Roll with the Punches (41 page)

Something bothered me about Jeff as I slogged through the rain back to my room. My empty room. No Dal. Oh, crap. I needed him so bad. Why had I fought with him again? I checked the lobby and the restaurants. No Dal. I checked the ballrooms and the meeting rooms. No Dal. I checked the patio and the pool. No Dal. I dialed Mom.

Her voice quavered. "Oh, honey, I'm so glad you called. I mean I wish you hadn't had to call, but now that you have, I'm so glad. Your father threw away all the phone books, so I don't have anyone's number.”

"Where's Dal?"

"Well, first things first. Bjorn, my helper, came from the agency this morning, and he was so capable with your father. It was just great. He's a big guy, you know, so I thought he'd work out fine. Anyway, around noon, Bing nosed something out of one of the pockets of a jacket hung on a chair in the kitchen. I picked it up, and I'm sorry to say, but it was your father's pension check. You know he'd never let them do direct deposit. He wants to see his money and go to the bank himself. I have to change that tomorrow.”

"Wait, he's still getting checks? But—"

"Rhonda, that check came from Ed's jacket! Ed's jacket! Imagine! And here I thought he was such a nice boy! Well, I told him to get out of my house right then and not come back. He's lucky I didn't press charges. Of all the nerve! I mean after him leading you on and making a laughingstock of our whole family yesterday in that gypsy van …"

I almost dropped the phone.

"You understand, right, Rhonda? I can't have him here after that.”

"Mom! Did you ask for an explanation?" I screamed. "Maybe he was going to take Dad to the bank and help him deposit it. Where is he?" Dal wouldn't steal from Dad, unless … if he was still gambling … He'd never actually said he'd quit. I'd just assumed. Could my Mahatma Gandhi be a thief and a serious gambler?

"I don't know, Rhonda. But I'm sure I don't care, either."

I slammed the phone down. Damned gambler. Had he really taken Dad's check? If not, why hadn’t he defended himself? And Mom? Kicking him out? I called my condo in case he'd gone there, though he had no key. Not very logical in my fury. Then I called his parents' house in Newport. A young female answered.

"This is Rhonda Hamilton. Is this Blair? I need to find your bro—"

Blair broke in sharply. "Rhonda? We're tearing our hair out, thanks to you."

"But I didn't—It was my mom who …"

She yelled, "Listen, we finally got him back in college, and now he's missing classes—"

"But he's in trouble. My mother thinks he took my dad's—"

"Left and right since he's moved in with you. He got all beat up last week, and now you people are accusing him of stealing? Now we can't find him. When we find him, believe me. He's never coming back there.”

"He and I just need to—"

Blair said, "He needs to get over his fiancée's death. Not get caught up with some bitch who breaks his foot and throws him out on his ear in the middle of a bout of mono."

I sat down. Fiancée. Death. I could forgive him for almost anything knowing he was grieving. "Oh. I'm so s-sorry. I didn't mean to—Could this have stressed him so much, he's reverted to gambling?"

"What? Do you even
know
my brother? Geez, just stay away from him."
Click.

Well, Blair sure was in denial about Dal's gambling. But why would he have taken Music Man's check if he didn't desperately need money? It had to be a mistake. He loved Music Man. And respected him. Hard to believe grieving Gandhi was a thief. Unless gambling was his default mode, how he dealt with feeling down. Maybe he needed a big gambling stake and he'd already bled a lot of gambling money from his own family. And he thought he’d pay this "loan" back in a day or two when he won. I’d heard all the stories.

God, I hated gamblers.

*
      
*
      
*

Dal never called. The only reason I didn't go home that awful night was my promise to deliver Marian's lecture on plotting early Sunday morning. Which I did, sans disguise, though my lack of anything resembling energy or humanity made the talk about as fun as a guillotine. The odd crowd asked several pointed plagiarism questions, and at the end of my speech, I fled.

Afterward, I found a note slipped under my hotel room door:

"
Rhonda, BREATHE before you read this. Long and short, I stole your book and buffed it a little and sold it to Mammoth House. They bought the Reynard Jackson act hook line and sinker. Yes, I am he. The first nine books came from my old MS drawer. Jackie and Marian each donated one. So sorry, George."

Okay. My heart stopped, but just for a second. Then I looked outside at the gray sky full of drizzle. No skating in this rain. There was an hour to kill before I had to do Marian's hospitality duty at the final brunch with the national bestselling author, Tanisha Shalama, as speaker. So I dragged myself to a "read and critique" session where three young women read seductive dialogue between impossibly handsome wizard characters and perfectly shaped wise-cracking nymphs.

Then a nerdy blonde read an exchange between characters named Ariel and Fabiolino at an anniversary party. This rang a distant bell for me, even in my brain-dead condition. Where had I heard this before? A crowd of admirers surrounded the blonde afterward, and I was late for my brunch gig, so I couldn't speak to her, but I snagged a copy of her session outline from a pile on the back table on my way out.

I moved through serving brunch like a rusty old droid. No one would meet my eye when I asked what drink they wanted. I spilled coffee on so many people that I was told to stop serving and go eat. But George was in line. He saw me and ran like a girl, zigging and zagging through the boisterous throng. I caught up with him in the hall by the restroom.

He put up both hands. "Rhonda. Don't kill me. You have such great ideas, and mine have been really dry, and you must know you have years of good writing ahead of you, and you'll go far, despite my horrid deeds."

"Take down your dukes, George. You said too much in the letter. Mammoth House didn't publish
Memory Wars
. Haverton Masters did. And we both know Reynard Jackson wouldn't be caught dead selling Alice Fay."

He scratched his bald pate. "Damn. I messed up the publisher? I really need a research assistant.”

"Why did you confess?"

"I take the fifth." He went back to the lunch line, scratching his head, and I just couldn't face the crowd to bug him more about who he was protecting.

I wasn't hungry. The rain had let up, so I left the ballroom and put on skates again, then took off along the still-damp Besker park pathway. With the glittering ocean on my right and the aloe-covered hillside on my left, I wove between strolling families, preening wedding parties, and strutting teenagers. Until I hit the huge detour where the cliff path was closed off due to mudslide damage from the recent rains.

I had to finish my skate going slowly on town sidewalks, fighting street and pedestrian traffic, my body feeling just like that closed-off path, broken with rock piles at the bottom. Not even the little gaggle of pink bridesmaids and the nervous white-lace bride near the gazebo could make the void in my gut feel any better.

On my way back to the hotel, Marian called. Jackie had awakened and said the hit and run was not accidental. The driver had sped up and aimed at her. Marian handed the phone to Jackie, who then sent Marian off to get a magazine.

When Marian was out of the room, Jackie slurred, "Rhonda, I know you're going to hate me, but—I stole your book."

"Great timing. You're third to confess." I laughed. "So you're protecting whom?"

"Oh, I'm so tired." She hung up.

*
      
*
      
*

As I was leaving the conference hotel to go home, even the bell men and receptionist gave me strange looks. Now I was a true pariah. I stepped into the gift shop for some gum and saw Marcella Anderson at the magazine rack. I walked up and asked, "Marcella? What's going on? I'm getting all these weird looks."

Marcella shook her old-as-dirt curls. "Sorry, sweetie. I don't believe a word of it." She gestured at a rack of tabloids.

There, giant on the front cover, was a worried-looking woman skating in a park, her stomach pooched out a mile: Me. On a very bad hair day.

Huh?
I looked around for
Candid Camera
. But the headline read:
RHONDA HAMILTON: HAM-FISTED ROLLER-DERBY PLAGIARIST OR BESTSELLING HERMIT?

I picked it up in a daze.

It read: "The whole world has wondered for three years about the identity of Reynard Jackson, mysterious bestselling novelist, who burst onto the publishing scene in 2004, and has stayed high on the bestselling list for thirty-three straight months, producing hit after popular hit. Now, with $100,000 riding on Jackson's true identity in an online contest, sources in Orange County believe this woman, a beefy stripper in the local roller derby league, is indeed our favorite author. Unless she's just a clever hacker who accessed Reynard's files, downloaded one of his hottest works,
Memory Wars
, and now claims it as her own. Last month, she sent it to some of the country's top agents in a pathetic attempt at fame. Which story is true? You decide. Go to www.tattleonreynard.com and enter your best guess for Reynard Jackson's real identity. And if you sight Rhonda Hamilton, call us at 999-JACKSON."

"'BEEFY'? Damn that Yvette!" It had to be her. Just when I'd started worrying about her, she'd pulled this? Another gossip rag with an even worse shot of me shouted:
Memory Wars Thief Rolls Away Unpunished! Don't Trust This Imposter with Your Grocery List!

"It’s just sensationalist crap, dear." Marcella patted my arm and left the gift shop.

I slunk home.

*
      
*
      
*

My condo message machine had one short, dull message from Dal: "Rhonda. Your Mom kicked me out. Gotta check out some stuff. See ya." The kind of
see ya
that meant
I'll call you, in a hundred years, if I feel like it, which I won't.

Oh, I missed that giant nose. And the orgasmatastic sex. But could I forgive him for the gambling, make him promise to quit—
if
he ever called again?

Later, at my local Laundromat, four people stared me down and one asked for my autograph. Back home, I had to shove aside two reporters with microphones and cameras to get to my front door. A note on it said, "Left computer with your neighbor.
James.
"
He'd gotten it back from the
thieves
?
Yes
!!!
Crying
in relief,
I
shoved
my
way
back
outside
and
went
to
get my
baby
,
which
he'd
thoughtfully
put
in a case. I
hugged it
all the
way over
to
Acorn
Street
, where
I
was going
to
read Mom out royally.

At the Acorn Street curb, I stopped the engine and just sat for a minute, completely stunned by the day's events. Three confessions, a lottery win, Mom firing Dal, and me nailed as Reynard Jackson. Geez. What more could a girl ask for? The homestead looked bereft. Music Man's car sat in the driveway, lonely without Dal's van. I sat and pondered life in the drizzling rain for a long time, until Arlene's car drove up and Mom got out, looking the palest I'd ever seen her, dabbing her eyes. Worried her heart was going bad again, I ran and helped her inside and sat her down. Arlene followed.

"I'm sorry, Rhonda." My mother warbled and wiped her red nose with a Kleenex.

"You should be," I started in. "Dal is a good person, Mom. You have no idea—a Red Cross volunteer, a longtime Child Fund worker in Africa and for hurricane relief. That check business
had
to be a mistake." I crossed my fingers. "Did you let him explain?"

She was looking down, shaking her head.

I paced up and down, gesturing wildly. "I can't believe I was gone two nights and you just threw Dal out after you'd promised he could stay here. Why didn't you call me? What must he think of us now?"

She was still shaking her head, not looking up.

I sat down at the table in the chair where Music Man always hung his blue bag. But it was gone. A feeling of dread came over me. "Mom. Where's Dad?"

The house was dead quiet.
Tick Tock
.

Arlene said, "There are sandwiches in the fridge. Help yourself."

"Mom. Where's Dad?" I was getting frantic.

Mom held the Kleenex to her eyes. I ran down the hall. Empty bedrooms.

When I came back, Arlene said, "Sit down, Rhonda. No, sit and listen. He fought with the caregiver and he hit Ethel with a book. Gave her a black eye. Knocked her over. The caregiver might sue. Ethel had to do something, and this six-bed board and care had an opening. So … "

The house suddenly felt like a grayscale photo of itself, taken grainy and angled wrong.

"We just took him to Nadja Kay's Corner," Arlene finished.

"Where?" I shot up from my seat.

"James's sister's place. It's cheerful there like a preschool. He’ll be happy there.”

I stared at my mother, unbelieving, then spat out, "I'm going to go get him."

Arlene patted Mom's shoulder. "No, you can't. They told us he can't have visitors for the first week, while he gets used to the place. It's the hardest thing your mother's ever had to do, Rhonda. You should have seen the look on his face when we left without him."

"Mother, I'm speaking to
you,
" I said. "I'm going to go bring him home.
Now
."

As I left, she yelled, "You can't Rhonda. I have power of attorney. That nice Bjorn came and your father got into a fist fight with him. A fist fight in my house! And he hit me with a book! I can't afford any more broken bones!"

I flipped them both off and flew to the car. I jammed it to Helena Street, and banged on Nadja's door. Behind it, I could hear my father yelling, glass crashing, cockatoo screams, and bangs like his cane crashing into walls.