A rustling behind me, and now a roar. From out of the shadowy bushes, Hero springs forward like a crazed white phantom. Head down, his lips are pulled back, and he snarls. Fierce teeth tear into Earl’s leg as the man screams, staggers backward, and then sways. He tosses Sun Beam as one would a bag of trash onto the ground, to fend off the attacking dog. His arms swing by his sides; his eyes bulge out from their sockets, red rimmed and vacant. He tries shaking his leg free from the pointed daggers, which are digging, digging, digging into his leg.
Sylvia hurls herself at Sun Beam, who is crawling toward her with a wild look on her face. Sylvia wraps her in her arms, bending over her, using her body as a shield to protect her.
I race toward them. “Out of here. Now!” I pull them to their feet. My mind is racing, my head scanning the scene. We can’t return to the diner. He could trap us there, like the Cyclops trapped the Greeks in his cave. “Forward,” I shout. “To the street.” Holding hands, we run, staggering, across the yard. I raise my head to the sky and wail, screaming, “Help us, someone, oh God, please help us.”
Earl’s pants are ripped away, shredding around his calf and ankle, exposing flesh dripping with blood. He falls to the ground, pulls his knees into his chest, clasps his hands behind his neck so his elbows protect his face. The defensive instincts of a rodent. Hero rams his muzzle into the man’s armpit, and Earl has his moment.
He rolls over on top of the dog and places his forearm against Hero’s throat. With his enormous heft, he leans into the dog’s neck, putting pressure on Hero’s windpipe. Their roles reversed, Earl has the advantage and is choking the dog. Hero’s bloodied mouth emits a high-pitched keening whine. A fist clenches my heart. Horrified, I push the women forward, away from this spectacle of gore.
I take a last glance at the scene. Earl’s and Hero’s bodies are locked together. Amid our screams, our pleas for help, Gary dashes into the garden, racing toward the scene. We run toward La Grande just as Theo and Sam pull into the lot and screech to a halt. They bolt from the car.
“Earl tried to take Sun Beam,” I shout, pulling at Theo’s shirt. “Now he’s killing Hero.” I point to the scene. “Gary just got there.”
Theo and Sam race toward the dog and Earl. Gary has Earl’s arms pinned to the ground. Theo bends over and crashes a heaving fist against Earl’s face. Theo keeps smashing his fist into Earl, again and again and again, until Earl’s face slackens.
And the Greeks who remained alive in the cave heaved the stake of burning coals into the Cyclops eye, buried it deep into the socket, twirling it around as a carpenter does his auger, saying, “It is the stroke of the Gods, and thou must bear it.”
Hero rolls away, onto his side. Sam falls to the ground, cradling his head.
A siren’s wail drones louder and louder as it approaches. Relief floods my body as a police wagon roars into the lot. Two officers jump out of the vehicle. I point to Theo, now sitting on Earl’s chest, while Gary struggles to hold down his thrashing arms. The police run toward the scene.
Theo stands, gasping, pointing to Sun Beam. “This bastard tried to take the girl.” Releasing Earl’s arms, Gary staggers to his feet and backs away. Earl jumps up and dashes toward his van.
The cops grab Tasers. Barbed electric bolts flash from the gun with a rapid stream of clicking sounds: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Earl falls to the ground, his body convulsing. One of the officers drops to his haunches and cuffs him, and the other rushes toward me, Sylvia, and Sun Beam, issuing commands into his phone.
Theo limps backward and leans against a tree, his shoulders heaving up and down. The tattoo on his bicep, Fate Fell Short, is streaked with blood.
“‘And the abominable shall have their part in the lake, which burneth with fire and brimstone,’” pants Theo, his hand cradling the other bloodied fist. Gary staggers toward him, shaking out his arms, and stands by his side. Angus, his fingers spread over his heart, walks toward the scene. His steps are uneven, as if he’s aged fifty years.
The wind is still. Nothing is stirring.
Sun Beam, Sylvia, and I are clutched together. My blood is pounding in places where I’ve never felt its rhythm before—the backs of my knees, my elbows, the lobes of my ears. Sylvia and I try to catch our breaths, and Sun Beam is sobbing wretched, heaving sounds. Red paint is splattered across her face and arms, but the girl appears to be unharmed. She breaks away, sniffling, trying to compose herself.
“I’ve got to see Hero.” We follow her to the dog.
Hero staggers to his feet, disoriented, and Sam holds him to her chest with such fierceness the dog whines and shivers beneath her clutch. And I start to shake, as well, uncontrollably, as I gaze at the wreckage surrounding me.
Our garden is ruined, defiled, purged of all of its beauty. The splintered sunlight is garish and the air smells rancid, stained with sweat. Trampled sorrel and chives are smashed into gaping holes of soil. Sun Beam’s glasses lie in the dirt, bent, but miraculously unbroken. I pick them up, try to straighten the frames, and hand them to the child.
Quiche rushes into the yard and stops dead in her tracks. The officer is leading Earl to his patrol wagon. One look at the man—his bloodied leg, purple face, his gaping mouth with spittle running down the sides—tells the story. His face is pulverized beyond recognition. He’s handcuffed, and his swollen fingers dangle like the paws of a prehistoric simian; man can be the cruelest of beasts.
The policeman locks Earl inside the back of the wagon. Quiche slaps her palms across her mouth.
“Baby,” she screams, running toward Sun Beam. She falls onto her knees and pulls the child into her arms.
A wail of sirens circles our tangled knots of quivering bodies. An ambulance pulls into the parking lot. Two attendants leave the vehicle, and they rush to the police officers. As the police give instructions, their eyes dart around, surveying the scene. One attendant breaks off and heads to Sun Beam, while the other approaches Theo and lifts his fist, examining his injury.
Quiche lifts Sun Beam into her arms. “I’m takin’ you home. Gettin’ you away from this mess.” She cradles the girl as if she were an infant and stumbles away from the attendant, toward the back door of the diner.
Sam is giving the policeman a brief rundown on our history with Earl. The officer, taking notes, says, “Strong emotions combined with a mental defect can trigger violent, impulsive behavior.” Then, noticing Quiche’s retreat, he leaves the conversation and follows her. He taps her on the shoulder.
“An attendant’s here to examine the child,” he says, his Taser reflecting a piercing sliver of light. “An ambulance will take her to the hospital.”
“She’s not injured.” Quiche releases a strangled cry. “She needs to go home.”
“It’s protocol. A social worker will also be there.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “We must be absolutely sure this child has not been injured in any way.”
Sun Beam clutches her mother around her neck, her glasses lopsided across her face.
“I’m her mother. I need to go with her.” She bursts into tears.
“Of course.” The officer nods.
Quiche turns and staggers to the ambulance, Sun Beam cradled in her arms. The officer turns to Sam.
“The dog needs to be cleaned and examined. We’ll make a report and call a vet.”
“My dog saved this girl.”
“Again, routine stuff. We must check the dog to make sure he doesn’t have rabies. Please put him on a leash until the vet arrives.” He glances at Hero, who is twitching, his eyes at half mast.
The officer turns and approaches a paramedic, and they hurry toward the police wagon. Sam reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leash. She bends down to hook it onto Hero’s collar, and the dog’s creased forehead relaxes, as if relieved that at last he will be tethered to his master. Sam fingers the silver disk—the imprint of HERO glimmering beneath our gaze.
“So now we know how Hero got his name,” I say, trying to calm the shake in my voice. “He mus
t have been a guard dog or something.”
“Something magnificent, no doubt.” Sam crouches on the ground, running her finger under his collar. She looks up, squinting into the sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her palm, she catches my eye. “Good doesn’t always trump evil. But this time it triumphed.” Hero’s eyes brighten as he looks at Sam. He pulls his lips back, shows his teeth, and appears to smile at his master. She kisses his forehead and then stands, his leash in her hand. The dog rises and presses his rib cage into the side of her leg. “You know how sweet he is around children. Hero’s the protector of purity and innocence.”
“You should breed him. I’d like one of his offspring. I can’t bear thinking about what would have happened if it weren’t for this dog.” I bend down and trail my fingers down his spine. His tail wiggles, not quite a wag, and then he falls back into the earth, closing his eyes. The dog’s exhausted.
“Time’s a thief,” Sam says, tucking her shirttail into her jeans, before running her fingers through her hair. “With any luck, maybe it will steal Sun Beam’s memory of today.”
Sylvia’s nostrils flare, and color rises to her cheeks. Veins stand out in ridges on her temple and throat. “She will never forget this day,” she says, ferocity attached to each word. “She will carry forever the memory of the wretched man who tried to capture her.” She rubs her eyes with her apron string.
“But we’ll be here to remind her he failed,” I say to her, brushing away bits of grass stuck to her forearm. “That he’s forever gone. And we’ll remind her that most of her childhood was not like today. Most of it was filled with love.”
I take Sylvia’s hands. “And when she’s an old woman, she’ll remember that once upon a time, she loved a dog named Hero. She also loved a young man named Braydon, who loved a dog named Bon Temps.”
She squeezes my hands, looking into my eyes. “And there were two brave women, Addie and Sam, who made a family from scratch, using what others left behind.”
My jaw begins to tremble, and the tears roll down my cheeks. “And she’ll remember a beautiful princess named Sylvia, who possessed the soul of goodness.”
Sylvia drops my hands and wraps her arms across her stomach, her hands cradling her elbows. Her eyes moisten as she whispers the words—
“Troubles came, troubles passed.” She lifts her face to the sky. “And they all lived happily ever after.”
Her cracked and broken teeth glimmer as pearls in the sunlight, and then she unleashes a smile of such magnificence I shiver.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Addie
Sam and I slide into David’s truck. My thigh is planted next to his, sittin’ country, as Quiche would say. He wears a navy sweatshirt that has a gold M, the insignia for the University of Michigan, stitched on the front.
“Thanks for the lift, babe.” I turn my head to kiss him, and my nose twitches. He smells like me.
Reading my mind, he laughs. “I know, I know. I ran out of shampoo. I’m sure yours costs a king’s ransom, so I’ll replenish my generic at the drugstore while you guys are in your meeting.”
We fasten our seat belts as he heads north toward Woodward and Grand Boulevard. An early-morning rain washed the patina of decay away from the streets, and the sidewalks are wet, shining like silver. Scattered, low-hanging clouds resemble dandelions trembling in a breeze. They hover in the sky, the palest of blues, pooling into and reflecting away from the Renaissance Center’s mirrored facade.
The RenCen, a group of interconnected skyscrapers, is world headquarters to General Motors. Last summer the GM logo was modernized, and “Reflecting a New Detroit” was introduced as the tagline. The buildings tower in the horizon, sparkling like crystals, commanding our attention in the distant sky.
We drive past one of the century-old churches lining the street. Grief-stricken angels, with their elegiac contours, and fierce, winged gargoyles, with their ragged stares and outstretched tongues, stand as sentinels at the entrance. A stained-glass window catches a ray of light, scattering a rainbow of hues across the damp street. The three of us are quiet, in awe before our city, which seems to stagger beneath this surfeit of beauty.
David stops in front of Tory and Wally’s office, located in an area known as the New Center. Sam hops from the truck, but I linger next to David as it idles.
“It’s hard letting you out of my sight, baby girl. Every time I think of that afternoon . . .” His face flushes, and his lips curl in disgust. “Damn it all. I should have been there to protect you.” He slams his fist against the steering wheel, and I take his hand.
“Silly. You were working. Are you offering to be my bodyguard?”
He nuzzles his nose into my neck. “If something ever happened to you, I couldn’t go on.” His words are muffled. It tickles and I giggle, pushing him away.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” Squeezing his hand, I smile into his eyes. “I promise.”
“Give me a call when you’re done. Man.” He swipes his bangs away from his eyes. “I can’t wait to hear how everything’s shaking out.”
I slide out of the truck to join Sam.
We take the elevator to the twentieth floor, and the doors open into one massive room. The entire floor is their office. Decorated in the style of chic, vintage Motown, the decor reflects the couple’s love of Detroit. Office chairs and sofa upholstery, as well as luxurious draperies, are designed in custom fabrics of royal purple, burgundy, gold, and black, and reflect the glamour of an era gone by. Framed albums of the Rolling Stones and magazine covers from Life adorn the walls, celebrating the spirit of the city.
“Your office is fabulous.” Dazzled by the opulence, I turn in a slow circle, trying to absorb every detail. “Motown’s my favorite era of Detroit history.”
A Detroit-based record company in the late fifties coined the name Motown, a combination of motor and town. The significance of the label was that it was African American owned, and it integrated popular music with soul.
“Our hope is that while doing business in our office, our clients don’t forget they’re in Detroit, and how fabulous our city was”—Tory sweeps her hand across the skyline, set in enormous windows—“how fabulous our city is.”
“No doubt,” replies Sam, walking to the wall to the left of the window, which is lined with vintage 45 records encased in acrylic. “Temptations, Four Tops, Spinners, Jackson Five . . . oh, you’ve got a couple of Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. They’re my favorite.”
Humming the tune to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” she walks to the next record and studies it, wearing such a mouth-splitting grin her dimples appear to be bullet holes in her cheeks. Placing one hand on her hip, she swirls around to Tory, Wally, and me and thrusts her outstretched palm toward us. She sings the title phrase from the song, “Stop! In the Name of Love.”
“Sorry,” she says, tossing back her hair, her eyes sparkling. “I couldn’t resist.”
“You can’t imagine how many of our clients have that exact reaction when they see the forty-five.” Wally turns to his wife. “But no one to date has belted it out like Sam. Perhaps you missed your calling.” Sam’s cheeks become pink at his compliment. Uh-oh, don’t give the girl an inch.
“The song was number one on the Billboard chart once upon a time,” Tory muses.
I smile. “I’ve always loved the Supremes. Diana Ross reigns forever as queen of Motown. She’s still smokin’ hot today. Too bad she left The D for LA.”
Wally joins Sam, stands by her side, and directs her to the next series of records on the other side of the window.
“Ah yes, the sixties. Tory and I cut our teeth on Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. An era of crossing bridges and making history. The music broke all of the nonsense down. Racial tension melted away every time Eddie Hendricks’s voice filled the stage. That man could sing like an angel.”
Tory turns to me. “Wally must have been his biggest fan. Still is,” she explains, love captured in the glow of her eyes. “When I f
irst laid eyes on my husband, we were in our second year of law school at Wayne State. It was the early nineties. Our first date he took me to Fonte d’Amore for dinner. I remember the dish we shared, Spiedini alla Romano, made with fresh mozzarella.” She catches my eye, raises her brows. “Like you and Sam, they made everything from scratch. I was sad to see it go.”
She walks over to her husband, takes his hand, and squeezes it. “And you were so handsome. You looked just like Eddie, minus the beard. And, oh, that smile. A smile just like his.” Her eyes mist as she gazes at her husband. “You may have gained a belly—must be those gooey Italian cheeses you devour—but you still have that smile.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. But I did resemble him, didn’t I?” He studies his wife thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, as if remembering their early years. They must have been good to them. Tory and Wally pull up chairs and place our file on the coffee table.
“Less intimidating than a desk, right?” She opens the folder.
Sam and I take a seat, joining them.
“Encouraging news regarding your linen man,” Tory says, settling into her seat. “The court denied him bail. Turns out he said he was going to use the girl as ransom to extort money from Welcome Home.”
“Money? Good luck with that.” Remembering that monstrous hand grabbing Sun Beam’s small shoulder, I feel a wave of acid well up from my gut. “I think he had more than extortion on his mind.”
“He said you ladies put a hex on him. And he was owed.” Wally’s eyes crinkle in incredulity. “In all our years of practicing law, we’ve never had a client accused of witchery.”
“Have you ever been around when our hot sauce was delivered?” I ask.
“You mean Jessie’s Hellfire and Redemption?”
“That’s the one,” I reply.
“We love the product,” Tory says. “It’s delicious. I stir it into the Root Vegetable Soup I always order.” Her eyes glaze over and then wander to the ceiling. “There’s this one flavor Wally and I try to pinpoint. It’s a flavor we’ve never before tasted. Tangy, spicy, and ethereal. Just like the name suggests.” Her eyes refocus and return to meet mine. “But, no, we haven’t met the woman who makes it.”
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 30
