by Tracy Ellen
My leeriness was more about Event Night. We got out of control on Event Night. Crazy things had been known to happen, which was why Event Night occurred only once every year or two. Our friend from high school, Darcy Milton liked to joke that she conceived her fourth son at last year’s women only Event Night. We all laughed, including her devoted husband, but there was something about the far off look in her eye that had given me pause. A very wasted Darcy had disappeared to use the bathroom for an awfully long time that night.
“Okay, let’s do it.” I lay down on my back and rubbed my hands in anticipation. “I do need some serious exercise, and Event Night doesn’t scare me much because I’m getting a Depo shot tomorrow.”
Tre lay back on her mat, too, shouting, “Yes!” Her loud belly laugh caused every head in the yoga studio to turn our way. People smiled in response to the infectious sound while she held her hips up and bicycled her long legs in a furiously fast rotation of excitement. “I’m done with classes until January, so I’ll plan everything.”
The rest of Thursday was spent at a bridal luncheon thrown by Anna’s recently deceased Aunt Lily’s church prayer group, attendance frickin’ compulsory, and man, did Anna Lynn Johnson owe me.
Normally, the bizarre or unusual rituals humans got up to intrigued me and I’d enjoy the new experience once for that reason alone. That day, the circle of women screaming out and crying unintelligibly while chanting and throwing their bodies back and forth in the name of Christ just made my head hurt. I sat slumped in a tired, disbelieving daze that this was my life.
Overall, NanaBel was not proud of her granddaughters’ manners that afternoon. Jazy scowled, cursing often never to forgive Anna for being invited. Stella tried to get out of it by claiming nausea, but NanaBel stuffed a peppermint down her throat and forced her to stay. Kenna drifted in late and slipped out to the bathroom after the first half hour of prayer, never to return to the fellowship hall. Being the social pariah of the family had its dividends, but she would still be in trouble for that slick move. Jazy gazed longingly at the door and muttered in my ear it would be worth any punishment. Only Mac got through the excruciating luncheon with a real smile pasted on her face. Over the loud prayers, Stella spat disgustedly in my other ear that was because Diego had stopped home for a little bridal luncheon of his own before we left.
Thursday night, NanaBel’s mixed bowling league of fifty years duration hosted a spaghetti dinner and bowling extravaganza in honor of the two happy couples, complete with a surprise meat raffle. Stella turned white and then red and then pale at that surprise news. She later refused on general principle to accept their half of the meat raffle proceeds from the thick envelope of cash my brother waved around at Erik George.
Everyone there was part of a twosome. NanaBel, with Charles Barkley on her arm, surprised me by inviting James Byrd to be my bowling partner, so that I wouldn’t feel left out. Jazy was teamed with Tre J and Kenna arrived with a man friend none of us had ever met before.
James and I had fun. He already had my respect for his brains, but now I was genuinely starting to like him as a friend. The self-made bazillionaire was a great bowler. It was pretty funny to watch him blush and look beseechingly at me for rescue when the purple and pink-haired older ladies tittered over his long, ebony hair and beautiful cheekbones. They teased they wanted to raffle him, instead of the meat from the Dennison Meat Locker. But then I frowned because it should have been Luke’s hindquarters they wanted more than a chuck roast, not the high flyer James Byrd.
I didn’t hear from Luke at all on Thursday, but the nightmare didn’t leave me alone.
Friday was mani-pedis for all the girls followed by stripping down as far as we chose to be sprayed--with an organic skin dye made from vegetables--up close and personal-like by a complete stranger.
I decided to go for the gusto. Nude, except for the provided pair of enormous paper flip flops that only a huge clown could be comfortable wearing; I waited my turn in the spray tan booth in the small, chilly room. I fell asleep standing up. Luckily, when I jerked awake from my bad daydream and got entangled in my gigantic sandals, the wall I tore down as I tumbled to the tiled floor was made entirely of fabric. Unlike my forehead that bounced off the hard tiles, the spray booth received no permanent damage. Nor did my dignity suffer when three people rushed in to see what caused all the commotion, since clearly I had none to be naked and wearing those ridiculous shoes in the first place.
NanaBel thought it was decent of them to not charge for my spray tan when I was at fault, Stella thought they did a great spray job to minimize the goose egg on my forehead, and Jazy could not quit snorting like a damn pig every time she looked at me.
Another luncheon and a few hours of shopping later, I managed to put in a couple hours at the store. I didn’t know how I survived the day with my throbbing head and my gritty eyes, but by God, I smiled and I did it.
Friday night was a couples shower thrown by Reggie’s friends with a backyard BBQ theme. Jazy and I went as a couple. The party was packed. My brother and Anna were each popular on their own. Together, they were like the twenty-something’s Homecoming King and Queen of Northfield.
NanaBel was concerned about the lump on my forehead and I promised not to fall asleep or drink, which in retrospect was an idiotic thing to do.
I had made Jazy’s day and improved her nasty mood with my little accident at the salon, and she made my night at that shower. She told everybody who asked about the huge lump on my forehead a different story on how it happened. Each was more fantastical than the last. My favorite was Anna’s baby, a ten week old fetus, had kicked me a good one in the head when I put my face against her belly. Anna and Reg were bemused when everybody wanted turns to pat Anna’s stomach to say “Hi” to the little kicker.
Again, Luke hadn’t called or texted and I wondered when he was coming home. I went to bed late that night vaguely anxious, but also relieved that I didn’t have to feel guilty I had missed his calls when I didn’t have my phone handy throughout the day.
When I’d woken up this Saturday morning, I couldn’t believe I still had the blasted nightmare again during the night, not after I had self-scrutinized. Luke and I desperately needed to talk. It was too important a topic for a phone call. I wanted to read his face, his eyes, his body language, as well as his voice, when we talked about children.
The day had started off being Stella’s big day. It was her bridal shower hosted by us and the schedule was crammed full of wedding activities from nine in the morning until NanaBel was whisked off to the airport at four o’clock.
I forced myself to get up early and do my usual exercise routine. I ran on the treadmill and I practiced my self-defense moves. That usually energized me, but not today. Two lattes later, I was the last to climb into the Barbie-mobile limo provided by NanaBel’s newest darling boy, James Byrd for our fun day. The driver was Phil, the same driver that took me to Luke’s farm the day I almost gave up on my new soul before I hardly knew I had one. Phil tipped his black and pink satin chauffeur cap, and we shared a smiling fist bump.
Working with her great-granddaughter’s tastes in mind, NanaBel had organized the entire day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my grandmother and it had been wonderful having her home all week to attend Anna and Stella’s parties and organize events, but I was not sorry to see her leave later in the afternoon to resume her German vacation. The woman was a powerhouse of energy. Even Mac looked tired by end of afternoon, and she was operating on cloud nine where you didn’t need food or sleep because you were in love and getting it regularly.
First there were appointments at a hair salon. Stella had picked a salon in Minneapolis that specialized in organic beauty products, so that none of us were getting our brains pickled at the same time we had our hair cut or colored.
The girl assigned to me had eagerly suggested she should cut my hair waist-length hair, layer it everywhere, and throw in a few blonde holiday foils. After seeing the huge lump on my forehead, sh
e also brightly suggested bangs.
I knew then I was suffering more than mere tiredness when I waved a dispirited hand and replied, “What the heck, do your worst.”
Seated in swivel chairs on either side of me, Tre J and Jazy had leaned forward to exchange raised eyebrows of incredulous disbelief when they heard my response.
Their expressions did manage to invoke a wan smile out of me. Their incredulity had less to do with the fact my stylist had a tall, stiff, rainbow Mohawk, and everything to do with the fact that when I let somebody touch my hair, it was only after giving precisely detailed instructions. Then I made the stylist repeat back what I said. Often I threw a ringer question in the mix, to throw them off and verify they’d been paying close attention. Only then would I allow them to trim my hair 1/32 of an inch.
Why do stylists always want to cut our hair shorter than we ask?
I agree; it all stems back to playing with Barbies.
Every person that has ever played Barbies knows that’s true. You’d get a new Barbie home, perhaps dressed in a ball gown with an elaborately braided updo. The first thing most of us did was strip off the gown, undo the tiny rubber bands, and unbraid Barbie’s long hair. Now you had a naked Barbie with hanks of hair hanging unevenly all over the place. She was a hot mess. The only thing to do was give her a haircut. The problem that reoccurred each time, with each new Barbie, was that if you made one small miscalculation, Barbie’s hair was trashed. She needed to be buzzed shorter and shorter. Soon she was G.I. Jane and no longer beautiful ball gown Barbie. It was frustrated tears, and back to the store for a new Barbie. A future hair stylist was born.
After the hair salon, I weighed two pounds less, my sassy hair was blonder, and my new bangs covered the goose egg. It was painful to move my head, but I couldn’t stop swinging my shorter hair from side to side.
We kicked off Stella’s bridal shower with lunch catered by Pizza Luce at Manic Ceramic in Lakeville, the pottery shop we had reserved for her party. Twenty-two women each hand painted a piece or two of a full set of white dishes that would later be fired in the kiln and given as a gift to the happy couple to start their new life. I managed to paint a credible damask design across a plate in a turquoise glaze, although my hand was shaky with exhaustion.
I had no clue at the time, but it was nowhere as shaky as it would be in a few hours after being chased and shot at by an angry farmer who I then lured to his bloody death.
Chapter V
“Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Saturday, 12/15
7:40 PM
Approaching the road, the dog and I slowed down. The moon had ducked behind a thick bank of clouds again. I looked both ways, but my eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness more than a few feet ahead.
A quarter of a mile to the west is an intersection where Jaz should be waiting in her car. The mission began tonight with Tre J driving an old truck hauling a horse trailer and we followed in a car driven by Jazy. The car was parked at a safe distance from the farm as a backup getaway. Jazy and I hopped in truck with Tre and we all rode together the rest of the way to the farm.
If the mission went according to their plan, I would be the lookout while they loaded their precious cargo into the trailer. We would then leave the farm, get dropped off by Tre at the car, and she would take off to deliver the horse to the next stop on their equine underground railroad. On every rescue, Tre and Jaz switched who drove the trailer with the stolen horses to the next destination, each time minimizing the risk to a single person who tempted fate they’d be caught.
Before tonight, I’d never seen the old, rusty truck, the horse trailer, or the beater getaway car. The girls explained the nondescript vehicles were used strictly for rescue missions. It had never been necessary, but if they had to ditch the vehicles for any reason, they had been stripped of anything that identified their previous or current owners. The plates, registration, and insurance were legit, but linked to a deceased stranger never reported dead with a perfect driving record.
The exteriors didn’t look like much, but Tre assured me maintenance checks were performed regularly, the tires were new, and the engines were in tiptop condition. Since they were committing thefts punishable with hefty fines and jail time if caught and prosecuted, I was elated by their precautions.
If the mission didn’t go as planned, that’s where my role in the triad came in. Besides standing around and looking pretty, my job was to lure any persons that arrived unexpectedly away from the barn to allow Tre and Jazy to escape with the truck and horse trailer. Jazy would still be dropped at the getaway location, if possible, and wait there for me to catch up.
Without much hope, I tried my phone again. No dice. Stinky and I were still hoofing it, but I had a dilemma. The farm was located out in the middle of nowhere south of Northfield, but in the off chance a car came by, I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. I definitely didn’t want to be seen in the company of the ginormous dog.
The road was relatively flat from the direction we came, but there was no tree coverage on either side--only a deep ditch bordering open fields. The good news was I’d see headlights coming in time to duck into the ditch until the car passed. The bad news was I wasn’t sure of the road east of the farm. I couldn’t see far enough to know if it curved immediately. A car could be on my position before I had enough warning to hide.
As if to prove me right, I had only a second’s notice to dive off into the ditch before headlights cast light across the road where I had been standing.
Unfortunately, the dog hadn’t moved an inch. His silhouette cast enormous shadows as he was bathed in the oncoming headlights. The dumb mutt stood still as a statue in the middle of the road, despite my shouting commands to “Run, Stinky, run!”
The compact car with the quiet toy engine stopped a few feet from Stinky blocking the road. The car was right in front of my face where I lay in the ditch, my head peeking over the top.
I pounded the frozen ground in frustration when the dog still didn’t move an inch.
The whirring of a window being opened on the driver’s side was clear in the quiet night. I held my breath to see what happened next.
“Hi there, big fella. What are you doing out on the road on this freezing night? Don’t you know you could get hurtsies?” asked a female in that gratingly high baby-talk voice that some women used when talking to animals and small children.
I tilted my head in question in concert with the dog on the road. There was something about that voice…
The driver’s door opened and a dome light flashed on. At the top of the ditch, I got up on my feet into a crouch. The woman was the only person in the car and she had gotten out quickly to stand on the road. Peering through the passenger window to the other side of the car, I could only make out the middle portion of her female form in a dark coat.
The woman cajoled, “Don’t be a ‘fraidy cat, doggie. Come here, I have a treat for you…”
At those words, the voice clicked. In disbelief, I jumped up to shout, “Kenna?”
At those words, it clicked with Stinky the woman had mentioned food. He barked ferociously and lunged for the woman with his monster teeth bared.
The woman had looked towards me at my shout and called out, “Jazy?”
There was a loud thump that rocked the vehicle and the woman disappeared.
I ran as fast as I could around the trunk of the Prius, visions of Kenna being ripped to bloody shreds by those Spinosaurus teeth for a dog biscuit. I skidded to a stop on the loose gravel.
My second eldest sister was bent over the dog stretched out on the road. Her knee was on his neck and her voice was firm, no trace of the baby talk. “Are you going to behave now?” She had heard me, but didn’t glance up from Stinky. “What the hell is going on here, Jazy? Why doesn’t this dog have a collar on? I practically had to break his poor neck taking him down.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but ordered, “Get the McDonald’s bag off the front seat, will you? I have a half a burg
er and some fries in there.” She stood up slowly, pulling the panting dog with her, speaking soothingly, “Aren’t you the big love bug. You’re just a hungry boy and got excited, didn’t you?” She held out her hand for the food bag, saying over her shoulder, “My God, he’s a brindle Boxer-Mastiff mix. Will you look at the size of that head! What’s his name?”
I did as she bade, placing the bag in her outstretched hand. “I found the dog this way out on the road and don’t know his name,” the dog and Kenna turned their heads sharply in my direction, “but I’m Anabel, not Jazy.” I stepped up closer to my sister to see her face. “What the heck are you doing out here driving around and why in the world are you expecting to see Jazy tonight, Kenna?”
Jazy and I have been told by friends we could sometimes sound alike on the phone or when we laughed, but our family didn’t get us confused.
Surprised, Kenna had fallen back against the open driver’s door, a hand rising to her mouth. “Bel! What…why are you here?”
Stinky took advantage of Kenna’s distraction and snatched the bag from her hand. Giving it a good shake with his head, the bag ripped open. The hungry mutt demolished the contents in a few gulps. Finished, he sat back on his haunches, licking his chops and staring at me intensely.
Ignoring Kenna’s question, I opened the backseat door of the hatchback and snapped my fingers. “Get in, Stinky.”
Now the dog chose to obey with alacrity and circled around my sister to jump into the car. I climbed in next to him.
Leaning partially out of the door, I said to Kenna. “Come on, drive me to my car. I’m freezing.”
