Coin-Operated Machines (8 page)

Brock rested in the back seat of Hannah's car as the sister's went at each other's throats.

"You said you were going to act like
a Dad and ask him questions.  Like his life expectations, why he loved me, why he was a better person now, not going Chuck Norris on his ass!  What has gotten into you?"

"Hannah, I don't know what came over me
. I-I-I thought I'd give him a punch, and then he'd fight back, and then—"

"Then he'd hit you, and I'd have to turn him away, right?  You realize how manipulative that is?"

"He's no good."

"You think he's no good, but you don't know him like I do."

"I don't have to know him.  I see his ass on TV, I saw what you were like after his parties.  You weren't a sister anymore, and you weren't a person either.  Brock was the one who allowed it.  He fed you those fucking drugs."

"I made the choice. 
I kept coming to his parties, but we both went to rehab.  And if you're thinking like that, you're saying the way Brock was, I was too, and I changed, right?  Why can't he change?"

"But it's different."

"It's not different.  I was as bad off as he was in rehab.  I was clawing the walls, shitting and puking from my withdrawals.  You beat the piss out of Brock.  Jesus, Sis, look at him.  He's bloody."

Brock
tried to add levity to the conversation.  "She tore me a new one."

They didn't hear him
. 

"He's all bloody, Brandy, God-damn it, and you're still defending yourself
.  Berate him, say he's a big asshole, but think about what you did. You kicked the shit out of him.  Don't you feel stupid he didn't fight back? The fact you wanted him to hit you disturbs me.  Brock's trying harder than you are.  He knows you don't like him, but he still wants you to like him."

Brock spoke up
.  "Wait, you two, just hold on.  Brandy, can we start over?  From scratch.  I'll make you a deal.  You write up a contract.  Have a notary sign it.  If I ever relapse, I lose Hannah.  I'll sign it.  I swear to you."

The deal caused them both to
go quiet. 

"Hannah means that much to me.  No drugs.  Ever.  Two years, I've made it with your sister.  We're the perfect team.  We love each other.  You only know the bad parts of me, Brandy.  Give me a chance.  I'll keep trying no matter how many times you kick my ass."

Brandy mulled it over.  She wasn't impressed with Brock, but his offer stuck true in her mind.  "Okay, Brock, you've got a deal.  You stay sober, or I kick your ass to the curb."

"Can I add one stipulation to the contract?"

Brandy's eyes were coal black.  She waited for his request.

"Please don't kick me in the balls like that again.  They're still lodged in my throat as we speak."

* * *

In the ER room, Hannah winced every time the nurse's aide wiped around Brock's gash, the pink slot of open skin that was half an inch wide.  Hannah had to bite her fist when the doctor administered twelve stitches to close it up.  Brock's shirt was covered in dried blood, what had dried into a dull brown-orange color.  His ribs and stomach swelled with ache. He'd have a collection of ripe bruises. 

Dr. Mihn
asked him, "How did this happen again?"

"I, uh," Brock trailed off, scrounging for an excuse.  "I fell down the stairs.  Wild party. 
The old man needs to calm down."

"Yes, he does," the Asian doctor said, disapproving of his reply.  "Well, you'll be fine.
  Let the stitches heal.  In four weeks, come back to get them taken out.  You'll have a mean battle scar."

You said it, Doc.  A battle scar.

Hannah stepped up to Dr. Mihn.  "So he's fine then?"

"Shipshape beyond a few
bruises.  The old man is no worse for the wear."

After receiving the treatment, they
walked out of the emergency room, and Brandy waited outside with her head in her hands.  He wasn't sure what to expect.  She glanced up at them when they approached her.  She rose to her feet, and Brock sized her up.  He didn't feel anger.  He only wished for an honest chance to win her over. 

After a moment of drawn out silence, Brandy walked up to Brock.  He went stiff, but when she pulled him in for a hug, he hugged her back.  She whispered to him, "I'm
sorry, Brock.  Hannah's right.  You didn't deserve that."

"But you feel better, though. 
Be honest.  Come on.  You liked punching out my lights.  Mopping up the floor with me.  Exchanging fisticuffs."

Brandy
laughed without meaning to, and said, "Rearranging your face."

"Throwing me under the bus."

"Cleaning your clock."

"Knuckle sandwich delivery."

Hannah stepped in between them, "Enough."

Brock extended his hand
to Brandy.  "Clean slate?"

Brandy
conceded.  "As long as you don't press charges, yes, clean slate."

Brock led them out into the parking lot and back to the car.  "All right, let's get home so I can ice down my balls."

After receiving
more genuine apologies from Brandy on the way back to their apartment, and Brock accepting each of them, they called it a night.  Hannah explained she had packed a bag for the trip tomorrow, and it was in her trunk, so the sisters had a short talk while Brock sat in the car.  When Hannah returned, they drove to his apartment.  There, Brock showered and then they went straight to bed.  He couldn't sleep, though, tossing and turning, once again concerned about Angel.  He snuck into the living room, turned on the standing lamp, and started jotting in his notebook. 

Maybe it'll be as easy as letting Angel punch in my face and all will be forgiven.  No, Angel's different. 
It won't be so easy to win her back.  Our whole family situation is messed up.  I wonder what Mom's doing these days?  Does she care about her two children?  She has to know we were cokeheads.  The news broadcast it to the whole world.  I guess she's out of my life either way.  I could look her up, but I guess one battle at a time is enough.  Win back Angel if I can, then I'll see about the black widow. 

Seeing blood again brings the memories back.  It's the very reason I went to rehab and dragged Angel kicking and screaming with me.  It was after one of our notorious parties.  One hundred
people were there.  Too many strangers at that party, many of them sub-Hollywood people, those on the outskirts of work or completely shut out of work.  All I remember is when they left, and I was blitzed out of my mind.  I'd snorted coke and somebody had given me a strange pill.  I still to this day don't know what it was.

I was walking around our outdoor pool
when the party was over.  Vomit, popcorn, empty wine, champagne, and beer bottles floated in the water like party flotsam and jetsam.  I don't know what convinced me there was somebody drowning in the middle of the pool.  I saw a floating skirt or a dress, a piece of clothing, and I swore I caught a face and heard screams choked by swallowed water.  So I throw myself in, and I'm fired up out-of-my mind.  When I land, it's like falling into quicksand.  I fight it, thrashing hard, extending my neck to keep my face above the surface, and I could care less what bile I'm floating through, this woman's screams, she's seeing her dying moment, and I was determined to save her. 

The quick sand was thickening, and something was pulling down on my ankles like an undertow, but I was inches from the woman, and when I reach out to lift her from harm,
my arm cuts right through her.  Her flesh is liquid, and the force of my grip, it tears her asunder, and it's as if I've fallen into her body, trapped in her ribs, tangled in her arms and legs, and I'm covered in so much blood, as if I was the one who killed her, as if my body was so strong, she was like a wave that crashed and broke against my body. 

I'm screaming and crying out, horrified that I'd killed this woman, and now I'm drowning, so terrified, and I'm sinking fast, caught up in what really is a dress somebody tore off and discarded into the water.  And then a hear a
splash of water.  Angel has come in after me, but she too is blitzed as hell, and when she grabs hold of me, we both sink faster, both heavy as anchors, and we hit the bottom.  Running low on air, Angel claws at my body imagining me to be God knows what, and she's really scratching up my arms, and real blood spreads across the water, and when I catch the pool light above us, I somehow snap out of it, throwing aside the dress, and I lift up Angel whose practically pulling me back down.  She thinks something above us isn't safe, and I force her up, and when we reach the surface, Angel stares at me like asking me what the fuck just happened.  We both don't know, but we're so scared, we realize we can't keep doing this.

It
was so real, I swear my arm just cut through that woman when I tried to grab her.  I had nightmares in rehab about the woman and trying to rescue a dress.  I risked my life and my sister's life over a fucking dress. 

Brock stopped writing, shu
tting off the previous life he had lived.  He returned to bed, careful not to wake Hannah.  He stared up at the ceiling for minutes, his thoughts going on and on about Angel and their life at the mansion, before he drifted to sleep. 

DIGGING UP THE YARD

13 Days After Piedmont Cemetery Melted

James Matthews, or "Old Man Matthews" as the neighborhood kids dubbed him before everything changed in Blue Hills for the worse, plunged a shovel into the square of dirt in front of his oak tree that stood the closest to his house.  After two feet of earth was dug up and pushed aside, he reached down and claimed his prize.  What would prolong his life that much longer. 

A rusted coffee tin. 

James ran into the house and locked the coffee tin into the wall safe in his private study and quickly rushed back outside.   James double checked he had his .38 pistol tucked under his belt loop in case anybody got any funny ideas.  He shot Mrs. Jenson and Mr. Ryerson between the eyes when they broke into his house and turned over the Goddamn place until it was as good as a crime scene after a burglary. 

They wanted his money. 

Everybody wanted money.

James
remembered how life used to be about two weeks ago when the town first became a high alert, take no prisoners, survive or die situation.  He was a retired funeral director, having enjoyed nine years of retirement.  During his career, the neighborhood children created stories about him in corners of the schoolyard between turns in kickball, in various altitudes on the swing sets, or walking home from school.

Old Man Matthews doesn't drink, but he sure loves to huff embalming fluid...

Old Man Matthews likes to keep his bed filled with the corpse of his wife when he digs her up from her grave on the night of their wedding anniversary...

Old Man Matthews roams the cemetery imagining each of the corpses under his feet are naked and on his gurney...

Old Man Matthews doesn't wear his rubber gloves when sticking his finger in places he shouldn't...

Old Man Matthews enjoys the sound of sutures breaking dead corpse skin...

The stories became increasingly sordid the older these children became.   Small town embalmers and funeral directors earned this title without any wrongdoing.  He didn't care.  After everything that had happened in Blue Hills, none of it mattered.  The kiddies were dead.  Their mommies were dead.  Their daddies were dead.  Their friends were dead.  None of them mattered.  Dead.  Dead. Dead.

James
combed his backyard and stopped at the set of lawn gnomes by the front hedges.  He penetrated the earth with his shovel, digging behind them, locating the sweet spot, knowing he didn't have a lot of time left out in the open before somebody would happen upon what he was doing. 

Reaching deep enough in
side the hole, James scooped out the rest of the dirt with his hands and claimed another coffee tin.  Hurrying back into the house, he bolted the front door secure and locked up the tin coffee can inside his wall safe.  Staying in the house, James kept the .38 in his hands, waiting for the man with the golden axe to come a knockin'...

HITTING THE ROAD

Brock and Hannah's goal was to hit the road by eight in the morning, but they were running late.  During their shower together, Hannah took in his collection of nasty bruises.  "I am so sorry my sister did that to you.  I had no idea she was planning that.  She said she only wanted to talk to you."

"It'
s okay."  Brock signaled for her to cease the apologies.  He toweled off after the alleviating hot shower, watching Hannah stand in the shower wrapping a towel around her hair before drying the rest of herself off.  "I know you didn't have anything to do with it.  The ghost of Bruce Lee entered Brandy, and she released her anger.  That's a victory.  Now she has to give me a shot.  Kicking someone's ass never cleared the air between two people as successfully as last night."

"She used to take Karate, actually.  She's a blue belt."

"What does that mean?  Maybe the colors of your belt indicate the color of bruises your moves will leave on someone's body."

Hannah eyed him
lovingly.  "You're a good sport, Brock.  You had every right to bitch slap her for that beating.  I wouldn't have batted an eye."

"You don't mean that.  If I hit your sister, you would've left me.  End of story."

"Maybe.  Maybe not.  But you didn't have to let her beat you up so bad."

"I didn't let her," he said, play
fully outraged.  "She was swift."

Hannah hugged him from behind.  "You
sure took your beating like a champion."

After eating a simple breakfast of raisin bran, toast, and orange juice, Brock systematically went through every room in the apartment and switched off appliances.  He refilled the automatic feeder on the zebra tetra tank.  "You guys be good while I'm out."  He pointed
at the biggest tetra.  "Fred, I want you to keep them busy.  Water aerobics.  Meals at noon and seven o'clock sharp.  And keep trying to get into Nancy's pants.  A tip, Fred, if you want to score, let Nancy's sister beat the shit out of you.  It always works.  Sympathy sex is still sex in my book."

Hannah rolled her eyes.  "You get to milk your beating for," she thought hard, "two or three more days,
and that's it."

"Ah, come on, at least until I get my stitches out.  That's fair."

Hannah cleaned out their cereal bowls and silverware in the sink and packed them into the dishwasher.  "We'll see how far you get to take it."

"Fair enough."

Brock sat on his couch and unrolled the map he had purchased and traced the red line, the way they'd go to get to Blue Hills, Virginia.  Hannah shook her head.  "You're behind the times, Brock."  She strapped on her purse and patted it down.  "Haven't you heard of a GPS?"

"Where's the adventure in that?  You have
to get lost, or turned around.  That way, you might see something cool on accident."

Hannah
folded up his map, grabbed both his hands, and urged him from the couch with a hearty kiss.  "Wouldn't you rather pay attention to me than worry about where to go next?  Maps are a waste of time."

Brock
kissed up and down her neck, then nibbled on the edges of ear.  It made her tense, then laugh, then shrill with ticklish delight.  "Brock—oh Brock, stop!  That tickles."

Done playing around,
Brock went about re-checking the apartment to make sure everything was locked up and safe.  He carried their bags to the door, Hannah lugging her own, and he locked the door behind him.  It was nine o'clock, later than they had planned to set out, but with a trip like this, there was no hard deadline.  They had made a reservation at the Piedmont Inn, and he asked for his sister's phone number in her room, but they said they couldn't give out that information, but in saying that, he had confirmed that Angel was in fact staying at the inn. 

After loading up the Honda Civic, they were ready to set out on their expedition. 

After five hours
of driving, they were deep into Nevada, riding the main interstate, when Hannah dug out her script for
Dust Devils
.  "I really want to nail this thing.  It's been so many years since I've worked."  She lowered her eyes on the script, trailing her finger down the page.  "I know what people will think when they see me in a movie again.  'Look at that washed up woman.  The years haven't been kind to her.  Drugs sure do that to them.'"

Brock couldn't listen to the self-ber
ating. "Sure, they might think that, but others will think it's cool a movie star is wanting to be in movies for the sake of acting.  Fuck them, Hannah.  You've done more with your life than most, and you've survived the kind of hardships many would fail in a heartbeat.  You're back baby!  Sheryl Flynn is back fighting the evils in the sand!  You still look fabulous.  Everybody has their critics, but they also have their fans.  They're out there, Hannah.  You'll see.  And I'll be there to cheer you on too."

Hannah shook her script as if knocking off the dust.  "I'll do a solo read-through, and I'll mimic the other voices myself so you can drive, okay?  You just tell me if my performance is
too jilted."

"You got it."

Hannah cleared her throat, then spoke in her cowgirl accent, "
These bodies have been ravaged from the inside out
."

Deepening into Detective Shirley's voice,
Brock said, "
I want you to stay out of this investigation.  This is none of your concern.  If news of this leaks out to the press, you can forget about the Jelly Fair this year
."

Hannah poured on her intensity, "
Listen up, Detective, do you want everybody at the Jelly Fair to be Suisse cheese?
"  She pointed down at who Brock assumed to be the corpse on the ground.  "
His stomach exploded.  Image that a thousand fold, maybe ten thousand fold.  And once they escape the body, they grow, and grow, and grow.  You don't want that, sir.  You don't want that one iota
."

"
Bah, you're a scientist who wants funding for research.  I never cared for naysayers, or rebel rousers, or roustabouts in my town, and lady, you're one of them.  I want you out of my crime scene.  I want you out of my hair, so get out of my hair!
"

Hannah's character wasn't backing down. 
"
Listen, they hide in sugary food, and many know that this dead carnie at our feet had a thing for cotton candy.  Let me take a sample of the cotton candy.  I'll show you the dust devils' eggs are inside it.  Somebody's planted them there
."

"
Terrorists at a Jelly Fair, give me a break lady.  Go shove off before I get really mad
."

"
I'm warning you, you'll have more dead bodies on your hands.  Let me do my research.  Shut the Jelly Fair down.  Reschedule it.  If you love this town, you'll do it
."

"
Get her out of here, Officer.  She's grinding on my nerves.  Make sure she gets nowhere near the county fair.  What's next, killer snake eggs in the popcorn?  Jesus hiked a football to Moses
."

Hannah paused at that line, eying Brock with guilty pleasure.  "See, the script is hilarious.
It's so much fun."

"I can't wait to see it in the movies."

"Ah, well, it'll hit a few movie festivals, but otherwise, it's straight to DVD."

"Look on the bright side, that's less time I have to wait to see you in action."

"You'll see me in action soon enough."  Hannah rubbed the inside of his thigh and kissed his neck, whispering the dirty things he liked to hear. 

After cooling off, she asked,
"How much longer are we driving today?"

Brock checked his watch.  "It's two o'clock.  We can stop for a burger and get as far as we can
after that.  Once it gets dark, we'll have to start looking for a hotel with vacancies."

Hannah's stomach growled at the mention of burgers.  "I'm starving."

"All right, so where do we eat?"

Hannah's cravings changed from burgers to breakfast food, so they stopped at a restaurant called "The Waffle King" where a giant waffle replica stood atop the roof.  It was packed with customers, and they had to wait fifteen minutes before being seated.  Brock ordered blueberry waffles, two sausage links, and an orange juice.  Hannah ordered a specialty item called "The King's Sandwich," what was two waffles as the bread of a sandwich with whipped cream, strawberries, blueberries, and bananas stuffed in the middle with chocolate chips.  She ordered a tall glass of chocolate milk on the side. 

Sitting in t
he booth, they ate hungrily.  Afterwards, Brock patted his stomach when he was finished.  "Now that was a meal.  I'm about to nod off.  The old man needs a nap."

"I'll drive," Hannah
said, stabbing a blueberry with her fork and dipping it in whipped cream.  "Food perks me up."

Brock read from the menu, "Ted Waffler was dubbed the "The Waffle King" in Belgium by
"Ms. Oostende 2000" after winning over the super model and actress with his recipe for pigs in a waffle blanket, a daring sandwich creation of sausage links, maple syrup, and waffles created from Mr. Waffler's super secret batter ingredients that have won him over eight "Waffle of the Year" competitions and a guest spot on David Letterman.  So take it from the king himself, "These waffles are worthy of seconds and thirds, so chow down friends!""

Hannah finished her plate and wiped her mouth clean on the napkin and reapplied her rouge lipstick.  "Well, if
"Ms. Oostende 2000" says Ted Waffler's got some damn good waffles, I believe it."

A man came by to drop off their bill, saying
cheerily, "She's really a nice lady.  Classy.  She could eat waffles like there was no tomorrow.  She could cram five into her mouth at once."

Brock
smiled at the man with the nametag "Charlie."  He didn't mean to be so blunt. "You're not Ted Waffler."

"Oh, but I am."  The ma
n adjusted his comb over.  He'd been busting tables in the background during their entire conversation.  "You're new around here, but you see, many senior citizens come here daily hoping to meet me.  They're nice and all, but I've got a business to run.  They'll want me to make all of their waffles personally.  It's not easy being "The Waffle King."  Imagine if Kenny Rogers made a personal appearance at one of his chicken places.  It'd be Armageddon."

Brock paid the bill and thanked the man for his wonderful waffles, and after visiting the bathroom, they
hit the road once again with Hannah at the helm.  After five more hours of driving, they finally stopped at a lodging called "The Big 12 Motel" to sleep for the night.             

Brock rested on top of the bed, once again feeling the places where Brandy punched and kicked him.   He took stock of the purple-yellow bruises, counting thirteen total.  The pattern created a wicked looking rash.  Brock was about turn off the lamp, but he was still waiting for Hannah to come out of the bathroom. When she did, she was naked except for two towels tied together in a sash. 

He smiled. 
"Who are you supposed to be?"

Hannah
pouted her lips, giving herself a Swedish accent, though it was Belgian she was shooting for.  "I'm Ms. Oostende 2000.""  She posed as a Miss America pageant contestant, smiling big with her pearly whites showing.  "I could eat your waffles all day, Mr. Waffle King.  When can I start eating?  I'm very hungry."

Brock wasn't sure why he was aroused,
but something was stirring down below.  "Mr. Pancake sent his goons to beat the hell out of me.  They don't like the way the waffle has been dominating the breakfast market these days.  I can only do what I was born to do.  I work so hard and nobody appreciates me."

Now she was talking like Marilyn
Monroe, every word provocative and dripping with sex.  "Oh, you poor, poor man.  You deserve so much, Mr. Waffle King.  You only do good things.  It's about time somebody rewarded you for being such a nice man to everybody."

"That's why I made you
"Ms. Oostende 2000."  You have certain...sensibilities."

Hannah
sashayed to the bed, committing four stiff waves of the hand to an invisible crowd. Then Hannah rested beside him, peeling off his boxers.  She began rubbing him down, easing the tension in his body, and kissing his pectorals.  "Tell me where Mr. Pancake's goons hurt you."  Whispering under her breath and licking his nipple, gracing her tongue seductively against the skin, she said, "Oh, tell me where it hurts, King.  I'll kiss it and make it better.  Just tell me where it hurts, King."

Brock pointed south.