Last Call (15 page)

They chatted and goofed around for over an hour, then signed off, Trish saying she had an Anatomy quiz first thing in the morning. After a quick cup of coffee, Dean drove Jim home in the opening salvo of the worst blizzard to hit the city in over fifty years.

––––––––

Monday, June 27

TRISH SAID, “YEAH, Dad, she looks great. Not a day over thirty.”

On the other end of the line in Toronto, Jim said, “Did you punk her yet?”

Trish laughed and pressed the cell phone closer to her ear. Old peoples’ dance music and raised voices from the living room were making it difficult to hear. She moved from the hallway into the kitchen and said, “Forty pink flamingos on the front lawn. She nearly shit. Kicked a hole in one of ’em.”

“That sounds like Sally. Was Dean able to join you up in Sudbury?”

“He had to work.”

“Still think you can make it in the morning?”

“Count on it, Dad. It’s your one-year anniversary. I wouldn’t miss it for the world—oh, hold on.”

Sally came into the kitchen now with a much younger man in tow; they were both pretty bombed. She said to Trish, “Who are you gabbing with now?”

“Dean,” Trish lied; she’d been doing a lot of that in the past twelve months.

“Well, come on, party poop, tell him you gotta go. It’s time to cut the cake.”

Sally got a slicing knife out of the utensil drawer, then swapped a wet kiss with her suitor. When they broke, she wagged the knife at him, saying, “From the Bobbitt line—and I know how to use it.” The two of them giggled and weaved back into the living room.

Trish said, “Sorry, Dad. Mom’s having a midlife crisis. My alarm’s set for five-thirty. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in plenty of time.”

Now Stacey be-bopped into the kitchen saying, “Will you for Christ-sake come
on
,” and Trish said, “Dad, I gotta go. I’ll see you at the meeting in the morning, ten-thirty sharp. I’m so
proud
of you.”

“Thanks, kid. Drive safe.”

Trish said she would, then signed off and followed Stacey into the living room, where a dozen people stood around a huge chocolate cake blazing with candles. The group broke into a drunken chorus of “Happy Birthday”, then Sally handed the knife to Trish, saying, “Here, little sister. This was your idea, you cut the cake.”

Trish took the knife and pressed the blade into the cake. She fumbled the first piece lifting it out and now she jerked her hand away, dropping the slice to the floor. A bead of blood appeared on her baby finger and she popped it into her mouth, grimacing in pain.

Her mother took her by the wrist. “Here, let me see.” Trish showed her and Sally said, “Oh, my God, somebody call nine-one-one.”

“Very funny, Mom. It
hurts
.”

Sally rolled her eyes and led her daughter into the kitchen. Trish hopped onto the counter by the sink, where her mother had patched countless nicks and scrapes over the years, and held out her finger for repair. Sally wrapped a band aid around the cut, then kissed the tip of Trish’s finger. To finish the job, she drew a tiny heart on the band aid with a ballpoint pen.

“There you go, kitten. I think you’re gonna live.”

“Thanks, Mom. Happy Birthday.”

They smiled at each other and embraced. After a long moment Trish pushed her mother away, saying, “You smell like a brewery,” and hopped to the floor. “Let’s eat cake.”

* * *

Trish begged off to bed after dessert, telling her mom she had to leave early in the morning to do some inventory at the flower shop. Another lie. Her aunt Sadie said she’d cover for her if her mother asked, but told her she was getting tired of lying and felt it was high time Trish told her mom the truth about her dad. He’d been clean and sober for a year now, Sadie said, and he seemed determined to stay that way. She said they both knew that even if Jim became a missionary and saved a thousand souls a day, Trish was still going to catch hell for going behind her mother’s back, so what was the point in putting it off any longer? Better to just get it over with.

Trish agreed, promising she’d get it done right after her dad’s anniversary celebration. She’d tell her mom tomorrow. Over the phone. From a safe distance. Say, four hundred kilometers away.

She turned off the light and snuggled under her comforter, the muted sounds of music and merriment from downstairs lulling her into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Trish awoke a few minutes ahead of the alarm, showered and dressed quickly, then got her dad’s anniversary gift out from under the bed, a Gibson Hummingbird acoustic guitar with a big red ribbon tied in a bow around the neck. The guitar was used and had a superficial crack in the top, but she’d picked it up for a steal from an elderly neighbor whose arthritis made it impossible for him to play anymore. “Take it,” he told her, “and give it a good home. Lots of memories in that thing.”

Now, creeping down the stairs to make good her escape, Trish thought,
We’ll be making all new memories with it soon.

The main floor was a disaster area, empty wine bottles, beer cans and chip bags scattered everywhere, her mom and the young stud passed out in a tangle on the couch—fully dressed, thank God—and Trish saw another couple sandwiched into the old leather La-Z-Boy in front of the TV, which was turned on but muted, tuned to a Dr. Ho infomercial. There was no sign of Stacey.

Trish wanted to eat something before she left, but now her mother opened her eyes and looked right at her...then yawned and went back to sleep. Not wanting to have to explain the guitar, Trish crept out the front door and locked it behind her, deciding she’d grab a quick bite on the road.

She stowed the guitar in the back seat of the Jetta, sat behind the wheel and turned the key.

Whiz!

“Oh, shit, no. Not today. When we get to Toronto you can explode, but please...”

She turned the key again and the engine started. The radio came on—ZZ Top, “La Grange”—and Trish smiled and backed out of the driveway.

* * *

Bobcat nursed a coffee in a window booth at his favorite trolling spot, clocking the busy parking lot through the bug-specked glass. He preferred his usual perch against the railing, but earlier this morning a kid in a puke-green uniform had come out and told him he couldn’t loiter there any longer. Safety regulations, the kid said. Bobcat thought,
If the little shit only knew
, and chuckled under his breath.

Today was only his third hunt this season, after a six-month run of feverish work, the most productive stretch he’d ever had. Last fall Hank at the trading post had talked him into expanding into the online marketplace, and Bobcat had been working twelve hours a day ever since just trying to keep up, cranking out some quality pieces and burning through the bulk of his inventory.

He needed something special today to finish off a bracelet that would net him over a grand. Trouble was, the breakfast crowd was just one waddling, buck-toothed fat fuck after another. It was a goddam shame. When he was a kid in Louisiana you had to pay two bits at a freak tent to see mutants like these and now they were everywhere, lined up at coffee shops and donut shops and supermarkets, stuffing their doughy faces. Toronto was crawling with them. If the city ever got nuked, he sometimes mused, there’d be a hundred-year grease fire—

An older model brown Jetta pulled into the lot, its image reflected in the window glass, and Bobcat felt a twinge of familiarity. The driver’s door opened and a pair of tan legs appeared—then she was coming across the tarmac like it was yesterday, and Bobcat said, “Well, fuck me gently,” as the girl smiled at a woman pushing a stroller and his prick began to swell in his khakis.

He left his coffee and moved to the exit, meeting the girl as she came in. He bumped shoulders with her as they passed and excused himself, giving the bill of his cap a jaunty tip. The girl gave him a dismissive glance and picked up her pace. He paused to watch her join a lineup, figuring he had maybe ten minutes if she decided to eat her grub on the fly, twenty if she dined in the restaurant.

Bobcat walked to the rear entrance of the camper and climbed inside. He’d stowed a pair of baggy Bermudas and a loud Hawaiian shirt back here and he changed into them now, stuffing the work clothes he’d been wearing into a plastic grocery bag. He traded the ballcap for a floppy beach hat and his cowboy boots for sandals, then parked the rig in a vacant spot next to the Jetta. The vehicles were about eight rows out from the restaurant—maybe a hundred feet—which in terms of cover wasn’t great, but it’d have to do. He wasn’t going to lose this one again.

He switched off the ignition and let Sammy out of the carrier, the dog bounding into his lap to lick his chin. Bobcat scratched him behind the ear, knowing how much the little mutt loved it. “Atta boy, Sammy,” he said. “You know what to do, right, little buddy? You know what to do.” He gave the dog a Greenie, Sammy’s favorite, and the girl came out of the restaurant with a paper bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Bobcat put his shades back on, saying, “Okay, Sambo, it’s show time.” He got a grip on the dog’s leather collar and unlatched the van door, feeling the dog tense under his hand, telling him to hold on now, boy. Hold on...

* * *

Trish came out of the restaurant checking her watch, her summer dress belling in the morning breeze. She was making excellent time and probably could have eaten inside, but experience had taught her that highway travel was at best unpredictable; besides, she wanted to be there at least an hour ahead of time. She knew her dad was nervous about getting his one-year chip, and she hoped that having her there early might help him relax. Today was one of the proudest days of his life—hers, too—and she wanted to share as much of it with him as she could.

In the Jetta she secured her coffee in the cup holder and set her meal on the passenger seat, then reached for the handle to pull the door shut. As she did, a small brown-and-white terrier clambered up into her lap, making her squeal in surprise and delight. In an instant the dog was licking her chin, its stubby tail going a mile a minute. Laughing, Trish had to grab the little guy’s collar and rake her head back to keep him from lathering her entire face in dog slobber.

She said, “Hey, little fella, where’d you come from?”

Now a shadow fell across her, and Trish looked up into the grinning mug of the guy she assumed owned the dog. He was dressed like a reject from a Hawaiian Punch commercial and had a dirty old dog leash in his hand. She couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but she could feel them slithering on her skin.

The dog scrambled off her lap onto the passenger seat now, its busy nose probing her breakfast bag.

The guy said, “Is that little peckerwood botherin’ you, ma’am?” and the hackles bristled on her neck. She slotted the key in the ignition and turned it, thanking God the engine started on the first try. The guy was leaning on the roof of the car now and Trish saw him make a quick scan of the parking lot.

“Your pup’s pretty cute,” she said, “but I do have to be on my way.”

He said, “Course you do,” and leaned into the car, saying, “Come on outa there now, Sammy. Pay attention to your daddy.” He smelled of stale sweat and rotten breath and Trish wanted him out of her face.

Tail wagging, the dog barked but made no move to obey, and when Trish reached for him he leaped into the back seat, toenails skidding on the body of the guitar. She leaned after him and heard the guy say, “Mutt thinks I’m fuckin’ around,” and felt something graze the back of her head as she moved. With a surprised yelp Trish twisted in her seat and saw a black leather object in the guy’s hand, some kind of club, the guy raising it now for another attack, and she got her hands up into his face, dislodging his glasses and going for his eyes.

Then he had her by the throat, forcing her down across the seats, and he punched her hard in the face, two quick jabs that dazed her, the dog barking frenziedly now in counterpoint to Trish’s strangled screams. She thought,
Why doesn’t somebody come?
and her clawing fingers snagged his necklace, breaking it, sending those small white carvings flying everywhere. She thought,
Good
, and,
Get that dog off my dad’s guitar
...

Now he was coming at her with that black thing again—it looked like a flat leather spoon—and he swatted her on the forehead with it and the world went gray, her last perception the barking of that little dog, echoing then receding down a long dark shaft.

* * *

Bobcat said, “Sammy, shut your hole,” and the dog hunkered down with its muzzle on its paws, averting its eyes. Still straddling the unconscious girl, Bobcat popped his head up to scan the parking lot, ready to fight any heroes if he had to. But everything was business as usual out there, a dozen or so dull-eyed automatons milling around with their phones out, oblivious.

He ran a hand across his neck where she’d clawed him and it came away bloody. He said, “Bitchcat,” and started picking up the carvings from his necklace. The goddam things were everywhere: in the footwells, between the seats,
under
the seats, in the door compartments, he even found one in the girl’s coffee cup when he emptied it onto the floor mat. He got as many as he could, then backed out of the car to scope the parking lot again.

A few rows over a young couple glanced his way as they strolled toward the restaurant. Bobcat waited until they were inside, then lifted the girl into the passenger seat of the camper and closed the door behind her. He strolled around to the driver’s side and climbed aboard, then leaned across the girl’s limp body and opened the window. He said, “Sambo, up,” and the dog leaped across the gap into the camper. Scratching the dog’s ear, Bobcat said, “Good boy, Sammy,” and gave him another treat.

He got the camper rolling and entered the feeder lane. On the highway he pulled the girl’s head into his lap and poked a finger into her mouth, running it over her lovely teeth.

No damage.

“Good,” he said. “Okay, good.” He told Sammy to get back in the carrier, then settled into the right-hand lane, doing the speed limit.