25. Twenty-Five #2
The pot-bellied salesman at the dealership eyes Lena in a way I don’t like.
At all. He speaks in mumbled Carolinian when I ask about the vehicle’s features.
When I ask him to repeat himself, he jokes about “cleaning the wax from my ears.” Lena doesn’t interject or speak for me but signs the information so that I understand.
Randy turns red at his obvious idiocy—I hope that means he won’t ridicule anyone else for having trouble hearing.
“It’s still a good day,” she says when he leaves to retrieve the keys.
I have to agree. Lena drives the truck like a professional, whipping around corners and merging in and out of traffic. She loves the truck.
But when we return to the dealership, she hands Randy the keys with a firm “No, thanks” before pulling me to the Jeep.
“I thought you liked it,” I say.
“I love it, but I’m not buying it from that guy. Did you see how he looked at me when we got here?” She shivers. “Creepy.”
I laugh. This is my favorite Lena— my Lena. Present, funny, loving, and the only woman in existence who knows what I need without words. She seems to understand that this is what I need today.
Not career advice.
Not rehashing my hearing options.
She doesn’t even mention our therapy session, though I displayed minimal effort and need to do better.
We pick Ruthie up from preschool, and she shares a dramatic account of her day while I hold her mother’s hand across the front seat. I long for home and a quiet evening with Lena curled up on one side of me and Ruthie on the other as we watch TV.
But arriving home, any plans for a relaxing evening are upended.
Cars line the country road, haphazardly parked along our outer fence.
A camera-toting crowd assembles at the foot of our driveway, blocking the path.
I lay on the horn, whipping the Jeep around Officer Bennett’s patrol car, already stationed where I want a gate.
The studio’s few security guards stand with him, keeping a weak barrier.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Ruthie asks.
“Paparazzi… it’s a funny word for pushy photographers,” I say.
“That is a funny word,” Ruthie says after failing to say it properly. I don’t correct her. It’s not a word that should be in a four-year-old’s vocabulary. “Take Ruthie home. I’ll deal with this.”
Lena obeys, crawling into my seat when I exit. The Jeep peels down the lane as I approach Bennett.
“Hey, Ben.” He shakes my hand. “Got ourselves a nuisance here. They’re mostly behaving, but the security team caught a few wandering the property earlier and called me for backup.”
With Bennett at my side, I approach the line and demand their attention.
“I’m Lieutenant Ben Wright, Wilmington Police. This is private property. Remove your vehicles before I have them towed. You have ten minutes to comply.” I hold up the timer on my phone. “Step on our land after that, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
The group confers, assessing their surroundings. With the Harveys’ cornfield towering across the street and our pastures taking up this side, there’s nowhere to park without infringing on private property. Country roads don’t have shoulders to pull onto or nearby parking lots.
With no options, the group disbands.
Officer Bennett promises to increase patrols, but his department is small. We confer with Elsie Todd, the production manager, who apologizes and claims that a top-notch security team arrives in the morning.
“For a few paparazzi?” Bennett asks. “Seems like you should’ve already expected this.”
“Um, we did. But there’s something else.” Ms. Todd leans closer. “Jaye’s received disturbing fan mail lately, creepy enough not to ignore.”
“Understood. I want access to the fan mail,” I say. “I want to talk to the security team when they arrive. I also suggest moving the trailers horizontally with the fence line to create more of a barrier and less access for the cameras.”
She nods and immediately delivers the instructions in her walkie.
Bennett and I walk the perimeter, finding another cameraman hiding in the bushes near Matt Kirby’s trailer.
He’s arrested and taken to the local station.
Ms. Todd forwards Jaye’s fan mail. An emotionally disturbed person claims that Jaye is demonically possessed and needs cleansing via holy water, fire, blood-letting, acid bath, or death.
The unpleasant reading prompts me to suggest that she change hotels and use an alias or, better yet, relocate to a more private residence altogether.
“I believe Dot and Mrs. Moore have an extra room,” I advise, knowing they’d happily accommodate her. Jaye seems willing to consider it.
Inside the house, laundry is going, the dogs are eating, something is baking, and Ruthie is occupied with homework at the kitchen island. Busy Lena has returned. She looks defeated as I enter, probably in expectation of my anger.
I am upset. But not at her. Even I wouldn’t have foreseen this.
Her teary eyes catch mine. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the fence and security cameras installed. I’ve left a message for the company you recommended.”
Her words come quickly as if cutting me off from my usual irritation.
I step to her side of the kitchen island, where ingredients and utensils are scattered beside a cutting board and casserole dish.
She huffs, trying to open a jar of roasted red peppers by bracing it with her cast. I pry the jar from her grip, open it, and set it on the counter.
“Come here,” I say, holding my arms open.
Surprised and relieved, she falls against me, wrapping her arms as best she can around my neck to tighten her grip. I love the way she fits me and how her wavy hair tickles my cheek.
“It’s still a good day,” I assure her, and despite the bullshit—mine and Saddletree’s—I feel better about us.