"Anyone up for a game of Scrabble?" Eve asked.
"See, that's my problem with this," Alex continued, ignoring his wife. "I don't care if he believes it or not. I don't understand how somebody like him gets into the Happy Place right along with somebody who, I don't know, raises twenty-nine foster children and—and spends their spare time reading to the elderly in nursing homes."
"All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags," Gage said.
Everyone stared at him as if he'd spoken Hebrew. Marilee's mouth was open so wide she could've swallowed the table. It wasn't a pleasant sight.
"Isaiah 64:6," he said.
"You're quoting scripture?"Carmen said.
"It seemed appropriate," he said. "Here's another: All have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God.' Romans 3:23."
"Yes, and your point?" Alex said.
"Nobody's perfect," Marilee breathed, still gazing at Gage with awe.
"Exactly," Gage said. "And now I'm one of those people that quotes the Bible at dinner parties."
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the skin his thumb and forefinger. When he stared at Gage, the bags under his eyes were as big as moon craters. "Wait a minute here. Let me get this straight. You're on her side?"
"I'm not on anybody's side," Gage said. "I'm like Switzerland. Only without the banks."
"But you just said—"
"I'm saying, based on what's in the Bible, nobody deserves to get into Heaven. Everybody sins. Everybody's imperfect. It's just a matter of degree. To God, even the best of us are just a bunch of dirty rags. It's not about deserving."
"Yes, yes," Marilee said. "You've said it so much better than I could have said it, Garrison. Thank you." Her eyes were actually misty with gratitude.
Alex shook his head, staring at Gage with disbelief. "You never cease to surprise me. You're saying really believe—"
"No, no, no. I never said I believe it. I told you what the Bible says."
"Oh," Alex said. "Well, that makes me feel better. Not sure why exactly, but it does."
Marilee, who'd been looking at Gage with such awe, suddenly snapped out of it. She blinked a few times, as if her internal computer was rebooting. "Wait," she said. "I don't understand. How can you say this without believing it?"
"I can say lots of things without believing them," Gage said. "It's one of my better talents."
"Think again," Carmen said.
Marilee shook her head. "So you're not a believer, then?"
"I guess you could say that I'm indifferent."
"So you're an atheist?" The way she said it, it was like she was calling him a child molester.
"That's not indifferent, is it?"
"You must believe something."
"I believe in death and taxes."
She frowned. "Always the jokes with you."
"I also believe in the healing power of humor."
"If you don't believe in Jesus, you're going to hell." It was spoken like a rifle shot across the hill.
Gage shrugged. "Oh well. I guess it can't be any worse than being here with you."
It was not often that Gage got people to actually gasp, but he certainly managed it this time—not only a real doozy from Marilee, but to a lesser degree, Eve and Carmen as well. It was quite an accomplishment. He'd gone from being Marilee's new buddy to metaphorically slapping her face in less than thirty seconds. Somebody should call Guinness. It had to be a record.
"Well, well," Marilee sputtered, "that was certainly uncalled for."
"No, it was probably called for," Gage said.
"I'm just telling you the truth!"
"No, you're telling me your version of the truth. There's a difference."
Marilee's skin tone no longer matched Eve's; a distinctive red hue had blossomed in her cheeks. "Truth is truth. There isn't a different truth for different people."
"Ah," Gage said, smiling, "now there's a philosophical argument that could keep us up into the wee hours of the morning. Have you read much Plato?"
The conversation probably would have deteriorated from there—if it was even possible to deteriorate further—but Eve suddenly bolted from the table.
"Who wants dessert?" she asked.
* * * * *
The rest of their visit was mercifully short. They ate their baklava in relative silence, which was easy to do considering how well Eve had made it—the tangy lemon aftertaste, from her own family recipe, was perfect. Marilee quickly removed herself to her room, claiming she felt ill; she certainly looked like somebody who'd been punched in the gut a few times. When she was gone, Alex invited Gage and Carmen up to his den in the turret for a nightcap, but Gage told him he'd have to take a rain check.
"Not like you to turn down free bourbon," Carmen said to Gage, when they were back in the van.
"Usually I wouldn't," Gage said, slipping the key into the ignition. The night was still. No wind stirred the sand coating the sides of the road. He watched the street for any sign they were being watched, but there was nothing.
"Not feeling well?" Carmen said. "The baklava seemed a bit rich tonight. Or was it Marilee? She was a bit rich too, wasn't she?"
"No, just—I have a little errand to run.
"What, you have another date lined up after me or something?"
He looked at her. She's said it in jest, but when she saw his face her smile vanished.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's not like that, Carmen. It's a client. A possible client."
"Who?" But before he could answer, she put the pieces together. "Oh. It's that Angela woman, isn't it?"
"It is," he said.
"And you were going to tell me about this . . . when exactly?"
Her whole demeanor had changed. Easy banter was gone. The tone was icy. He drove the van up the silent neighborhood to the freeway, thinking about his words, being as careful with the conversation as he was on the road; on the lookout for danger both outside and inside the van. "I wasn't avoiding telling you. It just hadn't come up."
"It hadn't come up?"
"That's right."
"Where are you meeting her?"
"What difference does it make?"
"At her hotel? She's in town, isn't she?"
"It's just business, Carmen."
She sighed and brushed her hand over her skirt. "And here I thought the reason you were so preoccupied tonight was because of that Bruzzi guy. And Zoe. I figured you were worried about her."
"I am worried about her."
"So what does Angela want you to do?" she asked. "Find old classmates for the high school reunion?"
"You know I can't talk about a client. And she was my teacher, not a student."
"Client? What are you talking about? You don't have any clients! You said you were done with the business, remember?"
"I am done with the business. But I'm making an exception—at least to hear her out. She's an old friend."
"I think she's more than a friend." When he didn't answer, she followed up with: "Have you had sex with her?"
"Carmen, for God's sake."
"Well?"
"What difference does that make?"
"You did! You had sex with her."
"I really don't want to talk about this right now."
"Was she your first? Wow, a teacher-student thing. Was it all sordid and sneaky? Was there a big scandal?"
"Carmen—"
"I never figured you as the Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate type. Like the older women, huh? She'd be put in jail for doing something like that now. Taking advantage of a minor."
"It wasn't like that. She was only a couple years older than me. Fresh out of college. I was almost eighteen."
"Did you do it on her desk? Were you the teacher's pet? Did she make you wear a dunce cap if you couldn't perform?"
"Carmen—"
"How many times did you do it? Was it every day or just school days? Did she give you special detention
? Did she—"
"Stop."
He hadn't shouted. He hadn't even raised his voice. But since he seldom if ever yelled, the sternness of his tone had a similar effect; it was like bringing a hammer down on the roof of the van. Her face was frozen but her eyes were retreating into their shell. She slunk into the corner, molding herself to the window.
They were on the highway now, heading for Carmen's house. Turned as she was away from him, he couldn't see her face, even when the headlights of the passing cars swept across her.
"It'll probably just be a conversation," he said to her. "I doubt I'll even see her again after tonight. I just told her I'd listen."
Carmen didn't answer. They rode in silence. He thought about reaching for her, but he knew the close proximity of her shoulder was an illusion. She wasn't close at all. She was already a thousand miles away.
Chapter 6
After dropping Carmen off at her place—whose parting "See you later," delivered with barely a glance, was about as warm and friendly as an Oregon sneaker wave—Gage headed for Barnacle Cove marveling at his utter mastery of the female species. Zoe, Marilee, and now Carmen. He'd shown a real talent for getting on a woman's bad side in a hurry. He wouldn't have been surprised if Eve, a woman who seemed to be utterly lacking the anger gene, was pissed at him too.
Maybe he could piss off Angela and keep the streak going.
He drove with the windows down, the salty air blowing back his hair. The wind felt cold on his face, colder than it was when they'd left Alex's only a few minutes earlier, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the temperature or because he was warm. Nervous maybe? Since he was early, he took his time driving to the motel, swinging by the house and finding it empty and undisturbed, taking a few random detours into nearby neighborhoods to make sure he wasn't followed, and still he ended up at Barnacle Cove twenty minutes early. He could have walked, it was so close to his house, but he felt more comfortable in his van.
Even at night, it would have been hard to miss the motel. Someone had recently painted the squat, one-story building a bright mustard yellow with orange trim. It had obviously been done to attract attention, but now in addition to being ugly the motel also reeked of gaudiness. It wasn't just the paint, either. There was gaudiness everywhere—from the badly-painted mermaid on the office door to the Christmas lights hung haphazardly along the overhang. Even the blinking vacancy sign had not been spared, each letter a different neon color.
There was an air of desperation about the place. They may have slapped on a fresh coat of paint, but that couldn't hide what the motel was. He knew a little of its history. When he first arrived in Barnacle Bluffs, the motel—once a quaint motor inn with covered carports—had long since gone out of business. It wasn't until the homeless and the addicts moved in, turning it into a true slum, that the estate which owned the motel finally sold it off. The new owners had gamely tried to turn it around, remodeling the carports into new rooms in the hope that more units would mean more profit, but the desperation which had pervaded it when it was a slum had only morphed into a different kind of desperation—the desperation to stay in business, to keep the lights on, to stave off bankruptcy a little while longer.
He supposed that in a way it was really the same desperation. In the end, all desperation was the same. Frantic. Reckless. Decisions borne out of fear instead of strength. Whether you were a drug addict or a motel owner, one rash choice beget another until there were no more choices left to make.
He wondered why he'd chosen this place. He'd told her it was because it was close, but was it really because he was trying to punish her?
Before he got there, a door a couple rooms from the office opened and there she was.
He knew her before she'd said a word. In the gauzy glow of the Christmas lights, and with the light of her room behind her, her face and form were veiled by shadows, but still he would have known her at a glance. The dark, shoulder-length hair, the lithe runner's body, the rich fullness of her lips—these details could have belonged to any woman, but there was something in the particular tilt of her head and the way she rested her hand on her thigh that triggered those memories from so long ago.
Angela Reid. No, it was Wellman now, he corrected himself.
At first, it was like he'd stepped into a time machine. It was as if she hadn't aged a day. It wasn't until he took a few hesitant steps toward her that he began to see some signs of age. Tiny wrinkles. A splash of gray in those dark brown curls. Still, for a woman in her early fifties, she looked remarkably good. She was dressed in tan cotton pants and a blue sweater vest over a long-sleeved white t-shirt, but they hugged her body as if she'd been fitted for a fashion shoot.
"I was wondering if you were coming in," she said.
The voice was hers, but there was something that wasn't there long ago. It was the same thing he'd heard on the phone. An edge of worry. An undertone of self-doubt she hadn't suffered from when last they'd met. She'd always been so confident. Cocky, really. Now the cockiness felt like a false front.
"You saw me out there, huh?" he said.
She nodded. The way she narrowed her eyes, it was like she'd caught him in the basement with a bunch of nudie magazines. He felt vaguely ashamed.
"I was afraid you might leave," she said.
"The thought did cross my mind," he admitted.
The confession seemed to surprise her. It surprised him too. She shifted a little on her feet. He became conscious of the way her body moved inside her clothes, the way the hips adjusted in the jeans, the way the breasts swayed ever so slightly in the sweater. He remembered how it felt to run his hands over those hips and those breasts. He remembered the little sighs of pleasure she'd made when he'd done so.
"Why?" she said.
He shrugged. "If you need to ask . . ."
"Did things really end that badly, Garrison?"
"Yes, Angela, they did."
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, past him, at the suddenly quiet highway. He felt bad. He didn't come here to hurt her, or for some adolescent form of revenge. It was so long ago. It shouldn't have mattered now. Why did he have such a hard time letting go of the past?
"You know," she said idly, "Barnacle Bluffs is a very pretty town. I like the Oregon Coast. I think—I think it would be good to live here. A place overlooking the sea."
"I just wish you'd at least said goodbye," he said, ignoring her aside.
"Maybe—maybe we should go inside," she said.
"Even a note would have been better. Something. Anything."
"I—I wanted to."
"And yet . . . you didn't."
She started to say something, then shook her head and abruptly walked into the room. He followed her. The inside was much like the outside, worse even—filled with the tackiest of ocean decor, seashell wallpaper, a brass serpent lamp, a baby blue bedspread patterned with cartoon goldfish. The bed, which was hardly even a queen, dominated the room. She stood with her back to him by the beads that separated the bathroom. He shut the door. The place had the dank pungent odor of an empty aquarium—which he guessed fit the decor as well.
"I came for your help," she said quietly.
"That's why I'm here," he said.
"I really did think about calling you many times."
"I'm sure you did."
Angela turned and glared at him, a sudden fire in her eyes. In the better lighted room, she looked a little closer to her age. The face seemed slightly more gaunt, the skin, once flawless, more weathered and sun-spotted. Not in a bad way, though. She possessed that rare quality, often cited but seldom true, of aging well. The deepening lines on her face only served to draw more attention to her best features—her piercing brown eyes, the bounce in her hair, the regal slope of her cheekbones. And of course those lips.
"So cold," she said.
"It wasn't meant to be."
"What do you want, Garrison? You want me to say I'm sorry? Because I am. I really am sorry."
He sighed. "We don't have to do this, Angela. Maybe if you just tell me—"
"No, I think we do," she said. "I think it's the elephant in the room. I think until we get it out of the way you won't really hear me."
"We were young and stupid. I think that about sums it up."
"We were young. I don't think we were stupid."
"You were an adult. I was a minor. It was stupid."
"Technicalities," she said, with a sniff.
"In a court of law, people live and die based on technicalities."
"Oh, don't get all high and mighty with me," she said. "I know the difference between right and wrong. And that wasn't wrong. You were old for your age. What difference does a couple months make? If you had been eighteen, who would have cared? It wasn't about that, anyway. It was just an excuse to get rid of me."
This was new. "What are you talking about?" he said.
"I'm talking about evolutionary theory."
"What?"
"Survival of the fittest."
He shook his head. "You've completely lost me."
"Charles Darwin. The Origin of the Species. The age of the universe. How the Earth was made. The DNA that chimpanzees and humans shared. Puncturing great big holes in the prevailing mythology that populated the little minds of Red Castle, Montana. You don't remember any of this, Garrison? You were one of the better students. I figured you were paying attention."
"I remember you challenging us to think for ourselves," he said. "I remember some people didn't like that very much."
"A lot of people didn't like that very much."
"Okay, a lot of people."
"And some very important people too."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The heat in her eyes was still there, but it had settled into a smolder. Angela sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. She moaned. Strangely, he felt the urge to go to her. To rub her back and tell her everything would be all right. It would be like old times. Out in the parking lot, one of the dented pick-ups rumbled to life, muffler hacking like an old cattle rancher with emphysema.
Instead of sitting next to her, he took the rickety wooden chair across from her. She happened to glance up when he took a few limping steps.
A Desperate Place for Dying Page 6
