Late in the Standoff

by Tracy Daugherty

  “Don’t have time,” Carla said. “We’re just here to grab me a change of clothes and to drop off Anna Lia’s cats. We’ll be staying at Danny’s again tonight.”

  Betty touched the scissors to her chin. “Cats, Sissy?”

  “You’ve heard me mention Suzi and Robi? Can you watch them for a couple of days? They’d be in Danny’s way, and he’s not in the mood. We brought their treats.”

  “Yes, oh yes!” Betty puffed her bottom lip—a goofy, pouting child. “It was so sad about Anna Lia.”

  “Yes, it was,” Libbie said.

  “Will you be okay on your own for another day or two?” Carla asked. “Still got plenty of food?”

  Betty fingered a paper tulip. “Sure, but … Sissy?”

  “What is it?”

  “Sissy, Edgar won’t be coming over tonight, will he?”

  “No, Bets. He’s in Galveston. Gone till Sunday.”

  “Good.” Betty brightened. “Because, you know, sometimes when he drops by and you’re not around, he—”

  “What?”

  “Well. He gets mad at me.”

  Carla paled. “Mad how?”

  Betty shrugged.

  “Yelling?”

  “Yes. About the messes I make.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carla said. “I’m sorry, Bets. I’ll talk to him about that.”

  “Okay.” Betty smiled, then went to find the cats.

  “She’s looking good,” Libbie offered.

  “Too heavy. That asshole Edgar. I’ve warned him about his temper.

  Libbie touched her arm.

  Upstairs, Carla folded skirts and fresh blouses into a yellow overnight bag. In the bathroom, Libbie filled a travel kit for her: shampoo, toothpaste.

  Earlier, Danny had phoned Carla and said he’d meet them at the apartment. He was going to grab a late supper with Marie and her boyfriend, Ricky. He wasn’t ready yet for the funeral home. Maybe tomorrow.

  “He ran into Smitts in the bookstore,” Carla told Libbie.

  “What bookstore?”

  “You know. The one where Anna Lia got the manual.”

  “Oh my god …”

  “Nothing happened. I guess Danny just had a few words with him. I can’t believe the cops are going to let that bastard walk away.”

  “Maybe they’re right.”

  “Libbie!”

  She pictured the Visa receipt and Anna Lia’s scrawl. “What if they are?”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “What if we just didn’t know her?” Libbie said. “Not like we thought we did.”

  Carla closed the closet door. Her hair and face, in the room’s slanted shadows, looked unfamiliar, impressions in a painting, remote from Libbie’s world. “Carla?” Libbie’s voice cracked.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking about the night Anna Lia brought Roberto over here. Remember, that first time?”

  “Sure.”

  “Didn’t you think he was hideous?”

  Carla laughed. “All jaw and stalky ears. Like the donkey in ads for the Democratic party.”

  “Exactly. I’d just met Hugh. We were in that silly stage, you know, when your lover’s perfect. Hugh was the nicest, handsomest man on the planet. Then, when Anna Lia showed up with Roberto, I just—”

  “I know. She’d made him out to be such a sex machine.”

  “That’s what I mean. I guess he was sexy, to her. Like Hugh was to me.” She shut the travel kit. “It’s so easy to miss the mark.”

  Carla closed her bag. “Hey. Hey, is everything all right?”

  Libbie shrugged. “I don’t know.” She didn’t feel well. She’d been tense since the unsettling phone conversation with Hugh this morning.

  “Tell me.”

  She kneaded her forehead. “Hugh expects me to go ahead with the weekend plans we made, like nothing’s happened. And there’s so much wedding stuff. I can’t handle it now, not with all this about Anna Lia.”

  “I’m sure he misses you.”

  “He does. Of course he does.” She wondered if she was avoiding Hugh. He’d want to be intimate, and she didn’t know if she could muster the enthusiasm. “Maybe I’m scared.”

  “Sure.”

  “I know it sounds stupid, Carla, but you know what I’ve been grappling with all day … how well do we know anyone? I mean, really? Even ourselves—god, the way our bodies change …”

  Carla walked over and massaged Libbie’s shoulders. “You’ll drive yourself crazy, thinking like that. If you’re getting what you need from a person, that’s good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And the minute it stops coming, that’s bad. Simple as that.”

  “You and Edgar?”

  Carla smiled. “Edgar. Well, Edgar’s a prick. We all know that. Always on the road, always yelling, making me wait for him like a faithful little wife …”

  “So?”

  “So … he’s a sex machine.”

  They laughed and gathered Carla’s things.

  Downstairs, Carla scribbled Danny’s phone number on the back of a deposit slip. She handed it to Betty. “Don’t lose it this time, all right? Call me if you need anything.”

  Betty nodded. “Sissy, did you know there are ten thousand varieties of tulips?”

  The hall light flickered. Carla’s face went white.

  “What’s wrong? Sissy? What’s the matter?”

  Carla glanced at Libbie. “I swear, she’s still here.”

  “Who, Sissy? Who’s still here?”

  “No one. No one, Bets. Don’t forget to feed the cats.”

  5

  The man’s a first-class ass, Nicholas thought, locking the door to his apartment. A guy that angry, who didn’t know he was angry—or why—was stupid and dangerous. Still, Clark was over his head with Anna Lia. He couldn’t have seen what a woman like that might pull.

  Not that Nicholas could. She was dangerous too. But not because she was angry. No, she couldn’t stay mad at anyone for long. She was like a puppy that way, growling then swishing its cute little tail. He had known some pissed-off women, Harley girls, abandoned wives, bitter and bored, and Anna Lia wasn’t like them. If the bomb hadn’t blown, her Capriati snit would have passed. She and Nicholas could have spent their days laughing again under the sheets.

  A twinge pinched his leg. Shit, neither of them had thought she had the strength. To her, it was all just a game. “Maybe I could shoot him or poison his coffee, or—how about your hunting knife?” Before he could say, “Careful,” she’d picked it off his desk and made a playful lunge.

  That night, after the emergency room, she was supersweet with him in bed. Snuggling was all he could manage. The painkillers spun him around. Again, he tried to talk her past Capriati—not that he believed she’d really go after the guy. Her threats and the knife … they were part of her childish delight in things. She snatched whatever moved—even her self-loathing—and rode it until it was dry. That’s what made her so exciting. Nicholas knew she’d drop him soon. But the adventure was worth it. Capriati, hell, he’d screwed up by pulling her father’s shit on her, and that got her fuming.

  He remembered watching TV with her. In Rome, her family hadn’t owned a television set, and she couldn’t tell fake from fact. When an actor shot another actor, she curled up in horror as if she’d really seen a murder. “But it looks so real!”

  That should have told him the story. Usually he was a fair judge of a person’s facility with hardware. Fuck, he should have kept her away from the stuff. His brother had warned him. But she found his knowledge erotic, and it gave him a thrill to show off for her. “These aren’t toys,” he’d tell her, but of course she didn’t hear that, any more than she listened to Clark. He’d laughed at the asshole, but hell, he should have seen his own damn self …

  Still, the cops knew everything now, including the reason for his visit to the emergency room. They didn’t
seem to blame him. Funny—he wished he could tell Clark how shitty he felt. He was sure even Anna Lia didn’t know how far she would go. But Clark was such a putz. He wouldn’t care. Nicholas couldn’t confide in his brother or their buddies. They’d think he’d gone soft on them. Best to stay quiet, bear his bum leg as a punishment.

  6

  Danny reached for another beer. In the yellow light from the walls’ silver fixtures, his hand was the color of egg yolk.

  “Sweetie, you’ve had enough.” Marie moved the pitcher away from him. Ricky chuckled.

  Danny brushed the back of his neck. An air conditioner rattled above him, but that wasn’t it. It was her. She floated above him, panting onto his shoulders, the way she used to do in bed, trying to get him excited.

  A man approached their table. “Excuse me?” he said. “Mr. Clark? Danny?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Danny, my name is Hugh Campbell. Libbie’s fiancé? You may not remember. We’ve met a couple of times—”

  Danny squinted to see his face in the shadows. “Yeah. Oh yeah, right. How you?” He tried to offer his hand, but his arm was too heavy.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just having dinner over here … and … well, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Anna Lia.”

  “Thanks, that’s … that’s very …”

  Marie touched Danny’s shoulder. Ricky glanced away, embarrassed or bored. Behind him, a string of red, pepper-shaped lights winked against the wall.

  “I guess you’ll see Libbie before I do,” Campbell said. An accusation? A little poke in the ribs? Was Danny crazy, or did the man look slightly angry? Behind him, a cook slipped out the door, holding a tray of food. “Tell her hi for me.”

  “She’s ver’ sweet,” Danny slurred. “Good friend.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is. Well. Just wanted to …” He shrugged. “Take care of yourself,” he said. He nodded good night, then turned to his table. Just then, the restaurant’s lights went out.

  Sweet, hot breath on his neck. Danny leaped to his feet. “Goddammit, Anna Lia, go away! If you’re going, then fucking go!”

  “Danny, Danny!” Marie reached for his hands. “Hush now. Hush. Everything’s all right. Okay? Sit down. Danny?”

  Now the room felt hot, airless, and small. A waiter scurried out of the kitchen carrying candles. He found some matches. Soon, bright white flames perked around the room.

  7

  Midmorning, on her way to the funeral home, Libbie heard on the radio that the volcano had stopped spraying ash into the air. Now, the haze over Houston came from forest fires in Sierra Madre del Sur. Mexican and U.S. authorities suspected the worst fires had been set by drug lords clearing mountain woodlands for poppy. Recently, a Oaxacan priest had been murdered just a day after he’d denounced, in a sermon, “dope peddlers who destroy our virgin forests.”

  Libbie’s fingers shook on the wheel. She pulled over to a shutdown Conoco station, switched off the radio, and jammed her hands into her armpits. That she could live in Houston, eat breakfast every day, drink coffee, greet the people she knew, and at the same time, breathe corrupt air from thousands of miles away, the smoke of addiction, sickness, and death, was incomprehensible to her.

  I don’t know anything, Libbie thought. Nothing at all.

  People worked so hard to establish routines, to surround themselves with friends they could trust, but for all that effort, time, and expense, no one was safe. A small ripple on the other side of the world could swell into a storm, grow without your knowledge, and someday smash everything you thought you knew.

  The funeral home was on Navigation Boulevard near the original Ninfa’s Restaurant. Ninfas was a Houston legend—little more than a taco stand run by a Mexican housewife when it opened decades ago, the business had expanded into several large establishments across the city. People came from all over Texas to eat at Ninfa’s now, hoping for authentic Mexican flavors. But to Libbie, the food at the newer outlets tasted prefab and bland. Nothing gets better, she thought. Nothing improves. “Stop it,” she told herself aloud. “Buck up.”

  Still shaking, she parked in a small lot behind the funeral home, beneath a white metal sign that said MANUEL CRESPI MEMORIAL SERVICES. Danny’s black Mazda, still warm, sat nearby. Carla hadn’t arrived yet. The building was made of sandy brown stones. A tall chimney at one end. Yellow smoke hung in the air, along with car exhaust. A sour shrimp odor wafted upwind from the Ship Channel.

  Inside, the place smelled like the animal shelter, only mustier, with a hint of mothballs, old suits. Lamps cast an orange glow onto the deep red carpet. A thin man in a dark brown suit, whose head was as smooth as a bar of soap, was standing over Danny, patting his shoulder.

  “Hi,” Libbie said. “Are you the undertaker?”

  “I’m the funeral director. The memorial counselor. Anthony Crespi.” He offered his hand. It was cold. “I was just telling Mr. Clark here not to worry about a thing. We’ll create a beautiful Memory Picture for you.”

  Danny looked fit for a coffin. Uncombed, unshaven. Just half an hour ago, Libbie had fought with Hugh on the phone: he’d run into Danny last night at Chimichanga. “Libbie, he was acting crazy. And he had a gun,” Hugh said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a power failure—the lights went out—and he jumped up, all agitated. Marie tried to calm him down. When a waiter lit some candles, I swear I saw, tucked into his pants, a pistol. Libbie, I don’t want you around him anymore. I think … I mean, I really do think he’s lost it. He might be dangerous, honey.”

  “Hugh, I’ve known Danny for years. He wouldn’t—”

  “You knew Anna Lia too. And look what happened.”

  “I know my friends. Danny would never touch a gun. And damn it, Hugh, don’t tell me who to spend time with. I mean, seriously—”

  “Libbie—”

  “I’m not the obedient-little-wife type, okay?” What the hell was she saying? How had she gotten so irritable? Weariness? Pre-wedding jitters?

  “I know. I miss you, Libbie. That’s all. I’m worried for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Hugh. I miss you too. But I can’t abandon my friends.”

  After a few more apologies, they agreed to meet this afternoon, maybe go to the church and speak to the priest.

  Now she knelt beside Danny. He smelled of beer. “Have you talked to Gustavo?” she asked. “Do you know what he wants to do?”

  “No, I—no. No.”

  She rubbed his arm. Crespi clasped his hands behind his back. Carla barreled in. “Sorry,” she said. “Betty was out of orange juice.” Quickly, she and Libbie made arrangements with Crespi for Danny to phone Gustavo in Rome. The call’s cost would be added to the funeral expenses. While Carla followed Danny to a back room, Libbie pulled Mr. Crespi aside. “Danny—Mr. Clark—gave the police permission to conduct an autopsy as part of their investigation—”

  “Yes, yes. Unfortunate, but not a problem. I’ve worked with autopsy cases before. I assure you, Ms.—?”

  “Schwinn.”

  “—Ms. Schwinn, we can accomplish miracles these days in the preparation phase—”

  “You mean the embalming?”

  “Yes. Leave it to me. She’ll be ravishing.”

  Libbie shivered at the thought. “I assume Gustavo will want the body shipped to Rome,” she said. “You were recommended to Danny because you can do that, right?”

  “Of course. But naturally, before Ms. Clark begins her overseas journey, her friends here in Houston will want to see her and express their final good-byes?”

  “Sure, we’ll have some kind of service … but I don’t—”

  “Again, leave everything to me. Ms. Clark is in very good hands.”

  She heard Danny weeping down the hall. “I’m sorry, Gustavo. I’m sorry,” he said.

  He hung up and asked for a bathroom. Carla said Gustavo was too shocked to make any plans. They’d have to call him back. Libbie couldn’t picture Anna Lia’
s father wearing anything but a brand-new tuxedo. She imagined him gripping the phone, tears falling from his face, staining his shiny silk tie.

  “In the meantime,” Carla said, “we should set up something here, don’t you think?”

  Libbie agreed. Danny returned from the bathroom, wiping his nose.

  “Well then, shall we step into the display room?” Crespi asked. He led them into a spacious, red-carpeted chamber. Coffins stood like fishing boats in neat little rows. “Ms. Clark might be at home in this casket. Its design is based on contemporary European models. Ms. Clark is European, isn’t she?” Danny nodded. “As you can see, this unit comes equipped with a fully satin-lined interior, a fine mahogany gloss. Or here’s the White Pearl. One of my favorites.”

  Danny turned to Libbie and Carla. “I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “Take the cheapest and be done with it,” Libbie said. “That’s what Anna Lia would tell you.” But she wasn’t sure this was true. Simplifying was Libbie’s approach. She’d told Hugh that when they’d first discussed their wedding. The huge church, the lengthy ceremony, these were Hugh’s ideas. She would have settled for a justice of the peace in the privacy of an office.

  But Anna Lia’s vocabulary didn’t include simplicity. The truth was, if she were here, she’d probably opt for the costliest box. Lying inside it would be like snuggling into one of her daddy’s suits.

  Carla walked Danny around the room. Libbie approached Mr. Crespi. “The whole cost, everything—embalming, the box, transportation—what are we looking at, roughly?”

  “Medium-range casket, say two thousand. Refrigeration and preparation, another four hundred. Escorting Ms. Clark from the police facilities … I estimate anywhere from three to five hundred. The journey to Rome, of course I’ll have to check. Prices are scheduled to rise this summer.”

  “I see,” Libbie said. How many more times this week could she be knocked on her ass?

  “Ah, it looks as though Mr. Clark has selected the Classic Royal. Excellent taste. I must say, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Schwinn. This weekend—say, by two Sunday afternoon—Ms. Clark will be waiting for you here in the Slumber Room.”