Bad Karma

by Theresa Weir

  She was back in college, dressed for Halloween, wearing a bright orange pumpkin outfit that was made of some cheap polyester fabric she’d picked up at a discount store. It was stuffed with newspaper that crinkled when she walked. She would have preferred to use batting for filler, but she was a college student and didn’t have that kind of money to spare. The fabric for the pumpkin had been enough of an expense.

  In the dream, Jordan was still alive, even though she knew he was dead. He kissed her, saying he’d always wanted to make out with a pumpkin. She hadn’t told him yet, but she was pregnant.

  Jordan was a pumpkin too, although he was so tall his pumpkin wasn’t round, but long and narrow. He laughed his bright laugh and said he was more like a squash.

  And then the scene changed, the way things did in dreams. Suddenly they were at the theater, watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show, tossing dried toast, laughing.

  Then came the bad part of the dream, when they were crammed into Jordan ’s little car, rain pouring down, Halloween lights from a townhouse casting strobe-like patterns on their faces.

  The car skidded, then, just as quickly, hit something and came to a bone-shattering halt. Instantaneously, Cleo found herself outside the car. Rain beat down, but she couldn’t feel it.

  Don’t look.

  But she had to. She couldn’t keep from looking. That was what the dream was all about. Looking. Seeing something she didn’t want to see.

  Why, it’s okay.

  She let out her breath. What had she been so afraid of? It was only a pumpkin. Only a smashed pumpkin.

  She stepped closer and suddenly she saw that it wasn’t a pumpkin at all, but Jordan.

  Close your eyes, she told herself.

  She closed her eyes, but she could see through her eyelids.

  Turn away. All you have to do is turn away.

  But she couldn’t move.

  Cleo came awake with a sense of anxiety and relief-relief that the dream was over, anxiety because the dark mood of it lingered in her mind. She lay there staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, then her gaze tracked around the room, finally falling on the offensive curtains.

  She jumped from the bed and pulled down the orange monstrosities. She wadded them into a ball then stuffed them under the bed. Next she pulled the spread free, wadded it up, and put it under the bed, along with the curtains.

  There.

  Better.

  Daniel Sinclair would be picking her up soon. She held out her shaking hands. Her hair and clothes were soaked with sweat. She’d thought all of this was behind her. She’d been well for two years. Four, if she counted the years she was in therapy. So why now?

  On wobbly legs, she crossed to the air conditioner and turned it to high. Then she dropped to her knees and opened her suitcase, flipped back the top, and retrieved a zip-seal bag. She pulled out a brown prescription bottle, quickly unscrewing the cap and dumping the contents into her palm. Vitamin C tablets. A couple of aspirin. That was all.

  She checked the refill date on the bottle. The prescription had expired a year ago. She plopped down on the bed, grabbed the phone, and put in a call to her shrink’s office.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said in a soothing voice. “Dr. Porter is practicing in Texas now. Would you like to make an appointment with one of the other doctors?”

  “I have a prescription I need to get refilled.”

  “One of the other doctors would be glad to see you.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Panic was rising. “I’m in Missouri.”

  “Then you’ll have to see somebody there. I’m sorry.”

  Cleo hung up, wondering what she was going to do. She grabbed the skinny, tattered phone book, found Daniel Sinclair’s number, and dialed. She would tell him she couldn’t come. Tell him she had a headache.

  Beau answered. And said Daniel was on the way to pick her up.

  Chapter Three

  Daniel pulled up in front of room six and cut the truck engine.

  Too bad she had to stay in such a dive, he thought, allowing himself to feel a little sorry for her. Not her in particular. He’d feel sorry for anybody who had to stay at The Palms. But she had no choice, since it was the only place in town.

  At one time it had been a nice mom-and-pop establishment, and while the rooms had never been luxurious, they’d been clean and safe. Daniel knew for a fact they weren’t either one anymore. There wasn’t a lot of crime in Egypt, but when there was, the motel was usually involved. Before Daniel moved back, a prostitute from St. Louis had been murdered at The Palms. The case went unsolved, the few clues leading the police to believe that both the prostitute and perpetrator had been passing through and by chance stayed at the motel. It was something Jo liked to pretend never happened. According to her way of thinking, the murder didn’t really count because the people involved hadn’t been from the circle that constituted Egypt, Missouri.

  Daniel had hung out at The Palms when he was little. He didn’t remember how he and the original owners, Millie and Babe Johnson, had become acquainted, but on hot summer nights, he’d sometimes ride his bicycle past the edge of town where The Palms sat by itself. It had been new then, and to a child it held the promise of far-off places. Daniel had never seen an actual palm tree, but he’d often imagined climbing one, planting the soles of his bare feet against its curved bark.

  Millie and Babe always talked about retiring in Florida. So when they opened the twelve-room motel, they’d named it The Palms. Even when he was little, Daniel used to think, Why do you keep talking about it? You’re getting old. You’re running out of time. Why don’t you just go?

  Not that he wanted them to leave. He knew he’d miss them. But still, it kind of irritated him, because even as a kid he’d known they were wasting precious energy talking instead of doing. Old people only had so much gas. It wasn’t until he himself got older that he realized people had to have dreams, even if they never had any intention of fulfilling them.

  Out there at The Palms, he and the Johnsons would shoot the breeze. They’d sit in brand-new white metal lawn chairs under a brand-new neon sign that glowed like the future. But then Millie died, and Babe had a stroke that sent him to a nursing home. Daniel had been to see Babe a few times, but Babe hadn’t recognized him, having already moved to a place where nobody could follow. The Palms was sold and it had been nothing but downhill ever since.

  Daniel got out of the truck and stepped up to the door, weeds brushing the legs of his pants. It had quit raining. The sun had even come out a little, creating what Daniel referred to as the fucking steam-bath effect.

  He knocked. Nobody answered, so he knocked again.

  He heard the slide of the safety chain then the door opened.

  Her eyes were kind of puffy. Had he gotten her up?

  She kept the door partially closed; all he could see was her face and her hand against the door. “I’m not going to be able to make it,” she said.

  She’s backing out, he realized, astounded, anger beginning as a tiny spark in his brain. So Miss Clara Voiyant isn’t coming. It didn’t surprise him. Not one bit.

  Daniel thought about how excited Beau was, how he’d been working on some special secret dessert all afternoon, something made with Cool Whip and ice cream from a recipe their neighbor, Mrs. Abernathy, had cut from a women’s magazine. Everything was a big deal to Beau, but for some reason Cleo Tyler’s visit was an especially big deal, sort of like a visit from the president. Or Captain Kirk-Beau was a real Star Trek nut.

  The spark of anger flared, ignited.

  Daniel shoved open the door.

  She took a few steps back, a hand to her chest, eyes wide, her mouth open in surprise and indignation. He followed her in, slamming the door behind him. The room was dark. Worse than that, it smelled of mildew and an ancient stench he associated with locker rooms.

  “Listen here,” he said, pointing at her. “I would be thrilled to find out that I don’t have to put up with your pre
sence. Unfortunately, Beau didn’t come equipped with a bullshit indicator that detects people like you, people who might not be good for him. Beau likes everybody. He likes you. He’s been working his ass off for the past two hours, so you’re not going to disappoint him. You’re going to go, and you’re going to act like you’re having a good time, and like you’re enjoying the food, no matter what kind of strange concoction he’s put together.”

  He stopped to catch his breath. Man, where had that come from? What was the matter with him?

  He turned his back to her so he was facing the door. Hands at his waist, head bent, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. Forget about it.” He waved one hand to demonstrate the insignificance of her joining them, or to try to erase the tantrum he’d just had. “Just forget about the whole thing.” He had his hand on the doorknob, ready to step out into the Missouri heat, when her voice stopped him.

  “Wait. Give me a minute.”

  He turned in surprise to see her rummaging through her suitcase. She dug out a brush and began tugging it through her hair. She should have left well enough alone; brushing it only made it wilder, puffier. She had a lot of hair. Then she found a black stretchy thing and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She grabbed something else out of the suitcase, a small cloth bag and maybe a shirt. Then she hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door. Two minutes later she was back, wearing a black T-shirt and bright red lipstick that stood out starkly against the paleness of her skin. It made her look even more foreign, even more exotic-like a whisper of the life he might be missing. Still wearing the skirt she’d had on when she got off the train, she slipped her feet into her sandals then followed him from the room.

  Chapter Four

  Cleo felt much better after getting out of the motel room.

  They cruised through town, moving down tree-lined streets where a little blond kid, fresh from his bath, wearing print pajamas, pedaled furiously down the sidewalk on his Big Wheel, looking as cool as a five-year-old in pajamas could look.

  An old woman sat out on her porch swing, bundled up in a sweater even though the temperature was still above eighty. It was a pleasant town, a sweet town, Cleo decided.

  Daniel and Beau’s house wasn’t anything like Cleo had expected. It wasn’t the kind of place where two guys lived. In fact, it was something a person might term a widow house, one of those cute little places where things had just gotten out of control-where vines grew wildly, and flowers grew wildly, and before you knew it, the yard and house kind of became one.

  Red roses cascaded around the porch, some of the blooms so low they had to duck their heads to get in the door. Inside, the living room had shiny wood floors covered with throw rugs. The overstuffed chairs and couch were decorated with doilies. There were blooming African violets in front of windows with lace curtains. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air. On the wall near the door, a cuckoo clock ticked softly.

  It was a wonderful house. A comfortable house. Not a man’s house. Cleo looked around, expecting to see an older woman appear at any moment. Instead Beau showed up, his face shiny and smiling, Premonition at his heels.

  “Charcoal’s ready.” He seemed proud of that announcement.

  “I told you to wait until I got back,” Daniel said.

  “I can do it. I did it. You worry too much.”

  Daniel apparently had no answer to that. “Wanna beer?” he asked Cleo.

  “No, thanks.” It probably wouldn’t be a good time to mention that she was a vegetarian, she decided.

  Daniel grunted and headed for the refrigerator. She heard the hiss of a bottle cap.

  “Come on,” Beau said, taking her arm and pulling her toward the patio doors, leading her outside.

  Beau had done the decorating-she could tell. He’d strung plastic lights shaped like cowboy boots and red chili peppers. In the center of the wooden picnic table, four candles waited to be lit.

  Dark clouds skittered away, revealing a sky of brilliant pink that cast a warm glow over everything. Out past the covered patio, a brick path wound through a perennial garden to end at a small shed. Near the shed, not far off the path, was a blue ball-one of those shiny glass orbs found in country gardens. “Who takes care of all of this?” Cleo asked, failing to imagine Daniel Sinclair knee deep in lavender.

  “I do mostly,” Beau said. “Danny helps me sometimes. But he’s not very good at it. When my mom gets home, she can take care of it again.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Park Manor.”

  A nursing home, she assumed.

  “Before Danny came back I took good care of her.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you the gazing ball.”

  The brick path was only wide enough for one person. Beau insisted she go first, not with a motion of his hand, but with an easy shove, until they both stood admiring the blue globe, as shiny and out of place as a cheap Christmas ornament.

  “I spray it with window cleaner and shine it.”

  She’d seen a lot of them in her life but had never been able to figure out what purpose they served- unless being an eyesore was a purpose. Kind of like a plastic pink flamingo, she supposed.

  “At night you can see the stars,” Beau stated, staring reverently at the globe.

  Cleo glanced up. “Stars?”

  “Yeah. You look in the ball and see the stars.”

  “Oh.”

  She was stunned by her own ignorance. All along she’d thought the globes were worthless, only to discover they were something remarkable. How could she not have known? How could she not have noticed something so remarkable? Were there other things she was missing? Other things that, on the surface, looked ordinary but upon closer inspection were a wonder?

  People always complained that there was nothing new under the sun, but they never stopped to appreciate what was there, Cleo being just as guilty as the next person. And then there was someone like Beau who saw the beauty of the everyday. Not only saw it, but recognized it.

  Cleo smiled at him. “I’d like to see those stars sometime.”

  “Maybe you can see them tonight.”

  She looked up at the watercolor sky, afraid it might not be clear enough.

  Behind them, the patio door slammed. She turned to see Daniel heading toward the grill with a plate of raw meat. She heard a sizzle. Smoke and flames flared, then died back down. A feeling of nostalgia washed over her, the smell of the charcoal and seared meat reminding her of childhood cookouts.

  “Sometimes my mom would go for a walk and she wouldn’t come back,” Beau said. “She would forget how to get home. Isn’t that weird? I never get lost. I know every street in this town, and every store. And not just in town. I know all the country roads too. When the mailman takes a vacation, me and another guy deliver mail, because I know the roads and I know where to go.”

  “That would be wonderful, to have such an amazing memory.”

  “They said I couldn’t take care of her anymore, but I could. I really could.”

  “I’m sure you did a great job. Is that why Danny came back? Because your mother was forgetting things?”

  “No…he just wanted to come back. He likes it here. He’d rather be here than anywhere.”

  Beau seemed to be trying to convince himself of Daniel’s contentment as much as he was trying to convince Cleo.

  They began walking back in the direction of the patio. “I heard Danny talking about you bein’ here to help find a key. I lost a dog once. His name was Fido. Do you know where he is?”

  Oh, boy. The direct question. How could she sidestep this one? “How long ago did you lose him?” she asked, stalling.

  He squinted and looked brainward. His expression cleared when he found what he was looking for. “I was eight.”

  Cleo relaxed. Nobody would expect her to find a dog that couldn’t even exist anymore. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six. I’m always kidding around, calling Danny my littl
e brother, even though he’s bigger than me.” Beau laughed, and the sound was so infectious that Cleo joined him.

  “What’s so funny?” Daniel asked.

  Beau hadn’t allowed himself to be detoured from his original question. “I asked Cleo to help me find something.”

  Intent on his cooking, Daniel said, “I’m sure Cleo can help you find anything you lost. Isn’t that right, Cleo?”

  “Not a dog that vanished over twenty-five years ago.”

  “Oh, Fido. No, I don’t think Fido’s coming back.”

  “He might,” Beau said, for the first time giving Cleo a glimpse of stubbornness.

  “Do you have a Frisbee?” she asked, trying to distract Beau from the Fido problem. “Premonition can catch Frisbees.”

  “Yeah. Wow. I’ll go get it.” Beau loped into the house, with Premonition following.

  “Nice manipulation.”

  “Apparently drinking makes you even more sociable.” She indicated the new beer in his hand. “What happens after a couple of six-packs? Do you get all giddy and giggly, or do you just pass out?”

  “You should know the answer to that. In fact, I can’t see a need for you to ever ask any questions.”

  “You’re overreacting. I never claimed to be omniscient.” And then she got to the real issue. “Why do you hate me?”

  Her direct question caught him off guard. Perhaps it was too much for him, because he didn’t answer.

  “People like me are marketing hope,” she informed him, poking a finger in his direction for emphasis. “And hope is something everybody needs.”

  He finally found the words he was searching for. “That’s a bunch of shit.”

  “Are you an ass with everybody, or just me?” She found herself staring at the dark roots of his sun-bleached hair, the dark roots of his sun-bleached eyebrows. It was that same striking combination that had made Peter O’Toole so mesmerizing in Lawrence of Arabia.

  He took a long swallow from the brown bottle in his hand. “What are you doing? Reading my aura?”