No Story to Tell (24 page)

“Are you going to listen?”

She wished he would open his eyes. She felt blind when she couldn’t at least try to see what he was thinking.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll listen. But, just as long as you know that it won’t change anything.”

Elliot’s blue eyes sparked open as he shook his head and laughed. “You are quite possibly the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met, do you know that?”

“Well, that’s not much of a compliment,” she said, making a face at him.

“Wasn’t intended as one,” he grinned. “Here, come sit down and I’ll tell you my idea.”

Reluctantly she got back up on the boxes and looked at him.

“Okay, so this is my plan. I want to do a painting of you. . .” he paused to intercept her objection with his eyes. “And then I’m going to sell it and use the money to set up a scholarship fund for your studio.”

Victoria’s face crumbled with emotion, and she instantly hid behind her hands as tears pushed free. She had not expected this. Something as foreign as a scholarship fund had never even graced her thoughts. Memories of her own constant struggles to find ways to keep dancing swirled around her. What a gift this would be for her studio. Perhaps it could one day even enable one of her own students to dance forward with the flag of her own dream to perform on some of the most esteemed stages in the world.

She looked up at him through blurry eyes. “Elliot, I don’t know what to say. That is such a wonderful offer. . .”

Elliot sighed. “But?”

She took a deep breath, her mind scrambling for words that could help him understand the predicament in which he had unwittingly placed her.

“This really is such a wonderful offer, such an amazing thing for you to do. And having a scholarship fund would open up so many opportunities . . .”

“But?” he grinned half-heartedly.

“But, I can’t have you paint my picture,” she whispered, looking down at her hands.

“Why not?”

She picked absently at a hangnail, embarrassment creeping over her.

“Your protective husband, again?”

Victoria nodded softly.

“Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t tell him. I can just slip in that side door after your lessons are finished and no one will be the wiser.”

She looked over at the side door, which led into a deserted alley. “But, what if he sees the painting after it’s sold and recognizes me?”

Elliot laughed out loud, startling her. “Victoria, I can promise you that the place where this painting will be sold is not a place your husband or anyone else from Hinckly is ever likely to be.”

“But . . .”

“No. No buts. Just trust me on that one.”

She allowed herself a small moment to consider this. She thought of what a scholarship would have meant to her when she was full of dreams and short of finances.

“But still, Elliot, it’s not impossible that someone could see it and recognize me, right?”

“Right. Not impossible, just completely unlikely.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, dropping her head forward.

“There!” Elliot said excitedly, as he turned toward her. “Just like that. How about if I paint you like that, with your hair falling in front of your face. No one would ever be able to recognize you like that. What do you think, Victoria? Why couldn’t that work?”

She played the question over and over in her mind, then slowly smiled up at him. “I don’t know, Elliot. Maybe it could.”

“Perfect! That’s great,” he exclaimed energetically. “We can get started just as soon as I can get this stuff hauled out of here.”

“No, wait, Elliot. I don’t know if I feel good about you going to all this work for me. Let me think about it, okay?”

Elliot slid off the boxes and looked at her. “Nothing for you to think about. I’m going to be working for Pearl.”

The car was a ‘64 Barracuda, sanded down to a January gray and, with a generous fistful of imagination, just oozing with potential. She was permanently parked among the greasy spare parts and stacks of empty bottles that littered the floor of
JJ
’s toolshed. Three pairs of work boots poked out from her undercarriage: Bobby,
JJ
and Peter already hard at it, ripping out the transmission
JJ
had just put in so they could spend the next weekend replacing it with the new one Bobby had ordered.
JJ
was forever second-guessing Bobby about each new part he suggested, constantly wondering if something else wouldn’t be better. Although he denied it, the boys had heard that he already had a possible buyer lined up for the car and, if it was fast enough, that he’d be willing to pay him top dollar. The on-going dissension between Bobby and
JJ
was one of the reasons it was turning into a never-ending project, the half-empty case of beer sitting next to the toolbox being the other one.

“You guys drinking already?” Sam asked, careful to mask his dismay. The boys had no patience for any do-gooder raining on their good times just because his own had come up dry.

Three grimy, black faces popped out from under the car and peered up at him.

“Yeah, we’re drinking already, Grandma. What the frick’s it to ya?”

“Ain’t nothing to me. Just early yet, that’s all.”

“Early? Ain’t early. You just frickin’ late. Us guys been working half the morning already. What time is it anyhow, ya big peckerhead?”

“Don’t know. ‘Bout nine I guess.”

“Nine!” shot
JJ
, jumping to his feet, eyes wide as if he’d forgotten something vitally important. “Bobby, ya hear that? It’s nine bloody o’clock already.”

“So?” Bobby frowned back thickly, mopping at his face with a rag and smudging grease over the spots that had initially been clean.

“So! So, you pinhead. Ain’t that tell you something?”

Bobby’s black face crumpled up like the rag he held in his hand as he strained to find an answer. He stood up, Peter’s snide chuckle mocking him quietly from below but, unfortunately for Peter, not quite quietly enough. Whirling around, Bobby seized him by his chicken neck, hoisted him up against the side of the car and dangled him just high enough so he wouldn’t need his feet.

“What you laughing about, asshole?”

Peter’s eyes bulged from rage and a serious lack of air. He screwed up his face and winced as if the answer was so obvious it was painful. He looked at
JJ
and rolled his buggy eyes, hoping to inspire
JJ
to barge in and avert Bobby’s attention, but to no avail. Amused,
JJ
leaned back against the wall, wrapped a sarcastic smile around his cigarette and settled in to watch the show.

“Hey?” Bobby gave Peter a sharp shake like a dog would to a cat held by the scruff of the neck. “Hey, dwarf-pecker? You tell me, huh? You tell me what’s so special ‘bout nine o’clock, huh?”

Peter squirmed and wriggled, finally worming his way free. “How the hell would I know, ya asshole? You wanna know, ask him.” He jutted his chin toward
JJ
, who received the gesture with a nasty grin, amused at Peter, who was usually fish slippery, getting caught in his own net. Peter’s eyes shot hot darts at all of them in turn as he clambered back under the car muttering foul things.

“So,” Bobby turned his attention back to
JJ
, who was reaching down for a bottle of whiskey lying beside the sack of beer. “What is the frickin’ big deal ‘bout nine o’clock?”

JJ
stood up slowly, stretched and yawned loudly, his hairy black stomach puffing out from under his shirt like a pregnant porcupine. “Johnny time, you moron,” he announced, draining a stiff drink straight from the bottle. “Petey, ya little cockroach! Get out from under there before you get your finger stuck up some place it don’t belong.”

Peter offered no reply.

“Peter, come on! Time for a drink that’ll put a little hair on your scrawny chest. Hell with your chest! You need a drink that’ll put some hair on your baby-ass head.”

Still no response filtered out from under the car, Peter’s legs sticking out as motionless as if they’d been chopped off at the knees.
JJ
offered the bottle to Bobby as they exchanged looks. Catching their meaning, Sam sighed. Pulling a chunk of wood and his carving knife from his coat pocket, he resigned himself to a spectator’s seat on a pile of dusty tires. Clearly, work was not to be the order of the day. He half watched out of one eye as Bobby and
JJ
stealthily lowered themselves on either side of Peter’s legs and gathered up his feet into tight handfuls.

“Come on, Petey!” They gave a good hard tug but didn’t even budge him. Repositioning themselves, they grappled on a bit tighter and attempted to winch him out from under the car. Again, he stayed fastened tight. A squeak snuck out from below, and it was obvious the little bugger was laughing at their efforts.

JJ
’s face reddened. “Let go that muffler, dickhead,” he warned, then gave the leg he was holding a vicious jerk hoping to snap Peter loose.

“Screw off!” Peter’s voice muffled out as he reaffirmed his grasp and pulled himself up tighter. “I ain’t bloody drinking with you assholes!”

“Whoo-ee!”
JJ
whistled, rocking back on his heels. “You hear that Bobby? Little whistle-prick’s got too good to have a drink with us. What you think ’bout that? Sounds to me like we’s mighty overdue to bring the bugger down to size, hey?”

Sam watched as
JJ
let go of Peter’s foot then wrapped his fist around a handful of frayed jean bottoms. Catching on, Bobby grinned and did the same.

“Hey! Hey, frick-heads! What’re you doing? Don’t you dare! Don’t you friggin’ bloody dare—” Peter hollered, panicking to grab at his belt a split second after a massive, coordinated effort ripped his pants and shorts clear down to his knees, leaving his nether regions unceremoniously exposed to the uproarious hoots of his friends.

“Frickin’ peckers! Frickin’, perverted peckerheads! Sick sons-a-bitches,” he fumed over himself as he struggled out from under the car, face flare-red as he tried to quickly cover himself up.

“What’s the panic, Petey? I didn’t see nothing. You see anything, Bobby?”
JJ
crowed, taking a deep slug that dribbled out the corners of his mouth and ran down to the crease in his chin.

“Ain’t much to see. Hey! Hey, maybe our little Peter’s a friggin’ “morphadite.”

“A friggin’ what?”

“’Morphadite.”

“What the hell’s a ’morphadite?”

“You know. ’Morphadite. Like a dually.”

“Not ’morphadite, you idiot.”

“Bloody is too.”

“No, it bloody ain’t.”

“What then?”

“It’s a—”
JJ
hesitated for a fraction of an eighth note. “It’s ’aphrodite, you ignorant moron.”

“Bloody is not!”

“Is too!”

“Bullshit!” Bobby proclaimed, picking up a wrench and firing it into the toolbox next to
JJ
’s feet.

“Hey! Bloody watch where you’re chucking that thing.”

Bobby ignored him, snatched his cap off and scratched his head with some agitation. “Well, maybe it ain’t friggin’ ’morphadite, but it sure as hell ain’t ’aphrodite neither.”

“No? You think not, hey? Well, tells you what. Why the hell don’t we just ask Petey then? Petey!” He looked over at Peter who looked away pointedly, arms wrapped up tight, legs crossed, a steady creak coming from his jaw as he slowly ground away his back teeth.

“Peter!”
JJ
tried again but was again stonewalled. A sardonic smile slipped onto Peter’s face.

“Hey! Dick-face! I’m bloody talking to you,” 
JJ
bellered again, but this time with as much velocity as he could muster, straight into Peter’s ear. Peter’s hands flew up to defend against certain deafness, his body flinging involuntarily around to face John Jr.’s growling grin.

“Hey! What’re trying to do, ya asshole? Trying to make me go completely friggin’ deaf?”

“Naw, I ain’t trying to make you go completely friggin’ deaf, worm-dick. I thought ya’s already was completely friggin’ deaf ‘cause you didn’t seem to be hearing me when I was talking to you.” He offered Peter the bottle of whiskey but pulled it up above his reach at the last minute, laughing as Peter’s hand-grasp closed around a fistful of air. “Unh-unh Petey. First ya answer the question, then ya get a drink.”

Peter pretzeled himself back into his defensive stance, clamped his jaw shut and focused on the floor.

“Come on, Petey. Help us out. What are you? An ’aphrodite or a ’morphadite?”

“Piss off!”

“It ain’t bloody Aphrodite,” Bobby said, grabbing back the bottle. “Ain’t that some bloody Greek god or something?”

“Some bloody Greek god or something!”
JJ
scoffed. “Yeah, he was some bloody Greek god. The bloody Greek god of dual friggin’ citizenship! That’s who he friggin’ was. That’s why they call it ’aphroditism, ya moron.”

“Ya? Really?”

“Ya! Really friggin’ really.”

Bobby slid off his cap, scratched his head with greasy fingers. “Makes bloody sense, I 'spose.”