INE O’CLOCK. THE SUN had inched higher above the rolling desert horizon, casting promising beams through the hospital windows that lined the east wall of the waiting room. The Alley Team, grim-faced, sat huddled at the opposite wall. They hardly spoke. Like frightened children waiting for the doctor to give them a shot, they sat, still and somber.
A woman with permed, graying hair sat across the way, her back to the windows. Impeccably dressed, her long, manicured nails were in keeping with the sparkling diamond ring on her finger.
Nurse had not yet snapped out of her stupor. A remote fear penetrated her entire being. In her mind, an hour glass tumbled in space and time, spilling sand as it went. It careened to and fro in the slowmotion frames of an old-fashioned movie, flashing pictures from 40 years past. Greg had his arms circled about Nurse’s stooped shoulders, her matted, gray head resting on his chest. They rocked gently, her eyes still those of a child awakened from the clutches of a night terror. The team of vagrants glanced up occasionally, impotent, totally helpless, totally hopeless.
Comforting the old woman who had given him so much comfort, Greg spoke softly. “The doctors have hope. . . . Eddie’s a tough old man. . . .”
“I ain’t never seen her like this,” Ritter whispered to the others. He was as concerned about Nurse as he was about Eddie. “And I’ve know her for more’n ten years.”
Cap’n gave the old woman’s hand a sympathetic pat. “Eddie’s like a brother to her. She’s been livin’ in his alley off and on now ‘bout forty ‘er fifty years.” The stranger in the waiting room strained to overhear the conversation.
“Does anyone know what she kept mumbling about?” Greg asked. “When we found Eddie, that’s when she went off–something about a well and a baby.” Each member of the little close-knit pack in turn lowered his eyes and shook his head.
It was then the woman across the aisle spoke up. “I might be able to help.” She got to her feet and walked toward them, her high heels clicking. “The best I can remember, her name is Rebecca Lambert. I knew her when I was six years old.”
“Who are you?” Greg interrupted.
“Margaret Thurston, Eddie’s daughter.” Everyone’s jaw dropped in stunned silence. “Eddie called me three days ago in New York, he said he needed to see me. He told me it was important. I hadn’t been out to visit for several years and decided it was a good time to come see my dad–and my son Clinton.” Her tone was decidedly sarcastic when she spoke Clint’s name. “When I arrived at the gym this morning, I was told Eddie was here. Do any of you know what happened?”
After several anxious moments, Greg spoke up. “We think he fell or was shoved down the old laundry chute. We’re still waiting for the doctors to tell us how he’s doing.” Cap’n threw a furious glance in Greg’s direction.
Margaret took no notice. “They told me they expect him to be out of surgery within the hour.” She grimaced. “Who would want to hurt him?”
The Alley Team looked back and forth at each other, every lip securely locked. Cap’n stood and offered Eddie’s daughter his seat.
“An hour, that’s good–they haven’t told us much at all.” Greg attempted to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. He gave Nurse a pat on the arm. “You say her name is Rebecca.”
“I was six years old when my father moved here and opened the gym,” began Margaret. “When the health department came to inspect the place, they started inquiring about me and where my mother was. When they discovered Eddie was raising a daughter–by himself, in a male environment–they threatened to take me away. Dad started looking into boarding schools. Eventually he found one. The day I left I cried on my best and only friend’s shoulder.” Margaret reached over and took Nurse’s hand. “Rebecca. . . . Rebecca, it’s Marge,” she cooed. “I’m Eddie’s little girl. Remember me?”
“Marge? . . . That you? You back from school so soon? . . . Your Daddy’s sure goin’ ta’ be glad to see you ‘gain. . . . I hear him cryin’ in his room at night for you. He’s missed you somethin’ terrible.” Nurse smacked her gums and blinked glassily into the woman’s hazel-green eyes. “Look at you. . . . You’re growin’up so pretty. Eddie hasn’t stopped talkin’ ‘bout you since ya’ left.”
Margaret struggled to maintain her composure. “Rebecca, how’s Belle?” she asked. As a small girl she’d pretended to play with Nurse’s “daughter.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed in on Margaret’s face. “She’s dead,” she whimpered. “My little girl’s dead. . . . Fell in the well . . . and I couldn’t find her.”
Margaret knelt in front of Nurse, her own eyes brimming with tears. “I know, sweetie, I know.” The women embraced, a melding of rags and riches–bridged by the tie of friendship. Nurse, in wave after wave of anguished sobs, mourned the loss of her daughter. For the first time in 50 years, she mourned. The team of vagrants hung their heads in respect at the loss of a friend. Belle, a girl they knew yet had never met, was finally being put to rest.
Stephanie woke to the sound of a toothbrush striking the edge of the sink. It was one of Mitch’s annoying bathroom habits. Leaving the seat up and the door open were the two worst. She’d tried to overlook them. But now, after three years, they were getting to her. Somehow she’d never found a good way to tell him how she felt. Besides, he’d grown up in a junkyard; what else could she expect? He possessed so many wonderful traits–those, by far, balanced out the bad.
Mitch traipsed into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, face clean shaven, wet hair disheveled. She reminded herself how good-looking he was. “Good morning, beautiful queen.” He smiled, trying not to think of the stolen car or the fiscal burden he bore on his broad shoulders.
Stephanie dug her elbow into the mattress, rolled her tummy to the side, and rested her head in her hand. She frowned down at the towel, now crumpled on the floor. She would be the one to pick it up and put it in the laundry only a few steps away. Mitch never did. “Are you coming to church this morning?” she asked, her tone hopeful.
“Nah. Too much to do before I leave. Maybe next week.” “That’s what you said last week, and every week since we’ve been married,” she protested. Sunday mornings were another source of irritation between them. Mitch had promised her they would raise their children in a religious home. She was Presbyterian; he, Lutheran. She didn’t even mind which church they went to, so long as they could go as a family.
“No, it isn’t,” Mitch countered a little defensively. “I’ve gone several times with you.”
“Six times in three years–Christmas and Easter . . .”
“And you’re counting?” The words stung. His back to her, he continued to rummage through the packed closet for his luggage.
“No, it’s just that our babies will be here soon, and I was hoping . ..”
Her husband wasn’t listening. “Have you been messing with my files?” He opened the lid to the small metal box to tuck in a receipt that was sticking part way out.
“Your files?”
“For crying out loud, Stef!” Mitch jerked the box from the corner with both hands and held up the wadded papers.
Stephanie rolled from bed and stepped over to the small walk-in closet. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one that handles the money in this house.”
“And you’re the one that insists on keeping my receipts put away. I certainly didn’t scatter this stuff all over. So who else would?”
The harsh accusations were enough to drive Stephanie from the room. With a slam of the bathroom door, Mitch was left alone to sort through the clutter of paperwork.
The doctor appeared in the carpeted waiting room area. Inquiring at the front desk, a nurse gestured toward Mrs. Thurston. Approaching, he said, “Mrs. Thurston, are you Eddie Alders’ daughter?”
Margaret looked up. “Yes.”“Are these people with you?” he added, taking in the odd-looking assortment of vagrants.
Margaret nodded. “This is Eddie’s family.”
Once more the doctor glanced about the room, then turned back to address Margaret. “I’m Doctor Broderick. I just finished operating on your father’s kidneys. It was touch-and-go for a time, trying to figure out why his heart rate was so low. The blood work-up tells us he was bitten by a black widow spider. The slower heart rate probably saved his life and kept him from bleeding to death–along with his simple will to live. I pulled a handful of wood slivers from his spleen; some had penetrated his liver. The orthopedic surgeon has almost finished pinning his broken legs. I think he’ll be just fine–he’s tough–but it’ll be several weeks, maybe months before he’s back on his feet. He’s going to need a lot of help.”
Margaret stood and smoothed at her dress. “How soon can we see him?”
“It’ll probably be a few hours before he’s out of recovery. Why don’t I call down to the cafeteria and let the hospital buy you all a hot meal.” The doctor, considering the matter settled, folded his glasses and slid them in his shirt pocket.
Margaret almost started to protest, but was cut short by Cap’n, who asked, “They still cook that halibut?”
Dr. Broderick smiled. “They sure do.” He escorted his guests to the elevator and instructed an aid to see that they were well cared for. Margaret remained behind for a few minutes to explain to the doctor the trauma Nurse was experiencing.
The papers were finally resorted and filed. Mitch, unable to find the title to the GTO, knew he owed Stephanie an apology. His growing hatred toward Vinnie, however, was too strong. He’d have to postpone patching up the domestic spat until after he returned. He wasn’t about to try and tell her where he figured the missing title went. The young Chicano posing as Jose Vasquez had invaded his home, he was sure. The home would have been an easy mark. The GTO’s glove box held the registration showing his address and the garage door opener. Before the day was over he would change the code on the motor. In the meantime, simply unplugging the motor would keep anyone from getting in.
Mitch marched past the bathroom without saying a word to his bride. She’d stopped crying and now stood at the mirror, blow dryer sweeping up and down her hair. Deciding it was still unsafe to drive the Camaro, Mitch pulled the Escort from the garage, manually brought down the overhead door, and puttered off to find Bino. He planned to borrow the much-needed funds to make a rent payment and leave some cash for Stephanie to use while he was away.
He could only guess what a loan from Vinnie might entail. The look in Bino’s eyes a few nights earlier had been ample warning.
The vocational competition now seemed very low on Mitch’s list of priorities. In fact, if there was any hope of a refund on his plane ticket and hotel reservation, which he’d purchased months in advance, he’d give it up altogether. But it might all turn out for the best. The school was counting on him. And four days away just might be the thing they both needed. At least it would buy him some time.
Dressed in her Sunday best, Stephanie made ready to leave. She wasn’t sure why she’d lit into Mitch the way she did. Why had she nagged him about church? Forcing him to God wasn’t the way. Her minister had counseled with her on several occasions about the rift it was creating. She knew he was right–that Mitch would need to decide for himself. Yet it was the same every week: she’d ask if he was coming, he’d make up some excuse, they’d both be cranky for several hours. But today, he’d been downright mean.
She opened the door to the garage. “My car!” she muttered at seeing the empty space. “He knew I was going to church, and still took my car.” She clomped down the steps to where the car had been parked and tugged through her dress at the band squeezing her waist. The offending pantyhose kept slipping down to her hips. Reluctantly, she went over to the Camaro, slid into the low bucket seat, and reached overhead to click open the garage door. The empty visor again brought her to her feet, only to find the pantyhose halfway down around her knees. She swore under her breath, tugged the hosiery down, and sat back into the seat to pull them from her feet. No way was she going to spend the day wearing sweaty panty hose and fighting to keep them glued to her expanding waistline.
When the push-button switch at the kitchen door failed to open the garage door, the frustration finally spilled over. She squeezed the wadded nylons into a ball and banged it against the dashboard. Mitch had kept her from her Sunday worship. Had it been on purpose? It was possible. She’d noticed some subtle changes in his demeanor the last few days. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realized how distracted he’d been acting.
Mitch never expressed his feelings openly, but instead seemed to wear them on the inside of his tool-chest, protected, often by humor, sometimes by silence, but most of all by a hard, locked metal door. Today, maybe, by anger. She’d learned to read him pretty well, and usually found ways to pry his feelings out using gentle persuasion. Now she had no idea what to do.
The Husky parking lot was empty. Janice sat in her booth reading a book, her back to where Mitch had parked. The air conditioner rattled and hummed, leaving the woman completely unaware he was there, sliding the glass aside.
The woman jerked around, stifling a gasp and dropping the book in her lap. “Oh–my land of sunshine! . . . Mitch, you scared the bejeebies out of me!”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. In fact, he’d meant to startle her. A mean streak had begun to unravel inside his chest. He felt justified in harboring thoughts of retaliation. He’d hoped somehow sneaking up on her would make him feel better. It hadn’t. “I wasn’t even sure anyone was here,” he lied. “Where’s your car?”
Janice was patting her chest and breathing rapidly. Her cheery cheeks seemed flushed from the scare. “I’m too old to take much of that. I think my heart may have missed a beat.”
A twinge of guilt washed over Mitch. She wasn’t the one to blame. “I’m sorry. I should have knocked first.”
“It’s okay.” The kindly woman exhaled again. “It was such a beautiful day I decided to walk to work. I might regret it this afternoon, going home in this heat. . . . Any luck finding your car?”
“Nope. I think I’m wasting my time.” The air inside the booth smelled like it had been forced through a tobacco-caked cooling system. Mitch averted his nose and breathed in shallow sniffs. “How can you stand the foul air in here?”
“My late husband–rest his miserable soul–was a heavy smoker. Bought him an early grave. I lived with it 39-plus years.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was an abusive pig–no conscience. My two children still blame me for not protecting them from his violent outbursts. I guess that’s why I put up with Bino. He’s a good man at heart, but just doesn’t see what he’s doing to himself. Or maybe he just can’t stop. Half the time I think he wants to die and just get it over with.”
“Speaking of Bino, I need to talk to him. Do you know where he lives?”
“Not far from here. I gave him a ride home once when his car broke down. I don’t think I can remember how to get there, though.”
“What’s his first name–I’ll look him up.” Mitch glanced past Janice to the desk, where Bino’s daughter smiled sweetly from the photo on top. Janice, finally catching the hint, fished a thick phone book from one of its drawers.
“It starts with a B. . . .” She paused. “He’s named after a great, great grandfather who founded a town in Texas–first law man in a long line of sheriff ancestors. Poor Bino. His family won’t let him forget it, either.” Her brow crumpled in thought as she opened the book and tried to remember. “D,” she whispered. She flipped through the pages. “Daniels. . . . Let’s see. Bernalillo Daniels. That’s it. Bernalillo, New Mexico, was the town.” Her finger slid across the page. “Lives at Coran and Rancho, Lilly’s Trailer Park. I don’t see a trailer number, but if I remember correctly you need to enter from the north. Stop at the office–they’ll have a map.”
A car pulled into the station and an older man stepped from the vehicle to the pump. Janice stood, flipped the reset to the pump, and slid open the window. “Good morning, Mr. Moore.” Her voice rose several decibels so the old fellow could hear her. “You must be doing a lot of driving lately. This is the second time you’ve been in this month.”
Mitch slipped from the other side of the booth and pulled out of the station, heading northwest on Rancho. Coran was only a few blocks farther down. Bino’s place wouldn’t be hard to find, not if his Audi was parked next to it.
Stephanie milled about the house, trying to decide if she should be mad at Mitch or be more attentive to his needs. His stress, after all, surely was related to their financial woes. Maybe a good home-cooked meal would put a smile on his face and they could sit down and talk before he left town.
The phone’s ring brought Stephanie to the kitchen wall near the stack of bills. A quick check of the caller I.D. was a safe move. It was the landlord. She let it ring. There was nothing to tell him. Mitch would take care of it–just like he always did. Where was Mitch, anyway? It was close to noon.
A quick pass through the kitchen cupboards rounded up a half a bag of coiled vermicelli, two chicken bullion cubes, a can of refried beans and a can of spinach. Not much of a selection, but the sort of food Mitch seemed to enjoy. She’d top the meal off with the only vegetable in the fridge: a partial head of cabbage fried in lots of butter. Mitch had learned to cook from his grandpa. His meals were quick and not so bad, if one liked everything fried. Granted, when it came to kitchen skills he was the better cook, and they both knew it–though Mitch always gushed about how much he loved her cooking.
They’d made it a habit of having lunch at home on Sundays, together. Mitch always had it ready when she came home from church. The hot meal always brought a smile to her face and helped acquit him of his broken promises about attending church. She was an easy mark, quick to forgive. A kind deed–or breaking bread together–could tame even the most savage mood.