"Wait, he's still getting checks? But—"
"Rhonda, that check came from Ed's jacket! Ed's jacket! Imagine! And here I thought he was such a nice boy! Well, I told him to get out of my house right then and not come back. He's lucky I didn't press charges. Of all the nerve! I mean after him leading you on and making a laughingstock of our whole family yesterday in that gypsy van …"
I almost dropped the phone.
"You understand, right, Rhonda? I can't have him here after that.”
"Mom! Did you ask for an explanation?" I screamed. "Maybe he was going to take Dad to the bank and help him deposit it. Where is he?" Dal wouldn't steal from Dad, unless … if he was still gambling … He'd never actually said he'd quit. I'd just assumed. Could my Mahatma Gandhi be a thief and a serious gambler?
"I don't know, Rhonda. But I'm sure I don't care, either."
I slammed the phone down. Damned gambler. Had he really taken Dad's check? If not, why hadn’t he defended himself? And Mom? Kicking him out? I called my condo in case he'd gone there, though he had no key. Not very logical in my fury. Then I called his parents' house in Newport. A young female answered.
"This is Rhonda Hamilton. Is this Blair? I need to find your bro—"
Blair broke in sharply. "Rhonda? We're tearing our hair out, thanks to you."
"But I didn't—It was my mom who …"
She yelled, "Listen, we finally got him back in college, and now he's missing classes—"
"But he's in trouble. My mother thinks he took my dad's—"
"Left and right since he's moved in with you. He got all beat up last week, and now you people are accusing him of stealing? Now we can't find him. When we find him, believe me. He's never coming back there.”
"He and I just need to—"
Blair said, "He needs to get over his fiancée's death. Not get caught up with some bitch who breaks his foot and throws him out on his ear in the middle of a bout of mono."
I sat down. Fiancée. Death. I could forgive him for almost anything knowing he was grieving. "Oh. I'm so s-sorry. I didn't mean to—Could this have stressed him so much, he's reverted to gambling?"
"What? Do you even know my brother? Geez, just stay away from him." Click.
Well, Blair sure was in denial about Dal's gambling. But why would he have taken Music Man's check if he didn't desperately need money? It had to be a mistake. He loved Music Man. And respected him. Hard to believe grieving Gandhi was a thief. Unless gambling was his default mode, how he dealt with feeling down. Maybe he needed a big gambling stake and he'd already bled a lot of gambling money from his own family. And he thought he’d pay this "loan" back in a day or two when he won. I’d heard all the stories.
God, I hated gamblers.
* * *
Dal never called. The only reason I didn't go home that awful night was my promise to deliver Marian's lecture on plotting early Sunday morning. Which I did, sans disguise, though my lack of anything resembling energy or humanity made the talk about as fun as a guillotine. The odd crowd asked several pointed plagiarism questions, and at the end of my speech, I fled.
Afterward, I found a note slipped under my hotel room door:
"Rhonda, BREATHE before you read this. Long and short, I stole your book and buffed it a little and sold it to Mammoth House. They bought the Reynard Jackson act hook line and sinker. Yes, I am he. The first nine books came from my old MS drawer. Jackie and Marian each donated one. So sorry, George."
Okay. My heart stopped, but just for a second. Then I looked outside at the gray sky full of drizzle. No skating in this rain. There was an hour to kill before I had to do Marian's hospitality duty at the final brunch with the national bestselling author, Tanisha Shalama, as speaker. So I dragged myself to a "read and critique" session where three young women read seductive dialogue between impossibly handsome wizard characters and perfectly shaped wise-cracking nymphs.
Then a nerdy blonde read an exchange between characters named Ariel and Fabiolino at an anniversary party. This rang a distant bell for me, even in my brain-dead condition. Where had I heard this before? A crowd of admirers surrounded the blonde afterward, and I was late for my brunch gig, so I couldn't speak to her, but I snagged a copy of her session outline from a pile on the back table on my way out.
I moved through serving brunch like a rusty old droid. No one would meet my eye when I asked what drink they wanted. I spilled coffee on so many people that I was told to stop serving and go eat. But George was in line. He saw me and ran like a girl, zigging and zagging through the boisterous throng. I caught up with him in the hall by the restroom.
He put up both hands. "Rhonda. Don't kill me. You have such great ideas, and mine have been really dry, and you must know you have years of good writing ahead of you, and you'll go far, despite my horrid deeds."
"Take down your dukes, George. You said too much in the letter. Mammoth House didn't publish Memory Wars. Haverton Masters did. And we both know Reynard Jackson wouldn't be caught dead selling Alice Fay."
He scratched his bald pate. "Damn. I messed up the publisher? I really need a research assistant.”
"Why did you confess?"
"I take the fifth." He went back to the lunch line, scratching his head, and I just couldn't face the crowd to bug him more about who he was protecting.
I wasn't hungry. The rain had let up, so I left the ballroom and put on skates again, then took off along the still-damp Besker park pathway. With the glittering ocean on my right and the aloe-covered hillside on my left, I wove between strolling families, preening wedding parties, and strutting teenagers. Until I hit the huge detour where the cliff path was closed off due to mudslide damage from the recent rains.
I had to finish my skate going slowly on town sidewalks, fighting street and pedestrian traffic, my body feeling just like that closed-off path, broken with rock piles at the bottom. Not even the little gaggle of pink bridesmaids and the nervous white-lace bride near the gazebo could make the void in my gut feel any better.
On my way back to the hotel, Marian called. Jackie had awakened and said the hit and run was not accidental. The driver had sped up and aimed at her. Marian handed the phone to Jackie, who then sent Marian off to get a magazine.
When Marian was out of the room, Jackie slurred, "Rhonda, I know you're going to hate me, but—I stole your book."
"Great timing. You're third to confess." I laughed. "So you're protecting whom?"
"Oh, I'm so tired." She hung up.
* * *
As I was leaving the conference hotel to go home, even the bell men and receptionist gave me strange looks. Now I was a true pariah. I stepped into the gift shop for some gum and saw Marcella Anderson at the magazine rack. I walked up and asked, "Marcella? What's going on? I'm getting all these weird looks."
Marcella shook her old-as-dirt curls. "Sorry, sweetie. I don't believe a word of it." She gestured at a rack of tabloids.
There, giant on the front cover, was a worried-looking woman skating in a park, her stomach pooched out a mile: Me. On a very bad hair day.
Huh? I looked around for Candid Camera. But the headline read: RHONDA HAMILTON: HAM-FISTED ROLLER-DERBY PLAGIARIST OR BESTSELLING HERMIT?
I picked it up in a daze.
It read: "The whole world has wondered for three years about the identity of Reynard Jackson, mysterious bestselling novelist, who burst onto the publishing scene in 2004, and has stayed high on the bestselling list for thirty-three straight months, producing hit after popular hit. Now, with $100,000 riding on Jackson's true identity in an online contest, sources in Orange County believe this woman, a beefy stripper in the local roller derby league, is indeed our favorite author. Unless she's just a clever hacker who accessed Reynard's files, downloaded one of his hottest works, Memory Wars, and now claims it as her own. Last month, she sent it to some of the country's top agents in a pathetic attempt at fame. Which story is true? You decide. Go to www.tattleonreynard.co
m and enter your best guess for Reynard Jackson's real identity. And if you sight Rhonda Hamilton, call us at 999-JACKSON."
"'BEEFY'? Damn that Yvette!" It had to be her. Just when I'd started worrying about her, she'd pulled this? Another gossip rag with an even worse shot of me shouted: Memory Wars Thief Rolls Away Unpunished! Don't Trust This Imposter with Your Grocery List!
"It’s just sensationalist crap, dear." Marcella patted my arm and left the gift shop.
I slunk home.
* * *
My condo message machine had one short, dull message from Dal: "Rhonda. Your Mom kicked me out. Gotta check out some stuff. See ya." The kind of see ya that meant I'll call you, in a hundred years, if I feel like it, which I won't.
Oh, I missed that giant nose. And the orgasmatastic sex. But could I forgive him for the gambling, make him promise to quit—if he ever called again?
Later, at my local Laundromat, four people stared me down and one asked for my autograph. Back home, I had to shove aside two reporters with microphones and cameras to get to my front door. A note on it said, "Left computer with your neighbor. James." He'd gotten it back from the thieves? Yes!!! Crying in relief, I shoved my way back outside and went to get my baby, which he'd thoughtfully put in a case. I hugged it all the way over to Acorn Street, where I was going to read Mom out royally.
At the Acorn Street curb, I stopped the engine and just sat for a minute, completely stunned by the day's events. Three confessions, a lottery win, Mom firing Dal, and me nailed as Reynard Jackson. Geez. What more could a girl ask for? The homestead looked bereft. Music Man's car sat in the driveway, lonely without Dal's van. I sat and pondered life in the drizzling rain for a long time, until Arlene's car drove up and Mom got out, looking the palest I'd ever seen her, dabbing her eyes. Worried her heart was going bad again, I ran and helped her inside and sat her down. Arlene followed.
"I'm sorry, Rhonda." My mother warbled and wiped her red nose with a Kleenex.
"You should be," I started in. "Dal is a good person, Mom. You have no idea—a Red Cross volunteer, a longtime Child Fund worker in Africa and for hurricane relief. That check business had to be a mistake." I crossed my fingers. "Did you let him explain?"
She was looking down, shaking her head.
I paced up and down, gesturing wildly. "I can't believe I was gone two nights and you just threw Dal out after you'd promised he could stay here. Why didn't you call me? What must he think of us now?"
She was still shaking her head, not looking up.
I sat down at the table in the chair where Music Man always hung his blue bag. But it was gone. A feeling of dread came over me. "Mom. Where's Dad?"
CHAPTER 38
The house was dead quiet. Tick Tock.
Arlene said, "There are sandwiches in the fridge. Help yourself."
"Mom. Where's Dad?" I was getting frantic.
Mom held the Kleenex to her eyes. I ran down the hall. Empty bedrooms.
When I came back, Arlene said, "Sit down, Rhonda. No, sit and listen. He fought with the caregiver and he hit Ethel with a book. Gave her a black eye. Knocked her over. The caregiver might sue. Ethel had to do something, and this six-bed board and care had an opening. So … "
The house suddenly felt like a grayscale photo of itself, taken grainy and angled wrong.
"We just took him to Nadja Kay's Corner," Arlene finished.
"Where?" I shot up from my seat.
"James's sister's place. It's cheerful there like a preschool. He’ll be happy there.”
I stared at my mother, unbelieving, then spat out, "I'm going to go get him."
Arlene patted Mom's shoulder. "No, you can't. They told us he can't have visitors for the first week, while he gets used to the place. It's the hardest thing your mother's ever had to do, Rhonda. You should have seen the look on his face when we left without him."
"Mother, I'm speaking to you," I said. "I'm going to go bring him home. Now."
As I left, she yelled, "You can't Rhonda. I have power of attorney. That nice Bjorn came and your father got into a fist fight with him. A fist fight in my house! And he hit me with a book! I can't afford any more broken bones!"
I flipped them both off and flew to the car. I jammed it to Helena Street, and banged on Nadja's door. Behind it, I could hear my father yelling, glass crashing, cockatoo screams, and bangs like his cane crashing into walls.
"I want to see Dad," I told Frank when he opened the door a crack.
Bang! "God damn it! Let me go home!" Dad yelled.
"He needs a few more days to settle in. We told your mother. He might hurt someone if he sees you now." Frank started to close the door.
"I have a right to see my father. Where's Nadja?" I said, puffing up to my full height and shoving a knee in the door jamb.
A baked Alaska of a woman with thick glasses waddled up beside Frank. "Oh, it's Miss Reynard Jackson," her voice rasped with sarcasm. "Nadja's out of town. I'm Melody. Now you go cool off and let us experts do our work.”
I didn't move.
Her grin was oily. "We don't want to have to call the police, Miss Book Thief. Or the tabloids.”
"Ethel! Let me call Ethel!" Dad yelled.
"Dad!" I yelled, nearing tears. "Mom said I could take you home. It was a big mistake putting you in here. She was just overwhelmed earlier. You can come home now."
Frank stepped outside and shut the door behind him. "Don’t tell him that! He's still too dangerous to let go now, especially to a criminal like you. We have our standards. Now go on home. Scat."
I jumped up and down. "Let me see my dad! I have a right to take him home!"
"Only when you get power of attorney." A rough shove at me, and he ducked back inside the door and shut it in my face.
Back in the car, I beat on the wheel until my hands hurt. Then I saw my laptop, my little pet, my second home. I opened the case and pulled it out. Then I powered it up and clicked on Microsoft Word. But something was wrong in IBM-ville. No word files. None. I punched every button ten times, then shook the thing and beat on it. Still nothing. Shit. I closed it. No decal. This laptop wasn't mine! It was a new one, just like mine. But not mine.
"ARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"
No laptop, no Dad, no Dal, no Harley, no James, no job, no book, no future, no reputation. My life was crashing into oblivion. I hauled off and screamed, long and loud and jagged and splintered, pummeling the steering wheel until I could no longer see the residents looking out their windows through my corrugated red haze.
That was Black Sunday.
* * *
That afternoon, between abusive calls to James and pouring thunderstorms, I visited Helena Street and hammered on Nadja's door twice more, but they kept it locked. On one visit, I saw a U-Haul full of Japanese furniture leaving the driveway. That evening, I parked outside the care home, glaring through the drizzle at the damned second-grade-style "Nadja Kay's Corner" sign with the jauntily-dancing letters over the door, wishing I could take Dad home for a game of hearts. Between several efforts to break down the facility's door, I furiously skated around the block or drove the streets of Orange County. I kept well away from Mom's house and tried to hope she was doing well. All the while, I missed Dal like a trash can bereft of its banana peels. And every time a car passed, I just wished it was the police, delivering Dad and a stern warning to me like before.
The one time I drove by my condo, there were paparazzi camped out on my lawn. So in the wee hours, I had to park far away and creep over my back fence like a common thief in the dark. Then I ransacked my own place for signs of my backup flash drive, only coming up with two old James Taylor tapes and a missing earring.
Late Monday morning, I awoke to more gray skies and an army of ants trailing across my kitchen countertop to the garbage. They always came in for refuge from hot or wet weather and stayed for tea and cookie crumbs. As I wiped up the last thousand little crawlers, Monica called. I let the machine get it.
I picked up the phone and put it right back down. It was no good. She'd wheedle the whole story out of me in minutes and come anyway.
Then Marian called. The machine recorded her saying, "Tomorrow's group meeting's canceled because of Jackie. I left you a message on your cell phone.”
I picked up the phone and dialed. "Marian, hi. It's my sister's cell phone. I don't know the message password."
"How's James?" she asked. "After that closet fun at Jackie's, you'll forgive him the green card wedding to Yvette, right?"
"We’ll ... see." I was wary of group members right now, as everyone had so many secrets. I asked again, "Marian, you didn't maybe misplace my Memory Serves CD somewhere?" Like at Pala? "Where someone might have picked it up and decided to take a gamble on publishing it?" Hint, hint.
"I'm so sorry, hon. I've looked and looked for that thing."
I picked an ant off my arm. "Marian. Do you think James could have done it?"
She paused. "You mean steal your work? I thought you two were thick as thieves until Yvette showed up. And as we said, he's a beginner. On the other hand, those love scenes he wrote …"
"What about them?" Somebody knocked at my back door. I got up to get it, phone in hand, but spied a camera lens at my kitchen window. I locked the door and went to hide in the bathroom as the knocking got louder.
Marian was saying, "Male writers usually just go right for the action in love scenes. In and out. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am. And their female characters have to do all the seduction work. Have you noticed? But James is different. He writes all that luscious detail, like he could get inside a woman's head. Whew! In his latest draft, that Fabiolino's hot, like a woman would see him. And he seduces her, initiates the—er—um." Her voice lowered. "Some of his scenes just jumped off the page and sent me for the ice box faster than any love scene I've ever read before. I saved them for future reference.”
Roll with the Punches Page 32
