Roll with the Punches (13 page)

"Oh, yeah." Music Man patted his wide stomach and burped for proof. "Long as I don't have to go to one of those old people's homes."

The doctor wrote a prescription and handed it to my father. "Mr. Hamilton, this is for the knee pain, but I'm going to hold off on any other changes to your medicines right now." He flashed me a stern look. "As well as further visits to 'old people's homes.' If he's still acting 'off' in a couple of weeks, give me a call, but for now, keep him at home and no more tackling him to the ground. That’s called elder abuse, and I should report it.”

I said that it wouldn't happen again. Dr. Viejo left the room, and I realized I was left with an old man who had been walking down the middle of the street in the middle of last night. I ran out into the hall. "Dr. Viejo, there’s something else—"

But he had disappeared in a puff of antiseptic spray.

*
      
*
      
*

Music Man and I found Dal dozing in the car.

"Quick, get in," I said, shoving Music Man into the front seat and climbing in back. "Before they come after us."

Dal arched a brow back at me as he started the car. "What now? Did you forget to pay? Am I harboring medical fugitives?"

"No," I laughed. "They may call the elderly abuse hotline on me.”

Dal said, "Don't worry. It'll never stick with this many donuts in the car.”

"Anybody want one?" my generous father offered, holding the box out.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and hoped the doctor was right that Dad wasn't crazy.

Then we parked, but not on Acorn Street. At UCI Medical Center. Dal led the way in. Funny. Didn't he have a job or someplace else to go or something better to do? A person with excess time in Orange County was sort of creepy.

Mom looked pretty good for the day after a big surgery, a bit pale and tired, but generally intact. Looking around her nightstand, she stage-whispered, "Rhonda, do you see my glasses?" She pointed at Dal, standing by the door. "You brought him back? The nice doctor? So cute and talented. I'd snap him up in a minute if I were you.”

I rolled my eyes and handed Mom her glasses.

"Oh, Ed. I'm sorry." She laughed and reached for his hand. "I just assumed. Have a seat. So you two have met? Would you like a chocolate?"

It was a new box. Arlene must have replaced it. Music Man took a large handful. Dal refused.

"Ed?" I said. Curiouser and curiouser.

My mother went on, "Remember him, Harold? He's Janice Baker's son. Our neighbor that one year in Huntington Beach before we moved to Anaheim? I think you had him in class one year at Huntington Beach High."

My father peered troll-like at Dal. "Did you pass my class?"

Dal cleared his throat. "Um, barely."

"Well, I hope you had the sense never to take another math class. You were one dense kid."

Mom jumped in. "Did you ever meet Ed back then, Rhonda? He's about your age, I think, or was he closer to Jerry's? Anyway, he was nice enough to agree to dog sit for Harold and me during our trip to Australia so poor Bing wouldn't be all alone." She sighed.

"I could have watched Bing," I said.

"For two months?" Mom and Music Man exchanged a look. They remembered the hamsters.

A tear slid down Mom's cheek. "Dad gum. If I'd just been more careful in the store, we'd still be going and Ed wouldn't be inconvenienced.”

My father sat down by her and took her hand. "It's okay, Ethel. We'll go when you're better."

Dal finally spoke. "It's fine, Mrs. Hamilton. I just hope you feel better soon."

I rose. "Look, Mom. Dal, or Ed's, been really nice taking Dad and me to the doctor, but he must have things to do. Like find a place to live now your plans have changed."

Mom looked tired. "It must be tough to concentrate on your studies, Ed, with your sister and her three kids at home."

He rolled his eyes.

Music Man piped up, "We have five bedrooms, Ethel. Why couldn't the boy stay with us anyway? Bing and I won't mind him. Even if he can't prove a theorem to save his life."

"Yes, that's perfect!" My mother said. "Ed, you could stay at our house for the next two months, just like we planned. In fact, stay as long as you like. Rent free. We know how hard it is for students financially. Just chip in for food now and then. It's the least we can do."

Dal said, "Well …"

Mom said, "If you don't mind Harold's singing, it's so much closer to your school. Oh, this is such a relief. Something that went right despite my stupid fall. I insist, Ed. Please?"

Dal considered this. Then he patted her hand. "Thanks. That's really a nice offer. It's got to be quieter than my dad's house in Newport Beach, but are you sure? I mean won't I be in the way when you come home from the hospital, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Oh, call me Ethel, please. And Harold and I would just
love
some company, wouldn't we, Harold? It gets so lonely around there with Monica and her children gone. We never see
any
young people."

Dal looked straight at me, and I shrugged. Was I responsible for my parents' lack of social life?

"Do you mind?" he asked me.

"Me?" No one ever asked me if I minded.

Mom said. "Don't worry about Rhonda. She goes along with everything."

Dal's face smoothed out into a smile, the first real one I'd seen. Kind of crooked, but real, with a lot of crinkles around his eyes. "Sure, thanks. At least until I find another place. And I'll pay you, too."

Dad said, "Just pay me in donuts."

*
      
*
      
*

Dal was annoyingly quiet taking me back to Acorn Street to retrieve my car. Music Man had stayed behind with Mom for a bit, with strict orders to behave.

"What kind of 'Doll' are you, anyway? G.I. Joe or Power Ranger?" I blurted.

"Ethnic Ken, in a fireman's hat," he deadpanned.

I didn't know if I should laugh. "And why didn't you tell me you were the dog sitter right away? Or that you knew Dad? And why did you kiss me? And what's your real name?"

"Is this twenty questions? Or do I need a lawyer?" The smile was gone, but the tone was mild.

"Never mind. I just wanted to fill the silence, and there seemed to be several elephants in the car."

"Don't you mean Indians?" he asked, looking over at me.

"I thought it was
Native American
," I said, arms crossed, staring at the stores on Chapman Avenue. "To be politically correct."

He rolled his eyes. "That's a government term meant to white-wash all our bloody history with whites. I never use it. I've been an Indian all my life, Sioux, to be exact, and an Indian I'll stay.”

I nodded. "Right. A nose by any other name would still smell—" I clapped a hand on my mouth. "Uh, that was Dad making fun of Shakespeare, not me making fun of …"

His mouth twitched. "Call me whatever you want. The nose is my badge. Me ride big motorcycle, chop many wood. But actually, Indians can't take full credit. It takes a lot of committed ancestors from all over the world to build a nose this big, you know. Italians, Arabs, Turks.”

"With blue eyes?" I said.

He cocked his head. "Theory is two blue-eyed grandfathers.”

"You're not an Indian, then."

"Twenty-five percent is all you need to claim it these days, and I'm well over that." A note of irony crept into his voice as he turned down my street. "I might have a few questions of my own, you know, like why you never visit your folks."

And here I was warming to him.

He stopped the car under the big eucalyptus in our yard. "Look, if it bothers you, I won't move in here."

What could I say? If I said it bothered me, it would sound like I didn't like him, or worse, like I did, which was ridiculous. If I admitted how much it would never have a chance to bother me because I'd be staying in my condo henceforth since Music Man had been pronounced okay by a gerontologist, it would look like I didn't care about the folks.

So I just shrugged and hopped out.

That evening, I left Music Man and Arlene making a Picasso picture out of a Renoir jigsaw puzzle on Acorn Street and raced to my condo long enough to read several more rude email messages from previously friendly agents and throw out three potted plants. My blog had a ream of mostly negative comments, which I eagerly searched. Damn. Seventy percent flamed me, shocked and insulted at my reprehensible behavior. My writing groups also had pointed questions posted about plagiarism. I tried to calmly answer them, but I'm afraid my own tone got a little furious. Then I tried to call a couple of agents and explain, but got nowhere. They were not returning my calls.

Frustrated, I went out to skate at my local park, but there was a big outdoor party, so my route was cut off. I got back into the car to head to the bookstore and my sunglasses fell between the seats. I reached down to get them and out came a small folded sheet of lined paper with loopy purple handwriting on it.

Ooh. More Yvette gold. On the paper was a heading: Writing groups—Orange County. Underneath were three days: Tuesdays at 7:00 p.m. with Jackie's address. Our meeting. Then Thursdays at 8:30 with an Anaheim address, and Saturdays at 9:00 with a scratched out address. Hah! I knew she was some kind of spy.

It was now 7:15 on Thursday. This was great. I could cruise the Thursday writers' group site early and make a reconnaissance plan. Maybe I could infiltrate the group and find out more about Yvette, unless she was attending tonight. I raced back home for my blond wig and giant sunglasses from last Halloween and took off.

However, the Anaheim address wasn't a tract house. It was Rolls Boyce, a skating rink with the last two letters in the pink neon sign dark, making it flash
Rolls Boy
. I pulled up in the lot and let my head sink onto the steering wheel. Great. Another dead end.

Well, I still needed a skate, so I went in to check out their prices. It was the last twenty minutes of public skate. What the hell. I could try out my new quad skates. I paid for the session and made a mental note to get there earlier next time. Then I put on my new, low-slung, black skates, my lovely, shiny Reidells, and jammed around the big rink, weaving in and out of groups of little clowny kids and posing teenagers doing the hokey pokey. It felt so good to move, to let fly after all the family stress and the worry about my book, even for just a few minutes. When the crowd thinned out a little, I tried skating backwards for a few laps. What fun. I hadn't skated in a regular roller rink since college.

As the public skate session ended, the rink cleared of all but some rangy women in ratty tank tops, short shorts, and beat up knee and elbow guards. They looked a bit familiar, like I'd seen some of them recently. Suddenly, they put on speed, and other large, sweaty zephyrs joined them, zipping by me, weaving expertly around each other at top speed, helmets down, arms swaying. Those large, pendulous cantaloupe boobs swayed with each stride in their loose tank top baskets. Hey, these were the girls from the middle school exhibition. The roller derby girls practiced here?

A small audience was gathering in the stands, hard-dude guys with a chain-link fence worth of metal and a library full of ink embedded in their collective skin. Aromas of smoke and sweat and what?—marijuana?—had invaded with them. Several wide-eyed pre-teen girls were glued to the spectacle.

In the women's locker room, I passed changing benches full of women's skate gear and green duffel bags marked
Amazons
. A mother was tugging off three kids' skates where they perched on the last available inches of one of these benches.

She was saying, "I don't see why we have to stop skating early just for these tattooed elephants.”

A mountainous redhead with black leather bands on her hammy arms jostled me as she charged past like a python on a rampage through the jungle. Two more large Amazons followed her, skating so close to the kids, they knocked one off the bench.

A whistle blew and somebody yelled "Practice!" from the rink.

I helped the kid up and then aimed myself at a changing bench farther down. But before I could sit down, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back out toward the rink. I spun around.

It was Cathy of the infamous vet emergency with a crooked, cross-eyed smile and holey fishnets. "Hey, Rhonda. Do what I do." Wow, her mood had changed since Tuesday. My Spidey sense said today she wanted to shake somebody up and laugh about it.

My mouth was agape, so she shoved a mouth guard between my lips and towed me behind her right into the fray of female cannonballs bouncing around the rink. In two seconds, we were ricocheting off speeding Amazon bullets like pin balls.

How much medical insurance did I have again? I had loved roller derby on TV in its Xanadu heyday when I was nine, feeling the power and appeal of those fast, seemingly indestructible women. In my teens, racing on skates had been my wild, crazy outlet, but at this age, I saw roller skating more as a means of exercise and maybe romance. Venice Beach beckoned.

But here, in its full, loud, frankly smelly muscular glory, the derby brought back all that old excitement of TV roller derby, with an added dollop of pure terror of being a target of these bulldozing women. These babes were skating machines, a horde of wild animal energy on the rampage, flashing miles of sturdy leg and sharp teeth. Luckily, Cathy pulled me out of the pack before I was completely pulverized.

Out of breath, I rubbed my arm. "Yikes."

She shrugged. "Oh. You can still talk. Come on then." She dragged me right back into the maelstrom, trailing me behind the Amazons through their warm-up laps, which seemed to take years. This had to be payback for the dog adventure.

At some point, the short, stocky coach threw me some wrist, elbow and knee guards, a dorky neon orange helmet, and a waiver to sign. A waiver? Oh, crap. I stopped, red-faced and dripping with sweat, and tried to back toward the exit. Dad needed me, right?

But Cathy dogged me with her iron grip. "Hey. Relax. We don't bite fresh meat." The crooked smile returned. "And we need you. Bad. Queen Malevizent's AWOL and Panty-Silea's got a compound arm fraction and a sprained knee."