Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (21 page)

Mack
knew the answer. He didn’t have a choice. If he fought he’d end up hurting Sarah, not to mention getting himself fired and never seeing her again.

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

“And will you obey my wishes?”

“Yes ma’am.”

And the conversation ended. With no more trouble than it takes to herd a cow through a chute, Mrs. Newfield had put him in his place. That’s when Mack understood that he’d never find his place in Prospect Park, not one that included Sarah, not one worth having.

Sarah
came back to the barn three days later, bringing along a quiet sadness. Mack knew he had to make things better for her but didn’t know exactly how to do it. From who knows where he got the idea that he’d help her most if he stayed away. On that first day, with little talk, he politely got her saddle from the tack house, put it on her horse, and then excused himself, saying he had errands to run. She looked confused and hurt but that was to be expected. Wasn’t it? The next day he did the same routine and this time she looked mad. By the third day, when she didn’t bother to even look at him, he knew he didn’t have a clue, so he changed course: he put on a pleasant face and made small talk and even cracked little jokes, as if to say, “Look at me. I can do this and so can you. We can both do it. And everything will be ok.” Sarah responded to the small talk like a robot and didn’t respond to the joking at all. Mack persisted a few more days, until one too many of his comments landed with a thud and Sarah stared blankly at him for the hundredth time. That’s when, as they crossed paths in the tack house, he suddenly blurted out, “Sarah!”

She looked at him, startled.

“You’re still my best friend, Sarah. Even if it can’t be anything more than that, I’m still a lucky guy. I just wanted you to know that.”

Without saying a word, she ran up, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him on the lips. Then she ran to her car and drove off, only to show up the next day looking more like her old self.

Mission accomplished. He’d gotten back the smile. But he had also lied. He’d put a fake spring into his step and had made deceptive small talk. He’d pretended that his heart didn’t have a block of cold, hard sadness strapped to it. He’d called himself lucky when he felt like the unluckiest dog that ever scrounged a dump heap. All lies. All done for the sake of that smile and for the sake of winning back the scrawny corpse that used to be their friendship. It had worked. And if that friendship now had an ugly red barrier, constructed by Judith Newfield, right in the middle of it, it didn’t matter; it was still better than no friendship at all.

Sometime
after this, Mrs. Newfield pulled her strings and Sarah started dating Grant Wynnethorpe, son of a senator. Mack forced himself to be happy, telling himself that Sarah deserved a senator’s son, even if this particular one looked like he’d faint if his tennis outfit ever got dirty. Over the months and years that followed, Mack told himself other things that he didn’t really believe. He told himself to believe in that special, unknown girl who had to be out there somewhere waiting for him, even though he never went out and actually looked for her. He told himself to leave Prospect Park…as soon as Sarah went away to college…as soon as she came home for summer vacation…as soon as the newspaper published the news of her engagement to Wynnthorpe…. He never left, preferring, instead, another chance to get lost in those hazel eyes. When Sarah’s mother died, and he saw how it tore Sarah apart, he stopped thinking about leaving altogether.

On a drizzly day in November 1970, Judith Newfield’s wayward daughter, sixteen years old, smashed her brand new Mustang into a Santa Marcela light pole. The totaling of new cars would become somewhat of a hobby for Veronica, but on this occasion, in addition to wrecking the car, she also managed to get herself arrested when she didn’t bother to conceal a bag of marijuana that had been on the passenger’s seat. The police officer saw the bag and put her in handcuffs. Fortunately, the desk sergeant at the police station recognized her name and took the cuffs right back off. He made an apologetic phone call to Judith and the matter seemed to be resolved…except Veronica still found herself at the police station in Santa Marcela without a ride home.

The
accommodating sergeant offered to arrange a ride with one of the patrolmen. Judith declined. She’d had enough humiliation without putting her daughter on display in a police car as it drove the breadth of Prospect Park. Judith also had no intention of sending Abigail, her usual go-to person, because of the hell-and-damnation sermons that would quickly follow, and not the chauffeur either, who would blab it to the kitchen maids, who would then blab it to other maids from other houses, and before a person could say “stop the press” the thing would be published like a special edition. And, of course, Judith couldn’t go herself, to a place like that, where she’d have to walk a gauntlet of accusatory stares and plebian gawks. No, she’d stay at home with her well-behaved Yorkshire terrier and send someone else to fetch the darling little hand grenade, someone in particular: Walter Tubbs, the unpleasant attorney who smiled too much, the one who used to cart papers for her husband. He’d already proven himself somewhat reliable and, as an attorney, she assumed he knew the meaning of confidentiality. And since he had no social standing whatsoever, if he did happen to let something slip, the damage would be minimal. He was perfect.

~~~

Veronica didn’t expect Mother to come to the police station herself but she did expect her to at least send a human being. Instead she sent a sweaty, fat guy in a wrinkled suit who claimed to be a lawyer. She didn’t know squat about lawyers but she knew lowlife when she saw it. Then he made her sit in the front seat of his skuzz bucket Buick on the drive home. That was freaky, especially when he let loose with the body noises. He bent his big bowling ball head to the left to pop his neck, and then to the right. He popped his knuckles and his wrists, chomped his nails, and belched noxious gas out his potato nose. She clutched the armrest and prayed he didn’t lay down a gasser. Finally they got to Prospect Park, but instead of going all the way up the hill, he turned into the hotel parking lot and parked in the circular driveway by the big revolving doors. 

“This isn’t where I live.”

He ignored her and waved off the bellboy, who stood under an awning, behind a tall desk off to the side of the revolving doors.

“I said this isn’t where I live
.”

He stared
at her and smiled like a freak. The grody capillaries zigzagged across his cheeks and nose and looked like they might surface and shoot out like flaming whiskers. Sweat covered the collar of his wrinkled dress shirt even though the thermometer hadn’t cracked sixty-five all day. Finally he said, “I guess you’ve had a pretty rotten day?”

“No duh, Einstein.”

“It didn’t have to be like that, you know. None of it had to happen. Do you want me to tell you why?”

“My mom sent you
, mister. I’m sure you’ve got something real boss to tell me. Just take me home. Now.”

“Every time you go to Santa Marcela to buy weed—and don’t bother lying about it
because I know better—you run the risk of getting arrested. Not all the cops know you over there. You found that out for yourself. If the desk sergeant hadn’t intervened, you’d be on your way to juvenile hall right now, riding on a dirty bus that smells like puke and crapped underwear. Now, on the other hand, if you knew the right place to shop, here in Prospect Park, you’d have no problems at all.”

“Are you a drug dealer?”

“I’m someone who wants to show you how to get what you want, when you want it, without getting yourself arrested.”

“You
’re a dealer! My mom sent a drug dealer to pick me up!”

“No, and your mom doesn’t know anything about what we’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well suppose I tell her?”

“Then you lose out and I’ll deny everything. The worst that happens is
she doesn’t call me anymore.”

“
Then what are you, if you’re not a dealer. People don’t do stuff unless they get something.”

“I get something. I get what everyone wants….Every single person.” He gazed out his side window for a moment
before saying, “Do you know what that is?”

“Sure, I know what
people want,” she said confidently. “They want to have fun.”

“Fun! Just when
it looked like you had a brain in that head, you have to go and say something stupid.”

She
didn’t like this jerk, and wanted to split, but not before she heard the rest of the story. So she sat there in her red hot-pants, tie-dyed halter top, knee high white boots—her current favorite after school outfit, come rain or shine—and took shit from the man who looked like a cow.

“Its money!” he continued
. “It’s always money! And even you better learn it before it’s too late.”

“Yeah, that’s great, but you don’t have to go ape on me. Just tell me what I get and what I have to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Your mother is Judith Newfield and your aunt is Dorthea Railer, the two most powerful people in town.”

“She’s not my Aunt.
”

“Then you better
damn well make her your aunt. Your mom is good for cars and clothes and money. And she can keep you out of handcuffs in Prospect Park. But only your Aunt Dorthea can do those other things, the things Mother doesn’t know about. If I had a relation like that, I’d stick to her like shine on a baboon’s ass. I’d send her Birthday cards, Christmas cards, Easter cards, and Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday cards.”

“So, you’re saying Dorthea is a dealer?”

“I’m saying she wants to help you.”

“And why would she do that?”

“You know what I think? I think you’re scared. Your mother has told you that Aunt Dorthea will make soup out of you or turn you into a warthog and you’re scared.”

“
I’ve met Dorthea plenty of times. I’m the one who told the mayor to let her build this hotel. My mother went ape shit and screamed at me in front of a thousand people, but I still did it. I’m not scared of Dorthea or my mother or anyone else. I just don’t like being pushed around.”

“Who’s pushing?
Your aunt found out what happened today and told me to pass a message to you. That’s it. If you’re not interested I’ll just tell her. It’s not a big deal.” He put his left hand on the steering wheel and turned the key with his right.

“Wait. What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. I told you. Just pop up to your aunt’s apartment, say hi, and tell her what you want. That’s it.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“You’re coming too, right?”

“No….I’ve got some work to do here in the car, but I’ll be right here waiting for you. Ok?”

As soon as
Veronica nodded, Tubbs flashed the car’s headlights and the bellboy at the outside desk picked up the phone and dialed. Then Tubbs put the car into gear and slowly drove to the back of the hotel, past a row of big trash cans, past a pea green screen door that looked like it led to the kitchen, and around to the far side where an old man with long fuzzy sideburns stood waiting by a glass doorway that said “Emergency Exit.”

“Th
at’s Horrick, he’s a little strange but don’t let that bother you. He’ll take you the back way up. No sense getting seen going through the lobby and having word get back to your mother.”

Veronica looked out the window
at the old man who walked toward the car. He didn’t walk like a normal person. He looked down at the ground, not at the car, or at her, or even where he walked. She quickly locked the door, turned to Tubbs, and said, “What do you mean strange?”

“He’s embarrassed about
the big scar on his face so he looks at the ground a lot. You don’t have anything to worry about. The whole police force in Santa Marcela knows I picked you up. I’m not about to let you get murdered.”

Veronica unlocked
the door. Horrick pulled it open and, while still staring at the bugs on the ground, said, “Good evening, Miss. Your aunt is looking forward to visiting with you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you right up to see her.”

Veronica looked at the
fat guy one last time. He motioned toward the door with his head. Slowly she got out of the car and followed the scary weirdo through the doorway and into a long, richly paneled hallway. At the far end she saw people, and what looked like the hotel lobby, and that made her feel better. But then, after only a few steps, the old man pulled out a ring of keys, attached to a retractable chain, and jammed a key into the wall. She didn’t see a lock where he put the key but, with a whoosh, two wall panels slid apart and she saw the door to an elevator, like it had appeared out of nowhere. After stepping in, he pushed a button to close the door, took hold of another key, and unlocked a small glass door on the control panel. There was only one button inside the door. He pushed it and the elevator came to life.

The
elevator rattled upward and Veronica shifted nervously in place. It had been many years since she’d seen Dorthea, and during that time the stories about her had turned especially scary. Veronica had always said that she didn’t believe any of them, mostly to make her mother mad, but now she felt a little nervous about it. So nervous, she wouldn’t even have minded a few encouraging words from Mr. Scarface himself, but he didn’t offer any. He stared down and didn’t make a peep. Then a bell sounded, the door flew open, and he motioned for her to leave the elevator. She slowly put one foot in front of the other and crossed the threshold. Then she looked back at him but he had vanished, along with the elevator and the elevator door—replaced by seamless wood paneling, void of any buttons or telltale signs that an elevator had ever operated in the vicinity.

She fought back the urge
to run and succeeded mostly because she had no place to run to. Across the hallway from where she stood, she saw a painting on the wall. She moved in for a closer look and immediately recognized Dorthea, who sat rigidly straight in an antique French armchair, one hand folded over the other on her knee, a purple cape draped over her shoulders, a sparkling tiara on her head, a faint smile on her face, and a skinny white dog with a pointed nose by her side. Great, thought Veronica, I’m about to make friends with a crackpot who thinks she’s the bloody Queen of England.

Something
big and red caught the corner of her eye. She turned and gasped because there, at the end of the hallway, on either side of a set of closed double doors, she saw two guards, with big guns, dressed exactly like the guards she’d seen at Buckingham Palace. They had the same black slacks with red stripes, the same bright red jackets, and even the same tall, furry black helmets. She stared at them. They stared at her…or maybe they didn’t stare. No, they couldn’t, because they were made of wood. She saw their stiff wooden hands and the wood grain running down the length of their faces. And they looked exactly alike, too. Underneath the trippy helmets, past the gold colored helmet strap that looped beneath their bottom lips, they had the same eyes, eyebrows, nose, chin, and cheeks. They were either identical twins with a terrible case of wood grain complexion or they were giant dolls. And Veronica didn’t plan on finding out which it might be.

She turned and looked
diligently for the button that opened the hidden elevator.

“Hello my dear. Won’t you come in?”
said a voice that she instantly recognized. Slowly she turned her gaze back down the hallway. The double doors had opened.

She didn’t see Dorthea behind those doors, but she
did see something else, something familiar, so familiar that it called to her. She walked toward it, hypnotically, past the guards and their shiny black rifles, through the doorway, past a darkened foyer, into another room, staring at an intimate part of her life, at a personal belonging: her home. She saw Sunny Slope Manor laid out before her eyes in perfect panoramic splendor from the biggest, widest window that had ever been built. That window had to be thirty feet wide if it was a foot.

“I see you’re admiring my view.”

She turned to the left, toward the voice, and saw an old lady in a rocking chair with a blanket on her lap. A wooden reading lamp stood behind her chair and a TV with rabbit ears sat on a tarnished gold cart just off to the left. Veronica knew the face, like she knew her mother’s face, and her aunt’s, but she stared like she’d never seen it before. It was Dorthea, with her wolf eyes, and even a trace of her old beauty, but not the Dorthea that everyone had known for fifty years, or even the weird Dorthea from the painting out in the hallway. This was a new, scary Dorthea, robbed of the Parisian fashions and modern hair style, now masquerading as the little old lady from Pasadena. She wore a faded blue dress that might’ve been stylish in 1950 and a hairstyle that belonged to a Jane Austen spinster, complete with crowning bun.