The Immaculate Deception (19 page)

My work-in-progress. My second novel. What would it be? I really needed to toil on character building, goal, motivation and conflict and then a nice feasible multi-twisted plot. I sighed loudly and rolled onto my side and stared at the turned-off TV.

All right, Donna dear, sleep is not coming back tonight.
I got up, went into the bathroom and washed my face in the moonlight. I stepped on the scale and moved the little black weight. I edged it slowly, watching the end to see when it balanced. Okay, it did. I squinted at the number. One thirty-two and a quarter. I was getting there. I slipped into floral-print cotton panties and my pink silk robe and then plodded down the dark staircase.

In the kitchen I flipped the light on over the stove, under the vent hood. Daddy always did that when I was little. I couldn’t stand light first thing in the morning. So he kindly accommodated me. Perry wouldn’t talk at breakfast. Couldn’t talk. He just needed a big plate of food and something sweet to drink. Orange juice. He loved orange juice. Tammy, she’d luxuriate in bed, listening to classical music on WGMS and not even join us for breakfast. She never did eat much. Didn’t care for meat. Oh she’d eat it if Momma made her but she’d rather not. And she was one of those fussy people that ate only one food at a time. All of her peas and then all of her mashed potatoes and then all of her salad and then all of her cornbread.

The digital clock on the stove and the one on the microwave both said five–oh–three.
Happy Friday morning, Donna
. I decided I might as well
boil the jug
as my former Scottish roommate-from-Hell used to say. I filled the cow teakettle and lit the burner.

I chose a large palm tree plate and layered white paper towels across it. I positioned the last three slices of bacon on top, covered it and popped it into the microwave. I zapped it for four minutes.

I trotted down the hallway to the front door and peeked out through the etched glass. Didn’t see anything, so I unlocked it and stepped out, searching for the newspaper. I found it, on the bottom step of the stoop. I paused to look across Spyglass Street at Officer Dick’s house. All the detectives had departed. It looked like it normally did. Police cruiser in the driveway. I wondered if it had been there last night. His police cruiser. At the time, with all the cops combing, I didn’t think of it. Couldn’t tell them apart anyhow. One dark blue Fairfax County police car would look the same as another to me.

The wind chilled me. As my mind delved into the disappearance of Dick, I pulled my robe tighter. I hurried up my stairs. It must be horrible to vanish without a trace. What if there was foul play, or an accident, or blackmail, or werewolves, or—

I flung open my door and slammed it shut behind me. I bumped it with my hip and I heard the loud click, just as Officer Dick taught me to listen for. I hurried to the stove as the cow kettle whistled an ominous shriek. Upon spinning the dial to the
off
notch, the flame snuffed and the cow immediately retreated with a declining sigh.

The microwave beeped. The LED message spelled out
Enjoy your meal
. I tucked the newspaper under my arm, opened the door and carefully removed the hot plate. I set it on the octagonal glass tabletop along with
The Washington Post
and then made my strong sweet tea. I set the tea on the table and then carried the newspaper over to the chrome trashcan. I stepped on the foot pedal and the lid opened. I ripped the plastic bag off and let it drop as I removed today’s news.

I heard the metallic lid clunk as I walked back and sat down, flipping the chandelier switch on the way. Scanning the front page, I munched the crispy bacon. I skimmed through the entire section, not finding anything of interest, except that Mercury was in retrograde. Hmm…I folded the front page up and slurped a hot sip of tea.
Perhaps my soul mate across history might be able to transport me to Mars soon.
I smiled. He loved me. I lingered on that notion as I sipped.

When my thoughts returned to the real world, I was stumped by today’s news. There was no mention of a missing Fairfax County Police Officer. Hmm…of course, it would be in the Metro section. I riffled through. Nothing. Not a word. Poor Dick.

I reassembled the newspaper and slipped it into a paper grocery bag in the laundry room. Back in the kitchen, I threw the greasy paper towels away, rinsed the plate and placed it in the dishwasher. I opened another teabag, carefully removing just the bag from the wrapper, keeping the envelope in one piece. Another lesson learned from the old Scottish roomie. The lazy lassie’s secret to making tea. If you didn’t tear off the bag, then you only had one trip to the trash. Wonder what became of her? She probably drowned in her tears. I had never met such a peculiar character before. All she did was get angry at the world and then morph into tears. Poor pitiful Rosaleen Dalrymple. Every single blasted day and night. Glad her Visa expired.

I poured water from the kettle into my cup. No sugar. Not for the second cup. If I really wanted the caffeine that bad, I’d make myself choke it down black. Couldn’t go over my twenty-gram daily allowance of carbohydrates.

While the tea steeped, I took a hot shower. Always hot. The only way I enjoyed them. I dressed in business attire. For my business, that meant non-denim pants with no double stitching down the sides, a top that didn’t reveal cleavage, no push-up bras and flat leather shoes. Per my union contract.

Back in the kitchen, I glanced at the poetry calendar on the wall next to the refrigerator. I walked over, took the thumbtack out of the wall and flipped the page to August. I read the poem about a purple cow as I tacked it back up. Today was Friday, August 4. I had my freedom today, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Then my bereavement leave would be over and I’d have to go back to the paper mine. I didn’t wanna go back. Not Tuesday, not ever. There I went feeling sorry for myself again. Poor pitiful Donna, who had everything she needed. Well, a nice house, a nice—shoot, I had to call about my SUV. I finger-combed through my hair.

After sipping my tea, I dozed off on the living room couch. No dreams. I awoke with a panicked feeling. I hated that. I looked around and consoled myself. The clock over the mantel okay’d me calling the Fairfax County Police. It was after eight a.m., so everybody should be up and working. I was met with efficiency and transferred through the system with no disconnects. After taking down the particulars about the impound lot my vehicle was interred at, I thanked the lady and hung up.

The call to my automobile insurance company went better than I expected. Since I had plunked a fifty-percent down payment on it and it was near the end of my five-year loan, lo and behold, the blue book value would pay off the lender and I would break even. Break even. But no vehicle. Fine. Whatever. Story of my life. There I went, feeling sorry for myself again.

I made notes of the times, date and people I spoke to and filed it, before leaving for the mental institution.

Shaking as I inched Daddy’s old Chrysler through the gates of the compound, I nervously parked. It took three tries to get the big boat squeezed into a lined space meant for contemporary compact cars. I locked it and held my head high as I strode into the facility. I stated my name, relationship and the patient’s name to the clerk on duty at the reception desk.

The gaunt, ghoulish-looking Asian fellow with one blue and one brown eye acknowledged me with a grunt. He then did a lot of typing on a computer keyboard.
Type, type, type, enter, wait. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
He picked up a telephone and whispered in a foreign language to someone. He hung up and in perfect English said, “You, Orpha Payne, did not pay her inpatient bill. She was released.”

“
What?” Half thrilled that they had sense enough to realize my momma was no insane murderess, half guilty about not paying her bill, I licked my lips. The air in here was so dry.

He said, “She walked out of here yesterday at four p.m.”

“
Alone?”

“
I guess. Will you be paying by check, cash or charge?”

“
Paying?”

“
Up to you. Pay the cashier now, over at that window, or we will submit it to the collection agency.”

“
What? I’m not legally responsible for my mother’s bill. She has money. Here—” I grabbed a legal pad from his desk and a pen. I scribbled Judge Perry Payne’s address and phone number on it. “Judge Payne is the responsible party.” I left.

I darted out the automatic door and dove into the security of Daddy’s car. I drove past the hospital graveyard and observed what appeared to be patients, digging. Digging their own graves? What a macabre scene. I shivered.

I didn’t allow myself to think until I was back on the Capital beltway.
All right, hooray! Good going, Momma. You are a free woman. But where are you? At home?
I doubled back to her house.

Carla Calamari was leaning into a silver Lexus when I arrived. She noticed me, shook hands with the man inside the car and he sped away. I parked on the street and turned my wheels into the curb. The smiling real estate agent yanked my door open.

She said, “Well, I think his client is going to make an offer. We should hear something by tomorrow.”

I stepped out of the car and slammed the door. I stomped onto the sidewalk. She followed me.

She said, “I am such a brilliant salesperson. No one else could’ve unloaded this hovel.”

I smiled and glared into her pretty blue eyes. “No sale.”

Carla laughed. “You’re funny, Orpha.”

Mistake to call me Orpha. Second person today. I seethed behind my white toothy grin. My bottom teeth were a jumbled mess but my top teeth looked good. More or less. Once again, no money for braces for little Oh-Donna. Perry and Tammy had them.

I repeated, “No sale.”

She looked perplexed. “Come again?”

“
Momma’s back. This is her home. What don’t you understand?”

Carla’s tone turned ugly. “I have worked my little behind off, cajoling all of my colleagues into unloading this dump. You will not make me the laughingstock of my industry and it
is
a small industry,
everybody knows everybody
.”

I poked her shoulder. “Sorry, Miz Calamari, but I, as the executrix, never signed a listing agreement. The house was never for sale.”

“
But…but Judge Payne…but we had a verbal—”

I climbed the weedy hill to the front door.

She stammered and cackled, “You will receive a bill for my services. I still get my four percent commission. And when you do try to sell this shit shed, you will not get one offer. I will blackball you, Oprah Payne.”

Oprah
. The imbecile couldn’t even pronounce my first name. The pit bull next door drowned squid lady’s indignant voice out. I rang the doorbell. And waited. I knocked and waited. Oh I couldn’t wait to hug Momma. I turned the knob. It did. I hurried inside.

“
Momma? Momma? Are you home? Momma?” I scooted past the tub chair and the curio cabinet in the living room. Everything else in the room had been taken by Tammy’s boy toys. She’d have to haul everything back, now that Momma had returned. I snickered.

The kitchen and dining room were filthy and empty. They had left the copper cake keeper and the turkey platter on the dusty rug centered underneath the chandelier. Those were on
my
list. Daddy’s dresser was in his bedroom. I quickly rifled through it but didn’t find the insurance policy. Should have known it was one of Daddy’s tricks. Momma’s bed and lingerie chest were in her room. Tammy’s old bedroom was bare. I checked the bathrooms. No sign of Momma. No indication she’d even come home.

Then I felt guilty. Momma couldn’t even come home and make a run for it. I got her Corvette impounded. And—oh gosh I had her purse! I let out a big, miserable breath, along with a few shameful tears.

Without any hope of finding Momma, I plodded down the basement stairs. Nothing remained but Daddy’s deep freezer. His Dracula box was still there. I was surprised Tammy hadn’t sold it on eBay.

I opened the door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I yanked the brown shoestring. The bulb glowed, twenty-five watts worth. Good. Tammy had them leave the trunk. And the bags of books and photo albums and everything else was still here.

I brushed my hand across the cool brass plates on the old black steamer trunk. I sat on top of it and then lay down, curling up like a kitten on a windowsill with a cool breeze whispering over my fur. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Musty mothballs and sawdust. Sawdust? Tammy’s plumber boys must’ve knocked it loose from the hatch overhead when they removed the Dracula box for the wake.

Blocking that twisted scene out of my mind, I concentrated on a far-off rhythm. Percussion. Now a woodwind and brass section marched in my brain, to the tune of…of…
Come on, Donna, name that tune
. That’s it. “Hail to the Chief”, the song military bands played for the President at official gatherings. I tightened my eyelids, squinting shut as hard as I could. I pictured how my wrinkled-up nose must appear. But nobody could see me, so who cared? Who cared? Who cared about me?
Stop it, Donna. You’re feeling sorry for yourself again. Momma really looks down upon those who have everything and don’t see it. I’ve gotta find Momma. Gotta find Momma. Gotta find Momma
…