by Dianne Dixon
She is Livvi’s landlady. Sierra. Owner of the main house to which Livvi’s little guesthouse belongs. Livvi, in a sleep-rumpled T-shirt and pajama bottoms, isn’t surprised to see Sierra—at dawn—in high heels and sequins. Sierra is no doubt at the tail-end of a long night of partying.
She has a key in her hand. Waving it above her head. Wafting the scent of bourbon and Chanel No. 5. Telling Livvi: “I didn’t want to wake you by ringing the doorbell, so I used my handy-dandy passkey.”
After delivering this announcement, Sierra makes herself at home on Livvi’s sofa. She’s slipping her shoes off and reaching into her dress to loosen her strapless bra, while saying: “Hey, I asked you a question and I didn’t get an answer. Do you or do you not know what just happened in your damn driveway?”
“No,” Livvi stammers. “I’m sorry, I just woke up. I…”
“What’re you apologizing for? Calm the heck down, sugarplum.” Sierra is now easing her bra out through the armhole of her dress. When she finishes, she drops the bra into her lap and says: “It’s five-twenty in the morning, and I’m barging into your house asking you stuff I already know you don’t know—that’s called being an asshole. Doesn’t it ever occur to you to tell people like me to go fuck themselves?”
Livvi blushes and shakes her head.
“Sugarplum, that’s something I’ve always found interesting about you…you never seem to know when you have the right to be pissed off.” Sierra gives Livvi a long, steady look, then adds: “I’m guessing that somewhere along the line…early on…you got smacked hard by an asshole who was world-class. Somebody who told you that everything was your fault, that you were the problem.”
Sierra waits for a response. When she doesn’t get one, she says: “Knowing when to tell assholes to fuck off is an important skill, kiddo. Come up to the house when you have some time, I’ll give you a couple of lessons. But for the moment”—Sierra is leaving the sofa, going to the door and opening it wide—“you got other things to think about.”
Livvi now has a clear view of the driveway—and of what caused the cannon-like boom that startled her out of bed. The massive, arrow-shaped, cast-iron weather vane, the crown on the guesthouse roof for the last eighty years, has been torn loose by the wind. And has plummeted through the top of Livvi’s little car. The thick shaft of the weather vane’s arrow has sliced into the car’s interior and buried its vicious-looking tip right in the middle of the driver’s seat.
Livvi is fighting a wave of nausea. The car is only a few months old, bought after her ancient, second-hand Civic died by the side of the road and was towed to a scrap yard. A major part of the advance on her book went to cover the down payment. She has no idea how she’s going to pay for the damage the weather vane has just done.
Sierra is slipping her arm around Livvi and chuckling. “Hope you don’t need to go anywhere for a while, sugarplum.”
Livvi can hear the buzz of her alarm clock coming from the bedroom—and her nausea is being replaced by panic. “Oh, god. I have a breakfast meeting in Culver City at seven forty-five.”
Sierra is stretching and yawning, getting ready to leave. “From Pasadena to Culver City? In rush-hour traffic? You’d need to be on the freeway by six-fifteen. Car rental places don’t even open till seven.”
Livvi groans and sinks down onto the doorstep, her hand over her mouth.
Sierra’s smile is as easy as her shrug. “No worries. Crawl back into the sack. Get some sleep. Everything’ll be fine.”
“No, it won’t,” Livvi says.
And she’s thinking, I’m not like you. I’ve got no cushion, no buffers. I live with my back two inches away from the edge of a cliff and there’s nothing between me and the drop. I don’t even have the littlest piece of a safety net. I never have. And listening to you right now makes me want to tell you to go screw yourself.
But even before Livvi has fully processed the thought, her anger is already fading—and instead of telling Sierra to screw herself, she’s explaining: “I can’t reschedule the meeting. It’s one of those once in a lifetime things…a European producer is interested in optioning the movie rights to my book. He’s leaving this afternoon and I don’t know when he’ll be back.” Livvi is looking at her crumpled car. “The option money probably wouldn’t have been a lot, but whatever it might’ve been, I really needed it.”
Sierra is searching for something in her purse, paying only minimal attention to Livvi, explaining: “I’d lend you my ride, but the Jag’s in the shop.”
Now she’s tossing a cell phone in Livvi’s direction. “Here. Problem solved. You don’t even have to get up and go looking for your phone.”
While Livvi is leaning forward to catch Sierra’s phone, Sierra is muttering: “Use it to call that hot guy who’s been sleeping with you for almost seven months—tell him you need a little help.”
Andrew. Of course. Andrew. It hadn’t even occurred to Livvi to call him.
Her immediate response to seeing her crushed car had been the sensation of being Olivia trapped in the frigid space between her bed and the wall. Alone in the dark. Trying to keep the nightmare at bay. Desperately needing someone to come and help her. Clearly understanding no one would.
But now, Livvi is suddenly realizing, all of that has changed—she isn’t alone anymore. She has Andrew.
There’s a sense of excitement—of lightness—as she’s entering his number into the phone. But when the call goes unanswered, when she leaves a message and several minutes pass without a response, the lightness fades. And Livvi begins to wonder why, at five in the morning, Andrew, a man who’s never more than a few feet from his phone, is unable to answer it.
The look on Sierra’s face makes it clear to Livvi that Sierra’s wondering the same thing.
And Livvi is trying to come up with an explanation. “Andrew said he was exhausted last night. That’s why he didn’t stay here—he needed a solid eight hours in his own bed. He’s probably out cold and isn’t hearing the phone. So…” Livvi falters into silence. She’s embarrassed.
Along with the cynicism in Sierra’s eyes, Livvi is now seeing a hint of pity.
***
Sierra has gone to the main house, to sleep. Livvi is in the guesthouse kitchen distractedly wiping spilled coffee grounds from the countertop, dropping them into the sink, and thinking that she needs to call David. She checks the antique clock on the shelf above the stove. It’s five-fifteen. Eight-fifteen in New York. Livvi won’t be disturbing David if she phones him now; he’s always up by seven-thirty.
David answers her call on the second ring. He sounds foggy, vague, as if he’s been roused out of sleep and is barely conscious. But the first thing he says is: “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
“Oh god, I woke you! I thought you were always up by seven-thirty, I’m so sorry—”
David interrupts, his voice soft but now fully awake. “I’m in LA, Livvi. In Beverly Hills at the Peninsula Hotel. I got in late last night—a spur-of-the-moment trip. I’m here for my cousin’s graduation. You had no way of knowing that.”
The morning’s disasters have drained Livvi. The compassion in David’s tone is making her feel like she’s going to cry.
“What’s happening?” he’s asking. “Something’s wrong. I could hear it the minute I picked up the phone.”
Livvi is leaning over the sink, dizzy with disappointment. “My car is smashed, I can’t make the seven forty-five meeting you set up for me with that European producer. I need to let him know, but I don’t have his cell number and—”
“Remind me where the meeting is again.”
“Culver City.”
She hears a rustling and a soft thump as if David is getting out of bed while he’s saying: “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Livvi’s knees are threatening to buckle. She’s weak with gratitude. But before she can thank David, she’s hearing a snippet of muffled conversation—a woman’s sleepy voice murmuring, “Want me to wait for breakfast till you
get back?” and David replying, “That’s okay, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Livvi quickly puts the phone down. Thinking about her unanswered call to Andrew. Vividly picturing the reason for his continuing silence.
Now her knees actually are buckling. One of them is banging against a cabinet door, and the door’s wrought-iron handle is opening a gash on her kneecap. A trail of blood is snaking down the front of her leg, threatening to fall onto the floor and stain the lovely rose-colored clay tiles. She needs to reach for a towel—and stop the bleeding. Needs to intercept the damage. But she has been paralyzed. Frozen in place. By the insidiously soft sound of that sleepy female voice.
***
The breakfast meeting in Culver City, which has gone well, ended a little less than ten minutes ago. An oncoming car is making an abrupt left turn. David is hitting the brakes, and Livvi is sliding forward in her seat, the cut on her knee banging against the passenger side of the dashboard, making her wince.
David is maneuvering the car onto the crowded on-ramp to the eastbound Santa Monica freeway. Without taking his eyes from the road, seeming to sense Livvi’s wince without having seen it, he’s asking: “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Livvi says. “How can I not be? I’ve never had anyone change the course of the world for me before.”
David’s chuckle is self-deprecating. “I don’t think the deal we just accepted from that producer can be classified as world-changing.”
“The option money he gave us on the book is great. I know it wouldn’t have been anywhere near that much if you hadn’t been there. But what I’m blown away by is that the meeting happened at all—that you drove an hour to pick me up, and another hour and a half to get me here. And now, with traffic at a standstill like this, who knows how many more hours it will take you to get me home? I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re amazing.”
David holds Livvi’s gaze for a long beat, then tells her: “I’m your friend. I care about you.”
Livvi doesn’t reply. She’s gone back to thinking about Andrew. About how his response to her call for help—at dawn—didn’t come until fifteen minutes ago. When the meeting was ending and the morning was already over. She’s thinking about the tense, brief nature of their exchange…Livvi, with her phone to her ear, telling Andrew there’d been an emergency but the problem had been solved—and Andrew sounding distracted, saying: “Great. Good. Anyway, I’m working a short day. Let’s have lunch. Around twelve. Meet me at my place then we’ll decide on a restaurant.”
While Livvi is wondering what it was that kept Andrew so silent between the hours of five and nine, she’s asking: “Did I interrupt something?”
David shoots her a confused glance. “What do you mean?”
“This morning, when I called. I have the feeling maybe I interrupted something.”
David seems to be thinking carefully before he answers, and tells her: “I was with someone. Someone I like.”
There’s an odd twinge of jealousy in Livvi—then she hears: “But at that moment taking your call was more important.”
In the hush that follows David’s comment neither one of them says anything more.
When Livvi finally does speak, all she says is: “When we get back into Pasadena, don’t take me home. There’s somewhere else I need to go.”
She’s nervous—her hands have begun to sweat.
Micah
Louisville, Kentucky ~ 2012
Simply walking into the place has made Micah jittery. Made her begin to sweat. This isn’t a location she would have chosen to visit, but now that she’s here there’s no turning back. Which is why she’s shouting above the screech of the repairman’s drill—trying to make herself heard, explaining to him: “I need to see the manager. Is she around?”
The repairman, small and stoop-shouldered, is near the Laundromat’s entry, squatting at the base of a dryer, installing a new motor. He’s wearing a sweat-stained dress shirt and a pair of frayed brown work-pants, cinched at the waist with a wide red belt. The way he’s crouched against the dryer is exposing the heels of his boots, thin and scarred—the right one almost completely worn away. He doesn’t bother to look up at Micah, or to speak to her. He simply pauses the drill; jerks his thumb in the general direction of the center area, where the washers are; and then returns to his work. Running the drill at top speed. Putting an end to any further conversation.
A couple dozen people are scattered among the rows of dingy, groaning washers. Most of them female. One is black and quite young. Two of them are old and chatting to each other in Spanish. The remaining women, the objects of Micah’s attention, are Caucasian. All in their late thirties or early forties.
A trickle of perspiration that has begun just under Micah’s hairline is now sliding along her temple and slipping over the curve of her cheek. The air inside the Laundromat, like the air outside—in Louisville—is heavy and humid. But what’s causing Micah to sweat isn’t the soapy dampness of the room or the mugginess of the overcast Kentucky afternoon. She’s sweating because she immediately knows which of the women she’s looking at is the one she’s here to see.
She’s certain of the woman’s identity because, after the debacle in Kansas, after mistaking a stranger for the person she was looking for, she hasn’t taken any chances. She has hired a top-notch private investigator to lead her to this worn-out laundry-house.
There’s not a shred of doubt that Micah is in the right place and has found the right person. The stocky, gum-chewing, stone-faced individual leaning against one of the battered washers, lazily wiping down its rust-rimmed lid, is Hayden Truitt. An individual who, many years ago when she and Micah were girls, carried a switchblade and owned a dog named Lucifer.
As Micah is walking toward Hayden—and Hayden is warily watching her—Micah can’t find any alteration in Hayden’s expression. Any change in the steady rhythm of her gum-chewing. Any flicker of emotion.
In Micah, however, there is absolute chaos.
It’s as if a hole has opened in time and she’s being sucked back into that awful moment when she first met Hayden. A meeting that ultimately led to such unimaginable mayhem.
Micah is only a few feet away from Hayden now, and she’s surprised by how mannishly thick Hayden’s body has become and how dead her eyes are. Hayden, her face still emotionless, is making a show of casually pressing her tongue into the wad of gum she’s chewing—and pushing it to one side of her mouth.
Her voice is flat, deadpan, as she asks Micah: “You here to wash somethin’?” Without waiting for a response, she adds: “Can’t be that fancy outfit you’re wearin’—that little number looks right-out-of-the-dry-cleaner fresh.”
Micah is so rattled she can barely speak when she tells Hayden: “I need to ask you a question.”
Hayden snorts, twirls the grimy cleaning rag she’s holding, and flicks it at Micah’s wrist.
The hit is painfully sharp.
Hayden’s eyes stay blank and unreadable. But there’s a hint of a smile as she resumes her steady, lazy gum-chewing and asks: “You here for some help with stain removal? Maybe wonderin’ what the trick is to getting blood off your hands?”
Hayden’s question triggers a spike of guilt in Micah—Micah’s voice is defensively shrill as she shouts: “Your hands are a hell of a lot bloodier than mine!”
Several of the Laundromat’s patrons look in Micah’s direction. She stares them down until they turn away. Then. To calm herself. She runs her hands along the sides of her silk skirt, smoothing at nonexistent wrinkles.
Hayden’s gaze goes to the places on the silk where Micah’s palms are leaving damp trails of sweat. “What’s the matter? You look about ready to pee yourself.” There’s an amused, scoffing quality to the remark.
Micah waits for Hayden’s eyes to meet hers. “I’m sick,” she tells Hayden. “There’s a good chance I’m about to die.”
Hayden takes a moment to ponder this information. Then she turns her head, spi
ts her gum into a nearby trash can, and mutters: “Holy crap.” When she brings her focus back to Micah, her attitude is still essentially blank but somehow not quite as cold.
And Micah tells her: “I need to know…if a person was able to accept a punishment…one that was cruel enough and permanent enough…would it erase…” She pauses. Searching for the right word. She doesn’t know what it is.
Hayden steps in close, spreading her arms wide, revealing clusters of ugly, crudely rendered, jailhouse tattoos.
She’s glaring at Micah, telling her: “When you’re in the middle of it, fifteen years in prison is cruel and feels pretty damn permanent.”
Something in Micah recoils—and is ashamed.
A glint is appearing in Hayden’s eyes. Whether it’s a glimmer of hostility, or of sympathy, isn’t clear.
There isn’t a shred of feeling in Hayden’s voice as she’s saying: “After spendin’ fifteen years pressed up against iron bars, whatever was sharp inside you, whatever was bad when you went in, doesn’t get fixed and doesn’t get better, it just gets worn down. By the time you’re through, big chunks of you are gone, and the wrong you did is just somethin’ you kinda remember once in a while—like a bad taste. You walk out of those prison gates pretty much who you were when you went in—only a little more tired.”
Hayden leans against the washer, her head thrown back, her eyes slitted, as if she’s silently laughing at Micah. “But not gettin’ redeemed and all is just fine. ’Cause the truth is…what’s done can’t ever be undone. All that’s left is to get on with things, the best you can.” She pops another piece of gum into her mouth and returns to sliding the dirty rag over the rusted lid of the washer.
Micah yanks the rag away from Hayden and grabs her by the arm so that they are again face-to-face. Micah is seething as she warns Hayden: “I didn’t travel all the way to goddamn Kentucky to have you bullshit me.”
Hayden looks down at the place on her arm where Micah’s fingers are digging into her flesh, waits for Micah to release her, and then says: “What do you want from me?”
