Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (12 page)

Dorthea
pulled the bandana back up over her face, got up, and walked over to him. When he saw her feet, his head moved, but he didn’t look at her, he didn’t take his eyes off his forearms.

“Help,” he gasped. “Help.”

She braced herself by widening her stance and placing her right foot behind the left. Slowly she reached down. He raised his eyes and focused on the rescuing hand, which wrapped itself around his upper arm. He grunted loudly and pushed hard against the ground. She pulled.

No!
Don’t be stupid, she thought, as she released his arm. His body slipped. He stared at the retreating hand.

“Please!” he gasped.

The man was her enemy. And, without even realizing it, she’d turned into Jeb Railer; she’d turned into a fool who doesn’t mind rescuing an enemy so long as it comes with a pat on the back and a few kind words. When it really mattered, she’d become a giver instead of a taker.

She stood up straight and stepped back.
He looked up at her. She pulled down the bandana to reveal her face. The breath exploded from his mouth. His body sank. He studied her with squinting eyes. He took another loud breath and sank further, until only his head and shoulder tops remained visible. Then, before his body fell away, he lifted his hand off the ledge, pointed a finger, and said, “I know you.”

At first
he fell uneventfully, almost gracefully, until his feet grazed a rock outcrop and catapulted his head and shoulders backwards into the side of the canyon. After that it turned into a mess of somersaults and bounces, and then a trail of dust as he tumbled to the bottom.

Even though her actions seemed to make sense at the time, in later years Dorthea, who carefully measured expense and return, sometimes wonder
ed about it. And it didn’t have anything to do with newfound compassion. People knew her by sight. She could’ve easily been recognized by the butler, by someone who saw her hiking out of the canyon, or by any number of other people. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t actually killed the old man herself; when a big name like Archibald Newfield dies suspiciously, someone goes to the gas chamber. She hadn’t calculated that risk. Just as she hadn’t bothered to realize that his fall from the cliff did nothing to bring her dream even an inch closer. She had no real answers for her actions except that maybe eleven years of frustration had finally gotten the best of her, or maybe she had a haunting suspicion that the failure she’d become at age thirty looked very much like the failure she’d be at age forty, and even fifty.

Some things just didn’t happen in Prospect Park. Shopping arcades with escalators didn’t happen. Or restaurants with carhops. Or dance studios. Prospect Park existed for the sole purpose of serving its illustrious inhabitants on the hill, and this included sheltering them from riffraff and the watering holes where riffraff gathered. Let the people have Santa Marcela with its drive-in movie theatres and bowling alleys and roller rinks; Prospect Park belonged to the elite. That had been the plan from the very beginning….And then in 1961, at age forty-five, Dorthea Railer applied for a permit to build a five story hotel in the middle of town.

The absolute purity of
the original vision had long before been abandoned by the town fathers. A few little doggies were bound to sneak in and sleep by their footstools; if the shopkeepers and professional people served them well, and happened to make a nice living at it, and happened to build themselves tasteful homes down the hill, so be it. It hadn’t been part of the original plan but that could be overlooked. The problems arose with the second rung, the less desirable merchants, who catered to the first rung, and who also wanted the prestige of a Prospect Park address. And then what came after that? A third and fourth rung, until the ladder reached to the basement and the whole town looked like Yucky D?

Such intruders had to be kept at bay
. From the beginning that had been the prime enterprise of city government, and not an enterprise wanting for staff. Powerful people lived in Prospect Park, and they had no trouble stacking city hall with individuals who guarded the fair town with vigilance and discretion, and who issued building permits and business licenses accordingly. But the best protection came from the pack of self-appointed watch dogs, mostly rich ladies on their way to and from lunch dates and beauty appointments, who peered out the back of limousines and reported with raised hackles even the slightest violation of Prospect Park’s pure essence.

All things considered, the system worked well enough. The sterling image reflected magnificently year after year
, and the people down the hill didn’t usually muck it up too much. Except for a few bad apples, they compared quite well to the rabbles found in other towns. And with their allotment of certain types of markets and dime stores and restaurants, not to mention all the diversions in nearby Santa Marcela, they didn’t seem to suffer too much either. They even had saloons, down by Pine Street, near the edge of town.

That didn’t mean they’d ever get a
five story hotel; it could safely be said that the watchdogs would die a rabid death before that would ever happen.

The
Planning Department rejected the application outright, without bothering to pass it on to the council for an official vote upholding their negative recommendation. Dorthea, who knew her rights, demanded the vote. So the Planning Department clerk yawned and put it on the docket. Nobody knew it then, but the good people were about to take another ride on the Dorthea Railer roller coaster.

At first the story went around as a crackpot joke about Dorthea losing her marbles and forgetting where she lived. Maybe she got bonked on the head by one of her money bags and thought she lived in Los Angeles where f
ive story hotels grew like summer squash. But the rumor grew legs and got an attitude when two of the five councilmen reportedly decided to vote in favor of the hotel. The folks on the hill bristled at this and denounced it as just so much claptrap. Some of the flatlanders took to it more warmly, not that they really cared about five story hotels, but the thought of the Town Council going against the big wigs for a change seemed refreshing and invigorating. And thoroughly entertaining. Sometimes it’s just damn fun throwing sand in the man’s face, especially when you’ve got nothing to lose. Grumbling about lost hotel jobs and the plague of rampant snobbery, became popular for a time, as did writing indignant letters to the editor, all of which even inspired a few fledgling rabble rousers to compose passionate speeches to be unleashed before the big vote at the next Town Council meeting. Except for the absence of the requisite gang of pug-nosed rowdies, Prospect Park almost had their very own powder keg.

Most everyone knew, though, that it didn’t amount to much more than a gallop through the park. It didn’t matter if two councilmen said they’d vote for the hotel or if all of them said it. When word came down from
the hill to vote it down, they’d do it, unanimously, especially if that word came from Sunny Slope Manor. Bill and Judith Newfield didn’t sit on the council and didn’t have an official vote, but their unofficial vote carried the weight of a landslide. They were the Newfields, King and Queen of Prospect Park, duly crowned and enthroned.

Maybe that’s why the good people often saw Dorthea’s big blue Cadillac parked in front of Abigail’s little house by the library. She might’ve been a
n oddball, and a disappointment to her family, but Abigail, twin sister to the queen, had connections. Maybe Dorthea had hopes of turning the strange duck into a little songbird that whispered certain somethings into the king and queen’s ear. 

~~~

“Do we have to talk about that?” asked Abigail. “If I say I’m for it, Judith gets mad, and if I say I’m not for it, you get mad.”

Dorthea
didn’t respond. Instead she smiled pleasantly as the two ladies visited in the living room of Abigail’s depressing little bungalow. Her sister’s brain darted like little fish in rough water and Dorthea had learned from experience to move slowly.

“It’s all anybody wants to talk about,” continued Abigail
. “And what does it matter what I think anyway? I’m not on the Town Council.”

Dorthea ran her hand over
a lump in the green fabric sofa where the ladies sat. Since the duchess died, Abigail had more money than a tycoon, but she hid it like an ugly birthmark. She’d give it away to a bum, or to some church, before she’d buy decent furniture.

“It matters because I value your opinion
,” said Dorthea. “Maybe I’m wrong about the hotel and you can help me see it.”

“
You’re not wrong—but don’t expect me to say that in public…especially in front of Sister.”

“I wouldn’t do that. But I would like to hear your feelings
on the project. It might help me understand how other people see it.”

“I don’t have any feelings
about it,” said the timid little mouse. Dorthea tried to hide her boredom and not wonder for the thousandth time how Judith ended up so commanding and elegant and Abigail ended up so…so…dowdy. Wearing makeup seemed to go against her religious beliefs, and wearing her hair in any way other than a bun at the top of her head went against her belief in stark practicality. Religious and practical, that pretty much summed up Abigail Evans ever since her daughter died and her husband ran off. No doubt her ugly eyeglasses fell somewhere into one or both those categories. She didn’t even look like her sister, which is saying something when you’re supposed to be identical. Dorthea re-focused and heard Abigail say, “All Judith ever says is that it will turn us into another Santa Marcela, but she doesn’t really say what that means. The people who want the hotel talk about jobs and tourism and how it will make life better. That’s all I can tell you.”

“That’s important. Jobs are important. And so are better lives. Don’t you
think?”

“Yes.”

“Important enough for you to help me in some small way?”

“What?
What are you saying?”

“I need you
r help with the Town Council.”

“Oh,
I don’t know,” she said with a sigh and scrunched up face. “Judith would never forgive me.”

“There won’t be anything to
forgive. I just need you to put in a good word with your brother-in-law.”

“Bill? But what if he says something to Judith?”

“Tell him not to. He knows how to keep a secret. And even if she finds out, what’s the worst that will happen? She’ll get mad…and argue…and maybe storm off. And two days later it will be forgotten. It’s not like you’re making a speech or writing an article for the newspaper. You’re just giving an opinion. She doesn’t care for your opinions anyway, but I’m sure that doesn’t stop you from having them.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Besides, while you might ruffle one sister’s feathers, you’ll be helping another sister immensely.”

Abigail
breathed deeply and wrung her hands.

“And you’ll be helping
thy neighbor, the people down the hill,” said Dorthea, as she motioned to one of the Bible Scripture artworks on the wall. “That’s the important thing, don’t you think?”

“Ok. I’ll do it
.”

“
You will?” said Dorthea, surprised at the sudden turn around. “That’s good. I’m happy.” She smiled.

“Yes. I’ll do it…
I will…but I need you to do something for me.”

Dorthea’s smile froze
. Those sounded like bargaining words. Was Abigail bargaining? No, it couldn’t be.

“I need you to help me
,” she continued. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. For too long. I want to meet Ermel…your mother…our mother. Yes I want to do it. I do. I want to do it. Will you help me?”

Dorthea
stared. And tried to make sense of the ditzy creature who sat next to her. She felt like saying, “What the hell are you talking about?” followed by a vivid description of the drunkenness and filth and delusion that Abigail would see firsthand, probably for the first time in her sheltered existence, if she pursued such a folly. Instead she controlled herself and said, “And why would you want to do that?”

“Because she’s my mother
…and she’s had a hard life…and I want to show her some kindness.”

Dorthea laughed. Not loudly, or for any great length, but
with enough bitterness to be clearly in bad taste. And she didn’t care. No one on earth deserved kindness less than Ermel Railer. And now Abigail, the little reject who hid in church seven days a week because she couldn’t cut it in a world that had been tamed, collared, and laid at her feet, wanted to give it to her for nothing, along with forgiveness and hope and probably a week’s worth of warm, nutritious meals. Dorthea saw it clearly, Ermel circling Abigail, sizing her up, tossing her around like a cat with a bug; and Abigail, turning the other cheek, laying up treasures for herself in heaven when all the while she had a perfectly good treasure in the bank that she didn’t dare touch for fear of sinful contamination. The whole thing looked like a bad circus with a collapsed tent.

On the other hand…
.When a mouse gets bold, sometimes the best thing is to just let it pass. “Ok,” said Dorthea. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“But why did you laugh like that? I don’t understand.”

“
You surprised me, that’s all. Surely you won’t hold a bit of unguarded surprise against me. After all you dropped it on me like a bomb.”

“I suppose. So you’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

“You will? But maybe she won’t care to see me. What will we do then?
Has she ever said she wanted to meet me? It wouldn’t be proper to just drop in unannounced. We wouldn’t do that would we?”

Before Dorthea had a chance to address the growing pile of questions,
she heard the front door open and close, and then Sarah, Abigail’s eleven year old daughter, came running into the living room followed by another girl, who Dorthea immediately recognized as six year old Veronica Newfield, Abigail’s niece, Bill and Judith’s only child.

“I have a surprise for you
Sarah,” said Abigail, in a singsong voice.

Sarah
stopped in her tracks and looked blankly at her mother. She held a basket with the head of a Barbie doll sticking out the top. Veronica had a basket too, holding more Barbies than Dorthea could count.

“You’re going to meet your grandmother?”

“Grandma Evans?”

“No, silly
, not Grandma Evans. You already know her. You’re going to meet Grandma Railer.”

“Ok.”

“I want to meet Grandma Railer,” said Veronica, pushing her way past Sarah and stepping up close to the coffee table that separated her from her aunt. “Is she my grandma too?”

Abigail hesitated, looked confused, and then said, “Uh…she’s
Sarah’s grandmother, sweetie—”

“And she’s your grandmother too,” said Dorthea
, in a warm, child-friendly way.

“I think it’s time for lunch,” said Abigail, springing to her feet.

“Who are you?” asked Veronica.

“I’m your Aunt Dorthea.”

“You’re not my aunt. My mother told me,” said Veronica.

“That’s right dear
,” said Abigail, “she’s just a pretend aunt…like Nanny is a pretend aunt.”

“If I’m not your aunt then
I guess Grandma Railer’s not your grandma, and you’ve got no business meeting her.”

“I
can too,” said Veronica.

“Yes
, dear,” said Abigail, as she stepped around the coffee table and knelt down next to Veronica. “How ‘bout if we have cake and ice cream and then we’ll talk about it?”