Authors: Carolyn Haines
Driskell pulled his cloak over his body and blended with the shadows cast by the big coral azalea at the beginning of the pea gravel path at Mona’s house. The scene he witnessed tormented him. He didn’t want to believe what he saw, but as an agent of the U.S. government he had to face facts. Lucille Hare was standing in the middle of the white gravel path nearly breaking her neck to get a look at the love tool of the naked man who held her. Lucille’s body blocked Driskell’s view, but he could tell she was mighty drawn to what she saw. That was not good.
Mona, tightly wrapped in black terry cloth, started toward the house. And him. He considered hiding deeper in the bush, but one look at Lucille’s glazed face as she stumbled forward made him stand his ground. As the quartet closed the distance, Driskell stepped forward, the edge of his black cape catching an unexpected breeze and whipping around him in a spectacular billow of black and red.
“Driskell.” Lucille stopped so suddenly that the naked man ran into her. Her eyes widened.
“Lucille.” He had no interest in anyone except her. One side of her hairdo was crushed in. Bulges at the knees of her green striped leggings marked the bandages he’d taped on her lacerated flesh after the encounter with her uncle. Her knees looked like tiny, delicious, sugar baby watermelons. As he stared at her, she stepped away from the naked man, a tiny step toward him. Beneath the cape, Driskell’s heart fluttered like the silk lining.
“Driskell,” she whispered, taking another unsteady step.
“Lucille.” He moved forward to meet her.
“Driskell.” She held out her arms and ran toward him. Limping on one leg, dragging a nasty looking briar vine on the other, Lucille fell into his arms with a sad bleat.
Driskell folded his cape around her and bent to kiss her ear, to whisper that everything would be okay, to tell her that he could no longer ignore his feelings for her.
Almost choking, Lucille clung to him. Her voice broken, she spoke with total abandon. “Now my dream will never come true. Mona has ruined Slade.”
Sitting in the black leather of Driskell’s Caddy, Lucille felt cut off from the snapping waves of the Sound, the flash of traffic on the opposite lane of the highway, the flutter of clothes on tourist and American flags that marked the gaudy, two-mile, souvenir strip of the highway. She watched it all pass as if it were a movie. Two feet away, hands on the wheel and attention focused out the front windshield, Driskell drove. They had not spoken since he’d loaded her into the car at Mona’s.
“Driskell?” Lucille felt his name fly across the car, crash into the invisible barrier he’d erected, and fall, a smoking heap, to the car seat. “Driskell, please. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say, Lucille. Bo was right. No living man can ever compete with the characters in your head.”
“Bo doesn’t know everything.” Lucille’s remorse took on an edge of exasperation. “Bo and Iris go around talking about me like I’m some idiot child. They see what they want to see.”
“They see what you project, Lucille.” Driskell started to look at her but caught himself in time and jerked his head back to face the highway. He didn’t have to see her flushed cheeks to know she was upset. She’d clung to him, the second choice, and wept because she’d imagined one of Mona’s lovers was her cowboy! Through all the tortures and agonies of school, through all the torments of the other children and the cruelties of the bullies, he’d never suffered so harshly as he had at that moment. Lucille had driven a stake through his heart.
“You and Bo and Iris see what life has prepared you to see.” Lucille brushed a tear from her cheek. “The really bad thing is …” She paused to get her voice back under control, “I’m the victim of the way you see me.” She swallowed loudly. “I become what you expect.” She wiped a steady stream of tears from her cheeks. “Sometimes I fight really hard not to let that happen, but then I look into your eyes, all of you, and I see this reflection of a foolish woman, a pitiable creature who is a nuisance. And I believe it! I believe it because I see it there in the eyes of the people I love the most.”
Driskell’s foot slipped off the accelerator. As the big Caddy began to slow, he reached across the seat and touched a single tear on her face. “Bo loves you, Lucille.”
She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I know he does.” Her laugh was short. “He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? I’m his little sister. He’s been told to love me from birth.” She ran her fingers through the stiff spikes of her hair. “Hell, he’s
conditioned
to love me.”
“That’s not true. Not completely.” Driskell felt his anger melting. Bo and Iris loved Lucille, but they expected the worst from her. Perhaps … The total lack of emotion in her voice pulled him from his own thoughts.
“Real love is something for characters in a book who deserve it. For people touched by magic. It’s not for ordinary people. It’s not for people who do stupid things and make mistakes.” She looked out the window. “You know my first memory is watching Bo rise up out of his baby bed. He was sleeping and he just up and floated in the air. He hovered about a foot from the baby bed mattress. And all the time he just slept.”
“Lucille–”
“I was sitting on the floor. I can still remember the rug. It was a dark green with white leaf patterns in it. I loved that rug. I was pulling my fingers along the leaf patterns, sort of tracing them. I looked up and Bo was lifting off like a cloud. From that minute on, I knew he was the special one. I was just the other child.”
“It was a dream.” Driskell finally found a place to pull off the highway that wasn’t jammed with goose-bumped beach bathers. “Think about it, Lucille, it had to be a dream. Bo is older than you. You wouldn’t remember him as an infant.”
“Well, I guess he was just a slow developer. But I remember it. Clearly,” Lucille insisted. Now that the car was stopped she had nothing to look at except her hands. Or Driskell. “He was a strange baby. First of all, he was so small. So much more babyish than I was. I thought at first he was sickly. But it was more than that. He was special. Late at night Mama and Daddy would whisper about him. Their voices were … urgent.” She finally met Driskell’s gaze, surprised by the attention on his features. His lips were very red, and without thinking she reached up and touched them. “You were a special child, weren’t you?”
“Being special isn’t always what you think. You
are
special, Lucille. The way you live your characters, that’s a gift.”
Her smile was bittersweet. “Ah, but they don’t live me back. I learned that today.”
Against the pressure of her soft fingers on his lips, Driskell spoke. “I’m not one of your heroes, but I think maybe I could love you, Lucille. If you wanted that.”
His breath against her fingers was delicious. She took a long, shuddering breath. “I was a fool about Slade.” She looked into his dark eyes. “A big fool. He’s not half the man you are, Driskell. And I want to thank you for saving me from my uncle. Slade would never have done anything like that. He’d have been more interested in his old cows.” She lowered her hand.
Driskell smiled. “You and your cows. When I thought you’d been blown to bits by that bomb, I imagined you coming back as a cow.”
“Oh, Driskell, that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Leaning across the seat, she lightly kissed him. At the first touch of his cherry red lips, she felt a soft tingle that grew stronger as she held the kiss. His lips were soft and tart, a sensual burst of pleasure that could only be likened to a Sweet Tart hitting the very tip of her tongue. “Oh, Driskell,” she said softly, never wanting to let go of the taste of him.
Driskell’s sense of duty snapped back into place. He squeezed Lucille’s hand before he started the car and aimed it back onto Highway 90. “Well finish this later,” he promised.
Lucille lifted her hand and gently touched her lips. They were pulsing, alive in a way she’d never imagined. She chanced a look at Driskell and felt a sudden, hard pulse in her lips. “Oh, my,” she said.
“Are you okay?” Driskell held the wheel tightly.
“I think so. Where are we going?”
“We’re looking for 555 Avelon Drive.” He turned right at the marina and headed for the main downtown street of Biloxi.
Lucille looked out her window. Her face was dimly reflected in the glass. Her lips seemed larger, redder than they had ever been before. Instead of frightening her, the effect pleased her greatly. “Who are we going to see?”
“Someone your uncle knows. The lawyer who sent him a letter telling him to come back to Biloxi to claim his inheritance.”
Lucille forgot her lips. “What inheritance?”
“That’s what we’re going to ask M.V. Valentine.”
They passed a liquor store, a dry cleaners and pulled in beside a sno-cone stand. The numerals 555 were crudely painted on the side. They got out of the car and stared at the bright lime green stand.
“That lying Peter Hare.” Driskell stood beside the curb as Lucille brushed past him and went to inspect the stand. “He duped me.”
Lucille heard the bitter disappointment in Driskell’s voice. She went to him. “Don’t feel bad. Well find Uncle Peter and make him tell the truth.”
Driskell turned his face so that their lips were only a few millimeters apart. He could see each separate eyelash, as stiff and spiky as her merlot hair. And he saw himself reflected in Lucille’s eyes, a man with lips red with passion and dark eyes filled with longing. He watched in total fascination as his eyes grew larger and larger, until his lips touched Lucille’s. Though they were a paler red than his, they were nonetheless hot and filled with passion. Driskell lifted his cape with his right hand, creating a shield of privacy for them as they yielded to the passions they could no longer control.
Andromeda stood impatiently in the Wal-Mart checkout. Her Raybans reflected harsh lighting and a dizzying array of frenzied shoppers. Across the slick, black surface of her lenses, the shoppers rushed to and fro, buggies filled with disposable diapers, ant poison, chips, cosmetics, garden hoses, toilet tissue, and heat-rash babies. Cradled in her arms was her riding helmet, and tucked within that were two photo packages and five Slim Jims. While the line inched forward, she ripped the plastic wrapper down one of the small beef sticks and bit it in half. The photos were intriguing. WOMB had underestimated Marvin Lovelace. She pulled the remainder of the beef stick out of the wrapper with her lips. Inch by inch she worked it into her mouth.
The rustle of plastic drew the attention of the elderly woman in front of her. “You aren’t supposed to eat before you pay. They’ll have to increase the prices for all of us if people like you eat without paying.”
“I’m paying.” Andromeda saw that the cashier was waiting for the old woman’s items. “It’s your turn.” Behind the Raybans she focused on the woman. She was a study in pastels, a proper church-lady-granny with flawless hose and shoes that were not scuffed on the heels. The kind of old woman she sometimes fantasized as her grandmother. Andromeda smiled. “It’s your turn,” she repeated with a hint of gentleness.
“I know your type.” The woman rounded on her, pointing at Andromeda’s black leather jacket. “I’ve seen women like you eating in the grocery store. They go to the salad bar and get a piece of watermelon or crackers. They just pop them right in their mouths and go on about shopping as if it were free. Down at the Krogers they had to take out the bulk items because people were stealing out of the barrels and eating the stuff right in the store.”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” The cashier waved her forward.
Ignoring the cashier, she shook a finger at Andromeda. “You’re just like those people who sue when they spill hot coffee on themselves, or when they’re playing golf and their golf ball hits the railroad tracks and then comes back and hits them in the head. You have no sense of responsibility for yourselves.”
Behind her, Andromeda heard the other people in line mumbling. “Lady, if you’ll check your things I can
pay
for mine.” Andromeda inched forward. The pastels and pearls had been a sham. The creature before her was old. Old and mean and cantankerous. Age did something to a person. It got inside them and curdled everything that was good or decent. It made them hate younger people.
The old woman held up both hands, silencing those behind her. “Be quiet! Be quiet! I have something to say. When I was a young woman, we were proud to work for a living. This day and time, young folks want a government check! We’ve become a nation of freeloaders.” The old woman snatched the Slim Jim wrapper from Andromeda’s hand. “And thieves!”
Andromeda snatched the plastic back. “I’m going to pay for that!”
“So you say,” the woman answered. “You’re like all the other young people. Punks!” She spat the word at Andromeda.
The cashier was paralyzed. Andromeda waved at her. “Check the old bag out,” she said, keeping her voice as reasonable as she could.
“No respect for your elders.” The woman punched Andromeda in the shoulder. “What would your mother think of you if she saw you right this minute? You look like a hoodlum.”
Andromeda could stand it no longer. She reached into the woman’s basket and piled her things on the counter. “I have to get out of here,” she said. She’d given Natalie only a light dose of laudanum. “Lady, check out or move over.”
“Listen to her! Just listen. I won’t be ordered around by the likes of you!” The old woman swatted at the clerk’s hands as she reached for her items. “Don’t touch those! Don’t touch them!” She clutched her purchases to her chest and widened her feet. “We’re shutting this place down until you issue an apology.”
Andromeda looked deep into the old woman’s fading blue eyes and felt a stab of pure horror. “Who are you?” Andromeda asked.
“Mrs. Prencil.” The woman clutched her purchases. “And I demand an apology!”
All around her fights were breaking out at the checkouts as the older customers began to make a seal-like sound, chanting in unison. “Arrp! Arrp! Arrp!” They clapped their hands and chanted.
“What the hell is going on?” a young mother with three children in her buggy asked. She pushed into the line beside Andromeda. Ahead of her an old man punched his fists into the air as he made the seal sound. “What’s wrong with them?”
“American Association of Retired Persons. AARP,” Andromeda said. For the past three months Natalie had been filling out secret questionnaires to obtain more senior discount cards. “It’s the biggest lobby in the nation.”
“I’ve got to get home,” the mother said. She nudged the old man with her cart. “Step aside, mister.”
“Arrp! Arrp! Arrp!” The man shook his fist at her children.
“Get out of my way,” the woman warned. When the old man laughed at her, she rammed him with her buggy. He fell to the side, and she pushed her cart past him. Throwing items helter-skelter, she rushed the cart toward the door at break-neck speed. Her children reached for toys and screamed, a long, grinding wail that was somehow harmonized.
Andromeda clutched her helmet, her photos, and her Slim Jims to her chest. It was time for action. She stiff-armed the old woman and ran. The elderly greeter dropped into the stance of a football tackle, blocking the exit. Without a qualm, Andromeda used the butt of her palm to send him sprawling. As she ran, she watched the slo-mo bedlam of the store, the agonized faces of angry shoppers opening into wide mouths, the slow and exquisite lifting of a bag of pretzels that suddenly exploded over a cashier’s head. Lunging, twisting, but always holding onto the photos, Andromeda saw the automatic door open for her just as the music from
Chariots of Fire
swelled in her head. The finish line, she was almost there. Free-dom. Free-dom. Free-dom. The word echoed in her head, and in that split second, she accepted the fact that she would never go home again.
She’d left the Harley parked illegally by an enormous display of marigolds. The jaunty gold and russet flowers seemed to bob a hello on a soft wind as she ran to the bike, climbed on board and kicked it into life. With a twist of her wrist, the bike roared forward on its rear tire. She walked the hog across the entire front of the store as managers, clerks, and a growing army of old folks came out after her, wielding umbrellas and shaking their fists.
“Hi! Ho! Silver!” Andromeda cried out as she set the bike down on two wheels and took off to find the rest of WOMB.
Marvin tugged the long brim of the tractor hat even lower as he shuffled down the sidewalk using his cane. It galled him to resort to cheap disguises. But then he’d never met a human as hard to kill as Lucille Hare. When he’d seen her, standing against the rising sun, he’d felt a true discomfort in the region of his heart. His ribs had squeezed shut into a fist. How was it that she’d escaped the blast that had killed ten and injured dozens more? Eight apartments had been declared total losses.
And Lucille Hare had escaped without a scratch.
He sighed. No wonder the forensic team hadn’t been able to find any trace of her.
He lingered in front of Igor’s Video Store and stared at the miniature marquee displays of newly released movies. But he was actually watching the reflection from the other side of the street.
Bo’s Electronics looked deserted. There had been four or five customers, and the mailman, who’d stayed longer than any of the customers. Now it appeared that everyone was gone. Except for Bo and Bo’s wife. Iris Hare. He’d seen her flitting around the shop, butt barely covered by a pair of cut-off jeans. Now
she
was one hunk of woman. She was one that would fight back. One whose bones would not snap easily. The idea of breaking her to his will excited him, and he forced his attention back to the poster on
Pulp Fiction.
He’d never bothered to see the film; John Travolta was a sissy. And Bob Dole had said it was a movie that corrupted America. A glorification of violence.
Marvin knew one thing for certain, violence wasn’t to be glorified. It was something that governments did with regularity–against their own citizens and the citizens of other countries. In whatever form it took, violence was covert. Denied. Done and lied about. A necessary part of making the world run properly.
No matter how precisely or professionally it was done, violence was
never
glorified. That was what was wrong with those Hollywood types.
A small and ghostly Bo Hare suddenly appeared in the
Pulp Fiction
poster. Marvin concentrated on Bo as he lifted a television from beside the front window of his shop and disappeared again. Marvin clicked his teeth. Bo was alone.
Reaching into his pocket, he checked the curette to make sure it was easily accessible. He didn’t have time to run Lucille Hare to ground. Bo would have to do for the tissue sample. All it would really take would be a plug, something he could clamp and snatch. It wasn’t the preferred plan, but it would get the material necessary for the DNA tests, and Marvin knew he’d wasted far too much time on this step. Somehow, he’d lost sight of his goal in his frenzy to rid the world of Lucille. All he really needed was a plug of tissue, and Bo would have to serve that purpose.