“What’s up, Ma’am?”
I take a knee, unzip my JanSport, and produce Arlene’s wooden box.
For a second, no one says anything. Finally, Ahab says, “Where did you get that?”
His question is quiet, not accusatory.
“Arlene,” I whisper. “Your aunt—I was on the bus with her. The one that crashed.”
Albert sits up in his chair and takes off his aviators. There’s something in his eyes, some deep well of empathy.
“What’s wrong with everybody?” grunts Caleb, still in Ahab’s clenches. “It’s just a box.”
Without thinking twice, Ahab lifts Caleb up by his hoodie, and punches him once, twice, three times in the face. Blood splatters across the gravel roof, as well as a single tooth. The look in Ahab’s eyes isn’t murderous. It’s the look of a man who did what had to be done. Caleb drops to the ground unconscious. Considering the solemnity of the moment he interrupted, I’m thinking he got off pretty easy.
Ahab is in front of me now, looking at the box, then at me, and I suddenly can’t stop crying. It’s crazy, because Arlene was his aunt, not mine. I didn’t know her all that well, not really. I didn’t know her favorite color or movie, or what kind of music she liked, or if she preferred lakes to oceans. I didn’t even know her last name. But maybe those aren’t the things that channel love. Maybe the true conduit is more elusive than that. Maybe. And I think Ahab understands, because now his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s crying, too, and he doesn’t ask any questions, which I’m beyond grateful for. Handing the box over, I search for something memorable and eloquent to mark the occasion. Arlene was one of a kind, a true friend when I needed one, a grande dame from the old school. She was the sweetest of old ladies, and I will miss her dearly. All of these things are true, but the words I choose are far more profound.
“She smelled like cookies,” I whisper through tears.
Ahab laughs and so do I, and it occurs to me again how often laughter accompanies tears. Now Albert has joined us, and when I look up at him, the sun hits me squarely in the face. He slides his aviators into my hands, then pats me on the back.
“Finder’s fee,” he says.
Ahab lifts the gold chain off his neck. Dangling from the end, an old-fashioned skeleton key fits the lock perfectly. He turns his wrist, opening the box with a click.
This is his, not mine.
I pick up my backpack and walk halfway around the tank when his voice stops me. “You wanna know what’s inside?”
Maybe it’s the sun, or the emotion of reuniting Ahab with some piece of his dear dead aunt, but whatever the reason—in this moment, on the rooftop of this gas station—I miss my mother terribly.
I turn, take one last look at Ahab, dripping wet in his ridiculous clothes, holding his precious wooden box; behind him, his whale of a boyfriend is back in his chair, lounging in the shade, sipping a daiquiri like he’s on the beaches of Aruba.
“You could tell me,” I say, rounding the tank. Then, slipping on Albert’s aviators, I throw open the trapdoor. “But I probably wouldn’t believe you.”
22
The Mistress of Moxie
September 3—midmorning
Dear Isabel,
Dim the lights.
Raise the curtains.
Cue the amped-up, percussive spy music. (Film noir, not Bond.)
Standing in the shadows of trees, rooftop pools, and fat, drunken slobs, Our Heroine comes face-to-face with a different kind of shadow: her arch nemesis, Shadow Kid (duhn-duhn-duuuuh!!!!). Shadow Kid tests Our Heroine’s theory that heroes are not without blemish, villains not without virtue. If Shadow Kid holds a single ounce of virtue in his heart, thinks Our Heroine, it is kept well hidden. It isn’t the first time her theory has been put to test, and it won’t be the last.
With more than a little help from her sidekicks, Our Heroine escapes the clutches of Shadow Kid unscathed, unfettered, and unmurdered. Much to her chagrin, however, she now must deal with the inept Constable Randy, and though Our Heroine has done nothing wrong . . .
Okay, cut, cut, cut.
Sorry, Iz—I had every intention of keeping up the cloak-and-dagger-Bogart-forties-black-and-white bullshit, but honestly, I just don’t have it in me. I’m too hungry. And pissed. I’m hungry and pissed, and I’m sure you understand.
So.
Northern Kentucky seems to be experiencing a substance and despair monsoon.
How do I know this?
Well, right now I’m sitting in an interrogation room at the Independence police station. I’m not under arrest or anything, but apparently little things like constitutional rights don’t matter here in Independence. (I know. The irony. I just . . . I can’t.)
Anyway, it appears I have some time on my hands, so let’s talk Reasons.
Reason #7 ends with a pill, and begins with a grizzly bear.
GRIZZLY BEAR
(Feared, Murdered, Stuffed, Admired)
Ferocious? Yep.
Out of place? Bingo.
Key ingredient to the world’s most awesome doctor’s office waiting room? You bet your sweet ass.
I still remember my first visit to Dr. Makundi’s office like it was yesterday. The waiting room had toys for the kids and magazines for the parents, but it also had that life-sized, stuffed grizzly. For everyone.
On the first of what would turn out to be just under a hundred visits to Dr. Makundi’s office, I walked right up to that giant brown grizzly and touched its claw. I was eleven at the time, and it was a bear, so really, I had no choice. (I mean. It was a bear. A bear.) So I stood there, cowering in its ever-still shadow, staring into those great glassy eyes, positive the thing would come alive at any moment and swallow me whole. I recalled one of my favorite childhood stories, Pierre by Maurice Sendak, about a lion who swallowed a naughty boy named Pierre. (Have you read this book? My God, it is deliciously macabre!) Anyway, as I was quite a naughty child, I was sure the bear would turn out to be just like that lion, which is to say, I was sure he would swallow me whole.