Too Far to Say Far Enough: A Novel (11 page)

Foxy dug her fingers into Desmond’s bare arms and buried her face in his chest. He was about to lower his own face to the top of her hat when I took him firmly by the prickly chin.

“Desmond,” I said, “tell me what’s going on.”

“We was down at—”

“Don’t tell her!”

Foxy lifted her head and shook it until the hat slid off and they were both smothered in red hair. I took her by the shoulders and pulled her toward me, away from Desmond. He had the good sense to at least let one hand go.

“We don’t keep secrets around here,” I said. “Look at me.”

She dropped her head.

“Look at me.”

This time she did.

“Shades off,” I said, and then raised an eyebrow at Desmond, who released his other hand. His face showed him somewhere between resentful and it’s-a-good-thing-you-came-along-’cause-I- was-outta -ideas.

“Are you hurt?” I said to Foxy.

“No.”

“Are you having a flashback?”

She blinked what I could now see were swollen eyelids.

“I don’t think so, Big Al,” Desmond said. “’Cause it just happened.”

“Shut
up,
” Foxy said.

“Then
you
tell me,” I said to her. “It doesn’t have to be here. We can go back to my house, or we can go inside the coffee shop—”

“I just got freaked out, okay?”

I didn’t remind her that she’d assured me just the day before she didn’t get freaked out.

“I thought I saw somebody I knew and I started to lose it. That’s all.”

I looked quickly at Desmond. He was an even worse liar than she was, and he didn’t even have to open his mouth to do it.

“You want to try that again?” I said.

“It’s the truth!”

“Look, if it’s just your stuff you can tell me or not tell me depending on how fast you want to get healed. But when it involves my son I need the whole story.”

“It’s all good, Big Al.” Desmond’s voice was low and completely without charm. “I can handle it.”

“I can’t,” I said. And then I prayed from the pit of myself because I knew in that moment that Oreos and motorcycle privileges no longer provided leverage.

“Okay.” Foxy tossed her hair back and smeared at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. The two-day-old makeup trailed from the corners of her eyes and into her hairline.

“I wanted to find somebody with an iPhone so I could borrow their charger. We went into this one shop where they had T-shirts and I saw the guy behind the counter talking on one, so when he hung up I just asked him if I could use his charger.” Her voice wavered. “And he just started yelling at us, saying we were trying to distract him so we could shoplift.”

“We tol’ him we didn’t want any of his ol’ tired T-shirts,” Desmond said. “They had drawings like stick figures on ’em. I could do a
whole
lot better than that, now.”

He was sounding enough like himself again that I nodded him on.

“Then he said he was gon’ call the cops and I tol’ him to go on ahead, now, because we ain’t done nothin’ against the law.” Desmond swallowed, always easy to see with his adolescent Adam’s apple in prominence. “That’s when Foxy, she got
up-set.
”

By now Foxy had recovered enough bravado to shake her hair back and regard me with faux self-assurance. The darting eyes, however, were a dead giveaway.

“I hate cops,” she said.

“You don’t need to hate ’em when you ain’t guilty a nothin’,” Desmond said.

“Did the guy in the store actually call the police?” I said.

Foxy shook her head. “Don’t know. I just took off running and Desmond caught me and brought me back here.”

“Good call, Des.”

“And we didn’t take anything.” Foxy curled her lip all the way into her nostrils. “Desmond is right: it looked like some little kid drew on those shirts. We could
both
make better stuff than that.” She nodded up the stairs, her contempt safely back in place. “We could even make some of those dumpy-looking clothes up there look cool.”

“Really,” I said.

“
I’m
still not going to wear them,” she said quickly.

“You don’t have to. I brought you a few things.”

India floated toward us down the steps with a handled shopping bag, wearing the expectant smile even Foxy couldn’t continue to glower at.

“Thank you,” she said. “I guess you really didn’t have to do that.”

“I guess I did,” India said. “It’s the Jesus-thing.”

Foxy didn’t inspect the contents of the bag or inform India that she wasn’t into Jesus or do any of the other things I expected her to do. She just murmured another thank-you, eyes pointed toward her lap.

“All right, then,” India said, and floated back up the stairs. She stopped at the landing, though, and looked back at Foxy. “If you want to try your hand at modifying some of our clothes, I’ll bring some things by Miss Angel’s for you to experiment with. I’d like to see your work.”

Foxy nodded.

I stared up at India and wondered just who the angel really was.

The next morning, Friday, was cloudy and the bay was a study in confusion when I set out to meet Hank. It couldn’t seem to decide whether to be green or gray, and it dared me to try to figure it out. So what else was new? I was feeling more Shoved than Nudged, and I couldn’t even tell what direction I was moving in.

“Did you find your kids?” Patrice said when I arrived at Sacred Grounds.

“Yeah. I’ll have my usual. I know, Patrice. I’m drop-dead boring.”

“Your kids?” Hank said when she was gone. “Plural?”

“She was talking about Desmond and Foxy. It was a whole thing yesterday.”

I filled her in. When I was through she folded her hands neatly on the table like she always did when I was about to be prodded toward something I didn’t want to look at.

“How old do you think ‘Foxy’ really is?” she said.

“She says she’s eighteen.”

“I didn’t ask what s
he
said. Seriously, without the makeup, how old does she look?”

“I haven’t seen her without makeup. She didn’t wash her face for two days, and when she cried the stuff off, she evidently had more in her bag and started all over again.”

“You think she’s trying to cover up her age?”

“She’s trying to cover up something. But didn’t they all at first?”

“True. You feel like telling me what
you’re
covering up?”

I took the cup Patrice handed me and waited while she laid out the usual buffet in front of Hank.

“Shall I bring an extra plate?” Patrice said.

“No, I’ll just gain ten pounds looking at this,” I said, and she was off.

India chose that perfect moment to waft down the steps, sun hat shading her upper body, another shopping bag in hand.

“Allison, honey, I’m glad I caught you. Hey, Hank.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” Hank glanced at me. “Something a little more interesting than a latte?”

India peeked out from under the brim. “No, I just wanted to give these to Allison for Foxy to play around with. See what she comes up with.”

“If we’re talking clothes, I hope they at least cover her backside,” Hank said. “And speaking of wardrobe, what are you putting Al in for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?” India said.

“Big date with Chief.”

“Well, do tell.” India sank into the third chair at the table and whipped off the hat.

“You two done talking like I’m not sitting right here?” I said.

India put a hand on my arm. “Where’s he taking you, honey?”

“Columbia.”

“Then I think we’re talking something with a little Latino flair.”

“I have to be able to wear it on the back of a motorcycle.”

India closed her eyes. “I just completely give up.”

“Who’s staying with Desmond?” Hank said.

I shook my head. “Nobody. We talked about since he’s thirteen now, he’s old enough to stay alone …”

I let my voice drift off.

“He won’t be alone,” Hank said.

“I know. I just realized that.”

“It’s just going to be Desmond and the Foxette?” India’s voice went falsetto. “Ophelia told me about her. Now I’m not one to say how you should raise your son, honey, but I don’t
think
so.”

“I don’t either. I can always ask Owen but I think Desmond’s outgrowing him.” I felt my eyes roll. “Just since yesterday.”

“We’ve got to get Little Miss Thang out of your house, Allison,” India said. “When do you think she’ll be ready for Sacrament One?”

“I think it’s more a matter of when they’re going to be ready for
her.”

Hank gave a grunt that would have impressed Rochelle.

India narrowed her eyes. “I have a life-size picture of Jasmine dealing with her. Foxy’ll walk on her like she’s the bathroom rug.”

I glanced at my watch. “I’m due at Ms. Willa’s.”

“And after that you just focus on Chief today.” India winked at Hank and smiled back at me. “If you want to come by Secrets today, I’ll fix you up with some black satin pants and maybe a silver lamé tunic—”

“India,” I said, “this is me we’re talking about
.”

I left them there, though I could hear Hank howling and India saying, “What? What did I say?” all the way to the parking lot.

The only problem with riding the Harley to Ms. Willa’s was that I had to park on Toques Place, the alley that ran along the side of her house. Every time I rode back there I expected Sultan to screech up in his Lincoln Town Car and try to smash me into the line of trashcans I’d had more than one run-in with in my motorcycle riding life. Even in the oppressive prestorm stillness, I shivered.

But no parking was allowed out front on Cuna Street. There was barely room for one car to pass, not to mention the folks poking around in the candle shops and art galleries that bordered the road. Ms. Willa was one of the few who had refused to sell her property to a commercial buyer and remained a resident in her venerable three-story Victorian. I was sure not too many had argued the point with her, though they were probably watching the obituaries daily.

Owen answered when I rang the doorbell. He was incongruous with the gold brocade wallpaper and the crystal chandeliers that rivaled the one in
Phantom of the Opera.

“She’s been expecting you,” he whispered.

“And what should
I
be expecting?” I whispered back.

“She’s crankier than a mother bear. Grumpy as a—”

“Got it. Is she in there?”

Owen continued to mutter “—as a hungover hornet,” as I followed him into what I was certain was the last parlor left in America. Ms. Willa was enthroned as usual in her green velvet high-backed chair, though it was hard to detect her there dressed as she was in a matching shade that covered everything but, fortunately, her hair, which tended more toward aqua. Her bark, however, left no doubt about her presence.

Or her mood.

“Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you, too, Ms. Willa.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m not fit for human company today.”

I couldn’t hide a grin. “Then I guess I better go out the way I came.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. I need you to straighten these people out.”

It took me a minute to realize that “these people” just meant Owen, who had retreated to the glass-fronted china cabinet where Ms. Willa kept her Lladro figures like specimens in a zoo. I sat on the ottoman facing her.

“If
you
can’t straighten them out, I don’t think I have much chance.”

She narrowed the small dark eyes at me, until all I could see were the fragile wrinkles that framed them. “Since when did you start flattering me?”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“That’s more like it. I don’t like to go by way of Cape Horn.”

“Then let’s get to the point.”

“I’ll tell you the point,” Owen said. “She’s stubborn as a confounded mule. I’ve met bulldogs would let go of a thing easier than she does—”

“Hush up, old man!” Ms. Willa said.

“She’s sick.”

“I said hush!”

He hushed so hard I heard his dentures clack.

“I am not sick,” Ms. Willa said to me. “I’m just old. Isn’t a woman allowed to age with some dignity?”

I didn’t point out that there was really nothing dignified about a snarling fox terrier, no matter how old it was. I merely nodded even as I took a closer look at her.

She did appear to have more of a pallor than usual, though I’d attributed that to the pea soup motif she was practically smothered in. The gnarled finger she currently poked first at one of us and then the other trembled in a way I hadn’t noticed before. But it was the tenor of the whole scene that made me think Owen might be right. In the seven months I’d known her, wrinkly, wobbly, shriveled Willa Livengood had never once described herself as old.

“So what do you want me to do, Ms. Willa?” I said. “Throw him out?”

“Just tell him I do not need a doctor. I’m as healthy as an eighty-year-old woman has a right to be.”

I forced a smile. “I’m sure you’ve told him that in no uncertain terms.”

Owen sniffed.

“I have.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

She set her face as firmly as one of that vintage could set. “I want him to hear it from you. Everyone listens to you.”