Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  Along the narrow street nary a mouse nor man moved. I squinted at Ann’s closed blinds. “It’s too quiet, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t say ain’t. Sounds like you’re a panhandler.”

  “Pfft. A panhandler is a beggar, not a person from the panhandle of Texas.”

  He grinned because he knew I’d correct him for the hundredth million time. “It is too quiet. Makes me wonky.”

  Nothing like a dead athletic director to shut down this pleasure palace of romance and intrigue.

  Our AC unit cycled on. He set the thermostat on eighty. It had to be ninety-nine outside.

  “You got the busted AC on?”

  “Yep.” He pushed up his reading glasses.

  “It’s gotta be cooler inside,” I said. “Is it time for Jeopardy?”

  “Probably.”

  Chapter Five

  Wanda

  While I washed the broccoli salad container, Philly read aloud from the Oasis’ website about the place’s fine attributes. Six people had the same birthday next week.

  “Desert Oasis was established in 1997.”

  “Huh-uh.” I washed dishes I didn’t recognize or like.

  Texas etiquette meant you sent a thank you note to folks who brought covered dishes to a funeral. Considering the dead Dan situation, I thought the broccoli salad fit into the funeral food category. Decent funeral manners weren’t an aside I could ignore, even in this hellhole of asphalt, cacti and dead bodies. I’d send a thank you note to Ann for the broccoli salad.

  I couldn’t wait until our shipping container arrived from Cali with my dishes.

  The kitchen was meh. I could temporarily live with its faults.

  The entire park model with one bedroom, one bath… no bathtub, only a shower and a toilet, was much smaller than my former master bedroom. Our stuff would fill the whole place. My man promised an Arizona room addition, but it confused me about what an Arizona room might be.

  Sweat trickled alongside my nose. They have told me I was a witch, and right now I was about to melt. He had better install a superior new AC unit.

  He continued to fill me with Oasis information. Since 1997, they removed the older park models and folks replaced them with new models, but our model was a 2004, same as our used car. I don’t consider it newer and it didn’t have wheels. We weren’t going anywhere with or without permission from the Oasis’ body counters—sorry, security guards.

  I finished washing our two plates and forks and changed into my regular nightie. Regular meant it was as old as the hills, nearly threadbare and see through, but very comfy.

  We sat in the pair of pink leather recliners in a small alcove the brochure called a bump out. Essentially, it added twelve inches to the length of the trailer, but who’s counting?

  Shirtless, Philly wore only his boxer shorts. We’re supercausal. His cargo shorts lay draped over the back of a dining room chair.

  A knock at the door made me look up from my crossword puzzle book. Philly played an online game on his tablet. I don’t do electronics; they rattle my nerves.

  He looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Who could that be?”

  “Dunno?” I pushed my crossword pencil over my ear.

  A second knock happened. “What the?” He stood and stepped into his shorts in one quick movement. He didn’t even need to snap or zip them, he was that skinny.

  “I’ll get it.” He took one step and opened the front door.

  “Hi. I’m Wanda.” She stepped in eyeing the place.

  Philly did not greet the woman, whoever she might be.

  A petite redhead with—Philly’s eyeballs bulged at the sight of her... bosom... breasts. His Adam’s apple jumped, and he sputtered like he had run out of fuel. I must give him credit because even I couldn’t stop staring at her... um... boobs... breasts. She had the biggest rack I’ve ever seen on a woman her size.

  “That’s weird, don’t you think?” He looked dazed. “Nobody there.” He closed the door, but lifted the mini blind and peered outside. “Weird.”

  “What are you saying?” I stared at the woman standing beside my confused hubby. I’ve seen a person fall into a trance—at tent revivals on a hot Sunday night—but not once had he gotten so wonky, so fast.

  Confused, I put my puzzle book onto the table and stood, putting out my hand. “I’m Bunny. This is Philly.” He stumbled backward until his butt hit the bar.

  Nothing distracted a man faster than giant titties.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know what to do.” Wanda shuddered. The black feathery boa hanging around her neck furled snakelike sending a cold willie up my spine.

  He pitched toward the dinette turning seasick gray and acting peevish.

  “Guess you heard about Dan?” I asked, assuming she meant she didn’t know what to do after the news of his death. His death had stopped me in my tracks.

  “Thank you kindly. I heard about him.” She sank, and I guided her toward the recliner.

  “Here take Philly’s seat.”

  “Thank you. I love these chairs.” She wiggled into his seat. She’s been here before? Maybe I can ask her about the women’s clothing hanging in the closet.

  “Hunny Bunny, you want a refill?” Philly snapped from his daze and winked at my empty iced tea glass. That drop of scotch made me thirsty, I had switched to sweet iced tea. There’s one thing I’m never without, two things, actually—tea bags and pure white sugar. You can take a girl out of Texas, but you can’t take her iced tea away. It’s against Texas rules.

  “Yes, please. Get one for Wanda.”

  He smirked, but said, “Okay.” Seconds later, he fished ice from the fresh bag he had brought from the ice machine.

  When I settled in my chair, she asked, “Did you see him? My Dan?”

  “Not exactly. I saw them fish... take him out.” Fish sounded more à propos, but I quickly cleaned up my terminology. She looked upset, and I didn’t want to appear indelicate.

  “How did he look?” she asked.

  Philly handed me a glass of iced tea. He did not have a glass for our oddball guest. I almost fussed at him, but changed my mind. Something had confused him, and I didn’t want this new neighbor lady to think him a dimwit, not yet.

  Pulling a chair out from under the dinette table, he sat, opened his tablet and played a game, rudely ignoring our uninvited guest.

  She loaded that question for me, and I quipped. “His toes looked dead, that’s what.” So much for not being indelicate.

  She moaned, and it sent a chill up my spine. Guess she wanted the more gentile description of Dan’s waterlogged toes. That was all I saw of him.

  “It’s just. I’m his girlfriend. I think. Maybe I was his wife. He broke it off with me. I don’t have my times correct yet. I need better instructions on how to manage you.”

  “Manage me?” What’s up with that? “That’s interesting.” Why would she show up here, introduce herself and admit she was Dan’s ex-girlfriend? That rings of motive if you ask me.

  “Do you think so?” She blinked, looking professionally innocent.

  “Yes, I do. Who else knows about your relationship?”

  “Ever’body.” She sniffed like she might tear up.

  I nodded. That explained nothing, there were hundreds of others.

  My next question occurred. “Why are you here?”

  “This was my home. It was until I moved out.”

  “My house was your house?” My hackles rose. That explained a lot, the wallpaper belonged to this floozy.

  “Yes, I got a deal on the place with a real nice Arizona room. Kitty-cornered over there.”

  She pointed over her shoulder. “So, I bought it and sold this one.”

  “You left your furnishings?”

  “Uh-huh. Nobody moves their junk. My furniture here...” Her jiggly boobs did a wave—the wave fans do around a football stadium—Philly’s gaze locked onto her rippling bosom. “Fits me better.”

  She sighed, sinking deeper into
the recliner. “I miss my bed. I can’t sleep there.”

  He didn’t bat an eyelash. We won’t be sleeping in Wanda’s bed tonight.

  “I needed a little comfort. That’s why I came over,” she said.

  Philly wheezed and looked at me. “Did you say comfort?” He might have a stroke—I won’t resuscitate the geezer.

  “No, Wanda did.”

  He frowned, pretending not to hear me. Maybe he has already had a stroke?

  “I’m curious,” I said, rattling the ice in my empty glass.

  “Who do you think killed Dan?” What a meaty question? Why wasn’t Wanda at the county jail being interrogated?

  “I was out of town until a few hours ago. I had a showing in Sedona. I hurried home. Poor Dan. Do you think he killed himself?”

  “I’m sure he did not.” Whoever told her about Dan’s death hadn’t mentioned the exercise weights tied to his neck with a wire coat hanger. That might have been an important detail for a former girlfriend conveniently out of town to know.

  Why hadn’t either Madonna or Ann mentioned their tryst? Looks like if Wanda lived here, moved and left behind stuff that fit her better, a closet full of clothes I can’t or won’t wear, had a love affair with Dan, broke up with him and he died, somebody should’ve said, “Hey y’all maybe she killed the S.O.B.”

  Made sense.

  Wanda hugged her jiggly boobies to constrain them. “That’s good. If he had... killed himself, I might die.”

  “Don’t die.” I could not deal with her dropping dead. “What’s a showing?”

  “Yes, I paint... I’m a painter.” She perked up talking about herself.

  “You’re a painter?”

  Philly shuffled and looked at her. “Did you say you wanted to paint?” I scowled at him. Lemme tell ya, Philly wasn’t interested in art.

  “Mostly sunsets. Abstract sunsets. Tucson is wild about sunsets. So is Sedona.”

  “I bet they are.” I’m wild about sunsets, especially this one. Today has been the longest day of my life, and I wanted it to be over. Wanda need to leave fast.

  She dazed into space. “There’s something I’ve forgotten. Something they told me to say.”

  I puckered, shaking my head. “What on earth are you talking about? Who is they?”

  “The gatekeepers. What was I was supposed to say?” She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I can’t remember. It’s fuzzy. I have a mission to accomplish...” She jumped up and turned, blowing kisses at Philly. “Oh, my heaven’s, I’m keeping you. See you later.” He didn’t flinch catching a kiss. That’s odd, he loves blown kisses.

  “I’ll see you out.” Which meant I reached for the doorknob without moving.

  She stepped out onto the veranda, looking both ways up the street. “I’m kitty-cornered over there. Don’t you think, I’ll get used to it?”

  I stood, happily handing out advice. “You need to acclimate yourself.” She’s a weirdo, lost on her own street and I can’t blame her, finding your way in the Oasis is a task.

  “G’night.” She waved and floated down the steps. At the house’s corner, she turned left and disappeared.

  I took a deep breath and shut the door. “She’s gonna be a pest.”

  Some neighbors were worse than others. A jiggly, big-boob, neighborhood pest was by far worse than one wearing shorty hot pants.

  Chapter Six

  The Swim Shop

  My scraping woke my man, and he poked his nose into the bathroom. “Bunny aren’t you taking things to an extreme?”

  “I’m remodeling this chateau.” I held a metal spatula I found in a kitchen drawer at his nose. “That pink flocked wallpaper has to go.”

  Last night after Wanda left, he sat in the recliner and didn’t mention her visit. He had checked out, literately and rudely, and I lay awake going over her visit in my head until the wee hours. It wasn’t like him to not make a smart remark about the biggest set of—never mind. I was glad he didn’t heehaw over them until we went to bed.

  “Can you get out so I can use the facility?” He talked sweet—that’s why I call him Sweetie Bastard. But I know him well; he’s working up to a big breakout. Breakout means he would pull a fast one. Last time, he sold my house. This time, I’m ready for him.

  I stepped from the bathroom. “Careful of those scraps.” I made good use of my restlessness and had scraped a good portion of wallpaper off one wall.

  I wasn’t about to live with Wanda’s you-know-what-colored pink walls.

  He came out and went into the bedroom, sliding open the mirrored closet doors. We hadn’t hung a thing the closet.

  “Pickleball this morning,” he muttered, coughing. “Where’s my shorts?”

  “On the bed.”

  A few seconds later, I heard him step into his clean shorts. There wasn’t an ounce of privacy in Wanda’s old abode.

  In the galley kitchen, I poured him a cup of coffee from my third pot. It had thickened into a black shellac, but he’d drink it.

  He hacked over his mug.

  “You got lung cancer this morning?” He didn’t reply.

  Philly smoked Marlboro cigarettes until he was forty-nine and a half, it’s a wonder he can still breathe. We both gave up smoking at the same time—cold turkey—it almost ruined us, but I worry about the long lasting after affects.

  “Where’s my pickleball paddle?” He dressed to play with the other neighborhood boys.

  I cocked my head. “Ah-hm. I didn’t know you had one?”

  He ran his fingers over his bald head. “I put it... oh that’s right; they have paddles at the court.” He gave me a cocky grin. Was he playing coy about Wanda’s visit and purposely forgetting if he had a pickleball paddle?

  “Did you play yesterday?”

  He sat in a recliner and sipped coffee. “Ah-hm, I don’t think so.” Was he that confused or just sleepy? My man was slipping. It’s all those cigarettes he smoked. Clogged up his arteries. Early onset dementia.

  Fear struck. My hands shook, so I put them in my armpits to hide them from him.

  “When’s the golf cart coming?” I asked to test his memory.

  He looked up. “Dunno. Soon. Why?”

  “Cause it’s hard to get around. Don’t you feel lost?” If he wasn’t remembering things, we’d both get lost, I depend on him.

  I’ll be the first to admit, I felt stuck in a rut and knew my path well. Living in San Fran was like living in a small town—surrounded by millions of people—with the convenience of a familiar neighborhood. I’d walk to the grocery store, to the cheese market, the bakery and the butcher. I only thought I hadn’t known my neighbors, I had known a few by their first names. It wasn’t like we were bosom buddies, but when one went missing, I noticed. I didn’t tell the baker we were moving; does she miss me?

  Here the enormity of the desert was daunting. There were no landmarks to remind us of where we belonged.

  “Wayne said they haven’t had a drowning in a year or more.” He didn’t answer my feeling lost question and put on his tennis shoes. He looked odd. Usually he wore Wranglers and a chambray shirt, but here he’d evaporate in the heavy fabric.

  “A year? Isn’t that too often?”

  “That’s what I said.” He nodded. “Wayne thought it was funny. He said people are dying to get out of the Oasis.”

  “What the?” I smirked, but that was the truth. Turnover was high in a place where the average age was seventy-six years, three days, twelve hours and thirty-two minutes. I’m approximating, of course.

  “Now don’t get your panties in a wad.” He came into the kitchen and poured more coffee.

  “Be quiet. I’m not wadding up.”

  “Let me finish... he explained people drop dead all the time. For heaven’s sake, we’re all sliding on a slippery slope. Any moment—wham-o.” He swatted me on the behind.

  I threatened him with my wallpaper scraper. “Stop it.”

  “Bunny, it’s a joke. At our age, people go swimming and die of
a coronary.”

  “Well, I’m not laughing.” His explanation didn’t help. We were edging on the fringes of eternity.

  He opened Wanda’s fridge. “We need milk?”

  “Yeah. There’s a shopping center... arena. With a mini market.” Using mini made me cringe. “I’ll get dressed and go shopping.” My man couldn’t buy a carton of eggs. One simple trip the grocery turned him into a junk food fool. He’d come home with Little Debbie cakes and flaming hot Cheetos — and I can’t stop eating them either.

  “Okay. Drive careful. I gotta date I can’t break.”

  “You’re not having a bowl of Cheerios?”

  “Naw, I’ll catch something at the court. They have a snack bar.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  I walked him to the door, and he pecked my cheek. “Bye Hunny Bunny.” He was sure in a hurry, but his inability to know he didn’t have a pickleball paddle disturbed me.

  “Have fun,” I said as he closed the door. Thank goodness the blinds were semi-open or I wouldn’t have caught what happened next.

  Wanda stood outside by our rock garden, waiting on Philly. She jumped on her tippy-toes, giggling behind a hand, her bosom jiggled like a bowlful of — oh my word — Philly took the steps down in one leap. He stopped next to her, stretched his hamstrings and swung his arms in circles.

  They met and grinned. She wiggled and Philly’s mouth moved before they strolled out of my view.

  He looked too spry. My chin quivered and worms crawled in my gut.

  Who is this Wanda woman? What does she want with my husband?

  Wait just a gall-darned moment. Wanda’s boyfriend... ex-boyfriend... turns up dead and bloated the day after we arrive? Art showing? Out of town? Right. She shows up wanting to wiggle in her chair? Jiggling her—he got a deal on this pink park model? He knows how much I detest pink. Park model, my behind.

  Had Dan gotten wind of her affair with Sweetie Bastard? He was as guilty as sin. He killed her jealous boyfriend so he could have Wanda’s... you know what’s... all to himself.

  They have duped me. I lost my house, my neighborhood grocery, my friends… no wait I don’t have any friends to lose... and now my husband.