What I Remember Most (5 page)

I leaned back in my car seat thinking about my plan of attack so I could get hired. A day job and a night job, and soon I’d be paying off Cherie, my divorce attorney, and, more important, I’d have an apartment and would not have to worry about masked people crawling through my car doors intent on attacking my Big V.

As I no longer had a window, and no money to replace it because of the cost of my insurance deductible, my current disastrous financial/safety situation went up about ten dang notches.

I yawned. I was so tired. Shooting people takes a lot of energy. Rushes of spiking fear exhaust a body. Rage like what I felt last night strips one of all reserves. Fear that one could be stalked is also knee knocking.

But I was in front of a business. People were around. It was safe. I was wiped out.

I could sleep. For fifteen minutes. I could sleep.

This time when I heard the rap on my window, I automatically reached for my glove compartment with one hand and grabbed the door handle with the other. I was instantly awake, ready to fight.

The man rapping saw the stricken, perhaps murderous expression on my face, threw his hands up, and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

I exhaled. He was not one of the two previous diabolical devils. This one was tall, lanky, and blond. About forty years old.

I turned the ignition key and rolled down the window, trying not to pant.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I wanted to check on you. I’ve been eating lunch out here and you haven’t moved, you’ve been still, and your windows are up, so I was wondering if you could breathe. I was worried. You okay? Can I help you?”

I took in a deep, deep breath, my heart hammering. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I was . . . I was going to go in and apply for a job here, but I arrived too early and fell asleep.” I pushed my hair back and forced myself to smile. “How embarrassing.”

I didn’t want him to peer in my backseat and see the sleeping bag and all the boxes, so I opened the car door rather quickly and climbed out.

“Hi. I’m Grenady.” I stuck out my hand to shake his and shoved the door closed with my other hand.

“I’m Sam Jenkins.” We shook. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re new in town.”

Sheesh. Was this town smaller than I thought? “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Sam, and yes, I’m new in town.” Sam seemed nice. Maybe he could help me get a job. Maybe he was the manager. He seemed confident, authoritative.

“And you’re . . . I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“Grenady Wild.”

“Ah.” He looked into space for a minute, then grinned. “I like it. Reminds me of grenadine. My kids love Shirley Temples. So, you need a job?”

“Yes, I do. Do you know if they’re hiring?”

“I don’t know. We might be. Hardly anyone ever quits here, though. The owner returned from fishing in Alaska with his buddies a couple days ago, so I know he’s busy today, but come on in and I’ll have you meet Bajal. She’ll get you an application. She’s hugely pregnant, though—over eight months today—so if she all of a sudden can’t talk, don’t worry. She’s been getting Braxton Hicks contractions.

“She married a former NFL football player. He owns the quilt shop in town, but he’s huge and she’s only five two. A bitty thing. We’ve told her to take time off—Kade has, too—but she won’t. Her husband insists she take time off. Every day, he comes in here and says, ‘Quit, Bajal, right now,’ and they have a fight in the lobby, but she won’t do it. He’s carried her out, twice, in his arms, but she’s back in an hour.”

I nodded. He talked fast, like he had to rush all his words out or they’d be taken away.

“Looks like your window decided to take off. Go to Billy and Billy’s downtown. Husband and wife team. They’re both named Billy, obviously. We call them Billy Squared. As in squared, the math problem?”

I smiled nervously. He smiled back. “Now, don’t worry if you meet Kade Hendricks. He’s not as scary as he looks. Everyone is petrified the first time they meet him. Maybe the second and third time, too.” He pushed his hair back. “Okay, for a while they’re petrified. He’s tall, a few scars, and he doesn’t smile much, but he’s a good guy. Looks like a mafia man, but he’s not.”

A mafia man. Well, what did I care? I wanted a job.

As for the scars. Hey, I had more than a few, all over my body.

And I remembered how I got every one of ’em.

I sat down with Bajal, at her desk in the lobby, who did indeed have to stop talking for a minute while she leaned over and had a contraction. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I said. But it was. I do not like seeing people in pain. It makes me ill. “Can I get you some water?”

“No, I’m fine.” Bajal had black hair and huge dark eyes and was wearing a black, sleeveless maternity dress even though it was cold out. “This baby’s gonna be huge. She’s going to have a head the size of a tire. No, the size of a globe. No, the size of a watermelon. I’ll have a watermelon-head kid.”

“Your first?”

“Heck, no. It’s my third. Can’t keep my husband off me.”

While she searched for an application, I took a quick peek around. The lobby had one full wall of windows next to the door, which let in a ton of light, and Bajal had a stunning wood desk—pine trees carved into the legs, a buck’s head and antlers carved into the front—but the room was plain, functional only.

To the left of the large lobby was the factory. There was a door between us, and it muffled the saws somewhat but not completely. To the right of the lobby were offices and what looked to be an employees’ lounge.

“Okeydokey, here’s an application. I don’t know if we’re hiring, but we probably are, because this sucker baby is going to pop out any minute and Kade knows it. I may not come back at all, but don’t tell anyone I said that.” She wriggled her fingers. “I take it back. Everyone knows I’m not coming back. Kade does, too. I’m going to have three rug rats. I told my husband if I have to work after having this baby I’ll be too tired to have sex, so he says I have to quit. He wanted me to quit a long time ago.”

“Smart husband.”

“This baby kicks my uterus like it’s a punching bag, and she sits right on my bladder and I gotta go all the time.”

I put a hand to my slightly sweating forehead as I pictured a kicked uterus.

“Fill out that application. You can do it here, sign it, and I’ll have Kade look at it when he gets a chance. We don’t put applications online because we get so many resumes all the time. You’re new in town and you work at The Spirited Owl. I know that because my husband’s friends told me there’s a ‘hot-looking’—their words—new bartender, and that’s you. Welcome to Pineridge.”

“Thank you.”

“Too bad you weren’t here earlier. You missed the quilt show.”

“I heard that.” They sure liked their quilt show.

“So you want two jobs?”

No. “Yes.”

“That will be a lot of work.”

I felt worn out thinking about it. “I can do it.”

“Saving for something?” Bajal tilted her head. “I’m saving for a boob job. After nursing three kids, I think my boobs are gonna be in my armpits.”

“Uh. Well. Good for you.” I’m saving for my own toilet! “I’m saving for a home.”

“Here I go again, here I go! Whew! Watermelon-Head Baby is moving. That head must be the size of a troll’s—”

“Can I help you?” I so wanted to help her. I walked around the desk and put my hand on her back. I bent over with her. Her pain was making me dizzy. I dropped my head.

She didn’t answer for fifteen seconds. “Thank you, but there’s not much you can do to help unless I have the baby right here. If I do, don’t let any of the men look up my crotch. You do it. Or get Rozlyn, the chief financial officer, to help you, or Eudora, love her, but no men. And not Marilyn.” She said that name with dramatic angst. “She’s been here a month. I can hardly stand that woman. She’s like a blood-sucking tick who smiles at you before she sucks the life out of you. I can say that now because I’m quitting.”

“Yes to Rozlyn and Eudora and no to all men, and Marilyn the tick, if you have this baby right here in this building.”

“That’s right. I could never look Kade in the eye again if he saw my vagina, especially with a head coming out of it. I mean, I love my husband, but Kade is, well, Kade is Kade.”

“Got it. Never fear. If I have to push your dress up and take your underwear down on the first day we meet to help you get Watermelon-Head Baby out of you, I’ll do it.” She was clearly hurting. I wiped my forehead.

“Thanks,” Bajal exhaled. “I think we’re gonna be friends. Do you like to play Scrabble?”

“No.” I was bad at Scrabble. Truly bad. I only used Scrabble letters in my collages. “How about if I take you to the hospital?”

“Not yet. I hate hospitals. They make me get the willy-jillies. Make sure you sign that application. I’ll tell Kade you offered to help me give birth here. That’ll help you. Shows initiative. Helpfulness. Courage. I mean, what woman truly desires to see a strange woman’s vagina?”

“It’s not first on my own personal list, but I would do it for you.”

“You’re a pal.”

“Thank you.”

Later that afternoon, I reached inside my glove compartment, pushed my gun aside, and pulled out a ceramic, shiny pink box with three dark pink roses on the lid. The gold clasp was in the shape of a heart. I had bought it for three dollars at an estate sale when I was twelve. It was in the home of a ninety-nine-year-old woman. I opened the box.

I called it the lily bracelet for the simple reason that there were lilies—purple, pink, and red with green leaves and a fake crystal in the center of each one. Each flower was surrounded by gold and clasped together.

When I was a little girl, my mother gave it to me. I remember the day clearly. My parents and I were at a lake, near a mountain. We had hiked in, leaving our VW yellow bus at the entrance. This was what we did most days. We camped. Often in a tent; sometimes in our bus. We stayed in different state parks and national parks and often in the middle of nowhere. In the winter, we drove to California and lived near the beach. My dad sang in bars and my mom sold her paintings out of the back of our van.

After we went swimming, my mom braided my hair and said, “I love you so much, Grenadine, and so does your daddy. We want you to have something special.” I called her Mommy, but other people called her Freedom.

“It’s your mother’s, hummingbird daughter,” my dad said, strumming his guitar, “but she wants you to have it.” He liked to call me the names of animals and birds he loved. I called him Daddy, but other people called him Bear.

My mother took the lily bracelet off her wrist and wrapped it around my wrist three times. “See how it sparkles?”

“Hang on to it, unicorn girl,” my dad said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t lose it.”

That night we located the Big Dipper as we always did, unless it was cloudy, and ate pink cookies.

I knew later, as a young adult, that it was a pretty piece of costume jewelry, probably picked up at a street fair or a drugstore, but it was all I had of them.

I touched each lily. They had weathered well over the years. I loved the bracelet—it was my most treasured possession—but what I remember most about that day was my parents’ love for me. Their hugs, their kisses on my cheeks.

I heard their voices again.

Run, Grenadine, run!

What happened to them?

Run, Grenadine, run!

I had not enjoyed my stay in the downtown jail at all.

The FBI came to arrest me at my home, Covey’s home, handcuffs and all, and I was read my rights. They were polite but firm. They put me in the backseat of one of their nondescript cars and tried to talk to me in a conference room downtown. I have a low trust level for the police and authority figures, and I asked for an attorney. Twice. My exact words were, “If you think I’m talking to you without an attorney, then you are stupider than you look.”

Then I went to jail.

I spent ten days there because of a small fighting problem.

It felt like a claustrophobic lifetime. A lifetime I had lived before, although technically I had not been in jail before, only Juvenile Hall, which is its own sticky, black, dangerous nightmare.

The intake area was light green. Think of a slimy light green. That is the color. Walls and floor, with a darker slimy green around doors.

I arrived in handcuffs. I was told to remove my jewelry and valuables and check off what I left there on a long yellow sheet. I took off the $10,000 wedding ring Covey gave me and checked off “ring.” I checked off “earrings” for a pair of diamond studs. I also had silver bangle bracelets with tiny rubies, and my lily bracelet, which I wanted to kiss before I dropped it in the envelope but didn’t because I didn’t want to appear insane.

There was a white ribbon running through my white lace shirt, and I was told to take that off so I wouldn’t use it to kill myself. Same with my belt with a silver buckle.

I signed the paperwork.

Another set of paperwork was filled out by one of the officers who brought me in. It listed all my vital stats: name, age, address, vehicle, height, weight.

I was fingerprinted. There’s something about the way they roll your fingers that makes you feel like you’re giving up on yourself right there. I was led to a small table by a sergeant with brown curly hair and gold hoop earrings and told to look straight ahead for my mug shot. I was then photographed after being told to look to the right at the red X.

While I had my photograph taken I listened to a man in one of four tiny cells screaming the f word every third word while he demanded his “American rights.” I later learned those cells are for people who are flipping out; are filthy, as there’s a shower in one cell and used by many homeless people; or have a contagious disease like tuberculosis.

I was then led to a person who was called “Medical,” who asked many questions: What medications are you using? Have you ingested any drugs? Have you ever taken drugs? Were you raped or assaulted on a previous visit here? Is there someone we need to keep you separated from while in jail? Did I have any injuries or health issues?

While I answered questions, two gangbangers came in yelling, mostly at each other, and were forcibly separated. A woman was brought in with pink and blond hair and a bird tattoo on her neck. She was humming and wouldn’t stop.

A man was dragged in front of me, head back, voice on full throttle, hair matted, vomit down the front of him. It was obvious he’d been out on the streets. They dragged him into the tiny cell with the shower. “Come on, Jeffy,” one of the officers said, kindly. “Ya need a shower, dude, ya stink. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Jeffy didn’t want to get cleaned up because he knew the water was poisonous. He struggled again, then started crying and asking if his mother was here, and if not, could they call her. “Her name’s Nance. Nance. My mom.”

It was sad and pathetic.