“It’s a fake. Long story. I thought it was real. But the real one is in a museum in Amsterdam.”
“I’d like to hear that story someday.”
“I’d like to tell it someday. Maybe when we’re done with the weekend. Where do you live, Frank?”
“Pittsburgh. You?”
“Michigan. Near the coast.”
“Which coast?” Frank asked, holding up his left hand with his fingers together and his thumb slightly out.
Sara smiled. Because Michigan looked like a mitten, that was how residents showed where they lived. She touched the base of his index finger.
“So who is taking care of Jack while Mom is off visiting haunted houses?”
“After… what happened to me, I was having some trouble coping. Jack was taken by social services. I haven’t seen him in six months.”
“I’m sorry.” Frank gave her hand a squeeze. “I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”
“That’s why I’m here. If I get the money, I can hire a lawyer, get my son back.”
“Are you well enough to care for him?”
The question pinned Sara there as surely as if she’d been staked to the ground. Was she well enough? Her recent behavior didn’t indicate she was. If anything, she’d gotten worse since they took Jack away.
So how do I respond? Bravado? Lie so I don’t look like a bad person?
Or the truth?
Frank seemed patient. Understanding. Sara didn’t know if anything would become of this chance meeting, but she didn’t want to start their relationship with lies. Even if it made her look weak.
“I don’t think I am well enough, Frank. But right now, my hope is gone, because it isn’t possible to get him back. If I had some hope again, I think I could pull myself together.”
Frank nodded, slowly. “I don’t know you at all. But—and this is odd—I I I feel I do. You remind me of a woman I know named Sunshine Jones.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Former girlfriend?”
“No. I worked with her, every day, and never had a chance to tell her how much I thought of her. Bright. Tough. Pretty. She had this indefatigable spirit. I think you do, too.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”
“What happened to Ms. Jones?”
“She married someone else. It was best. He’s a good man. But I always wonder what might have happened if I just just just… tried.”
“Sometimes trying is the hardest thing in the world.”
“I know a little something about hope, Sara. But I don’t think you’ve given up yet. I think you’ve just been kicked really hard.”
Sara really wished that was true. “Why do you think that, Frank?”
“Because I’ve been kicked pretty hard, too.”
She moved a little closer to him, trying to read his eyes. Frank Belgium had the kindest eyes Sara had ever seen.
Then a car pulled up next to them, and a guy yelled through the window.
“Everyone okay?”
“Yeah,” the cabbie said. He was leaning up against the crumpled trunk of the car, smoking a cheap stogie.
“Does anyone need any help?”
“No no no,” Frank said, smiling at Sara. “We’re doing fine.”
The man began to pull away when Sara yelled, “Wait!”
The car stopped, then backed up.
“Do you have a crowbar?” Sara asked.
“It’s a rental. There’s probably one.”
“Our luggage is stuck in the trunk. Can you give us a hand?”
He continued backing up until he was behind them, then pulled over to the side of the road. When he exited the vehicle, Sara saw he was tall, over six feet, moderate build with longish light brown hair streaked with gray. He opened his trunk, poked around for a bit, and found a crowbar.
The taxi driver spat on the street. “Hey buddy, you touch my cab with that, I’ll call the police.”
“I am the police,” the man said, producing a badge.
The cabbie shrugged.
“Thanks so much,” Frank said. “Several cars have passed, but you’re the first one to stop.”
“What happened?”
“Bird flew into the windshield.”
The cop eyed the dented trunk. “Must have been one helluva bird.”
“I’m Frank,” he offered his hand, which the cop shook. “This is Sara.”
“Tom. Nice to meet you both.”
Tom pressed the flat end of the crowbar between the trunk lid and the fender, and gave it a fierce twist. It instantly popped open.
“Thanks, Tom.” Sara reached into the grab her bag, grateful it was dry. She had two more bottles of Southern Comfort in it, and a leak would have been both embarrassing, and worrying. If she was going to be involved with a fear experiment, she wanted to have liquor nearby.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Frank said. “But would you mind taking us back to the airport to rent a car? I’ll pay you for your time.”
“I’m kind of running late,” Tom said. “Can’t you call a cab?”
“We’re going to a place cabs are afraid to go,” Sara chimed in. “It’s called Butler House.”
“In Solidarity?”
“You know it?” Frank asked.
“No. But that’s where I’m headed. Some kind of fear study.”
“So are we,” Frank said. “Would you mind if we tagged along?”
“Not at all.”
“Sara?” Frank turned to her.
She really liked that he asked her opinion. “Can I see your badge again?”
Tom offered his star.
“Chicago,” she said.
“The Windy City. I’m a detective.”
Frank appraised him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Thomas Jefferson?”
“I may have heard that once or twice. You guys coming along?”
Sara handed his badge back. “Thanks, Tom. I think we will.”
Tom held out his hand to take Sara’s bag, and he placed it and Frank’s in his trunk along with the crowbar.
“Would you like the front front front seat, Sara?” Frank asked.
He was doing the nice thing by offering, but still looked slightly disappointed. Sara thought it was adorable.
“Thank you, Frank. But would it be okay if I sat in the back with you?”
Frank nodded several times in rapid succession. “Of course.”
Sara looked at Tom’s rental car. It was a compact. Which meant it would be cramped in the back.
She was looking forward to it.
Deb
“You gotta be fucking me with a wet noodle.”
The woman in the rental car line ahead of Deb and Mal had pink and green hair, a mouth that would make a trucker blush, and an apparent problem with her credit card.
“I ran the card twice, Ms. Draper. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to get out of line.”
“I’ve got a five hundred dollar limit on that goddamn card, pencil dick. And a zero fucking balance. The car is only fifty bucks a day, and I’m returning it tomorrow.”
“The deposit is five hundred dollars, Ms. Draper. Unfortunately, that maxes out your credit card and leaves you nothing to pay for the rental.”
Deb felt bad for the woman. She’d been in a situation like that before.
“I’ve only got thirty bucks on me. I’m running cash poor today. Can’t you help a fucking lady out?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Draper.”
“I’ll blow you.”
The clerk did a double-take. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll take you in the guy’s shitter and suck your Slim Jim if you get me this car.”
“Uh… as romantic as that sounds, I’m married.”
“Which probably means you need head more than most.”
Mal, who had been sullen and inconsolable on the airplane, actually snickered at that and gave Deb a nudge.
She whispered to Mal, smiling. “What? I give you head all the time.”
“Once a week is not all the time, Deb,” he whispered back.
“If it were up to you, it would be every two hours.”
The rental car clerk raised his voice. “If you don’t leave the line right now, Ms. Draper, I’m calling airport security.”