“I’m not a virgin, you know.”
In an instant the weather pattern on Kendra’s face shifts from cloudy to storms as she climbs out of her car and grabs Brittany’s forearm. “What did you say?”
“I’m joking! God, I just texted pictures, which you already know since you’re like Kim Jong Il.”
Entirely too thrown to engage any further in this conversation, Kendra releases her daughter’s arm and proceeds into the house without looking back. Inside, she quickly deletes Nadine’s email. But she is haunted by the idea that some ghostly hint of it will remain in the device so she slips into the garage where Randall keeps a tool kit. Wielding a hammer she smashes the phone to bits and tosses the wreckage into the garbage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Twentynine Palms is home to the Air Ground Combat Center, the largest Marine base in the world. Fourteen miles east of the town of Joshua Tree on Route 62, it’s the last outpost of civilization for nearly seventy miles. The quiet high desert streets and modest houses are home to a mixture of military dependents, ex-military, retirees looking for cheap housing, people who hate cities, and lovers of the vast emptiness. Winter nights the temperature drops to near freezing. Summers can get up to a hundred and twenty degrees. It’s a tough, hardscrabble place where the residents earn their flinty outlooks because they’re hardy enough to live there. If you’re passing through on your way to Arizona and want to stop at a bar for a cold beer, know it’s the kind of town where the drunken Marine seated to your left might pull a gun.
The Marvin’s house is a tidy bungalow painted a deep red at 21 Desert View, on a small rise on the west side facing east over the rooftops. Three wooden steps lead to the front door and the sound of a neighbor’s wind chimes floats in the early evening breeze. Mounted above the lintel is a hand-carved sign Hard made in his garage workshop. It reads Casa Contenta.
Vonda Jean Marvin likes dinner to be over in time to watch her game show at 7:30 so the Marvin family dined for years at 7:00 every evening. The serving, the conversation, and the dishes invariably done in less than twenty minutes. Now that only Hard and Vonda Jean are at home every evening, it’s just the two of them at the kitchen table. Bane lies snoring on the linoleum floor. There is a bandage on Hard’s neck covering the wound Nadine inflicted. To his relief, Vonda Jean hasn’t asked about it. In her early forties, she is in superb physical condition and rivals Bane in fearsome. Her body is slim and tight in the black tracksuit she’s wearing. Her attractive features are permanently set in an expression that suggests someone is trying to hustle her. She teaches various Asian hand-to-hand combat techniques five days a week at Mojave Martial Arts and while the constant pounding has taken a toll on her knees, at a distance, with her silky blonde bob and cinched waist, she could be mistaken for twenty-six.
Although Vonda Jean is not a big woman, especially when glimpsed near her hulking husband, Hard is afraid of her. Her wrath is mighty and Hard is loath to provoke it. He has been tempted to smack her after a few of her more excoriating outbursts, but what stays his hand is the knowledge that, while he could never actually kill her, he believes she is perfectly capable of shooting him in his sleep.
They are eating fried chicken Vonda Jean picked up at KFC since she didn’t feel like cooking tonight and Hard never feels like it. There was a time she would have prepared a hot meal for him as a matter of course, but those days have gone the way of the muscle cars he used to favor and the cheap gasoline on which they ran. Vonda Jean doesn’t believe in divorce, if she did she would be eating take out chicken with someone else right now. The two of them have reached a sour equilibrium. Vonda Jean is in the early days of the life’s next stage and not in a good mood about it. It isn’t something she’ll discuss with Hard, things she can discuss with him being an ever-shrinking category. So she chews her chicken and tries to imagine she is somewhere else with someone else and assumes he is doing the same. The only sounds come from the television in the living room. She always leaves it on so she’ll have something else to listen to in the event Hard starts talking.
Vonda Jean on her third beer, Hard working to catch up.
They don’t get a lot of visitors at night so it is something of a surprise when the doorbell rings. Bane barks energetically. He charges to the door and waits, hind legs tense, anticipates the tearing of a human thorax. Vonda Jean rises and shushes the dog. Bane ignores her and keeps up the racket. A young woman is standing at the door. Tanned and athletic, she gives a half grin when Vonda Jean asks over the din of barking what it is she wants.
“Chief Marvin,” is the reply.
“Harding,” Vonda Jean calls over her shoulder, the only one in his life who calls him by his birth name. “Someone at the door for you.”
Bane determines the threat level will not require his skills and wanders away.
In a moment Hard rumbles out of the kitchen. “Can I help you?” His attitude suggests nothing other than a desire to be of service. There is no sense he has ever seen her before.
“I think you can,” Nadine says. She is confident, standing there in the doorway, backlit by the streetlight in front of the Marvin home. Vonda Jean takes another look in the girl’s direction. Is there something in her tone that begs notice? Difficult to tell. Maybe she’s just flirty. Hard has played himself out of contention anyway so what’s she worried about?
“Do you two know each other?” This from Vonda Jean.
“I’m a civilian volunteer at the Desert Hot Springs Police Department.”
“Good for you,” Vonda Jean says. The theme music from the game show drifts in from the living room and she excuses herself. Hard beckons Nadine inside with a friendly wave. She follows him to the kitchen, the dog trailing. Hard watching Nadine’s non-reaction to the dog. Contrary to nature, she does not appear at all frightened of the animal. It figures. Compared to her demented Chihuahua, Bane has the manners of an English butler.
In the kitchen Hard looks at Nadine and quietly growls, “I thought we were done after you stuck a fork in my neck. What the Sam Hill you doing here?” Bane settles into his corner bed, ignoring them.
“Someone threatened to kill me,” Nadine hisses, as if the intensity with which she expresses this information might motivate Hard to do something about it.
But what he says is: “I don’t blame them, Nadine. You’re a righteous pain in the ass.”
“Did you hear what I told you?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“So?”
“I oughtta arrest you for driving over here.”
A voice from the other room: “Harding, do we have any avocadoes?” Nadine starts at the sound. It is as if she has forgotten there is another person in the house, someone who is more than an adjunct to her hazy plan. Hard half expects Nadine to respond on cue and go marching into the living room for a sit down with his wife. He is relieved that she remains rooted in the kitchen. Hard glances toward the counter and sees three avocadoes in a plastic bowl. He shouts to his wife that tonight is her lucky night. From her perch in front of the television in the living room Vonda Jean, voice like a bullhorn, asks how he feels about making her some guacamole. Keeping his eyes on Nadine, he tells Vonda Jean he’ll be pleased to.
Nadine says, “I could take that guacamole in there and tell your nice wife everything.”
“You’re seriously misreading the situation if you think that woman’s nice, Nadine. She’s nice like a wolverine.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Maybe she’d shoot you.”
“You want to kill me, you better do it yourself.”
Nadine is certainly assertive. It is a quality of hers that Hard greatly enjoys in another context, but right now it is more problematic. Removing a bowl from the cabinet, he pretends to turn his attention to the avocadoes. He knows what Nadine is capable of and is in no mood for a repeat performance. Had she hit a carotid artery with the salad fork, his blood would have painted her kitchen wall. Is there a link between a desire
for the unhinged, swing-from-the-rafters sex Nadine practices and mental instability? And if there is, what does it say about him? Hard likes to think he has a crazy side, too, but not like Nadine who Hard thinks might be crazy in the way of heavy medication and locked wards.
“How’s your neck?”
“You lifted my Taser, didn’t you?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Does she have it on her? He could grab her and find out, but she might scream and that would bring Vonda Jean running. Instead, he takes a paring knife out of the drawer, keeping a wary eye on Nadine. Did she wince when she saw the blade? Maybe it was a twitch. Twitching is not an encouraging sign.
Hard is dexterous with a knife, can bone a fish or skin a rattler with his eyes closed. How easy would it be to stick Nadine? Good payback, too. Being an officer of the law, Hard doesn’t like where his mind is going, and upbraids himself silently for not thinking like one. The man can go black. He resolves to try and pray on it. Hard’s not religious but if he’s going to get into politics that will have to change.
Now he cuts the avocados in half, dislodges the pits and scrapes the fruit from the stippled skin. He places the pieces in the bowl where he mashes them to a pulp with a spoon all the while remaining acutely aware of every muscle tic from Nadine. He gets a lemon and a jar of salsa from the refrigerator. Slicing the lemon in two, he squeezes both halves into the bowl. Feels the astringent juice running over his fingers. Then he pours some salsa on top and stirs the viscous glop together.
Nadine watches in silence. The knife, covered with a film of green, lies on the counter. It occurs to Hard she could reach for it. Thinks about the Taser again. He knows the damage she can inflict with a salad fork. A Taser in her hands would be a nuclear weapon. He hopes Nadine will behave. Should he warn her about the dog?
“You’re a regular Chef Boyardee, Hard. How come you never cooked for me?”
“Nadine, I’m gonna bring my wife this guacamole.” Indicates the bowl with his hand. His delicacy of tone is intended to have a calming effect but just barely offsets the murderous aspect behind it. “Right now I want you to wait in here. When I get back to the kitchen we’re gonna call you a cab because I don’t want you driving home. If you do anything, and I mean anything, that deviates from that plan . . . ” Before Nadine can react, Hard grabs her right arm, swings it behind her back, twists her around and clamps his hand over her mouth. The move is so swift and violent Nadine goes limp from fear, her eyes swinging wildly around the kitchen. Bane lifts his head but otherwise remains still. For a moment Hard thinks Nadine might have fainted. He quickly pats her down with his free hand, determines she has no weapons. When he sees her eyeballs bugging he places his lips next to her left ear and says, “I could snap your neck right now.” His breathing quick, her skin warm. Hard notices the pulse in her artery and her lemony scent. “Nadine, understand. I mean you no harm but don’t try and put one over on me because that won’t work. I’ll let you go but you stay calm now. Nod your head if you’re willing to do that.” He eases his grip and Nadine, beaten, nods meekly. Hard lowers his hand, disappointed. It appeared he had half a mind to kill her just then. He didn’t feel anything with that Mexican. Wonders if he’d feel anything if he killed Nadine. Probably not, he concludes.
“You okay?” Nadine nods again. “Now wait right here. Don’t want you picked up for a DUI.” Taking the bowl of guacamole, Hard opens the pantry, grabs a bag of corn chips and leaves the kitchen. Vonda Jean doesn’t look up from the TV when he hands her the bowl of guacamole.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Gal’s got some personal problems.”
“You’re her shrink?”
“It’s not like that. I’m calling her a cab.”
“Is she your girlfriend, Harding?” Still not looking away from the TV screen.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, all right? Someone threatened her, she wanted to tell me.”
“You’re the knight in shining armor.”
Hard wants to take the bag of chips, crumble them up and dump the contents on Vonda Jean’s head. But instead he hands it to her. Then he gets down on his knee.
“I swear to you, I barely know her. I’m a public figure, Vonda Jean. All kinds of kooky people come up and tell me things.”
“At our house?”
“She’s not coming back.”
“I like you on your knee. You look good down there.”
How does she know he is on his knee? She hasn’t so much as glanced in his direction since he entered the room. He looks at his wife desperately wishing he were no longer married to her. But that will have to wait until after the election.
“Why don’t you ask her to come in here so we can chat,” Vonda Jean says.
“What about?”
“Just being social. Tell her to come in.”
“She’s shy.” Hard back on his feet now.
“She’s shy? I thought you said you didn’t know her.”
“Gal had a rough day. I told you, someone threatened her.”
Before Hard can do anything, Vonda Jean is walking into the kitchen. Hard follows her.
In the kitchen, Bane is devouring his dinner. Hard can’t remember; has he fed him? The door leading to the backyard is open, a warm breeze blowing the gingham curtains over the sink. Nadine is not there. Vonda Jean looks at Hard like this is his fault.
“Where’s your friend?”
“First of all, she’s not my friend. I thought we already made that clear.”
“You’re awful sensitive about it, aren’t you?”
Hard chooses to ignore this riposte. “And second, I have no idea where the hell she is. Far as I can tell, she left. Now go on back in there and watch your TV show.”
The couple has exchanged more words than they have in the entire previous week and it is enough for Vonda Jean. She turns and marches out of the kitchen. Hard goes to the refrigerator for a bottle of beer. He unscrews the top and settles into a chair where he watches Bane contentedly finish his dinner. Hard’s week had been going so well. There was the face time campaigning with Mary Swain and the introduction he provided that day was one of the highlights of his entire career. Hard had never spoken in front of so many people before and he likes the way it feels, the love they give Mary Swain an inspiration to him. Hard likes to stir things up. He has opinions and doesn’t mind sharing them. To go off like that in front of a crowd and have them respond the way they did, the shouts, the vibrating energy, that was something he could get used to. Hard doesn’t want to be a Police Chief forever. He is looking at the larger world now. Perhaps he’ll run for Mayor of Twentynine Palms and if Mary Swain ascends to loftier heights he can follow her to Congress. Representative Harding Marvin. But with Nadine on the loose, the woman predictable as a cobra, Hard is worried. The trouble she stirs up could derail any hopes of advancing his station in life.
Hard considers Mary Swain and Nadine, one so self-possessed, the other so desperate. Why had he misread Nadine? It would have been easy to resist her convenience store come on. But whom was he kidding? Hard isn’t wired to resist the hormonal blandishments of anyone who looks like Nadine. Still, he would prefer to be having sex with Mary Swain. There’s a woman he can respect—and that would be new for Hard, extramarital sex with someone he esteems. Mary Swain can do that, get people thinking in different ways. Clever and gorgeous, she probably could show him a thing or two naked. Hard is in awe of her ability to work that sex-kitten quality, American female politicians generally skewing in the schoolmarm direction. He wonders if he could massage that angle himself. He makes the baldness work for him, something not all white men can do. But he doesn’t know if he can take his sex appeal as far as Mary Swain. Hard is going to spend the evening of the election watching the returns in her hotel suite. And it’ll be the first time in forever he’s in a hotel room not thinking about the mini-bar or porn-on-demand.
The canned laughter of a sitcom seeps in from the
living room. Another evening at home with Vonda Jean, Nadine wandering God knows where. Hard needs a concrete plan. He needs to get divorced, and he needs to make sure Nadine doesn’t cause problems. Takes a deep swig from the beer bottle and finishes the contents. Then he returns to the fridge and helps himself to another. Bane is mopping up his kibble. Hard realizes it isn’t a good sign that he envies the dog. When you’re envying your dog, he knows, something must have gone seriously wrong with your life. And where was Nadine? Maybe the coyotes will take care of the problem.
In the living room Hard sits in his brown naugahyde recliner and watches an hour of mind-numbing television with his wife. Figures its penance for the unwanted visitor. When he can take it no more, he grabs another beer from the refrigerator and heads for the back yard. Bane follows him out there and lies at his feet. Sitting beneath the stars, he takes out his phone and thumb-types the following message:
I meant what I said tonight. Keep it up and something bad will happen to you.
Then he hits Send. Nadine might be a little unbalanced, but he knows she isn’t dense. He suspects she won’t be contacting him again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Although Randall has owned this architectural showplace of a home for five years he has never danced in the living room; or any of the other rooms, for that matter. Tonight he stares into his daughter’s eyes. Barefoot and impossibly bored, Brittany is wearing a tight tee shirt and loose sweats. Randall is dressed in a golf shirt, pressed blue slacks and wingtips.
“Don’t step on my feet,” Brittany says.
Randall tells her he’ll be careful. “You know your dad’s in charge tomorrow, right?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m the M.C. So it’s kind of our party, you and me. I’d like you to have a good time, or at least fake it.” Randall trying with the girl. Smiles to let her know he’s attempting to have fun.
He takes her hand and when he twirls her a little too quickly Brittany stumbles. She recovers and says, “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.”
Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) Page 9
