Borderland (12 page)

CHAPTER 8

Myra
held the phone snug against her ear and looked around herself after giving up
the outrageous amount the machine requested. Vogel's store was bustling with
females, as always, but only the checker at the cash register showed any
interest in her. It was Sue, Kent Vogel's wife. Myra put her back to the woman
as her ex-mother-in-law's number began to ring. When a secretary answered, Myra
told her what she wanted and was put on hold. Four minutes later, Clarice came
on the line. 'What do you want?"

"To
be left alone," Myra said flatly. She'd decided to come out with guns
blazing and not the usual preliminary insults, threats, and name-calling.
"I want you to stop what you're doing and leave us both alone."

"I
don't know what you're talking about," Clarice said in her husky Houston
drawl. "How is my grandson? Is he walking around in rags yet? Starving?
How are you feeding him, Myra? I heard about Mr. Kimmler's death, you
know."

"I
know," Myra said. "And you jumped right in. It wasn't enough to leave
us penniless after Patrick's death; you want to make sure we don't have
anything at all. But now you've gone too far. Cal and I could have died in that
fire."

"I'm
sure I don't have the faintest idea what you're babbling about," Clarice
responded. "Is this an appeal for money? Bring Cal back and you can have
anything you want. Anything."

"We've
been over that," Myra said. "And it's still no sale. You can't buy me
and you can't buy Cal. He doesn't want to come back. He has no desire to live
with you in Houston. He despises you."

"At
your urging, I'm sure," Clarice said. "You really are a common
person, Myra. Everything is either love or hate with you. Cal understands
neutral ground, or at least he used to. God only knows how you've tampered with
that brilliant mind of his. Why don't you stop being so foolish and
self-serving and bring him back? We can put an end to this unpleasant situation
once and for all."

Myra
sucked in her breath. She could picture the immaculate nails, the perfect
platinum blond chignon, the creaseless suit and the pearly white teeth.

"You
may not realize this," Clarice went on, "but in later years Cal will
come to resent you for all you're depriving him of now. William and I can give
him so much more. And we can help you as well."

"I've
told you what you can do with your help," Myra said between her teeth.
"All I ask is that you leave us alone. I’ll have the money to settle down
and start applying to college somewhere. We don't need—"

Clarice
was laughing. "Settle down?  My God, Myra what are you thinking of?"

"Cal,"
Myra said. "I'm thinking of Cal. And I didn't say we'd be staying here.
Where he goes to school is up to Cal. He hasn't decided yet."

"He
belongs in Harvard," Clarice snapped. "Both of us know it and I'll be
damned if I will sit by and let you ruin his potential by giving him his own
head in this matter."

"He
already has his own head, Clarice, and I would appreciate your letting him keep
it. Don't try any more stunts like last night. You're going to wind up killing
both of us to get to him."

"I'd
rather see him dead than ruined by his hayseed mother."

"Don't
try it," Myra said. "I've got protection now. We're not helpless
anymore."

"Oh
really? Is it a new boyfriend, perhaps? I've been wondering how you could
afford to stay on out there, and now I'm wondering just where you've come up
with these paranoid delusions. You must be slipping, Myra. I don't appreciate
being accused of whatever it is you're talking about. This may be grounds to
take you to court finally and have you proved un—"

Myra
hung up. She had nothing else to say. No court in the country would believe she
was... A sharp pang of guilt prevented her from finishing the thought. Cal was
walking around in rags. And he hadn't been eating much lately. She could very
well be proved an unfit mother, especially with Clarice's money backing up the
claim.

Was she
wrong to keep Cal with her? He seemed mature enough to know what he wanted, but
he was only thirteen. How many thirteen-year-olds knew what was best for them?

Myra
suddenly wanted to cry. What if the sniffing crone was right? What if she was
an unfit mother?

"'Lo,
Myra," a nearby voice said, and her gaze flew up to see Coral Nenndorf,
owner of the town's beauty shop, addressing her. Myra felt like looking around
to see if another Myra was present. Coral Nenndorf hadn't spoken more than
three sentences to her in two years. Worse, she reminded Myra of the woman she
had just hung up on. Coral had the same immaculate manicure and the same
perfectly coiffed hair . . . unusual for your average hayseed.

"Coral,"
she said politely, with just a hint of coolness on the last syllable.

"How
are you getting on out there?" Coral asked. "Have you seen much of
Darwin's boy?"

"Quite
a bit," Myra said. She was uncomfortable with this. The woman was
obviously nosing around for information. She decided to cut things short.
"It's nice to see you. If you'll excuse me, I have some shopping to
do."

Coral
frowned a little and tried to look confused. "Am I going senile, or did I
see you and Mr. Kimmler in here just yesterday.”

"I
forgot some things," Myra answered. "Have a good afternoon,
Coral." She breezed past the woman and went to fetch one of seven carts at
the front of the store. Sue Vogel's eyes followed her every step of the way.
Myra felt like turning and asking her what the hell she was staring at. She was
sure every heard syllable of her phone conversation would be discussed the
moment she left, and the small-town shiftiness once more annoyed her. She
pushed the cart through the aisles with a vengeance. First they would talk
about the tightness of her tank top and the shortness of her shorts, then they
would comment on her flyaway shoulder-length hair and her lack of proper skin
care (a dark tan) and then they would dwell on what was going on out at that
farm with just Myra and two healthy, eligible men. Myra knew how it worked.

She
considered saving them the trouble and telling them how her trailer had been
destroyed and how she was now living in the same (oh my goodness) house with
those two healthy, eligible men. But she knew she wouldn't. Any town gossip
would hurt her if Clarice did decide to take her to court. There would be
speculations on twosomes, threesomes, and all kinds of illicit behavior as it
was, and Myra didn't see any need to provide the fuel to start the fire. It
would blaze on its own soon enough.

She
remained distant as she paid for her purchases in spite of an attempt at
conversation by Vogel's fat wife. It seemed everyone was getting into the act. Let's
all start talking to Myra instead of about her. It'll be fun!

Myra
wasn't fooled. After two years of only grudging nods and grunts, she wasn't
about to be taken in by this new pretense of interest in her life, If she were
ten years younger she thought she might've mooned them on the way out, Instead
she merely parted her lips enough to show her teeth and carried her sacks out
the door.

Vic
wasn't in the car. Myra put the sacks in the back and looked across the street.
The diner was full of bodies, but she couldn't make out which one was Vic. She
sat down in the passenger seat and did a quick hop as the upholstery burned the
backs of her thighs. There was a strange smell in the hot, motionless air—like
rotting meat. Myra wrinkled up her nose and covered her mouth with a hand.

Five
minutes later she remembered the ice cream and lightly tapped on the horn. When
another five minutes passed, she leaned her hand on the horn and brought faces
to nearly every window on the street. Vic finally appeared at the diner's door.
He looked annoyed. She waved to him and he turned back inside for another full
minute. By the time he loped across the street to the car she was beyond
irritation. "Our ice cream has probably melted by now."

"It'll
be okay," he said. "You shouldn't have honked like that."

"I
was boiling alive out here. Aren't you going to call a real estate
agency?"

"I
used Jinx's phone. You could've stayed in the grocery store until I was
ready."

"No,
I couldn't have."

He
frowned at her. "Why not?"

"Too
many queen bees. I was about to get stung."

"Don't
you think you're being overly sensitive? You women kill me. Why do you
automatically hate each other? These are nice people, Myra. Maybe you haven't
made enough of an effort to be friends."

Myra's
jaw dropped, but she said nothing.

Vic
shook his head and started the engine. She watched him and couldn't help
thinking something had changed in the short time they'd been separated. He was
different.

She knew
what it was once they were on the road again. He was smiling like a fool.

"Those
old guys are a real riot. Sure, they're suspicious at first, but all small town
people are like that. Once you start talking to each other everything's fine.
Old Jinx had me rolling on the floor back there. I haven't laughed like that in
ages."

Myra
looked away from him. Maybe it was different with men. Maybe having the
dangling variety of genitalia guaranteed instant acceptance out here. She
heaved an inward sigh and tuned him out as he went on chuckling and laughing
about Jinx and the guys.

Seven
hundred miles away, Clarice Callahan was on the phone to her secretary.
"Please find William for me. He's still in Louisiana. Delta Downs, I
believe. I think he's racing his new colt today."

Moments
later she picked up the phone again and heard her husband's voice asking what
the hell she wanted. It was almost post time.

"I'm
breaking my promise to you," Clarice said. "Myra has lost control.
She accused me of attempted murder and even threatened me. She's dangerously
ill, William. I've been telling you that for years and now you must believe me.
She hasn't come around like you said she would. She has no money and no job,
but she's determined not to accept our help. I'm very worried, dear. There was
a fire. Cal is unhurt, but I'm not taking any chances. I'm going to send
someone after him again."

CHAPTER 9

Jinx
Lahr eyed the men seated at his counter. They were men he had known all his
life. He knew everything about them—more, probably, than they knew about
themselves. He had memories of each man's childhood and adolescence. He was
familiar with each man's service record. He'd been to every wedding and knew
the name of every child born. He knew the lives of these men as well as he knew
his own. There were no secrets in the slack, wrinkled faces before him.

But
there was worry. It was a tangible thing, an odorous cloud in the thick, greasy
air of his diner. If he chose, he could open his mouth and banish the cloud
with a single sentence. But he decided to leave it hanging for the moment. He
enjoyed watching them breathe in the worry and blow it helplessly out again in
his direction. Always in his direction.

"He
let a total stranger move into the house," Vogel the grocer said in
disgust. "Now, I know Myra's a nice-lookin' gal and all, but that boy a
hers is pretty damn spooky. There's such a thing as bein' too smart."

How
would you know? Jinx thought.

"Just
ain't right," Vogel went on. "Pretty soon she'll be sleepin' with
'em. You know how city women are."

All eyes
fixed on Jinx, waiting. When he said nothing they gazed at each other again,
ready to chew on the bone as long as it was available.

"Can't
afford to pay for the Kimmler place," Fred Bauer mumbled finally, and
several of the others nodded their heads and murmured their agreement. Jinx
remained aloof.

"Ain't
enough left over from the stud money," Bauer continued. "The horses
brought in enough to replace those two old combines, but what's left ain't near
enough to buy that place from Vic outright."

Bauer
ran the hardware store and liked to think he was something of an expert on farm
equipment and finances. Jinx knew better. Bauer was dumb as a toad and twice as
warty. Reading stock quotes in the paper and subscribing to ten different money
magazines didn't make one an expert on anything but timing a trip to the
bathroom to coincide with the end of an article. Though Compound W Bauer had
his aspirations, Jinx was the actual treasurer. He always had been, and as long
as he was the only one who understood fractions and decimals, he always would
be.

"You're
not telling us anything we don't know, Fred," the white-haired Doc Stade
said. "But what are we going to do if someone else buys Vic's place? We
can't have that."

More
murmurs of agreement.