Lydia (39 page)

Lydia had never recognized the survival skill of shutting up, at least, not before she went to prison. Maybe she’d learned how to be silent in the face of insanity there, but I doubted it. Lydia was staring off into the mid-distance, not listening. Her distraction factor gave me cause to worry.

Leroy continued. “My death chart is one name short. There can be no peace, no balance or justice, until someone pays Ann’s debt.”

I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Death chart?” I turned to Loren. As a fellow author, I figured he would be the closest one present to my sensibilities. “Do you keep a death chart?”

Loren said, “Not me.” I don’t think he knew who I was.

I said, “What kind of person keeps a death chart?”

Oly said, “I used to, but ever’body on it died, so I gave it up.”

Leroy shouted, “I am the last righteous being. I demand that one of you sacrifice your life to restore the balance.”

Oly said, “Don’t look at me.”

I guess people were looking at him. I’m not sure why. My eyes just wandered that way of their own accord.

Leroy said, “These are the rules.”

Lana Sue finally broke her extended period of not butting in. “We’re going to play by rules? I don’t think so.”

Zelda said, “Don’t be a party pooper.”

Shannon said, “This is no party.”

Leroy lifted his arms for silence. “America is a democracy, so everyone has one vote, except me. I’m God, and God doesn’t vote. God scourges the land.”

Loren put his hands on his hips. He would have come across as masculine and forceful, had he been wearing pants. “I refuse to play.”

Leroy glanced down at Loren from above. The CD moved on to Pink Floyd. It seemed to me that whoever had programmed the background music was living in bygone times.

Leroy called out, singsonging his voice like a preacher or a bad poet giving a reading. “If any of you refuses to vote, the holy law shifts and I kill the whole Goddamn lot.” He stared slowly around from person to person. “Is there any among you who doesn’t realize what a thrill it would give me to wipe out each and every one of you yuppie scum?”

No one spoke to that one. I knew Leroy would have a ball killing us, but what I wondered at was capability. Us novelists pretend vast knowledge when it comes to how many bullets go with each firearm, only I wasn’t familiar with the pistol in Leroy’s hand. I’m not familiar with any real pistols. I just do the research when it’s needed. I figured there weren’t enough bullets to nail all eight of us—who ever heard of an eight-shooter? Nine, since you have to count the bullet he’d wasted on me. At some point, he’d be forced to switch to the rifle, and Zelda might not give it up.

The problem struck me as theoretical, more than immediate. I don’t know about the others, but I was in denial of the bloodbath outcome. We were in Santa Barbara, for Chrisssake.

Zelda said, “That’s not a fair game. They’ll all vote for the old fart. He’s about to drop dead any minute, anyway.”

“You can vote for someone else,” Oly said. “It won’t hurt my feelings.”

Shannon pointed a finger at Zelda. “She shouldn’t even get a vote, unless she’s on the death list like everyone else.”

Leroy said, “We’ll cast secret ballots.”

“Hold on, hoss,” Zelda said. “I want it clear that voting for me is not a choice. You tell them. These snobs will vote me in over the fossil. They know I’m your squeeze.”

“Squeeze.” Leroy stared at Zelda, long enough to make her uncomfortable. She wrapped the towel around her body, over the bikini, and under the armpits, in a maneuver that women can pull off, but men can’t.

“Okay,” Leroy said. “You cannot vote for me, and you cannot vote for Zelda. Killing her is separate from Ann. The only ones who can settle Ann’s debt must be connected to her son there.”

Lydia snorted derision at Zelda. I was glad to see Mom had some scorn left. She said, “He plans to slice your zitty little throat later, honey.”

“Does not,” Zelda said. “We haven’t even had sexual congress yet.”

Roger spoke for the first time since he’d pulled me off the fence. “Does sexual congress with a maniac mean he’s more likely or less likely to kill a person?”

Zelda tucked her towel in so tightly it gave her a hint of cleavage. I don’t think she’d considered Leroy’s plans for her future. The dangerous-man thing would be fun to throw in her father’s face, but she hadn’t spun the adventure out to its logical conclusion.

Leroy focused on Lana Sue. “You there, hostess. Go inside and fetch nine pieces of paper and nine pencils. Zelda, go with her. You know the drill.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zelda said. “If she tries to escape, shoot her. If she uses the phone, shoot her. I’d be more in the mood for shooting if you’d promise to take me home after we leave here.”

“Just do what I say, you stupid weasel, or risk going back on the list.”

***

I was at a loss as to what to do next. My hand throbbed, and the blood had soaked through my shirttail, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. None of the women offered to help me wash or find a clean towel. Women in my life are like that.

Maurey was on the patio having an intense yet quiet talk with Roger and Shannon. Something I didn’t understand was going on there. Shannon was staring at Roger, who had turned a flushed color. I can spot heightened emotionalism from afar and those two were deeply involved in a situation.

Oly was taking a nap. His head had fallen back on the headrest of his chair. His mouth was open, revealing cracked gums.

That left Leroy or Loren for conversation. I chose Loren.

I said, “I’m pleased to meet a peer.”

Loren was a bit taller than me, and maybe a year older, but he came across as much taller and much older. Literary respect improves a person’s impressions.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“A fellow author. I write novels too.”

“I haven’t written a novel in fifteen years.”

“Yes, but
Yeast Infection
changed my life. That book is a twentieth-century classic. It defined a generation.”

Loren said, “It’s out of print.”

“American publishing is blind and tone deaf.” I have a give-away pen with that printed on the side. If anyone wants one, drop me an e-mail. “My books are out of print too. I’ve published eight novels so far, mostly young adult.”

“I only put out four.”

“Four masterpieces are better than eight hack jobs.” To be honest, Loren’s first two books before
Disappearance
and
Yeast Infection
were Westerns and not masterpieces, but it would have been rude to say so. “Your use of symbol and dynamic imagery is breathtaking.”

“I wouldn’t touch symbol and dynamic imagery with a stick. I tell stories. I was successful enough to get myself kicked up to screenwriter, but not successful enough to circle back to novels. What’s your name again?”

“Sam Callahan. I wrote the Bucky climbing series, and the RC Nash detective stories. I also penned a Plucky Woman in Jeopardy novel, but I had a pseudonym there.”

Lana Sue banged her way out the back door followed by Zelda, who trailed along with the demeanor of a puppy packing a rifle. She’d put a men’s white dress shirt on over the bikini. The tails hung below her crotch, covering the thong some, but not much. She’d lost her sandals along the way.

Loren said, “I never penned a book. I was more of a typist.”

“Typist of what?” Lana Sue asked as she crossed the yard. “I found index cards and pens. We don’t have pencils, that I know of.”

“Novels,” Loren said. “I felt more like a typer of novels than a penner.”

“Look where literature got us,” Lana Sue said. “We’ve never had a killer in the hot tub over those tacky MTV reality shows you type.”

I realized who Lana Sue was. The name should have tipped me off, but I don’t think her last name was Paul back when I’d seen her perform. I said, “I saw you sing once, at the Cowboy Bar in Jackson. You were with a band called Thunder Jug.”

“Thunder Road.”

“That’s right. You were remarkable, considering how drunk the musicians were. It was one of the finest nights I’ve spent in a watering hole.”

Lydia said, “Hell, Sam, how many more asses are you planning to stick your tongue up?”

“I was just telling the Pauls that I admire their creative work. When I do admirable work, I want random strangers to tell me.”

“Lucky for us, you’ve never done admirable work.”

Lana Sue passed out pens and index cards. When she handed me mine, she said, “Is that woman really your mother? With this bunch, I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

“I’m afraid so. She had me young.”

“Is she always this negative?

Okay. That was a little odd coming from Lana Sue. She might be the only woman I’ve met who could give Lydia competition at ironic negativity.

Speaking of which, Lydia said, “You should talk to me when I’m in a bad mood.”

See. Ironic negativity on parade.

“Vote,” Leroy barked.

Lana Sue poked Oly with the point of a pen. I could tell she didn’t want to touch him. “Wake up, Grandpa. Write your name here.”

Oly came to with a long, whistling snort. He looked from the index card to Lana Sue. “You spell Lana Sue as one word or two?”

Loren said, “I’d rather not choose. I don’t do well at making decisions.”

Leroy said, “You know what’ll happen if you don’t write a name on the card.”

A CD by a band called Yes was playing. I hadn’t heard Yes since college, and I wasn’t overly keen on them back then. I snuck a peek at Loren and Lana Sue, wondering which of those two was trapped in a bygone era. My money was on Loren. Lana Sue didn’t strike me as a stagnant woman.

Shannon, Roger, Maurey, and Loren cut their eyes around the group, weighing probabilities. It was the old game of
who do we throw off the life raft
. Lana Sue, Lydia, and Zelda kept their heads down and pens scratching—no wishy-washiness as to who to kill there—although, at the end, after she’d placed her card facedown on the hot-tub ledge, Zelda looked at Shannon and smirked.

I couldn’t come up with a justification for choosing. I mean, it mattered. A lot. Someone was likely to die here. Logically, it had to be the ninety-nine-year-old Oly. His life expectancy lacked the potential of the rest of us. But then, I’d known Oly thirty years, and I hated to sentence a man I’d known for so long to death.

I was related to all the others, except Loren and Lana Sue. I figured the immediate family—Lydia, Shannon, Roger, and I counted Maurey, even though we weren’t technically related, because we shared a child—wouldn’t choose each other, which left only Oly or the new strangers. Lana Sue was the closest anyone came to innocent. She had no connection to Roger or Leroy, other than her husband had once been married to Ann. Loren was present at the original abduction. To read the book—and I had read the book, years ago—if Loren had been paying attention he might have stopped the kidnapping. If anyone should die for Ann, it was Loren. But then, how could I condemn him? He’d written literature. Society at large would be less without Loren Paul. The rest of us would be grieved by friends and family, but that was the extent of our reach. Loren mattered to people who didn’t know him.

In the end, I wrote my own name, hoping no one else would think of me. What if everyone used the same thought process and wrote their own names? It could happen. Zelda had voted for Shannon. By the rules, Shannon couldn’t write
Zelda
, so if everyone who could named themselves, we’d all have one vote, except Shannon, who would have two. And that would up the bloodbath factor, because Leroy could only kill my daughter over my dead body. I had no doubt Maurey would throw herself into the breach for Shannon also.

That brought us back to Oly.

Leroy said, “Zelda, collect the cards.”

Lydia stepped forward. “That’s my job.”

“Who died and made you boss?” Zelda asked.

“I’m the oldest and wisest. It’s my responsibility.”

Oly spit between his skinny legs. “What’s that?”

“I’m the oldest who isn’t senile. It’s my fault we’re in this mess. I’ll collect the Goddamn cards.”

So Lydia circled the yard, picking up votes. Roger took Shannon’s card, placed it with his, and passed them both over. Loren passed his face down, while Lana Sue passed hers face up. Zelda wouldn’t touch her card. She made Lydia take it off the tub ledge. When I gave Lydia mine, she brushed her fingers on mine, looked me in the eyes, and winked.

Scared the holy beJesus out of me.

“Read the names,” Leroy said.

That’s when the CD player ran out of CDs. The timing is hard to believe, I admit, but sometimes timing in life is hard to believe. All I know is the backyard was suddenly quiet. A bird—sounded like a magpie, but then, what do I know about Santa Barbara birds—called from the far side of the fence. Water gurgled from the pool pump. I could hear Oly’s wheeze, but the absence of music made the yard feel eerie.

Lydia stood in front of Leroy, cards in hand. One by one, she flipped them over and read.

“Shannon.”

Zelda giggled.

“Maurey.”

I looked at Maurey, who gave me a weak smile. She’d voted for herself. I could tell.

“Oly.”

Oly blinked. He was trying to pull of his absent-from-reality act, but it wasn’t playing, this time. He came across more as a toddler, spoiling for a fight.

“Oly.”

Lydia glanced at Oly and turned another card.

“Oly.”

She stopped and faced him. Their eyes locked in a long stare-down. I hadn’t been around for the recording of his oral history, but I can imagine the link that is formed when one person hears another person’s life story. Something crucial passes between them.

Lydia said, “You don’t want to die, do you, old man? That’s why you keep going when anyone with any sense would have called it quits long ago.”

Oly nodded. The bone plates under his temple rubbed against each other. His goiter turned splotchy.

Lydia said, “You don’t want people to say”—her voice changed ever so slightly—“‘He had a good life. It was his time to go.’”

Oly’s lips moved like chewing his tongue. He said, “Fuck that.”