Hollywood Dirt
Page 92
CHAPTER 102
Ten minutes later, our new items in the backseat of the truck, we found out that the power outage was caused by a trip at the power station. I would go into greater detail except that verbiage meant diddle squat to me. It was Carl at the gas station who told me. I nodded intelligently and asked him if the two for two-dollar candy bar deal included Rolos. They didn’t.
On the way back to Cole’s we drove by the Pit. He spoke to the security officers there, who assured him that they would be diligent in watching for any vandals who appeared on the heels of the blackout.
I snorted when he drove off. Vandals? This was Quincy. Those guys were going to have a long night of waiting ahead of them if they expected trouble. We did one final loop of the town, then drove slowly back, his brights on, our eyes peeled for deer.
When we pulled down the long drive, the white house lit by the moonlight, I looked to my house and thought of Mama. This time of night, she’d be asleep. She wouldn’t even know about the blackout but it felt odd for me to think of her, in that house, alone. Once I moved away she would always be alone. That idea, like every time before it, felt odd too. I would get used to it. I’d have to. It was only natural for the young to grow up and leave the nest.
We set up camp in the Kirklands’ living room. I found candles and lit them, the large room glowing in flickering light, and I had the sudden vision of flames licking up the wall, the wallpaper bubbling, and hurried to blow out a few. There. Four candles lit. Enough to see by, just not in high definition. We unpacked in the living room, the floor strewn with our gear, Cocky picking his way gingerly through the pile. I saw some of his poo on the floor behind Cole and nodded toward it, passing him a can of wipes. I put on Cole’s new cowboy hat and ripped open a Nerds rope, chewing on one end of it as I shifted through our haul. Cole returned, scooping up the rooster and I plucked out the bag of peas, holding them up to him. “Sprinkle some of these in his tub. He’ll like digging through the bedding for them.” My words came out garbled, through a mouthful of Nerds goodness, but Cole nodded, grabbing the bag and heading to the bathroom. We’d have to build an outside pen for Cocky. He was too big to be inside, despite whatever notions Cole had for making him a house chicken. I frowned around the piece of candy. He’d. He’d have to build an outside pen. It was silly for me to think that we’d continue hanging out. Just because the sex had destroyed my world and rebuilt it in an entirely new way. Just because we’d had fun and been reckless and kissed in a Walmart aisle. Whatever heartbreak I had coming when Cole Masten left town was my thing, not his. That was what I needed to remember.
“His light doesn’t work.”
I looked up to see Cole standing in the dim corner of the living room, by the bathroom. I shrugged. “So? He doesn’t need the warmth anymore. That was just when he was a chick.”
“Do you mind if we hang out on the back porch? Just ’til the power comes back on?” He held Cocky under his right arm, like a football. A football he now scratched the chest of.
I grabbed the newly purchased bottle of wine, hefting to my feet. “Sure. I’ll grab some glasses.”
After my third glass, our bare feet hanging off the edge of the porch, my head on his shoulder, I decided to tell him about that night. Rehearsal Dinner Night. We’d lost Cocky to the darkness, his cluck occasionally heard from somewhere far in the yard. Every once in a while, Cole would dig his hand into the peas and toss them out into the grass. Sometime next summer, Cyndi Kirkland would be pulling out pea sprouts and cursing his name. At some point, around the second glass, his right hand had slid into mine, our fingers linking, and stayed there. It was on the third glass that my head had rested on his shoulder and my mouth had opened.
“It was crazy,” I said out of nowhere. “What I did that night. The article had it right, what happened.”
“Crazy isn’t always a bad thing.” That was all he said, and I was glad. I let out a big breath and then told, for the first time ever, the whole story.
CHAPTER 103
On a farm, things happened. Hospitals were not close by, and Tallahassee was too far away if there was a problem. So we had things. Ipecac syrup was one of those things. If a kid, or a stupid adult, or an animal ate something they shouldn’t, Ipecac caused a violent vomiting spell that got out all of the nasty. And Ipecac was what I reached for in The Plan.
It was easy to set up. The restaurant was serving crème brulee for dessert, topped with a medley of berries. I put the syrup in a flask, in a thigh holster. After the first round of toasts, I excused myself, walking right past the bathrooms and into the kitchen. I hugged Rita, the chef, and held up the flask. “Mind if I give the head table some extra flavor?” That was all it took. We were a dry county, liquor scant except in our private homes. She smiled. “Just pretend I didn’t see you. The platters are numbered, your table is number one.”
I’d like to say that I hesitated, my fingers twisting at the flask’s silver neck, but that’d be a lie. Two days of pent up anger, an hour of polite dinner conversation with false friends… it all pushed my actions, and I left the kitchen a minute later with all twelve of my table’s desserts tainted.
After that, there was nothing left to do but sit, sip my champagne, and watch.
When Ipecac hit, it was sudden. Explosive. If you gave someone too much, you could hurt them. I didn’t give my victims too much; there was about a half cup in each dessert. Scott was, brilliantly enough, the first victim. I saw him take his first bite, and I stood up, moving a few steps back and leaning against the wall, my champagne glass hanging from my recently manicured (professionally!) fingertips. Bridget saw me move and shot me a strange look, her elbow moving, out of sheer habit, to notify Corrine. Corrine glanced over, shrugged, and took her first bite of dessert. I stared point-blank at Bridget until she looked away, focusing on her dessert as if it was the most important thing in her life. Which, right then, it would be. Our table was up front, a long piece that cut the room in half, three couples on each side, Scott and I crammed on the end because weddings have this obsession with putting the bride and groom front and center, damn their need for elbow room to cut a steak.
Ten minutes later, our new items in the backseat of the truck, we found out that the power outage was caused by a trip at the power station. I would go into greater detail except that verbiage meant diddle squat to me. It was Carl at the gas station who told me. I nodded intelligently and asked him if the two for two-dollar candy bar deal included Rolos. They didn’t.
On the way back to Cole’s we drove by the Pit. He spoke to the security officers there, who assured him that they would be diligent in watching for any vandals who appeared on the heels of the blackout.
I snorted when he drove off. Vandals? This was Quincy. Those guys were going to have a long night of waiting ahead of them if they expected trouble. We did one final loop of the town, then drove slowly back, his brights on, our eyes peeled for deer.
When we pulled down the long drive, the white house lit by the moonlight, I looked to my house and thought of Mama. This time of night, she’d be asleep. She wouldn’t even know about the blackout but it felt odd for me to think of her, in that house, alone. Once I moved away she would always be alone. That idea, like every time before it, felt odd too. I would get used to it. I’d have to. It was only natural for the young to grow up and leave the nest.
We set up camp in the Kirklands’ living room. I found candles and lit them, the large room glowing in flickering light, and I had the sudden vision of flames licking up the wall, the wallpaper bubbling, and hurried to blow out a few. There. Four candles lit. Enough to see by, just not in high definition. We unpacked in the living room, the floor strewn with our gear, Cocky picking his way gingerly through the pile. I saw some of his poo on the floor behind Cole and nodded toward it, passing him a can of wipes. I put on Cole’s new cowboy hat and ripped open a Nerds rope, chewing on one end of it as I shifted through our haul. Cole returned, scooping up the rooster and I plucked out the bag of peas, holding them up to him. “Sprinkle some of these in his tub. He’ll like digging through the bedding for them.” My words came out garbled, through a mouthful of Nerds goodness, but Cole nodded, grabbing the bag and heading to the bathroom. We’d have to build an outside pen for Cocky. He was too big to be inside, despite whatever notions Cole had for making him a house chicken. I frowned around the piece of candy. He’d. He’d have to build an outside pen. It was silly for me to think that we’d continue hanging out. Just because the sex had destroyed my world and rebuilt it in an entirely new way. Just because we’d had fun and been reckless and kissed in a Walmart aisle. Whatever heartbreak I had coming when Cole Masten left town was my thing, not his. That was what I needed to remember.
“His light doesn’t work.”
I looked up to see Cole standing in the dim corner of the living room, by the bathroom. I shrugged. “So? He doesn’t need the warmth anymore. That was just when he was a chick.”
“Do you mind if we hang out on the back porch? Just ’til the power comes back on?” He held Cocky under his right arm, like a football. A football he now scratched the chest of.
I grabbed the newly purchased bottle of wine, hefting to my feet. “Sure. I’ll grab some glasses.”
After my third glass, our bare feet hanging off the edge of the porch, my head on his shoulder, I decided to tell him about that night. Rehearsal Dinner Night. We’d lost Cocky to the darkness, his cluck occasionally heard from somewhere far in the yard. Every once in a while, Cole would dig his hand into the peas and toss them out into the grass. Sometime next summer, Cyndi Kirkland would be pulling out pea sprouts and cursing his name. At some point, around the second glass, his right hand had slid into mine, our fingers linking, and stayed there. It was on the third glass that my head had rested on his shoulder and my mouth had opened.
“It was crazy,” I said out of nowhere. “What I did that night. The article had it right, what happened.”
“Crazy isn’t always a bad thing.” That was all he said, and I was glad. I let out a big breath and then told, for the first time ever, the whole story.
CHAPTER 103
On a farm, things happened. Hospitals were not close by, and Tallahassee was too far away if there was a problem. So we had things. Ipecac syrup was one of those things. If a kid, or a stupid adult, or an animal ate something they shouldn’t, Ipecac caused a violent vomiting spell that got out all of the nasty. And Ipecac was what I reached for in The Plan.
It was easy to set up. The restaurant was serving crème brulee for dessert, topped with a medley of berries. I put the syrup in a flask, in a thigh holster. After the first round of toasts, I excused myself, walking right past the bathrooms and into the kitchen. I hugged Rita, the chef, and held up the flask. “Mind if I give the head table some extra flavor?” That was all it took. We were a dry county, liquor scant except in our private homes. She smiled. “Just pretend I didn’t see you. The platters are numbered, your table is number one.”
I’d like to say that I hesitated, my fingers twisting at the flask’s silver neck, but that’d be a lie. Two days of pent up anger, an hour of polite dinner conversation with false friends… it all pushed my actions, and I left the kitchen a minute later with all twelve of my table’s desserts tainted.
After that, there was nothing left to do but sit, sip my champagne, and watch.
When Ipecac hit, it was sudden. Explosive. If you gave someone too much, you could hurt them. I didn’t give my victims too much; there was about a half cup in each dessert. Scott was, brilliantly enough, the first victim. I saw him take his first bite, and I stood up, moving a few steps back and leaning against the wall, my champagne glass hanging from my recently manicured (professionally!) fingertips. Bridget saw me move and shot me a strange look, her elbow moving, out of sheer habit, to notify Corrine. Corrine glanced over, shrugged, and took her first bite of dessert. I stared point-blank at Bridget until she looked away, focusing on her dessert as if it was the most important thing in her life. Which, right then, it would be. Our table was up front, a long piece that cut the room in half, three couples on each side, Scott and I crammed on the end because weddings have this obsession with putting the bride and groom front and center, damn their need for elbow room to cut a steak.
