Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons (21 page)

The memory had surfaced off and on all my life, the way childhood memories of quarreling parents will, but now for the first time I saw it from an adult woman’s perspective. Viewed that way, I imagined my mother had felt so humiliated at being rejected by Springsteen that she couldn’t forgive my father for witnessing it. Somehow that insight helped me calm down and look at my own situation from an adult’s perspective.

I didn’t feel humiliated by Guidry’s question. I even recognized that it was a reasonable question for a man to ask. But it had stirred up emotions and memories that I wasn’t yet ready to visit, and I wished he hadn’t asked it. Guidry had no children, and now I wondered if that was because of circumstance or design. I wished I didn’t wonder that, because it might change something between us if I found out he didn’t want children. I truly hadn’t considered having another baby, but some day I
might
, and I wished he hadn’t forced me to consider it.

I slid open a mirrored door on his medicine cabinet and found a box of Band-Aids. His razor was on a shelf, and some shaving cream. I didn’t look at anything else. I put a Band-Aid on my finger, replaced the box, and stood a few more minutes to be sure I could talk without weeping or losing my cool.

I must have stayed in the bathroom a long time, because when I went back to the living room, Guidry was asleep on the sofa. He felt me beside him and opened his eyes. He held out his hand and I sat down next to him.

He said, “I was insensitive. I’m sorry.”

When a man already knows what he’s done wrong, there’s not much to say.

“I’m just not ready for it yet.”

“That’s what made it insensitive. I’m sorry.”

Maybe it was because I didn’t want to talk about babies as a possibility for myself. Or maybe it was because I just wanted to deflect attention from myself. Whatever, I wasn’t able to talk about babies in general without talking about Opal in particular. I decided I couldn’t keep the secret about Myra and Tucker being behind Opal’s kidnapping away from Guidry.

I said, “If we’re going to have an honest relationship, we have to share what’s going on in our lives.”

Guidry looked contrite. “Dixie, I’ve been offered a job with the New Orleans Police Department.”

“
What
?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you. It just never seemed like the right time.”

I heard a tinny ringing in my ears. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s a good offer. I’d head up the homicide division. I’d be a part of rebuilding my city.”

The buzzing in my ears got louder, with replays of every conversation Guidry and I had ever had about New Orleans. His family lived there, he’d grown up there, his roots were there. It was his passionate love for the city that had pushed me over the edge into falling in love with him.

I sat on his black leather sofa and looked at all the Italian food on the coffee table. I was sorry I’d ordered so much. Sorry I’d mentioned Opal. Sorry the evening was ending dark and bent as a stubbed-out cigarette.

I said, “You’ve already decided to take it, haven’t you?”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

It was a lie. He may have
wanted
to talk to me before he made the decision, but the decision had probably been made at the moment the offer was proffered. New Orleans was as much a part of Guidry as Siesta Key was a part of me.

We stared into each other’s eyes with all our unspoken fears and hopes exposed like naked corpses.

Guidry said, “The city is struggling to recapture its soul. A lot of its heart and talent and love and laughter left with the people who were driven out of flooded homes. Artists and musicians and cooks, generations of families. They want to come back, but a lot of them don’t have anything to come back
to
. I want to help rebuild. Not just neighborhoods, but the police department too. New Orleans law enforcement officers tolerated corruption too long. But when the levees broke, crooked cops ran like rats. Now that the department is free of them, they’re starting over with a clean slate.”

His voice slowed to a trickle. “I guess what it comes down to is that my awareness of belonging to something larger than myself is rooted in memories of growing up in New Orleans. Those memories call to me.”

I completely understood because the same memories of Sarasota called to me.

Woodenly, I slipped my shoes on and stood up. “I have to go home. I can’t talk now.”

He rose too, and touched my arm. “We could make it work, Dixie.”

He meant marriage, living together in New Orleans, making a life together there.

I said, “I can’t think now.”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. Tenderly, the way people kiss a dead person at a memorial service.

“I love you, Dixie.”

I touched my open palm to the side of his face. “I know you do.”

26

I drove home on autopilot, feeling light-headed and weird, caught between a future that could be completely different than the one I’d always imagined, and a past that would always be a part of who I was.

I was shocked at the idea of Guidry moving away, shocked at how I’d reacted when he’d told me. When Todd and I were together, I would have followed him to another continent. Why was I so disturbed at the idea of moving to New Orleans with Guidry?

I didn’t think it was because I loved Guidry less. It was more that I loved me more. I’d worked too hard at learning to be at home in the person I was to abandon that person. And I wasn’t sure I’d still be me if I moved away from the Key, where I was a part of every grain of sand on the beaches. I had to decide how far love can stretch, how much it can remold you and reshape you and leave you glad you’ve changed.

If I went to New Orleans, I’d be somebody else, and there was no guarantee I’d be comfortable as somebody else. If I ended up hating the person I became after I went with Guidry to New Orleans, I’d no longer love him either. And I knew, with a terrible awareness, that Guidry feared the same thing was happening to him, that he was losing himself away from his beloved New Orleans. If he did, he would lose his love for me.

There was another factor that I’d never considered until this evening, but now I had to look at it. When my little girl died, a part of me had died with her. I’d never expected to have another baby. I hadn’t wanted another baby. But now that Guidry had forced the issue, I felt the idea nibbling at the edges of my mind, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to push it away.

Guidry had been right when he said we’d never discussed the possibility of us having babies together. Now it seemed strange that we hadn’t. Even stranger was that I had no idea why Guidry and his ex-wife hadn’t had children. I should have known something that important. I should have asked if their childlessness had been by choice. More specifically, whose choice? If Guidry didn’t want children, I should know that. Not that I wanted to have a baby, but someday I
might.

I thought about Ruby and Zack, and how their love had become diseased by bitterness and distrust. Had they chosen to have Opal, or had she come as a fortunate accident? If Ruby went to prison and Opal was spirited away to live someplace with Angelina, Ruby and Zack would never have a second chance to create a family. They would suffer the loss, but Opal would suffer more.

In an ideal world—one in which I made all the rules—everybody’s drinking water would contain birth control chemicals. Consenting adults could screw around all they wanted to. They could fall in love, out of love, break people’s hearts and have their own hearts broken. They could spend all their money, gamble it away, or stuff it down a rat hole. They could live as selfishly as they wanted for as long as they wanted.

But if a couple decided to have children, they would have to pass rigorous tests of character and kindness and good humor. They would have to prove they were responsible people with the ability to provide a good home, medical care, and education for a child. They would also have to agree to stay together for the rest of their lives, and swear that if something went wrong in their relationship they’d damn well fix it. Only then would I issue the antidote to the birth control chemicals.

Turning down the drive to my apartment jerked me back to reality. I didn’t run the world, I wasn’t married or pregnant and might never be again, and any decision I made about moving with Guidry to New Orleans would have to be made later.

At home, I was glad that Paco was inside the house with Ella. If I hurried, I might be able to leave for the trip to Arcadia without lying about where I was going. Upstairs in my apartment, I hurried to change clothes. I kept the lace underwear on. If I got killed trying to rescue Opal, at least I’d look good when people viewed my body. But when it came to outerwear, I chose tough. Faded jeans, a hooded black T, and a pair of sturdy boots.

I chose tough for accessories too. I got them from the secret drawer built into my bed’s wooden frame. The drawer was custom designed to hold my guns—some that had once belonged to Todd and some that had been my own off-duty guns. Always cleaned, oiled, and ready for use, they lie in special niches inside the drawer. I’m qualified on all of them, but my favorite is a sweet five-shot J-frame .38. With its black rubber grip, stainless steel barrel and cylinder, it’s lightweight and easy to slip into a pocket. No safety levers to think about, no magazines to fail. It was the perfect weapon for the night’s mission.

I picked the revolver out of its niche, slid it into the back of my jeans, and pushed a couple of filled speed loaders into my pockets. Then, fully armed with lipstick, lace underwear, and revolver, I headed out to meet Zack and Cupcake.

Every civilized person knows that violence of any kind is the ultimate admission of failure. Whether it’s between individuals or between nations, it points to a level of ignorance or stupidity or laziness too profound to resolve grievances with words or compromise. But if I had to shoot somebody in order to save Opal, I wouldn’t hesitate for a nanosecond.

Zack’s property—his home and adjacent race shop—was on the southeast side of Sarasota county, one of the few spreads still immune to developers and gated communities. A flush of twilight still lingered on the western horizon when I arrived at a gate blocking the entrance to Zack’s tree-thick property. The gate was wrought iron, with a design of a race car worked into the bars. Through the gate, I could see a neat frame house set under oaks and pines, with a green lawn that looked as if somebody gave it careful attention.

A double-decker transport van sat beyond the house on an immaculate paved area in front of a long, low building with an open front. The building looked somewhat like an automotive repair shop, with tools and auto parts hanging on the back wall, a row of new tires along the side, and a pit in the center with a rack for lifting a car overhead. There were also several things I didn’t recognize, like a couple of metal frames that looked as if they’d been designed to fit inside a gutted car. A black Chevy Camaro with rusty spots on its fenders was angled on the pavement in front of the garage’s open bay doors. Several other vintage cars were parked to the side.

I rolled to the ubiquitous security station, pressed a button, and waited for a human voice to ask my business. In this case, the human voice was gruff and male.

I said, “I’m Dixie Hemingway.”

The voice became gruffer. “Wait for the gate to open.”

The gate parted, and I rolled into a parking lot that quickly filled with a throng of men.

Zack came to my window. “Some of my friends have come to help.”

One by one, men with grim faces stepped forward to shake my hand through the car window. They looked at me hard in the eyes, as if they were taking my measure.

Cupcake stood to the side watching them.

With all that testosterone, an argument was bound to start. Zack and Cupcake immediately got into a debate over which car we should use, while the other guys offered grunts of agreement or dissent.

Zack wanted to drive one of his race cars because it was faster. Half the other men thought that was a good idea. But Cupcake argued that he and I should ride in the same car with Zack, and Zack’s car only held one person. I didn’t understand why it only held one person, but if that was its limit, Cupcake was obviously right.

Raising my voice over the male ones, I said, “My Bronco sits high and has plenty of room.”

A dozen heads tilted down to look at me, a dozen pairs of eyes registered surprised respect that I had an opinion.

Zack said, “No speed.”

Cupcake said, “Don’t need speed, bro.”

With a broad dimpled grin at me, he lumbered to the Bronco, wriggled his bulk into the backseat, and leaned back like a maharaja waiting for his elephant to carry him where he wanted to go.

Zack turned to the other men. “Okay, stay connected. I’ll keep you informed. When it’s time, we’ll put the plan into action. You know what to do.”

I didn’t know what their plan was, but there were immediate nods, back-slapping, and words of agreement. The men walked off to cars parked beside Zack’s home race shop. Those cars didn’t look like they’d make it to the end of the block. But men got inside them—one man to a car—started growling engines, and sat waiting for Zack to lead the way.

I saw Zack’s father looking out the front window of the house. He did not look happy.

As Zack got into the front passenger seat of the Bronco and belted up, I noticed that he wore a wireless phone clip on his right ear.

I said, “Would one of you like to tell me what’s going on?”

Zack did a rolling motion with his hand. “We’ll fill you in on the way.”

I didn’t have an option. I could go under Zack’s terms or not at all. When I turned the ignition key, Zack watched my hand as if he doubted I had sense enough to drive. I goosed the Bronco a little bit to give it a macho sound, and we sailed through Zack’s gate.

On Clark Road out of Sarasota, I looked at Zack’s profile and wondered what was going through his mind. Athletes have always been a mystery to me, and drag racers were an even bigger mystery. I was beginning to realize that drag racers have to be more calculating and deliberate than other athletes. They’re more in competition with themselves than with other racers, and speed is only one component of the competition. The rest is about timing and fuel and precision, things that take intense focus.