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  Of course, I had no such luck. When I walked in, she was sitting on the sofa eating a bowl of peach ice cream.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly.

  “Good afternoon,” she replied, peering at me over the top of her reading glasses. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  “I only have one class on Monday,” I hedged. “Abnormal psychology.”

  “What time does it meet?”

  I looked at my watch. “Now.”

  “I see. Can I offer you something? Hair of the dog that bit you, perhaps?”

  I shoved her feet over and sat down on the end of the sofa. My head was throbbing.

  “If you were serious, I might just take you up on that.”

  “I’m sure your father has a bottle of Bailey’s somewhere. He bought one last Christmas.”

  “Don’t make me sick,” I said, suppressing a strong desire to throw up.

  “That,” she replied archly, “is one thing for which you cannot blame me.”

  I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes to keep the living-room lights from burning holes in my retinas. “How about two aspirin and some ice-water, for old times’ sake?”

  “What old times?”

  “The old times when you had some sympathy.”

  She got me the aspirin and a glass of water, even going so far as to put a slice of lemon in it. Still, she couldn’t resist saying, “I thought you were smarter than your brother.”

  “Guess you were wrong. Where is he anyway? Did he ever come home?”

  “Eventually. He had another fight with the slut.”

  “Anyone lose an eye?”

  “Not that I know of. This seems to have been a purely verbal altercation.”

  Emma settled back down on the sofa and continued eating her ice cream. I finished my water and fished out the ice cubes to press against my forehead. When my mother had emptied her bowl, she put it down on the coffee table and looked straight at me, her lips set in a thin, hard line.

  “So,” she said, “are you going to tell me where you were last night?”

  I pressed the now-empty glass against the back of my neck and toyed with the idea of answering her question honestly. It was only the coolness of the glass against my skin that kept me from saying, “In bed with my ex-girlfriend.”

  It was quiet around our house for the next few days. Sam stayed out of jail, and, as far as we knew, there was no word about his urine test. Lieutenant Young called on Monday afternoon to say that we should stop by the jail and pick up some of Sam’s things that the cops had confiscated but were now ready to release. When my mother tried to quiz him, Young refused to answer any of her questions. It was via Slinky Nilsson that we learned that Francie and her mother had dropped the assault charges.

  On Tuesday, I worked up enough nerve to call Kate Wood and ask her for Sylvie’s phone number. Sylvie was out, so I left a message on her answering machine. By Wednesday night, she still hadn’t called me back. She was probably avoiding me—after all, why wouldn’t she? My brother was possibly involved in her father’s death, I’d made a complete ass of myself at Fiesta Jack’s, and A. J. was certain to have blabbed to the Lesbian Avengers about my lapse on Sunday night. Whatever chance I’d had was well and truly blown.

  A. J. called on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. I contrived to be out or otherwise unavailable, and Emma took messages without asking any questions. I spent as much time as possible at school, the gym, and Fort Sister. I also let Tipper talk me into signing up to work the Stop the Prop booth at the Pioneer Days festival. I hated Pioneer Days, which was when all of Cowslip turned out to celebrate a whitewashed version of homesteading, but I couldn’t keep saying no to Tipper.

  I took two tests on Thursday, one in French and the other in calculus. Both were easy. It was raining when I took the abnormal psych test on Friday. The professor, Gary Smart, arrived ten minutes late, squeezing rainwater out of his brown ponytail. By way of apology, he told us that we could skip the last of the four essay questions. He handed the test out at ten. I handed it back at ten-twenty. Not the ace I’d been hoping for, despite his generosity.

  I spent the night at Tipper’s house. On Saturday morning, he woke us all up at five-thirty. He had to threaten to light a fire under Suzy, who had been out until three gallivanting with his closeted cop. When we got to the festival, we saw that the Gay Christian Association, the Lewis County Bisexual Alliance, and the Cowslip College Gay and Lesbian Association all had booths on the edge of the main drag. Stop the Prop was relegated to a patch of grass behind the food vendors, which included a group from Fiesta Jack’s selling burritos, nachos, and fried ice cream. Suzy asked who he had to sleep with to get us a better spot.

  “Millicent Rutherford,” Tipper said. Suzy decided we were fine where we were.

  Though they didn’t have a booth, the Lesbian Avengers did a brisk trade nevertheless. They walked around the fair in Stop the Prop T-shirts, stopping passersby and handing out pamphlets. I looked for A. J., more in fear than in anticipation, but I didn’t see her.

  Tipper was not so fortunate. For a time, we didn’t know where the forces of evil were, so once the festivities really got going, Tipper and Tom went on a scouting expedition. They came back to report that the pro-Proposition booth was on the opposite side of the park from us. Unfortunately, this placed them very near the front gates.

  “That’s too bad,” I yawned. “Tipper, I don’t know how long I’m going to last. I’m exhausted.”

  He gave me a vigorous shake. “If you’d gone to bed at a decent hour instead of staying up half the night watching old movies . . .”

  “I like old movies.”

  “Like Butterfield 8?” he inquired archly.

  I felt queasy. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Who do you think? I just ran into her on the other side of the park. I have one question for you—are you insane?”

  I avoided looking him in the eye. “It was nothing, just a big mistake.”

  “No kidding. Next time, you’re getting in the cab.”

  At five o’clock, Tipper allowed me time off to grab some dinner and stretch my legs. I was on my way back to the booth when I heard the familiar shriek of my grandmother. She was standing by the outdoor stage wearing period costume, a gingham dress and a slatted sunbonnet. I suddenly remembered why I hated Pioneer Days.

  The Cowslip Community Theatre always put on a play, penned by my grandmother, about the founding of the town. Cowslip was actually incorporated by a group of miners, loggers, and enterprising prostitutes, but Granny’s version reflected none of this. Cowslip Back Then was a westernized version of the elementary school Thanksgiving play. Some white farmers hop off the Oregon Trail in the middle of the camas prairie and bargain with three Nez Perce Indians to trade thousands of acres for a couple of rifles and some tobacco. It was a disgrace, and the county historical society should have put an end to it years ago. However, the historical society’s president, Millicent Rutherford, had played the starring role in this farce for over twenty-five years. She didn’t know a damn thing about history, but she was a bigger ham than Porky Pig.

  I made my way over to Granny, who was holding a plateful of food that might have given Henry the Eighth pause. Millicent stood next to her, taking delicate sips from a giant martini.

  “Hi Granny,” I said. “What time does the fun begin?”

  She squinted at me. “You mean the play?”

  “No, I mean the second coming.” She didn’t laugh, though Millicent looked vaguely amused.

  “You’re staying for the performance, aren’t you?” Granny said. “Millicent made rather an interesting discovery about the town’s early history, which I’ve incorporated into the script. One of our town fathers was—” she paused as if waiting for a drum roll “—a black man. His name was Marcus Apple. He was a tailor.”

  “And you’ve added him to your play? How multicultural of you.”

  “I think it will be nice
,” she continued. “A little something different for those who’ve seen the show before. Do you know if your mother will be here?” Granny looked down at her watch. “I called to remind her. The show starts in fifteen minutes. In fact,” she smiled at Millicent, “it’s time you were getting into your costume.”

  Millicent drained the last of her martini and handed me the empty glass. Of course the world was her servant. As soon as she and Granny had disappeared into the dressing room, I threw the glass in the trashcan. It shattered against the metal sides, making a louder noise than I’d intended. I turned around to find Sylvie Wood standing right behind me. She was wearing a white dress with small blue corn-flowers all over it and her leather bomber jacket. My mouth was suddenly as dry as a wad of cotton.

  “Hi,” she said. Her smile was tentative.

  “Hi.”

  We were silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I should bring up Fiesta Jack’s.

  She spoke first. “What are you doing backstage?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious, I suppose. I usually avoid Pioneer Days like the plague.”

  “Why?”

  “This damned awful play, that’s why. I used to have to come as a child, year after year, and watch Granny and Millicent chew up the scenery.”

  Sylvie straightened her shoulders and said with mock seriousness, “Be careful—some of that scenery is mine.”

  “Oh my god,” I cried. “Did you build the set?”

  “I did,” she laughed. “I’m also acting in this fine production. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. The cast for this thing hasn’t changed in living memory. Who are you playing?”

  “Mrs. Apple, wife of the town’s tailor. I have exactly one line.”

  “Please tell me it’s not ‘Oh lordy, lordy.’”

  She laughed again. It was a big, contagious laugh, the kind that carried through a room and made everyone else laugh as well. “No, it’s ‘Yes, Mrs. Janson.’ Millicent’s character stops in to get a pair of trousers mended. My husband, Mr. Apple, gets to say ‘They’ll be ready on Tuesday.’ That’s it for the Apples.”

  I shook my head in amazement. So much for multiculturalism. I stepped a little closer to her and said, “You seem to be normal enough. Why are you here?”

  “I double-majored in drama as an undergraduate. I’ve never done an outdoor production before, and I thought this was as good a chance as any to get the experience.”

  “I’m a double-major. Well, sort of. I’ve done coursework for a BA in English and a BS in Psychology, but I’m still fighting with admissions over credits. Are you double-majoring in grad school?”

  “No. I’m taking the theater design class because it interests me.”

  “Hmm. Cliff botany and acting.”

  “I know,” she laughed. “If I don’t make it as an actress, I suppose I can always go into pharmaceutical research.”

  “Drugs,” I said, without thinking, “you should talk to my brother.” I felt the blood drain from my face as I stood there, waiting for the gods to strike me dead.

  Sylvie was looking down at her boots. Without looking up she said, “I need to talk to you about that, Bil. Could you meet me somewhere after the show?”

  “Sylvie, I don’t know what to say or even where to begin. I don’t know if Sam . . .”

  “He didn’t,” she said firmly. She looked up now and regarded me intently. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Whatever happened in that cell, Bil, it’s not what you think.”

  “What do you . . .”

  She reached out suddenly and put her hands on my shoulders. “After curtain call, I’ll meet you at Traveler’s Rest. The play’s forty-five minutes, more or less.”

  “It seems like more,” I said. “But we can just meet backstage afterwards if you like. Now that I know you’re making your Cowslip debut, I’ll stay for the show.”

  “No, I’d rather meet away from all these people.”

  The rest of the cast began filing back onto the stage. Sylvie handed her jacket to me. “Would you mind keeping this with you? There’s no place to hang it back here.”

  “No problem. Don’t you need to get into costume?”

  She looked down at her dress and grimaced. “What do you think this is? I wouldn’t be caught dead in this get-up in true life—not unless I died and went to hell.”

  “Sorry, no offense intended.”

  “None taken,” she smiled. Then she was gone. I followed the rest of the inessential crowd and descended the stairs at stage right.

  Traveler’s Rest, a stand of cedars at the very edge of the park, was a prime make-out spot for high school students. Ignoring the stares and mutterings of several desperately horny teenagers, I sat down beneath a tree and waited.

  Chapter 11

  The sun was sinking behind the trees, and I shivered for a few minutes before I remembered Sylvie’s jacket. A perfect fit. It smelled like Bay Rum, and I wondered briefly if she’d loaned it to someone who wore aftershave or if she was more butch than she looked.

  I zipped up the jacket and tried to make myself comfortable. It wasn’t easy. Grass and bits of bark kept poking up under the patches I’d ironed over the holes in the back of my jeans, and the bushes around me were filled with the sounds of labored breathing. I sat there quietly until my legs began to get numb, and then I stood up and brushed myself off. The ground beneath me was probably crawling with ticks.

  In the distance, I spied Sylvie. She was leaning against the wall at the back of the stage, talking earnestly with Helen Merwin. When I waved to her, she didn’t react. Helen looked over her shoulder at me, then turned back to Sylvie and began talking again, this time with a lot of animated gesturing.

  I sat back down, wondering what Helen was going on about. Someone had recently trimmed off the lower branches of my tree, probably to create a nuptial bower, and the wood’s aroma drifted down pleasantly. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the smell rather than what might be crawling beneath me.

  When Sylvie appeared, I looked up at her and smiled. She looked away. Her hands were shoved down into the pockets of her dress, and she seemed to be thoroughly pissed off about something.

  “Are you ready?” she asked. The words were clipped and terse.

  “Would you like your jacket back?”

  “You keep it. I’m not cold.”

  “Are you by any chance hot?”

  We made eye contact now, and I felt the scorch of it from my nose up to the top of my forehead. Suddenly I wasn’t so eager to know what Helen had said.

  I took a deep breath. “Before we go any further, I want to say that I’m sorry for my behavior the other night at Fiesta Jack’s. I was a complete idiot. I don’t usually drink like that.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, not acknowledging my apology.

  “This is no good,” she said at last. “Let’s get out of here. Is your car nearby? We could take my bike, but I only have one helmet.”

  “We’ll take my truck.” I didn’t fancy tearing around without a brain bucket on an angry woman’s motorcycle. “I don’t have a car. I don’t suppose that matters, of course. Car, truck, what’s the difference? Anyhow, I got here early this morning, so I’m parked close by.”

  I was rattling on and on, unable to stop. We climbed into the truck, and I started the engine. Then I stopped and turned it off again. I couldn’t concentrate with this ball of fury sitting next to me.

  “Do you want to tell me why you’re mad?”

  “I’m not mad,” she snapped.

  I leaned back against the truck door and pretended to cringe. She laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Mildew told me something I didn’t want to hear.”

  “You call her that?”

  “Only when I’m angry.”

  “That name has sort of stuck around my house, too,” I admitted. “She spends a lot of time hanging out with my grandmother. We think it’s a little perverse. A thirty-year-o
ld who doesn’t have a friend under seventy-five.”

  “Perverse is a good term for her. She’s always going after me for one thing or another. We’ve never really gotten along.”

  I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. I started the truck and began to drive forward. Then I stopped again. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “Go anywhere. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Am I forgiven for Fiesta Jack’s?”

  There was a brief pause, and then she shrugged. “Of course. I thought you were kind of funny, actually. Let’s just . . . let’s find someplace private where we can sit and talk.”

  I racked my brain for possible destinations. My house was out of the question. Though the hayfield was a possibility, I wasn’t sure my allergies could stand it, and there was no guarantee Emma wouldn’t wander up to see what was going on. I hadn’t spotted her in the audience at the play, so she might well be at home. I circled the park three times, thinking.

  Sylvie said nothing. She didn’t seem to notice where we were going, or that we were going nowhere. The sun was now hidden behind a bank of black clouds, and a thick fog was settling in. I circled the park one more time before making a decision, turning left on Hayes Street and driving up Route 2 to Fort Sister. Ten minutes later, we pulled in and stopped at the gate. I got out to open it and discovered it was still padlocked.

  I tapped on Sylvie’s window.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ll have to climb over and walk up.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The dugouts. We’ll be able to talk there.” Sylvie got out of the truck slowly, clearly puzzled. “When we get near the house,” I said, “try to make a lot of noise. Well, not a lot of noise. Just talk in a normal voice, and don’t try to walk softly or anything.”

  She stopped and stared at me. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just a precaution. You know Captain Schwartz—she’s armed to the teeth. She’s got sharp ears and a paranoid disposition. If she hears us talking and walking like we’re actually supposed to be out here, we’ll be fine.”