Roll with the Punches (20 page)

"I'd rather put Dad on an iceberg and wave him off to oblivion than see him bouncing around in a place like that. I'm sure he'd agree." I stared out the window, feeling stifled, like life was closing in on me. Before, James and I had always discussed light stuff like writing projects and sports. James liked the Chargers and I, the Forty-Niners. But for some reason, today, my personal problems had tagged along on my date, and Dad's giant aura was lingering like a cheap cigar.

He turned off into a Garden Grove subdivision. "Who needs icebergs? Nadja can handle anybody. Like Yuki, our newest resident. He drove himself to Arizona in his pajamas before his family finally brought him to us.”

"Arizona? Yikes."

He turned onto Helena Street. "Our second six-bed is due to open in January, and a third next spring. That's eighteen beds. I'm sorry. I've been so busy helping Nadja, I haven't made it to the Tuesday night group for an age."

"Aw. You're a devoted brother. How do you find time for writing?" I said.

"What? Oh, you know.”

We pulled up in front of a large, white stucco two-story home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Shade trees cut the glare of the sun on the freshly painted house and lovely azalea bushes lined the walkway. The front porch held a wide, white swing.

We strolled up arm in arm and James opened the front door. "This place is so cool, I'd like to live here. I think our generation is all headed to these places in our sixties. Go early, stay late.”

I followed him into the foyer. "But Dad's doctor said the opposite. He advised Dad to stay home. He wouldn't change his medications. He thought Dad's problem was stress, not dementia.”

James just shook his head. Then he yelled, "Greta? How's Betty?"

"Oh, James." A skinny woman with thick glasses met us in the hall, shaking her gray head. She wiped her hands on her apron, flashing incongruous long, red fingernails. "Your sister came right after I called you and took Ilona to the doctor. Betty's in her room. You should talk to her.”

Greta led us into a spacious family room, all done up like a primary classroom. There were an easel, a blackboard and desks in one corner and finger paintings displayed over the fireplace, which was stuffed with bins full of art supplies, dolls, cars, balls and a globe. Two neatly dressed women perched on matching red and blue IKEA sofas facing a plasma TV. One man sat in a wheelchair, head lolling.

"That's Joey. Car accident." James waved. "Hi, Joey. Hi, Claire. Hi, Kate.”

Tiny, white Kate waved. Prim Claire didn't look away from the TV.

Greta muttered, "Joey's constipated and Claire lost her stuffed kitty."

James leaned down and scratched behind the ears of a fat black mutt with a red scarf tied around its neck, tail wagging like crazy. "Hi, Roger.”

A loud bleat sounded from a giant cage near a window.

I jumped.

Inside the cage, a large black cockatoo perched, bright red bands showing on the underside of its tail.

James nudged me. "Don't mind
Kandajay.
Very rare animal. He cost as much as the renovations on this place. We have to humor him.”

Greta’s red talons straightened paints and brushes and stacked white-washed wood pieces on a nearby desk. The top one had a hand-painted leafy border and a painted
KAN
on one end. "Nadja's damned projects," she grumbled, "
Kandajay's Corner
my aunt fanny. Damned bird gets more attention than the residents. Ilona eats the paint and Betty tries to take off. We caught her out front twice today." Muttering, Greta went back to stir the stew on the stove. Roger stayed to keep an eye on the residents.

James laughed. “That Greta. What a kidder. Hey, come outside.”

James steered me out into a long, green back yard ringed in rose bushes of many colors. "Nadja's a gardener, too."

“Whoa. Fantastic roses," I said. "And what vivid colors."

"She used to be an elementary school teacher. Still decorates like one—in primary colors." He shrugged. "But her divorce was hard on her. She spent years writing children's fiction and picture books. Her husband, Jeff Karrey, worked for a publishing house, but after ten years of marriage, the creep wouldn't even read her work. He never pulled one string to help her get published."

"Why?" I asked, looking up at James's chiseled features in the sunlight.

"Something about her talking fish being unfashionable." He put a warm hand on the small of my back.

"That stinks." Her writing might have stunk, too. Just a guess. "Hey, my talking fish book flopped, too."

"I'm sorry." He gestured to a small swimming pool surrounded by a chain-link fence behind him. "We take the residents swimming and walking, too." Then he caught my eye and our gazes held for a long moment. Those blue eyes held mine as that strong mouth and those dimple closed in, and I got chills and thrills, preparing for a rose garden kiss.

But then a guy built like a tractor came outside and went to the edge of the porch where a wheelchair with big wheels like bike wheels instead of the standard issue tiny wheels sat. He picked up a wrench and tightened something on it.

James pulled back. "Rhonda, this is Frank, our second helper. He does a bit of everything, including fixing wheelchairs for the residents."

Humorless Frank looked up. "They all want 'em to go faster.”

Shaking his head, James guided me back inside. My mind went back to Music Man, who'd never survive at Shady Acres. But this place seemed better, homier. "What if they like to walk at weird hours?"

"There's an alarm on the doors so we can stop them right away." James said. "Our patient-caregiver ratio is the best around. Three to one. We have parties, too. Our end-of-summer pool party was a blast.”

Stacking some adult diaper boxes close by, Greta said, "Yeah. A blast. Two people pooped in the pool."

"Hey, James." A small Japanese man now sat on the sofa. He looked up from the book he was holding upside down on his lap. "Wanna play catch?"

James shook his head. "Later, dude. Got a date.”

Hallelujah! He'd said it! A date! Maybe now the fun would start. But instead, he took me down the hall and opened a bedroom door. A snarl arose from a big lump and a wisp of white hair in the bed. "Geddout! I mean it! Shove off!" A drinking glass came sailing at the door and James shut it fast.

My heart stopped, but James laughed. "Just a minute." He slipped inside.

Greta gestured me to the kitchen. "Don't worry about bringing your dad or mom here." She wiped her red-tipped fingers in her apron like Lady MacBeth. "Betty will calm down. She was just mad we wouldn't let her go home, so she hit Ilona and kind of knocked her down. Of course Nadja took Ilona to the doctor. We'll keep Betty in her room for a while.”

I winced.

She added, "Not that long. Two weeks, maybe three. Until her new meds kick in.”

There was more shouting from the bedroom, and James emerged, rubbing his shoulder. We left. And I prayed that Music Man was just having a bad week. Even this place, with all the appearance of the warmth of home, was really a town of drugged up zombies who took every opportunity to escape to freedom. As we reached the curb, a dark blue van with a round NKC logo on the side pulled into the driveway.

"Oh, my sister," James said. "Hey, Nadja. Aren't you off to the doctor?"

Nadja was tall and strong like James, but ten years older and plump. Where James had striking, square-jawed good looks, she had a long, oval face with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. And James's cornflower blue eyes beckoned while her shy gray ones hid behind big-rimmed glasses. In her wide red T-shirt and blue jeans, she reminded me of someone.

"Had to come back. Ilona's gotta go. Why are you here? Isn't this Saturday?" Then she noticed me. "Good grief. You didn't bring your date here, did you?"

She hurried to help a tiny woman with white hair and an eye patch out of the van. The woman said, "Get me my Seven-Up. I need my Seven-Up. Get me my Seven-Up, Nadja."

Nadja shook my hand warmly. "Hello, I'm the idiot's half-sister, Nadja Crosner."

My God. That was it. She was the spitting image of my second grade teacher, Miss Cantrell, right down to her primary-colored clothes, her soft hands with paint smudges, and her tone of voice when she chided James. I'd always liked Miss Cantrell. She let me read higher-level books in class and help in the library.

James said, "Nadja, this is Rhonda. I was just—"

"Good-bye, James!" Nadja ushered Ilona toward the walkway. "Go have fun! And Rhonda, please forgive my brother. Our parents were circus people, and he spent his early life on a high wire.”

My Spidey sense saw Nadja's big glasses and determined expression on the cover of
TIME
magazine. Like my mother. Except, of course, Mom wanted her own magazine—
Ethel Hamilton Living
.

Back in the Lexus, I was quiet. My wonderful day had somehow turned brown around the edges. I'd expected fun, but so far I'd realized only a desperate, growing fear of my parents turning into Betty or Claire or Bernice. Hell, by now, I felt like I could turn into one of them. I looked down at my hands and was relieved to see them still strong and smooth. But they wanted to strangle my sister Monica for leaving me alone with the OLD AGE ISSUE.

James put a hand over mine in my lap. "Hey, about your dad, I'm just trying to help. Memory issues respond so well to timely treatment with the right meds.”

"Actually, Dad's memory's not so bad," I said, wishing we could discuss anything else. "It's more his behavior—mood swings and illogical acts. Could it just be hormonal?"

He shook his head. "Doubtful. He needs timely placement. The earlier you place a person in a facility, the better in the long run, for everyone concerned. It's so stressful to keep them at home."

We rode on in silence, and after a while, he started playing with my hand, stroking the palm with his thumb. He let a finger slide up my forearm. Then up to my shoulder.

Yes! If there had ever been a date when I wanted to just skip the food and entertainment and go straight to the sex, this was it. I needed an antidote for all those fresh pictures and smells of old people and insanity.

We parked in the mall parking structure and walked, swinging linked hands, toward the huge megaplex movie theater and sprawling outdoor mall.

He gestured toward the food court. "What's your pleasure?"

You on a plate naked with a squirt of whipped cream on your chest
.
And another one on your—
"Uh, maybe the Banana Factory."

The adorable forehead wrinkled. "Oh. You mean Barney's Pickle Factory?" He grinned.

I got beet red. "Tell me. Were your parents really circus people?"

He just smiled.

Lunch in the crowded deli was a chef's salad for him and a giant Dagwood sandwich for me. Too late, I realized there were onions on it.

"Have you decided what to do about your book?" he asked, pushing my favorite hair lock back with his hand.

I scowled. My straw made a loud bubbly noise, sucking air at the bottom of my root beer.

He slugged some Coke. "Oh, sorry. Sore subject?"

What wasn't? "No, no. I looked Jackson up on the Internet, but I didn't find anything. I wrote to the publisher, but that's like yelling down a rat hole. All the books in the county are sold out. I can't even find one online. I'm not sure what else to do." On a first date, I was not going to reveal Harley's and my recent, rather embarrassing adventures.

He took his last bite and shrugged. Where a mouth full of food on another guy could be downright disgusting, on James, chewing showed the strength and power of his jaw muscles, allowing one to imagine just how those muscles might work on certain parts of me. I licked my lips.

"Didn't you go to several writers’ conferences recently?" he said.

I nodded.

"And you gave out a bunch of full manuscripts to agents and editors, right? Tracking those down, remembering them all—" He looked sad and reached for my hand. "Rhonda, you know we'll probably never find out who did this. I'm really sorry."

I put a napkin to my mouth. He wasn't going to like this. "Um. Actually, I gave some early drafts to friends. And a lot of packets went out, with synopses plus first three chapters, but until last week, I only gave a full manuscript to our group members." Then I remembered something and hit my forehead with my palm. "And one agent, Marcella Anderson, at the Fresno Romance in Novels Gathering in April. But it wasn't her thing. And that was an early draft."

He looked horrified. "You must have sent out other early drafts?"

"Just to our writing group. My folks. And Harley, who would never sell me out."

"So who else might have access to your work?"

"No one. Well, my cleaning lady." I laughed.

"Your cleaning lady? Can she write?"

"She can’t even speak English." I rolled my eyes. "Come on. You and Harley are both paranoid."

A large wrinkle invaded his forehead. "Fine. But Rhonda. I can’t believe—well, this is lucky actually, but after all I told you about my cousin's success, you didn't give out full manuscripts to anyone in Palm Springs or Los Angeles? Geez!" He thunked his drink cup on the table, and brown liquid splashed everywhere.

This scowl was such a rare look for him. Damn. This date wasn't going as I'd planned at all.

"Look, the agents at Writing Romance as Chick Kulture in Palm Springs weren’t biting. And as far as Los Angeles Babes In Arms," I bit my lip. "The best female speakers at LABIA got replaced at the last minute by a couple of young male scriptwriters who specialize in tough girl action flicks. Their idea of writing romance is to give the blonde a strip scene and make her wrangle alligators nude. I had a migraine, so I skipped it.”

James wheedled. "But you know you can send out full manuscripts whether agents and editors say they want them or not. They have to read something in bed at night. That's the way a lot of people get published—by breaking the rules!"

I could choose defensiveness here or I could keep it light. "Well, you know how at writers' conferences, agents make new writers cower, like overworked, hairy ogres with their serfs? Well, the ogres also make it clear that they shred any unsolicited work in great paroxysms of delight.”