Brake Failure

by Alison Brodie

  ‘Yes, you did. You asked me to meet you at Bronco’s.’

  ‘I was just being friendly.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? Well, I saw the look in your eyes.’ He put his hand high on the doorframe, and leant down to her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. ‘You want me, but you’re too scared to admit it.’

  The truth ripped through her, scorching a path through her body. He had aroused these surging emotions which she could neither understand nor control, these terrifying waves of physical arousal, and she wanted to punish him for it, to make him suffer, like she was suffering.

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Tell me, Ruby, why did you slap me when I kissed you?’

  She went to slam the door. This time Hank kicked it open. She heard a growl. Rowdy had his head low between his shoulder blades, his hackles stiff, eyes on Hank. Fear gripped her heart. If Rowdy attacked a police officer, he would be destroyed.

  ‘Rowdy! Go to your bed!’ Rowdy didn’t move. ‘Bad dog!’ she yelled. ‘Go to bed!’ Reluctantly, the dog slunk away but after a few steps, turned slowly and continued watching Hank.

  Hank knelt down on one knee. ‘Hey, buddy boy,’ he crooned. ‘It’s okay. You’re not a bad boy. You’re protecting her.’ Hank’s tone was so gentle, so understanding, that for some reason Ruby felt the urge to burst into tears. The dog, still confused by the angry shouting, was uncertain. He saw Hank’s outstretched hand and came forward slowly and gave the hand a tentative lick. Hank ruffled the dog’s ear. ‘I’m sorry, Rowdy. We’ll keep the noise down, huh?’

  Hank stood straight and faced her again, his big boot jamming open the door. His eyes were like granite. ‘So, Ruby, why did you slap me?’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Was it because,’ his voice was a sneer, his breath warm on her face, ‘you liked it too much?’

  ‘I would rather have kissed a goat.’

  ‘You melted in my arms, Ruby.’

  ‘You are a-!’ She threw a hasty look at Rowdy, and fell silent.

  ‘I know you don’t love your husband. Molly told me.’

  ‘I … You … !’ Ruby took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Of course I love my husband.’ The shock and hurt showed in Hank’s eyes, and she was pleased and savagely triumphant. ‘I love him more than … more than words can say.’

  ‘So why are you out at nights without him?’

  ‘Because we have a modern marriage.’

  ‘A modern marriage? That sounds like true love.’

  ‘You don’t know the meaning of true love. Not with all your girlfriends.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? I’m unattached and searching for the right woman, who I thought was you.’

  His words were like a gentle punch to her chest, leaving her breathless. Then she remembered his betrayal, his deception and how he had humiliated her. This time his honeyed words couldn’t fool her.

  He was shaking his head in disgust. ‘But I was wrong. You see, the woman I’m looking for has to be respectable and-’

  ‘How dare you! I’m respectable.’

  ‘Respectable? You’re as respectable as a cow poke on pay day.’

  She didn’t need a translation to know that this was a vile slur. ‘For some reason you have the misguided impression that I am attracted to you. In fact, I find you to be an impudent, treacherous, scurrilous boor.’

  Knowing that Rowdy was watching them, they spoke at a low volume. They no longer had the luxury of shouting, waving their arms and slamming the door. Instead, they stood stiff and polite, talking like two vicars at the bishop’s garden party. But there was nothing stopping the fury in their eyes flashing between them.

  Hank’s tone was light and friendly. ‘I can always tell when you’re lying, Ruby. Your lips move.’

  ‘Well, if I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d fart.’ Ruby stopped, stunned into silence. Did I just say that?

  ‘Is that right?’ Hank continued. ‘Well, let me tell you, Oh Queen of Crap. That little trick you played driving up and down my street? You were wasting your time. Everyone ended up laughing ’cos they thought I’d paid you to do it. You should have seen them. They thought you were a joke!’

  She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I didn’t think the Donut Patrol had a sense of humour.’

  ‘And I didn’t think Princess Ruby was a tramp. Scrape away the veneer and what’ve you got? You cuss, you drink, you smoke pot, and you mix with trash.’ He nodded. ‘You know what I said to myself when I first met you? That girl’s got the devil in her eyes.’

  The devil in her eyes. The devil in her eyes.

  She continued to say nothing. His words had left her strangely detached. Hank was sneering at her just like her Aunt Abigail had been doing for all these years.

  Hank stood straight and folded his arms. ‘And your message? I’d like to know what right you had calling me a conniving-?’

  ‘Sheriff Gephart.’ She spoke politely, a tremble in her voice. She would not stand here a minute longer and be verbally attacked by this man. ‘My name is Mrs Mortimer-Smyth; please address me as such when you speak to me. Now, if you have reason to arrest me, then please do so. If not, I would be grateful if you would remove yourself from these premises. Good evening, officer.’

  It must have been the sudden change in her manner, because when she closed the door on him, he was staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment.

  She listened to his footsteps recede.

  The blood roared and surged in her head.

  He had reported her to the authorities.

  He proffered love yet he had kissed her in front of a laughing audience. And all the time he’d been in love with Roxanne.

  Then he had said what Aunt Abigail had accused her of all those years ago. “That girl has the devil in her eyes.”

  Ruby flung open the door and marched out onto the porch.

  He had gone.

  She wished she hadn’t sent him away, wished that he was still here so that she could tell him how much she hated him.

  *

  She paced the kitchen in savage brooding. She was no tramp. She was a woman of breeding, culture and refinement. And his accusations were unforgivable.

  But she was way above that inbred, insufferable, ingrate. She would put him out of her mind as easily as opening up a window to release a buzzing fly. Why was she allowing herself to get riled up? He was not, and never would be, a part of her life. She was happily married to Edward and they were going to make a lovely life in Paris. And right now she had more important things to think about than Hank Gephart!

  Number one: she had to finish her epic poem.

  Number two: she had to start checking-out rental apartments in Paris.

  Presumably, Hank was expecting her to throw herself around the house in a state of deranged fury; but she would not give him that satisfaction. Oh, no. She was too well-bred for that. She poured herself a glass of Chablis and carried it upstairs, her head held high. As far as she was concerned, the whole Gephart episode was finally at an end.

  Her priority now was her masterpiece. She had five days in which to complete it.

  In the back bedroom, she placed the glass on the desk and sat in the chair. All she had to do was write the final four verses and she would become an international poet, someone who saw past rainbows and frolicking lambs to the beating heart of all that was raw and true.

  She picked up a pen, and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

  Nothing.

  She was no longer able to imagine the prairie grass swaying in the breeze, nor the heart-broken cowboy drinking his life away. All she saw was Deputy Sheriff Stone standing at the door threatening her with prosecution; Roxanne sliding onto Hank’s lap; and the audience of cowboys laughing at her. Her thoughts went around in a circle like a miniature train on a miniature railroad track. Reporting her to the authorities! Roxanne! The kiss!

  She gazed at the pages scattered about, the hundreds of scribbled notes
, words that she wanted to use but couldn’t find a place for: “virility, fertility, Millennium”. Words that would never rhyme: “Pole-axed, signal failure, Tonganoxie, angst”. Up to this point, she had looked upon her creation with joy and confidence, now she was beginning to feel the stirrings of panic.

  What if she couldn’t finish it?

  It was Gephart! He had disrupted her creative flow.

  She downed her glass of wine and decided to read over her completed poetry, knowing it would give her a fresh boost, an impetus to forge ahead. She picked up two pages and settled back, but as she reached the last verse, she blinked, astonished to realise that she’d read the whole lot without taking in a word.

  Reporting her to the authorities! Roxanne! The kiss!

  She went downstairs, and topped up her glass. She just needed that rousing finish, but all she could feel was anger and frustration.

  She filled her glass once more and put it to her lips. But her thoughts were elsewhere and before she knew it, her glass was empty. She poured another glass and carried it upstairs, ready to resume work but her mental train was still chugging round the track. Here it came again. Reporting her to the authorities! Roxanne! The kiss!

  She couldn’t work cooped up in this room. She went downstairs, discovered the cocktail cabinet was empty, apart from the bottle of cooking sherry, and sat at the kitchen table with her pen poised. Her ability to write poetry had been so effortless - now it was as if she were sitting an MIT exam in Jet Propulsion. It didn’t help that the words refused to stay still.

  She had to relax, defuse her anger. She threw a ball for Rowdy, humming in order to prove to herself that she was happy and in control. She went to the fireplace and listened for raccoons. She took Payat’s hunting knife from the mantle and studied it. She turned on the TV. The last thing she remembered she was watching a hyperactive blonde with piano teeth on the roof of a stage-coach, slapping her thighs and singing “Whip-crack-away”.

  *

  Ruby awoke the next morning with a pounding head and a dreadful thirst. A woman on TV was selling diamonds rings. Payat’s hunting knife was embedded in the coffee table. She pulled it out, went into the kitchen, drank from the tap and switched on the kettle. Hank was a treacherous bastard! She sat down at the table and grabbed up a pen.

  Cos they never see action in their daily grind

  That makes ’em go crazy - go out of their mind

  It makes ’em go warped and kinda distorted

  Built to fight crime, they feel hopeless and thwarted

  But never a goal was so far and so near

  So they track down old ladies and fill them with fear

  They bully housewives at home, just cos they can

  It gives them a reason to feel like a man

  The doorbell rang.

  It was Idabel wearing combat trousers, a red-check fleece-lined jacket and a matching cap with ear-flaps. ‘Ruby, ahm headin’ to the cabin for the weekend. Wanna come?’

  Ruby wasn’t too keen on the idea. Yet she couldn’t trust herself rattling around the house with all this anger bottled up with nowhere to go. Plus, a visit to the Ozarks would undoubtedly give her inspiration for her masterpiece.

  ‘Mae’s already there warming up the place,’ Idabel coaxed. ‘We kin fish. Soak in the hot tub. Shoot a gun.’

  ‘Shoot a gun,’ Ruby echoed. She could almost feel the cool hard steel in her hands.

  Idabel nodded. ‘No dry-firing either. We’ll be using real bullets. Whadda ya say?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  *

  It was Sunday night. Back home in bed, Ruby wrote her diary entry for the past two days.

  Saturday

  9.00 Idabel and I hoist the deer onto back of her truck. Not the sort of gift one gives to one’s weekend hostess, but she’s delighted. Rowdy brings his teddy. On the drive, I realise I’m glad I had that contretemps with Hank. Now that I know what sort of man he is, I can forget him.

  11.00 Drive through snowy winter wonderland to a log cabin on the lakeside. Beautiful. If the “shit hits the fan”, this could be my home. Idabel points out the hot tub; solar panels, generator + oil drums. Gorgeously warm inside cabin. The log fire roars. Idabel’s partner, Mae, is a carbon copy of Idabel without the freckles. They proudly show me their storage of canned food and a hand-crank NOAA radio + an impressive array of guns. Idabel says this is going to be a weekend of survivalist training.

  12.00 I give them some Weavers cosmetics. Idabel studies the tube of almond hand-cream, the hair-colorant kit, and the cherry-blossom lip-gloss. She seems at a loss for words then says: Well, if we don’t survive, we’ll die real pretty.

  2.00 After lunch we go for shooting practice. I ask that we go far from the house because Rowdy is scared of loud bangs. Spend an hour with a rifle in my hand shooting tin cans off posts. I’m surprisingly good. I imagine every can is Hank’s head and I don’t miss.

  5.30 I catch 3 trout!! We eat them for dinner. Mae tells me she used to work for Katy (Kansas and Texas Railroads). I hear words like; air monkey, the midnight run, Blue Goose, Dwarf Signal, Ivory Tower. Sounds like she was an elf in Narnia - not a freight train driver. She does make the railroad sound magical, though.

  7.00 We dash screaming to the hot tub, sit there for an hour, and scream back. Invigorating!!

  8.00 We play poker for money. Grandad taught me to play when I was seven. I win 20 dollars. With the shooting, poker and fishing, Idabel is proud of me (it’s like I’m her protégé). So I say: ‘You’re Professor Higgins and I’m Eliza Dolittle!’ She looks confused, so I explain the story of My Fair Lady. She still looks confused.

  11.00 Only down-side of the weekend: I hear Idabel and Mae making love. They’re either torturing each other or having the most wonderful time. I hate you Hank Gephart.

  Sunday

  8.00 Oatmeal. Coffee. Idabel teaches me to identify animal tracks: deer, rabbit. I say I don’t want to shoot them. She says, ‘One day you’ll have to.’ I throw snowballs for Rowdy and he leaps up and catches them in his mouth. Snow makes him v. silly.

  2.00 This really is survivalist training. Idabel teaches me how to make a Molotov cocktail and dig a man-trap. But the BEST bit is when she fills a mason jar with Tannerite, gives me a shotgun and tells me to back away r-e-e-a-l far. I shoot at the jar but I miss. On my second attempt, I hit it and it explodes into a HUGE fireball! (If I had a choice between taking tea with the Daughters of the British Empire, or shooting mason jars filled with Tannerite, there would be NO contest).

  4.00 Time to leave. Mae hands me a Red Cross pamphlet which details how to do to prepare for Y2K. Idabel shows me where they hide the spare door key, in case I need it (which is v. trusting of her). Then she gives me a rabbit-fur patchwork coat that she made. There’s plenty of pockets for guns and knives, she tells me (while I’m thinking it would make a snug bed for Rowdy).

  7.00 The sky is black when we drive into Shawnee. Every house is lit up like Santa’s Grotto. “Mulberry” stands on the hill in darkness. ‘It looks like the haunted house of horrors,’ Idabel says. (She’s right, it does). We say our goodbyes. When I tell her I had a great time I’m not lying. I’ve got a list of what to put in my GOOD bag. Tired but relaxed.

  7.00 Switch on kettle. Mr Schoettler taps on window, wants to show me what he bought to replace Mr Frosty. It’s a giant Santa on his sleigh pulled by six giant reindeer. And it only cost him $80! (There’s a 70% off sale at Hobby Lobby). Schoettler punches me good naturedly on the arm, saying: Didn’t think you had it in you, coming at me with a chainsaw. (I’m never short of compliments in Kansas).

  10.30 Climb into bed. I’ve put the cosy rabbit-fur coat on the floor in the kitchen for Rowdy. Instead, he sleeps on the floor by my bed. I loathe Gephart. Now, when I go to Paris, I’ll have no regrets, no reason to look back and think of him. From tomorrow I’m going to get my marriage back on track. And no more Cowboy and Indian nonsense!

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Mission H
ills Police Precinct, Kansas City

  1.25 a.m. Jan 1, 2000

  The Police Chief tapped the dossier. ‘Why don’t I have this information on my system, Branagh?’

  ‘Because they haven’t been filed, sir. What you’ve got there is a catalogue of misdemeanours that I’ve compiled. Sheriff Gephart cautioned Ruby - nothing more. I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but he showed undue leniency to this woman.’ Branagh gestured to a chair. ‘May I request permission to sit in on the interview, sir?’

  The Police Chief nodded. ‘Go ahead.’ He made the introductions. ‘This is Ruby’s friend, Molly. This is Ruby’s stepsister, Madame van de Ghellinck.’ He resumed the interrogation. ‘Molly, tell me, did you ever see Ruby with a gun?’

  ‘No, she was totally against firearms. She didn’t even hold with hunting.’

  Branagh jerked. ‘So how come there was a dead deer hanging in her garage?’

  ‘Branagh!’ The Chief’s tone silenced him. Witnessing the crazy look in the man’s eyes, the Chief began to suspect this had become “personal”. Branagh disliked Ruby - that was obvious. Branagh was the Evangelistic type and the question was; had this officer searched the suspect’s premises without a warrant? If he had, it would complicate the situation - big time.

  ‘Ruby is no-’ Madame van de Ghellinck couldn’t speak for outrage. She tried again. ‘Ruby is no gunslinger. She’s a hypochondriac with an obsession for cleanliness. And very much a law-abiding citizen.’

  Branagh choked, as if invisible hands were strangling him. ‘Excuse me, sir, may I correct that misinterpretation?’

  The Chief sat back. The man was itching to speak - so let him. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  Branagh stood up. ‘I have a list of Ruby’s misdemeanours dated October to December. There could’ve been more, but these are the only ones I know of.’ He began to read: