CHAPTER FOUR ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER

Ewe, creepy old dude checks me out.

 

 

“But Pop, don't you want to know what Agent Werthoust said?”

Totally ignoring my question about Werthoust, he perches a pair of cheap reading glasses on his nose and rummages around inside his massive spice shelf. “Seems I’ve run out of baking power and I still need to make your birthday cake.”

I make a face. I'm tempted to ask him why he wants moi to run an errand so late in the day, but think getting out of the house might be a good thing... Because come to think of it, he hasn’t dropped one hint about my present from him. I have a sneaky suspicion he wants me out of the house to assemble...what? Okay, I'll play. I smile sweetly. “Um, sure, what do you need?” I hop off the stool. “Wait. You mean drive unaccompanied by an adult?”

Smiling, he shuts the cabinet door removes the glasses, and strolls over to where I’m sitting. “Well Missy, you are officially seventeen. Therefore bylaw permitted to drive alone in this state until eleven p-m curfew.”

There it is again, ‘by law’. “This is true.” I pause. “Take the van?” All we own is a minivan. Pop's a big man. He needs plenty of space and he likes to be able to haul stuff when needed. When Mom was alive, every spring he’d fill the back with new exotic rose bushes for her garden. Although lately, it's been landscaping lights and food for my birthday dinner. “Yes.”

A huge smile brakes across my face and I love him for that. I mean, for changing the subject, and for not caring about what Werthoust said. Screw Werthoust! I write down baking powder at the end of my research list and tear it off the pad. “Need anything else?”

“Nope, just baking powder,” Pop states, back to patting out more hamburgers.

I toss the notepad and pen back in the junk drawer and pick up the receiver.

“Meet me at the front door. I'll fetch the keys and some cash.” He adds another burger to the growing pile of patties. At the risk of being redundant, I'll say it again, which army is going to eat all of this food?

I nod. “I’ll run up, change, get my purse yadayada.”

I stop at the table in the foyer and set the receiver in the cradle. Today’s mail is stacked next to the phone. I check the envelopes for my name: bills, a ton of adverting, political crap… The German cuckoo clock my godparents, Ethan and Maryanne Williams, gave my parents as a wedding present, tells me it is 4:45. Holy cow, this day is flying by! Bummer, nothing for moi today, not even junk mail. I drop the stack on the table. Hey––now that I think of it––I didn’t receive a birthday card from the Williams this year. They’re always so good about sending me something for every occasion. Guess it’s true what Mom used to say about birthdays…the older you get the more they loose their magic.

I dash up the stairs and go in my bedroom. The shock of seeing my bedroom neat and tidy makes me stop in my tracks. I turn and smile at my reflection in my full length mirror. I point. “Hey girl. You must be the new and improved seventeen-year-old-Cookie.”

I rip off the bottom of the slip of paper, hold it in my teeth and tack the part with my research notes on my bulletin board. I'll do a little investigating myself.

I kick off my tennis shoes and wiggle out of my sweat pants, kicking them aside. What? Why put them away when I’m just going to put them back on when I return? I take fresh jeans out of my chest of drawers and my eyes go to my alarm clock. It’s still early; maybe Char hasn’t taken off with Billy yet. I slide the paper in my back pocket then pick up my cell phone and speed dial Char. I want to pick her brain about my gift from Pop. I tug on the slightly worn (very tight) jeans and listen to phone ring. I slip on one of my flip-flops and frown at the chipped navy blue polish on my toenails. Manicure tonight for sure. I’m about to give up when I hear a click.

“Happy birsday,” Char says, slurring her words.

“Thanks…again.” “I was about to hang up, I figured you turned your phone off.”

Char hiccups. “I couldn’t find my f-ing phone!”

“Are you’re drinking booze?” I ask, searching around for my other thong.

“Oh, we’re just having a whittle cocktail with Billy’s rents.”

I roll my eyes. “Wonderful, Senator Brennan is getting an underage girl wasted before you go to the White House––lovely.”

“Lighten up, you shound like my mother.” She hiccups again. “So, wassup buttercup?”

I hobble across the floor wearing one flip flop and look behind my desk. “Oh, I was just wondering if you might know what my dad is up to, I mean, regarding my birthday gift this year.” Great, I clean my room and now I can’t find anything. I open the door, turn on the light, and step inside my messy walk-in closet, my next big project.

Char slurps her drink loudly in my ear and says in a singsong voice, “I have a hunch it’s gonna be shomthin’ pretty big. Winkey-wink, nodey-nod.”

I search my entire walk-in closet without success. I lodge the phone in the crook of my neck and take my wide belt covered with tiny pink rhinestones off a hook. I tuck in my top and put it on over the loops. Nice touch. “Come on, Char, think about it, my father sucks at keeping secrets. He always lets something slip out about what he got me––whoa…back up…what do mean by ‘pretty big’?”

Char's slur is getting worse, “…I dunno nothin’ ‘bout nothin. Maybe he just wants to surprise shoe.”

Wearing one flip flop, I turn off the closet light and limp across the floor. I stand in front of the mirror scrutinizing my appearance. The pink Hello Kitty tee shirt is doable. I twist and look at my butt; jeans and belt look totally hot. I maneuver the phone from ear to ear while running a brush through my hair. You never know who you might run into––like Josh O'Dell? Where did that come from? He does work at Safeway and he’s looking mighty fine. I have a boyfriend.

“Besides C, we haven’t seen each other in, like, forever.” All of a sudden Char sounds completely normal. I can never tell when she’s BS-ing me. Billy's parents probably just walked in the room.

“Not my fault. I flip my hair behind my shoulders and see my bed skirt. “Hey, hang on a sec—” I drop to my hands and knees to check under my bed. “A-ha, there you are you little stinker!” I retrieve my missing flip flop then jump to my feet and slide it on. “Okay, I’m back.”

Dead air.

“Char...? You still there?” I hold the phone in front of me to see if I’d accidentally cut her off. The minuets are ticking away. “Yo, Char!” Maybe she passed out. Char, I’m hanging up now…I’m serious…!” I walk around my room gathering my purse and stuff. “Char…hello…speak to me!”

I hear a clunk and Char yells, “Billy give me the damn phone!’’ Her voice sounds far away. There's static then she’s back. “Sorry ‘bout that, Billy’s bugging the shi—” She giggles and shrieks, “Billy Brennan you are so asking for it!”

Pop calls from down stairs, “Cookie, I need that baking powder...today.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece, open my door, and stick my head out, “Coming Pop!” I tell Char, “Listen, I have to go to the store. My dad claims he is out of baking powder. This is so not like him. The kitchen pantry is always stocked piled with three of everything...” I hear scratchy noises. As if she cares.

Char finally comes back on the phone. “Wow, Billy is in a really good mood.” She giggles again.

“T-M-I.”

“Um, what we were talking about?”

“Nothing important…I better go, Pop’s hollering for me. Hey, have fun at the White House…NOT!” I shoulder my purse and take one last glance in the mirror. What’s the big deal? You’re just going to the store.

Char says, “C, I totally pwomise, next week we can do something vewy vewy special. I’ll come over to bwing you you’re biwthday pwesent.”

“Whatever. See ya,” I mumble, and end the call.

Char uses her Elmer Fud voice when she’s trying to suck up or get her way. She thinks it’s cute and effective. Which is, but not right now, I see right threw her crap. I flip off my lights. Clearly, Char has become something we swore we’d never to become, a Plastic.

I slog down the stairs.

Pop's waiting at the foot of the staircase with a folded fifty dollar bill between two fingers of one hand and the keys to his Chevy van in his other hand. He looks up at me. “Hurry up darlin’,” he says, sounding a little edgy. “We’re burning daylight and I still have to make your cake and decorate the dining room.”

Geez, why all the fuss? It’s only him and me tonight. Course he doesn’t know that. Something positively fishy here. I take the keys then snatch the bill from his fingers and tuck it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Can I keep the change?”

“There won’t be any change Lassie, the tank is smack dab on empty so you’ll need to stop for gas first.”

My mouth drops open. “Great, do I at least have enough gas to get me to the Checkmart?”

“Nope,” he says with a straight face. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to push the van to the Checkmart.” He smiles sheepishly. “That’s why I asked you to go darlin’ you need to learn how to handle emergencies like how to pump gas on your own. I say up with Women’s Lib and all that rotgut.”

“Ha-ha very funny.”

I open the front door. The security system beeps and Pop punches in the code. I step outside and see a car roll slowly by our house as if they’re lost or looking for an address. I picture the work van I saw earlier. On my way out, I intend to see if it’s still parked outback next to our fence. I remind myself that it’s probably just repairmen. Stop making something out of nothing. I breathe in the humid air. The sky is totally clear. I'm a little spooked when forced to drive in a thunderstorm.

Pop flips on the outside lights and the entire front yard lights up like Christmas time. He stands on the landing admiring his handiwork.

I step off the stoop and mutter under my breath, “It’s not even dark yet.” After I leave, he’ll turn on every light in the house and the ones in the backyard. Right after Mom died, he had a home security system installed and put in a boat load of landscape and security lights around house. I get that he's worried about crime, but it drives me nuts. I’m always telling him to conserve energy. We have to think about the future generations inhabiting our planet. How will they survive if we don’t conserve? His comeback is, “We figured out how to survive, so will they.”

He follows me down our slate walkway and across the driveway to the van driver’s side door. I squint as the bright motion lights come on over the garage door. We have to park in the driveway because our one-car garage is packed to the ceiling with Mom’s things. The day before her funeral, a team of FBI people came to our house and took a ton of Mom’s personal things for the investigation. We cried the whole time they were here. And if that wasn't traumatic enough, packing up the rest of her beautiful clothes and stuff in Space Bags and plastic storage bins put us over the edge again. I was glad Pop told me he would never get rid of any of her things. It felt as if he wanted to believe that she just might come home someday—so do I.

“A lady realtor came a knocking last week. She said the lights give our house great curb appeal,” he says, out of the blue, “What do you think of selling the place?”

I gasp. “You can’t be serious!” I shake my head and push the key pad. I’m a senior this year and I want to graduate from Georgetown High School. Where did this come from?

“Just a thought,” he says, and opens the door for me, ever the gentleman.

I hop behind the steering wheel, slide the key into the ignition, and adjust the seat. I’m stunned and can't find my voice. Good thing because I'd probably get grounded for telling him what I really think about selling the only home I've ever known. Mom grew up in this house.

Pop raps on my window and shouts, “Drive careful and hurry back love, and it’s gettin’ late. I don’t like you out after dark with all the weirdos running around nowadays.”

I shout back through the window, “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to the store, geez” Werthoust’s words echo in my ears and I force a tight smile. “I’m practically an adult.” He frowns at me and I put the window down. “Seriously, Pop, I’m not ready to move.”

“We’ll discuss.” With that he shuts my car door and I watch him toddle down the patch and go back inside the house.

Muttering to my self, I take my purse off my lap and lay it on the passenger seat. I twist around, searching the neighborhood for any suspicious vehicles, nothing out of the ordinary. I adjust the seat some more, and then fiddle with the seatbelt strap making sure it’s snug and properly placed over my abdomen.

I turn the key and the low fuel indicator light on the dashboard comes on. “Way to go Pop!” Even though Pop’s Chevy Minivan isn’t exactly the coolest ride in town it’s better than my bicycle. I constantly dream about owning my first car. I wonder what color and make it will be. I adore the classic convertible Mustangs, above all 1966. Good luck finding one in Georgetown. I should check the Internet for a refurbished one. They may have one for sale on the classic car websites. Yeah right, they probably cost a fortune.

“Okay, here goes nothin’.” I fire up the engine, leave it in park and grip the steering wheel. I sit there petrified as a dozen or so scenarios of what could happen while driving a vehicle, flash through my mind. I carry a cage full of butterflies around in my stomach and right now the cage door is wide open. I adjust the rear view mirror some more. My eyes are huge with fear. I blink and do a little shimmy to shake it off.

“Let’s go you big chicken shit.” I tell myself out loud, “It’s now or never.”

I put down the window, and then slide in whatever CD is in the player. A Celtic lullaby begins to play. Great, I’ll probably fall asleep at the wheel. At any rate, all seems quiet on the front, and there’s zero traffic. “All clear,” I say to hear my own voice, “ready for take off!” I put her into reverse and stick my head out the window looking this way and that, as I let off on the breaks, creeping ever so slowly down the slope of the driveway. I clear the two cars book-ending our entrance and turn the wheel, backing out onto Oak Lawn Lane. The 25 mph speed limit sign is next to our driveway, a constant reminder. I switch to drive, and then without touching the gas peddle, roll to the intersection and stop at the four-way on the corner. I turn my head and look down Elm. I suck in my next breath. The mysterious white van is parked next to our fence under the street light, facing me. I strain my eyes. The front seat appears to be empty. It’s impossible to tell if anyone is in the back. Geez, why is it there? And why do I care? Quit worrying. It’s a stupid work van.

A half mile from the house, I turn into Checkmart and smack the steering wheel. Oh man. Never fails, every Saturday you can count on a long line of cars at the gas pumps. For a split-second, I debate driving to one of the four gas stations close to the Safeway, only five miles away. Better not chance it. Pop has a bad habit of driving on gas fumes for days after the needle drops below empty. I pull in behind the last car and turn off the engine to conserve what fumes I do have.

Okay time to figuring out what Pop got me this year. I snap my fingers. Too easy, he wants me out of the house so he can set up my new speakers and the new stereo I’ve been ogling at Georgetown Stereo. That has to be what he’s up to, but what’s with all the food? Maybe he invited the Neighborhood Watch Gang over for a safety meeting. He always feeds anyone who comes over—on my birthday? Not likely.

I grip the steering wheel and twiddle my thumbs. Oh well, at least sitting up high gives me a nice panoramic view. Two more cars, and then it’s my turn. Well technically a truck and a car. With nothing to do but wait my turn, I study the rear end of the champagne colored land-yacht ahead of me. Pop calls them ‘gas-guzzlers’. The windows are darkly tinted so you can’t see whose inside. I lean over the steering wheel and read the license plate frame.

LEASEME@FRNIE’SFINERENTALCARS.COM

I laugh. “Frnie’s Fine Rental Cars.” The letter “E” in Ernie has a chip of gold paint missing. Bet it cost a pretty penny to rent a luxurious automobile like that one. My guess at least $200 a day maybe more...

All of a sudden everyone cranks up their engines and we all move up a car length. I shut off the engine then lean my head against the side window and watch the parade of people coming and going through the Checkmart’s front door. Everyone is lugging cases of beer or soda and bags chips––boring!

I pound my forehead on the glass. “Come on people!”

A little boy and his mother walk by and see me talking to myself. The kid laughs so stick my tongue out at him. I get real cranky when I’m forced to wait. They get in the truck next to the pumps and I immediately fire up the van’s engine.

“Yippy-skippy!”

The fancy rental car in front of me pulls up to the pump and I roll forward a few feet. I slip the gearshift into park and keeping the engine running, mentally nudging the person in the rental to make it snappy. Surely I have enough fumes to go a few feet.

The driver’s side door swings wide and a distinguished looking older man gets out. Something about him looks familiar. There’s a ton of big wigs running around Georgetown, maybe I saw him on the street or television. He puts on a black felt hat with a little red feather in the band. He has to be least seven feet tall, the black hat makes him look even taller. After closing his door, he adjusts the lapels of his black trench coat so the collar hides most of his face. He skirts by my front bumper and his face comes into view. He cuts his black eyes and looks through the windshield right at me. We lock eyes for only a split second, but it’s long enough to totally creep me out. Red flags make the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I stare openly at him while he removes the car’s gas cap with black gloved hands. He fiddles with the pump's handle, pressing buttons, as if unfamiliar with the system, and then jams the nozzle in the hole. When he finishes, he returns the nozzle to it' holder. His coat has lots of pockets, shoulder flaps, and a belt—like spies wear in the movies. He reminds me of Humphrey Bogart, the old actor Pop likes to imitate. We watched him in the movie, Play it again Sam––or something like that. Maybe that's why I think I know him.

I turn my head and watch him walk toward the Checkmart. His broad frame fills the door as he enters the store. Why the coat? It’s August. It's hot outside. A scenario flashes in my mind. Inside the Checkmart, he pulls an automatic-machine gun out from under his big coat and points it at the nice man (Pop refers to as the cashier from Kashmir) that always wishes us a “good day”. Any second now, I expect to hear shots fired and horrific screams. I swivel my head left and right wondering if I should alert the other patrons. And scream what, “He’s got a gun”? Not a good idea. Too much like yelling “fire” in a theater.

My mind is racing as fast as my pulse. I have to do something to stop him from... I check behind me in the rear view mirror. I’m going nowhere. I’m pinned between the rental and a SUV. I could hop out and run back home. I reach for my purse. But what if he comes out and lets me have it right in front of Checkmart. I picture my dead body and name splattered all over the news. Better stay put where I’m safe. Duh, call 9-1-1, and save the day!

Eyes glued on the Checkmart door, I jam my hand inside my purse and search around for my cell phone. Hair brush, lip gloss… “Ouch!” toothpick, Tampax case, ah, cell phone! I press the “9” and freeze. The Checkmart door opens and it’s him. He strolls over carrying a big brown paper bag and I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. Guess I was wrong. Next time mister, move your stinking car if you have to do a weeks worth of shopping!

He opens the back door, tosses the bag in, and then turns his head and briefly glances back at me and winks. At first I think I imagined the wink. No, that was a wink. Ewe, is that old dude coming on to me?

In one movement, he removes his hat and disappears inside the car and slams the door shut. He drives forward and flips on his blinker, pulling into traffic.

Meanwhile, I roll up to the pump, never taking my eyes off the rental. The whole time I am pumping gas, I can’t get the image of the old man of my mind. What a strange dude. Something about him gives me the heebie-jeebies.