Drag Strip (22 page)

It wasn't until I'd stepped out of the car and was approaching the back stoop that I noticed the damage to the right rear corner of the trailer. An entire Godzilla-sized bite had been taken out of the siding, leaving a gaping hole that yawned into my laundry room. Either the aliens lived off vinyl siding or someone had made a king-sized crater into my house.

Al met me at the door, an ugly black gun poking out of his beefy hand and a look I'd never seen before on his face.

“We had company,” he said.

“They do that?” I said, pointing to the hole in the side of the house.

“Nah, Raydean did that one. They did that,” he said, pointing to the tire-mark trench spun out into Raydean's yard, the broken birdbath, and her blown-apart front door barely hanging on its hinges.

“Frank?” I asked.

“No, Sierra, the flippin' Flemish!”

I pushed past him into the kitchen. “There ain't no call for sarcasm,” I said.

“Isn't there? Isn't there?” Al was losing his cool. “Why don't you take a look on your sofa and tell me if I have a right to be pissed off!”

I turned and walked around the room divider into the dimly lit living room. Ma was lying on the sofa, a clean white patch of gauze on her forehead, stained red with a quarter-sized spot of blood. Her skin was every bit as white as the bandage and she appeared to be unconscious.

“Ma!” I screamed, and flew to her side, dropping down beside her. I saw Fluffy then, cuddled up by Ma's shoulder, guarding her.

Ma's eyes flew open and she seemed to have trouble focusing.

“Sierra? Is that you?”

“Oh, my God, Ma!” I started to cry. “Oh, Ma, I'm sorry! It's all my fault.”

I could hear Al behind me, muttering something like “Damn right, it's your fault!” But I didn't need him to tell me I'd pulled my own mother into danger.

“Sierra?” Ma called weakly.

“Yeah, Ma,” I said, grabbing her hand, “I'm right here!”

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I said I'm right here.” I moved closer by her side. Al stepped up to the edge of the futon and covered Ma with a blanket that had fallen onto the floor.

“No,” said Ma, “I mean what did you say before that?”

“I said I'm sorry, Ma.”

“Really?” she whispered.

“Really. I really, really am. I'd do anything for this not to have happened, Ma. I'm so sorry!”

“Good!” she cried out suddenly, her voice startling my brother and me. “Then tell your brother to keep that damn blanket off me and get me a glass of Pa's Chianti! Jeez! The way he's been acting, you'd a thought I was dead and buried, not hit by a tiny piece of debris!”

With this, Ma sat up, glared at my brother, and gave me a little shove. “He insisted, Mr. Know-It-All, that I lie still, just the way they trained him in first-aid school for cops. Well, I told him and told him, bring me a glass of wine to thicken up my blood and I'll be fine. But no! Years I got of taking care of the sick and injured. Suddenly, Mr. Philadelphia Cop knows better than all of his ancestors before him!”

“Ma!” Al looked shocked and hurt. “I was looking after you!”

Ma gave him a look like she wasn't quite sure, and then smiled. “I know. You was doing all you knew to do, but I'm telling you, and Sierra will back me on this, that your father's Chianti will fix anything that ails you.”

“She's right, Al,” I said, rising to my feet. “That's what we could all use here, a little vino.”

“Deal me in, lamb chop,” said a rusty voice from one of the bedrooms. I looked up at Al.

“Hey,” he said, throwing up his hands, “what else was I gonna do? She had no door. I wanted her to be safe. She's gotta stay here.”

“I'm not faulting you, Al. You done good.”

“You shoulda seen him, Sierra,” Ma cried, suddenly proud. “When that hooligan drove up in his car and shot at the door, Alfonse came running out, his gun held in the air, just like them cops on TV.”

Al was bringing over the jug of Chianti and four wineglasses. “I coulda gotten a clear shot off, too, if youse guys hadn't come running out into the street like Rambo! And you hurt like that, Ma. You shoulda been layin' still.”

At this moment, Raydean wandered out into the living room, her hair set in pink plastic curlers, covered by her rain bonnet, and her feet covered in huge bunny slippers, pink slippers with little smiley bunny faces. Her nightgown was a pink quilted throwback to a Sixties rummage sale, and her face was just as pale as Ma's.

“Is it snack time?” she said, her face breaking into a wide grin. “I always like snack time the best. Next to art therapy, of course.” She looked over at Al, as if seeing him for the first time. “Hey, you're that new guy, aren't you?”

Al was too stunned to correct her.

“Don't you worry none about what's in that bottle,” she said, pointing to the wine. “Them nurses are all the time dosing us with antipsychotics. It'll slow you up a little, but sooner or later you'll be your old self again. Trust me! I done more time in these HMO Nazi death camps than you'll ever know! Just do everything I do, and you'll be back out on the street in no time!”

Al set the glasses down gently and pulled the cork out of the Chianti bottle. Ma was watching Raydean, a confused look on her face.

“Come here, honey,” I said, softly. I got up off the floor next to Ma and led Raydean over to the sofa. “Drink some of this.”

Al gave me a sharp look. “I gotta draw the line there, Sierra. She shouldn't be imbibing. Not in her condition.”

Raydean cackled. “That's kind of you, sonny, but my child-bearing days are over. I ain't in a delicate condition, just fat!”

I pressed the glass into Raydean's hands and realized she was icy cold and trembling.

“Bottoms up!” she cried, and started to swig Pa's Chianti.

“Raydean, sip it, hon. That's potent stuff you got there.”

Raydean looked at the three of us, then over our shoulders, as if making sure no one could overhear. “You know,” she giggled, “if this is such powerful stuff, maybe we might oughta slip some to that prissy social worker what runs group!” She leaned in close to Ma and patted her knee. “Girl needs to get out more! Always sitting upright, with them little professional pumps and her long skirt, her hair pulled up so tight it makes her eyes bulge out. No wonder the poor thing can't find her a man!”

Ma couldn't help herself, or else Pa's wine was taking effect. She tittered like a schoolgirl.

“You know I'm right, don'tcha, lamb chop? I say we grab the young one over there and make a run for it. But wait till after lunch—with what they're charging, I figure we ought to get our money's worth!”

Raydean's glass was empty and her eyes seemed to droop. As I watched, she swayed slightly.

“Come on, honey,” I said, standing up and reaching down for her hand. “Let's go lie down for a little bit.”

Raydean stood up slowly and looked over at Al. “Don't frown so, sonny! Nap time's part of the program. They call it relaxation therapy, but we all know better!”

I led her off down the hallway to the room Al had been using. The twin bed was turned down and covered with fresh sheets. Al's doing, no doubt.

“Here we go,” I whispered, gently pushing Raydean back against the mattress. “I'll get you all nice and comfy.”

Raydean smiled a sleepy smile, her eyes already closing.

“Sierra?” she said.

“What, hon?”

Raydean snuggled deep into the covers, then reached out one hand to me. “Don't leave just yet.” Her voice quavered and cracked with unshed tears.

“Sure, honey, sure. I won't leave you.” I sat down beside her and gently stroked the back of her hand.

Raydean's face relaxed. “You're gonna sing to me, aren't you, Mama?” she said.

I sat there, staring at the wrinkled, childlike face. She'd never been this bad before, and it frightened me.

“‘Jesus loves me, this I know…'” The words came unbidden to my lips, spilling out, the old song that Ma would sing when we were little babies. “‘For the Bible tells me so.'” I turned off the bedside lamp and sat in the darkness, singing, tears slowly spilling down my cheeks. What in the world had I gotten us all into?

Twenty-five

Bacon was frying, and buried underneath its aroma was the smell of strong Italian Roast, waiting for me to wander into the kitchen and claim my cup. When we were little kids, that smell would wake me up every morning, along with the AM radio, KYW “All News, All the Time.” I'd wander down the steps and there would be Pa in his sleeveless undershirt, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee out of his thick white mug.

Ma always hummed while she cooked. She never woke up in a bad mood and she always started our day off on the right foot. “You gotta eat protein,” she'd say, slapping a full plate of eggs and bacon down before us. “You need brain power. Them Sisters ain't gonna like it if you show up without your thinking caps!”

I wandered out into my kitchen, the clock screaming that it was no longer breakfast time, but instead, lunchtime. There she was, at the stove, fixing a frying pan full of bacon and eggs.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she cried. “Sit down. You need some brain power!”

I just stood there staring at her. Ma was no spring chicken. She was what? Fifty-six? And here she was, up with less than seven hours of sleep, cooking my breakfast.

“Sit, sit!” Ma carried a steamy mug to the table and plopped it down. “Coffee! You look like you can use it.”

“Ma, what are you doing? You oughta be in bed.” I looked at the spot on her forehead where she'd been injured and saw an ugly purple bruise radiating out from behind the Band-Aid that covered her cut.

“Nonsense!” she said. “I got a little cut where a piece of the door hit me last night. It's no big deal.”

I cinched the belt on my chenille bathrobe and stepped over to the table. The coffee was calling me.

“You need your rest,” I said, sounding, I knew, like an ungrateful kid.

Ma snorted. “Listen. I raised five kids, and your Pa was a fireman. You think I know from rest? Sierra, last night was no different from any other night at home. Have you forgotten that?”

I must've just looked at her 'cause she kept on going. “No, maybe you wouldn't know. Sierra, your Pa's a fireman, so're your older brothers. When he gets in—and most often with him working second now, it's at all hours of the night—he needs me.”

Ma stirred the eggs and half turned so she could face me and the stove at the same time. “He don't deliver eggs, Sierra. He saves lives. He's got a dangerous job. When he comes in, I'm there.” Ma pulled strips of bacon from the pan. “And now with your brothers working, too, I'm there for them. No need in them going home hungry and waking up their wives. They got little children. There's no call to go waking up everybody. I'm there.” Ma looked proud. “Rest ain't no big deal,” she said.

I looked out the kitchen window, across the street to Raydean's trailer. It looked even worse in the daylight.

“Where's Al?”

“I sent him off to bed,” Ma said, presenting me with a full breakfast, complete with her homemade cinnamon rolls. She was in her element. “You know that boy sat up all night?”

Ma was bustling around the kitchen, wired on caffeine and nerves. I'd seen this before. She always bustled when she was nervous.

“Aren't you eating?” I asked.

“No, no, I'm not hungry. I'll get something later.” That confirmed it. Ma never ate when she was worrying.

“I'm gonna take care of some things today,” I said. “It ain't gonna be like this much longer. Frank'll leave us alone.” I had a sudden thought. “Ma, did Al call the police last night?”

“Of course!” Ma looked surprised that I would even ask. “That nice man, Detective Wheeling, came out, and he and your brother talked for a long time.”

Well, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would keep Frank away from us for a while, at least long enough for me to figure out what was going on and how it all tied in with Ruby's death. Somehow, I just knew it all worked together. If I could find out more about the racetrack or Ruby's past, I could probably find her killer. I looked up at the kitchen clock again. Twenty after twelve and I was due at work by seven. It was time to get moving.

“Ma,” I said, “when Raydean wakes up, I need you and Al to take her to the mental health center. She's due for a shot, and once she gets that, she'll be back to her old self.”

Ma clearly didn't believe me. “They won't lock her up, will they, Sierra?”

“No, Raydean just gets like this sometimes.” That wasn't exactly true. I'd never seen her quite this bad. I was scribbling the directions to the mental health center on a piece of paper when the phone rang.

“Sierra,” Roy Dell said, “it's me! What's the plan?”

I had no plan, but Roy Dell didn't need to know that.

“Where are you?” I said.

“I'm across the street,” he said, “in Raydean's garage. I'm using my mobile phone.”

I looked back out the window to the garage. The double doors were slightly ajar, and as I watched a thick hand emerged and waved briefly.

“I see you!” he said. “You see me?”

“Roy Dell, quit fooling around. You wanna advertise your presence? Don't you think there's a reward out for finding you? I mean, you are wanted for murder.” There was a gasp from the stove area, as Ma whirled around to give me her full eavesdropping attention.

“I'm gonna go take a shower and then I'll be over to get you,” I said. “When I pull up in the drive you come out and hop in the back seat. And make it quick, too!”

“You ain't gonna dump me out of a speeding car again, are you?”