The Art of Crash Landing (30 page)

I'm not sure where she's going with this, but if she's talking at least she's not on her way home. “I had a family, Karleen.”

“Just you and your mom? That's not a family. No brothers, no
sisters, no grandparents, no real dad, just some asshole bartender you don't even know.”

“I have a real dad, Karleen,” I tell her, and it's the truth. “His name is Herman, but I call him Queeg.”

“If Genie had stayed here and married Trip, you'd have a big brother or sister, and everything would be just fine. I would've gotten over being mad, and Genie and me would have been friends forever.” She gives a giant wet sniff. Her voice has gone from drunk-blurry to crying-drunk-blurry. “Instead, now I've got to go home and take care of Orten—”

“You do not need to go take care of that man, Karleen. Just stay where you are for tonight. He's probably fine.”

“That's just it,” she says. “He was still breathing when I left. I've decided that's unacceptable.”

“Hold on now . . .” Holy crap, she's going to kill him. My mind is racing. I need to figure out some way to keep her away from her house. “Did you drive to the church?”

“What do you think? Have you seen the weather?”

“You're in no condition to drive home, Karleen. Let me come get you.”

“It's only a couple blocks.”

“But if you get pulled over, your whole plan is ruined. Let me drive you. I'll help you with Orten.”

“You'd do that for me?”

“Of course I will. I promise. Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“But I thought you didn't have a car—”

“I'll use JJ's truck.”

“What?”

“He lives right next door,” I explain. “He'll loan me his truck.” I put a lot more certainty in that statement than I actually feel.

“Mr. Jackson is living there? I thought you said he was in a nursing home.”

“Wait a minute, hold on . . .” My mind shuffles facts around, trying to make sense of what she just said. “Are you telling me that Fritter's brother, Jonah Jackson, is JJ, the owner of JJ's Auto Works?”

“Sure. JJ—Jonah Jackson. When he got sick a few years back, his son moved to town and took over the business.”

With an almost audible click the pieces fall into place. I close my eyes and picture the boy in the photo and add thirty-five unhappy years to his face.

“Karleen, the man who lives next door to me is Trip, isn't it?”

“Of course,” she replies. “How could you not know that?”

“How would I? He never introduced himself. He drives around with the name JJ on his truck, why wouldn't I assume he's JJ? What the hell kind of a name is Trip anyway?”

She chuckles softly. “Jonah Joseph Jackson III. What other nickname would he have?”

O
utside, the rain and wind are back in full force. By the time I get to JJ's porch—Trip's porch—my jeans are so wet that I don't know why I bothered to dry them at all. There are lights on, so I'm hopeful that he won't be too angered by my late-night visit. In fact now that I'm up close to his house I hear music. There's a light coming from the window to the right of the door, so I walk over and peer inside. I expect a television, or a stereo, but it's JJ, aka Trip, seated at an upright piano on the far wall of his dining room. The song he's playing is familiar, probably recognizable as something other than the soundtrack of a car commercial by somebody classier than me. It just makes me want to buy a Hyundai.

I rap on the glass with my knuckles. He jumps and spins around, looking in my direction, but I suspect that he's not able to see anything other than his own reflection in the dark glass. I knock again for good measure.

I hear barking coming from inside the house.

He stands and leaves his dining room, so I hurry over to meet him at the door. He opens it a crack and scowls at me over a
security chain. At his feet is a Winston, its little pig-nose pressed into the three-inch gap between the door and the frame.

“
You
have the dogs?” I say, feeling a mixture of anger and relief.

He has a strange look on his face as he nods. “Yes I do. One in here and one in the garage.”

“The garage?” I lean over and tickle the neck of the dog. It's the smaller Winston. He's snorting and licking my hand. After a final scratch under his chin I straighten and glare at Trip.

“So, you're hiding one in the garage?”

“I'm not hiding—”

“Were you afraid I'd hear them barking?”

“I wasn't—”

“I bet you had a good time watching me worry.”

“No, I—”

“Chewing me out for being irresponsible, while all the time you—”

“Damn it, would you just shut up a minute?” he says, with enough force to make me shut up a minute.

“The other dog is in the garage in a trash bag. He's dead. I found him out on the loop.”

I look down at the dog still snuffling at the doorjamb. “How'd you find—”

“He was there, lying next to him,” he says. “At first I thought they were both gone.”

We stare at each other for a second. He's angry and at the same time he's trying not to cry. At least that's what I think is going on, judging from the one eye peering at me above the chain.

“Is this one okay?”

He nods.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Yes you are,” he replies.

The look he's giving me makes it clear just what a sorry sack of shit he thinks I am. But even though I'm not the one who left the gate open, I'm not ratting out Tawny. I'm good at guilt; I've got room left on my shoulders for a little more.

“Thank you, for . . . um bringing them home,” I say.

He doesn't reply.

“And I need a favor, a ride, actually. It's important.”

Trip laughs, shakes his head, and then before I can say anything else, he closes the door.

At first I assume that he shut it to take off the chain, but after several seconds pass I see the light switch off in his dining room. I'm wrong. He's not letting me in, or coming out on the porch; he's going to bed.

I ring the doorbell, several times, which starts the remaining Winston barking again. And again the door opens a crack, but Trip isn't laughing anymore.

“I really do need your help,” I tell him.

“I'm not interested.”

“It's Karleen Meeker. She and her husband got in a fight. I think it's bad.”

“Orten and Karleen have been trading punches for years without your help.”

“But she's waiting for me at the church.”

“Is Orten there with her?”

“No.”

“Then she's fine.” He takes a step back, and I can tell he's about to shut the door again. I quickly wedge my foot in the gap, giving a little gasp when he presses the door into my wet shoe. This trick doesn't work so well with Converse sneakers.

“Please, just this one thing—”

“I don't think so.”

“Look, I know you don't like me, and you're pissed at my mom, but—”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I want to show you something.”

“Not interested.”

“But I figured it out,” I say, my voice raised against the sound of the storm. “I know why she left you, Trip.”

His face changes as soon as I call him Trip. His eyes narrow and when he lifts his hand up to the door, I wisely slide my foot out of the gap. The slam of the door shakes the porch.

I consider my options. I pull out my phone and try Luke, but again it goes straight to voice mail. I think of Father Barnes, but the only number I have for him is at the church—that's no help. And even if I find his home number, I suspect he'll be in no shape to drive. I look at the darkened houses along the street. Would any of them offer a ride to a wet stranger at two a.m.? I don't have Tawny's cell phone number, but I try, with no success, to use my phone to look up Fritter's number—I even call 411 but she's not listed. Shit, don't I have
anybody
else's number?

Ah! An image of a pen gripped in thick fingers . . . I frisk my jean pockets and sure enough there is something there. One pocket still holds the phone book page, which is now just a stiff gray wad, but Gordon Penny's card in the other pocket fared better. It's crumpled and faded from the laundry, but the phone number he wrote on the back is still legible.

A woman answers on the third ring. I convince her to put her husband on the line, but I have a feeling he's going to have some explaining to do later. My conversation with Mr. Penny mainly consists of me pleading with increasing desperation, and him refusing with increasing firmness. He's not interested in helping Karleen, and he's not interested in helping me. As we go round
and around I'm wishing that I'd paid more attention to Karleen when she explained Gordon Penny's grudge. It was something about a costume party and a nickname . . . A superhero, I think . . . Maybe . . . I'm almost sure . . .

“I don't understand what your problem is,” I say once I've pieced together what I remember. “Flash Gordon isn't that bad a nickname.”

There's a silence, one long enough to get my hopes up. And then I hear Gordon Penny sigh. “I was large, even back then, you know.” His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him. “It was
Flesh
, Ms. Wallace. The nickname your mother gave me was
Flesh
Gordon.”

And right there the impossible happens—I feel a stab of tenderness for lip-licking Gordon Penny, or at least the little boy he used to be. I tell him that I'm sorry, and then I try one last time. “Is there anything I can say that will convince you to just let all that go and come help me?”

He hesitates, and for a second I think he's considering it. Then he says, “Sorry, Ms. Wallace. You can't unring a bell.”

As if I didn't already know that.

I hear a sound behind me, and I turn to see Trip's door opening.

“You're still here?”

“I still need a ride.”

He steps out on the porch. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Gordon Penny.”

“Flesh?”

I wince.

“Why were you talking to him?”

“I have his number. He has a car. I need a ride.”

Trip looks away, shifting his weight back and forth. He seems to be making a decision. I hold my breath.

“You said you had something to show me?” he asks.

“Wait right here.”

I run through the rain back to my grandmother's house, in the front door and up the stairs, muddy water staining the carpet. Up in the darkroom, I yank the prints off the wire, shove them into a plastic trash bag and then hurry back through the storm.

His porch lights are on now, and he's standing by the door, waiting, his white T-shirt glowing an unnatural yellow under the bug lights. Breathing hard, I thump up the four stairs and thrust the bag into his hand.

“What's this?” he says.

“Here.” I reach out and dry my hands on the edge of his shirt, which gets me another scowl, and then I open the bag and hand him the first photo.

“Here's my mom. You guys were out camping I think.” It's the picture of her laughing, surrounded by trees.

“She kept all those?” He looks a little worried. I think he's remembering his moment of beefcake glory.

“I only found a few,” I tell him, keeping my face neutral. I don't need to piss him off any more than I already have.

He nods, apparently satisfied that his modesty has been preserved.

I hand him the picture of Tilda. “See how much I look like my grandmother when she was young?”

He looks at it and then at me. “So?”

“When I talked to your dad today, he thought—”

“You went out to see my father?” Uh oh. He's looking angry again.

“Fritter took me to visit him,” I say, which is truthy enough to pass in the middle of the night in a rainstorm when I need a ride.

“Anyway, when I went to see him, he kept apologizing to me over and over. I've never met him before in my life.”

Trip looks again at the photo in his hand and then back at me. “He thought you were Tilda.”

“He said,
I never knew until I saw her
.”

“I still don't understand what you're getting at.”

I hand him the photo of himself, young and serious, staring at the camera, his wet hair slicked back.

“Take a look,” I tell him.

He glances at it. “So what? It's me.”

“Now this one.” I hand him the one of my mother in a similar pose, looking at the camera, her hair darkened from the water and pulled away from her face.

“Hold them side by side,” I say.

He studies the photos for a long time before lifting his gaze to meet mine. His face seems to have paled, although it's hard to judge with the jaundiced lighting.

“Eugene Wallace wasn't my grandfather,” I say.

He shakes his head. “But . . .”

“Eugene was gay—”

“Gay?”

“Very gay. As in Tilda-walked-in-on-him-and-another-dude-going-at-it gay. So then Tilda got all upset, and your dad gave her a ride, pardon the pun.”

“How could you possibly know all this?”

“I got it straight from Eugene's lover. He told me that Tilda caught them together at a party, and that your dad gave Tilda a ride home. I don't know if she and your dad did anything on that particular night—maybe they hooked up some other time. But look at the pictures—”

“That still doesn't mean that Eugene and Tilda never—”

“I know, but think about it—”

“This is impossible—”

“Is it? Tilda was freaked out about you dating my mother, right?”

He nods.

“I thought you looked familiar from the very first time I saw you. I still can't believe I didn't see it until now.”

“Damn it, there's no way—”

“Did you look at the pictures? You're tall, and my mom was petite. You had short auburn hair and hers was big and blond. But she bleached her hair; in fact, Tilda practically forced my mother to keep it bleached blond. My mom had red hair, Trip. She had green eyes and you have . . .” I lean forward but the light is too dim for me to make out his eye color. “I don't know. But just look at those black-and-white pictures. With her hair dark from the water and slicked back, and the differences in your sizes taken away, the resemblance is unmistakable.”

He looks at the photos again and then back up at me. There are tears in his eyes.

“Why wouldn't she just tell me?”

“What would she have said? ‘Hey, guess what? You knocked up your half-sister?'”

“Dear God.” With shaking hands, he thrusts the photos at me and then walks to the far edge of the porch. With his back turned, he leans over the railing, his shoulders shaking. Crying? Retching? I can't tell. I glance at my phone to check the time. Shit. This is taking too long.

Finally he straightens, and walks back over, his gray hair wet with rain, sparkling in the harsh light.

“I want you to leave,” he says.

“I think when my mom saw these pictures, she confronted her mother, and Tilda told her the truth.”

“Go. Now.”

“This means I'm your niece.”

His eyes narrow and he gives me a look of such rage that I have to fight an urge to flinch.

“You heard me,” he says. “Get out of here.”

“But I really need that ride—”

“I don't think so.”

“Just let me borrow your truck—”

“No way.”

“But I told Karleen—”

“That's no business of mine.”

“She's at the church right now, but if somebody doesn't stop her, she's going to go back home to Orten, and one of them is going to end up dead tonight.”

For a few seconds he considers what I just said, but as I watch, I see his face close back down. “Call the cops,” he says, and then he turns and walks to his front door.

“You used to date her. Surely you don't want her dead, or in jail for killing Orten.”

“Good night.”

“But I promised her I'd come.”

“Well, I guess letting people down runs in your family.” His hand is on the doorknob.

“Wait, please!”

He pauses.

“I really think my mom thought that leaving was the right thing to do.”

“I never got married,” he says. “I never had any kids.” Shaking his head, he opens the door and then turns back to me. “I spent my whole life believing that love couldn't be trusted.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think my mother did, too.”