Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge Page B

with before.”
    “David passed away about eighteen years back,” she said softly.
    Abigail’s cruel eyes boiled but Teresa bulldozed her way inside. The old lady shuffled away, astonished, as Martin followed with an apologetic grin.
    “I should call the cops,” Abigail pointed out, slamming the door.
    “You won’t call anyone,” answered Teresa. She changed the subject. “I see the Caddy still gets waxed every week.”
    “I have an immigrant kid do that.”
    “Dad’s not—?”
    She sniggered. “He’s not dead. Just gone.”
    “Is he coming back soon?”
    “To hell with him. Just tell me what you need so you can be on your way.”
    Teresa brought up two hard coughs into her fist and swallowed down the pain. “He’s my father—this was my only chance to see him again.”
    “Oh fine and dandy, you just want me to open up my business to a complete stranger, is that it?”
    “I’m not a stranger,” Teresa shot back. Martin steadied at her side.
    “Do you want to know how he left me? It’s a good story. I tell everybody. It just amazes the hell out of me for some reason.” An angry light flickered behind her eyes. Abigail took two steps closer to them and they both went rigid. “I was at the table with a mouthful of pancakes. I couldn’t even answer the son of a bitch. Like he planned it that way! Serves me right, I guess, my blood sugar and all. I hadn’t even finished swallowing before the front door shut. Talk about a quick getaway.”
    “Why did he go?”
    Abigail didn’t have any interest in the question. “The wetback kid also takes a Polaroid of the car to send to your father. I write threats at the bottom about rubbing bird shit into the paint with some Brillo Pads, but it doesn’t faze him like it might once have. Maybe one of these days I’ll get the nerve to just set the thing on fire. That’ll be a nice shot. I think I’ll do it landscape.” She crossed her arms over her sheep pajamas. Something hit Teresa then. “You didn’t recognize me. You thought we were here serving divorce papers?”
    “Yeah,” her mother replied blithely. “Bastard’s in Texas, went to some red-headed whore who could stomach his bullshit, not to mention his retirement check and real estate.”
    “Dad’s into real estate?”
    “Interested are you? Did you come here to learn about him? Why don’t I send you to the source? I can give you his address. Then you can leave me to my crossword puzzles.”
    “We’re actually here for money,” Martin cut in. “I’d like to say we’d pay you back, but it would be a lie.”
    “Oh, the truth! How wonderful it is to hear,” the old woman sang.
    Teresa shook her head. “Aren’t you happy to see me? It’s nice to see you.”
    Martin smirked but said nothing.
    Abigail hitched over to a small kitchen area and sat at a round table where a bottle of butterscotch syrup and a half-eaten breakfast rested. The bacon looked cold and deformed. Teresa and Martin grabbed a pair of uncomfortable wrought iron stools at the bar. Abigail lifted a coffee mug with a smiling duck painted on the side.
    “Martin likes coffee,” Teresa hinted.
    “That so?”
    Martin shrugged.
    “Well, there’s a Starbucks down the street. Have at it.”
    Teresa’s eyes narrowed. “What are you mad at? That dad left? Or that I did? I came here to tell you that I’m sick. I don’t have much time left—this might be our last chance for words.”
    “I thought you were here for money.”
    “We are,” Martin assured. “We don’t have a penny. We haven’t eaten, and there are important matters headed our way.”
    Teresa’s throat went dry. “I just wanted to say that over these years I thought about you and dad all the time. I missed you. I’ve been here a few times before, but I was too afraid to come inside. I wondered—I sometimes wondered what my life would have been if the Messenger hadn’t chosen me.”
    “Well I never wanted to remember you, Teresa.” The woman winced,