“Well, all right,” she said. “I guess you didn’t mind what I told her.” She laughed out loud with relief.
“Why, everwho did you tell what?” someone said.
She picked up the guitar and held it like a weapon in front of her. “Daddy?”
“Put that down,” the voice said. A man stepped forward out of the shadow of the rosebushes. “I’m not your damn Daddy. Although, come to think of it, I would like to know where he is.”
“Ryan Shoemaker,” Fran said. She put the guitar down on the ground. Another man stepped forward. “And Kyle Rainey.”
“Howdy, Fran,” said Kyle. He spat. “We were lookin’ for your pappy, like Ryan says.”
“If he calls I’ll let him know you were up here looking for him,” Fran said. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”
Ryan lit up a cigarette, looked at her over the flame. “It was your daddy we wanted to ask, but I guess you could help us out instead.”
“It don’t seem likely somehow,” Fran said. “But go on.”
“Your daddy was meaning to drop off some of the sweet stuff the other night,” Kyle said. “Only, he started thinking about it on the drive down, and that’s never been a good idea where your daddy is concerned. He decided Jesus wanted him to pour out every last drop, and that’s what he did all the way down the mountain. If he weren’t a lucky man, some spark might have cotched while he were pouring, but I guess Jesus doesn’t want to meet him face to face just yet.”
“And if that weren’t bad enough,” Ryan said, “when he got to the convenience, he decided that Jesus wanted him to get into the van and smash up all Andy’s liquor, too. By the time we realized what was going on, there weren’t much left besides two bottles of Kahlua and a six-pack of wine coolers.”
“One of them smashed, too,” Kyle said. “And then he took off afore we could have a word with him.”
“Well, I’m sorry for your troubles, but I don’t see what it has to do with me,” Fran said.
“What it has to do is that we’ve come up with an easy payment plan. We talked about it, and the way it seems to us is that your pappy could provide us with entrée to some of the finest homes in the area.”
“Like I said,” Fran said. “I’ll pass on the message. You’re hoping my daddy will make his restitution by becoming your accessory in breaking and entering. I’ll let him know if he calls.”
“Or he could pay poor Andy back in kind,” Ryan said. “With some of that good stuff.”
“He’ll have to run that by Jesus,” Fran said. “Frankly, I think it’s a better bet than the other, but you might have to wait until he and Jesus have had enough of each other.”
“The thing is,” Ryan said, “I’m not a patient man. And what has occurred to me is that your pappy may be out of our reach at present moment, but here you are. And I’m guessing that you can get us in to a house or two. Preferably ones with quality flat screens and high-thread-count sheets. I promised Mandy I was going to help her redecorate.”
“Or else you could point us in the direction of your daddy’s private stash,” Kyle said.
“And if I don’t choose to do neither?” Fran asked, crossing her arms.
“I truly hope that you know what it is you’re doing,” Kyle said. “Ryan has not been in a good mood these last few days. He bit a sheriff’s deputy on the arm last night in a bar. Which is why we weren’t up here sooner.”
“He was pigheaded, just like you,” Ryan said. “No pun intended. But I bet you’d taste better.”
Fran stepped back. “Fine. There’s an old house farther up the road that nobody except me and my daddy knows about. It’s ruint. Nobody lives there, and so my daddy put his still up in it. He’s got all sorts of articles stashed up there. I’ll take you up. But you can’t tell him what I done.”
“Course not, darlin’,” Kyle said. “We don’t aim to cause a rift in the family. Just to get what we have coming.”
And so Fran found herself climbing right back up that same road. She got her feet wet in the drain but kept as far ahead of Kyle and Ryan as she dared. She didn’t know if she felt safe with them at her back.
When they got up to the house, Kyle whistled. “Fancy sort of ruin.”
“Wait’ll you see what’s inside,” Fran said. She led them around to the back, then held the door open. “Sorry about the lights. The power goes off more than it stays on. My daddy usually brings up a torch. Want me to go get one?”
“We’ve got matches,” Ryan said. “You stay right there.”
“The still is in the room over on the right. Mind how you go. He’s got it set up in a kind of maze, with the newspapers and all.”
“Dark as the inside of a mine at midnight,” Kyle said. He felt his way down the hall. “I think I’m at the door. Sure enough, smells like what I’m lookin’ for. Guess I’ll just follow my nose. No booby traps or nothing like that?”
“No sir,” Fran said. “He’d have blowed himself up a long time before now if he tried that.”
“I might as well take in the sights,” Ryan said, the lit end of his cigarette flaring. “Now that I’m getting my night vision.”
“Yes sir,” Fran said.
“And might there be a pisser in this heap?”
“Third door on the left, once you go up,” Fran said. “The door sticks some.”
She waited until he was at the top of the stairs before she slipped out the back door again. She could hear Kyle fumbling toward the center of the queen’s room. She wondered what the queen would make of Kyle. She wasn’t worried about Ophelia at all. Ophelia was an invited guest. And anyhow, the summer people didn’t let anything happen to the ones who looked after them.
One of the summer people was sitting on the porch swing when she came out. He was whittling a stick with a sharp knife.
“Evening,” Fran said and bobbed her head.
The summer personage didn’t even look up at her. He was one of the ones so pretty it almost hurt to peep at him, but you couldn’t not stare, neither. That was one of the ways they cotched you, Fran figured. Just like wild animals when you shone a light at them. She finally tore her gaze away and ran down the stairs like the devil was after her. When she stopped to look back, he was still setting there, smiling and whittling that poor stick down.
She sold the guitar when she got to New York City. What was left of her daddy’s two hundred dollars had bought her a Greyhound ticket and a couple of burgers at the bus station. The guitar got her six hundred more, and she used that to buy a ticket to Paris, where she met a Lebanese boy who was squatting in an old factory. One day she came back from her under-the-table job at a hotel and found him looking through her backpack. He had the monkey egg in his hand. He wound it up and put it down on the dirty floor to dance. They both watched until it ran down. “Très jolie,” he said.
It was a few days after Christmas, and there was snow melting in her hair. They didn’t have heat in the squat, or even running water. She’d had a bad cough for a few days. She sat down next to her boy, and when he started to wind up the monkey egg again, she put her hand out to make him stop.
She didn’t remember packing it. And of course, maybe she hadn’t. For all she knew, they had winter places as well as summer places. Just because she’d never been able to travel didn’t mean they didn’t get around.
A few days later, the Lebanese boy disappeared off, probably looking for someplace warmer. The monkey egg went with him. After that, all she had to remind herself of home was the tent that she kept folded up like a dirty handkerchief in her wallet.
It’s been two years, and every now and again, while Fran is cleaning rooms in the pension, she closes the door and sets up the tent and gets inside. She looks out the window at the two apple trees. She tells herself that one day soon she will go home again.