bulletin board behind me caught my eye. I quickly checked the back.
" Received check. Marking debt paid. Guess Pala still trumps us all in your affections. Please, for the millionth time, try G. A. Love, Matt ."
* * *
"G. A.?" said Harley, back in the car. "Glenlove Applesauce or Geritol Anise flavor? And who's Pala?"
"I don't know. Her horse?" I said. "She gave me the name of a lawyer, but I'll have to sell my condo to pay for a consult."
"I've got four hundred dollars."
"Oh, man." And I’d been mean to her just the day before. "Thanks, Harley. That means a lot to me."
"Lawyers charge that much just to clear their throats. But I can tell you right now Marian didn't do it."
"How?" I asked. "You have a crystal ball?"
"No. I checked her IRS file. She won the car in a raffle and she doesn't make enough money otherwise to be Reynard Jackson."
CHAPTER 10
I slept like an eggbeater in a meringue factory that night. On Acorn Street, the Santa Ana winds whipped the jack-o'-lantern flag out front around its pole and Arlene's wind chimes went crazy. My mind flipped around with them. How had Reynard Jackson somehow gotten my book, polished it in his voice, and published it in just a couple of months when it would have taken over a year to get any publisher to get it on shelves for anyone else? I wanted to strangle his anonymous little neck. Slowly and painfully. Five times.
In the wee hours, the hinges on the front door of the Acorn Street house squeaked. Then the banging started. I got up.
The living room yielded a flapping front door, hitting the wall in the harsh wind. I shut it, grabbed Music Man's spare cane from the hall umbrella stand, and took my martial arts ready pose. I started cautiously toward the kitchen with Bing, who was not growling or barking, but seemed to be laughing at me.
A quick sweep of the house yielded only Dad's empty bed. No intruders. No ghosts. Just Bing licking my leg with his drooly doggy tongue. I threw him a dog cookie for being correct and he put me on a leash. We walked out front and saw Music Man shuffling up the middle of the street toward the walk, cane clunking along, gray mane flying.
“Get inside!" he barked. "You'll get sick out here in that T-shirt, Rhonda. It's cold.” Definitely not sleepwalking.
"Why were you walking in the middle of the street at night, Dad? Somebody could run over you."
"Gotta get my exercise. I have as much right to be in the middle of the street as all those cars. I pay my taxes. Besides, I do it every night and I've never had a problem." He toddled off to bed.
I had no idea my mother slept so well.
* * *
I awoke the next morning once more to the smoke alarm and a repeat feeding of the tastiest portions of poor, unfortunate farm beasts. At which I balked. Not for the sake of frolicking Wilbur and Babe so much as the memory of those Burger King comfort-food fries from yesterday. Not that I was fat. I just had this tummy and these thighs that my pickup basketball games weren't taking care of. Thirty-four seemed to be the magic age where I couldn't sit all day in the library anymore and come home and write all evening without things beginning to spread. The good news was that my jeans fit better now, thanks to two months of park skating.
So I poured myself a bowl of cereal, and Dad recited the rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife.
Arlene called. She'd done a quick search of OASIS programs for temporary senior placement in the area. All were full. And, thanks to Dad’s adventures at Ralston House, all facilities now required that a doctor first evaluate any new resident's mental health before admission. Good thing I’d scheduled this 9:45 doctor's appointment. After that, I planned to hit another bookstore to find Jackson's book.
I tried to get us into the car on time with the pretense of going to see Mom, but Music Man wouldn't leave the kitchen until the last dish was dry at 9:37. I hated
" Received check. Marking debt paid. Guess Pala still trumps us all in your affections. Please, for the millionth time, try G. A. Love, Matt ."
* * *
"G. A.?" said Harley, back in the car. "Glenlove Applesauce or Geritol Anise flavor? And who's Pala?"
"I don't know. Her horse?" I said. "She gave me the name of a lawyer, but I'll have to sell my condo to pay for a consult."
"I've got four hundred dollars."
"Oh, man." And I’d been mean to her just the day before. "Thanks, Harley. That means a lot to me."
"Lawyers charge that much just to clear their throats. But I can tell you right now Marian didn't do it."
"How?" I asked. "You have a crystal ball?"
"No. I checked her IRS file. She won the car in a raffle and she doesn't make enough money otherwise to be Reynard Jackson."
CHAPTER 10
I slept like an eggbeater in a meringue factory that night. On Acorn Street, the Santa Ana winds whipped the jack-o'-lantern flag out front around its pole and Arlene's wind chimes went crazy. My mind flipped around with them. How had Reynard Jackson somehow gotten my book, polished it in his voice, and published it in just a couple of months when it would have taken over a year to get any publisher to get it on shelves for anyone else? I wanted to strangle his anonymous little neck. Slowly and painfully. Five times.
In the wee hours, the hinges on the front door of the Acorn Street house squeaked. Then the banging started. I got up.
The living room yielded a flapping front door, hitting the wall in the harsh wind. I shut it, grabbed Music Man's spare cane from the hall umbrella stand, and took my martial arts ready pose. I started cautiously toward the kitchen with Bing, who was not growling or barking, but seemed to be laughing at me.
A quick sweep of the house yielded only Dad's empty bed. No intruders. No ghosts. Just Bing licking my leg with his drooly doggy tongue. I threw him a dog cookie for being correct and he put me on a leash. We walked out front and saw Music Man shuffling up the middle of the street toward the walk, cane clunking along, gray mane flying.
“Get inside!" he barked. "You'll get sick out here in that T-shirt, Rhonda. It's cold.” Definitely not sleepwalking.
"Why were you walking in the middle of the street at night, Dad? Somebody could run over you."
"Gotta get my exercise. I have as much right to be in the middle of the street as all those cars. I pay my taxes. Besides, I do it every night and I've never had a problem." He toddled off to bed.
I had no idea my mother slept so well.
* * *
I awoke the next morning once more to the smoke alarm and a repeat feeding of the tastiest portions of poor, unfortunate farm beasts. At which I balked. Not for the sake of frolicking Wilbur and Babe so much as the memory of those Burger King comfort-food fries from yesterday. Not that I was fat. I just had this tummy and these thighs that my pickup basketball games weren't taking care of. Thirty-four seemed to be the magic age where I couldn't sit all day in the library anymore and come home and write all evening without things beginning to spread. The good news was that my jeans fit better now, thanks to two months of park skating.
So I poured myself a bowl of cereal, and Dad recited the rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife.
Arlene called. She'd done a quick search of OASIS programs for temporary senior placement in the area. All were full. And, thanks to Dad’s adventures at Ralston House, all facilities now required that a doctor first evaluate any new resident's mental health before admission. Good thing I’d scheduled this 9:45 doctor's appointment. After that, I planned to hit another bookstore to find Jackson's book.
I tried to get us into the car on time with the pretense of going to see Mom, but Music Man wouldn't leave the kitchen until the last dish was dry at 9:37. I hated
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