Touchy and Feely (Sissy Sawyer Mysteries) (3 page)

You ask for something. They tempt you with a better deal, like Billy Bean’s Beanfeast Burger at only $7.75. But that’s how they trick you into accepting something that you seriously don’t want, and Feely seriously didn’t want beans.

Feely seriously didn’t want beans because beans reminded him of his older brother Jesus, in the weeks before he OD’d. Jesus had lived off nothing but beans and smack, and every time he shot up he puked fountains of beans all over the apartment.
Fountains
. Two months after Jesus’s funeral, they were still finding dried beans down the back of the couch-cushions.

‘I’ll just have the cheeseburger, thanks.’

‘You know that comes with complimentary beans?’

While he was eating, the waitress came up to him and asked if he wanted another cup of hot chocolate. He swallowed before he was ready, and he had to smack his chest before he could speak.

‘It’s our winter special,’ she encouraged him. ‘Buy one hot chocolate, you get a second hot chocolate free.’

‘OK, then. Thanks.’

Instead of bringing it, though, she stood by his table watching him, and after a while she said, ‘You’re running away, aren’t you?’

‘Me? No, ma’am.’

‘You don’t have any bags with you, do you? And your coat’s so thin.’

Feely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m running, yes. You’ve assessed that correctly. But I’m not like running
away
from anything. I’m like running
toward
something, you know? I’m trying to catch up with my future.’

The waitress smiled sympathetically but it was obvious that she didn’t understand; or that she simply didn’t want to.

Feely used his finger to describe an endless circle on the tablecloth. ‘I was like trapped in orbit. I was circling around and around and I was never getting anyplace. I broke free, that’s all. I managed to reach escape velocity.’

‘You ran away.’

Feely didn’t try to correct her a second time. People who were involved in the conspiracy often tried to rationalize his behavior, and it wasn’t worth the effort of contradicting them. They accused him of using complicated words to hide his real feelings, but that wasn’t true either. He was seeking ways to express himself more precisely, so that he would have power over other people.

Language is power
, that’s what Father Arcimboldo had told him, in the sixth grade. Forget about fists. The right word can stop a man in his tracks. The right sentence can bring him down to his knees. What do you think has changed the world more, Fidelio? The atomic bomb, or the Bible?

And poor young bullied Feely, with his nose still bleeding and tears still drying on his cheeks, had nodded, and understood, and the following day he had stolen a dictionary from Book Mart and the day after that he had gone back and liberated a thesaurus.

Feely stayed in Billy Bean’s Diner until the waitress came over and said, ‘Kenny says you have to buy at least a muffin or else you’ll have to leave.’

It was six minutes past five. Feely knew that he didn’t have enough money to stay here any longer, buying muffins.

‘Listen, there’s the Dorothy Day Hospitality House on Main Street, if you really have noplace to go. They’ll give you a bed for the night.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Feely. ‘I appreciate your concern but I mustn’t lose my momentum.’

‘No,’ the waitress agreed. She studied him dubiously, as if she expected to see his momentum hanging around his neck on a string.

‘How much do I owe you?’

The waitress glanced behind her, toward the counter, and then gave him a quick shake of her head.

‘I have money,’ said Feely. ‘I don’t expect charity.’

‘It’s Christmas. Well, it’s nearly Christmas. One cheeseburger won’t make Kenny go bankrupt.’

Feely stood up, and zipped up his windbreaker. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I hope one day that I can repay your abundant generosity a hundredfold.’

Unexpectedly, the waitress leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Just onefold will do, sugar. Good luck.’

 

T
wenty-five minutes later he was standing out on Route 6, at the intersection with Tamarack Avenue, with his right thumb extended and his left hand lifted to shield his face from the wind. Behind him, the Wooster Cemetery was covered in whirling snow, so that the dead were buried even deeper, and the angels stood around in bizarre white party hats.

He felt warmer and a little more together for having eaten, and he believed that his encounter with the waitress had been a sign that he was doing the right thing, even though she had tried to cajole him into ordering beans. He still had his $21.76, and his destiny lay northward, although he didn’t really know why. Bright and fierce and fickle is the South. Dark and true and tender is the North.

Trucks and SUVs sped past him, their headlights gleaming dimly through the snow, but none of them stopped. Maybe they couldn’t see him, but he couldn’t stand too close to the highway because every vehicle was spurting out filthy gray slush and he was soaked already. His flappy hat was sodden and there was melted snow leaking down the back of his neck. He tried his best to protect his folder but even that was getting buckled.

Mind telling me what you’re doing here, kid?
he asked himself.
You could be back
home, where at least it’s warm
.

But he could see the second-story apartment on 111th Street as clearly as if he had a miniature TV set in his head. The Christmas tree would be propped up, wrecked, in one corner, where his stepfather Bruno had pushed his mother into it. Bruno would be sprawled in his tilted three-legged armchair, already drunk, his greasy gray pompadour sticking up like a spavined cockatoo. His mother Rita would be lying in bed sobbing and praying and nursing her broken ribs, so there wouldn’t be anything to eat, and the kitchen sink would be heaped with
estofada
-encrusted dishes from two days ago. There wouldn’t be any sign of his younger brother Michael except for a dirty unmade bed with a sheet like the Indian rope-trick: Michael would be out with his crackhead friends in some derelict building smoking anything that could be made to smolder and drinking stolen tequila. His sister Rosa would be lying on her bed with one heavy leg raised in the air so that her crimson satin crotch was exposed, polishing her toenails purple and complaining loudly about her boyfriend Carlos he’s such a dumb vomiticious dumbass. Rosa only knew three adjectives: dumb, vomiticious, and cool. Feely knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives.

You didn’t need travel-bags when you knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives. But a warm pair of gloves would have been welcome.

Another semi bellowed past, with
Coca-Cola
emblazoned on the side of it, like the TV ads. Happy Christmas, thought Feely. What had happened to Santa and the shiny lights and the rosy-cheeked children? The snow was falling so furiously now that he couldn’t see more than thirty yards down the highway.

Feely’s favorite adjective was ‘gregarious.’ It brought to mind friendly people clustering around to give each other cheer. He said ‘gregarious,’ over and over, and out here on Route 6 it made him feel as if he wasn’t entirely alone.

 

T
revor stepped into the hallway and sniffed twice. ‘You’ve been
smoking
!’

‘Have I?’ said Sissy, in mock surprise. ‘I can’t smell anything.’

‘Momma . . . really. I brought you some Chase’s Cherry Mashes, too.’

‘What? As a reward? I’m not a
dog
, Trevor, and if I want to smoke, I will.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You know darn well you shouldn’t.’ He handed her the bag of Cherry Mashes and took off his coat.

Sissy peered into the bag. ‘These are just as bad for me as cigarettes. You should bring me fresh fruit if you’re worried about my heart.’

Trevor followed her into the living room. He looked so much like his father, sloping-shouldered and plumpish, with chipmunk cheeks, but for some reason he hadn’t inherited his father’s geniality. When Gerry walked into a room, people used to smile, even before he had said hallo. But Trevor had a way of blinking at people that immediately made them feel uneasy, as if they had a fleck of spinach on their front tooth, or there was a drip swinging from the end of their nose.

He had never dressed as smartly as his father, either. Today he was wearing a sagging Hershey-brown cardigan with wooden buttons, and baggy tan corduroy pants. Gerry would have told him that he looked like a feedbag.

‘How about some tea?’ asked Sissy.

Trevor was blinking at the cards on the coffee table. ‘You’ve been telling fortunes, too.’

‘Don’t worry, darling. You can’t be affected by passive soothsaying.’

‘All the same, Momma, it’s not
healthy
, is it? Living out here all on your own, smoking and fortune-telling and having conversations with dead people.’

Sissy gave a dismissive
pfff!
‘My cards are my
friends
. They talk to me, they tell me what’s going to happen to me next. They’re very comforting. Well, most of the time, anyway. At the moment, they’re—’ She paused. ‘Well, I’m sure you’re not at all interested. How’s little Jake?’

‘Jake? He’s great. You’d hardly recognize him. He’s cut two new teeth. Top ones.’

‘I can’t wait to see him again.’

‘Yes,’ said Trevor. He stood over the coffee table, looking down at the cards. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s the reason I’ve come up here to see you. I, ah—that is, Jean and me—we were wondering if you’d like to spend the holidays with us.’

‘In New York, darling? I really don’t think so.’

‘Well, no, not New York. We’ve rented a house in Florida, just outside of St. Pete. It has three bedrooms, so there’s plenty of space; and a pool, of course. The warm weather would do you so much good . . . and you could get to know Jake so much better.’

‘You mean I could babysit, free of charge.’

Trevor vehemently shook his head. ‘That’s not it, Momma. I mean, of course you could babysit, if you wanted to. We’d
pay
you, for Christ’s sake. But that’s not the point. It’s so frigging cold up here during the winter, and you’re not getting any younger, and we worry about you.’

Sissy went through to the kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle. Trevor followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her.

‘What?’ said Sissy. ‘I’ve celebrated Christmas in this house every year since 1969. And your father would have sent you to your room, if he had heard you say frigging.’

‘I’m sorry, Momma, but you have to admit that you can’t really manage any more. I mean, look at this place.’

‘It’s a little dusty, I’ll admit. But what’s a little dust?’

‘Momma, it looks like nine-eleven.’

Sissy pursed her lips. ‘Would you like some tea, or are you afraid that I might not have washed my cups properly?’

‘Momma, it’s time you thought about living someplace comfortable, where you wouldn’t have to cook or do your own chores. Not only that—someplace where you wouldn’t be alone, and you could have meaningful daily interaction with other people of your own generation.’

‘Don’t use that human-resource jargon on me, Trevor. You want me to move down to Florida and live in an old folks’ home.’

‘It’s not an old folks’ home at all. It’s supervised accommodation for your dignity years.’

The kettle gargled, and belched, and then set up an ear-splitting whistle.

‘My dignity years!’ Sissy protested. ‘What’s dignified about sitting in a lounge all day with twenty other old relics in pale-blue leisure-suits, watching
Rugrats
?’

Trevor took the kettle off the hob. ‘Momma, Jean and I are both deeply concerned. Anything could happen to you here, especially in winter. Supposing you fell and broke your hip, and you couldn’t get in touch with anybody?’

‘Mr Boots would go for help.’

‘Mr Boots is as old as you are. You have to admit it, Momma, the time has come for you to leave New Preston behind.’

Sissy opened the tea caddy but when she tried to spoon the tea into the teapot, she found that her hand was shaking. She stopped, and took two deep breaths. This was the last thing she had expected this Christmas, but maybe Trevor was right. Maybe the year had come around at last.

‘I’ll, ah—I’ll have to consider it,’ she said.

‘You don’t have too long, Momma. We’re leaving on the nineteenth.’

She put down the spoon. ‘It’s not just a question of what
I
want, Trevor. The cards have predicted that something very bad is going to happen.’

‘The what? The
cards
?’

‘Yes. I know you think that I’m nine parts doolally, but they’ve never been wrong yet. They told me six months before you proposed to Jean that you were going to meet an auburn-haired girl and marry her, and they told me that she really loves you. They also told me that your father was going to pass over, and
when
, almost to the day, even though I never told him, God rest his soul.’

‘Momma, you can’t let a pack of cards decide how you’re going to live your life! It’s insane!’

‘You make your living out of insurance, don’t you, and that’s all odds and predictions.’

‘The difference is that I use
statistics
, not magic.’

‘Oh, yes? And
Exxon Valdez
to you, too.’ Sissy took hold of his sleeve and pulled him back into the living room. ‘Take a look at these two Predictor cards. Go on, look. I turned them up this afternoon.’

When Trevor wouldn’t look, she picked up the card with the two men huddled under a large umbrella, and held it up to his nose. ‘Les Deux Noyés,’ she said. ‘The Two Drowning Men. This card predicts sudden and unexpected death. The men are trying to shelter from the downpour, but it will do them no good.’