Tats (18 page)

R.J. interrupts my blowing by asking, “How long were you in for?”

I shrug like I’d been expecting the question. “Twelve years. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t for sure. Till you just told me.”

I smile. I think I’m going to like this man.

“Does Vivian know?” he asks.

“Sure. She knows,” I say.  “I told her all about it.”

I pop the filter back on the fuel line and clip it.

“I mean does she know that you got feelings for her?” he asks.

That one sets me back a minute. I look him in the eye. Vivian’s got his eyes. It’s like he’s looking straight into my head and seeing what’s there. “That obvious, huh?” I answer.

“She have those kinda feelings for you?”

“No, sir, she doesn’t.”

“There’s been a man calling here for her. Has a foreign accent. Like that Benny Hill character. You know anything about it?”

I look down at my shoes for the answer, but when I don’t find it I say, “I might know something.”

He pooches out his bottom lip, deep in thought (just like Vivian does), climbs back on the mower and looks out over the yard like he’s surveying it.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife for yelling all the time,” he says. “After thirty years I started ignoring her. I guess she got it in her head that I was going deaf. Now she screams and I pretend not to hear. It’s just the way it is.”

It reminds me of the old Hell’s Angels adage, ‘It is what it is.’ Sometimes that just explains it all.

R.J. doesn’t seem to need a response from me, so I don’t give one. He pumps the gas pedal, pulls out the choke and turns the key. The mower coughs a couple of times, starts up with a loud growl then idles to a purr. He gives me a big thumbs-up and shouts over the engine, “Be careful!”

Somehow I know exactly what he’s talking about.

He takes off on the mower, spitting cut grass out on the driveway, leaving me nodding after him.

I amble back inside the house. It’s deathly quiet. Vivian isn’t in the kitchen. She’s not in the Marie O. living room. Or if she is, she’s standing so still she blends in. She’s not in the bathroom. I open the door to her bedroom, but it looks the same as when we left it. She’s not in her bathroom either. I hear the lawnmower cut off outside. I’m thinking I might have to go have a second look at it when Dottie looms in the doorway.

“What’re you doing to her?” she asks.

I look over my shoulder thinking maybe she’s talking to someone behind me. Nope, nobody there.

“With who?” I ask, softly.

“You know who,” she says. “She’s all hepped up on pills and God only knows what else.”

Dottie’s slurring a little herself. Guess those morning pills are working their magic. She continues, her eyes glazed over, “She looks like homemade soap. She used to be so pretty. Now she’s dressing like a you-know-what and doing drugs. What’re you doing to her?”

“I’m not doing anything,” I answer. “I found her that way.”

“I know what you are. You’re one of those...” she pauses for emphasis, then hisses the word, “...liberaltines.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I make a move to leave the room, but, oh my God, she sways over in front of the doorway blocking the exit. I glance around the room, looking for another way out. There’s the window, but I don’t know if I want to do anything that drastic.

“A sexual deviant is what you are. Doing all kinds of nastiness with my daughter. You’ve brainwashed her with your ugly, unnatural ways.”

“You got me pegged, Dot.” A nervous giggle rises to the surface, but I swallow it back down. I can’t laugh right now. This woman is so close to the edge, that would send her right on over.

“I’ve read about people like you. Miss or Mister or whatever you call yourself. I’ve seen entire TV movies about your type. Picking up unsus...unsuspectant...unsuspecting young girls and forcing them to do strange spelunking things,” she says.

“I think you’re getting me mixed up with a National Geographic show.”

Dottie drops to her knees and clasps her hands in front of her face, saying, “I’m going to pray for you. Pray with me.”

“I don’t think we’ll be praying for the same thing,” I say before I open the window and crawl out.

I drop to the ground and hear Vivian scream, “Get your motherfucking hands offa me!”

I haul ass in the direction of the scream, but as I round the house I slam on the brakes. There’s Prince Charles and his two goons. P.C. has Vivian backed up over the grille of his black BMW. The two goons hold her dad back. Each one has R.J. by an arm and he’s fighting them like a madman, but he’s no match for these heavyweights.

Vivian lays back on the Beamer’s hood and kicks her spikey heels at P.C., letting loose with the longest stream of obscenities I’ve ever heard. I can’t hear what he’s saying over her screaming, but he still has control over his composure. Of course, he’s British and they always seem composed.

I hide behind the corner of the house. I run through all my options. I don’t have a gun. They probably do. They got us outmanpowered, so mano a mano won’t work. I could call the cops, but what would I tell them? That these nice British men just want the money we stole from them? We’re in the middle of a residential street and it won’t be long before a neighbor calls the cops. I don’t have much time.

Then I remember Elvis.

I climb back through the window and am relieved to see that Dottie has finished praying, left the room and moved on to another corner of her Republican, Xanax-soaked mind. I go straight for the cabinet in the living room, throw open the door and pull out fat Elvis. I hope Vivian wasn’t exaggerating about the game her and R.J. play. I uncork Elvis’s head and find, sure enough, R.J. has already filled him back up.

Next I dash into the kitchen and grab the newspaper from the top of the table. I rip off the top sheet (leaving the sports section behind in case R.J. hasn’t had time to read that yet) and wad it up. I take a giant swig from Elvis, thinking what the hell’s it going to hurt, and stuff the newspaper as far down Elvis’s throat as I can. I pat my pocket. Yep, I got my trusty pocketknife and my Bic lighter with me.

Ready to roll. I run out the front door and sneak Davy Crockett-style to the Mercedes we left on the street the night before. I climb in and peek over the dash. Yep, Viv is still kicking like a hellcat and R.J.’s still straining against the goons. It’s taking both of them to hold a seventy-year-old man and they’re the ones sweating. Good for him.

I start the car, stick Elvis between my legs and the Bic in my mouth. Okay, you stupid British, red-coat wearing sumbitches, here comes the cavalry. Drawing on all my TV Roller Derby viewing, I gun the car straight toward the Beamer.

R.J. and the goons see me coming first. The goons drop R.J.’s arms and dive in opposite directions. R.J. backpeddles as fast as he can, which is pretty darn fast. P.C. catches sight of me, his eyes widen in terror, and he looks like he might just piss his pants. So much for composure.

Vivian rolls over on the hood, recognizes me and smiles the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. She hops up on top of the Beamer and, my God, I think, she’s going to start cheering right here. I bear down on them fast and at the last possible second, pull out my best Roller Derby move. I jerk the wheel hard to my right, send the car spinning clockwise and hip-check the back of the Beamer.

Unfazed, Vivian jumps from the hood of the Beamer to the trunk of the Mercedes and before you can even say Revolutionary War she’s in the passenger seat. I step out of the car, light the newspaper serving as Elvis’s head, look P.C. directly in the eye and yell, “You English may have a Queen, but we’ve got the King!”

I wind up and pitch Elvis into the front seat of the Beamer. He shatters and a couple of mad flames jump.

I throw myself back into the Mercedes, stomp on the gas and we are so gone. We’re already three blocks away when—BOOM!

Viv sits on her knees and stares out the back window. She mutters with awe, “Holy shit...” She turns to face me as I pull out onto the highway, merging with the traffic. “That was amazing, Lee, truly fucking amazing. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I shrug like it was nothing. “Your mom called me a liberaltine. It pissed me off.”

Chapter Nine

 “It’s not like I knew a Mercedes would just break down like that,” I mumble to Vivian’s back side.

Vivian and I are walking down some deserted country road and I have no idea if we’re walking toward town or away from it. Thank God for a full moon or I wouldn’t be able to even see the road under my boots. Vivian struggles to balance in her high heels and that leaves me to carry the two bags of money and her giant red bag that has all her essentials for life in it. I feel like some kind of damn packhorse. Sweat rolls down my back forming a little river down my buttcrack.

“You told me you were a mechanic,” she answers without turning around.

“Not on cars. Especially German cars. Hell, they’re not even supposed to break down in the first place. Mercedes is like the Maytag of cars. And even if I could fix it where am I going to get the parts? Out in the middle of the country? You’re the one who thought we should get off the main roads. Like we’re Bonnie and Clyde or some such shit.”

I set a bag down and unstick the back of my shirt from my skin.

“Pick it back up,” Vivian orders with her back still to me. I heft it back up (not because she told me to) and wonder not for the first time how little pieces of paper could weigh so goddamn much. Is this what rich people feel like, money is a burden? I think I was a lot happier when I only had ten dollars in my pocket.

Vivian stops in her tracks and points off to our left. “Look. It’s a midget farm.”

I follow her finger and see what she means. There’s an old ramshackle farmhouse set back from the road and it’s surrounded by a dozen or more little plaster people with pointy hats, peeking over the tall weeds.

“Gnomes,” I say, “not midgets. Those’re decorative yard art.”

Vivian picks her way through the yard and up to where most of the gnomes are gathered.

“I feel so tall,” she remarks.

“Have you been taking some of your pills when I wasn’t looking?”

“Just a couple of blue ones,” she says reassuringly.

“I’m going to knock on the door. Maybe they have a phone or something.”

“Be careful,” she warns, “I saw this once in a movie and it didn’t turn out so good.”

“What movie was it?”

“I don’t remember the name of it but there was this really pretty woman who could sing and these seven little men held her hostage.”

“
Snow White
,” I say. “It’s a cartoon movie.”

“It’s still scary.”

She perches her butt on top of an old camper shell sitting in the middle of the yard and takes off her heels. Rubbing her feet, she looks up at me and asks, “Can you look in the red bag and hand me some of my La Prairie age management balance lotion?”

“You’re kidding,” is all I say.

“No, it’s really good on feet. It says for the face, but it works wonders on your feet too.”

“Do you think right now is really the best time to be rubbing lotion on your feet?” I ask way too loudly.

“When should I do it?!” Vivian shouts back. “When my feet look
really
old? Then it’s a little late, don’t you think?”

I have my mouth open to yell back, but at that precise moment the porch light blazes on. I jerk my head to look and freeze with my mouth still wide open. Silhouetted against the harsh light is the strangest looking human-like creature I’ve ever seen. She’s maybe four feet tall with a ginormous head and lopsided shoulders. I look a little closer and realize it’s not that she’s so short, it’s that she’s missing her legs from the knees down and is balancing precariously on her stumps. The next thing I notice is that she’s got a double-barrel 12 gauge shotgun aimed right at me.

“Wrong movie,” I whisper to Viv out of the side of my mouth. “This is more like
Deliverance.
”

Vivian bounces to her bare feet, exclaiming, “Sandy? Is that you?”

Sandy swings the shotgun toward Vivian. “Who are you?” she snarls. “Did Bongo send you?”

“It’s me! Vivian Baxter! From high school?”

Sandy’s tough-gal exterior cracks a little. “The cheerleader Vivian Baxter?”

“Yes! Remember we sat next to each other in home ec? We made a chocolate cake together and we cheated and used canned icing from Walmart.”

“I remember.” Sandy laughs a little, then swings the gun back at me. “Who’s that you got with you?”

“It’s Lee Anne. From high school. Remember her?”

“Swallowed the guppy?” Sandy asks.

“Goldfish,” I correct softly.

“That’s her.” Vivian laughs.

Sandy pulls her gun up into a tighter grip and asks, “What the hell happened to your hair?”

“I...um...I dreaded it,” I explain.

“On purpose?” she asks.

“Yeah...”

“Looks like a cat sucked on it.” Sandy laughs.

I don’t think it’s particularly funny, but I figure the best thing to do in this situation is to laugh along with her.

Appeased, Sandy sets the shotgun down inside the door and flips on the inside lights. “I’d invite you all in but the cats don’t like people. Let me get my legs on and I’ll come out to you.”

She disappears back inside the house and as soon as she shuts the door, I shut my mouth and look at Vivian. “She’s going to get her legs on.”

“Thank God,” Vivian says. “I was sure I was getting taller this time.”

I’m still a little afraid she’s going to pop back out with the shotgun, so I keep my feet planted where they are, lean a little to my left and peer through her front window. It looks like a pretty ordinary house from what I can see. Except for...is that a Christmas tree hanging upside down from her living room ceiling?

“Viv, I think she’s got an upside down Christmas tree hanging from her ceiling fan.”

“So the cats won’t get in it,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” As an afterthought I add, “But it’s nowhere near Christmastime.”

Exasperated with my stupidity, Vivian says, “How the hell is she going to take it down when she doesn’t even have legs?”