Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion Read Free

them,” Donna said.
    “Is he a tightwad?” Gitana asked.
    “No. Phobias don’t operate like that. He just finds money distasteful,” Donna said.
    “How do you know all this?” Gitana asked.
    Chase started the eggs and pulled the shredded potatoes from the freezer. “His receptionist told us.”
    “You know about this too?” Gitana said.
    “Always go to the little people, they know everything. We bring her chocolate-covered orange Frangos,” Chase said.
    “Oh, Great God in heaven. You’re all corrupt.”
    Bud piped in, “Puy!”
    “What did she say?” Gitana asked.
    “She concurs.” Chase was setting the table. “Staying for dinner?” she asked Donna as she pulled out plates.
    “Sure.”
    Gitana stirred the potatoes into the eggs. “I feel out of the loop.”
    “I’ve got files on everyone we have to deal with. I’ll make you copies and then you’ll be up to speed,” Donna said.
    Gitana groaned.

Chapter Two—In the Desert
    Life! What art thou without love?—E. Moore
     
    Chase held the dustpan while one of her writing cohorts, Alma Lucero, her lovely wrinkled face and spiky white hair catching the sun, swept up the remnants of an entire china dinner set. The set had been pretty—gold trimmed with tiny pink roses. They were standing in the driveway of Mrs. Givens, Alma’s next-door neighbor.
    “It was his mother’s. He loved it, every fucking piece of it,” Mrs. Givens said, leaning over with great difficulty and picking up a piece. “Stupid pink roses.”
    “It’s all right, Evelyn. It’s only crockery,” Alma said soothingly.
    “I suppose you think I’m a horrible person,” Mrs. Givens said to Chase. “But then I don’t care anyhow, now do I? I suppose I should, but two fits of bad temper in seventy-four years isn’t so terrible. I could’ve been a murderess.”
    Chase gazed up from the broken crockery and the dustpan to the woman. “No, I think it’s the right kind of wickedness, in the sense of being quite correct—thus your behavior is most sensible.”
    “Are you still reading Dickens?” Alma said.
    “Just finished reading Oliver Twist to Bud. She loved it.”
    “Dickens! I stand by Hard Times as one of his best,” said Mrs. Givens, “or the one I like best. My husband, that miserable little pompous ass, is like Thomas Gradgrind. Do you know what started all this?” She put her arms out expansively, but before she could answer her own question, she caught sight of the fluttering curtain across the street. “That’s right, stare away—like I care. You haven’t spoken to me in fifteen years, what does it matter now? I can’t help it I’m hideous. Don’t you think I know I only have four good teeth and I have to strap up and wrap up and hunch over just to get through the fucking day? Do you know what that’s like?” She was screaming now.
    Chase glanced across the street to see who Mrs. Givens was shouting at, but the curtain had closed. She looked at Alma inquiringly.
    “It’s Mrs. Bell. They’ve hated each other for years—something about the theft of tulip bulbs,” Alma explained.
    Goodness, Chase thought. My neighbors are looking better all the time—though it does help that there’s ten acres between us.
    “Well, back at it. Do you know how long it took me to do all this, piece by piece in fond remembrance of what each cup, saucer, plate, dessert plate, gravy boat, sugar and cream set and graceful teacups meant to me as I washed and carefully stacked them after each holiday? Those were hard, I liked the tea set, but it had to be done, and now it’s all gone.”
    Chase decided that “Do you know” was Mrs. Givens’ way of starting all her tirades. Chase rather liked it. Her mother, Stella, would hate it. Just as she had hated Chase’s habit of saying “excuse me” when she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She cured Chase of that. It was a tough love episode, but it had worked. Mrs. Givens and her speech were straight out of Dickens.