Embrace Me (23 page)
“Ugly will take you places you never thought you'd go,” I say, thinking about that icon of the disciples even though they're stuck in Augustine's kitchen.
I'm standing at the back of the Shalom Laundromat. I know this is supposed to be some community house/monastery, but a Laundro-mat's a Laundromat.
The Psalters are quite possibly the loudest band that bows the head to Jesus I've ever heard in my entire life. They have this gypsy, eastern European sound, that hollering kind of yelly singing that goes well with the accordion, the banjo, the fiddle, and the percussion that accompanies it.
During a break between songs I lean over to Charmaine. “The main singer's a hottie. I just have to say it.”
“Don't I know it!”
Wild, feral almost, his intense black eyes would pull your soul from your body if you let them.
“He makes you want to get up and do something, doesn't he?” Charmaine asks. “Like life is some glorious, whirling gift.”
“I heard he liked the white bean chili.”
“Oh, Valentine. Someday you're going to have to admit these things affect you like they do everybody else.”
“And the stew was a big hit.”
Augustine weaves his way through the ragtag group gathered for the show, stopping to say a word to Charmaine who looks as out of place as Gene Simmons in full makeup at a Red Hat luncheon. But she's jumping up and down, praising her Jesus, even though this music sounds nothing like her own. Lella's sitting on her donut on a chair at the front, having been strolled here by Rick and me. The sound must be crackling her eardrums like tissue paper.
“Hey, Val!” Augustine sidles over.
Rick stands closer to me.
“Looks like Lella's having a good time,” Augustine says right in my ear.
I lean into his ear too. “She'll be accepted by these people, that's for sure. They're nice-looking young people, but they're misfits like we are.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“How's the cough?” My face touches his. I pull back.
“Much better. You're an angel. You know that?”
Oh, brother. He pats my shoulder and moves back through the crowd.
The Psalters version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” holds a compelling melody, and on the second go-round I sing along. Rick presses closer still.
Charmaine whips around, looks right at me, and says, “I knew it.”
Knew what?
That night Rick knocks on my door and peers around as I lean out the window smoking a cigarette.
He shakes his head. “You shouldn't smoke with a voice like yours. How come you don't sing?”
“I haven't sung since that Daisy woman destroyed my face. But I just couldn't help myself tonight.”
“So that was her name, then? Daisy?”
“Yep. Don't ask another thing.”
“Okay. You know, I play the violin. We should do something together sometime.”
“For who, Rick?”
“I dunno. Just a thought, Val. Sorry.”
I throw the burning cigarette out the window, hoping it doesn't land on some tuft of dry grass and end up burning down the house. That would stink. I pull down the sash. “Some things about people should just be left behind forever. You know?”
He puffs air out between his lips. “Boy do I.”
“Not you, surely.”
“You know, Val”âhe shoves his hands in his pocketsâ“there are a lot of really stretchy people in the world just like me. But not many of us run away to the circus.”
“Soâwhy are you here, then?”
“Oh, you'd like to know. But I'm not saying a thing.”
“Suit yourself. Hey, I made some chocolate truffles earlier today. They're in the fridge if you want one.”
He smiles, realizes it's a dismissal, and pushes off against the door frame. “Sounds good.” Turning to leave, he pauses. “Hey, you don't like that Augustine guy, do you?”
“Oh gosh, no!”
“Really?”
“He's really great, but he doesn't have a lot of sex appeal, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, no, I mean it's not like I would notice something like that.”
“Go get a truffle, Rick. It's late.”
No walks for Lella and me tonight. The concert wore her out.
As for me, I just ordered a catalogue from Big Sky Log Homes and I'm going to look over every single model. Aunt Dahlia's visit tomorrow doesn't scare me.
Augustine pulls up to the front of Blaze's on his motorcycle. A two-seater. A man in tatters clings to him from the backseat.
“Beautiful day, Val!” Gus yells.
He's right. The trees might just be budding on a day like today, the bare branches fooled by the warm breeze coming up the Gulf Stream. Lella and I have been sitting on the front porch all afternoon. “January. Go figure.”
“I'd take you for a ride but I've got to get Leon up to the health department. Wanna go out later?”
I laugh and laugh.
He zooms away with a friendly wave of his hand, a throaty rumble of Harley engine, and a puff of blue smoke from the tailpipe.
“What do you think of that?” I ask Lella. “Sometimes he seems so exuberant. Like too much. I think it's an act.”
“Oh, surely I don't. He merely seems thankful for the blessings he's been given.”
I pull back and look at her. “You really think that? I mean, he's living in a rundown Laundromat for goodness sake.”
“I really do, Valentine.” She scratches her chin by rubbing it on her collarbone.
“Well, if anybody should know, it would be you, the eternal optimist. How much longer 'til your aunt gets here, Lell?”
“Any second.”
The woman's got an internal clock like you wouldn't believe.
In between my fingers I arrange the folds of the vest I'm embroidering for Rick and get back to work. I jab the needle so deep into the fabric I impale my own finger underneath.
“Crap!” I mutter. I suck on my index finger.
“Oh dear, Valentine. You poor thâlook, there's Aunt Dahlia!”
A bossy, yellow vehicle with no business here shoulders in like it somehow pays the rent. The occupant leans forward and hands the fare over the backseat.
“So what's she like, Lell?”
“Very, very sweet. Just like my mother was.”
Dahlia starts to yank what looks like a heavy suitcase out of the backseat. I jump off the porch. “Hang on a sec, I'll get that!”
My stupid face scarf flutters against my neck.
She looks up and smiles with full, bright orange lips, baring large, snaggled teeth. “You must be Valentine.”
“Right. Let me get that.”
She pats her hairâa cellophane shade of bottle brown, cut into a short pageboy like you see on drawings of medieval guys.
Lella wiggles on her chair as I set the bags on the porch.
Dahlia climbs the steps on four-inch stripper shoes with ankle straps.
“Aunt Dahlia! Why, look at you! I wouldn't have recognized you out in public.”
“I'm a free woman, Lella Denise!” She holds her arms out, swaddled in a bright orange velvetlike sweater with lots of fringe, and twirls in a circle.
I reach out and circle a hand around her waist as she almost topples off her high heels.
Lella laughs. She'd clap her hands if she had them. Instead, she shoots off those eye sparkles as her aunt leans down and folds her into a bright orange hug.
Dahlia leans over to me. “Joe was such a mean old coot. And tighter than my grandmother's girdle, honey. Oh, my! The minute the coroner told me he was gone, I went off on a shopping spree.” She elbows me lightly in the ribs. “Bet you can't guess what my favorite color is!”
Darn it, but I have to laugh.
“And Joe hated orange. I even bought an orange brassiere!”
The noise of squealing tires pulls me away from Dahlia. Augustine hops off his bike. “I need to use the phone. Pronto!”
“Go on back to the kitchen.”
I follow him in.
He dials 9-1-1. “Hey, it's Augustine from over at Shalom. We need an ambulance over on Montgomery Street near the Primitive Baptist Church. Guy's been stabbed. Was left naked in the street. Yeah, I moved him and ran in to call. I'll get right out there.”
He hangs up. “I know they'll tell me to stay on the line, but I can't leave him there. I need a blanket.”
In the living room I grab one of Blaze's afghans. “Let's go.”
We rush across the porch. “I'll be back, Lell!”
I hop on the back of the bike and we ride a couple of blocks. The guy lies on the grass by the road, Augustine's leather jacket over his nether regions.
“Here.” Augustine lays the blanket over him. “Help's on the way.”
“Oh no, man. I can't go in.” Longish brown hair lays in limp strands over his forehead and cheeks. His sharp, shiny nose catches the sun.
“You've been stabbed.” Augustine turns to me as he reaches under the blanket with his bandana, applying direct pressure to the stab wound. “I swear, Valentine, I was riding along and I thought it was this bedsheet in the road and I almost ran over it, but I swerved at the last minute and it was this guy, this naked white guy.”
“How does a guy end up naked in the street? In Mount Oak?”
“It's our local gang. One of their trademarks. After they stab a guy, they strip him and throw him in the street. He's pretty lucky to even be alive.”
The guy groans again.
Yeah, some luck.
But Augustine is on fire with grace. He glows.
The man groans. “Naw, man. Not the hospital.”
Augustine, sitting on the ground next to him now, still applies pressure. “You're gonna die if we don't get you there.”
“I'm gonna die anyway.”
“No, you're not. And you can take that as a promise. What's your name?”
“Garth.”
I sit down, stealing looks at the grizzled, gray, gracious man named Augustine, a naked, bleeding man between us. I take Garth's hand in my own.
Augustine nods at me. “It doesn't take much, does it, Val?”