Please Don't, page 10
We’re still standing there, facing off, when good old Virg comes shuffling out of the garage with a burp. “Hey,” burp, hiccup, belch. “’Scuse me. You know where the two-cycle is?”
Molly runs up on the trailer, grabs it and hands it to him. It gives me a minute to get myself together. He burps again, like he’s been hit with a stun gun. “Damn, ’scuse me, thanks.”
He plods back to the shed. I raise a brow and hook my thumb. “And that guy wants to date my mom.”
Molly’s eyes widen with her smile. “Oh my goodness, he was talking about her the other day.”
“Nope.” I turn away and cover my ears. “Not doing this. La, la, la.”
I drag the mower towards the shop. Molly follows behind me, laughing, poking me in the back. “He said all she needs is a good man. Someone—”
I spin around. “Who’s been there. Yes, I know this one.”
She covers her mouth, an explosion of laughter leaking through.
“Are you okay?”
Molly holds up a hand, shaking her head, then nodding. I’ve never heard her belly laugh before and it sounds like she’s choking. She flings her hair back and tries to get herself together, but her face is flushed and her dimples are deep and creasing. She grabs her sides, struggling to stay upright. “Just the thought of it. Your little mom and…” She looks back at the garage, bites her lip before she loses it all over again.
“Yuck. You’re so gross.”
Things are better on the way home. I sneak glances over at Molly, sort of bobbing along to Al Green. I’ve taken to watching her watch things. The way her eyes scan the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings. Even when we’re having a good time, she’s poised for danger. Sometimes I go days without noticing where I’ve been or what I’m doing. For Molly, it’s knowing every second.
I turn down the volume. “Okay, so what do you think the girls did today?”
“Hmm, Ana probably drove your mom nuts with questions.”
“Or maybe they did face painting.”
Molly turns to me, horror in her eyes. I shake my head. “I’m kidding. But since we’re talking about painting…”
She takes a breath, throws me a look. “We weren’t.”
“You’re really good. Not that you don’t know that, but…” She turns her head, looking out the window. I decide not to push. “Anyway, I’m going to clean out the garage, so, if you want to set up the easel and…do whatever, it’s cool.”
We pull into the driveway. Molly closes her eyes. “Thanks.”
“Yep.” She sits there. I sit there. We’re both looking at the house. I shift in my seat. “Hey, about Cora, you know, we’re not…”
She shakes her head and reaches for the door handle. “Nope. That is a you problem.”
And with that, she’s out of the car, rushing up the path to the house.
17
I find Mom sitting at the kitchen table reading a book to Ana and Ashley. Ashley is into it, eyes rapt, her body perfectly still, while Ana is engulfed in her latest drawing. I’m slightly offended no one leaps up and rushes over to greet us when we walk into the kitchen.
Mom is clear and crisp, remarkably sober. Her roots are growing in and there’s some color in her face. Her voice changes with each character, sending me flashbacks of bedtime stories from another lifetime. I hang back, leaning against the doorjamb, until I catch Molly watching me watch them.
“And that is how a fairy finds her dust.” Mom closes the book.
Ashley smiles, looking up at her. “Can we read it again?”
Ana’s eyes never leave her work. “Hey giant. Look at this one.”
She slides the page to one side, and I take a seat at the table, taking in the carnage on the page. It’s absolute mayhem. A snake the size of a locomotive thrashes through the metropolis, people hanging onto street posts, buildings, onto cars. Others are not so fortunate.
“Um, wow, this is very…realistic.”
“Do you see the legs dangling out of the serpent’s mouth?”
I nod. Molly sighs. “Ana, I thought we were going to try to draw mountains.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Mountains? Why?”
Molly slides in beside her at the head of the table. “The beach. Sunshine. Rainbows.” She tosses her hands up. “Something besides death and dismemberment.”
Ana ignores this and points out the finer details to me again. “Look at the bus flipped over, see, you can even see the...”
Molly puffs her cheeks out. “Ana.”
Mom gets to her feet. “Well, it is certainly creative.” She points to the bus. “Unfortunately, this poor guy is in need of a tourniquet.”
I drop my head, hiding a smile. Because again, even with the dismemberment on the page, the house feels real, without the lump of Mom in her bed, the door shut, shades drawn, sleeping off the demons.
Molly gets to her feet and asks Mom what she can do to help. When she does, I spot the pile of bills on the table. Phone. Electric. Water. Something urgent from the city. The city is very urgent with us lately.
Somewhere on the fridge is the school board letter, but before I can worry about it too much, Mom gives Molly a sweet smile and announces we’re ordering pizza. This sends the girls into cheers.
Later, after pizza, I’m out in the garage, tossing stuff around, sifting through the past, deciding what to keep and what to haul to the curb. I start with Dad’s chair. Then I slide out boxes, the old ones with my dad’s name on them. Ties, shoes, folded button-down shirts, and some self-help books. It’s kind of crazy we still have all this stuff, like some sort of time capsule. I’m dragging it all to the curb when Mr. Andrews pulls up in his Audi.
Setting items curbside is a blatant violation of HOA policy, a lesson we found out when Mom set our TVs on the street in an effort to “focus more seriously” on writing.
I straighten as he comes sauntering down the driveway towards me, one hand in his pocket. “Good evening, Nat.”
I nod. He’s got a blade of grass on his shiny leather shoe. He bends down and flicks it off, looks at the boxes, what’s left of my dad’s chair. “Hey Nat. You know, trash doesn’t run until Monday.”
“Thought I’d get a head start.” I motion to the box. “Oh, there’s some silk ties in here if you need one.” I give him my best grin.
He nods to the pile of split leather and wood. “Looks like this chair has seen better days.”
“Yeah, had some trouble getting it out.”
“Funny,” he says in that grim way of his. Time for some chin rubbing, some contemplation here. “Look, Nat. I understand you and your mother are going through some things. Trying to figure stuff out. You’ve got a lot on your plate with school and…” He pauses here to emphasize the obvious. He knows I slugged a teacher and I’ve thrown everything away. “I’m also aware that this house is currently, well, that you guys may be having financial issues. But I can’t allow this sort of thing to go on. I’ve gotten several calls about it.”
“Yeah?” I say, standing up straight. He’s got his arms crossed, probably flexing under his little lavender button down. “What ‘sort of thing’?”
“This,” he waves at the house. “Well, for one, I saw some new faces the other day. You guys having guests over, or…?”
Or. Definitely or. He looks over to our house, his voice not so soft and caring now. “Because, well, subletting rooms is also a violation of code. Air B’s and B’s, those type of things. It’s strictly prohibited.”
“I think it’s one word.”
“What?”
“No, just, Airbnb. I don’t think it’s B’s and B’s.”
“Well, regardless, I’d…”
“We’re not subletting. Hey, do you and my dad still talk?”
He frowns. A slow blink of the eyes. Mr. Andrews, the sensitive guy now. But I’m not having it. If he reaches out and touches my shoulder, I may do something that could seriously hurt my case with the school board. Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead he takes a casual step back. “Nat, I’m trying to help here. I’ve known you for a long time. Your mother, too. We’re more than neighbors, in a way, we’re a community, and we need to look out for one another.”
I can’t help snickering. It sounds like a cheesy political ad. Finished with his oral history lesson, he nods to the boxes. “I’ll place a call, get that stuff picked up, maybe have the clothes donated, how’s that sound?”
I try to put together some words. I can’t. I only stare at the pieces of the chair, to the pile of boxes and books and ties and all the things my dad deemed unimportant enough to leave behind. It stirs up some heat in my chest, but instead of clenching my fists and raging, I set a smirk on my face and look Mr. Andrews straight in the eyes.
“We’re not subletting. Just having some friends staying, Mr. A.” I look around. “But you know what? If you see any violations around here, you be sure to set your little citations in the mailbox. We’ll get them in the morning.”
Mr. Andrews gives me his best slow blink, shake of the head. But he’s only put off by this for a second. He recovers with the business meeting nod. I smile and shrug, and finally he wishes me a good evening and starts for his house.
18
The easel sits unnoticed in the garage for the next few days. Along with the scattered supplies and clothes and empty boxes on the floor with the old toys. Molly hasn’t said much else about it, so a few days later, on the way to work, I bring it up again, sort of, clenching my fist, knuckles cracking, absorbing the throb.
“So, I was thinking about Ana, and her uh, drawings.”
Molly nods, her gaze set and level. “Oh yeah?”
I tap the wheel. “You think she draws because of you?”
Molly continues to watch the world out her window. I sip my coffee. It’s cold and disgusting, but since I don’t sleep much anymore, a necessity.
“Maybe,” she says, turning to me. “Or maybe she’s a sadist with an unhealthy thirst for violent images.”
I spit my second sip of coffee all over the steering wheel. Molly’s eyes come alive with her smile. “Gross.”
“Sorry, wasn’t expecting that.”
She bites her lip, tucks her hair behind her ear. “So, remember that convention thing you were talking about?”
I wipe up my mess with my hand, glance over to her. “Um, yeah.”
Molly’s gaze drops, then it’s back on me. “Are you still going?”
I shrug. “Haven’t really thought about it.” A lie, of course. I’ve thought about it from every angle, and I’m still no closer to deciding. Molly knows it, too. She shakes her head.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“A compliment from Molly Martinez. Let me mark the day.”
She rolls her eyes. We get to the turn for the shop.
“So, why are you asking?”
Her tightens. She stares at the dashboard like it’s a cue card. “Well, um, I was wondering if I could hitch a ride with you.”
I hit the brakes, stopping the car halfway in the entrance to the shop. “Really?”
Molly nods. I think back to what her Mom said about trust. Molly picks at something on the seat. “There’s a workshop that same weekend. I think it’s near your thing. I could give you gas money if you could—”
A workshop. So many questions come to mind. “No, no. I would love some company. But…” I can’t stop being surprised by her.
“What?”
“Okay, honestly, I was sort of losing my nerve.”
She nods. “I figured. All the more reason I should go. I’ll coach you up.” She looks back over her shoulder. “Also, um, you might want to park. Half the car is out in the road.”
“Right.”
I glance over to her, the outgoing Molly, eyes bright, the talkative Molly. The one I never saw at school. “Molly Martinez. Life Coach.”
She grabs her thermos and exhales. “Heaven help us all.”
We hit the Woodberry campus strong. Since the Fabio thing, I can’t help eyeing every car, on the lookout for a low riding Scion. We plow through the hills in the back near the tennis courts, where it’s mostly roots and dirt, and then take lunch.
Virg wants pizza, there’s a buffet across the street. Molly and I exchange looks. Eating with Virgil is tricky. For one, he talks the entire time, through a mouthful of pasta and pizza crust, chicken parm and breadsticks. And when he’s not chewing or talking or spitting while chewing and talking, he’s burping, moaning about his acid reflux and how he’ll be in the bathroom for the rest of the night.
We take refuge at the salad bar. Virgil prowls the buffet for fresh pizza. Molly picks through the lettuce for the dark pieces while I load up on the carrots. The day is light and hopeful, and I’m feeling the need to mess with her.
“So, you think we’ll see your boyfriend today?”
“Only if he’s with Cora.”
My smile widens. “Okay, I see how it is now.”
Molly’s laughing, too, but more at me, because at six four, I have to crouch and contort myself to reach under the low hanging glass cover of the salad bar. She moves easily, passing over the onions and moving on to the cherry tomatoes. A fresh pizza arrives, Virgil does a happy dance. He tears into the still steaming pie, taking four pieces, stacking them two deep.
I lean closer to Molly. “You’re in for a treat.”
She looks over to our table where Virgil spreads a napkin over his gut, singing to himself or maybe the pizza, it’s hard to tell. He’s sets one fist, roughly the size of a pineapple, on the table. In his other hand is a fork, which he uses to tear into his stack of pepperoni pizza.
Molly frowns. “Dibs on the seat beside him.”
Damn. It leaves me across from Virg, in the direct line of fire.
“Okay,” Virgil begins, nearly taking down a slice of pizza in one clean swipe of the fork. I watch Molly watch him, a mixture of amazement and disgust as our boss devours the pizza he’s stacked like pancakes. He goes in again, the fork coming down, slicing through the layers before he shovels it into his mouth.
Still chewing, he waves the fork between the two of us. “No more games. You paid off them gangbangers yet?”
“They’re not…” Molly stops, thinking better of it.
Virgil leans back. “They’re not what, gangbangers? Sure as hell looked like it the other day. Now, I should call the police, but...”
Molly looks away.
I sip my water. “We’ll take care of it, Virg.” Like I know what I’m talking about.
Virg tears back into his pizza stack. “Yeah, sure you will. Let it be known,” he says, his voice lowering. The restaurant is full of people, discussing work, sports, life, not…this. Virgil wipes his face. “I’m not onboard with any of this, we clear? So, I don’t want to know any details. I lent that money to you,” he says, pointing his fork at me. “Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” he says, just as the doors swing open from the kitchen. “I’m going back in. Lots of fresh pie today.”
19
It’s my fourth trip to Lafayette Estates in a week, and the place isn’t growing on me. The mud isn’t helping the curb appeal. It’s been raining most of the day, which is how Molly and I had time to cash our loaner check and prepare for this little meeting. Molly called Fabio and set things up while I was in the bank. Now she sits beside me, blank as a stone, shut off as we veer down the riddled pathway, sloshing through the puddles and mud.
Molly’s face shows little emotion as we slow to a stop in front of the trailer, where, judging by the cars in the driveway and along the yard, there’s plenty of company inside. The Cutlass sits there, and I’m tempted to keep going, say we tried and all that. Instead I cut the engine and stop myself from asking Molly if she’s okay. Neither of us is okay, but neither of us has a better idea.
A thousand bucks cash weighs heavy in my pocket. Molly looks over to me with a thousand questions in her eyes. I turn to my left, where the redneck trailer sits quietly. The truck is gone, but it doesn’t mean I want to hang around and wait.
“Well, this is it,” I say, clapping my hands, sounding like an idiot.
Molly shifts in her seat. “I can go in alone, if you want?”
“No, no way.” I say it too fast and too high-pitched. It’s not that I’m scared, which I am, it’s just that, the other day has been stuck in my head day and night. The guy with the cryptic finger guns. Getting beat up I can handle, it wouldn’t be the first time. But getting shot is something I’d rather avoid.
We exit the car together. The rain is letting up and a low sun filters through the breaking clouds, shining off the paint of the cars in the driveway, the water beads from sealant and wax. I’m about to make a joke, something corny or awful I’m sure, when the door rattles open and an unfriendly face meets us as we approach the steps.
“Molleee, how are you chica?”
Molly mutters something in Spanish as she brushes past him, leaving me standing there, waiting to see if I’m invited to the party. I don’t recognize the guy at the door from the other day, as he stares into my eyes, sizing me up and down. Eventually, his face breaks into a smirk. He nods for me to enter. “You brought your bodyguard, no?”
I duck inside where I’m blasted by the sharp smell of weed. My eyes adjust to the darkness, the haze. The room is too cramped and too hot. Four guys lounge on a sectional, legs sprawled on the coffee table where beer bottles and an ashtray sit amongst the trash, wrappers, cigars, and spare change. While the place is sparse on furnishings, a billboard-sized TV spans the wall, blocking a window. Not that there’s much of a view.
Fabio sits in a ripped up chair, a king amongst his people. “Well Molly. It’s good to see you and your…” he raises an eyebrow. Lots of snorting going on. These guys must think I’m hilarious.
Molly sets her jaw, eyes hardened. Again, I’m thinking, this girl, if Molly had set this look on Meyers the guy never would have touched her. Finally, she nods at him, as though she’s about to spit. “Like I said on the phone. I’m paying you back. That’s it. Don’t bother me while I’m at work.”
