“Did what?” I ask.
“Nan!” Clemmi pleads.
“Y’know what this chemo costs? Two hundred dollars a bottle-and that’s with insurance!”
“Nan!”
Nan stops right there, locking back on Clemmi. “Did you just raise your voice at me?”
“Don’t talk to him like that.”
Clearly smoldering, Nan slides her jaw off-center, opens her mouth, and pops her jawbone like she’s cocking a gun. It freaks the hell outta me. From the look on Clementine’s face, I’m not the only one.
“I know you want me dead,” Nan says.
“I don’t want you dead,” Clementine pleads, cutting past her on the stairs. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve never agreed to look after you.”
“Look after me? I’m not a cat! This is my house! You live with me!”
At the end of the block, a car door slams. I squint, cursing how far it is. No way was that a cat.
“Um… Clemmi,” I try to interrupt.
“I’m not fighting with you, Nan. Not tonight.”
“Why? Because your boyfriend’s here in his nice fresh suit? You’re worried about him seeing the real you-the girl that lost her job at the radio station and is lucky to live with an old lady?”
Clementine freezes. Nan stands up straight, well aware of the damage.
“You didn’t even tell him you lost your job, did you?” Nan asks almost as if she’s enjoying herself. “Lemme guess-you’re still trying to impress him.”
“Will you stop?” Turning to me, Clementine adds, “I swear, I was gonna tell you-I just figured one lie at a time-”
“I absolutely understand,” Nan interrupts. “A girl in your condition-”
“Nan!” Clemmi explodes, her voice echoing up the dark block. “Beecher, I’m sorry-I really am. She gets mean when it’s late.”
“Hold on, this is Beecher?” Nan asks. “This is the one you used to have the crush on? He’s a nothing-look at him!”
“You know nothing about him!” Clementine threatens.
“I can see right now…!”
“No. You can’t see anything. And y’know why?” Clementine growls, turning back and leaning in close on the staircase. “Because even on your very best day, you’re not half the person he is. Not even close,” she insists as Nan takes a small step backward, down to the lower step.
“Beecher, I’m sorry-I’ll call you tomorrow,” Clementine calls out as she tugs her grandmother by the arm. “Nan, let’s go.”
Anxious to disappear, Clementine races up the stairs. Her grandmother’s about to follow, but at the last moment the old woman turns back to me, feeling my stare. “What? You being judgmental? Say it already.”
“You’re lucky you have her,” I tell her.
Her jaw shifts off-center, and I again wait for the pop. The only thing that comes is her low whisper, each syllable puffing with a tiny blast of cold air. “Go lick yourself, Dudley Do-Right. If it wasn’t for you knocking her up, she wouldn’t even be in this mess.”
A buzzing in my ears becomes deafening.
“Wh-What?”
“You think I’m blind as well as dumb? Would you really be coming back here if she didn’t have you by the scrotum with this kid thing? I swear to Christ, they keep getting dumber.”
“Nan! Come inside!” Clementine calls out.
With a final angry glare-a protective glare-the old woman makes her way back up the brick staircase, the colostomy bag swaying like a pendulum inside her pant leg.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Pregnant.
If it’s true… it’d certainly explain why Clemmi was nauseous before-and more important, why now, of all moments, she suddenly started looking for her father.
Still, as it all sets in, as I realize where I am-alone… in the dark… with no one around-I need to get out of here.
Opening the door and sliding inside Tot’s car, I notice a black leatherette glove in the passenger seat. The fingers are thin. Definitely Clementine’s.
I look up the brick staircase. Both the screen door and the main door are shut. But I can still see the glow of the light inside.
I should leave her alone. She’s had enough embarrassment for one night. But if I drop it off now… It’ll only take a second. I can even make sure she’s okay.
I elbow the car door open.
As I hop outside, a hard shove drills me from behind, knocking me face-forward to the pavement. I fight to stop the fall, but my arms-zzzzppp, zzzzppp-they’re pinned… handcuffed… Whoever it is, he’s strong. My arms are pinned behind my back.
Help! Someone help, I want to yell as my chin stabs the concrete and the wind’s knocked out of me. A sharp knee digs into my back and long strong fingers stuff a smelly rag in my mouth. The smell… It’s awful… Like burnt hair.
I try to spit out the rag, but the strong fingers grip my mouth and pinch my nose, making me take an even deeper breath.
Facedown on the pavement, I twist like a fish, trying to fight… to get free… to get a look at my attacker. A second knee stabs my back.
Dizziness sets in…
No, don’t pass out!
I twist again and he shoves my face down, pinning my left cheek to the cold pavement, which now seems soft and warm. Like it’s melting. The world seesaws and continues to tumble.
The very last thing I see, in the reflection of the Mustang’s shiny hubcap, is an upside-down, funhouse-mirror view of my attacker.
50
I’m awake.
I was unconscious, now I’m awake.
It takes nothing to snap between the two. No time.
My eyes open, and I’m staring at bright yellow flowers. Sunflowers. My sister loves sunflowers.
I blink quickly, struggling to adjust to the light.
It’s light. Is… is it daytime?
No, the curtains are closed. The light’s in here.
There’s the hum of central heating.
My brain’s swirling. Is Clemmi…? Yeah… I remember… Clemmi’s pregnant.
Nuhhh.
Clemmi’s pregnant and my chin hurts. It hurts bad.
My shoulders are sore. A hard tug tells me why. My arms are still handcuffed behind my back.
But as I look down, what catches my eye is the chair I’m sitting in. It’s got armrests. Upholstered fancy armrests. With nailheads.
I look back at the sunflowers. They sit in a fine Asian vase on a beautiful hand-carved coffee table.
In the Archives, I’ve read the top-secret reports of where the CIA brought all the terror suspects after 9/11. It wasn’t a well-appointed room like this.
But even without the handcuffs, drugging, and kidnapping, I’m starting to think this is worse.
I glance around, trying to figure out how long I’ve been out. It looks dark through the closed curtains, but it could just as easily be early morning. I search the room for a clock. Nothing. In fact, the more I look around-at the little wastebasket, at the built-in library, where every leather-bound book is the exact same size-the whole room is so perfect, it makes me wonder if I’m in some kinda hotel, or… maybe this is someone’s private SCIF…
On my left, I spot a framed black-and-white photograph of the White House covered with scaffolding and surrounded by dump trucks. It’s from 1949, back when they were doing the construction that added the Truman Balcony.
Please tell me I’m not in the White House…
There’s a flush of a toilet behind me.
I twist in my seat, frantically following the sound. Someone’s in the bathroom. But what grabs my attention is the sliding mirrored door of the closet that sits next to it.
The closet’s empty. No clothes… no shoes… not even a set of hangers.
It’s the same all around.
No trash in the garbage. No photos on the walls… or the end tables… The chocolate brown leather sofa on my left has no give in any of the cushions. Like it’s never been sat in.