THE HANDS OF GOD
by
Gerald M. Weinberg
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Gerald M. Weinberg on Smashwords
The Hands of God
Copyright © 2010 by Gerald M. Weinberg
Chapter_01 Chapter_02 Chapter_03 Chapter_04 Chapter_05
Chapter_06 Chapter_07 Chapter_08 Chapter_09 Chapter_10
Chapter_11 Chapter_12 Chapter_13 Chapter_14 Chapter_15
Chapter_16 Chapter_17 Chapter_18 Chapter_19 Chapter_20
Chapter_21 Chapter_22 Chapter_23 Chapter_24 Chapter_25
Chapter_26 Chapter_27 Chapter_28 Chapter_29 Chapter_30
Chapter_31 Chapter_32 Chapter_33 Chapter_34 Chapter_35
Chapter_36 Chapter_37 Chapter_38 Chapter_39 Chapter_40
Chapter_41 Chapter_42 Chapter_43
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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There are a few people I'd like to thank.
My teachers, Kris Rusch, Dean Smith, Loren Coleman, and all my Master Class compatriots, plus other members of the Oregon Writers Network
The Plotbusters: Sally Gwylan, Debbie Smith, Pari Noskin Taichert, Pati Nagle
Dani Weinberg, for everything
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THE HANDS OF GOD
There was no betting on Sunday. Grandpa brought Pamela down to the basement to help him refinish an antique table. Whenever he was sober and working in his shop, he found ways for Pamela to help, rather than doing everything for her the way Grandma did. Pamela liked that–his being sober and treating her sort of like a grownup. She was especially good at sanding and polishing, using the pads he fitted to her arm stumps with adhesive tape.
He left for a few minutes to fetch a rag from upstairs. When he returned, he stood behind her, watching her work. "You know, maybe you're not hopeless after all. Maybe you could get a job in a furniture factory. Wouldn't pay much, but enough to live on–if you were a reliable worker."
"If I had a job, I could pay you and Grandma for my food." He was always complaining how much it cost to feed her. I wish I could use some of my winnings to pay him back, but then he would know I was betting on the horses. Besides, I don't even have my winnings yet. If Mr. West doesn't show up soon to pay me, maybe I never will.
She realized Grandpa was talking to her. She swept her thoughts away from her missing fortune. "Yes, you could," he said, leaning close to the table top to scrutinize her work. "At least you could help out. But I'm thinking about when we're not here to take care of you. It would be good if you learned a trade, and it's God damn sure you'll never be a dentist."
She ignored his swearing, though it stung her ears. "Would you teach me, Grandpa?"
He laughed so hard he began to cough. "You're too young for a job right now. But in a few years, after our lawsuit is settled, if no young man wants to take you off my hands, I may have to teach you some trade." He finished his examination of the table top and smiled approvingly. "And it might as well be finishing furniture."
Pamela lost herself in polishing the table to a high shine, dreaming of having a real job so she could go out of the house every day. So I can leave the house at all. And if Grandpa didn't drink, I would visit him and Grandma all the time.
Someone rang the front door bell, dispersing her daydream. At last, Mr. West.
She trailed Grandpa upstairs, but as was his habit, he made her hide in the closet so the visitor couldn't see her deformity, her missing hands.
She peeked. Someone selling magazines. Will Mr. West ever come?
Sunday night was cool but not windy. Pamela slept well, but was awakened by Grandma Madge's groans through the wall. She heard Grandpa open her bedroom door and peek in, but she pretended to be asleep. After a great deal of bumping and whispering, she heard the garage door open and the car start. She tried to stay awake, but fell asleep and didn't hear the car come back. In the morning, Grandpa shook her shoulder to force her awake.
"Come on, Miss Slugabed. Rise and shine."
As best she could, she rubbed the night grit out of her eyes with the corners of her stumps. She looked at her alarm clock. "It's too early, Grandpa."
"It's right on time. I took your grandmother to the hospital last night, so I have to get you dressed before I leave."
"Is Grandma sick again?" Even though she was worried about Grandma, she couldn't suppress a yawn.
"Of course she's sick. Why else would I take her to the hospital in the middle of the night? To visit a friend?" He yanked back the covers, shocking her with the wave of cool morning air on her bare legs. "Come on, now, or I'll leave you here all day in your nightgown."
Maybe, with Grandma gone, Mr. West will come today. She didn't like it when Grandpa dressed her, but she didn't want Mr. West to see her looking like a little kid in her nighty. I'm not a little kid; I'm almost fourteen, but Grandpa treats me like an infant. Grandma is much better. I hope she's okay.
She pushed herself to a sitting position and stretched. "When will Grandma come home?"
"How would I know that? I'm a dentist, not a doctor. She'll come home when she's ready to come home. I hope it's soon, because I'm stuck with you until then."
He yanked her nightgown over her head. She could do that herself, but she didn't want him to know. Besides, he would never have tolerated the amount of time it took her–especially since her dresses had recently grown tight on top. She submitted quietly, trying to look invisible in her nakedness.
He grabbed one of her three dresses–the plain brown one she liked the least–and pulled it over her head, hurting her ears in the process. The brown dress would be too warm for today, but she had to leave it on so he wouldn't know she could change by herself–dresses, at least.
She slipped into her sandals and went to the bathroom, knowing she had better prepare for a long day alone. If Mr. West came today, he would see her hair all knotted, but she knew better than to ask Grandpa to brush it for her.
She had to yell downstairs that she was finished with the toilet. When Grandpa had finished cleaning her, he told her he'd opened a can of Campbell's SpaghettiOs and dumped it in her dish. Cold. "Try for once not to make too much of a mess."
His face twisted into angry wrinkles as he muttered, "Why does this have to happen to me on a Monday?" He slammed the door between the kitchen and the garage. Pamela heard the lock click into place. Now she was alone.
She listened carefully. As soon as she could no longer hear Grandpa's car, she invaded his office to peruse The Daily Racing Form.
Joggle The Box in the first race had a far better pattern than any other horse at the local track, so she decided to phone in her bet early. Even though it was less convenient, she called from the living room so she could look into the patio and picture Mr. West sitting on the bench among the spring flowers.
She pawed the handset off its cradle onto its back on the small telephone table, picked up a pencil in her mouth, and laboriously pressed out Mr. West's number with the eraser end. She let the pencil fall back onto the table and pressed her ear to the earpiece. She hoped Mr. West might be home at this hour, but the same woman's voice answered.
When Pamela asked for Mr. West, the woman asked, "Is this Pamela?" Her voice sounded excited. Pamela wondered if she should hang up. Maybe I've done something wrong. Maybe I won too much.
"Yes," she said, finally. "I want to put two dollars on Joggle The Box in the first race."
"The hell with the first race. If I don't find out who the hell you are, West is going to joggle my box. And good. Who the hell are you?"
Pamela began to tremble. She didn't like the woman's language–or her angry tone. I think this was a mistake, a big mistake.
"Hey, are you still there. For Chrissakes, don't hang up! Just tell me who you are."
"Uh, I'm Pamela."
"I know that, God dammit. Pamela who?"
Her ears were burning, but she managed to squeak out an answer. "Pamela Ruka."
"Dammit, I know that, but who the hell is Pamela Ruka?"
Up until now in her life, Pamela had never had to identify herself beyond her first name. I don't know what she wants me to say. Maybe in a real school they learn these things. Or maybe it's a game I don't know.
But maybe I can turn the game around and learn something. "I don't know. Who are you?"
"I'm Jody, Jody Gallegos, but that's not important."
"Well, I'm Pamela Ruka. That's who I am. Don't you remember that I called you before?"
Jody Gallegos moaned. "Of course I remember. That's why I have to find out who you are or West will pulverize me. Come on, if you won't tell me who you are, how can we pay you what we owe you?"
That doesn't make any sense. "West can come over to my house and pay me. He came here before."
Pause. "He did?"
"Sure, and I gave him two dollars to bet on Crow Finder. But I lost. So he didn't come back. That's why I called him for the next bet, but I never got to talk to him. Only to you." She didn't know what else to say. She started to cry.
The woman must have heard her crying over the phone. "Hey, you don't have to cry about it. I just want to find out who you are. Are you sure West was at your house?"
"Yes. He was here on Saturday. Not last Saturday. The one before."
"And where do you live?"
"In my house. I mean, in Grandpa's house."
"And where is that?"
Pamela didn't know what to say. "I mean, on Windsor Drive, I think."
"Where on Windsor Drive? What number?"
"I don't know the number."
"Jeez, what do you know? Are you some kind of idiot?"
That made Pamela angry. "I am not an idiot. I'm very smart. I just don't know the number because I never needed to know. Maybe I could look it up in the telephone book." She had an idea. "Maybe I can find a letter."
"No, hold on. Don't go away. Listen, do you know your telephone number?"
Pamela hesitated, then saw the number under a plastic shield on the phone cradle.. "Yes, but you can't call me. Grandpa might be home."
"So?"
"He doesn't know I make bets, but Mr. West is his bookie."
"Oh, for Chrissakes, why didn't you say so? What's his name?"
"Walter T. Neely. He's–"
"He's your grandfather? Walter the Sponge? You mean you're the kid with no–. I mean, you're the kid who had the accident?"
"I did have an accident, when I was a little girl. But I'm okay now, except for my hands. I can use the telephone and feed myself–some things. And place bets."
"Right, kid. You sure can place bets. That's what West wants to talk to you about. You stay right there, okay? I'm going to call West on his cell and send him over to see you. Okay?"
That's definitely okay with me. "I won't go anywhere." How can I go anywhere when I'm always locked in?
"Okay, goodbye. And remember, stay right there."
The woman hung up, and Pamela didn't move for a while. I wonder if staying right there means right there at the phone. It couldn't mean stay in the house, because what else could I do?
Maybe Jody doesn't know the doors are locked. Or that I can't open Grandpa's special locks. But Mr. West could open the screen door, the way he did when he came before, with his knife.
She looked out towards the patio, realizing to her dismay that Grandpa had locked the glass door. Even if Mr. West opens the screen door, I would still be locked in–and he's be locked out. She bounded over to the door, but saw that the tiny recessed latch was all the way over in the locked position. I used to be able to open the old lock so I could play in the garden, but when grandpa found out, he changed to this new type of lock. I've never been able to open it.
Unwilling to surrender, she clamped her teeth on a sofa cushion and tugged it next to the door. Then she tugged the other two cushions and nudged them into a neat stack on top of the first. Lying on her back, she reached up to the latch with her right foot, her skirt falling over her head. This is not very ladylike, but I don't care.
She used her forearm to shade her eyes from the sun, then tried to insert her toe into the groove protecting the latch. As always, her big toe was too wide. She managed to insert her little toe, but it was simply too weak and flexible to budge the sliding latch.
She switched legs and tried again. No good.
She ran to the guest bathroom and saw the window latch was still open. Thank you, God.
Pressing both stumps against the glass and pushing up with all her strength, her arms slipped up the smooth surface and the window stayed put.
She tried the wooden frame. It had more friction than the glass, because it was rougher. Her right arm slipped, scratching the four inches of skin from her elbow to her sensitive stump. She ignored the pain and tried again, managing to open the window about three inches. Now, if Mr. West comes, I'll at least be able to hear him. And he can pass my money through the window. I think it will be all right now to rinse the blood off my stumps and have some breakfast.
After two interminable hours, she heard a car park in front of the house. She wasn't supposed to let the neighbors see her, so she hesitated before nudging back the curtains. By the time the curtains were open, Mr. West was already out of the car and out of sight. She rushed back to the patio door, tripping on the edge of the living room rug.
When he appeared in the backyard, Mr. West was wearing a pale yellow shirt instead of blue. She had somehow imagined he always wore the same clothes, so this new image was both exciting and unsettling.
He was carrying a paper bag. He motioned for her to open the door, but she shook her head then looked to her left. Without needing another signal, he took off around the house and met her at the bathroom window. Wow. When he lifts that window, it slides right up like it was greased.
He waved the paper bag. "I stopped on the way to buy us some popcorn. I hope you like popcorn–with butter. It's my favorite."
Pamela chewed on her upper lip. "Uh, Grandpa doesn't let me eat popcorn. It's bad for my teeth."
"Well, I'll bet he's just trying to keep all the popcorn for himself. Besides, I know your grandfather's not home, so you can eat anything you want."
West reached into the bag, but Pamela said, "No, you eat it. I don't really want any."
"Sure you do." He extracted a red-striped clown box and waved it at her through the window. "I've got one for you and one for me. I couldn't eat two anyway. I'd get too fat to catch up with my deadbeats."
"No, really, I don't want any. I just had breakfast."
He frowned. "Are you mad at me about something? Is that it? Because I didn't pay right away?"
"No, no. I'm not mad at you–"
"Then try this popcorn, to make me happy. Here … " He thrust the bag through the window, then slowly drew back his hand when he saw the wet spots on her cheeks. "Oh, Christ. Am I ever stupid. Stupid, stupid, dumb, and ignorant."
She was crying so hard, she almost didn't hear him take the Lord's name in vain. "No, it's all right, really." She wiped her face on the back of her arm.
"Can't you … I mean, don't you ever … What I mean is, how do you eat stuff like this?"
"Grandma feeds me. Or I eat it myself. But I never had popcorn. It's too hard to eat."
His face brightened. "Then you've got to have some, for the experience. You can't be an adult until you've eaten popcorn."
"But I can't do it." She was ready to cry again. Like an idiot baby. This wasn't going the way she dreamed at all.
"You can do it if I feed you." He reached into the box, took a fluffy yellow kernel between his fingers, and stuck his dark-skinned hand through the window. "Here, you can bite, can't you? Just stand up closer to the window."
When she hesitated, he taunted her. "I know you can bite. Even my dog can bite popcorn, and she's only four years old. So I know you can do it."
She forgot all about the popcorn. "You have a dog?"
"Yes, but I won't tell you about her until you try this popcorn. Go ahead, nobody ever died from popcorn."
She bravely touched the kernel with her lips, but when she tried to get her mouth around it, West let go too soon and the kernel bounced off the window sill and fell to the tile floor. Before he could apologize, she dropped to her knees and picked up the kernel with her mouth. He stared, unable to say anything except "sorry."
He recovered quickly, but she noticed his distress, and was puzzled. "It's my fault," she said, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "Nobody ever fed me before except Grandma–and the nurses."
"Well, it takes two to tango. Here, I'll hold it better this time."
He waited until her mouth had completely surrounded his fingers before letting go of the kernel. She wasn't sure if she was tasting the popcorn or his fingers, but the taste was salty and nutty. Then the kernel got wet and most of it dissolved in her mouth. She smiled and opened her mouth for more.
"You like it, huh? What did I tell you? Here's some more. We have to finish these so we can talk."
West took turns putting kernels first in her mouth, then his. He was an attentive feeder, never letting her mouth be empty of popcorn for more than an instant. She marveled at the way he could hold several kernels with two fingers and a thumb, dropping them into her mouth at precisely the right moment. She was careful to touch only the popcorn.
When they had finished the entire box, except for some unpopped kernels, he crushed it and shoved it into the bag. "Had enough? Maybe we should have a little talk before we eat the other box."
"Talk. About what?"
"First, let me come inside. It's all right feeding you through this window, but I feel really dumb standing out here talking to you. And your snoopy neighbors are going to call the police when they see a black dude sniffing around your lily white neighborhood." He looked over his shoulder as if expecting a police car any moment. "Open the door, okay?"
"I can't."
"You mean you're not supposed to. You're not allowed to let anyone into the house when your grandfather isn't here, right? But it's okay, because your grandfather knows me."
"No, I mean I can't." She held up her stumps. "You know, I just can't open the locks."
"Oh, gotcha." He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a large wallet, from which he extracted a green plastic card. "Okay, leave it to West. I'll open that outside kitchen door. That should be easiest."
She ran to the kitchen, beating him by a few seconds. As she watched through the door's window, he tugged at the screen, but it was hooked on the inside. From his right-hand pants pocket, he pulled his long, pearl-handled folding knife. Flipping the blade open with a snap, he slipped it between the door and the jamb, at the level of the hook. He twisted his wrist. Pamela heard the hook tinkle against the door.
He put away the switchblade, then opened the screen door and propped it against his hip. He bent over, eyes level with the doorknob, and inserted his green card next to the lock. Pamela couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but in a few moments, he pushed the door and it swung inward.
As he stepped into the kitchen, he smiled back at the doors. "Piece of cake! Now let's talk about dogs and ponies."
Mr. West planted himself backwards on a kitchen chair, hands resting on the back rail. "That popcorn made me thirsty. Knowing your grandfather, I'll bet there's a cold beer around here somewhere. Can you get me one?"
Pamela frowned and said nothing. When she hesitated, he said, "Oh, rats. I did it again. You tell me where the beer is, and I'll get it myself."
"I can get it. I get them for Grandpa all the time."
"Then what's the problem?"
She hesitated. "Will you still be my friend when you're drunk?"
He simply laughed, showing lots of white teeth. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Grandpa isn't. I mean, he's not so bad when he isn't drinking, but he drinks almost all the time. Then he's not nice at all."
"Not to worry. The more I drink, the nicer I get."
"Really?"
Apparently he now realized she wasn't kidding. "Cross my heart. I'm an athlete. I would never abuse my body the way your grandfather does. One or two beers is my limit."
She still hesitated. "If Grandpa sees the empty can, he'll know I had a visitor."
"I'll take it away with the popcorn box. I'm sure he'll never miss one from his extensive collection."
"Okay." She headed for the refrigerator. She pulled open the door with her teeth, then reached in and clasped a can in the crook of her elbow. She shivered as she dropped the can on the table in front of him. "It's cold. But you'll have to pull the tab. I'm not very good at that. I can do it with my teeth, but Grandpa says it will chip them."
He popped the tab and took a long sip. "Hey, that's all right. I'm really impressed with the way you got that all by yourself. Do they leave you alone a lot?"
She was thirsty too, so before she sat down, she went to the sink, stood on her tiptoes, and nudged open the cold water, letting it run for a moment before drinking from the tap. She poked the tap handle closed, then sat down. "I'm only alone when Grandma goes out. That isn't very often, except now when she's sick and has to go to the hospital."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is she okay?"
"Grandpa wouldn't tell me. But I don't think she'll be home today, so I'm all alone."
"What would you do if there was trouble? Like a fire?"
"Oh, I wouldn't start a fire. I can't use matches."
"Yeah, but fires start for a lot of reasons. If you can't open the door, you could fry in here."
I never thought of that. "The firemen would rescue me, wouldn't they?"
"Maybe. But maybe not." He took a thoughtful swig of beer. "Which I don't think is good enough insurance for my $30,000 investment."
"Thirty thousand dollars?" Pamela tried imagine such a sum, but failed.
"It would be more, but he does make payments. If he didn't pay once in a while, I would have stopped taking his bets long ago. Besides, what if you fell down the stairs or something? There's no way your grandfather would collect on that lawsuit, even if they didn't throw him in prison for neglect."
Her eyes went wide. " They can do that?"
"Sure. It's against the law to neglect a kid, especially if the kid gets hurt. Didn't the judge appoint a child advocate for you?"
"I think that's Miss Larson. What does she have to do with anything?"
"She supposed to see that you're taken care of."
"Sure, she does. She talks to Grandpa about how healthy I am, and to Grandma about my schooling. I'm way ahead in my schoolwork, so Miss Larson is very pleased."
"Does she know how your Grandpa treats you?"
"I'm not to supposed to tell her those things–or I get a whipping."
West smacked his fist against his palm. "Does she know you're left alone all day?"
"Oh, that doesn't happen very often, except when Grandma's away. Why? Isn't it okay to be left alone all day. I kinda like it."
"It's not okay. I wouldn't even leave my dog alone in the house all day. And I bet she could jump through the window if there was a fire. I know she jumps through the window if there's a cat."
Pamela giggled. "She must be a big dog. What's her name?"
"Star. And she is big–about the same size as you. Maybe bigger. She's a German Shepherd, and she has to be big to guard all my money."
He was laughing, but she wondered. Does he really have a lot of money? Thousands? "Would you bring her over here someday, so I could meet her?"
"Aren't you afraid of big dogs?" He reached out and pulled her ear. "She could bite your ear off if she wanted to. And swallow it in one gulp while she was biting off the other one."
Pamela reddened and brushed her long blond hair from her face with the back of her arm. "I don't think I'm afraid, but I never met a real dog. Except Winky, but he's tiny. He's a poodle. Miniature. But I think Star will like me because Grandpa says I'm just like a dog."
"Huh? Why are you just like a dog?"
"Because I have paws instead of hands. That's why I have to eat off the floor."
"What!? That bastard throws your food on the floor?"
"Oh, no. Only when he's drunk. And when Grandma's home, she puts it on a plate." She pointed to her empty dog dish on the floor next to the refrigerator. "See, right over there. It's pretty clean, and I can get lots of my food for myself now."
Mr. West put his knuckles up to his mouth and stared intently at Pamela. She looked down to avoid his angry gaze, afraid she might have said something wrong. After a long time, he said, "Okay, that's clear. I can't let my feelings get in the way of business. But you're very valuable to me, so I'll see to it you're treated better."
Before Pamela had much time to think about what he meant, he reached back for his wallet. "Let's talk about the money I owe you."
Her eyes felt a mile wide when she saw the thick stack of bills Mr. West pulled from his wallet. Is that $30,000?
"It's not all mine," he apologized. "A lot of it belongs to my clients. I like to pay my winners promptly, in cash. It's good for business. On the other hand, I expect the same from them. I would have paid you, too, but I didn't know who Pamela Ruka was. I thought your name was Neely, like Walter's."
"Mommy's name was Neely, before she married my father. But he ran away somewhere–way before the accident."
"It figures," he said, flipping through the little black book he'd taken from his shirt pocket. "Hmm. You sure didn't inherit your luck from old Walter. It says here you picked eleven winners out of fourteen. I'd sure like to know how you did that."
"I only picked eleven out of fifteen, if you count our first bet." Always tell the truth. That's what Grandma says, but Grandpa lies all the time.
"I forgot about that, but what's the difference? At the time, I didn't think you were a serious horse player. I was just going to give your two dollars back next time I came over–and give you a lecture about the dangers of gambling. Now I owe you a lot of money."
"NInety-nine dollars and eighty cents. But you don't really have to pay me, because you said I could only bet if I gave you money in advance. So I didn't really win, Mr. West."
He slammed down the beer can. "Hey, hold on, kid. First of all, my name is West, not Mister West. Nobody calls me that. Got it?"
"Okay, Mr. ... I mean, okay West."
He nodded his approval. "And nobody feels sorry for me. Jody took your bets, so I owe you. I don't mess around trying to chisel my clients. Besides, the reason I noticed something was going on was that Jody started matching your bets last week–at the track, with twenty-dollar bets. So she made a bundle–ten times what I lost to you. That reduces my bills for her expensive habits."
I wonder what she buys that's so expensive. I'll bet she has nice clothes. "But I don't care about the money. Just enough for a taxi when I run away. I only kept betting so you'd have to come over sometimes and pay me for winning."
He checked his black book again. "Well, I'm here. And I intend to pay. But first you've got a few things to learn about your friendly neighborhood bookmaker. That $99.80 is track odds, and I wouldn't be in this business if I had to pay track odds. You have to subtract five percent, … "
"Then you owe me ninety-four dollars and eighty-one cents."
His head popped up from his book. "Hey! How did you do that?" He scribbled a few numbers in his book, then double checked. "You're exactly right–except I don't deal in pennies, so it's ninety-four-eighty." He put away his book. "You did that in your head? Without pencil and paper?"
"That's easy," she laughed. "Pencil and paper is what's hard–for me. I never learned to count on my fingers." She watched him carefully, to see if her joke was okay with him. Grandpa would have slapped her.
Instead, he slapped his own forehead with the heel of his hand. "There I go again. Listen, honey. You have to forgive me because I just look at you and see an ordinary little girl."
She frowned. He must have immediately realized why. "Sorry. A young woman. A pretty one, too, so it's easy to forget you … that you're different."
He was smiling, showing so many teeth that she couldn't help smiling back, even if she hadn't loved being called an ordinary, and pretty, young woman. I think that's called flattery. It's a kind of lying, because I'm not at all ordinary, and with my ugly stumps, I'm definitely not pretty. So why am I blushing?
"It's okay," she said. "I know you're not trying to hurt my feelings. Besides, I'm tough. Grandpa made me tough. He told me other people would make fun of me, so I'd have to learn to take it."
West frowned. "No way I'm making fun of you, kid. Listen, I know plenty about what it's like when other people laugh at you because you're different."
"Why? You're just like everyone else–except me."
"Except for this black skin all over my body. That makes me real different–to a lot of white folks."
"But why? You aren't missing any parts."
That made him snort. "If you don't know, I'm sure not going to explain it. But I'll bet you notice when people look at your arms and don't think you notice."
In response, Pamela twisted her face into a perfect imitation of her aunt Marilyn. West laughed. "You got it, kid. Exactamento."
She smiled at the compliment. "I don't meet very many people, but I remember Aunt Marilyn. She's married to Uncle Bobby, my mother's brother. They used to come over–until Marilyn got pregnant. Then I heard Bobby tell Grandma he was afraid it might hurt the baby because she got so upset when she looked at me."
She held up both arms to show what she meant. "But they moved to California anyway, so she doesn't come over any more. I never saw her baby–I guess he's my cousin–but I hope he's okay."
"So you don't see your uncle Bobby any more? Who do you see? Who are your friends?"
Pamela studied the vinyl flooring. "Can we just talk about you? I don't have any friends, and I never do anything interesting."
"Except sit around the house and do calculations in your head. And use those calculations to pick winners."
What's he talking about? "But I don't use calculations to pick winners."
"But I saw you subtract five percent in your head, in a flash."
"Sure, but what's that got to do with picking winners?"
West took out his black book again. "You mean you don't calculate the winners?"
"No. How would I do that?"
"Then who gives them to you? You just said you don't have any friends, and I know you don't get winners from your deadbeat grandfather. And don't tell me you're just lucky. Eleven out of fourteen isn't luck."
"Fifteen," she corrected. "Eleven out of fifteen. But I'm not lucky. I just pick the right patterns. From The Daily Racing Form."
West drained the rest of his beer, crushed the can in one hand, and stuck it in the popcorn bag. "The right patterns? In The Daily Racing Form? I don't get it."
"You wait here," she ordered, then took off for Grandpa's study, taking a detour through the bathroom, glad she only had to pee. When she returned, she dropped The Daily Racing Form she had squeezed between her arms and nudged it open to the day's form sheet for the Downs.
"Just a minute," he said. "Before you pick another winner, I haven't paid you for the others."
She waved him off. "That's not important. I want to show you."
"It's important to me." He pulled out his wallet. "You got change for a hundred?"
Pamela's mouth dropped. "A hundred-dollar bill? Can I see it?"
"Sure. It's mostly yours anyway." He spread a few bills next to The Daily Racing Form and smiled patiently while Pamela studied them.
She looked up and asked, "Are there presidents' pictures on the other side, too?"
"There's pictures, interesting pictures, but not presidents. And these are not all presidents on this side, either." He held up the hundred. "Franklin wasn't a president."
She studied the others. "But all the others are presidents. Grandma showed me a one and a five, but I never saw these big ones before."
"I'll bet you never saw a two-dollar bill, either." He slipped another bill out of his stack and laid it on the table in front of her.
"That's Thomas Jefferson. He's a president, too."
"Right, but the other side is more interesting." He flipped over the bill. "They're signing the Declaration of Independence. Do you know about that?"
"Sure, and I'm going to be independent someday, too. Wait here, and I'll show you."
Halfway up the stairs, she experienced a moment of doubt. Does Mr. West–West, I mean–think I'm too childish, always jumping up and running after things. But he seems to like me, and I want him him to see my purse.
She dropped the doubt from her mind. She dragged the purse from its hiding place under her winter clothes, wedged her right stump through the strap, and slid the strap up to her shoulder with her left forearm. On her way back to the kitchen, she stopped in the living room to slip on the matching sandals she had left in front of the Lazy Boy.
Back in the kitchen, she slowed down and paraded around the table, then plunked the purse down. "Grandma made me promise not to open it with my teeth, but the clasps are sharp and hurt my arms. Do you mind if I use my teeth?"
"No, you go right ahead and do it just the way you want to."
She bent over the table and snapped open the clasp, then carefully inverted the purse. A nickel rolled onto the floor, and while it was still rolling, she flipped off her sandal, grabbed it with her toes, and put it back on the table.
"Hey, you're fast. I'm impressed."
She blushed. "I have to do it fast because if it falls flat, it's really hard to pick up. Usually I dump them on the bed, so they won't fall off."
"Well, I'm still impressed. At the dojo, they say I have fast feet, but I could never do what you just did."
"What's a dojo?"
"It's a kind of school, where you go to learn to defend yourself."
Her eyes went wide. "I'd like to go to a school like that. Actually, I'd like to go to any school. I mean, Grandma is a good teacher, but it would be nice to know other kids. And Grandpa says I should learn a trade, so I can support myself. If I can support myself and defend myself, then I could declare my own independence." She laid her stump respectfully on the two-dollar bill.
West smoothed out the mound of coins. "You seem to be doing quite well already. This is quite a collection of money."
"I had eighteen dollars and sixty-two cents, but I lost two dollars to you, remember? Then Grandpa dropped another dime behind the cushions, so now I have sixteen dollars and seventy-two cents."
"You'll have a lot more than that, once I've paid you."
"Okay, you give me ninety-five dollars, and I'll give you twenty cents change."
"Don't you want the hundred-dollar bill?"
"I think I'd rather have some fives and tens and twenties. And some ones, because I still have to give you two dollars to bet on Joggle The Box in the first race."
West counted out the bills, then took two dimes from Pamela's hoard. He watched incredulously as she used her toes to shovel the money back into her purse, then flipped the strap up onto her shoulder. Two dollar bills were left on the table.
He picked up the two bills. "You're really something else. I suppose you're sure that Joggle The Box is going to win, too."
"Well, I'm not absolutely positively sure that he'll win, but his pattern looks right."
"What pattern? You never showed me."
She shoved The Daily Racing Form in front of him. "There. Look at the first race. See?"
"See what? All I see is the usual dope sheet."
"But kind of squint your eyes, until the whole pattern goes into your head. Then you can see it with your eyes closed."
She watched him try. "Now, there you see it, don't you? One of the horses stands right out in the first race–Joggle The Box." She wrinkled her nose. "Why do they have such funny names?"
"They have to be unique, so the bettors don't get confused." He squinted at the paper, turning his head first one way then the other. "Sorry, kid, but I don't see a thing."
She spent the next forty-five minutes trying to teach him to see the pattern that made Joggle The Box stand out as an almost sure winner. She noticed how he used his hands to trace patterns on paper, and she wondered if that was stopping him from using his mind. She suggested that he stop using his hands, but he kept slipping them back into the action.
Finally, he looked at her with wonder in his eyes and said, "I guess you really do have a system, kid, but I don't think J. Wesley Perkins will ever understand it. Or anybody else, for that matter."
"I'm sure you could," she said, "if you'd just practice some more. And didn't use your hands so much. That's how I learned to do it."
"And how long did you practice?"
"I don't know. Maybe two or three hours a day."
"For how many days?"
"Every day. I mean every day since I lost my hands and came to live here. I mean, it wasn't always horses, because I didn't always know about horses, but I practice with patterns everywhere." She gestured toward Sandia Mountain behind the house. "From my bedroom, I can see the patterns of the cactus and trees and rocks on the mountain. Can't everybody?"
"No, not everybody. Maybe nobody–besides you. Anyway, even if I could, I don't have that kind of time to practice, since I'm not only supporting a hungry dog and a junkie girlfriend, but a deadbeat dentist. I need to pick some winners now."
Pamela broke into a big grin. "That's no problem. I could pick them for you."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Sure. For you and Star."
"Yeah, but how do I know you wouldn't do it for your grandfather? With your system, he could bust me wide open."
"Oh, West, I'd never do that. You're my friend, and he's an old meanie."
"But suppose he makes you tell? What would you do then?"
She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "He can't make me do anything. I don't care if he whips me until I'm dead, because I'll never tell him a single winner."
"That's brave talk, kid, but you're only fourteen years old, and he's a lot bigger than you are. It's not that I don't believe you, but I can't depend on brave talk. I've got too much invested, and you're the key to all of it, one way or another."
Pamela could tell that West was thinking about something important, so she didn't say anything. She knew she was involved, but wasn't exactly sure why. But she was glad to be so important. I'll give West all the winners he wants. And if he tells me to keep a secret, I would never, ever tell.
"Listen, kid," he announced as he stood. "I want to see your grandfather. When does he come home?"
"I don't know. Sometimes he comes home very late, when Grandma isn't home."
"Okay, then, I'll come back tonight and wait for him if necessary."
She felt all warm inside. "Will you bring Star?"
"I'll see if I can bring Star. Right now, I've got to make my rounds. If he comes home, don't tell him about our visit. Not anything."
No chance of that, she thought as she watched him leave by the front door. She marveled, not so much at the ease with which he opened the door, but at the way he didn't even seem to notice how easy it was.
And yet he couldn't see the most obvious patterns in The Daily Racing Form.
By the time West and Jody pulled up in front of the Neely house, Sandia Mountain had turned watermelon from the sunset and the sky was growing dark. He noticed that the garage door was open, but only a Toyota was inside–presumably the grandmother's. All the house lights were out. He pulled into the driveway, blocking the Toyota, then let Star out to investigate.
When Star returned without barking at any interesting find, West told Jody to stay in the car while he checked the premises. Opening the front door to the house, he sent Star in first. No telling what a cretin like Neely might do when he was liquored up.
Hearing only ordinary house noises, he slipped inside and flipped on the light. Pamela lay on the floor near the telephone table. Next to her was a broom with red spots on the handle. Star stood over her, licking dried blood off the stump of her right arm. West couldn't tell whether the girl was dead or alive.
Star whined and began licking Pamela's face. Pamela groaned and opened her eyes, which looked more like she'd been crying than unconscious. She didn't seem the least bit scared of the huge black and tan German Shepherd.
"Star! Sit!" Pamela had never heard anyone use a command voice before. Her eyes widened in surprise. Star sat, nose an inch away from the collar of Pamela's dress.
West knelt down for a closer look at her condition. "Are you all right?"
"I don't know," she sobbed. "You forgot the other beer can … "
He leaned closer. He could barely hear her, but he understood his mistake had caused this. "Damn."
"He tried to make me tell, but I didn't say anything. I promised. I didn't say anything at all."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He left. In his car."
"Okay, stay right here for a minute. Don't move until I have Jody look you over."
He opened the front door and shouted for Jody to haul herself inside. A minute later, Jody appeared in an iridescent blue dress with long dangling silver earrings. She had shiny dark hair, almost coal black, with hundreds of little curls surrounding her milky white face. "You must be Pamela," she said, sitting herself cross-legged on the carpet at Pamela's side. "I'm Jody. We spoke on the phone."
Pamela's eyes said she thought Jody was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. "Are you West's girlfriend?"
Jody glanced up at West, who was checking the study. "One of them," she whispered. "I think."
Pamela attempted to push herself up, but Jody's light touch on her shoulder was all it took to keep her lying down. "Don't try to get up yet. Not until I'm sure it's okay? Where did he hit you?"
"All over."
"What did he hit you with?"
"In the kitchen, he slapped me with his hand. When I tried to run away, he hit me with that broom. Then I stuck my head under the telephone table so he couldn't hit me in the face."
Pamela started crying, gasping for breath as if the retelling was as painful as the beating itself. Jody scooted over and cradled Pamela's head until the crying stopped. She brushed back Pamela's hair and dabbed her cheeks with a tissue she dug out of her jumbo black leather purse. "It's all right now. West will make sure he doesn't hit you again. Ever."
She looked up at West, for confirmation. "Look at those marks on her legs. He must have hit her twenty times with that broom." He came towards her for a closer look, but she waved him away. "You get out of here. I want to take off her dress and see what the rest of her looks like."
He moved to a position in the kitchen where he could keep an eye on the front door, satisfied that Star was guarding Pamela. Jody called for a blanket, a damp towel, and ice cubes in a bag. He called back that he was pleased to hear Jody could actually do something useful when the situation required it. I guess that was unnecessarily sarcastic. This situation must be getting to me, big time.
Soon, Pamela was sitting up on the floor, wearing the blanket like a huge yellow skirt while Jody pressed the ice bag against the purpling welts on her back. Once, when Jody pressed too hard, Pamela sobbed and Star leaned forward to flick her tongue against the Pamela's nose.
"She's a very rude dog," Jody said. "But she likes you or she wouldn't be so impetuous."
"I like her, too. May I hug her?"
West answered before Jody could say anything. "That's up to her. Nobody decides those things for Star. I can order her not to like someone, but she chooses her own friends."
Pamela threw her mutilated arms around Star's neck. The dog managed to wag her tail enthusiastically without violating West's command to sit. "Her ears are so soft." Pamela rubbed her cheek against Star's head. They're the softest thing I ever felt. Softer than Grandma's teddy bears even."
"Would you like to give her a treat?" Jody said, apparently not seeing West shaking his head. "I brought a whole bag of biscuits, because that's the best way to make friends with her."
West held up his hand. "It doesn't look like she needs any help making friends. Why don't you just give her the treat."
Pamela pleaded with her eyes, then said, "Oh, can't I do it? Please?"
"Sure," Jody said. "Why not? I have to hold this ice pack."
West glared at Jody, then looked gravely at Pamela. "You have to forgive Jody. She doesn't understand yet about your hands."
"But I can do it. I know I can. Where are the biscuits?"
West pulled a plastic bag out of Jody's purse and extended it to Pamela.
"Oh, I don't think I can open it. At least I never tried before with that kind of bag. And I don't want Star to have to wait while I practice. But if you take one out for me, I can give it to her."
West opened the bag and extracted a bone-shaped biscuit. Pamela leaned forward and took one between her teeth, then twisted around and offered it to Star. Star sniffed but didn't move.
"Star! Okay!" On West's release command, the dog instantly grabbed the treat and dropped it to the floor. Holding it upright between her paws, she bit off the end and started to crunch it.
Pamela watched, fascinated. "That's the way Beautiful Joe eats," she said. "And me, too."
"Who's Beautiful Joe?" Jody asked. "Your dog?"
"Oh, no. He's a wonderful dog in a book that Jack used to read to me. Joe was kinda like me, because his mean owner cut off his tail." She held up her arms to show what she meant.
"And who's Jack?"
"He was my Mom's boyfriend, before she–. You know. Anyway, he's not around any more. Grandpa wouldn't let him see me after the accident."
West watched the two women getting acquainted, surprised at the warm feeling it triggered. "All right, Jody. It looks like you've got things under control, so I'm going out to look for Neely. I think I know the bars he hangs out in."
Jody lifted the ice pack from one tender spot on Pamela's back and probed with her fingers to find another. "What if you miss him and he comes home?"
"Then just tell him to sit nice and pretty–like Star–'til I get back for a man-to-man talk."
"I don't like it," Jody whined. "This sadist comes home and finds me here with the kid he just beat the crap out of. He'll probably beat the crap out of me before I can explain." She moved to one side so he could see Pamela's back. "Just look what he did to the kid."
"Not to worry. That's why Star's here. Remember what she did to that drunk who hustled you at Arnold's party?"
"I don't want trouble," Jody said, but she appeared to relax a bit.
"I told you. Don't worry. You can handle it. Neely's no trouble. He's an old man, a geek, and a bully. Beats up little kids. Talks tough, but he won't do a thing when he sees Star."
Jody wavered. "Are you sure?"
"Sure," West laughed. "He's a dentist, isn't he? He's got a lot of respect for teeth … " He pointed to Star, who was sitting up begging Pamela for another treat." … and did you ever see teeth you respect more?"
Pamela tried not to watch Jody kiss West. Except for the TV, which she wasn't supposed to watch, this was the only kiss Pamela had ever seen up close. Until now, she thought real men and women only kissed in private. Still, I can see why West wants to kiss Jody. She does have some pink spots on her face, and on her hands, but her hands are so beautiful that the spots only make them even more noticeable.
She scrunched down on the floor to play with Star and didn't look at West when he said goodbye, hoping he wouldn't see her blush. When he left by the front door, Jody left Star in charge and spent five minutes exploring the house. Seemingly satisfied that there was no immediate danger to her person, Jody settled on the couch to take a nap. After half an hour, she woke up and asked Pamela if there was any food in the house, so Pamela pushed herself off the floor and showed her special guest around the kitchen.
After her snack, Jody, like Grandpa, seemed unconcerned with dirty dishes. Pamela wanted to get acquainted, but Jody headed directly back to the couch, easily opened Grandpa's crude lock, and zapped on the TV. Pamela sat in the Lazy Boy, Star napping at her feet, while she watched Jody viewing some vampire movie.
After a few minutes, Star stood, stretched, and sniffed at the patio door. Pamela thought she knew what that meant, from the days when she used to need help opening the bathroom door. "I think she wants to go outside."
Jody didn't take her eyes off the TV. "Huh? Oh, okay. You can let her out if she wants to."
Pamela pressed her lips together, not moving from the Lazy Boy. "I can't."
"You can't what?"
"I can't let her out. I can't open the door."
Jody kept staring at the set. "Oh, crap! Okay, wait for the commercials, then I'll do it."
Pamela waited.
When a slick-haired man came on the screen demonstrating a food slicer, Jody dragged herself up and slid open the patio door. Star bounded out into the twilight of the yard, heading straight for Grandma Madge's flower beds. Pamela waited for her to come back, but when Star finished her business, she merely turned her head and looked back at Pamela.
Jody reached for her purse. "Go ahead, kid. She wants you to play with her." Jody dug into her purse and pulled out an orange-and-white rubber ball. "Here, you can play–. Oh, I guess you can't."
"Sure I can. I'm a good soccer player." She wasn't sure it was true because she'd never played kick ball with anyone else, and never outside, but she'd had a lot of practice in the house.
"Good. So go outside. You're giving me the creeps sitting there watching me watch TV. Go on out!"
"But … I'm not allowed to go outside."
"Whaddya mean, not allowed? By who?"
By whom, Pamela thought, recognizing Grandma's voice in her head, "By Grandpa."
"You heard what West said about him. He won't bother you any more. Come on, haul your skinny butt out of here before you drive me nuts."
"Thank you," said Pamela. She nudged the light switch with her nose, illuminating the yard. As she stepped over the door track and onto the concrete step, she decided that Jody was the nicest person in the whole world. Next to Star, of course.
Jody returned to her vampires. Star and Pamela whiled away the time playing kick ball and exploring the dark corners of Grandma's garden whenever Star missed a kick, which wasn't often. Around ten-thirty, Star ran to the gate to the front lawn. Pamela heard Grandpa's car pull into the driveway. She ran back through the patio door, hoping Grandpa hadn't seen her in the yard.
Jody was snoring on the couch. Pamela pushed her awake. "Grandpa's here."
"Wha? What? Oh, damn." She sat upright and straightened her hair. "He's here already? Why didn't you warn me?"
"He just drove up. Star saw him first."
"Okay, okay. Where will he come in?"
"Through the kitchen. From the garage."
"Jody called through the patio door. "Star! Come!" Star bounded in and sat directly in front of her.
Jody stood. Star didn't move.
"Star! Heel!" Star trotted sharply around Jody's right side and sat next to her left leg, just as Pamela heard the door opening.
"Pamela!" Grandpa shouted, slurring her name. "Come here!"
"Stay," Jody whispered.
Pamela froze. I'm just like Star.
"Pamela! Get in here right way or you'll get some more of what you deserve."
"Call him," Jody ordered.
"I'm in the living room," Pamela squeaked, then regained her voice. "I can't come in there right now."
"And why the hell not?" Walter demanded, his voice approaching from the kitchen. "Just what do you think–"
Seeing Jody, he stopped dead. "Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?"
"Cool it, Neely. I'm Jody, and I'm here to protect your granddaughter. To see that you don't punch her around any more."
"It's Doctor Neely to you. Miss. And I'll do what I damn please in my own house."
Pamela could see Star tense up beside Jody, but Grandpa apparently didn't notice. Or didn't seem to care. "I already told you damn child-welfare people that Pamela is none of your damn business. Now get the hell out before I throw you out."
Neely raised his fist and took a step toward Jody.
Star growled deep in her throat.
Walter stopped, fist in mid-air. "What the hell is that damn dog doing in here? What is this, anyway?"