by Theresa Weir
Since Maddie could barely afford an alternator let alone two nights in a motel, the old guy who ran the service station let her camp out with her sleeping bag in the back of one of his rental trucks, Hemingway locked up in his pet carrier for the night. During the day Maddie hung around the one-block-square park, a paranoid Hemingway on his powder blue leash, their presence in the small community garnering them strange looks from the locals and questions from the town cop.
By the time Maddie's car was repaired, her back ached from sleeping on the hard floor of the truck, her scalp itched, her legs needed to be shaved, and she was beginning to wonder if twenty-nine was too young for hemorrhoids.
The second breakdown occurred along I-80 in Nebraska. Luckily it was only a flat tire, which a carload of teenagers helped her fix. She could have done it herself, she had been doing it herself, but the tire iron slipped off the lug nut and she'd skinned her knuckles. The kids had come upon her in one of her less elegant moments. They'd found her cussing and walking in circles, alternately sucking on the back of her hand and holding it between her knees.
She'd been on the road a total of four days when she reached Chester, Nebraska. During the duration of her travels, she'd managed one shower at a KOA. She knew for a fact that she'd crossed the line into true adulthood; she hadn't enjoyed the trip one bit.
The first thing she did was find a phone booth and put in a call to Evelyn Stoikavich, getting directions to the woman's house.
A half hour later Maddie pulled up in the shade in front of a yard filled with ceramic animals, elves, mushrooms, huge metallic balls displayed on cone-shaped holders—and rear ends. A veritable garden of butts.
The finely crafted posteriors had been painstakingly cut from particle board and hand-painted in bright colors, some with red and white polka dots, some made to look like a farmer's backside, decked out in bib overalls.
And so many.
The owner's edict must have been if one butt looked nice, a hundred would look better.
With the windows cracked for air and Hemingway caterwauling his disgust of the yard ornaments, Maddie double-checked the address, wondering if she'd made a mistake.
No such luck.
Exhaustion washing over her in giant waves, she shut off the ignition, slid out of the car, and slammed the door before Hemingway could make a break for it.
The yard ornaments were kept within their boundaries by a white picket fence that hit Maddie about thigh-level. The fence had a little gate and a latch that hooked automatically as the gate swung closed behind her. Before she could lift her hand to knock, the front door opened.
In contrast to the frivolity of the yard, the woman who answered the door was dour and suspicious.
Maddie had quite a way with people. They either instantly liked her or instantly hated her. There was rarely any in-between. She was afraid Evelyn was going to fit into the latter category. Maddie didn't care. They didn't have to bond. She would just get Enid's things and be on her way. And her way was wherever the road took her.
"You must be Enid's sister. I saw the Arizona plates."
There was a lesson to be learned here, but Maddie was too exhausted to completely formulate it. Something about not letting yourself get taken in by cheerful butts.
The woman went on with her welcome. "You don't look anything like Enid. I guess I expected someone with blond hair."
"That's what my dad always said." It was one of her father's jokes, one he even used on stage, wondering why his youngest daughter looked so much like the garbage man. It was one joke Maddie had never appreciated.
It was hard to guess Evelyn's age. Fifty-five? Sixty? She was dressed in elastic-waist jeans, aerobic shoes, and a pink sweatshirt that had been revamped to boast a ruffly white collar and three painted kittens.
"I'll show you your sister's things."
They didn't have far to go. Enid's house turned out to be right next door. The yard had been recently mowed, but not raked. Thankfully not a butt in sight.
Evelyn's dialogue was liberally flavored with little phrases, filler that meant nothing. Phrases like, "one for the record book." "Never heard tell of such a thing." Phrases that were meant to be homey and cute, but that Maddie found nothing but irritating.
"The public guardian was able to get into your sister's bank account," Evelyn said, unlocking the door of the two-story structure. "They paid me her overdue rent, plus another two weeks." She turned the knob and swung open the door, waiting for Maddie to go in ahead of her.
Two weeks?
Maddie glanced back at her car. Hemingway was plastered against the passenger side window, his lips miming frantic meows.
Maddie could relate.
After Maddie was swept inside, Evelyn closed the door behind them.
The house was hot and stuffy. Maddie's head throbbed, and she was getting that dazed, faraway feeling she sometimes got when she needed food. Her eyes were open, her ears were functioning, but she wasn't registering or receiving in any kind of lasting way.
"I went through the refrigerator and threw out the spoiled things. There's not much left. Some canned goods in the cupboard. There's a little store down the street where you can get milk and juice and things. Prices are high, so if you have a lot to get, there's a big store about a mile from here. I can show you where it is."
Maddie put up both hands, palms out. "Wait, wait, wait. I came here to pick up a few boxes, then be on my way."
Evelyn stopped her tour and looked directly up at Maddie. "Now, honey."
Honey?
"I can't possibly pack all of your sister's things. I have a bad back. And I can't rent this place until it's all out of here."
Evelyn continued with her tour, as if Maddie's compliance was understood. The woman was used to having everything her way, that was apparent. There was no mystery to Enid's disappearance. Her overbearing neighbor had driven her off.
"The house has two little upstairs bedrooms, but one of the bedrooms is used for an office. That's where I found your address. You might want to start there."
"Mrs. Stoikavich, I really don't plan to stay—"
"Now, now," the woman said. "You're her sister. Don't try to back out of your responsibility."
Maddie rubbed a hand across her forehead. "What I really need is to take a shower and lie down for a couple of hours."
Evelyn raised her eyebrows, as if unable to comprehend how days on the road could tire someone out. "Oh. Of course," she said, obviously fighting irritation. "You take a shower and get some sleep, then come over to my house and I'll fix you something to eat."
Maddie wondered if a few hours of sleep would be enough to prepare her for another dose of Evelyn Stoikavich. But Maddie never turned down a meal.
As soon as Evelyn was gone, Maddie rescued Hemingway from the car, quickly serving him food, water, and kitty litter. Hemingway wasn't impressed. He made a dash for the darkness behind the couch and stayed there.
With her tour guide gone, Maddie took the opportunity to explore.
The house wasn't big. As soon as you stepped in the front door, you were in the living room. Continuing on was the kitchen. To the right and up the steps was a bedroom, bathroom, and office.
The office walls were covered with floral wallpaper in shades of mauve and green, and a band of complementary print running horizontally along the wall.
Not Enid's style. And not Evelyn's.
Maddie sat down at the desk, flicking on the ornate lamp. Muted light glowed from under a flowered shade, casting soft shadows.
Maddie opened the main drawer. On top was an envelope, the original address crossed out and half-covered with a yellow sticker, the kind the postal service used to forward mail. It was a Christmas card Maddie had sent in a rare moment of nostalgia.
Inside the card was a photo.
When tourists went to Arizona, they always had their picture taken with a towering saguaro cactus. Maddie had thought it would be funny to have hers taken next to an ankle-high pr
ickly pear.
Enid never acknowledged the card, never attempted to contact Maddie. Maddie figured she'd moved on and had never even gotten it. That's how it was growing up in a dysfunctional family. People lost contact, tending to forge new bonds rather than try to repair old, painful ones.
Yet even as children, even before the car and bank-account incident, before their father's death and before their mother had gone off the deep end, they'd had no common ground except disdain. No, Enid and Maddie had spent most of their quality time trying to kill each other.
Maddie continued her search. Something was caught in the drawer, keeping it from opening all the way. She felt inside and pulled out a photo. A family photo. Stained, torn, bent. Forgotten. It was a little like finding out your picture had been used to line the bottom of a birdcage.
Looking at the photo, Maddie recalled the day it had been taken. One of those perfect spring mornings when the tulips were blooming, birds were singing, and the sun felt glorious against your skin.
One happy family.
A father. A mother. Two children. Life had been good.
Maddie always thought of those days as before. Before her father had died. Before her mother had gone nuts. Before. When life had been normal. Everything else was after. After their lives had fallen apart.
Maddie's father had been the opening act for bands. He'd been funny and warm, attributes that he shared with others.
She'd adored him.
His act had been a comedy routine and magic tricks. Sometimes he even took Maddie and Enid along. One time, heading home in the middle of the night, with Maddie and Enid asleep in the backseat, he'd fallen asleep at the wheel and was killed. Maddie and Enid hadn't gotten a scratch.
Their lives changed in an instant. The word dysfunctional had been coined just for their little unit of three.
Their mother spent several years living in a fog until she finally died. Maddie had always thought it terribly unmaternal of Doreen Smith not to care enough about her children to want to live.
The photo had been taken in the mid-seventies when styles had reached their peak of tackiness. Maddie's poor father was decked out in a tight, print shirt with a wide, limp collar. Bell-bottom dress-pants. Big shoes with big heels and big toes.
Looking at the picture, Maddie couldn't help but wish he'd been dressed in something that had lent him the dignity he deserved.
The females of the family didn't look as odd. They wore pastel dresses, with matching bonnets. Enid, three years younger than Maddie, had a lovely smile on her face, perfectly happy to be bound up in a scratchy dress with waist-cutting pantyhose and tight, blistering, patent-leather shoes.
Feeling some of the same hurt and rejection she always felt when it came to Enid, Maddie put down the photo and picked up an appointment book bulging with folded papers and business cards. Inside was page after page of names and numbers.
She thumbed through it, coming upon a page of slanted handwriting she recognized as Enid's.
The first time I saw him, I thought he was like somebody out of the past, out of time. There was something old world about him.
Very Enid, fantasizing about some guy.
Not the way he dressed, but the way he acted. The slow way he moved. The way he thought about things before he spoke. And his eyes. God, his eyes. He had these eyes that pulled me in, that made me go weak. He wasn't interested in me. Or at least he didn't want me to know he was. Sometimes guys like to play that game. At first it made me mad. I'd gotten all dressed up for him. Spent two hours on my hair. Wore a low-cut dress and Wonderbra. I mean, I looked great. And after all, he was paying.
Paying?
That certainly got Maddie's attention.
Was Enid a prostitute?
It shocked but didn't surprise her. Enid had never been afraid of anything. She hadn't been out of grade school when she started smoking.
"Come on. Try it. Take a puff," she'd dared Maddie.
Maddie had reluctantly sampled the cigarette. A Kool. Ten minutes later, she was throwing up and Enid was laughing at her.
Enid quickly went from cigarettes to drinking. Then drugs. Then sex. Like it was nothing. Like losing her virginity was something she had to get done and out of the way so she could get down to the real nitty-gritty.
Anything dangerous, anything off limits, anything bad, Enid tried it.
No, now that Maddie thought about it, prostitution was exactly something Enid would do.
Maddie continued to thumb through the book, the only thing keeping her from feeling guilty was knowing Enid would have done the same to her without a qualm.
More about the same guy. She really had it bad for him.
I must be the only person in town who didn't know about Eddie Berlin, about his being crazy and all.
Eddie Berlin.
Why did that name sound familiar?
They say he hasn't left his property in four years. That's crazy. No wonder none of the other girls wanted to go on the call, no wonder they left him for me. Lucky me.
When he smiled his slow smile—God. My legs went weak. My stomach hit the ground. And in that second, I was afraid. I mean, what if I fell for him?
Another entry:
I just couldn't stay away. He lives so rustically. It should really be a turnoff, because I hate that stuff. I really do. Give me good old concrete under my feet. Give me the sound of traffic. He really flips my switch. I just have to look at him to get horny. I don't know what it is. Maybe because he's so aloof. Maybe I want to know what it would be like to drive him crazy, to make him come undone. I'd like for him to look at me and really see me. I'd like to be the one to drive him wild.
Another page:
He told me not to come back! I can't believe it! No guy has ever told me not to come back! I hate him! Hate him!
A woman scorned. And not just any woman. Enid.
Chapter 4
Don't Follow
Maddie sank her teeth into her third slice of homemade bread. At the same time, she looked across the table to see Evelyn eyeing her with amazement and possibly a little disgust.
"Your sister was a good eater, too," was Evelyn’s blunt observation.
The bread stuck halfway down, bringing Maddie to the realization that she'd been putting away food like a sumo wrestler.
A curse.
"The people in my family have always had a high metabolic rate." Her father used to say that their engines ran a little faster, but they weren't as fuel efficient.
Maddie swallowed. "This is wonderful. I don't know when I last had a home-cooked meal."
"More applesauce?"
"Why not?"
When she was finished eating, Maddie patted her mouth with her napkin. "I'd better get back and check on my cat."
"You have a cat?"
"Is that a problem?" Maddie certainly hoped so. Maybe Evelyn would be willing to box up Enid's stuff after all.
"I don't much care for animals," the older woman explained. "They make messes."
Maddie picked a few long black cat hairs from the front of her T-shirt. "Don't we all."
"Well, just don't let it mess on the carpet."
Oh, that kind of mess. "He's litter-trained." Maddie didn't think it was necessary to mention Hemingway's penchant for gagging up the occasional hairball.
Maddie got to her feet, thanking Evelyn for the meal. She was reaching for the front door when a photograph on the doily-covered buffet caught her eye.
She reversed. Slowly, she picked up a framed picture displayed next to one of Evelyn. She stared at the light-haired young man in the photo. "Is this Rick Beck?"
No answer.
Maddie swung around. "I could swear…" Her words trailed off, arrested by the sad expression on Evelyn's face.
"I always called him Ricky."
"You knew him?"
Maddie meant no offense to Evelyn, but it was hard to put the two together. Rick Beck, of the deep, passionate, thought-provoking lyrics; Evelyn, of the butt
garden.
"Ricky was my nephew. He used to stay with me when he was little. I didn't live here then. I bought these two houses after my husband passed away."
Like so many other people, Maddie had spent years devouring media information about Rick Beck. From that, she could recall that he'd had a pretty normal childhood. He'd come from a small town in Nebraska—it very well could have been Chester, Maddie couldn't remember. He'd grown up in an intact family. He'd played with the school band. Captain of his football team. President of his class. Maddie had often wondered how someone from such a traditional background could have written lyrics that contained so much pathos. What had he drawn from?
Evelyn took the picture from Maddie's fingers and placed it back on the buffet. "Come on. I'll show you something."
She led Maddie to the basement.
The steps were wooden and narrow, the cement floor damp and smelling of mildew.
Evelyn reached up and pulled a string attached to a light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The light swayed, casting bobbing shadows.
Maddie hung back. This was giving her the creeps.
Evelyn crossed the basement. When the older woman realized Maddie wasn't behind her, she stopped, motioning for her to hurry. Then she disappeared into a little room.
Telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of, Maddie followed.
A shrine.
Packed wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling, with Rick Beck memorabilia.
Albums. Tapes. Posters. T-shirts. Jackets. Buttons. Mugs. Lights. Stage clothes. Guitars. Microphones. Framed awards. Autographed pictures.
"My God." Maddie reverently ran her fingers across a T-shirt. "I loved his music," she said in a hushed voice.
"He's dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Killed, you know."
"Yes."
"By his manager."
"His manager?"
Where was Evelyn going with this? Everyone knew it had been a crazed fan. The madman had confessed on national television. Later, in prison, he'd hanged himself.
"I thought it was a crazed fan," Maddie suggested, not wanting to set Evelyn off.
"That's what people were supposed to think. That was Eddie's plan."
