Loser's Bracket

  “What was she like, I mean, her attitude? Did she say anything crazy?”

  Yvonne shakes her head slowly. “Said she was done. Had enough. No more.”

  “Enough of what?” Leah asks. “Did she say what she was going to do?”

  “Nope. Just done, is all. She told me I was a ‘weak, worthless bitch’ an’ she was done with me, too. I think she was on something, but I also think she meant it.”

  I say, “Nothing about Frankie, or where she was going?”

  “Nope. Think she has a new girlfriend, though. How do you like that? I do everything to steer her away from all the assholes, and she picks another chick.”

  “A girlfriend? That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, some bitch named . . . Susan or something.”

  Shit! I push Leah out the door, where Tim waits on the porch. “Do you know Badger Lake?”

  Tim says, “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s where we swam open water practicing for the Sandpoint swim,” Leah tells him. “Out past Turnbull.”

  Tim says, “Right.”

  I say, “We gotta get there fast.”

  We’re in the car, shooting through neighborhood streets like Tim’s a NASCAR driver; we hit Ash, cross the Maple Street bridge, and shoot west onto the freeway in what has to be record time.

  Leah says, “Who’s this Susan? The new girlfriend?”

  “Susan isn’t a real person . . . at least not real to Sheila,” I say. “She was talking about Susan Smith.”

  “The woman that . . .”

  “Yup.”

  Leah punches Tim’s arm. “Hurry, baby. Hurry!”

  I tell Siri to call Wiz; I can barely think. He’ll know what else to do and maybe he’ll calm me down.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Annie.”

  “I think Sheila’s got him, and I think we’re in trouble. I’m with Leah. We just talked to Yvonne, and I think Sheila’s headed out to Badger Lake.”

  “Where is Badger Lake?”

  “Out past the Turnbull wildlife refuge,” I say. “Sheila said something to Yvonne about Susan Smith.”

  “Susan Smith?” he says. “The woman who . . .”

  “. . . drowned her kids,” I say. “She’s mentioned her before; Sheila and I were out at Badger once, right after the first time she thought you guys were going to take Frankie. There’s a little resort, and we were sunbathing on the dock next to the boat launch. Sheila said if you guys ever tried to take Frankie, she’d do a Susan Smith. We fought over it; she finally said she wasn’t serious, but now . . . I don’t know. For some reason that boat launch reminded her . . .”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, listen,” I say, “can you call nine-one-one in Cheney? We’re close, but they can probably get there faster. I mean, she could be going to some other lake, but she’s pretty literal, it’s all I can think of.”

  “If she’s got him,” Wiz says, “she took him from here and we’re close to a huge lake with hundreds of private boat launches. You call Cheney nine-one-one and I’ll get them on Amber Alert. You cover Badger; I’ll alert the Coeur d’Alene police.”

  I click off and hit 911.

  A quicker way to get the Cheney police on the move is to drive down an almost deserted Main Street at seventy miles per hour, which is exactly what Tim does. The Cheney cop comes after us and Tim puts the pedal to the floor, while I’m talking to 911 telling them why we’re breaking the law and all speeding records. The dispatcher tells me to stay on the line while she alerts the officer on our tail, and gets up with the state police. On one hand I think this is a long shot, and on another I think I have to be right. Please let there be some hand in the universe that cares more about Frankie than Santa Claus.

  As Tim turns onto the Badger Lake road we start into a skid, but he pulls it out and actually speeds up.

  The park on the lake is nearly empty; summer is long past. Dim lights glow from the windows of the few trailers inhabited by folks who live here year-round, but the grounds are mostly dark. We jump out, frantically searching for the public launch as the Cheney policeman rolls in behind us, but for the life of me I can’t get my bearings.

  “The public launch!” Tim yells. “Where is it?”

  I whirl in a three-sixty, but nothing looks familiar. It was summer when we were here, daylight. There were boats. . . .

  Leah sprints to an oversized camper, pounds on the door, and begs for directions. She comes running, pointing and yelling, “Behind the blue camper!”

  And there they are, two taillights glowing beneath the surface, not deep, but fully submerged. Bubbles rise to the surface.

  Tim kicks off his shoes as he sheds his coat and outer shirt and hits the water on the shotgun side, Leah seconds behind him on the other. Tim surfaces, yelling, “Air pocket! A rock! Anything hard! Quick!”

  I scramble, picking up and discarding possible weapons, till I find a rusty tire iron next to a boat trailer and run into the water to Tim. Leah goes under on the other side with a rock, while I bang on the trunk lock with a too-small piece of concrete I found lying next to the dock.

  The Cheney cop is shouting directions into his radio while Tim and Leah bash in windows, and my hunk of concrete disintegrates in my hands.

  “Got him!” Tim yells, and pulls a drenched five-year-old up the ramp, lays his body on the dock, puts an ear to Frankie’s mouth . . . then, “They haven’t been down long. He’s breathing.”

  Leah yells from the other side, dragging Sheila’s still form onto the sand beside the dock. “Sheila’s not!” She turns her over, strikes her hard between the shoulder blades, and Sheila coughs.

  Tim yells, “Get the kid in the car, heat on high,” and I grab Frankie, while Tim rushes to help Leah.

  April 22— Session #Who’s Counting?

  ANNIE BOOTS

  Came in relaxed; jeans and a very nice blouse; appears more “feminine” than usual, though that could be therapist bias. Seemed more “open.”

  Annie: So, counselor lady, this is it, huh?

  Me: For now.

  Annie: What’s that mean?

  Me: The door’s always open, Annie. For you.

  Annie: Aren’t you going to fill my spot?

  Me: You mean with some other eight-year-old beastie; hopeless half the time and weaponized the other half?

  Annie: (laughs) Was I that bad?

  Me: Let’s just say you were first. I was new to the game. And yeah, I’ll fill your spot, but when things come up . . . you’ve got my number. So how do you want to use this time?

  Annie: You know how I always ask you for advice and you almost never give it . . . you ask questions till I come up with the advice you’d have given me anyway?

  Me: Busted.

  Annie: I want to ask the questions today.

  Me. Last day. I guess I can bend my style.

  Annie: And you can’t answer any of my questions with one of your own.

  Me: Busted again. Fire away.

  Annie: Am I going to make it?

  Me: Yes.

  Annie: How do you know?

  Me: You’ve already gone through the tough stuff, and here you are.

  Annie: But am I going to make it?

  Me: (handing her the envelope I intended to give her at the end of the session) I have one full file drawer of notes on you. It’s been a real ride. I’m giving you these few from this year so you can read them and remind yourself what you know.

  Annie: Want me to read them now?

  Me: No.

  Annie: So, my question.

  Me: Of course it depends on your definition of “making it.” I think you’re always going to be conflicted, and you’re always going to have to watch your temper. I think you’re going to have to be very careful who you decide to share your life with, and who you decide to let into your life in general . . . you know, friends. You’ve told me a number of times that my office is the only place where you tell the whole truth. I would sugges
t that you look for those few people out in the world you’re willing to take a chance on. And then take it.

  Annie: I don’t know. . . .

  Me: I’d start with your friend, Leah. Maybe Walter. And you’re going to meet a whole new bunch of possibilities when you start college.

  Annie. I’m scared.

  Me: Good.

  Impression: I break out the farewell cake, and we pig out.

  Emily Palmer, M.A.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  Thanksgiving: The following year

  I back into a parking spot in the strip mall across the street from Quik Mart and kill the engine; Momma helped me buy this clean-but-well-used Chevy after graduation. This will be a catch-up day with my bios. I’ve had no lengthy conversations with them, haven’t run into them on the street, something that would have made Pop happy if he still lived with us. These days it’s me and Marvin and Momma, and the unsinkable Frankie Boots.

  I finished my senior basketball season strong but not like a superstar, and got a couple partial scholarship offers. Momma said she’d cover the balance, but she’s only exactly half as well-to-do as when she was with Pop, and I don’t want to be cutting into Marvin’s education trust—little shit will be Ivy League. Or Stanford. At any rate. I opted to take that job at the multiplex and play at least a year at community college to see if I can up my stock with a Division II school, just like Walter advised.

  So far this preseason, I haven’t dazzled the coaches. My heart isn’t quite Michael Jordan yet.

  I’m watching the side entrance to Quik Mart—don’t want to get there first—and haven’t seen anyone else go in, so I lower my seatback, plug my iPhone into the radio, and kick back to my playlist for this month. This is the first Boots Thanksgiving Day Ritual Dinner I won’t have to sneak to. I invited the book club, but after I described it . . . no takers. Leah said, “Annie girl, I’ll know your mind is right when you skip that fiasco!” Oscar said it sounded like a pretty horrible thing to do to an immigrant. Seth said it sounded like an affront to Indians and Pilgrims alike.

  Sitting here waiting for people, some of whose bloodstream I share, I can’t help but float back to what brought me here.

  I still meet with Walter at Revel at least once a week; I’m glad he never stopped following me. When I finally digested that night we chased down Frankie, I guess I truly came to terms with how crazy my life has been and it’s been almost lifesaving to have a place to talk about it.

  I look through my windshield now to see Sheila walking into Quik Mart, resplendent in her government-issue orange jumpsuit, which she’s wearing by choice (“Be proud of who you are.”), holding Frankie’s hand. The woman close behind them is the visitation supervisor. No unsupervised visits for the incarcerated, whether or not you’re clean and sober.

  In less than a minute, Nancy appears from the other side of the building; Rance following like a dutiful puppy. Gotta wonder how he tricked her into an invite.

  And then Wiz and his wife, Rachel. Before this day is done she’ll wish she’d gone ahead and cooked Thanksgiving dinner at home, but now that Wiz is “starting over,” he wants “new experiences.” We’ll see.

  Walter steps out of a taxi, scans the premises till he sees me parked across the street. He waves. “Annie! Get over here!”

  We hug on the walkway next to the gas pumps. “Sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

  “Up for it?” he says. “I’m footin’ the bill.”

  “There are a lot more people here than usual.”

  Walter just shrugs.

  “We better go in,” I say, “before Nancy starts taking her five-finger discount. She’s wearing her Walmart dress. It might be a coincidence, but she’s hardwired, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed she is,” he says, and opens the door for me.

  Inside, Boots and friends take over the small sitting area back near the restrooms, where city workers and clerks on lunch break from the strip mall usually sit to grab a quick sandwich.

  But this has been going on for years, and on Thanksgiving Day that area is roped off for the Boots. To make it financially worthwhile for Quik Mart, tradition says no one brings anything in; the entire dinner is purchased on site: turkey burgers and dogs, olives and potato and macaroni salads from the mini-deli that may or may not carry E. coli.

  Though Quik Mart sells wine, you’re not allowed to drink on the premises, so Walter buys a few bottles and hides them in the toilet tank in each restroom, where you sneak in to fill the Diet Pepsi can you brought inside your backpack, or in Nancy’s case, under her billowing dress. Since it’s illegal to drink it here anyway, age doesn’t matter. Except for Frankie, of course. Nobody want to see that little bugger drunk.

  Walter leaves his credit card in the care of Nellie Mae Britain, who has drawn cashier duty for this prestigious event as far back as I can remember. She works here full-time but no matter how the shift schedule is drawn up, Nellie Mae oversees the Bootses’ ode to the Mayflower. Back in the day, I’d sneak over here after regular Thanksgiving dinner at the Howards; they could never understand why I ate so little on the one day you’re allowed to stuff yourself till you pop. I’d say I had to go visit a friend or see a movie, or just fall ill so I could go to my room, then pop out my bedroom window and come eat myself comatose on premium Quik Mart fare, all purchased at wholesale plus three percent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Nancy stands at what she considers to be the head of the table. The tables are identical round wire mesh, pushed together and covered with butcher paper, but on Thanksgiving, wherever the big momma lands is the head of the table.

  “Welcome,” she booms. “Another year, another recognition a’ the power of family. So good to see ever’body here. ’Cept maybe for Rance. Getting rid of him is like scrapin’ a turd off the bottom of yur shoe on a hot day.” No matter what decency lurks beneath, my mother cannot shake her sense that empowerment occurs only when she’s standing on someone’s neck.

  Rance smiles and nods like he’s been given an award. Wonder what he’s on.

  “Got a lot to be thankful for this year,” she goes on, “’sides the Pilgrims and Indians who probably didn’t like each other anyway. Like to interduce a few people, case you end up sittin’ next to one of ’em and don’t know what to say. This year for the first time we got a social worker in our midst, maybe the only one in the history of social workers ain’t a devil. Wiz, you wanna raise yur hand?”

  Wiz raises his hand. “Ex-social worker,” he says.

  “Best kind. I suppose that hot thing next to you is your lovely wife. Don’t think I know her name. How’d you land such a thing? You ain’t what most of us would call a catch. ’Course what am I talkin’ about? My ol’ man ain’t exactly The Rock. Walter, stick your hand up.”

  In Nancy’s world, that passes for comedy. Walter closes his eyes and raises his hand.

  “My daughter’s here. Big college athlete—didn’t know if she’d show this year. Haven’t seen much of her lately, what with her gettin’ all that fancy education, but I guess there are some things so rooted in your history you just can’t stay away. Stand up, Annie.”

  I stand and take a bow. “I’ve been looking forward to it since Halloween, Nancy.”

  “I’ll bet. ’Course there’s my other daughter. Now there’s somethin’ to be thankful for. Looks like there’s a perty good chance this third time through drug treatment might take—long as they keep her in prison—an’ next thing you know her little poop pusher will be livin’ with her and her friend Yvonne, who’s spent the last four years or so turnin’ her into one of them chicks who do chicks. Wanna stand up an’ take a bow, Yvonne?”

  Yvonne just stares at the butcher paper.

  “Hey, I’m behind ya all the way,” Nancy says. “Sheila’s got the kinda taste in men that should make her wanna drink about a gallon of Listerine.” She clasps her hands together. “So,” she says, “it’s another Thanksgiving which means we got to bow our heads
and pump out a little grace. Sheila, since you’re givin’ us the most to be thankful for, why don’t you lead us in prayer.”

  Without hesitation Sheila takes Frankie’s hand on one side and Yvonne’s on the other, bows her head, and says, “Sweet Jesus, thanks for shutting my fat mother up so we can finally eat. Amen.”

  In my family, that kind of patter passes for endearment.

  To fully appreciate this spectacle, you have to remember that Quik Mart hasn’t closed its doors to host this Boots jamboree. Through it all, folks are coming in to pay for gas or grab a couple of forgotten items for their own celebrations and I swear, to the person, they look at us like they took a wrong turn off the main road and couldn’t find a turnaround until they’d gone so far up the holler they hit a time warp.

  So we eat.

  Halfway through the meal, in walks Marvin. He waves at me from the door and says, “You guys really have this! I thought it was an urban legend.” He gives Walter a quick fist-bump, ruffles Frankie’s hair, and squeezes in next to me. “I gotta have at least one turkey dog,” he says, “just so I can say I had the experience. Who’s got a phone? I must chronicle this in my history.”

  I’ve only taken a small bite out of my poultry surprise—my third—so I hand it over. He squeezes in a couple of packets of relish and some mayo and finishes it in three bites. “Man,” he says, “this is, like, epic.”

  “Remember,” I tell him, “what you ‘chronicle in your history’ can also be used as evidence.”

  When we’re almost finished, Leah and Tim show. I leap up and run to hug them, while Sheila turns her back. When Sheila was still in the hospital, under guard even, Leah got in to see her, only to hear Sheila chastise her for pulling her out of the car. Sheila seems happier to be alive now, so the turning away is likely embarrassment.

  Right now, Leah says, “So this is real.”

  I say, “If you can call it that. You guys want something to eat?”

  Tim looks around with great skepticism, pats his stomach, and says, “Love to, but I’m in training.”

  Leah laughs. “We’re here for dessert.”