Roll with the Punches (45 page)

Which was when Hippo appeared on the other side of my furniture heap and grabbed the heavy chair with all that was piled atop it and tugged, shifting it as easily as a cup of coffee. I was free. Then we both swam over more mounds of Levitz's and IKEA's finest, ending up at the front door sill, gasping with terror.

Well, I was gasping with terror. Hippo climbed up onto the front porch and teetered for just an instant, laughing like a school kid, before jumping the three feet of empty air between it and the front yard to relative safety. But I was both fascinated with and terrified by the space between the cliff and the house and my ever-widening view of mud pit below. It was an odd sensation, crouching there, trying to get my breath, with only a few unstable porch steps between me and the poop-brown abyss. It kind of paralyzed me there for a minute. Hippo would say ten minutes, but she's hyperbolic.

The house hung in limbo there, trying to make up its mind what to do, like a virgin with all her clothes off with a sweaty, well-muscled lothario three inches away. It wasn't hard to tell what the end result would be, but the decision point still seemed important. Then a rumble started up from somewhere below, and cracks appeared in the porch steps as they, too, finally pulled away from solid land.

But I was stuck. I couldn't move, mesmerized by my ages-old fear of falling.

"Uh, Rhonda? Get your butt over here." Hippo snaked a long arm out at the very last minute to grab my elbow in a roller derby move and haul me off the porch to the front lawn just as the foundation of the house let loose and the whole structure tipped over.

Everything gave way with a giant, shuddering wrench and then the building plummeted, stretching, heaving, and billowing like a fat lady's underwear as it thundered down the slimy hill. The piercing screams of all the over-mortgaged ghosts inhabiting the poor, condemned structure chased us both across the yard toward the relatively plush comfort of Yucca Street. Then a huge, chunky cloud of wood debris churned up to engulf us as we joined the workmen gaping at the spectacle.

"Outta here!" Hippo said.

Hippo and I skated away from the horror as fast as our shaky legs would take us, shoving stunned choking and coughing workers out of our way like so many empty beer bottles.

"Hey, you two! What did you do in there?" A few gloved hands reached for us, so Hippo banged some orange helmets together as I snake-drilled around their clunky boots and finally made safe ground outside the street barrier. There, my body shook violently as the deafening roar of the collapsing house made the whole hill shudder.

"Don't stop now!" Hippo prodded me, as I was about to curl up in a fetal position on the curb.

"Hey, I just nearly died in there!"

She pointed down the hill. "Okay, die all you want. I'm off. The van's still down there." And it was, stopped at a stop sign down the street. "Yee-haa!" Hippo yelled, and I got up and followed her.

It had started sprinkling again, which smoothed our way down steep Ocean View Street toward Nadja's dark blue van. At the second stop sign down from the construction area, it had stalled and was doing a little ants-in-its-pants dance.

Closing in on the scene, we saw Amazons, apparently two carloads of them, as well as some Veggie Girls, climbing all over the inside and outside of the van. They were in groups, beating up the big, hairy guys inside with fists and skates. Skates? And fishnets. They must have come straight from their bout at the mall. The van was shaking and rocking and rolling, like Dal's van had days before with us two in it, and it sounded almost as fun.

As we approached, the side door of the van opened, and Music Man came sailing out of the gaping door in his big-wheeled chair, his arms and body still bound to the thing. The flying chair landed roughly on the very steep, rain-slick street, and for one terrifying moment, it teetered backward and nearly fell over. I winced, envisioning my pater's noggin knocked hard on the asphalt like a busted Jack-o' lantern. But then, miraculously, the chair righted itself and started careening downhill at warp speed. Clearly, Frank had used skate oil on the wheels.

Harley and Cathy broke away from bashing sumo heads and joined Hippo and me in the great chase down Ocean View Hill to curb Dad. His chair veered from side to side, bashing into parked cars, bouncing over rocks and bumps, and heading straight for the next intersection, a busy one.

"Green, green, stay green," went my mantra.

The light turned red, but Dad sailed through before the cars got going.

We waited for cross traffic, then blasted after him at a traffic break, making some ground and nearly catching him just as a driver decided to pull out in front of us. Music Man careened on ahead, bouncing off another parked car or two, down an even steeper, curvier section of wet road.

Steeper? I suddenly panicked. "What if I fall? I'll be oatmeal." So, of course, my exhausted legs seized up and I fell. Hard. On the asphalt. Ouch.

For a split second, I saw a vision of Music Man, lost to Pacific Coast Highway at the bottom of the hill, ground to a grizzled old pulp by highway traffic, all because I couldn’t stay up on my skates.

Cathy yelled, "Get up, Rhonda!"

Then Monica's angry face loomed in my head. And just like that, I hopped up and rocketed after Hippo, Harley and Cathy with new resolve. A battered and bruised veteran of falling on the hill, I actually felt pretty good and moved fast in Hippo's inline skates. The road steepened again where, almost even with the wheelchair, the girls all linked hands for a corral move on Dad.

I came up behind them, spying a space between two parked cars. "There!" I pointed, catching Harley's hand. We cornered the old guy and shoved him toward the parking spot. "Easy does it. Yes! Score.”

But he wasn't quite squarely in, so when he leaned just a little toward the street, his chair immediately ricocheted out of the spot, spinning down the street again, bouncing off a fire hydrant, rocketing straight toward busy Pacific Coast Highway with its very red light. Gasping, we shifted into high gear and closed in on him once more as he neared the busy intersection. Only ten feet before the corner, we reformed our line and tried the corral move again on a gentler slope, this time successfully berthing Music Man into a gas station driveway right at the intersection, where he stopped neatly by the self-service gas pump.

"Dad! Dad!" I rushed up and hugged the big, bedraggled guy. His head back, his eyes closed, his damp gray hair plastered to his forehead, he looked pale and sick against the dark sweats.

Then he opened an eye. "Hey, Rhonda, they've changed that Indiana Jones ride here at Disneyland. It's bitchin'. Can I go again?"

"Harley," I asked minutes later when she came to pick us up, "How did you girls know to jump the van? You couldn't see Dad in the back of it."

She said, "Well, there was the NKC logo. Plus Music Man's nasty blue card on the mirror. Duh. I know that card a hundred yards off.”

Yvette was in the other car.

"Where's James?" I asked her. "I want his computer and his sorry butt. Now.”

"He sort of got away," she winced.

I walked up and yelled in her face. "How could you help that maggot hold my dad in that house?"

She looked like a velvet cat painting, all big eyes.

Largot poked me. "Hey, Yvette's not the one! She knew too much about James and the fake book thing. She was trying to get away from him. She says he was about to take both her and your Dad and drop them somewhere out in the desert without water. James was going to claim your dad wandered off and she helped him."

"Oh." I considered apologizing to the insect. Maybe later.

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Two days later, on Thursday afternoon at the hospital, Dad looked up from his afternoon snack tray at the disguise I had just assembled for myself, a huge head bandage and crutches, meant to get me past any remaining media scum on the way to my car. Since the downhill chase, I'd spent both days in the hospital with Dad, determined not to lose him again. He was lucky to only have a broken arm, a cracked patella, and some contusions on his arms and legs, but he'd been pretty dazed by the whole thing. They were still investigating his dizziness.

I was tired. Of dodging people. Of the world. Of losing stuff. I'd turned my cell phone off and let the nurses take all calls. Of course, the hospital was just a temporary refuge from the media. Sooner or later, I'd have to face the circus again. And Dal. Who had shown up here twice and left a note I still had not read. I'd spent both of his visits hiding out in the bathroom down the hall. Now, I was finally going back outside, to Nadja’s. She had called and begged me to come to her place to pick up Dad's things.

Music Man had a glint in his eye. "Rhonda, you know what math teachers dye their hair with? Quadratic Formula."

I didn't laugh. I'd heard this one a hundred times.

He went on, "But seriously, calculus was easy for me. I derived so much pleasure from it. Such a square deal, like a familiar message from my family's roots, in fact, an integral part of my existence.”

"Oh, Dad," I groaned at the old puns, dredged up from his high school teaching days.

Which made me think of Dal. Shit. I was avoiding Dal, but not to please my mother. I just couldn't face the heartbreak of breaking up with him. Because Dad's NPH test had come back negative. He really did have Alzheimer's. I'd need to get full-time work to help pay for day-time care, medicines, and food, and I'd have to move back home with the folks for night-time care. I'd have to forget writing, skating, the condo, boyfriends, and life. Especially rolling stone gambler boyfriends who'd break my heart one day anyway.

Music Man said, "So what's integral to your existence, honey?"

"Well, you and Mom. Everything else is derivative of that.”

His turn to groan. "And don't forget your writing, Rhonda. Promise you'll keep at it. You know your subjects well. It’s the object of your existence. Your life is predicated on great work. It's your life-long sentence, period.”

I groaned again.

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I pulled up to Nadja Kay's Corner feeling lonely and emotionally swamped by Dad's uncertain future. I hadn't heard a peep from any Amazons, including Harley, who Mom said was helping Yvette move. The twit. I checked the Amazon schedule in my purse. Shit. They were having a full-dress exhibition on a local bigwig's yacht today and none of them had even called to remind me to come. I brushed away a tear and grabbed my jacket from the back seat. Under it was the laptop I'd taken from Nadja's, which I'd completely forgotten I had. I smiled. I might nail James with it yet. I patted it and covered it with the newspaper with the Paul Reynolds article and got out.

The second grade ambiance of Nadja's place perked me up as I walked in. But it was quiet. The residents must have been out for a walk.

Nadja greeted me with a contrite look and a very large check. "Here's the refund for your mother. Tell her I fired Frank and Melody as soon as I got back. I'm so sorry."

A hand-painted wooden sign on her desk said, "Nadja Kay's Corner." Yellow
A
's and orange
N'
s.

"New signs," I said. Hmmm.

"I'm a frustrated toll painter," she said.

"Is the 'corner' your desk, or the whole place?" I asked.

She smiled warmly. "Both. Hopefully, a corner of safety and happy times. Listen, Rhonda, I am truly sorry about my brother. If I'd been here … I swear I had no idea this was going on. He's always been … well, different. He was adopted and a bit messed up from the first. I'm sorry he led you on. I hope he hasn't hurt any more women in those groups. He's just such a ladies' man. But marrying poor Yvette was over the line. When we find him, I swear … " She shook her head.

"What about kidnapping my father? That's criminal. And shoving him down that hill?"

She looked down. "James is mentally ill, a real narcissist, who does quite well on his meds, but that’s no excuse. Rest assured he'll never get close to another patient here as long as I breathe." She sighed. "If there's anything I can do for you or your family, don't hesitate to ask. But I hope you won't press charges against him."

She was so sweet behind those giant glasses. A very genuine, shy person. And such a good listener, just like my old teacher.

"Thanks. Honestly …" I was pretty sure we had no money for lawyers, but I still wanted to nail his butt to the wall.

"Believe me, I understand. My own grandmother lived with us for years. It's why I opened this place." She spaced out, remembering the past.

Oh, man. Not another grandmother story. I blurted, "You must be furious with Jeff, though."

She looked up. "Jeff?"

"Jeff Karrey. You do realize he's probably Reynard Jackson. I believe he’s behind James stealing those manuscripts from the women in the writing groups. Including mine."

Nadja looked stunned. "Hmmm. Really? Are you sure?"

I explained. "And mine got published under Jackson’s name. At a recent conference, I met another woman who James lifted work from to make it look like he could write so he could join my group. Then I realized how he must have stolen mine. He had access to my computer. It would be easy. When I saw Jeff, he admitted to meeting Jackson, then acted strange about it, and the puzzle finally made sense. Wow. What a rat. No wonder you left him. Now I just have to figure out how to tell the press so they'll get off my butt."

Nadja had old pain in her eyes. "I had no idea. You must be furious. But Jeff? Reynard Jackson? I really don't see it. Hmmm. My money would be more on someone like Paul Reynolds.”

"Orange County's favorite exposé artist?"

"Sure. I knew Paul a long time ago, when I worked for the Times." She straightened a pile on her desk. Kandajay cawed. "James knew him, too. Paul's got a reputation for doing whatever it takes to get his story. He's energetic, he can write, and he's great undercover. With so many writer friends, he's got access to all kinds of manuscripts. What if he's Jackson and he bribed—or forced—James to steal the work for him?"