He hated this job application. It was all bare naked dates and phone numbers. Fucking pay rates. The base pay don’t mean nothin’, the old man always said. It’s the overtime that counts. Would a college boy understand about the work ethic? You hadn’t done a day’s work in this man’s Local until you’d clocked past your eight straight.
“You know a guy named Ned Saakvitne?” the PM said.
Shit. So Ned had already applied. “Yeah, I know him.” That would be the ultimate embarrassment—losing the job to a kid he’d sponsored. In the old man’s Local, if the kid got it, you could tap his shoulder and he’d bow out, give you your rightful position, and he’d have to wait his turn.
This wasn’t the old man’s Local.
“He did the groundwork for me on that Peter Gabriel show you see there.” For no reason King Dave could think of, he remembered how he, King Butthead, had brought a bar slut into Liz Otter’s to humiliate Nadine. She’d handled that so well. She niced it through. He cleared his throat. “Smart guy, Ned.”
The PM nodded over the application. “Not much experience, but he seems bright. Think he’d make a good assistant flyman?”
So somebody better than Ned was competing with him for the job. Who would it be? Bobbyjay? One of the Ditorellis?
“Yeah, I think so. He just needs some more miles on him.” Feeling he hadn’t done enough of a Nadine, he added, “Sensible.”
The PM put the application down and sat back in his swivel chair, making prolonged eye contact for the first time. He had that mild, white-bread look of college stagehands—”techies” they called themselves, as if to distance themselves from the dirt under their fingernails. He put his arms behind his head and rocked his chair back and looked at King Dave like he was looking at an interesting beast in a zoo.
“I have to ask about that cake,” he said apologetically.
King Dave nodded as if this was reasonable. “I did something stupid. I should have been suspended for longer, but the president of the Local is my old man.”
The PM split a grin. “My old man was business agent in New Orleans for thirteen years.”
Frowning, King Dave thought for a minute. Gossip from Cajun roadies stirred in his memory. “Your old man is Frankie Jabonar? Or, uh,” he snapped his fingers, “Whitey Labow?”
“Whitey. Always fixing stuff for me. I had to go to college to get away from that.”
King Dave eyed him measuringly. For the first time, he felt less of a horse’s ass. “You don’t look like a stagehand.”
“Good disguise, huh. Call me Lew,” the PM said, sticking his hand out. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Chicago who my Pop is. I’ll get no peace. They’ll only let me hire who I want because they think I’m a know-nothing, out-of-town collitch boy.”
King Dave chuckled and shook hands. “They can’t make you do anything. You’re paid by the city.”
“Tell them that. Every time I hear one of those gravelly whiskey-and-cigar voices over the phone, I feel like an apprentice again and my knees turn to jelly.”
King Dave laughed until his eyes watered.
Lew Labow said, more warmly, “So where’d you go to school? You must have stuff you didn’t put on your application.”
King Dave flushed. Now he was going to trash all this lovely rapport. “You mean college?” He snorted. “I flunked out of high school. My old man told me not to bother applying for this job. All I got is ten years’ experience on the street.” Why had he come here? He hated when the old man was right.
Labow looked skeptical, and King Dave forced himself to shrug. “’Nother mope from the office.”
Labow glanced down at the letters of recommendation on his desk. “These guys don’t think so.” His eyes narrowed, glancing from the letters to King Dave.
Feeling like a prize ass, King Dave looked at his hands.
“You take the rigging seminar yet?” Labow said.
“Nope,” he said to his hands.
“It’s coming up again in two days in New York.”
King Dave lifted his head. Shit, the rigging seminar! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Bet you Ned Saakvitne’s taken it. Whitey Labow’s kid stared at him.
King Dave knew a hint when he heard one.
New York. Flights every hour. He could be there in plenty of time. Even find a book to bone up on. “What’s a good score?”
“Just do the course.” Labow added, “We also want the flyman to run Q-Drive equipment. That’s a week at their school.”
“If an applicant already had the training,” King Dave said carefully, “would that give him a leg up?”
“Sure. Or her. The city’s an equal opportunity employer.”
King Dave guffawed. “You’re a troublemaker, aren’t you?”
Lew Labow smiled wickedly. “Go to New York. Show me the certificate. Get Q-Drive training, too, and we’ll talk again.”
King Dave stood up. “I’ll call you in two weeks.”
As he packed, King Dave thought about all the ways Nadine was right. He was spoiled. It was the kind of spoiled that didn’t do you any good, either. Lew Labow hit that nail on the head. The only way he could deal with being FX Flaherty’s brat who got everything he wanted was...if he got everything he wanted. He and the old man had that in common.
He flushed, remembering the fear of humiliation in his father’s voice. It was worse to fail than to fall into a cake.
Once again Nadine was right.
The line between his competencies and his father’s influence had become so very sharp, unbearably sharp, he was afraid it could cut him in half.
He threw his night bag into the Camaro and headed to O’Hare.
It would serve the old man right if he ran away, as Lew Labow had. King Dave knew perfectly well how convenient it was for FX to have him under his thumb. Like it was convenient for Daddy Fisher that his daughter had acted like his wife. FX needed his son to be his eyes and ears, a soldier he could send anywhere. While he lived here in Chicago, that’s how it was.
He couldn’t go to college, of course. But a flunk-out could become a roadie. Go out with some show that never touched down.
Yeah, right.
It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to start over as a neck-down grunt on the road. He wanted to stay here. He had ties of his own in Chicago. He had family. His kid, for example.
Shit. He couldn’t leave town without telling Davy Junior!
King Dave squealed off Irving Park Road and turned north.
It came home to him how hard it must have been for Nadine to break away from her family. And doubly hard for her to face her mother or her father again.
No wonder she wouldn’t go see her Mom. Nadine already got away. I never managed to get away, he realized humbly.
And he didn’t want to. That was why it was worth going for the Galaxy job. With the job he would have status in his own right, not just as FX’s kid. He’d even have hiring power. Nobody would fuck with him then. Or if they did, hey, it wouldn’t even be so bad to be Day-Glo Dick. If he had a real job, a job that carried self-respect.
Davy Junior took the news of his departure calmly. “That’s okay, Daddy. We can go to the zoo when you come back.”
“Well, I’ve got to go down to Texas after that, sport,” King Dave said. “For another whole week.”
King Dave’s Mom stood in the doorway to the front room, watching them with her arms folded and a funny look on her face.
“Don’t worry. Smedley’s here.” Davy Junior poked him with the duck. King Dave tried to smile. “We’ll go to the zoo with Nadine.”
That killed his smile. “Uh, maybe. I dunno. She’s kind of mad right now.”
Davy Junior’s eyes went round. “Is she mad at me?”
“No, no, sport. She’s mad at me.” His throat was thick with unsaid excuses. What was the point? The kid didn’t need to hear them. “I’ll, uh, I’ll talk her around when I get back.”
Mom turned in the doorway and disappeared. He di
dn’t need to look at her to know what she had to say.
Davy Junior held both arms up for a hug. He looked very solemn. King Dave hugged him long and hard, squeezing down the bad feelings, squeezing up the love, and hoping like hell Davy Junior could feel it.
Little fingers plucked at his ear. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, sport?” he said huskily.
Davy Junior whispered, “You can have the baby-boom-down song any time you want it.”
That almost broke him up. He hugged the kid’til he squeaked. “I’ll take a rain check. We’re not boom-down yet.”
“I called. You have a seat on a three-thirty flight,” his mother said behind them. “But you’d better only have carry-on.”
King Dave turned in surprise. “Thanks.”
Mom looked in his face and then she looked away. Didn’t matter. She always saw too much. She smooched his cheek, then took the kid into her own arms. “Break a leg, son.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nadine stared at the phone. She’d fiddled with her mother’s card so long, it was soft and wrinkly. Magic by Myrna. Momma was a dress designer now, sleek and Northern and strange.
King Dave was wrong. Nadine had never suspected such a thing. How dare he push her to call Momma, when he was under his Daddy’s thumb?
Was that why you ran away, Momma? Because I did, too.
She swallowed, dry-mouthed. She squeezed the card in her fist, then smoothed it out. Mag c b M rna. Soon the phone number would be unreadable.
Her hand went to the phone and poked in the numbers.
Welcome to Magic by Myrna, said her mother’s strange new Yankee voice. Please leave a message after the tone. Nadine slammed the phone down, heart pounding.
I don’t have to talk to you.
King Dave’s voice commanded: Start the healing, Nadine.
She picked up the receiver. She pressed redial.
Welcome to Magic by Myrna.
She waited for the tone and said, “Hi, this is Nadine.” After a long pause she realized she would have to say something else. She wet her lips. No ideas came. Finally she recited her home phone number and hung up.
Lordy! She rose and paced around her little apartment, hugging herself. Lordy, lordy, that was scary.
She couldn’t quite tell King Dave she’d done her part. She’d met the letter of his demand, but not the spirit. Still, she’d tried. It would be an excuse to call him. She longed for the sound of his voice, longed so hard that her throat ached.
King Dave, I called my Momma.
The bald fact scared her to death.
What would happen now? She thought all the stupid thoughts she’d had since she ran away from Goreville. Momma’s not dead. She’s alive. She ran away from us. She left me all alone with Daddy and Ella Mae and her horrible job.
And now there was more: She had a dress design business. She talked Yankee and looked elegant and she had a business card. Buy you lunch. So tall. Your eyes, Momma had said, as if there were something in Nadine’s eyes that left her speechless.
Something else Momma had said. About getting down on her knees and begging Nadine’s forgiveness.
Damned good idea.
Nadine was shocked at herself, not only for cursing in her head but for the anger that welled up. Her breath came short in her chest and she willed the phone to ring.
It rang. She leaped back a foot, terrified of her own powers. The phone rang and rang.
Nadine forced herself to breathe slowly. She picked it up.
“Nadine?” Momma said.
Nadine burst out, “Why, Momma?”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then Momma said, as if this was a normal way to answer the phone, “Because I learned that your father was having an affair.”
Nadine sucked air so deep that she got the hiccups. “Wh-at?”
“I’m sorry to throw it at you like that. I’ve been waiting eight—no, almost nine years to tell you.” Momma paused and then said, “He slept with Ella Mae Amory for two years. I—” Nadine heard Momma take a big breath. “I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the role of pastor’s wife. I saw he wanted you to grow up in the same mold. Like the Amory woman.” Momma’s fancy sentences petered out. “And—when I found out, I—I left.”
“It’s not true,” Nadine said numbly. A hiccup caught her in mid-breath. “Daddy said you died. We even had a funeral, but people knew. Everybody knew except me. You ran away with some man. Patsy McPherson said.” Nadine heard her voice rising. Anger burned through her like a clean cold fire.
She stood over the phone and yelled, “You were a slut! Daddy had to lie to protect your reputation, and I had to be so good! I cried and cried because you died of food poisoning in Austin but it wasn’t true! You ran away and left me!”
She sat down with a thump by the phone and put her hand to her forehead, wailing uncontrollably. Momma didn’t say anything.
Nadine cried until the hiccups stopped her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you my home number,” Momma said calmly when Nadine was dizzy with hiccups. “I was afraid to. I—I was expecting to hear that. I thought it would be easier to take at the office. I’m sorry.”
Nadine sniffled. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“I’ll listen to it all,” Momma said. “It’s your turn, honey.” She sounded so calm, so patient, like the Momma Nadine had longed for in vain all those years.
“I hate you,” Nadine said in a hard voice.
“Here’s my home number,” Momma said. She started to say it.
Nadine banged the phone down in fury. Her hands trembled violently. She stomped through her apartment screaming, hitting the walls with her fists, kicking the doors. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, glaring and panting, then reached into the drainboard and deliberately threw her Salvation Army dishes and water glasses to the floor, one at a time.
The stoneware coffee mug wouldn’t smash. She had to throw it four times to chip it. With a shriek, she slung it against the back door and stomped into her bedroom, suddenly ashamed to look at the evidence of her rage.
Time to go to work anyway.
When she came home fourteen hours later, aching from a twelve-hour shift on her feet, emotionally drained from smiling at randy stagehands and crabby tourists and cleaning up after kids, her kitchen floor was still covered with broken glass.
This is what happens when you love somebody, she thought as she crunched across the floor in her Stride-Rites to get the broom. She realized that she had let loose on Momma, in part, because she’d lost King Dave.
Start the healing, he’d said in that kind, pushy voice. And who else did she know who made that sort of sanctimonious remark? She flinched. Instead of healing, she’d lost her mother too. Found and lost all in a week. In one phone call. How could she?
But how could Momma lie like that? Everybody in town knew about her. Patsy McPherson knew anyway. And Sherralyn Majors. And Bub Smith. And Daddy. That must have cut him deep, when Momma left. No wonder he’d held a fake funeral. Daddy’s dignity made him do some funny things sometimes.
Nadine didn’t feel the hurt in her dignity. She felt it in her love. When Momma was dead, the love had been left alive. Now Momma was alive and the love was mortally injured.
She sat down in the kitchen chair with the broom on her knees and cried some more.
Miguel handed her a thick, creamy, square envelope when she arrived at work next day. “The manager’s not happy, you getting personal mail here.”
She stared at it. The handwritten return address said somewhere on Austin Street, Goreville, Texas. Shell-shocked with misery, she tried to remember who lived on Austin Street, house by house, and failed.
“Looks like good news,” Miguel said, snooping openly. He flashed his gold-rimmed smile at her. “Go on. Open it.” He rubbernecked as she turned it over and over in her hands.
The lunch crowd trickled into Liz Otter’s. Nadine looked around, saw
no one at her tables, and ripped open the envelope.
You are invited to witness the holy union of Ellen Maebelline Dantry Amory and the Right Reverend James Marcus Fisher....
Nadine read it one word at a time, hardly taking it in. Daddy was getting married in one week. To Ella Mae Amory, the person Nadine liked least. And who least liked her.
He was sleeping with Ella Mae, Momma had said.
Nadine reeled. It was true.
“Hey, Nadine,” said Lisa, the other lunchtime waitress, “Can you make some decaf?”
Daddy had written something at the bottom of the invitation.
Daughter, you’ve disappointed me but you’re all the kin I have. It’s your duty to stand up for me. Wear white if you’re entitled to.
“Oh, no,” she murmured. “No, I can’t. I can’t possibly. Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“Nadine, the lunch rush is starting,” the manager said and disappeared into his office.
She stuffed the envelope into her apron. Daddy and Ella Mae. Impossible. Her stomach churned.
“Bad news after all?” Miguel said, still snooping.
“Not at all,” she said as cheerfully as she could, smiling with numb lips.
Daddy’s getting married. He wanted her to take part in the ceremony. That crack about her virginity didn’t make a dent. She was too horrified at the idea of going back to Goreville, where she would be preacher’s daughter and wear white gloves and stand in the receiving line beside him and his—ugh—bride.
Never mind Ugh Ella Mae. Ugh Daddy. He’d cursed her.
“I can’t,” she muttered under her breath as she made coffee and fetched straws and delivered orders and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled, her cheeks aching. “I can’t, I can’t.”
“I can’t,” she muttered under her breath, smiling at the busboy.
Lunch blew by. The stagehands were like pale sketches of people she knew, calling her by name and joshing her to her stiff, smiling face. They wouldn’t understand what terrified her.
The only person who did understand wasn’t speaking to her.
She jammed the invitation under the money and straws and the pink and yellow and blue packets of sweetener in her apron pocket.
King of Hearts Page 25
