Baggage Check (19 page)

Finally Richard spoke. “It's no worse than Birmingham. Or anywhere. Just bigger.”

“The murder rate went down last year,” Rebecca said.

“To tell you the truth,” her father said, “I was glad you went to Georgia. Things were hard here, and you had something you wanted to do. You did it. It's always a little sad for a parent to let go of a child who has grown up, and you surprised us by doing that a little sooner than a lot of kids. But who could blame you? I'm proud of you. So is your mother.”

Sonia stiffened a bit at the mention of Lorena, and excused herself to get the roast out of the oven. “Dad,” Rebecca said. “I didn't—”

“Let's not talk about it now, okay?” he said, barely above a whisper. “I know Sonia can be … interesting. But she's a good person. And she's trying so hard to get you to like her.”

“She is?” Rebecca said without thinking. “I'd hate to see how she acted if she wanted me to hate her.”

Richard gave her a tired smile and nodded to where Sonia stood trying to decipher a meat thermometer in the next room. “Every single thing she's made tonight is something new she found on the Internet. Before you called, we were planning to have hot dogs.”

Rebecca glanced back at Sonia, who was looking critically at the overcooked roast.
It's pretty much jerky by the looks of it
. “Mom was a good cook. Before—”

“Yeah. She was,” her father agreed. “But she hasn't cooked a meal in ten years. Maybe more.”

“And Sonia—”

“Can barely boil water. Yes.” He said it softly, but Sonia was busy trying to dig into the carcass and would not have heard him anyway. “But she
tries,
Rebecca. I love that about her. All anyone can do is try.”

 

20

That night she lay restless for a long time, unable to get comfortable or to quiet her mind, no matter how many affirmations she tried. One o'clock came and went, with Rebecca berating herself each time she looked at the small red numbers glowing in the darkness. At this rate, she would be too tired to get anything done tomorrow. But tomorrow was keeping her awake, intruding on her night space, creeping in where it did not belong. The house, and more specifically having to face it alone. Her parents, her friends, Alex, and even poor little Tanya Boozer. Whenever she pushed one away, another would shove in.

Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the different pieces of her life as wild animals she'd kept caged for so long—separate and contained. But now the cages were dissolving in front of her. The animals were pawing at the crumbling walls and snapping bars, breaking free, and she was powerless to stop them. She was afraid, yes. But there was something else—a low, guttural growling sound that could be heard apart from the rest. It was a sound of ferocity and wildness, and as Rebecca tossed and turned, she was beginning to think it was coming from inside herself.

She felt less hesitation this time, retrieving the Goddess 3500X from her suitcase. There were no rooms with listening ears flanking hers tonight. For that matter, there was no one within at least a quarter mile of the quiet little house. No interruptions or humiliating experiences awaited. Just bliss and, hopefully, sleep. The only distraction was that Rebecca found it hard to hold on to her visions of Jake, or even the fantasies of movie stars every girl had sometimes. They were all becoming fuzzy, swirling away from her before she could pin them down in her mind.

Eventually she returned the Goddess to the velvet pouch and her suitcase, pacing the tiny room in unresolved frustration. She threw herself back into bed and forced herself to lie still with the pillow over her head until she eventually drifted off. To her annoyance, even as she fell asleep, the images pushing their way into her brain consistently—infuriatingly—included a white T-shirt, khaki uniform, and those damn brown boots.

*   *   *

Two days later, Rebecca got up and out early, headed straight to her mother's house. She'd allowed herself the previous day to rest and prepare, reasoning that she would be nearly useless with no sleep and there wasn't much point in going to the house before the Dumpster was there anyway. It was nearly July, and would be sweltering all across East Alabama, but she hoped the air conditioner was still in working condition. She promised herself she would stay until noon, no matter what.

She was met in the driveway by the Dumpster Dude, who wore a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard and a rainbow tie-dyed
DUMPSTER DUDE
T-shirt that almost covered his large belly. She had a feeling, as he thrust the clipboard into her hands with nicotine-stained fingers, that the T-shirt was not his idea. “You call the number on the yellow form when you want us to pick up. Takes a couple of days. They say up to five, but usually it's more like two.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca said.

“Yes'm,” the Dude said.

She unlocked the door as he pulled away, hydraulic brakes hissing and squeaking.
Wonder if the neighbors will call the sheriff again for all that noise,
she thought. There was a lift in her chest as she thought Alex might be back by.
Jesus. I must be lonely if I am hoping the police will show up
.

By midmorning, Rebecca would have welcomed law enforcement, or any other excuse to take a break. She had begun in the kitchen, thinking it was the most pressing problem in the house because of all the rotting food, and then quickly retreated to the living room. The kitchen would take working up to, she decided.

At least thirty times she had resisted the urge to run out the door. It was overwhelming to think where to start, with so many piles. There was also the risk, which Rebecca deemed quite reasonable, that she might pull out the wrong bag or box and cause an avalanche of trash, so that she would be found here weeks later, being eaten by squirrels. More than once she thought how easy it would be to just burn the place down. The insurance might pay for all her mother's health care, with some left over to put a down payment on a small, clutter-free house. This plan was not viable for a number of reasons, insurance fraud and felony being just the beginning. Still, it had a certain dark appeal.

With thick gardening gloves on over her vinyl dishwashing gloves, she felt as safe as she might digging through the mess, and she talked to herself for encouragement as she moved things around.
This is just a thing. It might be dirty or smelly or rotten, but it can't hurt me. At the end of the day, I can shower and be as good as new. It's a thing, to be moved. That is all.

After a while, Rebecca came up with a sorting system. If a bag or box was obviously trash, contained anything perishable, or had a strong odor of any kind, it went to the Dumpster. If it was in good condition, somewhat clean, and had clear value, she did one of two things: things she recognized from her childhood went down the hall to Cory's room to be looked at again later; things that must have been recently acquired went out to a tarp she'd spread in the front yard for donation to charity or a garage sale, whichever seemed easier when the time came.

On one of her trips to Cory's room, she found an old stereo that still worked and plugged it in by the front door—the only outlet she could reach. Three stations came in well—country, classic rock, and the station that featured only church sermons. She alternated between the first two every hour or so, and after a while was surprised to find that she had been working for nearly six hours. Her stomach growled, so she stopped to survey her progress.

The living room was not yet clean, but the path through it was close to five feet wider than the sliver of carpet it had been before, and the surrounding trash mountains not nearly as high. Her arms and legs were sore from bending, reaching, and carrying. She put her gloves on the front porch, washed her hands in the bathroom, and went out to her car and applied three layers of hand sanitizer before eating the peanut butter sandwich she had packed for lunch.

Rebecca leaned against her car while she ate. Nothing had ever tasted quite so delicious as this particular peanut butter sandwich. She had promised herself she would stay until noon, and it was now nearly two. Beating her own goal made her feel more exhilarated than she had in a long time. Her body trembled with tiredness, but she was not ready yet to give up for the day. She would work until four, she decided. The sky seemed exceptionally blue and bright today, and Rebecca rested her head on the roof of her car, watching a hawk make lazy circles overhead.

Richard stopped by at the end of his route, still wearing his blue USPS uniform. He looked at her neatly organized piles on the front lawn and smiled at her. “Maybe we should have asked you to do this years ago.”

She laughed. “I guess you could say this is my special talent.”

“You have lots of talents, Becky.”

“Right. I can't sing. I'm not a writer. I have no eye for art.”

“I'd be willing to bet that last one's not true.”

She gestured at the mess on the lawn. “This is it. This is my masterpiece.”

He rolled his eyes. “Want some help for a bit?”

“Sure.”

“I can't stay long. Sonia has something at the church tonight we're supposed to go to.”

“That's fine, Daddy.”

They worked for a while in silence. She was surprised that even though her father owned half the house, he deferred to her for decisions about most things. The couple of times she wondered aloud if he might want to take something with him—a toolbox, old football games on VHS tapes—he just shook his head. Rebecca supposed he had already collected everything he wanted to keep when he'd left. A little after five, he tossed a box of broken Christmas lights into the Dumpster, dusted his hands, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“I'm sorry I can't do more,” he said.

“There's nothing to apologize for, Daddy.”

“We're okay?”

She hugged him. “We're fine. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Rebecca Rockstar.” He gave her a gentle knock on the arm. “Never think you're not talented, okay? You shouldn't sell yourself short.”

Rebecca nodded and watched him pull away in the gray-and-burgundy pickup truck he'd been driving since she was in college. They waved at each other, and she went back to work, wondering momentarily what was going on at church that night.

If Rebecca had been waiting for Alex to drop by, she did not admit it to herself, even though she began glancing up and down the street for the patrol car each time she made a trip outside. By the time she was too exhausted to lift another box, it was nearly eight and getting dark. She had been at the house for nearly twelve hours, three times the goal she had set for herself.

She covered the items on the lawn with a second blue tarp, tucking the edges loosely under, and waved at Mrs. Pindergrass watering her lawn across the street. Her old neighbor gave her a tentative wave back and stared at the tarp with apprehension. Rebecca put an old beach towel she'd swiped from her father's linen closet across the driver's seat in her car to protect her leather seats from the grime and drove back to the little rental house. By nine o'clock, she had showered, fallen into bed, and was sleeping the deepest sleep of her life.

 

21

Rebecca woke after an astonishing amount of time: twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. It took several moments to remember that she was in a strange house, rather than the strange hotel room that was her usual occupational hazard. Every muscle in her body ached and burned as she pulled herself out of bed and into the tiny bathroom. She had not been this sore or tired since her first week of training in high heels at the airline. She noticed while brushing her teeth that she had forgotten to charge her cell phone the night before, so she had to stand hooked up to the outlet in the tiny kitchen while the coffee brewed to check her messages.

There was a message from her dad, a generic “checking in” message that was out of character for him, at least for the past several years. The second message was from Marci. “I just wanted to say thanks again for everything, and to ask you to give me a call.”

Torn between curiosity and ravenous hunger, Rebecca made toast and ate it standing in the kitchen while she dialed Marci's number. It seemed she was taking all her meals standing up these days. It felt very primitive somehow, but she didn't mind.

“Hey,” Marci answered on the second ring. “How are things going in Alabama? I hope I didn't interrupt you—I know you have a lot to do out there.”

“No, mmm, that's okay,” Rebecca said, swallowing. “I was thinking of taking today off anyway. I'm super sore from all the work I did at Mom's yesterday. I can barely move.”

“Ah,” Marci said. “Well, I wanted to ask if you are going to the Stillwells' on Monday?”

Jake's parents hosted a July Fourth picnic every year at their large old home in Atlanta's prestigious Buckhead neighborhood. It was Kitty Stillwell's pride and joy, and it seemed like half the city turned out for it. They always invited Rebecca, and on the years she'd been able to go, she'd enjoyed it.

“I hadn't thought about it, honestly. I sort of lost track of the days.”

“Oh, okay,” Marci said. “Well, if you decide to go, I wondered if you'd be up for drinks after the fireworks? Just us girls. Dylan is going to be out of town, and after all day with Jake's entire family, I think I'm going to need a break.”

Rebecca had not thought about when she would be back in Atlanta, but she supposed the weekend was pretty reasonable. For the first time in her life, she had no schedule to keep, no boss she needed to check in with. At least for now. “Sure, I think I can do that.”

“Great,” Marci said, sounding uncomfortable. “I think I owe you an apology. I'd like to buy you a drink.”

“No apology is needed,” Rebecca said. “But we can go out for a drink.”