Mrs. Million (13 page)

“And I’m sorry for your troubles, too, Barbaraannette. But I guess all that lottery money will help.”

“So far it’s just made things more complicated.”

“Uh-huh. I hear you’re trying to get Bobby back.”

“That’s right.”

“Having any luck?”

Barbaraannette looked over toward the pickup truck where Phlox and Hilde sat waiting. “Not exactly.”

“If I see him, I’ll bring him on by your house before I throw him in jail.”

“Why would you do that?” Barbaraannette was surprised.

“I still got that warrant. Hugh Hulke and Rodney Gent got a civil judgment against him. He owes them money. But I wouldn’t worry your little head about it. You can afford to settle up for him now, can’t you?”

“Hmmm.”

“Or if Bobby doesn’t show up, maybe I could just stop on by anyways.”

Barbaraannette didn’t get it. “Why?” she asked.

Dale Gordon shrugged and crinkled his eyes. “Just to see how you’re doing. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

“How is Sheila doing?” Barbaraannette asked.

“Oh, she’s fine. We’re separated, you know.”

“I didn’t know that. Well then. I guess I’d better get going.”

As they rode home in Phlox’s pickup truck, Barbaraannette told herself that Dale Gordon was not a problem she needed to think about. She was flying other fish, and she had a volcano rumbling in her head. The brightness of Hilde’s wig actually caused her physical pain. Barbaraannette regarded her mother’s profile, inches away. Hilde had stepped out again—her mouth slack, her eyelids drooping, her fingers moving purposefully in her lap. Was she scratching herself? Barbaraannette stared at Hilde’s hands, perplexed, then realized that her mother was typing, transported forty years into the past, to a time when she had worked as a secretary. Barbaraannette reached over and covered Hilde’s hands with her own. Hilde slowly turned her head, bewildered, and stared at Barbaraannette as if at a phantasm. She asked, “So, where do you work?”

Barbaraannette held Hilde’s hands, kneading them. “We’ll be home in a minute, mom.”

Hilde was nearly asleep by the time they got home. Barbaraannette led her mother to the spare bedroom where she got her undressed and into bed. Hilde was gone within seconds, snoring vigorously. Barbaraannette rejoined Phlox in the kitchen.

“You doing okay?” Phlox asked.

“I’ve got a little headache.” She sat down at the table.

“You want me to work on it?”

“I took some aspirin.”

Phlox got behind her chair. “Lean forward a little. There you go.” Barbaraannette felt Phlox’s nails on the back of her neck, felt her fingers moving. “Just let your head hang loose.”

“I don’t know if a massage will help. It feels like I’ve got a knife in my brain. I think I’ve got a migraine.”

“You don’t have a migraine, honey. You got a mother who swipes cars and a few stale beers in your gut.” Her fingertips explored the back of Barbaraannette’s head, probing. “You got a nasty knot here.”

Barbaraannette felt pressure, then a bright, sharp pain as Phlox dug in with a knuckle. The new pain disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a node of warmth. Barbaraannette felt the dagger in her skull soften. Phlox’s fingers continued their explorations, pausing now and then to work on a troublesome area.

“You sure are popular with the boys,” Phlox said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was watching that policeman talking to you. He was all monkey business.”

“Dale is having trouble with his marriage. He just wants to think he’s still got it.”

“Does he?”

“I doubt it.” Barbaraannette laughed. The throbbing had subsided.

“Fact is,” Phlox said, “I’m surprised you haven’t taken up with another fellow by now. I mean, I like Bobby, too, but six years is a long time, honey.”

“I guess I just got in the habit of being by myself.”

The telephone rang. Phlox’s fingers stopped moving.

Barbaraannette said, “I guess I better answer that.” She stood, took a breath, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Did you find her?”

Barbaraannette relaxed. “She’s here, Toag. She’s fine. Where are you?”

“Where am I? I’m at Klaussen Lake is where I am. It took me a fleeping hour to get out here, and then I got stuck in the mud trying to drive in to the house. I had to walk a mile to the neighbor’s, and he hauled me out with his tractor, and I’ve been dialing EAT PORK for half an hour now and not getting through—”

“It’s BUY PORK, Toagie.”

“That’s not what she told me.”

“Are you unstuck now?”

“Yeah, I am, and Hilde’s not at the farm which of course you know on account of she’s with you. Where’d you find her?”

“She was driving around the cloverleaf. Dale Gordon found her.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t throw her in jail.”

“He would have if we hadn’t got there. How’s the house look?”

“Like a pile of rocks with a leaky roof. I think there’s a skunk living in the cellar. I didn’t even go inside. We should get Hilde to sell the place. Is she staying with you?”

“For tonight.” Barbaraannette hadn’t allowed herself to think it out any further. “It might take some talking to get Crestview to take her back.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll sic Mary Beth on ’em. I’ll see you.”

“Bye.” Barbaraannette hung up. “That was my sister,” she said to Phlox. Three seconds later, the phone rang again. “Ten to one that’s her again.” She picked up the phone. “Hey, Toag.”

“I’ve got your hubby,” said a male voice.

Phlox saw Barbaraannette’s neck muscles go rigid, saw her fingers go white on the phone.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow. “That’s right. Well then, bring him on over.” She listened some more, nodding. “I don’t have it in my purse, you know. I’ll have to borrow it.” Barbaraannette frowned and cleared her throat. Her cheeks blotched pink and her mouth, which had been hanging open, became a hard, straight line. “Listen to me—what did you say your name was?” Her voice turned brittle. “I see. Well, Mr. Smith, they don’t pay all the money at once, you know. It’s an annuity spread out over twenty years. That’s right. Now, are you going to let me talk to him?” She tipped her head toward the phone, listening intently. “Is that a fact? If that’s the way you’re going to be, I guess you better just keep him.” She returned the handset to its cradle. Her pupils had constricted to pinpoints and she was breathing rapidly. Barbaraannette hugged herself.

Phlox said, “You okay? You’re shakin’ like a leaf, honey.” She put her hands on Barbaraannette’s shoulders to stop her own hands from shaking. “You want to tell me what they said?”

“He said he had Bobby.”

“Take a deep breath and hold it a second. There you go. Was it that Hugh and Rodney?”

Barbaraannette shook her head and let her breath out slowly. “I don’t think so. He sounded young. He said he had Bobby but he wouldn’t let me talk to him. I told him—you heard me—I said, ‘You can keep him.’ Good God, what have I done?”

Phlox’s heart was thrumming. She said, “He’ll call back. Where else is he gonna get a million bucks for Bobby?”

Barbaraannette nodded. “You’re right. Only he wouldn’t let me talk to him and maybe that’s because he doesn’t even have him. Or maybe he does.”

“Don’t you forget, honey, I’m the one brought him here. Bobby was with me.”

Barbaraannette stared off through the walls of her kitchen. Her breathing had returned to normal, and the color in her cheeks had evened.

Phlox said, “You aren’t gonna give him the money, are you?”

Barbaraannette said, “I’ve really started something, haven’t I?” A faint smile toyed with her lips.

“Don’t you forget who dragged that man all the way across the country.”

“I’m not forgetting anything,” said Barbaraannette.

The two women locked eyes. Phlox felt a strain on the bond she had forged. She turned away abruptly and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Barbaraannette asked.

“I’m going to find your husband for you,” Phlox said.

F
OR SEVERAL SECONDS AFTER THE CLICK
, Jayjay kept the phone pressed to his ear. She’d hung up on him! “You can keep him”? Where did
that
come from? One day she wants her husband so bad she says she’ll pay a million bucks, the next day she doesn’t want him at all. And what was that about not having the money? Was it true that the money didn’t get paid out all at once? This was getting way more complicated than it was supposed to. He slammed down the phone and got a beer from the refrigerator and went into his room. Now what was he supposed to do? Call her back, of course, but maybe he should let her hang for a while. Give her time to think, and himself, too. He thought about writing letters to some more actors, but the few dollars such a letter might bring seemed paltry next to the unnegotiated million he had taped up in the basement. Jayjay sat on the bed and turned on the TV with the sound off. He watched the cartoonish antics of the Power Rangers, seeking inspiration. Maybe he could sell the cowboy to somebody else, like the two men who were chasing him at the gas station. Let them figure out how to get the million. He heard the front door open. Damn, the professor was home. He hoped the guy wouldn’t flip out on him. At the very least he’d have to listen to the old fairy’s complaints all night, or at least until he figured out what to do with the cowboy. He heard the squeak of a cork, the clink of bottle against glass. A few moments later André appeared in the bedroom doorway cupping a nearly full brandy snifter in his tiny hands. He looked pale.

“Jonathan?”

“Hey, Perfesser. What you drinking?”

“Rémy Martin.” André sat beside him on the bed and took a large sip of cognac. He shuddered and said, “My life is over, Jonathan.” His eyes were puffy, as if he had been crying.

“Oh yeah?”

“The very fabric of my existence has been sundered.” Something on the TV caught his eye. He said, “Good Lord, Jayjay, what on earth are you watching?”

“Power Rangers.”

“Would you be so kind as to turn it off?” André took another swallow of his cognac.

Jayjay gestured with the remote; the screen went dark. The professor was making him nervous. He’d never seen him this way.

“Thank you,” André said. He set the snifter on the bedside table and swung an arm around Jayjay’s shoulders. Jayjay stiffened, wondering what was coming.

“Jonathan, do you think that I am a good person?”

“Sure I do.”

André shook his head. “Well I am not so sure. I have been thinking, Jonathan, thinking a great deal. Is our guest still in the cellar?”

Jayjay nodded, braced for an onslaught of four- and five-syllable words, but to his surprise the professor simply nodded dreamily. “Do you remember what I told you before? About not being able to spend your money in jail?”

“Yeah, well…”

André’s delicate fingers squeezed Jayjay’s shoulder. “I may have been somewhat hasty in my assessment of the situation. There may very well be a way to capitalize on the present state of events.” The cognac was having its effect. André’s face had become suffused with red, and his voice had gone hoarse. Jayjay squirmed uncomfortably in the professor’s embrace.

“A man is allotted only so many days,” André mused, “and to live out one’s life while remaining strictly within the arbitrary bounds set by society would be such a shame, such a pity, such a waste.” He put his hands on Jayjay’s cheeks and turned his face toward him. “Is it worth the risk, to experience all that life has to offer? Are the laws of men made for such as we? Have I told you what a beautiful child you are?”

Jayjay shook his head free and jumped up. Those little hands creeped him out. “Jesus, Perfesser! Jack down, would ya?”

André laughed and reached for his cognac. “Ah, Jonathan! And to think that I nearly passed up the opportunity—” He inhaled from the snifter, “—to inspire the aroma of
les fleurs du mal.”
He drank deeply, draining the glass, and fell back onto the bed shouting, “Thank you very much, Malcolm Whitly, you subhuman excretion. You sniveling sack of bureaucratic slag, you slime-mold, you putrescent pile of rat dung…”

Jayjay backed out of the room. The guy had definitely gone off the deep end.

André called after him, “Where are you going, my little chickadee?”

Jayjay did not reply.

André laughed. He had actually managed to frighten the boy! Jayjay the imperturbable had finally recognized that he, André Gideon, was a force with which to be reckoned, a man who could step beyond the pale as easily as most men step out of their underwear. Unlike that worm Whitly, whose only power came via bureaucratic fiat, who got his jollies shattering the lives of hardworking academics such as himself, who would sacrifice the classics simply to address a minor budget crisis.

Whitly had actually enjoyed telling him he was out of a job.

“But,” André had sputtered, “I have
tenure!”

“I’m terribly sorry, André, but it’s not just you, you see, it’s the entire Humanities Department.” His lips trembled, holding back, but André detected the suppressed smile. “We’ve been forced to streamline the Liberal Arts College. Rather than a separate and distinct Humanities Department, we will be offering a single core curriculum class called Western Classics which will, of course, be taught by Jim McCready.”

“McCready? But…but he’s Poli-Sci!”

“Yes, another department which has been eliminated.”

“But…why is he teaching the
classics?”

“He’s senior to you, André.” Whitly allowed himself the smile now, spreading his hands as if displaying an invisible model of the ineffable, capricious universe. “What can I say?”

“But…the
humanities!
My
job!”
André winced as he remembered the whining, pleading tone he had taken in the face of Whitly’s smarmy dismissal. He could almost see Whitly’s grin in the textured ceiling of Jayjay’s room. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, losing himself in an ocean of phosphenes. For a few moments he enjoyed the sensation, floating a few inches above the mattress, then the whirlies hit. André’s eyes snapped open and he sat up. He could see himself in the mirror over the dresser, a Stickley piece he’d picked up for next to nothing. He saw a sallow, bearded, red-eyed man on the downslope of his prime. For a moment he feared he was about to vomit, and then he was sure of it. Seconds later he was on his knees before the toilet bowl. Three times his abdomen clenched, each time firing out a thick rope of umber slime. Gasping, wiping his mouth with a handful of wadded-up toilet tissue, André slumped against the edge of the bathtub and waited for his viscera to rearrange itself. He closed his eyes. Another swell of nausea came and went, this time without dramatic consequence.