Читать книгу Old Boyfriends - Rexanne Becnel - Страница 9

Mary Jo

B ig breasts can be such a curse. They attract attention from everyone, good attention and bad.

Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not naive enough to believe mine weren’t directly involved in my husband’s interest in me. The odd thing, however, is that Frank was most fascinated by the fact that my breasts were real. Apparently his first wife’s enhancement procedure was the beginning of the end for them. Why couldn’t life be simple? he used to always ask. So I made it my goal to keep his life simple and pure, first as his employee, then as his wife. Bottled water, organic food, nothing synthetic in his clothing.

Except for his children and our lack of children together, I would have described our marriage as perfect. We were in balance, each with our own area of responsibility. Frank made the big decisions and paid for everything; I made all the small decisions and kept our life calm and organized. But then he died.

Even more drastic than Frank’s actual death was the way he died. It made our entire life together a lie—messy, complicated and nasty.

How could he want a man pretending to be a woman, when he had me, real breasts and all?

Thank God for Cat and Bitsey. Those two saved me, and I mean that literally. I don’t know what I would do without them, my Grits sisters. And now here we were, cruising through the desert with Cindy Lauper blaring from a Phoenix radio station.

Funny as it seems, my enthusiasm for this trip slipped a bit when we first started off this morning. I was leaving California for good. I knew it and I wasn’t really sorry. But I didn’t know where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to do.

Then we were pulled over for speeding, and for some reason that changed everything. It sounds ridiculous, but when that cute lesbian cop gave me the once-over, it gave me just the boost I needed. Not that I’m interested in women sexually; men are definitely my first choice. But I realized then that no matter the stumbling blocks thrown at me, I can find a way through—at least as long as Cat and Bitsey are on my side. I promised not to speed anymore, the cop let us go, and we were on our way. Best of all, I was back to feeling great.

The sky had begun to turn coral, aqua and rose in the rearview mirror when we exited I-10.

“My butt is numb,” Cat muttered, shifting in her seat. “Just find the nearest hotel and let me out of here.”

I had visions of a Motel Six. “There must be a Sheraton or Doubletree here. They usually have great spas.”

“How about a Marriott?” Bitsey asked, pointing to a billboard. We followed the signs to the Marriott and within a half hour we were checked in, with Cat and Bitsey fighting for first dibs on the shower.

“But what about our workout?” I asked Bitsey.

“Not today, M.J. Please? I’m just too worn-out for any workout more strenuous than searching for a restaurant. But I promise to be a good girl about it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, M.J. You’re on vacation,” Cat said, taking advantage of Bitsey’s preoccupation with me to slip past her and into the bathroom. “What do you say we play first—and play later?”

“Fine.” I shouldn’t have been annoyed, but the idea of helping Bitsey get in shape had become a real challenge to me. A mission. And now she wasn’t cooperating. “While you two freshen up here, I’ll get in a couple of miles on the bike. You’ll be sorry,” I added to Bitsey, “When I can have a drink—”

I broke off when she raised her eyebrows sternly at me. “Okay. Okay, Mother,” I amended. “You’ll be sorry when I can have dessert and you can’t.” I flounced out, but by the time I reached the elevator I was already reconsidering my behavior. Not the exercising, but the flouncing. How old was I anyway?

An hour and a half later we were dressed and out the door, looking pretty good, if I do say so, and ready to take on Tempe.

“Where does Margaret live?” Cat asked Bitsey.

“I have the address in my wallet. But she’s probably not there.”

“So where’s this bar she works at?”

The waitress at the restaurant gave us directions to it, and we decided to go.

Tavernous was nothing like what we expected. The neighborhood was seedy, the building listed drunkenly to the left as if it were about to collapse, and the windows were papered over with posters for bands and music shows. The bouncer, a hairy-chested behemoth with one gold tooth and a shaved head, carded me.

Bitsey scowled at him. She was already upset by the look of the place, and this didn’t help. “Young man, you should be more respectful.”

Cat laughed. “Uh-oh, the jig is up, M.J.” To the grinning goofball she said, “She’s only seventeen, you know, trying to pass for forty-two.”

I elbowed her. “Shut up.” She didn’t have to announce my age to the whole world. Anyway, I was used to guys carding me. It was their awkward way of starting a conversation, of flirting with me. Of staring down my blouse while I was searching for my driver’s license.

“Okay, Mary Jo,” he said, handing me my license and flashing his gold cap. “You have a nice time, you and your friends.” He held open the door for us, letting a wall of noise crash over us. “And just call for Donnie if anybody gives you any shit.”

Cat led the way, but I had to practically push Bitsey inside the place. I could feel the poor thing trembling. “What’s wrong, hon?” It was so noisy I could hardly hear myself, but she heard.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong!” She stared around, appalled. “I didn’t raise any of my girls to work in an awful place like this!”

“You have to look at it in a positive light,” I yelled over the thunder of drums and the squeal of guitars. The three skinny guys on the stage made more noise than the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and the Who together could do. “Working at a lousy job for lousy pay is the best incentive she’ll ever get for going back to school.”

“Over here!” Cat called, dragging Bitsey by the arm. She’d found two stools against the wall. Bitsey wiped off her stool with a tissue before sitting down. Cat perched eagerly on hers, craning her neck, probably looking for Margaret. As for me, I wanted a drink and I wanted to dance. That’s what my talent had always been in the pageants. Dancing. Sometimes ballet, sometimes tap, later on, modern dance. I loved to dance and I was better at dancing than singing.

I tapped the arm of a waitress going by. “Is Margaret here?” She looked at me askance. I smiled sweetly at her. “Margaret, one of the cocktail waitresses.”

“I don’t know any Margaret. Wait, d’you mean Meg?”

“Meg. Of course. Could you send her over to us?”

“I could. But this is my zone. You gotta order from me.”

I gave her a twenty. “Just send her over, okay?”

She went off smiling, I started dancing in front of the two stools, and in less than a minute Cat’s face lit up. “There she is. Look, Bits.”

Neither Bitsey nor Margaret was smiling when they spied one another. Bitsey’s reaction I understood. Margaret’s thick blond hair was now short and black with a Day-Glo red streak over her left brow. She had on a T-shirt made for an eight-year-old, too tight and too short. Sort of like my Pilates outfit, but in a bar it invited all kinds of trouble. Her eyes were ringed with kohl, her lips were maroon red, and her nose was pierced. So much for the sunny California girl she used to be.

But it was the frown she directed at her mother that most bothered me. “Mom? What are you doing here?” Her horror obviously included me and Cat, too.

“We’re on our way to New Orleans,” Cat said when Bitsey didn’t answer. “And we decided to stop and see you.”

“Yeah? Well, you should’ve called first. You should’ve let me know you were coming.”

“Why?” Bitsey finally spoke. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Margaret’s—Meg’s—eyes slid away, like a feral cat trapped inside the house and searching out an escape route. Finally she looked at her mother. “It’s not that, Mom. It’s just that…I’m working. I can’t like visit or even chat right now. I have to work.”

“Okay. But…” Somehow Bitsey managed to smile. “How about we take you to breakfast tomorrow?”

Meg’s sullen gaze slid away. “Why? So you can rag on me about working in a place like this?”

“Because I want to visit with you,” Bitsey answered. “Because you’re my daughter and I love you.”

I’d known Margaret since she was twelve or so, and though she’d always been an independent child, I’d never seen her challenge her mother. Plead and cajole, perhaps, even whine. So the hostility I now saw was something entirely new.

Fortunately this new Meg person hadn’t totally taken control of sweet Margaret. For although Meg wanted to say no to the breakfast date, Margaret couldn’t quite pull it off. With a sigh she nodded. “Okay. Fine. But not till lunchtime. Or even later.”

“She needs her beauty sleep,” Cat said as Margaret melted back into the sweaty noise of the crowded club.

Bitsey didn’t laugh, and Cat sent me a look that said, “Do something.”

I put my arm around Bitsey’s shoulder. “She’s just stressed out, hon. I mean, look at this place. Working here has got to be tough.”

Bitsey was back to trembling again. “I wonder if her boyfriend is here. The one with the ‘roots rock’ band,” she added, a sneer in her voice. Then she sniffed and wiped her eyes, ruining the effect of her sarcasm.

“I think you ought to cut off her allowance,” Cat said. “The brat didn’t even notice your new haircut.”

Bitsey smiled, but Cat and I knew it was forced. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “If I can’t drink or eat, I might as well sleep.”

“Or exercise.” My jest was no more successful than Cat’s. To make matters worse, on the way back to the hotel, Bitsey called Jack, only there was no answer, not at home or at his office. She left messages both places and tried to shine a good light on it. But later I heard her crying in the bathroom.

We went to bed somber and woke up little better. But at least we had the whole morning for exercise.

“You’re doing good,” I said as Bitsey attacked the stair-climber as if it were Mount Everest. Her eyes were puffy and her short hair stuck out in a punky kind of way.

Across the room Cat pedaled a stationary bike very, very slowly. “You’re looking buff, Bits,” she said.

“What I need is a punching bag.” Bitsey huffed the words out.

Cat hooted. “Damn, the girl’s getting tough inside and out. You really are good at this personal training stuff, M.J.”

I grinned. It was nice being good at something. “Watch out world, ’cause here comes Bitsey, killer bunny.”

“All I want is to not kill them when I sit on them,” she muttered. “Except for Margaret. Meg.” She made a face as she stretched out the word. “I wouldn’t mind squashing that brat.”

We went to the brat’s house without calling beforehand. The first sign of trouble was the broken front step. Then the porch had an old couch on it.

“My, my. Looks like home,” Cat quipped. “You don’t need a trailer to live like trash, I guess.”

Bitsey’s face took on a pinched expression. “Maybe y’all better wait out here.”

I grimaced. “Are you sure, hon?”

When she nodded, Cat and I hung back. We didn’t like it, though, especially when, after her third knock we heard a loud, angry male response. “Who the fuck is it?”

I thought Bitsey would fold, but I guess I underestimated the power of maternal love. “Margaret!” she cried. “Open the door. It’s your mother!”

Margaret came to the door, but she only opened it a crack before closing it.

Bitsey trudged down the steps. “She’s coming,” was all she said. Two minutes later Margaret hurried out. She had on jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of chunky sandals, clothes the old Margaret would have worn. But the pale face with the sunglasses, and the blue-black hair with its blood-red streak were jarring in the unrelenting sun of high noon.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, giving her a hug, wanting to make her smile, but not succeeding.

Cat ruffled her hair. “So. Where’s a good place to eat around here?”

Bitsey was the only one who didn’t touch her, and Margaret kept her distance, too.

We found a Shoney’s. Once we were all settled with our buffet lunches Bitsey asked, “Do you like my hair?” forcing Margaret to look at her.

Margaret stared at her through the dark glasses for a long moment before the difference seemed to register. “You cut it. It looks good. It makes your face look thinner.”

“Her face is thinner,” Cat said.

“You look thinner, too,” Bitsey said to her daughter.

Margaret shoved her mixed greens around with a fork. “I’ve been working a lot.”

“How’s school going?” I asked.

Her fork clattered down onto her plate. “Look. I don’t want to be grilled, so let’s just get it over with. Here’s the deal. I dropped out of school and I’m not going back.” She glared at her mother. “So if you want to cut off the money, fine. I’m doing just great at Tavernous.”

“Yeah,” Cat said. “And you’re living in the lap of luxury, too.”

“Fuck you!” She stood up but Bitsey grabbed her arm before she could storm off.

“Margaret Anne Albertson! What kind of way is that to speak to someone who loves you? We all love you and we’re all worried about you.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me. Okay?”

The people at the next table were trying not to notice us, but without much success. I don’t like scenes and I know Bitsey hates them, but Cat is a different story. Once you rile her up, it wouldn’t matter if the pope himself was watching. Without warning she stood and snatched the sunglasses off Margaret’s nose.

The girl froze. So did Bitsey. The bruise around Margaret’s left eye was faint and probably old, but there was no mistaking what it was.

“I thought so,” Cat said as she sat down, picked up her fork, and began calmly to eat. “She has that same belligerent attitude I used to have in my first marriage. I couldn’t stand up to him, but I sure as hell stood up to everybody else.”

“Fuck you,” Margaret repeated, only it came out a shaky, little-girl whisper. Not very sincere.

Bitsey caught her by the hand. “Margaret, honey. Sit down. Are you all right? Let me see—”

“Mom, no!” Margaret shrugged her off. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it. It was just once and I’m okay. I can handle it. I did handle it. He said he was sorry, and I know he is. So just…just eat your breakfast and…and have a good trip.”

She scooped her glasses off the table and put them on.

“Wait,” Bitsey pleaded.

“No, Mom. I have to go. Tell Grandpy hello when you see him.” Then she walked away and left us, three women sitting in a Shoney’s booth with a brand-new trouble on the table to worry about.

She walked across the parking lot and headed down the street. She was so thin, but it wasn’t that strong willowy thinness. She looked skinny and brittle, ready to break. Though it was only eight or ten blocks to her house, the choice she’d made, to leave the security of our love and reenter the danger zone of that apartment, made the distance seem enormous, a chasm impossible for us to cross.

Only when she turned a corner past a dry cleaner’s shop did any of us speak. “We can’t let her go back,” Cat said. She’d acted so blasé before, but now her jaw was clenched and it jutted forward like a bulldog’s. Belligerent and determined. Tenacious.

We both looked at Bitsey. Her face was almost as pale as Margaret’s, but she wasn’t crying. She looked at each of us. “You’re right. We have to get her out of there, even if at first she refuses to come. If she won’t protect herself, then we have to protect her. I have to protect her,” she said.

I leaned forward on the table. “Maybe we should call Jack.”

Bitsey shook her head. “Jack doesn’t need to know how his little girl is living, or with whom. First of all, it would kill him. And second of all, we can handle this.” She grabbed each of our hands. “We can. We have to.”

We. My first instinct was to save Margaret. My second was to avoid any kind of ugly scene with her or the creep she was living with. But Bitsey’s quiet conviction and Cat’s unmistakable fury gave me courage.

“So, how are we supposed to do this?” I asked. “I mean, it sounds like you want to kidnap her or something.”

“If I have to, I will,” Bitsey responded.

“You can’t be serious.”

“She was right about stripping your house of all the valuables, wasn’t she?” Cat pointed out.

“Well, yes. But her first suggestion was to burn it down. And don’t forget, she wanted to drown the Jag.”

But Cat didn’t back down. “This is different. Those were things. This is Margaret. Little Magpie.”

So we made a plan. First we staked out her place. Cat and I took turns strolling by, disguised by big straw hats and white plastic sunglasses. It was about quarter after two when some lanky, shaved-head guy with sideburns and a goatee sauntered out of Margaret’s place. He stood on the front steps scratching his belly and lit a cigarette. Then he crossed to a beat-up blue van, climbed in, and with a smoky roar, drove off.

We called Bitsey. “He’s skinny, almost six feet tall. No hair, blue jeans and a black T-shirt. With a hole in it.”

“You just described every other musician on MTV. So he’s gone and she’s inside?”

“It seems that way.”

“I’ll be right there with the car.”

The three of us knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. “Maybe she’s pulling an M.J.,” Cat said.

“Excuse me,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s been juice, tea and water for me for over a week.”

“Ignore her,” Bitsey told me. “Cat is just being her smart-alecky self.”

“What? Me, smart-alecky?”

“Y’all! Focus!” Bitsey ordered. “What do we do now?”

Cat and I shared a look. “She’s probably loaded. That’s why she won’t wake up,” Cat said. “I say we break in, get her in the car and go.”

So we did. I was scared to death, so my job was to back the car into the driveway, move everything off the backseat and keep a lookout for the creep in the blue van.

Displaying a talent she had up to now kept hidden from us, Cat pried open a screen, lifted herself up and shimmied through the bathroom window, then came around and opened the door for Bitsey.

When a woman peered out at us through a window in the house next door, my adrenaline, which was already pumping, started speeding. But she must not have called the cops, because it took nearly fifteen minutes to get Margaret out, and no police cars ever showed up to investigate. I watched fearfully as they walked Margaret out the side door, hefting her between them like a limp doll. “Good grief. What’s she on?”

“Probably Vicodin,” Cat said. “We found a half-empty bottle.”

Bitsey looked as if she’d aged fifteen years in the last fifteen minutes. But she had this superhuman strength, because she maneuvered Margaret as if she were still a little kid, heaving her into the backseat and folding her legs carefully inside.

“Get the bags,” she told Cat, who was already on her way back into the apartment.

Just then a van slowed in front of the house. That van with that man. Seeing his parking spot taken, he passed the house.

“Get in. Get in!” I yelled to Bitsey. “Cat! He’s back. Hurry up!”

The woman next door was watching us again, but I didn’t care. I was scared and I wanted us out of there. Bitsey pushed me into the driver’s seat. Not that I needed much pushing. “Drive!” she ordered, climbing in beside Margaret.

“What about Cat?”

“Just get this car out of here! I’ll…I’ll go back to get Cat.”

So I pulled out, laying rubber like a sixteen-year-old the first time out on his own with his mother’s car. A half block down the creep was climbing out of his van, and for a moment I considered running him over. It was only for a very brief moment. But if I hit him the police would definitely come. So we whizzed past him, just a little too close for his comfort. He jumped back, screamed something ugly and shot me the bird. Then he headed for his place.

I stopped two blocks down and around the corner. “Wait here,” Bitsey said. Then she got out and ran back down the street.

I made a mental note not to make her exercise anymore today. If her adrenaline was running as high as mine, she was burning calories at triple speed.

Unfortunately, waiting only seemed to increase my anxiety. I leaned over my comatose passenger. “Margaret? Margaret!” I shook her knee but she was a gone pecan. Her soft snores were even and deep, though. Thank goodness.

When another couple of minutes went by and neither Bitsey nor Cat showed up, I got out and ran to the corner. What I saw might have been a scene out of a Woody Allen movie. Bitsey was leaning against a fence as if she was poking a pebble out of her shoe.

Farther down the street the creep was talking to the lady from the window. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she seemed pretty agitated. Her hands were flapping and she was pointing back at his house. Was she telling him what we’d done? Did she know Cat was still inside his house? Did he?

Then I saw Cat. She came out of a driveway two doors down from where Margaret had lived, and turned abruptly toward us. She was loaded down with a suitcase, some sort of gym bag and a couple of big plastic bags. So much stuff she was staggering. But she never stopped moving.

When Bitsey spied Cat, she turned back toward me and started walking, too. Meanwhile the lady from the window, who must have seen them both, just kept on talking and flapping her hands.

Bitsey reached me just as the creep broke away from his neighbor and headed for his place. The woman planted her fists on her hips and watched him go. Then she turned back toward us and waved. As realization dawned on me, I waved back.

“She helped us,” Bitsey said, waving, too. “She distracted him so Cat could get away.”

We took the bags from Cat, and she gave us each a hurried hug. “She told me to go through her backyard and into the next yard, too. That she’d keep him busy.” Cat turned for one last wave to our unexpected savior. “She said he was a fucking dickhead with a bad attitude. And that he couldn’t play the guitar for crap.”

I grinned. “Come on, let’s go.” And we ran for the car.

We couldn’t get out of Arizona fast enough. This was the day I deserved a ticket. Flying ninety miles per hour down I-10, I was ready to skip New Mexico altogether and go straight to west Texas. But there’s that little girls’ room thing, so late in the afternoon we pulled over at a speck on the map called Shuttlesworth. Margaret had hardly moved all afternoon, but we made her get up anyway.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Bitsey coaxed, wiping Margaret’s face with a napkin dipped in the chilly water in the ice chest.

Margaret flinched away. “Stop it,” she mumbled.

“Do it again,” Cat said. “I’m too old to be hauling people around. If she needs to pee she’ll have to get to the bathroom on her own.”

“Margaret, please, sweetie. Wake up.” Bitsey begged. This time she wiped Margaret’s wrists and arms with the cool cloth before moving to her neck and cheeks.

Margaret shifted, trying to get comfortable on the seat. “Leave me alone,” she muttered.

“Too bad y’all can’t put her in a cold shower like you did to me,” I said.

Cat slammed her car door.

Margaret jerked and opened her eyes. “What the fuck?” she mumbled, trying awkwardly to sit up.

“Margaret Anne!” Bitsey exclaimed. “Don’t you dare talk like that around your mother!”

“Mom?” The poor girl blinked and stared around her in confusion. “Mom? Where are we?”

“New Mexico,” Cat said, leaning in at the window. “But just for a bathroom break. Let’s go.”

“Go ahead,” I told Bitsey. “I’ll help Margaret.”

The girl was still woozy but she was able to get out of the car, and once pointed in the right direction, she managed to walk. “So,” I said. “What’re you on? Besides the Vicodin.”

“What do you mean?” She tried to look affronted and self-righteous, but she failed. With a shrug she conceded the truth. “What difference does it make?”

“You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Alcohol, pills, weed. I’ve heard heroin’s a real trip. Ever tried it?”

“No.” She gave me a shocked look, this time sincere. “Geez, M.J., what do you think I am? Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

Thank goodness that was the end of the drug talk. I mean, I know there are times when I drink too much. But after all, I’m a recent widow. That has to count for something. Besides, I’ve never used any illegal drugs. At least not in almost twenty years.

So we took care of business in the little girls’ room and headed back to the car. Bitsey was already sitting in the back seat. Cat had finished filling the tank. The question remained, would Margaret get back in?

She stared at the open door, then peered in at her mother. “Where are we?” she asked again.

“New Mexico,” Bitsey said.

“New Mexico!” Margaret straightened, then turned to stare back at the lowering sun. “But… But I’ve got to work tonight.”

“Not tonight, hon,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She shook her head. “No. No, no, no. What’s going on? No way did I agree to this. What did you do, Mom? Kidnap me or something?”

When none of us said a thing her face got this stunned kind of scared look on it. She slammed the door shut. “Son of a bitch! You did kidnap me. Jesus!” She raked her hands through her hair and turned in an uneven circle.

Bitsey slid across the back seat and got out. “Now Margaret, listen to me.”

“No! What do you think I am, ten? Twelve? You can’t run my life anymore, Mom. I won’t let you.”

“And I won’t let some worthless excuse for a man beat you up!” Bitsey might have started off trying to be calm, but she had just lost it big-time.

“I explained about that. And anyway, he didn’t beat me up.”

“You’re lying, Margaret. If not to me, then to yourself. He’s not going to stop, so I’m going to stop him.”

The two guys who worked at the service station watched Margaret and Bitsey squaring off as if they didn’t know whether to enjoy the spectacle or break it up. Cat wasn’t nearly so hesitant. She hopped out of the car like a firecracker about to explode and thrust her cell phone at Margaret.

“Here. Call the creep. Tell him to come and get you.”

When Margaret just glared at her, she went on. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think he’ll come? Isn’t he your white knight, willing to come to your rescue no matter the odds? Surely he’ll battle three middle-aged busybodies to get you back.”

The girl’s face was as pale as ever, but two spots of color burned in her cheeks, nearly as red as the red streak of hair over her left eye. I held my breath waiting for Margaret to snap back with something too ugly for Cat to back down from.

Instead Margaret turned away, bent over and puked into the dirt.

All in all, it was the best thing that could have happened. While Bitsey helped Margaret, I dragged Cat away from them to cool down.

“That ungrateful little bitch,” Cat fumed.

“Come on, give her a break. She discovered she’s in New Mexico. How did you expect her to act?”

“Better than that.”

I tucked my arm in hers. “I wonder how you would’ve behaved at that age if your mother had done that to you.”

She shrugged me off. “Just shut up, M.J.” But there was no venom in her words. I had scored my point and, as usual, once she’d spouted off, Cat was cooling down.

Under the watchful eyes of the gas station guys we made our way back through the dusty heat to the waiting car. Bitsey raised her brows at us but said nothing.

“You okay?” I asked Margaret. She nodded and gave Cat a sidelong look. I nudged Cat.

“Sorry I went off on you,” she said to Margaret. “But I get a little crazy over the men-slapping-women-around thing.”

“But he doesn’t—”

“Save it, Margaret. I’ve been there and I’ve done that, and I can’t stand to see anybody else go through it.”

On that sober note we all got back into the car and headed east. Margaret slept again. Bitsey said that she’d agreed to spend the night with us but that tomorrow she was taking a bus back to Tempe.

“We’ll just see about that,” Cat said, gunning the motor. “We’ll just see.”

It took twenty-five miles and Tammy Wynette to settle us down. I don’t usually listen to country stations, but the choices were limited. Besides, there was something about our situation that called for the messy heartbreak of country music. So when “Stand by Your Man” came on and Cat started singing “Stand on your man,” the gray cloud hovering over us broke up and vanished.

Bits and I joined in, too, in our best Southern twang. “Stand on your man.”

“That’s me,” Cat said as Tammy kept on singing. “I stand on ’em. You two stand by them, and Margaret, too. But not me. Then I D.I.V.O.R.C.E. them.”

“Don’t act so smug,” Bitsey said. “You may cut and run, but only after they’ve stomped all over your heart.”

“Okay, okay. So we’ve all been stupid about men,” I said. “But isn’t that what this trip is about? Second chances?”

“Or third,” Cat said.

“No. It’s a second chance with your Boy Scout turned sheriff,” I said. “And Bitsey’s second chance with her Eddie.”

That’s when Cat’s eyes got big, and she gave me a sharp shake of her head. I didn’t understand why until Margaret shifted in the backseat, opened her eyes and stared at her mother. “Who’s Eddie?”

Bitsey

I wanted to kill Mary Jo. She should never have mentioned anything about Eddie, even if she thought Margaret was asleep. Even if she thought the girl was comatose.

But once the name was out of her mouth—Eddie—it hung in the air like the loud buzz of a faulty neon light. It sputtered and spat and wouldn’t go away.

“Mom?” Margaret said, and for a moment I was reminded of a seven-year-old Margaret who’d just been told by her older sister that there was no Santa Claus. “Who’s Eddie?” she repeated.

“Oh, Eddie.” I laughed and prayed I didn’t sound as nervous and guilty as I felt. “Eddie is the boy I went to the prom with. I told you about my high school reunion, didn’t I, sweetie? Well, that’s the whole point of this trip. I wasn’t going to go without your father,” I went on, talking much too loud and way too fast. I tried to slow down. “But he encouraged me to go anyway, and M.J. needed to get away after Frank died, and Cat wanted to visit her family. So we decided we’d all head down south together.”

Margaret stared at me; Tammy had subsided and now Randy Travis was singing “Forever and Ever, Amen.” Other than that, the car was absolutely silent.

“So…this Eddie was your date for the prom?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’m praying he’s gained more weight than I have.” Again I laughed, but it was a strain.

“That’s why she’s been dieting,” M.J. jumped in, trying to help. “We’ve been working out together.”

“Yeah,” Cat added. “You’re too young to know this, but starting around the tenth high school reunion, looking slimmer and better dressed than the rest of your old classmates becomes a major motivator in a woman’s life.”

“I wasn’t going to go,” I repeated. “But M.J. convinced me I could lose twenty pounds by then. And I’m almost there.”

Margaret smiled then, and I wanted to breathe a huge sigh of relief. She said, “You’re looking good, Mom. I can see the difference already. This Eddie guy is gonna be sorry he ever let you get away. But I’m still mad at you,” she added. “You had no right to kidnap me. I could have you arrested, you know.”

I grabbed Cat’s shoulder before she could jump into the fray. This was between me and my daughter. “I have twenty-three years of right!” I said to Margaret, trembling with emotion. “I love you, Magpie. I always have and I always will. Even with your hair dyed black and streaked with red. If you ever have a daughter and find out she’s being abused, you’ll do the exact same thing.”

“I’m not being abused!”

God, but I wanted to shake her. Instead I tried to stroke her healing bruise, but she flinched away. I felt as if my heart were breaking. “Would you ignore a black eye on me?” I asked.

“That’s stupid. You don’t have a black eye—and neither do I.”

“You did. What would you think if I told you your father had given me a black eye?”

She shook her head. “Daddy would never do that.”

I gave her a grim smile. “My point exactly.”

She turned away from me, and the car sped on. Dusk fell before we pulled into a Motel 6 in a dusty town twenty miles or so from Las Cruces. I was exhausted, so when M.J. suggested a quick jog before supper, I didn’t even grace her with an answer. By silent assent Cat and Margaret took one room and M.J. and I took the adjoining one. I headed straight for the shower and only then did I fall apart. There was no real reason to cry. Tears never solved anything. How many times had my mother pointed that out in that brusque manner she always used with her supposed-to-be-perfect children? But as I undressed in the unblinking fluorescent glare and the unforgivingly mirrored confines of the bathroom, I couldn’t help it. No amount of dieting and exercise would ever erase the soft folds of my belly or the dimpled excess of my thighs. Arms, chin, jowls. I was fat. And even if I did lose all the weight I wanted, what would be left but saggy skin and shrinking breasts? Just gorgeous.

No wonder Jack found me so boring. No wonder my daughters didn’t look up to me as a role model. In the hot, enveloping steam of the pounding shower I cried and raged at the unfairness of it all. No wonder I felt so miserable all the time. I was miserable. A miserable, boring excuse of a woman.

I was in the shower so long that M.J. showered in Cat and Margaret’s room. I don’t know what kind of lecture Cat and M.J. had given Margaret, but by the time I was out, with my stupid short hair dry and spiky and sticking out like a teenager’s, they were all dressed and ready to go.

We piled into the car, heading for a Tex-Mex place the desk clerk had recommended, only the car wouldn’t start.

“Come on, baby,” M.J. crooned as she retried the ignition. “Come on, you can do it.” But the motor only sputtered and coughed in a vain effort to turn over and catch.

When M.J. finally gave up, Margaret started to laugh. “Serves you right. Now you’re stranded in nowhere New Mexico where they’ve probably never seen a Jag before, let alone tried to fix one.”

Thank goodness she was wrong. We ate at a diner across the street from the motel and discovered there was a mechanic who specialized in imported cars. As it turned out, nowhere New Mexico was a fairly with-it town. Though no Taos, it boasted a thriving artists’ and retirees’ community. The retirees all drove American with “These Colors Never Run” bumper stickers. The artists drove imports and I even saw three of those electric-gas hybrids.

First thing in the morning, a Eugene’s Imports tow truck came for the car. Over breakfast we discussed our options for the day. “Of course we’ll exercise,” M.J. told me. “Even though we missed out yesterday, you did very well with your caloric intake.”

I nodded as I ate my bowl of fruit with fat-free yogurt.

Cat stirred some sweetener—the pink stuff—into her second cup of coffee. “Sorry, M.J. Y’all can exercise, but I think I’ll check out the shops, maybe even buy a piece of outsider art. Who knows. I could discover the next great artist to sell to my clients, the ones with too much money and too little taste.”

“You ought to be nicer about your clients,” M.J. said. “If they had great taste they wouldn’t need to hire you.”

Cat shrugged and glanced at Margaret. “So. What are you going to do between now and the time the Greyhound leaves?”

My stomach clenched. She’d already checked the bus schedule?

Margaret yawned. “I don’t know. I saw a sign for an Internet Café last night. I might head over there. Check my e-mail. See if I still have a job.” She shot me a contemptuous look.

“She hates me,” I muttered to M.J. an hour later as the two of us stretched and warmed up for our jog. “Worse, she’s going back to that creep.”

“What can you do, besides cutting off the money?”

I shook my head. “Maybe her sisters can talk some sense into her.”

“But not Jack?”

“Oh, no.” I stretched my fingers toward the floor. “He’d have a fit.”

“Did you just touch your toes?”

I straightened and looked at M.J. “Did I?” I stared down my front. Breasts, belly and toes. I could see my toes without throwing my neck out of whack. Once more I bent down and sure enough, the tips of my fingernails flicked the tips of my Reebok trainers. I would have been ecstatic if I wasn’t so worried about my Magpie.

We jogged the length of the town, past a small brick school, an impressive town hall with a clock in the pediment and a combination firehouse, health clinic and sheriff’s office. It reminded me of the town in Back to the Future.

On the opposite side of a town square framed by gnarled cedar trees and underplanted with an impressive xeriscape garden, a row of wood-framed shops formed the downtown. We saw Cat inside a quaint art gallery haggling with a leather-faced woman and a man with a gray ponytail.

At least my face wasn’t all leathery, I told myself, and I wasn’t old enough to be an old hippie. But I was forty-eight and soon I’d be fifty. My kids didn’t need me anymore, and neither did my husband.

“Look,” M.J. said. She was barely perspiring. “There’s that Internet café. Why don’t we go in and say hi to Margaret? Better yet,” she amended, “You go. I’m going to do another fast mile back to the hotel. See you there.”

A good-looking cowboy type came out of the café as she trotted off. He was so intent on watching her that he nearly collided with me. I could just see the headlines: Rotund, Red-faced Woman Skewered on a Rodeo Buckle. But he dodged me, then gallantly held the café door open. I had no choice but to enter.

Inside it was cool. An iced coffee seemed like a good idea, but I hadn’t brought any money with me. So I scanned the high-tech decor and spotted Margaret at a back table, hunched over a glowing computer screen. I put on a determined smile. “Hi, sweetie.”

She glanced up, then back to the screen. “Hi.”

Okay. I cleared my throat. “Do you think you could treat me to something cool to drink? I forgot my wallet.”

She squinted at the screen, then briefly at me. “Sure.” With one foot she nudged her purse toward me while keeping her focus on the screen. “When you get back I have something to show you.”

I had visions of some diatribe e-mail from her employer, or perhaps the section of the Arizona legal code pertaining to kidnappings. What she showed me when I sat down beside her, however, was a Web site for my high school class reunion. “This is it, right?” she asked.

“Yes. Wow.” After a page about the reunion particulars all the seniors’ photos were displayed.

“There’s you,” Margaret said. “Look at that hair.”

“And every bit of it natural. Well, maybe a little lemon juice to brighten it a bit,” I conceded.

“You were a real hottie, Mom. Look, there’s a picture of the cheerleaders. You didn’t tell me you were captain of the squad.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” Captain of the cheerleaders. Homecoming queen. Most likely to succeed. Anything less would have disappointed my mother.

“So where’s this Eddie guy you dated?”

“Look in the Ds,” I said, then took a nervous sip of my iced coffee. She scrolled slowly down a page. “There.”

“Edward Joseph Dusson,” she said.

Eddie.

His hair was thick and long over his eyebrows. Twice the vice-principal had sent him home for a haircut. He had sideburns, a piercing gaze and a serious look on his face.

“He looks kind of geeky,” Margaret said. “How’d he get to go out with the head cheerleader?”

“He was no geek,” I said. “Quite the opposite. He had a motorcycle.”

“Ooh, Mom.” She grinned. “What, you were the good girl dating the bad boy?”

“Something like that.”

“So what does he do now?”

“I hear he’s a lawyer.”

“Aw. How boring.”

“Yep. He’s a boring lawyer. I’m a boring housewife. Who would have thought we’d come to this, right? Oh, look,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “There’s Vivian O’Neil. You remember meeting her the last time we were in New Orleans. We had taken Daddy to lunch at Commander’s and she was there with her sisters.”

Margaret shrugged. “Do you want to find out more about that Eddie guy?”

“No.” Yes. “Not really.”

She gave me a sidelong grin. “Come on, Mom. You know you’re curious.”

“Not really,” I repeated. But when she switched to Google and entered his name, I leaned forward. “That’s all you have to do to find out about somebody?”

“Probably. Oh, yeah,” she said when the screen filled with lists of Eddie Dussons, Edward Dussons and Edward every-middle-initial-possible Dussons. Within a few minutes we weeded through them to discover that the rebel Eddie I once adored had not really changed at all. He was a lawyer, yes, but he was still a rebel as Director of the New Orleans Office of the American Civil Liberties Union. The computer was full of newspaper articles about cases and issues he’d been involved with.

“Geez,” Margaret said. “He’s famous.”

“He always was a man of strong opinions.”

“Look, he represented this lady who police said had too many cats.”

He might have defended people on death row, saved communities from dangerous pollution and protected government whistle-blowers, but with his stance on pet ownership, Eddie’s reputation was safe. My Magpie was nothing if not an ardent animal lover. She looked at me. “So how come you two broke up? I mean, I’m glad you did, but still, I’m curious.”

“You of all people are asking me that? Given the number of boys you dated and dumped, I’d be amazed if you even remember which one took you to your prom. Eddie and I were young, that’s all. Neither of us was ready to settle down.”

“That makes sense. But for your information, I went to the prom with Rusty Calhoun,” Meg said. “Last I heard he was in med school somewhere up in Oregon.” She leaned back, drumming her fingers on the table lip, and studied me. “So, what about Cat and M.J? Who are they going to see?”

We spent two hours on that computer. Cat found us in the café, then called the motel and told M.J. to join us, and the time just flew. It turned out that Matt Blanchard was not merely the sheriff of St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, he was also a highly decorated former member and hero of the New Orleans police force. He’d been shot twice, burned while saving a disabled grandmother from a house fire, and credited with busting one of the most vicious drug gangs in eastern New Orleans. He’d moved back to his hometown twelve years ago when the sheriff’s position became available, and he showed no indication of wanting to leave.

“No mention of a wife,” M.J. said to Cat, who was uncharacteristically silent. “He’s probably divorced.”

“So who isn’t?”

“We aren’t,” M.J. retorted for the both of us.

“Well, you should have been. A long time ago.”

Margaret tilted her head to frown at Cat. “You don’t like my dad, do you?”

Cat scrunched up her face. “Sorry, Margaret. When it comes to men I’m in a grouchy mood. But M.J.’s old boyfriend has potential. There was nothing about any wives or children, was there?”

M.J. smiled at a photograph of the coaching staff of the New Orleans Saints and pointed him out to us. Dark brown hair, light eyes and really broad shoulders. Oh, yes, he was quite a fine specimen of a man. “He hasn’t changed a bit,” she said.

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Cat said. “You want a grown-up, not a teenager. Or do you?”

“I just don’t want an old man,” M.J. replied. But she was smiling. Maybe Jeff Cole was exactly what she needed.

“So why did y’all break up?” Margaret asked.

“He got a football scholarship and went away to school while I…I became a professional beauty pageant competitor. We lost touch when I moved to California.”

“So this trip could actually fire up all the old feelings,” Margaret said.

“Did he ever hit you?” Cat asked M.J.

Margaret rolled her eyes, but I smiled. There was nothing subtle about our Cat.

“Of course not,” M.J. said. “Even Frank, awful as he turned out to be, he never hit me, either.”