The fabulous life of the fascinating Francis Fodder (Book 2)
By Campbell
Copyright 2012 by Candle Wax Publishing
Paper Film Productions
Smashwords Edition
For Ruby
No regrets, baby. None.
Chapter 11
I find out after I make it back to The Estella, that there is an underground parking garage for all of its staying visitors, and within it, a nicer, private area for its four permanent residences; two of which, I’ve been in.
One of the hotel’s twenty-four hour valets, an older, black gentleman named Omar, directs me towards one of Glamour’s three spots: “Well,” he says, “if you insist on parking it yourself, just go on ahead and pull up into that empty space right there.”
I oblige and drive into the spot: between a white, Brabus SLS 700, and the now discontinued (but still magnificent), SLR McLaren 722, colored in pitch black (save for its large and angry looking red brakes). I like it. I like it a lot.
“Thank you,” I say to Omar, as I walk past his kiosk to get to Glamour’s elevator.
“Oh don’t even mention it Champ. Don’t even mention it.”
I stop and look at him. Smile. “‘Champ’?” I say. “My Dad used to call me that..?”
He looks up from a book he holds. “Yeah?”
“Yeah”; I say: “When I was little he did; sometimes still.”
“Hm. Imagine that.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to phone back home and tell him that someone else said it. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it.”
“Where’s home?”
“Huh?”
“Home. Where’s that?”
“Oh. Savannah, Georgia: but not in some time, though.”
He tosses the book, a worn copy of If He Hollers Let Him Go, onto the counter. “You ain’t just trying to make an old man’s day, are you son?”
“No sir. Why..?”
“I’m from Savannah, too. Right off of Thirty-Eighth street: over on the East Side.”
My face lights up. “Get out of here!”
“I swear,” he says, smiling, “my whole family is.”
“My Dad’s off of that side, too. By where Dub’s convenient store used to be. Back in the Eighties.”
He sits up, straighter than he already was, and the spark in his eyes just got brighter. “Dub’s? That’s my old stomping ground right there. What’s your daddy’s name, son?”
“Trevor.” I say. “Trevor Fodder.”
“Well I’ll be Goddamned.” He stands and steps out of the booth, sizes me up. “Francis?”
!?! “Ye-Yeah..?”
He rushes up and hugs me, gives me several --- Pat! --- Pat! --- Pats! on the back. “I’ll be damned, boy! I remember the day you were born! Right there in Memorial Hospital! Lord have mercy how times flies!”
I look at him closer now, and try to imagine him younger; thinner, and an old picture my Dad has in his room comes to mind. “Wait. Omar..? Omar..? Did theeey used to call you ‘Oh Boy’?”
He all but explodes. “Hell yeah! they did! Hot damn!” he hugs me again. “I ain’t heard that name in damned near thirty years!”
I hug him back; laugh. I can’t tell you how many stories my Father’s told me about this man, like how they always used to get into nightclub scuffles at Say Hey’s, The Carousel, Sam Bowers; or their illegal dice game winnings in the Savannah Housing Projects: Garden Homes, Hitch Village, Fairwood, Fred Wessels (some of which are gone now), and before my Mother, the amount of women they dated.
“Man,” I say, “my Dad talked about you like Jesus. Almost like a mythical creature or something.”
“Shit as much hell as we raised --- he ought to; it’s a wonder we ain’t damned dead. Liked to burned down Hazard County one night: got into a fight over your mama. Only time I ever seen a six-shooter shoot seven: course that last bullet was a foot going in that chump’s ass.”
We both laugh, me because I remember my Dad telling me that story, and him probably because he was there.
“I’ll be damned,” he says, shaking his head. “As I live and breathe: The fascinating Francis Fodder. The hell you doing here boy? You ain’t hit the lotto is you?”
“No,” I say, pointing at the space that he directed me toward. “I’m with Miss Dietrich. We’re good friends.”
He looks over at Glamour’s cars. “Who?”
“Miss Dietrich. Glamour.”
“Dietrich?” he squints. “I thought her name was von Braunau?”
“Well I mean, I guess it is, but, I’ve always known her as Dietrich. von whatever is her married name.”
“Oh, okay,” and then what I said suddenly hits him. “Wait --- you’re dating her?!”
I do that shrug we do when we aren’t sure about something, the one that looks like we’re weighing invisible objects in our hands. “I don’t know,” I say, “no idea.”
“You don’t know? What kind of half ass answer is that? You either are or you ain’t.”
I clear my throat. “Well, it’s um, a little complicated. We actually met here today by accident.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I, um… have a couple of others, here and there.”
“A couple, huh.”
I can see the gears in his head turning; this is a man who cannot, by any measure, be bullshitted. “Yeah…”
“And how many is a couple? Cause when it comes to women, it’s anything but two. And women’s what we’re talking about. So how many?”
I buy time by shaking my head and putting my hands into my pockets, and while I do so, he goes and sits back down, loosens the tie on the shirt he wears; waits. And so, after a brief stare-down in which I lose, I tell him: everything: about Glamour, Paloma, what I am, how many, all of it, because he was as close to my Father as any man’s ever been, and that, I can assure you, is no easy feat. I can and do, trust him.
“… and I’m scared shitless of her, Mr. Omar. I mean the first time she broke it off, it was all I could do to hang on. And now that I’m back, I really don’t know that I’m that much stronger. Which means I’m probably not. And it hasn’t even been a full day yet, and I’m already getting moody from not being around her. She just has me, you know. That’s all there is to it. She has me…”
He hums. “Mmm-mmm. Boooy it’s been a looong time since I heard a young man speak the truth. A long time. All these hooligans nowadays think they just that damned cool when it comes to women. Talking bout how many they got and how much they don’t care about ‘em or can’t be bothered,” he chuckles. “Please. They so full of shit --- it’s no wonder plants ain’t growing out their shoes. You got to care about somebody in this world. At least one person. Otherwise what’s the point? The hell you here for if you don’t care about nobody? Fucking zombies. But anyway, for you to say that you only want her, with all that you’ve had, just her, that’s a beautiful thing, Francis. A beautiful thing.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but now I’m torn. I mean how do I know who’s who? And I’m not just going to rearrange my life for her. Stop it all. She wouldn’t do that for me.”
He looks at me a long time, thinking, and then saying, “But she’s got something going on. And you don’t. That life you in right now --- ain’t nothing but heartbreak. For you and them. These women. Now I imagine it’s fun at times --- but still, it ain’t no way to go about making a living and you know it. What you think your daddy would say if he knew? And since we both know that he ain’t never been much of a talker: he wouldn’t say a damned thing, he’d just motion you over and then bust you upside your head with whatever he was holding at the time. Wouldn’t he?”
I nod once. He’d do exactly that.
“Listen, boy, that there what you got upstairs is certified A1, you hear me, A1. Now it’s certain things I don’t know, but quality ain’t one of ‘em. And that’s a VVS diamond you got there if I ever seen one, Francis: Inger Stevens reincarnated.”
“Who?”
He waves his left hand. “Ah, you too young to know her. Died way before your time. You can find her on that there uh… now what’s the name of that damned thing… Wikipedia! That’s it! That’s what it’s called. You can find her on there. But she looks like uh…” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Trying to figure out somebody you know who I know… I got it!” he hits his thigh and points at me. “What’s that new girl’s name? Off of that show --- you know her?”
I do?
“Pretty girl,” he’s snapping his fingers now. “January Jones! That’s it --- that’s her! That’s who she looks like too. For me it’s Inger Stevens and for you it’s January Jones.”
I nod, smile. “Yeah, I can see where you’re going with that: Glam does look like January Jones.” And now that I’m thinking about it, she looks just like her. It’s almost uncanny.
“Now I ain’t never been much for white women myself; I always found ‘em too bland looking, you know, no oomph to ‘em. And in my day, they didn’t have near the rumps they do now, and since I always been a butt man, well: they never stood a chance. But what you got upstairs,” he nods, “that’s a pretty swan you got there boy. As fine as she wants to be. So you better figure something out. And you better do it fast, too, cause you ain’t gonna get another chance like this one here. Mark my words.”
I nod. “I know. I just have to figure some things out, and”: an exhale: “sever some ties.”
“Well,” he scratches his chin. “Don’t go doing nothing out of guilt. Too many people make stupid decisions based off of that. So don’t do it. All you can do is pray about it, and if you ain’t the praying type --- just go off your gut. It’ll all pan out somehow. Besides, it’s worse things that have happened to a man than having two women in love with him. But in my opinion --- I say your home’s upstairs. Now I ain’t never seen this Paloma girl, and I know you say she’s real sweet and pretty and all --- but, I don’t think she’s your one. I just say it’s all that good coochie she’s giving you --- that’s clouding up your judgment. But there are women you fuck, Francis, and there are women you marry, and one of the keys to life is knowing the difference. There ain’t no future with this Paloma girl and you know it. What you think you gon save her? You can’t. So just cut your losses while you still can son. It ain’t gonna end good for you. Take it from an old man. I know.”
I nod again. But between you and I, I’m not just going to kick Lo to the curb for Glamour like that. Paloma was one of the few things that kept me sane after Glamour dumped me; she’s also the girl who Glamour caught me in bed with that day: at my house, and that was our first time together, too, believe it or not, but anyway, we’ve been at it for a while now, for lack of a better term, “at it,” and while I understand what Omar’s saying, she means too much to me --- just to give her the you can fuck off, my ex is back treatment. I’m sure you know or have heard about this scenario: Ex treats Individual like shit; then another person comes along, cleans Individual up, restores his or her self-esteem, and as soon as Ex shows their face again, the first thing Individual does, is screws over the person who returned them to glory, and leaves them high and dry. Fuck. That. I’m not doing Lo like that. No way, no how; as long as we’ve been together, she’s practically my girl. Oh who am I kidding --- she is my girl. So I don’t know what I’m going to have to do but, I’ll hopefully figure something out soon. I just hope you have it in you to bear with me.
“But then again,” says Omar. “Even as a young man --- I ain’t never have your looks, which is probably why I can’t comprehend the problems you having, or get to lay up in bed with a woman who’s worth four-hundred-million dollars.” he smiles. “Lucky bastard, you.”
I pretend that his revelation was known to me. “Yeah, but I knew Glamour way before she had it all, back when she was flat broke.” Four-hundred-million!? Are you kidding me?!
“Well, as reckless as you being right now,” he removes the suit coat he wears. “I’m still glad it’s you and not that wet piece of shit --- von Braunau who’s got a hold of her.”
“Yeah?”
“Not yeah but hell yeah. Now I wouldn’t have told nobody else this, cause for one, they made me sign a gag order last year, and I think we both know I can’t afford to get sued. But seeing as how it’s you, and that I just so happen to be retiring today, I’m gonna. That successor slash predecessor of yours,” he shakes his head, “von Braunau: he used to beat the shit out of that girl.”
“!WHAT?”
“You heard me. First time I found out about it, I was in here by myself one night, on a Christmas, it just so happened, anyway --- they came in --- him and her, from wherever you come from when you rich, and they was arguing about something. Apparently he got a text from another woman or something or other, you know how that goes,”
Boy do I,
“and she said something to him that pissed him off pretty heavy, don’t know what it was, though: they switched to German as soon as they saw me looking, but whatever she said made him slap the fire from her eyes. Knocked her strait out of her heels. And if you think I’m exaggerating --- I’m not. He blasted her. Then he ripped off her dress and just left her right here on this cold ass concrete: butt naked and bleeding: where you standing at right now, as a matter of fact. Now you tell me what kind of man would do that to a woman? Specially one as dangerous as him: word is he used to be a big-shot Golden Gloves champ, and one of the hardest hitters they ever seen. Like Foreman, I hear. Could have went pro, too, but apparently he like punching on women instead, so,” he shrugs, “I guess that’s why he ain’t.”
“…”
“Of course I called the police like anybody with good sense would --- and got my ass fired behind it: von Braunau knew the owner of the old security company I used to work for so, my ass was out of here. Til Ruby Tuesday got wind of what happened and torched all their asses first. She kept me on, though; thank God. Course it wasn’t that difficult: she owns the company I work for now, her and Magnus Jackson. But anyway --- if it wasn’t for Ruby Tuesday --- I’d be out of a job right now, and that girl of yours would probably still be with that von Braunau, and it don’t take no rocket scientist to figure out he’d still be smacking her upside the head, cause I know like I know my own ass --- that that wasn’t the first time he hit that girl like that. But Ruby told him, if he even looks in The Estella’s direction again, she ain’t gonna call the cops on him, said she gon have him took out back and fucked up Las Vegas style. And she was serious, too. Now I think her and your lady had a little bit of a falling out over that but, the way he hit that woman --- I don’t blame Ruby for threatening him like that. He damned near killed that girl.”
“And how did you know I didn’t know?” I say. “About him hitting her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like how did you know that Glamour hadn’t told me already?”
He looks at me in a half amused, half are-you-serious sort of way. “Cause ain’t nothing happened to him yet, and you from Savannah, Francis, and you know like I know we don’t stand for no man beating on our woman: past, present, or future. Plus like I said, nobody knew about it cause Ruby Tuesday made me sign a gag order: so word wouldn’t get out that that type of thing happened at The Estella. But to hell with that. The Estella can kiss my ass, hitting that girl like that. Somebody need to gag his damned ass.”
Oh don’t you worry…
“Well,” he looks over at a digital clock on the counter, “I’m heading home for good, Francis. I’m free! baby. Re. Damned.” He makes a high arching shot into a nearby wastebasket, with a balled up piece of paper, “Tired!”
I laugh; I like Omar; I can see why he and my Father got along so well. “So what are your plans now?”
He stands and steps out of the booth again, removes his name tag. “Believe it or not, Francis, I’m moving back to Savannah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, sir. I done got too old and tired for Big Wheel. And besides, Savannah’s how I got here, and Lord willing, it’s how I’m leaving. Now I know it ain’t the same city it was when I left it but, that’s actually a good thing, cause I was wild, and it was even wilder. Besides me and ol’ Trevor got a whole lot of catching up to do. I ain’t talked to him in God knows how long. You were a baby I know.”
I smile. “He’s going to be so happy to see you coming --- he’s not going to know what to do.”
“I sure hope so,” he says. “ I miss the ol’ boy. But after Barry died”:
Their friend who got electrocuted.
“I needed to get away. That’s why I left the way I did. And with me gone, Barry dead, I knew Trevor was gonna take it hard but, I couldn’t take it at all: Barry was my little brother, you see.”
Oh wow… “Dad never told me that..?”
He nods several times. “Yeah, well, like I said: Trevor ain’t never been much of a talker. So it’s a wonder he brought it up at all really.”
Yeah, that’s true.
“It just gets me thinking, you know; all the sand me and your daddy raised, shit we did, one of us goes and dies like that. And it still pisses me off. Barry deserved a lot better. He was the good one.”
We stand silent for a while, thinking about the same thing undoubtedly, and then afterwards, I look at my watch and say, “Well, Mr. Omar, it’s been really good talking with you. It really has. You’ve revived my morale; my soul even.”
“Well that’s good to hear, Francis, and it’s good to see you all grown up and doing well too. … Sort of.”
We both laugh. “Here…” I write down my Dad and I’s phone numbers and addresses. “Surprise him, and then tell me what happens.”
“He takes the info and then gives me another hug. “All right, son; will do.”
I pick up my bags and hand him an envelope and walk off towards Glamour’s elevator. And I know without looking back the moment he opens the envelope too --- because I hear --- “Fifty-thousand dollars!? What the hell is this, Francis?!”
I finally write my name down on the Couch Potatoes list and then press the elevator’s digital panel. “Two day’s work, Mr. Omar. Happy retirement.”
Chapter 12
When I exit the elevator, Glamour’s entire condo, or living room, I should say, is illumined in a soft, dim blue. Not one-hundred percent sure how I feel about it but, I’m sure I’ll get over it. And it’s not until I’m halfway inside --- that I see her sitting on the couch, her silhouette back-dropped by the Big Wheel skyline; an unknown nightcap in her hand.
“Hey.”
“… … … Hey.” she says.
I can’t see her eyes in this setting; I can barely see her, but I’m sure that this is all premeditated: the lighting’s decent everywhere but where she sits.
“How was your date?”
Who among us thinks that I’m stupid enough to answer that question? “You don’t want to know that, Glam, and I don’t want to answer it.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I. I’m going to have to play this one by ear, because I can already tell that she wants a fight, and I’m just too happy to see her and too damned tired to willingly walk into one.
“I’m going to lay down some ground rules for you, Francis. So that there’s no misunderstandings between us, going forward.”
Oh-Oh.
“Your little whore bag”: her hand pokes out from the darkness; into the blue, “is not ever, and I do mean, ever, to be brought inside of my home. You understand me? I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want to see anything from it. You keep your little coochie-kit in your car, all right? Are we clear on that?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good. Another thing, when you come back from wherever you’ve been, you wash. I don’t care if you’ve scrubbed your skin raw before you got here, you sterilize before you touch anything of mine. Do you understand, that?”
“Why do you have to talk to me like a child, Glam? All you ---”
“Do you. understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now the last thing: your clothes and whatever taste you think you may have right now, are shit. And before you go getting all butt hurt, I’m not downplaying your style; I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look as good as you do right now, but you’ve just stepped up into the majors, and the threads I need you in are a little beyond your pay grade, so ---”
“You” --- I try not to laugh --- “have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, do you? Pay grade? Do you even know how much I make?”
She swirls her drink three times, sips from it, and then sets it down on a metal try: Clat. “Okay, Mister Fodder.” she folds her arms. “Impress me.”
All right, well,
“To even get me out of the house is five grand, and that’s with a five thousand an hour, four hour minimum. And while I’m tooting my horn --- I should also tell you that I’m booked for the next month, and that’s just my regulars, Glam. My regulars. So you can cool it with that majors talk.” I went pro my freshman year of college.
She laughs. “La-di-fucking-da, Francis. I know Vegas call girls who get that on the regular, and most of them aren’t even spectacular fucks like you are. They’re just run-of-the-mill. Average. So sorry, Charlie, but I’m not impressed by your figures at all, and if I factor in the expenses I’m sure you have: your grooming, travel; wardrobe: you’re well below market value. A bargain. Cheap.”
Cheap? “How” the hell “do you figure that? Escorts have to pay their agencies before their cut even sees the light of day, and I fly solo: every red cent’s mine. I made a hundred-and-seventy-thousand dollars just last week alone. Sorry? For who? Not me I hope: I’m the most expensive fuck in the world, and I’m worth every penny, too. So hop off of that high horse of yours, Glam, cause my dick’s bigger and I’m a better ride in the saddle”: Bitch.
“Pssh!” she laughs again. “How long have you been waiting to use that corny ass line?”
Really? I thought it was good?
“Whatever, Glam. Just say what you have to say so I can go lay down --- all right. I’m too tired for this shit.”
“I need to know that you’re going to play ball, Francis.”
Play ball? The majors? Is she Tommy Lasorda now or what? “Look --- if you want me get new clothes --- I’ll get new clothes, Glam. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, okay. I’ll say whatever you want to hear. Just… I don’t want to argue, all right.”
She picks her drink back up, and I assume, because I cannot see her eyes, stares at me. “Get that damned bag out of my sight, Francis. You’re pissing me off.”
Chapter 13
Right when I turn to leave, she says, “Hey.”
I stop and look at her. “Yeah?”
“How attached to your car are you?”
..? “How attached am I?”
“Yes,” she nods. “I know some men are really close to their cars. I was wondering if you were close to yours?”
Were? “Well I’ve only had it for about three years. Give or take.”
“Would you be willing to get rid of it?”
Are you kidding me? “Is that really necessary?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s not. But I don’t like that car; I want you in something better.”
I’m too beat to even feel insulted. “All right, Glam. I’ll find something else.”
She gets up and steps out into the blue, and now, that I see her, I become aware that she’s cloaked in a sheer, floor-length peignoir, with nothing underneath it but what she came to this world in. “Here,” she hands me a set of keys. “Ruby and I were out in La Jolla today when I decided to stop by Symbolic Motors and do a little shopping. I liked the fact that its exhausts were up front, and that it looks strong (: German). Plus Bentley GTs are so cliché nowadays, so, no. Put all your stuff in the SLR from now on. It’s yours.”
I look at the emblem on the key: “You bought me a McLaren?”
Her belt comes undone, and she makes no attempt to retie it. “Yeah,” she clears her throat. “You’ll look hot in it.”
“Thanks, baby.”
The negligée falls open now, and I, without thought, or maybe just because I want to touch her so badly, try to close it.
“Don’t” --- she slaps me --- “fucking touch me --- without washing.”
I rub my cheek, but not because it hurts (although it does), but because Glamour’s never hit me before, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice sound the way it did just now. She didn’t even sound angry. I mean she did, and is, but it’s not because I just tried to touch her, is what I mean to say, and it’s not because I was out doing what we all know I was doing, either. Her tone had something else in it, a long time coming, something else..?
“All right.” I say. “Let me just get my stuff out of here.”
When I go back downstairs, Omar’s long gone, but his nametag, jacket, and the (empty) envelope I gave him --- lets me know that his journey towards Savannah has already begun. I look away from the vacant booth to critique my old car: sleek, elegant, and full of irreplaceable memories. I’m going to miss it. I peek inside the window of my SLR now: what old car?
Chapter 14
The rain tapping against the windowpane wakes me, which is odd, seeing as how I need at least a little noise to sleep, like the wind: sometimes; television, the distant sound of freeway traffic, any of those will do; I know it’s not the bed I’m in --- because I’ve been in far too many for a strange one to even affect me. But I’m restless about something, so I sit up and look over at Glamour… who isn’t there..? After I grow tired of wondering where she is, I get up and seek out my Berlin born import, who I find in the living room: on the same couch, in the same spot, with a different drink. Jesus, she’s like a fish, this one.
“Can I ask you something?”
She takes a big gulp and pours some more. “Go ahead.”
Kid gloves, Fodder, kid gloves. “When did you start drinking so much?”
She looks over at me. “Today. Right about the time you showed up.”
Ouch. “I really bring out the worst in you, huh?”
She exhales and shakes her head. “I just have a lot on my mind, Francis.”
I reach over and take her drink away, and she lets me. “I don’t like you like this. Drinking by yourself, in the middle of the night, or morning, depending on how you look at it. This isn’t good, Glam. It’s not.”
A breeze blows cold through the open window behind her, so I sit in a chair away from it, to avoid its breath. And after about five minutes or so, she says: “Do you want to know why I broke up with you the way I did?”
Great, this again. “You know what, Glamour, I don’t. It doesn’t really matter at this point. What’s done is done.”
If I think I’ve just avoided an awkward moment, I’m dead wrong, because Glamour, without warning, or a single sniffle, starts crying, and it’s not even one of those slow building, heavy breathing cries that you can prepare yourself for --- either, no-no, this is something else, that long time coming something else from earlier, and I couldn’t have gotten ready for it --- even if I’d spent that last decade away from her --- doing so: I’d of failed, and it’s not that I’ve never heard or seen her cry before, I obviously have, but it’s because the sound she’s making right now, that I hear, and that you can only imagine, is a human being who’s soul is in a thousand pieces, and it’s just a God awful, awful melody of anguish.
“What’s wrong?”
She tries to hold it in --- but can’t, which only makes it come out worse. “They were going to kill you, Francis!” she says, in shaky, congested voice. “They had guns and knives and everything! It was the only way.” her nose starts running. “The only way!”
“What --- wait --- who? Kill who? What are you talking about?”
She struggles in heavy, labored breaths. So I rush over to her on bended knee and grab her by the wrist. “What’s wrong, baby? Talk to me!”
She shakes her head, but it’s not in response to my words, she’s merely reacting to her own thoughts. “I was pregnant, Francis!” she places her right hand on her chest. “Pregnant! A month and a half. And when Adalwulf found out --- he was going to kill you! And I got so scared --- I panicked. Because he meant it. And even though I said I wanted you to come after me --- I’m so glad you didn’t, baby. Because I know what would’ve happened if you did. But it still hurts, Francis. It still fucking hurts! And it didn’t even have to happen! I asked you to use a condom that day --- and you said you did --- and you didn’t! You took it off without me knowing --- you fucker ---” I receive my second slap of the night --- “and you got me pregnant! Why would you do that? Put me through that? Huh? I had to get an abortion by myself, Francis. By my” --- another slap --- “fucking self!”
I sit silently while she berates me, and honestly, I deserve every agonizing second of it, too. Every uncomfortable detail, about how her father, Hans Dietrich, the boy he hand-selected for her, Leopold von Braunau, and her grandfather, Adalwulf Dietrich, set out one night with a goal in mind and one goal only: put a bullet through the head of that schwanzlutscher, Francis Fodder: the worthless nigger who seduced, corrupted, and got their little girl pregnant: as “my kind” only know how to do, and then even allowed her to take public transportation home (of which I did nothing of the sort, as I am finding this out at the same time you are), after a traumatizing abortion, on which she fainted.
“I woke up in the hospital alone, Francis. Without you, or my family, or anybody there to comfort me. And ---”
“You didn’t have to, Glam.” I say, trying to control my tone. “You could’ve told me. And you should’ve.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to tell you a Goddamned thing. I couldn’t have kept that baby and you know it. I was Eighteen years old, first off, and furthermore: Adalwulf Dietrich is my grandfather. Do you really think that he or my Father would have allowed me to have a black child? Huh, Francis? Men who have Hitler posters in their living rooms; or Adalwulf, who at Ninety-Seven years old --- actually met Hermann Göring; dined with Himmler. Was at Bruno Streckenbach’s bedside the day he died, do you think a man like that --- would have allowed that? Do you?”
I shake my head. And she stops crying, or at least seems to pull herself together. “That’s why I give you such a hard time,” she says, “and that’s exactly why I left you the way I did.” She stands and walks over to a phone and breathes before she picks it up. “I had to get away from you, Francis. For your protection as well as mine. Some people just talk about what they’re going to do but, not Adalwulf. Not him.”
My mind flashes back to the moment Glamour showed me her grandfather’s suit (one of many, as he is also an Allgemeine and defected SA man): all black, with a metal cross fastened to it, a red armband, which within rested a white circle, that highlighted the enclosed black swastika: the last thing I remember seeing before she snatched it away; the last thing that countless others ever saw, before death.
“You want to know what the worst part about all that was, Francis. The absolute, worst part.”
I nod, although honestly, she’s not really asking me a question, it’s merely a statement that I’m allowed to participate in.
“I loved being pregnant by you. I honestly did. As scared as I was. I loved the morning sickness, and the cravings, and the thought of being a mother.” she shakes her head. “But not like that. And definitely not back then. We were just kids, Francis. And you didn’t even give me a choice in the matter. You just did it. And that was so disrespectful of you. It really was.”
Damn… That’s all I can think. Just… damn.
Chapter 15
I remain silent even after she hangs up the phone. What’s to say? I’m sorry? For pretty much almost ruining our lives; or indirectly almost ending mine. I don’t think so. Sorry doesn’t even begin to excuse what I did. Not even a little.
She goes to the bar to make herself a drink and then stops, looks over her shoulder at me. I make no attempt to meet her eyes, but I assume because I never hear any liquid pour, that she doesn’t fix herself one. And I assume right.
She walks back over to the couch and plops back down onto it, in her favorite spot. And then we just sit, pretending not to, or trying not to, look at one another. This goes on for about ten minutes or so, until her elevator doors open, and Ruby walks in.
“Mister Fodder.”
“Hey, Red.”
She surveys the scene, and after she gets her fill of whatever it is she’s looking for, or at, she asks me, “What happened?”
I shake my head.
She looks over at Glamour, who does the same.
“All right. I’ll leave it be.”
That’s probably best, but I wonder --- “What’re you doing here?”
She walks over to Glamour and sits next to her. “I was called. But I had to wait until the man of the house was home before I could come.”
Man of the --- “What?”
“I had to wait until you came back.”
I look over at Glamour, who’s looking at… well, nothing really.
“Wait on me to come back for what..?”
Ruby smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “The talk, Mister Fodder. About recovering Ms. Dietrich’s property.”
Oh. That. “I’m not really in the mood for that right now, Ruby. And I’m not trying to be difficult or anything, I do want to help, and I will, but not tonight. So can we just rain-check this for tomorrow? In the morning?”
She looks over at Glamour, who nods.
“All right, Mister Fodder. Tomorrow morning it is.”
She rises and leaves, just as quickly as she came, without a bye or even a backward glance, leaving Glamour and I in our shared, earsplitting silence.
Chapter 16
I’m awakened by the sound of a shower long going, and all of the floating steam that comes with lengthy and humid washes. I get up and walk into the bathroom, where I find Glamour shaving her legs, one of which is propped up on the side of the tub. She neither looks up nor stops.
I make my way over to my own shower and step inside… All right now, let’s see, how do I work this damned thing again…
After several failed attempts, I step back and try to read the instructions, which doesn’t really help me at all. I’m no closer to showering than when I was asleep. Then my shower door suddenly slides back and Glamour steps inside, scaring the living shit out of me. She reaches up and activates the water controls and everything else that I’ll need to bathe, and then she turns and looks at me.
“…”
“Thanks,” I say.
She nods. And we stand, in silence while the water soaks our hair and skin, collects in that concave between our collar bone. And I realize that, she’s already taken the first step; it’s up to me whether we make amends now. Well, here goes. “For what it’s worth,” I say, after I’ve cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. And I, I know that might not mean so much right now, but my Mom always said, it’s better to apologize for what you’ve done and let the other person appraise its meaning, than not apologize at all, and make them feel as if they have no meaning. So again, I’m sorry. For all the bullshit I’ve put you through. Directly and indirectly.” And also for what I’m going to do to a floating loose end, in the very near future.
She stares at me for quite some time. Quite, some, time, before she puts her arms around my neck; presses her stomach flush against mine, and rest her head against my chest. “Last night,” she says, softly, “after I told you about the pregnancy,” an exhale, “that was the first night I’ve slept in months. And I realize now that, I forgave you right then and there, the moment I started telling you. And I… think I actually felt it leave, Francis: my hatred. But not for you, or my family, but for myself. At myself. For holding on to it all for so long. While everybody else went on about their lives. Purposely forgot. As people who wrong others always tend to do. But now…” She squeezes me. “Yeah, I’m okay now. All is forgiven.”
Even though the water that falls from the showerhead is warm, I can still feel her breath on my skin, and without her makeup or hair styled or any lipstick, she looks so exposed; more like the Eighteen year old girl I fell in love with ten years ago. I want to protect her now more than anything else.
“Hey.” I say, after another long while.
“Hm?”
“I need your permission to do something. And I’m not going to tell you what it is, so don’t ask. You’ll know after I’ve done it. But I need your permission first.”
She pulls away and looks at me. “And if I say no?”
“Well… nothing. If you say no --- then nothing.”
“…”
“But if you say yes.” As I hope you will. “Some people are going to make the news,” and I suspect, some apologizes, “as they should. So say yes.”
“… And this is all up to me?”
I nod.
“Do I know who these people are?”
Silence on my part.
“..? !! Wait --- are you going to hurt somebody?”
“…”
She squints at me, looks at me sideways. “Fancy, I don’t want ---”
“Say. Yes.”
“… … … … … … Yes.” Eyes: Do it.