My voice trailed off as all the memories came back to me. I wasn’t feeling angry anymore, just exhausted and sad.
“So did your mother do all this to you out of meanness, or did she just make a mistake?”
I sighed. “Of course, she just made a mistake, a really big mistake. I know she loves me and didn’t mean to ruin my life. But she did. And where is she? Why doesn’t she come home?”
“Sometimes coming home is the hardest thing to do, baby doll,” Earl said. He stood up and rubbed his bad arm. “Anyway, it’s time to close up. I should have shut the station a half hour ago. I’m an old man and I need to go home.”
I stood up too and gave him a wan smile. “Thanks for giving me a shoulder to cry on.”
“Anytime, anytime. My life isn’t that exciting, so I’m happy to hear about yours.”
I chuckled, said good night, and went back to the camper. That night I slept like a baby who had worn herself out throwing the world’s biggest tantrum. Apparently, hysterical outbursts and crying jags are better than sleeping pills, because I felt amazingly calm and rested the next day.
After that, I began to wander out for late-night conversations with Earl once or twice a week. I didn’t always do all the talking. Over time he managed to get a word in edgewise. I learned that he grew up in Nevada and had traveled the world in the merchant marine. He’d married and been divorced twice. Now he lived with his daughter, a single mom with two kids, a few miles south in San Mateo.
Earl didn’t watch as many movies as I did, but he liked to read, so we talked a lot about books. He liked to describe the elaborate plots of spy novels and thrillers to me, and I would tease him that all those conspiracies gave him a suspicious nature.
“Nope, I’m not suspicious, just watchful,” he replied. “We all need to be watchful. The world can be a surprising place.”
“Surprising!” I hooted. “It’s shocking and confusing and downright loony. I used to think I knew everything, and now I don’t understand one damn thing about life or people, even my mother, the one person I thought I knew better than anyone. It scares me.”
“Don’t worry. Old Earl will keep an eye on you till you get it all figured out again.”
“My hero!” I giggled, giving him an affectionate smile. “Earl, why are you so nice to me?”
He snorted as if to dispel any notion that he was nice. “Please, I’m no hero. Just ask my daughter. I wasn’t around much when Teresa needed a father, and she got into a whole lot of trouble. She married a real dirtbag, and now she’s trying to bring up two kids alone. Maybe you’re my way of payback—you know, fixing my karma or whatever they call it. What goes around, comes around. One of these days it’ll be your turn to help someone.”
“I’m a mess! How could I help anyone? I feel like I have one foot on a banana peel.”
In fact, I had been worrying lately that Phil might decide to toss me out of the camper. I felt sick to my stomach at the very thought of moving out of my hidey-hole. Much as I hated it, at least I knew what to expect and how to cope. What if some worse disaster lay in store for me when I moved on?
Sleeping in the camper wasn’t so frightening when Earl was around. He chased away the bogeymen, and I appreciated the fact that he never offered me any fake sympathy. Instead of giving advice, Earl liked to offer up what he called platitudes. He collected memorable quotations from the books he read and had an appropriate one for every occasion. “Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names” was one he particularly liked. Earl said that one came from President Kennedy.
Another favorite was: “We are what we pretend to be.”
I argued with him about that one, contending that pretending to be smart didn’t make you smart.
“Well, now, maybe that’s true,” he mused. “But doesn’t it make you smarter than pretending to be dumb?”
“I don’t know about that. It seems to me that for centuries women have succeeded by playing dumb. Look at Marilyn Monroe.”
“She pretended to be dumb and that made her dumb or else she was dumb,” Earl answered. “A smart woman doesn’t kill herself over some love affair gone wrong. Learn from her mistake. There’s no man worth killing yourself over.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m way smarter than that.”
During another late-night visit, I told Earl about how I wanted to live like a normal person.
“Describe a normal person for me, baby doll. I don’t think I’ve ever met one,” Earl said. “There’s an old saying...”
“Not another old saying,” I groaned.
“Yup. Are you listening?” He grinned at me. “The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well.”
Chapter Nineteen
I rolled over, groaning as I slammed my knee against the hard metal back of the camper’s sleeping platform. Rain was hammering the roof and I shivered at the sound. The rumbling of cars and trucks surging down the streets signaled it was time to get up.
Although eight weeks had elapsed since I began living here, I still loathed waking up in the cold camper. The past week of nonstop rain wasn’t helping my mood. Not only was I sick of the soggy weather, I was just plain tired. Three nights in a row I had stayed up late gabbing with Earl. Now my lack of sleep was catching up to me.
By the time I got to the coffeehouse, I was admittedly grouchy. I lurched around the place trying to keep up with the chaos caused by the early-bird coffee crowd. It was a relief when the pace finally slowed. Then, as I bent over to pick up a dirty cup from one of the coffeehouse tables, I felt a hand on my back.
Snap! The elastic from my bra made an audible noise as it cracked against my bare skin.
I flinched and whirled around. Jerry was standing there, grinning at me. I reached over and slapped his computer-geek face.
All nine or so of the people in the Madhouse stopped what they were doing to stare at us.
“It was just a joke,” Jerry mumbled.
I grabbed the dirty cup and marched past him to the counter, then turned back to hiss, “Save your junior high school tricks for someone else. And stop watching me all the time.”
From the corner I could hear Mal laughing, of course. Mal always enjoyed any drama unfolding in his establishment.
Jerry flushed red and sputtered, “What?”
My lip curled at the sight of his stricken expression. Didn’t the guy have any pride?
“Look, I know you watch me, and I want it to stop. It’s extremely annoying.”
“Jerry, my boy,” Mal drawled. “Your obvious appreciation of our lovely Ashley seems to be having a detrimental effect on her disposition.”
“I’m not watching you,” Jerry denied without conviction, then added, “At least, well, it’s just that you’re so...interesting.”
I snorted. “Yeah, I’m a regular Einstein. I’m sure you’re watching my mind. News flash, Jerry: You’re not my type.”
“You hear that, Jerry? Don’t expect any mercy or sympathy from this girl,” Mal interjected. “Fill us in, Ashley. Tell us all about your type of man. What is the way to Ashley Mitchell’s heart?”
Mal’s wisecracks were like a sudden splash of cold water in my face.
“I don’t think that’s anything I want to share,” I said, giving Mal a stern look. I turned to Jerry and lowered my voice. “I don’t want to be a complete bitch, all right? Just give me a break. Keep your hands, your eyes, and your practical jokes to yourself.”
Jerry nodded sheepishly and looked down at his feet. He muttered, “Sorry,” and fled out the front door.
Both Mal and I stared after him, me in chagrin and Mal in amusement.
“Uh-oh. Maybe I overreacted,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Mal retorted. “Jerry is embarrassed, but he’ll get over it. The lad is a computer genius, but he’s socially challenged. You had every right to call him on his inappropriate behavior. However, try not to make a practice of driving paying customers out of the coffeehouse.”
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“Like we could drive Jerry away with a stick,” I said, smiling at the absurdity of it. Mal chuckled and picked up his newspaper to resume reading.
I stood there a moment and then darted into the tiny restroom. I paused to look in the mirror, staring at Ashley Mitchell—bitch, barista, and love object for dorks.
At least part of my outburst had been frustration that Jerry, rather than Patrick, was enamored with me. The charming Irishman seemed immune to my charms. He flirted and joked but never asked me out. At least no one knew about my infatuation. Mal had a sort of radar about that kind of thing, but so far he hadn’t caught on.
A few days after my skirmish with Jerry, I overheard a conversation that gave me some insight into Patrick. Malcolm and Patrick were talking about their writing class. William was there as well, but Jerry wasn’t in the coffeehouse and that allowed me to move close enough to eavesdrop.
“That piece you read on Tuesday was your best ever, Mal. I could practically taste the malt whiskey sliding down my throat,” Patrick said.
“Thank you, dear boy,” retorted Mal with a pleased smile. “As you are a master of sensory description I consider that a real tribute.”
“So this guy really writes?” interjected William, leaning over to gesture with his thumb toward Malcolm. “I thought he was slinging the bull.”
“That’s the sign of a good storyteller, William. As my dear departed mother used to say,” quipped Mal, “if a liar repeats a story often enough, he begins to believe it himself.”
“You know, Mal, we hear a great deal about your dear departed mother,” William said. “What about your father? Like all the rest of us, you must have had one.”
Malcolm raised one eyebrow. “Not to hear my mother tell it. She liked to pretend that she did it all by herself. When I was growing up, both sex and my father were verboten subjects. He vanished before I was born, never to be heard from again. Maybe he was gay. Or maybe she drove him crazy. She often had that effect on me. At least I never had to endure the cliché of the outraged father who rejects his gay son.”
“Fathers have expectations,” Patrick said. “At least you didn’t have to worry about letting yours down.”
“What’s the matter, Patrick? The old man doesn’t like having a skirt-chasing, poetry-quoting n’er-do-well for a son?” William jeered.
“My father’s a doctor, and he wanted me to study medicine or science, not history.”
“You studied history?” said Mal in surprise. “I didn’t know that. I would have thought, with your gifts and love of poetry, you would have pursued writing and literature.”
“Ah, well, what is history except true stories? Some are exciting, some are dull, and most defy logic. But they’re all human and complicated. And they don’t have the tidy, predictable endings that fiction gives you. I figured studying literature would teach me to write just like the other fellows, while studying history would give me insight into people and events.”
Patrick leaned forward, absently running the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “My dad claims history just shows people making the same mistakes without learning a damn thing from the past. He believes that only scientists truly change the world for the better.”
“What about writers? What about Shakespeare and Dickens and all the great poets?” I interjected myself into the conversation without being invited.
“Ah, but did they change the world or merely record what happened? I’m not saying that I agree, I’m just repeating my father’s view of it all. I love words, not empirical data. I don’t have the knack for scientific research.”
“Still, I envy you your relationship with your father,” mused Mal. “I always thought it would have been nice to have a normal family.”
“Normal isn’t the word I’d use to describe my tribe,” said Patrick.
“I have a friend who says that the only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well,” I said.
Both Mal and Patrick chuckled
“I think your friend may have something there,” Patrick said. ‘I never know how to define normal.”
“I do,” Mal said with an emphatic air. “Normal is what I approve of or what I do. Everything else is abnormal or, at the very least, in very poor taste.”
At that moment, the phone rang, and I moved behind the counter to answer it. A woman’s voice asked if she could speak to Patrick Rigney.
“Just a minute,” I said.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow quizzically. I said, “It’s for Patrick. A woman.”
Patrick and Mal exchanged a look, then Mal said, “Tell her he’s not here.”
I repeated his words into the receiver and hung up.
“It was Jeanne and she wants you to call her.”
“Oh, God, will that woman never leave off?” groaned Patrick.
“You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” Mal scolded him with a mocking air. “My dear boy, you are your own worst enemy. You let these situations drift along and suddenly find yourself ensnared in romantic catastrophe.”
“Hold on. I’m an innocent man. I never made a pass, much less a commitment of any sort, to Jeanne. I never proposed or discussed marriage with Caitlin. As for Lynda, well, I’m only human. But I start out having a little frolic with a girl, and before you know it, she’s saying she loves me and is making plans. I’ve never pretended I was a marrying man. What more can I do—wear a sign?”
“Maybe you should.” Mal stood up and walked over to refill his coffee cup. “You smile at them, flatter them, quote poetry, and otherwise get their love-starved hearts fluttering wildly. You’re every woman’s dream—just like the hero of a romance novel. No wonder they start weaving romantic fantasies about you. You need to belch, scratch your privates, get sloppy drunk, and stay glued to the sports channel. In other words, be the typical unattached American male.”
William snorted. “Yeah. Start wearing a baseball cap and calling every girl ‘Babe.’ They’ll run away screaming.”
“What you’re supposed to do is tell them the truth before they begin weaving fantasies!” The words burst out of me.
The three of them stared up at me in amazement.
“Whoa,” Mal started to protest, but I kept right on talking.
“I hate people who lie and then claim they’re trying to protect you,” I sputtered. “They’re the worst kind of cowards because you end up being more hurt than if they’d just been honest in the first place.”
“You sound as if you’ve had personal experience with this problem, Ashley. Care to elaborate?” Mal added in obvious amusement.
“No!” I said tartly, then took a deep breath and added in a calmer tone, “I’m not talking just about boy-girl stuff. It applies to any relationship. It could be your mother … or … or anyone who’s important to you. Lying to keep people from being mad at you is really only protecting yourself. Even if you want to tell them the truth, in the end it could be too late.”
“Listen to her,” William interjected, “she’s pretty smart for a sweet young thing.”
“I’m not all that sweet,” I said.
“No, you’re not, are you?” Patrick flashed his crooked grin, making my pulse gallop. “But you’re probably right. Maybe I have caused harm by drifting along and not making myself plain. I’ll take your advice. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m a pathetic dog who needs a kind word and a pat from every passerby. I can take a kick now and then.”
“Careful,” Mal warned him. “Ashley here sounds as if she’d be happy to administer a few swift kicks.”
They had no idea. I’d be happy to give him a few good kicks, and a few kisses, too.
Chapter Twenty
Fog often creeps over the Golden Gate Bridge and oozes across the water until the bay and Alcatraz Island are swathed in a fluffy white blanket. Sometimes, though not often, the fog will move inland, twisting and creeping up the hills and through the streets until everything is swallowed up in it.
It was late on
a Friday night when I drove toward Burlingame through a heavy, inland-floating fog. Everything had a dreamlike quality, and all the other cars on the road seemed to appear and then disappear into the mist. The gas station was an oasis of light in the dense vapor. As I pulled my car in, I waved to Earl and went straight into the camper.
For once, sleep came easily. I don’t know how long I had been asleep when my dream morphed into a delusion that I was back home in my white wicker bed. Stella was scratching at my door. Scratch, scratch. Rattle, rattle. “Go away, you crazy cat,” I started to say, and then suddenly I was wide-awake.
It wasn’t a dream. Someone was rattling the door latch to the camper, and it definitely wasn’t Stella. Someone was trying to get inside.
I didn’t move—I couldn’t. I just stared at the handle as it twisted back and forth in the darkness, too frightened to even take a breath. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it was audible. Who was out there? I knew it couldn’t be Earl because he would have knocked. Earl would have called my name.
In blind panic I thrust my hand under my pillow for my knife. As I groped wildly for the familiar cold metal handle and flipped it open, I sliced my forefinger on the sharp edge. A scream welled up in my throat and I bit my lip hard to smother it. My finger throbbed in pain and I could feel blood oozing out of the cut.
Bam! The unknown invader jerked the door hard, trying to force it open. The door shuddered, but it didn’t open.
The darkness seemed heavy and oppressive, almost a physical entity threatening me. I tried to control my panic, putting one hand against my mouth while I clutched the knife in the other. I thought my heart would explode out of my chest.
Bam! The door shuddered again.
Bam, bam, bam, bam, BAM! The invader frantically tried to open the door. It took all my willpower to keep from screaming in terror.
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