“Long fucking arm of the law, coming for you. You best believe it.” He kept flexing his fingers, watching small drops of blood patter down to the surface of his desk, not caring, laughing, feeling fine. Things were back on track again.
When she got back to D amp; S, Rosie found Pam sitting in a folding chair in the basement rec room. She had a paperback in her lap, but she was watching Gert Kinshaw and a skinny little thing who had come in about ten days before-Cynthia something. Cynthia had a gaudy punk hairdo-half green, half orange-and looked as if she might weigh all of ninety pounds. There was a bulky bandage over her left ear, which her boyfriend had tried, with a fair amount of success, to tear off. She was wearing a tank-top with Peter Tosh at the center of a swirling blue-green psychedelic sunburst. NOT GONNA GIVE IT UP! the shirt proclaimed. Every time she moved, the oversized armholes of the shirt disclosed her teacup-sized breasts and small strawberry-colored nipples. She was panting and her face streamed with sweat, but she looked almost daffily pleased to be where she was and who she was. Gert Kinshaw was as different from Cynthia as dark from day. Rosie had never gotten it completely clear in her mind if Gert was a counsellor, a long-time resident of D amp; S, or just a friend of the court, so to speak. She showed up, stayed a few days, and then disappeared again. She often sat in the circle during therapy sessions (these ran twice a day at D amp; S, with attendance at four a week a mandatory condition for residents), but Rosie had never heard her say anything. She was tall, six feet one at least, and big-her shoulders were wide and soft and dark brown, her breasts the size of melons, and her belly a large, pendulous pod that pooched out her size XXXL tee-shirts and hung over the sweatpants she always wore. Her hair was a jumble of frizzy braids (it was very kinky). She looked so much like one of those women you saw sitting in the laundromat, eating Twinkies and reading the latest issue of the National Enquirer, that it was easy to miss the hard flex of her biceps, the toned look of her thighs under the old gray sweatpants, and the way her big ass did not jiggle when she walked. The only time Rosie ever heard her talk much was during these rec-room seminars. Gert taught the fine art of self-defense to any and all D amp; S residents who wanted to learn. Rosie had taken a few lessons herself, and still tried to practice what Gert called Six Great Ways to Fuck Up an Asshole at least once a day. She wasn’t very good at them, and couldn’t imagine actually trying them on a real man-the guy with the David Crosby moustache leaning in the doorway of The Wee Nip, for instance-but she liked Gert. She particularly liked the way Gert’s broad dark face changed when she was teaching, breaking out of its customary claylike immobility and taking on animation and intelligence. Becoming pretty, in fact. Rosie had once asked her what, exactly, she was teaching-was it tae kwon do, or jujitsu, or karate? Some other discipline, perhaps? Gert had just shrugged.
“A little of this and a little of that,” she had said.
“Leftovers.” Now the Ping-Pong table had been moved aside and the middle of the rec-room floor had been covered with gray mats. Eight or nine folding chairs had been set up along one pine-panelled wall, between the ancient stereo and the prehistoric color TV, where everything looked either pale green or pale pink. The only chair currently occupied was the one Pam was sitting on. With her book in her lap, her hair tied back with a piece of blue yarn, and her knees primly together, she looked like a wallflower at a high-school dance. Rosie sat down next to her, propping her wrapped picture against her shins. Gert, easily two hundred and seventy pounds, and Cynthia, who probably could have tipped the scales over a hundred only by wearing Georgia Giants and a fully loaded backpack, circled each other. Cynthia was panting and smiling hugely. Gert was calm and silent, slightly bent at her nonwaist, her arms held out in front of her. Rosie looked at them, both amused and uneasy. It was like watching a squirrel, or maybe a chipmunk, stalk a bear.
“I was getting worried about you,” Pam said.
“The thought of a search-party had crossed my mind, actually.”
“I had the most amazing afternoon. How “bout you, though? How you feeling?”
“Better. In my opinion, Midol is the answer to all the world’s problems. Never mind that, what happened to you? You’re glowing!” “really?” “really. So give. How come?”
“Well, let’s see,” Rosie said. She began to tick things off on her fingers.
“I found out my engagement ring was a fake, I swapped it for a picture-I’m going to hang it in my new place when I get it-I got offered a job…”
She paused-a calculating pause-and then added, “… And I met someone interesting.” Pam looked at her with round eyes.
“You’re making it up!”
“Nope. Swear to God. Don’t get your water hot, though, he’s sixty-five if he’s a day.” She was speaking of Robbie Lefferts, but the image her mind briefly presented to her was Bill Steiner, he of the blue silk vest and interesting eyes. But that was ridiculous. At this point in her life she needed love-interest like she needed lip-cancer. And besides, hadn’t she decided that Steiner had to be at least seven years younger than she? Just a baby, really.
“He’s the one who offered me the job. His name is Robbie Lefferts. But never mind him right now-want to see my new picture?”
“Aw, come on an do it!” Gert said from the middle of the room. She sounded both amiable and irritated.
“This ain’t the school dance, sugar.” The last word came out sugah. Cynthia rushed her, the tail of her oversized tank-top flapping. Gert turned sideways, took the slender girl with the tu-tone hair by the forearms, and flipped her. Cynthia went over with her heels in the air and landed on her back.
“Wheeee!” she said, and bounced back to her feet like a rubber ball.
“No, I don’t want to see your picture,” Pam said.
“Not unless it’s of the guy. Is he really sixty-five? I doubt it!”
“Maybe older,” Rosie said.
“There was another one, though. He was the one who told me that the diamond in my engagement ring was only a zirconia. Then he traded me for the picture.” She paused.
“He wasn’t sixty-five.”
“What did he look like?”
“Hazel eyes,” Rosie said, and bent over her picture.
“No more until you tell me what you think of this.”
“Rosie, don’t be a booger!” Rosie grinned-she had almost forgotten the pleasures of a little harmless teasing-and continued to strip off the wrapping paper with which Bill Steiner had carefully covered the first meaningful purchase of her new life.
“Okay,” Gert told Cynthia, who was once more circling her. Gert bounced slowly up and down on her large brown feet. Her breasts rose and subsided like ocean waves beneath the white tee-shirt she was wearing.
“You see how it’s done, now do it. Remember, you can’t flip me-a pipsqueak like you’d wind up in traction, trying to flip a truck like me-but you can help me to flip myself. You ready?” “ready-ready-Teddy,” Cynthia said. Her grin widened, revealing tiny wicked white teeth. To Rosie they looked like the teeth of some small but dangerous animaclass="underline" a mongoose, perhaps.
“Gertrude Kinshaw, come on down!” Gert rushed. Cynthia seized her meaty forearms, turned a flat, boyish hip into the swell of Gert’s flank with a confidence Rosie knew she herself would never be able to match… and suddenly Gert was airborne, flipping over in midair, a hallucination in a white shirt and gray sweatpants. The shirt slid up to reveal the largest bra Rosie had ever seen; the beige Lycra cups looked like World War I artillery shells. When Gert hit the mats, the room shuddered.
“Yesss!” Cynthia screamed, dancing nimbly around and shaking her clasped hands over her head.
“Big mama goes down! Yessss! YESSSS! Down for the count! Down for the fucking cou-”
Smiling-a rare expression that turned her face into something rather gruesome-Gert picked Cynthia up, held her over her head for a moment with her treelike legs spread, and then began to spin her like an airplane propeller.