The Last Good Kiss (28 page)

you have been searching for her for some time surely

you know something about her life after she ran away

from home. She came here from jail, beaten and

whipped by life, fat and ugly, but once she fasted and

cleansed her system of animal mucus, the compulsive

eating stopped, and she grew lovely again, whole. She

stayed longer than any of my charges, before or since,

even though her stay was more difficult than most. "

"Do you mind if I ask why?" I said.

"This isn't just a job to you, is it?''

"No, ma'am."

"You're not a member of the family, are you?"

"No, ma'am."

"I sensed both those things immediately," she said,

"which made it possible to talk to you. You understand

that I do not judge or criticize my charges or their life

before, but when they come here, they must follow my

rules or leave. No meat, no drugs, no sex. What they do

when they leave is their business, and if they come back

up the mountain in emotional rags, I take them in

gladly, but while they are here, they must obey the

rules or leave."

"And Betty Sue had trouble?"

"The boys followed her like a bitch in heat," she

answered flatly, "as well they should. Betty Sue had a

great capacity for love. She fended the boys off, but it

was so hard for her. She seemed to need that sort of

male affection-! suppose her father never gave her the

sort of love she needed-but she fought it to a

standstill." Then Selma paused to laugh. "She also

admitted to an intense longing for red meat, but she

never gave in to that desire either." The bit of light

laughter seemed to bring back memories, and her gray

eyes turned cloudy. "Then one afternoon in late

summer," she continued, whispering so softly that I

had to lean forward to hear her, "just after she had

decided to leave in the fall to return to school, she

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drove my pickup down into town for supplies, and as

she drove back, a stray dog ran in front of the truck,

and she swerved to miss it, off the pavement and into

the river . . . " She rose and walked to the window, the

cat limp over her arm, and pointed down toward the

sparkling flow. "It happened on that comer right down

there."

I followed the finger's direction down the ridge to a

narrow bend, a sharp curve ending in a swift green

pool.

"She survived the crash but drowned," Selma said.

"I am so very sorry."

"You had no way to notify her mother?" I said.

"Her mother? No. I did what I could, placed

advertisements in the San Francisco papers, but Betty

Sue never talked about her childhood," she said.

"Never. Not a word the whole time she was here. In

that, too, she was different from others who have

stayed with me for a time."

"I understand," I said.

"Why do you think she wouldn't talk about her

childhood?" Selma asked, her eyes damp and serious.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe she felt like a

princess stolen by peasants. I don't know."

"Children feel that way too often," she said, "it's so

sad."

"I guess the trick is to take what you get for parents

and try to live with it," I said lightly.

"That's very easy to say," she said, "and often very

difficult to do." I understood that I had been rebuked

for a lack of gravity. "Parents must make their children

feel loved and wanted. If they do nothing else, they

must do that, they owe at least that to their children,"

she said with such a· brittle tone to her voice that I

thought she must have been either an unwanted child

or a failure as a parent. But I didn't ask.

"You had the body cremated?" I said.

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"Graves are too sad, don't you think?" she said.

"Yeah," I said, "it's just that her mother might not

like the idea-country people are sometimes funny

about cremation."

"It's done," she said sharply, "and there's little to

like or dislike about it now."

"Of course," I said. "You wouldn't have a snapshot

of Betty Sue?" I asked, nodding toward a corkboard

covered with photos. "Her mother might like a picture.

"

"Those are photographs of those who have found

other -lives after leaving," she said. "They send them

back. We take no photographs here, no reminders of

how they looked here to remind them of how they came

to be here."

"I guess I can understand that," I said. "Do you

mind if I ask why you do all this?"

"I would mind very much," she answered. "My

motives are my own."

"Then I won't ask," I said, and she smiled at me.

"I'm sure Mrs. Flowers would want me to thank you for

your kindness and love, and I want to thank you for

talking to me."

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings," she said,

then shook my offered hand. "Once, years ago, I

believed that after death we moved on into some

universal consciousness, some far better life than this

flawed world upon which we must somehow survive,

but now I know, I understand that terrible knowledge

that the dead do not rise again to walk the earth, and I

take no false joy in the knowledge, I simply endure it,

so I am immensely sad to tell you of Betty Sue's death."

"I guess we should be glad she had some happy times

here," I said, "since she was so unhappy everywhere

else. You have a lovely place here."

"Thank you."

"Thank you," I said. "I'm a little old to give up

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strong drink, red meat, and women all at once, but

some morning you might find me curled up on your

front steps," I added. "If I can make the hill."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said as she

patted my hand. "My door is always open."

"Thanks," I said. "I guess I should know the date of

her death, too. Her mother will want to know. "

She told me without hesitation, and I left.

Down the switchbacks of the dusty path, I walked

without looking to either side, and as I drove down the

sweeping curves of the canyon highway, I didn't watch

the sunlight dancing on the riffles, didn't see the towers

and battlements of pink rock rising above the river. I

didn't stop or think or look until I reached the Larimer

County Courthouse and checked the death certificates.

It was there. I cursed myself for a suspicious bastard,

cursed the emptiness of my success, the long drive to

California before the long drive home. Then I thought

about getting drunk, a black ceremonial wake, a

sodden purge.

Thus did the good luck tum bad.

The bad luck turning worse came later when I

stumbled back to my motel room more tired than

drunk, tired of trying to get drunk without success. As I

reached with my key for the lock, somebody sapped me

just hard enough to drop me to my knees, to bring

bright flashes of darkness, stunned me long enough to

hustle me soundlessly into the room, pat me down, and

shove me into a comer. When I could see, I saw the

man who had been inside Jackson's office sitting

relaxed in the motel chair, his large ugly associate, and

another hired hand with his back against the wall as he

covered me with a small silenced automatic.

"No trouble," I muttered.

"You're in no position to cause any trouble at all,"

the man in the chair said mildly.

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"That's what I meant," I said.

"Mr. Sughrue, you have to understand that I can't

allow you to treat my friends badly," he said.

"Hired help," I said.

"What?"

"Jackson's hired help," I said, "not your friend. "

"Whatever, I can't have you shoving a gun down his

throat and making empty threats," he said.

"Okay, I'll give it up for Lent."

"I'm afraid that won't do," he said.

"Listen," I said, "if you wanted me dead, you

wouldn't be here-"

"Don't be so sure," he interrupted.

"-wouldn't be within thirty miles of here, but if

you've got some misguided sense of vengeance for

whatever it was I was supposed to have done to

Jackson, I'm willing to take my medicine," I said as I

eased up the wall, "and I'll be as quiet as I can."

"How nice," the man in the chair said.

"Nothing personal," Torres said softly as he eased a

glove on his right hand.

"Nothing personal," I agreed, then took it as best I

could.

They didn't seem to have their hearts in it, and I

didn't resist a bit, didn't give them the slightest reason

for any emotional involvement. Maybe it worked or

maybe they didn't plan to hurt me too badly from the

beginning. Whatever, they didn't do any permanent

damage. No broken bones, no missing teeth, no

ruptured spleen. I had forgotten, though, how much a

professional beating hurts, and I was very glad when

they stripped me, strapped me with tape, and sat me in

the bathtub. I didn't know why they did it, I was just

glad the hard part was over. Maybe they knew what I

had planned for Jackson in the motel room in Aurora.

Before they gagged me and turned oil the cold

shower, the one in charge said, "Hey, buddy, you've

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got discipline, and I like a man with discipline. You

ought to come to work for me."

"Leave your name with the desk clerk," I muttered.

"Your only problem is that you think you're both

tough and smart," he said as he patted me on the

cheek, "and the truth is that you're only tough because

you're dumb."

"What the hell," I grunted. "I don't take orders

worth a damn, either."

"Maybe you should take up another line of work,"

he crooned, as he held up the photostat of my license.

"Is that an order?"

"You never quit, do you?" he said laughing. "I hope

this was worth it, you know, hope you found the chick

you were hassling Jackson about."

"She's dead," I said. "She's been dead for nearly five

years. It was a waste of time."

"Too bad," he said, then laughed again. "Just be

thankful that you didn't hurt my friend and be thankful

that I'm in a good mood."

"I am," I said.

Then his associates gagged me with a sock. I was