Scavengers (11 page)

"Sutter and Kitterman, Gram,” she said. She kissed the urn, bowed her head momentarily, and then tearfully added, “I'll be back, Gram. I promise.” She turned to leave, but stopped. She twisted her head around and said, “I'm sorry, Gram."

With that, we left and made the treacherous descent back to Granton Home. From that day until the very last, it would hold a special place in my heart.

"Thanks, kids,” I said as we passed.

"Yeah, thanks."

When we finally hit the street, the predictable uproar began in full force. Yes, we knew they had waited forever. Yes, we knew we had lost. Yes, our sticker now bore the losing time of eleven forty-seven. No, we really didn't give a shit.

Several minutes later we pulled in front of Kris & Ginny's. I needed to find Kris. I needed to thank her for what she knew enough, cared enough to do. Claudia would not weep to have someone anymore because she could weep for those she didn't have. That seemed a paradox, and yet, I knew it was true. Kris would help me understand.

Our hostesses, however, apparently had other plans. A big hand-printed sign hung on the garage door:Sorry, ladies. It's late. We went to bed. Get your next clue from the mailbox.

Everyone's jaw hit the driveway, and we just stared in disbelief.

"The nerve!” “The wenches!” B-words. F-bombs. Horn honking. Knocking. Shushing neighbors.

The hunt under flowerpots for a spare key. Begging a meowing Muse in the front window to unlock the door. Stomping feet. Yelling. Screaming. Shushing neighbors.

And then surrender came: taking the clue from the mailbox and leaving our florist's wrapper stuck in the ugly Eiffel Tower squirrel feeder on the front lawn.

Back in the car, Claudia dispensed with the expected and fitting rant about the two battle-axes who were still messing with us even while they slumbered. Her green eyes were red and puffy, and she rested her head on the back of the bucket seat.

"Just hang in there, hon,” I said. “If they think it's too late to stay up, they're not going to want us back in the middle of the night to raise another raucous. My guess is that this last one will be short and sweet."

"Care to place a wager on that?” she asked, tilting her head toward me, a look of disbelief upraising her brow. “My guess is they won't be satisfied until we are pulverized—which feels pretty close."

If she had seen Kris in the garage—the concern for me, and more so, the concern for her—the guess would have been a different one. I could not imagine them leaving crumbs along the path for her if that path had simply led to yet another, or maybe to the edge of the cliff. No. They would still have her best interests in mind.

"No” went from my mind and to my tongue. “Short and sweet."

Huddled together to gather the light from above, we read the final clue.

Violets, burgers, cards, trust, sticks, dames, and kids: We now reflect.

With yawns, sighs, slow, slow blinks: Is that utter fatigue we detect?

But it is far, far from over—not the time to lose your edge.

Where there is smoke there is fire, the old sayings allege.

From whence you came the patroness of paris gave her say.

Victor or not: It matters if you winand how you play.

Pony up or belly up—alert to the finish line until the bell chimes grub. Get: sanguinary humdinger brine.

"See! I told you! ‘Far, far from over,'” she roared. “Remember—just keep remembering that we vowed to pay them back."

"Oh, trust me, after this...” I was indeed exasperated. “Who the hell is the ‘patroness of paris'?"

Without awaiting an answer—mainly because I knew she didn't have one—I started the car and sped off down the street.

"Where are we going? Did you figure out the clue already?"

"No. I'm going back to Road Swill."

"You want coffee at a time like this?"

"No. Free Internet,” I declared. “Googles are a girl's best friend."

Now that coffee was on my mind, though, it did sound like a good and needed thing. I hit the drive-thru and made Claudia scream the customary order from the passenger side, while I thumbed “patroness of paris” into the little text box. Before I could hit “search,” though, Claudia told me to take my foot off the brake. She maneuvered us to the window. Simultaneously, I hit

“search” and the brakes, and with the exuberance of a child on Christmas morning, I screamed

“Genevieve” at the top of my lungs.

The barista stuck her head out of the little window. “Excuse me."

"Ginny!” I gleefully informed her. “Ginny is the patroness of Paris!” Then it dawned on me that this woman had no clue—literally. “Sorry,” I added. “I just figured something out. Sorry.” I faked an apologetic smile.

Claudia laughed at me, and whether it came via humiliation or not, I liked it.

"Okay ... ‘from whence we came’ ... their house. What did Ginny say? What did she say?” I knew we were so close.

"Um ... She explained the game to us. But that would be stupid to remind us of that at the end, wouldn't it?"

"What about the end then? What the hell did she say about the end?"

"Ah, the winners pay for brunch for everyone. ‘Grub!’ They have to ‘pony up'!"

"Drixel's Terrace, then. That's the finish line. So we have to stay alert all frickin’ night at Drixel's? Are they nuts?"

"You have to ask?” she challenged and then took our cups from the barista. “Come on, Earl!

Gimme some love."

"I still don't get the smoke and fire thing, though, but it sure makes me want a cigarette."

I moved of away from the barista's window and pulled over, out of the way, which seemed rather unnecessary in a vacant lot. I opened the door, swinging my legs out and lighting a cigarette.

“Have your way with Earl. I'll be right back,” I said.

I stood outside in the brisk night air and spied another look at the moon, making sure she was still keeping an eye on us. I took a few long and desperate drags from my smoke, and then I popped the trunk so I could steal the blanket from ever-planning Claudia's winter survival kit. I went back to the front, squished the cigarette under my foot, and placed the blanket over that nasty kidney-stealer of a parking brake. When Claudia asked what I was doing, I informed her that it was for her, that she could rest on my lap while I got us to Drixel's. I knew she would not argue.

The drive to Drixel's took us out of town, to a resort area about fifteen miles from the city. At the outskirts of Haley Springs stood one of those signs so common to resort areas:Population Winter: 50, Summer: 5,000. I figured that since it was early May that it was fifty-two. Fifty-three if you counted Earl. Fifty-two again if you subtracted Claudia, who no longer resided in this world but instead roamed the back roads of slumberland.

I followed several signs that pointed me to Drixel's Terrace. Eventually, I made our way down its seemingly endless drive and pulled up alongside the three other cars I had been expecting. Heads turned left and right, as we acknowledged one another. Then came the shrugs and the looks of uncertainty. Then came the looks that informed each person that no one among us had any clue what the hell we were supposed to do there all night.

Holly held up two fingers and shook her head back and forth. Then she raised one finger and nodded her head up and down, her nose and eyebrow forming a question mark. If there were points to be had for charades, I would have garnered them, and I quickly took a finger and pointed it down, to that sleeping woman on my lap. I roused her a little, but she barely moved.

"We're here, hon,” I whispered. “Everyone's here."

She groaned, sat up, spied Holly madly and happily waving at her, groaned again, and slid back down. A very long description for something that spanned a total of three seconds.

"Stay here, then,” I said to her, opening the door and holding her head up while I slipped out from underneath it. “Get some sleep. You deserve it."

She put her head back down, and as quietly as I could, I closed the door. I gave it a final thrust with my hip and headed to the sidewalk. As I did so, the other women followed suit. We had a lengthy conversation about being stuck in front of a restaurant that displayed a “Closed for the Season” sign. Had they simply failed to check their dates, assuming it would be open? Had they done it on purpose? The law-keeper among us even suggested that maybe “smoke and fire”

meant we were to torch the place to the ground, but then she reasoned that her captain would move her to arson, and that she did not want. Vice, maybe, but not arson.

After much coaxing, I was finally talked into calling Kris and Ginny, to waking their lazy butts to see if perchance they had erred. First, I tried their home phone. Neither Kris, Ginny, nor Muse answered. Then I tried their cell, which at least afforded me the opportunity to spew voicemail at them. “Hey, ladies,” I began. “While you're all warm and snug, we're freezing our asses off out here at a place that is closed for the frickin’ season. If you'd care to call and make other arrangements for us, we'll be here."

Each woman went to their respective vehicle and perched herself on the hood. Knees up, fist on knee, chin on fist, we all stared at Drixel's Terrace, the deserted restaurant in the middle of nowhere.Haven't we already been to nowhere at least once today?

Then finally there came that turning point, like all good stories are sure to possess.

Susan asked, “Do you guys smell that?"

"I thought that was you,” Laura wisecracked, and Holly cracked her with the back of her hand.

In perfect synch, we all raised our noses for a mighty sniff, and then totally out of synch, we all yelled, “Smoke!"

In fact, we yelled “Smoke!” so loudly and so repeatedly that my sleepy-headed one sat at attention, grabbing at Earl to make things all right.

"Let's move!” Laura yelled, and we all fetched the keys we had left in the ignitions—like anyone within twenty miles was out looking for a joyride.

With the crew assembled, we walked around and toward the back of the restaurant that suddenly proved itself to be enormous. Soon, we began to see the orange glow of fire in the distance. We heard the crackle and smack of wood being forced into submission. When we finally rounded the building, we stood in a clearing. Ahead of us, a bonfire blazed. Around the bonfire I saw the many lawn chairsI had loaded into the trusty, blue van that slept many yards back. I saw the blankets that I had also loaded. I saw the thermos bottles and the coolers that Claudia and the others had filled.

And we saw them, wrapped in blankets, sitting in lawn chairs by the fire: the two antiques at their very own show.

They raised Styrofoam cups to us.

"Took you long enough!” one of them said.

"I thought we'd freeze ‘our asses off out here at a place that is closed for the frickin’ season,'” the other one mocked.

They laughed madly, maniacally, raising their glasses to each other, the Styrofoam refusing to clink.

They gloated.

They boasted.

They relished.

They were proud of themselves.

They were sadistic, mean, conniving, and—damn, they were good.

And despite it all, they were very much loved.

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Once our minds had grasped the full magnitude of what we had just seen, we hurriedly entered the domain of the grand dames, the grand poo-bahs, these women who had so skillfully screwed with us. Laughter erupted from one and all. It reeked of genuine amusement, and at the same time it was the giddy letting go of something that had been in our clutches since early morning.

We had arrived.

"Sit, guys. Sit,” Ginny cajoled. “Take a load off. A heavy load it has been."

"How is it that this placed is closed, and yet, here you guys sit as if you own the place?” Alison asked, and rightly so. “Youdon't own it, do you?"

"Yeah, good question!” Holly agreed. “Does my lover need to whip out her big badge and haul you in for trespass?"

Laura quickly put her hand in her jacket pocket, and all eyes watched her movements. She smiled wickedly as a pack of cigarettes emerged. Slowly she lit one, looked at Ginny and Kris, and said, “Well, let's have it."

"It's a funny story, actually,” Kris began. “We've had a stoolie in every place you guys went today."

"Sounds like someone could use a trust walk!"

"Funny, Maggie,” Ginny said, “but it's not like you guys are all fine upstanding citizens—or even grownups—when you're together. And if you were, well, we knew there would still be some pretty funny secondhand stories to tell around the fire."

"Who were the stoolies ... besides Molly?"

Kris said, “Remember, guys, we've been teaching at the university for over thirty years. Can you imagine the number of students we've had?” Heads nodded, and she added, “And trust me, just because we're talking college graduates or future graduates does not mean they work in the cushy jobs they dream of!"

"The chick at the dick's castle! You know her! Oh my God!” Susan exclaimed, suddenly feeling naked without her flamboyant hat and sunglasses.

"Don't sweat it, Susan,” Ginny reassured. “If any of your students’ parents had been there and recognized ... you ... in that get-up, I doubt they'd go running to the PTA. ‘Hey, I saw Susan Garrity at the porn shop I was in the other night.’ Then again, there's that poor guy Laura and Holly probably scarred for life!” She stared them down. “And, Kate dear, did it ever cross your mind that stores like Peter's Palace have pretty elaborate security systems? Like maybe closed-circuit cameras in the parking lot?"

"Oh shit!” I yelled above the group's squealing laughter.

"For any of you who may have missed it, you'll find it in the DVD player in the van,” Kris said.

“Sasha was so nice to drop it off for us."

"Shit! Shit! Shit!” I continued, each word spoken in time with a stomping foot. “You guys are wicked!"

"Who else? What other stoolies?"

"Ned in the fishing rental shack. He said Maggie here had quite the belly flop, but he assured us he looked away before he saw anything criminal,” Kris said, laughing. “The bar-hopping, now that one failed for us. Why the heck didn't you guys go to the Jazzy Blue? Bluesand Jazz! Duh!"