Roll with the Punches

by Gettinger, Amy

  James's young, dread-locked tattoo artist was new, so his fifty-minute skyscraper took over two hours. I sat biting my fingernails and squeaking as the squinting tattooist with the fumbly fingers kept asking for help using the machine. As the guy mopped blood off James's skin, I winced, feeling privy to some bizarre tribal ritual.

  When we both staggered back out into the late afternoon sun, he checked his watch. "Oh, gee. Our movie's starting. Let's run." We ran back down the mall past all the stalls, but then he suddenly stopped at the flower shop he'd ignored earlier and bought a perfect long-stemmed red rose. He turned slowly and presented it to me.

  "Rhonda, please forgive me. I shouldn't have been so pushy about your dad and your book. It's just—" The hand went through the curly hair. "I worry about you. Your brothers aren't here, and I feel responsible." Then he turned, raised his shirt and showed me his new tattoo.

  "What?" I asked, uncomprehending.

  The new tattoo wasn't a tall skyscraper but a gorgeous red rose, placed between Lombard Street and Fisherman's Wharf. "Won't it look cool when it heals? It'll be my permanent souvenir of our first date.”

  Awww. Awww. Awww. I melted.

  He reached out and grabbed me for a deep, languid, well-crafted kiss in front of God and every teeny bopper mall shopper. All my pent-up frustration found an avenue for release and I pressed my body into his and felt how powerful and hard those muscles really were. Wow. The part of my brain that had kept the visuals of the soft kitty and the gliding snake on ice all day thawed. I kissed him harder, not caring who gawked. Then I stroked his back.

  "Ow," he yelped. "We're gonna miss the movie," he said through gritted teeth.

  "Can you sit through it?" I asked. "Or don't you have to go home and wash that thing off a bunch and put on ointment like they said?"

  James flashed me a helpless little boy look. "Yeah, probably. But you could help me with it. I'll show you my piranhas."

  I debated whether the possibility of living out my kitchen-island sex fantasy with James was worth sopping up bloody, inked skin. Then I spied another large chain bookstore nearby. "Wonder if they have Jackson's book?"

  "Rhonda, forget it. Let's get ice cream." He leered at me.

  "James. You were right. I need to face the music." I marched past the bargain tables at the bookstore doorway, then stopped dead. Right in front of me, in pride of place on the bestseller table between Tess Gerritsen's latest medical thriller and two Nora Roberts books, was a stack of Memory Wars by Reynard A. Jackson. The glossy red cover had a silhouette of a stooped woman pushing a walker across the front, a dripping knife aimed at her questioning speech bubble. And splashed across the top was REYNARD A. JACKSON in jaunty Jokerman font.

  Two people snagged copies off the stack and went toward the register.

  Like a victim revisiting her recent crime scene, my whole body started to shake with fury as I approached the stack of books. What made me mad as hell, besides the fact that the letters didn't spell Rhonda Hamilton, was that R was red, not green. And a brown E and blue Y? Come on. E wasn’t brown, and Y screamed yellow. Of course, wrong-colored letters assaulted me daily, on every sign, but these wrong colors were on my book, like a punch in the face. I reached out toward the sacrilege, its red cover radiating the fierce, biting, clawing heat of hell.

  James zoomed in with an evil grin and scooped up the top book. "Dastardly do!" he crowed. Then he saw my face. "Rhonda, lighten up. I have an idea."

  I just stood there, looking stricken. He wouldn't understand my crayon wrapper savant problem. He'd just think I was nuts if I talked about it.

  "Jackson, you bastard!" He sneered and flipped through the book's pages, like he expected the author to rise out of them for a duel. Then he slammed the book. "Shit. Not one damned acknowledgement. Can you believe it? Not his mother, his agent, or you, his ghostwriter. If I get my hands on him, I'll …"

  My hero, willing to fight a plagiarist for me. "If I was a ghostwriter, I'd have a contract and a check," I said.

  "I'm gonna find this asshole. I'll find his agent first, then …" James thumped the book. "Hey, I know what. My geek friends can check out your computer to see who hacked into it. And then there's gonna be some serious trouble for this copycat bastard."

  I said, "Or just ask Yvette. She had Jackson's business card.”

  But James wasn't listening. He suddenly hoisted the whole wobbly stack of fifteen pristine copies of Memory Wars and, with the air of bookstore personnel, casually sauntered off with them wedged under his chin.

  I followed him to the back of the store, my heart pounding. "James!"

  By the restroom, James found a trash can and tried to flip the top open with his elbow, but the can tipped over, so he raced into the men's restroom and banged open a stall door, dumping his armload of scabby loot into it.

  "Hey, you!" A thick guy with acne and a scowl raced toward me. I pointed around the corner away from the restroom and the guy took off that way. Then James sauntered out of the restroom, calm as ice, tucking in his shirttail to look innocent, and he and I ran out of the store, not stopping until we got to the car.

  But I still didn't have the wretched book. On the freeway heading north, I said, "I sort of wish you'd saved one copy of the book to compare to my book. It might give me a clue to who the thief is and when he did it.”

  "Oh, why torture yourself, Rhonda? Let me handle that. Ha-ha. Actually, torturing you could be fun." James grinned at me. He really was sweet. "No really. You have enough on your hands with your dad. I'll find Jackson. I will.”

  "Thanks." My hero.

  Then he groaned. "I think carrying that many books may not be the best thing for a fresh tattoo.”

  I let him drop me at home.

  CHAPTER 19

  Back home, I considered dropping by the mall bookstore again later, but thought they might recognize me as the vandal’s friend.

  Harley texted me: "Howz date going?" but I didn’t respond.

  Then she called. "Are you at his place? Are you naked? Did you check his bank balance?"

  I said. "We got derailed by a tattoo."

  "Oh. Bad."

  "Of a gorgeous rose. His souvenir of our first date together."

  "Good."

  "But there was a lot of old-age talk and way too many old people."

  "Bad."

  "And some amazing kissing."

  "Good."

  "And a lot of publishing interrogation."

  "Bad? Good?"

  "I don't know. I have to go visit another old person right now."

  * * *

  Mom was still dizzy in her new pokey, er, rehab unit. When I got there, she raised an eyebrow at my nose stud and called me "Lakshmi." Then she complained of more dizziness and constipation, followed by: "Honey, did my new linen tablecloth and matching napkins get delivered? I need them for a party here tomorrow.”

  We talked for ten minutes. Then I took off for Santa Ana to see Manuela's sister, Concepcion. I pulled up at a small, neat home in a nice neighborhood with half a dozen kids running in the yard. A short woman with a dark bun answered my knock. A pit bull growled behind the screen door.

  "Hi, I'm Rhonda Hamilton. I tried calling—"

  "You Jaime's teacher?" Her teeth were uneven. "I telling him—"

  "No. I'm looking for Manuela Munoz. Are you her sister, Concepcion?"

  She squinted. "You want money?"

  The dog growled again.

  "Oh, no. I just—she worked for me. Her number's disconnected. I need a cleaner again and thought maybe she'd like to come back to work for me."

  She put hands on her hips. "That girl is coming here, she live nice. I get her good Catholic boyfriend. Then she get some bad friend, just take off, go live some place fancy. Now she no need me. I no need her."

  "Where does she live?"

  "I don't know. Maybe Hollywood. Some place rich with that Pablo guy." Tears welled in her eyes and she cl
osed the door, and a moment later, I saw a heavyset guy scowling out her front window.

  Some kids raced by me at the curb, one girl walking slower than the rest, eyeing me.

  Worth a try. I said, "Hi. Do you know where your Aunt Manuela is? She worked for me."

  She looked toward the house, then whispered, "Try Santa Croce."

  "The church?" I said, but she was running back toward the house.

  Where had Manuela's newfound wealth come from? Just the boyfriend? Or the sale of my book?

  I returned to Acorn Street about dinnertime and tiptoed in to find Music Man nodding in his big recliner, hearing aids on the table, TV blaring. I turned it off and pulled my leftover sandwich out of the fridge for dinner. Our new house guest wandered out, rubbing his eyes and looking groggy. His ponytail was lopsided and frizzy. He opened the fridge, and I got that same nice view of those long legs and that great butt.

  "Feel free to nuke and eat whatever isn't fuzzy or green." I said, trying to ignore the legs. "Did Music Man eat dinner?"

  A carton of milk showed up on the counter. A salad followed. Dal sat down across from me, elbows on the table, head in hands.

  I asked. "Did he—behave?"

  No reply.

  We ate in silence, Dal reading the paper. At least he wasn't bugging me about Music Man and the book like James, but I still worried what Dad had done to tire him out this much. "Thanks for taking Dad today. What did you guys do?"

  "Not much." He chewed.

  "Look, Ed, or Dal, I won't jump all over you. Yesterday was just one of those crazy hot Santa Ana days." Stroke of genius. Blame the weather.

  He eyed me. "Saw your mom. She seemed a bit off. Doctors said she's healing. Went to the 99¢ Store, bought root beer and donuts, got Subway sandwiches, came back, took a nap." He mumbled the last few words, like his battery was worn out.

  "Um. Where are the donuts?"

  He formed the ghost of a grin. "On the workbench in the garage."

  I smiled. "You know, I don't believe I ever properly introduced myself to you. I'm Rhonda Hamilton." I held out my hand, which he shook in his warm one. "I used to live in this house with my perfect sister Monica and my two delinquent brothers, Hank and Jerry. My Dad used to be a teacher and Mom was a legal secretary. I plan to stay here one more night for Dad. Tomorrow, I'll arrange for someone to stay with him any time you’re gone next week. Odds are he'll calm down soon and get back to his normal routine." I fervently hoped so. "Especially with you here at night. Thanks."

  "You got a nose stud."

  I put a finger up and felt it, uncertainly. "You like it?"

  He squinted at it, turning his head from side to side, and shrugged.

  "And you?" I said.

  "You know my name. I spent a lot of my life here. My dad's a pain and my stepmom knows your mom." He got his tamales from the microwave.

  "Brothers and sisters? Hobbies? Do I call you Ed or Dal?"

  He sat back down. "I have four step-siblings, who were all behaving very well until last week, when my sister decided to get a divorce and bring her three bratty elementary-school-aged kids to Grandpa’s house to stay."

  "Don't you like being an uncle?" I teased. "Barney, beanie babies and Barbie?"

  "Well, usually. But the kids were way upset about leaving their school, and Blair was having long, loud fights on the phone with her husband, day and night. I've got this heavy course load and I haven't been feeling all that great.”

  "You didn't bring us bird flu," I joked, but he didn't laugh. "Mom said something about you and asthma."

  Music Man walked into the room, rumpled from his nap, and said, "Good morning, you two. That's a strange breakfast, Ed. Tamales? Just put those away. I'm going to make a real breakfast. Up early, Rhonda? Well, help me here. Turn on the stove and I'll get out the eggs and bacon." He opened up the refrigerator, and Dal and I exchanged a look. It was 7:00 in the evening.

  "Dad," I said, "It's not dinnertime. You just took a nap."

  "Now Rhonda, you do the eggs in this bowl here." Music Man turned. "And Ed, I know how you like to do the bacon. And I'll juice some oranges.”

  Music Man wasn't wearing his hearing aid. I said loudly. "Dad, look at the clock. It's 7:03 p.m., not a.m. It's dinnertime."

  He looked confused. "It's breakfast time. Come over here and start the eggs."

  I opened my mouth, but Dal steered me into the hall by my elbow. "Look, Rhonda, I've seen this before. My grandparents lived with us in Minnesota. Sometimes my grandmother was like this. The best thing you can do right now is go along with it."

  "He's my father. I've never lied to him." At Dal’s skeptical look, I revised, "Well, once or twice. But he'll be embarrassed if we don't point out his mistake. After all, he's not demented." I marched back into the kitchen and yelled, "Dad, it's time for dinner, not breakfast."

  Music Man looked up from cutting oranges. "Do you have to yell at me? All you do is yell at me. I'm just trying to make breakfast here, and you're yelling at me." He slammed the knife onto the counter and stomped over to the table. "I tell you I want breakfast! Now you start making it!" He pounded the table twice, then sat down and put his face in his hands.

  I approached him, but his giant hand pushed me away.

  "God damn it. I'm a little dizzy here, and I just need a little help making breakfast." His voice was quivering. "Ethel would help me if she were here. Go get Ethel, Rhonda."

  "Dad, she's in the hospital.”

  Music Man rose. "Well, if you're not going to help me, I'm leaving.”

  Dal pushed past me and turned on the stove. "Just a few minutes, Harold. You just sit tight." He threw bacon in the pan and broke eggs into the bowl and started whistling.

  The old man, looking daggers at me, continued toward the door, snatching his cane as he went.

  "No, Dad, don't go. Just stay and eat," I tried, too late.

  "You go home, Rhonda." Dad growled. "And don't come back here without your mother." And he stomped out the front door.

  Furious, I followed. The gathering October night was chilly and breezy, rustling the liquid amber and acacia trees on our street. Music Man was hobbling down the block. It would take him a while to reach the end. I ran back to my room for socks and shoes and long sleeves. But when I got back out in the street, he wasn’t there. I jogged around the blocks he usually walked. No luck. Oh, what would Monica say? I tried another loop he sometimes added, and then another. Then I went back to the house and checked the garage. His car was still there, so he had to come home soon. He didn't have that much stamina.

  Dal took a turn combing the neighborhood in his car, and I paced up and down in front of the house. Half an hour later, Dal came back, shaking his head. "Do we call the police yet?"

  Crap.

  My hand was on the receiver when the phone rang. It was Arlene. She had picked Harold up on the street, and he had convinced her, by grabbing her steering wheel and other tricks, that above all, he needed eggs and bacon. Now. She was calling from the nearest Denny's, way over in Orange. I hung up and slumped in my chair.

  Dal's nose looked self-righteous. "See why we have to humor him? It's like having a two-year-old."

  "Two-year-olds don't make people take them to Denny's.”

  "Do, too. Rhonda, you have to stop confronting him." Measured look. "By the way.”

  I waited for another I-told-you-so.

  "Just curious. What did you lie to your father about?"

  * * *

  "They're sending me back to the hospital." Mom sniffed the next morning from her rehab bed. She looked pale. "I'm too dizzy to do my rehab exercises. I fainted twice already. But could you take me there? Medicare won't cover an ambulance. It's hundreds of dollars." Dad had gone to the restroom. She grabbed my hand. "Arlene called me. I'm worried about your father taking off all the time. Promise you or Ed will watch him or find him a companion."

  And I had thought I was in the clear. "Sur
e. But I don't have time to search for another college student. I'll have to call an agency."

  "Those agencies can be awfully expensive, and our savings isn't what it once was."

  "It's only for a week, right?" I really didn't like the way she looked. Music Man didn't, either. He hadn't cracked one joke. "How is your savings?"

  "Well, I didn't want to tell you this in front of Harold, but we've used quite a chunk of it putting the four of you through college and then helping you all in one way or another, with cars and down payments on houses and such. We traveled some. Then we lost some in the dotcom bust. And with your dad's doctor bills, we're a tad low on cash."

  Yikes. "How low on cash?"

  "Need cash, Rhonda?" Music Man walked up, took out his wallet, and handed me a twenty.

  I took it. Hey, gas money. I wasn't proud.

  Dad said, "The doctor was here earlier. He asked your mother what was bothering her. She said she's a little worried about money, and he said he could relieve her of that."

  "Mom."

  Mom whispered, "We're down to about $75,000."

  Which wouldn't pay for two years in a senior home for either one of them. I forced a laugh. "Well, as soon as I can, I'll pay you back the down payment for my condo." And I'll wring my brothers' skinny necks until they squirt cash. "Mom, who's your broker? Not some con man, I hope?" Then relief flooded through me at the thought of current property values. "Well, at least you own your house outright."

  Mom looked pale against her pillow.

  "Mom? The house?"

  "Well, honey, we took out some loans against that, too." She pursed her lips. "Rhonda, do you think Hanky would come to see me if I sent him a ticket?"

  CHAPTER 20

  Sunday afternoon, I called three agencies before I found one that would provide daily twelve-hour care for Dad at their lowest "affordable" rate of sixteen dollars an hour. God help us. At $960 per week, I could quit work and let Mom pay me. Yeah, no. I went out to the workbench, found the donuts and called Harley.