The Debt Collector (29 page)

“I couldn't eat all that.”

“You don't have to. Just a bite of whatever you want. It's just the most
fun
thing to order.”

“Gillane—sorry, Mark. Where have you been the last ten years? Eating isn't supposed to be fun.”

“You don't strike me as one of those women who order dressing on the side for dipping lettuce edges.”

“Why not?”

“Too sensuous.”

She let that pass. “Okay, let's order fun.”

It was getting to be that the less she ate, the more she ordered. A smack in the face to the anti-eating crowd, which was almost everyone these days. She would eat two bites of anything that had any hope of pleasing her, but lately it all tasted of anxiety and ashes, and her hunger was an elusive thing. Her stomach had this new attitude that food was a chore.

But she was getting good at shoving her food and rearranging it so it would look eaten. Sort of.

The waitress seemed to know Gillane. She looked grandmotherly, and she had the comfortable air of being in her own kitchen. She brought them orange juice that tasted suspiciously of Tang.

“This is one of the few places where they know how to cook bacon,” Gillane told her.

“As in?”

“Chewy. I don't like it to crunch.”

“
Me either!
” she said, in her best Valley Girl voice. “
We're so much aliiike!
”

“You do that very well. You're not
from
California?”

“No, but we all watch TV.” Sonora added another bucket of half-and-half to her coffee.

“How'd it end with The Duke?”

“Oh, the movie? He got the wagons to Bearclaw. And I do remember
The Sons of Katie Elder.
”

“What's your favorite movie ever?”

The food arrived. Huge plates, with strawberry topping on the waffles, and whipped cream, which she did not want. She spooned some of it into her coffee.

“
Witness
. You?”

“That looks good.” He put whipped cream into his coffee, also a strawberry.

“Was that intentional?”

“What?”

“The strawberry.”

He looked into the coffee cup. “Now I'm in a bind. I think I'm going to say yes, it was intentional. And my favorite movie is
The Princess Bride
. It used to be
Animal House
, but that's sort of dated. Are you a Jackie Chan fan?”

“Yes.”

“Really? You like guy movies?”

“Yeah. You like chick flicks?”

“No. Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” When she was younger, and not so wise, she used to wonder why a guy could not be more like a girl. Keep a clean house—never mind that she didn't, she was busy, okay? Like Fred Astaire movies. And when she did, at last, meet men like this, she found they did have a lot in common, including an appreciation for the romantic company of other men. “Do you like Fred Astaire movies?”

He paused, a forkful of hash browns halfway to his mouth. He clearly felt he was on dangerous ground. “I don't mind seeing the clips,” he said carefully.

Sonora smiled again. Perfect. She ate a bite of fried egg, cooked over easy, and shoved some food around her plate while she chewed. She glanced at the other women in the restaurant, few and far between at this time of the morning. Something in the face of the girl in the nurse's uniform, long brown hair with blond streaks, green eyes, attacking her food like it was her enemy, the irresistible lover who calls you and hurts you and won't go away.

Eat
, Sonora told her, in silent communication. Eat all you want and fill up, it's okay. Don't be like me. If you lose your hunger, you can lose your life.

Gillane smeared butter over his waffle.

“I know somebody who makes the best biscuits,” Sonora said.

“Who?”

“A lady I met a few days ago. Mrs. Cavanaugh. She knew … she knew the family that was murdered.”

“Still not sleeping?” he asked.

“Now and then. Thanks for bringing me that Benadryl, by the way.”

“Helping at all?”

“Some.”

“Who was that guy who was at your house?” Gillane asked. He dumped Tabasco on his scrambled eggs.

“Old friend. Ancient history.”

“When was the last time you were in love?”

“Elementary school. A boy named Rocky Newman. I keep looking for another one just like him, but so far, no luck.”

“Your luck could change.” He smiled at her, over a mouthful of waffle. “How are your children, how are your mice, how is your horse?”

“The mice are
thriving
. I came home last night and Tim was sitting on the floor, watching TV, feeding one of them a Dorito.”

Gillane grinned. “I don't think you're supposed to feed them if you want them to leave. You better be careful, Sonora, or word will get out and every mouse in America will be at your kitchen door.”

“Now he tells me.” Had she checked to see if the kitchen window was locked? She was sure she had.

“Clampett must be having a heyday.”

Sonora took a bite of bacon. Chewy. Perfect. She was actually feeling a tiny bit hungry. “You'd think so, but he's stopped chasing them. It's like he's gotten used to them or signed a no-interference treaty.”

“A laissez-faire kind of dog?”

Sonora nodded.

“Must be a lot of golden retriever in him.”

She set her fork on the plate. The hunger had vanished, like it did these days, no rhyme or reason. Gillane put a hand out to touch her sleeve, but whatever he was going to say went out of his mind. He looked at her, and she felt the chemistry, so strong and sudden she wondered why the sprinklers didn't go off.

“How long before you have to be at work?”

“Two hours.”

“You up for another cup of coffee? I grind my own beans.”

She thought about it.

He took her hand. “We'll keep the lights low.”

“To be romantic?”

“That, and because I haven't vacuumed.”

The house had been built in the forties, a dream rental near the hospital, with an arch over the porch, red brick, red tile roof. Small. A narrow, newly blacktopped driveway that led to an old-fashioned freestanding garage.

Gillane pulled the Caddie three-fourths of the way into the drive and led her up the concrete steps to the front porch, which had been coated in blue enamel. It reminded Sonora of her grandmother's house.

The living room had hardwood floors and a blue and tan Oriental carpet, just like one Sonora had almost bought at Wal-Mart. A huge brown leather couch took up one side of the room; there were bookshelves, a gigantic big-screen TV. Black-and-white photos on the wall, and some Wyeth prints. An old marble fireplace with a brass grate took up one corner. A beautiful room, decorated in busy male. Gillane was clearly passing the I-am-a-heterosexual decorating test.

His stereo system was fabulous. The best speakers. He hit the CD, and “Last Train to Clarksville” filled the room.

“Oh hell, I thought that was the Sheryl Crow CD. Great make-out music.”

“No, leave it on, it's been years since I heard The Monkees.”

“Did you used to watch their show?”

“Sure, didn't you?”

“If I did, I'm not telling.” He headed for the stereo, stopped when he was walking past. “Take your jacket?”

It came in a wave, the heat between them. In the back of her mind, she'd been thinking, make out only, a nice cup of coffee, talk before work. But, God, he walked her backward to the wall, and she wrapped her legs around him, and he snuggled his body into hers like he couldn't get close enough.

He kissed the side of her neck and she laughed because it tickled but felt so damn good. And there she was, sliding down the wall. He grabbed her by the waist, pulled her close and kissed her again. He was leading her down the hallway, taking the time to kiss her slowly like he was learning her from the lips.

“Come on, twenty more feet, we can make it to the bed.”

It struck her funny, somehow, like they were cartoon characters trying to make the oasis.

“We could crawl,” she said, which set him off and he led her to the bed, started unlacing his boots, laughing and trying not to. She pulled the Reeboks off, tossed them, one hit the wall. “Oh hell, sorry, Mark.”

He threw his boot against the wall next to the shoe, and that made her laugh again.

He took a breath. “This is not cool. Giggling. Our
first
time.”

“I'm sorry, I think it's just … I haven't had any sleep, and neither have you.”

He kissed her, pinning her arms gently to the bed. She pushed him away and he pulled up. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Just testing. Making sure he kept things gentle.

He got up. “Music.”

“The Monkees?”

“No, dammit, Louis Armstrong. It's sexy, unless you don't—”

“I do.”

He fumbled for the CD, put it in a black boom box on the dresser. And condoms. She saw the flash of a foil pack and felt relieved. No speech required. He hit a button on the boom box, there was a pause, then the pure filling notes of a master making a presence in the room.

Big bed. Brown bedspread. Unattractive, that, but so … guy. If it had been purple or pink she'd have run. It felt so weird taking off her clothes, and she slid under the blanket, shy, still wearing panties and a demibra. It was a rule with her—all lingerie from Victoria's Secret. No point wasting money on dull stuff when you could be pretty every day.

He laughed again; they were both weirdly nervous, like it mattered and like it didn't. She felt lightweight. Nobody was here for a performance, and being close to him felt so good. He pulled the covers back, slid in beside her, then tucked the covers back up because it was cold in the room. His body was so warm beside hers, and he, no shy boy, had not a stitch on.

He slid a hand along her spine, and she arched her back and snuggled closer to his chest. He pulled a bra strap down over her shoulder, kissing her up and down her neck.

And suddenly no one was laughing. He unfastened the back of her bra and pushed it away, rolling on top of her. God, how good he felt, warm and heavy and smelling so male, the faintest scent, Obsession. She buried her face in his neck and ran her hands down his chest to his thighs. He sighed and moved closer, kissing her, shifting his weight carefully till he was on top of her, and
there
he was, hard and ready and she didn't think she could wait. He hooked a thumb in the lacy edge of her high-cut panties and pushed them down and away, and then he was inside, and Jesus he felt so good.

60

Sonora was driving to the hospital, taking her time, smiling and listening to The Beach Boys sing “Little Surfer Girl” on the radio. She found Sam in the intensive-care unit and had to wait forty minutes until he could have ten minutes of visitation. She napped while she waited, feeling peaceful. Woke up for no particular reason and headed into the bathroom before she lined up at the door like all the other intensive-care cattle.

The bathroom was a two-holer. She checked her hair, added the red lipstick. Turned away, checking her watch, glanced back in the mirror, and saw her mother.

It stopped her.

She stood in front of the mirror, one eyebrow arched, checking herself from the left side. Just for a moment there, the resemblance had been startling. Similar features, yes, but it was more the way she held her head, and something in the eyes.

It gave her an odd feeling, part of her afraid, part of her proud. She and her mother had been close, but knowing then what she knew now, she would have been closer. You never knew what a gift the unconditional love thing was, until you lost it, or had children of your own, and gave it away.

Sonora stood outside the tiny cubicle where Sam lay sleeping, leg raised by an intricate pulley and weight-driven torture device that likely came with a nightmare owner's manual, leg swathed in an armor of bloodstained bandages. Various lines of wire and tubing ran to and from his veins, connecting him to machines that kept track of heartbeat, respiration, blood pressure, temperature. Vital signs that could be noted every hour with more accuracy and a great deal more comfort through the attentions of a human being called a nurse. Medicine had been overrun by engineers, a fate worse than death.

Death before discomfort, that was Sonora's motto.

She had been wondering about Sherry, Sam's wife, but there she was, a privileged person, allowed to sit round the clock by his bed. She was sleeping upright in a small hard chair, her hand entwined with Sam's, lines of worry and fatigue in her face like a sign that read
DO NOT DISTURB
.

Sonora felt the strangeness, the distance.

She dropped the cherry pie she had brought him from McDonald's at the desk with a nurse and left quietly.

61

Kinkle's small suite in the good old Heartbreak Hotel took away the last of her good, peaceful feelings. She felt lonely, here without Sam. Dammit, she had given him only half of that cherry pie from McDonald's. She wished she had let him have it all.

She was moving slowly, her heart not in the work. From the looks of things, Kinkle ate a lot of Morton potpies, chicken, yet she knew the beef was better. Economical, too, at sixty cents a pie. To his credit, he managed to cook them in a toaster oven, no small feat. The freezer, full of the potpies, also held vanilla-chocolate, vanilla-strawberry swirled ice cream in little plastic cups. There was pepper loaf and the remnants of takeout in the tiny fridge.

The room stank of lonely male. Clothes and a plaid blanket on a bare mattress. A television. Shelves made with bricks and raw wood planks, holding clothes, very few, and comic books, tons. Tennis shoes—Vans—three sweat-stained ball caps in a stack.

Not a glove in sight, or out, and she had gone through everything: jacket pockets, the toilet tank, the underside of the less-than-pleasant mattress, and the clothing wadded on the floor.