Romeo Fails (17 page)

“Dorse? You with me?” Maggie smiled at her forgivingly, amused at her distracted state.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I said, so I guess you and Sarah will just have to cope without us for a couple of days.”

Dorsey choked on her drink, for no reason whatsoever, except her guilt-stricken conscience.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” she said to Maggie’s concerned face. She coughed into her napkin, then took another long pull on her drink.

“You’ll keep an eye on her for me, won’t you?” Maggie said. “I’ve been kind of worried about leaving her alone for the weekend. She was so unhappy when she first got here. She didn’t tell me much about what happened in Chicago, but I know it must have been hard for her, breaking up with her boyfriend like that.”

Coca-Cola again went down the wrong pipe. Dorsey grabbed for her napkin, her eyes wet as she coughed.

“Sorry,” she said weakly to Maggie, coughing and waving her hand in a go-ahead gesture. “You were saying? About a… boyfriend? Is that what Sarah told you?”

“Well, not in so many words,” Maggie replied, “but I think I know a broken heart when I see one.”

Dorsey pondered that in silence.

“She’s never really talked about her love life much,” Maggie said. “She’s pretty private that way. Kind of like you in that regard,” she added with a twist to her lips.

Wake up, Mags!
Dorsey wanted to shout.

“Anyway,” Maggie went on, “I just wanted to tell you how happy I am that you two have become friends now. It means so much to me.”

Dorsey squirmed in her seat, wretchedly wishing she could tell Maggie the truth right here, right now and get it over with. Maggie seemed oblivious to her distress. She leaned over the table to tell Dorsey something confidentially.

“I’m only telling you this because I know you would never pass it on and because I know you care about Sarah too—you know those pills she got from the pharmacy? Well, they’re antidepressants.”

Dorsey was a bit taken aback by that news, but felt like she should defend Sarah. Which was odd, considering it was Maggie she was talking to.

“Well, you know a lot of people take those pills these days, Mags,” she said evenly. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. She said they helped her sleep, right?”

“I know,” Maggie said, “but I’ve just been worried about her. She gets these dark moods sometimes and goes all quiet on me. That’s why I’m glad you’ll be here with her this weekend so she won’t get lonely.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dorsey said, hoping to move on to other topics.

“You two have plans, right?” Maggie persisted.

Since Dorsey’s plan was to get Sarah naked and fuck her brains out all weekend long, she couldn’t exactly share that with Maggie. Nor could she share their escapades in a hotel room in Grover earlier in the week…or in the cab of her truck that one night out on a deserted country road after she had shown Sarah the falls for which the town was named…

“Dorse?” Maggie looked at her oddly when she again didn’t answer right away.

“We’ll be fine, Mags. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” said Maggie, beaming. She flagged down the passing waitress and asked for the dessert menu.

* * *

The Miscreant was filling up at the gas station. And thinking. There were so many possibilities to think about as the next move was planned. And the planning was almost as much fun as the doing. So many possible targets. The high school, maybe. A perfect example of what was wrong with this stupid little town. That would show those losers… Or the community center. Maybe something completely off the wall, like the Blue Duck. Not that there was anything wrong with the place, but the very randomness of the choice was appealing.

The ticking of the gas pump seemed in time with the thoughts tumbling one over another. Maybe a person, instead of a place? Maybe just randomly pick one of these people…these fucking smug, self-satisfied, stuck-up assholes who thought they were so much better…anything to wake them up from their cozy little comatose lives.

The heady smell of the fuel sparked another thought. How about a fire? That would wake them up, for sure. That would leave a mark on this sorry-ass town they wouldn’t soon forget! Go out in a blaze of glory, like they say…I’d torch this whole goddamn town if I could, thought the Miscreant.

* * *

Dorsey had worked all day in the store on Friday, but she was uncharacteristically absentminded the closer the clock got to closing time. Her brain kept thinking about the night ahead. A night in which she’d have Sarah all to herself. All night long…

“Dorsey!” Goodman barked at her exasperatedly from behind the counter as she stared dreamily out the front window. “Would you please set up that duct tape display in aisle two? I’ve asked you about four times already.”

“Sorry, Good,” she said contritely. “I’ll do it right now.”

She forced herself to concentrate on putting together the cardboard display rack provided by the manufacturer. Tab B absolutely refused to go into Slot C, but she finally overcame the design flaw with—what else?—a little duct tape. Having neatly stacked the display with different colored rolls of tape, she grabbed the push broom and swept for a while as her brothers dealt with the customers. The clock moved slowly. She felt like she’d been there for at least the duration of a geological epoch when closing time finally came around. She had hoped Good would let her go first, but saw to her dismay that Shaw had already beaten her to it.

“Where’s he going?” she asked with chagrin as their younger brother disappeared out the front door.

“He said he’s got a date and plus he’s opening tomorrow, so I let him go early,” Goodman answered. “You don’t mind closing, do you? I promised old man Gustafson I’d run a delivery out to him this evening.”

Crap, Dorsey thought. “Well, to tell you the truth, Good—”

“Thanks, Dorse! I’m going to Grover after—I told you that, right?” Seeing her questioning look, he added, “It’s Spider’s birthday party, remember?” Spider was one of his old football buddies, who now lived in GC. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but he was already headed out the back to his truck.

Well, with Goodman off in Grover City for one of his rare nights out and Shaw on a date with his mystery woman, it looked like she and Sarah would have the house to themselves. She felt the blood quicken in her veins as she contemplated the night ahead.

She sped through the various closing-up-the-store tasks, including feeding the kitties and making sure they had fresh water in their bowls for the night. Dorsey knew better than to pet George, but she gave Ira a friendly scratch under the chin by way of a goodnight to him. He meowed loudly once from his perch on the counter next to the cash register as she turned out all the lights but one, then locked the front door as she exited.

Sarah was due to meet her at the Larue house, where Dorsey was going to prepare dinner for the two of them. She steered her little pickup over to the grocery store on her way home to pick up a few last-minute ingredients. She’d spent hours—days, actually—deciding what to cook. She felt a little nervous about cooking for Sarah for the first time. She liked cooking, but she didn’t do it often enough to have attained much skill at it. She didn’t kid herself that she was on the level of either Maggie or Mrs. Bigelow, both of whom were excellent cooks. Sarah had assured her she wasn’t picky and that anything she made would be fine, but Dorsey was still having her doubts. She’d finally fallen back on her own mother’s favorite recipe for chicken Kiev.

Oh, well, she thought, as she picked up the next to last of her items. Even if she screwed it up, Sarah would still know she had tried. Maybe it was better for her to find out sooner rather than later that Dorsey wasn’t quite a gourmet chef. Then she caught herself—thinking wow, was that a “long-term commitment” kind of thought? She wasn’t sure. She’d never had one of those before. Musing on this, she rounded the corner to the wine and beer aisle, wanting to pick up an extra bottle of the white zinfandel Sarah had identified as her favorite. To Dorsey’s surprise, Shaw was there, standing perplexedly in front of the reds.

“Hey, bud, what are you doing here?” she asked him, even as her eyes widened to marvel at his outfit—a clean pair of khaki cargo pants, a white button-down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and (wonder o’ wonders!) a tie. Which, on closer inspection, featured Snoopy as Joe Cool on a brilliant blue background (he must have picked that up at the thrift store in Grover, she thought), but was nonetheless undeniably A Tie. A pair of dark brown chukka boots completed the ensemble, which, for Shaw, was about as dressed up as he ever got.

“Which one of these should I get?” he asked her, gesturing at the array of bottles on the shelves with puzzlement.

“How the heck should I know?” she said. “Pick something that costs more than five bucks if you’re trying to impress her, I guess. And who is ‘her,’ by the way?”

Shaw gave her a smile, but no reply. He selected a fifteen dollar bottle with a gorgeous label from a Napa Valley winery, then held it up for her inspection.

“Hot stuff,” Dorsey kidded him.

She added a bottle of the white zinfandel to her cart, then the two of them walked to the checkout stand. They chatted amiably about nothing much as the cashier rang up their purchases.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked her brother as they headed for the exit.

“No,” he replied. “I’ve got my bike.”

Shaw had no vehicle of his own, although Goodman let him drive the store pickup on occasion. He turned left toward the bike rack as they went out the door, while Dorsey walked to her truck, which was parked in the second row. As she put her bags onto the passenger seat, she could see Shaw riding off with his wine bottle in its skinny brown bag tucked under one arm. Walking back to the driver’s side, she heard a shout.

“Watch where you’re going, La Puke!”

An angry Justin Argyle was picking himself up off the sidewalk in front of the store. Shaw too, was on the ground, in a tangle of long legs, bicycle and brown bag. A spreading puddle of red wine was underneath him. Dorsey ran to his side as Shaw regained his feet.

“Are you all right, Shaw?”

“Shit,” he said with feeling. His shirt was spattered with red, his pants less so. The wine bottle was obviously broken. A spoke on his bicycle’s front wheel was also broken, pointing accusingly at Justin, who was in Shaw’s face and aggressively berating him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, La Puke? You fucking ran me over, you faggot!”

He pushed Shaw in the chest. Shaw’s feet got tangled up in the fallen bicycle and he went down hard again on the pavement.

“That’s enough, Justin!” Dorsey said, stepping up to face him and forestall any further violence. “It was an accident.”

Justin glared at her, his eyes narrowed and red, his nostrils flared. Dorsey could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. He was unshaven and unkempt in appearance. His customary denim jacket looked dirtier than ever. One of the sleeves was ripped, adding to his air of shabbiness. Dorsey stared him down, wondering if he was crazy enough to hit her right in public. He seemed to be considering that option, but before he could act on it, the store manager came running out the front in his bow tie and red apron.

“What’s going on here?”

A few other shoppers had gathered as well. Dorsey took a step back from Justin, who still stood there glaring and breathing heavily. She unclenched her fist from around her car keys—the truck key stuck out between her index and third fingers. One thing she had learned growing up with two brothers—not to mention dealing with the Tanya Hartwells of the world—was that fighting dirty in defense of oneself was not only okay, it was often the quickest and most effective way to end a fight. Warily keeping an eye on Justin, she extended her other hand down to Shaw, who was still trying to extricate himself from his bicycle, and helped pull him to his feet. Justin turned abruptly and stomped off down the street.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Shaw said to the multiple inquiries coming his way. “We’ve got some broken glass here, though. Sorry.”

The manager bustled off to get a broom and a dustpan. The shoppers trickled into the store after him.

“Are you really okay?” Dorsey asked Shaw again. One of the patches of red on his shirt was a different and brighter shade.

“Crap,” he said, clutching his right arm with his left. “I must have cut my arm on some of the glass when he pushed me down. Son of a bitch.”

Dorsey examined the nasty-looking wound, which was bleeding copiously. “Shaw, I think you need some stitches there.”

“No, no,” he protested. “I’ve got a date. Come on, Dorse, it’s not that bad. See?”

He moved his arm gingerly, which only caused the blood to start dripping on the sidewalk.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his good arm in a firm Big Sister grip and leading him toward her truck. “I’m taking you to Dr. Melba’s.”

“Wait!” he said. He pulled his arm out of her grip and reached for his wallet.

“What?”

“Can you at least please get me another bottle of wine? Please, Dorse?” His eyes were pleading.

As usual with Shaw, she gave in and was back in a few minutes with a new bottle of wine for him. She also retrieved his bicycle and put it in the back of her truck. He was in the passenger seat with his once-white dress shirt now wrapped around his forearm. He looked wan and vulnerable in his undershirt. He’d never been good around the sight of blood.

“Ready?” she asked him.

He nodded without speaking. Since it was now after six, she pointed the nose of the little truck toward Dr. Melba’s house, not her office downtown. Dorsey insisted on accompanying him to the front step—she didn’t want him to faint on the doormat as she drove away. Shaw, in turn, insisted on bringing his bottle of wine with him, saying she should go on home and get her groceries in the fridge, he was a grown man and could take care of himself, etc.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dorsey said as they went up the front walk. Shaw surprised her by peeling off to go around the side of the house.