The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  “My shower’s backed up before,” I said, once we were in the car and on our way. “It was my hair. I had to buy those little filters to put over the shower drain. I wish someone had told me about those earlier, before I had to have the plumber come out.”

  “I hope Davison put some towels down. I can’t have water sitting on the wood floor.”

  The plumber’s van was already in front of Donnie’s house when we pulled up. Donnie jumped out of the car and ran inside. I found Donnie and Davison in Davison’s bedroom, standing on white towels spread out on the soggy red carpet. They were watching the plumber snake the shower drain in Davison’s bathroom. Davison was wearing a black satin bathrobe. It looked like the same one I had last seen wrapped around Sherry Di Napoli.

  “Eh, dunno what happened,” Davison was saying to Donnie. “All of a sudden was water everywhere.”

  I joined them, and the three of us stood on the soaked towels, watching the plumber dragging the snake out of the drain as if he were performing a magic trick. And then, abracadabra. He pulled up an object that looked like a small, bedraggled mammal.

  “Eh, Missus,” the plumber said to me, “you get your drain all clogged wit’ your hair.”

  “Me?”

  “See? This your hair right here.”

  “That’s not my hair.”

  He shook out the water, and from the slimy clump he lifted up a long coil of dark brown hair.

  “See it all the time,” he said. “Wahine wit’ long hair. All you gotta do is go down to the hardware store, try get some shower drain filters, one for every shower in the house. Cheap, those things. Save a lotta money in the long run.”

  Donnie was staring at me in horror, as if I had just pulled off my human face to reveal a tentacled alien underneath.

  “Donnie, don’t look at me like that. That is not my hair.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  DONNIE PRESSED HIS mouth shut, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Donnie, listen to me. I have never even set foot inside this room before. Davison, can you tell your father...”

  But Davison had disappeared. The plumber was concentrating very hard on putting his tools away and pretending to be deaf. Donnie and I stepped out into the hallway, to let the plumber clean up Davison’s shower in peace.

  “I knew Davison was keeping something from me.” Donnie said, finally.

  “Well, you’re not wrong about that. I’m sure he has been keeping something from you. But you don’t actually believe was my hair in his shower, do you?”

  “What am I supposed to think? Did you see it?”

  “Are you serious? I don’t think I’ve even seen Davison’s bathroom before today. Ask Davison if you don’t believe me, which you obviously don’t. Where is he?”

  The door to the hallway bathroom was shut. I went over and pounded on it.

  “Davison,” I shouted. “Davison!”

  “I’m busy,” he called from the bathroom.

  “Davison, whose hair was in your shower drain?”

  No answer.

  “You can’t hide in there forever,” I yelled at the door. “Come out and tell your father what’s going on.”

  Silence.

  “He’s protecting you.” Donnie stood at my elbow.

  “He is not! Protecting! Me! Davison!” I pounded harder. “Come out and talk to your father!”

  I jiggled the doorknob. It was locked.

  You know how sometimes you read that someone’s expression is like a thundercloud, and it sounds like a silly exaggeration, because how could someone’s face look like a thundercloud? Well, that’s exactly what Donnie looked like now. Like a furious, betrayed thundercloud.

  “I cannot believe this, Donnie. Weren’t you the one who got all offended because I made assumptions about your behavior based on circumstantial evidence? Do you realize what you’re inferring here?”

  “I thought you hated the word ‘infer’.”

  “I hate it when people use it as a substitute for imply. ‘Infer’ means you draw a conclusion in your own mind. For example, you see a clump of curly hair come out of the drain, and you immediately infer all kinds of awful things about me. Ugh!”

  I felt around in my hair and retrieved a hairpin. I straightened it out, stuck in the hole in the center of the doorknob, and poked around until I felt the spring lock release.

  Davison was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding his head in his hands.

  “Davison,” I said, “Whose hair was in your shower drain?”

  “I don’t know nothing about it. Leave me alone.”

  “I have to pay the plumber.” Donnie turned and walked away.

  “What are you doing? Your father thinks it was my hair in your shower.”

  “Eh, not my fault he doesn’t trust you.”

  “Oh, you are not blameless here. It’s Sherry’s hair, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell him the truth? Just go. Tell him.”

  Davison shook his head.

  “He’d be upset.”

  “Oh. He’d be upset, would he? You don’t think he’s upset now? I don’t understand why you can’t just...”

  Davison’s elbows rested on his knees; his hands were folded so tightly his knuckles whitened. His bare heels bounced on the tile floor, as if he wanted to jump up and run away.

  “Did you know?” I asked, cautiously. “About Sherry being your...”

  He glanced up at me briefly, and then back down at the tile floor.

  “Yeah.” He seemed to be talking to the tarantula on his left foot. The tattoo was repulsive but well-executed. The artist had even put in shadows, to give it a three-dimensional effect, as if the spider were perched on Davison’s instep.

  “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

  Davison shrugged.

  “No big deal. She’s not my real mom.”

  “Well you can’t just avoid your father and hope he forgets about this. Because I guarantee you he won’t. Why don’t you just tell him you had a curly-haired friend come over and use your shower? That wouldn’t be untrue.”

  Davison shook his head and stared at the floor.

  I marched out and found Donnie in the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter, arms folded. Just like Davison, he was scowling at the ground. I heard the plumber’s van pull away.

  “This is ridiculous.” I stood, hands on hips, and waited for Donnie to say something.

  “Molly,” he said finally, “Davison trusts you. He looks up to you. You’re almost like a mother to him. How could you take advantage like that?”

  “Donnie, are you seriously—”

  “I’m sure he went along willingly. He’s a healthy, normal young man. He’s not going to say no. I mean, look at you, you’re—” he gestured at my torso. I had to restrain myself from swatting his hands away.

  “Am I really hearing this? Donnie, how could you think for a second—?”

  “You’re the adult here. You have to be the one to say—”

  “I cannot believe I have to spell this out for you. I was never in Davison’s room, or his bathroom, or his shower, ever, and that is not my hair.”

  “Molly, I’m not blind. Didn’t you hear what the plumber said?”

  “He is a plumber, not a trichologist.”

  “I thought you hated it when people made up their own words.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to count to five. One-one thousand, two-one thousand. It was all I could manage.

  “Trichologist is a real word. I do hate it when people make up their own facts. Listen, Donnie. Davison’s too chicken to tell you, so I will. The hair belongs to your ex-wife. Sherrine Di Napoli. She was here in this house. I saw her. I talked to her. I didn’t realize she was hooking up with Davison. I thought she was here for you. But she was here. That’s the truth. She’s the one whose hair clogged up Davison’s shower drain, not me. Run a DNA test on the hair if you don’t believe me. Geez.”

  I was furious at Sherry. First, for getting m
e into this mess. Second, for making me feel sorry for Davison.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Sherry was here? In my house?”

  “Yes, Donnie.”

  “And you think she...Molly, she was Davison’s stepmother.”

  “You know both of us pretty well, Donnie. Sherry and me. What do you think? Which one of us would be more likely to carry on with her stepson?”

  I placed my hands on my hips and glared at Donnie while he took an insultingly long time mulling over my question.

  “So you’re saying Sherry was here, but she never tried to get in touch with me? And Davison never thought to mention it?”

  “Well, I guess they had other priorities.”

  “If your story is true, then where is Sherry now?”

  “Last I heard, she got tired of Davison, and went back to the mainland. With someone named Atticus Marx. AKA the notorious hacker Mad Dog. Why do you care where she is?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? She was in my house?”

  “Donnie, I tried to tell you I saw Sherry here. Remember? You thought I was crazy.”

  Donnie stared at the floor. I waited for him to apologize, but he said nothing.

  “Okay then,” I said, finally. “I guess I’ll get going.”

  I would have made a more dramatic exit, but I had to spend some time looking for my purse, which I finally found hanging from the bathroom doorknob, where I’d left it.

  My father phoned as I was driving home. I pressed the button to put my parents on speakerphone.

  “Well, we got your message,” my father said. “We’re all set to check out tomorrow morning. I’m glad we’re finally going to meet Donnie. It’s a good thing we didn’t—”

  “Don’t check out. Donnie and I are through. Enjoy the resort.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE NEXT MORNING I sat at Emma’s kitchen table, pouring out my sad story to Emma and Pat. Yoshi was still working in his studio, and didn’t want to disturb his flow.

  “And that is why I’m not going to call him,” I concluded. “How could he even think I would...ugh. Just, ugh.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go to Donnie’s Drive-Inn this morning?” Pat asked.

  I had brought over a bag of Bushido Breakfast Bombs from Merrie Musubis, Donnie’s main competitor. I’d never seen anything like them on the mainland: a golden skin of tofu aburage wrapped around a cube of white Calrose rice, which in turn encased around a slice of Spam. The whole thing was then dipped in pancake batter, and deep fried.

  “Merrie Musubis has better food than Donnie’s Drive-Inn. There, I said it.” I dipped a corner of the Breakfast Bomb into a little tub of maple syrup. “And yes, I’m avoiding Donnie. I mean, I tell him the truth and instead of saying, Oh, thank you so much for your honesty, he doesn’t even believe me.”

  “You didn’t tell him about Sherry and Davison, though, did you?” Emma asked.

  “Yes I did. I told him everything.”

  “Oh, man. No wonder he’s freaking out.”

  “What do you mean freaking out?” I asked.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s just being a jerk.”

  I took the last sip from my paper coffee cup, and before I could set it back down, Emma snatched it away and placed it behind the coffee machine.

  “What are you doing with my cup? I would like more coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” she chirped. “Here!” She poured the last of the carafe into a proper ceramic mug, set it in front of me, then went back to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  “What about my paper cup? Just refill it. I don’t mind.”

  “But don’t you prefer a real coffee mug? Hey, your phone’s ringing. Maybe you should get it.”

  My lawyer Honey Akiona was calling to remind me of our meeting scheduled for Sunday evening.

  “Sunday is the day after tomorrow,” I exclaimed.

  “Actually, it’s tomorrow,” she corrected me. “Today is Saturday.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The Business Boosters Volunteer Dinner was last night.”

  “Have you gone over Melanie’s records yet?”

  I reached into my laptop bag, pulled the stacks of papers out, and set them on Emma’s kitchen table.

  “Of course,” I flipped hurriedly through the papers as Pat peered over my shoulder. “These websites look like they’re mostly about these financial regulations.”

  “That’s what I was telling you,” Honey said. “I need you to try to figure out what it could mean. It doesn’t make any sense, given what you’ve told me about the deceased.”

  “Aren’t there any transcripts of her conversations?” I asked.

  “Transcripts? Where would I get those? No one was tapping her phone.”

  “Weren’t you telling me how some government agency is recording all our conversations? Couldn’t you request the recordings for a murder investigation?”

  “Oh, all of our conversations are recorded and stored somewhere. But they won’t admit it. They’re sure not gonna release any of it to some small-town lawyer.”

  “Oh.”

  “What about Scott Nixon?” Pat whispered.

  “Honey, any news on Scott Nixon? I know I’m not the most objective party here, but he seems like a much better murder suspect than me. Melanie had evidence of his plagiarism. And he left town.”

  “The photo of Professor Nixon at the music festival was a real breakthrough. Detective Medeiros told me they owe Pat Flanagan big-time. They should be bringing Nixon in sometime in the next few days for questioning.”

  “They owe you big time,” I whispered to Pat.

  “I heard,” he said.

  “So what does all of this mean for my case?” I asked.

  “Nothing for sure yet. The good news for you, though, is Scott Nixon is a viable suspect now.”

  Honey made me promise to go through every page of the printouts by Sunday evening. By the time she rang off, Emma and Pat were arguing about something.

  “So the wheels of justice are creaking along...what’s going on? What are you two arguing about?”

  “Writer’s block. It’s never happened to me before.”

  “His publisher’s leaning on him,” Emma explained. “I’m trying to tell him, just sit down and write something.”

  “And the more people pressure me, the harder it is for me to get anything done.”

  “Weren’t you a reporter?” I asked. “Aren’t you still a reporter? I thought you were used to deadlines and working under pressure. Just treat it like a story.”

  “I can’t treat it like a story,” Pat said, “because I can’t tell the truth.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the truth is you can be the best little cog in the world, but it won’t matter. You’ll show up one day to work and find out they’ve shipped your job over to India, because they can get people over there to prepare taxes and do legal discovery and read X-rays for a fraction of the cost. So really, my only career advice is to start stockpiling canned food and ammunition.”

  “I see. And your publisher doesn’t think the story of the decline of the American worker, in self-help book form, would have the mass appeal they’re looking for.”

  “Nope. They want reassuring platitudes.”

  Emma stood up and went into the kitchen. She seemed to be on edge. I decided to ignore her mood. If it had anything to do with me, she’d let me know soon enough.

  “You’re right, though, Pat. I just saw an ad for this company that’ll get well-educated English speakers in India to grade your students’ papers for you. Ten bucks a pop.”

  Pat nodded glumly. “I caught two comp students last semester buying papers online and turning them in as their own work. So our students buy papers from India, turn them in to us, and we send them back to India for grading. How long’s it gonna be before someone decides to cut out the middleman?”

  Emma came back and sat down with us, and retrieved a Bushido Br
eakfast Bomb from the white paper bag in the center of the table.

  “Syrup?” I offered her the plastic tub.

  “Thanks. I gotta go in and get something started in the lab. You guys can wait here. I’ll be back in about half an hour. If Yoshi comes out just let him have some coffee.”

  “Should we save him a Breakfast Bomb?” I asked.

  “He won’t eat it. Too many carbs.”

  Emma retrieved my used paper cup from behind the coffee machine on her way out.

  “What’s going on with Emma?” I asked Pat. “She’s acting weird.”

  “She’s a science genius. They’re all weird.”

  “Hey, my father’s a science teacher. He’s...maybe a little quirky. I see your point. All right, Pat, let me help you out. What kind of platitudes do you need for your book? Oh, how about our school slogan? At Mahina State, your future begins tomorrow.”

  “What does it mean? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly why our university chose it. It commits us to nothing.”

  “How about, the nail that sticks up, gets hammered down? It’s not really original, though.”

  “How about if you make it like a poem? Let’s see. How’s this? Conform in speech and dress and thought, and you’ll get promoted when you ought.”

  “Hey, not bad.” Pat pulled his phone out and started typing something on it.

  “I know. Looks like my ‘theory and practice of poetry’ course is finally paying off.” I felt proud of myself.

  “Give me another line.”

  “Hmm. Something something something hey, something something something bought. Fraught. Taught. No, wait. I have it. Speak the truth and have your say, and you’ll get two weeks’ severance pay.”

  Pat finished writing and plunked his phone down triumphantly.

  “Conform in speech and dress and thought, and you’ll get promoted when you ought. Speak the truth and have your say, and you’ll get two weeks’ severance pay. I think I have my back cover quote. Thanks, Molly.”