Cut, Crop & Die (26 page)

What else, I wondered, could I do?

Maybe Sheila was hinting she had a better idea. I asked her point blank if she did.

“No. No, I certainly don’t.” My mother-in-law sighed. It was a sighing kind of topic, the kind of situation that made you feel helpless and sad. “What you’re proposing is as good an idea as any. Now,” and she seemed to be checking off items from a mental list, “let’s discuss her request to wear makeup. I have an idea …”

TRADITIONALLY, ANYA AND I took Gracie to a park on Sundays. We left Sheila’s with every intention of doing just that, but the inside of my car was so stuffy, Anya turned to me and said, “Mom, could we pass? It’s too humid to be outdoors.”

She was right. The heat index was hovering near 105, and the air quality was orange. With her asthma, a walk outside was not a good idea. A part of me loathed letting our tradition slide for even one time, not because I didn’t think she was right, but because my child was growing up before my eyes. Soon, her excuse for not wanting to take that walk would be “I want to be with my friends.” I was trying to postpone that moment by entrenching our routines.

“Okay-dokey, Anya-Banana. What would you like to do instead?”

She turned cornflower blue eyes on me and said, “Call Detective Detweiler and see if he’d like to go roller skating. He told me he’s really good at it. The kids say that rink over on Manchester is lots of fun.”

Crud. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss this yet. I needed a little more time to process last evening, to practice what I’d say, to consider any alternate approaches. But … here it was. I said, “I don’t think that will work, honey. You see, he’s married. I met his wife last night.”

Anya stopped twirling her hair and turned to me in horror. “Shut up! You have to be kidding me.”

Thank goodness I knew “shut up” was teen-speak for “no way!”

I sighed, “No, honey, I’m not kidding.”

“Wow.”

“The good news is I wasn’t dating the man. Right? I mean he was only a friend. And I suppose he can still be our friend. It’s just … it’s just that maybe I misunderstood the kind of friend he wants to be.” I didn’t like lying to her, but I wasn’t about to share that he’d kissed me. It was too humiliating. I had to focus on what was best for Anya.

She stared at me with huge eyes. “Mom, that’s total bull. And you know it.”

The inside of my old BMW suddenly felt too small, too cramped. The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I couldn’t get a good deep breath of air. I directed an air conditioning vent toward my face and swallowed hard.

My perceptive daughter wasn’t finished. “Well, this is baloney. I don’t care what you say. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of dating with him picking you up and taking you out, but he sure acted like he was interested. I’m not stupid, Mom. I might be a kid, but I saw the way he’d look at you. Even Daddy didn’t look at you like that.”

“Like what?” My voice cracked.

“Like you were the most important person in the world. Like he thought you were just perfect. Like he wanted to hug you and kiss you and all that yucky stuff. He looked like that. Like they show in the movies. And he didn’t even try to hide it.”

I was surprised by how observant she’d been. Surprised and saddened. “Maybe. Or maybe that’s the way you wanted to see it. I can accept responsibility for not being more … uh, proactive and asking him what his intentions were. I guess I misinterpreted his behavior.”

A snort came from the other side of the car. Anya said, “You need your head examined.”

“Anya, you will not speak to me that way. That’s disrespectful.” I knew exactly who she was channeling; she’d been spending a lot of time with her grandmother, and that expression was one of Sheila’s favorites.

“Okay, all right. But Mom, you need a serious rethink about this. Honest, you’re always telling me to trust my gut. Does your gut think he only wanted to be your friend?”

I didn’t answer her.

She made a disgusted sound. “Right. Does Mert know about this yet?”

“I plan to tell her tonight at the cookout.”

“This ought to be good. She’ll track him down and slap him up the side of his head seven ways to Sunday. You know what Roger told me? Once there was this bully at school, a senior? And Roger was, like, a middle schooler. And the bully kept slamming Roger into lockers in the hall when teachers weren’t watching. Mert goes to the principal, but he said they’d never seen it happen, and like, they couldn’t do anything? Besides the kid’s family was real important and all. One day, Roger came home, and his eye was black because the kid pushed him into an open locker. The edge of the metal door ripped the skin around Roger’s eye. The next day Roger stayed home ’cause, like, his eye was swollen shut. But, see, after school, Mert drove to the school parking lot and waited. When that boy came out, Mert called him over to her truck, and like, he was walking around and strutting and showing off for his friends. Roger was slumped down in the car watching. He said he was really, really scared—for his mom. Next thing he knows—wham! Mert grabbed that boy by the hair on the back of his head and slammed his face into the hood of her truck. That boy’s nose was broken and everything. So like, Mert says to him, ‘And whatcha gonna do about it? Tell everyone a woman half your size wearing a skirt broke your nose? You better not, ’cause next time, I’ll break your arm and both your legs, too’.”

Anya concluded this recitation of Mad Mert and the Thunder-dome with a satisfied nod. “Yep, she did that. I can hardly wait to see what she’ll do to old Detweiler. She is
not
going to be happy about this.”

Out of the mouths of babes. What was it Mert said when she returned from being questioned by the cops? Something about Detweiler being a sleezeball and not to trust him?

“Well, I’ll be,” I mumbled to myself. I bet Mert already knew he was married.

But I was being totally ridiculous. If Mert had known about Detweiler, she’d have told me right away. And the idea that she’d knock him silly, well, that was almost laughable.

Or was it?

I knew her to have a temper. She was fiercely protective. And not afraid of anything or anyone. Once over a bottle of wine, she told me about a fight she’d gotten into at a bar. The other woman was taken to the hospital. And what was it she suggested when her neighbor turned up with a black eye? Mert said, “Iffen my husband ever dared lay one hand on me, I’d wait ’til he done fell asleep and take a cast iron frying pan to the side of his head. That’d stop that nonsense for sure.”

I’d thought it a funny story.

She’d never hurt anyone. Never.

Or would she?

All traces of the fake Gracie were gone from our front porch. An officer at the Richmond Heights P.D. called to say they learned nothing from interviewing my neighbors. He promised patrolmen would make extra passes by the house.

Huh. Like that would do a lot of good.

“Mrs. Lowenstein, our records show a few months ago your house was burglarized. Twice. And now this. Ma’am, maybe an officer should do a security canvas. Tell you how to make your place less appealing to the criminal element. You know, when word gets around that a house is vulnerable …”

I didn’t listen to the lecture that followed. I couldn’t. I knew exactly what he would say. My house had become a target for every miscreant in the greater St. Louis area. Even my Great Dane couldn’t offer enough of a deterrent to keep me and my child safe.

There was only one option: I had to move to a better neighborhood. Which would mean paying higher rent. Which would mean accepting help from Sheila. Which would mean giving Sheila more input and control over my life.

I groaned.

Any money she contributed would undoubtedly come with strings attached. Maybe even with steel cables.

But what other options did I have?

I covered my face with my hands and fell back on my bed. Peering between my fingers I noticed a wet spot around the light fixture. Great. My roof was starting to leak. What else could go wrong? Crud. I did
not
want to be in debt to Sheila. Double crud. I could
not
continue to expose my child and my dog to danger. Triple crud. I had to do something.

I spoke to the weird stain on my ceiling. It was vaguely shaped like Bill Clinton in profile. “I know! I’ll marry a rich man who can take me away from all this.”

Huh. Did that. Got the T-shirt, the kid, and the photo album.

Okay, I’d marry anybody with a job. Or a steady salary. What was it Dodie once counseled? Find a spouse with great benefits. Like a school teacher. Or a postal clerk. Or a cop.

Not.

Bad plan.

I hated this. My inability to take care of myself, my child and our dog made me sick, but the queasy feeling quickly changed into a lump in the pit of my stomach. Last night, my tormenters left a calling card. Lucky for me, it was only a prank. But it could have been the real deal. Then what?

Was I willing to put Gracie and Anya at risk?

I had to face facts. I could no longer go it alone. I didn’t have the resources. And I couldn’t put my loved ones in jeopardy. I needed to swallow my pride and do what had to be done. It wasn’t fun or pretty, but I’d be gracious and grateful and work like the dickens to make enough money to pay my mother-in-law back. I dialed Sheila’s number.

“Uh, Sheila. I’ve been thinking about your offer to help me find another place to live …”

The finished outfit seemed a mite skimpy. Dress code for Mert’s party was decidedly different from Opera Theatre. I pulled on cut-offs, a white tank top, and a pair of flip flops.

Then came a flash of inspiration. I rummaged through the few clothes of George’s that I hadn’t given away and found a navy blue vest. Thrown over the tank top, I had myself an outfit. Not wanting to seem too dressed down, I added a pair of big gold hoops and a couple of bracelets. This felt way more comfortable than last night’s apparel, and yet, I had to admit, there’d been a sea change in me. Typically I wouldn’t have taken the time to consider how my clothes looked. Today, I did.

My Spa La Femme transformation taught me the power of polish. Taking those extra minutes to add the vest and jewelry definitely gave me confidence. The extra grooming I’d endured—my shaped and dyed eyebrows, fake lashes, exfoliated and buffed skin—all contributed to a more attractive me.

Sheila had thoughtfully planned the timing of my meeting Detweiler’s wife. Not only did I meet Brenda Detweiler on a night when I was at my best, I was able to face this new day, the morning after, knowing I looked terrific. I was primed to meet Mert’s brother Johnny. And if he and I didn’t hit it off, maybe there’d be another man at the party who struck my fancy.

Right, I thought. Girl, you lie. First, you better get over that detective.

Okay, I’d work on that. I’d take it one step at a time.

I’d mixed up a big bowl of my Hoosier Daddy Kidney Bean Salad the day before—it needs time for the flavors to blend—so Anya and I were good to go when the phone rang.

“Got a minute?” Clancy’s voice sounded needy. I checked my watch. Arriving on time wasn’t really important. For a casual event like this, we could be a half an hour late and not be rude. Anya was absorbed in a TV program. She’d probably appreciate a little delay.

“Sure. How are you? What’s up?”

“I ran over to Ellen Harmon’s store this morning. That woman is making a killing off Yvonne’s demise. Gives the term ‘good grief’ a whole new meaning.”

“That’s fascinating. Tell me more.” The Barbara Walters tape suggested this conversational encouragement. I tried these exact sentences on the Ryman sisters, but after shouting it three times I gave up.

“She’s plastered the whole store with scrapbook pages dedicated to Yvonne, by Yvonne, and about Yvonne. I mean, you can’t find an inch of blank wall. And displays? She lit a tall white candle and put it next to this big photo of Yvonne along with a bouquet of red roses. And, there’s a collection box for contributions to the Gaynor kids’ education fund. Plus, a big book where mourners can sign their names and leave remembrances. On the marquee outside it says, ‘We mourn the passing of our friend, Yvonne Gaynor.’ She’s hung an American flag at half-mast from a flagpole stuck in concrete blocks. I swear, Kiki, it was positively ghoulish—and effective. Man, that place was wall-to-wall people.