Laura Lippman - No Good Deeds

Stupid, too.

At least Crow could go home now. Or would, once he called Tess and told her Lloyd was missing. He hoped that information wouldn’t make her waver in her resolve to protect Lloyd. Then again, if Lloyd was stupid enough to go back to Baltimore, maybe he didn’t deserve their protection anymore.

Thing was, the police couldn’t take care of Lloyd even if the kid would allow it. Wasn’t that why he had come to Crow in the first place? Stupid, self-destructive kid. If he didn’t care about his life, why should Crow?

He took out the new cell phone and dialed Tess’s home phone again. The phone rang twice, then kicked into voice mail, a sign that she was on the other line and ignoring the call-waiting signal. He started to text-message her cell but didn’t think it was a good idea to relay the news about Lloyd in such a fashion. He called the house one more time, just in case. No answer now. Where could Tess be on a Sunday morning? A creature of routine, she should have walked the dogs and grabbed her usual coffee by now. Even with the return of mild weather and the reopening of the boathouse, she never went out on the water on Sunday mornings. She preferred to go at day’s end, in the last hour before sunset, when the light was kind to the eyes and the weekend boat traffic had thinned.

Where could she be? Where could Lloyd be? He thought of mice and men, he thought of Of Mice and Men , he thought of Lennie and the rabbits, and the source for the book’s title. The best-laid plans of mice and men often aft a-gley.

Well, here he was, living large at the goddamn intersection of Aft and A-gley.

Lloyd had slept outside many times, in weather more biting than this, yet he never knew a berth as cold and hard as the field he’d found near what appeared to be a highway. Once the sun came up, it was a little better, and he burrowed down into the narrow groove. A furrow. The word came back to him, unbidden, a lesson from long ago. Furrows and Pilgrims and planting fish heads to make better corn. Satchmo? Sasquatch? Something like that. But as the sounds of traffic grew louder on the road, he decided to get up and get going.

Where , was the only question. Where should he go? Where could he go? The question was complicated by the fact that he had missed the sunrise, so he wasn’t exactly sure which way was east and which way was west. And even once he figured it out, which way would he choose? He was a lot closer to the amusement park than to Baltimore, had to be, but it was hard to imagine he could walk all that way. It had taken Crow almost an hour to drive it.

Baltimore was farther still. But once he got there, at least he would have his life back. No more working for nothing. No more of Crow’s conversation, which just drove him nuts sometimes. He was the talkingest guy, although he did know some interesting stuff. The older guy, Ed, at least he knew how to chill, just sit back and be quiet. He was almost cool, although Crow said he was an ex-cop, which meant he wasn’t cool. It had made Lloyd nervous, being so dependent on a cop, ex or no.

He walked along the road, determined to let someone else decide where he would end up. He’d stick out his thumb and catch a ride, and wherever he went, that’s where he would be. That was as good a way to plan as any. Just let life take you where it goes. Hadn’t that been the way he always lived?

Come to think of it, wasn’t that why his life was so fucked up?

He stumbled along the soft, crumbling shoulder, whipping around when he heard cars approaching, but no one slowed. That didn’t really surprise him, black man with leaves and shit in his hair. What did shock him was the minivan that rolled to a stop next to him, big black woman at the wheel, six kids packed into the two rows of seats, all in churchgoing clothes.

“Where you trying to get to, son?” she asked, her voice all sweetness. The kind tone surprised him more than anything. Somehow he had figured she would yell at him, make a lesson of him for all those kids. Look at this stupid nigger walking down the highway. This is what happens if you don’t go to church regular.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Where your people?”

Where indeed. Who were his people? His mama and Murray? Dub? Not Bennie Tep and his folks, not since they killed Le’andro. Lloyd felt something strange in his throat and his eyes, a stinging sensation. Why did this woman’s gentle voice and manner make him want to cry when he had held his ground through ass whippings? He’d be more comfortable if she were bitching him out. He was used to that tone, at least.

“I been staying over to, like, the boardwalk,” he said.

“In Ocean City?”

“Northa there.” It took him a second, but he pulled the name out. “Fenwick.”

“So why you going the other direction?”

He shrugged, not wanting to admit that he didn’t know where he was going.

“We’re from Dagsboro, but we’re on our way to lunch, up to the Denny’s in Salisbury. You want to come with us?”

“I thought Denny’s was the place that didn’t like black people to eat there,” he said.

“That’s why we go there, every Sunday.” The woman had a single dimple in her left cheek, sharp as a diamond winking in a ring. “We go and we say grace, and I have to say they’re always real nice to us. You’re welcome to come, too, although no soda. And no dessert unless you clean your plate. You gotta play by the same rules as my owns.”

Two little girls on the bench seat in the far back scooted apart, pulling in their full skirts and making room for Lloyd.

“You smell funny,” said one, but not with any real meanness to it.

“Shavonda Grace,” the lady scolded, but her tone was mild. “What are you thinking, talking to our guest that way?”

Guest. He was a guest. Lloyd didn’t remember anyone ever calling him that before.

Wait-Crow had, the first night he’d brought Lloyd to his house. Thing was, Lloyd had been so busy being a thief in his own head, he hadn’t even noticed, or cared, what Crow considered him. If only he hadn’t tried to steal the car, if he had just accepted the kindness for what it was. If he hadn’t stolen the car, then that woman wouldn’t have been so hell-bent on coming after him and he wouldn’t have told them what he knew to get her off his ass and Le’andro wouldn’t have been killed.

He thought he’d been so clever, telling the story the way he did. He had thought he was smart, leaving out those details that complicated things. But it was his own cleverness that had gotten Le’andro killed. Maybe he should have told the whole story from the beginning. But it was his nature to hold back what he could, to squirrel away a little extra.

Besides, if he had told the story in full, the only difference would be that he and Le’andro both would be dead.

“You smell,” Shavonda Grace repeated, but she was giggling.

“You’d smell, too, you spent the night in some got-damn cornfield.”

The children gasped in horror at the mild profanity, but the woman behind the wheel kept her company manners.

“Son-I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Lloyd.”

“Well, Lloyd, we don’t permit bad language, especially if it involves taking the Lord’s name in vain. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that in mind.”

Her manner couldn’t have been sweeter, the same easy tone she had taken with the little girl, but for one moment Lloyd was reminded of every woman, every teacher, every person who had told him what to do, where to go, what to say, and how to say it. He wanted to unleash a string of curses, things that would sear the ears of these little churchgoing prisses, show them just how tough he was. Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck everybody. Fuck the whole got-damn world, and all the people who think they know what you should be doing and saying and thinking and breathing.