Significant Others (18 page)

DeDe glanced nervously at Ginnie. This wasn’t for real, was it?

“You should be flattered,” said Ginnie, smiling sardonically. “Your honor is about to be defended.”

DeDe turned back to Mabel. “Mabel, really, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t …”

Mabel lumbered past her toward the Winnebago. “Yessir-ree-bob,” she said as she climbed inside.

Panic-stricken, DeDe turned to Ginnie and asked: “The crossbow?”

Ginnie laughed. “It’s back in Tacoma. Don’t worry.”

Thank God, she thought.

“She gets like this,” offered the woman on the ice chest. “She was with the Post Office for thirty-seven years.”

Mabel emerged from the Winnebago, gave DeDe a rakish salute, and began marching down the road toward the chem-free zone.

“You don’t even know where she is,” yelled Ginnie.

Mabel maintained a determined gait. “The hell I don’t.”

“She’s doing this for you,” said the woman on the ice chest, addressing DeDe. “She’s showing off.”

DeDe felt utterly helpless. “What’s she gonna do?”

Ginnie shrugged. “Kick butt.”

“Look,” said DeDe, “the last thing I want is some horrible fight over … Can’t somebody stop her?”

“She’s not gonna do anything,” said the woman on the ice chest. “She’s blowin’ smoke.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Ginnie. She turned to DeDe with a look of gentle concern. “Maybe you’d better go after her, huh?”

“Me? I don’t even know her. Why should I be the—?” She cut herself off, suddenly envisioning Mabel and Rose locked in woman-to-woman combat. She leapt to her feet and bounded down the road after Mabel.

She caught up with her as they approached the border of the chem-free zone. “Mabel, listen …”

“Comin’ along for the fun?”

“No! If you’re doing this for me …”

“I’m doin’ this for
me,
girlie.”

DeDe strode alongside her, breathing heavily but keeping pace. “But if she thinks that I sent you down there to …”

“Who the hell cares?”

“I
care, Mabel. I’m here with my lover and kids, and … I’m just trying to have a good time.”

Mabel slowed down a little and smiled at her. “How’s it been so far?”

“Shitty,” said DeDe.

“Well, see there? It’s time we had us some fun.”

“Mabel, a rumble with the security chief is not my idea of a good—”

“Shhh,” Mabel ordered, whipping a forefinger to her lips. “There it is.”

“What?” DeDe whispered.

“Her lair.” She seized DeDe’s arm with a grip of iron, pulled her into a thicket of madrone trees, let go suddenly, and flung herself to the ground like an advancing infantryman.

Rose’s tent was beneath them, at the bottom of a gentle slope. A lantern burned inside, making it glow like the belly of a lightning bug.

“Mabel, I want no part—”

“Get down!”

DeDe dropped to the ground, her heart pounding furiously. Mabel gave her a roguish wink and made another silencing gesture with her finger. There were sounds coming from Rose’s tent. Not voices exactly, but sounds.

First there was a kind of whimpering, followed by heavy breathing, followed by: “Yes, oh yes, uh-huh, you got it, all right, O.K.,
there …
yes ma’am, yes ma’am …”

DeDe tugged on Mabel’s sweatshirt, making a desperate let’s-get-out-of-here gesture. Mabel used her palm to stifle a snicker, then peered down the slope again, obviously enthralled by the drama of the moment.

The sounds continued: “Uh-huh, oh yeah, oh yeah, mmmmmm, oh God, oh God please … oh Gawwwddd …”

Mabel shot a triumphant glance at DeDe, then sprang to her feet, cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted,
“Don’t you mean Goddess?”

All sounds ceased in the tent.

DeDe tried to shimmy away on her belly, but the underbrush enfolded her. She lurched to her feet and stumbled frantically away from the scene of the crime. Behind her, Mabel was cackling victoriously, thoroughly pleased with herself.

“Come
on!”
DeDe called, suddenly worried about Mabel’s safety.

Mabel savored the scene a moment longer before effecting her own escape. She crashed through the madrones, puffing noisily but still cackling. “Was that
perfect,
girlie? Was that the best damn—”

She tripped and fell with a sickening thud.

“Are you O.K.?” DeDe called. “Mabel? … Mabel?”

Mabel wasn’t moving at all.

Sick with fear, DeDe made her way back to the grounded figure, knelt, touched the side of her face. “Please don’t do this to me. Please don’t.”

Mabel’s nose wiggled.

“Thank God,” said DeDe.

The old woman emitted a sporty growl and hoisted herself to her knees. DeDe was pulling her the rest of the way when Rose emerged from the tent and peered up at the two invaders.

She locked eyes with DeDe for an excruciating eternity, then went back into the tent. Mabel shrugged and flopped her arm across DeDe for support. “You think she was alone?” she asked.

“I’m done for,” said DeDe as they made their way back to the Winnebago.

“No you’re not.”

“I am. You don’t know. She hated me already. Now …”

“I’ll protect you,” said Mabel.

“Right,” said DeDe.

They passed a group of tents near the edge of chem-free. She distinctly heard someone say the words “Junior League,” followed by a chorus of harsh laughter.

They knew, they all knew. Her debacle at the gate had entered into the lore.

It was time she got out of there.

Making Up

J
IMMY LOOKED MOODY AND DRUNK WHEN BOOTER RETURNED
to his tepee. “How was the Jinks?” Booter asked.

No answer. “Bad, huh?”

“I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

Jimmy shrugged. “How was the Vice-President?”

“Fine,” said Booter. “Optimistic.”

“About what?”

Booter was thrown for a moment. “Well … economic indicators … the Contras. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Jimmy nodded, then looked down at the empty plastic glass in his hand.

“You should’ve gone to the Jinks,” said Booter.

“Why?”

“I dunno. To give me a report. I was kinda curious.” Jimmy grunted.

“Sounded like your kinda show.” Why was Jimmy acting this way? Because Booter hadn’t gone to the Jinks? Because Booter hadn’t invited Jimmy to meet the Vice-President? Because Jimmy turned maudlin after three drinks?

Applause came clattering through the woods like lumber spilling from a truck.

“There’s the end of it,” said Booter.

“Of what?” asked Jimmy.

“The Jinks.”

“Oh.”

Booter hated it when he got like this. “I thought I’d wander down to Sons of Toil … have a drink with Lester and Artie.”

Another grunt.

“You wanna come along?”

“You go ahead,” said Jimmy.

Booter frowned and sat down on the cot next to him. “Jimmy, ol’ man …”

Jimmy rose, fumbling in his shirt pocket for a cigaret.

“You don’t need that,” said Booter.

“Hell with it.” Jimmy lit the cigaret and tossed the match out into the night. He took a drag, then expelled smoke slowly, forming a contemplative wreath over his head.

“I wasn’t up at Mandalay,” Booter said at last.

“Oh, yeah?” said Jimmy. “Where’d you meet him?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t have drinks with George Bush?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell …?”

“I was with a woman, Jimmy.”

Jimmy cocked his head slightly, like an old retriever inquiring about the prey.

“I rented a house in Monte Rio,” Booter added. “She’s been … staying there for a few days.”

Jimmy looked dumbstruck for a moment, then started to laugh. As usual, his laughter deteriorated into a coughing jag. Booter clapped him on the back several times.

When Jimmy had collected himself, he said: “Why didn’t you tell me it was just a woman?”

Booter shrugged. “You’re a thespian. You’ve got a big mouth.”

“Then … you didn’t see Bush at all?”

“No.”

Jimmy smiled and shook his head in amazement. No, in relief. “A woman,” he said.

Booter gave Jimmy’s leg a shake. “C’mon. Let’s go see Lester and Artie.”

“Is she … uh … long-term?”

“No,” said Booter.

“You buy one of those whores down at the Northwood Lodge?”

“No.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew cloudy with reminiscence. “I bought a whore once. Nothing spectacular. Just this … nice little gal from Boulder during the war. Her name was … damn, what was it?” He sucked in smoke, then expelled it slowly. “Funny name … not like a whore’s name at all.”

“Let’s go,” said Booter.

“I always figured there’d be more just like her … or better. I had time for everything. Hell, five or six of everything.” He was mired in memory again.

Booter found Jimmy’s jacket and handed it to him. “We gotta hurry,” he said. “Lester wants to play his saw for us.”

Jimmy struggled into his jacket. “She have big titties, your girlfriend?”

Booter chuckled. “You ol’ whorehound.”

“I’m not as old as you,” said Jimmy. “God damn, where do you get the energy?”

Booter shrugged and smiled.

“The only big titties I ever see are around this place.” Jimmy sighed elaborately. “Old men and their big titties. It’s so depressing. Where the hell is my hat? Some of those fellows out there could use a brassiere, Booter. Ever notice that?”

Booter found Jimmy’s hat, a model he’d worn since the fifties, when he’d seen a similar one on Rex Harrison in
My Fair Lady.
He handed it to Jimmy and said: “You look as young as I’ve seen you in a long time.”

In point of fact, Jimmy’s bypass had whipped at least thirty pounds off him, imparting a sort of crazed boyishness to his face. “What is it that happens, Booter? Why do we all start looking like old women? What the hell is it? Revenge?”

Booter preceded him out of the tepee, merging with the tide of returning Jinks-goers. A screech owl heralded their exit. Jimmy caught up with him and said: “My wife’s Aunt Louise had a full mustache by the time she was seventy.” Booter kept walking.

“There’s a message there,” said Jimmy, sighing again. “There’s a terrible message there.”

Midnight Quartet

T
HE ROAD ABOVE MONTE RIO WAS RUTTED AND UNLIT, DEADLY AFTER DARK.

“Are you sure this is right?” asked Thack. He thinks I’m a flake, thought Michael. Useless with a hammer and useless in a car. “Well,” he said evenly, “she said it was the very last house on the road.”

“Yeah,” said Brian, “but is this the road?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” said Thack. Now they were ganging up on him. “What other road could it be?” he asked.

“That last turnoff,” said Thack.

“Yeah,” said Brian.

“But it was heading down, wasn’t it?”

“Hard to tell,” said Thack.

There was nothing to be gained by capitulating now. “I’m gonna keep on,” said Michael.

“Whose place is this, anyway?” This was Brian again.

“I dunno,” said Michael. “Some friend of hers rented it.”

“Male, female, what?”

Michael chuckled. “Male, probably. Didn’t you read her book?”

“I looked at the pictures,” said Brian.

“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize her.”

“She looked different.”

“I wouldn’t have recognized her,” said Thack.

“She’s a big star,” said Michael, irked with them both for not understanding the honor they’d been afforded. “And she’s so accessible.”

“I noticed,” said Brian dryly.

Thack laughed.

“You’re both pigs,” said Michael.

The crumbling road became a driveway, which led them up the steepest incline yet.

“This is crazy,” said Thack.

“Yeah,” said Michael, “but I think this is it.” Ahead of them, caught in the headlights, lay an enormous moss-flecked chalet.

“Jesus,” said Thack. “It looks like a Maybeck.”

“A what?” asked Brian.

“He was an architect,” Michael explained. “Early twentieth century.”

“You know his work?” asked Thack.

“Very well,” said Michael. Take that, Mr. Butch-with-a-Hammer.

He parked next to a white sedan behind the chalet. There were broad stairs leading to the second floor, where the living quarters seemed to be. The ground floor was shingled-over storage space.

The three of them climbed the stairs as a phalanx. Halfway up, Brian turned to Michael and said: “Let’s don’t make this long, O.K.?”

“O.K.,” Michael whispered.

As they reached the top, Wren flung open the door. “Hi, boys.”

“Hi,” said Michael.

“Your timing is perfect,” she said.

“Really?”

“Really. I’m ready to party.” She sailed ahead of them like a galleon, listing here and there to turn on a lamp. When they reached a big stone fireplace, she stopped and stuck her hand out to Thack. “I’m Wren,” she said.

“Thack Sweeney.”

“You’re quite a swimmer,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Are you another San Franciscan?”

“No,” said Thack. “Charlestonian. South Carolina.”

“Ah.” She turned to Brian. “And we’ve met.”

“Yeah,” said Brian sheepishly. “I guess so. I’m Brian Hawkins.”

“Charmed.” She dipped coyly, smiling at Brian. Michael thought she looked fabulous tonight in her pale pink sweatsuit. A satin ribbon of the same shade secured her sleek dark hair behind her head.

“Michael, my love, how ‘bout a hand?”

“Sure,” he said instantly, seduced by the way she’d made them sound like old friends. He followed her into a dimly lit kitchen with an industrial sink, a sloping wooden floor, and a pair of cobwebby antlers over the stove. She gathered glasses and dumped ice into a bucket. “Glad you could come,” she said.

“Glad to be here,” he replied stupidly. “Has your … uh … friend gone?”

“Oh, yes.” She opened the liquor cabinet. “There’s some grass in the bedroom. The cigar box on the dresser. Roll us a couple, would you?”

“Sure.” He made his way down a redwood-paneled hallway to a cozy bedroom. There, he sat on a rumpled bed and rolled joints while an owl hooted outside the window and Thack and Wren laughed over something in the living room.