Ralphie's Wives

“Yeah. Slowly.” Gallagher remained covered by the door of his car. “Good idea.”

Rio produced his wallet, flipped it to his driver’s license, and passed it over the driver’s door window to Boone, who grunted at the proof, and then flipped it down and studied Rio’s P.I. card.

Finally, with another grunt, he stepped free of the car door, shoving it shut, and gave Rio back his wallet. “Didn’t mean to be unsociable. I saw the garage wide open and you standin’ there and—”

“No need to explain.”

Boone tipped his red-brown head to the side and smiled in a cautiously friendly way. “Hey. I seen that bike before….”

Rio gave him an easy shrug. “I stopped in for a shot of tequila. Yesterday, around three or so. I met Phoebe then.”

Boone was frowning again. “I was here. I don’t remember you.”

“I got a haircut since, and I cleaned up a little.”

Boone nodded. Slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” He grinned. “My sister hates your damn guts even though she’s never met you, in case you didn’t know.” Rio decided he’d be wiser to say nothing to that. Boone held out his hand. “I’m Boone, Darla’s brother. Darla was Ralphie’s—”

“Wife. Yeah, I know.”

Boone’s grip was firm and dry. “You’re a P.I., huh? From Los Angel-eez.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, come on inside. I’ll brew us a pot of coffee and you can tell me about all the movie stars you know.”

RALPHIE AND DARLA’S marital bliss had begun and ended in a trailer park south of Northwest Tenth, a few blocks east of Meridian. Phoebe pulled into the park an hour after she showed Rio the door. The whole drive over there, she had a nervous feeling in her stomach and a heaviness in her heart. The sign at the entrance did bring a grin, though: Rose Rock Suburban Estates.

“Come on out to my estate,” Ralphie used to say with a wink.

Through the gray day, a misty rain was falling. It dripped from the sign, dribbled like slow tears from her windshield. Phoebe cruised past single-and double-wides in a rainbow of colors, each with its own little carport jutting off the side, shading small squares of patio with plastic lawn chairs and cast-iron smoker barbecues.

Ralphie’s trailer, down at the end and around the corner, was one of the nicer ones. White, with blue shutters, striped awnings and a small redwood deck, it boasted a cheerful row of dwarf nandinas behind a low brick border in front.

Things were looking a little ragged, though, since Ralphie’s death. A couple of potted daisies on the deck steps, thriving the last time Phoebe had come by, had dried up and died. The grass, once pristine, was scraggly and uncut, dotted with dandelion flowers. Phoebe shook her head at that. She’d talk to Boone, see if he could make a little time to mow the yard for his sister.

Darla’s three-year-old red Sebring convertible, bought a few months ago in one of Ralphie’s deals, sat alone beneath the two-car carport. They’d repoed Ralphie’s V-series Cadillac, hauled it away from that street in the Paseo where he’d left it the night he died. After the police had gotten through with it, the dealership had claimed it. As usual, Ralphie was behind on his payments.

Ralphie had always driven Cadillacs. He’d cruised through life in style behind the wheels of an endless series of Fleetwoods, Eldorados, Sevilles and sedan DeVilles.

Beyond the carport, at the end of the driveway, stood a cute shed shaped like a miniature barn. It was blue and white to match the trailer.

Phoebe pulled in under the carport, sliding out of the sluggish rain and into Ralphie’s empty space. She got out and shut the door quietly, and then stood for a moment, breathing in the warm, wet May air and wishing that being there didn’t make her feel as depressed as the dead daisies on the deck steps.

DARLA PULLED OPEN THE door as Phoebe raised her hand to knock. Ralphie’s widow wore a red lace flyaway baby-doll top with matching bikini panties. Her tangled hair hung limp around her tear-puffy face and her giant stomach, the navel distended, poked out between the open sides of the lacy pajama top. “Hey,” she said in a tiny, lost voice.

“Oh, honey,” whispered Phoebe on a heavy sigh.

Darla pushed open the glass storm door, grabbed Phoebe’s wrist and hauled her over the threshold. The storm door shut by itself. Darla shoved the inner door closed. “Pheeb…” With a sound midway between a moan and cry, Darla threw herself at Phoebe, who gathered her in and held her, rocking her, stroking her dirty hair, breathing in the slightly sour smell of her skin, amazed that her distended belly felt every bit as hard as it looked.

Phoebe whispered sweet lies meant to soothe. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay….” Darla held on tight and sobbed against her shoulder until the baby kicked Phoebe a good one and she pulled back. “Wow.” She laid her palm right over the spot where she’d felt the kick as Darla continued to sniffle and moan. “She’s a strong one….”

Darla hiccupped, a sound of pure misery. “It’s a he. I just know it. And he does that all time.”

Phoebe dropped her purse on the floor and reached for her hand. “Come on.”

Darla’s lip quivered. “What? Where?”

“A bath. And then breakfast.”

THE TUB HAD A RING OF greasy dirt in it and the small square of bathroom floor was littered with used tissues and wrinkled clothes. Phoebe quickly swept the clutter away and found a can of cleanser under the sink. She dropped to her knees, gave the tub a quick scrub and a cursory rinse and then put in the plug and ran the water, sprinkling in some bath beads to make it more inviting.

Darla sank into the froth of bubbles with a tiny sob and a surrendering sigh. Phoebe bathed her, washing her back and shampooing her hair. Darla cried softly through it all, murmuring now and then, “Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know how I’m gonna go on….”

Once Phoebe had her washed up, she left her long enough to find a pair of reasonably clean maternity cargoes, a top and some underwear. She got Darla out of the tub, dried her off.

Darla stood before the steamy bathroom mirror, naked. “Oh, I just don’t know….” She traced a heart on the mirror, wrote her name and Ralphie’s, dotting the i with another tiny heart, the way she always did.

Phoebe looked at that sad, tiny heart and heard Ralphie’s voice in her mind. “Now, there’s a woman made for love. Even dots her i’s with little hearts…”

Darla turned from the mirror, big eyes stark with loss and pain. “Oh, Pheeb…”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Phoebe said firmly. “Get dressed and get in there.”

The kitchen was worse than the bathroom. A tower of dirty dishes filled the sink. More dishes littered the counter and the table. Every burner on the stove had a pot on it and each pot contained something old and dried and unrecognizable. Phoebe cleared herself enough space to cook in. She found a box of oatmeal and a can of Eagle Brand milk in the nearly empty cupboard.

Twenty minutes later, she set a steaming bowl of oats in front of Darla, picked up the can of milk and poured some over the oats, then shoved the sugar bowl in closer. “Eat.”

Darla sniffed and scowled at the bowl. “I hate oatmeal. And that weird canned milk is gross. Ralphie used to eat that. Yuck…” Her face crumpled. “Ralphie. Oh, Ralphie…” The waterworks started in again.

Phoebe grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the table and shoved it Darla’s way. Grudgingly, Darla accepted it. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

“Eat,” Phoebe repeated, more firmly than before. She dropped into the chair across from Darla and waited, keeping her expression stern. Eventually, Darla ladled on some sugar, picked up the spoon Phoebe had washed for her, and dug in.

As she ate, Phoebe lectured. “It’s enough, Darla Jo. And you know it, too. I know how much you loved Ralphie. But there’s grieving and there’s grieving and you have let this get way out of hand. I’ll send someone over this afternoon to help you clean up this place.” She figured she could get Bernard or Tiff to help out. If not, she’d come back herself. “Whoever I send will take you to the store so you can buy groceries.”

“I’m broke. You know I am. The man I love died on me—and he left me nothin’.”

So Phoebe got up, got her purse and laid two fifties on the table. “You’re buying food. Today.”

Darla slid a glance at the money, then muttered sulkily, “Thanks.”

“No thanks are needed. You clean up this place and get yourself some food and show up at the bar tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I’ll put you back on the payroll. We’ll find something you can do.”

Darla shot her a calculating look. “Give me Ralphie’s share.” Her voice went wheedling. “Pheeb. Please. He woulda wanted me to have it. He promised it to me….”