Roll with the Punches (11 page)

I hid said fists and glared at the night passing by. I'd resisted Harley's conspiracy theories, but the more we talked, the more plausible they seemed. How well did I really know my writing group? I made one last attempt to defend them. "Look, most writers just aren't that smooth. We're all loners, and about as subtle as semi-trucks, all trying to funnel our work into the few bestseller slots.”

"And you all have sports cars like Marian."

"No." I crossed my arms. “We’re not going to Marian’s.”

She started singing our favorite song from
White Christmas: "Sisters, sisters …”

I couldn't help but join in. Harley and I were just like devoted sisters, having made a sisterhood pact in blood at the age of twelve and sealed it with this song. Then we'd watched the movie and eaten brownies until we felt sick. Now we belted out the lyrics in perfect Rosemary Clooney/Vera Ellen style. Until the part claiming a mister would never come between me and my “sister.” Unfortunately, that had happened a couple of times over the years.

She got quiet. "What would you buy if you were as rich as Reynard?"

I said, "Perfect, cushy care for my parents, a cruise for me, and a boy toy for you—with pecs to die for and loaded with cash.”

She said. "Fine, but I'm not sharing, ever again.”

“Course not.” Seriously? She was still mad about that? It had
not
been sharing, anyway, more like me dating her castoff goods. For a minute.

To lighten the mood, I treated her to my most colorful version yet of my incredible kissing scene at Darya Delhi with James, and how he saved my life again. Except that storyteller that I was, I stretched the truth just a tad, making the new story that James had rushed up to save an emotionally frozen me, standing sobbing in the parking lot, from an oncoming truck. Hey, a girl has to practice her craft.

Soon we reached Marian's lovely two-story home in Anaheim Hills. No lights, no cars. I called Marian's number on my cell phone. No answer. Harley parked and pulled me out of the car and across the grass to the shrubs that edged the property. "Trust me. She'll never know we were here.”

A big dog barked next door, and I jumped. My stomach felt funny. "But Marian's my friend.”

We headed toward the back yard gate. Just then, Marian's fancy sports car drew up in the driveway and Harley shoved me inside the gate and shut it. We hunched down behind the fence to watch Marian, who wasn't alone. A tall, dark hunk of about my age bloomed from the passenger's side and pulled a meter-square object from the trunk before accompanying Marian inside, lugging the thing.

"Who's that?" Harley asked.

I shrugged.

"That's not a Corvette. It's a Porsche 911," Harley breathed. "What's in her garage, a Rolls Royce? I think she's our thief.”

We stood there in the dark, and soon bird-like sounds emanated vaguely from one of Marian's upstairs windows. Okay, enough. I started to creep out the gate.

"Wait." Harley was biting her lip.

"What? We're leaving. Now."

"I have to pee. Bad," she said. "I had a couple Red Bulls earlier, and …"

"Wait until we get home." I tugged her toward the car.

"I have to go
now.
" Harley's bladder was notorious. We'd had to get out of line so many times at Disneyland when she'd had to go and wouldn’t go alone.

Harley ran up and knocked on Marian's door. Hard.

After about ten knocks, I ran up to pull her hand away, but just then Marian peered around the door, her hair all ruffled, her pupils large. Jungle sounds and heavy drums blasted from behind her. "Oh. Rhonda?"

"I'm sorry," I began.

Harley pushed me aside. "Hi, Marian. I've heard a lot about you. We happened to be in the neighborhood, and I," her face squinched up, "need your bathroom."

I stood there, red-faced, as Harley stormed the castle and bounded up the stairs past Marian’s shocked face.

Marian reluctantly let me into her foyer. Her face was flushed and she was wearing a toga, or maybe a sheet. From the hallway, I could see a long massage table in the living room, covered in creamy sheepskin. Lit candles lined the edges of the room, on end tables, window sills, the mantelpiece. The thrumming jungle sounds and exotic candle scents conjured up Africa.

"Early Halloween party?" I said weakly. "Hey, I'm so sorry if this is a bad …"

Marian blinked her dilated eyes.

I tried another tack. "Um, we—er—were driving around discussing my book and I—Could I talk to you?"

"The phone?" Marian had found her voice.

"Well, it was just as we passed your street. Harley said, 'Hey, let's go ask Marian. She'll know.' And I said no, then she insisted …"

"Her bladder." Marian sighed.

"Marian, what can I actually do about the plagiarism? I mean I know my work's got a copyright the minute I type it on a page, but so what?"

Marian took pity on me and led me to the kitchen where we sat at her glass-top wrought iron table. Then, patting down her wild hair, she gave me a measuring look. "You need a copyright lawyer. Your work is copyrighted, but I don't think you can start a suit unless you register it first. Which could take some time. Meanwhile, the lawyer will want copies of your work and the Jackson work compared side by side."

"I just tried to buy his book. Sold out. The whole state …"

She frowned. A thump sounded overhead. We both looked up. What was taking Harley so long?

I said, "What if they're not exactly alike? Do I have any chance in hell of winning a lawsuit over this Jackson guy when I have no famous name and he's got a huge publishing corporation and a world of fans behind him?"

She put a finger to her chin. "You wrote it, right?"

"Of course." I looked her in the eye. "Every word. I swear."

"Good. Take the evidence of that—old drafts and new—to the lawyer. I'll be a witness.”

Another thump, downstairs this time.

She looked around. "I need to go check on my … cat."

She left, and I took in the cozy room. A gorgeous antique stove, warm cherry cabinets, lovely old china, with large windows looking onto her green, green garden: pure Marian. A desert highway postcard on the bulletin board behind me caught my eye. I quickly checked the back.

"
Received check. Marking debt paid. Guess Pala still trumps us all in your affections. Please, for the millionth time, try G. A. Love, Matt
."

*
      
*
      
*

"G. A.?" said Harley, back in the car. "Glenlove Applesauce or Geritol Anise flavor? And who's Pala?"

"I don't know. Her horse?" I said. "She gave me the name of a lawyer, but I'll have to sell my condo to pay for a consult."

"I've got four hundred dollars."

"Oh, man." And I’d been mean to her just the day before. "Thanks, Harley. That means a lot to me."

"Lawyers charge that much just to clear their throats. But I can tell you right now Marian didn't do it."

"How?" I asked. "You have a crystal ball?"

"No. I checked her IRS file. She won the car in a raffle and she doesn't make enough money otherwise to be Reynard Jackson."

I slept like an eggbeater in a meringue factory that night. On Acorn Street, the Santa Ana winds whipped the jack-o'-lantern flag out front around its pole and Arlene's wind chimes went crazy. My mind flipped around with them. How had Reynard Jackson somehow gotten my book, polished it in his voice, and published it in just a couple of months when it would have taken over a year to get any publisher to get it on shelves for anyone else? I wanted to strangle his anonymous little neck. Slowly and painfully. Five times.

In the wee hours, the hinges on the front door of the Acorn Street house squeaked. Then the banging started. I got up.

The living room yielded a flapping front door, hitting the wall in the harsh wind. I shut it, grabbed Music Man's spare cane from the hall umbrella stand, and took my martial arts ready pose. I started cautiously toward the kitchen with Bing, who was not growling or barking, but seemed to be laughing at me.

A quick sweep of the house yielded only Dad's empty bed. No intruders. No ghosts. Just Bing licking my leg with his drooly doggy tongue. I threw him a dog cookie for being correct and he put me on a leash. We walked out front and saw Music Man shuffling up the middle of the street toward the walk, cane clunking along, gray mane flying.

“Get inside!" he barked. "You'll get sick out here in that T-shirt, Rhonda. It's cold.” Definitely not sleepwalking.

"Why were you walking in the middle of the street at night, Dad? Somebody could run over you."

"Gotta get my exercise. I have as much right to be in the middle of the street as all those cars. I pay my taxes. Besides, I do it every night and I've never had a problem." He toddled off to bed.

I had no idea my mother slept so well.

*
      
*
      
*

I awoke the next morning once more to the smoke alarm and a repeat feeding of the tastiest portions of poor, unfortunate farm beasts. At which I balked. Not for the sake of frolicking Wilbur and Babe so much as the memory of those Burger King comfort-food fries from yesterday. Not that I was fat. I just had this tummy and these thighs that my pickup basketball games weren't taking care of. Thirty-four seemed to be the magic age where I couldn't sit all day in the library anymore and come home and write all evening without things beginning to spread. The good news was that my jeans fit better now, thanks to two months of park skating.

So I poured myself a bowl of cereal, and Dad recited the rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife.

Arlene called. She'd done a quick search of OASIS programs for temporary senior placement in the area. All were full. And, thanks to Dad’s adventures at Ralston House, all facilities now required that a doctor first evaluate any new resident's mental health before admission. Good thing I’d scheduled this 9:45 doctor's appointment. After that, I planned to hit another bookstore to find Jackson's book.

I tried to get us into the car on time with the pretense of going to see Mom, but Music Man wouldn't leave the kitchen until the last dish was dry at 9:37. I hated to lie to him, but we were late. I opened my mouth to tell him to hurry as he disappeared into the bathroom.

At 9:51, I knocked on the door. "Did you fall in?"

He yelled, "You know the meanest man in the world is the guy who leaves you no toilet paper, and he's been here."

In the other bathroom under the sink was a whole cabinet full of Campbell's soup and Alpo. Soup? In the bathroom? No T. P. here, though. Next stop, the kitchen pantry, now crammed with bed linens and light bulbs. Okay. The linen closet still held tools, socks and detergent. So of course the toilet paper was in the garage on the top shelf, over the washer, with the fresh fruit. Wow. Mom needed new house elves.

I ran back and eased open the bathroom door to lob in a roll of T. P., but Bing nudged the door open and I didn't shut my eyes fast enough. Sunday Times comics in mountains all over the floor. Collapsed beige pants under giant bald knees, white porcelain throne peeking through. Anxious humming and beetled brows under the grizzled mane.

I slammed the door and my eyes, but no amount of daffodil-and-butterfly thoughts could erase this dreadful image from my memory. Especially the scariest part: the roll of toilet paper sitting on the back of the tank.

When he reappeared in the kitchen, he dumped his carryall and jacket on top of the pile of my mother's things that already filled my arms. He fiddled with his sunglasses.

The phone rang, and over-burdened, I pushed the speakerphone button with my only available pinky. "We're leaving, Mom," I said.

"Hello! I'm not Mom! This is Nan at Dr. Viejo's office. Is Harold coming to his appointment this morning?"

I yelled, "Yes!" and shoved Dad out the door.

"Rhonda?" He dug in his heels as they hit the front porch. "I don't have an appointment today. I'm going to see Ethel."

"Well," I dropped everything and locked the door fast. "First, we just need to check your prescriptions."

"With a quack?" More furrowed brows. "I hate quacks."

"It's just a quick visit. Then we'll go see Mom."

"I don't want to see anyone but your mother!" he yelled, thumping his cane on the porch. "You promise we're going straight over to see her, or I won't get in the car."

Neighbor heads poked out their front doors like curious turtles. Scared ones who wouldn’t be of any help.

Dad stood firm, out-weighing me by a good hundred pounds. I was big for a woman, but he was like a mountain when determined. It was very tempting to tell another fib about now, but I'd felt awful ever since I'd promised the day before not to ever put him in a home. I had no idea if I could keep that promise, and it made my stomach hurt. Our relationship had always been based on honesty, and outright lying to Music Man, even the new, odd Music Man, to smooth things over, still seemed very wrong.

"Dad, come on. The neighbors are looking." I took his arm and steered him down the sidewalk toward the driveway.

After two steps, he stopped. "First those doctors tell you you're old, and then you die. They kill ya. It happened to my grandpa!"

Oh. He was scared.

We stood at an impasse: me cajoling sweetly and him swearing like an angry sailor. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was yelling and waving his cane, but only a doctor would know if he was okay for him to be a solitary rock or if he needed to be in home full of ancient rocks, which was the hard place. More to the point, if I had to rebook this appointment, I'd miss even more work that I couldn’t afford to miss. And he needed that mental evaluation, so he was going.

So, round and round we went on the sidewalk, as the rock vented his volcanic feelings. The longer he yelled, the more I leaned toward just dropping him on the doorstep of an assisted living place and driving away fast.

Then he threw the cane at me.

I dodged it, but it caught me on the elbow, and I swore. Which was when a dented silver Toyota rolled up to the curb. A tall, dark guy in jeans got out and strolled across the grass toward us, carrying a stack of boxes, which he set down nearby. Just as my father released another string of invective toward me and tears threatened to give my vulnerable position away, the guy approached and stood silently on long, skinny legs. He looked Native American, with a long, dark ponytail, high cheekbones and barrel chest. He wore a denim jacket over a faded T-shirt, jeans and Nikes.