Читать книгу Last Known Address - Elizabeth Wrenn - Страница 10

Shelly pulled the pillow into a tight crescent around her ears, willing herself back to her dream, uncertain what had woken her. She’d been dreaming something about a castle. In England? Ireland? She couldn’t remember, but it was fabulous–gold faucets, jeweled chandeliers, thick, pillowy beds with equally thick and pillowy comforters, huge colorful rugs across vast stone floors. She drifted back, sliding into sleep again like Alice down the rabbit hole. What a beautiful room! A living room, or maybe a library. For a giant. Huge brocade couches and massive French wingback chairs, all with thick, carved figures in their wood trim, leather-spined books floor to ceiling on the back wall, the furniture circling a roaring fire in a fireplace so big you could park a small car in it. She stepped around the huge, high-backed chair, easily three times her height. Startled, she jumped backward, stumbling. A giant chicken was sitting in the chair, roosting on an enormous egg. Shelly immediately wanted that egg. She couldn’t help herself. She knew she shouldn’t, knew that this gargantuan bird could really hurt her, peck her to death, or get its claws into her hair, carry her off to its lair. But she was driven by an uncontrollable urge. The chicken crowed. Could hens crow, dream-Shelly wondered, despite her fear. Her heart racing, she stepped toward the chicken, wanting desperately to retreat but feeling possessed. She reached for the egg. The chicken screamed at her, wings flapping, feathers flying. As she jumped back again, she screamed, but no sound came out. All she could hear was the chicken crowing as she fell into blackness.

Her eyes jerked open. Her fingers dug into the mattress. She was caught in the tug of war between dream and adrenalin, both pulling her hard to their reality. Adrenalin won. Her heart pounding, she glanced left and right in the dark room. Nothing looked familiar. Finally, she made out the other bed, Meg and C.C. asleep in it. A loud staccato crowing from outside their window broke the dark morning stillness.

Shelly took a moment to wade mentally through the webby remnants of sleep, weighing what was dream, what was real. Finally, she muttered, ‘Is that a fucking rooster?’

Somehow, neither the rooster nor her mumbling woke her friends. How she envied their ability to sleep so deeply! She untangled herself from the twisted bedcovers, threw them off and stood, stretching her hands over her head, then rubbing her upper arms vigorously, urging some blood to start circulating through her body. She looked at the red numbers of the digital clock on the bedside table: 5.18. Shit. No normal person should be awake at this hour. She lifted just the edge of the orange window curtain and peered out.

The sun had little more than peeked above the eastern horizon, just enough to streak the few clouds in the sky with shades of purple and pink, casting a hoary light upon the town. Down the road a bit, Shelly saw something moving. It wobbled into a yellow-orange circle of light from a lone streetlamp. A rooster. How fucking bucolic! He was strutting down the dirt road, as officious as a rabbi headed to temple. He stopped, ruffled his wings slightly in the light, as if spotlit on a stage. He pointed his beak skyward and let loose again. She would have laughed if she hadn’t shuddered. He was nearly exactly in the middle of the circle of light. She surmised that he must have come from the other direction, worked his way past their window, and on down the street. He finished his crow in the spotlight, and strutted off again, same direction. Still holding the corner of the ugly curtain, she wondered if maybe it was his job, waking up the town. That he’d worked out some sort of deal with the Tupper officials that he would walk down Main Street (which, frankly, she was surprised wasn’t called Purdy Street) and wake everyone up in exchange for–what? Maybe for being fed and not eaten. And maybe let into the coop with the hens every now and then. Shelly’s lip curled as she took a last look at the bird, then shuddered again, as if she’d just swallowed down a particularly vile substance. Birds of all kinds gave her the willies.

She sat heavily back on the edge of the bed, rubbed her face, collapsed sideways onto her pillow. She ached with fatigue. Or cold. Or age. Fifty was not old, Shelly knew (she’d been fifty for almost three years now), and she had spent a lot of breath reminding her two friends of that fact, who you’d think had one foot in the grave the way they complained about their age. Meg was only two years older than she, C.C. was only forty-nine. In Shelly’s opinion, it was a bit of a cop-out to succumb to the minor aches and pains of middle age. Wait till old age. There’d be plenty of time for complaining then.

Shelly closed her eyes, but sleep was gone, so she opened them, stared upward. C.C.’s nightlight (so she could find the bathroom) provided just enough of a glow for Shelly to make out the brown water stain on one of the ceiling panels above her. She stared at it for a minute, its dark brown edges making her crave a cup of coffee. She looked over at Meg and C.C., still and silent in their bed. They’d said they wanted to share a bed and gotten no argument from her. She knew they were being generous. They were well aware of her need to sleep alone. It was hard enough for her to share a room, let alone a bed. Even with men. Especially with men. Men made too damn much noise at night–snoring, sputtering, farting. Breathing. Then they woke up at some ungodly hour, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, snuggling up and grabbing her, ready for some more action, right when she felt like she’d finally just gotten to sleep. No, sir. It’d been years since she’d allowed a man to spend the night in her room. Down the hall, maybe. Better they should go to their own home and sleep. After her second divorce she’d vowed she would remain single and not even cohabit for the remainder of her life. That had been the one vow she’d kept. That, and not speaking to Nina.

Shelly sat up again, looking at her friends. She shook her head in dismay. They were both on their backs, C.C.’s hands neatly on the fold of the sheet over the blanket on her protruding chest, fingertips over fingertips, as if she’d been posed by a mortician. Meg was also on her back, but her hands and arms were under the covers. Probably cold. The poor thing had no meat on her bones anymore. On the table next to Meg’s head was an envelope addressed to Grant, at their house. Meg must have written it last night. Yet another letter to the asshole.

Shelly sighed, gazing at her friends. They looked like two pens in an engineer’s pocket protector, both of them trained by years of habit to sleep in exactly one-half of the bed. Or less.

Not her, by God. Not Rochelle Hannah Kostens. Never again. She flopped back on her bed, spread-eagled, taking up the whole bed, just because she could.

Twenty minutes later, showered, her curly hair (‘salt and cayenne pepper’, she called it) pulled back in a short ponytail, her face without makeup, Shelly stepped out into the buttery morning light. The clean smell of moist earth and the slow unfurling of spring made her inhale twice, deeply, relishing the scent of possibility. She admired the sky: the clouds were gone and that dusky blue of dawn, not night but not yet day, domed the earth. She checked her watch: 5.56. She had asked Purdy last night when he would open the restaurant for breakfast; she did not like to wait long for that first cup of coffee. ‘Six a.m. sharp, ma’am. Coffee’ll be fresh-brewed at six a.m.’

She strode down the street, watching for the rooster, not wanting it to sneak up behind her and crow. She didn’t see the bird anywhere but walked faster, feeling like she could be attacked by uncooked poultry at any moment. Her distaste for birds came, like so many things, from her youth. (Funny, she thought, how more and more years now qualified as ‘her youth’.) But she really had been young when the Tweety Incident happened. She was ten, at her friend Rachel’s house. Rachel had a new parakeet she’d rather uncreatively named Tweety. Extolling his many virtues, Rachel had coaxed Tweety out of his cage onto her finger, then onto Shelly’s shoulder. At first, Shelly, though nervous, was charmed. Then Tweety pooped a dribbly grayish blob onto her new green shirt. Shelly screamed and Tweety tried to take flight but became momentarily tangled in her long, curly hair. In her preadolescent panic, her brain locked up and all she could think of was the fire-safety lesson they’d all received at school the day before. So she’d stopped, dropped and rolled, with Tweety flapping madly to free himself through the stop, drop and half the roll. In the nick of time, he liberated himself from Shelly’s long locks and flew around the kitchen vocalizing his outrage as Shelly continued to roll. Tweety was completely unharmed. Shelly was not so lucky. She rolled into the corner cabinet of the Gold-mans’ brand-new kitchen island and cut her forehead, requiring three stitches. After that day, Tweety squawked loudly every time he saw Shelly, till Rachel fed him a bird cookie of some sort to calm him down. Shelly felt she deserved a cookie, not the damn bird. But all she’d gotten from the incident was a scar on her forehead, the humiliating nickname of ‘Drop and Roll’, which lasted all through junior high school, and a phobia for birds that had lasted her whole life.

Shelly quickened her pace down the road into a near-jog, till she came to a white clapboard house. She slowed, caught by its simplicity. It was a little box of a house, with a small cement front stoop, two aluminum lawn chairs on it, their webbing frayed and stringy. A thigh-high, white picket fence rimmed the tiny side and front yards. The ordinariness of the house was somehow extraordinary.

She strode on past two more houses and a one-pump gas station with an unmoving white and red barber pole outside the door. Funny little town, she thought. Not much to it. But thankfully, everything they’d needed yesterday after they’d broken down: a mechanic, a restaurant, an inexpensive but safe place to spend the night. And if any of them were interested in a quick trim, she wagered they could get it while someone filled their gas tank. She wondered what a haircut at the barbershop-cum-gas station might cost. Probably ten or fifteen bucks. Maybe less. A little thrill rippled through her, immediately followed by a horrific image of what a ten-dollar haircut might look like. She’d always gone to the most expensive hair salon in Cedar Rapids, just because she could afford it. She made a little ‘tsk’ sound. It pained her again to have to think about what everything cost. Like when she was in college or something, for crying out loud. She thought wistfully of her gleaming Italian espresso machine, enough to make any barista drool, and the imported biscotti she had nearly every morning with her first cup. Like so many other things, the machine had been sold, the standing biscotti order cancelled. She jerked open the big glass door to the restaurant, feeling angry about life in general, and birds and budgets in particular.

‘Good morning, ma’am,’ Purdy said, seeming to hold himself and the coffee pot in his left hand with undue grip as the little bell announced her entry. The aroma of coffee all but physically embraced her. Purdy was already pouring a cup, which he then offered to her, smiling. ‘You slept well, I hope?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it, mustering a smile, leaving it at that. He seemed like a genuinely nice man, but if that little bell bothered him so much, why didn’t he just take it down? ‘You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this.’ She took a sip. ‘Ahhh,’ she said, eyes closed. Yes, she would make it.

That’s how coffee always made her feel, especially lately. That caffeine alone would somehow propel her through one more day. There was no doubt that this was a drug, and she was addicted. Her new ‘budget’ (thinking the word nearly made her gag on her coffee) demanded that she forgo the double-shot lattes she’d grown accustomed to.

Still standing next to Purdy, she cupped both her hands around the mug, sipped again, and gave another satisfied sigh. She had to admit, there was something to be said for a regular cup of coffee. And in a ceramic mug, not a paper cup with a plastic lid. ‘That’s pretty good Java, Purdy.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He had the most adorable smile. If smiles could be marketed, she could make some money on his.

‘I’m Shelly,’ she said, extending her hand.

He switched the coffee pot to his other hand, shook hers, gripping her whole hand, but gently. Old school. ‘Good morning, Shelly. Do you want to wait for your friends, or…?’

‘They’re both still asleep.’

He looked slightly crestfallen, but recovered quickly, then pointed to the wall. ‘Booth?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ She slid into the same booth from dinner. Purdy, thankfully, stayed behind the bar. She needed a minute. She sipped her coffee, then picked up a menu. Grits. Yuk. Who ate corn mush for breakfast? She read on. Bacon and eggs. Waffles. Pancakes. French toast. C.C. would be in hog heaven here. But Meg was going to have a hard time. Let’s see…Shelly scanned the columns, found there was both a fruit bowl and cereal listed under ‘Side Dishes’. She doubted Purdy had soy milk to go on Meg’s bran flakes, but Meg would probably just peck at whatever food she ordered anyway.

Ahh. Lookee there, also under ‘Side Dishes’. Perfect. She set the menu down and suddenly Purdy appeared tableside, bearing the coffee pot. He was good. Been at this a while, no doubt.

‘And what can I bring you this morning?’ he asked as he refilled her mug.

‘You know, Purdy, a lightly toasted bagel with a shmear, uh, cream cheese, would absolutely light up my life right now.’

‘So be it! The light-up-your-life bagel with cream cheese.’

She wanted to reach up and pinch those bulbous, cherry cheeks. With his belly, and those big graying eyebrows, if he just had a beard and wasn’t bald, he’d make a perfect Santa. But he could grow a beard, wear a hat…

Purdy headed to the kitchen, leaving Shelly thinking about Santa. And suddenly she was thinking about Nina again. She had battled this in the car yesterday too. She knew why, though she tried to forget it. It had been her one reservation about coming on this trip. She sipped her coffee. As long as she kept her mouth shut, didn’t let anything slip to Meg and C.C., she could deal with it. But every thought of Nina stirred that deep well of anger, grown black and thick and viscous after so many years. Talking about it would be that much worse. She picked up the menu and read every word on it till her bagel arrived.

She was washing the last bite of bagel down with her third cup of coffee, when the black wall phone at the bar jangled loudly, an old-fashioned ring. Shelly noted curiously that Purdy didn’t seem so jumpy today. He strolled over and picked it up. Being the only two in the place, Shelly couldn’t help but listen.

‘Purdy here. Mornin’, son. Yes. Well, one of them is. Why?’ He glanced her way. She watched Purdy’s face registering confusion. ‘Wait. Who?’ Another long pause. ‘From where?’ Pause. ‘Kirby? Well, where’d he come across her?’ Pause. ‘Well, how’d she get there?. Never mind, I’ll just have Shelly come over.’ Another short pause, then Purdy turned toward the wall and added quietly, ‘No. She’s the tall, redheaded one. No. She’s not up yet.’ He turned, more red-faced than ever and clapped the phone back onto the wall base. Shelly picked up her menu again, using it to hide her smile.

Purdy walked back to the booth. ‘My son asked that one of you ladies come over as soon as you can. The part’s already been delivered and the guy who brought it, well, he somehow…eh, something about a runaway? Not sure what it all has to do with the alternator.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Well, I’d better let Mick explain it. I don’t understand, myself.’ He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and smiled his adorable smile again.

Intrigued, Shelly paid for her breakfast–they were keeping their food separate, but splitting all other bills–then headed out the door, the sound of the tinkling bell in her wake. She fished her large, white sunglasses out of her purse, squinting in the bright light till she had them in place. She unzipped her jacket as she walked across the road. It was warming up nicely. She passed another little Mayberryesque house as she walked toward the mechanic shop. But Mayberry turned Hitchcock as she passed by several rusting hulks of cars, and heard a soft but distinct clucking sound from somewhere within. Shelly quickened her stride, then, hearing or imagining little chicken feet pounding the road behind her, she began running to the door of the shop.

On the side window, as if it was a separate business, were letters too big to miss even at a chicken-escaping pace: ‘Mick’s Auto Sales’. As she rounded the corner, and reached for the big metal handle of the door, she saw there were different letters there. Not as large but bolder, as if that, in and of itself, delineated it as a separate business: ‘Mick’s Garage–Mechanic 24 Hr’. Shelly flung open the heavy glass door and almost leaped inside, glancing behind her. No bird. Still, only when the door closed and she felt she was safe did she turn and notice Mick, intently tapping away with two fingers at an old and very dirty computer on a battered wood desk. Shelly smiled, smoothed her hair, composed herself, trying to resemble a woman who hadn’t just been fleeing a chicken. Or rooster. Or whatever the hell it was.

She stood smiling, both her hands gripping the strap of her purse, hanging over her shoulder. She waited. Mick continued hunting and pecking with two fingers on the grimy keyboard, intent and focused. She hoped whatever it was he needed to tell them wasn’t bad news. Of course, ‘runaway’ didn’t immediately make one think of good news. But she felt she couldn’t take more bad news. Maybe there was a runaway car that had crashed, not a bad crash where anyone got hurt, but maybe where someone had left the parking brake off and it had slid down the hill and crashed into–something harmless–a dumpster, maybe, and they had been given its alternator to bring their ailing car back to health. Yes. A sort of automobile organ donation. For free. Sure, why not? Shelly was determined to remain optimistic, even implausibly so. Leave the doubt and worry to the other two. They more than had it covered.

Breathing impatiently, she looked out the window. The rooster strutted by, stopping to peck at something in the grass, not five feet from the door. Shelly shivered, turned away from the window and looked for a place to sit down. But the only other furniture in the tiny office, besides Mick’s desk and chair, was an orange plastic chair against the wall, also streaked with grime. She decided she would stand. A sign at the other end of the narrow room caught her eye: the universal man/woman silhouette, thumb-tacked onto the wall next to a closed door. Shelly suddenly felt her three cups of coffee. But, given the lack of cleanliness of the office, she thought it prudent to wait till she got back to their room.

‘Ah-hem,’ she said, tired of waiting. Mick looked up from the keyboard.

He rose, pulling off his cap. ‘Oh! Golly! Sorry. Didn’t see you there. Morning, ma’am.’

‘Good morning,’ said Shelly. ‘Your dad said you wanted to see me. Or one of us?’

‘Yeah. I got a sorta favor to ask. I wonder if you ladies could give M.J. a ride down south with you?’

Oh crap. No vehicle runaway. No free alternator. Probably some tattooed, preadolescent tart who’d scurried off on a romantic escapade with her much older boyfriend, and now wanted to go home to Momma.

‘No,’ said Shelly firmly, stepping to the desk. ‘I’m sorry but—’

‘Before you say no,’ Mick interrupted. He clicked at the keyboard for a minute, as Shelly cocked her head in irritation, thinking: but I just did say no. ‘Ahh! Here it is! And…’ said Mick, lifting his head and smiling, ‘…there’s some money in it for you ladies.’

Money?

He twisted the screen around toward her. Shelly stared at his email inbox as Mick highlighted then clicked on tailhound@whips4me.com.

Holy shit. Was this from a porn site? Grimly fascinated, Shelly read the email silently.

Hi Kirby and Mick: I got your email about the ladies driving south! That’s fantastic!!!!!! It’s a miracle!!!!! It’s truly God’s work sending those ladies to bring my little girl home to me! now Mary Jo won’t have to fly! fingers crossed!!!! well, obviously she’s terrified to fly!! LOL!!! now she won’t have to!!! I’m lighting candles at church tonight for both of you and for the three ladies and praying that they agree to bring MJ home to me!!! please, please please email or call me as soon as you know for sure!! I’ll let y’all figure out how to split the reward!!

Candy

Shelly stared, open-mouthed, at Mick. She didn’t know where to begin. She didn’t have children herself, but even she could tell that this mother’s screen name was enough to cast her under deep suspicion as an unfit parent. And kids who ran away usually had a reason. Not to mention this woman’s extreme excessive use of exclamation marks. Meg would have a field day with that.

‘How old is this M.J.?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone level, objective-sounding.

‘Uh, I didn’t ask. Does it matter? Can you take her? Please?’

Shelly already had the word ‘No’ formed on her lips again, complete with an exclamation mark of her own, when Mick held up his hand. ‘Wait. Before you answer, just meet her. She’s a sweet girl. She really is. Just scared, is all.’

She’s here? Shelly looked around, then out the window, uncertain what she should do. She could just walk out. But that bird was out there.

‘One second!’ Mick unclipped a set of keys from his belt loop and jogged toward the closed door at the end of the office. ‘I’ve got her locked in the bathroom so she don’t take off again.’

Locked in the bathroom? Forget the ride. Shelly realized they needed to grab this kid and take her as fast as they could to the nearest social services agency.

‘You’ve locked her in the bathroom?’

‘Yep.’ He looked a little sheepish as he put the key in the doorknob and tried to turn it. The key didn’t seem to be working. He jiggled it, pulled it out again, shooting a quick and embarrassed smile at her. ‘Never usually lock this thing, but sometimes it won’t latch tight and I didn’t want to take a chance of her taking off again.’ Finally, he turned the key in the lock.

Shelly put one hand on the side of the desk, steadying herself. C.C. or Meg should be here, she thought, not her. They’re the mothers. She took a deep breath. She was okay with Lucy, but otherwise she didn’t really enjoy children. Especially not teenagers. Especially surly, runaway teenagers. Mick fumbled at the door. Shelly lifted her sunglasses off the top of her head, set them on the desk. She tried to assume what she hoped was a maternal smile. Then she had a thought: if the kid ran away from her mom, maybe maternal wasn’t the way to go here. Maybe her real-estate agent smile would actually be better. She conjured the words ‘pristine’ and ‘move-in condition’ and ‘envy of the neighborhood’, and the smile slid on, natural, inviting, engaging.

Mick slowly cracked the door, standing in front of the opening. ‘Hey, M.J.,’ he said sweetly.

Shelly leaned to the side, trying to see around him, but it was impossible. Until he slowly opened the door wider. Then she saw a very worn-looking teddy bear face down on the floor.

Oh God. It was a little kid! She still couldn’t see her, but this was a whole new ballgame. Mick pushed the door fully open, revealing a small, plastic margarine tub, half full of water under the exposed gooseneck pipe of the sink. Christ! What a place to stash a kid. A little kid! She shook her head, but then noticed a second plastic tub. Filled with…? Cereal, maybe?

Just as the tired synapses of Shelly’s brain tried to process the information, Mick stepped aside. ‘I guess she’s not gonna make a run for it.’

Shelly scanned the little room, but saw no one. She stepped forward, tentatively. Then, she saw her. Hiding behind the toilet, a small, very thin, trembling…

Dog.

Her tired brain, like an old train, slowly but surely picked up steam, and headed through an entirely different information tunnel.

A dog.

Shelly guffawed, her shoulders slumping in relief. ‘It’s a dog!’ The three words echoed joyfully in her head, relief abundant. The dog appeared to be skin and bones, but Shelly thought that it was one of those breeds that looked that way naturally. But it was shaking like a leaf, the poor thing. ‘Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me it was a dog?’ she asked, recovering her equilibrium.

‘I thought Dad did.’ Mick looked at her blankly.

She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No, he sure didn’t. Or if he did, I didn’t catch it. I thought you’d locked some kid up in here!’ She put her hand to her chest, inhaling and exhaling dramatically.

Mick grinned, but his eyes were wide. ‘Cripes! I wouldn’t do that, ma’am. I felt bad enough locking this poor little thing in here. See? I gave her a towel over there for her t’lay on, and my old bear, Mr Snuppy. But she’s still scared silly, poor thing.’

Shelly looked at the dog. ‘What did you say her name is? The dog’s?’

‘M.J. Well, that’s what they call her. She’s got some fancy long name, but I can’t remember it.’

She was kind of pretty, but also kind of ugly, thought Shelly. She had a beautiful charcoal-gray coat, with four white paws, each looking like it had been carefully and exactly dipped into a can of white paint, a matching thin blaze of white down her nose. Her best feature, in Shelly’s opinion, was the tiny white tip on her tail. But she was so skinny, such a wisp of a thing, her features so pointy and bony, from snout to tail, ears to toenails, that she looked like she was only part dog, the rest of her genes contributed by a lanky rat. The poor thing had plastered herself into the corner, her bony narrowness seeming expressly made to fit neatly into a corner. She had the kind of ears that looked as if they were turned inside out, pushed flat against the back of her long, thin neck. She was hiding behind the porcelain pedestal of the toilet, her feet tightly together under her, her tail wrapped securely around them, every part of her quivering, as if she was experiencing her own personal earthquake.

‘C’mere, M.J.’ Mick was squatting now, snapping his fingers lightly, which only made the dog turn her head toward the wall.

Shelly’s heart constricted. Well, maybe they could take this little thing to her owner. Her ‘mother’. Shelly chuckled, shaking her head. Candy wasn’t a porn star! Tailhound, for crying out loud, referred to her love of dogs. Whips4us. Of course! Shelly realized that the dog must be a Whippet. But Shelly’s neighbor in New York had had Whippets, and this dog seemed too small. She wondered if it was a puppy, or maybe there was a sub-breed, Miniature Whippet. Either way, maybe they could help the little dog out. She was sure Meg and C.C., both being gaa-gaa over babies and animals of all kinds, would be willing.

‘So when the suitcase guys finally figured out the kennel door was open, M.J. had skedaddled,’ explained Mick to the assembled group in the restaurant. ‘She was prolly just so scared, she didn’t even know where she was running to. Just ran and ran. Kirby found her in the bushes next to his shop.’

‘Kirby is the guy who brought the alternator,’ Shelly explained to C.C. and Meg.

By the time she and Mick had brought M.J. over to the restaurant, the two women were on their second cups of coffee and just starting in on their breakfasts. As Shelly had guessed, a dinner-plate-sized waffle with an egg on the top, both awash in syrup, for C.C., and a small fruit plate for Meg. Shelly was sitting next to C.C., Meg opposite. Mick and Purdy had each pulled up a chair. C.C. pinched off a tiny corner of her waffle and fed it to M.J., who had been on C.C.’s lap from the moment she’d seen her. ‘Cookie? Yummy!’ C.C. whispered, as the trembling dog tentatively took the treat and ate it.

Shelly continued explaining: ‘So when Mick mentioned to Kirby that the three of us needed to get on the road again as soon as possible because we were headed to Tennessee, Kirby offered to bring the part over himself. He figured he’d found a ride home for M.J.’

‘Kirby’s delivering parts to Coryville today, but says he’ll stop back by for M.J. tonight if you ladies can’t take her,’ said Mick. ‘But if you can, he’s willing to split the reward, sixty-forty, with you ladies getting the bigger half, since you’ll be driving her home. That’d more than cover the cost of the alternator and labor. You’d have half your share left over.’

Shelly caught Meg’s teacher’s grimace at ‘the bigger half’. Meg smiled at being caught, then poked her fork hard into a grape she’d been chasing around her plate. Shelly patted M.J. in C.C.’s lap. The dog was clearly enjoying her perch on C.C.’s ample lap, though Shelly wondered how comfortable she could be in the leash and harness that Mick had fashioned. It appeared he’d used yards of twine, making M.J. look like something on which a very small and very inept cowboy had practiced calf-roping. C.C. held the end of the twine leash tightly in one hand, her fork in the other. No one wanted to take a chance on M.J. running away again. But Shelly winced, looking at the harness. The loops and knots of twine looked scratchy. They would have to stop and buy her a proper harness and leash as soon as they hit civilization again.

‘But how did she get loose in the first place?’ Meg asked.

‘This here explains. Kirby gave me this.’ Mick pulled a neatly folded newspaper clipping from his jumpsuit pocket and smoothed it on the table. As Purdy left to tend to some other customers, Mick read the article aloud.

‘Greyhound Takes Off Ahead of Schedule.’

‘A four-year-old Italian Greyhound [Ah-ha, thought Shelly] dog escaped from her kennel on the tarmac of the Quad City Airport on Saturday afternoon, prior to flying home to Kentucky after a local dog show. The dog, called M.J., but registered under the name of “Mary Josephine Fair Maiden Made-You-Look,” belongs to Candy Suddle of Lexington, Kentucky. Suddle and her dog were returning home after competing in the preliminary rounds of a dog agility competition. The kennel was about to be loaded into the aircraft when employees noticed the dog had somehow escaped. “I checked the door not twenty minutes before that, and she was in there and it was shut tight,” said Javon Cutch, an airline employee who was loading cargo that day for Mid-America Air.’

Mick stopped reading to take a sip of his very white coffee, and then bit into his cheese Danish. Shelly reached for the news clipping, asking, ‘May I?’ Mick nodded, pushing it toward her, and took another slurp of his coffee and another large bite of Danish. Purdy reappeared with the coffee pot, and refilled everyone’s cup, starting with C.C.’s. Shelly continued:

‘Suddle owns both Italian Greyhounds and Whippets, and shows them in various competitions around the country. “I can’t believe this happened,” said Suddle, in a phone interview. “I don’t know how she got out if someone didn’t let her out. The airline didn’t bother to tell me my dog wasn’t on the flight till we landed in Lexington.” Suddle said she is considering a lawsuit against the airline, and is offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the return of her dog. The airline said it would match her reward. There have been several unconfirmed sightings of the dog, each one at increasing distances from the airport. “It’s likely it’s her,” said Tanya Dean, spokeswoman for the Linn County Sheriff’s Office. “The descriptions all match hers, gray with white socks.” Dean urged area residents to keep an eye out for the dog, and to call the sheriff’s non-emergency number with any possible sightings.’

Shelly looked up. ‘And then it gives a phone number.’ She looked the little dog in the eye. ‘That is one helluva name ya got there, girl.’

‘What is it again?’ asked Meg, smiling.

Shelly traced her finger over the clipping till she found it. ‘Mary Josephine Fair Maiden Made-You-Look. Damn! For a name like that, I’d even consider getting married again.’

Meg laughed. C.C. leaned down, kissed the top of the little dog’s head. She spoke in a high-pitched voice. ‘Yesh she is, isn’t she? She is a verr-wee fair maiden! Aren’t you, widdle girl?’ The dog’s seemingly naked little tail thrummed against C.C.’s stomach. M.J. lifted her snout and licked her chin, making C.C. giggle. Still in a baby-voice she added, ‘Oooo! Tank you for da kisses, widdle girrr!’

Shelly sighed loudly, placing her palms on the table. ‘Well, for six hundred bucks I’m willing to take the dog with us and drop her off in Kentucky.’ She wagged her finger playfully at C.C. ‘But we’re dropping you off too if you talk baby-talk the whole way.’ C.C. laughed with everyone else, then stuck her tongue out at her, making them all laugh again.

Shelly knew it was crazy, but she would swear the little dog smiled too. M.J. looked like she’d spent her whole life on C.C.’s lap, and would happily remain there for the rest of it.