Eighteen

I just make it back to my truck when Anderson pulls into the parking lot beside Maury’s clinic, and I doubt he’s there because he needs psychiatric help. He checks the door, as I did. I want to yell at him that the good doctor hasn’t been to his clinic since Jillie and I danced at Wooly Hank’s pasture that Saturday night. I’m disappointed in Maury—he’s always been there when I needed to talk to him. Like now.

I scoot down in the seat, even though this truck is like a hundred others around town and I blend in well. I don’t know where Maury lives, but I have a hunch Anderson’s got his ways of finding out. If I stay with him, Anderson will lead me to Maury’s place.

Anderson climbs into that neat old car of his, and I let him get a block down the street before falling in behind him.

I wake up when Maury opens the door and lets Anderson out. I rub the sleepers out of my eyes. For a moment I feel a twinge of panic, not unlike when I was nearly caught that night in Flagstaff when the husband almost caught me in his house dancing my special soft shoe with his cute wife. But sleeping in my truck on a public street near Maury’s house was stupid, no matter how many late-night hours I keep. Any neighbor in this historic part of town could have called the law. That would have drawn Anderson’s attention, and I can’t afford that. Still, it’s gotten dark since Anderson went inside the doctor’s house, and I doubt anyone saw me sleeping in my truck.

I take off my glove ever so carefully. A human bite is worse than a dog’s, and I grab my first aid kit. I grit my teeth and tear the bandage from my hand. It’s healing too slowly where Jillie bit me. Thank goodness for Neosporin, though. Another few days and my hand will be fine. I wish I could say the same about my neck. As much ointment as I’ve smeared over the deep scratches, I’d have thought it would heal sooner. Maybe mechanics have shit under their nails that is infectious.

Don Whales put up even more of a struggle than I thought he would. He isn’t the first one who’s resorted to clawing his attacker. But I hold no grudge against ol’ Don. I’d have done the same thing if someone was strangling me with a stout boot string.

I check my watch. Anderson talked with Maury nearly an hour—a long time if Maury refused to give any information about me. Up until now, I’ve doubted Maury would tell anyone. After all, we’ve been through so much over the years, Maury and me. When Anderson drives off, I’ll catch a few more winks. And as soon as it gets totally dark, I’ll visit with the doctor. Find out what he told Anderson. And I’ll ask Maury why I’ve fallen off the wagon.

As if I was ever on the wagon.