Wildest Dreams

  “Maybe later?” Grace said.

  “I would love to, but today I’m leaving right after Winnie is settled for the night. Charlie and I have a few things to pick up for school—just incidentals—and I want to get him home for a good night’s sleep. Maybe tomorrow? When I have a break?”

  “Perfect!”

  The girls and Winnie enjoyed themselves so much that Winnie’s nap was cut short. While she rested, Grace and Lin Su tried their hand at a meat loaf, mashed potatoes and asparagus dinner. The rolls came from Carrie’s deli; the asparagus was contributed by Mikhail, who purchased it at a farm stand; Troy peeled the potatoes and the meat loaf recipe came right off the internet, thanks to Charlie.

  Soon after the table was cleared Grace sent Lin Su on her way. “I know you have a little shopping to finish on your way home. Let me get Winnie settled tonight. You and Charlie go on.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” she said. “We’re both excited for the first day of school. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Lin Su and Charlie drove to the nearest Target. She had already taken care of his clothes and shoes but still needed school supplies and a new jacket. She wasn’t sure if this was a happy coincidence or if Grace was doing a good deed. She was aware that Ginger had moved out and that Grace wouldn’t be living there any longer, but what she didn’t know for sure was whether Grace could use the space for her business and decided to sacrifice it because Lin Su was looking around. Also, although it was said to be very small, Lin Su was aware—Grace and her mother had very high quality possessions and excellent taste—it might be an expensive rental and out of her reach so she didn’t even mention it to Charlie.

  But then they pulled up to the fifth wheel and Lin Su’s heart sank.

  “Oh, my God!” Charlie cried. “Shit!”

  Lin Su didn’t say anything about his language. For a moment she didn’t even know what to fear. The trailer had been broken into—the door stood open. Just six inches, but still. It was dark and ominous.

  “Stay in the car,” she said.

  “Don’t go in there,” Charlie said. “You never go in a building when you don’t know who’s in there.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1, reporting that the padlocked door had been pried open.

  All Lin Su could do was look into what was her home. She didn’t recognize it. It was torn apart, things she didn’t even recognize strewn everywhere. Her mind raced—she didn’t have anything of real value, just the most necessary articles of daily living—linens, clothing, pots and pans, dishes... She’d always felt safe from burglars—there wasn’t much to steal. But there were pictures! She ran to what served as her bedroom, turning on lights along the way. She pulled out the drawer under the bed and it was still there—her album. She wasn’t just frugal with money, she was also frugal with space. She had kept some pictures from her childhood in Boston and there were the pictures of Charlie as a baby and toddler. And they were safe.

  Then she spied the small closet, the door literally ripped off—and it was gone, her box of treasures. It was a wood and ivory box, not very big. It didn’t hold much and the street value would be nothing. Less than nothing. It held the hospital bracelets she and Charlie wore after his birth, his first tooth in a small envelope, two faux-gold coins, a chain and pendant given to her by one of her sisters. And the swatch—the lotus embroidery. The only thing she had of her biological mother.

  She fell to her knees and started searching the floor of the closet, the backs of the shelves, under the bed. “No no no no no,” she whimpered. Why take that? It was worthless. Even the box itself couldn’t be worth twenty dollars! She crawled around the room, stretching her hands under shelves, into corners, even under the bedding. She reached into drawers that had been rifled through and, without realizing it, she was speaking Vietnamese. Rapidly. Breathlessly. Mournfully.

  She cried. Then she began to hum softly as she searched.

  * * *

  Charlie stood in the bedroom doorway. “Send someone, please,” he said into the phone.

  Then he disconnected and found another number, one recently put into her directory. He clicked on the button. The man answered, “Blake Smiley.”

  “Yeah, it’s Charlie. Need a little help here, Blake. Our trailer—it got ripped up, torn apart, and things were taken. Things my mom really loves. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Did you call the police?” Blake asked.

  “Yeah, but... They’ll send someone when they can. They said we should file a report. It could be a long time since there’s no imminent danger—no robbers here. But I think we have a problem. My mom. She’s broken.”

  Five

  When Blake pulled up to the trailer it didn’t look as though anything was amiss. When he went to knock on the door he could see the lock was broken and the door was closed but not latched. Still, he knocked.

  Charlie opened the door. “Sorry, Blake. I guess I could’ve called Troy and Grace, but my mom, she worries a lot about people feeling sorry for her, especially people she works for. She’s the caregiver, y’know? She always has to be the strong one. The together one. I’m the only weakness in her life.”

  “Don’t start that,” Blake said. “You’re her kid and she takes good care of you. That’s not a weakness.”

  “All I’m saying is I’m the only thing that keeps her from going to work. Like if I get sick or something. And I know you offered us a place to stay overnight if we needed it so I thought...”

  “You did the right thing. I’m glad I was able to take the call. Now what’s happening with your mom? You said she’s broken?”

  “Look,” Charlie said, nodding toward the bedroom.

  Blake could hear soft humming. He was a little perplexed, but he looked. Lin Su was kneeling on the bed, folding clothes, rocking and humming as she did so. He looked a little more closely—they were mostly Charlie’s clothes and it appeared some of them might have been damaged. He wasn’t sure if these were just clothes hard worn by a fourteen-year-old boy or if the vandals had done it.

  “Was anything taken?” he asked Charlie.

  “It’s kind of hard to tell, it’s all such a mess. A couple of things for sure, my mom’s winter coat—she hung it in the bathroom. She said it stayed fresh that way as there was no room in the closet and she wouldn’t keep it near the cooking. And her treasure box. It was little.” He demonstrated, using his hands. “It just had a few things in it—no jewelry or anything. There were two gold coins she said came from her grandfather, passed to her mother, passed to her. It was rumored he was an Army officer, but there’s no proof. She said keeping them safe in a refugee camp was a miracle. Our wristbands from when I was born—hers and mine. A crucifix and beads given to her by a Catholic sister at a hospital once when I was a patient. But the most important thing she had was a swatch—her mother embroidered some lotus flowers on a cloth and it was the only thing she had of her mother’s.”

  “Have you talked to her? Is she in shock?”

  “I think a little bit. She’s been talking in Vietnamese—she only knows a little. She was adopted when she was a real little girl, like two or three, so it’s amazing she remembered any. But she worked in a couple of manicure shops that were owned by Vietnamese and picked some up again. She was born in America. I think this Vietnamese stuff... I think it’s stress.”

  “Okay,” Blake said, rubbing a big hand down his face. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. We have to get out of here—the door won’t close. I wasn’t sure I could convince her...”

  “Right,” he said. “Go try to make some sense of the mess in the living room and kitchen. Do a little straightening, figure out what’s missing if you can.”

  “What if they come back?” Charlie said.

  “That would make my day,” Blake said, eyes narro
w, jaw clenched. “Those three dopers who chased you the other day?”

  “Seems like. But you gotta wonder why they didn’t do it sooner. I mean, we’ve been here nine months.”

  “Maybe we’ll figure it out later. Right now we have to get this place under control, pack up some things, leave. You work out here. Let me see to your mom.”

  Blake went into the bedroom. He scooped up a pile of clothes off the floor, dumped it on the bed, knelt by Lin Su and began folding. There were jeans and board shorts and T-shirts and sweatshirts. Some looked as if they were stained with paint and he instinctively knew they hadn’t been like that before. Some were ripped. Slit. It looked as though a pocket knife could’ve done the damage. He tossed those in a pile. And some were all right, completely salvageable. Those he folded.

  She didn’t speak; she just carefully folded clothes from her pile, then began taking clothes from his pile. They proceeded like that for a few minutes before she looked up. “Why are you here?”

  “Charlie called me,” he said.

  “He shouldn’t have called you. We can manage.”

  “Either you’re a very messy housekeeper or you’re not managing that well. We should pack a few things.”

  “I can take care of it,” she said.

  “I don’t know you very well, Lin Su,” he said. He continued to fold. “But I know you like to do your work, pay your way, take care of your son and responsibilities. But sometimes you have to be humble. Sometimes when you have an opportunity, you have to be gracious and not stubborn. You are so stubborn.”

  “Stubborn is strong,” she said.

  “Stubborn is also pigheaded and counterproductive. Tomorrow is Charlie’s first day of school and you really shouldn’t stay here tonight—it’s obviously not safe.”

  “There’s a motel...”

  He put his big hand over her forearm, stopping her from her task. Was she talking about that shithole down the street? He couldn’t stand to even think about it. “Save that money—you’re going to have to buy a new winter coat. They ripped it off. And some of these clothes will have to be replaced.”

  She stopped, holding a pair of jeans in her lap, looking at him suspiciously. “Why do you have a house with so many bedrooms and beds? Are you opening a brothel?”

  A short burst of laughter escaped him. “Good idea!” he said. “I have a team and associates. I have a coach and trainer. I usually have a couple of people staying with me two weeks before a race. We travel together for the race and I always give myself a couple of days of training in either a different time zone or altitude. I train almost year-round but hit the training hard before a big race. I used to rent space for my team. I told you, this is my first house. The bedrooms, it turns out, will come in handy.”

  “I can afford the motel,” she said. “I have savings.”

  “You’re a mule,” he accused, but he grinned when he said it. “Let’s make sure Charlie is comfortable—tomorrow is a big day. Most of all, let’s lower his stress if we can—he’s very worried about you. And if you stay here or in a seedy motel tonight, he won’t sleep.”

  “I am always there for Charlie. He can depend on me.”

  “Awesome. I don’t suppose you have a suitcase?”

  She glanced around. “I had a couple of large duffels—I don’t see them.”

  “I have a couple of gym bags in the car. I’ll dump them out so you can borrow them.” He looked at her and just shook his head. “You know, I usually do well with the girls. I make them laugh. I’m charming.”

  “Perhaps the problem is that I’m not a girl,” she said.

  “Perhaps the problem is that you’re obstinate and inflexible,” he suggested.

  “If you find me so thoroughly flawed, why offer all this assistance?” she asked. “It’s a little invasive, you know. I’ve been through worse. It’s a temporary setback, that’s all.”

  “This is an emergency,” Blake said. “You’ll stay the night so Charlie can get some sleep and have a good first day of school. Then we’ll look at the options. Do you own this trailer? Can we move it to the property? Cooper has a hookup beside the bar. He has a trailer he brings out of storage for a guest room when family visits and we could put yours...”

  She was shaking her head. “I rent it.”

  “Then gather up as much as you can and we’ll put the padlock back on the outside. Maybe you’ll come back for more of your things when Winnie is resting. If you need help, I’ll help you. Let’s do this,” he said, getting off the bed.

  He went to his car to dump out his duffels. He took a great deal of time on the easy project so that Lin Su could talk to Charlie if she was so inclined. While he was standing there he heard someone yell. It wasn’t a bad yell, more of a whoop, as if there’d been a touchdown on the TV. Then he heard bottles being dumped in the trash. He saw movement and caught the motion of a person skittering around the cinder-block building. He pulled out his wallet, slipped some bills into each pocket, then threw his wallet in the trunk.

  He reached into the trunk for a tire iron and a large industrial-strength flashlight. It had been a very long time since he felt he could be in danger from a bad person. Fifteen years at least. Really, since he was thirteen or fourteen he hadn’t rubbed up against many scumbags who just flat-out enjoyed hurting people. In fact, in all his years, if he ever had anything that could pass for a weapon in his hands—a brick, a bat, a broken bottle—it was because he was in defensive mode, staying alive.

  He slammed the trunk, turned on the flashlight and headed across the drive to that brick building. The smell of urine and feces was disgusting. Chances were good that it hadn’t been cleaned in years. For the first time he noticed a ramshackle trailer that had a small sign posted. Manager. M–F 10:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m. He’d check that out later.

  He walked around the brick structure, shining his light, and came face-to-face with one of the thugs he’d seen the day Charlie was chased. The guy grinned. His teeth were black and he had a couple of sores on his face. Meth teeth, meth sores. It was the kind of leer that made Blake want to look behind him but he wasn’t falling for that one. The guy slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, gave a small flick, and the blade of a switchblade zinged into view.

  Blake took a fast step closer to that knife, swung the tire iron and came down on the guy’s wrist. The meth head screamed, dropped the blade and grabbed his wrist. Before he could run or call for his backup, Blake had him up against the bricks, the tire iron against his throat. “Where is it?” he asked as threateningly as he could.

  “Ach. What?”

  “You know what. The box.”

  “Let go and I’ll tell you.”

  Now it was Blake’s turn to grin. “Not a chance in hell. Where?”

  “Bruster’s got it!”

  “Who’s Bruster?”

  “You know. The manager.”

  And probably the biggest dealer in here, he thought. Some things were as predictable as sunrise. It was always the one in charge, the one who seldom got his hands dirty. “And did it get you a hit?” he asked.

  “Not even.” He choked and Blake stepped back a little. He was an addict; it could get messy.

  “Let’s go get you a hit, loser.”

  “You gonna roll me?”

  “I’m gonna buy you a hit if I can get my box back.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “I want the box!”

  Blake turned him around, twisted his arm up behind his back and counted his blessings. If this charged-up idiot decided to fight him, he might have a real problem on his hands. He’d seen three and four cops have trouble bringing down a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound meth addict when he was high. His flashlight was under his arm, light pointing forward, and the tire iron in his hand, ready.

  “Let’s go get it,” B
lake said, steering him in the direction of the manager’s trailer. When they stood outside the door, he saw a little trash on the ground right outside the trailer door.

  “There it is,” the guy said, looking down.

  He saw what looked like a small amount of smashed teak wood on the ground and a little unidentifiable trash—paper, cloth, picture, chain. “That’s my box?” Blake asked, incredulous.

  “He wasn’t impressed.”

  “What’s a hit go for in your neighborhood?”

  “Twenty,” he said. “I mean, forty. Fifty.”

  Blake felt himself smile. It had been a long time. He had forgotten how much drugs rotted the brain and what liars addicts were. “Here are your choices,” he said. “I can give you some money and you can run, get out of sight, or you can stay and talk to the manager with me. Or I can beat you stupid with this iron, but I think you already are stupid.”

  “You kidding me? Give me fifty and I’m gone.”

  Without turning the guy around, he pulled one bill out of his pocket. It was a twenty. He shoved the man away from him and he stumbled a few feet. Blake braced himself, wielding the tire iron in one hand and flashlight in the other. The twenty fluttered in the hand that held the iron. “Do you want to disappear with twenty or would you prefer to negotiate?”

  As if by magic, his two compatriots stepped out of the darkness and they were a little bigger. But they were ratty and pale. They were vampires; they lived by night. He was one on three. Reasonably, his chances were zero and it was stupid to engage them. This was the time to run. They were high and strong; he was sober and his strength wouldn’t matter. So he smiled as though he had confidence, twisted the iron and flashlight, worked his shoulders a little bit and took a couple of wide swings with the tire iron.

  The junkies separated, one left, one right, one head-on. One picked up a rock, one produced a knife, one held his pained wrist. Blake didn’t waste any time. He took out the knee of the guy with the rock on his left, then hit the arm holding the knife with the flashlight. He jammed the guy in the gut with the tire iron, then gave his ankle a hard whack before shoving the tire iron into the gut of his first boy. He whirled and caught one in the neck. There were a couple more whacks to legs with the iron, then higher. With any luck he’d injured a couple of ribs. Hurt leg joints and bruised ribs could really slow you down, provided you could feel pain. He hit one under the chin with the flashlight and the man sprawled, groaning. His first aggressor limped away while the other two were in the dirt.