The first morning out of the hospital he noticed how ridiculous he looked in the mirror, so he cut the rest of his hair. He wore baseball caps while his brain healed. He sat by Angela’s pool for near a week, drinking an occasional beer and staring past the horizon.
Aided by Armstrong’s positive review in the Times and the negative news of his shooting, his paintings had greatly increased in price. Angela and Benjamin practically lived in his hospital room that first week and she had no time to sell any. But she visited her office one morning and by the time she left she had sold two Delaneys for twenty-five thousand dollars each. The next day she sold three more at thirty thousand a piece. A Japanese investor offered sixty thousand for Sleeping Pris, but she intuitively refused to sell without Duncan’s consent. The investor was lucky. Duncan woke and the price of a Delaney dropped to a paltry ten thousand.
“Too bad you couldn’t have stayed in a coma longer,” Angela joked one afternoon by the pool, “you would have made us rich.”
“Relax,” Benjamin said, “it’s not like he’s given up painting.”
Duncan did not reply and that worried Angela more than anything.
Fiona and Woody visited every day, but Duncan was put off by her hovering, and he finally asked her to attend to the restaurant full time. It was what she wanted anyway. Duncan said she could have both restaurant and house, he wanted neither.
“You’ll change your mind,” Fiona said.
“Tell you what,” Duncan replied, “I’ll trade you both for the Circle D.”
Fiona immersed herself in the restaurant and settled for telephonic progress reports. Duncan appreciated her solicitousness, but he preferred to be alone with his sorrow. But she persisted calling and one time foolishly commented, God does things for the best. Duncan hung up on her. The phone rang again and Duncan let it ring. The next time Fiona called, she carefully avoided speculating on God’s intentions. One morning Detective Harkanian found Duncan by the pool. Duncan offered him a beer, and despite being on duty, Harkanian took off his coat and accepted.
“I would have come earlier,” he said. “But Norris died a week before you came out of it and it kind of lost its urgency.”
Samuel Norris, Harkanian told him, was indeed Pris’s father, and a Pentecostal minister. He was a little man who used a big voice to inspire his congregation and browbeat his family. When Pris was twelve, she shot him in the back with a hunting rifle. The bullet made a clean hole in his shoulder, went through two walls, and lodged in the water heater. Despite losing a quart of blood, he survived. The water heater had to be replaced. Pris told the police she did it because her father had beat her mother longer than memory, and she wanted to make it stop. Despite her bruised face and body Shirley Norris denied any abusive behavior. Samuel was her sole support and often reminded her of it. He was also a respected preacher and community member who forgave his errant daughter at each of her seven hearings. The judge ultimately sent her to juvenile hall for three years. She was fifteen when she was released to her father’s custody. The first night home, Samuel Norris looked at her matured body and raped her while her mother sat in the den knitting with the television on full blast so she would not hear her daughter scream. Pris reported the rape to a school counselor, who notified the police, but given her past behavior, nobody believed her, and she was returned home. She ran away that night. Samuel’s soup was cold the next day, and he beat Shirley so badly because of it she ended up in the hospital for the week it took for her to die. Samuel pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter in a plea bargain and spent seven years in state prison. The police regretted dismissing Pris’s story as a vicious child’s lies. They searched but could not find her, which was unfortunate, as additional molestation charges would have sent Samuel Norris away for a much longer time.
“He would have survived,” Harkanian said, “but someone got to him in the County U.S.C. jail ward. They beat him so bad we needed fingerprints to identify him. Couldn’t have used teeth. Someone pulled them all out. Everyone on the ward said they were sleeping and didn’t hear or see a thing.
“We found your car burning in your driveway the night you were shot,” Harkanian continued. “Rascowitz must have gone there first. We charged her with attempted murder and arson. She’s out on a half million dollar bail, so watch your ass.” He stood. “We found Norris’ gun on the floor of the Cadillac. It was a five shot Smith and Wesson. Close as I can figure it, he surprised her at the front door and forced her into the bedroom. She was beat up a little, not too bad, but she must have put up one hell of a fight.” Harkanian said it admiringly. “She broke a chair over his head and got the gun. She shot the bastard five times. We figure she brought the gun into the car to . . .” Harkanian stopped. “Jesus Christ, I’m an insensitive pig.”
“Go on. I need to know.”
Harkanian sat down again and sighed. “She must have brought it into the car to shoot herself. But she had already emptied it into her dad. Maybe she thought it was a six shot. Maybe she thought she saved one last round. But . . .” Harkanian shrugged.
“Would you like another beer?”
“Sure,” Harkanian said, “why not?”
Wilson and Peewee arrived on thundering Harleys that night. Angela tentatively let them in. Benjamin led them to the pool and got four beers.
“Sorry to hear about your lady,” Wilson said. “She was beautiful.”
“Did you hear about Roscoe?” Peewee asked.
“Yup.”
“He took a different path,” Wilson said.
“Where’s Marco?”
“He’s in County,” Wilson said. “He got picked up by the Highway Patrol for possession of stolen bike parts.”
“They beat him up bad,” Peewee said. “Sent him to the hospital ward.”
Wilson took an envelope out of his pocket. “Marco sent you this.”
Duncan opened the envelope after they left. He expected to find more white powder, but instead he found a zip-lock bag with three human teeth: an incisor, a bicuspid, and a molar. Duncan looked at the teeth for a long time before he threw them over the fence and down the hillside.
Roscoe came by the next day with a small box. Inside were blonde baby hair, silver earrings, a folded paper, and a photo of Duncan and Pris taken at their wedding. Looking at the photo Duncan remembered another, the one of him and Tiffy taken at the rodeo. He compared Pris’s smile to Tiffy’s. He put the photo down. Pris won by a Cheyenne mile.
“Your mom found the box at the house,” Roscoe said. “She asked me to bring it by.”
“Thanks. How’s Sven?”
“Aw, man, he’s wonderful. He would have come but he said he would just start crying.” Roscoe could not help smiling. “He makes me so happy I feel guilty knowing what you’ve been through and what you’ve lost.”
“I appreciate it.”
Roscoe hugged Duncan. “You have to let her go, man. We all do.”
After Roscoe left, Duncan unfolded the paper. Written there were instructions on what to do after her death. It seemed she had planned this long ago. The only change on the note was at the bottom where she had directed where to spread her ashes. She had crossed out ocean and written Duncan and a question mark beside his name. He put the paper in his pocket. Benjamin came out and sat beside him.
“Think you could give me a ride?” Duncan asked.
After twenty minutes Duncan still could not find the grave, and he had to ask for assistance. A grave digger led him to the crest of a small hill overlooking the San Fernando valley. Her grave was among the first there, with a stone set in the grass. He had expected an upright tombstone, but the grave digger said those were not used much anymore.
“These make it easier for the lawn mowers,” he explained.
Duncan sat by the grave. The grass was cool and moist and a breeze off the freeway rustled his emerging hair. She Died for Love, the inscription on the stone said. Duncan thought it true. He sat there for an hour thinking about the other reasons
for her death until he saw Sheila coming. Even from a distance he knew it was her. Despite the knowledge he remained. He was too tired to get up and too hopeless to care. When she was twenty yards away, he lay across the grave. He closed his eyes and felt the earth’s strength beneath him. A shadow passed over his face. He opened his eyes and sat up with difficulty when he heard her sobbing. Sheila sat a yard away, her right arm in a cast and her head against her left hand, her eyes wet and dull. A silver pistol lay on the grass beside her.
“I loved her too,” she said. “Maybe more than you.”
“Maybe.”
He resigned himself to death. Here was as good a place as any and now was as good a time. Sheila picked up the gun and held it flat in her hand. She looked at it like it was an apple or a calculator or anything but a gun.
“I like the stone.”
“I picked it out. Benjamin said it was okay with him.”
“I’m sure she would like it.” Duncan pointed at the gun. “What were you planning to do with that?”
“I don’t know. Shoot myself. Maybe you.”
“I don’t think she would appreciate either.”
Sheila stared at the gun. “You’re probably right.”
She laid the gun on the stone. She stood and walked away. Duncan sat there until the sun threatened to set. He picked up the gun and walked towards the cemetery office. On the way he passed an open, empty grave, raw earth beside it. He dropped the gun in the hole and kicked sweet, moist dirt onto it. He reached the office and asked for the manager.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Delaney?” The manager asked after Duncan introduced himself. He was a fat man with professionally sad eyes.
“My wife was buried here without my permission.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Do you find the accommodations unsuitable?”
“No, it’s a nice grave as far as graves go. But it’s not what she wanted. She wanted to be cremated.”
The manager called for a file. He put on glasses and scrutinized the pages within. He looked up.
“The funeral was paid for by a Ms. Rascowitz. She paid for one of our eternity plots. I’m afraid we can’t make a refund.”
“I don’t want you to. I want you to leave the plot the way it is. Stone and all. I just don’t want her to be beneath it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s see if you understand this. Dig her up. Dig her up and cremate her. Then put the grave back the way it is now.” Duncan was determined to follow Pris’s wishes, but he wanted to leave a cenotaph for Sheila. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll pick up the ashes.”
“This will be expensive,” the manager said.
“I really don’t give a shit,” Duncan replied.
Duncan took a cab to his studio. He was thirsty so he went inside the mini-mart to buy a soda. Assan smiled broadly and hugged him. Duncan looked at the wall over the counter. His painting of Assan hung there. Duncan smiled despite himself.
“Nice painting,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Everybody loves it.” Assan frowned. “Except for one ugly woman with short hair who screamed when she saw it. For a moment I thought I would have to equalize her with my Benelli.”
“Did she leave on a Harley?”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Duncan paid for his soda and a candy bar and went upstairs. When he opened the door, he saw a woman sleeping on the couch with an orange cat on her lap and for one exhilarating moment he believed his life had been a nightmare from which he had suddenly awakened. But the woman stirred and he saw it was Misty. She sat up.
“Hi, Duncan. How are you doing?”
“They tell me I’ll have good and bad days. Still waiting on a good one.”
Misty looked down. “Your mom asked me to take care of Cat. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
He had forgotten Cat in his grief. He felt guilty as hell. Cat rubbed his leg. Duncan smiled and picked him up and sat on the couch beside her.
“I saw our painting hanging in a museum the other day,” Misty said. “Can you believe it? Some kid on a field trip says to me, ‘hey lady, isn’t that you?’ I’m there with Tommy Bertone. He plays guitar in a band called Forced Entry. He’s kind of a jerk.” Misty knew she was babbling but could not stop. “Anyway, Tommy doesn’t like someone recognizing me and not him and the teacher leading the group asks me what you’re like and Tommy says, ‘fuck you lady,’ so I smack his face with my handbag and the guard throws us out. He left me in the parking lot but I didn’t care.”
Duncan smiled. “That sounds like fun.”
"Yes, it was.” Misty eyes were as brown as Tiffy’s but where Tiffy’s were hard Misty’s were soft. “When are you going to paint again?”
“I don’t know.”
“She would want you to.”
Duncan stood. “Come on. I’ll walk you downstairs.”
When they reached the street Misty got in her car and rolled down her window. “Can I come see you some time?”
“Sure.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A month or two. I’ve got some things to work out.”
“All right.” She started the car.
“See you, Misty.”
“Damn right you will,” she said. She drove off.
Duncan went back upstairs and looked around. But there was nothing there he wanted anymore, only memories, and he kept those with him always. He called a cab and carried Cat downstairs to wait and he left the door open behind him.
Three days later the mortuary called. Angela was at the office and Benjamin was surfing with Woody so Duncan put on his jacket and his Stetson and carried Cat the three miles to Bolo’s house. His mother had changed the curtains and pruned the hedges to let in more light. Pieces of Fiona’s life now lay about, mail on a shelf by the front door, her reading glasses on the table where Bolo’s had been. Bolo’s pictures were gone from the mantle, replaced by Duncan’s graduation photo and an enlargement of his wedding picture. Duncan walked through the house collecting his things. Hard as he avoided it he eventually came to the bedroom.
The blood was gone from the floor and the bedspread had been replaced. He emptied his clothes from the drawers and put them on the bed. He held one of her sweaters to his nose. He thought he smelled her in the fabric. But that hurt too much so he put the sweater back and took a suitcase from under the bed and packed it. He opened the garage door and put the suitcase in the Cadillac’s trunk. He started the engine and put the top down. He pulled the car out of the garage and parked it in the driveway. He went back inside the house and found a piece of paper.
Gone to Wyoming, he wrote, Love, Duncan.
He stuck the note on the refrigerator and left the house, locking the door behind him. He got in the Cadillac and drove to Angela’s office. She was out to lunch, but Marie was there, and Duncan retrieved Sleeping Pris. He put the painting in the back seat. For weeks after, Duncan slept every chance he had, hoping to see her in his dreams, but the harder he tried the less he slept and his dreams were devoid of her. One terrifying day he had to look at his painting to remember what she looked like. But that was weeks in the future and now he was just glad the painting was not sold.He moved Cat to the front seat. He drove to the cemetery and picked up Pris’s ashes. He declined the decorative urn for an additional three hundred and fifty dollars. He got in the Cadillac and put the box of ashes on the floor. Cat sniffed the box once. He meowed sadly and fell asleep on the seat beside Duncan. Duncan put on his sunglasses and pulled down his hat.
Then he got on the 10 freeway and drove East.
Twenty One
On the clear blue Sunday of Duncan’s twenty second birthday, Misty sat inside her BMW convertible outside the Circle D’s gates. It had taken longer than anticipated to find her way there, but she had much to accomplish before making the journey. First, she quit working at the Hollywood, and with the money she had saved strippin
g, she had her breast implants removed. She felt good to have the foreign objects evicted from her interior and she felt better about herself for having abjured them. After the operation she was surprised by how little her chest shrunk.
“The implants burst long ago,” the doctor explained. “Luckily they were of the saline variety. You must have grown some in the meantime.”
She had developed in other ways too. After she recovered sufficiently from her operation, she dyed her hair back to its original brown, then went back to school to study for and receive her high school equivalency certificate. She was no brighter, but at least what light she now emitted illuminated a larger world, and as a result, she was far more confident. But confident or not, as she sat inside her car, she was nervous enough to vomit.
“It’s okay,” she told herself, “he’s just a guy.”
She drove the last half mile from the highway and parked outside a big white house. The Cadillac of Doom, open to the weather, rusted in front of a garage. All four tires were flat and the seats were torn and stained by the rain. She got out of her car. She wore the knee length skirt, white cotton long sleeved shirt, leather vest and boots she had purchased in Cheyenne hours before. Everyone at the store was so friendly and helpful that at first she thought they were mocking her. But a waitress treated her the same when she ordered a vegetarian omelet in a highway diner and she concluded that was just how people here were. And the fat man at the market with the cross around his neck and the tattoo of a snake on his forearm was positively helpful when she asked for directions.
Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom Page 22
