Roll with the Punches

by Gettinger, Amy

  The hospital then called to say Music Man was dancing with the nurses again, and did I prefer to pick him up or have the cops come?

  Problem: My car was in the shop. Avoiding Marla's stare, I called several people to get Dad, but the only one who answered was Dal. In a sleepy voice, which did something funny to my insides, he promised to go get Dad.

  * * *

  By the time I paid fifteen hundred dollars to ransom my car that evening, I was late for Monday night Amazon practice. In the car on the way to the rink, I slurped spaghetti over the steering wheel, dripping tomato sauce on my shirt and pants.

  My cell phone rang. "Rhonda?" It was Dal.

  My stomach did another funny flippy thing. I must have been eating too fast. "Yeah."

  "I have a study group tonight and Arlene's sick." He whispered. "Your dad …"

  I was tired of this. "I'm busy. Leave him home alone.”

  "Rhonda, did you hear what he did today?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "I'm too tired to argue. Just come home. Please."

  "Tired? You're the one who kept me awake snoring."

  He laughed. "What? You were the snorer. I was the snoree. I never even slept."

  "Oh, that is such crap."

  "And you whispered the names of five or six men in your sleep," he taunted.

  "How long have you had mono?"

  "A month. Where can I bring him if you won't come home?"

  "Why are you whispering?" Light dawned. "Okay, did Mom have you call me?"

  "Yep."

  "So, Dad's in the room with you now and feeling touchy? Maybe angry at Mom?"

  "Me Navajo code talker. Over and out."

  I couldn't argue with Mom. I'd never hear the end of it. So I gave him the address of the roller rink. He could bring Dad, who I dearly hoped would calmly sit with the motley crew while I got some answers to my other pressing issue: the book theft.

  Yeah, then pigs would fly.

  Once at the rink, I put on my quad skates and did some warm-up laps. It was still public skate time, but some roller girls were already there, hanging out on the sidelines in tank tops and biker shorts, drinking Cokes and laughing at some teenage boys who were ogling them.

  Catherine the Grunt, overflowing her tight acid-green faux-fur halter top, called me over. "Hey, girlie, you're back. We got more fresh meat tonight."

  My butt and ribs were still tender from Thursday. "Oh, good.”

  She grinned, and her chubby face lit up. "Yeah. They haven't practiced enough to get skills like you, so they'll just bludgeon everybody." She pointed at my spaghetti stains. "Wait a second." She disappeared into the locker room and returned to shove a black leather bustier at me. "Here. Wear this so the guys don't laugh at you."

  My torso was about twice hers in length. This thing would look like a bikini top on me. But the spaghetti stains did look pretty dreadful. So I changed in the locker room and took off around the rink again, conscious of my blooming cleavage and bare navel. I got some steam up, then turned backwards and ran right into a group of pre-teen girls, knocking them all over like bowling pins. I looked up, and there were Dal and Music Man at rink side. I helped the girls up.

  "Four down," Dal said, laughing. "Try for a spare, Miss Bustier?"

  I looked Music Man in the eye. "Dad, no more funny business with the caregivers. We're spending a lot of money to keep you safe."

  Music Man growled, "Rhonda, I'm safe in my own house. I don't need a policeman. And I'm just a poor teacher. Don't you spend my money like that. You'll bleed me dry. Hell, that lady today wouldn't even let me save a little money on energy."

  I exchanged a look with Dal.

  I said, "You shouldn't be driving to see Mom, either."

  "Shut up, Rhonda." Music Man turned to walk away, but ran smack into Harley, skating up with a gold tiara painted on her helmet and gold armbands blazing.

  "Hey, Mr. Hamilton. How's Mom?" she said.

  Music Man shrugged. "Some heart thing. And Rhonda's a horse's patoot."

  Dal said, "Ethel's got an arrhythmia from the surgery and anesthesia. She's on medication, but her recovery may take longer."

  Major guilt pang in my gut. "I'll go by later."

  "Booty-Ka! Darling!" Harley said to me. I thought she’d comment more on my attire, but her attention shifted over to Dal. And stayed. "Who's this?"

  I started to tell her, but Dal said, "Booty-Ka? How do you spell that?" A big grin spread across his features, complete with crinkles by the steely blues. He didn't look so bad when he smiled. Not that bad at all.

  Harley was enchanted. "B-O-O-T-Y—"

  "Shut up, Harley." I flushed. "That name is not me. The colors are dead dreary.” Honestly. Black B, T and K. Colorless O. Only a yellow Y and a violet A perked things up. Not me at all.

  "Rhonda!" Harley sang, "Yoo-hoo! Alphabetize your closet later!"

  I introduced them while Music Man's eyes followed the skaters. He started singing a song about a roller skating girl with a ribbon in her hair who made his heart beat faster when he saw her move.

  Harley and I did a double take. "You know the Beach Boys, Dad?"

  “Sure,” Music Man said. "Hey. Skate for us, Rhonda. Ed said you're good."

  "How do you know that?" I asked Dal, whose mouth was twitching.

  He shrugged. "You'd never let me come here if you weren't."

  Harley's eyes followed the Indian's huge nose. She'd tell me later how much she hated it. But now she yelled, "Watch Wonder Woman!" and took off around the rink, showing off her red sequined tank top.

  Other Amazons gawked at Dal, including Catherine the Grunt, tugging down her loaded neon halter top. "Hey, Rhonda." She glided up and winked a crossed eye at Dal. "For every tall, handsome guy you bring in, you can sit out a game.”

  I was secretly glad when Dal left. I wasn't sure why.

  I circled the rink and Music Man went to sit in the stands, where he perked up and boomed to the laid-back crowd, "Do you kids know why the blonde was watching the orange juice can?"

  Girls waiting for practice to begin exchanged winces with each other.

  "Because it said constipate, I mean concentrate," he yelled, chuckling.

  Many snorts of derision. Yeah, this would be so much fun tonight.

  Largot, skating by me, yelled, "Hey Rhonda, can he be our mascot?" But the rest of the girls seemed pretty cool towards me for the rest of practice.

  At 8:15, the other fresh meat showed up. Storm Goddess, a skinny, spiky blonde with a pointed chin and cat eyes, was tentative on skates. Powder Puff Gal, short and pudgy with a dark cap of hair, wore a lavender T-shirt with Betty Boop on it, saying Move Me or Lose Me. They both had large, dark bruises on their thighs. Harley also joined the team. Then the four of us floundered around doing easy drills together for an hour before we went to watch the rest of the team do scrimmages. Well, they watched, while I, more experienced, had to join the scrimmage. Hippo, Cleo, and Queen Malevizent, Hippo's blond, fake-boobed wingwoman, were extra rough with me tonight and I got some fresh bruises.

  As Queen E. Lizard Butt finished her best jam of the night with fifteen points, we cheered. After a few more jams, we were finished, and Music Man blared, "Why did seventeen blondes line up outside a nightclub? Because you have to be older to get in. No, I mean eighteen to get in.”

  Dad had taken up all my break time, with me lecturing him on being quiet and him asking me excited questions about the bouts. So now, while we changed back into street clothes, I tried to pry information from the nonplused girls about Yvette. But all I got was strange looks. I soon gave up, thinking this whole thing had been a waste of time and pain.

  Harley flopped down by me and swigged water from her bottle. "Hey, you didn't tell me the Indian was cute. Is he attached?"

  I wondered that myself. "Harley, you hate men."

  "But I'm a sucker for a black ponytail and a pair of moccasins." She lit a cigarette.
r />   "He wears Nikes and he has mono. And he doesn't like smoking."

  "Mono? That doesn't last very long. And I've stopped smoking. Didn’t you know?" She stubbed out the cig, her face glowing for the first time in forever. "Dibs. He's mine. We can double date with you and James.”

  "Yeah. And all of San Francisco and Brazil."

  Dad had gotten to the bottom of the joke barrel, and we still had the writing group to attend. I left him with Harley and hit the restroom. From inside the stall, I saw Cleo and Hippo's mismatched tank tops in front of the mirror.

  Cleo lit a cigarette. "Can you believe that old geezer? What a pain."

  Hippo said, "Geezer squared. Grampa Dangerfield on oxygen.”

  "He needs a babysitter and a sock in it. And get this. He's not her grandfather. She calls him Dad." They both laughed, one hacking a deep smoker's cough.

  "She's a geezer herself then. Probably older than my mother.”

  Ouch.

  "She can't last very long," Hippo said. "That type never does."

  "She better not. Jesus, she ran over my dog!" Cleo said.

  Hey, I'd fixed the idiot doggy. She was fine now, and I was broke. And I was not a type or a geezer. And I would, too, skate with them if I wanted, for as long as I wanted. And I'd also write a string of bestselling thrillers they probably couldn't even read. Just as soon as I got Dad in the right hands.

  * * *

  The writers’ group meeting was at a small nearby diner called Helen's. The décor was late sixties with red vinyl booths and lots of chrome. It was nearly empty. Harley and I settled Dad at a table with a sandwich and waited for the writers.

  My heart fell as the members trooped in all at once: Cleo, Hippo, Queen Malevizent, Kween Viktorious, and an Asian girl I'd never seen before. Only E. Lizard Butt smiled at Harley and me. They greeted chubby, graying Helen, who sat reading behind the counter, and sat in a booth. Then they ordered Cokes and lit up cigarettes. Whoa, were they in for it! But then Helen lit one, too.

  Kween Viktorious started reading a story about her kindergarten teaching job. Harley and I got up and joined them halfway through the reading. The air around the table stiffened as we pulled up chairs. Out of habit, I took out a notebook to note down nice turns of phrase and things I didn't understand.

  Hippo grabbed it. "No note-taking." She shoved Helen's menu at me and said, "Here. Swear on Helen's chicken fried steak that you'll never use any roller derby experience or character or anything you hear here in your writing."

  Harley and I swore, and Kween Viktorious finished reading.

  Bra-Coli, the Asian girl and one of the Garden Grove Veggie Girls, said she liked it. Harley asked how Kween Viktorious got the kids in her class to journal without knowing how to write words. Queen Malevizent asked why kindergartners have homework. I opened my mouth, but Cleo stared me down and Hippo fingered her skull rings.

  Bra-Coli started reading a chapter from her romance novel, which was pretty rough. As everyone was listening intently to this, who should race in and squeeze into the booth but Yvette. After fussing with her papers and her tiny blue purse, she looked up and saw me. Her eyes popped.

  I grinned.

  She interrupted Bra-Coli. "Rhonda. How did you …? Oh, of course. Cathy and Largot. Twits."

  I wanted to punch her, bad.

  Hippo grunted at Yvette, "You know them?"

  Yvette sighed. "Unfortunately."

  E. Lizard Butt said, “Hey, I asked them to come.” Then her phone rang and she ran outside to take it.

  Right then, Dad got up and came over, napkin flapping from his shirt neck. "Hey, girls. What do you call a smart blonde?" Embarrassing pause. "A golden retriever. Hey, you telling stories, here? I've got one." He held up his awful blue handicapped card. "See this? It's been through more adventures than most career soldiers. Why, once, it went on a cattle drive in Texas when I was just nineteen—"

  Yvette yelled over him, "Girls, I don't think Rhonda's here to learn about writing. She has her own rudimentary critique group, and she's done enough damage there."

  Uneasy stares all around as Dad looked quizzical.

  I said, "I didn’t do any dam—" at the same time she doomed me with: "I think she's here to spy on me—on all of us."

  Hippo rose. Queen Malevizent and Cleo followed suit. Hippo said, "Take Grampa and get out. Now."

  I yelled, "Wait. I really am a writer." But they got me and Harley by our shirt fronts and shoved us out the door. "Dad!" I yelled.

  Kween Viktorious walked Dad outside as Harley and I regained our footing on the sidewalk. "Sorry," she said, and scurried back inside.

  Then Harley saw E. Lizard Butt, putting her phone in her pocket on her way back inside. Harley said, "Geez, girl. How do you ever get new members?"

  E. Lizard Butt said, "Hippo's super sensitive right now. Her book draft went missing in June. She wrote it longhand. No copies.”

  I stared. "Shit. Longhand? Who does that?"

  Hippo bellowed from the doorway and E. Lizard Butt rolled her eyes and went in.

  CHAPTER 22

  About two o'clock Tuesday morning, I was sleeping the sleep of the truly needy. In a bed. Not my nice king-sized one at my condo, but it was flat and warm and didn't have any seat belt latches in it. Or ponytails.

  Dad and I had visited Mom after the writer's group debacle that evening. On my way to Acorn Street to drop Dad off afterwards, James had called and asked me out for a late dinner after our Tuesday night writers' group meeting the next night. Being a working girl, I'd declined.

  Not! Slutty Rhonda had immediately forgiven him for the tattoos and said “Yes. Damn yes!” After all, he'd sent me roses, hadn't he? My bliss on hanging up had only been marred by Dad's major huff when I brought up the subject of caregivers again. He had denied any wrongdoing in his entire life, and had stormed around the house for an hour before finally collapsing at midnight. I'd finally gotten to sleep, with Bing at my side.

  Now suddenly, I started awake. A hand was clamped on my mouth and someone loomed over me, a knee pinning one arm to my side. My heart started thunking around and my blood raced.

  Bing, snoring on my other arm, didn't even look up.

  "Wake up, Roller Girl," Dal said.

  "Why?" I said through the hand, and bit it.

  "Hey." He let go of me. "We have to go in his room. Look for the car key.”

  "No." I turned away and pulled the covers up to my chin.

  A hand found my neck under the covers and rubbed it slowly and expertly. Like a chef working dough into a perfect dinner roll. Like a kindergartner with Play-Doh. Ahhhhh. Then the hand went down my back, under my shirt, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. So nice.

  "Divine," I said.

  "Come on, Booty-Ka." He stopped. "Hey. Does that refer to big boots or big butts?"

  "Celtic warrior queen. Very mean. Go a little down and to the left." I sighed and snuggled deeper.

  "How much you gonna pay me?"

  "Nothing. Back rubs are free. Now go right. Yeah, and up."

  "That's what you think." The hand whisked up to my shoulder and started down my front.

  I sat up, shoved him away, and brandished Bing's front paw at him. "This warrior queen is heavily armed and happens to be going out with someone.”

  He said, "Oh, don't worry. I prefer my superheroes with cone bras."

  I threw my pillow at him and the ripped neck of my T-shirt fell off my shoulder.

  "Or naked," he said.

  I pulled it up.

  "Look," he said. "We need to do this before he wakes up for his 3:00 a.m. stroll. There's gotta be a car key in there somewhere, and we need to get it."

  "But he went to bed so angry. What if we wake him up?" I ran my fingers through my impossible hair. "Besides, how do you know it's in there?"

  "I looked everywhere else today."

  "Not in my underwear drawer?" My eyes got wide.

  "There especiall
y. Not impressive. You need more leather superhero stuff."

  I burrowed back into the covers, envisioning him rifling my faded, holey, stretched cotton briefs. Oh, who cared? I was so tired. "This can wait until he's out on a walk tomorrow."

  "Neither of us will be here. Besides, he probably has it on him all day. You want him to take off in the car again and run into somebody?"

  I crossed my fingers under the covers. "He's a very good driver.”

  "You chicken. You're scared he'll go all Hurricane Katrina on you if he can't find the car key." He had Dad and me pegged. "So if he ends up wandering out into the desert and lands on a slab in the morgue, your sister would be good with that?"

  I got up. "Where's the flashlight?"

  * * *

  Five minutes later, two dark ninjas edged into the shadows of torches in the dragon's lair and tiptoed around the giant, craggy, wheezing dragon mound looking for treasure. Okay, not torches. Night lights.

  Dal took the chest of drawers and I took the dragon's clothes, draped over a chair just inches from his fire-breathing nostrils. But there was nothing of interest in the shirt and only a Hershey bar deep in a pants pocket. The clink of Music Man's change as I rummaged in his pants pockets brought a loud snort from him. I jumped. My quick check of the musty-smelling clothes closet sent out a peal of music from empty wire hangers banging together. I grabbed them fast and caught my breath.

  All quiet.

  I swept my hand over shelves, peered past ties, and stuck a hand down each boat-like shoe, envisioning big, hairy, poisonous spiders in residence. Well, no brown recluses skittered out. But no keys appeared, either. Just one daddy longlegs and two silverfish.

  Dal, busy with a flashlight in the drawers, chuckled at one point. A lower drawer squeaked as he pulled it out. Music Man rolled over and muttered in his sleep. Then he started snoring, great, humongous, gale-force howls, worthy of wind storms on Mount Washington.

  I almost laughed. Done with the closet, I turned to the dreaded nightstand, situated right under Music Man's trumpeting nose. Shoving his chair aside and his cane to the foot of the bed, I said a silent prayer, stuffed half the Hershey bar in my mouth, and dropped to the carpet. Like a Marine in boot camp, I elbowed my way to the nightstand.