Fadeaway Girl (23 page)

I liked standing in the dark, munching popcorn, waiting for my eyes to adapt and I could see the empty seats. I stood longer than I needed to. Sometimes I wondered if I really came for the movies themselves; I believe I came for the comfort.

For it was nice to be in a crowd of people who were still as stones. When I sat down, I could steal glances across an aisle and see their faces, all looking up toward the screen in a wondering way that made me think of rows and rows of little children. They seemed to have entered their own secret garden, which in this case happened to be Chicago.

I didn't really care what the story was; I just liked looking at James Cagney, with his rapid, jerky movements, looking as hard and fast as a bullet himself. Yes, they were mowing each other down, left and right, but not aiming at me.

I found their company comforting; I felt, almost, as if we shared something, Jimmy up there on the screen blistering the air with bullets, and me, Emma, down here, unarmed, undangerous.

T
he next morning, I took Aurora's breakfast tray to her: a fried egg, bacon, toast, and tomato juice.

“ 'Bout time. I'm famished!” she said, getting up her temper for the day ahead.

I stood beneath a faded photo of the Hotel Paradise and said, “Morris Slade's back.”

She stopped cutting off a small section of egg white and looked at me. “What? That young devil? What's he back for?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.” I didn't tell her I'd talked to him, because she'd ask too many questions.

She broke her egg yolk with a corner of toast. “Uh-huh. He's back to destroy evidence. A little gin in this tomato juice would sure get it up and going.”

That wasn't even a real request, and I ignored it. One thing I'll say for her, Great-Aunt Aurora was never afraid of a wild guess. “What evidence could there possibly be after over twenty years? And after the place it happened burned down?” I said.

“Oh, there's some evidence stays around forever, even in burnt places, even in embers. You get a private detective on him, see what he's up to.”

Did she know how absurd this sounded? Probably not. She always had this way of pretending I had the money to do things I didn't. “I don't know any private detectives, much less can afford to pay one.”

She was nibbling her bacon and didn't choose to answer.

“Did you know Morris Slade well?” This was a dumb question, for she knew everyone well, or claimed to.

She was dabbing her mouth with the linen napkin that accompanied all room-service food, food carried, of course, by me. “Well of course I knew him. He was a rascal, that one.”

If Morris Slade struck me as anything, it was not rascally. Of course, rascals are younger than he was now. Maybe his rascally ways had left him when he discovered life was hard. Anyway, he was much too dignified now to be called a rascal.

“He ain't still married to that dust bunny, is he?”

“Imogen Woodruff? I guess so.” That had not come up.

“They never divorced?” She paused. “Scene of the crime.”

“What?”

“Scene of the crime's where he'll go.”

“The Belle Ruin? But he might go there anyway if it's where he last saw his daughter.” It kind of pained me to imagine him standing there, in what was left of the hotel, maybe trying to search out the room from which she was taken.

Aurora barked out a laugh. “You mean it'd be like a sentimental journey?”

“I still don't see what would be around that he could find after twenty years.”

“It doesn't have to be a speck of blood or a fingerprint. Maybe it's not at the Belle Ruin. Maybe it's a person. Maybe it's information.” She picked up a half slice of toast and said with distaste, “Burnt.”

No it wasn't. “Did you ever know my mother to serve burned anything?”

Her eyebrows danced around as if that were an answer as she set the perfectly browned toast back on her plate and folded her hands (in their lavender lace mittens) across her belly. “I used to know one name of Oates.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”

“Private detective. Ain't you been listening? Yes, Larry or Barry, no, Harry Oates. We went dancing together under the stars.”

Pushing away from the wall, I decided to leave before she remembered that scene too well and got out of her chair.

T
he best choice probably wasn't the Woods and Mr. Root, although they were plenty glad to see me.

As if he hadn't even sat down since I last saw them, Ulub had the same poetry book in his hand and was declaiming what sounded like the same poem. That is, as well as I could make out. It was the same process—Ulub getting out a line—“Ah owe ah nace er”—and Mr. Root slicing the air with his fingers, and Ubub tapping his foot like a metronome.

I arrived at the bench, saying, “Ulub needs a break, Mr. Root. Let's go in and get sodas. Then I have something to talk about.”

All three looked happier as we trooped into Britten's store to look at the candy counter and the big dispensers of cookies while Ulub went to the cold-drink bin. This all made Mr. Britten unhappy. Or unhappier, for he always looked unhappy.

“You all be careful now,” he called out the moment we were through the door.

“God's sake, man,” said Mr. Root, “we only just come in for a cold drink.”

Mr. Britten mumbled some reply. Or maybe curse. There was something about all of us together that looked to Mr. Britten as if we were John Dillinger, Al Capone, and Pretty Boy Floyd all bunched together, and his was the last club in Chicago still standing. I wished we had been; I could think of nothing better than clearing out a dim-lit, smoky Chicago club.

Ulub called out the drink choices: “E-hi gape, E-hi ownge, Co-cola, E-hi oot eer.”

I wondered why he put himself to the trouble of repeating “Nehi” before each flavor instead of just saying them all at once. Do people who have a special difficulty keep calling your attention to it, though they don't mean to? Ubub and Mr. Root wanted Nehi grape and I asked for a Coke.

Mr. Britten stood watching us with his hands clasped under his apron as if he might at any moment whip out a gun. I offered to pay, but Mr. Root and Ubub said no, no, it was their treat, and as we were standing directly in front of Mr. Britten, I insisted again on paying just to let him know what good manners and concern for others looked like. But he just took Mr. Root's money with a twisted lip.

Then I purchased two packets of Sno Balls, which came two in a packet, and we left to take over the bench again.

Each of us had one Sno Ball and a drink. I told them my plan (which wasn't a plan at all). I mentioned Great-Aunt Aurora's suggestion I hire a private detective, knowing they would pooh-pooh the need to hire one, Mr. Root in particular.

“Why'd you have to go pay a private detective when we can do it?”

Ulub and Ubub appeared kind of doubtful, but after consulting each other with a look, they nodded. I really admired this quality in them—all three of them—how they were willing to take on a project without rhyme or reason just because we were all friends. For a moment I wanted us all to hold out our hands and make a deck of fists in that all-for-one gesture.

“Now,” said Mr. Root, “you two got your trucks and I got my old Ford, if you're thinkin' along them lines.”

I wasn't thinking along any lines; I was just hoping we could come up with a private detective. Since I didn't know what Morris Slade was looking for, I didn't know how he'd look for it.

To Mr. Root, I said, “We'll see.” I thought and ate my Sno Ball. I loved these cakes because they were deep chocolate on the inside and marshmallow white with coconut on the outside. They were nice and mushy.

My mind could not come clear about following Morris Slade, and I thought I would go into La Porte and see the Sheriff and find out if he knew of anything that would account for Morris Slade suddenly turning up. I did not expect much, though.

Just then, down the highway I saw a cab coming. As it got closer, I saw it was the one Axel drove, the maroon Chevy. I shaded my eyes and peered from under my hand. The cab was empty except for the driver, and it was indeed Axel. Axel! I ran down the embankment toward the highway, waving wildly, gesturing in what I thought clearly meant “Stop!”

Axel tooted his horn. I jumped around. Axel waved and drove by me, tapping his horn again. He must have thought I was just giving him a friendly wave hello. I couldn't believe it. It was as close as I'd ever gotten and would no doubt ever get to riding in Axel's cab.

I said good-bye to my three friends and set off walking the two miles into town.

I felt beleaguered; I felt a lot was riding on my shoulders. But what? There was nothing riding on my shoulders except my head and what was in it, and what was in it was Morris Slade.

O
n my way back into town, I passed Arturo's with its faulty neon sign. The dead letters didn't make any difference in the daytime, since the lights didn't blink then. ART—EAT—ART—EAT I liked the message and hoped he would never fix it.

It took me another fifteen minutes to get to the courthouse. I trudged up the steps. It was after noon and the Sheriff might be at the Rainbow, but I seemed to remember he said he didn't eat lunch; he didn't like it. I wondered how a person could not like a mealtime.

I tried to see through the pebbled-glass door of the Sheriff's office, but couldn't make out the figures in there. If the Sheriff wasn't there, that was all right, for I'd actually come to see Donny. For once.

I wanted to know where his uncle lived. The Sheriff hadn't said, and I hadn't asked. If I had asked him, he would have figured out the reason I wanted to know and would've told me not to.

There were a lot of Moomas in the phone directory, but no Carls. There were two C's, and I called both numbers. I pretended to be selling magazine subscriptions, and one said his name was Charles, and he nearly talked my ear off, and the other hung up. I couldn't find out from the operator, because she didn't see a listing for a Carl Mooma.

Donny, of course, wouldn't tell me on general principles.

I stood thinking for another moment, then went in. “Hi.”

Maureen said hi back; Donny curled his lip. “Sam ain't here.”

I yawned and said I was going to the Rainbow for a doughnut and did they want any?

“You buyin'?” Donny snickered, as if I couldn't possibly be.

I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Maureen said, “That's mighty nice of you, but you don't—” She started rooting in her purse.

Donny said, “Why not? Seems to me she owes us one, Maureen.”

“I'll be right back.” I hurried off.

Donny was calling “—with sprinkles” before I got to the staircase.

It was lunchtime, so the Rainbow was crowded. All the counter seats were taken and the booths in back were filled, except for the “reserved” one for the waitresses' coffee breaks.

But I didn't care, as I didn't want to sit. Wanda Waylans was behind the baked goods shelves, friendly as ever.

“Well, hi, Emma. You after a doughnut? We got some good cinnamon buns today.”

I thanked her for the suggestion but ordered the doughnuts: two with chocolate sprinkles, two chocolate frosted, one strawberry frosted with multicolored sprinkles. It just looked festive. Glad I'd brought enough money with me, I paid Shirl, who looked at the dollar suspiciously, grunted, and gave me change. Then I thought of coffee and asked Wanda for two cups to go, sugar and cream on the side. Wanda set the cups in a four-cup carrier that looked kind of like an egg crate, and I paid Shirl for the coffee.

It was a lot to maneuver with, the coffee and the cardboard tray with the doughnuts. I went as fast as I could without spilling, back to the courthouse.

Donny was pacing and dictating. Maureen was typing, or would be if Donny could get going on with what he wanted to say.

“Dear Mr. uh . . . no, ‘Councilman' . . . That ain't a ‘Your Honor,' is it?”

Arms folded, Maureen shook her head and tapped her fingers on her forearms. “Just say ‘Mr.,' why don't you?”

Donny brought down his hand as if there were a flag in it and he was starting a race. “Okay, okay—”

When they saw the coffee and doughnuts, their eyes lit up, or hers did; Donny's just grew more bulbous.

“Why thank you, hon,” said Maureen. “That's awful thoughtful.”

Donny half snarled, half smiled. “What' cha want? Probably, she wants somethin',” he said to Maureen.

Maureen just picked up her coffee and waved his comment off.

Actually, I was surprised he'd said something smart for once.

Maureen was enjoying one of the chocolate doughnuts and looking out the window. Donny was eating the strawberry-iced with sprinkles and looking at it cross-eyed.

I was trying to figure out how to get the talk to Carl Mooma. I remembered Miss Flyte talking about Agatha Christie, and when Donny was slurping his coffee, I said, “You ever read anything by Agatha Christie?”

“Hell, o' course. Ain't everyone? Read
And Then They Were Gone
.” He was pleased with himself.

Maureen, whom I'd never put down as a big reader, said, “ ‘None,' Donny.
And Then There Were None
.”

But he was just eyeing the tray of doughnuts.

“You know she disappeared? Agatha Christie did. Nobody knew where she was.”

“She did?” said Maureen.