Clown Girl - Monica Drake [89]
“In theory, but nobody’s working on the case. It’s a dead end.”
Herman only had a charred patch for a yard. “Jerrod, I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Sniff, trust me—take the lawn mower now, or the next time you see it some rookie cop’ll be cutting his own grass. This stuff piles up so fast, we can’t keep inventory.” He waved a hand at the endless shelves, then leaned on the mower like a man finished with a job well-done. The lawn mower tipped back, a bucking pony.
What to confess? “I burned Herman’s yard. All the grass. It’s gone.”
He shrugged and tapped a foot against the blade guard. “Heard a little about that…and…” He pointed at me, my charred clothes and hair. “I’m no farmer, but don’t they burn fields sometimes, to get a better crop next season?” He tipped his head sideways, half question, half answer, eyes squinted, both elbows on the mower.
“I won’t be around for next season’s crop of yard.” I ran my blistered hand along Plucky’s rubber comb. “I just may be kicked out.”
He stopped tapping his foot against the back of the mower. “Kicked out? That’s harsh, Sniff. Got a place lined up?”
I shook my head.
He pushed the lawn mower aside and said, “Well, take the mower back to the old Baloneyville Coop anyway. Maybe it’ll be your ticket back in. If not, I’ve got an extra room…”
I shook my head again before he even finished the sentence. No way. I couldn’t live with a cop. Rex’d never come back if I roomed with an officer. He wouldn’t come within miles.
“OK, well, listen. We’re not done yet. This is just like Christmas, right?” He let go of the lawn mower and headed down the aisle again.
“See you later, Santa,” I said, and bounced Plucky against my toes. Her yellow legs dangled like wilted flowers. The plastic over the mattress was soot-stained now, and I pressed my blistered fingers into it. Then, from the piles of confiscated goods, there came the tap dance of toenails skittering over linoleum. Chance swam toward me. She ran down the aisle and it was a dream. My dog, in full health, coat glossy and eyes bright! Ka-zoom! She ran into my lap. My little football, she almost knocked me over. She stepped on the rubber chicken, knocked into the IV gear. I put my face to her fur.
Then I had it all again—my firstborn chicken, my baby dog, and the lawn mower. Jerrod came down the aisle with the urine funnel in one hand, like a lucky horseshoe. He put it on his head and crouched into a duckwalk. In the other hand he had a gray metal tackle box, and held the box out as though for balance. When the funnel fell, he picked it up and tossed it Frisbee-style. It skidded across the mattress and hit the end of a shelf that rattled and reverberated like a gong. I laughed out loud for the first time in, what? Decades, ages, eons? The first time since Rex left. There was such luxury in having everything back all at once.
“What more could I want? Thank you. It’s crazy, better than Christmas.” I ran my hand over Chance’s fur. That sweet dog. “You’ve fattened her up.”
Jerrod sat on the mattress behind me. Then we were a family on a Sunday morning in bed—Chance, Jerrod, and I. The mattress shifted. Jerrod lifted my hair away from my neck. I didn’t turn, but I wanted to, to put my arms around Jerrod, hold on, and say thank you. How nice it all was! I stayed frozen. Cautious.
Jerrod ran his fingers over the thin, torn cotton of my striped pants. He said, “Give me your hand.”
“Is that a proposal?” I turned toward him, safe behind a joke.
“Well, marriage is beyond what I had in mind.” He opened his gray tackle box. Band-Aids rustled out. “Give me your arm then. How’s that?”
I held out an arm and couldn’t help but smile.
“The other one. With the IV in it.”
He wrapped his hand around mine, held my hand the way he’d held it on the street the day I fainted. He used three fingers to hold the IV works against my skin and with his other hand gathered a corner of the tape. “Trust me,” he said.
“You’ve done this before?”
He ripped the tape off fast, leaving a burnt feeling, a zap of lightning, the ache of a deep bruise,