Hostile Witness (12 page)

“Here we go!” Rudy whipped him off his shoulder and cradled his back so that Mikey became an upside-down airplane. In a second he landed smack dab in the middle of the little bed.  Rudy always kept it made up with fresh sheets in case Pam let him have more than his court ordered visitation.

“Do it again!” Mikey cried, holding out his arms, his little body wiggling with anticipation.

“Nope, it’s too late. Time for big boys to be asleep. Mom is coming early in the morning to get you.”

“How early?” Mikey asked as Rudy tucked the sheets tight and turned out the bedside light.

“Too, early,” Rudy said lightly, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

He could put criminals behind bars, he could fight the bad guys on every front, but he couldn’t convince the judge who handled his divorce that picking a kid up at five in the morning wasn’t good for anyone. 

“Daddy, I could stay here ‘till you got back from business,” Mikey said seriously, willing to forgo the pleasure of putting on his little back pack at five in the morning so mommy could drive him to day care and she could get to her job on time.

“Sorry, sport” Rudy said and ran his hand through Mikey’s dark curls, “but mom says she can’t stand having you gone one more minute. Not one more.”

“Can you stand me gone one minute?” The little boy asked.

Rudy touched his son’s face. He smiled and kissed Mikey’s cheek.

“No, sport, I can’t stand it when you’re gone any minutes,” Rudy said truthfully. “And that’s a good thing.  That means that no matter what happens, there are always two people in this whole wide world who want you.”

Mikey smiled and turned on his side, settling himself into his little nest, one last thought on his mind.

“I bet some kids don’t even have one person who loves them so much,” he said with satisfaction.

“I bet you’re right, sport,” Rudy whispered back.

Standing up, Rudy looked at his boy, still feeling guilty that he didn’t have the perfect family. Then he thought of Hannah Sheraton and realized Mikey didn’t have it so bad after all. At least he didn’t have anyone who was willing to throw him away – or some prosecutor determined to put him away.

Hannah sat on a stool in her room.

It was a very low, very small red lacquer stool.  Her knees were drawn up and she leaned over far enough to rest her chest on them.  Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her face was turned toward the glass door that opened her room to the beach.  Hannah could see out; anyone could see in. But there was no one to see. Kip owned the beach, and the house, now that Fritz was dead.

At her feet was a small black porcelain dish, a delicate silver fish painted in the center.  She could see each scale shimmering on its perfect little body. A razor blade lay across the fish’s belly.  No one could figure out how she managed to cut herself. The cook watched the knives.  Kip used an electric razor.  Linda rationed disposables so Hannah could shave her legs thinking she couldn’t do anything obscene with them.  Clever Hannah saved one now and again. She broke open the plastic casing, took the tiny blade and hid it in a pouch in the back of her closet.  Hannah still had two blades left in her pouch. The third was on the dish with the fish.

Curled on her stool, Hannah stared at that blade for the longest time. Where, she wondered, did the light come from that caused it to glint in the darkened room?  How big was the machine that beveled the edges of that tiny piece of metal?  Who invented cutting blades a million, zillion years ago? Hannah wondered if that person had a name, or if they were just like her – just someone.

Time came and went and finally Hannah picked it up.  The blade was so small Hannah took some pride in being able to cut just deep enough, just far enough, to draw just enough blood with such a tiny instrument.

She looked over her shoulder on the off chance that her mother might see what was happening and stop her. When the door of her room didn’t open Hannah made a parallel cut alongside a long-healed scar. The second cut was short. The third was a series of three cuts all in a line. SOS. Dot. Dash. Dot. Hannah looked at her handiwork, pale in the limited light. There wasn’t much blood. She hadn’t gone deep.  Tomorrow she would go deeper.

Unwinding herself, Hannah stood up and opened the glass door. Leaving her shoes behind, she crossed the patio. The sand was cold; the air was warm. There was a breeze that tousled her hair. Hannah bent down and dug a hole. She worked relentlessly as the dry sand fell in on itself again and again. When it was deep enough, Hannah buried her blade so no child who might stumble upon this private beach would be hurt. Hannah would never want a child to be hurt. Never.

When Hannah was done she prowled the perimeter of the house, holding her cut arm up to the ocean air.  The salt stung and the wounds tingled but nothing could really hurt Hannah. Not much, anyway. Not often, anyhow. There had been a time not too long ago, when she was hurt so bad she thought she would die. But that time was almost forgotten.  When the trial was done she’d forget it altogether.

Hannah twirled, arms out, her long hair floating in the breeze. Her eyes were closed and every time she peeked Hannah expected to see day.  But it was always night. The hours hadn’t passed and that’s when Hannah got sick.

She stumbled back to her bedroom and sat on her little stool, pulling herself tight in a ball as she rocked. She wished she could paint, but no flammables were allowed around her. That was a no-no. The judge said so.  If she could paint, the sickness inside would go away.  Hannah made a muffled little mewling sound and rocked her feet heel to toe.

Her chin hurt because it was pushed hard into the knobs of her knees. Her cheekbones felt as if they would crack from the pressure as she clenched her jaw. Hannah closed her eyes and rocked. She thought of Josie. There’s a lesson Hannah. Take a lesson from Josie, Hannah. Life’s hard. Deal with it.  Fight for it. Stand up, Hannah. Do it for yourself.

Then it didn’t matter whom Hannah thought about. She sprang from her seat, stuck her hand between her mattress and box spring and found the other things she kept hidden. She opened the little box. Three little joints left.  Three was her lucky number. Three blades. Three joints. Three people in this house.

The matches were in the bathroom, hidden in the box of tampons.  They wouldn’t let her have paints but nobody checked for matches. How dumb was that?  Outside again, Hannah cupped her hands, bent her head and put a match to the roach. She sucked the smoke in deep and held it.  The sick feeling didn’t leave. It squeezed her head so she started to walk around the house, ticking and shaking the little box of wooden matches as she went. Shake and shake, counting the times she heard the scratching sound they made.  Hannah shook and shook, trying to count the number of matches by the sound.  Hannah walked to the back of the house and looked up toward the bedroom her mother shared with Kip. The lights were out.  They were asleep.  Kip hadn’t looked at Hannah yet. All Linda did was look at Kip.  All Linda did was say everything would be all right. Hannah just didn’t know which of them she was saying it to.  Guilt. Guilt. It was the word that connected them all, and kept them all apart.

She walked to her side of the house, head down and steps measured; pacing off her prison. When Hannah had journeyed ten times on that route she detoured inside and walked up the stairs. Hannah was a shadow. No one knew she was there even when it was light.  Half the joint was gone; the other half snuffed out and cupped between her hands along with the box of matches. No one would hear them shake as Hannah walked up those stairs and stood outside her mother’s bedroom door. She peered through a crack in the door. They were there. Her mother with her long hair and naked shoulders, Kip curled around her in sleep; Kip who would be a judge; Kip who was just like his father. They were there. In bed. Together.

Hannah turned around and walked down the stairs.

Hannah walked up those stairs again and stood outside the bedroom door and looked.

She walked down.

She walked up and stood and looked.

She held the matches and the roach cupped in her hand so no one would hear, no one would smell the smoke, and no one would know she was standing outside the bedroom door looking and thinking and wondering if she had really done the right thing the night of the fire.

Josie sat with her back to the wall, one foot dangling toward the floor, the other propped up on the bar stool next to her. One arm was on the bar, her hand wrapped around a glass of beer. It was still full, but the foam had long since faded. A half eaten burger was on the plate beside her. Eric Clapton was on the jukebox, and a couple of baseball teams silently ran around on the big-screen TV in the corner. A woman nursed a martini at a table near the window. A couple was having a heated disagreement in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. Other than that, it was a quiet night at Burt’s at the Beach.

“Is it my cooking?”

Josie swiveled her head but didn’t lift it from the wall behind her. She smiled at Burt. Burt, who was once one of the finest male volleyball players on the circuit, still looked ruggedly handsome despite the crow’s feet, and the gray through his long blond hair. He crashed and burned on his motorcycle in ninety-four. Broke about every bone in his body. He still looked damn good, but he lost everything that made him one of the best on the beach: his speed, his agility, and his range of motion. He spent the next two years trying to kill himself with booze and pills.  Then he found a good woman and opened Burt’s. The good woman wasn’t as good as he thought, but Burt’s at the Beach was a godsend. He loved his place, and so did people who called Hermosa home. You never had to dress up, the food was basic, good and priced right, every woman was safe, every man who wasn’t was asked to leave, and Burt knew everyone’s name.

“It’s Cordon Bleu as usual, Burt. I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was.” Josie pushed the beer mug his way. “Or as thirsty.”

“I knew that the second you came through the door. Next time I’ll just refuse to serve you. Hate stuff going to waste.”

Burt took the plate and put it under the counter. He tossed the beer and put the mug in the sink. He checked out the martini woman and the feuding couple who now seemed to be making up. Then he crossed his arms on the bar and didn’t say anything more. He waited for Josie.

“So what do you do when someone mistakes professional help for personal interest, Burt?”

Burt pulled back slightly. “You can’t handle some guy? That’s a new one.”

Josie laughed softly, “Naw, nothing like that.”

“Some woman?” Burt raised his brows and wiggled them as he smiled. One of his front teeth was still broken. He didn’t want to fix it because it reminded him of how stupid he had been on his bike.

“Some kid,” Josie answered. “Some poor messed up kid.”

“Bummer,” he mumbled as he considered the ramifications of that.

“Yeah. I’m not sure what to do. What do I know about kids?”  Josie traced a pattern through the water ring her mug had left on the bar as she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “Or maybe I’m making too much of it.”

Finally Burt sighed real deep. He stood up, took the towel from his waist, and Josie’s arm by the wrist. He lifted her hand and wiped the water away. He patted her hand.

“You do what everyone else in the whole world does, Josie. Go home. Get some sleep. Start doing your job in the morning. Everything else will work itself out. It always does. Besides, Archer’s due back day after tomorrow, isn’t he? That’s going to make all right with the world.”

“You’re right. I’m tired. I’ll take Max for a walk and get some sleep.”

Josie dropped her foot off the stool, and ten bucks on the bar. Burt swiped it up, watched her go, and wondered if Josie was dumb enough to believe that piece of crap. The truth was, personal stuff like that didn’t just hang on, it burrowed like a tick, and that could make you real sick if it was the right kind of tick.