Shaking out the Dead (17 page)

I love somebody,
Paris suddenly wanted to tell her to turn the lie he had told himself into the truth.

He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed her two twenties.

Linda left the closet. She walked around the counter and past her coffee mug, grabbing her coat on the way out through the casino into the dark morning. Blair walked past the entrance to the diner with a towel in his hand, looking in, knowing something but unsure what.

Paris ran his hand through his hair, discomfort quietly overcoming him. He adjusted his glasses and did the math. Disconnect from Tatum. The Deluxe, closing. Vincent. Linda.

Not three, but four.

Had it started all over, he wondered? Were there now two more to go?



Snow was falling when Paris finished his shift. The sidewalks were slick with black ice, and the new snow added to the treachery. He cut down an alley that he normally didn't take. The pavement there would be broken. Rougher. Easier to traverse. Besides, why not do something different? They say missing a bus can change a fate.

He passed the alley's metal Dumpsters with their slanted lids. He walked over the potholed asphalt. How different did he want his fate to be, he wondered? Was for everything to be the same again the different thing he wanted? It had been a discomfort with which he was comfortable, a dissatisfaction with which he was satisfied enough. But how one
feels
about the truth is not the truth itself. The truth was the discomfort and the dissatisfaction. The truth is always there underneath. And the underneath goes on, layer beneath layer, on and on forever, truths pushed up, one by one, by heat and pressure.

There was no wind. The snow fell straight to the earth, orderly, too wet to float, but dragged by its own soggy weight. He had lied Linda into being Tatum. But sex was still sex. The blowjob had left Paris feeling slightly wetter inside. Released. But into what and whether he wanted to be there, he did not know. Sex breaks spells. Bad ones and good ones alike.

He reached his building and took the concrete stairs to his door. He stood in the spotlight dropped onto him as though he had a monologue to deliver. As he turned his key, the light was blocked, then freed again, crossed by a mysterious presence. Paris looked up, but it was gone.

He opened the door, and the phone rang. He stepped over the envelope that had been slipped beneath his door and picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?

“Paris? It's Tatum.”



Hans Mood was closing in on retirement. Dealing with geriatric sexcapades had not been part of his plan. He had been the director of Parkview Homes for seventeen years and hoped for nothing more or less than to coast through his final months, be gracious at his retirement party, and drive off with a gift watch and certificate of appreciation sitting on the passenger's seat as he went forth into a life of tying flies and raising llamas.

The problem was, he knew, the makeup of the Board of Directors. The craziest member, Mrs. Doncy Feldspar, also had the most time on her hands — a lethal combination for any board. Then there was the new social worker, Alice, with the short blonde hair and the tiny nose piercing. He had misread her in her interview. He took her for an artsy type with a full life outside the Home. She would, he thought, have the quirky sense of humor that best suited those working in nursing facilities. But no. She was a zealot. She had gone over his head and sent letters to the board members. She and Mrs. Feldspar were gaining energy from each other's momentum. They had stumbled upon a sin and, without much else to do, had made it their mission to punish it. Heroes and saviors worried Hans. They needed victims. They needed villains. They caused trouble everywhere.

The other members of the board were too passive to put up any resistance. Some were mildly concerned about a lawsuit being brought forward on behalf of the resident, potentially by their own employee. Hans was beginning to be a bit concerned himself. Real problems can be born of the made-up ones.

He opened the file and picked up the phone. He sighed and collected himself. Principle. Those who placed it above peace were self-absorbed, he thought, and lacking a proper sense of prioritization.

He called Geneva. He asked her to understand that elder abuse does occur and even though he did not believe she had done anything wrong, rules exist to protect the vulnerable. He told her the committee had proposed a probation. Supervised visits for four months followed by a reassessment.

“‘Proposed'?” she said.

Hans cleared his throat. “Decided, I suppose.”

“If you don't think I did anything wrong, why the probation?” Geneva asked.

“As I said, we have rules to protect the vulnerable . . .”

“Do you think I'm a threat to my husband?” she said.

Hans hesitated. He told the truth.

“No, I do not.”

“If I'm not a threat, then the probation isn't for Ralph's protection but to slap my, well, let's just say wrist. Have I characterized this accurately?”

Hans ran a hand over thinning hair. He didn't want to delay retirement for the sake of following through with a lawsuit. He didn't want to stick around for an additional six months following the resolution of the lawsuit to assure he left Parkview in ship shape.

Geneva didn't wait for an answer.

“
I'll consider your offer,” she said. “Your ‘proposal.' My lawyer will get back to you.”

Both hung up their respective phones and retreated to their separate worlds.

Hans sighed at the picture on his desk — the muzzle of a llama affectionately poking over a fence between the smiling faces of him and his wife.



In fact, Geneva didn't have a lawyer and didn't want one. She hoped it wouldn't come to that. After hanging up, she returned to sorting through the letters she had picked up from the
Mountain Messenger
yesterday afternoon. Preoccupied, she read them with less patience than usual. Trouble with bosses, parents, and lovers. Same old. If she were a good woman, she knew, she would be grabbing her coat, probation or no, and enduring the social worker scribbling in the corner as she sat faithfully beside her husband's bed pumping in the Beach Boys and sending telepathic messages. But Geneva was not a good woman, she knew. A good person, yes. A good woman, no.

Besides, at the moment, she couldn't go anywhere. Rachael was sleeping on her sofa. Tatum had shuffled her across the hall this morning. Rachael was feeling better, but yesterday's fever earned her a pass on school. Tatum had invited Paris to come over that morning, and they needed privacy. Geneva hoped for Tatum and Paris. In a way, she also felt sorry for them that it had come to this. Love is a crapshoot. The house always takes its cut.

So Rachael had climbed onto her sofa, and Geneva covered her with a blanket and returned to her task. It crossed Geneva's mind that neither of them had received a call from her “man” on her birthday. No husband. No father. Sometimes Geneva forgot that Rachael's father wasn't dead too.

Geneva lifted the next envelope from the pile. The outside of it read “To Belinda.” No mailing address. No return address. Geneva flipped the envelope over. It must have been dropped off at the paper, someone saving on the stamp. She slit it at the side. She slipped from it a torn sheet from a blue legal pad. It said:

Geneva placed the letter on her desk. A thrill snaked its way up from her toes. She stared at the piece of paper, remembering his voice. He had called her Gen-eva, not Ginneva like most people did. The entirety of him came back to her. The giant hand. The dusty, cold-weather smell. The promise of a serious tool belt.

“I want to watch TV.”

Geneva returned to earth. It was as though she had been lifted by a sudden wind and then gently placed back down.

“Can't help you,” she said to Rachael without turning to face her. But it was a lie. She did have a television. She kept it in a closet in her bedroom. Caged. Inconvenient.

“Why don't you guys get TV's?” Rachael said with exasperation.

“They are extremely rude,” Geneva said. “They talk when no one's listening. And they suck your life force.” Geneva spun in her chair to face Rachael, who looked bored and rumpled. “What if I returned you to your aunt without a life force. How would I explain that?”

Rachael rolled her eyes.

“Can't you afford a TV?”

“I can afford one,” Geneva said. She opened her top drawer and placed the blue sheet inside. She looked at the phone number listed after his signature. “But one has to be careful about acquiring new things,” she said, closing the drawer, slowly, regrettably.

“Why?”

“You get a nice chair,” Geneva said, “and it makes you realize you need a new sofa.” She got up and walked to the wingback. She leaned on the back of it. “You get a fancy house, and you need dishes to go with it. Keeping up with the Joneses is one thing,” she said. “Having to keep up with your own sofa is to live under an oppressive regime. It takes up too much mental space,” she said, tapping the side of her head. “You want a nice life, surround yourself with nice things. It's a reasonable strategy. But, eventually, even your friends will come to match your sofa.”

“So?”

“Well, nice is nice,” Geneva said. She went to Rachael, leaned in, and felt her head. “But my interests lie elsewhere.”

“Where?”

Rachael's temperature felt fine. Geneva sat down at the opposite end of the couch.

“I prefer an
interesting
life to a nice one.”

“So why don't you get an interesting sofa?”

Geneva pointed a finger at Rachael. “Clever girl,” she said. “I would if I could find one.” She grabbed one of Rachael's feet and started rubbing it. “But searching for an interesting sofa doesn't seem like an interesting thing to do. Know why I rented to your Aunt Tatum?”

“No.”

“I thought she'd be interesting.”

“Am I interesting?”

“Fascinating,” Geneva said.

Geneva propped up the pillows and leaned against the opposite arm of the sofa, facing Rachael. The drapery was closed behind them, and the gas heat rose through the vent in a hush.

“How 'bout Paris?”

Geneva nodded. “Also interesting.” Voodoo jumped up and walked back and forth between them, receiving well wishes. “I bet your mom was an interesting person,” Geneva said.

Rachael's face didn't change. She petted Voodoo.

“Yes,” she said. “Vincent didn't think Aunt Tatum was very interesting. Did he?”

Geneva sighed. Those who leave have so much power. Being longed for is much more glamorous than being counted on. It was a strange reversal that those present become invisible and those not there loom larger than life. She looked at Rachael. Her face was a mask of mock innocence. Geneva wasn't going for it.

“Your mother didn't like Tatum,” she said. “And maybe you were taught she wasn't a good person. But she is.”

Rachael's brows lifted slightly.

“Then why did he leave?” she said.

“Who?”

“Vincent.”

“Rachael,” she said, hoping to make a grown-up point to a very little person. “When I'm with you, I want to be with you because I like you. Not because I want a feeling. There's a big difference. Vincent wanted a feeling, not a person. So he needed Tatum to be different so he could keep the feeling. But it's important that we're loved for who we are. Don't you think?”

Rachael shrugged. Geneva pushed away her foot, stood, and walked over to her albums.

“How did he want her to be different?” Rachael asked.

Geneva selected the
Greatest Hits of Gladys Knight and the Pips.
She slipped it from its sleeve. “Here's a strange thing about love,” she said. She looked over her shoulder and gave Rachael the once-over. “I think you're old enough to know.” She held the album by the edges, between her palms, and placed it on the turntable. “When you love someone, you want to be your best self for them. But if that person can't love your worst self too, you tend to hate them for it.”

Geneva skipped the first track to get right to
“Midnight Train to Georgia
.
”
She adjusted the volume. She held out her hands to Rachael, inviting her to join her.

“C'mon,” she said.

Rachael threw off the blanket and joined her in the middle of the room.

“Follow me,” Geneva said as she lifted her arms above her head, reaching up. She swayed like a tree, back and forth to the music. Rachael followed suit.

“Moving is important,” Geneva told her. “Greases the gears.” Her hips joined the effort.

Rachael seemed open to it and swayed along, watching Geneva and trying out the moves. Geneva decided to take the opportunity to lobby on Tatum's behalf.

“What I think is fascinating about you,” she said to Rachael, “is that I think you have a very strong center.” She made a fist in front of her heart. “I think you're smart and funny too.”

Always best to first gain your target's trust. Get your opinion valued. Flattery works well for this purpose.

“I think your Aunt Tatum's interesting because I think she's secretly happy. I think it's interesting that she keeps it secret.”

Rachael seemed to take this in as she continued to dance. She took a liberty with Geneva's moves and added a spin, smiling when she came back around.

“I don't think so,” she said.

“I know it doesn't seem so,” Geneva said, “that's why I say ‘secretly.'”

“She tried to kill herself.”

Geneva's head jerked back slightly. She stopped dancing. Rachael didn't.

“What are you talking about?”

“In a motel room.”

Geneva thought it best to keep moving, to keep the conversation moving as well. She rolled her shoulders.

“What makes you say that?”

“She told me.”

“Who told you?”

“Aunt Tatum.”

What was she thinking?

“What did she tell you?”

“That she was in a motel and took a bunch of pills.”

Jesus Christ.

Geneva wasn't sure what to say.

“I think it was because of Vincent,” Rachael said, very sophisticated.

“I don't know what to say,” Geneva said, trying to conceal her shock. “I'll have to ask her about it. I'm betting it was a mistake. A bad judgment call.” It was not that it had happened, of course, that was the shock. It was that she had told an eight-year-old with a dead mother. Geneva shook her head. “Dang,” she said.

“Midnight Train to Georgia” ended. “I've Got to Use My Imagination” was starting, all beat and brass. It was a song they had danced to before.

“Told you,” Rachael said as she bobbed her head from side to side. Then, she exaggerated it, bobbing like an idiot.

Geneva recognized it for what it was. A victory dance. But victory, in the long run, is better for the spirit than defeat. Self-righteousness, despite its accompanying problems, trumps despair when it comes to psychic survival. So, Geneva thought, it was not to be discouraged. She danced along.