Cool Shade (6 page)

Old Friend

Maddie had lost her dignity. Along with that, she'd lost her virginity.

A lot of people would have said it was about time. Past time. But she'd always prided herself in being different from Enid. Her virginity had always been one tangible, physical way of accomplishing that.

How had she allowed it to happen?

Now, a day later, sitting at Enid's kitchen table, she didn't even have the pleasure of recall, at least not much recall anyway. She'd been so hot, so turned on. All she had to show for it was a swollen lip and some tenderness.
There
. She'd gone from frigid prude to sex maniac in a matter of seconds.

What had come over her?

She'd had sex with him. Not to mention, unprotected sex. In this day and age, that was the most foolish thing a person could do. She, who'd never even had sex with any of her boyfriends, not even Harris, who'd begged and begged.

Eddie Berlin didn't even have to ask. He just touched her and she came unglued.

Enid. She'd turned into Enid.

To top it off, Al was demanding his 30-percent cut.

"Don't make me send one of my boys after you," he'd threatened.

Which brought her to a more immediate problem.

She was broke.

Which meant that even though she had an overwhelming urge to pack Hemingway in her car and hit the road, it looked like she was going to be stuck in Chester for a while.

She was going to have to put aside what had happened with Eddie and look for a job. And so began the ail-too familiar perusal of the Help Wanted section of the newspaper.

She scanned the first column. "Telemarketer."

She'd hung up on a million of them. How could she become one?

"Make money at home stuffing envelopes." Sounded like a scam.

"Bus driver." Needed a special license. "Truck driver." Special license. With the way she loved the road, she should look into that.

"Nanny." She didn't know much about kids.

"Waitress."

She'd been a waitress. And she'd gotten a lot of penny tips.

She came to the end of the ads, where Help Wanted turned into Auctions. That was it. She wasn't qualified for anything.

She went through the ads again, going back to the one for a waitress, this time reading the details.

"Cocktail waitress needed for one of Nebraska's hottest club scenes. Expect to make at least $200 a night in tips."

Two-hundred dollars?

She called and scheduled an appointment with the manager.

~0~

The beefy, sweaty, greasy manager of Studs sprawled behind his desk, watching Maddie as she read the sheet of rules and regulations.

The first thing she noticed was the grammar. She'd never in her life gotten the hang of the lay/lie thing, or the drink/drank/drunk, the swim/swam/swum, but she did at least try to avoid double negatives.

At first she thought the bar's policies had something to do with selling a cat and shooting guns, but then, blushing, she realized how wrong she was. A cleaned-up version would have said that Studs waitresses weren't allowed to sell themselves to the patrons, nor were they allowed to have sex with the band, especially on the dance floor.

Okay.

She lowered the paper. Instead of handing it to the manager, she simply let it fall to his desk.

"Can you agree to those terms?" He took a loud sip from a mug that had the words
Spanish Fly
emblazoned across it, his eyes never leaving her flushed cheeks.

"Oh, sure," she said blandly. "No problem." When would she ever learn that nothing came easy. There was a reason for those two-hundred-dollar a night tips.

"This is what you'll wear." He pulled open his desk drawer.

Dangling from one finger was a scrap of red satin—a G-string. Then he went back to the drawer and started shoving things around again. "I've got some pasties here somewhere."

She wouldn't even wear that kind of thing
under
her clothes. It would be more naked than naked. Her morals may have taken a nosedive, but she wasn't that desperate. Yet.

"I think I'll have to pass," Maddie said.

She left, the sound of the man's inventive cussing following her all the way to the door.

Maybe telemarketing wouldn't be so bad, she told herself as she headed for her car. At least she could do it with her clothes on.

She could file for unemployment and food stamps, but she'd been that degrading route before, and she would just as soon hock everything Enid owned before getting in another welfare line.

That afternoon, she checked out Job Service where she waited for two hours, talked to someone who didn't know what planet he was on, let alone what kind of work was available for earthlings, then she went back home—or rather back to Enid's.

She tried to get from her car to the house without alerting Evelyn, but landladies seem to have radar about such things. She caught Maddie in the center of open ground, halfway between the car and house. She handed Maddie a rake.

"Better get the yard raked before the grass gets killed."

Maddie took the rake, beginning to feel like some kind of serf. "I don't know if I'll be able to get to it."

"Oh, I'll bet you'll find the time."

Was that a veiled threat? Maddie was having a hard time figuring this woman out. All she knew was that their priorities were completely different and they spoke totally different languages.

Slipping away, her stomach rumbling, head beginning to feel light from lack of food, Maddie scouted the house for things to pawn and came up with a pair of ugly lampshades, an answering machine, and a telephone.

~0~

Ten bucks. That was all the guy gave her. Ten crummy bucks.

Her stomach now past the rumbling stage, having moved on to the couldn't shrink anymore stage, she took the money and headed for the nearest grocery store. A bag of cat food, generic peanut butter, and a loaf of bread. That's all she could afford.

Hemingway didn't know how lucky he was, she thought, getting into the express lane behind a woman and little girl.

Maddie didn't often regret her single, childless status, but sometimes, when she saw a child with her mother, she felt a bittersweet, maternal pull.

The child in front of her looked to be about five or six. Straight, silky hair. Innocent eyes that, at the very moment, were looking all the way into Maddie's heart. Ah, the sweetie was going to say something to her.

"I have a vagina.”

No Excuses

Hemingway attacked the bag before Maddie had a chance to open it, dry cat food spilling. "That makes it easy."

With the bag lying on the floor, Maddie tore it open even farther to give Hemingway easy access, and refilled the ceramic bowl with fresh water. Then she settled down to her own gourmet meal of bread and peanut butter. Dessert was three aspirin.

The lightness in her head less severe, she decided it was time for another visit to the police station.

Officer Gable didn't know a thing.

"You haven't been by Eddie Berlin's, have you?"

"Actually, no." He looked a little uncomfortable.

"You told me you'd go in less than three days."

"After you left the other day, I decided against it. I can't go harassing people for no reason. If you come up with something a little more tangible, let me know. I'll see what I can do."

Maddie didn't want to go back to Eddie's, but she was going to have to.

If the cops weren't going to do anything about her missing sister then she'd have to take matters into her own hands. This time she'd just march up to Eddie Berlin's door and walk in.

If he wasn't home.

~0~

Maddie left her car at the beginning of the lane, the front bumper pointing in the opposite direction, poised for a speedy getaway. At first, as she made her way toward the house, the shaded lane seemed cool and damp. But then bugs started to swarm. The original sensation of coolness had been nothing more than a seductive lure.

Under the canopy, no breeze stirred. And the dampness that had at first given the illusion of coolness was fast becoming smothering.

A mosquito landed on her face. She slapped it. Another latched on to her arm. She slapped again, smearing blood. She walked faster, finally gaining the cleared area, relieved to feel a slight breeze.

Leaving the mosquitoes behind in the shade, she marched up to the house and knocked on the loose screen door.

If he was home, she'd confront him with everything. Who she was, why she was there. She just wasn't any good at this spy stuff. On the other hand, if he wasn't home…

She knocked again.

And waited.

She cast a glance over her shoulder.

No dog charging out of the brush. No sign of a drunk lying in wait in the weeds.

She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the screen door and pulled, ungreased metal creaking like the hinges to an old coffin.

She grabbed the knob on the carved oak door, her heart rate increasing as it turned. She pushed open the heavy door.

"Yoohoo. Anybody home?"

Her voice echoed back.

She tried again, louder this time.

Nothing.

Casting a last glance around the clearing, she stepped over the threshold, closing the heavy door behind her.

Dark.

Stuffy.

Like a crypt.

She was in kind of an entryway. To the right, was a living room, to the left, the kitchen.

She turned left.

It was a huge farmhouse kitchen with a butcher-block island. From the ceiling hung dried herbs tied in bundles with string. Two counters ran parallel along opposite walls, the surface covered with jars and plants and boxes and grocery bags, as if nothing got put away. Above a double-porcelain sink was a window that was almost completely obliterated by a sweet potato vine growing from a spud shoved into a jelly jar.

She peered between the vines, trying to see out the dirty window. The view was fuzzy, like trying to look through the bottom of a pop bottle. It made her think of an old Neil Young song, the one about a man needing a maid.

She didn't even know what she was looking for, didn't know what she'd expected to find. Maybe something of Enid's. Something that might prove her sister had been there.

Maddie moved through the kitchen. At the back of the room was a door that led outside. To the left of that door were narrow wooden steps, leading upstairs.

She took them, trying to move quietly, every step screaming with her footfall.

A bedroom.

His
bedroom.

Hot. Stiflingly hot. And dark.

It was hardly more than an attic, the roof pitched, the points of nails sticking through bare wood. At one end, just above a narrow single bed,
his
bed, was a small open window.

Next to the bed was an upturned orange crate. On top of it, an oscillating desk fan. She imagined him lying across the rumpled sheets, all hard-muscled and half-dressed. Opposite the narrow bed was a desk with a swing-arm lamp and a bunch of papers. She crossed to the desk and began shoving the papers around, looking for something, anything.

And in the back of her mind, she knew and yet denied that she was looking for clues, not to Enid's disappearance, but to Eddie Berlin himself.

Notebook paper. Ragged pieces torn from grocery bags. Matchbook covers. Full of writing. Not any writing that made sense. More like stream of consciousness stuff. More like feelings, sensations.

She looked out the window. It was getting dark.

She turned and hurried downstairs, to the living room.

Like a lot of old houses, the living room could be closed off from the rest of the house by a wooden sliding door. At the moment, the door was shut.

It was a struggle, but she finally managed to get the door open enough to squeeze her body through. Once inside, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

Dust, cobwebs, the smell of mildew. Under the soles of her shoes, grit and dirt. Definitely not a used room. In the center was a small wood-burning stove with a chimney pipe that ran toward the ceiling before making a forty-five-degree turn and heading out a wall of flowered wallpaper.

There was a couch. Maybe dark green. Maybe wool. A couple of chairs. A coffee table made from an old door. At the end of the room was an upright piano. Next to that, a draped sheet. She crossed the room and lifted one corner of the sheet, dust billowing.

A guitar. An acoustic guitar held upright on a metal stand.

Nothing surprising. Eddie used to be with a band.

He would have equipment. She just couldn't understand why he kept it all shut away, why he didn't use this room.

What was she doing? Had she totally lost her mind?

There were no clues here because nothing was going on. Enid had just dropped everything and left with some guy. It wouldn't be the first time.

Get out.

Maddie was about to turn and leave when, from outside, someone whistled and her breath caught.

She heard footsteps. On the porch.

"What are you so excited about, Murphy?"

Eddie was back.

The way she'd come in was the only way out.

And she'd left the door open.

She looked around the room, and dove to a pair of dark drapes hanging from ceiling to floor. She moved them aside, choking on the dust. A window.

She braced her hands against the framework and shoved. It didn't budge. She shoved again.

Painted shut. Or swollen from the humidity.

The screen door slammed.

"What's the matter, Murphy?"

The dog whined.

"Is something wrong. Is—"

Silence.

He'd spotted the open door.

Maddie slipped behind the curtain, legs shaking, heart thundering in her chest.

She could hear his slow measured footfall coming her direction, echoing against the wooden floor, stopping. A dog whine. Murphy shoved his head behind the curtain, his nose wet and cold against her bare leg.

Maddie swung around. This time, she threw the weight of her body against the window. Her hand shot through the pane, glass shattering. The impact loosened the window. She shoved it open and dove through.