The Eternal Engagement (12 page)

CHAPTER 27

Steven

 

 

F
or the first time his mom might be wrong.

After dragging a long stream of smoke into his throat, down to his lungs, he held his breath. Slowly he exhaled through his nostrils. He pinched the butt of the filtered cigarette, contemplating what to do next. White clouds escaped his mouth as he mumbled, “Took them long enough to get out of his raggedy truck and go into the café.”

Should he storm into the café, snatch her by the arm, and wrap her hair around his fist or grab her legs, then drag her ass out. Nah, if he were going to do that, he would've done so fifteen minutes ago when Davis's windows were fogged up like the day he'd sexed Mona in the back of his SUV at Grist Park.

All Steven saw was Mona's footprints against the glass. He didn't want witnesses if he beat Davis's ass, then broke his neck for going down on his wife.

The nicotine calmed him as he took another drag. He crushed the tip of the cigarette into the ashtray. “Too many people with videophones and shit.” He'd give her one last chance to do what was right.

An incoming call on his cell interrupted his intentions. “Hey, Katherine. What's up?”

“Hi, Steven. Is this a good time? I don't mean to bother you,” she said. “But, well, this is out of character for me, but can you send the ten thousand dollars you promised me for helping you with the McKenny case? It's been six months, the holidays are coming up, and I could use the money for my son. I wouldn't ask if—”

Abruptly, he stopped her monologue. “You did catch me at a bad time. A very bad time,” then ended the call. Until she told him how that case made national news, he wasn't giving her shit.

Whatever her desperation was, it was his money until he gave it to her. It was best to let Katherine find solutions to her financial situation. He had his own problems to worry about.

He entered the café, then slid onto the stool at the end of the counter farthest from them and watched Mona with Davis. She smiled, laughed, giggled like the little girl he remembered with plaits and barrettes. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

Mona's girlish mannerisms were the same as when he first saw her dangling from the monkey bars back in elementary school. She picked a strip of bacon from Davis's plate, sucked the pork instead of biting it.

A tall, heavyset woman wearing black denims and a black T-shirt almost blocked his view. “Hey, suga. My name is Sally. I'll be your waitress. What would you like to drink?”

Leaning to the left, not taking his eyes off Mona Lisa, Steven said, “I'll take a regular coffee, black.”

“Sure thing, suga, anything else?”

“Yeah, a piece of paper and a pen.”

Mona's back was to him. She was so into that bastard that she had no idea he was there. But she should've known, as promised, he'd resurface. Should've known it wasn't that easy to leave him for good. She should've gotten the hell up outta Bakersfield. How dare she sit in the booth where the black-and-white photo of Elvis hung on the wall between them. That was their table! That was his woman!

“You ain't nothin' but a hound dog,” played in his head. The guy she was with was definitely more than a friend to Mona. A lot more. But not for much longer.

The waitress sat the pen, a blank sheet of paper from her receipt book, and the porcelain coffee cup on the counter in front of him. Still not taking his eyes off Mona, he sipped his coffee, then wrote, “If you don't want me to cause a scene up in here, meet me out back by the Dumpster in five minutes. If you're one second late, I'm coming back in to get your ass.” He scribbled the time—3:30pm.

“You know what you want to eat, suga?” Sally asked, holding her pen in one hand, pad in the other.

“I've lost my appetite. But you can do me a favor,” he said, folding his note in half, then in half again.

“What's that, suga?”

Placing the paper in her hand, he said, “Give this to the lady over there with the honey-colored eyes,” he said, pointing.

“Unless she's got eyes in the back of her head, how do you know that, handsome?”

Hmm. How did he know that? He'd gazed into her eyes many nights as they slept in the same bed. Even the nights they didn't have sex, he still held her in his arms. She was the first and only girl he loved. Why did she treat him so bad?

First Lincoln, now he had to deal with this dude, Davis. Once Steven found that truck and got the license plate number, it wasn't hard to find out who Davis Singletary was and where he lived.

Steven answered, “The one sitting beneath the king of rock and roll. That's the one. You'll see.”

Whatever happened to William Lincoln—Mr. Starting Running Back with the tight ass, MVP, highly recruited nationwide by major Division I colleges—after he joined the military?

Today, Katherine would get the ten thousand he'd promised her. He was so pissed off with Mona that he'd directed his anger toward Katherine too. He'd wire her the funds, then find out what he needed to know.

One thing he knew, if Mona kept fucking up, Katherine wouldn't need to ask for another dime. He'd pay Katherine a lot more to help him frame Mona's ass. After all he'd done for Mona, she was bold enough to take off his ring.

“Whom should I say this note is from, suga?”

“She'll know.” He handed Sally a ten-dollar bill for her trouble and the coffee, then walked outside.

If he hadn't moved to Bakersfield, if he hadn't made those phone calls to Daniel and Katherine, if he hadn't gotten caught up assassinating, if he hadn't confessed to Mona about the killings, if he hadn't made one bad decision after another, Mona would've never left him.

If he didn't have another assignment in this oil-pumping town, he'd leave and drag Mona with him, start all over. Steven was willing to work hard to mend his marriage. But would Mona give him the chance?

He paced beside the Dumpster waiting for Mona to arrive. The white pit bull caged inside a fence adjacent to the parking lot kept pace with him.

Steven rehearsed what he'd say to her when she got there. His voice echoed in his head. “Mona, let's go.” That should be sufficient. Not really, knowing Mona. She was stubborn. Maybe he could ask her, “How long do you plan to continue this ridiculous affair?”

Scrolling through his list of favorites, he pressed the name at the top.

“Hey, Buttercup! I'm so glad you called. You still got that good job at the oil com—”

“Ma, I need for you to write a check for ten thousand dollars payable to Katherine Clinton. Please don't ask me any questions. Just do it. I'll explain later. Katherine is going to stop by today and pick it up.”

“Butter—”

“I love you, Ma. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye.”

Steven ended the call, then phoned Katherine and told her to pick up the check from his parents' house. Actually having his mother write the check could prove helpful later.

Mona had done a lot of things to humiliate him, but this morning was the most despicable. Really. Fucking Davis in front of the Rabobank Arena. And as if that weren't enough, her footprints, still on his windshield, were wide enough for Davis to have been doing what Mona enjoyed most—having her pussy licked.

Steven didn't care that the sheriff's department was less than two hundred feet away. If he didn't love his freedom and Mona Lisa, he'd go back inside the café and shoot her in the head.

CHAPTER 28

Lincoln

 

 

L
iving with post-traumatic stress disorder was killing him slowly.

He never got accustomed to living under bridges, on streets, or in parks, but he was trying to adjust to his new way of living. He refused to stand by the freeway with a sign that read “Homeless Vet Will Work for Food.” His pride wouldn't allow that.

Dry skin covered his body, made him scratch like a crack addict. His hair matted into the neatest afro he could pat close to his head. Jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt, smelly. He couldn't afford to wash his clothes. The folks at the mission occasionally gave him a place to sleep, let him take a quick shower, and gave him clean clothes. But like with VA housing, the mission's beds were given to people with greater needs than his.

Today he had hope again that someone would hear his prayers. Lincoln sat waiting for his name to be called. He rocked back and forth in the cold, plastic armless orange chair. His fist rested in his palm, feet spread six inches apart. He leaned over his lap, his head aligned with the floor. He stared between his combat boots at the white square tile and kept rocking. His eyes shifted quickly, left right left right. From ear to ear, the enemy was always near.

Lincoln hit the floor. “Don't nobody move!”

His fingers pointed at the patients in the waiting room. One turn after another, he rolled his body several times toward the door. A woman with a small baby in her arms moved to the opposite side of the room. He rolled back to his seat. Cautiously he balanced himself on his hands and knees, sprang to his feet, saluted the receptionist, then sat back in the cold orange chair.

He placed his fist in his palm, stared at the six-inch opening between his feet. He leaned forward. Left. Right. Left. Right. His eyes shifted.

The lady sitting next to him whispered, “I'm sorry. My eyeglass case always snaps loud like that when I close it. I won't do that again.”

For a moment he was thankful. She seemingly understood his suffering. Perhaps because she was the wife or family member of a vet that also had PTSD.

“William Lincoln.” Someone had called out his name.

He sprang to his feet, stood tall, saluted, then slapped his hands by his side. “Yes, sir!”

The nurse at the VA clinic in Seattle escorted him to the back. “I'm just going to check your blood pressure. I need to wrap the band around your biceps. You'll feel a little pressure, but this won't hurt a bit,” she said.

Lincoln sat as the band tightened. More and more air filled the black pouch strapped to him. “That's enough!” he shouted. The prescribed medication he once resisted was now the main substance sustaining him. But he'd run out of pills yesterday.

He'd be the last to admit he was psychotic. Didn't want anyone to call him crazy. But when he didn't take his meds, his mental instability worsened. He deserved a decent paycheck from Uncle Sam.

He didn't have enough money to pay Katherine the back child support Katherine's mother had yelled about when he called their house six months ago, so he hadn't called back. Katherine and his son, the son he'd only heard about, were the main reasons he'd go back to Selma. He needed somebody to love and somebody to love him. But best to stay put in Seattle until he could provide for them.

“The doctor will see you now.” The nurse escorted him to a small, cold office with a wooden desk and two plastic chairs, one on each side of the desk.

“Hey, William, how are you doing? Come on in and have a seat,” the doctor said, not looking up from his laptop computer. “Thanksgiving is two days away. Got any plans?”

Lincoln sat in the chair, feet in his comfortable position, fist in palm. He scratched the back of his neck, twitched his head, then placed his fist back in his palm.

“I heard you had a mild anxiety attack out in the waiting area,” the doctor said, still not looking at him. “I'll write you a prescription for a stronger antidepressant.”

Bam!
Lincoln pounded his fist on the desk.

“Look at me when you're talking to me! I deserve that much respect.”

Calmly, the doctor looked him in his eyes. “William, I'm doing my best. I have almost a thousand patients to see. Look, don't you have someone who can financially sponsor a private doctor for you? Send you to a therapist?”

“Man, you asked me this the last time I was in here. And the answer is the same. I've given ten years of my life to the military to come back to this country for what? I can't provide for my fiancée or my son. I refuse to call my parents. They don't give a damn about me. And my grandparents are barely making it on their fixed income. Why should anyone other than my government take care of me?”

The doctor pressed his lips together, thought for a moment, then said, “Friends. You have any friends that could sponsor your medical needs through an HMO?” He handed Lincoln several prescriptions.

Friends?
Lincoln thought for a moment. Maybe Mona would help him if she wasn't mad at him. He pressed a few buttons on his cell phone, accessed the Internet, located Mrs. Ellington's home phone number. It hadn't changed.

“Maybe I do have one person I consider a friend left,” Lincoln said. “Let's see.”

The phone rang. “Hello,” a woman answered.

“Hi, may I speak with Mrs. Ellington.”

“This is she. Who's speaking?” Her voice was firm.

“William Lincoln, ma'am. I was hoping I could get Mona's cell number from you.”

“I'm sure she'll take your call. When you talk to her, tell her her mother said hello,” Mrs. Ellington sarcastically said, then recited Mona's number. “Lincoln, how are you doing?”

“Not good at all, ma'am. Joining the military was a bad decision for me. Well, thanks, and I'll give Mona your message,” he said, ending the call.

The doctor was staring at his computer screen, clicking on keys. “Now, see, that wasn't so bad, was it? Glad I could help.”

Lincoln stood, looked down at him, shook his head, then walked away. When he reached for the doorknob, the doctor said, “Wait, I think I overlooked something. Have a seat, William.”

Think he overlooked something?
Sitting on the edge of the chair, Lincoln spread his feet six inches apart, placed his fist in his palm.

Smack!
The doctor clapped his hands. Lincoln remained calm.

“Hot damn, William! Your housing choice voucher is approved! You can pick it up Friday, day after tomorrow. You'll be in your new place well before Christmas. We did it, William! We did it!”

We?
Right.

Lincoln sat listening to the doctor explain what to do next. His phone buzzed. It was a text message from Katherine.