Breaking into Cars Read online

  “Pass the butter,” Elvis growled.

  “Say please first,” Ducky sniped.

  Brandon heaved a heavy sigh.

  And I didn’t laugh. It was like that. Nobody hated anyone else, but we were all lost in our own little miseries. Except for Busted, who was under the table making disgusting noises. And then, three things happened all at once.

  * * * *

  The house phone rang. Now, Brandon and I had both had cell phones, but they were long gone, left behind, stolen, ruined, whatever. And Ducky was too old-fashioned. And Elvis had one in his car. So the house phone rang. There was one in the kitchen, one in the parlor, and one here, behind Ducky, on a small table. That’s one. Two, the kitten appeared to levitate, as if by magic, leaping up from the floor and landing on the table, in the bowl of potato salad. Ploop. And three, there came a pounding on the door (yeah I know I sound like Edgar Allan Poe, don’t I?) We all jumped and some of us shrieked a little. Me, I burst out laughing and was busy pointing at the kitten.

  Elvis blurted out a bad word. Then several more. Then he turned beet red and really got to swearing. I was listening closely because man, was I learning new, creative things or what! I mean, tell me this isn’t the best, most useful insult of all time: What a turd-farting, dickthistle riding, rotting butt-shafted, trout-faced nutplonker, and as it is, I may have cleaned up a few words, or just misheard them. I was thrilled! I also hoped like hell he didn’t mean me.

  Ducky raised one eyebrow, then the other. She snapped her fingers and looked down at the floor. “Busted, potato salad.” Then she looked at me, then at Brandon, and said politely, “Would one of you get the door please? And excuse me, I’ll get the fucking phone.”

  Just the same; I rose to go get the door. Brandon rose as well, then burst into tears and ran sobbing down the hall to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Busted rose majestically from the floor, shook himself, put both paws on the table, and watched as the kitten sat down, stuck one leg in the air and started licking her bottom in the age old way cats had of saying, “I meant to do that.”

  So here’s the scene—Elvis is still muttering curses; Ducky is shouting into the phone, “Speak up! I can’t hear you!”; Busted is woofing quietly, presumably in approval; crying is echoing down the hallway; and the door is now being pounded upon. I saunter over it, trying to stifle my giggles and open it. I feel like a butler so I draw myself up to my full 5’8” and raise my chin so I can peer down my nose. Oh how I wish I had a monocle.

  It’s some sort of police officer or private detective. I could smell it. “I’m looking for a girl named Brittany Anne Sexton.” He shoved a photo in front of me. “I was informed someone here might know of her whereabouts.”

  I stared at the photo. This was some girly-girl with curly blond hair and glasses and braces and freckles. It never dawned on me. “Nope,” I said. “The only female here is the owner and I’m sure your informant knows that, and the kitten. Although actually, I don’t know about the kitten. Would you care to speak to Mrs. Uh…” (What the hell, I didn’t know her name? Should I say Ducky?)

  “Yes, I would like to speak to Mrs. Duckworth. Indeed. And you are?”

  I ignored him because behind me I heard elevated cursing and barking. Then Ducky was behind me. “You wished to talk to me? Shut up! I’m at the door!”

  I bowed like a butler and almost ran back to the table to see what was going on.

  Behind me I heard, “You heard the boy. There is no one here by that name. You can take your information and…”

  She pulled the door halfway shut behind her, but I’m sure I might have learned a few more things if she hadn’t.

  Then it dawned on me. “Brittany?” Oh hell no. Anyhow, she was out of sight if not out of sound. Except, wait, she was opening the door. I ran down that hall, grabbed her arm, and pushed her ahead of me into the back stairway! “Quick!” I begged. “Run up to the attic and hide!” And she, er, he, took off, wide-eyed, still sniveling, but now totally silent.

  I took a deep breath and went back to the table. I could see Ducky in the doorway trying to shut the door, but the man had his leg stuck inside. “Is that her? That boy? Is that her disguised as a boy?”

  Busted was gently licking potato salad off the kitten, who was now sound asleep in the bowl. Elvis was now laughing so hard he was almost silent, wiping his eyes and making cooing noises. Busted slowly turned his head, looking toward the door. The hair on his back started to stand up. He shook himself, and started walking toward the door. I made a dive for Busted, and just got his tail. He dragged me along the floor. I was screaming, “Stop! Stop! Ow! Goddamnit!” as we went. Ducky turned in shock, and the man pushed his way inside, his mouth gaping. At that moment, Busted dragged me over the raised threshold between the doorway and hall, which made me roll onto my back, and also snagged the waistband of my pants, which dragged them down past my ass.

  I heard Ducky say, “I told you he’s not a girl.”

  I heard Elvis bust a gut guffawing, the bastard.

  I heard a quiet, “Sorry, Ma’am,” and the front door shutting firmly.

  Busted stopped growling almost immediately. The laughter from Elvis and the doorway continued, along with the tinny voice from the phone, “Hello? Hello, Mrs. Duckworth? Are you still there?”

  Busted started licking me! It tickled. Luckily it only tickled. I sat up, my dignity shredded, then I stood up, pulling my pants with me in one hand, the phone in the other. I proffered it to Ducky, tossed my head (I’m not ashamed. So there.) and stalked back to the table. Ducky said, “Go call Brandon back down please. We need to talk.” Then she got back to her phone conversation.

  By the time I’d found Brandon and we’d smooched for a little while, Elvis had removed the kitten from the salad and Busted was back under the table cleaning her up. Ducky was back at the table. She and Elvis were obviously done eating lunch and were working on martinis or something afternoonish like that. She’d even set glasses of it at our places. Small ones, but still.

  “Here’s the deal, kids,” she started, swirling her drink, then looking up at us intently. “That on the phone, Jack, was your grandfather or whatever. He was all excited but worried. In a nutshell, he’s sold the ranch and thus doesn’t need you to come. In fact, he’s going to come this way for some, ah, surgery.”

  Elvis drank. “He’s having a sex change.”

  I gulped, then took a sip. Then choked.

  “Oh, cool!” exclaimed Brandon, that fink.

  Ducky reached over and took my hand, the one that wasn’t wiping liquid off my chin. “Honey, he was so concerned that he was letting you down, but was so excited that he could finally do what he’s dreamed of his whole life. Can you understand? It’s not about you or not wanting you. It’s about him.”

  All eyes were upon me. And I could understand, and was actually rather relieved. I didn’t really know what it might mean for me, except, now I had no place to go, to be.

  Until of course Ducky said, “Safe for you or not, you’re staying here. Until you go to college. And if your father has anything to say about it, I can afford more lawyers than he can imagine.”

  I managed a small laugh, or maybe it was just a hiccup.

  “There’s more,” Ducky added, reaching over to pat me on the back and pouring me more gin. Make up your mind, I thought, glaring at the evil clear liquid waiting to kill me.

  “He got a good enough price for it to not only get what he wanted done, in Thailand, but to give you a sizeable amount toward college.” She smirked. “Sort of sell-a-dick to get a degree.”

  I choked some more. Elvis laughed. So did the fink.

  Then Elvis said, “Ducky, you remember that slipped disc problem I had? The doctor told me that when I wrenched my ankle it might put that disc out again. And it apparently has gone out on me. I’m told by that rich bastard, I mean my doctor, that if I don’t get flat on my back for a couple of weeks, I could be paralyzed.” He turned from Ducky to me. “Son, I�
��m sorry, but I can’t take you and the car to Denver. I hoped we could do it; I really did.”

  Ducky didn’t bother to wait. “Well, Buster, I’m really sorry to hear that, and maybe it’s just the gin speaking, but listen…Since she, I mean he, Brandon, isn’t going to be safe here, how about if she, I mean he, damn it, and I take the car to Denver? Ha-ha, maybe we’ll go see the same gender therapist as his old grandfather while we’re there! Do you like that idea, Brandon baby?”

  Brandon was so excited. “I drive! Me drive! I get to drive?”

  Ducky just nodded. “If it’s okay with Elvis here, yes.”

  He nodded. Glumly I thought.

  “I always wanted to be a nurse!” I lied enthusiastically. It was the least I could do.

  Ducky suddenly got very quiet. “Okay, one last thing. I need to look like you, Elvis, and you need to pretend to be—well, me.”

  They both turned and stared at Brandon and me. “What?” I asked. Were Brandon and I both going to have to look like each other, too? No, that wouldn’t work, would it? Well, maybe…No.

  “Never mind, boys, this is our business. Monkey business, no not really, more like the entertainment business actually. I mean, you know Elvis can sing, right?”

  We nodded. We boys.

  Ducky blushed. “We met at an Elvis impersonation contest. I won.” And she started in on Jailhouse Rock. Not the best choice, I thought, but oh well. She was good.

  Once more, the phone rang. We all jumped, then laughed. “Hello?” Ducky said, “He’s right here, and handed the phone to Elvis.”

  He listened, then sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “I know she didn’t know who I was anymore, not for the past few years, but you say she recognized you two? I’m so glad. And she went peacefully? Good, good. No you did the right thing. I’m laid up with a broken ankle and hurt back, yeah, that was me on the television, but no heroics, just doing…well you know. Thanks to you two…well, let me know. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  I went over and sat down with him and took the phone from him. Ducky hung it up. Brandon handed him a box of tissues. Finally he looked up and said, “It’s over, she’s at peace. You were right to say it was all right if I left. She was happy reliving her childhood with her sisters and wouldn’t have known me at all. So…well.”

  Ducky wiped her eyes. “I need a nap,” she said. “Brandon, we’ll leave tomorrow morning. Try to look like a real chauffeur, okay?”

  So she left us with a bittersweet smile, and the happiness and sadness mixing on Brandon’s face made me love him even more.

  I really couldn’t complain. All I’d lost was my road trip, and a job of unpaid labor on a ranch with an elderly relative I didn’t know. Of course in a way I was losing him, too, but gaining a different elderly relative. I was a little affronted, to be honest, even though I knew it wasn’t fair. Ducky had lost her peace and quiet but seemed to have gained Brandon. Oh yeah, I guess I was losing him, too, at least for a while. Thinking that made me smile though, because his happiness at driving that car of Elvis’ was so obvious that it made the stars come out and the sun shine and the little birdies sing. Even Elvis, who’d really lost the most, had to smile.

  Brandon rushed upstairs and came back down wearing his chauffeur’s cap and rushed into the garage to check out the vehicle and kick tires, or something. Ducky rushed off to pack or nap or whatever. Elvis needed my help getting to the sofa and stretching out. Then I fetched him his pain pills and a blanket. “I’m so sorry about your wife,” I said as I covered him up.

  He grunted. “Thank you. I really lost her a long time ago, but it still hurts. Even when you expect it, it’s still a horrible shock. I’ll be all right. I’ve done so much mourning already. Well.” He sighed, then looked up at me. “I’m going to be as bad a patient as any doctor you’ll ever meet, but I’ll say this in advance; I’m grateful to have you here.”

  I watched him close his eyes, then started cleaning up the abandoned lunch dishes. Busted had taken care of the leftover food.

  The house was quiet. I mopped the kitchen floor wondering what had come over me. I was domestic all of a sudden? Of course that made me think of home. And that made me realize just how completely unhelpful I had been at home. What was the difference? The acceptance? The positive vibes? Was I that shallow? I wanted to be the kind of person who did what was right because it was right, not because, well, shit. I could do better though, obviously.

  I could have vacuumed, too, but I didn’t want to disturb Elvis, or even, just the peace and quiet. I could have gone into the garage and fooled around with Brandon but for some reason, maybe it was just resentment, I didn’t. I went up to the third floor and checked that all was in readiness for the homeless family. They were due to arrive tomorrow. God knows where they were staying now. I guess they’d lost not only their house but everything in it. Were there kids? Pets? Had they lost any family members? Was anyone hurt?

  Would they be using the kitchen and other rooms? Who was going to cook for them with Ducky gone? Oh no, not me, I thought. Nope. I couldn’t even boil water.

  No trace of the ghost remained so I went up to the attic. I sat down on the sofa where I’d felt so at peace earlier. I even turned on the radio, but now it just sputtered and produced static so I turned it off and unplugged it. Maybe little mechanical all-boy Brandon could fix it. Oh, I was bitter! That was not pleasant; was I mad at him? There was no reason to be.

  No reason other than that I loved him, except I was gay and he was missing some vital equipment. But that wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t anyone’s fault. And I did not have a single clue what to do about it. Everything was all changed around, and all I could do was go with the flow, and really, wasn’t I a lot better off than before I left home? You bet I was, and for that, I was grateful. It wasn’t just my circumstances that had improved, but my character as well. Bittersweet, actually, and I laughed at myself and got ready to go back downstairs. As I crossed the room, I noticed a picture on the wall. I could swear it hadn’t been there before, but maybe I just forgot, what with smooching Brandon and all that, you know.

  Then I stopped dead in my tracks. I knew that woman in the picture, didn’t I? I’m sure I’d seen her before. I don’t mean handing me music sheets or in a dream or something, or disappearing up these stairs…but I knew her, in real life. My former real life. Back when I was a kid, up until last month, or was it only a week? But back east with my father and older perfect brother and, and.

  I walked slowly closer to the picture. It was actually an old photo, but tinted, you can tell. It was large, maybe fourteen by twenty, which I thought quite large for as old as it must be.

  I know I’ve told you about my uber father and my uber brother, both the peak of perfection. But there was, or rather had been, of course, my mother, and a younger sister. Both had been killed in an auto accident when I was seven years old. I’d kind of buried that memory as deep into the cellars of my mind as I could, because as soon as the police had left the door, my Dad had turned to me and said, “If you hadn’t given your sister chicken pox, she and your Mom would still be alive.” And he’d shaken his head, and walked away.

  Now I remembered in full, like being there. I could see my father saying that; I could hear him as he walked away. I hadn’t understood what he meant at the time but I guess I did now, but really, it was so tenuous and so stupid to blame a seven year old who had just gotten over chicken pox himself, well, tell a kid that. A kid will believe he caused the sun to rise in the morning, if his father tells him so.

  The woman in the picture was my mother. She was wearing an old fashioned gown from oh, perhaps her mother’s time, I don’t know! I had to sit down and I backed across the room to a big old chair that, luckily for me, had been left there. There were some books on it that Brandon had left there, but I pushed them off and almost fell into the seat. The title of one jumped out at me; it was a book titled, It Wasn’t Your Fault. I dropped it as if it had burned me, and tears popped into my eyes,
burning like the fires of hell I’d cast my little guilty self into years ago.

  My mother had been taking my sister to the doctor because she’d been scratching her chicken pox even though she had been told not to. Didn’t everyone? But hers had gotten infected. A bus…well, never mind. Even though I had just relived the whole thing in a nanosecond, I wasn’t going to dwell on it. It was over and out like a lanced wound. I could only believe that our resident ghost had appreciated my playing her music for her so much, that she had given me a gift in return; the gift of peace and innocence. A heavy load I’d forgotten I had, or had buried so deep I couldn’t see it, had just lifted off my back, and off my mind. I looked around the room as if I would find the ghost there, or my mother and sister, but of course, there was nobody else there; I was alone.

  Ducky found me up there later, sound asleep in an awkward position on that overstuffed chair, with an old quilt tucked up around me. I’d never seen that quilt before and had not put it over myself, and Ducky, bless her, seemed to know that. I took the quilt, with her blessing, down to my room. When I looked at it more closely, I noticed the name of the person who had made it stitched into a corner. It was Marjorie, the same name as my mother.

  The picture was gone the next time I went up there, and Ducky didn’t remember ever having seen it at all. Somehow, it wasn’t even surprising. I kept the quilt. It smelled slightly of lavender, like my mother had. It had been her favorite scent.

  Ducky was rummaging around in her room. I could hear her muttering, singing, and flinging things around. It was weird. I straightened up our room and cleaned our bathroom. I’m sorry, but Brandon was a pig. He was way more typically male than I was. And he’d rather drive a fancy car than be with me. Oops.

  I checked in on Elvis. He was snoring. So was Busted, lying on his back on the floor with his legs in the air. The cat was the only one with any decorum at all in that room. She was sound asleep in a tight little ball on Elvis’s chest, her tail in his face. It looked like a huge mustache. I shook my head.