Box (7 page)

“You’re saying cousins often fall in love and get married in Wilford County?”

“Well, of course they do!”

He shakes his head again.

I say, “You want to go ahead and paint a big red letter on my forehead, or do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

He waves for me to continue, so I say, “No one knew about me and Darrell’s relationship, and one afternoon when I was sixteen we ran off and got married and never told anyone. It was a stupid thing to do, more like a joke, you know?”

“This might surprise you,” Dr. Box says, “but no. None of this makes any sense to me.”

“Well, anyway, we didn’t tell anyone. We kept livin’ with our parents, kept goin’ to school, actin’ like cousins. Him, cookin’ crystal meth with his friends. Me, workin’ part-time at the restaurant. After high school I switched to full time. Aunt Lori got sicker and sicker, and one day her number came up.”

“She died?”

“No. She played the lottery. She won four hundred thousand dollars, and took the quarter-million cash option.”

Dr. Box shakes his head again and says, “This sounds like a B movie on TV.”

“The killer bee movie?” I say. “’Cause that one scared the shit out of me!”

“Please,” he says. “Tell your story.”

“Well, a week after gettin’ the money, Lori dies, and Darrell inherits the money. And that’s when we tell everyone we’re married.”

“That had to be a shock to your mother.”

“It was. She hung herself.”

“She—what? Hung herself? To death?”

“Yup. But not with the rope Daddy used on you.”

“That’s a relief,” he says. Then adds, “Hey, I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks. It was tough on us at the time, not knowin’ why she did it.”

“When was this?”

“Five months ago.”

We’re quiet a minute. Then I say, “So anyway, me and Darrell got a small apartment, and he squandered his inheritance on a monster truck and lab equipment for his meth business. Two months later, a lawyer showed up with legal papers. He sat us all down and told us the family secret.”

“That you and Darrell are brother and sister.”

“Right.”

“What was your reaction?”

“I moved back in with my dad, got a blood test, filed for divorce.”

“And Darrell?”

“He refused to sign the papers.”

“And the blood test?”

“He refused to take one.”

“So what happened?”

“We got lawyers. A judge finally ordered him to take a blood test.” “When did you get the results?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And here we are?” he says.

“Yup. Here we are.”

Dr. Box looks like he swallowed a bad hot dog.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m having a hard time picturing you and Darrell.”

“In what way?”

“To be honest? Sexually.”

“You’re still hung up on us bein’ kinfolk?”

“I’m odd that way. Are you aware you just asked if I was hung up on that issue?’”

“It’s just an expression, Gideon.”

“So is hanging around. And brotherly love. But in this town those expressions take on a whole different meaning.”

I frown at him.

He says, “Even if I could erase the mental image in my head, I find it hard to believe you ever found Darrell attractive.”

“Why’s that?”

“His size. Shape. Features. Attitude. Complete lack of intelligence.”

He turns his palms upward, frustrated. Seekin’ an explanation.

I say, “When you’re fourteen years old, comin’ of age in a small town, proximity is more apt to turn a girl’s head than looks, charm, or brainpower.”

We look at each other a long moment.

Dr. Box looks sad. Like an old man with heart trouble turnin’ down the Tuesday night all-you-can-eat steak special. He wants the steak, but thinks it’s bad for him.

I’ve seen that sad steak look in a man’s eyes before.

I say, “You’re gonna leave, aren’t you.”

He nods.

“You’re not gonna take me with you.”

He sighs. “No.”

“Why not?”

He shakes his head and gestures at the room in general, but his meanin’ is clear. It’s all too much for him.

“I know I look like hell right now, but my face will heal. And when it does I’ll be pretty for you for a lot of years. You don’t know me that well, but I’ll make you a wonderful girlfriend. I can cook, sew, take care of kids and critters. I’m fun when I’m not banged up, and not opposed to grantin’ sexual favors. And those favors will belong only to you, Gideon.”

“Trudy—”

“I’ll be polite to your friends. I won’t complain if you drink or stay out at night, long as you treat me with respect.”

“I’ll marry you, Trudy!” the policeman shouts out from the back of the room.

“Mind your own business, Clem!” I scold. Then turn my focus back to Dr. Box. “I see good inside you, Gideon. I’ll make you happy.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

I put on a brave face and sigh.

We look at each other a minute, and I say, “I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”

“Thanks,” he says. “You too.”

He leans over, kisses my cheek, then starts to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to hang around town a little longer?” I call out to him.

He turns, sees me grinnin’, and smiles.

Then says, “Trudy, it’s been an honor hanging out with you.”

“Have a good life, Dr. Box.”

“You too, Trudy.”

He opens the door, walks through it, closes it behind him.

I stare at the door a while, hopin’ it’ll suddenly open.

But he’s gone.

I start to cry, which makes Clem nervous.

He says, “I can stand outside the door if you like.”

I nod.

18.

CLEM HEADS FOR the door, reaches for the handle, then stops and says, “You’re better off without him, Trudy.”

I cry some more.

“He’s old and weird. You’re young and beautiful.”

He starts to leave again, then pauses to say, “And somethin’ else, if you don’t mind my sayin’. It ain’t right the way that man ejaculates. Our first thought was a half-dozen baboons had a contest to see who could make the biggest mess, and the answer was, all of them. My personal opinion? There’s witchery in it.”

I cry harder, and he finally gives up and leaves the room.

Now I can finally read the note Dr. Box passed me when he leaned over to kiss me goodbye just now.

He’d used his body to block Clem’s view, and placed a small, folded up piece of paper in my hand that was heavier than it should be.

I open it, and a small key falls out.

I smile through my tears.

It’s the key to Daddy’s handcuffs. He must have stolen them from Daddy when he went back in the barn to get his money and cell phone.

The note gives a phone number with a two-one-two area code. Then says, Trudy, I’d run off with you in a heartbeat if I thought you wanted me half as much as you just want to get away. But you can do better than me and we both know it. Last night when I cuffed you to the fence you asked if you could trust me. You can. When you’re feeling up to it, call this number and speak to Robert Bothwell, my private banker. I’ve instructed Robert to wire ten thousand dollars into your personal account every month for the next two years. Now you have a big choice to make: you can finally get out of town, or you can buy your own monster truck! Love, Gideon. PS: I’ll never forget our wild and crazy night!

19.

Dr. Gideon Box.

PUTTING THE STARBUCKS County Hospital in my rear-view mirror, I work my way to the four-lane highway that leads to Ralston, Kentucky.

I’m not breaking the law.

Sheriff Carson Boyd left me a text message, saying I could go on about my business. It read: I spoke to your boss in NYC, Mr. Luce. He says you’re easy to find if I need you. Plus I want you the hell out of my town. So go on about your business. Somewhere else.

So that’s what I’m doing.

Taking my business to Ralston, Kentucky, to meet Faith Hemphill.

What can I tell you about Faith you don’t already know?

Very little.

I barely know the woman.

It’s a two-hour drive, so let’s start with what I’ve learned from the dating site.

If her profile’s accurate she’s my age, forty-two, recently divorced, with a daughter in college. She lives on a ranch. If the photos she posted are actually her, she’s attractive, or was at the time they were taken. She’s a custom saddle-maker, which sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I mean, she works with leather, right?

Riding crops?

Bondage collars?

That’s sexy, isn’t it?

I’m not sure. But it’s an angle to explore.

I try to picture her naked, on all fours. I’m riding her, whacking her fanny with a riding crop.

Wait.

Riding her?

I’m having trouble with the mental image.

I can’t picture how to hump her and smack her ass at the same time. I’m not sure it works anatomically. And anyway, I don’t like the idea of hitting a woman.

I know what you’re thinking.

I didn’t have any problem hitting Trudy last night.

Good point.

I’ll admit there was something amazing about beating Trudy up last night. I think it had to do with her insisting that I hit her, and knowing I had to hit her, and the certain knowledge that hitting her would benefit both of us. It’s like the world’s biggest taboo, hitting a woman, but we both knew it had to be done.

It was like getting a free pass.

I have no doubt that given the opportunity, Darrell would have beaten her half to death. Or all the way to death, since he was furious about the divorce, and the judge’s ruling, and the thought of losing Trudy forever. At the very least he would have done serious, and possibly permanent, damage to her face, nose, eyes, or teeth.

But I ran him over before he had time to do that.

Then I punched Trudy’s face and torso.

Hit her hard and often.

Big man, right?

I did it the safest way possible, but feel weird reporting it wasn’t half as unpleasant as I would have expected. Maybe it’s because beating her up solved all our problems. It kept me out of jail. Ensured her divorce would sail through the court system. Allows her to get a restraining order against Darrell. Puts him in line for a jail term, which could very well save his life.

You think I’m stretching things saying that beating Trudy could save Darrell’s life?

Think about it.

What type of life expectancy does Darrell have in the meth business? This guy’s a Grim Reaper trifecta: a meth cooker, meth dealer, and meth addict all rolled into one.

I try singing it out loud, in my car: I beat a girl and I li-iked it!

Katy Perry, eat your heart out.

All jokes aside, I didn’t enjoy it, and I’d never do it again.

But it wasn’t that bad.

For me, anyway.

I drive another twenty minutes and decide I really miss Trudy. And not just because she let me beat her up.

I miss her.

Why did I give her all that money after knowing her a single night?

Because I’m a nice guy?

No.

Because I feel guilty for beating her up?

Partly.

But if I’m being honest, the main reason I gave her all that money is because I can.

It’s chump change to me.

Go ahead and hate me for saying that.

Elvis was known for giving women Cadillacs just for being pretty. Does that make him a great guy?

It does?

Well I’m not a great guy. I just think Trudy’s a great girl who deserves a break.

What I’m saying, I was extremely wealthy before one of the world’s richest men paid me a hundred million dollars to perform an unauthorized surgery on his girlfriend. How much is a hundred million bucks? The interest alone pays me a hundred grand a week!

I’d like to see you try to spend that much money without doing something nice for someone along the way.

Of course, by removing Trudy’s money issues, I’ve removed the only reason why she could possibly be interested in me. So I go back to visualizing Faith Hemphill naked on all fours. This time she’s wearing one of her custom-made saddles on her back. I expect (and hope) I’m too big to ride her and switch her ass with a riding crop, so I visualize someone smaller doing it.

A few months ago I met a midget, a dwarf, and an elf at a government facility near Bedford, Virginia.

At least I think Charlie’s an elf.

I picture Charlie riding Faith Hemphill, switching her ass with a half-sized riding crop.

“Giddyup!” he shouts. He whacks her rear flank. “Trot!” Whack! “Canter!” Whack!

I shake away the image. It’s doing nothing for me.

My mind drifts back to Trudy Lake. She was all bruised up, in the hospital bed, telling me what a wonderful girlfriend she’d be.

I believe her.

I had an eighteen-year-old girlfriend a few months ago.

Well, that’s a stretch.

She wasn’t my girlfriend, I was paying her for sex.

Wait. That is a girlfriend.

But anyway, it was a great relationship.

For me.

Maybe Trudy would be willing to live with me a while for a fee. She could bank the gift I give her each month, and I’d handle her expenses.

I have half a mind to turn the car around and see if Trudy might be interested in this type of relationship. You know, until she can find a nice guy. My guess is no, but it’s worth asking.

Except that I’m about to turn off the highway onto Leeds Road, which puts me less than two miles from Faith Hemphill’s ranch. I’ve come all this way, I should at least meet her.

As I start my turn I see a car broken down on the side of the road a hundred yards ahead. It’s an isolated area, and this guy clearly needs help. His hood is up, his wife is sitting on the ground, holding a baby. He’s waving at me.

My plan is to pretend I don’t see him. I’m a New Yorker, so this is status quo for me.

But this guy won’t be denied!

He sees me and suddenly starts jumping up and down and flailing his arms in a way that makes him impossible to ignore. He’s actually stepping into my path on the road, putting himself in danger, determined to flag me down. A guy this determined has to be in serious trouble.