The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  Donnie’s words sounded strangely familiar. It was probably some weird kind of déjà vu, triggered by my recent ordeal.

  “Eh, Uncle,” the white-clad angel interrupted. “Patient’s getting agitated. You gotta rest, Aunty. Try close your eyes.”

  Donnie held my hand and said nothing for the rest of the ride down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THEY KEPT ME OVERNIGHT at the hospital, even though I kept telling people I was fine and just wanted to go home. All that was wrong with me was a sprained ankle, some scrapes and bruises, and what the cheerful night nurse called hamajang nerves. And of course my clothes were a total loss. When Donnie called my room the next morning, I told him I was ready to check out.

  By the time he arrived I was sitting in the downstairs reception area, dressed and presentable. Emma had dropped off a spare sweatshirt and leggings for me sometime during the night. I bought some powder, mascara and lipstick from the hospital gift shop, and hastily fixed myself up in the lobby bathroom.

  Donnie paused at the lobby entrance, then ran over to me, pulled me up into a standing position, and gave me a big kiss in front of everyone. Which was not very image-conscious of him at all, despite what Fontanne Masterman had said. Then he held me close for a long time.

  I can’t really explain what happened next.

  My recent ordeal must have given us a sense of urgency. Maybe we wanted to take action before any other disasters befell us.

  We drove to Fujioka’s Music and Party Supply first, and picked out a pair of plain platinum bands. Then we headed over to St. Damien’s, where Father De Silva presided over a short ceremony. Emma signed as a witness, shooting me funny looks the whole time. Pat had made up some excuse not to be at the ceremony, but when we repaired to the Maritime Club afterwards for lunch, he was waiting for us.

  “Well, congratulations, both of you,” Pat said. “Sorry Emma, I don’t believe in that patriarchal nonsense about not congratulating the bride.”

  Davison showed up then, and the five of us sat down to lunch. A waitress came over to take our drink orders. Davison brazenly ordered a beer and didn’t get carded.

  “I guess you two are a pretty good match, I have to admit,” Pat said when the waitress had left to get our drinks.

  “I think so,” Donnie said.

  “Shut up, Pat,” Emma muttered.

  “Sure,” Pat continued, “much better than, what was his name, Molly?”

  “Shut up, Pat.” Emma shot him a hard stinkeye, which he ignored.

  “Atticus. That was it. But he also called himself Mad Dog, didn’t he?”

  Both Donnie and Davison looked up sharply as Pat sipped his coffee with a satisfied air. He had seated himself as far from Emma as possible. Her short legs couldn’t reach far enough to kick him under the table.

  I tried to think of a way to undo the damage Pat had just wrought, and then I stopped myself. What damage, exactly? This was ridiculous. Was I going to keep doing this for the next fifty years? Trying to cultivate a spotless, ladylike image to impress Donnie? I didn’t have anything to hide. Donnie had his history, and I had mine. Sure, it was a little weird I had been briefly interested in the same man who had run off with Donnie’s wife, but I didn’t do anything wrong here.

  “He was working on campus,” I said to Donnie. “We went out for lunch a couple of times. That’s all.”

  The waitress brought our drinks. Davison, who had also lost Sherry to Mad Dog, and far more recently than Donnie had, grabbed his beer and drank most of it in one swallow.

  Donnie smiled and placed his hand on mine. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. You’re stuck with me now.”

  A painful throbbing in my ankle woke me at two in the morning. Donnie was next to me in my little double bed, tangled in my duvet and snoring quietly. I reached out and rested my hand on his bare shoulder. He was really here with me. We were actually married.

  Maybe Donnie would like living here, I thought. My house was much closer to the Drive-Inn than his place. And we could learn to share a bathroom. Or maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live in Donnie’s house, once Davison was off at school. I sat up, and felt around on my nightstand until I found the little bottle of painkillers from the hospital. I realized I was smiling despite the screaming pain in my ankle. I lay back down to sleep, full of relief and contentment. It was all so perfect.

  As I drifted off, I had a nagging feeling I was forgetting something.

  Suddenly I was awake. I had forgotten something. I had just gotten married without telling my parents.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  I SLEPT INTERMITTENTLY and finally dragged myself out of bed at dawn. Donnie stirred a little beside me, then went back to sleep. I padded into the kitchen, started the coffee, and called my father’s cell phone. My parents would be up already, probably doing their healthful morning walk.

  “Hey sweetheart,” my father answered, sounding obscenely chipper. “Whaddaya doing up so early?”

  “I have some important news, Dad.”

  Donnie was behind me, nuzzling my hair. I turned around and pointed to the phone.

  “Parents,” I mouthed.

  “Invite them for dinner,” he said. “I’ll cook.”

  “Who is that?” I heard my mother in the background. “Is that a man’s voice? Is it the new one?”

  “That was Donnie.”

  “It’s Donnie,” I heard my father say to my mother.

  “Tell her she’s never going to get anyone to marry her if she keeps letting these men stay overnight.”

  Donnie was busy at the coffee machine, too far away to have heard. I scurried into my little office nook, just to be on the safe side.

  “Too late. I’m already married.”

  “What did you say? Sorry, sweet pea, it sounded like you said you were already married.”

  “Donnie and I eloped.”

  “Did you say you eloped?”

  “She eloped?” I heard my mother say. “Did they get a Catholic priest?”

  “Tell Mom yes, Father De Silva is a real Catholic priest. Donnie—we—would like to invite you over for dinner. Can you drive back tonight?”

  Donnie came over, handed me a cup of coffee, and gave me a light kiss on the nose.

  I smiled and thanked him. My father relayed my message to my mother.

  “So she’s back with the first one now?” I heard my mother say. “She’s not going to change her mind again, is she?”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  I heard the shower go on, at the same time I realized I had to use the bathroom. I wondered how long Donnie was going to take. Maybe both of us staying at my place was not a good solution for the long term.

  “What about dinner?” I heard my father ask my mother.

  “Maybe we should eat beforehand,” I heard her say.

  “Dad, tell her I’m not cooking. Donnie is. He’s an amazing chef.”

  “What time do you want us to be there?” My father asked.

  “Five or five-thirty okay? Someone’s at the door. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I went to the front door and let Emma in.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  We sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Where’s Pat?”

  “Pat doesn’t need to know about this.” Emma looked grim. “Is Donnie here?”

  “He’s in the shower. So if you need to go to the bathroom, get in line. What’s going on?”

  “I have to talk to you about something,” Emma said.

  “It’s okay, Emma. You helped to save my life, so I forgive you for stealing my DNA.”

  “This actually is about your DNA,” she whispered. “I told Donnie those long hairs in the drain didn’t match the saliva on your paper cup.”

  “And they didn’t.”

  “Molly. They did. It was a match. It was your hair in the shower drain.”

  “What? You said it wasn’t a match.”

  “
I was covering for you.”

  “There has to be some mistake.”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself. First this punk Davison nails Sherry, and then you. What, does he have some kind of magical dong or something?”

  “Emma, I cannot believe you would imagine for a second—”

  “Okay, okay, fine. Alternate explanations. Did you ever use Davison’s shower? Maybe when no one was home, and you forgot?”

  “No. Of course not. You can only get to that bathroom through Davison’s room. And the only time I was ever inside Davison’s room was the night the shower flooded. Besides, you know Sherry was the one who was carrying on with him.”

  “Of course I know about Sherry,” Emma said. “But you don’t get false positives with this kind of test. The markers lined up. Look, I can get another sample from you and re-run the test if you want. But we’re just gonna find the same thing. Hey, are you taking one of those new prescription sleep aids?”

  “What would sleep aids have to do with it?”

  “Sometimes people do things in sort of a sleepwalking state, and then they forget what they did.”

  “I’m not taking any kind of sleeping pills. And what a perfectly horrible idea.”

  “Well, either that was your hair in the shower,” Emma said, “or—”

  Emma broke off and stared over my shoulder.

  There was Donnie, glistening wet and wearing only a towel.

  “Good morning, Emma,” he said, and disappeared around the corner.

  “Donnie’s a good guy,” Emma followed his exit with a pitying look. “He doesn’t deserve to get hurt.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  MY PARENTS ARRIVED on time, and I drove the three of us down to Donnie’s house. Donnie lived in an older subdivision, where the narrow roads shaded into front lawns, uninterrupted by sidewalks. I parked half on the road and half on the far end of Donnie’s front lawn.

  “Is that chain link fence?” my mother asked as we made our way along the unlit road to Donnie’s driveway. “Is this a safe neighborhood?”

  “It’s fine, Mom.”

  Donnie’s garage door was open. Davison was inside, shirtless and sweaty, punching a heavy bag. A swarm of termites fluttered around him and crawled on the garage ceiling, attracted by the fluorescent light.

  “Who is that man with the horrible tattoos?” my mother whispered, as we approached the front door.

  “The fly in the ointment.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Donnie opened the door right away, as if he had been waiting there for us. I attempted to make introductions as Donnie steered us inside.

  “Donnie, these are my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Donnie Gonsalves. Your new son-in-law.”

  My mother offered her hand with a cool smile. My father then clasped Donnie’s hand in a warm, two-handed shake.

  “What should I call you?” Donnie asked.

  “Dr. Barda,” my mother said, at the same time my father said, “Ed.”

  My mother sighed. “Sara. You may call me Sara.”

  “Is Davison going to be joining us?” I asked.

  “Of course. He tried to tell me he wasn’t hungry, but I think he’s just shy about meeting new people. Come sit down. I’ll bring out the wine.”

  “Well, Donnie,” my mother said as she seated herself on the Ettore Sottsass sofa, “you have a lovely home.”

  “Molly,” my father grinned as he took a seat next to my mother, “this couch looks like the kind of thing you would like.”

  Not wanting to squeeze in between my parents like a five-year-old, I sat down in the hard koa wood chair.

  “So what’s cooking?” I asked Donnie.

  I didn’t recognize it by smell. In fact, it didn’t smell very good. Of course I hadn’t liked truffle oil the first time I’d gotten a whiff of it either.

  Donnie called back an answer as he headed to the kitchen, but I couldn’t understand what he said.

  “What did he say?” my mother asked. My father and I both shrugged.

  Donnie came back with a tray of wine glasses and a bottle with a green label.

  “I’m making harapash,” Donnie repeated. “I’m probably not pronouncing it correctly. Polenta with cheese, butter, and intestines of lamb. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t get it exactly right. I’ve just started to teach myself Albanian cuisine.”

  “Albanian cuisine,” my mother exclaimed. “Well, this is very thoughtful.”

  When I was growing up, we never ate “cuisine” at home. We ate “food.” By which I mean things like pizza, ravioli from a can, or takeout Chinese. My parents both worked, and my mother was often on call. No one was spending hours in the kitchen thinking up ways to sneak lamb intestines into people’s food.

  “It sounds great,” my father said heartily, and with more sincerity than my mother had managed. “When I was in Vang Tao, one of my favorite dishes was kuaichap. That’s spicy noodle soup with liver and intestines.”

  Davison barged into the living room, his bare torso glistening with sweat.

  My mother clutched her purse. Donnie finished pouring out the wine and turned to Davison.

  “Go get cleaned up. Then come say hello to your new grandparents.” He shooed Davison down the hallway and went back into the kitchen.

  My parents looked at each other.

  “Looks like we have a grandson,” my father said.

  “So will you change your name?” My mother was still gripping her purse.

  “I wasn’t going to. Betty Jackson—she’s been sort of a mentor—she said you shouldn’t change your name after you start publishing, because people won’t be able to find your pubs in one place.”

  “What’s Donnie going to think if you don’t take his name?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t like the symbolism of it anyway. Coverture. The woman ceasing to exist as a legal entity.”

  “Oh, it’s not some male domination plot, Molly. I changed my name.”

  “Your maiden name was Kastrati. I would have changed it too. Here, let me pour everyone some more wine.”

  Donnie came in and sat down in the remaining koa chair, across from me.

  “You must be so relieved,” Donnie said.

  “That Molly finally got married?” my mother said.

  “No,” Donnie laughed. “That she survived an attempt on her life.”

  My parents turned to stare at me.

  “Who made an attempt on your life?” my mother asked.

  “My parents are staying away from reading the news. It’s a stress reduction technique. I guess I should catch you guys up. Sorry, Donnie, I know you’ve already heard all of this.”

  Something sizzled in the kitchen, and he sprang up.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I have to finish the turli perimesh.”

  My mother caught my panicked look.

  “Turli perimesh is just vegetables,” she said.

  “You’ve had it before,” my father added.

  “Is it okra? I can’t eat okra. Okra has mucus and hair.”

  “No, Molly. There’s no okra in it. Now. Are you going to tell your father and me how our only child almost got herself killed?”

  I recounted the whole story, pausing to allow my parents to express appropriate sympathy (Dad) and horror (Mom).

  “And so here I am,” I concluded. “Alive and well. Thank heaven for skeptical lawyers and Mahina’s old-boy network. And my nosy friends.”

  “So they’ve dropped the charges against you,” my mother said.

  “Well, I assume so.”

  “You know what happens when you assume,” my father interjected roguishly.

  “Call your lawyer. Make sure.”

  “Right now? When we’re about to have dinner? Okay, if it’ll put everyone’s minds at ease.” I brought up Honey Akiona’s contact information on my phone. “Do you know, my lawyer happens to be a former student of mine.”

  “Is that a good idea?�
�� my mother asked.

  Honey answered the phone right away.

  “Hey, Professor. You feeling better? I just got these two weird texts from you. Something about checking the tea?”

  “You just got them? You can ignore those.”

  “I was just talking to Detective Medeiros. Found out more about Scott Nixon.”

  “Oh, how is Scott? Did someone really beat him up?”

  “Yeah, turns out Medeiros was telling us the truth. Concussion, broken nose, cracked ribs. Didn’t have anything to do with Melanie’s murder, though. It was his new girlfriend’s old boyfriend.”

  “How awful.”

  “He’ll be fine. I think his ego’s gonna take longer to heal than his body will.”

  “Honey, I called because I wanted to double check. They’ve dropped the charges against me, right?”

  “I’m still working on it. They took your statement, but it’s your word against Leilani’s.”

  “So what do they think? I just magically ended up on the bottom of a lava tube for no reason?”

  “No, they think you were trespassing on condemned property to take pictures, or something, and you accidentally fell in.”

  “But someone must have seen me with Leilani.”

  “No one’s come forward so far.”

  “And my car wasn’t up there. Do they think I walked twenty miles out of town?”

  “You could’ve hitchhiked.” Honey said.

  “I have never hitchhiked in my life. That’s their working hypothesis? Seriously? I hitchhiked up to an abandoned house and fell into a lava tube?”

  “Do you have the photos you took that afternoon?” Honey asked. “Maybe we can put together your movements from those.”

  “I lost my phone. Wait. I think Pat might have the photos. I’ll have him forward them to Medeiros. Oh, I should probably let you know, I got married yesterday.”

  After a wary pause, she asked, “To who?”

  “To Donnie. Donnie and I got married.”

  “You married Donnie Gonsalves.” Honey sounded relieved. “Good. Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s right in the middle of cooking dinner for my parents—”

  “Please, Professor. It’ll only take a minute.”