Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

  The place Stephanie was staying in was located on Lancaster Avenue, a street made up of modest colonials occupied by professors, students, and docs from Upstate. It was situated on top of a small rise and nestled between two similar-looking houses. The house was a gray blue, but someone had painted the trim work a pale pink and surrounded the frame of the front window with a border of red flowers. Sometimes creativity should be discouraged.

  Christmas lights still hung from the windows. There was a Neon in the driveway. The path to the house hadn’t been shoveled, and my feet sank in the snow up to my ankles as I walked to the porch. I rang the bell. Stephanie answered at once. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t someone who looked like her.

  She was so thin, I could have circled her upper arm with my right hand. Her face was angular, her jaw prominent, and her nose, which was slightly red, looked as if it had seen the services of a plastic surgeon. She was wearing black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and black leather boots. New York City all the way. The lack of color in her clothes highlighted her cropped platinum hair and hazel eyes.

  “I take it you’re Robin Light,” she said, motioning for me to come in.

  I nodded. “Do you take after your mother’s side of the family?” Because she certainly didn’t take after her father’s.

  “No. Thank God,” she replied as she took my coat and hung it on a hook in the hallway. “I’m adopted.”

  I followed her into the living room. The walls were covered with quilts. The rest of the furnishings—sofa, chairs, coffee table, and lamps—were Early American. Stephanie remained standing with her arms crossed over her chest. She looked as out of place as a piece of stainless in a packet of bows.

  “So what do you do when you’re not up here?” I asked her.

  “I plan parties for people.”

  “It must be interesting work.”

  “It pays the bills.” She ran a thumbnail down the side of the arm of her black turtleneck sweater. “Like I said on the phone, I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you that will be of any help.”

  “And you don’t have any idea where your mother would go?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “We didn’t talk much when I was younger, and once I moved out of the house we hardly talked at all.”

  “But you had to have talked about something.”

  “Well, yeah. When I was younger our conversations were about cleaning my room and coming home on time, and when I got older we talked about my hair and short skirts.”

  She cleared her throat. I waited.

  “Really,” Stephanie continued. “I mean, she’s a nice woman. Don’t get me wrong. But all I remember her doing is cooking and cleaning and watching television. A trip to the grocery store was a big outing for her.”

  “That’s what your father said. So how come she took off all of a sudden? This doesn’t seem like her.”

  Stephanie reached in her sleeve for a Kleenex and blew her nose. “I don’t have a clue. Maybe she finally realized there’s a big world out there.”

  “You don’t sound as if you care very much.”

  “Of course I care.” Stephanie’s voice rose. “She’s my mother. But I’ve learned not to spend my energy on things I can’t do anything about.”

  Something told me that wasn’t the whole story. Not even close to it.

  “May I ask why you’re up here?”

  She shrugged. “It’s no big secret. I brought a rug up from the City for a friend and I’m getting ready to drive back down.” She looked at her watch. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have to finish packing. I have a meeting in the City in five hours.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.”

  Stephanie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I won’t. I told you this was going to be a waste of time.”

  “Where did you get the name of the psychologist you recommended to your mother?” I asked as Stephanie ushered me out of the living room.

  She stopped by the doorway and turned. “From a friend. Why?”

  “No reason really. It’s just that, according to your father, if it weren’t for him your mother would still be here.”

  “How typical.” She frowned and unconsciously straightened the edge of the quilt that was hanging on the wall. I thought it was the log cabin pattern, but I wasn’t sure. I’ve never been a big quilt fan. “The man’s never taken any responsibility for his actions and never will,” she said with a certainty that spoke of old discussions.

  “Meaning. . .”

  “I really have to get going.”

  There didn’t seem to be much more to say.

  “Well, if you have any ideas . . .”

  “I’ll call you.”

  I gave her my card. She looked at it and slipped it into her pants pocket. Then she escorted me to the hallway.

  “How’s my father doing?” she asked as she handed me my parka.

  “He’s upset. Of course.”

  “Karma,” she said as she held the door open for me.

  I wanted to ask her what she meant but she shut the door before I could.

  Chapter Seven

  Zsa Zsa was stretched out in the store window gnawing on the edge of the two-foot rawhide bone I was using as a display object when I pulled up to the curb. By the time I’d walked inside, she was waiting for me. She wagged her rump and danced around my ankles while I knelt down and petted her. Manuel didn’t bother looking up. He was too busy talking on the phone. The way he was hunched over it and the crooning sound of his voice told me he was speaking to Bethany.

  When I got closer, he covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and said, “Have you found out about the puppies yet?”

  “No. I haven’t. Anyway, Bethany has to ask her parents. And they’re definitely not going to say yes.”

  At this point I didn’t think they’d buy Bethany a pencil set let alone a golden retriever puppy.

  “She doesn’t have to ask them anything. She’s going to divorce them.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Where is she going to live? How is she going to support herself?”

  Manuel help up his hand. “Relax. I’ve got everything covered.” This did not fill me with a feeling of confidence. “And by the way,” Manuel added, “George is waiting for you in the back.”

  And the day had been going so well up till now. “Great. Why’d you let him back there?”

  “And I was supposed to do what to stop him?” Manuel demanded. “Like he’s going to listen to me.”

  “You’re right.” George Samson probably outweighed Manuel by one hundred pounds or more.

  “You know it.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  My stomach was spasming as I walked into the back room. George and I had had a big fight four weeks ago. Our fight had been about a woman he claimed was a friend and I claimed was a lot more. That had been four weeks ago and we hadn’t spoken since. Now he was sitting in my chair eating an apple, wearing the Irish Fisherman sweater I’d gotten him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him. “Shouldn’t you be in class or something?”

  “I’m not teaching today.” He took a last bite of the apple and tossed it into the garbage can. It hit the rim and bounced in.

  “Then doing your research. Or correcting papers. Or working on a grant. Or whatever the hell it is you do.” I could hear the nasty edge that creeps into my voice whenever I get upset.

  “Would you like your chair back?” he asked quietly. He was almost always quiet. And in control. And I was almost always the opposite.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He got up. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “Fine.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “We keep fighting and we never resolve anything, and frankly, I’m not sure I can keep doing this.”

  “Neither am I,” George said
softly.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I got worried. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.”

  George lifted the catalogues piled on the chair next to my desk, put them on the floor, and sat down.

  “Calli told me you stopped smoking.”

  Whenever I’m not around George for a while, I forget what a big man he is. How much room he takes up. My office, which is not a large space, suddenly seemed smaller.

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Good for you.”

  George is an African-American with black skin and features that are all angles and planes. Not the cuddly type. His mouth seems to rest in a scowl, although in the past year or two his expression has softened.

  I still remember we’d been drinking at the local neighborhood dive one evening a couple of years ago when, apropos of nothing, he’d turned to me and said, “I can’t help it if everyone is afraid of me.” He’d grinned when he said it, obviously pleased with the prospect.

  And he was right. He does scare people. If I didn’t know him, he would frighten me. But he’s a closet sweetie, someone who finds homes for stray kittens when no one is looking and lets Zsa Zsa sleep in bed with him because she’s unhappy on the floor even though he doesn’t like the smell of dogs. Sometimes, when things get too bad with his sister down in the Bronx, he allows his pain-in-the-ass nephew to stay with him as well, never mind that he can’t stand Jamal’s music, the way he dresses, or how he talks.

  George played semi-pro football and then went on to become a cop and then got off the force because he couldn’t stand it anymore. He’s currently enrolled in a Ph.D. program in medieval history. Definitely an interesting man. Lots of incongruities that butt up against each other. He was also my husband’s best friend. We got together after Murphy’s death and have been parting and reconciling ever since. Calli tells me I’ve never been able to let go of Murphy and that’s why I can’t let go of George. Despite his roving eye. That he’s a stand-in for Murphy. But then, Calli believes in ghosts too.

  “When did you see Calli?”

  “This morning at the gas station. She was filling up before heading up North.”

  “Better her than me.” The North Country is a harsh place. “Is the paper doing another story on the casino?”

  “I didn’t ask her.” George stretched his legs out. There was a mark on his cheek. I wondered if he’d cut himself shaving. Or it could be a scratch. I wanted to ask but didn’t. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “God only knows there’s enough material.”

  “This is true.”

  Even the New York Times, which runs more pieces on Botswana than it does on Central New York, had run a couple of items on The Sacred Feather Casino, not to mention the Teewakee Indian land claims. The Teewakees, claiming that treaties negotiated in Colonial times were illegal, were asking for their land back, land which happened to include the town of Wayne. Naturally, the people living there were a tad upset.

  Some of them had put up signs on their houses and businesses. The signs said things like No More Land for the Casino and Gambling Is a Sin. Others had put up signs saying nastier things. It didn’t help that there were white-power groups based up that way. Organizations had been formed. Lawyers hired. Threats made. The FBI had been called in to investigate.

  I could see the locals’ point, though. After all, they hadn’t negotiated the treaty. But the Teewakee had a point too. They’d been cheated out of their land. This was definitely a lose-lose situation. No one was going to be happy whatever the result. I was thinking about that and about the concept of the sins of the fathers being visited on the children when George started speaking again.

  “I hope she’s not doing a series,” he said. “She’s going to hate being stuck out there without a Starbucks to get coffee in.”

  “The hell with Starbucks. How about a decent restaurant?”

  The only things out that way were bars, bait shops, and gas stations. If you wanted a supermarket, you had to drive thirty miles. And then there was the weather. This time of year whiteouts were common. When Syracuse got five inches of snow, the North Country got fifteen. Add a wind that whipped the flakes into blizzard conditions and you had a recipe for disaster.

  “I have a friend lives out around there,” George said. “He tells me everyone is walking around with their shotguns loaded these days.”

  “Everyone always walks around with their guns loaded out there.”

  “Maybe so.” George ran a finger under the edge of his turtleneck and pulled at it. “I wouldn’t know. That’s redneck country. As far as I’m concerned you could take that area and nuke it and no one would know the difference. In fact, it would be an improvement. They should get rid of all the people and give the place back to the deer.”

  “What have they ever done to you?”

  “Personally? Nothing. I just don’t like them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t like me.”

  “Good reason.”

  “Listen. I’m not the saintly old black family retainer in the movies that forgives everyone.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good.” He dropped his hand and gave Zsa Zsa an absentminded pat. She licked his fingers. “Calli told me what happened with Tiger Lily.”

  “Did she tell you about the other dogs?”

  “No.”

  Typical. I filled him in. “You don’t know anyone who wants a dog, do you?”

  “I don’t, but I’ll ask around.”

  “No students.” Students took in animals and then went home at the end of the semester and threw them out on the streets. “What about you?”

  “I don’t have time for one.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Okay. I have time, but I don’t want to be bothered. Happy?”

  “It’s not about happy. I’d rather hear the truth than hear you make excuses.”

  George idly ran his finger down the spine of one of the catalogues. “That’s what most people say, but they don’t mean it.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I know it.”

  I got up to get another cup of coffee. As I was going by him, George reached over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me toward him. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  I could smell his cologne. “Let’s not do this.”

  He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. My insides felt like molten lead.

  “I’m tired of this roller coaster that we’re on. I want more.”

  “What if there isn’t any more? What if this is it?” George pulled me down to his lap. “Would that be so terrible?”

  “Yes.” I knew I should get up, but I couldn’t. It was like coming home.

  Chapter Eight

  George and I had dinner at a small Mexican restaurant on Westcott Street. For once the place wasn’t crowded. I had salmon with fried sweet potatoes, George had swordfish, and we both had a couple of glasses of Belgium-style wheat beer. It was the first decent meal—no, scratch that; it was the first real meal I’d had in weeks. I’d been living on candy bars, coffee, and vitamin pills, with an occasional yogurt thrown in.

  Whenever I get tense I have trouble eating, and I’d been tense a lot lately. Maybe it was the place with its copper bar and peach walls and tiny bouquets on tables, maybe it was the beer I was nursing, maybe it was being with George, but I finally began to relax a little.

  George flagged the waitress and ordered two coffees and asked for the dessert menu.

  “I ran into Paul the other day,” he said to me after she’d gone. “He said you were working for him again.”

  I told him about Janet Wilcox.

  “She’s probably on the beach in Cancun shacked up with a Mexican beachboy.”

  “Sounds good to me. Sun. Sand. Sex. Margaritas. Maybe I should try it too.” Though I couldn’t picture Janet Wilcox doing something l
ike that from what her husband had told me.

  George leaned across the table and punched me lightly on the arm. “After me, everyone is a letdown.”

  “My, what a big ego you have.”

  “Deservedly.” George grunted. “I hope that prick is paying you well.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise. We’re doing a fifty-fifty split. Finding her should be simple enough. Then I call the aggrieved husband and tell him where she is. Whatever happens after that is up to them.”

  George paused while the waitress placed the coffees in front of us and handed us the menu. We conferred and decided to split a pear apple crisp with whipped cream.

  “Nothing is ever simple with you,” he said when the waitress went off to get our dessert.

  “You either.”

  “True.” George picked up his cup and sipped his coffee. The cup disappeared in his hand. “Robin,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He shook his head. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

  “Getting old?”

  “Guess so. I’m sure it’ll come to me later.” And he smiled and drained his coffee cup.

  We chatted some more about Janet Wilcox. Finally the waitress brought our dessert. We ate every last bit of it and went back to my house.

  “Manuel here?” George asked as we went inside.

  “He’s staying over at a friend’s tonight.”

  “Good,” George said.

  And we went upstairs and made love.

  Hours later I woke up to find George was already dressed.

  “Robin,” he said. He looked grave.

  “Yes.” My heart started fluttering.

  He studied the window blinds for a few seconds.

  “I wanted to tell you at the store yesterday. And then at dinner. But I couldn’t.”

  His eyes moved to the wall. He was looking at everything but me.

  “Tell me what?” I wrapped the sheet more tightly around me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

  “About what?”

  “Natalie.”

  “Natalie?”

  “The blonde.”

  “The one you said you weren’t having a relationship with?”