Brake Failure

by Alison Brodie

  ‘Swam in a no-swim area. Resisted arrest. Disturbance of the peace. Drunk in charge of an unlicensed motorbike. Damage to police vehicle. Vandalised police property. Destroyed a neighbour’s Christmas lawn decoration with a chain-saw.’

  Branagh stared hard at Madame van de Ghellinck. ‘Tell me, lady, what kinda law-abiding citizen decapitates Mr Frosty?’

  Four weeks earlier …

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  It was the fourteenth of December. While Molly waited in the van, Ruby walked into The Kansas City Star building, ready to hand over her epic masterpiece with a grand flourish; or perhaps, if coaxed, she would read it aloud to the entire newsroom.

  As it was, Mr Wiebe was busy talking to a group of people and told her to just drop it on the pile of papers on his desk. She placed it reverently on the empty space in the middle of the desk and left. Mr Wiebe had no idea the surprise he was in for. She would have liked her epic to have received a fanfare but, never mind, she was just glad it was all over; this was what it must be like having to give birth.

  She felt a lightness of spirit: Hank was in the past - a mental aberration - while Paris shimmered in the future.

  Ruby had already explained this to Molly, saying she was reverting back to her former self. No more drinking, smoking, swearing, or drugs. Ruby was determined to smooth the ruffles in her marriage because in three months, she and Edward would be living in Paris.

  When Molly broached the subject of Hank, Ruby coolly stated that the matter was at an end. From now on, Ruby would be house-bound. No more Gephart. No more Brown Bag. No more Payat, either, because she’d phoned to tell him she would no longer be working for him.

  ‘So you’re cutting all the fun out of your life?’ Molly had protested.

  ‘Just unsavoury fun. What I have to remember is that I am a respectable married woman.

  *

  Molly and Ruby drove to Hobby Lobby so Ruby could buy some twinkling Christmas lights to hang above the front door. Ruby was back on an even-keel, determined to get the house ready for Edward’s home-coming. The store, with its smell of cinnamon-scented candles and the cheerful melody of a Yuletide jingle, filled her with the festive spirit. She couldn’t resist the seventy-per-cent-off sale on all exterior illuminations. One box of thirty-foot icicles seemed so small, so cheap, so she bought ten.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Molly asked dubiously.

  ‘Sure I’m sure. And I’ll take a Bambis and a Snowman. We can put one in the back of the van; and tie the other one to the roof.’

  Back at the house, they discovered that there were hooks conveniently placed in four parallel lines down the front of the building; under the eaves, around the windows and over the garage roof. The first box of icicles was emptied and up in fifteen minutes. So was the second. By the fourth, Ruby had enlisted the help of the neighbourhood boys.

  By the ninth box, they had run out of hooks and space on the house. ‘I told you you’d bought way too many,’ Molly muttered. Ruby, who now had Kansas-Christmas-lawn-decoration-fever, trailed the remaining two lines of icicles up to and around the shrubs on the front lawn. Next, she plugged in the Bambi and Snowman then turned on the lights, but since it was a bright sunny day, there was nothing to see. Yet.

  She made a pot of tea and set the tray on the coffee table. ‘Don’t you use your fireplace,’ Molly commented, wandering about the room.

  ‘Edward says it’s not necessary with the central heating. But I want to get some yuletide logs for atmosphere.’

  ‘Most places will have sold out by now, but there’s a lumber yard in Merriam Lane, if you don’t mind loading yourself.’ Molly was interrupted by the sound of a car engine roaring to a halt outside. ‘The gang’s here,’ she said, jerking a thumb at the monster truck pulling up at the curb.

  ‘But I didn’t invite them!’ Ruby protested.

  Ship, Mackenzie and Rick strolled in as if this were their local hang-out. Ruby - having taken the place of the lunatic that had been driving her life - refused to share a spliff or take a beer; and, hoping to get rid of them, suggested a game of Scrabble. To her surprise, her suggestion was met with childish glee.

  Ruby set out the game, knowing her guests would soon get bored and leave. She started off by placing “sentient” down. ‘Never heard of it,’ the others chorused, as if she was cheating. Rick put down “quiffing”. When Ruby complained, he explained it was an old cowboy word for a horse’s mane. ‘I’ve got two zees,’ Mackenzie moaned then promptly created “zoozey” to get a treble word score. Ruby tried to keep order but it was impossible. Everyone was laughing and placing down the most ridiculous words, until, in the end, she gave up, popped a beer, and put down: “Wijixy.”

  ‘That a fast Chinese tango,’ she stated solemnly, popping the top off a beer.

  It wasn’t until after midnight that Ruby remembered her new Christmas decorations. She positioned Ship in the garage, ready to flick the light switch on her command. She went unsteadily down the porch steps, a spliff in one hand, crossed the road to the other side and stood with Molly, Mackenzie and Rick. It was so late, the neighbourhood was in darkness.

  She gave Ship the thumbs-up. ‘Okay,’ she called.

  Suddenly, the house exploded out of the blackness; a blinding silver that scorched one’s retinas. It was like a maximum-security prison … moments after a mass break-out. All that was missing was the wailing of sirens and the frantic prison wardens, screaming: ‘LOCK DOWN! LOCK DOWN!’

  Molly’s mouth hung open in shock - like they’d created Frankenstein.

  Rick breathed, ‘shee-it.’

  Ruby viewed the illuminations with pride. She didn’t care that it was a little brash – she loved it.

  *

  The next morning Mr Wiebe, the editor of The Kansas City Star telephoned. ‘I’ve read your poem,’ he began. ‘And I think it’s great.’

  Ruby exhaled with relief and collapsed on the kitchen stool. ‘Thank you. I’m so relieved to hear that.’

  ‘It made me laugh out loud,’ Mr Wiebe continued.

  ‘Laugh?’

  ‘“Laser-guided sparrows!” Brilliant. To be honest, I was worried you’d do something turgid, you know, that Shakespeare stuff, but this is fun. My readers are gonna love it.’

  Fun?

  Ruby frowned, bewildered.

  After the call, she read through the photocopy of her epic masterpiece. She had been so intense; it had come out rather comical. Yes, she would get into print, but not as a serious poet but as a writer of doggerel. Well, she would embrace this creative slant - a poet who amused - and this would be the persona she would adopt when speaking to Claire.

  Ruby’s thoughts now turned to yuletide logs. She covered the trunk of the car with plastic sheeting and set off. Merriam Lane was a pot-holed road lined with derelict shacks and car-body shops. A track took her down to a log cabin with smoke trailing out of a metal pipe in the roof.

  Entering the yard, she was relieved to see a huge pile of logs. She backed up the Cadillac, dropped the tailgate, put on her Marigold gloves, climbed onto the log pile and set to work, selecting only the pretty ones and discarding the ugly ones.

  After about half an hour, a man came out of the cabin. He looked truculent. She followed his gaze. The log pile looked as if it had exploded. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly. ‘Nice logs.’

  ‘You English?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She smiled, expecting a nice long lumberjack-to-lumberjack chat with this “old-timer”. Instead, he said: ‘That figures,’ and went back inside the cabin.

  She was stretching a hand down to reach an elusive log when she heard a familiar sound.

  With a clickety-clack of metal on metal, a freight train slowly rumbled passed. It was so close she could almost touch it. There were drum containers, flatbed trailers, wagons and box cars. Thirty must have passed already but still there was no end to it. She saw the faded letters “SANTA FE”, and immediately it conjured up the images of sun-drenched cantinas and
beautiful senoritas.

  Eventually, the tail end came into view. A box-car brought up the rear, its doors wide open. It passed by, following the snaking line of carriages around a bend to finally disappear from view, heading west and into the sunset.

  In the silence, she glanced up. Clouds hung heavy above her, slate-grey and tinged a nasty yellow. Worried that a storm was coming, she climbed down, and went to pay.

  Back, home, she unloaded the logs into the corner of the garage. She and Edward would have a lovely Christmas, full of festive cheer. She would make a delicious road turkey with all the trimmings and they would plan for Paris. Nothing could go wrong.

  *

  Edward phoned from Wichita. ‘Everything alright?’ he asked. He sounded abstracted.

  ‘Great!’ Ruby answered, hoping he’d forgotten their discord. ‘We’ve had loads of snow. And I’ve written a Millennium poem for the Kansas City Star.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I want to cook you something really special for the night you get back. I know you love Peking Duck so I thought I’d give it a try, but I can’t promise it will be as good as you’d get in a Chinese restaurant.’ No response. ‘Oh, yes, and I’ve started phoning Paris rental agencies-’

  ‘Wait! Um … Ruby … I have to tell you something.’

  She felt a chill. ‘You haven’t lost Purdy’s?’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean, no. Dwight doesn’t want the agency, he wants me. Just me. As Vice President. This is too good an opportunity to pass over so I’ve said yes. I’m going to leave the agency and work for Dwight.’

  ‘But we’ll still live in Paris, won’t we?’

  ‘Um … that’s the thing. You see, as Vice President I will need to be based in Kansas. Permanently.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please, darling, I don’t want you to be upset-’

  ‘Of course I’m upset, I’m-!’

  ‘Ruby, listen. I want you to be happy.’ He paused. ‘Do you remember when we first met and we agreed there was no such thing as true love?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were wrong. I’m in love.’

  Ruby was astonished. ‘With me?’

  ‘No. With Donna.’

  Ruby was struck dumb. If Edward loved Donna, where did that leave her? She found her voice: ‘That trollop! She seduced you and-’

  ‘No, no, she’s completely innocent. She has no idea how I feel about her.’

  ‘But she flirts with you!’

  ‘No! She’s not like that. She’s not the type to destroy a marriage.’

  ‘Sounds to me like she already has.’

  ‘Our marriage was already over. Face it, Ruby, we never really loved each other.’

  ‘Okay, you’re right. So how do you know she loves you?’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Edward wailed. ‘I don’t! I don’t know how she feels. I keep looking for signs and there’s not an hour goes by I don’t think about her.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. You’re talking to me like I’m your best buddy.’

  ‘But, Ruby, you are my best buddy.’

  ‘But you can’t just ditch me and go off with another woman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind. You don’t want children. And this way you can have Paris. I’ll pay for the flight and the first ten months-’

  ‘You’re paying me off!’

  ‘I want you to be happy.’

  Her thoughts swung wildly. She could never make a life in Paris by herself. Where else could she go? Back home to London? God, no; that would mean going back to square one. A failure - again.

  ‘You’ll easily find another man, Ruby.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me, Edward!’

  ‘I thought you would understand.’

  ‘Well, I don’t!’ She slammed down the phone.

  She was trembling. How could he? After everything she’d done for him! If it hadn’t been for her, he would never have got the Purdy’s account. And now he was treating her as a buddy, someone who was prepared to listen to his love-sick longings. What did he expect? That she would help him win the heart of another woman?

  She stood at the window, watching as a snowplough loaded snow into a truck. She couldn’t go back to her old life. She would have to beg Edward to stay married to her. But could she deny him the children he so desperately wanted? Could she be that cruel?

  She pivoted from the window and paced the room. She imagined herself in Paris – alone. She would have to work, of course; but doing what? And her French was abysmal. London had been lonely - but at least she hadn’t been surrounded by foreigners, extremely rude foreigners.

  With a sudden, sheer clarity she realised she didn’t want to leave America.

  Her shock was so great, she sank into a chair to think it through. She didn’t want to go back to Britain. And she didn’t want to live in Paris. She wanted to stay in America!

  Why? Was it because she felt spiritually American? Or was she like all those millions of early settlers who had come before her, running away from their previous lives. But she wasn’t running from war or poverty or religious persecution. She was running away from being English and all that went with it.

  But she was a foreigner in a country she loved. With no job. No visa. There was no way she could stay.

  Her gaze fell on Payat’s knife. She picked it up, remembering his dark, sad eyes. He had asked her to live with him …

  Her stomach gave a slow somersault. Could she?

  Yes!

  She was electrified! She would go to Taos. Her thoughts jumped forward. Just after midnight of the new Millennium, Payat would drive her off to a life of adventure and romance. And, more importantly, Payat didn’t want children.

  But did she love him? Could she make a life with him?

  There was only one way to find out …

  She went outside, asked the snowplough driver for a favour, came back into the house and telephoned Payat. ‘You told me to contact you if I had a problem,’ she said. ‘Well, I have a problem. I’m snowed in.’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  She replaced the receiver, her hand still gripping it. This would be a slap in the face for Hank. He would be astonished to discover she’d not only gone to New Mexico, but she’d been in love with someone else all along.

  ‘So, what does a maiden-in-distress wear?’ she muttered, running up the stairs. A Wonderbra and a plunging neckline would do for starters. She wriggled into a tight red cardigan dress, and undid the top two buttons.

  Stockings? Yes.

  Stilettos? Why not.

  She was excited, joyful, thrilled. This was serendipity. She had been prepared to work at her marriage, but now that Edward didn’t want her, she was free to start afresh.

  In the kitchen she popped open a beer. Could she actually do this? Could she make a fantasy become a reality? Could she finally find her real home? And more importantly, would Payat’s kiss finally eradicate Hank from her thoughts?

  When the telephone rang, she snatched it up. It was Claire, her voice breezy and condescending. ‘Bonjour, Ruby. I’m meeting the actress Lida Baarova today. Oh, silly me, you won’t have heard of her. Anyway, she’s a living legend. Have you heard of Fassbinder’s film, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant?’

  ‘Isn’t that the one where Mel Gibson blows up a tanker while dragging a screeching half-naked bimbo behind him?’

  Claire paused then gave a simpering laugh. ‘Nobody can accuse Madame van de Ghellinck of lacking a sense of humour.’ She continued. ‘I have a new hairstyle - very Greta Garbo. It would suit you. I’ll send you a photograph and you can take it to your hairdressers. Oh, yes, and I’ll also send you a photograph of me singing Tosca at the Beaux Arts Festival.’

  And I’ll send you a photograph of me in a ra-ra skirt dancing with a trucker with a buzz-cut at the Pork Belly Barbecue Fest.

  Ruby tossed a Frankfurter to Rowdy, who caught it in mid-air. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I already have a new hairstyle.’

  ‘Oh, r
eally? What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s a cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Dixie McWhirter.’

  ‘I’m not sure I quite understand?’

  Ruby took a slug of beer and burped. ‘I’m a bottled blonde.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Please, Ruby, can you stop talking like a gunslinger; it’s very annoying.’ Claire continued in a low, firm voice. ‘Bottled blondes have a very bad reputation. Apart from anything else, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, do you?’

  Not when I’m writing OINK! in red nail varnish on Deputy Sheriff Branagh’s squad car.

  ‘I must warn you, Ruby, it will send out the wrong signal.’

  I hope so.

  Ruby felt reckless. Once again, her maniac self had grabbed the steering wheel of her life. ‘Sorry, sis, gotta go. I’ve got a Red Indian Chief coming over to dig me out and shag me.’

  *

  Payat parked at the curb, got out of his car and surveyed the area. Ruby could understand his confusion. The neighbourhood had a half inch covering of snow, yet there was a ten foot snowdrift up against her front door (courtesy of a bewildered, but accommodating, snowplough driver).

  She opened the window. ‘Oh, Payat, thank you for coming. I’ll go make you a coffee.’

  When she returned to the window, she watched Payat digging. Her thoughts see-sawed from determination to dread; from exultation to abject terror. Could she do this? Could she abandon herself to this man? Could she go with him to start a new life?

  ‘Strange how the snow’s built up here and nowhere else,’ Payat said, coming over to the window to accept his coffee.

  She was imagining the two of them together, forever. ‘Must’ve been the direction of the wind,’ she murmured.

  He gazed away to the horizon. ‘Taos gets a lot of snow in winter.’

  She was sensitive enough to his thoughts to realise that he was mentally gazing across that vast open prairie yearning for his native oil. ‘Are you thinking of home?’ she asked softly.

  ‘No, I’m thinking I need air in my back tyre.’ He finished his coffee, handed her his mug and went back to digging.