Читать книгу South Texas Tangle - T.K. O'Neill - Страница 6

On her way to Corpus, traveling along I-37 in her ’96 Toyota Camry—same model that made the headlines about accelerators sticking a few years ago but she never had any problems with it—Cynthia was picturing her parents in their elegant home. Daddy moving with his stiff-backed posture and mother trailing behind him like a zombie, the poor woman seemingly reduced to only neediness now, independent thought having left her some time ago.

The image wasn’t very appealing.

No, she wouldn’t go to her parent’s house; she was thirty years old for God sakes. She needed to find someplace Dan wouldn’t think of right away. But it was kind of weird, because as much as she wanted to feel angry, Cyn couldn’t help but remember better times, seeing her and Dan together on the couch watching television cop shows like Justified and Graceland, Dan frequently hooting he’d like the freedom to shoot miscreants like that Raylan Givens on Justified. And Cyn saying Timothy Olyphant who played Raylan was sure a cutie, maybe a hottie, jerking Dan’s chain a little.

But those kinds of moments didn’t come around much anymore and you had to make the best of things. And sometimes wisdom comes from unexpected places. It was because of those cop shows that Cyn got the idea to purchase a prepaid cell phone at Walmart, (what they called a “burner” on TV). Now with the burner she could call people without fear of Dan getting to the phone company records. You had a possessive cop for a husband; you had to take steps. She’d gone into the Walmart with the idea of using an alias for the purchase—April Flowers—and was a little disappointed when the pimple-faced kid at the counter didn’t even ask for a name, taking her money and ringing it up without so much as a second look.

So, with her new phone, she could avoid being traced. But now the question was what untraceable act, exactly, should she commit, since she had the opportunity? Her sister kept insisting she get down to Padre Island and hit the beaches, Jeannie telling her, Pick up a bikini and a thermos of mai tais and see what comes along, implying, it seemed, strange men. But Cyn suspected Jean’s advice was the booze talking, her older sister possibly an alcoholic—a functioning one, yes—but frequently displaying some of the signs discussed at Al Anon meetings, Cyn having attended a few last year in an unsuccessful attempt at understanding her husband’s daily boozing.

They told you at Al Anon—kind of a class in Alcoholism 101—that boozers often tried to control those around them with shame and guilt and subtle attacks on self-esteem. Recalling past encounters, Cyn thought it sort of sounded like Jeannie. Like the time Jean called her Cynthia Moonbeam because she’d taken a Transcendental Meditation class, although she quit after only three sessions because Dan said they couldn’t afford it. Or that time Jean criticized her for not having a full-time job like “normal women.” And she’d sure never forget the time she saw a photo of Jennifer Aniston in a magazine and made the mistake of saying she thought Jennifer’s hair and hers looked alike, Jean then telling anyone who would listen that Cyn believed she was just like Jennifer Aniston. God, the way Jean could twist things. And the way everyone in the family seemed to accept what she said as gospel—it was enough to make you want to scream. Dan could play the same game, proving it by claiming he needed booze for job stress and telling Cyn, “Men are under real stress; not the neurotic crap housewives have in their heads.”

But, well, aren’t all men controlling like that? Make a case for her father too, truth be told, and he hadn’t had a drink in years. Still dishing out the barbs though. Al Anon also had a name for that: a dry drunk. Strange concept but it made some sense when you thought about it.

Just north of Corpus Cyn pulled to the shoulder to make a call, believing it was unsafe to talk and drive at the same time. Should she call Jean and seek sanctuary? Better than Daddy, but it was always the same at Jeannie’s house: First came the wine or beer, followed by smiling sympathy and understanding, and then eventually the unasked for advice and the cracks about naivety and being a pushover. So damn it; that was no good, either.

Cyn put the phone down on the seat and chewed at her lower lip. She was feeling a curious mix of apprehension and exhilaration. Wasn’t the Fourth of July yet, just early April, but today was definitely Independence Day. Taking a deep breath and letting her senses take over, something she’d learned in yoga class, Cyn felt the rush of traffic going by and the heat coming through the windows of the Toyota. Gazing out the windshield, she saw the big Northgate Mall sign up ahead towering above everything else.

Maybe something is guiding me, she thought. But there was still an empty space where her plans should be. She’d just have to keep the faith and take advice from that Kacey Musgraves’ song, the nice Texas girl singing about following her arrow wherever it points. But to follow arrows you need a little cash and Cyn only had fifty dollars in her purse—two twenties and two fives—and three credit cards she didn’t want to use because she knew from the crime shows that law enforcement could trace the receipts and see where you’ve been. The joint checking account still had the household money in it but she was hesitant to use that for the same reason—Trooper Dan might come looking.

Ten minutes later Cyn was drifting through the air-conditioned comfort thinking everyone in the mall looked strange today. She found an ATM and slid her card in the slot. A cash advance would keep her free from them all, Dan and Jean and Dad and Mom. And for now that’s what she wanted.

Needed.

Watching those crime shows with Dan, sometimes Cyn would imagine herself a character in the drama. What would she do; how would she feel? And now here she was, back in the car, cash advance safely tucked away in her purse and feeling strung out. Not exactly sure what strung out meant, thought it had something to do with drug addiction, and that certainly wasn’t the case with her, but still she felt stretched out and worn thin and on edge and directionless. “Strung out” seemed to capture the essence of her being at the moment.

Cruising aimlessly now, she was fighting off a little envy. Hard not to envy the people living in these beautiful homes surrounded by lush foliage. They had beach and water access, luxury cars in the driveway—what’s not to like?

Cyn didn’t like feeling envy, one of the seven deadly sins, and told herself it was only the surface of things she was seeing. One shouldn’t be fooled by superficial illusions because what went on behind closed doors could paint a totally different picture. And, in Cyn’s experience, often did.

She smiled recalling her first ride through Corpus Christi, nearly twenty years ago, the family relocating from Minneapolis for her father’s new job with the tire company. How the feelings of awe and envy started for her then, sun, water, sand and palm trees offering up a rich and colorful contrast to the bleak snow-covered plains of her former home in Minnesota. And no, Cyn hadn’t made it to her own dream house yet, but that kind of thing mattered very little to her. Six years ago, being Dan Henning’s wife and the mother of his child was all she wanted, having chosen Dan over her other suitor at the time, Roy Owen. Bunky, they called him. Biggest car dealer in Corpus now (Owen Toyota, Bunky’s BMW, Roy’s Royal Rides), and he owned one of the biggest, gaudiest homes in town.

Well, Cynthia had made her choice and vowed to make it work and tried her darndest for six years and now where was she? She would gladly do without the waterfront mansion if Dan still possessed what he had back then, although, to tell the truth, she could no longer identify exactly what that was. Maybe it was a lack of something? Seemed like Dan was carrying extra baggage lately. Yes, that could be it.

Possibly things had started eroding after Danny was born. And yes, Cyn had read the magazine articles about first-time mothers losing their sexual desire, young women refocusing their lives around their child at the expense of matrimonial intimacy, but she didn’t think that was her situation. What it was, Dan started coming home with the scent of other women on him. Sometimes faint, sometimes stronger. And then the stuff really hit the fan with the incident with the prostitute, the cell phone picture and Dan’s suspension, the incident putting a spotlight on the problem and making it hard to deny—although Cyn had tried really hard.

God.

After that it seemed drinking became Dan’s main interest at home, annoying her to no end. True, she’d gained a little weight after Danny was born, but the exercise classes and the healthy eating were getting her back to her youthful luster. Looking pretty darn good, thankyouverymuch. But now the two of them were stuck in the mud and she was running away, out cruising the strip like an adolescent, searching for a place to hide out.

Isn’t life a kick?

Patrolman Henning was out of uniform. Wearing lightweight khakis and a white polo shirt, he was resting his left arm on the doorframe of his truck, elbow sticking out the open window, evening air pleasant, things cooling down as clouds moved in from the west. Looks like rain, Henning thought as he watched two little girls bouncing down the sidewalk holding their daddy’s hand.

Dan took a long breath and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He wanted a smoke but pushed back the urge. Couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom ticking in his chest. Why in hell did Cyn have to pick now to stage her little rebellion? Timing, they say, is everything in life and this was definitely rotten timing. And why did the whole thing seem so familiar?

Pushing open the truck door Dan flashed back to the runner at Gamble Gulch and got a little grin, fool trying to hit him in the chest with the door. But the fool deserved a hearty thank you. Shit, a piss pot full of gratitude. That kind of money can smooth out a lot of life’s rough spots. And once this bout of impetuousness and immaturity his wife was having was properly dealt with, everything would be grits and gravy.

He started down the sidewalk to the daycare center, smiling and nodding to a cute little momma in tight peach-colored shorts and form-fitting yellow sleeveless top coming out of the building, a little boy in tow, Henning recognizing the kid as one of Danny’s friends from last year’s birthday party. Billy. Billy Haugen, he thought it was. The kid glanced up at him with a shy look and Henning said, “Hi Billy,” giving Billy’s mother’s bitchin’ bod a thorough scan as they passed by, Dan wanting to turn and check out the rear view but he kept his eyes straight ahead and continued on to the one-story blond brick building that had once been an elementary school. Henning believed the change from a school to a daycare was more proof of the upheaval caused by the massive wetback invasion.

It was warm and damp inside the building, refrigeration set low to save on the electric bill. Henning heard kids squealing down the hall. Moving toward the sound he saw a couple of kids pop out of a doorway giggling and wrestling, one of them Danny. The other boy was bigger and kind of manhandling Danny but they were both laughing and seemed to be having fun. Henning didn’t like his kid getting pushed around but shook it off as just kids roughhousing. Danny could probably take the kid if it came down to serious tussling. Maybe later he’d teach Danny some of the moves Daddy learned in the army.

Danny saw his dad and shouted, “Daddy, Daddy,” eyes bright. The boy’s wide smile gave Henning an unexpected surge of warmth. It was pretty nice. An inkling why kids were good to have around. The boy ran to him and Henning put out his hands and Danny jumped in. Big Dan lifted little Dan up, hugging him, big Dan thinking he could use more of this.

Pulling on his Dad’s earlobe, Danny said, “How come you came to get me, Daddy? Where’s Mommy?”

“Mommy had to go down to see Poppa and Nana for a few days, Danny. She said you and I should get together and do man things while she’s gone. How’s that sound?”

Danny looked confused for a moment, lowering his eyes. “What are man things, Daddy?”

“You know, playing ball and fishing and fixing things around the house.”

“And swimming, too, Daddy?”

“Yep, swimming is good.”

“Can we go see Mommy and swim in Poppa’s pool?”

“Not this time, Danny. We can go to the beach, though, get some ice cream.”

Danny’s lower lip drooped for a second but then his eyes brightened. “Can we go to Whataburger, Daddy?”

“Sure Danny, order whatever we want. That’s what men do.”

Danny made his silly face and threw his arms around his father’s neck, squealing, “Yey.”

Daddy felt sweat beading along his ever-so-slightly receding hairline. Could being a father could bring on such pressure? Must be the humidity. Henning put his son down and went into the classroom to tell the daycare lady he was taking Danny home. Nice older Mex lady, probably good with kids.

The Henning men walked out to the pickup truck together. At least the big one walked, the little one skipped and ran, waving his arms wildly.