A Room on Lorelei Street (14 page)

She rushes, but the bus is gone.

They don't wait for anyone, especially dangerous, cursing criminals like her. She hurries to her car to catch up. If she is late to the courts at Gorman High, the coach will assign her to the barely-worth-it matches. He runs a tight ship, he says. Everyone must pull their weight and that includes being on time. She hates his ship analogies. For God's sake, there isn't a boat or a lake within a hundred miles. But the buses move slowly. If she hurries, she can catch up. She'll change clothes in the car at signals. Give some old geezer a thrill. Or maybe change on the long stretch between the refineries and Gorman. It's flat and straight, so a knee and cruise control can take care of the necessities. She aced her match with Lisa Dobson at the last practice. Lisa, who is third on the team—or was. The coach noticed. So did Amy and Kendra, the first and second on the team. And so did Opal, who cheered and waved her flag. She won't be late. Not for this match. She is Zoe Beth Buckman, who makes Mr. Bel-up-his-ass sweat and tremble, and makes the tight-as-a-ship coach take notice.

She presses on the gas, and the Thunderbird squeals out of the parking lot. She steers with one hand and unbuttons her shirt with the other. The signals cooperate and she is out of Ruby, and then Duborn, in nine minutes. She searches the ribbon of highway ahead for a glimpse of yellow. Nothing. She eases the gas pedal farther to the floor. Today is her day. She can feel it. And she won't be late so Opal can only cheer her on in a lousy doubles-baby-burp match.

Where is the damn bus? The refineries are in sight but not a trace of yellow anywhere. How could they have gotten so far so fast? She pushes the speedometer to seventy-five and rummages through her sports bag on the seat beside her, pulling out her team T-shirt. She holds the steering wheel with her knee as she slips off her blouse. Today's match fills her head. Something to celebrate when she has friends over tonight. The thought clutches her stomach with its newness. A celebration at her own place without worry of Mama slurring into the middle of it all. She will be lighter. Lighter than she has ever been. But the lightness always comes paired with guilt. Mama is alone.

“I can't think about you.” She shoves thoughts of Mama aside before they can steal her concentration. She passes the last row of trailers at Sunset Gardens and still no sign of the bus. Did they leave early? She is a hair short of eighty, and the buses go a slow fifty miles per hour. And then she sees it, a boxy glimpse of yellow just as the highway begins to curve. She eases on the gas and heaves a breath she didn't know she was holding, but in the same breath another color flashes her eyes. Red. Flashing red in her rearview mirror, and in an instant her chest seems to burst upward through her throat. “Shit!” The explosion travels back down to her toes. “Shit!” She lets up on the gas. “You
stupid, stupid,
shit!”

Brakes.

Shaking feet.

Rubbery fingers.

They swirl together in hot splinters as she pulls off the road onto the graveled shoulder. The vacuum of the car vibrates and she sits, frozen. Seconds or hours blend together and then knuckles rap against her window and she remembers. Roll window down, show license, don't argue. She cranks the window down and looks up at the trooper, the broad rim of his hat shading his face.

“That ain't going to win any points with me, young lady. Now, why don't you cover it up and then give me your license.”

She didn't think it could get worse, but it does. The small amount of adrenaline left in her body shoots out in needles across her chest. “Oh, my God—” She grabs at the T-shirt on the seat next to her. “I—” She pulls it over her head. “I was changing.”

“Changing while you drive?” He shakes his head. “License. Now.”

She fumbles through tissues, brushes, and hair clips for her wallet and holds it out for him, embarrassed at her shaking hands.

“Out of the wallet, please.”

Her fingers are hot and clumsy as she picks and pulls and finally frees the license from its sticky vinyl pocket. She glances ahead. The yellow bus is out of sight.

“Zoe Beth Buckman, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice trembles.

“You ain't going to start crying now, are you? Because that don't win any points with me neither.”

“No, sir.”
Pull it together
. And then a sliver of light hits her. The rumble of his voice. The crease of his cheeks.
Thank you, miss. You have a good day, too.
“Eggs over easy. Tabasco. Double order of bacon. Extra crisp. Right?”

He pauses, his head tilts slightly to the left and then back again. “You know how fast you were going, Zoe?”

What does she say? What is the right answer? He is obviously not impressed with her good memory. If she lies will she piss him off more? If she tells the truth will she fry her own butt? There has to be a best answer, a fast answer that will get her back on the road behind the bus, but she doesn't know what it is. She wishes she had talked to Carly. After Carly's two speeding tickets, she would at least know what
not
to say.

“Too fast?” she says. Good. Noncommittal. She can always backtrack.

“You got it. Eighty in a fifty-five zone.” He pushes his hat back on his head so light slashes across his face and the creases deepen. He leans down, into her window. “And I got more bad news for you. Don't appear you've got a current registration, leastways by the validation sticker on your window. You're two months out. You got some newer stuff tucked in your glove box for me?”

She doesn't bother to look. She knows Mama. The precious sticker lies in a mountain of untouched mail on a kitchen counter in a house that is no longer a house. She leans her head back against the rest and closes her eyes. It's over. “No,” she answers. “Nothing newer.”

He is silent, and Zoe opens her eyes. He shifts his weight and leans in further. “Well, looks like I've got me a problem then, Zoe. By law I need to haul you in for an overnight stay at the county hotel—that one with the vertical bars? Can't just write you a speeding ticket and ignore the expired registration. Know what I mean? You've done double-duty.”

Her breath is gone. This makes Carly's tickets look like a slap on the hands. Jail. How can this be happening to her?

“I'd hate to see you in jail, though. I got a daughter near-about your age. She's a good girl, but she messes up now and then. That's what I'd like to think about you, Zoe. That you're a good girl, law-abiding, and just this once that pedal got away from you. And now that it's been brought to your attention, you'd never let it happen again. That's what I'd like to think. You suppose I'd be right in that line of thinking?”

“Yes, sir. Very right. Very, very right.”

“Good. That's what I was hoping to hear. I think I could let you go with a warning then—on
one
condition. You get yourself down to the county tax office first thing Monday and take care of that registration.”

“I have school Monday.”

“They're open till five. You go to school all day?”

“No, sir. Just till two-thirty.”

“Then that'll give you plenty of time to drive real slow and still be there by five.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But I'm sure that I have it at home anyway. I just need to put it on the window. I'll take care of it. I promise.”

“See that you do. And with a good memory like yours, you probably know just what day I'll be coming around for my Philly and fries—and to check for your sticker.”

“Tuesday.”

“That's right. Now, you be on your way, and if I were you I'd stay off the roads as much as possible until you get that sticker on. The next trooper may not take as kindly to you. You hear what I'm saying?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will.” And now she has said “yes, sir” and “thank you” more times in five minutes than she has ever said at Murray's all day.

But it's okay, because she got out of the ticket, has only lost ten minutes, and if she hurries, she can still catch up with the bus.

Reid won't like it.

But there is nothing she can do about it now. And they're only friends, after all. That's all they've ever been. Maybe it's because there has been no one since him that he thinks it meant more than it did.

“Well, tonight should put an end to that,” she whispers. It's a favor, really. He can move on. We all have to move on. She wonders if she should tell the others ahead of time, before Carlos knocks on her door. “No, just wait till he comes.” It's not like she planned it. She ran into him in Murray's parking lot when she picked up her paycheck. “It's a free country.” If she wants to invite someone to her place, she shouldn't have to feel guilty about it.

“It's my place, after all and—”
God, I'm talking out loud to myself!
She shakes her head. “Reid, you're such a pain.” She empties the second grocery bag and checks her watch. Eight-thirty. Another half an hour or so before they come. She splurged. Cigarettes, sodas, chips, salsa, frozen taquitos, and two dozen chocolate cookies from the Food Star bakery. And a tiny votive candle from the clearance bin. It's Friday. Payday. Her very own first company is coming. And she aced her match. More than aced it, she was the star.

The absolute star.

Everyone noticed, not just the coach. She was on like she has never been. She is entitled to celebrate. It's only a few chips. A bit more, maybe. Altogether just thirteen dollars' worth of celebration. Not much, considering. Rent is due next week, but she still has the rest of her paycheck. With her usual tips, she'll have enough. It'll work. Close—but it's working. “Mama should see me now,” she whispers. God, she wishes Mama could see her. So what if she has to live on leftover frozen taquitos and chocolate cookies for the next week? It's more than Mama lives on.

She folds the grocery bag and tucks it away in the closet. Time to kill. She turns off the overhead lamp and lights the candle on her hutch. Rings of light bounce off walls and ceiling. Her light. She owns it. Where it goes. When it goes. The room is quiet, so dark, except for her tiny bargain-bin circle of light. Her legs bend, easing her into the chair, and she is sitting with her hands cupped around the candle, relaxed, fingers warmed by the tiny flame, drawn into the glow, glimmer by unbroken glimmer, until she unexpectedly sees Grandma, Kyle, and a lonely night she had long forgotten.

The vanilla scent closes her eyes to the now and takes her back to the then, pulls her into a downy patched quilt next to Grandma…three rings dancing on a ceiling and Grandma cooing first to her and then to Kyle….
Those three rings are us. We're dancing on the ceiling now, aren't we? Having a party all our own and no one else can dance on a ceiling like us.
…And Kyle giggles at the nonsense, but Zoe snuggles in closer to Grandma under the covers. Grandma's arm around her, her touch on Zoe's shoulder is like butter on warm bread. It melts in. Fills the holes. Kyle falls into his toddler snores, but she and Grandma watch the circles of light.

Together they stay awake and watch.

“When is Mama coming for us?” she finally asks. But Grandma nestles her in closer and talks about going for doughnuts and hot chocolate in the morning and the fine time they will have. She fills the void of Mama with talk and promises, but Zoe just notices her weathered arms holding her close—her touch, and the scent of clean sheets and vanilla candles that lock up the night to make her safe. And for that night, with Grandma's knobby fingers rubbing close against her arm, she didn't think about Mama anymore.

Zoe returns to her room. To the now. Rubs her arms, remembering Grandma's hands. Dry. Chapped. Working hands. Holding her. Caring.

Trying to make everything right.

A gentle tap at the door startles Zoe. The tap is not from the outer door that leads to the stairs, but the inner door that leads to the rest of the house. A stream of light tumbles into her room as she eases it open, and there is Count Basil, holding a paper bag between his teeth. Opal jumps from the hall, her airy blue caftan billowing around her, and calls, “Surprise!”

She and the Count enter the room. “Go on,” she says. “Look inside!” Count Basil drops the bag and plops down by the stone bulldog, already tired by his efforts, but Opal is rubbing her hands together and beaming like a six-year-old. Zoe opens the bag and pulls out a flowing red crushed-velvet robe like a queen might wear. Large rhinestones are sewn across the hem, and white fur edges the collar. It is lined with royal blue satin. Zoe looks at Opal, not sure what it means. “For you!” she says. “Zoe! Queen of the Courts! I went up to the attic as soon as we got home. I hadn't seen it for years, but I knew it was around here somewhere. Never was for me—bought it at a rummage sale—but I knew it was right for someone. They'd come along someday, so I kept it. And today was the someday! I just knew it! Go on! Try it!”

Zoe hesitates. But it is only for fun. And yes, dammit, she is Queen of the Courts! At least for today. She swings it around her shoulders, and Opal squeals. “Yes! I was right! I was right!” Opal bends at the waist in a deep curtsy and rises again, “All hail to Queen Zoe!” She claps her hands like their performance is complete.

Zoe is uncomfortable. It is silliness. The play of children. Not for someone as old as she, but a smile still escapes her. Opal is crazy and for the moment she is, too—no one will know. She clutches the robe close, lifts her tennis racket from the bed like a scepter, and taps Opal's shoulders.

“You may breathe in my presence,” she says in the most royal voice she knows.

Opal smiles back, like Zoe has truly given her a gift. Not the gift of breathing, but something else. It hangs in the air between them, almost touchable, and Zoe turns away.

“You
were
marvelous,” Opal says in her soft bird warble.

Zoe takes the robe from her shoulders and tries to fold it back into the neat nondescript ball it once was. “Why do you come, Opal?”

“Oh! There is so much that could happen! I might see you win! And I did! Or I might meet a beau in the bleachers! Or the Count might meet a nice
girl!
” Zoe takes in the way Opal says “girl,” drawn out with so much possibility. “Or you might need me to come down and hit a few balls! Opal saves the day! I can see the headlines! Or I might see you win! Oh, I said that already, didn't I? And I did see you win! See?”

Zoe is not sure if the why was answered, but it doesn't seem to matter so much after all, and she is satisfied with Opal's possibilities. But then, the short space of silence tugs a few more words from Opal's lips: “And it's a need.”

Zoe looks up. Opal's eyebrows are raised, smoothing the wrinkles from her eyes. Zoe tries, but she cannot read the faded green flecks in the old woman's eyes, or the timbre of her voice. “Yours…or mine?” she asks.

Opal's brows come together. “Does it matter?”

The something is there again, floating between them, and Zoe looks down. She picks at the ivy print of her comforter. “I think I know what you meant,” she says.

“Meant?”

“What you said the other day about fate. All those things pushing up against each other so it can't happen any other way.”

“Hmm,” Opal says.

“I felt that today. That's all. So maybe I do believe in fate. Today was meant to happen. I could feel it in my bones. Do you ever feel that way?”

“All the time, dear. My bones are always speaking to me.” She sighs and tucks a stray corkscrew into her turban, looking past Zoe. Creases appear at her eyes and their focus drifts to another world.

Zoe watches Opal's distant concentration and wonders what dreamy thought is passing. Is she flipping through all the moments that have pushed away the past? Is the ache in her short, broken leg pushed aside by the life she has created? Are all those cheerful breezy moments her corner of control, the way the room is for Zoe?

But then just as quickly as the dreamy mood came, it goes and Opal's eyes sparkle again with focus. Control. She claps her hands. “And my bones are speaking to me now! I have to go—the Count and I have a date on the roof! We're sleeping there tonight. A meteor shower at two, and we won't miss it! You're welcome to join us! Bring a blanket. Just take the attic stairs to the lookout.”

“Thanks. But, no. I'm having friends over tonight. We'll just be looking at these stars.” She glances at the ceiling.

“Oh,” Opal drawls. “Good enough. Come along, Basil,” she says and glides out of the room like a billowy cloud with the Count close behind, his stubby rear end wagging. The door closes out the hallway light once again, and her candlelight circle flickers back into its place on her ceiling.

A dog who likes stargazing,
Zoe thinks.
Who would have thought?