Ray smiled. "You joke, but you'd like it. I guarantee."
"Primordial?" Laura said with disbelief.
"What, you're surprised I know words like that? I got my GED. I even took college classes. Economics and psychology and shit like that. Just because I was in prison doesn't mean I'm a fool. Lot of smart guys in prison. You'd be surprised," he said.
"Really," she said, sounding unconvinced.
"Yeah, really. I bet I can work a sewing machine better than you, for starters."
"That wouldn't take much," she said.
"This is very uplifting sitting here talking to you. You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself."
"Fuck you."
"You're the one complains your stepdad is always putting you down. Why don't you do better, improve the situation instead of acting like him?"
Laura said nothing. Ray studied her profile and finally looked back at the road.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, and I could feel myself squirm. "How far from here?"
"About an hour and a half. How're you doing back there?"
"I'm doing good," I said.
We reached Louisville just before noon, approaching the town on Highway 65. I could see the airport on our left, and I nearly whimpered with longing. We took an intersecting highway west through an area called Shively, bypassing most of the downtown business district. To our right, I could see the clusters of tall buildings, sturdy blocks of concrete, most of them squared off on top. Ahead of us was the Ohio River, with Indiana visible on the other side.
We exited in an area called Portland, which was where Ray Rawson grew up. I could see his smile quicken as he took in the neighborhood. He turned toward me halfway, putting his arms across the seat back. "The Portland Canal's down that way. Locks were built a hundred years ago to take river traffic past the falls. My great-grandfather worked on the construction. I'll take you over there if we have time."
I was more interested in catching a plane than seeing any of the local landmarks, but I knew the offer was part of his excitement at coming home. Having been incarcerated for most of the last forty-five years, he was probably feeling like Rip van Winkle, marveling at all the changes in the world at large. It might be a comfort that his immediate neighborhood seemed untouched by the passage of time. The streets were wide, trees showing the last vestiges of autumn leaves. Most trees were bare, but down the block I could see smatterings of yellow and red leaves remaining. On the street we'd taken, coming off the freeway, many house fronts had been converted into businesses: signs for child care, a hair salon, a tackle shop selling live bait. The yards were uniformly small and flat, separated by chicken-wire fences with dilapidated gates. Dead leaves, like scraps of brown paper, choked the house gutters and littered the walks. Ten- and twelve-year-old cars were parked at the curbs. Older models were lined up in driveways, with For Sale signs painted on the windshields. Telephone poles were more plentiful than trees, and the wires cut back and forth across the streets like supports for tenting that hadn't been erected yet. Down a side street, I could see railroad cars sitting on a side track.
I would have bet money the neighborhood had looked this way since the 1940s. There was no evidence of construction, no indication of any old structures torn down or condemned to make way for the new. Shrubs were overgrown. The tree trunks were massive, obstructing windows and porches where once the overhanging branches had provided only dappled shade. Sidewalks had buckled, broken by the roots. Forty years of weather had picked at the asphalt siding on some of the houses. Here and there I could see fresh paint, but my guess was that nothing much had changed in the years since Ray had been here.
As we pulled up in front of his mother's house, I could feel a heaviness descend. It was like the low droning note in the score for a horror movie, the minor chord that betokens a dark shape in the water, or something unseen, waiting in the shadows behind the basement door. The sensation was probably simple depression, born of borrowed clothes, junk food, and erratic sleep. Whatever the genesis, I knew it was going to be hours before I could get on a plane for California.
Laura turned off the ignition on the rental car and got out. Ray emerged on his side, searching the front of the house with wonderment. I had no choice but to join them. I felt like a prisoner, suffering a temporal claustrophobia so pronounced it made my skin itch.
Chapter 16
* * *
Ray's mother's house was situated on a narrow lot on a street occupied entirely by single-family dwellings. The house was a two-story red-brick structure, with a one-story red-brick extension jutting out in front. The two narrow front windows sat side by side, caged by burglar bars and capped with matching lintels. Three concrete steps led up to the door, which was set flush against the house and shaded by a small wooden roof cap. I could see a second entrance tucked around on the right side of the house down a short walk. The house next door was a fraternal twin, the only difference being the absence of the porch roof, which left its front door exposed to the elements.
Ray headed for the side entrance with Laura and me tagging along behind like baby ducklings. Between the two houses, the air seemed very chill. I crossed my arms to keep warm, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, eager to be indoors. Ray tapped on the door, which had ornamental burglar bars across the glass. Through the window I could see bright light pouring from a room on the left, but there was no sign of movement. Idly, he talked over his shoulder to me. "These are called 'shotgun' cottages, one room wide and four rooms deep so you could stand at the front door and fire a bullet all the way through." He pointed up toward the second story. "Hers is called a humpback because it's got a second bedroom above the kitchen. My great-grandfather built both these places back in 1880."
"Looks like it," Laura said.
He pointed a finger at her. "Hey, you watch it. I don't want you hurting Gramma's feelings."
"Oh, right. Like I'd really stand here and insult her house. Geez, Ray. Give me credit for some intelligence."
"What is it with you? You're such a fuckin' victim," he said.
Inside the house, another light came on. Laura bit back whatever tart response she'd formed to her father's chiding. The curtain was pushed aside and an elderly woman peered out. In the absence of dentures, her mouth had rolled inward in a state of collapse. She was short and heavyset, with a soft round face, her white hair pulled up tightly in a hard knot wound around with rubber bands. She squinted through wire-frame glasses, both lenses heavily magnified. "What you want?" she bellowed through the glass at us.
Ray raised his voice. "Ma, it's me. Ray."
It took her a few seconds to process the information. Her confusion cleared and she put her gnarled hands up to her mouth. She began to work the locks – deadbolt, thumb lock, and burglar chain – ending in an old-fashioned skeleton key that took some maneuvering before it yielded. The door flew open and she flung herself into his arms. "Oh, Ray," she said tremulously. "Oh, my Ray."
Ray laughed, hugging her close while she made wordless mewing sounds of joy and relief. Though plump, she was probably half his size. She had on a white pinafore-style apron over a housedress that looked hand sewn: pink cotton with an imprint of white buttons in diagonal rows, the sleeves trimmed in pink rickrack. She pulled away from him, her glasses sitting crookedly on the bridge of her nose. Her gaze shifted to Laura, who stood behind him on the walk. It was clear she had trouble distinguishing faces in the cloudy world of impaired vision. "Who's this?" she said.
"It's me, Gramma. Laura. And this is Kinsey. She hitched a ride with us from Dallas. How are you?"
"Oh, my stars, Laura! Dear love. I can't believe it. This is wonderful. I'm so happy to see you. Looka here, what a mess I'm in. Didn't nobody tell me you were coming and now you've caught me in this old thing." Laura gave her a hug and kiss, holding herself sideways to conceal the solid bulge of her belly harness.
Ray's mother didn't seem to notice one way or the other. "Let me take a look at yo
u." She put a hand on either side of Laura's face, searching earnestly. "I wish I could see you better, child, but I believe you favor your grandfather Rawson. God love your heart. How long has it been?" Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she finally pulled her apron up over her face to hide her embarrassment. She fanned herself then, shaking off her emotions. "What's the matter with me? Get on in here, all of you. Son, I'll never forgive you for not calling first. I'm a mess. House is a mess."
We trooped into the hallway, Laura first, then Ray, with me bringing up the rear. We paused while the old woman locked the doors again. I realized no one had ever mentioned her first name. To the right was the narrow stairway leading up to the second-floor bedroom, blanketed in darkness even at this time of day. To the left was the kitchen, which seemed to be the only room with lights on. Because the houses were so close to one another, little daylight crept into this section. There was only one kitchen window, on the far left-hand wall above a porcelain-and-cast-iron sink. A big oak table with four mismatched wooden chairs took up the center of the room, a bare bulb hanging over it. The bulb itself must have been 250 watts because the light it threw off was not only dazzling, but had elevated the room temperature a good twenty degrees.
The ancient stove was green enamel, trimmed in black, with four gas burners and a lift-up stove top. To the left of the door was an Eastlake cabinet with a retractable tin counter and a built-in flour bin and sifter. I could feel a wave of memory pushing at me. Somewhere I'd seen a room like this, maybe Grand's house in Lompoc when I was four. In my mind's eye, I could still picture the goods on the shelves: the Cut-Rite waxed paper box, the cylindrical dark blue Morton salt box with the girl under her umbrella ("When It Rains, It Pours"), Sanka coffee in a short orange can, Cream of Wheat, the tin of Hershey's cocoa. Mrs. Raw-son's larder was stocked with most of the same items, right down to the opaque mint-green glass jar with SUGAR printed across the front. The oversize matching screw-top salt and pepper shakers rested nearby.
Ray's mother was already busy clearing piles of newspapers from the kitchen chairs despite Ray's protests. "Now, Ma, come on. You don't have to do that. Give me that."
She smacked at his hand. "You quit. I can do this myself. If you'd told me you were coming, I'd have had the place picked up. Laura's going to think I don't know how to keep house."
He took a stack of papers from her and stuck them in a haphazard pile against the wall. Laura murmured something and excused herself, moving into the back room. I was hoping there was a bathroom close by that I could visit in due course. I pulled out a chair and sat down, doing some visual snooping while Ray and his mother tidied up.
From where I sat, I could see part of the dining room with its built-in china cupboards. The room was crammed with junk, furniture and cardboard boxes making passage difficult. I caught sight of an old brown wood radio, a Zenith with a round dial set into a round-shouldered console the size of a chest of drawers. I could see the round shape of the underlying speaker where the worn fabric was stretched over it. The wallpaper pattern was a marvel of swirling brown leaves.
The room beyond the dining room was probably the parlor with its two windows onto the street and a proper front door. The kitchen smelled like a combination of moth balls and strong coffee sitting on the stove too long. I heard the shriek of plumbing, the flush mechanism suggestive of a waterfall thundering from a great height. When Laura emerged from the back room sometime later, she'd shed her belly harness. She was probably uncomfortable with the idea of having to explain her "condition" if her grandmother took notice.
I tuned in to the old woman, who was still grumbling good-naturedly about the unexpected visit. "I don't know how you expect me to cook up any kind of supper without the fixings on hand."
"Well, I'm telling you how," Ray said patiently. "You put together a list of what you need and we'll whip over to the market and be back in two shakes."
"I have a list working if I can find it," she said, poking through loose papers in the center of the table. "Freida Green, my neighbor two doors down, she's been carrying me to the market once a week when she goes. Here now. What's that say?"
Ray took the list and read aloud in a faky tone, "Says pork chops with milk gravy, yams, fried apples and onions, corn bread..."
She reached for the paper, but he held it out of reach. "I never. It does not. Let me see that. Is that what you want, son?"
"Yes, ma'am." He handed her the paper.
"Well, I can do that. I have yams out yonder, and I believe I still have some of them pole beans and stewed tomatoes I put up last summer. I just baked a batch of peanut-butter cookies. We can have them for dessert if you'll pick up a quart of vanilla ice cream. I want real. I don't want iced milk." She was writing as she spoke, large, angular letters drifting across the page.
"Sounds good to me. What do you think, Kinsey?" he asked.
"Sounds great."
"Oh, forevermore. Kinsey. Shame on me for my bad manners. I forgot all about you, honey. What can I get you? I might have a can of soda pop here somewhere. Take a look in the pantry and don't mind the state it's in. I been meaning to clean that out, but hadn't got to it."
"Actually, I'd love to borrow your phone, and a pen and scratch paper, if you don't mind."
"You go and help yourself as long as you don't call Paris, France. I'm on fixed income and that telephone costs too much as it is. Here's you a piece of paper. Laura, why don't you show her where the telephone is. Right in there beside the bed. I'll get busy with this list."
Ray said, "I also promised she could throw some clothes in the washing machine. You have detergent?"
"In the utility room," she said, pointing toward the door.
I took the proffered pen and paper and moved into the bedroom, which was as stuffy as a coat closet. The only light emanated from a small bathroom that opened on the left. Heavy drapes were pinned together over windows with the shades drawn. The double-bed mattress sagged in an iron bedstead piled with hand-tied quilts. The room would have been perfect in a 1940s home furnishings diorama at the state fair. All the surfaces were coated with a fine layer of dust. In fact, nothing in the house had seemed terribly clean, probably the by-product of the old woman's poor eyesight.
The old black dial telephone sat beside a crook-neck lamp on the bed table, amid large-print books, pill bottles, lotions, and ointments. I flipped the light on and dialed Information, picking up the numbers for both United and American Airlines. I called United first, listening to the usual reassurances until my "call could be answered in the order it was received." Out of deference to Ray's mom, I refrained from searching her bed table drawer while I waited for the agent to pick up on his end. I did scan the room, looking for the belly harness. Had to be around here somewhere.
The agent finally came on the line and helped me get the reservations I needed. There was a flight from Louisville to Chicago at 7:12 p.m., arriving at 7:22, which reflected the hour's time difference. After a brief layover, I then connected to a flight departing from Chicago at 8:14 p.m., arriving in Los Angeles at 10:24, California time. The flight to Santa Teresa left at 11:00 and arrived forty-five minutes later. That last connection was tight, but the agent swore the arrival and departure gates would be close to one another. Since I was traveling without luggage, he didn't think it would be a problem. He did advise me to get to the airport an hour in advance of flight tune so I could pay for the ticket.
He'd just put me on hold when Ray stuck his head in the door, a clean towel in one hand. "That's for you," he said, tossing it on the bed. "When you finish your call, you can hop in the shower. There's a robe hanging on the door. Ma says she'll throw your clothes in the wash when you're ready."
I put a palm across the mouthpiece and said, "Thanks. I'll bring 'em right out. What about the stuff in the car?"
"She's got that already. I brought everything in."
He started to depart and stuck his head around the door again. "Oh. I almost forgot. Ma says there's a one-ho
ur cleaners in the same mall as the market. You want to give me your jacket, I can drop it off before we go shopping and pick it up on the way back."
The agent had come back on the line and was already busy reconfirming the flight arrangements while I nodded enthusiastically to Ray. With the receiver still tucked in the crook of my neck, I emptied the pockets of my blazer and handed it to him. He waved and withdrew while I finished up the call.
I headed for the bathroom, where with a quick search I uncovered the belly harness tucked down in the clothes hamper. I hauled it out and inspected it, impressed by the ingenuity of the construction. The housing resembled an oversize catcher's face mask, a convex frame made of semiflexible plastic tubing, wrapped with padding, into which countless bound packets of currency had been packed. Heavy canvas straps secured the harness once in place. I checked a couple of packets, riffling through five-, ten-, twenty-, and fifty-dollar notes of varying sizes. Many bills seemed unfamiliar and I had to assume were no longer in circulation. Several packets appeared to be literally in mint condition. It grieved me to think of Laura covering day-to-day expenses with bank notes that a serious collector would have paid dearly for. Ray was a fool to stand by while his daughter threw it all away. Who knew how much money still remained to be uncovered?
I tucked the harness down in the hamper. I'm big on closure and not good at leaving so many questions unanswered. However, (she said) this was not my concern. In six hours, I'd be heading for California. If there were additional monies in a stash somewhere, that was strictly Ray's business. There was a blue chenille bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. I stripped out of the borrowed denim dress and underwear, pulled the robe on, and carried my dirty clothes out to the kitchen. Ray and Laura had apparently left on their errand. I could see yams on the stove, simmering in a dark blue-and-white-speckled enamel pan. Quart Mason jars of tomatoes and green beans had been pulled off the pantry shelves and placed on the counter. Briefly, I pondered the possibilities of botulism poisoning arising from improperly preserved foods, but what the heck, the mortality rate is only sixty-five percent. Ray's mother probably wouldn't have attained such a ripe old age if she hadn't perfected her canning skills.