The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [105]
His hand throbs with every knock. Again, he calls her name. Can't go back to the motel. Last night, they changed his lock while he was out looking for Robin. There'd been a complaint, or so they said, Charlie and the snaggle-toothed beast. His TV was on too loud so when he didn't come to the door, they had no choice but to let themselves in. Anyway, he and Charlie had words. Then the beast had to go and put in her two cents. Next thing he knew they were in a shoving match, when Charlie pulled out a gun and ordered him to clear out his things and leave before he called the cops.
“Robin!” He pounds on the door. Tries the knob and it turns. Now that he's inside, he hears the vacuum cleaner. He follows the sound to the family room, watches from the doorway. She's wearing a red running bra and baggy black gym shorts. Barefoot. Long strands of hair obscure her face in her struggle to maneuver the vacuum under an end table. Sofa and chair cushions are piled in the corner. A can of furniture polish and rags are on the mantel. The television has been pulled out from the wall. His heart swells. He forgives her. She didn't hear the phone or him at the door, how could she? Reaching down, he yanks out the plug, and she turns with a shriek.
“Robin.”
“What're you doing?” she demands, arm across her chest.
“The back door.” He tells her it was partway open. “These last couple days, every time I come no one answers. I was worried, that's all.”
“Well, you shouldn't have been. We're fine. Thank you, but now I have to finish this.” She reels in the long black cord. “If you don't mind.”
He grins. “No. Course not, go ahead.” He sits on the sofa, and then feels foolish, angry that he's been set up. With no cushions, it's like sitting on a kid's chair, low and covered with crumbs and Lego blocks. And stuck under his leg, a leather card holder. He peers down at it. The gold monogram, RAG. Robert Gendron. A for Asshole. “I can wait.”
“That's not what I meant,” she says.
“Mom!” Clay calls from upstairs.
“You have to go, Eddie. Please.”
He stares up in a rage of humiliation. The position she's putting him in, making him beg like this. Her fat white cat jumps with a thud onto the sofa back, sits purring behind his head.
“It's just that I've got so much to do.” Her voice drops, and he's pleased. Good. She knows he's mad. “Everything's happening at once,” she says.
“Mom! Mom, I need you! Come here, quick!” Clay calls, and she drops the cord and runs up the stairs.
He looks through the holder, removes three credit cards and Gendron's license. As he slips them into his pocket, the cat suddenly hisses. Startled, he swings back with a hard swipe, knocking the cat, meowing, onto the floor. Hurts to get up. His neck aches. The place he stayed last night had a lousy mattress, but warm, at least, and farther out of town. Just in case Charlie did call the cops. For good measure he'd tossed a few lit matchbooks into the motel Dumpster. He plugs in the cord now and starts to vacuum. The Oriental runner is covered with cat hair. He changes the attachment and is dragging the nozzle over one section of carpet at a time, when the vacuum shuts off.
“Don't do that. Please.” She's wearing a shirt now.
“See.” He points to the cleaned section. “Took me two seconds. Let me finish. You can do something else.”
Again, she says no. She's very busy, and he really has to go. Clay is in a lot of pain upstairs with a broken ankle and her mother will be dropping Lyra off soon, so she needs to get as much done now as she can.
“So let me help.” Kills his neck, but he starts pushing the television back against the wall. “All the more reason.”
No. Leave it where it is, she tells him. It doesn't work, so she's getting a new one. All right then, he says,