And in anticipation of my own deposition, I made an appointment for myself. With Miss Phyllis, at Follicles.
Her salon was in a renovated beach cottage at the edge of town on Beach Twenty-One. It was painted rose pink and white with Follicles spelled in gold lettering over the front door. And on the mailbox. And the pink sign next to her driveway, and the pink Cadillac sitting in the driveway. And over the pocket of her pink uniform.
The interior sported pink and gold marble floors, pale pink walls, and pink furnishings. Décor by Pepto-Bismol, as Shay used to say. She had her own hair done at Slash in P-town, where they were a bit more edgy and fashion forward.
Miss Phyllis was pleased to see me. “Are we going to be relatives?” she asked me as soon as I walked in.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Things got complicated.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, patting me on the arm. “My sister shouldn’t be trying so hard to influence Sam’s life.” She led me to the pink porcelain sink in the back of the store and wrapped a plastic cape tightly around my neck. I loosened it with a finger in order to breathe. “Sam’s a good son,” Miss Phyllis continued, then let out a long sigh. “She wants what’s best for him, but it’s for him to decide.”
“Why wouldn’t my friendship be what’s best for Sam?”
Miss Phyllis shrugged. “She has devoted a lot of time helping him heal,” she said. “All those years while he was on suicide watch at the hospital. You know, they never have enough staff and she came right away to stay with him. It was a great sacrifice for her to leave her husband and Sam’s brother behind. And now they’re stuck with immigration problems. Who knows when she’ll ever see them again. Come sit and I’ll wash your hair.”
Suicide watch. Suicide? So that had been his problem! He had lost the drive to live. He had lost his appreciation for life. This beautiful man.
Miss Phyllis was waiting for me. I sat down and leaned back. The water went through its usual rotation of scalding and Arctic—these old beach cottages are notorious for their temperamental plumbing. She washed my hair with her long pointed pink nails digging into my scalp until my head felt like it had been surgically opened. After towel drying it, she led me over to a creaky salon chair.
“So how do you want it?” she asked as she pulled out her scissors and combs, and stood back for a moment to gauge how much to cut off in order to whip me back into the seventies.
“Not short.” I gave her my usual instructions. “Just kind of casual and loose and modern.” Her specialty was the Partridge Family look.
Of course she didn’t listen to me and snipped away until there was nothing of interest left. I rose from my chair, disappointed, made my usual vow to myself never to return, and headed for the door where I thanked her, as always.
She had followed me to the door, where she took both my hands in hers when I tried to pay her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I can tell that Sam is getting stronger. Do you love him?”
I couldn’t answer her. She looked into my eyes. “I think you do,” she said. “And I think he loves you. Give it time.”
“I can’t do that,” I said miserably. “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“No, no, of course,” she said, and gave me a hug before taking the money from my hand. “Remember, life is like a bad haircut. It all grows out in the end.”
My next stop was at the vet to pick up Vincent. He looked like a new dog. His coat gleamed like copper; his toenails were trimmed; his teeth had been brushed. He smelled like a new dog, too. And just in time—our court date was the next day.
* * *
Larry called me early the next morning. “I’ll meet you on the steps outside the courthouse at eight. Shay and Terrell are coming. Bring the dog.”
The courthouse steps sound impressive until you realize that it is also the same building that houses the Department of Motor Vehicles, the town clerk’s office, and everything else from Assessments to Zoning. As I had expected, it had been recently painted the usual super-white with touches of authoritative black trim. Red flowers overflowed from two large troughs that followed the steps up to the bricked landing by the front doors. The bronze plaques commemorating the year it had been built, sometime in the 1800s, gleamed; the glass doors on the directory sparkled; it was postcard perfect. My town takes pride in such things.
What I didn’t expect were the protest signs. And the small group of marchers, carrying clubs and torches. There was even a police escort in the form of Officer Joe, who was sitting in his squad car with the red, white, and blue flashers on, talking somberly into his radio.
“What’s going on here?” I asked Larry, who trotted down the steps to talk to me, leaning into my car window.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Apparently, the salesman is a member of some kind of alt-right group and they came out to support him. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t recognize any of them,” I said, searching the crowd for a familiar face. “They’re not from town.”
“You’re right. Their cars are from out of state,” Larry said.
“But where are my people?” I asked. “The people from town to protest back?”
Larry shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The marchers picked up a chant. It was ugly. The words were ugly. They were ranting against blacks and Muslims and Jews and Mexicans and just about everyone who wasn’t marching with them. My stomach lurched and I had a sour taste in my mouth. I could feel my heart slamming into my chest.
“I’m scared, Larry,” I said breathlessly. Shay and Terrell pulled into the parking lot. “Tell Shay to go home,” I said. “It doesn’t look safe for her.” A brick suddenly flew from one of the marchers and landed near Terrell’s feet just as he was getting out of his car. A white-painted brick, like the one that had come through the Galley window.
Two more squad cars pulled up. Now there were eight officers standing at the bottom of the steps facing off about four times as many marchers. One of the policemen picked up the brick and looked at it carefully.
“Follow me,” Larry said. I parked the car and got out, holding Vincent tightly on his leash as he walked quietly next to me. Larry stood on the other side of the dog. “I don’t want him injured. They may try to provoke him.”
And then my fear turned to anger. No one was going to threaten Vincent. I straightened up and brought my shoulders back. “Shay!” I called out. “Walk next to me.”
She was more than happy to comply, but I could see that her hands were shaking. “Remember how we stood up to Tommy?” I whispered to her. “These are just like him. Cowards and creeps.”
We walked toward the courthouse steps. I could feel the heat of the torches. Vincent started growling. I turned to look one of the marchers in the eye. He looked like a normal person, brown hair, blue eyes, wearing a white button-down shirt, black pants. He could have been anyone. Hatred is so ordinary looking. His face flushed and he stopped chanting as he passed me. Someone pushed a club at Vincent’s face. He yelped and pulled at his leash to run away.
I turned around to face the man. He was wearing a black shirt, this one with some kind of ugly symbol on it.
“You touch my dog and you die!” I shouted at him. “I promise it will be the last thing you do.”
He lowered his arm and turned his face away from me. Larry said, “Shut up,” into my ear and pulled me straight ahead, up the steps. “Don’t talk to them. Don’t look at them. I hope they’re going to win our case for us.”
The police formed a semicircle around us.
“Thank you, Officer Joe!” I called out. He nodded back at me.
We made it into the courthouse. Me and Shay and Larry and Terrell and Vincent.
Shay and I hugged each other with trembling arms in the lobby of the building. Her face was grave.
“You have to keep your mouth shut,” she said into my ear.
“I didn’t want him to hurt the dog,” I whispered back, and suddenly we were both in tears.
* * *
The actual courtroom was somewhere in the warren of old-fashioned rooms on the third floor and we couldn’t wait to get there. We all squeezed into the elevator at the same time, and didn’t say another word until the doors opened to the hall in front of the courtroom.
Our instructions were to sit and wait in the large anteroom. It was all old-fashioned mahogany floors, walls, and very hard benches. Shay took her place on a bench next to Terrell and Vincent while I sat on Vincent’s other side. Mr. Biljac, of brick-hurling fame, tiptoed in with his lawyer and took his place on the far side of the room. The court officer asked us to turn off our cell phones and then summoned the lawyers to the judge’s chambers and the three men disappeared behind a carved wooden door. We quietly waited for them to emerge after their deliberation.
Mr. Biljac shot angry glances over at me every once in a while, to let me know that he felt innocent. Apparently, brick throwing in his social circles was a perfectly acceptable way to protest disputes. He had been charged with vandalism and now the judge was going to determine how much his court fine was going to be in addition to his restitution to me for all my damages. In addition, Larry told me that the marchers gave him an idea. He was going to try to link the brick throwing to a hate crime, since it apparently was being supported by a mob of white supremacists. That would make it a federal crime.
We were all somber, even Vincent, who finally decided to nap on the bench.
“Vincent smells different,” Shay whispered. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“He had a bath,” I whispered back.
“I guess it’s the lack of smell I’m smelling,” she replied softly. “Nice touch.”
* * *
And we waited. After about half an hour, I could hear faint chanting from outside, below the window. Apparently lacking other forms of entertainment, the marchers were planning to make a big show of it. Suddenly there was shouting. Curious, I got up from the bench and walked over to the window. Vincent followed me, still leashed.
The window overlooked the steps to the courthouse. Down below was the photographer sent by the Daily Fleetbourne Herald. To preserve their anonymity, the marchers were quickly pulling on white masks. They shook their signs, mostly misspelled, showcasing their illiteracy, and shouted several unoriginal but markedly ugly slogans. The photographer took some shots and left. With no audience left to impress, the men suddenly started melting away.
If they were hoping for some kind of altercation, it failed to deliver. They weren’t in a mood to continue marching in an empty parking lot and go unnoticed. It had been a bust.
* * *
The door creaked open and the judge poked his head out and looked around. “Is that the dog?” he asked Larry, who said, “Yes.” I wondered why there would be a question about it since Vincent was the only dog in the room. The other lawyer peeked out, too; they all nodded at one another and withdrew back into the chambers.
We waited some more. The car salesman continued to glare at me and I glared back. Vincent looked at him, too. The man started to squirm.
Finally, Larry appeared. He came over to me and started whispering. “The case against Victor was dismissed. No corroborating evidence of any dog bite and the judge could see that Victor is a calm dog, even with the crap going on outside.”
“Vincent,” I said.
“Who’s Vincent?” he asked.
“You know,” I said. “Van Gogh.”
“Go?” Larry looked confused.
“The dog is Vincent,” I hissed. “Vincent. After Vincent van Gogh. It’s the ear thing.” I pointed to where Vincent was missing an ear.
“Victor, Vincent, it’s not important,” Larry replied.
“It is to him,” I said. “It’s his name.”
“Vincent,” Larry conceded. “Now, the second case, concerning the brick through the window, was also awarded to you. You are getting damages from Mr. Biljac and he has to perform a month of public service. I tried to get him prosecuted for a hate crime. After the marchers today came out to support him by throwing a brick at Shay’s car, they apparently have a stockpile of white-painted bricks; it linked him to them, but it’s not enough. Same kind of brick, same paint, but not enough for evidence. Sorry. Hate crimes are taken very seriously.”
Well, it wasn’t the epic battle I was prepared for, but at least I had my dog’s name sort of cleared and my expenses covered.
Shay got to her feet and applauded; Terrell joined in; Vincent barked; Mr. Biljac said something to his lawyer, who took him by the shoulder and marched him out the door.
* * *
Larry invited all of us back to Shay and Terrell’s house for a celebration. “My treat!” he exclaimed in a flush of triumph to me. “I planned a party—I’ll run to P-town and pick up a few dozen clams and some other stuff and we’ll cheer you up. You need to celebrate.”
* * *
Not sure how he would react to Dude, Shay and Terrell’s cat, I dropped Vincent off at my house and called to tell Sam the outcome of my case. His phone answered with the message that he was out on his boat where there was no service and he would return all calls as soon as he got back. I told him he didn’t need to call me back.
* * *
I deliberately drove past Town Hall on my way to Shay. It looked normal and quiet and a sweetly old-fashioned relic of Cape Cod. Official, secure, a refuge, a sanctuary, my Town Hall, in my town, in my country. The malicious ghosts of old years had come back to inhabit the souls of the weak and the hateful. How had that happened? Who had summoned them forward and promised them protection? Where did it get sanctioned, this raging malevolence?
I stopped my car for a moment. There was no one around. The building gleamed white in the sun. The windows looked officially friendly. The red flowers had been recently watered and stood up fresh and strong. The flag was still in place, flying and casting its shadow into the very parking lot that had been filled with the cars of the malicious.
I had won my small case and could now put it behind me, but I wasn’t ever going to forget how easily my town had played host to such evil.
Chapter 36
Larry really knew how to throw a party. He had decorated Shay and Terrell’s backyard with CONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATE signs, which apparently was all that was left in the P-town party store on short notice, and had trimmed the rest of the area in orange and black streamers. He had purchased an overload of food and beverages from the local supermarkets, a huge American flag from somewhere, which was immediately planted in a corner of the garden, a large poster board stork carrying a baby boy by its diaper with X 2 written on it, a red and green wreath that read: “Merry Christmas,” and a big bunch of flowers, which he presented to me.
“What are we actually celebrating?” I asked Shay later.
“Oh, Larry’s been planning this for about a month,” she explained. “It originally was to celebrate my pregnancy and his promotion at his firm, and then he added your case and Memorial Day and whatever else was available at the Party Hearty store. He likes to be thorough.”
“Awesome,” I said.
“Plus he invited a few people from his office.”
They arrived later in the afternoon, a party brigade from Larry’s law office in Boston, looking to let their hair down for the weekend. They had even booked rooms in P-town. I volunteered to help cook and serve, but everyone seemed to know what to do to keep things running and Shay didn’t have to leave her comfortable patio chair even once. Apparently, Larry’s parties were a fixture and he had them down to a science.
“He has parties all the time in Boston,” Shay explained to me. “Everyone just sort of falls into a job and it all gets done.”
Larry himself was a bottomless source of energy, dancing, pouring, serving, passing out the paper plat
es and napkins that said “Happy New Year” on them, directing where the food should go, and making sure to come over to me periodically to ask if I was enjoying myself. I was. There was always someone interesting and pleasant to talk to, and I was never left to sit alone. I danced until my legs ached and laughed until I was breathless. We were all moths drawn to the light, and the light was Larry. His jokes about them made the courthouse marchers look dim-witted and ludicrous, though we all knew they were an omen.
“Are you cheered up?” he shouted into my ear during a particularly loud song we were dancing to.
I nodded, but that didn’t satisfy him.
“Are you cheeeered up yet?” he sang into my ear.
I shouted, “Yesssss!” and he shouted, “Excellent!” and looked satisfied. He brought his light to every corner.
By the end of the day and after several mango mojitas, I had almost forgotten that I had come alone.
* * *
The party was winding down pretty much by the time the sun was; a cool dusk moved in. Larry brought out a sheet cake that read: “A Piece for All of Us,” complaining it was supposed to have read: “Peace to All of Us.” Shay and I were sitting at a table outside with our coffee when Larry came over with two plates of cake, one each for me and Shay, then left to get a plate for himself.
“What do you think of him?” Shay asked with a smile.
“I like him a lot,” I said. “He’s so much fun. So upbeat all the time.”
“He likes you. He thinks you’re smart and brave.”
I groaned. “I am so not brave.”
Larry appeared with a plate of cake for himself and a cup of tea. “How are you doing?” he asked as he seated himself next to me. “I thought you would bring that guy with you—the vet.”
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 22
