Crusader (25 page)

"Well, right about then, that Bodacious Barbecue where
me and Karl stopped, it started to kick in wicked fierce. It was all the beans you could eat, and brother, I ate my share. All of a sudden I felt like my insides was gonna explode. I yelled out, 'I got something to say to your kids, lady. Ya'll better run for your lives!'

"I dove for that toilet like it was fourth and goal from the one. Right in the middle of that cage, I yanked them orange pants down and let her rip. Those fifth graders all started runnin' and screamin'. They took off outta there like they had seen damn King Kong bustin' loose from his chains."

Hawg started laughing jovially. Ironman was grinning wide. I didn't know how to react. I just shook my head and asked him, "But what happened in court? What did the judge say to you?"

"Nothin. It was a whole lot of talk. He tried to scare me, telling me I'm getting house arrest or a probation officer. But weren't none of it true. The cops had already dropped the charges. That waitress wasn't comin' all the way down here to make one dollar. And that van that Karl hit? It took off. It probably didn't have no insurance, or it was stolen, or it was carrying drugs. The cops was just bluffing us all along. I'm afraid old Karl took it pretty hard, though."

"And what did your stepfather say?"

"He said, 'Don't do it again, or you'll find yourself out on the streets like your mama.' I said, 'I am doin' it again. I aim to go back to Georgia. One way or the other.'"

Dad left early, so I wound up walking home with the two guys. Hawg seemed to be back to his normal self, talking about football and whompin' on Ironman. When I got in I saw that Dad had dropped off another Blockbuster Video bag. I guessed that meant he wasn't coming home.

At ten I switched on the TV just in time to catch Stephen
Cross. He was speaking at a prison, and he was just great. He said, "My past is a nightmare that I carry around with me, a reminder of the abyss that can open up under us anywhere, at any time. I truly did not know what was nightmare and what was real in those days. You folks sitting out here tonight know the living hell I'm talking about."

Some of the men in the prison audience started shouting out, "Amen!"

Stephen Cross told them, "Near the end of my days of darkness, I was living in hell. Sick at heart. Sick in body. Sick to the soul. And then one day the Lord said to me, 'Wake up, sinner!'"

"Amen!"

Stephen Cross paused; his lined cheeks ran with tears; his chest heaved with emotion. He looked up, and his eyes blazed into the camera lens. "I am not some TV preacher in some expensive suit, standing up here to recite my best sermon that I learned in a prestigious Bible college. No! I am the lowest of the low. I am a drug addict. And a thief. And a whore. And yet God spoke to me, and showed me the way out of hell." He held a Bible high in the air, held it like a shining sword. I could hear the commotion in the audience—men leaping to their feet and crying out.

"The Lord spoke to me, in a jail cell. In a cell like yours. Right here, in hell's waiting room. He said, 'Your name shall be Stephen Cross. And you shall bear witness to me all the rest of your life. You are to tell my children three things:
Admit the truth; ask forgiveness; find redemption.
'"

Stephen Cross opened his arms to the audience. Many men rushed forward to embrace him. Then they all knelt down in a big circle on the floor, like a football huddle, and they prayed.

If I were there, I would have, too.

It was a slow Sunday at Arcane. Uncle Frank followed up on his threat to pack up the experiences that were financial losers. His beloved Halls of Montezuma, Custer's Last Stand, and Buccaneer Battle were dismantled and packed into cartons for the UPS guy. I passed the day cleaning, delousing helmets, and taking care of the few customers who came in.

I was relieved when four o'clock came. Today Mrs. Weiss was leaving Mrs. Roman in charge of the store for the first time. I walked over to the shop to thank Mrs. Roman for my card and gift. She seemed distracted, but she did mutter, "It's nothing, dear. You're a lovely girl."

Mrs. Weiss came out of the back, smiling. She didn't seem at all concerned about leaving Mrs. Roman in charge. Her great mood continued out into the parking lot and all the way to Eternal Rest Cemetery. As usual she parked by the guardian angel. She popped the trunk open so I could get out the stepladder. But today she walked along with me. She said, "I want to see where your mother is. Is that all right?"

I assured her, "Of course, Mrs. Weiss. Of course it is."

We walked for a minute, and she commented, "This is nice. This is very nice."

I asked her, "What's the Jewish part of the cemetery like?"

"It's nice, too. Just like this. Of course, we don't have the big statues and angels and things."

"What do the graves look like?"

"Like these. Some headstones. Some wall slots."

"Do they have bronze nameplates and vases outside for flowers?"

"Some do."

"Do they have any stuff that we don't have?"

"Sometimes they have spray paint on them."

That took a moment to register. "What?"

"That's right. Sometimes I go over there and find that someone has vandalized the graves."

"Why?"

Mrs. Weiss answered matter-of-factly, "Because they're Jewish." We walked for another few seconds. Then she asked me, with nothing more than curiosity, "What kind of activity is that, I ask you? What kind of human being spends his time vandalizing graves?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Weiss."

"I don't know, either. I don't know how people like that can look in the mirror."

We reached Mom's area. I placed the stepladder against the wall. Mrs. Weiss looked up at her crypt. That really bothered me. I had to say, "I hate it that my mom has a plastic nameplate instead of a bronze one, and that it's way up there, instead of in a place where I could put my hand on her."

"We could speak to the cemetery manager. We could find out what it takes to ... upgrade. Or whatever they call it."

"I don't know. My dad doesn't have much money."

"Maybe it doesn't take much." Mrs. Weiss shook her head emphatically. "I don't trust a man who outlives his wife. I never did. The husband should go first, like mine did, like Millie's did. They do the smoking and the drinking, they should die first." She looked up at the wall sadly. "It's funny, Roberta. My husband liked to travel. He would go just about anywhere. The only place he really didn't like was Florida. He always said it was too hot. So he winds up living here."

"Yeah. And dying here."

Mrs. Weiss stared up at my mom again. She told me, "We all travel different routes, Roberta. And we travel to many different places. But we all wind up here in the end. You have to make the most of your travels." She looked away. "I'll leave you alone for a while."

Mrs. Weiss shuffled off. I climbed up the ladder and stretched my hand up until I could feel the letters of my mother's name. It was a little easier this time. Maybe I was growing taller. I held my hand on that name for a long time, with my face pressed against the black wall. I felt like I was waiting for a message, a message that didn't come.

I finally gave up, climbed down, and dragged the ladder back to the Lincoln. Mrs. Weiss was sitting inside, with the air conditioner running, but she was on the passenger side. When I opened the door, she said, "Put that thing in the trunk and get behind the wheel. It's time to practice driving, if you don't mind an old-lady car."

"It's a real nice car."

"You'd like a car like this?"

"Sure. Everything works in it. My dad's cars always have things that don't work in them."

For the next twenty minutes Mrs. Weiss let me steer the big car all over the lanes of Eternal Rest Cemetery. She hardly spoke. Just once to say, "Go easier on the brakes," and another time, "Try not to overturn." She wouldn't let me drive out of the cemetery, though.

We switched places at the front gate. Mrs. Weiss turned left onto Seventy-second Street, smiling. "So what do you say we go out to dinner? A birthday dinner."

"I'm already going out to dinner. A birthday dinner."

Mrs. Weiss must have been surprised, but she tried not to show it. "Oh? With whom?"

"Dad and Suzie."

"Yes? And where are they taking you?"

"The Greek Isles Family Restaurant."

"Where is that?"

"It's over on the Strip."

"The Strip? What? Where the drug dealers are? Where the prostitutes are? He's taking you there?"

"It's not that bad, Mrs. Weiss. Anyway, it was my idea."

"What would give you an idea like that?"

"I wanted to go back. You know, I practically grew up there. Our first business was right on A1A. Right on the Strip."

Mrs. Weiss paused. Then she said kindly, "I know, dearie. I know all about it."

Now I was surprised. "You do?"

"Of course. I remember when it happened. A terrible thing. Your poor mother."

I thought,
I remember when it happened, too—when I let myself.

"I was a woman alone, just like your mother. What happened to her made me think twice about where I wanted to open my store. That's how I wound up out at that mall. I had to have the security."

We turned right, into my development. Mrs. Weiss added, "You need security, too, Roberta. You're not safe here. You're a girl alone here."

"I'm not alone."

Mrs. Weiss snapped at me. "Don't tell me that! I know he leaves you here alone. Don't tell me he doesn't."

"Sometimes he—"

"And stop making excuses for him. He's not worth making excuses for. Roberta, if anything happened to you, I would just die. Do you know that?"

She stared at me intensely until I answered, "Yes, ma'am."

"But do you know what your father would do?"

No, ma am.

"He would buy you a cheap funeral, then he'd go waterskiing with his girlfriend. It's all about him. Him and only him. That's why I want you to move your things into my guest room."

I didn't know what to say. I got out the passenger side and told her, "Thanks, Mrs. Weiss. I'll think about that."

"I want an answer soon, Roberta. The right' answer." She stayed and watched as I walked up the driveway, under the carport, and in through the kitchen door. Then I heard the big Lincoln pull away.

I started to get a soda, then I noticed a note on the refrigerator. It said:
Roberta, We will pick you up at 7. Expect a nice surprise. Dad and Suzie.

It was already after six. I took a quick shower, then I found a pair of black slacks and a wrinkled white button-down shirt. I pulled out the ironing board and ironed them both.

After I got dressed I had a strange notion. I went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet under the sink, and took out the bag of makeup that Kristin had left behind. I thought about using it, but I chickened out. I was liable to dab something on wrong and look like a clown. Instead I combed my hair straight down, like I always do. I stood and stared at myself in that mirror for a long time until I heard Dad and Suzie come in. Then I went out to the kitchen.

Suzie greeted me with, "Oh! You look nice!"

Dad smiled. "Come on, birthday girl. Let's go."

Since there were three of us, we had to take Dad's Chevy Malibu. I sat in the back. With the top down and the radio on, I may as well have been sitting in another car. Dad drove to the Strip from the north, down Ocean Boulevard. He turned right just before the 7-Eleven, the tattoo parlor, and the restaurant.

The scene was just the way I remembered it. The same people were hanging out—the same sickly looking kids; the same bad guys in front of the 7-Eleven.

Dad couldn't find a space in front of the restaurant, so he parked in the tattoo parlor's lot. It was close enough to the 7-Eleven that the tall scuzzy guy could call over to him, "Yo! Hey, you here to party?"

Dad winked at me. He lowered his voice and answered the guy, "Yeah. We're here for a birthday party."

The scuzzy guy held up his palms. "Cool. If you want to do some real partying later, you come see me."

Dad smiled at him. He answered, "Cool." Then he rolled his eyes at me, like it was funny.

I hated the way he dropped his voice to match that scuzzy guy's. And I hated the way he said "Cool." There was nothing cool about it. That was the guy who had grabbed Kristin, the guy who was going to shoot her just for fighting back.

When we entered the restaurant, the owner came right up to Dad like he was a long-lost friend. He practically shouted, "Look who's here!"

Dad said, "Hey, man, good to see you."

"What's the occasion?"

"A very special occasion, in more ways than one. Do you remember my little girl?"

The guy's eyes bugged out. "Of course I do! Look at you. You always had the red around your mouth, right? From the Slurpees?"

"Right," I said. But I had no recollection of him at all. He turned back to Dad. I wondered,
Does he know about Mom? He must.

Dad spoke quickly. "And this is Suzie. She's the other part of the very special occasion."

Suzie gave him a wide smile. The guy said, "That's wonderful. Come in. Come in." He grabbed three menus and walked us to a table by the front window. I was glad of that, because I wanted to look out.

Dad sat next to Suzie, across from me. She scooted her chair closer to him so that she could hook her arm in his. Dad and Suzie exchanged a look. Then Dad smiled at me. "Well, Roberta, happy birthday."

Suzie said, "Yeah. Happy birthday."

Then Dad said, "Don't you want to know what the other special occasion is?"

A teenage girl came up and set down three glasses of water. "Can I get you anything from the bar?"

Dad said, "Do you still have those split bottles of champagne?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. I'll take one of those. Roberta, how about you?"

I said, "Seven-Up."

The waitress jotted the drink orders down and left.

I tried to look out the window, at the action outside the 7-Eleven, but Dad drew me back. "So where were we? Oh yes, the other special occasion. Can you guess what it is?"