I press send. When it goes through, I type another:
Text me you’ve got a jet waiting at the private landing strip in Paducah, and tell me it’s a matter of life and death!
When that one goes through I send him another:
The messages need to sound extremely urgent! Start sending them immediately! And don’t stop sending them till I tell you.
When that one goes through, I erase all the sent messages from my phone, and open the bathroom door.
“You’re awfully dry for having just taken a shower!” Renee says. “Plus, the water’s still running.”
“I was brushing my teeth,” I say, “then realized I had my phone with me. I get emergency calls all the time. A kid nearly died once when I was in the shower and couldn’t hear the phone.”
“That’s terrible!” she says.
“Can you keep an eye on my phone while I shower, just in case?”
“I’d love to!” she says. “And by the way, don’t worry about going hungry. I called room service back and ordered you a Porterhouse steak and a baked potato with butter, sour cream, and bacon bits.”
“You did?”
“And some blackberry cobbler.”
“That’s a significant caloric commitment.”
She laughs. “I hope you don’t plan to talk like that when we order food in Logan.”
“What would happen?”
“They’d probably take you out back and shoot you.”
“That’s a tough restaurant.”
“By the way, the room service guy said your order will take forty minutes. That sounds about right, don’t you think?”
She winks, pats her heart-shaped muff.
“Sounds great!” I say, feigning enthusiasm.
I put my phone on the night stand beside her.
“Let me know if anyone calls, okay?”
“I promise.”
“Texts are particularly serious.”
“Texts are? How come?”
“It means the people in charge are knee-deep in a critical situation, and there’s no time to talk.”
“Wow!”
“I can’t express how important this is, Renee. I’m counting on you.”
“I won’t let you down,” she says, solemnly. “I’ll let you know if anyone calls or texts. I promise.”
“Good girl. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. I love the fact you save children’s lives.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I’m a kindergarten teacher, remember?”
“Right.”
“You work on their bodies, I work on their minds.”
“I like that,” I say, truthfully.
It strikes me Renee’s a good person. While that’s a plus, it’s not enough to make me want to dive face first into Red River Gorge.
I strip, enter the shower, but leave the door unlocked.
A minute later, I hear her call out my name in an urgent manner.
I smile, pretending not to hear.
The door opens.
“Gideon!” she says.
I poke my head out of the shower. “Everything okay?”
She’s holding my cell phone, pointing to it. There’s a look of panic in her eyes.
“I got a text?”
She nods.
“Read it to me.”
“There are two messages.”
“Don’t tell me it’s Bruce Luce.”
“Would that be bad?”
“Terribly bad! Don’t tell me Bruce sent me two texts!”
“One’s from Bruce.”
“Just one?”
“Uh huh.”
“Still, that’s got to be really bad.”
“It is. I’m so sorry!”
I suppress a smile. “Read it to me.”
“The one from Bruce?”
“Yes, of course!”
“It says, ‘Fuck you, Gideon!’”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I hate Bruce Luce. Now what am I going to do?
“Who sent the other text?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Read it.”
She reads it, but not out loud. As she does, her face undergoes a major transformation. Like a cartoon character, her cheeks turn red, her eyes become slits, and steam seems to escape from her ears.
“I don’t fucking believe it!” she says.
“What?”
She frowns deeply and glares at me.
“Who’s it from?” I ask.
“Trudy Lake.”
I turn off the water. “Trudy Lake?”
Her face is smoldering. This is not a happy teacher.
“You actually know someone named Trudy Lake?” I say.
“It appears we both do,” she says between clenched teeth.
“I wonder how many Trudy Lakes there must be in the world?” I say.
“How many would you guess, Gideon?”
“Thousands.”
“With a 270 area code?”
“How do you know Trudy?” I say.
She stares me down and says, “You first.”
“What did she write?”
“‘Call me.’ Then she gave you her number.”
“Trudy Lake?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Slick.”
Based on nothing more than her steely-eyed glare, I’m guessing Renee’s not a Trudy Lake fan. That makes sense. I picture the map of Western Kentucky in my mind and realize the two women live less than an hour apart. This area’s filled with small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Trudy was the homecoming queen, the prettiest, most popular girl in the county. She’s bound to have female enemies, girls who lost out to her in beauty pageants, cheerleader tryouts, homecoming courts. But Renee’s not pretty enough to have been involved in those activities. Plus, she’s twelve years older than Trudy. So I wonder about the connection.
There’s no denying she’s royally pissed.
I decide to keep it casual, saying, “I met Trudy last night at a restaurant in Clayton. She was my waitress. I’m sure I gave her a bigger tip than she usually gets.”
Noting the fireworks in Renee’s eyes, I add, “As I would for any waitress who doesn’t screw up my order.”
“Why was she texting you?”
“I have no idea. Maybe she wanted to thank me for the tip.”
“How’d she get your phone number?”
“Um…”
“Yeah?”
I’m standing in the shower, naked. She’s got me cornered. There’s no place to run, no place to hide, no way to escape.
I ask, “How is it you know Trudy?”
“She’s my sister.”
43
If you ever want to see a woman at her angriest, fuck her sister.
Renee’s punching and slapping at me and trying to bite me. I’m doing my best to keep the shower curtain between us, while wondering if the state’s motto should be Welcome to Kentucky: three million people, twelve last names!
I remember Trudy said Scooter was a lot older than her mom, and had started another family before they met. I had no way of knowing Renee was related to Trudy, but I’m willing to fuck my way through the entire family to get to Trudy, if that’s what it takes.
Renee pulls the shower rod down and starts flailing away at me while explaining she’s always had to play second fiddle to Trudy. Precious Trudy, the young, pretty half-sister. The one her father chose to live with. The homecoming queen with the four-point-oh grade point average and sparkling personality.
“I can’t believe you fucked my sister!” she yells as she pounds me into a fetal position.
Somewhere between the slaps, punches, and tears-hers, not mine-I manage to calm her down enough to say I never had sex with her sister.
“Swear it!” she yells.
“I swear.”
“You did exactly what to her?”
“I might have kissed her.”
“Kissed her?”
“I might have. You know, like a peck on the cheek?”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t handcuff you to the fence and suck your dick?”
“What?”
“She’s been known to do that.”
“What?”
Now I’m pissed.
44
Trudy Lake.
Dr. Box beat me up pretty good last night. My eyes are so swollen I can barely see out of them. If I shift in my hospital bed the slightest bit it hurts. And a while ago I peed blood. The good news is everyone bought it. Our story, I mean. Not my pee.