Square in the Face (Claire Montrose Series) Page 4

  Lori knelt by the bed and put her arm under her son’s shoulders. She helped him half-sit up to take a drink from a white plastic sipper bottle. His head seemed too big for the rest of his body. “Hey, Zach,” Claire said softly from the doorway, but she couldn’t tell if he had noticed her or not. When he was done drinking, he let his head fall back. Lori gently lowered him back down to his pillow. She leaned over him and lightly ran her hand over his head, barely brushing the few strands of black hair that remained.

  When they walked into the hall, Claire put her arm around her and gave her tight shoulders a squeeze. “I don’t know how you handle it.”

  The face Lori turned toward her was full of fury. She was a lioness ready to defend her cub, but with no place to sink her claws. “Nobody asks if you can handle it. You just handle it.” Then she sagged against the wall. “Find her for me, Claire. You’ve got to find her. She may be the only chance he has.”

  Chapter Four

  How would she ever find Lori’s daughter, Claire wondered as she set out for her daily five-mile run. Since quitting Specialty Plates, she tried to be careful to maintain a productive rhythm to her life. She did volunteer work, spent time with Charlie and was thinking about taking a class at Portland Community College. Still, she was afraid that she might end up sitting on the couch eating Cheetos and watching two women wrestle on the Jerry Springer Show. To help ensure that that didn’t happen - or at least that if it did, she wouldn’t get terribly fat - she tried to run each day.

  Still missing the swinging metronome weight of a ponytail, she trotted down the street. The sky was overcast, the clouds threatening rain. Just judging by the weather, it was hard to tell if it was February or November or some month in between. It was the kind of day that made even native Oregonians long to live in a place with real seasons.

  As she ran, Claire remembered the day she and Lori had become friends seven years before. Even though Lori had been the new employee in Specialty Plates, she had been the one to ask Claire to lunch, suggesting a new Thai restaurant in Northwest Portland. Claire had envied the direct way she had extended the invitation, as if she never worried about whether anyone liked her or who she was. She also didn’t seem to worry overmuch about the department’s rules, not even glancing at her watch as they ate up more and more of their allotted time making ever-widening circles, seeking a parking space somewhere in the same zip code as the restaurant.

  In the years Claire had lived in Portland, the northwest corner of the city had gone from being slightly seedy - filled with ramshackle old houses, thrift stores and sad-eyed alcoholics pushing stolen shopping carts - to relentlessly gentrified, with reborn candy-colored Victorian houses, chi-chi shops, and beautiful girls on Rollerblades being towed behind Irish wolfhounds. Sometimes Claire missed the old Northwest Portland, back in the days when it had not yet started looking like an outpost of San Francisco.

  As Lori’s Honda threaded the narrow, crowded streets, she had said, “I think this situation calls for a sacrifice to the Parking Goddess.”

  “The Parking Goddess?” Claire echoed. At the time, she still hadn’t quite decided how she felt about Lori. Lori dressed as if she were ready to prowl down a runway, not the orange-carpeted corridors of Oregon’s Specialty Plate Department. Next to Lori, Claire felt practical and plain. Lori wore a lime-green wool suit with matching four-inch Via Spiga heels. Claire was wearing black cotton pants and a white Gap T-shirt. Her hair was twisted into an impromptu bun, secured with a pencil.

  “If you can’t find a space, then you must make a sacrifice to the Parking Goddess and she will reward you.” Without any further warning, Lori leaned on the horn. And then again. People on the sidewalk turned to stare. The man in the car ahead of them held up his middle finger. Claire sunk low in her seat and covered her eyes with one hand so that she could no longer see the world outside her window.

  “It only works if you do it at a time when you’ll draw a lot of negative attention.” Lori smiled unselfconsciously at the people gawking at them. “Now the Goddess will reward our sacrifice.”

  Under the shelter of her hand, Claire could feel her face burning. This, she decided, would be her last lunch with Lori. Then two seconds later, a spot opened up directly in front of Beau Thai. It was even on the corner, so Lori could pull right in without parallel parking and tying up the already slow traffic.

  At lunch, the rest of Claire’s reservations evaporated as Lori launched into a wickedly funny imitation of their boss, Roland. Roland was known for his collection of elephant figurines, and his conviction that with enough catchphrases (“Quality is Our Watchword!”) and computer-generated graphs, he could whip Specialty Plates into ultra-efficiency. Lori steepled her hands in front of her and spoke through her nose in a high, prissy voice. “Claire, your effort as a self-directed work unit has maximized output and avoided redundancy. If only the other associates would model your paradigm.” Still in character, Lori favored Claire with a sideways leer. Claire had to laugh. Lori had Roland’s number, from the way he spoke incomprehensibly in a vain effort to seem smart, to his fumbling attempts at flirtation that might have qualified as sexual harassment if they weren’t so pathetic.

  The fact was that with or without Roland’s slavish devotion to the latest management guru, their department grossed a lot of money for the state of Oregon. For a fee, Oregon motorists could order license plates containing their chosen word or phrase, up to seven digits. People were vain, but that vanity brought in a lot of money for the state. There were 78,988 vanity plates on Oregon vehicles, each of which had cost fifty dollars initially and then thirty-five dollars a year.

  Most requests for personalized plates were for a person’s hobby, occupation or first name. Others were more creative. That was where the problems began. People were always trying to slip something past you. The whole task of rejecting or accepting these messages involved detecting perceptual crime, a difficult area for the government to regulate.

  Until she had quit last fall, Claire had spent eight hours a day approving or denying applications for vanity plates, deciding if the abbreviated or encoded messages were obscene or otherwise objectionable. Her tools were a set of dictionaries (including specialized ones for slang and obscenities), the bathroom mirror (to make sure that something didn’t take on a whole new meaning once it was seen in a rearview mirror) and a good eye for vulgar and otherwise offensive words.

  In the ten years she worked for the state, Claire learned how to say “fuck” in thirty-eight different languages. Unfortunately, most people didn’t go to the bother of using a foreign language when they decided they wanted to communicate something titillating. They simply requested plates like HOTMAMA (or, more rarely, the mirrorized AMAMTOH), and then were surprised when they were rejected.

  After Lori started working at Specialty Plates, Claire realized she had found a kindred spirit. Like prairie dogs, they began to pop their over their shared cubicle wall to snicker at the general strangeness or stupidity of the public, with their all too frequent requests for BITEME. While their friendship had loosened in the months since Claire quit Specialty Plates, no longer fueled by daily coffee breaks, it still remained strong.

  Now Lori wanted Claire to help her find her daughter. As a hedge, she explained. Just in case. That was what she said, anyway, but Claire had heard the edge of desperation in her voice. But what could Claire do? Maybe Lori could run an appeal in the newspaper. Maybe the adoptive parents would come forward if they knew Lori wasn’t going to ask for her child back.

  But would a newspaper appeal work? Any parents who craved secrecy enough to go through the Bradford Clinic would be unlikely to come forward ten years later. Clearly, the answers to Lori’s questions could be found in the clinic - but how could Claire get her hands on them? Claire decided to check at the neighborhood I Spy Shoppe. Jimmy had helped her out in the past. Maybe he could give her some “off the record” tips about procuring something that wasn’t technically yours.

 
A twinge of guilt pricked Claire as she neared her mother’s apartment building. They hadn’t talked since Claire had returned from New York. In many ways, Charlie was the mother Jean had never been. Deciding to say hello, Claire hit the stop button on her watch.

  Claire didn’t need to worry about finding Jean at home - Jean was always home. Her days were structured around the listings in TV Guide. Judicious use of her two VCRs and five TVs meant she never had to miss a program. On birthdays and Christmases Jean gave Claire copies of shows she had taped off PBS (while watching something else entirely) that she thought might appeal to Claire. They were usually shoestring documentaries about elderly beekeepers or the closing of a cardboard box factory.

  A square brown UPS truck waited for her to cross the driveway before pulling into the apartment’s parking lot. She was surprised when she and the driver arrived at Jean’s door at the same time. His hand truck was loaded with a stack of a half-dozen cardboard boxes, the largest about a foot square, the smallest only about three inches across.

  “Are those all for my mom?”

  “You’re Jean’s daughter?” The smile he gave her, white even teeth in a tanned face, made Claire realize why so many women fantasized about UPS drivers.

  Claire nodded and pressed the buzzer. “You know my mom?” Alarm bells were beginning to ring in the back of her head.

  “Yeah, lately I’m here nearly every day. Say, does she own stock in them?”

  “In who?”

  He held up one of the boxes so she could see the return address. “QualProd.”

  “What’s that?” Claire pressed on the buzzer again, wondering why her mother wasn’t answering the door. She could hear the muffled sound of the TV, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Jean left her TVs on even on the rare occasions she did leave the house.

  “Oh, you know. One of those home shopping channels.”

  “Oh, crap,” Claire said. She tried the knob and found it unlocked. She pushed the door open.

  The living room was dim, the shades drawn so that nothing competed with the forty-inch Goldstar with separate twin speakers that held pride of place. Her mother sat on the ratty green velvet couch wearing a white bathrobe with gold appliquéd butterflies. In her left hand she had a cup of coffee, and in her right hand she held a pencil poised over a notepad open on her ample lap. On the arm of the couch next to her lay the cordless phone.

  “Mom” - Claire started, but Jean shook her head without answering, her eyes riveted on the screen. On a little revolving black velvet pedestal lay a tennis bracelet, lit up so that every stone sparkled. In a slightly panicked tone, a man rattled off, “Only a handful of these bracelets remain in stock, and our phone lines are sizzling.” In the corner a digital display counted off seconds, going from thirteen to twelve to eleven as Claire watched. Her mother picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  The UPS man put the clipboard into Claire’s hands and pointed at a line. “Could you sign for your mom, please? She looks busy.” Claire scribbled her name, anxious to have him leave. Maybe he had seen weirder sights in his deliveries, but Claire was embarrassed by her mother, the moth-eaten couch, the garish appliquéd butterflies, and most of all by the TV, where a knock-off Hermes silk scarf had now appeared on screen. “This scarf is not available in stores,” the announcer said. Probably because any one who could examine it under a bright light would realize it wasn’t worth fifty-nine dollars, Claire thought. On the fine white print running along the bottom of the screen, she noticed the scarf wasn’t even made of silk, but of something called Zilk, which had a little trademark symbol after it.

  “Got it in the nick of time!” said her mother triumphantly, setting down the phone. “The operator said it was one of the last five left.”

  “See you soon, Jean,” said the UPS guy as he finished stacking the boxes against the wall.

  Claire waited until he had closed the door behind him. “Mom, what in the heck is going on?”

  “What do you mean?” Her mother opened her eyes wide, but then was unable to stop herself from transferring her gaze from Claire to the TV set, where a set of nesting dolls was now on display. Instead of Russian grandmothers in babushkas, a fat-looking Clinton doll swallowed up Hillary, Monica, Linda Trip and even a tiny Socks.

  “All this stuff, Mom.” Claire waved her hand at the boxes the UPS man had left, as well as the knickknacks that now covered every horizontal surface. “The guy said he was making deliveries nearly every day. Why are you buying all this stuff?”

  Her mother pressed her lips together. “I haven’t seen you in six weeks, and the first thing you do is start yelling at me.”

  The twinge of guilt was back, only now it was more of a spasm. Her mother was right. What gave Claire the right to come into Jean home and immediately start lecturing her? She sat down beside Jean on the couch and picked up her mother’s hand. Jean kept it limp, but she didn’t pull away.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t just waltz in here and start interrogating you. I was just worried that maybe you were spending a little too much.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. The prices are very reasonable. Better than you would find at any store. Although most of the merchandise they sell is so special it’s only available through QualProd. I’ll give you a catalog to take home.” Jean brightened. Come look at what I’ve done with the bathroom!” She got up and pulled Claire to her feet.

  The bathroom counter was crowded with a dozen white beeswax candles and an open white ceramic jar of potpourri. Next to the sink, an ornate white soap dish held balls of white soap sculpted to look like many-petaled roses. On the wall, an ornate white and gold clock looked like something that should have belonged to a Louis The Something Or Other, if French kings had had access to batteries. The old blue towels were gone, replaced by white towels with gold appliquéd butterflies that matched the ones on Jean’s bathrobe. Claire thought it must be uncomfortable to rub the butterflies over wet skin, but Jean’s face reflected nothing but delight as she surveyed what she had accomplished.

  Claire scrambled for something neutral to say. “Wow - it’s so, so, so different!”

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Jean looked up at her, her face open.

  What could Claire do but nod? And maybe the fact that Jean spent her days watching QualProd was better than watching the soaps. And besides, when Jean had been redecorating the bathroom, she must have been out of view, if not earshot, of the TV. Promising to visit more often, she turned down the offer of the QualProd catalog and resumed her run.

  Claire’s worries alternated between her mom and Lori. What could she do to help either of them? Her mother had finally found something to fill up her days, and she wouldn’t let go of it easily. And then there was the Bradford Clinic. How could Claire find out its secrets? Her thoughts circled without making progress.

  Claire turned onto Thirty-Fifth Avenue. Less than three blocks from home, she picked up the pace. Suddenly, a dog came hurtling out the open door of a nondescript ranch house. As far as Claire knew, this house didn’t even have a dog, an idea that was clearly erroneous because a black blur was shooting through a gap in the laurel hedge and streaking toward her like a bullet. The harsh hum of a growl was caught deep in its throat. Before she even had time to think, its shoulder collided with her knees. Hot breath grazed her left thigh, but the force of the dog’s effort carried it past her and into the street. Tires squealed, but Claire didn’t turn. She only had eyes for the dog as he whirled to face her. Already she knew this wasn’t the kind of dog that would only bark and bark at a passing runner, its woo-woo-woof adding a note of triumph as the interloper ran down the street.

  Claire balled her hands into fists and stamped her foot. “No! Go away!” she yelled. Her voice came out higher than she had intended, less definite. She stamped her foot again. Her mind was mesmerized by the sight of the dog’s wet open mouth, all sides lined with long pointed teeth. Its narrow black and tan muzzle revealed a Doberman as a recen
t ancestor. She made a shooing gesture with her closed fists and yelled “No!” again, but the dog didn’t budge, watching her with yellow eyes.

  Where was the dog’s owner? Claire cast a quick look back at the house from which it had came. The dog took that moment to leap at her. Her world narrowed to sharp ivory fangs set in wet pink gums. She scrambled backward, raising her forearm to shelter her jugular, already imagining the snick of teeth as they caught on bone.

  Her left foot landed on something soft, a pothole at the side of the road filled with pine needles. The spongy footing sank beneath her. With an audible pop, Claire’s ankle gave way.

  The sprained ankle saved her. The dog had angled it leap to meet her chest. Instead it soared over her as she fell. It landed in its yard, paws already scrabbling to turn around, but by this time its owner was upon it. He was a scruffy-looking guy, small and wiry, his hair still rooster-tailed from a nap. The stub of a hand-rolled cigarette was clenched between his lips. He almost fell out of his rubber flip-flops as he grabbed the snarling dog’s collar and began to pull it away.

  “You okay, lady?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he dragged the dog through the dirt and back to the house.

  Claire said yes as she got to her feet and limped away as fast as possible. She did not want to be anywhere near those teeth.

  BAD DOG

  ###

  “Wake up! Wake up! It’s time to wake up and have a happy day!” The persistently cheerful voice was accompanied by the hollow sound of someone knocking on glass. Claire groaned, then rolled over to hit the button of her Tom Peterson alarm clock.