A Sin Such as This Page 14

  “Okay. Laying her to rest, if you insist on my being theatrical.”

  “Not theatrical. Just decent. One o’clock.”

  “Good. Then we don’t have to be up early.”

  I finish every bite of meat, leaving the rice and beans, then dig the green olive out of my drink and eat it for dessert. By the time our waitress brings the bill, it’s just about time to board. Good thing the gate is close. Between my knee and the relative frothiness inside my head, I’m not moving very quickly. It’s also a good thing I paid extra for early boarding. Standing in line for the cattle call could be problematic.

  We are comfortably settled in our seats before I check my phone for messages.

  There’s one voice mail, from Cavin. “In case you haven’t heard, Genevieve didn’t make it. Sorry, honey. Touch bases when you get to Boise, okay? Love you.”

  Gone.

  She’s gone.

  How is that possible?

  I inhale sharply.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Mel.

  “Genevieve Lennon died. She was in a car accident on Friday night and didn’t survive.”

  “The model? Was she a friend of yours?”

  “I’ve known her for years. In fact, we just spent an evening together at the Shakespeare Festival a little over a week ago. And she was on her way to a party where Cavin and I were when the accident happened. It’s . . . mind-boggling.”

  “Life is unpredictable. It’s one reason why people cling so tightly to faith, I think.”

  “You mean, like, faith in horoscopes?”

  “Better than faith in nothing.”

  “Maybe. I doubt faith is something Genevieve suffered from, however.”

  And me? I’m allergic.

  “Why? Because of her lifestyle?”

  “More like her attitude. Hardly the stuff of saints.”

  Mel grins. “You can’t judge a saint by her attitude. Some of the most dedicated churchgoers I know are not very nice on the surface.”

  “I thought that was the point. Being kind to others. Helping the poor. Caring for the sick.”

  “The point is salvation.”

  “Oh, right. Redemption by way of the offering plate. You know, if it’s possible to buy Heaven without all that Good Samaritan hype, I’m not sure it’s worth going. Think of the kind of people you’d have to spend eternity with.”

  “You’re not interested in eternal life?”

  Before I can answer, the intercom buzzes and our purser goes over the safety features of our Boeing 737. I’m glad for the interruption because I don’t know how to answer Mel’s question. Am I interested in eternal life? All the query does is lead to others.

  Do I believe there is such a thing? The biggest part of me doubts it, though a little voice insists there must be more to human existence than eating, drinking, working, fucking, and finding a little fun once in a while, all leading up to lights-out forever.

  If there is something approximating paradise, does it take church and Bible study to attain it? Logic insists otherwise.

  If you’re diligent about church and Bible study, but ignore basic principles like feeding the hungry and treating others the way you want to be treated, will you still find yourself on God’s fast pass through the Pearly Gates?

  Every fiber of my being insists no.

  The plane backs away from the gate and pauses on the runway, and for some reason Mel feels the need to share, “I know this doesn’t matter one way or the other to you, but toward the end, Mom asked to be saved. Hospice called in a priest, and he took her confession. One of the things she struggled with the most was the way she raised us. She said she wanted to be a better mother but didn’t have the proper tools.”

  “Tools? She didn’t have a functional toolbox.”

  “That wasn’t her fault.”

  True enough, I suppose.

  But forgiving her is still not an option.

  twenty

  B Y THE TIME WE reach Boise, I’ve gone from sloshed to napped-away-the-sloshed and am coherent enough to deal with the Hertz person, who seems very impressed that I’m willing to pay for a Chrysler 200 convertible when I could get an Impala for twenty dollars less per day.

  It’s five thirty by the time we pick up the car and hit the freeway. I let Mel drive, despite my relative clarity, and spend the first fifteen minutes or so congratulating myself on getting this far. The airport is on the edge of the city proper, and the interstate skirts it, so before long we are beyond traveler-friendly hotels and restaurants, past industrial monstrosities, and motoring across a vast expanse of nothing but scrub brush. “Just like I remembered it. Ugly as hell.”

  “I think it’s got a beauty all its own. Stark, yes. But beautiful nonetheless.”

  “What are you talking about? There are pretty places in Idaho, but this is not one of them.”

  “To each his own. At least it isn’t overpopulated.”

  “That’s because no one wants to live out here. I mean, what would a person do? Cook meth? Anyway, could you go a little faster, please? It would be good to get there before dark.”

  “I don’t want to get a ticket, Ms. Backseat Driver. Besides, what are you worried about? Vampires wandering the streets of Glenns Ferry?”

  “I’d say bloodsuckers are a given.”

  She does inch up over the speed limit, and forty-five minutes into the trip, we’re passing Mountain Home. “Do you want to stop for dinner?” asks Mel. “There will be more choices here.”

  “Not even. Way too many ugly memories there.”

  It’s where we grew up, mostly raising ourselves while Mom chased after whatever men were available and interested. Sometimes they weren’t even technically available. She brought more than one married man home and into her bed, and didn’t try to hide it from us. Once in a while a pissed spouse would ring the doorbell. When I got old enough to realize that’s who was at the door, I let them in. Served Mom—and the guy—right.

  I have no doubt such experiences helped form my “no having sex with someone who’s committed to another person” rule.

  “I thought the point of this trip was to confront the personal demons haunting our past.”

  A huge sigh escapes me. “Look, Mel. I promised myself I’d never come back here, and yet here I am. One baby step at a time, okay? Besides, I want the true Glenns Ferry experience. Surely they’ll have a bar serving burgers or something.”

  Excellent subject change, if I do think so myself.

  “They do. I checked it out. And I guess as far as breakfast goes, the café attached to our motel is supposed to be very good, at least by small-town Idaho standards.”

  As dusk deepens, we exit the freeway, and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu smacks my face. I’m four years old again, and even though this is a brand-new vehicle, it smells like tobacco-tainted Naugahyde and Quaker State in need of changing. I sink lower into the seat, stare at the nearly deserted streets of the tiny town where our grandmother lived. We didn’t visit often, and when we did it was usually because Mom needed something from her mother. Invariably money. “It hasn’t changed at all.”

  “Not much,” agrees Melody. “The cars are newer.”

  We drive straight down 1st Avenue, past a couple of ministorage places, some older homes, the Corner Market, and Sinclair gas, then pull into the parking lot of a motel that looks like it has seen better days. “This is it?”

  “This one or one farther down that way.” Mel points. “Don’t worry. I read the TripAdvisor reviews. The rooms may be small, but they’re clean. And this one is walking distance to the café.”

  The woman behind the desk is very nice. Overly friendly, in fact. “I see you’ve got a reservation. Mostly we just get people stopping in off the freeway. You ladies don’t look like the ‘tubing the Snake River’ kind of people. Going wine tasting?”

  “Wine tasting?” I ask.

  “Well, yes. We’ve got a wonderful little winery right over by the state park. Decent restaura
nt there, too. Oh, but you’re only staying one night?”

  I don’t want to tell her it’s all I can stomach. “This time, unfortunately. Guess we’ll have to come back.”

  If nothing else, it deflects having to tell her why we’re here. She runs Mel’s credit card and seems very pleased that it cleared. “You can park right in front. Makes it easy.”

  Lord.

  We thank her and go check out the room. Mel’s description is accurate. Good thing we’re only here for one night. I’m already feeling claustrophobic, and we’ve just brought in our suitcases. “Okay, let’s get dinner.” And drinks. Lots of drinks.

  The evening is warm, not much of a breeze to temper the arid air. But it’s only two blocks to the restaurant, which defines “down-home.” There’s a lot of memorabilia from the town’s storied days as a major Snake River crossing and railroad stop. The tracks are located right across the street, in fact, and mainline trains still travel them daily.

  A plump little waitress, Lena, hustles over to give us menus, which offer basic fare. Steaks, chops, burgers, sandwiches. Nary a rice bowl to be found. When in Glenns Ferry, eat as the Glenns Ferrians do, I guess. I order a barbecue burger, hold the cheese. Melody keeps the cheese and adds bacon.

  “Some diet,” I observe.

  “Hey, I didn’t eat my lunch. Besides, I skipped the fries.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” asks Lena.

  “Give us a second, will you?”

  Lena goes to put in our dinner order and I study the drink menu. There are a lot of beers, including local brews, but not much in the way of wine. I’d ask for a sidecar, but I’m pretty sure the bartender would have to go look it up.

  “I’m thinking about one of these Idaho craft beers to go with my burger. Then something stronger for dessert.”

  “I should skip the alcohol.”

  “We are getting drunk together tonight,” I insist. “It’s only two blocks to stumble back to our room, and we need to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Losing weight.”

  “I won’t keep it off if I drink too much.”

  “That isn’t the kind of weight I meant.”

  “Wha—” She thinks it over. “Oh. You’re talking about Mom.”

  “Exactly.” I wave to our waitress, who really has nothing better to do than hurry on over. The place isn’t exactly crowded. “We’ll have a couple of lagers, please.” They look to be the lightest brews. Don’t want to fill up on beer.

  Our food arrives in record time, and I must say it’s really good. The meat is juicy, the buns are soft, the tomatoes are ripe, and the lettuce is crisp. And the beer is really cold, if a little hoppy for my taste.

  “I think I’ll take a walk in the morning, if it isn’t too hot,” says Mel. “This is going to go straight to my butt otherwise.”

  “This time of year in Idaho, it’s definitely going to be warm. Hope the cemetery is shady. I hate sweating at funerals.”

  “When have you ever sweated at a funeral?”

  “Good question.”

  The only funeral I’ve ever been to was Raul’s, and even though it was in Las Vegas, it was dead-on winter.

  Lena clears the table, asks about dessert.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t know where I’d put it. We’re moving to the bar, so can you bring the check over there?”

  “You can keep the table if you want,” Lena replies.

  “I understand. But I’m in the mood to belly up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure thing. Watch out for Alvin, though. He’ll talk your ear off if you let him. He’s the one in the big Stetson.”

  Lucky us. The two empty bar stools just happen to be adjacent to Alvin’s right side. Who cares? Maybe after a couple of drinks the man, who is sixtyish and definitely a local, will be amusing. Anyway, there are other men at the bar, so it’s possible he’ll talk their ears off instead of ours.

  Except, no. Strangers in town always draw attention.

  “Well, hello.” Alvin tips his hat. “Haven’t seen you ladies around here before. Welcome to Glenns Ferry.”

  “Thanks, Alvin.” I sidle in next to him. Mel wouldn’t handle overeager conversation as well as I can. Although, now when I turn to look at her, I see the guy on her right is about her age, and not bad to look at, beneath a handlebar mustache. Stupid move, Tara. You’re out of practice.

  You’re married.

  Who asked you?

  “Do we know each other?” asks Alvin, stupefied.

  I laugh. “No. Lena warned me about you. She said you are quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Oh, she did, did she? I’ll have to get after her for spreading lies.”

  “Bet she’s not lying.” Am I flirting with a guy old enough to be my father?

  “Can I buy you two a drink?”

  “Only if I can buy one for you after.”

  “Deal. Josh? These ladies are thirsty. Get your ass over here.”

  Okay, maybe there was a reason I sat next to Alvin, because Josh deserts the far end of the bar to take care of Mel and me. “What’ll it be?”

  “Don’t suppose you could do blood-orange sidecars?”

  Josh grins. “Would regular sidecars do? Most people around here prefer their drinks blood free.”

  I smile at Mel. “So much for the vampire theory.”

  Alvin looks confused. “Vampire theory? And what the hell is a sidecar?”

  “Watch and learn,” says Josh, reaching for a bottle of Hennessey. “A lot of cognac, a little triple sec, and a squeeze of lemon.” Josh sets the drinks down on the bar, waits for us to taste them.

  “Very good,” I say after a long swallow.

  Mel is more circumspect, sipping gently. “Oh. This is good, blood or no blood. Thank you, Alvin.”

  “Any time. Not like we get a whole lot of pretty ladies sitting here on a Monday night. You have business in Glenns Ferry?”

  Strangers in a strange place invite questions. But I guess I don’t mind. “We’ve got business at the cemetery. We’re here to bury our mother.”

  “That’s unusual. Not many get planted at Glenn Rest anymore. Was your ma from around these parts?”

  “She grew up here. June Cogburn?”

  Now he looks stunned. “Junie.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Well, yeah. We used to go together. Way back when, that is. And you’re her daughters. Huh.”

  Okay, I’m borderline stunned myself. And Mel, who was chatting up that guy beside her, redirects her attention toward Alvin. “What year would that have been?”

  “Let me think. I guess it must have been seventy-four or seventy-five. We were in high school.”

  “What was she like?” I ask, not at all sure why.

  “Wild. Wild and troubled. Her home life was awful. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but that girl’s mother was what we used to call a loose woman. Oh. I probably shouldn’t have said that to you.”

  “It’s okay,” soothes Mel. “We know.”

  I signal to Josh to bring another round, including a double bourbon for Alvin. I want to keep him talking because suddenly I realize he could be, or at least might know who is, my father. And wouldn’t that be a crazy coincidence?

  The whiskey does what it’s supposed to do. “Junie was a rebel, and she had every right to be. That man living with her ma, well, he was one mean motherfucker. Oh, excuse me. The whiskey’s got my dirty mouth talking.”

  “It’s okay. My dirty mouth fires up after a few drinks, too.” I might even let it, here in Idaho, where it originated.

  Alvin chuckles at that. “Anyway, that asshole beat up on both of them. Poor Junie used to come to school all black-and-blue. She said she was going to escape, first chance she got. And she did. Eighteen, she was out of here.”

  “But you didn’t go with her?” asks Melody.

  “She never asked me. Nope, she ran off in the middle of the night with Vince Cartwright. They didn
’t go far, not that there’s too far to go in Idaho. Vince got him a mechanic job in Mountain Home, and they shacked up together for a while.”

  I’m not exactly sure how to pose the question that’s hovering right there, unvoiced, in front of me. “I don’t suppose she was pregnant when she left?”

  “Hell no, at least, not by me!”

  I’m vaguely disappointed. Alvin would make a decent dad, I think, not that I ever yearned to have one before. “Did you ever see Mom again?”

  “Oh, sure. She visited her ma once in a while. In fact, I probably saw you two when you were little girls. Yes, I think so. I remember the red hair.”

  “Small world.”

  “Well, small town, anyway. Very small. You say you’re laying Junie to rest tomorrow?” Alvin tosses back the rest of his bourbon.

  “Yep. One o’clock.” Yep. There I go with the Idaho. “May I buy you another drink, Alvin?”

  “I believe it’s my round.”

  Josh has already gone to work. Give the man a big tip.

  “Hey, Mel. Suck it up. There’s another one on its way.”

  “Oh, man. You two are going to get me sloshed.” It’s not really a complaint, because she slugs what’s left of her sidecar. Interesting. Mel rarely lets her hair down.

  Wonder if it has to do with Mustache Man, who’s most definitely coming on to her and says, “Okay by me. A drunk woman is a fun woman, if you know what I mean.”

  I bristle, but before I can say anything, Mel answers him. “I’m not drunk yet, and I’m never very much fun. I’m married.”

  Alvin nods wisely. “Marriage, yep. That’s definitely a fun killer.”

  Which busts up everyone at the bar. This easy camaraderie between relative strangers is something I’m unused to. Funny thing, to find it here.

  Maybe you should’ve looked sooner.

  twenty-one

  I WAKE TO THE SOUND of a semi downshifting. What? Semi? My eyes open, try to focus in the dark room, blinds closed tightly. Where am I? I turn my head side to side, find a khaki wall on my right, an empty single bed to my left. Motel room. That’s it. Glenns Ferry. That’s right.

  “Mel?”

  But the bed where she should be sleeping is made, bedspread untouched and pillow plumped. Oh, man. That’s right. I sit up, too quickly, and a hammering starts in my skull. We drank a lot last night. And Melody did get drunk. Sloppy drunk. And Mustache Man—Jerry, I think—actually talked her into going home with him.