Here came that unsettling shift in the girl’s eyes, like a sudden muddy tide washing through clean water, an uncharacteristic despair that even candlelight was sufficiently bright to reveal.
In spite of the news about the marriage, Micky clung to the hope that her newfound desire to act as — so to speak — her sister’s keeper could be fulfilled at least to some small extent. “Whether he’s your legal stepfather or not, the proper authorities will—“
“The proper authorities didn’t nail the guy who killed Mrs. D’s husband,” Leilani said. “She had to track Alec Baldwin to New Orleans and blow him away herself.”
“With great satisfaction,” Geneva noted, raising her coffee cup as if in a toast to the liberating power of vengeance.
For once, no sparkle of humor enlivened Leilani’s blue eyes, no thinnest paring of a wry smile curled either corner of her mouth, and no sportive note informed her voice as she met Micky’s stare with a piercing directness, and said almost in a whisper, “When you were such a pretty little girl and bad people took things from you that you never-ever wanted to give, the proper authorities weren’t there for you even once, were they, Michelina?”
Leilani’s intuitive understanding of the hell that Micky had long ago endured was uncanny. The empathy in those blue eyes rocked her and left her with the certain sense that the most closely guarded truths about herself had been exposed, ugly secrets around which she had constructed impregnable vaults of shame. And though she had never expected to speak to another human being about those years of ordeal and humiliation, although until this moment she would have angrily denied ever being anyone’s victim, she didn’t feel wounded by this exposure, as she would have expected, didn’t feel mortified or in the least diminished, but felt instead as if a painfully constricting knot had at last come loose inside her, and realized that sympathy, as this girl had shown it to her, did not have to contain any element of condescension.
“Were they ever there?” Leilani asked again.
Not trusting herself to speak, Micky shook her head, which was the first admission she had ever made of the painful past on which her life was built. She slid her guarded dessert, untouched, in front of Leilani.
Geneva was the only one to bring tears to the table, and she blew her nose noisily in a Kleenex. Of course, she might be flashing back to some tender moment she believed that she’d shared with Clark Gable or Jimmy Stewart, or William Holden, but Micky sensed that her aunt was fully in the thrall of this moment and in the firm grip of the real.
Micky said, “It’s hard to make up anything as weird as what is.”
“Yeah, I heard that somewhere,” Leilani replied, picking up her fork.
“He is a murderer — isn’t he? — just as your mother turned out to be the way you said she was.”
Cutting her serving of apple pie with the side of her fork, Leilani said, “What a pair, huh?”
“But eleven people? How could he—“
“No offense, Micky, but the story of Dr. Doom and his multiple homicides is a dreary tale, more tedious than titillating, and it can only bring this lovely evening to a new low. It’s already been dragged pretty low, thanks to old Sinsemilla’s performance. If you really want to know about Preston Claudius Maddoc, kissing cousin to the Grim Reaper, try reading the news. He hasn’t been on the front pages for a while, but the whole strange story is out there if you want to look it up. As for me, I’d rather eat pie, talk about pie, philosophize about pie, and just in general spend the rest of the evening in a pie kind of mood.”
“Yeah, I can see why you’d want to do that. But you’ve got to know what one question I can’t avoid asking.”
“Sure, I know,” the girl said, lowering her gaze to her plate, but hesitating with her fork poised over the pie.
in a miserable voice, Aunt Gen said, “It’s never this bad in the movies.”
And Micky said to Leilani, “Did he kill your brother, Lukipela?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 12
Inside the restaurant, which must have the capacity to seat at least three hundred, the boy, without dog, glides past the distracted hostess.
Quickly glancing around as he moves, he notices only a few children here and there, all with their families. He’d been hoping for more kids, lots of kids, so he won’t be so easy to spot if the wrong people come looking.
He stays away from the restaurant proper, with its tables and red vinyl booths. Instead he goes directly to the lunch counter, where customers occupy fewer than half the stools.
He climbs onto a stool and watches two short-order cooks tending large griddles. They’re frying bacon, hamburger patties, eggs, and mounds of crispy hash browns glistening with oil.
As if there’s already something of the dog’s heart twined with his own, the boy finds his mouth filled with saliva, and he swallows hard to keep from drooling.
“What can I do ya for, big guy?” a counter waitress inquires.
She’s a fantastically large person, nearly as round as she is talclass="underline" bosoms the size of goose-down pillows, fine hulking shoulders, a neck made to burst restraining collars, and the proud chins of a fattened bull. Her uniform features short sleeves, and her exposed arms are as big as those of a bodybuilder, although without muscle definition— immense, smooth, pink. As if to provide the illusion of height and to balance her spherical body, she boasts a colossal mass of lustrous auburn hair, twisted and braided and flared and folded into an amazing work of architecture, high at the top of which is pinned a little yellow-and-white uniform cap that could be easily mistaken for a resting butterfly.
The boy marvels, wondering what being this woman would be like, whether she always feels as great and powerful as she looks, rhino-powerful, or whether sometimes she feels as weak and frightened as any lesser person. Surely not. She is majestic. She is magnificent, beautiful. She can live by her own rules, do as she wishes, and the world will treat her with awe, with the respect that she deserves.
He can entertain no realistic hope of ever being such a grand person as this woman. With his weak will and unreliable wits, he’s barely able to be poor Curtis Hammond. And yet he tries. He says, “My name’s Curtis, and my dad sent me in for some grub to go.”
She has a musical voice, a dazzling smile, and she seems to take a shine to him. “Well, Curtis, my name’s Donella, ’cause my dad was Don and my mom was Ella — and I think what we serve here is a few notches above plain grub.”
“It sure smells fantastic.” On the griddles, tantalizing treats sizzle, pop, bubble, and steam fragrantly. “Boy, I’ve never seen a place like this.”
“Really? You don’t look like you’ve been raised in a box.”
He blinks, thinking furiously, striving to comprehend what she has suggested, but he can’t avoid the question: “Were you?”
“Were I what?”
“Raised in a box?”
Donella wrinkles her nose. This is virtually the only part of her face that she can wrinkle, because everything else is gloriously full, round, smooth, and too firmly packed even to dimple. “Curtis, you disappoint me. I thought you were a good boy, a nice boy, not a smart aleck.”
Oh, Lord, he’s put his foot wrong again, stepped in a pile of doo-doo, figuratively speaking, but he can’t understand what he’s done to offend and can’t imagine how to get himself admitted to her good graces once more. He dare not call undue attention to himself, not with so many murderous hunters looking for someone his size, and he absolutely must obtain food for himself and for Old Yeller, who is depending on him, but Donella controls his access to the grub, or to whatever you call it when it’s a few notches above plain grub.