Anywhere But Here

by Jenny Gardiner

  “Huh. He’s acting awful calm, under the circumstances,” Smoothie says. “You think it’s a trap?”

  “You mean he’s lying about my mama just to get me to call him?”

  “Would you put it past him?”

  “Hell, no. Though I suppose I’d better call him. I mean, if it is something to do with my mama, who else is gonna take care of it? There is no one else. I’m her only kin. Richard would leave the woman slumped on the doormat if that’s where she went down.”

  “You sure you’re up for this? He’s gonna be a typhoon of fury, you know.”

  I sigh. Of course he is. Typhoon Richard. Typhoon Richard. Typhoon Richard. Typhoon Dick. Typhoon Dickhead. I type away to my heart’s content. Typhoon of Fury sounds too tame, actually. It sounds more like the name for a rollercoaster at King’s Dominion.

  I press the number to return the call.

  The phone picks up on the first ring, but Richard says nothing and instead waits for me to speak. I suddenly notice in my mouth that sour taste of gastric juices that happens when your meal has unexpectedly revisited your taste buds.

  “Is my mother all right?” I ask in a quiet, timid voice.

  “Is your mother all right? Is your mother all right? Fuck your mother, Mary Kate. It’s me you need to worry about!” Richard breaks out into one of those phlegmy emphysema-sounding laughs that all smokers have. “I knew I’d get you! You stupid bitch! Where are you, Mary Kate? I’m coming after you. Ain’t no wife of mine gonna humiliate me by running off. Who the hell do you think you are, you stupid goddamned bitch?”

  Oh, my God. Fingers flying. You stupid bitch. You stupid bitch. You stupid bitch.

  “Richard—” I stumble around in the darkest corner of my mind for adequate words.

  “Don’t Richard me—” he cackles.

  Smoothie takes the phone from my trembling hand. “Gimme that.”

  “What up, Dickie Poo?”

  “Who is that?” he hollers into the phone. “Mary Kate? Who is that feller on the phone?”

  “Never you mind who this feller is,” Smoothie begins. “Who I am has nothing to do with anything. But I’ve got a little something to tell you, Richard. When you and I are done talking, you’re gonna hang up the phone and go on about your life as if you never even knew Mary Kate. You will never, I repeat, never bother her again. You will have no contact with her. You will not threaten her. Your miserable shadow will never darken her doorstep. Do you understand?”

  “Who the fuck are you, asshole, and what have you done with my wife?” Richard is putting up his dukes for a fight.

  “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Mary Kate’s bodyguard. And I know about the threats. I know about all the things you’ve done to her. I know you told her you’d blow her head off. So if you dare call anyone to report her missing, if you report this car missing, if you do one goddamned thing to cause this woman any problems, let me tell you something. Mary Kate will be so far off your radar screen she’ll never been seen again. And you will be suspect number one in her disappearance. We’ll make certain the authorities know about your threats, know how you’ve abused your wife. In addition, I will personally make sure your head is forced so far up your ass, you’ll be coughing it out your mouth. You will live to rue the day you ever met Mary Kate. Am I perfectly clear, Dick?”

  Richard splutters out something unintelligible, and I’m just beaming at how smoothly Smoothie is handling my husband. Soon-to-be-ex-husband.

  “Mary Kate, have you been kidnapped?”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you think I’ve been kidnapped? Hell, no, Richard. I just found my head, in the nick of time.”

  “You’ll live to regret this, I’m telling you. You’re making a big mistake. You haven’t got any money. You haven’t got any pension, you haven’t got a house.”

  “I don’t need anything that’s tied up with you, Richard. I’d rather live naked on the streets than spend one minute with you or your money or your stupid fucking regulated life. As far as I’m concerned, Richard, you can kiss my ass.”

  Holy crap. I just told Richard he could kiss my ass. My fingers start typing in a feeding frenzy of words: Kiss my ass. Kiss my ass. Kiss my ass. Kiss my Irish Ass. Kiss my Irish Ass. And I’m not even Irish!

  Smoothie decides to add in one more thing. “And if Mary Kate chooses to go after what’s rightfully hers from that sham of a marriage, you will not fight her. Because I promise you, we will bring you down to the cockroach you are.”

  I start to clap like a giddy schoolchild. I feel like I should be doing a standing ovation. Or cartwheels. What a show! I look at the screen of my phone and see it’s no longer connected. Richard must have hung up.

  I don’t just wrap, I strangle my arms around him in celebration. “They don’t call you Smoothie for nothing! I can’t believe how brave you were!”

  “Hell, I wasn’t brave. I was just telling that prick where to go. That dude’s a bully, Mary Kate. And the only way to handle a bully is to bully him back. I feel right certain you won’t hear diddly from that miserable S.O.B. from here on out. And if you do? He’s got me to answer to.” We both laugh at that because it’s not as if Smoothie’s built like a bouncer or anything. He’s built like a surfer. A golden Malibu Beach kind of surfer.

  “Hold on a minute,” Smoothie says, extracting himself from my death vice of a hug. He gets out of the car, comes around to my side, opens the door, motions with his hand as if I’m being invited to walk on a red carpet, and grabs my hand.

  “Ladies first, Miz Dooopreee,” he says, tugging me up and closing the door behind me. “I think it’s time to celebrate, my dear. After all, today’s your Independence Day as well. All of this,” he motions to the parade that is just getting underway, “it’s all for you.”

  Chapter 17

  My heart is beating a mile a minute, still scared shitless about confronting Richard and in disbelief that he took it with so little ferocity, all things considered.

  We find a spot along the curb in which to squeeze in, and settle down to watch as the fire trucks roll by, launching the parade with sirens blaring.

  Next in line are draft horses, clopping along as gracefully as ballerinas, despite their size. And, uh, girth.

  “You see that?” Smoothie points out the obvious. “That’s what you call the gold standard.”

  I splutter out a laugh.

  “Sure, go ahead, laugh. But I’m serious. That’s what every man alive aspires to.”

  “What, Mr. Ed? Is that so you can kill your partner? Death by fornication?” My fingers of course have sprung into action. A horse is a horse of course, of course. And no one can talk to a horse, of course. That is of course, unless that horse is the famous Mr. Ed.

  It’s Smoothie’s turn to splutter. “Fornication? Is that one of Tricky Dick’s words?”

  “Close. His mother used to talk about fornicators ruining America. It was her pet peeve.”

  “Little did she know her son was chief amongst them. You’re lucky you didn’t catch something, with his roving eye.”

  I’m feeling bold in my talk. “It wasn’t just his eye that was roving. But it sure looked nothing like that!” I point at the horse’s schlong, looking awfully enthusiastic for this hour of the morning.

  “You mean to tell me Tricky Dick’s not hung like a horse?”

  I laugh. “More like hung like a gnat. Oh, my God! I can’t believe I’m talking like this! Smoothie Cunningham, you’re a bad influence on an innocent girl.”

  He looks at me and grins that grin of his. “Honey, you don’t need any help, you’re a bad enough influence all on your own.”

  “That’s so not true. I’ve never once thought about Richard like a draft horse.”

  “Of course not, because he’s nothing like a draft horse. You’ve gotta have a little glimmer of
comparison. Now me, on the other hand…”

  Hung like a horse. Hung like a horse. A horse is a horse of course of course.

  My breath is bordering on hyperventilation level right now. I’m either on the verge of birthing a small mammal, or passing out. I’d rather neither, but I can only guarantee there’s no newborn involved.

  I clear my throat as I focus on baton twirlers marching and flinging in front of me. “I don’t know that it’s my business to glean that information.”

  Smoothie, intent on embarrassing me beyond my wildest dreams, holds up his two pointer fingers. At arm’s length apart.

  “Stop it!” I push his hands away, laughing. “Even the Clydesdales aren’t that huge.”

  “Just you wait and see, Mary Kate.”

  I stare at him. In front of me is a drum and bugle corps, marching along as if I’m not in the midst of this most personal conversation, and some high school mascot dressed as a, um, horse. Is this a conspiracy or something? My tongue feels glued to the floor of my mouth, which is as dry as my armpits are now wet. Glued. Glue. Like an old horse. Ack! Even the glue is part of the conspiracy.

  Just as I begin to think I will never escape this conversation, Smoothie changes the topic.

  “Look at that. Pathetic,” he says, pointing at a convertible with two small girls of about five years of age, sitting atop the back seat, made up as if they’re going to the Academy Awards and dressed in low-cut dresses. Low-cut? For children? The car sports the sign Little Miss Little Miss. Following behind them is a car with girls a few years older. They’re evidently the Little Miss Young Misses. And behind them, Little Miss Teen Miss.

  Each of the girls in each car look more provocative than the one in front.

  “You see that girl there? The one with the exploding buttery curls and the missing front teeth?” I ask.

  “The one with the layers of make-up who looks like a child prostitute?” Smoothie clarifies.

  “Yeah. Her. That’s what I imagine Sammy Lou Who would look like. All curls and false eyelashes and lipstick and—”

  “Buxom?” Smoothie asks with a laugh.

  “I don’t know if she’d be old enough to be buxom yet!”

  “Doesn’t that description fit her mama to a ‘T’? Big ol’ set of hooters on her?”

  “Well, yeah. But they’re not real.”

  Smoothie shakes his head like I’m a dunce student who’s not understanding the problem. “Mary Kate, didn’t anyone ever tell you it doesn’t matter if they’re real?”

  “Well it should.”

  Smoothie looks at me but I try to ignore him and instead pay attention to the flag-bearer dressed in too-tight spangle-encrusted Lycra marching by.

  “Why should it?”

  “Because it’s cheating, that’s why.”

  “Fake tits are cheating?”

  “Of course they are. You’re supposed to work with what God gave you. If you go putting ‘em in there, how fair is that to the girls who God gave a little more to?”

  “You mean like you?”

  I turn to look at Smoothie again and feel my cheeks warming up to a shade perfect for the holiday color scheme of today. And not cadaver blue, either, like they ought to be, since I’m embarrassed to death. “I think I’ll choose to ignore that comment.” I turn back to the parade. “My point is just that it levels the playing field unfairly. Some women have beautiful faces but flat chests. Others have plain looks but they make up for it with their figure. So how fair is it for those girls who haven’t got the chest but already have the looks to go adding to their list of advantages?”

  “I see your point, Mary Kate. I mean, if a man isn’t well-endowed, well, he’s stuck with it. Good, bad or indifferent looks, that deficiency becomes a deal-breaker.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” I cross my arms.

  “You wouldn’t know?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “You mean you haven’t ever slept with anybody other than ol’ Dick the dick?”

  “That’s sort of personal information, I think.”

  Smoothie looks at me as if I just told him I actually love my husband and want to return to him.

  “Come on, Mary Kate. It’s me you’re talking to. Don’t you think by now we can discuss just about everything? Hell, I’ve seen you in your underwear. And you looked pretty damned good.”

  He winks. I blush another layer of red on top of the existing flush. Christ, any more of this line of discussion and I’ll look like I’ve had dermabrasion.

  “Mary Kate?” Smoothie has one of those looks on his face, a boyish “I’m-gonna-pull-your-pigtails” teasing kind of look that is awfully hard to resist.

  “So, the only dick you’ve seen is Dick’s?”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. My fingers are on the warpath now. Marching at warp speed into battle or something. Big Dick. Little dick. Big Dick. Little dick.

  “Twenty bucks says Dick’s got a little dick,” Smoothie eggs me on. “You know how I know that?”

  The heat is pulsing off of my cheeks like they’re blacktop pavement on a July afternoon.

  “How?” I hardly get the one-word question out. But I’m sort of curious to know how he knows. Not that I have any basis of comparison, but still.

  “Because usually guys who are big dicks don’t have ’em.”

  I burst out laughing. “Is this your Smoothie Cunningham Theory on Penile Relativity or something?”

  This time it’s his turn to laugh. He grabs me in a headlock and noogies my scalp. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Is this what you were studying at school? All that time hitting the books, to figure out the motivation of a mean man with a little dick?”

  For the record, this is language once unknown to my lips. I was never one to toss around such titillating words so cavalierly. Evidently things are changing for me.

  “Actually, I was studying to be a special ed teacher.”

  This surprises me. “For some reason you don’t strike me as the special ed type.”

  Smoothie juts out his lower lip feigning insult. “Should I feel hurt by that? Do you think I’m not nice enough for the job?”

  I backpedal now that I know how that came out. “It’s not that. It’s just, well, I don’t know. Like I guess I picture you in something more glamorous. Where your looks counted.”

  “My looks?”

  “Yeah, your looks. I mean, you are rather easy on the eyes. I guess I was thinking something more like, oh, I don’t know. Anchorman?”

  “Anchorman?” Smoothie’s lips make that zerbit sound from being pressed together when laughing hard. He sits up all serious-looking and pretends to grab a sheet of late-breaking news. “This just in. Research has shown that men with big dicks…”

  “Don’t say it—” I interrupt.

  “Work in special ed.” His gotcha grin did indeed get me, so I play along.

  “Oh, so you and Mr. Ed over there. Simpatico?” I lace my middle finger around my pointer finger in front of his face.

  He holds up his hands at arm’s length again, like he’s showing me the size of a fish he caught.

  “You wish.”

  “Just you wait, Mary Kate. Maybe someday, if you’re lucky.” He winks at me, and I wonder if he’s joking or for real.

  “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,” I pretend to make a wish for it just to mock him and we both start laughing so hard I tip backwards onto the sidewalk. Smoothie uprights me just as people around us start to stare.

  “Mizz Dupree, why I do believe you’re makin’ a scene.” I giggle for a few minutes but then I collect myself.

  “Okay, seriously. What made you want to go into special ed?”

  Smoothie clears his throat like an anchorman again, and straight
ens his face to be serious, but he can’t hold it and instead starts to talk normally. “When I was in college I was in a program like Big Brothers only we were big brothers for kids with special needs. My little brother was named Robert. He was twelve years old and mildly mentally retarded. Robert and I got together once a week and we’d see a movie or go bowling. One time I went to his school and spent the day with him. I saw what it was like at school. I saw the other kids ridiculing him. And I saw how hard he worked and what a beautiful heart he had in him. It just left an impression on me.”

  “So what happened to Robert? Did you stay in touch?”

  Smoothie lets out a big sigh. “Robert got beat up one day after school. Some kids lured him away from his front yard and took him down to the railroad tracks and bloodied him up pretty badly. He ended up with bleeding on the brain a CT scan would’ve caught had they done one. He didn’t last the week.”

  His voice cracks on that last sentence and I can practically see the fissure in his heart. “Oh, Smoothie, I’m so sorry—” I grab his hand in mine and squeeze tight.

  He holds up his other hand. “Hey, life happens. Shitty things happen all the time. It’s what you do with the shitty things that define who you are.”

  “So when did you decide to change careers?”

  “I tucked that away in my head for a couple of years. I was making decent money in my job, but I don’t know, I guess things just seemed so rote. Me and Donna were working all the time, we’d hang out on the weekends. Nothing big one way or another. It just seemed empty, I suppose. I kept trying to convince Donna to get pregnant. I was ready to have kids. But she always said the time wasn’t right. Finally I decided I needed to mix things up, get out of the rut. That’s when I decided to go back to school. I figured it was time for me to do something for other people.”

  “Good for you. All that time something wasn’t right in your life, and you decided to take matters into your own hands and do something about it,” I say, like a light bulb just went on in my head finally. “Just exactly what I didn’t do.”