by Sharon Dunn
“So why would David have the same numbers? Unless—” Arleta shook her head. “David sometimes kept things from me if he thought they would worry me or make me sad. He was protective of my feelings. When he was turned down for a full professorship at the first college we were at, I didn’t know about it until years later. Mr. Jackson must have crossed David’s path for only a short period of time.”
There was something sweet about David wanting to protect his wife. Sweet but not helpful at this point. Ginger took another sip of tea.
Kindra said, “You know there is a professor in the archaeology department who is older than dirt. Arleta, did your husband work with a Professor Chambers?”
“Oh yes, Lyndon Chambers. He and David were good friends.” Arleta looked pretty in the purple velour sweat suit Ginger had bought for her at the sidewalk sale downtown. She was determined to gently bring Arleta’s wardrobe out of the seventies.
“You and I could go talk to him. Maybe David told him something.” Kindra lifted the shell box, turned it over, and then opened it.
“I haven’t seen Lyndon in years. We older than dirt people should stay in touch.” A smile brightened Arleta’s face, and she leaned a little closer to Kindra.
Kindra continued to turn the box over in her hands.
“I thought we decided the box wasn’t connected.” Ginger placed her tea on the table. “What are you looking at, kiddo?”
“Do you have a ruler or tape measure?” She held the box at eye level. “I suspect that the dimensions on the outside of this box don’t match those inside.”
“I’ve got a ruler in my craft drawer.” Ginger opened the sliding glass door by the deck while Arleta said something about putting her house on the market and maybe talking to the nice blond lady at Jackson-Wheeler Real Estate.
Ginger stepped into the cool kitchen just as Phoebe jumped off the counter. While she was rooting through her craft drawer, the doorbell rang. Who on earth? She opened the door.
Well, wire my jaw shut and call me Sally. Had she just stepped into a musical theater number? The two people in front of her looked absurd, like they were on their way to belt out a tune on a stage somewhere.
It took a moment, but she recognized the man as Keaton Lustrum. The lacquered Elvis-style hair threw her off. His shirt was buttoned up to his neck. He tucked his shirttail into polyester slacks pulled up past his belly button and cinched into place with a white belt. He looked substantially different than in his newspaper photograph. What on earth was he doing here in that getup?
The pretty lady beside him was dressed in an equally bizarre and dumpy outfit. Even the boxy denim jumper with embroidered puppies frolicking across her chest couldn’t hide her perfect posture and skin. She looked like a model who was trying to appear plain.
When Keaton opened his mouth, he spoke with a Southern accent. “Excuse me, ma’am. We are from the Organized Bible Society.”
The woman nodded, fidgeting with the handle of the tote bag she held up to her chest.
“The Organized Bible Society?” As opposed to the Unorganized Bible Society? This was getting weirder by the second.
Keaton turned his Bible so Ginger could see the cover. “Yes, if you would just allow us to come in and talk to you about the Lawd.”
Ginger placed her hand on her hip. “The Lawd?”
“Yes, ma’am. If you would just welcome us into your lovely home.”
Not too subtly the woman stood on tiptoe and looked over Ginger’s shoulder. She suspected that the dumpy model was making an itemized list of the contents of her home. She was looking for something.
Ginger crossed her arms. “You want to come into my house?”
Keaton’s lips tightened, suggesting impatience. “Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus?” He leaned toward her, spittle flying in her direction.
Ginger wiped her cheek. He had said her Savior’s name like he was cracking a whip. “As matter of fact—”
The pretty woman in the dumpy outfit swung her tote bag in such a way that it was obviously empty. She leaned close to Ginger as if expressing a confidence. “Is the devil in your house? We get him out.” The oversized cross the woman wore around her neck was big enough to knock out an elephant.
Kindra’s voice rose from behind Ginger. “Oh please, give me a break.”
The nineteen-year-old stood on the threshold between the family room and the kitchen. The shell box was tucked under her arm.
Keaton’s mouth formed an oval shape. His hands twitched at his sides. He gazed at the shell box like it was a hot fudge sundae.
Kindra stomped across the kitchen floor and stood beside Ginger. “Where have you guys been shopping, the nerd factory? Christians don’t act and dress like that. That cross could blind half of Africa if the sun hit it at the right angle. You’ve been watching too much network television.”
The woman with the French accent lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Yes, that is correct. I watch the TV.”
Kindra paced back and forth, gesturing by holding the box up and pointing with it while Keaton made odd noises and raised his hands toward the box. His head jerked in sync with Kindra’s movement.
“I am so tired of these stupid stereotypes. I get this on campus all the time. Physicists are supposed to act and dress a certain way. Just because I’m blond and used to be a cheerleader doesn’t mean I’m dumb People make assumptions about what I think because I’m a Christian.”
Kindra grimaced at the French woman. “I would never dress like that. None of my friends dress like that. If you’re going to pretend to be a Christian, at least do a little field research. Television is filled with lies when it comes to Christians.”
“No.” The French woman seemed to be having some sort of epileptic fit. She shook her head, blinked rapidly, and sucked in her collagen-enhanced lips so tightly they disappeared.
Kindra stopped pacing and gazed down at the box. She lowered her voice. “We know who you really are, Mr. Lustrum.”
The color drained from his face. He made a series of odd groans and squeaks. “You know my name?”
Kindra held up the box. “And I know this belongs to you.”
Ginger did a double take toward Kindra. What had she figured out?
Keaton’s fingers, stiff and splayed apart, reached toward the box.
“I am not stupid. I know not all is true.” The French woman seemed to be on the verge of tears. “I just wanted to learn to be a good American.” She dropped the tote bag on the floor.
Kindra shoved the box toward Keaton.
Ginger stepped back and watched the strange show taking place in her kitchen.
Keaton wrapped his arms around the box. He touched his stiff hair. “Thank you. It’s a family heirloom.”
Kindra rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and planted a fist on her hip. “Oh, cut the lies. You can get it in any ocean tourist shop in the world. You won’t find what you’re looking for in there.”
The lawyer’s eyes popped. He made his squeaking noises again.
Kindra pulled a pile of papers out of her back pocket. “I think this is what you want.”
Keaton’s jaw and the box dropped, clattering at their feet.
Earl stared out his workshop window at the Lexus in his driveway. Did they even know someone who drove a car like that?
“Is something wrong, Mr. Salinski?” Trevor’s hands dripped with papier-māché.
Earl pulled his drill off the elk antlers he’d been preparing to mount on his latest invention. “No, Trevor, why do you ask?”
“You been starin’ out the window for five minutes, and you drilled three holes in that one antler.” The boy ran his finger through curly brown hair. “I thought we just needed one.”
“So I did. You caught me.” Earl pulled his drill bit out of his drill. “I shouldn’t be operating power tools when my mind is elsewhere.” He handed the bit to Trevor.
The boy placed the bit back in its case. “Where is your mi
nd?”
“Just on some adult things, marriage things.” Earl’s thoughts kept pace with the rapid winding of his drill cord. Would he and Ginger spend their remaining years operating in separate worlds? “You wouldn’t understand.”
Trevor shrugged. “Try me, Mr. S.”
The innocence of his expression calmed Earl. What could it hurt to share? “Since Heidi left for the army, Ginger and I seem to be drifting apart.” He placed his drill on a wall hook. “I thought once the kids were gone…” He shook his head. “Been reading all these books about relationships.”
“Books? Books are just a bunch of words. What good will that do? When me and my buds have had some sort of rift, we just go skate together, no words, just silence. Pretty soon, we’re having so much fun on our boards that we forget what we were mad about. We never read books about getting along.”
Earl couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of Trevor’s solution. “It’s a little different with a wife than with a…a bud. Women are all about words. I know that much from the books. It’s not that Ginger and I are angry at each other, and we already got way too much silence between us.”
“But there is a rift?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“So just hang together. Like we’re doing. You know, hang.”
“Just hang, huh?”
Trevor nodded. “And Mr. S.?”
“Yes.”
“You need to make her your bud.”
Seashells rattled and tinkled as they fell off the box and scattered across Ginger’s floor. One of the hinges that secured the lid had broken, leaving the top of the box barely attached to the bottom.
Dowdy Woman gasped. “Now they know you are hippo crit, Keaton.”
“The word is hypocrite, Renata. Learn the word. Hypocrite. You are the worst actress ever.”
She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. “Do not blame me, Keaton.”
“You’re the one who saw people having a garage sale on TV and had to have one yourself. You are not in a movie. This is real life. It’s my life.” His voice cracked. “Now it’s falling apart. As soon as I can book the flight, you and that annoying sister of yours will be back on a plane to France. You can watch all the Jerry Lewis you can stand.”
“I knew that was your plan.” The woman called Renata tilted her chin. “You think I am stupid. I have something on you now. So you cannot send me back.”
“I will send you back, and you will keep your mouth shut.” He stepped into Ginger’s house, crunching seashells underfoot. “I’ll take those papers, if you don’t mind.”
Ginger sidled toward Kindra and stared down at the documents. The paper on top was a title for a motorcycle.
Kindra held the papers to her chest. “I don’t think so.”
“Give them to me.” Keaton lunged toward her.
Kindra gasped and stepped back. Ginger slipped in between Keaton and her friend.
The French woman grabbed Keaton’s arm. “No assault. No assault.”
Keaton pulled free of Renata’s grasp. “No assault? You’re the one who broke the law.”
“I was trying to get your stupid box back. You broke the law, too.”
Ginger’s ears perked up. “What are you talking about?”
“The lady, Mary Margret, she give me her business card when she buy the box.”
“She was a realtor. She gave everyone her business card,” Kindra said.
“Keaton get all mad at me.” The French woman paced in a two-foot line, bending her hands like she was doing bicep exercises. “He want his box back. So I go to her house.”
“We’re not talking about that right now.” Keaton’s face was inches from Renata’s. “These people don’t need to know what you did.” He gritted his teeth.
Ginger stepped away from Kindra. “Did you do something to Mary Margret?”
The woman raised an accusatory finger. “You did it, too.” Her words oozed venom.
“You set me up.” Keaton poked her shoulder. “You talked me into doing that.”
“I broke the law; you broke the law. If you try to send me back to France, I will tell police all.”
“You’ve said too much already, Renata. Just shut up.” He whirled around and stalked toward Kindra. “Give me back my papers.”
Ginger held up a hand to stop him. “Wait a second. I want to hear what Renata saw or did when she went to Mary Margret’s house that day.”
“Yeah, we want to know what happened.” Kindra scooted close to Ginger and stood on tiptoe, looking over her shoulder and pressing against her back.
“None of that matters. Just give me my papers back.”
Ginger walked backward as Keaton charged toward them. Clutching his shirttails, Renata leaned back in a squatting position, which slowed him down. For a moment, he ran in place like a hamster on a wheel.
“Look at them.” Kindra slipped the documents over Ginger’s shoulder. “Why has he gone to all this trouble for these?”
Ginger filed through the papers. They were all titles for motorcycles, ATVs, and snowmobiles. “You want to explain to me why a guy who doesn’t want anyone else riding motorcycles and snowmobiles through the forest has a stack of titles for all kinds of motorized vehicles?” Ginger positioned the papers by her shoulder so Kindra could grab them.
“None of your business.” He tore free of the French woman’s grasp.
“Obviously, you went to great efforts to hide them and are willing to do this bizarre act to get them back.” Ginger took three steps back. “But why?” On what planet did he think anyone would fall for his Organized Bible Society?
A vein popped out on Keaton’s forehead. He curled his lip, revealing perfect white teeth. He dove toward them.
“Give them to me.” He tried to push Ginger aside, but she planted her feet. If he thought he could hurt Kindra, he was mistaken. His fingers dug into Ginger’s shoulder. Pain shot down her arm. She winced.
He angled around her and pulled at the lace collar on Kindra’s blouse. Kindra screamed. Ginger screamed. The papers flew out of Kindra’s hands. Titles rained down on them.
Keaton attempted to grab the documents as they floated to the floor. Ginger and Kindra stepped to one side. On hands and knees, he scrambled across the floor, gathering the titles into a chaotic, crooked pile. His hair had lost its gusto, probably from the amount of sweat he was producing. The top part of it had flopped over his forehead in one solid piece.
Renata stood in the kitchen, mouth open, head shaking,
“Why have you been keeping this a secret? So you own a few motorcycles.”
“I counted twenty,” said Kindra.
“Twenty.” Ginger placed her hands on her hips. “Where do you keep all of them?”
“Eastern Montana, on his father’s wrench.”
“Shut up, Renata.” Still on hands and knees, he spun around to face her. “And the word is ranch.”
Sweat drizzled from Keaton’s disintegrating dome head.
Ginger suddenly felt sorry for this pathetic man. “Mr. Lustrum, there is no crime in owning a motorcycle…or twenty. It’s a little excessive, but it is not a crime.”
Out of breath, Keaton clutched the piles of paper to his chest and sat up on his knees. “You don’t understand. For the kind of people I represent, for the kind of speaking engagements I do, it is against the law—their law.” He wiped his glistening forehead with a trembling hand. “If this ever comes out…”
“Why don’t you just get different clients?” Kindra asked.
“I got my first case as a fluke. The money was so good. My whole career is based on these anti-motorized vehicles cases. I charge outrageous amounts for speaking engagements. Everything I own, the house, the Lexus, is because of the focus of my legal practice.” He pointed to Renata. “Do you think she would stay around if I didn’t have money?”
Some sort of transformation or realization seemed to be taking place in Renata. She shook her head and took a step backw
ard, never taking her eyes off Keaton.
“Mr. Lustrum, all of that is just stuff. Certainly doing what you love, being true to yourself, matters more.” Ginger picked up a wayward title and handed it to him. His thinking was so distorted. Was there no middle ground? He seemed to see everything in extremes. People weren’t people; they were types. All environmentalists hated motorized vehicles. Christians wore denim jumpers and polyester suits, and French people loved Jerry Lewis.
“That is a fifty-thousand-dollar car out there.” Keaton rose to his feet and placed the titles on Ginger’s kitchen table. He attempted to run his hand through his hair, but it got stuck. “I grew up riding motorcycles and snowmobiling with my dad. Such good times.”
Renata continued to shake her head. “You are shallower than me. True, I stay with you for the money, but you do not even believe in your cause.”
“I love my motorcycles, but I—I could lose everything.”
“It’s just stuff.” Kindra echoed Ginger’s sentiment. Arleta and Suzanne had come to the open sliding door that led to the patio. They stood on the porch, watching the unfolding drama.
Keaton gazed at the women standing outside. Then he grabbed Ginger just above the elbow. “I just want to know that you are not going to the press with this.”
Mr. Lustrum had an overrated sense of his importance. Man admits to owning twenty motorcycles. Would that even be a story? “What I don’t understand is how you kept it a secret for this long.” She didn’t understand why either. But that was perhaps one for the psychiatrist to figure out.
Ginger filed through the stack of titles on the table. “Certainly someone at the DMV would have squealed on you by now. You being a local celebrity and all.”
“How I keep it a secret is none of your business.” Keaton wrung his hands. “So you ladies aren’t going to blab about this?”
Ginger had a feeling that Renata, judging from the scowl and stiff posture, would do the blabbing or use the secret to leverage staying in the United States.
