“You were a teacher?”
Rob laughed. “History professor.”
Claire’s hand worked like mad at the bottom of her bag while she read the bottom of the flyer, Doctor Raymond Horowitz, or as he’s known to his fans, Rob Rhino, adult film and reality TV star. She squawked like an idiot parrot.
“A history professor? You taught history.”
Rob got in the car.
“Couldn’t get a PhD in pussy.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Mrs. Corrigan? This is Daryl Post. I handle public relations for the university.”
“Oh... yeah... uh-huh.” Claire tried to sound awake though she wasn’t ’til the phone rang. She squinted at the clock. Ten-thirty already?
“Is this a good time? I’m notorious for calling at obscene hours. Thought I’d waited ’til late enough this morning—”
“No, no, fine. Still getting used to the time difference. West Coast—”
Claire’d spent a fitful night. The thing with Rob Rhino, the usual up and down with the pills. They didn’t get to close it out the way she’d wanted. His story sure didn’t end where he’d left it. She’d found the hotel’s ice machine—broken. Her toe throbbed where she’d kicked it.
“The dean said you wanted specific language in the press release?” Daryl jolted her back to the present.
“Oh. Uh-huh.” Too much thinking. She rubbed her sore toe. “Well, let’s see... I want the Corrigan family, not just me. All the names on the press release. Okay?”
“Names? What names?”
“Umm... me—Claire, Grace. That bitch Eliz—”
“Are you sure this isn’t a bad time? I can call back.”
Claire rubbed her tongue around her teeth. Tried to find some moisture in her mouth. Nope, none. “I’ll call you later with all the names, the spellings.”
“Great. That it?”
She opened and shut her eyes a few times, like lid exercises, hoping to find focus. “Umm... what about radio and TV?”
“A gift this substantial will make the local news. Do you want to do an interview? I could get you on the local station.”
Interview?
“Hey, my sister-in-law. She could do it right?”
“If that’s what you’d like. Sure. You could do it together.”
“Ahhh... no. I’ll call you back in a couple days ok? Not too late is it?”
“We’re not in a big hurry. This is Mayberry. Drying paint is big news.”
Claire took down his number with a lip pencil from the bottom of her purse, crawled back into bed. With her slick skull on the cool pillow she stared at the smoke-stained popcorn ceiling, tried to figure out the Rob Rhino enigma. What disturbed her more? His dead wife or his brain? Couldn’t put her shaky finger on whatever she felt about it. Like reaching for her hair. She expected to feel something but didn’t. There was nothing.
Her thoughts bobbed and weaved through the alleyways of her head. The porn king had a doctorate. He’d gone from history professor to pervert. Claire couldn’t fathom why. She thought there were more pills in these bottles. She wished she could organize her scrambled thoughts. Too many broken ones strung together in a strange tapestry with no clear meaning. She and Rob Rhino seemed to be in the same place at the same time a lot. They had in-laws in the same town. They both had dead spouses, soon to rest in the same cemetery. A match made in—Claire didn’t bother to finish the thought.
****
Claire sat straight up, looked at the clock. Twelve-thirty. She’d fallen back asleep. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and threw back the covers. Rob Rhino’s porn speech commenced at two. She lurched to the shower. The booze, drug leftover would wear off quick. She perked right up under the bracing water. A few minutes of feeling almost normal. ’Til the sweating, panic, racing heart, mouth dry as a dead man’s. Thank God for the pills.
The shrill of the ringing phone tripped Claire up while she grappled with her towel and the cocktail she tried to pour.
“What?”
“Hello to you too,” Annabelle said whining already. “You could’ve just let the voicemail get it. Conchita sent your stuff. It should get there tomorrow. I helped her box it up. You got another one of those letters. From the same place.”
Claire’s empty stomach churned, looking for something to tangle with.
Annabelle kept on. “I stuck it in the box with the rest of the mail, k?”
“Oh sure, probably advertising. Everyone wants to give me advice now that I’m... now that Liam... you know... hey—” She wanted to talk about something else. “Any word from Jordan?”
“No. They’re not back. Extended weekend.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I think tomorrow.”
Claire sat on the bed, heavy. “I see.”
“Clairesicle, don’t sound so sad.” She hadn’t called Claire that ridiculous name since she was a kid. Clairesicle like Popsicle, her favorite after-school treat. Annabelle was big on goofy nicknames. She called Liam Daddy Warbucks for obvious reasons. He hated it. Jordan was Jordy. He hated it too, which ensured its use. Claire used to say, “How ’bout aaaaa popsicle?” Annabelle in her babyish voice would squeal, “Yeeeeaaah, but first aaaaa Clairesicle,” then she’d throw her arms around Claire’s neck. Annabelle, the tender, motherless girl. Claire’s eyes clouded.
“I’m all right,” Claire said.
“I wonder.”
“Jordan never should’ve moved to San Francisco. Steven lured him there.” Claire’s soggy hands clenched the towel in her lap.
“Oh Claire, that’s not true. Jordy moved to San Fran because he loves it there. Because of you.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“He told me his favorite memory is the vacation you took with him there. Before you married Liam. You drove to San Francisco when he was just a little kid, just the two of you.”
Claire hung her head, almost dropped the phone. The tears came quick, hit the terrycloth with a quiet thud.
“He remembered you were broke. You stayed in some rathole place in Chinatown that smelled like grease and dirty fish tank. The lady at the front desk was like a hundred, didn’t speak a word of English,” Annabelle laughed. “He worried you’d starve on the trip. You didn’t think he’d notice but you only had enough money for one of you to order off the menu. He’d order and you’d eat his leftovers.”
Claire knotted a handful of her towel. Damn kid—too smart for Claire’s own good even then.
“You took him to the pier, Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum, Alcatraz, rode those weird rickshaw bicycles, and took his picture next to a guy painted silver. He remembers every second and can recite whole conversations you had together there. He loves San Francisco because it reminds him of you.”
“So what are you saying, Annabelle? This is my fault?”
“No. Claire—”
“It’s always the mother’s fault, right? Son is gay. Turn on the mother.” Claire stood, the towel dropped, leaving her naked. “I’m running late. I’ve got to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Her brain worked like a sieve.
Procuring a ticket ahead of showtime strained through like so much pasta water. Miss Bossy Pants at will call informed her with regret Rob’s speech had been sold out for weeks. Even Claire’s naked head couldn’t turn up a ticket.
“Here.”
Claire spun around. Freddie Eddie in a shiny suit, hair greased up, pointed ears flattened, handed her a ticket. “Let’s go.”
He waded through the packed reception area, Claire struggling to keep track of him in his lifted shoes. A beaming poster of Rob Rhino greeted her from the center of the hall—A Porn Star for the Twenty-First Century in big lime green letters beckoned across the top. Same Hawaiian shirt and clogs. His closed mouth hid the gaping hole where his tooth used to be. Finally a publicist somewhere convinced him to shut his pie hole into a closed lip smile. Claire elbowed her way through the crowd, ignoring the occasiona
l stare, point, or whisper.
Freddie Eddie led her to a front and center seat, a VIP in the standing room only capacity crowd. She could touch the stage if she wanted to. Rob peeked out from behind the curtain right after her ass hit the cushion. She could tell he was happy to see her, but he didn’t approach her.
Freddie Eddie sat next to her. Brother. Did he have that diamond post in his nose before? Didn’t he know he was about a hundred and fifty years too old for it? She wondered if he knew about Gloria. He must know. The manager always knows. But Rob said no one knew. Maybe he didn’t count Freddie Eddie as a someone. He seemed barely human. Creep.
Jordan hadn’t seen anything shocking about Gloria when he looked Rob Rhino up. Wait. He’d left that message the other night, said he found more info. Claire hadn’t called him back. Well, she did, but she’d talked to Maura instead. Claire’s heart beat faster. Her mouth went chalky. Never mind that now. She was about to lean over to prod Freddie Eddie, who was almost mute for Chrissake, when a familiar face caught her eye. A too-tanned face. Lifeboat-sized tits. The ex-stripper from the Dean’s Council dinner. The one she’d last seen climbing up Rob Rhino’s leg on the dance floor. Pitiful. Sweat pooled in Claire’s armpits. Her legs felt damp under jeans.
The auditorium lights dimmed. Rob Rhino sauntered out to thunderous applause. He moved to the center of the stage, headset on. With two pudgy arms he motioned for the crowd to quiet down. They obeyed.
“How many of you would rather get your rocks off than listen to some old has-been talk about it?”
A wave of raucous laughter moved over the vast crowd.
“Come on now, let’s see some hands.” Rob peered out over the packed room one hand flattened over his brow like a sailor seeking dry land. “No worries. Put ’em up. Let’s get real.”
Hands went up. Mostly chuckling, tentative men.
“How many of you got to choose between the two?”
Louder laughter, followed by groans, air slashed by hands going down.
Rob smiled, satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about, my friends. That’s why porn in—”
Claire’s blood searched the maze of her body, looking for its little helpers. Rob faded from view. His mouth opened, lips moved, she heard nothing. Someone had dialed down the sound. A porn star mime in rubber lime green clogs. She looked at Freddie Eddie—he was laughing—she thought. No sound. Claire’s chest tightened. The only thing she heard was her booming heart. Crashing, thundering in her chest.
She looked around, certain somebody would tell her to keep the noise down. Sweat dripped faster than she could wipe. The greasy chicken sandwich she ate in the car came to life, slinked up the back of her throat, pecked and clawed. The ringing in her ears made her want to yell, “Somebody answer the goddamn phone.” She jumped up, ran out of the building, stepping on feet and purses on her way. Freddie Eddie stood up, tried to stop her, but she kept going. If she didn’t get out, she’d die.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claire hit the reception area and stopped dead. She felt faint. She reeled to the nearest bench, put her head between her knees.
“Claire? What the fuck?” Freddie Eddie squatted on the ground in front of her. “Get me some water.” He motioned to an usherette.
Claire kept breathing deep, long breaths. If she opened her mouth her chicken sandwich would reappear, worse for the wear. The wide-eyed usherette, most likely a student volunteer, rushed over with a paper cup of water.
“Here you go.” Freddie Eddie put the cup to Claire’s lips.
Claire sat a few more seconds, not moving. Only breathing. The room stopped spinning enough for her to look up. She reached into her pocket, took two pills with Freddie Eddie’s cup of water, and put her head right back down. She’d left her purse locked in the car. She didn’t want to forget it in the auditorium. The stash in her pocket turned out to be good foresight like usual.
“Christ, another addict.” Freddie Eddie stood up. “Of course.”
Claire’s head jerked up. “I’m on medication. From a doctor.” She spit out the words. “Guess I forgot to take it before I got here.”
“I’m sure you are. Saw you popping pills in the parking lot at the restaurant. Look at you. How many doctors do you have?”
Claire’s already red face burned a deeper shade. “What difference does that make? What’s it to you?” She wiped the sweat off her neck with her empty hand.
Freddie Eddie shook his head. “To me? Not a fucking thing. You can OD in the parking lot for all I give a fuck. To Rob? That’s something else. He’s taken you under his wing. He can’t pass up a lost cause. Do us all a favor before this gets out of hand. Go away.” Freddie Eddie turned on his Italian leather heels and went back inside the auditorium.
****
Claire fumed and staggered all the way to her car, took another pill. So she took a few pills? Had more than one doctor? So what? Freddie Eddie (what grown man would call himself Freddie Eddie anyway?) didn’t live her life. Didn’t have a clue what she’d been through. No one did. She stopped a couple times to lean against parked cars to steady herself. Where the hell had she parked the car?
She roamed-stumbled-leaned, roamed-stumbled-leaned for half an hour before finally finding her rental. She pulled the keys out of her pocket and got in the back seat. If she lay down for just a minute or two, she’d be a new woman. Finally the sweating stopped. Her stomach stopped its assault, and the sledgehammer quit bashing at her skull. She stretched out as much as she could in the back, too tall, closed the door, and reached behind her to open the window a crack. Ah. Better. She closed her eyes. Her foggy Xanax-soaked brain ajumble with words, nonsensical, fleeting. Like dandelions in the wind.
What had Freddie Eddie said about lost causes?
****
Flat on her back, Claire stared out the dirty sunroof of the car. She heard voices outside. Someone pushed against the sedan and she rocked in the back seat. She sat up, her bare head stuck to the vinyl made a suck sound when she pulled it away. Cars pulled out of parking spaces, horns honked. She could hear the usual sounds of a busy lot. She leaned back in the seat, rubbed her eyes. She felt better, a little rested.
What happened?
She looked around the inside of the car, out the windows at the parking lot. Scanned her mind for clues. She’d come to hear Rob Rhino’s speech. Did she? She wrinkled her brow. No. She didn’t think so. She’d gotten sick. Came out to the car to lie down. That’s it.
She should see if he was still around. Apologize again to Rob Rhino. Unbelievable. She felt her pocket for her keys. Still there. A relief. She got out of the car idly wondering if the back of her head had seat lines, red marks, from the cheap fake leather, maneuvered through the lot better than before. Put one foot on the curb when Rob Rhino called her name.
“Claire, there you are. I saw you run out. I wanted to stop the show.” His face a mask of concern. “Freddie Eddie said you were sick or faint or something.”
Claire turned stony. Freddie Eddie. She remembered. “Nothing to worry about.”
Rob Rhino looked her over like he was checking for ticks. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
They stood on the sidewalk while the multitude filed out to their cars. To a man, they waved, called out his name, atta boy’d him on their way by.
Claire smiled. “You must’ve been a hit.”
“I did pretty well considering it’s been a while since I’ve been in front of a group.”
“I’m sure it came right back. Like riding a bike.” Claire watched the steady stream. “Or a nurse.”
Rob laughed. “See how funny you are when you’re not all uptight?”
“Hey, Freddie Eddie.” Rob called to his manager who had his arm around the wide-eyed usherette. “We’re gonna take a breather for a few minutes.”
Freddie Eddie saw Claire, smirked and nodded.
“Hold down the fort.” Rob turned to Claire. “Feel up to a little walk?”
****
Rob walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Claire wasn’t sure where they were, where they were going, or how she got there. There were graves though. Always graves.
The pills relaxed the muscles across her back, shoulders, and neck, kept her heart from falling out on the sidewalk. Did a number on her tongue too. She and Rob Rhino walked around the headstones and the tourists.
“What happened with Gloria?”
Rob kept walking, faced straight ahead. “She had a drug problem. Heroin.”
Now that was a drug.
“Oh... I—” She didn’t know what came next. He clammed up.
“Why don’t you want anyone to know where she’s buried?”
Still walking, Rob said, “Because I’m not supposed to know where she is.”
Claire reached both hands out, blocked him. “Stop. What’s the story?”
He stepped off the path, she followed. “When Gloria died, her parents blamed me for her drug problem, her death. I was pretty fucked up. They didn’t want me involved with her funeral arrangements, her burial. I felt so terrible, so sorry. I agreed to everything they wanted.”
“What’d they want?”
“They wanted her ashes so they could inter them somewhere I would never know and for me to never darken their door again. So I gave them up, just like that.” Rob leaned against a crypt. “We’d been in California. The Valley. The porn capital of the world.” He spit out the words. “I had her cremated before I brought her back. We were already estranged from her family. They hated me for going into the business, hated her for staying. Her father is a minister, after all.”
“But you do know where they buried her. Under the tree, right?”
“No, I buried her there.”
“How? I thought you said you gave her parents her ashes.”
“I switched ’em.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You switched ’em?” Claire couldn’t comprehend it. “Switched what?”
“The ashes,” Rob said his tone even as if it was normal. “Well, not a person’s. Fireplace ashes. Not like anyone looks.”
The Last Day For Rob Rhino Page 10
