Theresa Monsour (14 page)

“Someone. Who is this someone? Another cop?”

“Not a cop. A guy I work with from the ME's office.”

“A guy you work with? You're risking eight years of marriage for a guy you work with?”

“Ma, don't make it sound like that.”

“Like what? What does it sound like? Cheap? Come over and let's talk about this, daughter.”

“Ma.
Imma
. There's nothing to talk about. It's over.”

“You and this guy?”

Here comes the explosion, thought Murphy. “Jack left me. For good.”

Amira gasped. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Murphy knew her mother was making the sign of the cross. She heard her father asking questions in the background. Heard her mother say the word “divorce.” Suddenly he was on the phone: “Get your ass over here pronto young lady!”

Her father's language didn't jar her; he swore all the time. “I can't, Papa. I'm bushed.” She knew that wouldn't satisfy her father, so she pulled out another excuse. “I've still got to go to the station. Tie up some loose ends from a case. File a report.”

“File tomorrow. We got supper all ready for you. We'll talk about it over
koosa
,” he said, referring to a Lebanese
dish of zucchini stuffed with rice and lamb. “There's not a problem that can't be solved over
koosa
.”

Murphy's shoulders sagged. She couldn't fight both of them. Besides, her refrigerator was nearly empty and she was famished. “Okay. Give me an hour.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her purse. She picked up her duffel bag and carried it upstairs. Threw it on the bed. She wished she could collapse on the mattress next to it and sleep for twelve hours. She peeled off her clothes, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stepped into the stall. She reached for the shampoo, squirted a gob in her hair, lathered and rinsed. She tilted her head back, let the spray hit her face and sting her lip. While she was toweling dry, she checked her face in the bathroom mirror. The swelling was barely noticeable. She studied her reflection. Wondered if she looked any different now that she'd been dumped. Did she look like a woman about to go through a divorce? Her mother once told her she could spot divorcées on sight. Said they had a tightness around their mouths. As if they'd tasted a bitter herb. Murphy thought that was a bunch of nonsense. She examined her own mouth. Searched for new lines. Nothing yet. She walked out of the bathroom, dropped the towel on the floor and got dressed in her jeans and a flannel shirt.

She went downstairs and opened a few cupboards searching for something to take to her folks' house. Nothing but canned goods and crackers. She needed to go grocery shopping. She hated showing up at their doorstep empty-handed. Made her feel like she was back in college, coming home to mooch a meal. She scanned the counter. Her eyes fell on the wine rack. Two bottles left. She pulled one out and held it up. Champagne. Hardly appropriate. She slipped it back in the rack. Pulled out the other bottle. Good. A clear Lebanese liquor.
Arak
. Distilled grape juice flavored with anise. One hundred proof. Perfect with any Middle Eastern meal. She twisted the cap off and sniffed. The licorice scent belied the drink's strength. She screwed the top back on. Peeled off the price—her parents never
approved of how much she paid for anything—and set the bottle in a paper bag. She pulled on her leather bomber jacket, grabbed her purse and keys and the bag and left. While she was shutting the door behind her, she wondered if Jack was going to give back her keys. She walked to her car and thought about all the clothes and toiletries he'd left at her house. Would he want photos back? She slid into the driver's seat of the Jeep. On the floor of the passenger's side, his travel coffee mug. Something else that needed to be returned. She turned on the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. His sunglasses were dangling from the rearview mirror by a strap. She thought:
This must be what it feels like when someone dies and their stuff keeps turning up. Memories to be boxed up and stored—or thrown away
. As she turned south onto Wabasha to head toward the West Side, she looked at the gold band on her left ring finger. She stifled a sob.

HE PULLED INTO the trailer park late Tuesday afternoon. At the entrance:
MANUFACTURED HOME COMMUNITY
. He thought the sign made the place sound nicer than it really was. Adding to the deception: the decorative boulders and fall mums planted at the base of the sign. This was not a neighborhood filled with flowers and rock gardens. The community was a collection of mobile homes with attached decks that were often as wide as the trailers themselves. Metal garden shed in every yard. Satellite dish on every roof. Patches of grass in place of big lawns. The only flowers were the plastic ones in some of the window boxes. The trailer park was on the northern fringe of the city. He parked in front of the house, got out with his suitcase. He decided he'd empty the back of the truck later. He was wiped out and wanted to crash for a couple of hours. The last half hour of the ride home, even his music couldn't fight the fatigue.

He pushed open the front door with his shoulder, stepped into the front room and almost knocked over Keri. She was bending over, trying to pull the old man's socks
off. Frank Trip was sitting on the front room couch in his standard weekday attire—drawstring pajama bottoms decorated with cowboys riding horses, white tee shirt with a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes rolled up in the left sleeve, Vikings ball cap pulled over his bald head. On one side of the couch was the TV tray his pa used for every meal. Today it was covered with an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, Grain Belt beer cans, a jar of salsa, a bag of tortilla chips, a can of beef jerky strips, an empty ice cream pint. Rocky Road. In the middle of the mess was a Mason jar with his pa's dentures; they were soaking in their usual disinfectant of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey. The television was blaring; his pa couldn't see the screen clearly but seemed to think he could compensate by increasing the volume.
TV Guide
was on the floor at his pa's feet; it was from last summer. Trip had canceled the subscription and kept handing his pa the same issue; his old man didn't know the difference and the money Trip saved he used to order more knives.

“Jesus Christ! Get away from me! You're killing me! They're fine, goddammit! Leave 'em be! Tell her, Sweet!”

“I got to check them tootsies, Frank.” Keri looked over her shoulder at Trip. Her hair was her biggest asset; she had a blond braid that ran halfway down her back. Even though she was in her late forties, she only had a few strands of gray. “How ya doin' there, Mr. Big Shot Hero? Long time no see.” She looked at his crotch and then up at his face. She winked at him and he looked down, adjusted his grip on the suitcase.

She returned her attention to the patient. Frank was hanging onto his cane with both hands and jabbing at her like he was harpooning a whale. She played the running back, deftly dodging him. The right sock was already half off and dangling from his toes; the left one was around his ankle. They played the game every time she came over and she always won. She outweighed Trip's old man by a hundred pounds.

Trip sighed. “P . . . Pa, let the lady do her job. Let her check your f . . . f . . . fucking feet.”

He waved his cane in Trip's direction. “You can both go straight to hell in a handbasket!” The tip of the cane grazed the Mason jar. It fell over and spilled whiskey on the tray and the rug.

“Shit, Pa.” Trip dropped his suitcase in the middle of the front room and went into the kitchen to get a towel. The front room was in the center of the trailer. On one side of it was the kitchen and then Frank's bedroom. On the other side was a hall that led to Trip's bedroom, the bathroom and a spare bedroom. The ceiling was higher than in lots of trailers—nearly seven and a half feet—but Trip still felt perpetually cramped in the place.

Keri took advantage of the spilled jar as a diversion and pulled the right sock off all the way. “Gotcha!” She grabbed the left one and got it in one yank. Waved it victoriously over her head. “Hah!”

Trip walked back in with the towel and got on his knees to blot the carpet dry. Close to the floor, he could smell urine and wondered if his father was having incontinence problems on top of everything else. Next he'd be taking a dump in the middle of the front room.

Keri was on her knees next to him with Frank's feet in her lap. “They're good,” she said, patting them. “As usual, all your fussing was for nothing. Toenails could use a trim, but I ain't doing them. You got to get to a podiatrist.” Her sweatshirt had crawled up her back. Trip could see a white flash of flesh dotted with pimples and above the waist of her jeans, a tattoo of a frog. He was well familiar with the frog, as well as the lily pad a couple of inches below it. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were cut short, revealing her fat upper arms.

Frank: “Sweet can clip my nails.”

“He can't trim shit,” Keri said. “He breaks the skin and you're back in the hospital.”

Trip looked at his pa's toes and grimaced. The nails were yellow and thick and curling under. That empty spot where the big toe used to be bummed him out. He had no intention of touching those feet. He stood up with the wet
rag, righted the Mason jar. The teeth were under the bag of chips. Trip picked them up with two fingers and dropped them into the jar. He looked for the whiskey bottle; his pa usually kept it within arm's reach. He found it on the couch behind a throw pillow. Trip picked it up and emptied the remainder into the Mason jar. He'd have to make a liquor store run later. Pa had to have his Jim Beam.

Keri: “Got to check your blood sugar.”

“You ain't poking me,” Frank said.

“The hell I ain't.” Keri set Frank's feet down and stood up. She folded her arms over her chest. Trip thought she had small breasts for such a large woman, and they were heading south with the rest of her aging body. She nodded toward the TV tray. “What's this crap?”

“Breakfast. Lunch. Probably dinner, unless my son gets his ass in gear.”

“You can't keep eating crap. Gonna kill yourself.”

“Good. Then I won't have to listen to your nagging.” He turned the volume even higher on the television.

She shook her head and walked into the kitchen to get the glucose monitor. Trip followed her with the wet towel. Threw it into the sink on top of the pile of dirty dishes. The counter was covered with empty beer cans, opened bags of chips, half-empty cereal boxes. Hardened spatters of something orange. The remains of a fried egg sandwich rested in a skillet on the stove. His pa's housekeeping had declined along with his health; the place was always filthy when Trip returned from the road. He worried his old man would burn the place down on top of it. Trip suspected his pa couldn't see well enough to tell if the range was off or on. Trip had arranged once to have some neighbor ladies come in and cook while he was out of town, but his pa had refused to open the door for them. Told Trip they were trying to poison him with slop called “tuna hot dish.”

Keri was bending over the kitchen table, fiddling with the blood glucose monitor. “He can't keep drinking like a fish, especially with his diabetes. You're gonna come home one day and he's gonna be dead on the couch.”

“I know,” Trip said tiredly. He started moving plates and cups from one side of the sink to the other so he could plug the drain and start filling the sink with water. The dishes were going to have to soak; he saw dried egg yolk from the week before. A couple of the whiskey glasses had Keri's lipstick on the rim. How could she lecture about his old man's drinking one minute and tip a glass with him the next? She was a two-faced bitch not to be trusted. How could he ask Keri about which pills to use on Paris Murphy without telling her what they were for? Maybe he'd have to stick with a known quantity. The date rape pills. He plugged the drain, squirted some dish soap in the bottom of the sink and started filling it with hot water. He swayed as he stood over the counter. He wanted to sleep for a week. He turned off the tap when the suds reached the top and transferred one mound of dishes into the water. Wiped his hands on his pants. Keri's back was turned to him; she was sorting his pa's pills on the kitchen table. Putting them in the plastic box with the different compartments. One compartment for each day of the week. Trip came up behind her, massaged her shoulders. Leaned into her ear. “G . . . got any stuff for me?”

“Later, Romeo,” she whispered. “Let me finish up with that old bastard in there first.”

He hated that nickname. Romeo. The way she always said it—with a little smile on her face—made him feel as if she was making fun of his abilities in the bedroom. He walked back into the front room, picked up his suitcase. On television, cowboys were shooting up a town. He didn't know why they owned a remote; the set never left the western channel. “P . . . Pa. Lower that shit.” His pa waved him away.

Trip walked down the hall to his bedroom and threw his suitcase on the bed. The trailer was a steam bath. His pa must have cranked up the heat to eighty degrees without realizing it. Trip unzipped his jacket and pulled it off and tossed it on the bed. Took off his hat. Set it on the dresser. His head itched. He scratched it with his fingertips; a few
strands fell into his face and he picked them off. Unbuttoned his shirt down the front and at the cuffs. One of the cuff buttons came off in his hand. “Shitty shirts.” He tossed the button in a wastebasket. Peeled off the shirt. Tossed it on top of the bed. He was sleeping in the same twin-sized bed he'd had since he was a kid, with his legs hanging off the edge every night. He didn't care. A full-sized bed would take up too much space and he had to have room for his stereo and his knives. The mattress was covered with a bedspread from childhood. Cowboys herding longhorn. One of his pa's picks. The bedroom curtains carried the same pattern. So did the sheets and pillowcases. While the linen was little-boy Old West, nearly everything else in the room was heavy metal Medieval. Wall rack with four samurai swords mounted horizontally. Spiked mace, South African bush machete and battle-ax, each displayed on its own wall shelf. Metal shield etched with a writhing dragon hanging on the wall over the headboard. Two U.S. Cavalry Artillery Officers' sabers mounted crossways over the dresser. On top of the dresser, an assortment of daggers and knives. On the nightstand more daggers and knives, as well as a pewter dragon with a round clock set in its belly. He checked the clock. If he fell asleep now he'd probably get up in the middle of the night. Better to stay awake for a few more hours. Besides, he still had to fuck Keri to get his pills. Trip hated the way she made him pay twice: by giving her cash
and
sleeping with her. He figured his pa was paying
her
for the sex, and he found that ironic. Some days he'd like to pay her more for the pills to get out of the sex.

He decided to unpack and hit the shower; a shower would wake him up. He popped open his suitcase. The sock stuffed with the peach purse was sitting on top. He reached inside the sock and pulled out the bag. He'd look at it one more time and dump it later that night.

“Hey, Romeo. Playing with yourself in there or what?” Keri was standing in the bedroom doorway.

He threw the purse in the suitcase, slammed it shut and turned toward her. “All finished with P . . . Pa?”

“Frank's passed out on the couch. Sawing logs to beat the band.” She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her biceps were bigger than his; her head barely reached his chest. She pressed her body into his crotch. Cupped his butt with her hands. “Feeling frisky?”

“Let me shower. I reek.”

She buried her face in his tee shirt. “I like you kind of smelly and dirty,” she said into his chest.

“I d . . . don't,” he said, and untangled her from his waist. Her arms were sweaty. He was being mauled by a sticky bowling ball.

“Why don't I join you then?”

He took a couple of steps back from her. “What about P . . . Pa?”

“Told you. Sound asleep. He'll sleep for a few hours.” She pulled something out of the front pocket of her jeans. Held up a pill bottle and shook it. “Timed it right. Gave it to him after he told me you were on your way home.”

He snatched the bottle from her hand and looked at it. He didn't recognize the name of the drug, but he could see it wasn't his old man's pills. The pharmacy label had another patient's name on it. In all their years of doing business he'd never asked her how she got the pills she sold him. He figured she stole the bulk of them from her patients.

“Don't worry. Only gave him one,” she said.

“What if we g . . . gave him a few more? What would that d . . . do? Make him sleep through the n . . . night?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Sweet Justice! What have you got planned for us tonight, Romeo?” She stepped toward him and plucked the bottle out of his hand.

“Wait,” he said, trying to grab it back.

“No freebies,” she said, pulling the bottle out of his reach. She stuffed it back in her pocket. “I don't give a damn if you fuck me till the cows come home. Still gotta have some cash to go along with it.” She put her hands on her hips and looked around. “Speaking of bedroom, I'll say it again. This is the weirdest room I have ever laid eyes
on. What you planning to do with all this stuff? Start your own war?”

He didn't like anyone criticizing his collection. He lowered his eyes. Wanted to hit her in the worst way. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “N . . . n . . . nothing wrong with a few knives. Man can have a f . . . few knives.”