Roll with the Punches (24 page)

Then I researched Reynard Jackson from every possible computer angle. I also googled Pablo Reynaldo, whose name was just too similar to my nemesis to discount, but found little of any use.

At break time, as I sat down in the employee lounge, Jackie called. "Your mom any better?"

I sighed. "Nope. Back in the hospital. Dizzy. Waiting for test results.”

"Aww. Sorry, R.," Jackie said. "Hey, I heard you're cozy with James. Big date and all."

"Who did he tell?" Oops.

"Listen. Think you could you ask him to wangle a meeting for me with his ex-brother-in-law, Jeff Karrey, when he's in town next week? He's a big deal editor with one of the big publishing houses—Keats-Wadsworth or Haverton Masters or the Beyard Group. I want to hop genres, and my publisher, Luance, won't support me."

"Why hasn't James introduced us to this guy already? I could use a personal connection in publishing."

"Well, Karrey was pretty awful to Nadja, James's sister. But I think I can manage him." Read:
seduce
. "So how was The Date? Is James your secret pirate?"

"It was just lunch and a movie. Well, no movie, actually. We got sort of busy and—"

"
Busy
? Oh, boy. Give me details!"

"Actually, the movie was sold out. We planned to go to the next showing, but got sidetracked in the mall, you know, in the pet store, the bookstore, the tattoo parlor."

Jackie said, "Oh, yummy! Did you get a cupid or a big red heart? Which bun is it on?"

"Huh?"

"Ooh. It's by your crotch, you little dickens!"

"Jackie! I just got a tiny nose stud. Very boring." Actually, it startled me every time I looked in the mirror, and it itched.

"And then you had oral sex in the back row of the movie theater?"

"No!"

"Okay, spill. Pun intended. I won't tell."

Right. "It's …"

"It’s huge?"

"No, Jackie, it’s his chest. He took his shirt off, and ... "

"Whoa. He has a third nipple? Nipple rings? Did you go wild in a restroom stall?"

"Well, not like you'd think."

"It's about time," she gushed. "Was he great?"

I sipped my canned mocha latte. "It was freaking scary."

"The sex?"

"No, his chest. Covered in tattoos."

"Even on his little gator? Whoa, cool. Did it expand when—"

"Jackie! I did not have sex with that man!"

Marla looked my way, and I got up and went outside.

"It was just shocking. Tourist attractions everywhere. And the animals—"

"Animals? Has he got
two
little gators? Oh my God. Call Guinness."

"Jackie, put away that notebook right now." I told her about the painful, weeping, bloody tattoo. "It was a rose after all, not a skyscraper, and he bought me roses, too."

"And he has good abs. I could forgive a lot of tattoos for some good abs. Did you go home with him and help him wash it off? Fun, fun, fun. You get going with that sponge, and—"

"Gotta go, Jackie.”

She said, "Oh, Rhonda, could you record your next date for me? Your material is priceless."

I hung up, finished my latte, and tossed the can away. The expiration date flashed on the bottom: December 2012. My God. I'd be forty by then. They were already making food with expiration dates past my point of real geezerdom, where my body would start sagging, my babies would be mutants, and romance would move past impossible to damned scary.

*
      
*
      
*

Around three o'clock, the in-home care agency called me at work. Dad had unloaded all of the contents of the refrigerator onto the kitchen table "to save room", and had then guarded it from Hortensia like a dragon. When he finally got tired of the game and went for a walk, she had dutifully reloaded the fridge. Meanwhile, he had come back from the walk, gone to the bathroom, and stopped up the toilet with a huge amount of toilet paper. While Hortensia was cleaning up this mess, Dad had unplugged every electrical cord in the house "to save energy" and taken everything out of the fridge again. This cycle had repeated itself three times. During the last toilet clean up, Dad had taken off in the car and shown up at the hospital fifteen minutes later.

Hortensia wasn't just done for the day. She'd quit her job to go style hair. The agency would send someone else tomorrow.

The hospital then called to say Music Man was dancing with the nurses again, and did I prefer to pick him up or have the cops come?

Problem: My car was in the shop. Avoiding Marla's stare, I called several people to get Dad, but the only one who answered was Dal. In a sleepy voice, which did something funny to my insides, he promised to go get Dad.

*
      
*
      
*

By the time I paid fifteen hundred dollars to ransom my car that evening, I was late for Monday night Amazon practice. In the car on the way to the rink, I slurped spaghetti over the steering wheel, dripping tomato sauce on my shirt and pants.

My cell phone rang. "Rhonda?" It was Dal.

My stomach did another funny flippy thing. I must have been eating too fast. "Yeah."

"I have a study group tonight and Arlene's sick." He whispered. "Your dad …"

I was tired of this. "I'm busy. Leave him home alone.”

"Rhonda, did you hear what he did today?"

"Yeah. So?"

"I'm too tired to argue. Just come home. Please."

"Tired? You're the one who kept
me
awake snoring."

He laughed. "What? You were the snorer. I was the snoree. I never even slept."

"Oh, that is such crap."

"And you whispered the names of five or six men in your sleep," he taunted.

"How long have you had mono?"

"A month. Where can I bring him if you won't come home?"

"Why are you whispering?" Light dawned. "Okay, did Mom have you call me?"

"Yep."

"So, Dad's in the room with you now and feeling touchy? Maybe angry at Mom?"

"Me Navajo code talker. Over and out."

I couldn't argue with Mom. I'd never hear the end of it. So I gave him the address of the roller rink. He could bring Dad, who I dearly hoped would calmly sit with the motley crew while I got some answers to my other pressing issue: the book theft.

Yeah, then pigs would fly.

Once at the rink, I put on my quad skates and did some warm-up laps. It was still public skate time, but some roller girls were already there, hanging out on the sidelines in tank tops and biker shorts, drinking Cokes and laughing at some teenage boys who were ogling them.

Catherine the Grunt, overflowing her tight acid-green faux-fur halter top, called me over. "Hey, girlie, you're back. We got more fresh meat tonight."

My butt and ribs were still tender from Thursday. "Oh, good.”

She grinned, and her chubby face lit up. "Yeah. They haven't practiced enough to get skills like you, so they'll just bludgeon everybody." She pointed at my spaghetti stains. "Wait a second." She disappeared into the locker room and returned to shove a black leather bustier at me. "Here. Wear this so the guys don't laugh at you."

My torso was about twice hers in length. This thing would look like a bikini top on me. But the spaghetti stains did look pretty dreadful. So I changed in the locker room and took off around the rink again, conscious of my blooming cleavage and bare navel. I got some steam up, then turned backwards and ran right into a group of pre-teen girls, knocking them all over like bowling pins. I looked up, and there were Dal and Music Man at rink side. I helped the girls up.

"Four down," Dal said, laughing. "Try for a spare, Miss Bustier?"

I looked Music Man in the eye. "Dad, no more funny business with the caregivers. We're spending a lot of money to keep you safe."

Music Man growled, "Rhonda, I'm safe in my own house. I don't need a policeman. And I'm just a poor teacher. Don't you spend my money like that. You'll bleed me dry. Hell, that lady today wouldn't even let me save a little money on energy."

I exchanged a look with Dal.

I said, "You shouldn't be driving to see Mom, either."

"Shut up, Rhonda." Music Man turned to walk away, but ran smack into Harley, skating up with a gold tiara painted on her helmet and gold armbands blazing.

"Hey, Mr. Hamilton. How's Mom?" she said.

Music Man shrugged. "Some heart thing. And Rhonda's a horse's patoot."

Dal said, "Ethel's got an arrhythmia from the surgery and anesthesia. She's on medication, but her recovery may take longer."

Major guilt pang in my gut. "I'll go by later."

"Booty-Ka! Darling!" Harley said to me. I thought she’d comment more on my attire, but her attention shifted over to Dal. And stayed. "Who's
this
?"

I started to tell her, but Dal said, "Booty-Ka? How do you spell that?" A big grin spread across his features, complete with crinkles by the steely blues. He didn't look so bad when he smiled. Not that bad at all.

Harley was enchanted. "B-O-O-T-Y—"

"Shut up, Harley." I flushed. "That name is not me. The colors are dead dreary.” Honestly. Black
B
,
T
and
K
. Colorless
O
. Only a yellow
Y
and a violet
A
perked things up. Not me at all.

"Rhonda!" Harley sang, "Yoo-hoo! Alphabetize your closet later!"

I introduced them while Music Man's eyes followed the skaters. He started singing a song about a roller skating girl with a ribbon in her hair who made his heart beat faster when he saw her move.

Harley and I did a double take. "You know the Beach Boys, Dad?"

“Sure,” Music Man said. "Hey. Skate for us, Rhonda. Ed said you're good."

"How do you know that?" I asked Dal, whose mouth was twitching.

He shrugged. "You'd never let me come here if you weren't."

Harley's eyes followed the Indian's huge nose. She'd tell me later how much she hated it. But now she yelled, "Watch Wonder Woman!" and took off around the rink, showing off her red sequined tank top.

Other Amazons gawked at Dal, including Catherine the Grunt, tugging down her loaded neon halter top. "Hey, Rhonda." She glided up and winked a crossed eye at Dal. "For every tall, handsome guy you bring in, you can sit out a game.”

I was secretly glad when Dal left. I wasn't sure why.

I circled the rink and Music Man went to sit in the stands, where he perked up and boomed to the laid-back crowd, "Do you kids know why the blonde was watching the orange juice can?"

Girls waiting for practice to begin exchanged winces with each other.

"Because it said constipate, I mean concentrate," he yelled, chuckling.

Many snorts of derision. Yeah, this would be so much fun tonight.

Largot, skating by me, yelled, "Hey Rhonda, can he be our mascot?" But the rest of the girls seemed pretty cool towards me for the rest of practice.

At 8:15, the other fresh meat showed up. Storm Goddess, a skinny, spiky blonde with a pointed chin and cat eyes, was tentative on skates. Powder Puff Gal, short and pudgy with a dark cap of hair, wore a lavender T-shirt with Betty Boop on it, saying
Move Me or Lose Me.
They both had large, dark bruises on their thighs. Harley also joined the team. Then the four of us floundered around doing easy drills together for an hour before we went to watch the rest of the team do scrimmages. Well, they watched, while I, more experienced, had to join the scrimmage. Hippo, Cleo, and Queen Malevizent, Hippo's blond, fake-boobed wingwoman, were extra rough with me tonight and I got some fresh bruises.

As Queen E. Lizard Butt finished her best jam of the night with fifteen points, we cheered. After a few more jams, we were finished, and Music Man blared, "Why did seventeen blondes line up outside a nightclub? Because you have to be older to get in. No, I mean eighteen to get in.”

Dad had taken up all my break time, with me lecturing him on being quiet and him asking me excited questions about the bouts. So now, while we changed back into street clothes, I tried to pry information from the nonplused girls about Yvette. But all I got was strange looks. I soon gave up, thinking this whole thing had been a waste of time and pain.

Harley flopped down by me and swigged water from her bottle. "Hey, you didn't tell me the Indian was cute. Is he attached?"

I wondered that myself. "Harley, you hate men."

"But I'm a sucker for a black ponytail and a pair of moccasins." She lit a cigarette.

"He wears Nikes and he has mono. And he doesn't like smoking."

"Mono? That doesn't last very long. And I've stopped smoking. Didn’t you know?" She stubbed out the cig, her face glowing for the first time in forever. "Dibs. He's mine. We can double date with you and James.”

"Yeah. And all of San Francisco and Brazil."

Dad had gotten to the bottom of the joke barrel, and we still had the writing group to attend. I left him with Harley and hit the restroom. From inside the stall, I saw Cleo and Hippo's mismatched tank tops in front of the mirror.

Cleo lit a cigarette. "Can you believe that old geezer? What a pain."

Hippo said, "Geezer squared. Grampa Dangerfield on oxygen.”

"He needs a babysitter and a sock in it. And get this. He's not her grandfather. She calls him
Dad.
" They both laughed, one hacking a deep smoker's cough.

"She's a geezer herself then. Probably older than my mother.”

Ouch.

"She can't last very long," Hippo said. "That type never does."

"She better not. Jesus, she ran over my dog!" Cleo said.

Hey, I'd fixed the idiot doggy. She was fine now, and I was broke. And I was not a
type
or a
geezer
. And I would, too, skate with them if I wanted, for as long as I wanted. And I'd also write a string of bestselling thrillers they probably couldn't even read. Just as soon as I got Dad in the right hands.

*
      
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*

The writers’ group meeting was at a small nearby diner called Helen's. The décor was late sixties with red vinyl booths and lots of chrome. It was nearly empty. Harley and I settled Dad at a table with a sandwich and waited for the writers.