Authors: Baxter Clare Trautman
Hold of the Bone (4 page)
She considers making a “lack of activity” poster with Lewis' picture of Tatum, but surely someone will be offended and kick a complaint up the ladder. In the old days Frank wouldn't have cared, it would have been worth it for the morale of the squad. Now the squad finds its morale at home with family and kids, instead of at work with hijinks and after-hour highballs.
Back in her office she rummages in her top drawer and finds a crinkled pack of cigarettes. She shakes one loose and settles into her hard, wooden chair. She's had it so long the seat has worn into the shape of her ass. Every couple years an ergonomics expert comes along and tries to throw the chair away, and every couple years she hides it until the new chair arrives and they leave her alone.
One-handed, she opens the cover of a matchbook and bends a
match to the striker plate. The head spits and flares and she is glad for the quick, hot smell of sulfur. After lighting a cigarette, she shakes the match out, and twists it loose. She lets the hot end sizzle on her tongue, making sure it is dead before dropping it in the trash. She blows smoke toward the detector, hoping to set it off. She doubts the damn thing even works.
She reflects that cops today are different but in a good way. They don't smoke, for one, and if they did they certainly wouldn't in their offices. They are healthier and more balanced. They talk things out and exorcise with weights instead of alcohol. They seem purposeful and driven to succeed. She is sure most of them find the work satisfying, but wonders if it is
fun
. Frank loved her work for a long time. It was hard, but it was fun outsmarting and outplaying the bad guys. Even the desperate drudgery of back-to-back cases and three-day shifts had been play. She'd had a good crew back then, and they had played beside her.
Now all her playmates are gone. Crossing her ankles on the desk, she thinks how nice a glass of Scotch would taste with the cigarette. That's a bad thought for an alcoholic and Frank concentrates on the flavor of the stale tobacco. Its weight is a comfort in her chest and she recalls the heat of Marguerite's palm between her breasts.
Dropping her feet, she spins to dial the landline on her desk.
“Well, hiya,” her sponsor answers. “Whatcha up to?”
“Sitting alone in my office, thinking bad thoughts.”
“Why don't cha come over? I'm just folding laundry and watching
Dancing with the Stars
re-runs. That Kurt Warner, he's cute!”
Frank grins. Mary is in her seventies but hasn't lost her eye for a handsome man. “Better not let Ed hear you say that.”
“Aw, he's off golfing. Besides, he couldn't hear me anyway.”
“Can I bring you a Frappuccino?”
“Ooh, I'd love one. With extra whipped cream.”
“You got it.”
Frank switches off the office light and shuts the door. Her steps echo in the squad room. She pauses near the hall, tempted to look back, but afraid all she'll see are ghosts.
“Hey.” She pecks Mary's cheek and hands her the sticky drink.
“Thanks, you're a doll. Whadda I owe ya?”
Like Frank, Mary is from New York. Unlike Frank, she has retained much of her accent.
“Nothing. My pleasure.”
“Well, thanks! Come on in. Let's go sit out back.”
They settle on the oak-shaded deck overlooking Mulholland Canyon. A jay screeches and lands on the top rail.
Mary shoos, “Go on. You've been fed today.”
To Frank, she says, “To what do I owe the honor? You never come by and see me no more.”
“I know. I'm a terrible sponsee.”
“Are you kidding? You're my easy one. You always handle everything on your own, then call me when it's all done and tell me how ya did it. I should have more like you.”
“'Fraid I'm not gonna be so easy today.”
“Why, what's going on?”
Frank hunches toward her sponsor. “I got it all, right? The job, girlfriend, a little sobriety. No bills. No debt. Can retire if I want. What's not to like about all that?”
Mary sucks at her frappé. “Nothing I can see.”
“I know. And the god's honest truth, Mary? I'm about to come out of my skin.”
Her sponsor's eyes narrow. “How many meetings you gettin' to?”
“It's not that. I don't want to drink. I just . . .” Frank gets up and leans against the railing. The shade is deep and cool and she has the impossible memory of riding up a narrow, bowered canyon where
evergreen boughs block the heat of the day and a horse's hooves fall soundlessly upon centuries of old, brown needles.
“You just what?”
She spins to face Mary. “Remember that case I told you about? With the Santeria priestess?”
“The one where you almost died?”
“Yeah, that one. There was a woman that helped me through it. Darcy's ex-wife. I ran into her today, and it was like she could see right through me. She says I'm ready to start the second half of my life, but I'm so damn dumb I don't even know what that is.”
“Whoa, she said that?”
Frank offers a sheepish grin. “Not that last part. But that's what it feels like. My past has absolutely no attraction for me, but meanwhile I'm stumbling around in the dark trying to find the doorknob into my future.”
“The doorknob? Have you even found the damn door yet?”
“No,” Frank admits.
“Then quit looking for the knob! When you find the door, then you can start worrying about how to open it. 'Til then, relax.”
Mary stands next to her at the railing. They lean on it, staring toward brown mountains thirsty for rain. She remembers scraps of a dream: a ghost-colored moon and black mountains rising to meet it; somewhere, running dark water and fish. Trout, she thinks, though filleted and fried is the closest she has ever come to a trout.
“She said I have talent.”
“America's Got Talent. What kind you got?”
“I don't know. She didn't either. Says I'll know it when I see it.”
“Like porn, huh?”
Frank chuckles. “That's what I said.”
The jay scolds from a branch over the deck. It drops closer to Mary, dancing nervously for a handout.
“When I was involved with the Santeria case, I kept having dreams so vivid they seemed real. And visions, like the dreams, just as real, like they were happening in present time.”
“What kinda visions?”
Frank takes a deep breath. She remembers Marguerite's warning
that whatever's coming will be easier if she doesn't fight it. She tells her sponsor about the sandaled soldier on a battlefield littered with corpses, the scavenging women and children, the vultures and feeding dogs.
“Kept seeing it over and over.”
“Why? What did it mean?”
Frank shrugs. “Marguerite said Mother Love and I had been adversaries through many lifetimes, that the latest battle was just one of many, and that the visions were carryover. Said being around The Mother's power woke up my own.”
Mary looks indignant. “How come you never told me any of this?”
“Never had a need to. Not the kinda thing that comes up in everyday conversation.”
“Geez. Ya can say that again.”
“Marguerite said I'll be alright if I trust my heart over my head. Only the thing is, I'm not sure I know how to do that.”
“That's about the only thing your friend's said that I understand.” Mary sucks loudly at the bottom of her cup.
“How so?”
Mary raps her breastbone. “This is where God lives. Right here. The answers are always right here, kiddo. You know that.”
Frank shakes her head. “I can think an answer, but I don't know that I can feel one.”
“That's 'cause you don't spend enough time practicing. You gotta slow down, take the time to learn what an answer
feels
like. It's subtle, tiny at first, but the more you tune in to it, the stronger it gets. I promise, the answers are all there.”
Looking at the dusty mountains Frank muses, “That's the second promise I've had today.”
“What was the first?”
“Marguerite promised that if I keep my heart open my path will be clear, and that I'll have help along the way.”
Mary chuckles and pats her back. “This lady sounded cuckoo at first, but I'm startin' to like her more and more.”
“Yeah, she grows on you like that.”
“Trust your heart and everything'll be okayâit don't get simpler than that.”
“Easily said,” Frank mutters, “but not so easily done.”
“Like I said, it gets easier with practice. Are you trustin' or drivin' the bus?”
Frank grins. “Mostly driving.”
“How's that workin' for ya?”
“Got me here talkin' to you.”
“Ya see?” Mary grins and rubs a palm over Frank's back. “Relax, kiddo. You're ready for a change. You really are. But don't force it, let it come.”
Frank narrows her eyes at Mary. “That's what Marguerite said. You two been talking?”
“Nah. We're just two broads that know a little more than you do. Am I gonna see you at the meeting Saturday?”
“Unless I got called out.”
They walk through the house arm in arm. At the door Frank pecks her sponsor's wrinkled cheek.
“I love you, Mary.”
“I love you, too, kiddo. Love you, too.”
Frank isn't particularly hungry but decades of odd hours have taught her to eat when she can. She gets a pizza and eats at Caroline's while watching Stanford beat USC, again. Caroline still hasn't come home by the time the game ends, so Frank takes a long swim in the condo pool. Because it's late she has a lane all to herself and in the rhythm of strokes she forgets about her day.
When she gets back upstairs, Caroline is in the shower. Frank slips in beside her. “Hey, you.”
Caroline receives her nuzzled greeting happily if not wildly, and Frank proceeds undaunted. The water cools and Frank turns it off. Grabbing an oversized beach towel she wraps Caroline like a mummy and steers her, laughing, to the bed. Caroline is a Virgo, she doesn't like messes, and Frank judiciously lays a second towel under Caroline's wet head.
“You think of everything,” she marvels.
“I try,” Frank murmurs, caressing Caroline through the damp terry cloth. Caroline tries to free an arm, but Frank says, “Uh-uh. I want you all wrapped up. Like an early Christmas present.”
“Sweetie,” Caroline protests. “It's barely September and I'm bushed. Can Christmas wait at least until tomorrow morning?”
“Sure.” Hiding her disappointment, Frank helps extricate Caroline from the towel. “I'm gonna hang this up.”
She takes her time in the bathroom, letting her irritation fade. After all, she reasons coldly, it's not like she was that excited. Arousing Caroline is more an exercise in determination than passion. But to be honest, Frank concedes, she was into it more for the distraction than the pleasure. It's not fair to pick on Caroline's lack of enthusiasm when she can barely marshal her own.
Still, she studies herself in the mirror, it would have been nice. Frank eyes the extra inch at her waist, and gravity's relentless toll on her ass. The wrinkles that used to get smoothed out with face cream and a good night's sleep have become permanent furrows, and the silver in her hair is overtaking the gold. But all in all, she's in decent shape. She forces a double chin, wondering what to do with the rest of the night. Deciding to try sleeping, she snuggles in next to Caroline.
“There you are,” Caroline murmurs and wedges into her. Frank holds her lover tenderly, glad at least for the comfort of the familiar body. As she so often does, Caroline falls asleep easily. Frank lies awake. The day comes back to her and she recalls the warmth of Marguerite's palm on her chest. Searching for Caroline's hand, she raises it gently, places it between her breasts, and covers it with her own. Only then does she sleep.
In the morning Caroline is true to her word, willing to take up where they left off, but Frank wakes antsy and irritable. “Let's get breakfast,” she suggests, getting dressed before Caroline can argue.
They eat at a Mexican hole in the wall down the street. The waiter knows them well and refills their cups without asking.
“Do you have anything planned today?” Frank wonders.
“Mercifully, no. My calls are covered and I have the whole day off. What about you?”
Frank shakes her head. “Nothing in particular. Want to get that movie in?”
“Sure. And I need to pick up a birthday present for one of the nurses. I meant to get it last weekend when I was at your place, but completely forgot.”
“What's up there?”