Satan's Pony (18 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Satan's Pony
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The shrill sound of the alarm interrupted my dream. It had been a good dream, too. Tom and I were back together, having a few beers at Harry's. The shrill sound came again. Not the alarm. The phone.
“Yes?”
“We broke him.” Peck.
“When?”
“A few minutes ago.” I looked at the clock. Two-twenty A.M. “That tip you gave us about his wife taking a ride with Sunny? We needled him about it and he finally collapsed like a bowlful of Jell-O. It was kind of pathetic, actually. Apparently this dame had been teasing him for years. Playing around with other guys, but not really—you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Something snapped inside Stan this week, and Sunny paid for a long line of suitors,” he said.
“Is Pi free?”
“Officially. But he has to wait till morning for us to complete the paperwork.”
“Can I see him?”
“'Fraid not. House rules.”
“Can't you bend them? If I hadn't mentioned that joy ride his wife took—
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and said in a slightly embarrassed tone, “One thing we couldn't get out of him is how he got Sunny's beer bottle back. Any ideas about that?”
“No problem. Those guys never throw anything in the trash—they just drop it wherever they happen to be when they're finished with it. Stan probably hung around till Sunny dropped the bottle, then picked it up. If anyone saw him, they wouldn't have thought anything of it.”
“Huh. And then, Einstein that he is, he stashed it in the cupboard, planning to pick it up later.”
“Yeah.” I laughed. “But he forgot.”
“Thanks.”
After he hung up, more of Jack's words came back to me again.
“The little green man … can nibble at your insides over a period of months and years or burst on you, searing you in an instant.
Poor Stan.
 
 
The brick jail, vintage 1890, was tucked behind the courthouse. The plumbing hadn't been updated since, I'd heard. I parked my bike and went inside.
“I'm here to pick up … Pi. They brought him in last night.”
The man at the desk looked blank.
“Big fellow. Heavyset. Long hair. Nose ring. Earring. Tattoos.”
Light dawned. “Oh, that guy. He left.”
“What?”
He glanced at his watch. “Yeah, he's been gone over an hour.”
“But he didn't have his bike. How could he leave?”
“I think the detective gave him a lift.”
I barreled back to the motel, breaking the speed limit in my usual coy fashion. When I burst into the lobby, I stopped short. Maggie was at the front desk.
“Hi, Mag.”
She looked gray and wan. But it was good she'd made the effort. She smiled—barely.
“Have you seen any bikers this morning?”
Frowning, she shook her head, a sign that she still disapproved of my associating with them.
I went back to the parking lot. I couldn't understand it. Where could he be? Knowing Pi, the first thing he would want after he was sprung was his bike. I jogged around the parking lot a few times. Still no Pi. I went back in the lobby and had a cup of coffee swill. Maggie was deep in a romance novel. I flipped through the
Bugle.
Nick's story was on page 3. He was awaiting his appeal. If Pi didn't come soon, I'd have to go to the hospital on
his
bike. I was fuming. I had patients to see. Life didn't stop because of one biker's little problems.
Pi burst through the lobby door.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
“In jail.” He grinned.
“I mean, since then. I came to get you.”
“With my bike?”
I nodded.
“Good girl.” He came and gave me a bear hug. “I hear I owe you. Peck says you helped nail that asshole.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I went to see your boyfriend.”
“Tom?”
“He's the man of the moment, ain't he?”
“How'd you get there?”
“Peck dropped me off and I hitched a ride back here.”
“But why—”
“I had to straighten things out. I told him what that kiss amounted to—!”
I was speechless.
“I told him I always give the chicks a friendly buss, to test them out. If they respond … it's full speed ahead. If not … no harm
done. But when I bussed you, it was like kissing the underbelly of a dead codfish …”
“Pi!”
“And believe me, I've bussed my share of chicks.”
“Pi, spare me!”
“What's the matter? I fixed everything with you and your boyfriend. You should be foot-kissin' grateful.”
I sighed.
“Hey, you hang on to that guy. He's righteous. I can smell it. Pretty soon, thanks to me, he'll trundle over here, hat in hand, ready to eat crow.”
“Oh, my god.” I slumped on the sofa.
“One good turn deserves another.” He punched my shoulder as if I were one of his buddies. (I'd be black-and-blue for days.) “Now where's my bike?”
“In the lot.” I tossed him his keys.
When he left, I glanced over at Maggie. She had laid her romance novel aside. “
Your
love life is more interesting,” she said, with a ghost of her former twinkle.
 
 
As I heard Pi revving his bike, I remembered
my
bike! I rushed out to the lot, waving frantically. “Wait! My bike's at the shack. You've gotta take me.”
“Hop on.”
I hopped on the back, gripping him around the waist. The sound of a Harley allows for no conversation. We rode in silence. But once at the shack, I asked when he was leaving.
“We'll be heading out tonight after,” he paused, “ … some unfinished business.”
“What … ?” I felt cold.
He looked at me, deciding how much to tell. Finally he said, “Jingles. He ID'd me at the funeral. Remember when he gave me that big kiss?”
I remembered.
“That was the signal for the troopers to take me.”
I let that sink in. “You mean he snitched?”
He nodded.
“But why … ?”
“Power. You were right. He wanted my job.”
“How did you find out?”
“One of the troopers let it out. He was gloating about it on the way to that quaint little jail of yours—the one that serves a free roach with every meal.”
“What are you going to do?” I had blocked on Pi's new capacity for violence. Something acquired since his paper boy days.
He didn't answer.
“Be careful. You'll end up back in that quaint little jail.”
He laughed at that. “The law don't care if a biker beats up another biker. In fact, it makes them happy, 'cause they'd like to do it themselves.”
I tried again. “Might doesn't make right.”
His expression hardened. “Save that crap for Sunday school.” He mounted his bike.
“Pi—”
“So long. And don't forget, I owe you. You have my cell number.” With a high sign, he kick-started his bike and twisted the throttle.
Ears throbbing, I watched the Harley disappear between the banks of phragmites.
 
 
Tom didn't come with hat in hand. (I don't think he owned one.) But he did call. With no preamble, he asked me to a dance. “Wear a skirt,” he told me. “And not one of those itty-bitty things that cling like Saran Wrap. A long, full skirt that flows and swirls with the music.”
“And where am I going to find a skirt like that?”
“That's up to you.”
I was so happy to hear from him, I decided to try to please him. I looked around my motel room for something I could convert into a long skirt. I knew my closet had nothing to offer. I wandered into the bathroom. The shower curtain was kind of cute. Little yellow ducks swimming in a blue sea. It had come with the territory. I had been meaning to replace it but never got around to it. After giving it a shake, I decided it was too heavy and would probably be as hot as hell.
In my Manhattan days, an invitation to a dance would have meant a quick trip to Sak's or Bloomies—and returning at least three hundred bucks poorer.
Back in the main room, I passed my linen closet—a fancy name for the cubbyhole in the wall that held my ragged sheets and towels. I flipped through the towels—faded yellow, blue, and salmon with stringy edges, sporting an occasional hole the size of a half dollar. I pulled out a threadbare beach towel. You could still make out a shadow of Snoopy dancing on it. With it wrapped around my waist, the effect was more that of a sarong than a ball gown. Dorothy Lamour I am not.
Under the towels lay one of my two sets of sheets. (The other set was on my futon.) White, with a pattern of turquoise butterflies, it might do. I had a turquoise top that I wore only on special occasions. Weddings, funerals (not biker funerals). I began pulling together my ensemble. I figured if I poked holes along the edge of the sheet with my surgical scissors and pulled a drawstring through it, it could return to its sheet role after the ball without suffering too much damage. Sandals would have to take the place of glass slippers. I made a vow to be home by midnight, before I turned into a pumpkin—or worse: a squash or turnip. I grabbed the sheet, the scissors, and set to work.
Half an hour later everything was ready except the drawstring. I rummaged through my catch-all drawer, the one reserved for thumbtacks, old wine corks, Scotch tape—ah yes, and a ball of twine. Becca and I had bought it one windy day when we had
decided to fly a kite. The kite had ended up tangled in some telephone wires, à la Charlie Brown, but we'd gotten a lot of exercise. Bayfield was probably one of the last places on earth that had telephone wires above ground. It was also one of the last places where kids still flew kites, rode bikes, and played baseball on their own, without being organized, supervised, and criticized by an overzealous parent group.
What's with you? You don't even have kids.
When I was dressed and stood before the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door, I had to admit I looked quite fetching. A pair of hoop earrings would complete the picture. With a farewell pirouette to my reflection (which almost sent me sprawling), I went to hunt up those earrings.
When Tom had called, he told me instead of meeting me at Harry's as usual, he would pick me up—in his
pickup.
“This is going to be a real date,” he said.
I felt silly standing around the lobby all gussied up, especially with some bikers still milling around. Hash Brown asked, “Gotta big date?” And Honey bid me, “Have a hot time!” I sat curled up on the sofa, trying to hide behind a copy of the
Bugle,
which I'd already read from cover to cover. I kept an ear cocked for Tom's horn, but he came into the lobby in person, wearing real trousers, a white shirt, and a pair of brown oxfords. I almost fainted. His expression told me he was just as shocked by my appearance. It was the first time we had seen each other in anything but jeans and tees.
He held out his arm. I took it, feeling as awkward as a teenager going to her first prom. I kept my head down as we crossed the parking lot, hoping a stray biker wouldn't spot me. Once in the pickup, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“What's the matter?” He looked at me, his key halfway to the ignition.
“Nothing.” I felt a blush begin,
“Not used to dressing up, huh? Well, neither am I.” He poked a finger inside his collar, to give himself more breathing room.
I laughed. “This was your idea,” I reminded him.
“Damned right. You can't go to the Starlight Room dressed like a farmhand.”
It was my turn to look at him.
“Remember me telling you I was making a surprise for you?”
I stretched my mind back a few aeons, to that night when we had shopped together at the supermarket. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, it's finished—and tonight's the night.”
“Hmm,” I smiled, getting the message—our recent differences were off-limits, at least for tonight.
 
 
I was surprised when Tom drove into his own driveway. I was familiar with his simple farmhouse. Nothing new about that. Could the surprise be that there was
no
surprise? I kept quiet and let him help me down from the truck, feeling as if I were in a play, acting the part of an ingenue, on her first date.
Once inside, I saw the wooden kitchen table that he had made, set with a cloth, wineglasses, and candles. The scent of something delicious wafted from the oven. What was it? I sniffed.
“Roast chicken and corn bread,” he answered my unasked question.
“Umm.”
“Sit down.” He pulled out my chair and poured a sparkling wine.
Holy Moly, I could get used to this.
Over dinner, we caught up on each other's past. Even though we had been apart only four days, there was a lot of ground to cover. I told him about the biker funeral, being chased by troopers, my visit to Wildwood, Pi's incarceration, and Stan's confession. Tom told me about Nick's sentencing (he had gone to the courthouse), the post-mortem party at the Nelsons', and his visit with Nick. He had gone to see him after the sentencing, for old times' sake.
“What did you think of that ‘born again' bunk?” I asked.
He looked at me so long, I began to feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “Did it ever occur to you, Dr. Banks, that there's a whole universe out there that you may know nothing about?” He rose.
“Which brings me to my surprise.” He took my hand and led me up the crooked wooden stairs to his loft. I had been there before, a large, spare room with windows on all four sides, overlooking fields in every direction. Tonight the fields were dark, but during the day, in spring and summer, the room was like a ship's cabin and the green fields like ocean waves, shimmering in the sun. As I emerged from the dark stairwell into the loft, something felt different. There was a greater feeling of space than even before. I looked up and drew a quick breath. Where once there had been a solid roof, now there was open sky. The stars crowded one another—pushing, pulsing, shooting, showering, going about their busy, brilliant lives in the dark sky. I saw the Big and Little Dippers, Orion, and the Ram, outlined as clearly as on a page in an astronomy book. And there was no moon tonight to drown them out. (Had he planned it that way?) Bending my head back, I spun around, trying to take in the whole sky at once. From somewhere music began to play. Melodies from long ago. Dance music that my father used to listen to on our old record player. Benny Goodman, Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey. Tom took me in his arms and we danced.
But this music wasn't from records. Over Tom's shoulder, I tracked its source to a small radio tucked into a bookshelf. The program was on every Sunday night, he told me. It was called
The Starlight Room.
From 8:00 PM till midnight, they played tunes from the thirties and forties, the heyday of the famous dance bands. The MC was a charming old codger who knew the history of these bands, the bandleaders, and the composers of the tunes. Every now and then, he would interrupt the music and give us some of his knowledge in a quiet, unassuming voice. We used these interludes to pause and catch our breath.
During one of these intermissions, Tom demonstrated the skylight roof. He had removed the old wooden roof and replaced it with thermal glass that you could slide open or shut, depending on the weather. “Like the sunroof in a car,” he explained. He had even included a screen to keep the mosquitoes out. Tonight, because it was mild, he had opened the roof all the way and it seemed, if you stood on tiptoe, you could literally touch the stars.
During another break, he pushed me away and examined me through narrowed lids. “I've been meaning to tell you what a lovely skirt you're wearing. How did you come up with it on such short notice?”
I told him.
He laughed and drew me close.
Sometime during the evening, when I was mellow with music and wine, I asked, “Why did you follow me that night?”
“I was worried about you. I was afraid you were in over your head.”
“Protecting me?” An accusatory note crept into my voice.
“Ah,” he said, and smiled, “press the right button and out pops the outraged feminist. Yes, Jo, I wanted to look after you, the way I would look after anyone I care about—man, woman, or child. Not because I thought you were the ‘weaker sex.' As you have often told me, sex and friendship are two different things. Wouldn't you do the same for me?”
After a pause, I said, “You were really wrought up that night in the parking lot. I was … a little afraid of you.”
He closed his eyes, as if trying to recall that distant moment When he spoke his tone was playful. “You needn't of feared me. My Momma always told me, ‘Women are special. You can love 'em and leave ‘em. But never strike them.'”
“She was ahead of her time.”
After a pause, I asked, “Would you have called me, if Pi hadn't explained things?” I didn't really want to know.
He looked me straight in the eye. “No,” he said.
“Why did you believe him?”
“Whatever Pi's faults, dishonesty isn't one of them.” He placed his hand gently over my mouth. “Enough, Jo. Let's enjoy the rest of the evening.”
The music had started up again and he spun me around the room.
At midnight, as the MC was signing off, I had an epiphany. That freedom the bikers were always talking about?
Tom had it—and never talked about it.
He lived by himself, in a house he had built with his
own hands. He worked for himself, beholden to no one. And he did this with no support from any organization, club, or buddy system and with no visible crutches—bikes, colors, codes, or patches. He was really independent. A one-man show—a free agent. Like the frontiersmen of long ago.
Come to think of it … so was I.
“What are you thinking about?” Tom came up behind me and stroked the back of my neck.
I turned, ready to tell him. But the last number of the evening had begun. He pulled me to him and we did a slow dance, joined as if we were one.
“You know what I like about this place?” he murmured.
“No. What?”
“Nobody ever cuts in.”
We danced and danced, long after the Starlight Room had signed off and the only music was Tom humming in my ear. When my feet gave out, I danced with my bare feet resting on top of his bare feet. When
his
feet gave out, we dragged his mattress up from the porch and fell asleep under the fading stars and the patchwork quilt his great-great grandmother had made.
 
 
As the first light of dawn filtered through the open roof, I woke feeling rested and content. Tom woke and turned my face toward his. We kissed, as if for the first time.

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