“Aw, no, sir, Mr. Fenney, I don’t feel right with that.”
Scott could tell that Louis was uncomfortable with the idea, so he didn’t press him.
“You can stay in the cabana. Consuela, our maid, lives out there, but she’s gone for a while. INS.”
“No, sir, that her place. I sleep in my car. In the garage. I can keep a better eye out back here.”
“It’s air-conditioned, there’s a full bath. I can fix up a bed for you…and I’ll bring out a TV and a recliner.”
“TV and chair be nice, but not the bed. Back seat of my car work just fine.” Louis smiled. “And, Mr. Fenney, don’t you worry none. Ain’t no one gonna hurt them girls now.”
Scott would not be spending the rest of his day in his fancy office on the sixty-second floor doing the things lawyers do and eating lunch at the swanky Downtown Club and working out among gorgeous girls at the athletic club. He did not feel special today, sitting in the den at home and staring out the windows at the pool and the professionally landscaped yard. His career was gone, his wife was gone, and his house and cars would soon be gone. Mack McCall had won. And his prize was Scott Fenney’s perfect life.
For the first time in his life, Scott felt defeated. He didn’t know if he could get up off the ground this time.
Twice Boo came downstairs and crawled up into his lap and they cried together. The third time Pajamae came with her. The two girls sat on the wide arms of the big leather chair and buried their faces in his broad shoulders and cried until his shirt was wet. They never said a word.
Scott sat there as the sun’s rays moved slowly from one side of the den to the other. He heard the girls in the kitchen, and Pajamae brought him a scrambled egg sandwich, but he had no appetite. When the sky turned dark, he pushed himself out of the chair, climbed the stairs, and put a brave face on for the girls. He found them huddled in bed and his chair next to the bed. He sat and they said prayers.
Then Boo said, “I don’t want to read tonight. I want to talk.”
Pajamae said, “We want to talk.”
Scott removed his glasses. “Okay. What about?”
“We saw you on TV last night,” Boo said, “with Pajamae’s mother. I know I’m not supposed to watch TV at night, but I went downstairs and saw Mother watching you on TV, so I had to, you know that.”
Scott nodded. “And?”
“And you have some explaining to do, A. Scott.”
“Ask your questions.”
Scott knew better than to launch into a narrative with Boo. He always made her ask the questions. He figured if she asked, she was ready to know.
“What’s sex?”
He hadn’t figured on that question. That was a question for a girl to ask her mother, but when her mother runs off with the assistant golf pro, it falls to the father. And now he had two girls facing him, their legs curled under them, hands in their laps, apprehension on their faces, asking about sex.
“That’s a boy’s thing, right, Mr. Fenney?”
“A boy’s thing?”
“You know, a boy’s privates. Like, when I go outside in the projects, some boy’s always saying, ‘C’mon over here, little girl, an’ I shows you my sex.’”
“Oh. Well, sex is when a boy and a girl…I mean, a man and a woman…when they, uh…”
“Do the nasty?” Pajamae blurted out. “That’s what the big girls call it. I told Mama what they said, and she said I couldn’t play with those girls anymore.”
“Look, do either of you have any idea what sex is?”
The girls shook their heads.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because Mama said the dead man gave her money for sex.”
“Oh.”
“Then he hit her, and boy, that was his first mistake. My mama, she doesn’t let any man hit her, not since my daddy. So she kicked his butt good.” She smiled. “Like you beat up that man’s car, Mr. Fenney.”
Boo said, “That was awesome! You were great! Did you ruin your golf club?”
Their attention thus diverted, Scott did not have to explain sex to two nine-year-old girls. After the girls had relived the scene at the Village, Boo said, “Clark wasn’t very nice, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“And now his father, the senator, he’s mad at you because you’re trying to help Pajamae’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“To keep the po-lice from killing Mama?”
“Yes.”
“That man today, he works for the senator?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to come after us again?”
“No, baby, he’s not.”
Pajamae smiled. “He’ll have to come through Louis.”
Boo said, “Do we have to sell our house?”
“Yes, Boo, we do.”
“Why?”
“Because I got fired today.”
“You’re not a lawyer anymore?”
“No, I’m still a lawyer, just not with the firm.”
“And that means what?”
“That means as of right now, I don’t have any income.”
“No money?”
“We have some money, but not enough to keep this house.”
Boo nodded. “When Cindy’s dad got fired, they had to sell their home. You said that would never happen to us.”
“I was wrong.”
“And you’ve got to sell the cars?”
“The bank will just take them.”
“Are we poor now?”
“No, Boo, we’re not poor. Poor people are like-”
“Mama and me,” Pajamae said.
“So all these bad things, Consuela, the cars, the house, your job, Mother leaving, it’s all because McCall’s mad at you?”
“Yeah…well, maybe not your mother.”
“Mama always says she’s bad luck.”
“Pajamae, your mother’s not to blame. I made a decision. And decisions have consequences. Sometimes bad consequences.”
They were quiet for a long moment then Boo said softly, “Mother was crying. She said I’d be better off without her.”
TWENTY
July exited their lives and August entered, ushering in the dog days of summer when hot air masses called Mexican Plumes settle in over Dallas like mushroom clouds, fending off cool air from the north and rain from the south and trapping the occupants of the land below in an unmerciful mixture of 110 degree temperature and 80 percent humidity, day after day after sweltering day. The winds subside and the air is so still that even the slightest breeze feels like a blue norther. Pollution watches reach level purple, which means just breathing the air can kill you. Sidewalks are vacant of pedestrians, dogs lie all day in the shade, too weary even to engage their tails to swat
