Roll with the Punches (36 page)

"You're saying he's not Jackson because his action scenes reek?" Dal said, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, some old guys reek. I wear deodorant." Music Man said. "You still write with that James guy, Rhonda? He came over a lot lately.”

I got red. "No, he didn't, Dad."

Music Man said, "If my memory serves me, he came over three, maybe four times."

Dal looked stony.

"No, Dad. He didn't." I rolled my eyes. "Dal, I'm betting on some cleaning lady theft ring. I mean if that closet incident taught me anything about James … " Oops.

Dal said stiffly, "Closet incident?"

Music Man said, "Yeah, James was looking in your closet last time I saw him, looking for some computer cable.”

Diversion, diversion. "Oh, Dad. You need new jokes," I said.

A light bulb lit up over Dal’s head. "Did that guy have anything to do with your funny haircut and the mothball perfume?"

I became engrossed in the scenery.

Dal pressed, "And he’s had your laptop since then? Very strange indeed."

Music Man sang, "Strangers in the night …"

*
      
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*

The evening was still warm as we got out in the new concrete-lined subdivision devoid of vegetation. Foxglove Street’s sparse curb parking was all taken, so we parked around the corner.

Our knock at number 97 was answered by a silent young guy with artichoke hair and a silver bullet of a Bluetooth phone clipped to his ear.

I said, "Is James or Yvette here?"

"No," said Artichoke Guy, closing the door.

I stuck a foot in. "James has my laptop. I want it. Now. It's purple with a Mighty Mouse decal."

Music Man pointed at a picture hanging on the hall wall just past Artichoke Guy's shoulder. "Hey, that’s your friend James. Does he live here?"

Artichoke Guy's hair was cartoon creepy. "I don't know." He shoved the door closed, squishing my foot. The bolt was thrown.

Dal shrugged and we stood there a minute. "What now?"

I heard voices coming from an upstairs window on the side of the condo. I ran around the corner and stepped inside Yvette's side yard gate. I yelled, "Yvette, I know you're there! I need my laptop back. Please just bring it out to me, and I won't have to call the police."

My voice was mostly drowned out by a big dog barking next door.

Artichoke Guy's voice yelled out from upstairs, "Yvette's been sick. She needs quiet. Go away."

I climbed up on the faded blue trash bin under the bedroom window. "Yvette? Where's my laptop?" I heard her voice, but the dog was still barking, so I jumped up on the cracked blue can lid to hear better. I clung to the rough stucco wall as the plastic lid under my feet buckled dangerously.

Yvette must have come to the window. "Rhonda. I've been trying to—"

Artichoke Guy said, "She needs her medicine.”

Bark, bark, bark. Bark, bark, bark.

"Yvette, I need that laptop! Let me in!"

Yvette said something I couldn't get because Music Man boomed from the front yard behind me, "Rhonda, get down from there! You'll break your head."

Startled, I wobbled on the can and fell right through the cracked lid, tipping the whole thing over. I landed square on my butt, my back against the fence. One of my legs was stuck above the knee in the cracked blue plastic, and a sea of refuse rolled out of the can. I pushed and kicked at the lid as barking escalated next door.

"Rhonda! Stay there!" Yvette yelled, as Dal hobbled through the gate and tried to pull the wretched can lid off me, only managing to slip on the spilled garbage instead.

Artichoke Guy yelled, “I’m calling the cops.”

Irvine cops had a reputation for being punctual and detail-oriented, so I scrambled up, one leg wearing the can lid, and pulled Dal back into the front yard. We limped back toward the door, Dal on his crutches and me with my giant blue leg ornament. I thought I wore it quite well. But Artichoke Guy came out the front door, ran past us, and opened the neighbor's gate, setting their large, loud Doberman on us.

It lunged at us with a
whoomph
. I stepped in front of Dal and Music Man and motioned for them to go as I kicked at the dog, waving the fragrant blue garbage lid, still wedged around my calf, like a shield. The dog clamped its giant fangs on the lid, worrying it and growling ominously. Dogs in neighboring yards set up a loud stereophonic bark. Artichoke Guy stood by the gate, laughing at the spectacle. Yvette was shouting something about laptops from the window. I needed ammunition, but I'd dropped my purse. So the dog and I danced toward it in a little semi-circle until I could get close enough to reach it.

Unfortunately, its stash yielded no stun gun, no real gun, and no mace. So I pelted Fido with the rolls of toilet paper and dozen eggs I'd packed, meant to cover up my real mission here and make it look like a prank. The stupid dog was so one-track that he never let go of the lid while I danced like a one-legged pirate. Then, in one last angry yank, he worried the thing right off my foot. And I ran for my life, hearing loud crunching behind me. Egg shells.

When I got around the corner to the car, Dal and Music Man were already inside. I tried the passenger door. Locked. There was shouting from my pursuers, not far behind me. I knocked on the window. "Open up. Let's go!"

Dal grinned through the cracked window.
"
Ahh, zat perfume, madame—Eau de Moutard et Caca.
"
A plastic bag sailed out his window toward me. "Stick your clothes in there or walk home, Miss Pungent."

I looked down. My right shoe had some smelly golden brown cream smeared on it and my jeans leg was adorned with orange, green, and purple chunks. Bright yellow spatters on the other leg completed the impression of a Jackson Pollock work on my Levi 525's.

Dad said, "Hey, Rhonda, your pants look like Hanky’s shirt the time he ate all that candy and went on that spinner thing at the fair."

I checked my pocket. No car keys. Yvette rounded the corner, waving and shouting. She didn't look sick. She looked pissed. Dal started the Toyota and pulled away.

I turned to Yvette. "Where's my laptop, damn it?"

She yelled, "All our laptops were stolen on Tuesday. Didn't he tell you? But—"

The rest of her speech was lost in the furious barking of the Doberman, rounding the corner and racing at us both, looking for more food. Like maybe my hand or my foot. Dal had stopped at the corner and popped the trunk from inside, and I raced up and flung myself into it as he pulled away, a hundred snapping Doberman teeth just inches from my legs.

Miraculously, no Irvine police noticed me riding colorfully home in the trunk, like a slightly early Yule decoration, needing only twinkle lights and a star on top.

I called the police about my stolen laptop and then had an anxiety attack about my little baby being in strange hands. What if they let my precious laptopikins overheat? What if they infected it with spam and viruses? What if they shook it and gave it an electronic concussion? To take my mind off it, Music Man obligingly beat Dal and me ten times at hearts. James sent apologetic roses, which I dumped in the trash.

When Music Man started loading kitchen cabinets with Mom's support hose, I gave up and joined Dal on the sofa, where he was watching beefy guys in helmets run around and pummel each other on TV. I laid a hand on his solid chest. Ooh, hello. Very sexy.

"Was Yvette telling the truth, you think?"

"Huh? Yeah." Dal said. "She's cute.”

I pinched him. "She’s not cute and she's not sick. She was running. And who was that guy? And was my laptop really stolen?"

He shrugged and sipped beer. "I dunno. Call her.”

How clueless. Just call Yvette? Okay. I called E. Lizard Butt, got Yvette’s number, and dialed it. Just like that. Message machine. So I left a sultry message for James.

His eyes on the football, Dal didn't flinch. I watched his dear, healing face, the strong jaw, the intense blue eyes tracking football helmets across the screen. I could probably live for a long time with that face, nose and all. If he passed my test.

Question one: "Man. After all that patient sitting on hard benches watching hockey games, with all those girls wolf-whistling at James, now I find I was just a free editing service for him.”

"Yeah." Dal watched a girl in a bikini drink Pepsi.

"Dal!" I hit him with a pillow.

"Huh? The guy's an ass. He let your laptop get stolen. Then he lied about it. He should be drawn and quartered.”

I sighed. "I know. I was dumb to let him take it." If he agreed, he was toast.

He looked up. "No. Honey, you're just sweet and unsuspecting, probably a little too sweet, reading his work and not requiring anything in return.”

"Watch it, buster." I poked him. B- answer.

Question two: "The girls at the rink all have tattoos. In Technicolor.”

"Cool." Eyes on the screen, he felt for a pumpkin cookie from the container I held.

"You want one?" I said.

"I have one." He held up his cookie. "Thanks." Touchdown onscreen.

I poked him again. "No. A tattoo. Some people get scenes on their back, like the Golden Gate Bridge or Lombard Street or cable cars.”

A commercial came on.

"Cable car tattoos, you say?" His hand squeezed my arm. "Do they have sound effects? Clang, clang?"

"Yep.”

"Cool."

"You gonna get any tattoos?"

He shrugged. "I'm fascinating enough without. Why?"

Yes! A+. I kissed him. Question three: "So who's a better Lucy, Harley or me?"

"Um … Harley has reddish hair.”

I poked him hard. "Butthead."

Dal wasn't dumb. "Oh, definitely you. You're Lucy all right. Harley's Ethel all over. She's not even a very strong Ethel, really. More of a—a—help me here." He looked pathetic and gave me half of his cookie.

"Vanna White. Barney Rubble. Robin, the Boy Wonder. Donkey.
Sidekick
."

"Yeah, them." He squeaked by with a C-.

Question four: "Dal, would you ever read a romance? If there's a good story?"

"Not much.”

I sighed. That was it. We weren't meant to be.

He pulled me close. "I prefer to create it." He engulfed me in his arms and we necked on the sofa. Until Music Man huffed and puffed through the room with an armload of metal and linen. "Gotta get this stuff put away."

"Where, Dad?" I took off after him and rescued Dal's tools and my curtains.

On my return, Dal said, "Rhonda. Check this out. It was in my pocket." He handed me Reynard Jackson's business card. Washed and barely readable.

My jaw dropped.

He said, "It was in the parking lot at that fundraiser."

I kissed him. What luck. Finally something was going my way. I dialed the number on the card, but the voice mail box was full. No address on the card, and the website, I'd already seen. I slumped back on the sofa.

Dal flipped off the TV. "I'll give you a cookie if you tell me what animal I remind you of.”

"Not hungry.”

"Some terrible beast? Like James?" Fingertips smoothed my back.

Shoot. Dal had his own set of test questions. "James is pond slime."

Music Man yelled for help.

Twenty minutes later, we'd pulled him out of the sunken bathtub, where he’d fallen, and ushered him into bed. In the hall, Dal swooped in and kissed a devilish trail of electricity from my ear down to my collar bone, magically undoing my bra under my shirt. In one deft stroke, he somehow landed a hand on each breast under my shirt and his mouth found mine.

My eyes rolled back in their sockets. Glory be to the highest.

Question five: "If you could—uh—move somewhere and stay a while, where would it be?" I said.

"Right here," he mumbled, hands and mouth moving south.

"You—um—wouldn't go back to the Midwest. Oh, my God! Or maybe to France. Oh, good God."

"That’s me," he said to my stomach. "God, at your service."

Thoughts of James, manuscripts, Dad and test questions all flew away as the sexy nose went to work.

"So what animal do I remind you of?" he said.

"Hmm?" Crud. One nasty crack about his nose per day was probably enough.

He stood up and pulled my shirt down. "Well, I'm tired. Guess I'll go to bed." He started down the hall alone.

"What? And leave me here like this? This is sexual abandonment."

He turned. "Well, I can't very well sleep with a woman who thinks I'm an amoeba or a flatworm."

Large footsteps approached. Dad came through and turned off the hall light. "G'night all."

Dal lounged at the end of the hall. "Night, Harold."

"Night, Dad." I pouted.

Dal didn't budge.

I finally caved to the steely look. "Oh, for God's sake. You're not a worm. You're
sort
of bat-like."

"Jungle bat or farm bat?"

"Come here and I'll tell you." I held out lonely arms.

He came, but stopped two feet away, arms crossed.

I giggled. "Well, it's not really a bat. More of a—" I walked up and put my hands on his chest. "Cereal box mascot."

"Hmm." He pulled me into the bedroom. "Would that be the leprechaun, the captain, or the tiger?"

Hallelujah! I erased my image of the Froot Loops toucan with the honking great colorful beak. "Definitely the tiger.”

*
      
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This was how it was all week. When Music Man finally went to bed, we did, too. And the fun started. In fact, it was so much fun I could almost see myself living with this man for a while. But Dal and I kept our relationship discussions light. It was still early days for us, and I was grieving for the cogent father I'd known so long. Dal never offered any serious personal information, and I didn't dare ask him for fear the magic spell we were under would break. In the morning, it surprised me again to wake up by a hunk of smooth, warm skin instead of a mountain of thick, crusty fur. Surprised and delighted.

*
      
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Thursday morning, I got to the kitchen and I found twelve dusty boxes of cereal on the countertop. I shoved them over and took out the eggs for Dad, who said, "Rhonda, you know I'm a corn flakes man. Always have been. You don't need the damned eggs!"