Impersonal Attractions (21 page)

Just after dawn they were welcomed into a warm kitchen where they were fed thick, hot, French coffee and sweet sticky buns. Then the boy was asked to sit in the living room, where he watched pictures on the television with no sound while the men talked. There was a calendar from a gas station on the wall. He looked at it and wondered about the next month and the one after that.

“Son.” The man who had sworn him in months before in the pasture just outside, who had given him a reason for being, called him in and put an arm around his shoulder.

“As much as I hate to lose you, ’cause you been doing a hell of a job, we’ve got to get you out of here. We’re going to help you, but you’ve got to disappear.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were going to send him away? But he’d done everything they ever asked of him—and more.

He tried to argue, but there was no appeal in this court. After another cup of coffee Reverend Jones stood, shook his hand, and wished him luck. He had to get on back before he was missed.

A stranger said, “This way, son. We might as well get started.”

Reverend Jones and the other men nodded somberly at the car as it pulled out of the driveway.

Jones looked to the man who made the final decisions. “You’re right, we had to get rid of him.”

“Yep, bring us nothing but trouble. He’s crazy, you know.”

*

The first man drove him to Lake Charles. There he’d been passed to another, who took him to Austin. It went on like that, one large, faceless, nameless man after another who just drove, taking the boy to the next stop along the way. Until five days and 2500 miles later, he was alone with $500 in his pocket in California.

That had been a long time ago. He’d been alone ever since, except for the times his particular appetites had gotten him into trouble and he’d shared space with lots of other men in jailhouse orange. Hard times, they were, very hard times, locked away without his knife to find even an occasional moment of release. But eventually he’d always made it through.

Eventually they’d always let him out.

THIRTY-FOUR

T
hey found John Sharder in Port Costa.

The phone was listed in his mother’s name. When Sam called Mrs. Sharder was very helpful. She said John would be home at six o’clock in time for his supper.

*

Port Costa is a minuscule one-street town perched on the shores of the Carquinez Strait a few miles northeast of the city. Its populace is a loose coalition of independent souls who preserve the best of the spirit of the Old West. They are most famous for telling the federal government to take a hike during a dispute over the town’s water-treatment system.

Annie and Sam arrived well before six and decided to kill time at the bar in Matilda’s Restaurant. The decor was funhouse kitsch. Dusty Christmas decorations hung permanently. A ticket booth trimmed with garlands of plastic flowers and signs sat in the middle of the room. Mason jars served as glasses. The silver didn’t match. The portions of home cooking were legendary. But the real attraction of Matilda’s was the lady herself.

As they sat at the bar, they could hear her from the kitchen.

“Hustle your ass up here, sonny, the potatoes are getting cold.”

They grinned. This was nothing. They had seen Matilda in action before.

She stormed through the kitchen’s swinging doors, waving a spoon. Matilda was a very wide, short woman of late middle age. Her graying hair was twisted up in a knot. Her enormous breasts heaved beneath a gaily flowered muumuu.

As she headed toward the bar, a young couple at a table for two caught her eye.

“Hey there, son.” Her voice was first cousin to a buzz saw. “Getting enough…” She paused to watch the blood rise up the young man’s neck. “To eat?”

He smiled nervously first at his date, then at Matilda, who was circling behind him. She leaned over and pressed her mammoth breasts against the back of his head, which slipped into her canyonlike cleavage. He was surrounded.

When he was sufficiently scarlet and gasping for breath, the crowd at the bar roaring with laughter, Matilda heaved herself off him, cackling, and began to yell at the bartender about a late delivery.

Satisfied that it had been taken care of, the lady of the house waggled toward another mission, brushing past Annie and Sam.

Annie would never know what came over her.

“Excuse me,” she addressed Matilda. “Do you happen to know a man named John Sharder?”

Sam leaned onto the bar, covering her eyes with one hand. She couldn’t believe it.

Matilda’s eyes narrowed behind her cat glasses.

“Of course I do. There ain’t but a hundred or so sonsabitches who live in this town.”

“Could I talk with you about him for a minute?”

“What do you want to know? You writing a book? I’ll tell you what you’d better do.”

Sam had already figured it out. She dropped several dollars on the bar and grabbed her bag and Annie’s arm.

“That’s right. Pay up and clear out,” Matilda trumpeted.

Her voice followed them out the revolving door. “And don’t come back.”

Sam softly socked Annie on the side of the head. “Nice going, Sherlock.”

Then they collapsed with laughter, Annie leaning against the side of the building.

“That wasn’t exactly the most subtle exchange I’ve ever heard,” gasped Sam, wiping her eyes.

“We’ll chalk it up as practice. I’m going to get better at this private-eye stuff as we go along.”

*

The Sharder house was small, neat, and old—well kept, though the front porch was sagging. Blue shutters were freshly painted. Smoke curled from a red-brick chimney into the early dark. Low bushes snuggled up close to the front steps.

The aroma of home cooking drifted toward them as they approached the front door. Pot roast for dinner.

John Sharder’s white Porsche was parked in the driveway.

“Ready when you are, C.B.,” Annie said.

“Okay, this is it.” Sam knocked on the front door.

John Sharder opened it, beaming. They had thought there was both safety and advantage in surprising him in his own lair. If he were their man, surely he wouldn’t murder them in front of his own mother. But they hadn’t figured on his welcoming them with open arms.

“Samantha! How wonderful to see you. Please come in out of the cold.”

John looked as if he had just arrived home and removed his jacket and tie. He was still in the trousers of a navy-blue suit and a blue-and-white striped shirt. He smelled of soap. His hair was dark with water and freshly combed.

“Who is it, dear?” Mrs. Sharder caroled from the kitchen. She came into the living room wiping her hands on her flowered apron. She was a tiny, white-haired, pinkcheeked, little old lady with blue eyes and a merry smile. John introduced them.

“How nice of you girls to drop by,” Mrs. Sharder said. “Samantha, I’ve heard so much about you from John. And I follow your writing in the paper. I feel as if I know you.”

Annie and Sam exchanged a look. Sam hadn’t identified herself when she’d called looking for John. Had Mrs. Sharder guessed who she was? Or was she just as loony tunes as her son?

“I’m so glad you’re here in time for dinner,” she continued.

“Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly.”

“Nonsense. Of course you can. I won’t take no for an answer. Now, you girls just settle yourselves down here with John for a few minutes while I finish up in the kitchen. It’s pot roast, John’s favorite,” she said, twinkling. “John, give the girls a sip of sherry. I won’t be but a minute.”

Annie wondered if this little old lady could be the Wolf in disguise. Like Little Red Riding-Hood, were they going to be eaten up?

This certainly could be Grandmama’s cottage. The living-room floor was covered with a highly waxed linoleum patterned in squares of pink, green, and brown, spotted with braided rag rugs. The rocking chair in which Annie sat was draped with a dusty-rose afghan. Sam was sitting on a pale green sofa embossed with flowers. It reminded Annie of hot summer days during her childhood when a similar sofa at her aunt’s house had prickled the backs of her skinny, bare legs. Heavy swag curtains at the little windows blossomed with pink and crimson cabbage roses. The room was a little too warm and stuffy.

“It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you, Samantha,” Sharder said, smiling widely at both of them. “Halloween. And it’s getting on toward Christmas. That’s much too long. We must get together more often.”

Annie studied him carefully as he handed them each a beautifully engraved glass half filled with sherry. He seemed perfectly at ease.

“Well, it’s not as if we’ve had much of a chance to talk together,” Sam replied warmly. She had decided to just play it on through and see where his fantasies took them.

“I know, I know,” he said. “That’s my fault. I’ve been quite negligent and I apologize. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

For what? Annie wondered. For not tracking her down in the street? Killing her? Smothering her with roses?

“Come and get it, children. Your supper’s getting cold,” Mrs. Sharder called from inside.

John ushered them into the large, square kitchen and seated them at a round table covered with dishes. There was the roast, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, a green salad, a quivering, rosy-red gelatin salad, homemade biscuits, and plum jam.

“And chocolate cake and banana pudding for dessert.” Mrs. Sharder beamed.

“This is just lovely.” Annie smiled at John’s mother. “It’s like Sunday dinner back home in Atlanta. But,” she wondered, “were you expecting company?”

“Atlanta!” the older woman exclaimed. “How charming. I thought I heard a bit of the South in you.” She passed the butter to Annie. “No, I always cook like this. Just can’t break the habit of so many years. Even if there are just the three of us.”

John looked at his mother sharply, the first negative emotion either of them had ever seen on his face. His mother felt it too.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant the two of us. I always speak as if John’s father were with us still.”

“He’s been dead for twenty years, Mother.” John’s voice was cold.

“I know, dear. I’m not that dotty.” She turned to the two women. “John’s father was such a dear man and such a strong personality that I still feel his presence. But I
know
he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Sharder,” Annie said with her best southern manners. “But,” she added, “this would be a generous dinner even for three of you.”

“Oh, yes, dear. I know. You see, I used to run a boardinghouse back in Kansas. I’d cook two meals a day and make box lunches for ten or fifteen hungry men, mostly farm laborers and railroad men, though sometimes we had a maiden lady schoolteacher or two.

“Lord, I loved those days.” Mrs. Sharder’s eyes grew wistful with remembrance. “All those people living in my house. Filling up all the nooks and crannies with their lives and their dreams. It was like having the huge family I always wanted.”

“I’m an only child,” John said, looking down at his plate.

“Yes, he’s my darling only angel.” Mrs. Sharder beamed at her son. “John was a late blessing in our lives. I wanted a dozen children, but it looked like we weren’t even going to have one. John’s father and I had given up on little ones. I had my boarders and my flowers, and was resigned to it, when God blessed us with John.”

She began lifting their empty plates from the table. Despite their protestations, they had both eaten a helping of everything, plus a bit of both desserts. It was wonderful, comforting food, but they groaned like stuffed Strasbourg geese.

“Speaking of my flowers”—Mrs. Sharder gestured toward a low vase of white mums on the table—“would you girls like to come out to the greenhouse and see them? John, do you mind cleaning up while I show the girls my babies?”

The small greenhouse had the warm, fecund odor of pampered vegetation. Flowers bloomed aggressively with no regard for season. Ruffly orchids pushed their way in among red, pink, and violet cyclamen. Annie caught the unmistakable sweetness of roses. There they were—tall, long-stemmed, white.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Mrs. Sharder caught Annie’s glance. “They’re my favorites. I grow only the white ones. Here.” She reached out with a pair of shears. “Let me cut you some.”

“No,” Annie recoiled, the final scene at Lola’s flashing in her imagination.

“You have to excuse my friend.” Sam frowned at Annie. “I’d love to have some roses, Mrs. Sharder.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Annie blushed. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that white roses remind me of…of an old boyfriend. I’m afraid it’s not a very pleasant association.”

“That’s all right, dear. I know what you mean. Flowers are like colors and scents and songs. They’re tied to memories, both good and bad. Here”—she looked around the greenhouse and reached toward another plant—“take this spray of cymbidium instead.”

She cut a branch of the tiny green orchids before Annie could protest and pressed them into her hand.

Mrs. Sharder continued her tour, chatting on about her flowers and the vegetables she grew year-round. Onions, potatoes, beans, squash, plus herbs to flavor the vegetables before she served them up on her round kitchen table. She talked about how much easier it was to grow things in California than in Kansas, how quickly she had adjusted to her new home when Mr. Sharder had moved them, though she’d been reluctant to leave old friends. And all the time she was patting a plant here, pinching a bud there, pruning and pampering as she talked.