Georgia on Her Mind(31)
“Drag, do you ever feel like a failure?” It’s a personal question, but it seems to fit the moment.
“I’m a surfer, Macy.” He chuckles with an endearing yuck-yuck.
I look over at him. Moonlight shines on his scratchy brown beard. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t worry about failure. Or success—just catching the next wave.” He weaves his hand up and down over my face.
I laugh. “You must be joking.”
“Nope. Life is about the wave.” He sighs, content.
“Drag, you have to teach me to surf.”
“You worry about failure?” he asks.
“No,” I say, then confess. “Yes.”
“Like what?”
Is he serious? Like Everything.
“Career, relationships, love, money, life in general.”
“Sounds like my old man. Gave himself a heart attack trying not to fail.”
“Do you see your parents much?” I’m not sure if this question is over the line or not. Drag doesn’t talk much about himself.
“They live in New York.”
That’s all he offers and I figure that’s all I’m going to get. So I change the subject.
“You did check on Mrs. Woodward while I was gone, didn’t you?” It’s been weeks, but I never thought to ask.
“Sure I did.” He doesn’t sound defensive, as I would if someone questioned my integrity. “She’s a nice, sweet lady.”
After that, Drag and I let time pass without a word. The wind blows softly and I pull my sweater tighter. It’s getting colder.
I’m about to call it a night when out of nowhere a police cruiser rounds the corner and stops just shy of my big toe. Drag and I leap to our feet synchronously. My heart flies out of my chest and splats onto the pavement.
Two of Melbourne’s finest slip slowly out of the squad car wielding two gigantic light-saber flashlights.
“It’s Andy and Barney,” Drag whispers to me.
I clap my hand over my mouth to block the laugh.
“Sir, step away from the lady and put your hands behind your head.”
What in the world?
Drag clasps his hands behind his head. His face is contorted in a frightened expression and I think he regrets his Andy and Barney comment. He circles behind me. “I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” I ask out the corner of my mouth.
He steps away with a shrug. “Don’t know, but whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
The chubby officer—I’ll call him Andy—moves around to the front of the car and pulls Drag away. The skinny officer—I’ll call him Barney—addresses me.
“Macy Moore?”
Wow, his voice is loud. For a skinny guy he’s got large lungs. “I—I’m Macy Moore.” I dust pavement pebbles from my shirt and sweater, and tuck my hair into place.
“Step toward the car, ma’am.” Barney spotlights my face with the flashlight. I consider breaking into a show tune. There’s No Business Like Show Business. Do a little soft shoe—anything to keep myself together as I stroll his way. But I reckon he wouldn’t find it funny.
“What’s this about?” I ask, peeking to see if the lights are on at Dan Montgomery’s place. They’re not. Where’s a good lawyer when you need one?
The officer lowers his flashlight. I blink away spots. “Are you all right?”
That’s the question he asks me. Are you all right?
“Of course I’m all right!” It’s snarky, and I mean it to be. What’s the big idea, scaring us half to death? Asking Drag to “step away” with his hands behind his head?
“Can I have your name, sir?” Barney shines his gargantuan light on Drag’s face. Drag blinks and squints. I hope he’ll do his Goofy laugh.
“Name’s Drag. I’m a friend of Macy’s.” His jaw is clenched, and he says his name like Clint Eastwood in Hang ’Em High.
Name’s Drag. I look over at him. That’s it. Name’s Drag.
“Is he a friend of yours?” Andy asks me.
“Yes, he is. He’s weird, but my friend.”
“What are you two doing out here on the pavement?” Barney asks.
“Looking at the stars.” My nerves settle a bit. I pick my heart up off the pavement.
Barney glances up. “It is a lovely night.”
“Why did you come here?” I demand.
“Someone called, a mutual friend. Asked us to drive by.” Barney hems and haws.
“Mutual friend? Who?” As if on cue, Lucy’s yellow car squeals around the corner and screeches to a halt in front of my condo.
Lucy! She called the police? Lucy O’Brien, investigative reporter, who’s paranoid about danger, destruction and devastation. It’s her one endearing flaw. She’s insane about it.
Personally, I never watch the news, unless it’s Extra or Entertainment Tonight. Nor do I read the paper unless Lucy tells me about one of her exclusives. If I want despair and destruction, I can read the last chapter of my own life.
If World War Three begins or if Madison Avenue resurrects whalebone corsets and hoopskirts, I’m sure I’ll hear soon enough.
Lucy-the-Loon stumbles out of her car wearing an oversize T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans. Her flip-flops slap against her heels as she strides my way with her red ponytail swinging back and forth, back and forth.