At Risk of Being a Fool (4 page)

Sorrel paced behind her, the heavy box dragging at her arms. Along the hallway, guards ducked into restrooms and storage closets, extracting stragglers. A prickling flush swept through Sorrel from her head to her toes.

“Carol? This isn’t a drill, this is real.”

“Keep it to yourself. I don’t want Hilda to go ballistic.”

Sorrel stopped. Carol tucked the folders under one arm and grabbed Sorrel’s shoulder in a fierce grip. Sorrel jerked back, anger flaring, but Carol hung on and shook her hard.

“You listen to me, Sorrel. It’s just a bomb threat. We get them all the time. They evacuate the building, check all the rooms and surrounding area, and that’s it. We’ve never had a bomb explode. We’ve had the odd fire in the trashcan, yes, but no bombs. There are security cameras everywhere. They just have to check the tapes. If you know something, out with it, but don’t, for God’s sake, panic on me, because I’ve got enough to contend with out there on the lawn without you. Have you got that?”

“Yes,” said Sorrel, gritting her teeth.

She followed Carol out the big double doors. Carol handed the guard the red slip of paper. The guard added it to his small stack, glanced past them to the lawn and back down the hallway. Sorrel rolled her shoulder, trying to erase the lingering pinch of Carol’s grip. If the guard was looking for Sorrel, he was doing a lousy job. She drew a deep breath and then another. The panicked flush subsided.

Clusters of people mingled on the lawn. A team of helmeted police with equipment bags trotted across the lawn, disappearing around the side of the building.

“That’s a S.W.A.T. team,” shrilled Hilda. “I told you it was a bomb!”

“Even it if it is,” said Carol, “the building is evacuated.”

“But all our records. And what is she doing with the key box? All our security is based on that key box, and you gave it to a criminal.”

Damn that bitch, she was asking for it. Sorrel stuffed the metal box into Dorrie’s arms. “You—”

Carol straight-armed her backwards. “Not a word out of you. Hilda, you’d try the patience of a saint. I asked Sorrel to carry the box for me. It’s not strictly according to protocol, I’ll admit, but you can’t possibly think she’s had a moment to make copies of them.”

“You didn’t give them to me, I notice.”

“Hilda. Go to the Services building, borrow a phone, and arrange to shunt the calls from our office. Stay there and answer the phone.”

Hilda stalked off, her head high, with a face like a prune.

“What about me?” Dorrie asked. She grinned, watching Hilda’s rump twitch across the lawn.

“That depends. I have to say, this looks depressingly real.” Two trucks and a sheriff’s car pulled up simultaneously. Dozens of people swarmed around the side of the building. “We won’t get back in there for hours. I guess we’d better set up shop over in Services.”

“With Hilda? It’s tight quarters over there.”

“Hmm.” Carol and Dorrie shared a rueful glance. “I’ll go check.”

Carol joined the other office managers converging on the front door security guard. Sorrel looked for somewhere to sit down, but there was only grass. Grass left stains. She watched the action by the edge of the building.

“Want to take a look?” said Dorrie. “We’ll just pretend we’re supposed to meet over there. Come on.”

Sorrel followed her, half unwilling. She searched for a familiar face, or a loose-jointed slouching walk. He wasn’t here, thank God. Of course he wasn’t. He was in
L.A.
like he said he’d be. The lying son-of-a-bitch.

She was being stupid. He hadn’t set a pipe bomb at the construction site, and he sure wouldn’t have set one here. He had no reason! Well, maybe he did. Her stomach lurched with dread. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Look at all the attention Quinto got when a bomb went off at his work site. This would draw attention to her. She didn’t need that: people staring at her, poring over her record one more time, looking to see who she knew, her “contacts.” He’d know that, wouldn’t he?

“Now, now, ladies, no rubber-necking. Back to the main staging area, please.” Vic Dunlap scowled, the expression sitting awkwardly on his round, cheery face.

Dorrie laughed. “Come on, Vic, tell us. They found something under a courtroom window, didn’t they? Must have been Hodges’ or Matsuura’s. I’d bet on Hodges. He’s a mean old son-of-a-gun in a courtroom. What did they find?”

Vic raised his eyebrows. “What did they find, did you ask? Who says they found anything at all?”

Dorrie gasped, pleasurably horrified. “Come on, Vic, what’s the story? Who found it? It wasn’t you, was it? It was? Oh my word, what is it?”

“Probably nothing at all,” said Vic, with self-deprecating humor. “I probably jumped the gun. If I’m wrong, they’ll never let me hear the end of it. Doesn’t this place look like an anthill, though? Police jumping all over the place.” He took on a melodramatic tone. “Who’d have thought I could release such forces!”

He seemed to be quoting from something. Sorrel didn’t get it. She looked around the side of the building at the crowd of uniforms. Fear shot through her. What the hell am I going to do?

“Little lady?” Vic frowned at her. “Are you all right, miss? You look like you’re going to faint. Don’t you mind me, I’m just blathering on like always. I didn’t mean to scare you. You need to sit down. There’s a bus stop right over there, with a nice bench.”

“I’m fine,” she managed. Dorrie was looking at her funny.

“Well, my goodness, Sorrel, honey, I’d never have thought— But anyway, don’t you fret, I’m sure it’s no big deal. Look, Carol’s coming back, she’ll tell us what’s happening. You going to be all right? Thanks, Vic.”

“You just wait, it’ll turn out I’ve been a fool,” Vic called after them. “No big deal.”

No big deal, Sorrel thought, just a pipe bomb, set at the courthouse where she worked, close to where the Bright Futures’ van usually pulled up. Where the hell was a bathroom, when you really, really needed it?

~*~

Sorrel swung into the classroom, hips swaying. Tonio and Quinto watched her go by. Good. Guys were shits, but they had their uses. They never watched Brynna. Sorrel had it; Brynna didn’t.
He
had thought so, too. Did he make bombs? Or just steal stuff, and drool over guns? She ran their brief conversations through her memory, but couldn’t remember. They’d never done much talking.

She chose a desk two down from Brynna, and sat sideways to her. Jeanie brought an essay topic sheet, a notepad, and pencil. The essay questions were a lot of bull. She’d read the list often enough to know. “Should the age limit for purchasing alcohol be reduced to age 18? Discuss pros and cons.” “Explain how education has affected your life.” “ Should violent television shows be restricted from daytime viewing hours? Explain your reasons.”

Sorrel’s fingernails rattled on the table. She caught herself and studied the fingernail polish minutely. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. Whenever she let her mind go, the courthouse bomb jumped right up and punched in her in the face. She drew in a deep breath, and looked around. Brynna was staring at her, like usual. Let her look. Maybe she’d learn something.

Tonio, now, that was different. He picked up a helluva lot, almost read her mind sometimes. She kept her distance from him these days. And Quinto. God, that was a laugh. Jeanie had no clue about him, treated him like he was some sweet little kid. But then, Jeanie’d look at a cockroach the same way.

“Sorrel, time to get some work done. I marked an essay topic for you. Or would you rather choose a different one?”

Essay questions, for God’s sake. She pulled the mirror from her purse and checked her eye shadow, peering at one eye and then the other. Her eye shadow exactly matched the purple nail polish. She shot a look towards Jeanie, who pretended to ignore her. Good, she’d gotten the point.

A circle marked one topic. Sorrel read it over, muttering under her breath. Her leg swung back and forth, faster, and faster. With a solid thwack, she slammed the paper against the table. “This really bites. Jeanie? This is a bunch of crap. You know it, don’t you?”

“Afraid you’re stuck with it. I don’t make up the essay questions. It’s just a practice one anyway.”

“Yeah, well. But goddamnit—” Her voice shifted to a high-pitched singsong. “‘Write an essay describing an important event in your life, and how it changed your outlook on society.’ Huh. What the hell I’m gonna write about? Like how I got locked up? How’s about that SOB jumping me? Bet they’d love that.” Another incident came to mind, the one that might, just might, have resulted in a certain pipe bomb left at the courthouse. Panic surged, but she throttled it down.

Dillon walked in, sat at his desk, and opened a book. Sorrel found herself staring at him. They’d been tight, Dillon and the “boyfriend.” She’d forgotten. Oh God, was that it? Was it him? She jumped involuntarily as Jeanie perched on the table next to her.

“Try a happy time, maybe,” Jeanie said.

“Uh huh. Sure thing, like when I was a crackhead? I was real happy then.”

“Right, Sorrel. Forget it. Just sit there. I’ll go check on Rosalie.”

“Okay, okay.” She had to work. She didn’t want Randy, her parole officer, on her case, too. “Just help me out here, okay?”

“Before you went inside, when you were back home—remember something fun. Parties, Christmas with your family? Taking Tiffany to the zoo?”

Sorrel leaned back in her chair, considering. It was kind of good, thinking about something else. “Well, there was this wedding we went to.”

“Sounds good. Tell me first. Think it through.”

“My cousin Angie, she married this flash guy, suit and collar kind of wuss, you know. This was before Tiffany, three, four years back. Mama, and Grandma and me, we got all dressed up. Tia Lupe, she’s all—” Her voice rose again, became fussy and affected. “‘Please, Sorrel, just for once, dump the makeup.’ Only she don’t say it that way, it’s more ‘unobtrusive coloring’ or something wacko like that. She talks kind of like you, Jeanie.

“So we get all done up, fancy dresses. Man, we looked good, we really did. So, we got to the wedding, and that was okay, usual stuff. But the reception. What’s-his-name’s family, Angie’s guy? They’re all, noses in the air, looking down on us. This fuckin’ bitch starts talkin’ trash at us. Mama rolls right into her, nails, fists. You don’t take shit from nobody, Mama taught me that. They got no respect, you got to teach ‘em.

“We was rolling all over the floor, nails flying, kicking, tearing stuff apart, food all over everything. It was a
good
fight. We was really stoked. We won, too, ‘cause Grandma got into it. Her and those high heels, bashing everybody who took a shot at Mama and me. It was a lot of fun, Jeanie. My grandma, she’s a real scrapper.”

Sorrel grinned at the look on Jeanie’s face. Jeanie was such a baby. If she’d lived Sorrel’s life, she’d have died. “What’s the matter? It was nothing big. A few people needed stitches, but nothing big-time. No cops called in, nothing like that. Angie and her guy got out just fine, no trouble. You can bet, though, people showed some respect after that. They’d better. Grandma, she’s something else.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever met your grandmother.”

“No? I’ve got a picture, right here. Yeah. See? Me, Mama, Grandma, and Tiffany. That’s Tiffy’s party, when she was two, they let me out on furlough for it.”

“How about Tiffany? You could write about her.”

“Boy, yeah, Tiffany—” Sorrel’s voice was low, gruff. “I remember, she was born, I was screaming, crying. I mean, I never hurt like that, not even when— Well. And then, they give her to me, all red and bawling, got this white stuff all over her head. God, she looked like shit. I touched her, and it was like, she quit crying, right then. Like she knew, somehow, it was me.” Sorrel raised a hand and touched something invisible, shifted her arms and cradled it. “I was never so happy in my life, and there I was, just all bloody and hurting. ‘Cause we was together. It’s always been like that, her and me. Just like it was with Mama and me. Always.”

“See, you could write about that. She touched your life.”

“Yeah, I could. I could write about Tiffany.” Sorrel picked up pencil and paper. “Tiffany.” Fear and despair mingled. She couldn’t run, not from the cops, and not from him either. If she ran, she’d never see Tiffany again. And if Dillon knew, she was in deep shit. What the hell was she going to do?

Time passed, and Jeanie was there again, crowding her.

“Sorrel? Sorrel, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

Her mascara must be running. The paper had blotches on it. God, she’d been crying again. She must look like shit. A room divider blocked Sorrel’s view of the room. Brynna couldn’t see her. Dimly, she felt this was good thing.

“Sorrel, I really like that picture you showed me. Your grandma looks like a spunky lady. I’d like to meet her sometime. Sorrel? Sorrel, let me give you another piece of paper. Maybe you’d do better, writing about the wedding after all.”

CHAPTER
THREE

The house had the cluttered emptiness of a way station, of a temporary haven between catastrophes. It existed in a time warp, post-war tract housing for low-income families at a time when paint-splattered linoleum set the fashion. Jeanie’s armchair, her sofa, and her table perched uncomfortably on the industrial carpeting.