Ed Gorman - Ticket to Ride

“Who’s speaking, please?”

“This is the maid.”

“This is Sam McCain. Is Linda there?”

There was a long pause. “She can’t come to the phone right now. I’m sorry, Mr. McCain.”

“Then how about William Hughes? Is he around?”

Even though I didn’t hear another voice, I pictured somebody coaching her, the way Wendy had coached Jamie. “I’m afraid he’s busy, too.” She paused, and then like an actor who’d suddenly remembered her line she said: “They’re working on plans for the funeral.”

“I see.”

The temptation was to ask if everything was all right, but obviously it wasn’t all right; and if I asked it, I’d only be putting her in more difficulty. “Would you please ask one of them to call me at my office?”

“Yes, of course. Good-bye now.”

“Don’t you want my number?”

This time I did hear another voice. An angry director not happy with how his ingenue was performing.

“Oh, yes, Mr. McCain. I’m sorry. Of course I want your number. What is it, please?”

I gave it to her, but I doubted she wrote it down.

“Please have them call me. It’s important.”

“I will. Good-bye, Mr. McCain.”

After I hung up, I sat there sorting through everything I’d just heard. Something was wrong out at the Bennetts’. Maybe it was just an angry family argument. Maybe Linda and Hughes were going at each other. That’s not uncommon following a death. Old grudges are aired and bitterness thrives. I had a client once who wanted me to sue her sister for belting her in the eye. They’d argued over who had really been their dead daddy’s favorite. I finally talked her out of the suit but lost her as a client.

“What’s wrong, Sam?”

“I’m not sure. The maid sounded as if there was some kind of trouble there. I think somebody was telling her what to say.”

“Linda’s probably hysterical with David in jail. She can be hell on wheels when she’s upset.”

“I like that,” Jamie said, “hell on wheels.”

“By the way, Sam, hell on wheels reminds me. Tomorrow night Cartwright is going to try again. He couldn’t get all those Beatles records burned, so now he’s going to stand on that little bluff out at the lake and throw them into the river.”

I wished I had time to enjoy the image of Cartwright firing the Satan-spawned records into the dark waters, but that would have to wait. The Pepsi and the air conditioning had helped revive me, but not enough for the trip I needed to make now.

“I need to go down the hall.” Jamie knew what I meant. She always said “little girls’ room,” so I decided to euphemize my own duties.

Wendy looked confused.

“He means the little boys’ room,” Jamie said.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. C.”

Wendy found this amusing. She looked even better when she was laughing.

In the john, I took off my shirt and proceeded to the tiny sink. I ran cold water, grabbed three paper towels, and started washing my upper body. Then I stuck my head under the faucet and began scooping cold water on my head. Two doors down, I could get a cup of atomic coffee. It didn’t taste very good, but one cup could keep you awake for as long as a month.

I combed my hair, leaving it wet. I reached across to the peg where I kept an extra shirt. This was a short-sleeved blue JCPenney button-down.

When I walked back into my office, Jamie was on the phone. It was a Turk call. She had that look. There was a Turk call expression for happy and a Turk call expression for sad and a Turk call expression for mad. This one was sad. “I told you, Turk. I still love you, but I just can’t give you any more money. You need to get a job. And I shouldn’t be wasting Mr. C’s time by talking about this at the office. Now I need to go.”

After she hung up, she breathed deeply, made fists of her small hands, and said, “Was that all right, Mrs. Bennett?”

“Perfect. And will you please call me Wendy? You’re driving me nuts with that ‘Mrs. Bennett’ business. I feel old enough already.”

“Well, you’re not that old. I’ll bet you’re not even forty yet.”

Now it was my turn to be amused. Wendy was six months younger than I was, which meant she was twenty-eight. Jamie had no concept of peoples’ ages. She once guessed my age and put it at forty-six.

“I’m actually forty-three, Jamie.”

“You are? Well, you’ve held up very well. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. C?”

“Remarkably well.”

Then I needed to fortify myself. I have a drawer gun and a glove compartment gun. I decided on the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 I keep in the office. I can hide it better in my clothes. “Now I have to leave.”

“Am I supposed to pretend I didn’t see you shove a gun in your back pocket?” Wendy did not sound happy.

“You did. And it’s nothing to worry about. Just a precaution.”

“Don’t worry,” Jamie said. “He takes guns out a lot of the time. He knows what he’s doing.”

Wendy’s mouth was tight, her gaze disapproving. “I’m not much for guns, Sam.”

“You know what?” Now I sounded a bit irritated myself. “Neither am I. Now c’mon, I’ll walk out with you.”

Before leaving, Wendy walked over to Jamie and took one of her hands and said, “I gave you my phone number. You call me whenever you want to talk. This won’t be easy for you, Jamie. But you’ve got to do it.”

“I know you’re right-Wendy. It’s just so hard when I think about all the fun we’ve-” She was starting to cry.

Wendy kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a lot stronger than you think you are, Jamie. And remember to call me when you need some moral support.”

Tears gleaming in her eyes, Jamie nodded, then turned away from us so she could cry in private.

Outside, as we walked to our respective cars, Wendy said, “She’s so pretty and so sweet.”

“Even though she thinks you’re forty?”

“I didn’t say she was brilliant. But I like her. She’s kind of downhome folks.”

“Thanks for helping her. I’ve been trying for years to get her to stand up for herself-you managed to do it the first time out.”

“He was just taking such advantage of her.”

We were at her shiny black Chevrolet Impala. She poked me in the stomach. “I take it you’re going out to Lou’s place.”

“Uh-huh. Something’s wrong.”

“Marilyn’s almost always very pleasant. They had to go through a number of maids before they found her.”

“You’re making my point. She didn’t sound pleasant at all. She sounded scared.”

“I wonder if William’s there. He wouldn’t let anything happen.”

“The maid said he was, but I don’t know if that’s the truth.”

She touched my arm. “I hate to say this, but why not call Cliffie and let him take care of it?”

I kissed her gently on the mouth. “I don’t blame you for hating to say that. I’d be ashamed to say it.”

Another poke in the stomach. “My he-man. And not a brain in his head.”

She slid her arm around me, two sweaty, lonely, even desperate people. When I was with her, I felt good, safe in some way. She told me she felt the same way. We both agreed this didn’t mean we’d be going out all the time. But then we both agreed that it didn’t not mean we’d be going out all the time, either. I guess if you wait long enough, those cheerleaders come through for you after all. Last night we’d gone all the way to third base; and lying there afterward, sharing a cigarette, I realized how much I just plain liked her. The pain of her divorce and loneliness had changed her. She was no longer the belle of the ball, because the ball had ended; the fiddlers had fled.

She walked me over to my car and saw me safely seated. “You think you’ll ever give this convertible up?”