Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

“Holy Jesus,” I said.

“So she didn't have any choice. She put on the costume, the fat little pink body with the sign on it and the little curlicue tail sticking out of its rear, and the pink rubber mask, and she walked down the stairs. I still don't know how she forced herself to walk down those stairs. I could hear her sobbing from the landing, where I was, but she had this pig mask on, you know? Nobody could see the tears. And down at the bottom of the stairs her date was waiting. He was dressed as a prince. Of course he was dressed as a prince. He had this dumb little sword at his side and this stupid little cape, and as he saw Aimee come down the stairs, his face dropped, and then, because he was a gentleman even at his age, he dredged up a smile. I'm still amazed that Aimee didn't die on the spot when she saw that smile.

“And they went off together, him smiling bravely, the prince who had chosen a pig, and her crying until she must have been soaked inside that rubber costume, and she won first prize at the party. All the other little girls were princesses, except the few who were ballerinas. And she came home with this big fat vulgar brass trophy, and my dad said, ‘See? What was all the fuss about?’ And to this day he doesn't understand why she threw the trophy through the picture window in the living room. He still doesn't know what he did to her.” She remembered her cigarette and stared at it as though she'd never seen it before.

“He thinks he's her best friend,” I said.

“There you are,” she said. “Childhood is so much fun.”

“Did that kind of thing happen often?”

“How often does it have to happen? It's not like they were belting us or hanging us up by our thumbs all the time. They've both just forgotten completely what it's like to be a kid. They take family votes to settle things, but their votes count for more than ours do. We're supposed to be little adults about it when they outvote us, two to four. Well, fuck that, we're not little adults. Aimee's still a baby. And two against four isn't a majority. Kids have a sense of justice, and you can't screw with it.”

I retrieved the bottle and knocked back a swig. “Did you ever run away?”

“No,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Aimee had all the guts,” she said.

“Has,” I said. Aurora looked at me, stricken by what she'd said.

The knob on the front door turned, and I snatched the cigarette away from her so that I was holding both the Marlboro and the bottle when Mrs. Sorrell came into the room.

“Rory,” she said in a voice that was already furred by drink, “what in the world are you doing?”

Rory settled back onto the couch and crossed her arms. “I'm watching Mr. What's-his-name here drink and smoke,” she said. “Just honing the skills I picked up at home.”

Her mother swatted away some invisible gnats in front of her. “Well,” she said, “go into the other room.”

“Hey, don't worry,” Rory said, glancing at me. “I've got potatoes in my ears.”

“Is that supposed to be funny, miss?” Mrs. Sorrell said. “Don't you think I've got enough troubles without my own daughter turning into Henny Youngman?”

“Henny who ?” Rory asked in honest bewilderment.

“Never you mind. Just make yourself scarce.”

“Oink,” Rory said, looking back at me as she stood up. Her elegant legs, brown below the white shorts, twinkled at me as though they had been dusted with Tinker Bell's goofus sparkles as she walked away. “Oink, oink,” she said. “Everything but the squeal.”

“What have you been telling him?” her mother demanded.

“Oh, Mother,” Rory said. “The truth will out.” She gave me another glance, walked very slowly to the door to what I supposed was the bedroom, and pulled it shut softly behind her. Mrs. Sorrell watched the door for a moment as though she expected it to open again, and then shook her head.

“We shouldn't have brought her,” she said, “but we were afraid to leave her alone, after, well, after Aimee. And it's Easter vacation and she wanted to see L.A. And, I don't know, I thought if we found Aimee she might be more willing to come home if Rory were with us. If we found Aimee,” she added bitterly. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, stretching the skin tight over the fine bones of her face, and I could see Rory's face peeking out at me through her mother's. “So I'm drinking,” she said. “The one thing I shouldn't be doing.”

She was wearing a white blouse with little red cherries embroidered on the collar and a pair of navy-blue slacks with big safari-style pockets. There were three long scratches on her forehead from where she'd raked it with her nails, red, angry parallel lines. Hers wasn't the kind of face that should have had scratches on it. They made her look younger and softer than her daughter.

“Well,” I said, hoisting the bottle, “at least you're not drinking alone.”

“Put it down,” she said in a tone that brooked no discussion. “One of us has to be clear-headed. I have something to show you, but first I have to know if you've learned anything.”

“Not much,” I said. I wasn't going to tell her about the girl on the slab and the burn in her navel. Not until I had to, at any rate. “I've been on the street for four days but I haven't found anyone who can put her there with certainty. That's where she was, though. There's a whole community of them out there.”

“She's not there anymore,” she said. “Come out on the terrace. I don't want Rory listening through the door.”

I put down the bottle as she crossed the room to a big sliding glass door and pushed it open. I couldn't figure out what to do with the cigarette, so I carried it out onto the terrace and crushed it underfoot.

The terrace was enclosed by ten-foot pink walls and overgrown vegetation. A hummingbird that had been feeding on a big leathery copadeoro gave us an indignant midair stare and thrummed off over the wall.

“I hate those things,” she said vaguely. “They're neither birds nor insects. They're like leftovers from some time when lizards flew and snakes swam. I always think they'll have dandruff.”

I like hummingbirds, but I kept quiet. Mrs. Sorrell fished in the pocket of her slacks and pulled out a piece of paper. “We have to go home,” she said wearily. “I guess I knew this was going to happen. I just hoped we'd find her before it did.” I put out a hand and she put the paper into it. Then she sank onto a chaise and crossed her ankles, looking down at her hands resting in her lap. I opened the paper.

Same kind of paper, same dot-matrix printer as before. GET $20,000, it said, all in caps. BE HOME TUESDAY AFTERNOON. I'LL CALL.

I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. “When did this arrive?”

“Here? Today. It got to Kansas City yesterday. The maid sends my mail out every day, Federal Express.”

“Has he seen it?”

“He went home yesterday. I made him. I was worried about his heart.”

“You're going to have to tell him now.”

She looked up at me. “The hell I am,” she said.

“But the money.”

She lifted one hand from her lap and waved it away. “I've got money of my own,” she said. “I'm richer than Daddy will ever be.”

“You'll get the money, of course.”

“Certainly I will. She's my little girl.” She blinked twice, very quickly, and then drew both hands into fists. “The question,” she said, after a moment, “is what you'll be doing.”

“I've got two places to go today,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “One of them, I'm not so sure about. I'll get something at the other one.”

She looked back down at her lap, at the two sharp little fists and the expanse of navy-blue cloth drawn tight over her childbearing hips. “Please,” she said in a very small voice, “see that you do.”