by Diane Munier
But Juney was so adorable…and I had watched him some over those first five years while Marcus and Angela went through 'difficulties.' Well, it didn't change me very much…Juney's off the charts cute factor, but it did a little cause even I couldn't resist him, those missing front teeth and the freckles, the game of Life, his little hand moving the car around the board, a mother and father represented by pegs in the plastic game-piece seats, kids in the back, sweet dreams, dream a little dream, I have a dream, dream on.
Juney and I were the two motherless. We knew that. Angela taught Juney young that she wouldn't be around much. It started after the pregnancy with pain killers. That's what I heard. Marcus drew the line on street heroin.
She went back where she came from, left the big and the little bleeding a little in her rearview mirror.
Now Juney takes his backpack in the house. I am going over my list, not that I need to, but Marcus and I are in the truck waiting and…well, I was thinking of that long ride last night. And right now, we've already done the innocuous stuff like him asking if Juney slept and me saying yes he did. Him asking if I saw Artie before he went to the station, me saying I hadn't. Him asking if I'm going to do all the cooking again or let people bring things, me saying they can bring what they want, doesn't change my full menu in the slightest. Him saying he's going to help me, me blowing through my lips like 'yeah right' when what I really mean is 'I certainly hope so.' Him telling me Jessica won't be home until Sunday. She's doing Black Friday with her group in Florida.
"She wanted to meet you," he says.
"Why?"
"Juney talks about you."
"Oh, Juney."
He clears his throat.
"Don't…be awkward," I say softly.
"It is awkward. I don't know why. I waited long enough. What does everyone want from me?"
"Everyone? Is there a mob calling for your blood or something?"
He pretends to ignore that. "She's used to doing what she wants." Then he laughs. "I am too." He laughs again but keeps looking out the drivers' side window and sighs a big one.
I feel his eyes on me a couple of times, but my hood is up, and my eyes are down, and I can be the mute monk on those two points alone—a mute monk on high alert pretending to read her store list.
"Sorry, I said she was a hundred," I offer, just to keep the old ball rolling.
He laughs a little. "She's only a couple years older than me."
"Okay, half a hundred. Just kidding. Why her, though?"
He pinches the back of my hood and pulls it back so he can see my face. He's exasperated. "If Juney said something about her…I told you. He's giving her a hard time."
"But really…is she your type? She's…not, right? Making real mac and cheese? That's not you."
He looks confused. "If dependable and hard-working are my type then she is my type."
"Are we talking about your girlfriend or a set of tires?"
He's not amused. He wants to give me a ticket or something. "Bedilia…she's nothing like Angela. I know you might think I can't pick a good one…after Angela…but Angela didn't start out that way…awful."
"No offense…but there's a lot of stops in-between new tires (Jessica) and a flat tire (Angela). Don't be like…an extremist."
He almost laughs. "What? I can't…talk to you about this."
"You can. Do you guys have…like chemistry? I…can' see it."
"You don't know her first of all. Second of all…that's pretty personal, right?"
"Riiiiight," I say all Dr. Evil.
He rubs his hand over his mouth. "Answer me first…what happened in Chicago. And don't tell me 'nothing.'."
"Double negative," I sing-song. "I don't have to say now."
"What?" he says…interrogating the perp.
I get a little teary-eyed thinking of all the crying I've done all over him already. "I got fired," I say quickly.
He sits up.
It's always about being a cop with these guys. "I don't want to talk about it," I say quickly. "And don't tell Artie."
"Why'd they fire someone like you?"
I shake my head. He's been listening to Artie's propaganda for too long.
Juney pulls the door. I'm relieved I told him. Relieved, and a little sorry.
"Are you staying?" he continues.
I get out to let Juney in, and I get in again and slam the door.
"Hey," he says eyes intense over Juney's head. I have his attention now. I have it like never before. We have never looked at one another for so long or so unguardedly. I know he wants an answer. He wants something.
Juney looks from Marcus to me. "What?" he asks, open to either of us answering.
"I don't know," I say so he'll start the truck already. I can't go back, but I left it untied. And I'm not ready to say. I have to speak to Dad first. The hits just keep on coming.
He's muttering as he starts his truck. He looks at me again and again, but I ignore him when I'm not staring back, over Juney's spiky little head.
"You guys keep looking at each other," Juney says like a dope.
"I can't believe how ugly your dad is," I say, and Juney laughs, and I do, but Marcus just keeps driving and grinding his teeth and looking at me.
We've sung songs, Juney and me, I've shown him most of the interesting apps on my phone. We've talked about MineCraft and AngryBirds and four-wheelers and how a real zombie plague could start and the new series of books he's reading.
And pretty soon we stop outside of Litchfield, and we go into a diner Marcus likes there and Juney and I sit across from him pouring over the menu.
Marcus has taken black coffee, and he doesn't even look at a menu. "What are you getting?" I ask.
"Eggs Benedict," he says like it's a no-brainer.
"Must be nice to have your mind made up…about everything," I say.
He just looks at me. He has these four well-placed freckles. He takes another sip of coffee and licks his lips. His eyes are so serious.
"What?" I say before biting the slice of lemon that came on the lip of my tea glass.
"That explains it," he says, noting the lemon.
"She's a sour puss," Juney laughs.
I put the rind in front of my lips to make a smile but Marcus doesn't smile, and Juney wishes he could get a slice of lemon.
So we're playing around like that, and I let Juney play with my phone after he and I order. We settle in to wait then. I shove Juney's placemat toward Marcus and with a red crayon I put an 'x' in the graph for tic-tac-toe. He picks up the black crayon, and we play again and again, and I kick his butt some, and he kicks mine, then I play Juney, then Marcus does, and they bring the food.
Everything is good and massive portions, and we are enjoying it, and I ask Marcus if I can taste the sauce pooling around his eggs and he says, "You got your own food," and I offer him some strawberry pancake in exchange for some sauce, so I fill a spoon for him, and he does for me, and we swap the spoons. Then he lets Juney taste too, and we both say we'll get that next time, and Marcus looks at me again.
Will there be a next time? Not like this. Not with her in the picture. I'm not giving him Chicago when he can't offer up hair-witch.
Geez Louise, it's only the second full day. I'm moving fast again. So I don't quite finish my food, and Juney finishes his, Marcus, too. They're both happier now that they've eaten. Marcus insists on paying. I hope it's not because he pities the jobless.
As we leave the restaurant, Juney takes my hand. I look back at Marcus and catch him staring at my ass. He smiles at me. He unlocks my door and pulls it open and Juney hops in. Before I can, he says low, "The thing about you women…can't nail a one of you down to make a plan."
"Can't imagine why a woman wouldn't stand still for the nail," I say, wiggling my eyebrows at him before I get in.
He slams the door, and I take a quick look through the glass. He has intercourse eyes. I mean…they penetrate me to such a degree that I'm hypnotized. I flutter my fingers at him,
and he walks around and gets in.
It would be unfortunate if he were to compare me to say…Angela or Jessica, or any other living or dead woman walking planet earth. We're not all Eggs Benedict.
Naturally Marcus pushes the cart at the store. We make a cute little family, I guess. I've gotten a few 'lucky bitch' looks from the females crowding this marketplace.
I've got a list. We get to the bakery and Marcus thinks I should buy the pies and save myself the work. I'm glad he doesn't have an 'old saying' about women and pies. This woman makes hers.
Juney thinks we should have chicken strips instead of turkey.
"You like turkey," I remind him. But he says he likes chicken strips more.
I'm bent over looking at noodles when it happens, the nudge of the cart. No big deal. It's crowded. I figure it has something to do with Juney but he's down the aisle talking to a kid he knows. So I look at Marcus and notice he's done it on purpose. "You got the city out of your craw?" he says.
I'm holding a box of noodles, but I straighten, and I'm looking at him. "What's a craw?"
"I'll show you sometime…on the turkey."
I ignore the question. Like I said, I'm not giving him Chicago. Yet.
Chapter 17
Celery, onions, four loaves of cheap-ass white bread. Potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, green beans. Our cart is loaded like one of the pyramids, full of everything we need for the afterlife.
Juney is holding a red box in front of my face—Stove Top. "It's so, so, so, so good," he tells me.
"Juney," Marcus corrects, "go put that back."
"But this is what you make," he says to Marcus offering me a chance to make Jessica's mistake and 'not take the box.'
I let Marcus be 'bad cop', and I continue to walk a little in front of him as we head for the checkout line.
"You should know that thing by heart," Marcus says meaning my list.
"Once I get home I'm not coming out again. It's cook time, baby." I'm smiling, but I'm thinking oh great, did I just call Marcus the apostle Baby? Yep.
"Me and Dad are helping," Juney says.
"You too?"
"I could make Stove Top," Juney says.
"Is that why you wanted to buy it?" I say.
"Yes," Juney says shooting a look at Marcus.
"Junior," Marcus says, like 'come on man.'
"I do," Juney continues.
"Then go get it," I say. But Marcus is disapproving, and we have a little stare off as Juney runs for the box. "What?"
"You staying in Lowland now?"
"Oh no. We're talking Stove Top…me usurping your parental authority. I didn't say a word about Chicago."
We take our place in one of several long check-out lines.
"What happened with your job?" he says.
"Unt-uh," I say.
"Marcus?" She blindsides us. Short, complicated, haircut of various levels. Daughter on her hip and plenty of room for the kid to ride. I know it's mean, but the way she's checking me out, it's like I'm caught shop-lifting.
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at her.
"Did you hear from Jessica?" She's talking to him, looking at me. Her daughter has her hand on her mother's face trying to get her attention. That's not happening.
The thing is, these days, they've all heard from Jessica. It's called technology.
"Yeah," he finally says. "She's having a great time."
Oh good for her, I think, but I forget to clap.
I'll give him this, he doesn't seem ruffled in the least that he's been caught red-handed keeping company with another vagina. I flip my hair around a little and try to look bored…because I am.
"Oh you shopping?" she says still ignoring the kid.
Now…come on. I just smile and say, "Bedilia, here. Sheriff’s daughter."
"Artie's daughter?" She says so loudly people from the next two aisles are craning their necks to look at me.
Marcus has this smirk in place. He knows he didn't introduce us. He either didn't think she was worth it, or he didn't think I was worth it…or being male he didn't think at all.
Juney is back with the box of Stove Top. He's panting like he took the long way at full speed. He has Stove Top and a box of Fudgesicles.
"We can eat them in the truck. Two apiece," he announces.
I high-five him before Marcus can say anything.
The woman strings some more vowels and consonants together about where he's spending Thanksgiving with these looks at me like she knows I'll not only cook turkey but give lap dances during football. Fake smile at him, a look for me like she's memorizing my vitals, still ignoring the sad kid on her hip, phone in hand, already pressing buttons, she starts to walk away. Then she turns and snaps a picture. Of me. Then she's really making time toward the other side of the store.
I make a sound and Marcus says, "What?"
And I say, "She took my picture."
"She did not," Marcus scoffs.
"She did too," Juney says.
"Want me to go after her?" Marcus says, perfectly serious.
"And do what? Grab her phone and smash it?" me
"I'll ask her why she took it." him
"You don't know?" I say.
"Do you?"
"Yes. She's one of the Orcs getting ready to text Saruman in Florida." I know he gets this…Juney does, appreciating my wit and realizing for the first time we are the Hobbits.
"Well, you can't blame Jessica for what Sherri does."
We've finally reached the counter, and Marcus is practically throwing things on the conveyor belt.
But what's funny… Marcus's phone buzzes from in his pocket, and I shoot Juney a look and we high-five again, and Marcus is looking at his phone, pensive face, lips pressed tight but moving side to side…interesting I admit.
"She's wasn't even listening to her kid," Juney says. He would notice. The wounded motherless have an eye for such things.
Marcus puts his phone in his pocket and doesn't even look at me as he makes his way around me and it's close, people all around us, and his hand on my arm and he says, "Excuse me," low, and he goes to the checker.
"She get my good side?" I say while I continue to unload, and Juney laughs.
But no, Marcus Stover just got my good side and it's still tingling.
But he's got his wallet out.
"I have money," I say.
"I got this," he says, and he's smiling while he digs through his wallet, not looking repentant at all.
I make my way next to him while Juney finishes the cart.
"Marcus, I'm paying."
The checker says the total, looking tired as hell, but she's eying him like a Lazy-boy chair.
He hands her his card, and I've got my money now, crushed in my hand like week-old lettuce, but good none the less.
"Put that away," he says about the lettuce.
"Artie's gonna make you take it," I say.
He's taking the receipt and putting it back in his wallet with his card.
"Bull-headed," I mutter. No way he's paying for all of this.
"Takes one to know one," he mutters back calling to Juney, who's found his friend again in the line beside us. Juney catches up to me and slips his hand in mine. I didn't know when he got one of the Fudgesicles, but he's licking away.
I'm staring at the back of Marcus's head, the back of his jacket, the back of his…jeans as he pushes the cart toward the doors. My guess? He's got a new screen-saver.
Chapter 18
"You in trouble?" I ask as I meet Marcus in the unloading of the many, many bags of groceries onto Artie's table. I'm talking about what went down in the grocery. It's the first few seconds we've been alone.
He plays dumb. I know he's playing because he sets the bags down and touches his jacket's pocket where his phone resides. It's been vibrating so often he's turned it off not far outside of Litchfield.
He doesn't have special ringtones. Thank God. I didn't want to hear Countdown by Beyonce or something else she prog
rammed into his phone to represent herself. I'd have to walk away and leave him to her. Or do a serious, painful intervention.
But he's not contaminated that way at least.
He goes back outside without answering, and I follow. Juney is bringing in a box of bottled water. He has a Fudgesicle ring around his lips, and he's oblivious, hunching his shoulders against his manly load. Marcus holds the door for him, and he maneuvers in under Marcus's arm. I am right there, behind Marcus. "Wash your mouth," I say.
"Dad already told me," he sighs.
We walk to the lowered tailgate. Marcus leaps up to move the rest of the bags to the gate so we can reach them easily.
It's an interesting view I have here on the ground. As previously stated, all angles work.
"Are you?" I repeat having been ignored.
"Am I what?" he says jumping lightly to the ground.
"In trouble?"
He only looks at me briefly before grabbing more bags and heading in.
"Hey," I call. He turns.
"Ear-check," I say.
He smirks and goes in. He's in trouble.
In the kitchen, there is now stuff everywhere. Marcus goes out for the last load, and I open the pantry and look inside.
No, no, and no. My entire system has been haphazardly rearranged by my father while I've been gone. I energetically, because I have some frustration to work off, start to tackle the chaos. Cereals are top shelf. Baking supplies next. Now we have jars of things, jars, and bottles. Canned goods don't belong in here at all, they have their own place in the cabinets. Next, we have pasta, and beans, and lastly boxes of tea and all the weird stuff that doesn't go anywhere else.
Finally towards the bottom the plastic wrap and foil and all that crap, and on the door all the spices which I also pluck from the wrong lines and move to the right ones. There. Now that isn't so hard. I stand back to admire my work.
He's behind me sort of, at the island, his hands there and he's staring at me, he's been staring at me, and I've probably looked from behind like I'm conducting an orchestra playing Flight of the Bumblebee or something.
