At Risk of Being a Fool (21 page)

He slipped back to her house, ducking into the shadows as the train rumbled past on its trip to nowhere. As the cars clanked on, he moved where he could see her face in the window. Had she seen him? No, it didn’t look like it. She was watching the train, talking to herself, or maybe to the dog or cat.

He lost track of time, watching her, watching the train. He didn’t know why he hung around, looking at her face, the lines in it, and the streaks of brown running through the frazzled white hair. She was a strange woman, didn’t seem to care what she looked like. Half the time she looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electric socket.

The last car on the train crawled past, trailed on to the next house, and the next, to the apartments. It rounded a corner and was gone. The face left the window and the light turned out.

He stood there, staring at the blank window. He left, not quite as soundlessly as before. He went back to his car, back to a neighborhood that looked like home, cluttered and friendly, marks on the walls proving gangs were alive and well, not sneaking their signs so a fellow had to hunt for ‘em. Back to a place where dogs were skinny and looked like dogs, not wieners.

Life is a potato. Mashed, baked, or fried.

Or boiled, or sliced thin, or peeled, and chopped into little tiny bits. What the hell did she know about it anyway?

His mouth twisted.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

“Fluff, Mrs. McCoy. I’m sorry to say it, but they’re fluff.”

“And this isn’t fluff?” Jeanie picked up the book on the bedside table and turned the pages. “No, it’s not, is it? Blood and guts strewn all over everything.”

“Well, it’s not my chosen reading material,” said Estelle Torrez, looking a little embarrassed. “I was limited to the availability on the library cart. Other people’s castoffs.”

“Romances, westerns, science fiction? I read those too, I’ll admit it.”

Estelle snorted. “Well I don’t.”

“Give me a list of authors. I’ll pick up some library books for you.” Estelle flinched as though struck. It was such a small thing, but the notion seemed revolutionary to Estelle. “Who do you like?”

“I don’t read much fiction. Biographies, histories.” Her voice was stiff. The subject was too personal.

“So,” Jeanie ventured, “how are you doing?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back on the job in a couple of weeks.”

Jeanie held her tongue. Yesterday, which was Sunday, Jeanie had walked onto the hospital floor as a doctor stomped out of Estelle’s room. Jeanie retreated to an elevator, but a nurse pointed to her. The doctor collared her, and insisted on talking in the unused waiting room.

“Are you a relative?”

“No, I’m—”

“A good friend?”

“Well, not really.”

“Hah. Well, you’re what I’ve got to work with, anyway. You need to know some things.”

“I hardly think I’m the appropriate—”

“She’s never thrown anything at you, right? You’re about the only one, let me tell you. She hasn’t had a single visitor except for a lawyer hunting business for personal injury claims. She gets flowers by the keg, cards by the million, but not a single phone call or visitor. She’s in complete denial. She won’t look at the surgery site; she denies there was an amputation— What? You didn’t know? God, seems like half the world knows. Sorry, sit down, you’re looking faint. We amputated her right leg just below the knee. She’s got most of her left foot and ankle left. All the other damage is repairable, given time. But she won’t listen when we talk about prosthetics, or wheelchairs, or occupational therapy.”

“Estelle’s not stupid. She’ll come to terms with it on her own time.”

“Probably. But it would be easier on her if she had a friend, someone to discuss the matter. Don’t look so horrified. I’m not asking you to break the news to her. She knows. All I’m asking is, if she gives you any opening at all, encourage her to talk about it. But first, move any portable items out of arm’s reach. I don’t want to treat you for head injuries.”

Jeanie had visited Estelle five days in a row, since the first visit last Thursday. Estelle never gave her the slightest opening, or even an indication that there were personal problems to discuss. Perhaps this was an opening.

“I’d think it’ll be longer than a couple of weeks,” Jeanie said. “Mackie indicated closer to six weeks.”

“Miss Sandoval is not apprised of my medical situation. Informing total strangers of one’s most intimate problems has always seemed to me the height of crassness.”

It was hard to envision a statement that said more clearly: “Keep Out.” Jeanie gasped melodramatically and threw a hand to her heart. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“I can’t believe it, can it be true? We actually agree on a subject?”

Estelle wore the look of someone who had opened a can of tuna fish and found a live mouse inside.

“Well,” said Jeanie, “let’s get off this dismal topic, and talk about something really important.”

“And that would be?” Estelle’s tone was less confident than it had been.

“The death penalty. Now there’s a real life application of the justice model versus rehabilitation.”

“Capital punishment is the ultimate response of society for ensuring the safety of its members. Naturally, the softhearted are unable to appreciate the true deterrent effect on criminals. I assure you, Jeanie, measured consequences are the cornerstone of society’s foundation.”

“Hardly, Estelle. Capital punishment is an outmoded, barbaric exercise in futility. In fact, it is reminiscent of the child-sacrifices to the ancient god Baal . . .”

Jeanie’s courage failed her. Tackling the amputation issue would only set her dodging vases of flowers, at this point. However, Estelle had called her Jeanie instead of Mrs. McCoy.

A teacher measures progress by inches.

~*~

A small bundle of gray fur squirmed in Dillon’s lap. The beat of his music escaped the headphones and punched its way into the room. Dillon scored his paper with black wedges. As Jeanie watched covertly, the pencil slowed, curving into arches and swirls.

Rita had attached herself to a favorite lap. The hands belonging to it were untrained, but she had hopes. Rita stood and set one paw on the edge of the table. She peered over the book, and spotted the moving hand. She wriggled her rear end, and pounced. Jeanie ducked her head and pretended great concentration on Rosalie’s essay. She felt Dillon’s eyes on her.

“Much better, Rosalie,” she said, lying her head off. “Complete sentences, on topic, nice.” Complete sentences, yes. Strung together haphazardly, rather like the pencil marks on Dillon’s paper.
“TV with vilance is no good. This kid took a gun to schol. Poor kid, nobdy took care. If his Daddy took care him guns locked up . . .”
No matter what the topic of the GED test, Jeanie suspected the examiners would be reading a story about Rosalie’s Dad.

Jeanie snuck a look at Dillon. He cupped the small cat against his chest, one large hand engulfing her with each stroke. A small glow of satisfaction kindled in her chest. At last, she’d done something right for Dillon.

Reluctantly, she checked her watch. “Well, sorry, guys. I’m sure you’d be happy to go for another hour, but we’ve got to quit. Corrigan wants his dinner.”

Without a word, Dillon penned the cat in Mackie’s office before grabbing his coat and radio. Tonio followed.

“Bye, Jeanie,” said Quinto, crouching by Corrigan.

“Bye, Quinto. You need to leave now, Quinto. Mr. Matthews will be upset if you’re late.” She’d spoken to Mr. Matthews twice, in her abortive attempts at gathering alibi information. Perhaps he was an android, incapable of independent thought. He counted heads, drove, dropped off, picked up, counted heads, and went back to Dandridge. If the “heads” had faces and personalities attached, it was news to him.

“Gotta go to the bus stop, now,” Rosalie cooed to Corrigan. “Bye, baby. Bye, Jeanie.”

“Rosalie, do you want a ride home? You’re not looking good.”

“Nah, I’m fine.”

Rosalie moved towards the door. Jeanie spotted the deep purplish circles under her eyes, now that fluorescent light didn’t wash out the contrasts.

“Rosalie, are you sleeping all right?”

“Huh? Oh sure.”

Rosalie’s mouth quivered. Still fretting about her father, no doubt. “Look, Rosalie, do you want me to call your father? Maybe if he knows you’re studying every day, he’ll realize you’re changing yourself.” Jeanie had left several messages for Mr. Perea. She’d never told Rosalie. No one ever answered Mr. Perea’s phone. The message machine always picked up, and no one ever responded.

Rosalie’s eyes clung to her. “Yeah, maybe, would you?”

“Sure, no problem.” She’d call his workplace this time. Mackie must have the number.

“Okay, thanks.”

Jeanie waited for one of Rosalie’s blinding smiles, but it didn’t come. She’d lost more weight. Her head looked too big for that scrawny neck; the emaciated body too heavy for the tired feet. “Rosalie, just wait for me. I’ve got a little work to do here, and then I’ll run you home, okay?”

“No, no,” said Rosalie, vaguely. “I’ll just . . .” The words faded as she walked through the door.

“
...
Lucky bitch—”

Jeanie swiveled. “Good-bye, Brynna, see you tomorrow.”

Brynna gave Sorrel a dirty look. “Community service, my fuckin’ ass. How come she gets so lucky, get out from under Cuthbert’s thumb every goddamn night . . .”

“Did you want a ride back to Bright Futures, Brynna?” Of course she didn’t. Like Sorrel, she prized the luxury of taking the bus, but the mild threat got Brynna out of the door. Jeanie sighed with relief.

While Sorrel plugged away at fractions, Jeanie spent half an hour on paperwork, generating the paper trail demanded by the feds and the charitable organizations that funded the program. At last, she stuffed it all in a folder, and set it in Mackie Sandoval’s inbox. With Sorrel, a boxed cat, and a harnessed dog, she set the car on the road towards Oriole’s Nest. She’d gone barely three blocks when Sorrel grabbed her arm.

“Hey, stop the car,” Sorrel commanded. She jumped to the sidewalk, and raced between two dilapidated houses.

“Sorrel,” yelled Jeanie, belatedly climbing out of the car. “What the—”

Sorrel came back, talking a blue streak, shoving a girl in front of her. “What the hell you think you’re doing? Damned lucky we were coming this way. Get in the car, you.” She yanked the back door open, and shoved Rosalie inside. Long tangled black hair hid her face. “Sorry, puppy,” Sorrel said to Corrigan. “Jeanie, he’s going to have to sit on the floor.”

“No,” said the girl. She clutched the dog to her chest, and with the motion, Jeanie’s mind slipped back into gear.

“Rosalie? Why—”

“Shut up a minute,” Sorrel said. “Look, girl, you’re not gonna jump out of this car, you hear me? You do, and Jeanie’s calling the cops, got it? God, you got no more fuckin’ sense than Donald Duck.” She slammed the back door, and got in the front.

Jeanie got back in the car. “Why—”

“This ain’t a good place to park,” Sorrel said, her eyes snapping with anger. “You gotta stop somewhere, go find a Wal-Mart parking lot or something, huh? Our stupid little Rosalie decided to buy herself something, didn’t you, dumbass?”

Jeanie drove obediently, casting the occasional glance in the mirror. She saw Rosalie nod, tears streaking her face. Corrigan licked her face. Rosalie clutched him tighter, and her sobs filled the car.

“God, of all the dipshit things to pull. Who’d you go to? Oh God, who was it? Couldn’t have been Silvio, he’s in jail, and I know he can’t raise the bail, not this time. His Mama’s sick of bailing him out. Talk! Who was it?”

“Corky,” whispered Rosalie.

“That shit? What the hell’s he doing down here? Isn’t he one of Silvio’s men, up in
Portland
? God, everybody in the world’s gotta move to
Salem
.”

“Must be because you’re here,” Jeanie suggested, trying to inject a lighter note into the proceedings.

Sorrel gave her a sharp look, and grimaced. “Feels like it. Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what?”

“‘Let’s all calm down,’ stuff like that. I’m so
sick
of calming down.”

“I agree, it’s never been your strong point. Nevertheless, I think Rosalie could talk better if she weren’t crying, and that’s hard to do when you’re yelling at her.”

Sorrel rolled her eyes and bit her lip, gouging the lipstick. She faced forward, leaving Rosalie a measure of privacy. “Right.”

“Right?” said Jeanie, involuntarily.

“Don’t rub it in. Okay, Rosalie, listen up. You may have bought the stuff—”

“—What stuff?” Jeanie interjected.

“Crack. It’s about all Corky does, fast and cheap. Rotten stuff, too. Good way to kill yourself, Rosalie.” She looked over her shoulder. “Or was that the plan? It’s a nasty way to go, girl.” She waited a moment. “Anyway, you may have bought it, but you didn’t use it yet. Give it to Jeanie. She’ll get rid of it. No one’s gotta know nothing. Not the cops, not Esperanza, nobody, okay? Like it never happened. You don’t want to do it, Rosalie. You’ll never get your kid back.”