the Art of Helping
A round five P.M. , Laura brought the Durango to a crunching stop in the gravel parking lot. “I really, really don’t think anyone saw us,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
“That’s because we were the epitome of stealth, Mrs. Peel,” I mumbled, sliding out the passenger side. Shuddering at the blast of winter mountain air, I slammed shut the door, then stood there listening to the cooling engine ping and creak. The fading rays of the day coated the undersides of the gray clouds with an iridescent bronze-pink sheen that reminded me of the carnival glass my mother had loved to collect. We’d had so many bowls and cups and vases of it scattered all over the house, we’d looked like a factory outlet for the stuff.
Tried not to think of my mother too much. She’d given up on me after I’d called her too many times, slurring about my troubles or needing money. I heard one of her brothers had tried to find me after her stroke, but I was crashing at a new motel, nobody knew which one. Never got to say good-bye, never got to tell her I’d pulled my life out of the hole.
Sometimes I’ve thought that life isn’t so much about first steps as second ones. The chance to rectify a wrong, celebrate a milestone, heal a break. A writer friend once say that writing was rewriting. That pretty much summed up life, too.
Laura’s footsteps munched across the gravel as she walked around the Durango.
“I know we weren’t exactly
stealthy
,” she said, stopping next to me, “but as I’ve already told you, I looked around when we drove away and didn’t see anyone walking on the street, or anybody in the park across the street close enough to identify us or the license plate.”
I put my arm around here. “You’re a good private eye, baby. Sorry about that Mrs. Peel jab.” I nodded at the army green container at the edge of the lot. “We’ll toss the meaningless stuff there, take anything significant up to the lodge.”
Over the next few minutes, I rifled through the bag of trash. Found a small cardboard box whose print advertised a face power made of jojoba seed oil and corn starch, some written notes on an envelope, masses of slop I presumed were vegetables in a previous life, and a credit card statement. The latter surprising me as I thought an almost-judge would surely use a shredder. In the dusk, I couldn’t see all that well, was ready to give up, when I shoved aside a dog food bag and froze.
“Bingo.”
Laura paused, looked over. “What is it?”
I gingerly picked it up by the edge, pulled it out of the bag.
“Photo of Wicked.”
• • •
An hour later, we were back in the lodge, showered and changed into comfortable clothes, our booty from the trash hit—the envelope, credit card statement, photo of Wicked—laid out to dry on the kitchen counter.
Laura had turned on the XM radio to the Grateful Dead Channel, a kindness toward me as she wasn’t wild about their music (“Do they ever sing on key?”). They were playing “Jack Straw” from their Europe ‘72 live triple album. I listened to the words, feeling about as broke and desperate as the sorry dude in the song.
She brought me a can of root beer from the fridge. Handing it to me, our fingers touched, reigniting the gut-deep ache that had haunted me these last few days in my barren cell. Time to stop being a coward.
“I was wondering—”
“That sonofabitch D.A.,” she said at the same time.
We both paused, looked expectantly at each other.
“Go ahead,” I said, tugging on the metal tab. The drink opened with a fizzy pop.
“His holier-than-thou act in court pissed me off. He acted as though you’d already been tried and convicted.”
“Dude and I share a history. He still nurses bad vibes.”
“Lawyers,” she muttered, extracting a silver shaker from the bar cabinet. “Back to your case. I’ve been thinking about that photo of Wicked in a bathing suit. It seems…” She dropped
A round five P.M. , Laura brought the Durango to a crunching stop in the gravel parking lot. “I really, really don’t think anyone saw us,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
“That’s because we were the epitome of stealth, Mrs. Peel,” I mumbled, sliding out the passenger side. Shuddering at the blast of winter mountain air, I slammed shut the door, then stood there listening to the cooling engine ping and creak. The fading rays of the day coated the undersides of the gray clouds with an iridescent bronze-pink sheen that reminded me of the carnival glass my mother had loved to collect. We’d had so many bowls and cups and vases of it scattered all over the house, we’d looked like a factory outlet for the stuff.
Tried not to think of my mother too much. She’d given up on me after I’d called her too many times, slurring about my troubles or needing money. I heard one of her brothers had tried to find me after her stroke, but I was crashing at a new motel, nobody knew which one. Never got to say good-bye, never got to tell her I’d pulled my life out of the hole.
Sometimes I’ve thought that life isn’t so much about first steps as second ones. The chance to rectify a wrong, celebrate a milestone, heal a break. A writer friend once say that writing was rewriting. That pretty much summed up life, too.
Laura’s footsteps munched across the gravel as she walked around the Durango.
“I know we weren’t exactly
stealthy
,” she said, stopping next to me, “but as I’ve already told you, I looked around when we drove away and didn’t see anyone walking on the street, or anybody in the park across the street close enough to identify us or the license plate.”
I put my arm around here. “You’re a good private eye, baby. Sorry about that Mrs. Peel jab.” I nodded at the army green container at the edge of the lot. “We’ll toss the meaningless stuff there, take anything significant up to the lodge.”
Over the next few minutes, I rifled through the bag of trash. Found a small cardboard box whose print advertised a face power made of jojoba seed oil and corn starch, some written notes on an envelope, masses of slop I presumed were vegetables in a previous life, and a credit card statement. The latter surprising me as I thought an almost-judge would surely use a shredder. In the dusk, I couldn’t see all that well, was ready to give up, when I shoved aside a dog food bag and froze.
“Bingo.”
Laura paused, looked over. “What is it?”
I gingerly picked it up by the edge, pulled it out of the bag.
“Photo of Wicked.”
• • •
An hour later, we were back in the lodge, showered and changed into comfortable clothes, our booty from the trash hit—the envelope, credit card statement, photo of Wicked—laid out to dry on the kitchen counter.
Laura had turned on the XM radio to the Grateful Dead Channel, a kindness toward me as she wasn’t wild about their music (“Do they ever sing on key?”). They were playing “Jack Straw” from their Europe ‘72 live triple album. I listened to the words, feeling about as broke and desperate as the sorry dude in the song.
She brought me a can of root beer from the fridge. Handing it to me, our fingers touched, reigniting the gut-deep ache that had haunted me these last few days in my barren cell. Time to stop being a coward.
“I was wondering—”
“That sonofabitch D.A.,” she said at the same time.
We both paused, looked expectantly at each other.
“Go ahead,” I said, tugging on the metal tab. The drink opened with a fizzy pop.
“His holier-than-thou act in court pissed me off. He acted as though you’d already been tried and convicted.”
“Dude and I share a history. He still nurses bad vibes.”
“Lawyers,” she muttered, extracting a silver shaker from the bar cabinet. “Back to your case. I’ve been thinking about that photo of Wicked in a bathing suit. It seems…” She dropped
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