Sideswipe (10 page)

"I--I didn't do nothing bad to Pammi."

"I know that now, but I didn't know it at the time, you see.

"After I got back home from here I had a long talk with Pammi in her bedroom and managed to get the truth out of her. I know now you didn't instigate anything, because Pammi has been carrying on with a couple of old geezers in the park in the evening. We've been letting her go out after dinner, because she was supposed to play with her friend Ileana down the street. Instead, she's been meeting one old fart or another in the pinochle shed in the park. Apparently this has been going on for weeks. She's still a virgin, however. I checked that out myself, and her hymen's still in one piece. But she's been doing some other dirty things with these old men that I'd rather not go into just now. I think you know what I mean."

"I was asleep, and she stuck her tongue in my mouth and asked for a penny."

Sneider sighed. "I know. She told me. You're off the hook, Mr. Sinkiewicz, and I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble. But that fucker in the blue Electra had me going to begin with--well, what difference does it make? Did you get any dinner? If not, I'll spring for a Big Mac and a shake before I take you home." Sneider started the engine and put the stick into first gear.

"I'm not hungry. I had a piece of corn bread, and my lip's too sore to eat anyway."

"You could probably use a stitch or two, but if you've got some adhesive tape at home, I can put a butterfly stitch on it for you, and it'll be good as new in a day or so."

"There's some tape in the medicine cabinet. It's old, though."

"That don't make no difference. Adhesive tape, unless it gets wet or dried out in the sun or something, is good for years."

On the drive to Ocean Pines Terraces, Sneider told Stanley about a kid he caught breaking into his Coke machine a couple of weeks back. "He didn't get anything, but when I took the kid home to his father, I told his old man that the kid had stolen about ten dollars' worth of Cokes from me during the last month or so, and the guy came up with ten bucks." Sneider laughed, relishing the story.

When Sneider pulled into Stanley's driveway, Stanley noticed that his Escort wasn't in the carport. "Is Maya still with your wife, Sergeant Sneider?"

"No. My wife went off to one of her meetings, and I made her take Pammi along. I don't know where your wife is. Let's go inside, and I'll fix up your lip."

Stanley found the roll of tape and got a pair of scissors from Maya's sewing basket, and Sneider put a neat butterfly bandage on Stanley's lip. "Just leave it there for two or three days. Shave around it, and the old lip'll be as good as new."

The two men shook hands at the door, and Sneider apologized again before driving off down the street in his tow truck. Stanley looked around the house for a note, but didn't find one. Then he stopped looking, realizing that if Maya knew that he was in jail, she wouldn't leave a note for him because she wouldn't expect him to be coming home to read it. Stanley went next door to the Agnews' and rapped on the front door. The jalousies on the door opened slightly, but not the door.

"Go away!" Mrs. Agnew said.

"Is my wife in there with you, Mrs. Agnew?"

"No, she isn't, and if you don't go away, you pervert, I'll call the police!"

"Do you know where she went?"

The jalousies were cranked closed. Stanley could hear Mrs. Agnew's tapping footsteps as she walked across her terrazzo floor toward the kitchen. Stanley returned to his house and sat in his recliner. He knew he was too restless to watch television. After a few moments, he went into the bedroom and took off his bloodied shirt. As he threw the dirty shirt into the hamper beside the open closet door, he noticed that the Samsonite two-suiter wasn't on the closet shelf. He looked through the clothes in the closet. There seemed to be a few things missing, but he wasn't sure. He looked for Maya's photo album, where she kept the family snapshots, including the ones of the grandchildren Junior sent down from time to time. When he couldn't find the album, he knew that Maya was gone. Her checkbook was missing from the little corner desk in the living room where she worked on the household accounts, and so was her little recipe file box.

She was gone. No question about it.

Stanley looked up the number and direct-dialed his son in Hamtramck. Junior's voice was a little garbled at first because his mouth was full of food.

"It's me," Stanley said, "and I'm calling long distance from Florida. Have you heard from your mother?"

"Just a sec, Dad." Junior finished chewing. "Are you calling from the jail?"

"No, I'm home. I'm calling from home."

"Mom said you were in jail when she called me. How'd you get out? She said you were arrested for molesting some little kid."

"It was all a mistake, son. Maya didn't see what she thought she saw, and that's all been cleared up now."

"Is Mom still there, Dad? I'd like to talk to her."

"No, she isn't here. I just wondered if she called you. I don't know where she is."

"In that case, she's already left, Dad. She said she was coming back here to Detroit, that's what she called to tell me, and that was that. Now, I realize you own the house up here and all that, but I told her we didn't have any room for her. Christ, Dad, we've only got two bedrooms and one bath, so where'll we put Mom?"

"She's driving up, then? I don't think she can find her way to Detroit, and the Escort's due for an oil change, too."

"If she's already left, there's nothing we can do about it, I guess. But when she gets up here, I'll send her back after a couple of days. We really can't put her up for more than one or two days. Maybe I can make reservations for her at the Howard Johnson's, or some motel near the house. Too bad you didn't get out of jail soon enough to stop her from leaving. A woman Mom's age shouldn't be driving all the way across the country by herself."

"She'll get lost. There's no doubt about that."

"No, I don't think she'll get lost, Dad. She can always ask the way to Michigan at a gas station. D'you want to talk to the kids while you're on the phone?"

"No. Did you call the jail, Junior, and try to get me out?"

"I didn't call anybody. I was trying to talk Mom out of coming up here, and then she hung up on me. I'm trying to eat dinner now. I've really had a bitch of a day. Mom was in a hurry and told me she'd give me the details when she got here. What happened, anyway?"

"Nothing happened. When your mother gets there, she can give you her version of the details. And you can also tell her for me that I won't take her back. Tell her to keep the damned Escort and look for a job. You can also tell her not to cash any checks with the checkbook she took with her either, because the account is now closed!"

Stanley hung up the phone. His face was flushed and his fingers trembled. He went into the kitchen and heated water to make a cup of instant coffee. Before the water boiled, the phone rang. At first he wasn't going to answer it, figuring it was Stanley Junior calling him back, but when it kept ringing he finally picked it up on the eighth ring.

"Listen, Dad," Junior said, "and please don't hang up. If the trouble's all cleared up, and if Momma calls me again from wherever she is on the road, I'll just tell her to go back home. Okay? Of course, she knows what she saw, and all that, but I think I can talk her into going back, especially now that you're out of jail. I'd like to see her, of course, and so would the kids, and all, but we really don't have any room here for her--and that's a fact."

"I won't take her back, Junior. Mom's your problem now, not mine. If that's the way Maya thinks about me after all these years, I don't want the woman around. She never liked it down here in Florida anyway. So from now on, she's your--"

"Let's talk a minute, Dad."

"There's nothing else to talk about. She made up her mind, and I've made up mine. Just make sure you keep sending me the rent money every month, and don't give it to Maya. I still have to pay the mortgage down here. Understand?"

"Okay, Dad, but I think we'd better discuss this later, after you and Momma have a chance to cool off some. We'll work some--"

"It's already worked out, Junior. Just give my love to the kids. You called -me- this time, and you're on long distance, you know."

"Right, Dad. Do you need any help from me? Can I get you a lawyer? If you need a lawyer, I can check around here, and see if--"

"I don't need no lawyer, because I'm not in any trouble. Your mother's in trouble, not me. Get a lawyer for Maya. Good night, son." Stanley hung up the phone.

Stanley tried to calm down. He drank his coffee at the kitchen table. His heart was beating rapidly, and he could almost feel it inside his chest. He was disappointed in his son, as well as in Maya. If the situation had been reversed, and he had learned that Junior was in jail for molesting a child, he would have been on the phone, or gone to the jail with a lawyer immediately. And no matter what they said, he wouldn't have believed Junior guilty of doing something like that. But Junior hadn't even called the jail to find out what they were doing with his father.

With Maya gone, his life would be a little harder now. He would have to cook his own meals, clean the house, and do his own laundry, but he would rather do that than take her back. That's what their marriage had come down to anyway, a division of labor, just two people sharing the same house. For months Maya had tried to talk to him about moving back to Hamtramck, and every time she brought it up he had refused to discuss it.

"We made our decision when we came down here," he told her, "and we're settled in now. If you want to go up there on a visit, you can go by yourself. I don't ever want to see ice and snow again. Just call Junior and tell him you're coming back to visit for a couple of weeks or a month--and see what he says!"

Maya hinted to Junior on the phone a few times that she would like to visit, but she didn't get an invitation, and she didn't come right out and ask for one because she knew she wouldn't get one, and Stanley knew she wouldn't ever get one. So this "incident" with Pammi was the first real excuse she had to leave, her first opportunity, and she had taken it because Junior couldn't turn her away if Stanley was in jail. Well, as far as Stanley was concerned, she could stay there, too. He had his pride, and he wouldn't take her back. He might if she begged him, but he didn't think she would do that. In her own way, she was as stubborn as he was; she didn't like Florida, and she didn't need Stanley any more than he needed her.

Well, he could take care of himself. It was all over, and he was too exhausted to think about it any longer. Without finishing his coffee, Stanley went into the bedroom to lie down for a moment, to quiet the rapid beating of his heart.

A minute later, Stanley was asleep, and he didn't awaken until morning.

It was still dark when Stanley got up at five A.M. and shaved. He scrambled two eggs in butter and toasted himself two slices of bread. He made instant coffee instead of using the Mr. Coffee machine, because he didn't know how to work it and he couldn't find the directions in the kitchen drawer where Maya kept all of the warranties for their appliances.

Stanley was disappointed in his son, but no longer angry with him. The boy (Junior was almost forty years old) hadn't turned out as well as he should have, even though Stanley had paid for Junior's two years of community college. Junior had been fired from both Ford and Chrysler because he had been unable to adjust to working on the line. After a series of low-paying jobs, he had finally found a job selling new cars for Joe "Madman" Stuart Chrysler in Detroit. The last time Stanley had talked to his son on the phone, the boy had been on the verge of tears. Junior worked for an unrealistic and demanding sales manager who'd had an old-fashioned cardboard outhouse built, complete with a cutout quarter moon on the door. The salesman with the lowest sales each week had to stay seated in the "shithouse" during the weekly sales meetings and pep talks. Any salesman who ended up in the shithouse for three weeks in a row was fired automatically. Junior spent one or two meetings a month in this mock-up and had barely escaped the terminal third week on two different occasions. For some time, it had been in the back of Stanley's mind to suggest to Junior that he move down to Florida when he got fired, as he was bound to be sooner or later, so he could get a fresh start in life. But that was out now. And if Junior fell behind in the rent payments, Stanley would have him evicted. It was just a token rent he paid anyway; the Hamtramck house should be renting for $325, or even $350 a month.

After breakfast, Stanley got a notebook from the desk and made a list of things he had to do. He used to make a similar list the first thing every morning when he had worked in the Ford paint shop, and the methodical planning of his days there had worked well for him since.

First, he would close his bank account, move to another bank, and put the account in his name only. He would also cash in his three ten-thousand-dollar CDs and pay the early withdrawal penalty. He could then take out three new CDs under his own name. He hated to lose money to the penalty, but if Maya cashed any of them he would lose every cent.

Should he buy a new car? No, he could wait on that for a while. The municipal bus ran into downtown Riviera Beach every hour, and he could ride it into town. He had never been without a car, as far back as he could remember, but he could watch the list of repossessed cars that the banks posted every week until a good deal came along. It didn't pay to rush into buying a car, whether it was new or used. And maybe a used car would be the best buy after all. It was the same when Saul, Maya's old Airedale, died. She had wanted to buy a new puppy to replace the old dog, but he had reminded her that at their age any dog they bought now would probably outlive them and that there would be no one left to take care of it when they were gone. Stanley had hated the flatulent Saul and didn't want another stinking dog hanging around the house and begging at the table. At his age, he wouldn't outlast a new car, either, so why not buy a cheaper, secondhand one?

On the way back from the bank he would stop at the supermarket and buy a dozen or so TV dinners. They were simple to fix. All he had to do was put them into the toaster oven for twenty-five minutes at 4250 and his dinner would be ready. He had often asked Maya why she didn't fix TV dinners instead of preparing time-consuming meals from scratch every day, but she wouldn't hear of it. Probably because she didn't know what else to do with her time, he supposed.

Before going into town he would do his laundry, and when he came back he could put it into the dryer. There was nothing to that. He knew how to use the washer and the dryer. Then, while the laundry was drying, he could go down to the park and tell the Wise Old Men that he was a bachelor now.

Stanley's mind froze.

They would know that already. They would also know by now that he had been arrested as a child molester. He was innocent, of course, but Sergeant Sneider had told him that there were two other old geezers involved with Pammi, and it was quite possible that one, or both, of them were Wise Old Men. Whoever it was would lay low now, but any man once accused--as he was, even though he was innocent--would always be suspect. He didn't think any of the Wise Old Men would actually say anything to him about it, but they would think about it--and figure it was him--and he didn't want to sit there while they looked at him sideways and speculated about his guilt. No, it would be a long time before he could go to the park again--if ever. On the other hand, the longer he stayed away from the park, the more they would consider him guilty.

He couldn't win either way.

Stanley separated his clothes from Maya's and put her dirty clothing into a brown paper grocery bag. He sure as hell wasn't going to wash her things. When she got around to sending for her clothes, he would pack them up and send them to her dirty. He looked through the pockets of his bloodied shirt and came across the news clipping Troy Louden had handed him. He hadn't forgotten about it; he had merely put it out of his mind, which wasn't the same thing. This errand had priority over everything else he had to do, but he was reluctant to deliver a message like that. It wouldn't do the young man any good. But he had said that he would do it, so he might as well. There was a Big 5 writing tablet on Maya's desk. Stanley printed out the message in block letters:

IF YOU DON'T DROP THE CHARGES, I'LL KILL

YOUR BABY AND YOUR WIFE AND THEN YOU.

The printed message looked sinister all right, but it also looked unreal. Stanley then printed ROBERT SMITH under the message and sealed it in one of Maya's pastel pink envelopes, along with the clipping. Then he printed Collins's address on the envelope. There was only one Henry Collins listed in the West Palm Beach section of the phone book.

Even if the message didn't help Troy, it couldn't hurt him any. If Mr. Collins brought it in to the police station, Troy could deny that he sent it. How could he? He was in jail. Stanley put the sealed envelope into his hip pocket, collected his checkbook, certificates of deposit, and passbook, but he paused at the door. It was eight A.M., and the sun was blazing. He put on his billed cap and his sunglasses, and got his walking stick from the umbrella stand beside the door, but still he hesitated. Mrs. Agnew was out in her yard, watering the oleanders that grew close to her house. She would turn her back on him the moment he stepped outside. He could count on that. But all the other neighbors on the two-block walk to the bus stop would peer through their windows and point him out as the dirty old man who had molested little Pammi Sneider. Except by sight, Stanley didn't know his neighbors very well. But Maya knew them all because they often met at each other's houses in the morning when the bakery truck stopped on their street. The housewives would come out in their wrappers and buy sweet rolls and doughnuts and take turns meeting in each other's houses for coffee. Maya had picked up gossip this way about the various neighbors, and had often tried to tell him about how Mrs. Meeghan's dyslexic son was failing in school, or about Mr. Featherstone's alcoholism (he was a house painter), but Stanley had always cut her off. He didn't care anything about these people, didn't know them, didn't want to know them, and didn't want to know anything about them. If they had been men he worked with, or something like that, he might have been interested in their private doings, but he wasn't interested in these housewives or their husbands or their noisy children.

But he realized now that these women would be gossiping about him and about Maya's leaving him, because that's what they did best--pry into other people's lives. Stanley steeled himself and walked to the bus stop, without looking either to the right or the left.

Stanley got off at the Sunshine Plaza Shopping Center when the bus stopped in front of the Publix. The bank wasn't open yet, so he drank a cup of coffee in Hardee's and slipped a dozen packets of Sweet 'n Low into his pants pocket. When the bank opened (it was really a Savings & Loan Association, but it also operated as a bank), Stanley had no trouble cashing in his CDs and collected a cashier's check for the money in his savings and checking accounts. He had expected an argument. But why would they argue? They made a handsome profit off him when he cashed in his three one-year CDs early. As he left the bank officer's desk, Mr. Wheeler said: