charities to keep her mind busy and she maintained her household, but she couldn’t stay busy enough to salve the depression which always returned.
Her grandmother had been manic depressive, and she was beginning to wonder if the condition was hereditary. She suspected that her next step was going to a therapist.
That idea in itself was depressing. She had an image of pouring her heart out to an analytical monster who would probably think, What’s this bitch crying about?
Yeah, she thought. Come on, Tammy. There are people starving in Ethiopia. There are people sleeping on city streets and you’re complaining. What right do you have? Maybe that’s why other countries hate America. We seem to have everything and we’re the biggest bitchers and moaners in the world.
Tammy bit her lower lip as she heard Luke’s car slide into the driveway.
She had psyched herself up for the confrontation, but now she felt her edge slipping. She did not want to verbally rip into Lucas. Lord knows she could be a bitch when she wanted to be. She was called Sassy for a good reason. But she had to make him understand that he would never get well unless he slowed down.
Luke entered the kitchen through the garage door. At the sight of her haggard, sickly husband, Tammy felt the inner fire surge through her once more.
Luke smiled. It was a soft smile, a warm smile that he used to assure her that everything was fine and dandy. She had seen that smile many times before, first on the face of a shy, young man at college and more recently on a devoted husband. But now the smile reminded her of a pretty wind chime tacked to the door of a mausoleum.
“I talked to Dr. Spencer today,” Tammy said, not returning Luke’s smile.
“Really?” Luke said, his expression sagging back to the more familiar mask of lethargy and pain. He removed his jacket and he hanged it in the small closet of the living room. Then he walked over to his recliner and plopped down on it as he loosened his tie.
Tammy followed Luke and she anticipated a knock down drag out fight. “Are you interested in what he had to say?”
“Sure, if he had something concrete to offer. I don’t know why I keep going to that quack. The worse my migraines get, the more confused he gets. I’m surprised the old codger hasn’t tried to bleed the bad spirits from my brow with leeches.”
“Dr. Spencer happens to be one of the best neurologists in Texas. He thinks you should quit using your ability, Luke. He said you should retire, keep writing your memoirs and take a long vacation as soon as possible.”
Lucas shook his head and gripped the armrests of his chair. “It’s not that easy, baby. I have a responsibility.”
“Boy, do I know this song and dance," Tammy snapped. "Don’t give me your good Samaritan bullshit. What about your responsibility to me? You’ve gone way above and beyond the call of duty. It’s time you started thinking about us. I won’t sit around waiting for you to die from a cerebral hemorrhage or a stroke or heart attack. You can’t expect me to keep living like this.”
"I am going to get another sick and tired of being sick and tired speech?" Luke complained harshly.
"Screw you, you bastard," Tammy said, hurt by what Luke had just said. "I care you about you. This isn't me nagging you, Luke. I'm worried."
Luke heaved a sigh and he shook his head apologetically. He rose from his chair and he gently gripped Tammy by the shoulders. “Honey, there’s a maniac running loose out there that the police have been trying to catch for a long time. A lot of people have died. I’m the only chance they have.”
Tammy chuckled sarcastically. “Well, when your brain explodes, should they add your name to the killer’s list of victims?”
“Be reasonable.”
“No!” Tammy shrieked, pulling away from Luke. “You be reasonable. I love you, but I can’t handle this anymore.” Tears were streaming down Tammy’s cheeks- tears of frustration, anger and fear.
“I’m living with a dead man,” she concluded, running to the bedroom and slamming the door behind her.
CHAPTER 6
“What the hell is a pilgrimage?” Lorrie asked, taking the joint from Shaw and drawing on it, long and hard, while Shaw sent his own cloud of smoke toward his bedroom ceiling fan.
Shaw ran a hand through his long, brown hair and he slumped against the wall at the head of the twin bed he had outgrown seven years ago.
“A pilgrimage, man,” Shaw said to Lorrie, who was sitting Indian style on the bed in front of him. “Haven’t you ever heard of a pilgrimage?”
Lorrie handed the joint back to Shaw, her eyes gazing down at the calico quilt that covered Shaw’s bed. Shaw’s mother had put it there. It didn’t go with the posters of heavy metal bands that adorned the walls. And it definitely didn’t go with the assorted bongs that Shaw kept hidden in his closet.
“No,” Lorrie admitted, tugging nervously at a lock of brown hair that was lazily draped over her shoulder. She hated it when Shaw went on about sixties bullshit. He could make her feel so silly and stupid, chattering on about free love and the peace movement and cartoon stickers that could make you soar if you licked the sticky parts.
“A pilgrimage, baby,” Shaw continued, putting the remainder of the joint in an ashtray on his night stand. “I’m talking about a fucking quest. My dad did it when he was our age.”
Lorrie giggled, picturing Shaw’s father- a middle-aged, balding car salesman who played golf every Sunday and waxed his BMW twice a week. Lorrie couldn’t picture Shaw Christopher Austen Senior doing anything she and Shaw Jr. would do. She couldn’t even picture Shaw’s dad at the age of seventeen.
“Come on,” Shaw scolded her, softly. “I’m serious.”
“You’re stoned,” Lorrie corrected him, prodding his knee with her foot.
“And so are you, Lorrie Magoo!” Shaw teased, flashing a triumphant smile. It was Shaw’s favorite move. Whenever Lorrie wasn’t into what he was saying, or being receptive to his needs, as he was fond of saying, he would bring up the nickname that had stuck with Lorrie since elementary school.
“My name is Lorrie Macroon, not Magoo!” she insisted, having no idea why the name bothered her so much. It just did. And Shaw knew how much it annoyed her, that shit!
“Magoo! Magoo! Magoo!” Shaw shouted, squinting his eyes and drawing out the name like a chattering monkey. “Magoooooooooo!”
Lorrie lunged toward Shaw, her small fist aiming for his head. She wasn’t with Shaw anymore. She was back in second grade, on the school playground. And a chorus from a group of snot-nosed buttheads wrapped in winter coats rose, gleefully torturing her, their breaths materializing in the air behind their taunts.
“Take it easy, babe,” Shaw said, catching Lorrie’s fist. The realization that his own girlfriend was going to smack him registered in Shaw’s hazy mind a second later, and he laughed heartily, pulling her close. “Jesus, baby! You were really going for my throat!”
Lorrie buried her head in Shaw’s chest. “You know how I hate that name, Shaw Austen!” she complained, her angry breath warming Shaw’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Lorrie,” Shaw said, stroking her head softly. “I’ll never do it again.”
Lorrie pulled away. “That’s what you always say,” she moaned, resuming her position on the other end of the bed.
“If it didn’t bother you so much, no one would say it,” Shaw insisted.
�
�But you know it bothers me. What do you do when you’re alone- torture small animals?”
“Come on, babe,” Shaw said, reaching toward Lorrie, but coming up empty as she shied away from his touch. “I’m just trying to help you with that hang up.”
“If you want to help me, then never mention that name again,” Lorrie insisted.
“I won’t. I swear,” Shaw promised, taking a scout’s honor, though he had never been a boy scout.
“Well you better not,” Lorrie said, indignantly at first, but softening as she usually did. "I’m serious, don’t call me that again. So, what is a pilgrimage?”
She crossed her arms and sighed resignedly, knowing that she would be enlightened on the subject whether she wanted to or not.
“It’s simple,” Shaw said. “We just pack a couple of back packs and we start walking.”
“Where to?” Lorrie asked.
“Wherever we want!” Shaw exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “As long as it’s far away from Bellaire. This fucking neighborhood and that damn high school is driving me nuts. You know, that school is full of fucking right-wing, Christian zombies. They’re coming for us next, Lorrie!” Shaw exclaimed, clutching his throat. “We have to get away, before it’s too late!”
“I don’t know,” Lorrie said. “School starts soon and I’ve never been away from Houston. My mother will shit a brick.”
“Let’s be adventurous!” Shaw shouted. “Let’s see the world! Let’s take one of my dad’s credit cards so we can eat!”
Lorrie giggled. “I’ll think about it.”
“Well, I’m going soon. So, let me know. You know, in case I need to arrange another companion," Shaw teased.
“Oh,” Lorrie said, shaking her head and smiling, her eyebrows arching.
She began to move slowly toward Shaw, like a panther stalking prey. She kicked the quilt off of the bed with her feet. “You bastard.”
“That’s why you love me,” Shaw said as he leaned over and began unbuttoning Lorrie’s blouse.
CHAPTER 7
Lucas opened the oven and pulled his charred dinner out with an oven mitt. He sat the square pan on the stove top, trying to determine exactly what Tammy had been cooking before their argument.
Whatever it had been, it was landfill material now, so Lucas tossed the oven mitt on the counter and he decided that he wasn’t really hungry anyway.
He reached into the counter above the breakfast bar and he pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a glass.
Lucas poured a drink and then he left the bottle on the bar, anticipating a refill. And maybe another after that. He went back to his recliner, sipping the booze earnestly.
What have I done to my wife? he wondered, glancing at the bedroom door where Tammy was holed up. He forgot sometimes how hard it was on her. He wished he could hide his pain, but he couldn’t.
Even if he were able to disguise the agony, Tammy would see through it. She was his wife. She knew him better than anyone.
He had never been able to hide anything from her, including an affair he had with an exotic dancer after five years of marriage.
Long after the pain had faded and the past seemed more like a surreal nightmare, Tammy jokingly inferred that Luke’s abilities must have rubbed off on her.
She had known it the moment he had walked into their apartment that night. Lucas was teaching eighth grade English at the Bellaire Junior High School. Tammy was working as a receptionist for a condominium complex.
They had lived in a small, one bedroom apartment on Old Spanish Trail, a tiny residential section at the time. It wasn’t the prettiest or the safest place to live, but the Astrodome traffic on the adjoining Highway kept the rent low.
Luke had just finished his first nonfiction book on psychic phenomena and he was trying to find a publisher for it. He was using a little local notoriety after helping the police locate a missing child- the victim of spousal kidnapping. The parents of the missing child were in the midst of a messy divorce and the father had spirited the child to West Virginia in the middle of the night.
The police had called on him after he had appeared on the local television news show where he had been invited to demonstrate his psychometric prowess on items from the studio audience. He had gotten the opportunity because one of the producers had heard of Luke's gift through a mutual friend. The progressive police commissioner brought Lucas in days after the psychic's television appearance.
It was his first case, and he had hoped that the recognition would help him sell his book. Lucas tried for months following the publicity he had gotten, but no publisher bit, and he began to consider the possibility of teaching school for the rest of his life.
The struggle had hit him hard. He began drinking heavily and spending long hours at a local topless bar, the Harem Lounge.
At the Harem Lounge one night, he met a dancer known only to him as Cottontail, because of her penchant for wearing a bunny costume. Cottontail was statuesque, beautiful and she reminded him of Kelly Bartlett, his free spirit sometime lover from college.
The alcohol liberated him enough to give into temptation. He got home, after leaving Cottontail’s apartment on the north side of town, at five o’clock in the morning.
When he walked in, Tammy was waiting for him. She was an imposing figure of fear, rage and relief positioned on the sofa. And she knew right away- not with whom, or where, or exactly when, but she looked into his eyes and she knew.
And there were tears. And angry words. Luke would never forget that night. Several days would pass and Luke would think that the incident was pronounced dead and buried and Tammy would suddenly burst into a fresh cycle of tears and curses. She left him for several weeks, leaving him alone with the guilt. When she finally returned, it had to constitute as the best day of his life.
Needless to say, he had no urge for monkeyshines with exotic dancers anymore, thank you very much.
His book sold, his work with the police expanded, giving him more to write about, and most importantly, Tammy had forgiven him.
Luke finished off the bourbon, wondering how he could have foolishly jeopardized their marriage. He was so self-destructive back then, a trait found in most young men striving for the brass ring and failing to procure it.
Was he being as self-destructive, now?
Lucas went for another bourbon. He refilled his glass, telling himself the drinking would eventually lower a veil down on the pain in his head. Sure, he chided himself. It's purely medicinal. Riiiggghhhtttt.
Lucas had nothing to prove. He had given his all to finding missing children for years, sometimes to reunite them with their parents, other times to bring them back for a proper burial. Why was catching the Keepsake Killer so important?
Luke headed back to his recliner, bringing the bottle with him this time.
My books are bestsellers, he thought, downing his drink. The royalties will keep me and Tammy going for a long time. Does pride have something to do with this? Am I afraid that Detective Harlson will call me a pussy?
He tried to convince himself to let this one go, to just level with Harlson and drop out of the investigation. He tried to convince himself that retirement was more than waiting for false teeth, thick eyeglasses and the Reaper. He tried to convince himself that he could walk away from this particular car accident, oblivious to the carnage that would come and come and come as it had for years.
Lucas tried to convince himself that, despite the killer’s luck at not being caught for so long, he would finally goof and some rookie fresh out of the academy would swoop the sucker up in a huge net.
He tried, but he couldn’t.
I’m not a super hero, he thought. I’m not indestructible or flawless. I’m flesh. I’m blood. I’m way out of shape and I hit the bourbon too hard. He poured another.
But I can’t let this one go, he concluded, feeling some sense of honor and loyalty, as well as the usual pang of guilt for the concern and dread he would invariably draw from his wife.
&n
bsp; I won’t let this one go- but it will be my last.
Yes. That would be some sort of consolation for Tammy. She would still worry. She would still wait for him to drop dead of a heart attack, or for his head to explode.
He could feel the work sucking the life out of him, but he was sure he could endure this case. Tammy had one more bridge to cross, but the land of fishing every day and trying to adopt a child and spending painless, romantic nights together beckoned on the other side of the rainbow.
“Walk just a few more feet with me, baby,” he muttered, reaching for the television remote. He decided to watch the news and give Tammy a few more moments to herself.
Luke switched on the TV and listened as the newscaster droned on with a smile, reading the menu of tragedy like lunch specials. There had been a shootout at a bar in the Fifth Ward. Three were dead. A city official was in hot water for using a racist remark. There was another Y2K report, of course (they had to squeeze that fear turnip for all it was worth). Tomorrow would be hot. And the Keepsake Killer was still at large.
Luke switched off the television when the sportscaster appeared. He attributed his indifference to the male ritual of sports as one of the few remaining reasons he wasn’t divorced.
He put the bourbon away, and braced himself.
On a wing and a prayer, he thought, walking to the bedroom door.
“Tammy?” Luke whispered, stepping into the darkness of the bedroom.
There was a slight stirring noise, the sound of Tammy arching up on the mattress, but no response.
“Should I sleep on the sofa tonight, honey?” Luke offered, hoping that he wouldn’t have to.
He wanted to clear the air before going to sleep. But, then again, his father’s favorite saying came to mind: never argue with a tired woman or a rested one, for that matter.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Tammy scolded him in a sleepy voice. “Come to bed.”
“I’ve been thinking, honey,” Luke said, sitting on the mattress.
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