Desperate to the Max

by JB Skully

  "Tell me one."

  Max looked at Dr. Prunella Scales. She'd paid this woman $155 for forty-five minutes, thirty-five of which was up. She couldn't talk to Cameron about Witt. She couldn't talk to Witt about Witt. She didn't have anyone else, unless she wanted to talk to herself.

  "I don't want to start depending on someone, then wake up one morning to find him gone."

  "So you'd rather be alone now, than risk being alone later."

  Sounded kind of dumb put that way, but, “Yeah."

  "Your mother died, your aunt died, your husband died. I'd say you have good reasons to be afraid, Max."

  She felt like a nail had been slammed right through her breastbone. “Yeah."

  "So what do you want to do about it?"

  "It?"

  "Being alone. Is that what you want?"

  The woman's questions robbed her of speech. They were so succinct, the answers so simple. So terrifying. If she said yes, she doomed herself to another fifty years in a one-room studio replacing her cats every ten to fifteen years when they died so she had something alive to cuddle up to at night. If she said no? Well, that meant Witt.

  None of this was what she'd come here for.

  "I'm sorry, Max, I can see you're thinking I want an answer right now. I don't."

  Thank God. Max breathed a sigh of relief.

  The doctor went on. “I'm trying to get to the lowest common denominator here. Quite frankly, I don't have a clue yet."

  "I didn't expect you to.” Especially with the hodgepodge of crap Max had fed her.

  "Why don't you tell me what you think you want?"

  Ah, so psychiatric. Patient, heal thyself. “I think I'd like to try a group again. It worked before."

  "Why?"

  Hell, she hadn't thought of the answer to that one. Wasn't it obvious? Wasn't that why doctors loved to send their patients there? Or maybe an answer lay in the fee structure. “I realized I wasn't as fucked up as some other people are."

  Instead of the disapproving glare Max expected, Prunella smiled, chasing the frumpishness away. “I'm serious, Max. Why did it work before?"

  "Someone finally understood me. They were exactly like me, and they understood. They didn't look at me like I was crazy."

  Ah, right answer. Prunella smiled again. “I have to admit I don't have any groups going right now for people whose dead husbands talk to them."

  This time Max laughed. “That's not what I want a cure for anyway."

  "Well, Max, for someone with food issues, I usually like to meet with a patient at least three to four times before deciding on a course of treatment. However, since you're so sure about what you want and I happen to have an opening in my Friday group, let's give a whirl. Can you be back here at three this afternoon?"

  Food issues. What a lovely term. “We'll meet in this office?” Max looked around the cramped quarters.

  "We have a larger room for group meetings. It even has sofas and pillows. You can throw the pillows if you want."

  Max looked at the clock. Damn, that had been easy. She hadn't even used her full forty-five minutes.

  She was so sure of herself, she didn't even wonder if Jada belonged to Friday's group.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Max had a few hours to kill. For no apparent reason, she decided to kill them outside the grocery store where Ladybird had seen Bethany's little courier boy. Call it a premonition. Call it a hunch. Just don't call it psychic. She laughed at her quip and cracked the window while she ... waited.

  Yeah, she was waiting. Lunchtime. Grocery store. Pizza parlor. Arcade games. Odds were if he was here yesterday with a bunch of his pals, he'd show again today.

  She thought about her conversation with Prunella Scales. In hindsight, it was rather unsettling. She didn't like the questions about her childhood. She didn't like the references to a fear of abandonment. She didn't like the way her emotions had leapt into her throat, and things she didn't want to say almost jumped out of her mouth.

  If Group was anything like that, she'd better sit and keep her mouth shut.

  "Like you've always done."

  "Oh God, don't start picking at me now."

  "Actually, I was going to congratulate you. You got exactly what you wanted."

  She narrowed her eyes at the passenger seat, simply because Cameron's voice sounded as if he was sitting right there. “All right. I better stand by for the ram. I know it's coming."

  "I'd say you had the Ram last night."

  "I meant,” she enunciated, “that I'm standing by for the slam. From you."

  "I'm not going to give you one. I wanted to finish our discussion from last night."

  "Been there, done that, don't need to hear it again."

  "Actually, I was referring to the part where you admitted you were psychic and that eventually sweet Bethany would tell you everything you want to know."

  "Oh, that.” Relieved, she shrugged. “Being psychic doesn't bother me so much any more. See there? I said it flat out.” It didn't disturb her, really, though she'd only just noticed.

  "Aren't you afraid I'm going to leave you now that you've admitted it?"

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, then shook her head. “Nope. I've finally figured out that you have some other agenda. I just don't know what it is."

  "Neither do I. I suspect we'll both find out in God's own time."

  "Right.” Max watched as a lone teen wheeled in on his ten-speed, a forest green backpack hanging off one shoulder. “So. Want me to wow you with my newly acknowledged psychic abilities?"

  "Sure, baby."

  Baby. Witt had murmured that very word last night as he filled her. Then, she'd told herself she hated the term. Now, she wanted, almost needed, to hear it again. From Witt. Not Cameron.

  Holy shit.

  She wouldn't think about that now. Maybe never.

  She rested her hand on the top of the steering wheel. “If I had to bet my life on it, I'd say that kid,” she pointed her index finger, “is Bethany's Freddy. And I'd be right.” The boy disappeared inside the grocery store.

  "How do you know?” Cameron whispered, awe seasoning his tone.

  She let her lips rise in a slow smile. “Bethany. She knows him."

  "So you don't want to kick her out? After all, it's your body."

  "I'm content with her unless she makes me eat until I want to puke.” She flipped a glance at his ethereal shimmer beside her. “For now.” She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat and popped the car door open. “Gotta go. I have some tailing to do."

  "God, I've created a monster."

  She slammed the door on his snort, and, careful of her high heels, picked her way through the pockmarked parking lot. Some brilliant marketing type, in order to keep up with the new superstore craze, had tacked on the word pharmacy at the end of Alfred's Family Grocery. It gave the storefront a decidedly lopsided appearance and hadn't improved the clientele. Chewing gum dotted the sidewalk as she stepped up on the curb. The trash can nearest the door overflowed. Beside it lay a flattened pizza box with two leftover slices. The odor of rotting garbage followed her through the automatic door, and the smell was little better inside. Years of recirculated air permeated the store, the scent close to that of unwashed human bodies.

  She wondered how Witt could let his mother shop at a place like this. She wondered how Virginia Spring had kept herself from slashing her wrists when faced with Alfred's Family Grocery/Pharmacy. Maybe she drove to a better part of town.

  Max started at the right side of the store, peering down the aisles in search of Bethany's boy. She passed the coffee aisle, the baking aisle, canned goods, soda, freezer section ... ah, there he was, the end of the sundries aisle at the pharmacy window.

  Max made a beeline for him, slowed three feet away when she heard him arguing with the fuzzy-haired pharmacist, took another two steps, then stopped as if she were waiting in line. Slightly to the right and close enough to see the teen's surprisingly clear complexion
, she eavesdropped shamelessly.

  "Look, you know I come in here every three weeks to pick up this stuff,” Freddy whined.

  His backpack had slid down his arm and flopped to the floor beside him, his fingers still in contact with one nylon tag. He wore the usual oversized pants, baggy once-white shirt, and hi-top tennis shoes. At least she thought they'd be hi-tops, his frayed pant leg hems actually obscuring everything except the very tips of his tennies. He was going to be tall. His fingers were long and his hands too big for the rest of body, like the paws of a Malamute puppy. Beneath the ill-fitting clothes, the lank hair, and the still-growing body, Max realized the kid was pretty damn good-looking. No, not good enough. Freddy was beautiful.

  Gray Hair squinted, tipped his head back and stared down at Freddy through the bifocal half of his smudged glasses. “I don't remember you, boy, and Ms. Spring called like clockwork when she had a pick up. She hasn't called today."

  Freddy brushed back a lock of his too-long brown hair. “I told you. She was murdered. Day before yesterday."

  The man didn't even flinch as Freddy said the word murder. “Then what the hell do you need to pick up this medication for?"

  "Because I worked for Bethany and the medicine isn't for her, it's for Mrs. Pratt, and she needs it. Her doctor always called it in, Bethany always called you to say I was coming, and I always picked it up.” The kid's voice broke on the last word, though he looked seventeen or so and too old for the pubescent voice change thing.

  "Well, I don't like you kids coming in here trying to steal cough medicines, condoms, and airplane glue. Get your kicks somewhere else."

  "Come on, man, you know who I am."

  Gray Hair flapped a hand. “Go on. I told you to get."

  "Why don't you call Mrs. Pratt and settle the matter?” Max interjected.

  Freddy and the pharmacist both turned to stare at her, eyes wide as if they were viewing an alien species. Max had the strange notion to sniff her armpits to make sure she didn't smell bad.

  Then the old guy harrumphed. She took it to mean no. Freddy took it that way, too, his mouth set in a mutinous line. No one reached for the old-fashioned rotary phone sitting on the counter behind the man.

  Max opened her voluminous purse and pulled out Witt's cell phone. She neither analyzed why she had it with her instead of leaving it in the glove box nor why it was on as if, like a lovesick puppy-dog, she expected a call from him.

  "Here. Why don't you call Mrs. Pratt? Then you can hand the phone over to...” She leaned close to read the man's nametag. “Ah yes, you can hand it over to Mr. Carbuncle, and he can verify that she wants you to pick it up for her."

  "It's Kerbinkle,” the man corrected with the accent on the “binkle."

  "Sorry for the mispronunciation, Mr. Carbuncle.” Max smiled sweetly, then ignored him.

  Freddy stared at the phone for a full ten seconds.

  "Do you remember her number?"

  "How do I know he's not calling one of his gang buddies?"

  Max took a deep breath and begged for patience. “I'll bet you have the number in your computer. Our friend here can punch it in. Or maybe you'd feel better doing it.” Young or old, men could really be bastards.

  He grunted, did a hunt-'n'-peck on the keyboard, then reached behind for the rotary phone and dialed the number himself. Stretching the cord to the limit, he disappeared through a door into his pharmacist's lair. She smiled brightly at Freddy as they listened to the drone of the old man's voice.

  "He's always hated me,” Freddy offered.

  Carbuncle returned, slammed the phone down, grabbed a bottle off the shelf, and rang up the sale. “Ten dollar co-pay.” He held out his hand.

  Freddy reached deep into his pocket, his fingers wiggling around somewhere down near his knees, and finally produced a crumpled ten dollar bill. Carbuncle took it, shoved the pill bottle in a bag along with the receipt, and thrust it at the boy.

  Then he turned on Max. “What do you want?"

  "Well, I was going to order my six month supply of birth control pills, but you know what, I think I'll go to the Safeway near my house. They're much more congenial.” She smiled, turned on her heel, and hastened after Freddy.

  The boy was waiting at the end of the aisles, staring at the bottles of cough medicine, some red, some green.

  "Thanks.” He shuffled and didn't quite meet her eye.

  "You're welcome."

  "Why'd you do it?” This time he flashed her a glance.

  Max started walking as she talked. Freddy kept up. “Two reasons. First, he was a dickhead."

  His eyes went wide, then the corner of his mouth lifted. Damn, the kid had a lady-killer smile and long lashes a model would die for. Give him five years and the girls would be dropping like flies at his feet.

  "My mother would try to wash your tongue with soap if she heard you say that."

  "My mother already did.” She passed through the front door.

  Freddy followed. “It didn't do any good."

  Max laughed as he caught up with her.

  "Hey, lady, what's the second reason?"

  Oh, she had him, she had him good.

  "I want to know about Ms. Spring, the lady who got murdered."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "Why do you want to know about her?” Freddy stopped at the edge of the curb, still in the shadow of the store, his smile gone.

  Max went cold without direct sunlight and tried for the honest approach. “I was her friend.” Though friends didn't quite describe the sensation of another spirit, another soul, another essence seeping into your bones and your very organs.

  His lip curled. “Yeah, right. Bethany didn't have friends."

  So exactly what did he consider himself?

  "We were e-mail buds,” Max improvised. E-mail, Internet, cyberspace, yeah, that was close to another plane of existence. She hadn't seen Bethany's computer, but she knew it was there in the house somewhere. She still wasn't lying, per se.

  "E-mail?” His chin jutted, his eyes widened. They were brown, a deeper, more compelling color than that of his hair.

  "Of course. How do you think she did all her scheduling? Mrs. Pratt wasn't her only client, and you weren't her only boy."

  Ooh, bad choice of words; she saw that right away. He didn't react well, his body stiffening, and his fist clenched and white on the nylon strap of his backpack.

  Max tried smiling. Too late.

  "I wasn't her ‘boy.’”

  Wondering how many times he'd been called boy and by whom, she backed off, softening her tone. “No, I'm sorry, you worked for her. There's a difference."

  It was noon. More cars filled the parking lot. Max was aware of the curious eyes as people entered the store.

  Freddy didn't care. He ignored her apology and pushed his hair out of his eyes to glare at her. “You're just like them, aren't you?"

  "Them?” Oh, yeah, she'd pushed a button all right.

  "Adults. Parents. Teachers. Old pharmacists.” He jerked a finger at the door behind him. His face grew red. He paced three steps to her left along the storefront, then returned to stand right in front of her. “You think I'm so irresponsible. That I wouldn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. Always talking down to me like I'm stupid, like I don't get it."

  Max jumped into the middle of his tirade before she really lost him. “I don't call it irresponsible to make sure Mrs. Pratt gets her medicine even though you know Bethany's not going to pay you. And I don't call it irresponsible to go up against Dickhead in there,” she flapped a hand in the old Carbuncle's direction, “in order to get it for her. I'll call it courageous, actually."

  The praise took the wind out of his angry sail. He made a half-turn, then shuffled his feet. “Yeah, well, Mrs. Pratt needs it."

  "You can't let her down."

  He scratched his neck and looked at the ground. Shuffling the few steps round Max, he ended up closer to his bike, then turned the discussion back to something that didn't
make him feel quite so uncomfortable. “You seem to know more about Bethany than just through e-mail."

  Max smiled. “Actually e-mail's a great way to get to know people.” Max herself hadn't used e-mail in years, but it used to be a nice concept. “You can be more honest. Nobody says anything in haste. You've always get time to reread it and change what you don't like. Not like speaking where you've blurted it all out and pissed ‘em off. And if they do piss you off, you've always got it in writing, too."

  Freddy cocked his head and peered at her through a fringe of hair. “That's what Bethany used to say. She always wanted to make sure she had it in writing. She didn't like using the phone...” He cut himself off, as if she'd caught him in a lie.

  Max knew she was on to something. Had Freddy known what she did late at night? Had he called her himself, pretending he was someone else? Achilles? The thought made her dizzy with possibilities.

  "She hated using the phone?” Max prompted.

  If he'd had the top button of his shirt done up, he'd have been pulling at it. Instead, he cleared his throat. “For company stuff,” and Max couldn't ignore the specificity of his language, “she said everyone always got it mixed up. She only used the phone when she had to, like with Mrs. Pratt, who doesn't even own a computer.” His shoulders slumped and disappointment crept into his voice. “Bethany never told me she used it for anything but her business."

  It. The phone? The Internet? Both?

  Watching the play of emotions across Freddy's face, Max got a head rush. As if some strange force had come to life in her. As if Bethany suddenly had.

  Testing, pushing, she took a step closer, letting him take a nervous step back.

  "She had lots of friends on the Internet, Freddy.” That was another murderous angle Max hadn't even thought of. She'd look at that, too, but another time, another place.

  Freddy looked up, his cheek pulling in where he'd bitten himself on the inside. His backpack slid down his arm and bounced against the side of his leg.

  "She didn't tell me about that.” The injured tone implied he thought Bethany had told him everything about herself.