Careful What You Wish For Page 7

  “I don’t think he’s home, but let’s see,” I said.

  “It’s your party, lady. I’m here for backup,” Gene said, but I noticed he was taking a careful look around. When he turned toward the barking dog, he whispered something I couldn’t hear, and the dog lay down and put his head on his paws, his body no longer quivering. Gene walked over and talked to him again. The dog wagged his tail and finally Gene scratched his chest. I noticed that a cat was sitting calmly on top of the dog’s coop so, true to his breed, the yellow Lab wasn’t a vicious dog, simply a vigilant one.

  With some difficulty, I took a huge step up onto a “front porch,” which was some boards lying across cinder blocks, and opened a storm door that had the top piece of Plexiglas missing. Gene waited on the ground below me. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door handle and it turned. I pushed the door open a foot or so and called out, “Scabby, yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

  Silence greeted me, followed by the acrid smell of stale beer. “He’s out,” I called over to Gene.

  “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” Gene replied. “Now what?”

  “Geez, I don’t know. The door isn’t locked. Maybe Scabby’s lying on the floor unconscious inside and needs help.”

  Gene’s eyes rolled. “You’re not thinking of going in?”

  “I’m way past thinking about it,” I said. “Yell if you see anybody coming.” I opened the door wider and stepped into the RV. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I figured I might as well poke around.

  The interior of the RV was one room with a waist-high partition between the living area and a double bed. I noted the pile of dirty clothes sitting on the bed’s bare sheets and decided to concentrate on the small space that held a recliner, a TV, and a kitchen table between two bench seats. A two-burner stove, a washbasin-sized sink filled with dirty dishes, and an under-the-counter refrigerator took up one wall. I wrinkled my nose at an old pail filled with discarded beer cans. But what quickly drew my attention was a locked gun cabinet. Behind the glass I could see a well-worn .22 caliber rifle and a brand-new Winchester Super Shadow with a fancy scope. That big-game gun was way beyond the means of most country hunters around here. Deer season started the Monday after Thanksgiving, and it looked as if Scabby was ready for it. He must have come into some serious cash to buy this gun.

  The only other item of interest was the notepad beside the pink 1970s vintage Princess phone that sat on the kitchen table. On the top sheet I read “Call Joe” above a phone number with a Scranton exchange. It might mean nothing, but I scribbled down the numbers on the back of a grocery receipt I pulled out of my purse. At that moment I heard the dog starting to bark again and Gene’s voice calling, “Mayday! Mayday!”

  I rushed through the storm door in time to see a brown pickup barreling down the driveway spitting stones. The truck skidded to a stop at the back end of the RV, the tailgate about even with my BMW. Scabby Hoyt came tumbling out of the driver’s door and tore ass around the rear of the truck, a baseball bat in his hand.

  “Whatcha doin’ in my house!” he was screaming. His eyes were wild and fixed on me as he ran toward the front door brandishing the Louisville Slugger. My heart thudded so loud I could hear it. I was thinking about jumping off the porch and making a dash for the Beemer, when Scabby suddenly stumbled, his feet kicking behind him up into the air. He came down hard, flat on his face, a green John Deere cap flying off his head and tumbling into the weeds. I didn’t see Gene make a move, but suddenly the genie was standing between me and Scabby. What’s more, he was now holding Scabby’s baseball bat.

  Scabby tried to scramble to his feet, but Gene planted a dusty combat boot right between Scabby’s bony shoulder blades and pushed him back down. I hurried over and stood behind Gene.

  “Scabby,” I said standing on tiptoe and peeking my head over Gene’s shoulder. “It’s me, Ravine Patton. I have something for you and was bringing it over.”

  Scabby said something that sounded like, “All you Pattons can go to hell,” but since his face was pressed into the dirt I couldn’t be sure.

  Gene pushed his foot down harder on Scabby’s back. “Listen, bud. I don’t like your attitude toward my girlfriend here—”

  “Girlfriend?” I squeaked.

  “We came by to be neighborly. Now you need a little attitude adjustment. You are going to be nice and polite when I let you up, aren’t you. What? Louder, I can’t hear you.” With that Gene gave Scabby a light tap on the head with the bat. “What? Did you say yes? Maybe you better nod your head. Be careful you don’t smack into this bat again.”

  Scabby managed to nod his head a little.

  “Good enough,” Gene said and removed his foot. “Now let’s see your manners.”

  Scabby pulled himself upright. A streak of dirt crossed his forehead, his little pig-eyes were flashing hate, and his pockmarked face above his scraggly beard had turned crimson. “Whatcha want, Ravine?” he snarled. “Whatcha doin’ snooping in my trailer?”

  “I wasn’t snooping, Scabby, I stepped in to see if you were home. I wanted to give you this.” Holding a white envelope, my hand snaked out from behind Gene.

  “Whaz this?”

  “Your door prize. You won it at bingo last night.”

  “I weren’t at no bingo last night,” he said sullenly but took the envelope. He tore it open. A twenty-dollar bill was tucked inside. He looked at it. “Well, maybe I was.” Scabby stuffed the twenty into the breast pocket of his buffalo plaid jacket and pulled out a can of chew. He opened the can and stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco behind his lower lip. “Hey-yah,” he said, reverting to the way old farmers still talk around Noxen. He spat tobacco juice into the weeds. “Hey-yah.” He rocked back on his heels. “Whatcha really want?”

  I looked over at Scabby’s pickup. Painted on the tailgate were three tombstones, each about a foot high. One tombstone was marked TOM B. 1967 D. 1992. A second read JIMMY B. 1975 D. 2005. The third tombstone was labeled ALVIN B. 1977. D.? Having a tombstone for himself was real creepy, but that’s Scabby for you. “I have a question I want to ask you,” I said.

  He spat another stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Yeah?”

  “What do those tombstones mean on your truck?”

  “Huh? You know. My brother Tom, he went first. A truck tire exploded and hit him in the head. Jim, that damned fool, hung hisself. Doncha remember? The staties pulled him outta the woods. Had to use helicopters to find him.”

  “I was in Philly then, Scabby. Sorry for your loss. But look, about your truck. You know those Buddhists at the B and B over near the old school?”

  “You mean those Japs that moved in?”

  “They are Japanese, Scabby. Yes. So you know who I mean. Have you been bothering them?”

  “Whatcha mean, bothering them?”

  “I mean like running your pickup onto their lawn and trying to hit one of their chickens?” I stepped out from behind Gene, who was watching every move Scabby made.

  Scabby spat again. “Weren’t me. You want anything else?” Scabby reached down and picked up his John Deere cap. As he jammed it back on his head, he said, “I got cows to tend.”

  “Scabby, listen to me,” I said in a quiet voice. “If you go near that B and B again, I’ll have you arrested. You understand?”

  Scabby shot me a look filled with loathing. Then, so quick I saw only a blur, Gene’s hand landed on Scabby’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. Scabby yelped.

  “Do you understand the lady, mate?” Gene’s voice sent shivers through me. Scabby’s hat flew off his head again, although I didn’t feel any wind. The busted storm door on the RV started swinging back and smacking loudly against the siding. The sun disappeared behind another cloud, and the air turned very cold. A look of stark terror crossed Scabby’s skinny face, which went from candy apple red to paper white.

  “I said, do you understand the lady?” Gene repeated.

  “Ye-yes,” Scabby said.

  “Good. Now, sweeth
eart, let’s go,” he said to me.

  “Sweetheart?” I squeaked again as Gene took my arm and led me to the Beemer. He opened the car door and practically shoved me inside. Then he appeared in the passenger seat.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “Just get out of here, Ravine,” he said through clenched teeth.

  I started the engine and didn’t bother turning around. I hightailed it in reverse all the way down the driveway. When I finally screeched out onto the state road, I turned my head for one last look at the old RV. Scabby was standing on the makeshift stoop. His new Winchester Super Shadow was in his hands.

  “I’m not your girlfriend,” I said to Gene as we drove toward home.

  “What was I supposed to call you? My mistress?”

  “No! But maybe you could have said my friend or something.”

  “I said what would work with a guy like Scabby. Why knock me when you made a mess of things.”

  “What do you mean? I handled it pretty damned good.”

  “Oh yeah, you were terrific. You almost got hit with a baseball bat. In another minute Scabby would have shot your car full of holes. If I hadn’t been there, you might have got yourself killed.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I huffed.

  “Right. I can see that. You’re no Sam Spade, that’s for sure.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The detective in The Maltese Falcon.. Don’t you go to the films?”

  “Maybe I saw it on Turner Classic Movies, I don’t remember. It’s an old Humphrey Bogart movie, I think.”

  Gene didn’t say anything for a minute. When he finally spoke, I could barely hear him. “The Maltese Falcon came out the year before I crashed.”

  I stole a look at him. It was hard to believe he was last out in the world in 1942; he looked my age. “What year were you born?”

  “Nineteen thirteen,” he said and looked out the window at the empty fields. “I’ll be twenty-nine on my birthday.”

  “When’s that?” I asked lightly, trying to keep the sadness I suddenly felt out of my voice.

  “December twenty-fourth. I was born on Christmas Eve. In Melbourne. My da called me his best Christmas present. I bet he’s dead by now. I wonder what happened to him…” Gene’s voice trailed off.

  “Do you mind talking about yourself, I mean about your life before—before the enchantment?” I asked.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Better leave it,” he answered. I could only see the back of his head. I couldn’t tell for sure what he was feeling.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?” I said, reaching out and touching his sleeve.

  “Go ahead,” he answered, still not looking at me.

  “Is your name really Gene?”

  His head whipped around, and he glared at me with surprise. “Of course it is. Technically it’s Eugene, but everybody calls me Gene. My full name is Eugene Hugh O’Neill.”

  “Eugene O’Neill? That’s a famous playwright. You sure you’re not making it up?”

  “For Pete’s sake! O’Neill is a common name. So’s Eugene. Why the hell would I lie to you?” he snapped.

  “You have to admit that Gene the genie is a little much. And your whole story sounds like fiction, you know.”

  “Damn it all to hell! I can’t show you a driver’s license. But you know what? You can write somebody and get my service record. Captain Eugene Hugh O’Neill. I trained in Canada. In the RAF. Go ahead.” I swear I could almost see steam coming out of Gene’s ears.

  “Keep your shirt on,” I said. “You can’t blame me for being skeptical. Put yourself in my shoes.”

  Gene stared at me for a minute. Then he did something unexpected. He reached out and pushed a stray strand of hair out of my eyes and gently tucked it behind my ear. I held my breath. It felt so good when his fingers stroked my forehead and trailed across my cheek. “No, I can’t blame you,” he said. “And you were brave back there, for a girl, that is.”

  “For a girl—I’m not a girl!”

  “What did I say? You look like a girl.”

  “I’m not a girl. I’m a mother. I’m a lawyer. I’m a woman.”

  Gene appeared perplexed by my outburst. “I know you’re a woman. But you’re young. You’re pretty. What’s your point?”

  I took a deep breath. We were from different generations and different times. “Never mind,” I sighed. “Never mind.”

  Gene’s lack of political correctness was soon the least of my problems. After I pulled into my driveway, Gene and I were getting out of the car when I noticed my mother’s red pickup inching around the turn from the main road.

  Crap, I thought. It was too late to get Gene back in his bottle. I steeled myself. Gene looked at me. I could already hear Freddi’s I told you so.

  I whispered, “Play along.”

  “Righto,” he said, but I felt uneasy about the grin he gave me along with his answer.

  My sixty-five-year-old mother, clad in blue jeans, work boots, and a barn coat, exited from her pickup, a large Tupperware bowl in her hands. She took in the scene in front of her: me and a young guy. I could almost see the possible-husband-for-Ravine radar unfolding above her head. Gene and I stood next to each other as she approached. He put his arm around my waist. I’m sure a look of horror crossed my face. Now I knew I was really in for a third degree. I exhaled a deep, long sigh.

  “Hi, Ma. I didn’t expect to see you again today,” I said and stepped away from Gene.

  “Obviously,” she answered. “I’m Ravine’s mother,” she said to Gene as she put out her hand. “Clara Patton. You can call me Clara. And you?”

  “Gene. Gene O’Neill. Pleased to meet you,” he said and stuck out one of his big hands to clasp hers. “Can I carry that for you?” he offered as she struggled to balance the Tupperware. I could see his eyes twinkling. He was really turning on the charm, or the magic. My mother was starting to glow.

  “No, but thank you for offering, Gene,” she replied, her voice sounding younger all of a sudden.

  “Gene is a friend of mine, Ma. A friend. Just a friend.”

  “A friend from where?” she said, ignoring me and smiling up at Gene.

  “Melbourne, ma’am,” he said. “Australia.”

  “Really? All that way, imagine. Do you have a job there?” she asked.

  “Ma!” I said, my cheeks starting to burn from embarrassment.

  “I’m in the military, ma’am. A pilot in the RAF,” Gene said easily.

  “You’re an officer then?”

  “A captain, ma’am.”

  “You’re a career military man?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m doing my duty during the war, that’s all. I hope to get work for a commercial airline when it’s over.”

  “Hmmmph. With all of them going bankrupt, good luck to you. You’d be better off sticking with the military.”

  “Really?” Gene said. “I will seriously consider your advice.”

  My mother beamed. “Thank you very much. It’s refreshing that some younger people realize that they don’t know everything.”

  My mother was annoying me in the way only my mother can annoy me. I decided to break up this little chat. “Can we go inside? Freddi needs to get home. She’s watching Brady.”

  “Are you staying with Ravine?” My mother ignored me as she went fishing for information like a prosecutor seeing which bait might catch a confession.

  “No, he’s not,” I answered as I strode briskly toward the front door. “He only stopped by on his way to…to…”

  “Actually, I am staying in the area for a while,” Gene said as we began to walk to the door. “I wanted to spend some time with Ravine before I got called back.”

  “Really?” my mother said while I shot Gene the dirtiest look I could muster. “Now isn’t that nice. You two should come over to dinner.”

  “That’s very kind of you. We’d love to,” Gene said. I nearly choked. As we went through the front door, I grabbed his arm and
pinched him as hard as I could without my mother seeing it. He didn’t flinch.

  “Well, how about tomorrow? At six?” She smiled broadly as we all got inside.

  “I don’t think—” I began to say.

  “I’d like that,” Gene said. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in…in a very long time.”

  “Ravine doesn’t cook, you know,” my mother apologized.

  “A pretty woman doesn’t need to,” he said as I began to sputter, “You…you…”

  “A mother needs to,” my own mother said, her mouth set in a hard line.

  “I can cook!” I said. Gene and my mother looked at each other, suddenly allies.

  At that moment, Freddi walked into the living room from the kitchen carrying Brady. She looked at Gene. She looked at my mother. Her head swiveled back and forth. With her mop of red curls she looked like Little Orphan Annie. She looked at me with I told you so written all over her face.

  “I just introduced my friend Gene to my mother,” I said quickly.

  “Oh. Oh, okay,” Freddi said. “Your friend, Gene. Hi, Gene.”

  “Hi, Freddi,” Gene said.

  “Brady’s ready for his dinner, I think,” she said, handing him over, whispering in my ear, “What are you doing!”

  “Shhh,” I whispered back.

  “Freddi Ann, whatever is the matter with you,” my mother said. “You seem to have the heebie-jeebies every time I see you. You act as nervous as a turkey at Thanksgiving. Which reminds me, Ravine. Are you still a vegetarian? I had to get that tofu turkey for you last year when you were pregnant.”

  “No. I mean sort of. Can we discuss this some other time? Freddi, you said you had to go?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. I have to go. Bobby will be home soon.” She grabbed her handbag and coat. “Call me later, okay?” she said to me.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks for watching Brady.”

  “No problem. Bye, Aunt Clara and…um, Gene.” She backed out of the room staring at him all the way.

  “I have to be going too,” my mother said and shoved the Tupperware in my direction. “Here. It’s piggies. I made them for the church dinner. These were extras. They do have a little meat in them, but you used to love them.”