Shop Talk

by Carolyn Haines

  As she hunted through her purse for her car keys, Lucille felt her depression yielding to excitement. This was a major breakthrough in Slade’s character. The book had definitely taken a turn. The power of her discovery sent the blood rushing through her with such force and speed that she fumbled the keys that were tangled with gum wrappers, pens, lipstick tubes, scraps of receipts, flakes of tobacco, Tic-tac boxes, and pennies.

  Frustrated, she sat down on the cement curb beside her Camaro and dumped her purse upside down. The keys were in there. She could hear them.

  What she had to do was concentrate on not losing the thread of her newfound insight. Slade would disavow Clara. He would abandon her a third of the way into the book, realizing that she was not the woman for him. This was not romance–it would be better than romance. Slade Rivers would be a man who was not ruled by his loins, but rather by his desire for a woman of substance. To hell with Clara. She’d been nothing but a conniving, spoiled, headstrong little bitch since she’d first appeared on the page. Slade would leave her behind in his quest for real love, and she, Lucille Hare, writing as RoxAnne Flambeaux, would make sure that Clara got the fate she deserved. Lucille almost swooned. For the first time, she realized that she had the power to create–and in equal measure, the power to destroy. As a writer, she could dispense justice. Clara Lloyd was going to come before her bench!

  Amidst the clutter, Lucille found her keys. She scrambled everything back into her purse and stood.

  Out of the darkness a pair of headlights sprang to life across the parking lot. A loud, slightly erratic motor cranked up. The headlights began to move, swinging past Lucille and then coming back to her as if they sought her out. Blinded by the unexpected light, Lucille stood, one foot on the curb, car keys in hand, motionless.

  There was the sound of gears grinding and a belch of noxious fumes as the vehicle careened across the four lanes of Pass Road and headed directly for Lucille.

  It took a few seconds to register that the vehicle wasn’t going to turn into the street. It was coming right at her, head-on, as if it meant to sweep over her and fly straight through Bo’s new plate glass windows and into the shop.

  She held up both hands and spread her paisley legs. “Stop!”

  Driskell had taken a stand at the door as he watched Lucille go through the contents of her purse. She looked young and vulnerable, sitting on the curb, legs splayed apart, high-top tennis shoes smudged with evidence of wear. He yearned to go out and talk to her, but she had made her feelings toward him plain. She was angry with him. About Mona’s behavior.

  And his own.

  He’d spent the last ten minutes pondering the exchange he’d had with Ms. d’la Quirt, and he accepted responsibility for wounding Lucille. He’d been intrigued by Mona. Attracted to her. There was something about her that was forbidden, naughty, kinky, more than a little desirable.

  Mona was the antithesis of white, tricot slips, the lingering memory of soft rolls of flesh, scented with a light vanilla talc. Mona was sleek leather, hard …

  Bright headlights flared into his eyes, making him draw back from the light and his thoughts. It took him several seconds to realize that the vehicle was coming across the road at a high speed and headed directly for the shop, and Lucille, who stood like a giant X, arms and legs apart as if she could deny the speeding vehicle access.

  Driskell pushed through the door and launched himself at Lucille with every ounce of strength he had. His shoulder caught her just below the ribs, and he heard her breath give with a soft whiff as she folded over him. Together they smacked into the asphalt and rolled to the front of Lucille’s Camaro.

  The scream of tires seemed to bleed from the pavement into his ears, a hollow, cartoon sound. Holding tight to Lucille, Driskell closed his eyes. Suddenly, the night was filled with silence and the smell of burning rubber.

  With Lucille still folded over his shoulder, Driskell looked up to see enormous smoking tires that supported a tiny black pickup. The interior of the cab was hidden by a sheet of black glass that reflected BO’s ELECTRONICS backwards.

  Lucille moaned.

  “Shush,” Driskell said softly. This was a danger Roger had not warned about.

  “My knees,” Lucille whimpered. She hiccuped. “My elbows.”

  “Hush,” Driskell said more forcefully as he watched the driver’s window. Very slowly it rolled down.

  The head that loomed out of the truck was enormous. The facial planes were big, broad, and encased in layers of fat. But the head itself was at least twenty-eight inches. And the expression the man wore was not benign.

  “Well, well,” he said, his mouth working as if it had not uttered intelligible words in a long time. “If it ain’t little Lucy.”

  Lucille went completely limp, then arched like a jolt of electricity had been shot through her veins.

  “No,” she said. “No!” She began to struggle like a banshee.

  “Hee! Hee!” The man in the truck said. “Hee! Hee!” His laughter was interrupted by a loud wheeze.

  Driskell felt Lucille under and around him like a sack full of angry ‘possums, and he did what he could to get off her while at the same time watching the leering face above him. He had no weapon. Bo and Iris were in the back of the shop and would never hear him if he cried out for help. He knew exactly who the man reminded him of–the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. He watched the wet looking lips, expecting to see them form the words, “Fee, fie, foe, fum.” Once the wheezing stopped, the lips pulled back to reveal tiny teeth that were black at the base and slightly pointed. “Hee! Hee!” the man laughed.

  “Who are you?” Driskell asked, his voice more polite than he intended.

  “Hee! Hee!” the man answered. His big head, surrounded by a clump of matted dark hair, rocked backwards and forward with his mirth. “Hee! Hee!” He beat the side of the truck. “Hee! Hee!”

  “Who are you?” This time there was a demand in Driskell’s voice. He was about to gain his feet, but Lucille bucked beneath him, causing him to fall back on top of her. The air exploded from her lungs in a sharp cry followed by a whistling moan.

  The big man laughed, wiping his eyes.

  “Who are you?” Driskell staggered to get away from Lucille.

  The man held up a hand, choking as he tried to contain his mirth. “Why little Lucy …” he gasped, “you ain’t changed a bit.”

  Lucille went still. Driskell found his feet and stood. “Who are you?” he asked for the fourth time.

  “Why, ask Lucy,” the man directed, still wiping his eyes. “Surely she recognizes her Uncle Peter.”

  Lucille sat up and looked into the truck window. “This can’t be happening,” she said softly.

  “I’ve come back, Lucy. I got to thinking about you and your brother out in the world all on your own, and I knew I had to come home and take care of you.”

  Lucille got to her feet slowly. Both her knees had been badly scraped on the pavement. Blood ran down her shins, a twisting pattern of darker red among the pink paisleys. “You’ve been gone nearly twenty years. Bo and I are grown now.”

  “Well, enough time wasted, I say. Now we can be one big happy family.” He nodded. “Just the three of us.”

  Driskell looked at Lucille. “Is this man really your uncle?”

  Lucille swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Where’s that brother of yours, Lucy?”

  “Bo’s asleep.” Lucille shifted slightly, as if she meant to blockade the front door from her uncle.

  Driskell moved beside her, just behind her shoulder.

  “Well, roust him out of bed. It’s reunion time. Tell him to come on out and welcome his Uncle Peter.” He slammed the side of the truck. “Hell, let’s pop a few brewskies and celebrate. Two fatherless children have got themselves a new daddy!”

  “Bo’s asleep.”

  “Well, wake him.” The joviality was gone from his voice.

  “Where have you been for the past twenty years?” L
ucille didn’t budge. “At first Aunt Doris was sick with worry.” She took a baby step forward. “After a few weeks, she started to realize how much better her life was without you. She got a new hair cut and started bowling. You’d better put that truck in gear and move on down the highway.”

  “You’ve gotten mighty sassy for a child who couldn’t tie her shoelaces until she was nine.” Peter’s laughter crackled like splitting glass.

  Driskell stepped in front of Lucille. “I don’t believe you’re Lucille’s uncle, and it’s obvious that she wants you to leave. I think you should do it.”

  “Right, ruby lips. You gonna make me?”

  Driskell’s lip quivered. Some terrible stench had suddenly assaulted him. Lucille, too, drew back. “If Lucille is your niece, why did you try to run her down?” he asked.

  “Hell, that’s a game, boy! A game. Hee! Hee! When Lucy and little Bo were younguns out on the farm, I’d chase them through the cornfield with the tractor and corn-picker, pretendin', you know, like I was harvestin’ bundles of chilluns. They’d run and scream down those corn rows. Bo, he’d always jump the rows and get to the side, but not Lucy. It was like them stalks of corn was the Iron Curtain. She’d run straight down one row with the corn-picker right on her churnin’ little butt.”

  “It’s true,” Lucille whispered. “He tried to kill us.”

  Driskell took Lucille’s arm and marched her to the door. “Go inside and wait. I’ll take care of this.”

  Lucille caught the edge of his cape, fingering the silky material. “Just make him leave, Driskell,” she said. “Can you?”

  “I can make him regret it if he stays.” He pushed her through the door. “Do you want to wake Bo?”

  “Heavens above, no.” Lucille stepped back. “Bo hates Uncle Peter. He might get the gun and shoot him.”

  Driskell nodded. As he turned around to confront the beefy giant in the mud-caked truck, he thought that a gun might be the only reasoning tool Peter Hare would comprehend. That or a club.

  “Mr. Hare, or whoever you are,” Driskell stepped up to the truck, climbing up on the mud encrusted knobs of the wheels. “Call Bo in the morning. Until then, go away.”

  “Hee! Hee!” Peter Hare answered. “You look like a bat, boy. Hee! Hee! Hee! Bat boy! That was a good one. Hee! Hee!”

  Driskell dropped back to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. His cape, undamaged by his tumble on the asphalt, swirled around him.

  Peter’s laughter stopped in mid chuckle. His small eyes narrowed even more as he stared at Driskell for a long moment. “Who are you?” he asked suddenly. “You aren’t … you know, involved with little Lucy, are you?” His one long heavy eyebrow that slashed across his low forehead lifted.

  “I’m certain Bo will want to know where you’re staying.”

  “Tell Lucy and Bo I’ll be back, tomorrow.” He put the truck in gear and spun out backwards into the street.

  Driskell watched the taillight departing. Only one worked. The other flickered on and off with the motion of the truck. The only thing left of Peter Hare was black streaks on the tiny apron of a parking lot and an unholy stench that defied definition.

  When Driskell was sure he was gone, he turned back to the shop. Lucille was pressed to the window as if she cooled her face against the chill pane. A tear slid down her cheek. Picking up the lighting of the Electric Maid bakery sign that glimmered down the block, the tear tracked aqua, then pink, and finally fell off into yellow.

  Guilt tripped through Driskell as he remembered Mona and the steamy flirtation they’d shared. In a way, it was as if he’d been possessed by a spirit. Mona was a tempting woman, but not his kind. Not at all. He remembered the feel of Lucille beneath him, soft and womanly, the soft whiff of her lungs when she’d hit the pavement, so delicate a sound. Mona was incapable of such a soft creation. Only Lucille could whiff. And he had betrayed her.

  He pushed open the door and went straight to her, putting his arm around her and pulling her against the still starched whiteness of his shirt.

  “He’s gone,” he said. She burrowed against his chest, her face like a small furry creature afraid of the light. His hand gently stroked her merlot hair and found it nicely stiff.

  “What are we going to do?” Lucille asked.

  “Is he really your uncle?” Driskell was having a hard time seeing any resemblance between Bo, Lucille, and the huge head belonging to Peter Hare.

  Hope rose in Lucille. Maybe it wasn’t Peter. “It’s been twenty years, and I was still a kid when he left Aunt Doris. Maybe it isn’t him. Maybe it’s someone pretending to be him.”

  Driskell nodded.

  Lucille moaned and pressed her forehead against his collar bone. “But why would anyone pretend to be him? No one in their right mind would want to be Peter Hare.”

  “Maybe he really does want to get back with his family.” Driskell didn’t believe it, but he had to think of something comforting to say to Lucille. Her tears were soaking through his shirt, and he could feel the salty starch beginning to travel down his chest in tiny, slow-moving rivulets.

  “Peter hated us.” Lucille stepped back and rubbed her eyes with her fists. “He turned against all of us, but most especially his own brother. They couldn’t be in the same house together. When Daddy died, Peter didn’t even come to the funeral.”

  Driskell cleared his throat. A low alarm had begun to sound deep in his brain. A warning. Why would Peter Hare sneak around spying on his niece and nephew? Why would he return after all these years? Bo and Lucille had no money. There was no real reason for his sudden appearance, unless …

  “Where do you suppose your Uncle Peter has been all these years?” Driskell asked.

  “I don’t know, but wherever it is, he’s been eating well.” Lucille’s nose drew up. “Did you smell him? He smells worse than he did when he was raising those hogs.”

  “He was rather pungent.” Driskell knew to use caution whenever speaking of someone’s family. Blood was often thicker than water. “You haven’t heard from him at all?”

  “Not even a postcard.” Lucille paced slowly along the window, stopping and staring out at the spot where Peter had parked the monster truck he’d driven. “Was his head … awfully large looking to you?” She reached up and felt her skull.

  “Did you think his head was abnormally large?” Peter’s head was enormous. But larger than normal heads seemed to be a Hare family trait, which in Driskell’s opinion was better than abnormally small heads.

  “It was jumbo.” Lucille turned to face him. “I don’t remember his head being so big.”

  “Maybe he’s an imposter.” Driskell risked a glance at the work counter which hid his computer. He needed to get online to Roger. Immediately. He glanced at one of the televisions and saw that Tom Snyder was no longer in evidence. It was well after midnight. “He said he’d be back tomorrow.”

  A deep sigh escaped Lucille as she looked at her reflection in the glass. “My beautiful paisley leggings are ruined.”

  Looking down, Driskell saw where the fabric had been torn by the rough asphalt. “Not to mention your legs.” He bent to examine the wounds. “You need to clean that up.”

  A great weariness descended on Lucille. In twenty years she’d never missed her uncle for a second. She’d felt only relief and delight that he was gone. When Peter Hare had driven off in a black Pontiac, her Aunt Doris had blossomed from a cowed and subservient woman to a respected bowler and a singer in a female barbershop quartet. Doris had died ten years before, a woman happy with her single life–she never even filed a missing person’s report on Peter. Was that why Peter had come back? To see if there were any family bones to pick? Driskell led her to a chair and eased her down into it as she stared out the window into the empty Pass Road night. She felt Driskell’s gentle fingers at her knees, felt him tugging the fabric away from her torn skin, felt the cold then hot wash of peroxide he got from the bathroom, all done in silence.

  He knelt before her, h
ands working gently. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

  “You saved my life tonight.” It was true. He’d hurled himself out the door and shouldered her to safety.

  “That man, even if he is your uncle, may be dangerous,” Driskell said. As he tended Lucille’s abrasions, he became more and more certain that Peter Hare was somehow involved in the CIA’s interest in the Hare family.

  “He tried to run me down.” Lucille looked down into Driskell’s dark eyes. His lips were not so red. They were pale, as if he suffered for her. “If you hadn’t pushed me aside, he would have run over me.”

  “Surely he would have stopped.”

  Lucille shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Do you believe he came back with the intention of killing you?” Driskell probed gently. “Why?”

  “With Peter, there doesn’t have to be a reason.”

  “But to kill his own niece …” Driskell felt the question fall out from under him.

  “He was always horrid–mean, cruel, dirty, and a bully.” Driskell released her leg and she stood up. “I don’t suppose twenty years have changed him much at all.” Deep in her imagination a picture took hold. She walked to the window and stared out into the night. “He’s a villain.” She saw her uncle, his big head supporting a ten gallon hat. On his chest glinted a five point star. Peter Hare as sheriff. Of Montana. Slade Rivers’s nemesis. It was perfect!

  “Lucille, are you okay?” Driskell was worried by the expression of sudden, intense delight that touched her features. He had the distinct worry that she was going mad.

  Lucille grasped his hands. “Oh, Driskell, he’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yes. His showing up here was destiny. Can’t you feel it?” She held out her arm to show him that the hairs were standing out like tiny pale, blonde bristles.