Yellow Mesquite (43 page)

Harley watched him a long moment. “And you are?”

Sherylynne dropped her feet flat on the floor, slapped her knees with both hands, and laughed out loud, a high, wheezy expulsion of air. “Hey, Willie Boy. Willie, my man. Come here little drummer boy.”

The man lowered his gaze, shifted from one foot to the other.

“Sherylynne,” Harley said, his voice cracking, eyes tearing, “what has
happened
to you?”
 

She stabbed the cigarette into the glass ashtray, her artificial smile gone. “Why don’t you just get outta here! Piss off!”

“Leah, where is she?”

Sherylynne glared, a maniacal smile. “You still don’t get it do you. Leah, she isn’t yours. Let me explain. See, it was Wendell put his feet against the footboard, put mine on his shoulders, and that’s how we made Leah. You had nothing to do with it!”

Harley swept up a chair and drew it back to smash her brains out. At the last moment, seeing her drunken leer turn to stark terror, he brought the chair down on the tabletop with a
wham
that sent dishes, scotch, and cigarettes flying.
 

Sherylynne flinched back. The man she called Willie Boy disappeared back through the doorway.
 

A whimper sounded from somewhere. Harley tossed the chair and hurried to the back door.

Leah sat under a tree, digging in a sandpile with a spoon. She looked at him with her big eyes. His mind went numb. Aside from the visible fact of how much she had grown, equally visible was the fact of her matted hair, dirty face, bare feet, her grimy dress and underwear.
I let this happen
, was all he could think. He felt outside of himself—a bewildered onlooker, watching to see what he might do next.
 

“Leah,” he said softly from the doorway. “I’m your daddy. Remember me?” But he didn’t sound like himself. He was someone else.
 

Leah watched him with big solemn eyes.

He watched himself too, watched himself walk down off the back step, and squat alongside her in the sandpile. “Leah, honey, don’t be afraid. I’m your daddy. Remember? Don’t be afraid.”
 

She stared at him, at his bandaged nose, leaning back as he picked her up in his arms. He didn’t know what he was going to do, only that something must be done.
 

“Leah, honey, you’re coming with me. Don’t be afraid.”
 

“What do you think you’re doing!” Sherylynne shouted, stepping down from the rear entrance.

Leah in his arms, he broke into a run around the house. Sherylynne doubled back through the interior, and came flying out the front as he came around the side. She beat him to the car and threw herself against the driver’s door, arms spread, chin thrust out in jaw-clenched defiance. He let Leah down on the run and came up with a shot straight from the shoulder so that the heel of his open hand caught Sherylynne square on the chin. Her head knocked back against the car and she rebounded face-forward into the dirt. Leah began to wail. He snatched her up, set her inside the car, and slid in after. He threw the car in reverse, gunned it backward in a K-turn, then floored it forward. He glanced back to see Willie Boy crouched alongside the porch step, Sherylynne scrambling to get to her feet.

In a moment of clarity, and with shock, he realized he had hit her…something he wouldn’t have dreamed he was capable of…killed a dog and hit Sherylynne… He had to get control of himself, his actions taking place ahead of his thoughts, ahead of his reason…
 

“We’re going to get you some pretty new clothes, honey. A new dolly, a pretty new dolly. I bet you’d like that. Right? Some pretty new clothes and a new dolly?” He hardly knew what he was saying,
 

By the time he got to Lake Charles, Leah had pretty much quieted, though she sat away from him, sniffing from time to time. “Some little toy dishes, too. We’ll get some little dishes for your dolly, okay? How does that sound?”

He kept up a steady monologue while trying to think how to proceed. He glanced at Leah. Between the two of them—him with his battered nose, and her with her tear-streaked face, barefoot, grimy dress and underwear—they weren’t ones to blend with a crowd. He considered picking up a change for her in a shopping center, but Sherylynne would have called the police, and he needed to get Leah and himself on a plane as soon as possible. She wore normal underwear instead of a diaper, so he assumed she was potty trained.

In another forty minutes, keeping up a rambling monolog, he pulled into a Gulf station and had the tank filled. Soon afterward he drove into one of the Hertz rental return slots at the airport and killed the engine. An attendant came from the outside office.
 

“We’re gonna go get on a big airplane,” Harley said, wiping Leah’s face with tissues from a complimentary pack in the glove box. “Then we’ll get you some ice cream, okay?”

“Ice cweam,” she said solemnly, eyes glassy with tears. “Stwa-bewwy.”

“Say, you talk real well, don’t you,” he said, wiping her eyes, her face. “I didn’t know you could talk so well.”
 

Leah timidly twisted her hands in the hem of her dress. “Stwa-bewwy,” she said again.

“Well, all right! Let’s go wash your face a little bit first. Okay?”

“Chok-wit, too.”

The attendant scribbled in the mileage, tore off the stub and handed it to him. “Give this to the clerk at the counter inside. He’ll sign you out,” he said, frowning, looking one to the other.
 

Harley took Leah up in one arm, picked up his bag and went in through the glass doors. The man behind the counter was the same man he had dealt with earlier.

“Hi,” Harley said in an effort at sounding cheerful. “Brought your fine automobile back.”

The man’s gaze fixed on Leah.
 

Harley stood her down and laid the paperwork on the counter; Leah holding to his pant leg with a tiny hand. “Stwa-bewwy and chok-wit,” she said, gazing up at him.

The man looked briefly at the paperwork. “That’ll be twenty-four dollars and twelve cents. That includes insurance and tax.” The man leaned forward, frowning down at Leah.

Harley signed the paperwork while the agent returned what was left of his cash deposit.

“That child is barefoot.”

Harley glanced down. “So she is.”

“Shoes and shirts. Those are the rules.”

“Then why don’t you call the FBI or somebody,” he said, losing it for a moment.

The agent hesitated, withholding Harley’s receipt. “Are you her father?”

“No. She’s my mother.”
 

“That’s no way to take a child out in public.”

Leah looked up at the man with big serious eyes. “He hitted my mama on a nose like dis—bok!” Leah brought her tiny fist up to her nose. “Bok!”
she said again, and, blinking roundly, sat back on the floor, looking up at the man.
 

Harley picked her up, took up his bag and swung off toward the ticket counters without looking back.

Eastern, Delta and American were the most likely to have flights direct to New York. People in line at the various counters turned to look as, with Leah in his arms, he went down the row, pausing briefly before each counter, studying the departure schedules on the boards behind.
 

“Stwa-bewwy,” said Leah.

“Sure, honey. We’ll get these tickets; then we’ll wash you up a little and see if we can find a place to get some ice cream.”

“Chok-wit, too.”

“You bet. Chocolate, too.”

At the Delta counter he paused behind three men wearing similar gray suits, carrying similar briefcases. They wore loosened ties and open jackets, plastic pocket protectors stuffed with ballpoint pens. They were purchasing tickets to New Orleans on a flight that was already boarding.

He stepped to the counter as the threesome left. “That flight number seven-twelve up there, that your next flight to New York?”

The agent’s eyes skimmed over him and Leah. “That’ll be leaving at two-twenty, arriving in LaGuardia at ten-thirty-five this evening.”

“Any layovers?”

“Stops in New Orleans, but no layovers. Um, no, let’s see, change in Atlanta. You have thirty minutes there, but it’s another Delta flight. Shouldn’t be any problem.”

“What about that plane leaving for New Orleans now? You have two seats?”

“You’ll have a layover in New Orleans, still have to connect with the later flight, the one leaving here at two-twenty.”

Harley shifted Leah to his other arm and took out his wallet. “That’s okay. We’ll take it if there’s still time.”

The agent glanced at his watch. “Plenty time, but you could save a little money by taking the later flight.”

“Thanks, but we’ll take this one.”
 

The agent brought up two tickets. “I’ll write these all the way through to New York for you, save you a little money anyway.”

“That’s good of you. Thanks.”

“Round-trip?”

“One-way.”

“Name?”

“James. James Anderson.”
 

“And the little lady?”

“Mary Ann Anderson.”

Harley paid with his credit card. He picked up his bag to head for the departure gate.
 

“Mr. Buchanan?” someone said behind him.

He paused, his worst fear being realized.

Chapter 46

Setback

H
E TURNED TO
see two policemen, one no older than himself, the other a heavy middle-aged man.

So. This was it. He saw Leah’s future, her life, slipping out of his grasp. “You talking to me?”
 

The cops frowned, studying him, studying Leah. “You’re Harley Buchanan? Right?”
 

“Yes…”

“You need to come with us, please.”

A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd. Leah nestled closer in his arms, held tighter around his neck, making his nose ache.

“Come with you where?”

 
“We don’t wanna hafta cuff you,” said the younger man.

Harley picked up his bag with his free hand. Then he and Leah were escorted aside, out of the line. Leah watched the men with large serious eyes.
 

“You’re arresting me? For what?” There was just a chance they were nailing him for Whitehead.

“Let’s just say we’re detaining you for the moment.”

“Listen, we have a plane to catch.”

“You her daddy?” asked the younger man.

“Of course I’m her daddy.”

“Where’re you going with her?” the older man wanted to know.

“Back home. New York. What do you think, like I’m a kidnapper or something?”

“Don’t be giving us a hard time.” The older man placed his hand firmly on Harley’s back. The crowd looked on as the two cops began walking him toward the outside drop-off and pickup area. Leah clung to his neck, watching intently.

 
“This is nuts,” Harley said. “We’re going to miss our flight.”

“You’d better be glad,” said the older man. “Cross the state line, that’s kidnapping. Federal stuff.”
 

“Kidnapping? My own daughter?”

“Her mother, she filed a complaint.”

“Her mother’s crazy as hell—a falling-down, weed-patch drunk.”

The younger man tilted his head back with what might be a smirk. “You don’t look like you just stepped outta
Gentleman’s Quarterly
yourself. What happened to your face?”

“Car wreck. Hit my nose on the steering wheel.”

“You file a report?”

“I ran into a pump-jack, an oil rig, out near Midland, in the middle of nowhere.”

“And you didn’t file a report?”

“It was my car, an old junker.”

“Driving without insurance?”

“What’re we talking about here, my accident or my daughter?”

“Don’t go gettin’ testy,” said the younger man.

“If you’d seen how she was living… Look at her.”

Leah held to him, chin trembling, on the verge of tears.
 

“Her mother have legal custody?” the older man asked.

“Her mother took her and came off down here, and I assumed she was being taken care of like any normal mother would. Neither one of us has
custody
.” Lying a little. “Yeah, I’m taking her home.”

“Well, that’s not for us to decide.” The older man opened the door of a gray sedan at the curb and held it for him. People stood back to watch as, without much choice, he got in with Leah. There was a mesh grille between the front and back seats. The inside door handles had been removed. The younger cop slid in behind the wheel.

Leah lost interest for the moment, leaning forward, inspecting the grille, running her fingers through the openings until the older cop turned in his seat and she fell back into Harley’s arms. “Worst thing about this job,” said the older man, “getting in other people’s squabbles.”
 

When they arrived at the station house, the older man opened the rear door and Harley got out carrying Leah. The cops, one on either side, walked him up the station house steps. Sherylynne and the man she called Willie Boy were waiting inside.
 

Leah’s face lit up. “Mama! Mama!” she cried, one arm outstretched to Sherylynne, the other around Harley’s neck.

“Goddamn you!” Sherylynne shouted, rushing forward.
 

“Whoa! Right where you are!” said the younger cop, stepping in front. Sherylynne tried to dodge, but he grabbed her by the arm. “Whoa, I said!”

Sherylynne jerked free. “Let go of me!”

“Hey!” yelled the cop, red in the face.

“I want him arrested!”
 

“Lady, you smell like a damn brewery! Any more out of you, you’re the one gonna get arrested.”

Willie Boy huddled in one of the folding metal chairs along the wall, picking nervously at his chin.
 

A policewoman appeared, sharp-featured, dark, a faint mustache, brows grown together. Harley thought briefly of the Mexican painter, Frida Kahlo.

“Maria,” the older cop said, “take the kid here till we can get this straightened out.”

Harley withdrew. “She’s not going anywhere but right here.”