"Oh, man." And I’d been mean to her just the day before. "Thanks, Harley. That means a lot to me."
"Lawyers charge that much just to clear their throats. But I can tell you right now Marian didn't do it."
"How?" I asked. "You have a crystal ball?"
"No. I checked her IRS file. She won the car in a raffle and she doesn't make enough money otherwise to be Reynard Jackson."
CHAPTER 10
I slept like an eggbeater in a meringue factory that night. On Acorn Street, the Santa Ana winds whipped the jack-o'-lantern flag out front around its pole and Arlene's wind chimes went crazy. My mind flipped around with them. How had Reynard Jackson somehow gotten my book, polished it in his voice, and published it in just a couple of months when it would have taken over a year to get any publisher to get it on shelves for anyone else? I wanted to strangle his anonymous little neck. Slowly and painfully. Five times.
In the wee hours, the hinges on the front door of the Acorn Street house squeaked. Then the banging started. I got up.
The living room yielded a flapping front door, hitting the wall in the harsh wind. I shut it, grabbed Music Man's spare cane from the hall umbrella stand, and took my martial arts ready pose. I started cautiously toward the kitchen with Bing, who was not growling or barking, but seemed to be laughing at me.
A quick sweep of the house yielded only Dad's empty bed. No intruders. No ghosts. Just Bing licking my leg with his drooly doggy tongue. I threw him a dog cookie for being correct and he put me on a leash. We walked out front and saw Music Man shuffling up the middle of the street toward the walk, cane clunking along, gray mane flying.
“Get inside!" he barked. "You'll get sick out here in that T-shirt, Rhonda. It's cold.” Definitely not sleepwalking.
"Why were you walking in the middle of the street at night, Dad? Somebody could run over you."
"Gotta get my exercise. I have as much right to be in the middle of the street as all those cars. I pay my taxes. Besides, I do it every night and I've never had a problem." He toddled off to bed.
I had no idea my mother slept so well.
* * *
I awoke the next morning once more to the smoke alarm and a repeat feeding of the tastiest portions of poor, unfortunate farm beasts. At which I balked. Not for the sake of frolicking Wilbur and Babe so much as the memory of those Burger King comfort-food fries from yesterday. Not that I was fat. I just had this tummy and these thighs that my pickup basketball games weren't taking care of. Thirty-four seemed to be the magic age where I couldn't sit all day in the library anymore and come home and write all evening without things beginning to spread. The good news was that my jeans fit better now, thanks to two months of park skating.
So I poured myself a bowl of cereal, and Dad recited the rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife.
Arlene called. She'd done a quick search of OASIS programs for temporary senior placement in the area. All were full. And, thanks to Dad’s adventures at Ralston House, all facilities now required that a doctor first evaluate any new resident's mental health before admission. Good thing I’d scheduled this 9:45 doctor's appointment. After that, I planned to hit another bookstore to find Jackson's book.
I tried to get us into the car on time with the pretense of going to see Mom, but Music Man wouldn't leave the kitchen until the last dish was dry at 9:37. I hated to lie to him, but we were late. I opened my mouth to tell him to hurry as he disappeared into the bathroom.
At 9:51, I knocked on the door. "Did you fall in?"
He yelled, "You know the meanest man in the world is the guy who leaves you no toilet paper, and he's been here."
In the other bathroom under the sink was a whole cabinet full of Campbell's soup and Alpo. Soup? In the bathroom? No T. P. here, though. Next stop, the kitchen pantry, now crammed with bed linens and light bulbs. Okay. The linen closet still held tools, socks and detergent. So of course the toilet paper was in the garage on the top shelf, over the washer, with the fresh fruit. Wow. Mom needed new house elves.
I ran back and eased open the bathroom door to lob in a roll of T. P., but Bing nudged the door open and I didn't shut my eyes fast enough. Sunday Times comics in mountains all over the floor. Collapsed beige pants under giant bald knees, white porcelain throne peeking through. Anxious humming and beetled brows under the grizzled mane.
I slammed the door and my eyes, but no amount of daffodil-and-butterfly thoughts could erase this dreadful image from my memory. Especially the scariest part: the roll of toilet paper sitting on the back of the tank.
When he reappeared in the kitchen, he dumped his carryall and jacket on top of the pile of my mother's things that already filled my arms. He fiddled with his sunglasses.
The phone rang, and over-burdened, I pushed the speakerphone button with my only available pinky. "We're leaving, Mom," I said.
"Hello! I'm not Mom! This is Nan at Dr. Viejo's office. Is Harold coming to his appointment this morning?"
I yelled, "Yes!" and shoved Dad out the door.
"Rhonda?" He dug in his heels as they hit the front porch. "I don't have an appointment today. I'm going to see Ethel."
"Well," I dropped everything and locked the door fast. "First, we just need to check your prescriptions."
"With a quack?" More furrowed brows. "I hate quacks."
"It's just a quick visit. Then we'll go see Mom."
"I don't want to see anyone but your mother!" he yelled, thumping his cane on the porch. "You promise we're going straight over to see her, or I won't get in the car."
Neighbor heads poked out their front doors like curious turtles. Scared ones who wouldn’t be of any help.
Dad stood firm, out-weighing me by a good hundred pounds. I was big for a woman, but he was like a mountain when determined. It was very tempting to tell another fib about now, but I'd felt awful ever since I'd promised the day before not to ever put him in a home. I had no idea if I could keep that promise, and it made my stomach hurt. Our relationship had always been based on honesty, and outright lying to Music Man, even the new, odd Music Man, to smooth things over, still seemed very wrong.
"Dad, come on. The neighbors are looking." I took his arm and steered him down the sidewalk toward the driveway.
After two steps, he stopped. "First those doctors tell you you're old, and then you die. They kill ya. It happened to my grandpa!"
Oh. He was scared.
We stood at an impasse: me cajoling sweetly and him swearing like an angry sailor. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was yelling and waving his cane, but only a doctor would know if he was okay for him to be a solitary rock or if he needed to be in home full of ancient rocks, which was the hard place. More to the point, if I had to rebook this appointment, I'd miss even more work that I couldn’t afford to miss. And he needed that mental evaluation, so he was going.
So, round and round we went on the sidewalk, as the rock vented his volcanic feelings. The longer he yelled, the more I leaned toward just dropping him on the doorstep of an assisted living place and driving away fast.
Then he threw the cane at me.
I dodged it, but it caught me on the elbow, and I swore. Which was when a dented silver Toyota rolled up to the curb. A tall, dark guy in jeans got out and strolled across the grass toward us, carrying a stack of boxes, which he set down nearby. Just as my father released another string of invective toward me and tears threatened to give my vulnerable position away, the guy approached and stood silently on long, skinny legs. He looked Native American, with a long, dark ponytail, high cheekbones and barrel chest. He wore a denim jacket over a faded T-shirt, jeans and Nikes.
I said, "We're not interested in buying anything right now."
"Good, I'm not selling anything." Deep voice.
Like an elementary school principal, the guy stood tall and looked down his nose at me. But it wasn't just any nose. This one was big enough to hang wash on, to hack wood with, to slice ri
ght through crapola to get to the truth. Well, I'd been raised among big schnozzes. My dad and brothers had coffee pot spouts—real honkers. What was joke fodder for some fools lent power and strength to our family members. It was our measure of male beauty. Jimmy Durante, Cyrano de Bergerac, and Karl Malden were our heroes. But the nose in front of me put them all to shame.
"Look," I said, irritated. "I'm really busy, trying to get Dad to the doctor, and I can't deal with anything else now."
"I'm going back inside." Dad said, turning around.
"No you're not." I took his elbow and used his own momentum to spin him back toward the car. He wobbled on his axis and grabbed my arm.
"We need to do this, Dad. It's important." To the new guy, I said, "Look, unless you're from Publishers Clearing House, could you come back later?"
The guy folded his arms. Steel blue eyes narrowed at Dad and me. Was he judging us? In our own front yard?
Then Music Man squinted. "You look familiar, boy. Do I know you?"
I started to say no, but the guy nodded and held out a hand to Music Man, who shook it. "Dal Baker, Mr. Hamilton. Remember me? I'm—uh, here for Bing. Came last week and saw your wife. Got some stuff to drop off.”
Doll Baker? That's how he said it. But he wasn't doll-like or cuddly at all. Or did Doll have some other, more personal meaning? The jeans looked old and ripped, not at all like some woman who used odd nicknames had dressed him. I used my super power to read his desires and saw only pillows, or maybe dog beds. Then light dawned. Of course. He must be a dog breeder.
I said, "Is Mom still having Bing do stud service? I thought after his hip surgery, he couldn't quite manage—uh—physically, I mean to assume the position, you know."
A clueless look came down the nose.
I mimed dogs humping with two hands. "I'm sorry. My mother can't be serious. Bing's almost twelve years old. Didn't she tell you?"
Silence.
Red crept up my cheeks.
"Let’s go in, Rhonda." Music Man started back toward the house, but I caught his arm.
"No way, Dad. Um, Mr. Baker, if you put that stuff inside the gate for now, maybe you could help me get my dad into the car. We're late for a doctor appointment." I got in back of Music Man. "Maybe if I push and you pull …" I shoved Dad's low back.
"Leave me alone, Rhonda!" my father said. "I'm not a bag of potatoes." He swatted at me.
"Come on, Dad." I shoved harder, with my whole body, determined to see Dr. Viejo today. Suddenly Music Man fell over into the azalea bushes lining the walkway. Caught off balance, I toppled right down next to him with a thwump.
"Rhonda!" Dad thundered.
From a tangle of legs and azalea twigs, I looked up at some cold, steely eyes and a shaking head. But the guy pulled me up easily, considering I was no Tinkerbelle. Then I looked down at the old geezer who'd fed me and housed me and passed his sense of humor, such as it was, to me. Splayed in the flower bed by my own hands.
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 11
Dal Baker sat by my father on the front porch glider while I went inside to clean Music Man's glasses.
From the kitchen, I heard the new guy turn loquacious. "How are you, today, Mr. Hamilton? Nice day, huh? Have a good breakfast?"
Music Man only grunted at these overtures, yelling, "It'd be a nice day if my daughter would go home and leave me alone. I can drive myself to see Ethel in the hospital. I don't need Rhonda.”
"Your wife's in the hospital?" Dal sounded genuinely concerned. "What happened?"
I came outside and handed Dad the glasses.
"Damn broken ankle and surgery. She's having surgery today, and I need to go see her before she goes in." Dad was tearing up, rubbing his knee, making me look like an ogre.
"I'm free right now. Want to go in my car?" Dal asked, patting Music Man's hand.
I said, "He's got it wrong. She's already had the sur—"
"Come on, I'll take you, Mr. Hamilton." Dal firmly cut me off. "There's a little donut shop not far from here. We'll stop there first."
Music Man lit up and was halfway across the lawn before I could start objecting. Dal ambled behind him with long strides.
I caught up and hissed, "We're late to the doctor. Mom had surgery yesterday. And donuts? How do you know he’s not diabetic?"
"If he was, you'd have just told me," he said, adjusting the front seat all the way back. Music Man eased in and immediately hung his blue handicapped card on the mirror. Dal got in the driver's seat.
I couldn't send Music Man off with a strange dog breeder. Weren't they always in the newspapers for clipping the ears and tails of poor defenseless animals? Crating animals too long? Supplying puppy mills?
"This trip better be for more than sugar." I shoved boxes over in the back seat to squeeze in.
We took off. Feeling crated myself, and a little leery, I realized I'd left my cell phone in my car, so if this guy got any weird ideas, I couldn't even call for help.
But our worst danger was the sugar/fat combo at Yo Donuts. At the counter, Dad ordered a full dozen glazed and we sat down inside. Dad inhaled the donuts and was starting his third when Dal said, "I need something from my car, Mr. Hamilton. Be right back. Rhonda?" He crooked a finger at me like he was my master and I would obey.
When I made no move to follow, he stood at the door of the shop, arms crossed, staring at me down the imperious nose. People entering the shop all looked from him to me with great curiosity. He tapped his foot and smiled.
Seething, I followed him to the parking lot. Once outside, I burst out, "What now? Do I roll over for a treat? I barely know you, you've hijacked us, we're nowhere near the doctor, we're more than late, and I don't even have my cell phone to cancel the appointment. We'll never get another appointment this week, and he really needs to go!"
I was so close on his heels that when we reached his car and he turned, I tripped on his foot and fell past him against the side of the car. When I turned around, my back to the car, he was right in my face.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to trip you.” He didn’t look too sorry.
I sputtered, "Who are you, and why—"
He put a hand on the car on either side of me and swooped in and kissed me briefly, then stepped back.
I blinked a second. "What the—?" Then I swung at him.
He blocked me deftly with an arm and took a step back.
"What the—? Are you crazy? Is this T-shirt so alluring?"
"Not exactly. Look. I just needed your attention quick to get the doctor's address. Your dad's full of sugar now, so I predict he'll go to the appointment without much trouble, but the sugar high wears off fast."
Stunned, I handed the address over.
"Cool. So do we let him eat the whole dozen or go save him from a colon upset?" He turned back to the shop.
"What's wrong with my T-shirt?" I ran to catch up. "And you don't know my father. He’s not that predictable." Well, yes, he was.
He said, "Yes, I do. He was my high school Algebra 2 teacher. I had math anxiety for years because of him. But his weak spot was sugar. I remember we brought him donuts every Friday because it was test day. Brought our grades up a whole point.”
"No way." I poked his shoulder. "(A) He would never give grades for food. And (B) a whole point from what to what? And (C) aren't you a dog breeder?"
His fingers went up one at a time. "(A) He sure did, and (B) now I think about it from a C- to a C+. I guess not a whole point. And (C) I don't have a clue about dog breeding. I don't even like to think about it, really." Grinning, he opened the shop door, and waved me through.
"You're mocking me." I started, but now we'd reached Music Man, who was holding forth to a small audience of sugarholics clutching greasy bags and cheap coffee.
"Hey' you'll like this one." Dad took a bite. "You know what the Apache said when the sheriff asked if he could read and write?"
Fried sugar and bad jokes created an
anti-Starbucks atmosphere. People grinned.
Dad chuckled. "The Indian says, 'Can write, not read.' So the sheriff tells him to write his name, and the Indian writes it in big, old scribbly letters across the page. And the sheriff says, he says, heh, heh, 'What's that you wrote? I can't read it.'"
"Dad!" I said, helping him up. "Enough!" I snatched the pink donut box and took off for the car.
Hoping for the punch line, grizzled guys with fat donut cheeks followed Dad's slow progress toward the door like lookie loos at a house fire.
At the door, Music Man stopped and turned toward his audience. "And the Apache says, 'I already told you I can't read. You mean you're a sheriff and you can't read either?'" And guffaws floated out of the donut shop like blurts and blats from a teenage trumpet practice.
In the car, to my further mortification, the sugar key opened the floodgates to Dad's tasteless cesspool of lame, politically incorrect humor, which spewed forth for miles. The stiffness of Dal's broad shoulders spoke volumes, and I didn't blame him.
I sank down and blamed the greasy food and bad punch lines for my shaky stomach. There couldn't be any other reason, certainly not a little lip touch from a strange guy whose stony features I could only imagine from the backseat. So I was surprised when Dal looked back at me once, after another appalling joke, a smile on his lips.
Before long, Music Man was following the big pink box I carried right into Dr. Viejo's tastefully decorated office, just as Dal had predicted. I checked him in. However, before I could sit down, my father grabbed my hand for a Muzak-inspired dance in the waiting room. He made up for his lack of agility by turning me twenty or thirty times under his arm. Then he suddenly let go.
Dizzy and reeling, I tottered and landed right in Dal's lap. My head bumped his nose. I immediately bolted up, brushing my seat as if I'd landed in a fire ring at the beach. Which looked really bad, like I thought he was dirty. And he was far from it. He was actually quite neatly dressed and, if you took away the scowl, maybe even good-looking, in an elemental sort of way. And, I had to admit, he was helpful.
Roll with the Punches Page 9
