What I Remember Most Page 4

  The one next to me, inches away now, his breath rancid, said, “This be my night, this be my night, how about yours, Jason?”

  “This be my night, too. We got a redhead and we got free vagina pot. And don’t call me, Jason, Turley.”

  They laughed.

  Both of them stopped laughing when I pulled the gun out and put the barrel smack on Turley’s forehead.

  “Shit!” they both screamed simultaneously.

  “Back the fuck off or I will shoot,” I said, rage ripping through my body. I wanted to kill them, I did. I don’t come from much, but I’ve been taught to fight, and shoot, and survival instincts are as much a part of me as my intestines.

  The man, high as a kite but slow, tried to grab the gun. I moved the gun to his shoulder, although that was a gift he did not deserve, and pulled the trigger. He fell straight back.

  I turned the gun on the second one as he lunged through the driver’s side at me and shot him, too. He fell straight back, screaming, like his demented, violent buddy. Too bad for them.

  I yanked the passenger door shut, the glass that was still stuck to the rims of the window crashing to the seat and pavement. I kept the gun in one hand, then whipped over to the driver’s seat. I slammed that door, transferred the gun to my left hand, turned on the car, and reversed like a bat out of hell.

  Both of them stood up, yelling and swearing, each holding onto their wounds. They stumbled back to their car. I didn’t like the looks of that. They would come after me, I knew it.

  I hit the brakes, turned to the right, rolled down the window, steadied my shooting hand, and shot out the back tire. The car heaved, then flattened out, listing to the left.

  They both flattened themselves to the ground.

  I shot out the driver’s window, which clipped through the front window, too, glass splitting into that otherwise silent night. I shot a bullet toward the engine.

  In between I heard those sons of bitches swearing to “fucking kill you!” as they lay facedown, cowering on the ground. For fun, I shot again, close to Jason’s head, then Turley’s.

  I heard them scream again. They deserved that. They were lucky I didn’t kill them, but I didn’t want the mess.

  I took off.

  Damn.

  They’d wrecked the window of my car.

  They’d wrecked my house. It wasn’t much of a house, but still. It was all I had at the moment.

  I desperately needed my own roof and my own toilet.

  And a locked door.

  I was truly pissed.

  I parked my car in a neighborhood for the rest of the night, teeth gritted, nerves shot. I put the driver’s seat down but didn’t sleep. I reloaded the gun and left it on my lap.

  I could call the police, but I wouldn’t. It was self-defense, no question, even though I had shot off a number of “excess” shots. I liked the police, sometimes, but I didn’t always trust them, or their “procedures,” or the government, especially now. I also didn’t want the publicity, the press, and I didn’t want him involved, or his henchmen.

  I did, however, worry about those stoned creeps doing that to another woman. That was a major problem. They tried it with me; they would go after someone else. Clearly, I was not their first victim.

  Would being shot teach them a lesson? I hoped so, but I doubted it. I had not shot to kill, they should be grateful for that. I could so easily have put them six feet under, and when I thought of their future victims, I wished I had. It’s not in me to kill anyone, and that’s what had prevented me from shooting them both through their brains.

  I would not blame someone else for shooting them through their brains, though, not at all. And it could be argued that I had failed The Sisterhood. Had I killed them, this wouldn’t happen to any other woman.

  I didn’t like failing The Sisterhood and I sat in that bleak failure for a long time. We women do have an obligation to each other, especially against vomitous and raging men.

  I also thought about the police tracing this event to me.

  I had had the .38 for years, same with the bullets. The man who gave it to me, Timmy Hutchinson, who I have known since I was a kid, was not exactly enamored with law following—none of the Hutchinsons were. It was unlikely that he had bought the gun from a legitimate dealer, but if the gun was traced to him—highly unlikely—there was no way he would tell a police officer he had given it to me.

  But I didn’t have only a gun problem. This was a small town. If my attackers told police that a red-haired woman shot them, it wouldn’t take long to find me. If they went to a hospital, the doctors would call the police, as they do with all gunshot victims, unless they could concoct another story.

  I wasn’t too worried about their going to the police. I’d bet my pounding heart that each of those monsters had a rap sheet. If they went to the police and told on me, they knew I would tell what they had done. Black masks. A smashed window. Pot, alcohol, attempted rape.

  They’d be arrested, tried, and jailed.

  They knew that. So what would they tell the doctors? It was an accident?

  Would they later track me down on their own? Would they try to take revenge? That made my spine stiffen. They might. And if they were following me, I wouldn’t even know. I hadn’t seen their faces. They could even live here in town and start stalking me once those shoulders were bandaged up.

  I climbed into the backseat of my home-on-wheels. I opened up the sleeping bag’s zipper so I wouldn’t get trapped again and climbed in. It was too cold to sit in a car without covers. My body shook, from cold and shock.

  The black masks and that rope taunted me all night long. The sound of my car window breaking into a million pieces played again and again in my head, their singsong, vicious voices ping-ponging through my fear.

  I tried to think about painting or creating a collage.

  All I saw was a blank, white canvas with bullets shot clean through.

  I ate the bacon and fruit at six in the morning. When McDonald’s opened I washed up as best I could in the bathroom. I brushed my hair and ignored the two light, white scars near my hairline.

  I wrapped my hair into a braid and put on makeup. My bruises were almost completely gone, so I was glad about that. My eyes looked exhausted, the lids heavy, the skin puffy. Even the green color seemed dimmer. Whatever.

  I wet my washcloth, added a little soap, and closed the door of the bathroom stall. I washed the Big V and my rear while squatting over the toilet. I had to. I had been so scared last night, I squirted pee and I could smell it on myself. When no one was in the bathroom, I pulled up my pants, rinsed out the washcloth, went back in the stall, rinsed off the Big V over the toilet, dried off, then put my washcloth and towel back in their baggies. Gross.

  You know you’re on a slippery edge when you’re cleaning your privates in McDonald’s.

  I would have to go to the Laundromat immediately.

  I dried off, then put on fresh underwear, socks, jeans, a thick white sweater, and hoop earrings. It’s extremely important to me that I don’t appear homeless, washed up, and poor. I can’t do it again. I washed my hands one more time, then headed out to the counter.

  I bought a huge coffee, dumped in six creams, and sat in the back, hoping to disappear. I decided I could not eat another can of peaches, and I also deserved a treat for surviving last night, so after my coffee I drove to the grocery store and bought yogurt, with a coupon, milk, and two bananas, and I felt better. I also bought duct tape.

  I used the plastic bag from my groceries to hold the glass I picked out of my car. I put one of my black plastic bags over the window and secured it with the duct tape. I poked a small hole through the center of it so I could see to the right, then drove around town, trying to find another place that might hire me. I needed a second job because I needed an apartment pronto.

  I received my first check from Tildy, which was not large, but she’d told me in three months I’d get a two dollar an hour raise. “If you last that long
with some of these turd mouths.”

  Waiters and waitresses are taxed at their regular tax rate and then another 8 percent of all the food they sell. This means our checks are pathetic. I did, however, have my tip money in my glove compartment, and it was adding up.

  I drove about ten minutes outside of town and saw a sprawling brick building with corner-to-corner windows and a peaked roof, surrounded by lawn. The sign above two red barn doors said HENDRICKS’ FURNITURE in black block lettering. There were pine and maple trees around the building, the leaves of the maples red, burgundy, and brown.

  Aha! I knew about Hendricks’ Furniture. They made high-quality, hand-carved, exquisite wood furniture. Built for log cabins, rustic mountain retreats, hotels, upscale fishing lodges, higher end restaurants, and homes whose wealthy owners could afford it. Hendricks’ Furniture had been featured in many magazines and newspapers. It was expensive but totally worth it. It was furniture you would push out if your house caught fire.

  I hadn’t known that their headquarters was out here. This was dandy news.

  I parked in the parking lot at the farthest end. I would wait until ten o’clock, then I would walk in and apply.

  What could I tell a furniture store owner that I could do? I could sell their furniture on the floor. Did they do that? I could be a receptionist. I could take orders over the phone. I could . . . I could . . . could what? I could do marketing for them . . . advertising. Maybe. I could learn. I could cold call companies and see if they were interested in the furniture. I could not handle a saw, though—that was a fact, Jack—but I could learn.

  I leaned back in my car seat thinking about my plan of attack so I could get hired. A day job and a night job, and soon I’d be paying off Cherie, my divorce attorney, and, more important, I’d have an apartment and would not have to worry about masked people crawling through my car doors intent on attacking my Big V.

  As I no longer had a window, and no money to replace it because of the cost of my insurance deductible, my current disastrous financial/safety situation went up about ten dang notches.

  I yawned. I was so tired. Shooting people takes a lot of energy. Rushes of spiking fear exhaust a body. Rage like what I felt last night strips one of all reserves. Fear that one could be stalked is also knee knocking.

  But I was in front of a business. People were around. It was safe. I was wiped out.

  I could sleep. For fifteen minutes. I could sleep.

  7

  This time when I heard the rap on my window, I automatically reached for my glove compartment with one hand and grabbed the door handle with the other. I was instantly awake, ready to fight.

  The man rapping saw the stricken, perhaps murderous expression on my face, threw his hands up, and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

  I exhaled. He was not one of the two previous diabolical devils. This one was tall, lanky, and blond. About forty years old.

  I turned the ignition key and rolled down the window, trying not to pant.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I wanted to check on you. I’ve been eating lunch out here and you haven’t moved, you’ve been still, and your windows are up, so I was wondering if you could breathe. I was worried. You okay? Can I help you?”

  I took in a deep, deep breath, my heart hammering. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I was . . . I was going to go in and apply for a job here, but I arrived too early and fell asleep.” I pushed my hair back and forced myself to smile. “How embarrassing.”

  I didn’t want him to peer in my backseat and see the sleeping bag and all the boxes, so I opened the car door rather quickly and climbed out.

  “Hi. I’m Grenady.” I stuck out my hand to shake his and shoved the door closed with my other hand.

  “I’m Sam Jenkins.” We shook. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re new in town.”

  Sheesh. Was this town smaller than I thought? “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Sam, and yes, I’m new in town.” Sam seemed nice. Maybe he could help me get a job. Maybe he was the manager. He seemed confident, authoritative.

  “And you’re . . . I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

  “Grenady Wild.”

  “Ah.” He looked into space for a minute, then grinned. “I like it. Reminds me of grenadine. My kids love Shirley Temples. So, you need a job?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you know if they’re hiring?”

  “I don’t know. We might be. Hardly anyone ever quits here, though. The owner returned from fishing in Alaska with his buddies a couple days ago, so I know he’s busy today, but come on in and I’ll have you meet Bajal. She’ll get you an application. She’s hugely pregnant, though—over eight months today—so if she all of a sudden can’t talk, don’t worry. She’s been getting Braxton Hicks contractions.

  “She married a former NFL football player. He owns the quilt shop in town, but he’s huge and she’s only five two. A bitty thing. We’ve told her to take time off—Kade has, too—but she won’t. Her husband insists she take time off. Every day, he comes in here and says, ‘Quit, Bajal, right now,’ and they have a fight in the lobby, but she won’t do it. He’s carried her out, twice, in his arms, but she’s back in an hour.”

  I nodded. He talked fast, like he had to rush all his words out or they’d be taken away.

  “Looks like your window decided to take off. Go to Billy and Billy’s downtown. Husband and wife team. They’re both named Billy, obviously. We call them Billy Squared. As in squared, the math problem?”

  I smiled nervously. He smiled back. “Now, don’t worry if you meet Kade Hendricks. He’s not as scary as he looks. Everyone is petrified the first time they meet him. Maybe the second and third time, too.” He pushed his hair back. “Okay, for a while they’re petrified. He’s tall, a few scars, and he doesn’t smile much, but he’s a good guy. Looks like a mafia man, but he’s not.”

  A mafia man. Well, what did I care? I wanted a job.

  As for the scars. Hey, I had more than a few, all over my body.

  And I remembered how I got every one of ’em.

  I sat down with Bajal, at her desk in the lobby, who did indeed have to stop talking for a minute while she leaned over and had a contraction. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s no problem at all,” I said. But it was. I do not like seeing people in pain. It makes me ill. “Can I get you some water?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Bajal had black hair and huge dark eyes and was wearing a black, sleeveless maternity dress even though it was cold out. “This baby’s gonna be huge. She’s going to have a head the size of a tire. No, the size of a globe. No, the size of a watermelon. I’ll have a watermelon-head kid.”

  “Your first?”

  “Heck, no. It’s my third. Can’t keep my husband off me.”

  While she searched for an application, I took a quick peek around. The lobby had one full wall of windows next to the door, which let in a ton of light, and Bajal had a stunning wood desk—pine trees carved into the legs, a buck’s head and antlers carved into the front—but the room was plain, functional only.

  To the left of the large lobby was the factory. There was a door between us, and it muffled the saws somewhat but not completely. To the right of the lobby were offices and what looked to be an employees’ lounge.

  “Okeydokey, here’s an application. I don’t know if we’re hiring, but we probably are, because this sucker baby is going to pop out any minute and Kade knows it. I may not come back at all, but don’t tell anyone I said that.” She wriggled her fingers. “I take it back. Everyone knows I’m not coming back. Kade does, too. I’m going to have three rug rats. I told my husband if I have to work after having this baby I’ll be too tired to have sex, so he says I have to quit. He wanted me to quit a long time ago.”

  “Smart husband.”

  “This baby kicks my uterus like it’s a punching bag, and she sits right on my bladder and I gotta go all the time.”

  I put a hand to my slightly sweating
forehead as I pictured a kicked uterus.

  “Fill out that application. You can do it here, sign it, and I’ll have Kade look at it when he gets a chance. We don’t put applications online because we get so many resumes all the time. You’re new in town and you work at The Spirited Owl. I know that because my husband’s friends told me there’s a ‘hot-looking’—their words—new bartender, and that’s you. Welcome to Pineridge.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Too bad you weren’t here earlier. You missed the quilt show.”

  “I heard that.” They sure liked their quilt show.

  “So you want two jobs?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “That will be a lot of work.”

  I felt worn out thinking about it. “I can do it.”

  “Saving for something?” Bajal tilted her head. “I’m saving for a boob job. After nursing three kids, I think my boobs are gonna be in my armpits.”

  “Uh. Well. Good for you.” I’m saving for my own toilet! “I’m saving for a home.”

  “Here I go again, here I go! Whew! Watermelon-Head Baby is moving. That head must be the size of a troll’s—”

  “Can I help you?” I so wanted to help her. I walked around the desk and put my hand on her back. I bent over with her. Her pain was making me dizzy. I dropped my head.

  She didn’t answer for fifteen seconds. “Thank you, but there’s not much you can do to help unless I have the baby right here. If I do, don’t let any of the men look up my crotch. You do it. Or get Rozlyn, the chief financial officer, to help you, or Eudora, love her, but no men. And not Marilyn.” She said that name with dramatic angst. “She’s been here a month. I can hardly stand that woman. She’s like a blood-sucking tick who smiles at you before she sucks the life out of you. I can say that now because I’m quitting.”

  “Yes to Rozlyn and Eudora and no to all men, and Marilyn the tick, if you have this baby right here in this building.”