The Chronicles of Marr-nia

by Karen Cantwell

  So, anyway, to make a long story longer—every time I see Howard, I’m torn between wanting to shoot him, and wanting to tear his clothes off and do wild and nasty things to him.

  Thankfully, there were too many people around at that moment to allow me to perform either action, so I sheepishly stood up and faced his certain, squinty-eyed, I don’t-approve-of-this expression. I felt like a teenager who’d been caught sneaking out of the house to smoke cigarettes.

  “Hi, Honey!” I said, all happy and innocent-like.

  “Barb, what are you doing here? Please tell me you weren’t on a job with Colt.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you that I was on a job with Colt.”

  “Were you?”

  “You just told me not to tell you that.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Well then, don’t ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answers. Why are you here? The 911 operator told me they don’t call the FBI.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The FBI has business here. Don’t tell me you witnessed this explosion.”

  “Okay, we didn’t witness this explosion.”

  “You did. Damn it, Barb!”

  “Geez, How-man, don’t you talk to me anymore? I’m feeling a little left out here.”

  Howard glared Colt down and stuck a finger in his face. “I’ll talk to you about this later. Problem is, right now I’ve got business to handle, and you both might be a part of that. Christ! I’ll be right back.” And Howard stalked off to talk to a hovering trio of policemen.

  “He’s not happy.”

  “Yeah, you’re not putting out. He’s sexually frustrated.”

  “Oh, shut up! Why did you drag me into this?”

  “We’re not going to have THAT conversation again, are we?”

  As Howard stood there, his hands in his pockets, head nodding, surveying the area, I pondered his reason for being there. After his years of lying about his job with the FBI, truth had become an obvious necessity between us. At least, as much truth as he could provide. The FBI didn’t allow him to reveal all things about his job these days, but he was able to tell me that he had most recently been assigned to the National Gang Task Force located at National Headquarters.

  Why would the National Gang Task Force be interested in an explosion that had leveled Paula whats-her-name’s apartment when she was meeting Master Kyo for a lunch-time quickie?

  Something else was nagging at me. Something I had observed between Paula, Master Kyo, and of all people—my mother. She had convinced me that Tae Kwon Do would be the thing for me—get me in shape and teach me to protect myself in dangerous situations. I’m not sure I’d gotten in shape, but certainly I was always in so much pain, that whenever anyone came near me, I was likely to kill them. If that’s what you call protection.

  In any event, one day I’d mustered up the nerve to stop by Master Kyo’s studio at a time when he wasn’t having classes. My mission: to quit Tae Kwon Do. I’d had enough. The pain was too extreme. I had kids and a life—I didn’t have time to soak my weary body in Epsom salts three times a week after an hour of cruel and unusual punishment to my aging body. It was time to end the misery.

  However, when I’d walked in, he wasn’t alone—he was in his office with Paula, my mother, and two young girls. They looked to be about my daughter Cassie’s age—fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. They were crying, and speaking in Spanish, which my mother seemed to be translating for Paula and Master Kyo. I hadn’t even known my mother could speak Spanish. Of course she has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, runs marathons, and claims to have gotten drunk with Ernest Hemingway, so I don’t know why I should doubt that she could speak not only Spanish, but probably also Russian, Swahili and Urdu to boot.

  While I pondered on that strange encounter at Master Kyo’s, I saw a female figure walking along the path that parallels Rustic Woods Parkway. Not necessarily something that should catch my eye as suspicious, with two exceptions. Number one: the woman wasn’t rubber necking at the disaster scene. Not a bit. Didn’t crane her neck to look once. Half the cars on Rustic Woods Parkway had stopped in the middle of the road to watch the carnage unfold, but not this woman. Walking along like she didn’t have a care in the world. Too odd.

  Number two, and more important than number one: The woman was huge. Not fat, but extraordinarily tall, and freakishly big boned. To be blunt—a woman of colossal size. She was walking away from us, so I only saw her back, but that’s all I needed to see to know that the woman was my own mother.

  Damn!

  Of course, the other problem with this little scenario is that my mother has an uncanny ability to sniff out my whereabouts from over one thousand miles away, so the fact that she was walking away from me and this mess meant one thing. She had something to hide.

  I elbowed Colt.

  “Psst. Don’t be too obvious, but look over there at that woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “On the path.” I pointed down low with my index finger as discreetly as I could. “Don’t let Howard see you looking.”

  Colt looked out of the corner of his eyes, one way toward the path, then back to me and whispered.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not big foot. And with feet that big—if it’s not big foot . . .”

  “It’s your mother.”

  “Do you think Howard has seen her yet?”

  Colt shot a glance at Howard, who looked back in our direction. I froze. He yelled across from his huddle of law enforcement buddies. “You two stay right there—I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to talk to you both.”

  I gave a nod and a whatever-you-say-honey smile. Colt waved a terse, but cool half-wave indicating manly understanding—the way manly men do—and then Howard moved off in the opposite direction with two uniformed policemen.

  “Okay, coast is clear, let’s go,” I said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know, but my mother’s up to it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just follow me. I may need your expertise.”

  Luckily, just to our left was a small cluster of evergreen trees that stood between us, and the parkway. It was an odd grouping of trees that didn’t seem to be there for either for privacy or aesthetic purposes, but it served our needs at the moment. I snuck behind the small grove motioning Colt to follow, which he did.

  “Do you have a plan?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “To formulate a plan.”

  Once safely behind the trees, I started moving down the path. Parkway traffic crept at a snail’s pace next to us and ahead, my mother’s hulking frame moved steadily away. She was carrying a plastic grocery bag filled nearly to capacity.

  “Why are you so concerned about your mother, anyway?”

  “Last time I saw her, she was with Paula and Master Kyo. Ordinarily she’d be all over this scene—probably telling the police how to do their job. I don’t trust her—she’s up to something.”

  “Your mother scares me.”

  “Really? You’re the only person I know who doesn’t cower around her.”

  “It’s a façade. I’m smiling on the outside, quaking on the inside.”

  I peeked back to assess the crime scene and determine our ability to make a run for it without being noticed. I didn’t see Howard. More official cars had arrived. They were unmarked. Probably FBI. The fire in the apartment had been put out, and firemen looked like they were in heavy discussion about what to do next. I figured now was as good a time as any.

  “Okay—run!”

  “No,” said Colt pulling me back. “Don’t run. That will attract attention.
Walk fast. Look like you belong on the path. PI trick.”

  We took off at a fast walking clip.

  “How do you look like you belong on the path?”

  “It takes a lot of practice.”

  Ahead of us, my mother took a sharp and unexpected turn to the right into one of my favorite small shopping plazas. I knew those shops well. When the weather turned frosty, I turned to Positively Polly’s Coffee, Tea and Read. It was a cozy little bookstore with a coffee and tea bistro. I would also buy birthday cards and wrapping paper at Danielle’s Cards and Gifts, order flowers for teacher appreciation day from Rustic Woods Fancy Floral, and occasionally get a sandwich at Parkway Panache.

  We quickened our pace to a slow jog. We were well past the apartment complex by that time, so we thought we were safe.

  A plaza sign and another set of trees obscured my view. I was afraid I had lost her, but luckily I caught sight of her again as she moved onto the sidewalk in front of a vacant shop next to Rustic Woods Fancy Floral. The windows were covered from the inside with white paper and a posted sign read: Space For Rent.

  My mother put the bag down and pulled something out of the purse slung over her left shoulder. Next thing I knew, she was slipping a key into the lock and walking into the vacant shop. Grabbing my head with both of my hands, I worked to suppress a growing headache. My mother had a way of giving me headaches.

  “Why does your mother have keys to that place?” Colt asked.

  “No idea.” The headache throbbed mercilessly.

  “Let’s go see.”

  “Do we have to?” I whined.

  “You started this. Besides, my only job went up in smoke an hour ago, so I have nothing better to do.”

  “Fine.” True, I had started it, but I was chickening out. My mother has a way of bringing out the cowardly fowl in me.

  Colt and I scooted across the parking lot, moving inconspicuously just to the side of the large plate glass windows of the vacant shop. Trying to peek inside was difficult since the windows were mostly covered. I had about one inch of clear glass which allowed me to see two panted legs from the shin down and feet wearing loafers. They looked like women’s loafers—small feet, so I knew they weren’t my mother’s. The legs moved back and forth like the person owning them was pacing.

  My headache increased with the squinting required to peep through the small opening. I was getting colder and grumpier by the minute as a sharp, brisk wind screamed past me.

  Finally, I’d had enough. With a loud grunt, I grabbed the door and gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. My mother had locked it behind her. Grabbing the silver door handle with both hands, I shook the locked door violently and screamed.

  “Mother! Let me in! I know you’re in there!”

  “Way to be discreet there, Curly.”

  Ignoring Colt’s remark, I started pounding on the door. “Mother! I want in this minute. I’m cold and tired, and now the aroma from Parkway Panache is making me hungry. I’m not happy here! Let me in!”

  By now, passersby were staring at me and whispering to each other. Colt smiled. Just before I was about to give the door another jerk, the dead bolt snapped back and the door opened just wide enough to allow my mother’s decidedly large and perfectly coifed head to emerge. She saw Colt first.

  “Well, well. Colt Baron. What are you doing here?” She was playing innocent. My mother doesn’t play innocent very well.

  “Mother! What is going on here?” I was seething.

  “Oh, Barbara. I didn’t see you there. Do you think you could come back later, dear? I’m a little busy right now.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. Not kidding. Very serious. Opening a business is very serious work you know. No time for idle banter.”

  She tried to pull her head back into the store, but I stopped her.

  “A business? What business?”

  “A sandwich shop.”

  “Mom—Parkway Panache is right next door. Why would you open a sandwich shop here?”

  “Their bread is too stale and their sandwich names aren’t very original. I can do better. Okay. Enough talk. Back to work . . .”

  There was no way I was letting her close that door. “Not so fast—let me see this place.” And with one swift pull, the door was wide open and I was marching in past my mother only to come face-to-face with the two people I’d thought had bit the dust back at the Colonial Arms.

  “Master Kyo!” I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Paula. You’re not dead.”

  Colt had followed me inside. “Interesting twist.”

  “If nothing else,” said Paula to my mother, “you’ve raised an observant daughter. At least she’s saying my name right, for once.”

  “Right,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

  “You not here!” Master Kyo shouted.

  “I may not want to be here, but like the lady said, I am observant, and I am definitely here. The question is, HOW are you here?”

  “No! You not here!” He was limping in circles around the very empty space and waving his hands wildly in the air over his head. For a short little guy he sure could whip up some wind.

  “Ruin everything! Away! Away!”

  “He’s saying you shouldn’t be here,” Paula translated.

  “We shouldn’t be here?” I yelled. “We just watched your secret love hideaway blow up like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July, with you supposedly in it, so I wouldn’t be pointing fingers right now.”

  “Love hideaway? What are you talking about?”

  “Your apartment. We know about it. Your husband knows about it.”

  “Well, it’s not a love hideaway for crying out loud. And the explosion wasn’t our fault.”

  “We on a missing!” screeched Kyo.

  Colt had been assessing the space. “Whose fault was it?”

  Paula rubbed her temples. “They knew about our set-up, so we snuck the girls out fast, late last night. We came back today to pack up their things and our supplies, when Master Kyo saw something that looked like bomb on a timer behind the couch. It was them. Had to be.”

  Set-up? Girls? And who were “They”? I was bordering on a major breakdown. “Mother, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  “We on a missing!” Kyo shrieked again.

  “We were watching that apartment all morning,” said Colt. “You both went in but never came out before that explosion tore the place apart.”

  “We jumped out the back balcony. Why do you think he’s limping?”

  “Missing! Missing! Eeet a missing!”

  This Korean midget of a dictator was starting to ruffle my already irritated feathers. “What is he saying?”

  “Barbara,” interrupted my mother. “You need to understand. We’re doing some very important humanitarian work here. He’s saying we’re on a mission. This is already very dangerous—if they find out you’re connected to the FBI, it could make things much worse.”

  There was that word again. “They?” I asked. Who’s ‘they’?”

  Before my mother could answer, a young girl with long dark hair came out of a back room. She was followed by two more girls, one of them helping the other who was bent over and holding her very large stomach. I was pretty sure two of them were the girls I had seen in Master Kyo’s office over a week ago.

  “Scuze me, missus. Maria very sick. She need help—maybe hospital.” The young girl who must have been Maria screamed out in pain.

  “Uh oh,” said Colt, backing up. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies.”

  “Oh Lord,” cried Paula, “this just keeps getting worse by the minute. What are we going to do?” Paula helped the young laboring girl to the floor against a wall.

  “Mother, who are these girls
?”

  “They’re slaves, Barbara. Slaves.”

  “What?”

  Another pain-filled scream from Maria was followed by the whooshing sound of the shop door opening. Two young men, probably not much older than the three young girls, stepped inside, hands tucked suspiciously into their hooded jacket pockets. Their black hair matched their menacing black eyes. Black peach fuzz topped their lips. Both sported red bandanas tied around their left thigh. I didn’t think it was a fashion statement.

  The tallest and scariest looking of the two spoke with an eerie sense of calm to one of the girls. The words were Spanish. She wasn’t so calm as she listened. Her eyes darted from him to my mother and then to Master Kyo, then back again to the intimidating duo. Finally she replied, again in Spanish.

  My hands had gone clammy and my legs felt like limp egg noodles. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew I should be scared. Colt kept looking out of the corner of one eye, while also assessing the situation with our two visitors, who had not moved from their position in front of the door.

  More undecipherable Spanish dialogue exchanged between the two, while poor Maria and the other young girl wept softly.

  “Sofia, what he say?” asked Master Kyo.

  The girl had tears in her eyes. “He says we must go with him. They will kill us all if we do not go now.”

  Master Kyo erupted again, his arms waving about in the air, punctuating his barely understandable words.

  “No! No! Dis not white! I not let happen!”

  Young man number two, who had been silent up till now, remained so while he pulled a very large and threatening handgun out of his pocket to let Master Kyo know that silence was probably a good thing. Master Kyo got the point and shut up quick like.

  Poor Paula looked like she was going to be sick. I wasn’t feeling too whippy myself.

  “Sofia—you can’t go,” said my mother.

  “Mom, maybe they should work this out amongst themselves. It seems like a domestic dispute sort of thing here.”