The Stranger's Obituary Page 2

  The first day, when Frank arrived, he'd shooed them all away. But they'd returned, like moths to a porch light. At least Frank had scared them enough to keep them off the property. They'd never seen a cop sport a twelve gauge shotgun before. Now they milled about the sidewalk and the street. Neighbors honked as they passed to clear the road. Except for that crazy old lady, Leona Bell. Bernadette had seen her hit the gas instead.

  It was like being locked up in prison, only the food was worse. She was not a criminal. At least she hadn't been officially charged as one yet. Even if she was, she had an eight hundred dollar an hour lawyer to get her out of it. The problem was Evan had a thousand dollar an hour lawyer, one that her lawyer was afraid of. She hoped time would smooth this over, and she could go back to her life, or at least something resembling it.

  A dark, rebellious feeling crept up her spine, making her fingertips buzz. She wasn't a frightened bird with a broken wing, and these people couldn't keep her here. But she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of getting what they wanted, either. She didn't have to explain herself to anyone. She stiffened and turned.

  Marching back into the dining room, Bernadette found Mina right where she’d left her.

  “I need your expertise. How do you draw as little attention to yourself as possible?”

  “You certainly came to the right person,” Mina said, shrugging as she rose from her chair.

  Half an hour later, Bernadette had dressed and done the minimum amount of grooming she required to leave the house and Mina was digging into the hall closet. She handed Bernadette a thick brown corduroy jacket. She cringed but took it. Then Mina descended on her hair, tugging on her chignon.

  “Ouch!”

  “I'm sorry, but that just screams for attention.”

  “I could show you screaming for attention.”

  “I know you could.”

  Mina pulled Bernadette's hair into a low ponytail, then ripped the sunglasses off her face.

  “What are you doing? That's what people do when they want to go low profile.”

  “Which is why they'll expect it. Besides, no one here owns five hundred dollar sunglasses.”

  “That would have been a bargain,” Bernadette said coolly.

  Mina took a step back, admiring her make-under. “It's really hard to make you look inconspicuous, Bernie. But then, you always stood out.”

  That had always been a matter of pride to Bernadette. Perhaps not when they'd first come to this town and they all stood out because their mother had a reputation as a swindler, or even a Satanist in the minds of some of their more pious neighbors. Eventually that died down and people got used to her, or she became useful to them, whatever. And Frank had their backs, so they weren't exactly outcasts.

  But Bernadette always had a way of making friends as they moved from town to town. She wanted to feel accepted, and she worked hard at it. Mina always said Bernadette had to be the center of attention. It was better than being on the outside, or being forgotten. There was certainly no chance of being considered the most interesting member of her family.

  “And you considered yourself normal?”

  Bernadette felt bad the moment she said it. A hurt look passed over her sister's face.

  “You know what I meant.”

  Bernadette walked down the hall to Mina's room. It had been forever since she'd been in there. It was neat, like she'd always kept it. Posters of Mina's favorite bands used to hang on the cobalt blue walls. She remembered the day Mina had torn them down and smashed her stereo into oblivion. Not that she blamed her. Being different had a steep cost. Mina knew it as their mother had known it.

  Now there were several large maps on the wall. Pins were stuck through them like constellations, hovering above the cities and oceans. Magazine pictures and postcards were taped all around the maps. She peeked at the writing on a couple of the cards. They were written out to Mina, stamped and everything.

  Mina stood in the doorway. She looked twitchy, as if she couldn't stand having someone in her space.

  “Sorry, I was just curious. These are from friends?”

  “Is it so incredible that I might have friends?” Mina asked.

  “No. It's just ...”

  “I know. That was your thing.”

  Bernadette remembered when a very small Mina would sit crunched up in a corner with her nose in a travel book. She wondered if it bothered Mina, watching other people go places while she stayed holed up in this house in Auburn.

  “And this was always your thing,” Bernadette said. “Dreaming of far off places.”

  “The idea was to actually see them.” Mina shrugged, as if her admission hadn’t stung like a Brazilian wax. “So what’s it like hopping on a private jet to spend a weekend in Paris or Belize?”

  Mina obviously thought Bernadette’s life was all fun and freedom. There was no point in arguing. Her sister had always thought she was the only one who suffered. Still, the pain under Mina’s guarded expression tugged at Bernadette’s heart.

  “Over rated. Mostly tourist traps,” Bernadette said, knowing full well Mina wouldn’t buy it. Mina seemed to appreciate it anyway, her mouth tugging up in half-a-smile.

  Bernadette went to the back window and tugged it up. She stuck one leg over the side, then swung herself out before glancing back at Mina.

  “Do you think you could, you know, make a distraction or something?”

  “Shouldn't take much. See you in a few years?”

  “Mina, I'm only going for groceries.”

  “Sure.”

  Bernadette crept to the corner of the house and watched the reporters. When she heard the front door slam, the group rushed toward the house.

  She didn't want to chance walking to her Mercedes, still parked in the driveway. Anyway, she was used to exercising at least an hour a day, and her body couldn't handle sitting idle any longer. She walked through a block of backyards, crunching through a thin layer of snow that coated the brown grass. One thing Mina couldn't help her with was shoes because Bernadette's feet were two sizes larger (a fact that had caused her no end of grief). She was lucky it was cold, and that the spiky heels of her designer boots didn't sink, but it was difficult to keep her footing on the uneven ground.

  When she cut through to Main Street, it looked just as she remembered it. It was still hibernating in its winter state, even though it was March. She imagined it a few months from now, when flowers would spill from window boxes and kids would ride their bikes to get candy from the drug store. For a moment she felt free, as if she were the younger version of herself who walked this street with all the choices in the world before her and nobody demanding anything.

  She froze on the sidewalk when she saw the sign that read Doug's Diner.

  He'd done it. It was his.

  She felt warm as wisps of snow drifted past her feet, and the familiar scent of fried food sunk in, comforting and nostalgic. She hadn't eaten anything fried in ages. A big man in a wool-lined denim jacket paused as he pulled the door open, sending a burst of lunch-special scented air at her like an invitation.

  He paused, as if trying to place her. “Coming in?”

  “Uh—no.”

  He shrugged and disappeared into the diner.

  Part of her really wanted to go in. Even standing outside, the diner gave her a feeling of “home” even more than the pale yellow bungalow she'd run to. She was so hungry she'd eat almost anything right now, but the memory of Doug's specially seasoned burgers and thick cut fries practically dragged her to the door. But there she stopped short. She couldn't face him.

  Bernadette heard a shout from across the street, and she jerked her head to see a man running at her, oblivious to the traffic that nearly rendered him legless as he raised his camera.

  For a second she couldn't move. She'd always been able to handle this before. She'd even liked it. But here she felt like an endangered species with a target on her back. She was alone and even with this awful outfit (that she definit
ely didn't want to see splashed across the tabloids) she couldn't blend in.

  And she was afraid, as she'd never been before. Not of the stupid paparazzi, but of losing Evan, her career; the life she'd chased like a brilliant, elusive firefly and finally caught. Then she'd lost her temper like a child and smooshed it on the sidewalk, grinning cruelly at the glowing streaks; the beautiful mess she'd made. She couldn't deny, it had been satisfying. Until the glow faded.

  Before the man's flash could blind her she shoved her arm over her face and rounded to the glass door, tugging it open and rushing into the diner. Her eyes darted around to the startled customers, who looked from her to the man pursuing her, then back to her with sudden recognition.

  She headed toward the back exit. An image of the back alley resurfaced easily in her mind, and she planned out the best way to ditch him. As she headed around the front bar to the kitchen, a large form headed her off.

  “Hey, what—”

  Bernadette's face knocked right into his chest. Her eyes traveled up the white apron, past the black stubble and right into the brilliant blue eyes. His confused expression melted like butter as he looked down into her face, and for a split second he was a Doug no one knew but her. Then he looked at the commotion behind her and his eyes locked on the photographer.

  Doug had always been easy going, quick with a smile. It was hard to get him angry, but when someone succeeded, everyone got out of the way, and they didn't feel bad about it because that person probably deserved it. He was a big guy, and hadn't gone soft in the middle despite his appreciation of good food.

  Bernadette flipped around as Doug reached the photographer, who somehow hadn't realized he should be nervous. They dealt with angry people all the time, after all.

  “Let me see that camera,” Doug boomed, snatching the camera out of his scrawny hands.

  The man grabbed for it, arms flailing as if he were drowning. “Give that back. You damage my camera and I'll sue.”

  Doug's lips turned up dangerously, and he held the camera up high. He flipped through the menu and pressed a button.

  “That should do it.”

  Doug grabbed the man's collar and shoved him toward the door, then out of it. Bernadette couldn't help but join the spectators to watch.

  “Give that back right now!”

  Doug followed him out and pointed down the sidewalk. “Back ... a little further.”

  She saw the moment the photographer understood what was happening. He scrambled back and forth, eyes helpless as Doug yelled, “Catch!”

  Doug had a good arm. He'd played football all through high school. When the man caught it Bernadette knew Doug was going easy on him, not that it looked it by the way the man almost missed it, and then fell sprawling to the sidewalk.

  He scrambled to his feet, backing away.

  “I can get those pics back. You haven't won, you country bumpkin Neanderthal!”

  Doug took one step and the man went skittering down the sidewalk like a brittle leaf in a winter gust.

  Doug stood looking off in the direction the man had run, and the diners shuffled back to their seats. Bernadette watched Doug's strong back and shoulders. Gradually the tension drained out of them like air from an inner tube. They slumped forward, but his feet remained firmly planted on the sidewalk. Maybe she could slip out the back door before he came in.

  “Served that city boy right,” a familiar-looking older woman in a low-cut top said. “Wait until the ladies hear about this.”

  The tall man beside her nodded, ushering the woman back to their table.

  “It'll be a good day when all those city folks go back where they came from.”

  Did they feel the same way about Bernadette?

  The woman paused, then turned toward Bernadette.

  “Honey, sit down. We'll get you a hot drink. And maybe a burger, heaven knows it looks like you could use it. Your mother would be upset with us if we didn't make sure you were eating.”

  Bernadette backed toward the kitchen. “No. Thanks. I have to ...” Doug turned around, and she stopped, her back against the bar. A hush fell over the diner as he trudged back in, and every eye was on him as he stared at her. He sighed heavily, then glanced at the diners.

  “Sorry for the interruption. You can all get back to your lunch. Dessert's on me.”

  The people ducked their heads and began forcing conversation as he walked past.

  Doug was so close she could smell his aftershave. She breathed it in, along with too many things that hurt to remember. Doug's eyes were locked on the bar. He took a breath, as if he'd decided what he wanted to say.

  “Beeeeeeeeee!” An alarm sounded in the kitchen. He cursed and raced into the smoke, grabbing a fire extinguisher and spraying the industrial-sized grill. He grabbed a broom and banged the ear-splitting alarm with the handle, then ran to the front door, propping it open to let the smoke pour out. Customers coughed and blinked, waving the grey smoke away from their faces. A couple of them gathered up the rest of their food and escaped into the fresh air.

  The woman that had spoken to Bernadette earlier sat in her chair as if she hadn't noticed anything unusual at all. The man with her glanced at Bernadette, then Doug, then back at the woman.

  “It's about time we got home, wouldn't you say, Betsy?”

  “Not on your life,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

  Doug returned to the bar, spreading his hands out on the formica surface and leaning forward, sighing.

  “I'm sorry, Doug.” Bernadette had wanted to say those words for eight years.

  Chapter 3

  The Gut Buster

  Those were words Doug would have liked to hear eight years ago.

  “I'm sorry for the trouble.”

  “This trouble?” he asked. It wouldn't hurt for her to be specific.

  She looked down, and he regretted saying anything. She was more beautiful than when she'd left, if that was possible. She looked mature, experienced, refined, but not necessarily stronger. Of course he’d seen her on TV, and on magazine covers. He couldn’t avoid that. But he hadn’t seen any of her movies. It wasn’t that he begrudged her success. It just hurt too much.

  “I should leave.”

  Those were words that would have been helpful back then too. He could have used a heads-up.

  “Wait.” He sighed. “You're not leaving here without eating something. I've seen the food they serve at those high-class restaurants. Like edible abstract art. Sit down.”

  Bernie turned back and slid onto the high bar-stool. Why? The old Bernie would have run if he’d said stay, stood if he’d said sit. What had the last eight years done to her? He stuffed down the hopeful thought that maybe she didn't want to leave yet. He wanted her gone, he just needed to remind himself of the fact.

  Doug poured coffee into a mug and slid it over to her. She looked at it as if it was toxic.

  “Something wrong with my coffee? Do you take a decaf, nonfat latte with anti-oxidants or something now?”

  She glared at him. Finally. He'd just wanted some kind of response from her.

  Bernie took the cup and sipped. Her face relaxed and she smiled before giving him a quizzical look. “The reporters ...”

  Doug laughed and the remaining customers joined in.

  “They got my special blend.”

  Understanding lit her face. As soon as she laughed, Doug found himself planning out how to make her do it again. Just like it used to be.

  Doug shook his head at his stupidity and turned around. He was always smarter if he wasn't looking into those eyes. He grabbed the scraper and began hacking away at the black, crumbly mess on the grill.

  “How long you sticking around?”

  “Undetermined.”

  Since he'd heard she was here, he'd been listening to the gossipers in the diner, waiting to hear that she was gone. Still, he lightened up on the scraper.

  “I heard what you did to that cocky jerk you were dating.”

  Bernie s
tiffened, pulling off a corduroy jacket that didn't look like something she would have worn even before Hollywood.

  “Evan and I had a disagreement. It'll be sorted out as soon as I get back. We just need a little space.”

  “Okay.”

  It was like The Amazing Disappearing Bernie trick or something. What she did to that guy's dog—that sounded like the Bernie he knew. But he didn't know who this woman was. Doug leaned into the scraper again. It was cleaned up in no time. He put patties on and dropped freshly-cut fries into the fryer.

  “Sorry for the delay, everyone.”

  “Never seen you set your kitchen on fire before, Doug. Why so distracted today?” Griz hollered. Several people snickered.

  Too bad he had a policy against telling his customers to shut their fry-holes.

  Doug turned around and made the mistake of glancing at Bernie. She seemed so small and out of place, and she looked around as if she was uneasy. He always remembered her with confidence that burst like fizzy Coke bubbles cascading over the rim.

  He looked quickly away, and his eye settled on the corner of the room where the little girl he was watching for a friend was sticking something in the pot of a large ficus.

  “Junie, don't think I didn't see you gathering up all the Sucra-Sweet. Some people want to eat that synthetic crap.

  “She's Max Ellison's kid,” he said, turning to Bernie.

  Junie stuck another packet in the plant.

  “I read that aspartame can cause serious health problems.”

  “If I stopped offering things that caused serious health problems I'd have to shut down.” He cleared his throat and looked around, hoping his customers weren't paying attention. “Just cut it out, sweetie. Come over here and I'll make you a smoothie.”

  He took a blend of frozen berries from the gigantic freezer and a fresh banana and added them to a blender along with a little milk.

  “Here you go. Healthiest thing I've ever made.”

  The brown-eyed girl took the drink and made her way to a kelly-green padded booth.

  Doug lifted the fries out of the oil, then scooped the patties off the grill. He was glad Bernie came in during the lunch rush. He didn't know what he'd do without the distractions, even if he was making a fool of himself. A kitchen fire was safer than getting too close to Bernie.