"You can presume anything you want," Estelle retorted archly, then stopped and cocked her head. "Do you reckon that's the elevator?"
"I don't care if it's a newly installed escalator to heaven. What about last night?"
She opened the door, popped her head out, and with a squeal, vanished into the hall, leaving me to ponder how much damage I could do with a tube of Strawberry Soda Gloss.
"Will the meeting come to order!" Mrs. Jim Bob said, tapping on the desk with a pencil. "Elsie, just pass the cookies along and stop picking at them. Eula, I thought you agreed to take minutes? You'll have to find something to write with, won't you?" She turned next to Joyce Lambertino. "We'll need another pot of coffee."
Joyce obediently went to the back room of the PD. She was there only because Jim Bob had bullied her husband, Larry Joe, into promising that she-not he-would come. That meant Larry Joe was obliged to babysit the kids, so it wasn't the worst thing ever happened to her. She wasn't real comfortable, since the others looked ready for church and she was wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt, her hair back in a ponytail, "How many cups shall I fix?" she called.
Mrs. Jim Bob rolled her eyes for the others' amusement. "The whole pot, Joyce. Arly should be showing up any minute, and Brother Verber assured me this very afternoon that wild horses couldn't stop him from coming to our meeting. He was so inspired by the opportunity to go to war against Satan that he went by Raz's shack to size him up. I expect him any second with a report so we'll know who and what we're up against."
"Raz Buchanon is who we're up against," Elsie said, peering more closely at the plate of cookies. The lemon ones were out; the tiny candy sprinkles always caught under her dentures. But chocolate gave her heartburn, and the sugar cookies looked stale. She poked one. It was harder than a lump of salt, just as she'd suspected.
"I know that," snapped Mrs. Jim Bob. She was irritated with the poor turnout for the first meeting of her committee, which she intended to call Christians Against Whiskey, as soon as everybody voted for it. Jim Bob had made up a flimsy story about having to be at the supermarket, although she'd seen right through that and let him know she'd stop by to make sure he was there. Eilene Buchanon had refused flat out, saying she had to stay home to wait for a call. Millicent and her husband were more interested in television than the mortal souls of the youth of Maggody. She'd gone so far as to invite the mothers of the three boys who'd been so disgustingly drunk, so they'd find out what the good citizens of Maggody thought of the way the boys had been reared without regard to solid Christian values. They'd declined-every last one of them, and in outright offended voices.
While Mrs. Jim Bob waited, she began a mental list of those who'd made it clear which side of the devil's fence they were on. It never hurt to keep a tally.
In the back room, Joyce got the coffeepot to gurgling, then, in a spurt of daring, slipped out the back door. It was so quiet and calm that she felt like she was in a cathedral. She wouldn't have been surprised if a monk stepped out from behind the lilac bush and started chanting away in a low, singsong voice. For a few minutes, she was a million miles away from her never-ending housework, screaming kids, whiny husband, leaky washing machine, blaring television set, not to mention Mrs. Jim Bob and the other self-righteous committee members busily telling each other how sinful everybody else was and how nigh unto saints they were. Joyce figured she was the one who deserved a halo for putting up with them.
Way up on the slumbering blackness of Cotter's Ridge, an owl hooted. It wasn't a monk, but it was the best Maggody could do on short notice.
"Jesus!" Marvel said as he kicked the side of the station wagon. "What kinda cars are they makin' in Detroit these days? No wonder the Japanese are running us off the road. Jesus!"
He took a knapsack and a carton of milk from the car, kicked it once more, and took off down the road, asking himself why he even bothered to steal American cars. There wasn't anything patriotic about having to walk on his own two feet like an army recruit.
He drained the milk, crumpled the carton, and hurled it at a squirrel at the base of a tree. "Have yourself a feast of cardboard, my fuzzy little man."
The squirrel, having chanced into a scattering of cracker crumbs, failed to acknowledge the missile as it sailed over him and landed in a mass of poison ivy.
Marvel continued to hike along the rocky road, determined to have a fine time and not to think about what his mama would do when he got home. He still couldn't believe that Dwayne and Terence had fingered him for the holdup at the liquor store-and that not one of the lily-white, myopic librarians could back up his story. All he'd gotten in return for three hours of reading up on dead presidents was a warrant for his arrest-and a sudden desire to visit Monticello. Maybe Tommy Jefferson might have some suggestions how to go about keeping his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
"Could we get back to the story?" I said, amazed that I could speak so clearly through clenched teeth. "What happened last night?"
Ruby Bee lay on the bed, fanning herself with a church bulletin from her handbag. I almost felt sorry for her. Her dress was stained and wrinkled, and her hose looked as though she'd staggered through brambles. Her face was pale, her hair chaotic, her eyes pink and vague. "It was terrible, just terrible," she said wearily. "The only thing that might help is a cold can of soda from that machine by the elevator."
Estelle sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Ruby Bee's arm. "Arly's on her way lickety-split to fetch you one. You just lie still and rest. Nobody's gonna pester you to talk when anyone with an ounce of decency can see you're smack out of spit."
As I said, almost sorry for her. I grabbed some change from the dresser and marched down the hall to buy the damn soda. Okay, so she was entitled to play the martyr, but so was I and nobody appreciated it. The airline ticket had cost me all of my savings and most of next month's salary-if I got it. I'd stuffed clothes in a carry-on and driven like a charioteer to the airport to catch a plane with ten seconds to spare. I'd endured a cramped commuter flight, only to race to the opposite end of the terminal to catch a larger plane and be smothered for nearly three hours by Toledo Ted. I was in the middle of the one place I didn't want to be, and there was no way to ignore its omnipresence outside the hotel.
I jammed coins into the slot, pushed a button, and bent down to get the damn can out of the tray. No damn can rolled into reach. I banged the plastic facade, which in no way resembled my exhusband's face. "You sorry son of a bitch," I growled, pulling back my foot to kick it like it'd never been kicked before.
"I wouldn't do that," said a morose voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder at the man in the doorway. Despite his shabby bathrobe and bare, hairy ankles above slippers, he was intriguing enough to stop me from breaking a toe or two. The bathrobe hung oddly, and after a moment, I realized it was draped over a sling supporting his arm.
"Are you Durmond Pilverman? " I asked.
He nodded, smiling just a bit. "I'm sorry to say I am. Were I an employee of this hotel, I would take it upon myself to kick that machine for you. However, I am merely a guest, and all I can do is suggest you try the machine in the lounge below. The light was flashing, which may indicate it works." He sighed. "But very little works in this city."
"I'm Arly Hanks, daughter of your…assailant," I murmured, confused by his gallant little speech, and less than pleased to be caught in the act of attacking a mindless machine. I was even less pleased that I was doing so in a grimy outfit that had looked much better seven hours and two thousand miles ago. "I'm…uh, glad you're okay, Mr. Pilverman. I still have no idea what's going on, but it's encouraging to know Ruby Bee didn't…"