Hob Broun - Odditorium

“Call when you need me.”

M.J. stole a backward look, spoke furtively, as though her teeth had locked. “You know that beast?”

“Lydia Estes,” Tildy said at normal volume. “Used to be Rhino Girl at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Pete. She’s retired now.”

“Yeah, right. There’s a call I have to make.” Flora retreated, fluffing her hair. “I’ll meet you out by the booth.”

Tildy grabbed a red plastic basket from the stack and started filling it at random with the first can or box her hand would fall on. Plums in heavy syrup. Instant spaghetti sauce.

“Here. We don’t look to freeload.” M.J. palmed her a greasy twenty. “I’ll be outside.”

Tildy nodded expressionlessly and picked up a carton of cigarettes for herself. They’re afraid of Lydia, she thought; couldn’t bear standing near her while she rang everything up. Flora wasn’t really calling anyone.

But they were both coming out of the phone booth when Tildy looked through the window. And as she started the car, revved it to keep from stalling, backed out, there wasn’t the slightest chatter from either one. Sunlight glared on the tin Bunny Bread sign over R.C.’s door.

Karl greeted them effusively in the driveway. “It’s lookin’ like a real party.” He put the six-packs under his arm and walked ahead, pulling Tildy after him. He dug at her ribs. “Guess who’s here.”

“The chief of police.”

“It’s that Crisco guy took you off to New York last year.”

Dizzying, the way things converged. Most of all she wanted to run, but where? No time to think or compose because there was that dark head erupting from a window. His gaze was sheepish and tender and she hated him for it.

“Say somethin’.” Karl caught the grocery sack as it began to slide from her hands.

Christo pressed his palms together and made a deep bow as Tildy approached. Their faces swayed inches apart in tentative reconnaissance, and for a moment they were old friends, old lovers queasy with regret at a thing not done wrong, but hardly at all. It passed.

“Don’t mess with a psychotic.” She sighed. “You can’t win.”

“I missed you too.”

“I never expected to see you again.”

“And how do you like it so far?”

Tildy sensed the others looking on and half turned. “Well, I suppose the least I can do is give you lunch.”

So she went in the kitchen and started making sandwiches as fast as she could. Simple, repetitive work was just the ticket. She was in no state to put things together and draw a conclusion from them.

That left Karl to make introductions and try to get his party off the ground. In being up to the task he was all by himself. Even physical positioning was awkward, furniture suddenly in everyone’s way. The sizing-up was surly; no one came within handshake range. The women turned down repeated offers of beer and stood watching the floor like they were at a train station.

“So, Crisco, how’s business? Been promoting anything lately?”

“You’re confusing me with the shortening.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re confusing me …”

“All the same, it’s sure good to have another man around. I was gettin’ to feel outnumbered.”

“No problem. The cavalry’s here.”

Christo leaned to one side of the chair but Karl, determined to keep his attention by standing directly in front of him, blocked the view. Christo could only see Tildy’s hands whirring over the mayonnaise jar and the stack of olive loaf. Another minute for her to arrange her mind and he was going in there, get a few things straight. The astonishing elation that came just from looking at her also forced him to admit what a gamble he’d taken in coming.

Karl searched desperately in his head for an ice-breaker, but came up empty and chose retreat. “I’ll go on and see what’s keepin’ the eats.”

Tildy had made close to a dozen sandwiches, but hadn’t touched the head of lettuce in front of her. “Quiet out there,” she said.

“They don’t say nothin’. It’s like a row of headstones.”

“Take the food. At least they’ll have something to do with their hands,” Tildy said.

“What about you?”

“Go. I’ll make coffee.” Anything to stay hidden.

“Big help.” Karl snapped his fingers. “All right then. Less you have any objection to make, I’m goin’ out there, get myself sauced and fuck all the rest of it.”

Fine, she thought. Just keep everyone eating and drinking and we’ll get through this. Eventually someone will get fed up and leave. Maybe me.

“No appetite?”

That dark head again. Oh well, you’ve got to trust someone. “Too rattled,” and Tildy kissed him quickly, found something to do at the sink.

“With you, I could never tell.” Christo smiled encouragingly.

“Sure. Talk is cheap.” But she smiled back. “Anyway, you have no reason to care. You’re supposed to be in the fast cash and flying first class by now. I know, you came in a cab from Tampa. You’re on your way to check on some overseas investments.”

“I got news for you. I’m flat broke and on foot. The last few miles anyway.”

“Damn you.” The scarred white plate left her hand and broke against the faucet. She whirled on him. “If you came down here looking for assistance, you can fucking well get in line with the rest of us.”

Christo didn’t flinch, but he looked as deadpan as she could ever remember. “Believe me, I didn’t scope it out that way. I only knew I had to move and move fast. I had that booby-trapped feeling, and unless I got going I’d be staring at another set of hospital walls. And maybe this time when they finally let me out it would be too late.” He rolled his eyes back, let his tongue droop out. “Vegetable soup.”

“You couldn’t handle city life anymore, eh?”

“That’s safe to say.”

“And the big score you were planning, what happened to that?”

Christo waved it away. “Jinxed. The black cat had kittens.”

“I’m sorry. But I don’t have room for one more sad story.”

Christo had let the moment escape. He wanted to confront their unfinished emotional business, wanted to let all the rest of it slide and talk about that elusive part of her he’d come chasing after. Then Flora poked her head in and asked to borrow some olive oil, she and M.J. were going to do some sunbathing.

“What a good idea,” Tildy said cheerfully. “But it’ll have to be margarine, that’s all I have.”

“Never mind. We’ll risk a burn.”

In her eagerness to get her former teammates out the door, Tildy practically pushed them through it.

“Maybe you’d like to join us,” M.J. said provokingly.

“You go establish a beachhead and maybe later we’ll all come along.” And Tildy bustled her along with towels and pillows and a net bag of navel oranges.

Christo thought: God she looks divine, my little shortstop, but she can’t keep me out of the hospital if I’m really ready to go.

Meddlers. Filthy deviates. Karl watched with disgust from the window as they stripped to their underwear, lay down on a checker-work of towels right next to their car. He remembered with untinged delight emptying the box of grape Jello-O into the gas tank while they were out shopping with Tildy. Five or ten miles and that motor would seize up forever. He popped a fresh beer on that, saluting his genius.

“Want ’em out of here by dark.” He belched. “You got to handle it. I’m gettin’ sauced, remember?”

“Yes, dear,” Tildy singsonged.

Then Christo pulled her aside and breathed into her ear, “There are enough kinky vibes floating around to choke a shrink. You ready to fill me in now?”

She nodded, turned to her husband. “We’re going to have a little business meeting in the other room. It’s for your benefit too, so just sit tight and go easy on the beer.”