Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(44)
I double back and ride the brakes (much to the chagrin of the Chevy behind me) for about a mile until I spot a crooked mailbox set inside an old milk jug with three stickers—444—affixed to the side. I can’t see a house from the road. The trees are bare, but thick, and the dirt driveway is dotted with rusted NO TRESPASSING! signs posted on both sides. A low fence strung with barbed wire enforces the dictate. After a few hundred yards, a clearing appears, and in it are a two-story house that looks at least a hundred years old and three mobile homes—one half-destroyed by fire. A dark-coated pit bull-rottweiler-lab mix comes racing toward my car, barking a manic fit two feet from the driver’s side door. My first guess is that no one is on the property. The only vehicle is a gray minivan, its back window taped over with plastic and weeds growing up past the floorboards. The blue paint on the house’s siding is chipped and faded to nearly white, and there is a scar across the fa?ade where an overhang was once affixed. A gutter that should probably be somewhere along the roof is leaning against a tree. There are shutters on two of the four front windows, and an assortment of chairs—including a wheelchair—on the front porch. The dog feels like it is barking inside my head, the noise pushing on the dull ring from that stupid gunshot. I am about to back up when a girl about my age flings open the front door of one of the intact trailers and screams, “Junior!”
The dog looks at her, but keeps barking.
“Junior get the f*ck over here!” She slaps her thigh and waves at me. “Junior NOW!”
Junior obeys.
“Sorry!” she shouts, waving at me. And then she addresses the dog: “Sit down, Junior. DOWN!” Junior does not sit down. She points her arms toward the old house. “JUNIOR! Go back home. GO! JUNIOR GO!”
Junior goes. He trots in front of my car and goes to stand on the porch.
“It’s okay,” she calls to me. “He’s harmless.”
I doubt that, but I get out of the car anyway. The trailer this girl is calling to me from—its skirt rusted and come undone, a piece of plywood serving as entry ramp—looks as uncomfortable as any dwelling I’ve ever seen. The girl at the door is wearing an extra-large New York Jets sweatshirt and stretch pants. Baby-blue terry cloth slippers on her feet, mismatched wool socks, hair in a ponytail, nickel-sized black plugs in her earlobes.
“Hi,” I say, standing at the base of the plywood ramp.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m Rebekah. I’m actually looking for Ryan Hall.”
“Ryan? I haven’t seen him in … a while.”
“Oh,” I say. “So he doesn’t live here.”
“Fuck no,” she says. “Not anymore.”
“Oh” I say.
“Hey, do you like jewelry?”
“Jewelry?”
“Come in,” she says. “I want you to try something on for me. If you have a sec.”
The rules are that I’m supposed to tell her I’m a reporter now. But I’m not just a reporter. Yes; I’m looking for Ryan to find Sam because he’s connected to Pessie. But also—okay, I admit it—because I’m looking for Aviva. If anyone asks, I rationalize quickly, I can say I was just gathering information, off the record. For personal reasons.
“Okay,” I say.
Inside the trailer looks much better than outside. It is tight, but clean, and smells of baby powder. The enormous television is the dominant feature in the main room. Spreading like tentacles from its base is an impressive video game setup, with lots of plastic gadgets and knobs and weaponry. Charmed is on, but the girl has got the TV on mute and is instead listening to talk radio through an open laptop. A familiar and repugnant man’s voice growls about Obama. Beside the TV is a playpen, and inside the playpen is a little girl wearing a diaper and a t-shirt with a monkey on it. She grips the railing with her pudgy little hands and stares at the big screen. Beside the playpen, on what might once have been the kitchen table, is a little workshop. Silver and bronze and gold earrings hang in pairs on a neatly framed piece of window screen near the sink. Pliers and a small hammer lie beside a metal toolbox, drawers open revealing little loops and beads and chains. A mannequin’s torso is strung with necklaces of varying length, including a sleek pendant made of what looks like hammered brass. If it weren’t a swastika I would compliment it.
“I’m Mellie,” she says. “Do you want something to drink? The coffee’s decaf.” She touches her belly; she is pregnant. “I’m supposed to be off caffeine.”
“Decaf is cool,” I say. “Thanks.”
“That’s Eva,” says Mellie.
Hearing her name, Eva turns toward her mother. She is a beautiful little girl with a round face and big, hazel eyes. I’d guess she’s around one, but I don’t really know much about babies.
“Hi Eva,” I say.
Eva is sucking on a pacifier. She looks at me, then back at her mom, then returns her gaze to the television.
“I need a model for some new earrings,” she says, pointing to the table. “The lightning bolts. I don’t have to use your face or anything, if you don’t want. Just, like, a close-up of your ear.”
I look at the earrings she is talking about—a pair of silver SS lightning bolts, each about an inch long. Beside those are other similarly dainty designs: Celtic crosses, suns, swastikas, and several versions of the number fourteen. I’m not going to say yes to having my picture taken in this stuff—I wonder if my ears would catch fire?—but I don’t need to say no right away, either.