Читать книгу The Timer Game - Susan Smith Arnout - Страница 8

She pulled into the driveway and her headlights revealed her house in pitiless relief, like in a police lineup. Hers was the ratty one in the middle, squeezed into a row of minimansions.

The house on the right belonged to a retired osteopath and his wife. Blocky pink stucco, gated and electronically locked, with a metal fence spiking into iron bulbs every few feet. Nobody came in or out of that house. Even the mailman used a cement slot built into the fence.

The house on the left cascaded in white cubes amid designer palms. A stoop-shouldered attorney Grace’s age lived there, with a blond wife and two kids in private school uniforms. She’d hear them in the back sometimes through the natural barrier of high succulents that separated their properties. At night, the motor in their swimming pool gargled like an old man.

On her house, the dormer window flaked, the front door bulged with moisture, the second step leading to the door splintered and sagged. Even the trees looked bad. Leathery and overgrown, they shed gray leaves like molting birds onto the green tar paper roof of the garage clamped onto the left side of the house.

She watched as a squirrel darted across the front yard and sprinted along the splintery picket fence, diving into a shrub under the bay window. The bay window hung over a yard she was too tired to tend, the window made of cramped squares of glass leaded and soldered, looking as if it had been assembled by some parsimonious contractor cousin of Dickens – please, sir, may I have one more pane of glass, sir, a little larger, if you please, oh, you’re too generous – flanked by two narrow windows that actually opened, providing some relief in the summer when she sat in the living room and contemplated her life.

Not much relief, considering what she had to work with. Cramped, untidy, spilling with dog hair and scraps of paper, vagrant Cheerios and missing shin guards wedged under sofa cushions. Home.

Not that she could complain. From the street it looked like a broken-down fire hazard, but inside, her home held an amazing secret. She had no illusions about ever being able to afford a new roof or granite countertops in her lifetime. It was enough, plenty, more than enough that the house sat on an actual beach in a section of San Diego in Point Loma called La Playa, and that the back of the lot faced out over the harbor and gently tilting sailboats, while across the water the glass and chrome towers of downtown San Diego twinkled on the horizon like small crystal boxes.

Only thirteen homes shared the beach that had once been a staging area for seamen melting tallow. They were whalers, Portuguese immigrants transplanted from the Azores, sturdy soldiers of fortune who rode the seas and started a tuna empire. They’d all lived together; their kids had gone to Cabrillo Elementary and they’d shopped at family-run stores and eaten at small restaurants clustered along Rosecrans, the main thoroughfare. Now the fishermen had moved a few blocks inland, and real estate along La Playa beach had skyrocketed.

She’d never sell, despite increasingly clamorous offers from Realtors and sometimes people just out for Sunday drives. The view always calmed her, but it wasn’t only the view that made Grace fight so hard to stay there. The house was all she had left of her dad.

Thoughts crashed. She turned off the ignition and sat in the dark. Once, her dad had taken her alone to Lake Morena to catch fish. He made his living doing that, in deep waters, but this was vacation, and he was spending part of it with her. She’d crawled eagerly into the boat. Six years old, still small enough so the wooden sides seemed high. He’d heaved the boat into the water and jumped in after her, her hands clamped around a tin can of worms. That was her job, he’d said, keeping the can safe while he climbed into the boat. He plunged his hand into the black soil and pulled out a worm. It glistened plump gray and magenta, pulsing in his hand. It was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen. Her dad’s other hand flashed into his tackle box and in the same fluid motion pierced the creature with a hook. Blood spurted and it thrashed, trying to get away. Her throat closed in fright. It was alive just like she was. It had blood and it hurt. She burst into tears and begged him to take her home. She didn’t mean for it to die, she whispered.

And now she’d put a bullet through a man’s skull. Several bullets. There had been a fence next to Eddie Loud, and the force of the gunfire had splashed it with bits of brain and flesh and blood. The raw stink of fresh meat had hung hotly in the night air.

Now she couldn’t seem to get that smell out of her nostrils. Heavily, Grace stepped from the car and locked the door. She could hear them inside as she went down the service alley on the right side of the house. Helix banged against the porch screen door, whining.

She unlocked it and Helix bounded toward her clattering on his fake leg, tail wagging in a frenzy of doggie devotion. He was a mix, a mongrel stray, part shepherd and collie, hit by a car as a puppy and left to die. Grace had rushed him to the vet, who’d informed her that fixing him up would cost the equivalent of a small developing country’s entire gross national product. Grace had made the mistake of going into the death chamber to say a weepy good-bye. Five minutes later she was scheduling the operation that had saved his life.

‘Some alarm system.’ Grace scratched him behind his ears, and he rolled over and yipped. She rinsed off her Tyvek suit and filled the sink with water and bleach, spying a discarded pizza carton tucked behind the wastebasket. Helix followed her through the kitchen, his doggy nails clicking across the linoleum like a flamenco dancer.

The calamity of being a parent was that there was no off switch, no time-out for personal disaster. Schoolwork still called, lunches had to be packed, reprimands administered. Her head pounded.

In the family room, Katie was belting out a country western song, standing on the piano bench wearing a pink flowered nightie, Mickey Mouse ears, and cowboy boots, almost dwarfed by the Gibson she was strumming. Her fingers were so tiny she only played the bottom string of the chords. Lottie stood crouched over the piano, banging the rhythm, her silvery blond head moving in time. She was wearing orange vinyl hot pants and white go-go boots with tassels and a vest with beads that shimmied as she moved.

‘No, honey,’ Lottie interrupted, ‘that’s a C chord you’re playing; it’s a G.’ She broke into song, demonstrating, ‘We don’t share the same time zone …’

Katie focused, nodding, tried it again, her voice clear and treble. ‘We don’t share the same time zone … you’re not my phone-a-friend … and all the special features I like best you never do intend …’

Lottie nodded, banging out the chords with force. ‘That’s right, kid, milk it, honey.’

Helix bounded across the carpet and skidded into Lottie. He still had trouble stopping properly.

‘For Pete’s sake. How’d he get out …’

Grace smacked the empty pizza carton against her thigh and Lottie snapped her mouth shut.

‘Busted,’ Katie said.

Lottie guiltily banged the lid down on the piano. Katie turned toward her mother to plead her case. She froze on the bench, staring.

‘Mommy, are you okay?’ Katie’s voice was small, and too late, Grace remembered her face.

At least Katie hadn’t seen her on TV. Lottie’s idea of television news was watching psychic pets find missing jewelry.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Your jaw is all purple.’

‘I just had a little accident, but I’m fine. That’s not what I want to talk about. What I want to know is …’ She lifted the pizza carton as if she were signaling the ships in the bay beyond the sliding glass door. ‘What is this? Lottie?’

Grace waggled the carton at her and Lottie sneezed.

‘You know I’m allergic to that dog.’

‘Answer the question.’

Other people had mothers who wore suits and went to the Wednesday Club, where they drank tea and listened to lectures on Quail Botanical Gardens. Grace’s mother was still in her midfifties, with a smooth, unlined face, stuffed into a pair of hot pants so tight that her rear looked like two cantaloupes squeezed into a plastic bag.

‘You weren’t supposed to see that pizza carton,’ Lottie said.

‘You know she had pizza for lunch. Lottie, you promised you’d fix her a real dinner. Something with vegetables in it.’

‘It’s rude to call your mother Lottie,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s not respectful. Is that what you want your daughter to call you when she grows up?’

‘Latte?’ Katie squealed. ‘You want me to call Mommy Latte?’

‘Sure, like one of those coffee drinks,’ Grace said.

‘It’s not like you’re a Roller Derby queen.’ Lottie’s eyes traveled over Grace’s face. ‘A mud wrestler. Look at you. What did you do? Walk into a wall? You know, you can’t spend your life running through jobs like they were a pair of hose.’

‘We’re not talking about my face or career choices. We’re talking about dinner.’

‘Jeez, Grace, lighten up,’ Lottie said.

It was like having two kids, only one of them could drive and order take-out. ‘Where’s your homework, Katie?’

‘A four year-old child –’

‘Five,’ Katie said. ‘I’ll be five on Saturday.’

‘A five-year-old child in kindergarten shouldn’t be expected to do homework,’ Lottie said. ‘You should change schools. I bet you’d like more recess, wouldn’t you, honey?’

‘So where is it?’ Grace repeated.

Katie said brightly, ‘Grandma’s taking me to Disneyland for my birthday.’

‘You’re having a party on your birthday,’ Grace said. ‘You’re not going to Disneyland.’

‘Not right then,’ Lottie said. ‘Of course, not then. I have to miss her party, I told you. Terrell and I are going out of town.’ She leaned down toward Katie and cooed, ‘And that’s why I’m taking my sweet little sweetums to Disneyland upon my return. I personally know one of the dancing dwarfs, who’s prepared to give us a behind-the-scenes tour of the Magic Kingdom.’

‘Goodie,’ Katie cried.

‘You did make her do her homework, right?’ Grace pressed a finger against her temple. A vein throbbed.

Lottie pulled on her lip.

‘The one thing I asked you to do.’

Lottie shot her a wounded look and fiddled with her hair. Her bracelet clanked. It was fake turquoise that looked like gobs of used chewing gum. ‘We were getting around to it.’ She opened her mouth, threw back her head and sneezed. ‘That dog. I mean it.’

‘When, Lottie? It is now after eight on a school night and all you’ve done so far is pump up my child on caffeinated soda and yellow grease.’

‘Grace, you’re just not fun anymore. You need to work on your people skills.’

‘I want you to sit, Katie.’ Grace’s voice was icy calm. ‘I want you to sit at this desk and not move until you finish your homework. Is that clear?’

Katie stomped to the desk.

Grace yanked open a drawer and got out Katie’s stationery. It was pink and orange and had psychedelic ponies gamboling. She positioned a purple crayon in her daughter’s limp hand.

‘This is fun,’ Grace said. ‘We’re having fun learning about the mail. You send this to somebody, you get something back. You’re going to like it.’ It sounded like a threat.

Katie started to whimper. ‘You can’t make me.’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ Lottie protested.

‘I don’t have anybody to write to!’ Katie burst into tears and put her head down, dampening the stationery.

‘Write to Clint, honey,’ Lottie said, ‘he’d be happy to have you –’

‘She is not writing to Clint,’ Grace said, and Katie wiped her eyes and raised her head, interested at this turn of events.

‘Who’s Clint?’

‘She’s not writing to some hick singer who shellacs his hair until it’s the size of a turkey rump.’

Grace couldn’t believe she was having this conversation after the day she’d had, except that it was with Lottie, so it made sense. In the kitchen, the phone rang.

‘Hick!’ Lottie said in a hushed, stricken voice. Her unnaturally violet eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I want you to know Clint’s hosted the first hour of the Grand Ole Opry seventeen times, and I mean the first hour that’s broadcast, too, not the one that warms everybody up. Not even George has done that.’

‘She’s not doing it,’ Grace said.

‘How do you spell Clint?’ Katie asked.

‘Katie, enough. And Lottie, would you please get that phone?’

Grace waited while Lottie stalked out of the room, muttering about personal maid service.

‘Remember that girl Mommy told you was her friend when she was in high school?’

Katie shook her head.

Grace reached around Katie to rifle through the desk.

‘We haven’t gotten a pumpkin and you promised. We never do anything.’

Novels made it look easy. Heroines, they had a kid, they had problems, the kid got farmed out for long stretches, just dropped conveniently out of the story, while the heroine – always taller and skinnier than in real life, too, it wasn’t right – got herself out of trouble in some plucky way and came back to the kid and the kid was relaxed and happy and clueless about how close her mom had come to being turned into roadkill.

‘Nothing fun. I’m just a little kid. I’m supposed to have fun.’

‘You’re having a party Saturday.’

From the kitchen, Lottie sneezed and trilled into the phone, ‘Hello? Helllooo?’

‘And no goodie bags ready yet either. None. Not one.’

‘Oh, good, here.’ Grace pulled out her address book and started thumbing through it. It was slow going. Somehow, she’d mixed up the R’s with the S’s. ‘Well, Mommy had a friend named Annie and she grew up and got married, and they had a kid and he lives on a farm in Iowa and that’s who you can send your drawing to. And you can tell me what to say, if you want, and I’ll write it down.’

‘And a costume. You said you’d make one this year. You promised.’

Grace had. Months ago it sounded like a fine idea, she just couldn’t remember why. In the kitchen, Lottie banged down the phone, cursing.

‘You promised and you forgot. Just like you forgot to take me to see the panda baby at the zoo.’

‘The panda baby was sleeping, Katie.’

‘You promised and we didn’t.’

Katie had the instincts of a pit bull. She just lunged and clamped hold, dragging Grace back over every thing she’d promised and failed to deliver. Grace would be on her deathbed and Katie would kneel and clasp her wizened hand and stroke the purply veins, lean in close and murmur, ‘You promised popcorn and we were out.’ Then Katie would pull out a list of wrongs, and it would be on one of those long computer paper rolls, and she’d settle in for a nice, long chat.

Death would be a relief. Grace kept looking through her address book, ignoring the expletives coming from the kitchen. ‘He’s nine. A Cub Scout, I think.’

Her finger stopped. ‘There. Here it is. His name is Dusty Rhodes. He’ll enjoy getting a lovely drawing from you.’

‘No, he won’t. He’s a boy.’

Nobody ever told her it would be this hard. This constant and this hard. ‘They have animals and he has a paper route and he’s nine,’ she repeated. ‘Or ten. Anyway. That’s who you can send your letter to.’ She block-printed out the address onto the envelope.

‘I could write to Daddy.’ It hung there. Grace looked at her. Katie stared at her hands. Katie tried lots of things to get out of what she didn’t want to do, but never the trump card, her dad.

Grace had created this longing in this small, beautiful girl, this empty space that nothing filled. She’d promised herself she’d be better than Lottie, and she’d turned around and created the same ache in Katie that she’d had, growing up.

‘We’ve been through this, honey,’ Grace said gently. ‘Remember? Daddy died before you were born. It has to be a real letter. Not one to heaven.’

‘Tell me again.’ Katie stood up and Grace settled into the chair and pulled her onto her lap.

Katie’s eyes were a rich brown, a Portuguese color that spoke of sailing ships and rough seas and High Mass said in lonely places.

‘We loved each other very much.’

‘Uh-huh. Jack. You met him at a Padres game. They were playing New York.’

‘Right. We got pregnant and were going to get married, which is not the right order to do things in, and I don’t want you doing it that way either, but I’ll still love you no matter what.’

‘Only there was a car crash. That’s what happened.’

‘That’s what happened. And he would have loved you, honey.’

‘A lot.’

‘Over the moon. That’s what he would have been, having you as his daughter.’

Lottie appeared in the archway. ‘Wrong number. He hung up.’

‘You’re sure it was a he?’

‘I could tell just the way he breathed it was a he. I know how men breathe, Grace.’

‘So this Dusty kid,’ Katie said. ‘That’s a silly dilly stupid name.’

Grace glanced uneasily toward the phone, her thoughts elsewhere. ‘What? Try and leave that part out, Katie.’

An hour later, Lottie mercifully gone, Grace finished the carton of yogurt she was eating standing up. She bent down and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

Katie’s hair was a curly cloud on the pillow. Her favorite doll nestled in her arms, a Katie doll built to look like her, an extravagant birthday present Grace had given her for her fourth birthday. It had a recorder inside, so that Katie’s voice came out in short staccato sentences that Katie periodically changed. The voice was so lifelike that Grace sometimes thought it was Katie herself and dropped whatever she was doing to answer, much to Katie’s great amusement, which made Grace want to permanently injure the Katie doll’s vocal cords in any one of a number of unfortunate accidents.

Katie’s eyes were closed, along with the doll’s. They were dressed in matching pink nighties, caramel-colored hair tangled in wild manes, dark long lashes against pink cheeks. On the vanity lay the drawing, smudged and crinkled with violent splotches of color. It appeared to be a giant smiling orange head floating over a pink and orange lake. Katie had dictated a short message to go along with it.

Dear Dusty: How are you? I am fine. This is Cinderella who is riding in a big pumpkin. She is inside. That is why nobody can see her. Mommy says you came to our house and broke your arm. You need to write me back right away so I can pass kindergarten. Sincerely, Katie Descanso.

Impulsively, Grace ripped a piece of paper out of a wide-lined notebook she found in Katie’s bookshelf and added a quick note of her own:

Dear Annie: We missed hearing from you at Christmas. Hope you’re okay. I know this is a lot, but could you prod Dusty to answer this right away? Katie’s had this pen pal assignment looming over her for weeks. Of course. Love you, thanks. G.

‘We get to play the Timer Game tomorrow, right?’ Katie’s voice was blurred with sleep.

She’d forgotten about the Timer Game. ‘Right.’

‘Good.’ Katie shifted and licked her lip, eyes closed. ‘You’re wrong about one thing, Mommy.’

‘Only one?’ Grace sealed the letters in an envelope and dropped it on the dresser. She opened the drawers.

‘He’s not dead.’

‘Who?’ She pulled together shorts and a top and underwear. There was a long silence, and Grace thought Katie had dropped off to sleep.

‘Daddy,’ Katie muttered. Her lips went slack. She breathed in through her nose.

A prick of unease darted through her. She put down the clothes. ‘Honey. Katie.’ Grace touched her shoulder gently. ‘What are you talking about, sweetie? With Daddy.’

‘He visits me sometimes.’ Katie shifted under the covers, punching the pillow down, trying to find a comfortable spot.

‘Visits you?’ Grace shifted her weight. She adjusted the quilt. They’d bought it on sale at Penney’s, small pink squares of pink and white rosebuds.

‘Uh-huh. I’ll wake up. He’ll be there, at the end of my bed. He talks to me, too.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Stuff. Just private stuff. He’s coming back for me.’ She yawned hugely. ‘Night, Mommy.’

‘Night, sweetie.’

‘Wait till I sleep?’ Katie’s voice was faint.

‘Sure.’

The room faced out over Scott Street. In the dark, the soccer and T-ball trophies on Katie’s bookshelf were indistinct soldiers. The half-opened window was a small black square hanging over the eaves slanting down to the front porch. The dotted Swiss curtains moved gently, caught in an invisible breeze.

Grace stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘Katie? You do know he doesn’t do that, right? Sweetie, you do know that?’

Katie’s mouth opened into a slack O. One small foot hung out of the pink quilt. Grace cradled it in her hands. It was warm and delicate as a shell.

She kissed the arch, tucked it back in, and gently eased the window shut.

Across the street, a shadow moved. Grace tensed. It was a dog, nosing in the trash. Screens. She had to spring for screens.

Helix was dreaming on the braided rug when she entered her bedroom at the end of the hallway, his fake leg spasming the air. From her bedroom sliding glass window, the harbor spread out before her, glittering with boats tethered in black water. She pulled the sheer curtains and locked her bedroom door. She could feel her heart banging dully in her chest as she went to her closet and found it.

It was a small hard box made of enamel and she kept it on the top shelf under her sweaters. She was breathing through her mouth now and Helix cracked an eye open to look at her blearily before settling back into sleep. She lay down on the bed and put the box on her chest and felt its small cold heaviness, and her finger slid into the crack of the box and she sighed deeply and opened it.

The phone rang.

Helix jerked out of sleep and growled once deep in his throat. ‘It’s okay, boy, it’s okay.’

She stared at the machine, wondering if this was going to be another night where she was plagued with hang-ups. She heard Jeanne’s voice leaving a message, and she put the box aside and rolled over and picked up. ‘Hey.’

‘My God, I can’t believe what you’ve been through.’

‘Did you call earlier?’ Grace sat up. Helix stretched and got up, taking a few steps and flopping down next to her ankles, his ear cocked, watching her.

‘What? No, why?’

‘I keep getting hang-ups. Never mind.’

Her eyes strayed to a group of photos on the wall and found the one of a beaming nun holding the hand of a shy Guatemalan kid who looked to be about ten. She frowned and reached down to scratch Helix behind his ears. He made a small sound of pleasure and his tail thumped the wooden floor.

‘Are you watching the news?’

‘What channel?’

‘All the channels, kiddo.’ Jeanne’s whiskey-ravaged voice dropped into a phlegmy rattle and Grace could hear her sucking on a lozenge. ‘They’re withholding your name for the time being, there’s that at least. Some wild man in a Hawaiian shirt’s pushing you out the squad car and screaming at you to duck.’

Grace felt drained. ‘Sid. My boss. I’ve told you about him.’

‘Oh, so that’s Sid. I always pictured somebody taller.’

Grace tried to smile.

‘Who was taking care of Katie?’

‘You mean while it happened? Lottie.’

Jeanne groaned. ‘God. Oil on the fire. You need to take a meeting? I could stay with Katie.’

‘I’m okay, Jeanne.’ An edge had crept into her voice.

Jeanne was silent, except for the sound of crunching. ‘I could come anyway.’

Grace shifted the phone and sank back, stretching out on the quilt. A pain jolted her midriff, and she massaged her side.

‘Grace?’

Tears welled and leaked down her face, wetting the quilt and pooling near her ears.

‘Honey?’

‘I’m here.’ Her voice was desolate, lost.

‘Talk to me, honey.’

Grace curled into a ball and rocked. ‘I can’t. I don’t.’ Her voice was low, fighting it.

‘Start anyplace. Start with what happened.’

Grace squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Can’t. Too soon.’

‘Then start with how it feels.’

Her belly was on fire, her head throbbed, her shoulder felt wrenched from the socket, and everything safe in the world was gone. She was in Guatemala again, and the world was on fire. It happened fast, when it came, with a force that never failed to derail her. It was close now and she was running hard ahead of it, trying to break free.

‘Oh, God. Pain. In my gut. Lost. Nobody here. Afraid. Like my body’s been torn apart. I’m free-falling, Jeanne.’

‘Honey, stay with me.’

Her lips were numb now and she felt a pounding behind her eyes; all the bad horses had been unleashed. A flicker of fire darted across her vision, the screen behind her eyes blinding, and she heard the crackling noise that always presaged a bad attack.

‘Stay there. Right there. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Door’s locked.’ Her lips were turning numb.

‘I’ve got a key, remember? I’ll be right there.’

‘Don’t. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.’

‘I’m right here. Take a breath. Come on. Come on, sweetie. Come on back.’

Grace made herself open her eyes and she stared at the ceiling and forced her breathing to calm down. Her skin felt damp.

‘Where are you now? What’s happening?’

Grace shook her head and closed her eyes. Her feet were cold and she burrowed them under the pillows. ‘If I drove. I could.’

Jeanne crunched down hard on the lozenge and the noise made Grace wince.

‘Sure. There’s Vons on Rosecrans but why mess around pretending you need milk? Just hit the first liquor store you can find and get it over with. There’s one two blocks away.’

Grace exhaled. Her breath was shaky. ‘Too hard, Jeanne. This.’

‘Don’t give me that crap. You know drinking’s not the answer.’

Grace took another unsteady breath and the dark thing in her mind slid back to where it lived.

‘You heard me, right?’

‘Tell me again all the reasons.’

‘Katie.’

‘That’s one.’

‘That’s five or six million, all bunched up together, Grace. That little girl is your only responsibility. That’s all that matters. Doing right by her.’

‘My only responsibility?’ Grace licked her lip. The ceiling had stopped moving, and she took a deeper breath. ‘Easy for you to say. You have alimony and a house in Mission Hills with a pool, and AA when you want to go slumming.’

‘An empty house, Grace, an ex-husband who would have gnawed off his own foot to get away, two kids who hate me, neighbors who talk about me behind my back, and yes, AA, but not when I want to go slumming.’ Jeanne stopped. ‘You okay now? You better?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She rolled on her side and took a deep shuddery breath, her eyes on the door, the door that led down the hall to Katie, that sweet bundle of laughter and darting energy, prickly feelings and blazing joy.

‘That’s it. I’m coming over.’ A click. Dial tone.

‘Thanks,’ Grace whispered.

In her mind, she still heard the whispery voice, the silky question:

Don’t you want to know what he’s going to do to you?

Going to do to you?

Going to do to you?