Deceived (13 page)

Rocky sipped the warm comfort by Geena’s front window, which looked out over a back alley and up to the tops of the slender palms that made the LA skyline what it was. Something inspirational there, the doggedness of them. The way they stayed, swayed, shed but never broke.

She knew she’d need to be the same in the weeks ahead.

Was she being unfair to Liz? True, they’d never really liked each other. But how much of that animosity was Rocky’s feeling that Arty was being taken away from her? How much of it was pure selfishness?

They had been so close, growing up. Arty had his friends, but he always made time for his little sister, especially after their mother died and Dad became a walking zombie. The loss of Mom hit Rocky hard. Mom was the affectionate one, the one with the smiles and touches.

Her father was never one for hugs. Maybe at one time, before Mom was gone, he might have been. Not that he wasn’t a good provider, but he’d built a wall of cold stone, and any attempt to scale it was met with retreat and reinforcements. Anger could flare when she pushed for his attention.

Rocky didn’t need therapy to know why she drifted toward men like Boyd Martin and stayed with them much too long.

In those awful months after Mom’s death, it was Arty who made sure school lunches were prepared, clothes washed, the house taken care of. Yes, Aunt Cheryl was around a lot, too, but she didn’t live with them. And no one could get her father’s stone wall to come down. If anything, it got higher.

Arty was her protector, all the way through high school. It was Arty who took her to museums and the beach. And the movies.
Forrest
Gump
and
Jurassic Park.
He wouldn’t let her see
Pulp Fiction
, though. It was not as cool as everyone said, he told her, and even though she begged him, he wouldn’t budge.

Later, when she finally saw it, she knew he was right.

No one knew her or cared about her the way Arty did.

Then came the day when he wanted her to meet the new girl in his life. The one he said he was sure he’d marry. He broke the news to her the way someone might announce a death in the family or the loss of a pet. And that’s the way it hit her, like bad news.

She hated herself for that and told herself she would do everything she could to welcome her.

Arty chose a high-end restaurant in Beverly Hills. Clearly wanting to impress both of the main women in his life. Clearly wanting to blow a week’s salary.

Rocky had to admit she went in with a bad attitude. She really didn’t want to make friends with this intruder. And as much as she told herself that Arty deserved happiness, she could not get rid of the childish petulance fizzing inside her like Alka-Seltzer.

Arty and Liz were already seated at a booth under a softly lit painting in the contemporary style.

Rocky never forgot seeing Liz for the first time. Big, blue eyes with a gold nimbus around the pupils. Light blond hair that could have been dyed. There were no highlights.

“This is Liz Summerville,” Arty said.

Liz smiled and slid out of the booth so she could hug Rocky. “It’s so nice to meet you.” She had the faintest wisp of a southern accent. The kind of voice that could drive men wild.

As could the rest of her. Rocky had to admit Arty had picked one good-looking package.

In fact, in every way, Liz Summerville seemed right for Arty. He clearly was taken with her, in more than a superficial way. Arty was never one for dating a lot of women. He wanted stability. And deserved it.

But could this woman give it to him? As hard as she tried not to, Rocky kept studying Liz all through the meal. Interpreting every gesture, analyzing every nuance of voice. Everything Liz did fell on the positive side of the ledger, at least objectively.

But there was just something a little too perfect about Liz’s riffs. They flowed out in shy simplicity, but somehow seemed cunning.

Rocky tried to tell herself to relax, but she was trained, after all, to ferret out deception, both subtle and overt. Still, she had almost convinced herself that Liz was what she appeared, until the talk turned to Liz’s background.

Rocky brought it up quite innocently, though it might have sounded like a job interview question. “Tell us about your growing up,” she asked, using the word
us
without really thinking about it.

It was then that something happened in Liz Summerville’s eyes. A slight shifting of the temperature, a delicate but discernable drop.

The change signaled that this was an area Liz did not want explored. And that Rocky had breached some unspoken agreement in even suggesting it.

Arty answered the question. “She had kind of a hard life back there, and that’s why she’s out here, to start all over again. Let’s talk about something else.”

They tried. Liz’s voice and look returned to normal, but whenever her eyes met Rocky’s, from that moment to today, there was a flash of granite in them.

Geena came to the window and sat with Rocky, holding her own cup of coffee. “You can stay here as long as you want,” she said.

Rocky nodded.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Geena said. “Arrangements, anything like that?”

“There’s one thing I have to do, and I’m dreading it.”

“What’s that?”

Rocky looked at the mountains. “I have to call my dad.”

10:14 a.m.

“Because of your good confession of faith,” Pastor Jon said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

He gently guided her hand to her nose. She squeezed her nose and took a breath, and he lowered her into the water.

For half a second, she wondered if he’d let her up. This was their revenge. Death by baptism.

No noise under the water. Panic. Not fear of being held under and of drowning. No, it was like she was being baptized into fate. Not faith, which she didn’t have. She had made the choice now, and it was irrevocable. Pastor Jon had called baptism a pledge, the pledge of a good conscience toward God.

She was making another pledge, a pledge to herself. To see this whole thing through to the end.

I can’t breathe.

Someone was in the water with her.

No.

Yes.

Not Pastor Jon’s hands. Some other set of hands.

What was this?

I have to scream!

Then she was coming up out of the water. Rivulets streaming down her face and hair. She was alive. And she heard applause. The people in the church were clapping for her.

All of them.

She knew she was supposed to smile, so she did.

“Praise the Lord, Sister,” Pastor Jon said.

“Amen,” Liz said.

10:20 p.m.

“How you doing, Pop?”

“Roxanne?”

“One and only.”

“What time is it?”

“I wake you?”

“I was dozing. Why you calling?”

Is it that shocking to you
,
Father? Your only daughter calling you on the
phone? How about a nice
,
“
How’ve you been
?” A little bit of
,
“
I’m sorry I’ve been so distant over the years.”

“Pop, I’ve got some bad — ”

“You need money or something?”

“No — ”

“That guy you’re shacked up with have any money?”

“Listen to me, will you?”
For a change?

“What is it?”

“Arty . . .” The words stuck.

“What about Arty?”

“He was hiking . . .”

“He’s hurt?”

She swallowed once, hard. “He died, Pop. Arty died.”

She heard a muffled gasp, like someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Pop, are you — ?”

“Don’t talk. Don’t say anything.”

She waited. She kept waiting. She thought she heard a sob. “Pop, you need me to come down?”

“No. When can I see him?”

“I don’t know. Liz’ll be handling all that.”

“I have to talk to her.”

Like you don’t have to talk to me?

“Pop — ”

The connection dropped.

He dropped her! So he could call Liz!

Geena came into the living room. “How’d it go?”

“Not real good.”

“Tell me, did you think it would go good?”

“No. It never does.”

“But see, that’s the thing.” Geena sat on the arm of the chair. She looked down. “You have to get it vibrating in your head, before it happens in reality.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Geena nodded.

“Well then,” Rocky said, “why don’t you vibrate me some tequila? You have any?”

Geena shook her head.

Rocky got up. “Then I’ll go get some.”

“Want me to come with?” Geena said.

“No thanks. Too much positive thinking makes me grouchy.”

Rocky took the stairs down to the parking area. She looked at the cracks in the asphalt. Everything was crumbling in LA these days. Infrastructure becoming obsolete. Life running down. She was caught in a vortex, and —

Boyd was leaning against her car, smiling.

“Hey, babe,” he said.

She stopped, as if hitting an electric fence.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I don’t think so.”

“We kind of left things up in the air.” He pushed off from the car and took a step toward her.

“Just stay where you are,” Rocky said. “We didn’t leave anything up in the air.”

“We have to talk this out.”

“You smashed my car window and burned my clothes.”

“Oh, that,” he said. “I was drunk, okay? You know how I get.”

“Yeah, I know exactly how you get.”

He put his hands out and took another step. “I was mad, okay?”

“Stop, Boyd.”

“Let’s go get a drink and talk about it.”

“A drink? That’s the whole thing that got us into trouble.”

“We can drink together, we can make love together, we can work out anything.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

“So?”

“Come here,” he said, gesturing.

“Boyd, please, just go.”

He put his arms down. “You don’t really want me to.”

“I really do.”

“You can’t,” he said.

“Why can’t I?”

“Because you need me,” he said.

Rocky shook her head.

“Don’t treat me like this,” he said.

“Treat
you?”

“I’m not about to be dumped by you. Your prospects aren’t real good, if you know what I mean.”

Rocky was not surprised by the epithet that blasted out of her mouth.

Boyd’s face darkened. “You shouldn’t have called me that.”

“Go away,” she said. “Now.”

“You should not have said that to me.”

“Stay away from me, or I’ll get a restraining order.”

“That ain’t gonna help you, babe.”

“Or worse.”

He smiled and shook his head. “You like to play tough, but you’re not. Don’t even try. I’ll be around.”

He pointed his stupid finger at her. For a second, she thought he’d make a move. But one thing he wasn’t was dumb. In broad daylight, in an apartment complex parking lot. He wouldn’t do it that way.

No, he’d wait for his moment.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said and walked away whistling.

10:45 a.m.

Later, after wet-haired hugs and smiles, Liz made desperate eyes at Mac, a look he interpreted as,
Take me away from here!

So he did. She took his arm and he walked her to the far end of the parking lot, running a little interference on the way.

She needs to get home
,
Mrs. Axelrod.

Thanks for the offer of the meatloaf
,
Mrs. Mayhew.

Yes
,
I’ ll let you know how she’s doing.

All the way to the car, Liz clung to him. Then she turned and gave him a hug, thanking him. She held on.

Then she pulled back and looked at him. “What if I’m bad?” she said.

“What?” Mac said. He gave her a disarming chuckle. “You’re not bad.”

“What if I am? What will happen to me?”

“No, listen, you’re in Christ. You are a new creation.”

“What if I’m not?”

“But you are. That’s what the Bible says. It’s a promise.”

She almost said something more but then turned and got into her car.

She’s going to need you. She’s going to need all the help she can get.
Think you can manage that without messing up
,
Bud?

As Liz drove away, Mac felt, well, scared. That was it. Like he was responsible for her now. The way they used to say in China or someplace, that if you save a life, you have to take care of ’em for the rest of your days.

A guy who grows up on the streets of Oakland isn’t supposed to be scared of anything. But then you join the Marines at nineteen and before you can say
John Wayne
you’re being shipped off to Saudi Arabia.

Saudi Arabia! What kind of place is that? You arrive in Khobar, and your feet have barely touched sand when you hear an air-raid siren. You start running around with your buds, looking for shelter, and then you’re told, “Dudes, that’s the Muslim call to prayer.”

Yes, what kind of place is it when you’re told you can’t show the palms of your hands or the soles of your feet to native Saudis? Or you can’t wear white underwear because they believe Paradise is white? How would they know the color of your underwear anyway?

You can’t give the “okay” sign with your fingers or point or talk to Saudi men about the women in their family.

It must be what it’s like on Mercury. Sand everywhere, heat like you’ve never experienced. Drinking water all the time. Your “chocolate chip” uniform scratchy and heavy and hot. Not to mention your chemical suit and gas mask.

And when a
shamal
, a sandstorm, blows, fuggetaboutit. How can anybody live here?

You want to fight, but it’s all about waiting. You clean latrines and take barrels of human waste to a pit, where you get to pour in diesel fuel and mix it all up, then light it on fire.

Funny, but the recruiter never told you about that particular aspect of military life.

Oh, and there’s drilling. Every day, drilling and training and singing out the metronomic cadence:

If I die in a combat zone
Box me up and ship me home!
Pin my medals on my chest,
Tell my mom I done my best!