Cheryl put her arm around Pen in a protective gesture and Pen didn’t seem to mind. Cheryl tried not to look pained that Pen had had such a difficult life. Sparky had told her, in confidence, that it upset Pen that she made Cheryl look sad, that she was afraid that being in Cheryl’s life would turn her off kids. This was absurd, of course, or was it? Ever since Pen had come, Cheryl kept tallying up areas of personal shortfalls. She kept coming up substandard in her ideal mother department. She didn’t know what to do in so many situations and there was no planning guide. Parenting seemed so “seat of one’s pants.”
“What’s this one?” Cheryl asked, trying to shake doubts from her head like a dog just out of the lake. It didn’t work.
It was a Polaroid picture of Pen with a man and a woman standing in front of a picture-perfect house right down to the white picket fence. Everyone looked happy, even Pen.
“That’s John and Helen. They fostered me while Martha Sue was in rehab. I really liked them. It was hard to leave.” She ran her fingers around the edge of the photo. Pen looked up at her. “I wanted to stay and I felt bad about that. I couldn’t leave my mom, but I wanted to. I wanted to live in a nice house and have people who took care of me, not the other way around.”
Cheryl thought hard. It was perfectly understandable to feel that way, but what should she say? What was the right thing to say? She wasn’t very good at this. There was nothing to do but take a stab at it. She felt like an untrained surgeon about to do a triple bypass. “Pen, it’s all right to feel like this. It’s human and it’s in our nature to want to be happy, safe, loved and comfortable—it’s like the ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ thing.”
Pen stared at her. Cheryl shrugged and they both laughed. “I suck at parenting,” Cheryl said when they were done chortling.
Pen took her hand. “No, you don’t. You just worry too much.”
“I do worry too much. I don’t want to do it wrong.”
“No, Martha Sue did it wrong,” Pen said. She turned another page. There was a tattered newspaper article about a car crash and the death of a twenty-four-year-old man. He was studying to be a doctor and had been hit by a drunk driver. There was a picture of a handsome young man.
Cheryl looked at the picture. She looked at Pen. “Do you think?”
“I don’t know. I found it in her purse awhile back. She got real sad.”
“You kind of look like him. You have the same eyes and hair color.” Cheryl realized this sounded like a driver’s license application.
“I guess I really am an orphan.”
“But you have people who love you,” Cheryl said, pulling Pen closer.
“And you won’t drive drunk or do drugs, right?” Pen said.
“Of course we won’t,” said Lexus’s disembodied voice. She flew across the room, jumped over the back of the couch and wrapped them both in a bone-crushing embrace.
Pen squeaked, “You’re squeezing all the air out of me.”
“Oh, right. Shall we have s’mores since we’re up?” Lexus said.
Cheryl laughed. “We might as well.”
“I’ve never had s’mores,” Pen said.
“What! That’s got to be remedied. We’ll have to go camping this summer and have the real McCoy,” Lexus said.
Cheryl groaned.
“What?” Pen said.
“She doesn’t do camping,” Lexus said.
“Oh,” Pen said. She sounded disappointed.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t go,” Lexus said. “We’ll take Sparky. She looks like the camping type.”
“I’d like that,” Pen said. “But I’d miss you,” she said to Cheryl.
“Me too,” Lexus said.
“Oh, all right. I might give it another try for you guys.”
Pen and Lexus hugged her. “That’d be awesome,” Pen said.
“Absolutely fabulous. We’ll use air mattresses so rocks won’t poke at you through the tent floor,” Lexus said.
“You are thoughtful, I’ll give you that,” Cheryl said.
“Lexus?” Pen said.
“Yes?”
“We’ll all still be here by then?”
“Let’s look at the facts. We’re here for the long haul and Sparky has a lease.”
“Pen, I know you haven’t had a lot of constants in your life, but I want you to know that I’m working on things for you to stay with us. We’ll figure out a way, okay?” Cheryl said.
“And Cheryl is pretty good at making stuff happen. You can trust her.”
Pen hugged Cheryl hard.
Cheryl hoped she hadn’t made a promise she couldn’t keep. She wasn’t a big believer in divine forces, but she solicited them now. Please make this happen, she said in a silent prayer.
“Let’s get those s’mores going. Now, Pen, let me just warn you they are much better over a fire, but consider the microwave ones as a trial run.”
If only life had a trial run, Cheryl thought, and then she let herself enjoy the moment.
Chapter Eleven
Batting a Thousand
Vibro checked her kit bag to make sure she had all her equipment. She was the catcher for her softball team. Jennifer, who played softball for her company team, had the annoying habit of raiding Vibro’s bag for things like batting gloves, hair bands, Band-Aids and ChapStick. The worst thing Jennifer had taken was Vibro’s Gold Bond anti-itch powder, which was essential for avoiding diaper rash, which she’d then contracted by not having it. She’d cursed Jennifer as she squatted, glove in hand, with sweat trickling down her butt crack and diaper rash forming. Another time Jennifer had taken one of her shin guards—she could see taking both, but one? That almost seemed like spite.
Everything was in order for a change. Jennifer, for some unknown reason, was behaving better. Vibro was naturally suspicious, but she couldn’t find any evidence of foul play. Jennifer seemed to have left off destroying Vibro’s peace and quiet. She hadn’t passed out on the couch of late or left a mess in the kitchen. In fact, she’d even cleaned the apartment, including the bathroom, a couple of times. She picked up her dirty clothes. And instead of using all the toiletries and never bothering to replace them, everything was stocked. Vibro no longer found herself standing soaking wet in the shower only to discover there was no soap or shampoo or razor. There were always all the necessary articles for bathing—some of it nice stuff, as if Jennifer had actually stood in the aisle and perused the shampoo and soaps and lotions. Vibro pondered this but couldn’t come up with a reason for the change in Jennifer’s behavior. Perhaps Jennifer did want to make their relationship work and this woman who was receiving eight hundred and forty texts a day really was just a friend.
The clock that would have been a cuckoo clock if it had had a bird popping out instead of a cow coming through the barn door, announced the half hour—the mooing cow indicating that it was four thirty. She had to get going. The game started at five. She grabbed her bag and her Louisville Slugger and stepped out into the hallway. She heard voices down the hall. She stopped to listen. It wasn’t exactly eavesdropping because the hallway was public space. Sparky was talking to someone.
“How did you find me?” Sparky said.
“I waited until you got off work and followed you home. It wasn’t difficult. You never were that observant,” a woman’s voice said.
Sparky had gone to work, Vibro remembered, because her uncle had needed her for a rush job. Sparky seemed to think that since Wesson hadn’t shown up yet she wasn’t going to, that a ceasefire was in effect, a hiatus of relationship discord. Evidently it hadn’t occurred to anyone that Wesson would tail her home.
“Wesson, what do you want?”
“Want? How about a fucking explanation? You leave me a note, pack a bag while I’m at work and disappear. You really think it’s that easy? We’ve been together for nine years. I thought you wanted a cooling-off period, and then you text me asking to pick up your stuff, making sure I won’t be there. I’m not letting you
in the house unsupervised. It’s my house now.”
“Technically, it’s our house. We’ll have to figure that out at some point. My name is still on the mortgage. But right now, I just want some of my stuff. Stick it out on the porch and I’ll pick it up.”
“Oh, now you want me to pack it for you.”
Vibro set her kit bag down. Evidently, the ceasefire was over. Christ-on-a-bike, she thought. You won’t pack her stuff, but you won’t let her in the house to get it. Vibro glanced at her watch. She was going to be late if she pretended much longer to not be in the hallway.
“I just want my stuff,” Sparky said.
“Come and get it then.”
“But you won’t let me in the house to get it. I just want a few things. Maybe I could bring someone with me and you could still be there so we won’t have any problems? I wouldn’t take anything that’s not mine.”
“How can I trust you? You left me when I needed you most. You fucking walked out, and now you want to bring a stranger into our house to help you pack.”
“Wesson, we’re not good. We haven’t been good for a while and now this.” Sparky must have pointed at her eye.
“You made me do that,” Wesson replied.
Boy, if that’s not classic, Vibro thought, perpetrator blaming the victim.
“Wesson, this isn’t the first time. One of us is going to end up in prison for killing the other one.”
“It’s your fault. You’re always pushing my buttons. You’re a fucking instigator.”
There was the sound of scuffling, and Sparky said, “Let go of me.”
That was Vibro’s cue. She marched down the hall. Wesson had Sparky up against the wall by her shirt, her face close to Sparky’s. Christ, don’t bite the other eye, Vibro thought.
“Let go of her.”
“Make me,” Wesson said. She glanced down at the bat in Vibro’s hand. Vibro had forgotten that she was still holding it. How fortuitous, she thought. Vibro sized Wesson up. She had curly blond hair and hazel eyes and was tall and thin. She would have been pretty if her face hadn’t been screwed up with rage.
“Don’t tempt me,” Vibro said, bringing the bat up and tapping the palm of her hand. “I don’t want to, but you make me and I will. Now let go of her.”
Wesson seemed to weigh the odds. Vibro stepped forward, bat clutched in the swinging position.
“Got yourself a bodyguard, I see. You fucking her too?” Wesson said.
“The way I look at it,” Vibro said, “that’s none of your business. Now, why don’t you get out of here before I give you a demonstration of my batting average.”
“I’m out of here.” She let go of Sparky and pointed at her. “Better get yourself a good lawyer cuz this ain’t over, not by a long shot.”
They watched her go. Sparky tried to straighten out her shirt, which was all scrunched in the middle. Vibro set the bat against the doorframe. She slid down the wall, her shaking legs giving way. Sparky was alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“I should be asking you the same question,” Vibro said, putting her hands on her legs to get them to stop shaking. “That woman is scary.”
“Do you always carry a bat around in case you have to rescue damsels in distress?”
“I was on my way to a softball game. And you’d look funny dressed as a damsel.”
Sparky pretended to be insulted, then chuckled. “I do. I look like a teenage boy in drag.”
This time Vibro laughed. “A cute boy.”
Sparky blushed. “You make a pretty good knight in shining armor.”
“Except I’m having a delayed panic attack.”
Sparky put her hand on Vibro’s shaking knee. “You did a good job scaring Wesson and she doesn’t scare easily. Thank you.”
“What are you going to do about her?”
“I don’t really know. Forget about getting my stuff, that’s for sure.”
“That’s a good idea, especially since the eye still looks bad,” Vibro said, getting up.
“I know. Cheryl said it was going to take awhile.”
“I thought she might bite the other one and you’d have a matching set.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand?”
“You want to come to my game? I mean, what if she comes back?”
“She won’t. She doesn’t know you really aren’t a psycho redneck who metes out justice with a Louisville Slugger,” Sparky said.
“And we aren’t going to apprise her of that either.”
“No, we are not,” Sparky said. She’d managed to straighten out her shirt so that it only had a little pucker point. “What position do you play?”
“I’m the catcher.”
“Wow, you really do have balls,” Sparky said.
Vibro made a show of looking at her crotch. “Are they showing?”
Sparky rolled her eyes. “I’d love to come to your game, but Uncle Milton and Mr. Agassiz are coming to look at the vacant apartment. They want to talk about what needs to be done and when I’m going to do it.”
“Some other time?” Vibro found herself asking.
“Of course. I’d like to see you in action.”
“Do you play?”
“No, I have poor eye-hand coordination.”
“In all things?” Vibro teased.
“No, just things with balls.”
“Then it’s a good thing mine are only metaphorical,” Vibro said.
“Thanks for the rescue.”
“Do you want me to leave the bat?”
“No, I might actually use it. Then I’d go to prison, which is why I left her in the first place. I was certain one of us would kill the other and with my luck I’d be the one left standing. If she does come back, I just won’t open the door this time.”
“Ever thought about a restraining order?”
“It might come to that. I think I’ll let her have all the stuff and call it a loss. I can buy new clothes. I’m probably going to have to hire a lawyer to deal with the house, though.”
“We could go shopping. I love to shop.” Vibro would take her down to Broadway Theatricals and get a bunch of vintage ruffled shirts and tight pants. Sparky would look like a swashbuckling poet—an attractive Lord Byron. She reconsidered this. Maybe they should just go to the Gap and Old Navy.
“No dresses,” Sparky said.
“I promise,” Vibro said, keeping quiet about the ruffled shirts and tight pants. But what about some tall boots and skinny jeans? she mused.
Chapter Twelve
Other Women
Vibro’s softball team was aptly named the Agnostics because most of her teammates had a difficult relationship with the Almighty—including Dolores. She was still disappointed and angry with God because he refused to strike her errant husband dead with a lightning bolt of heart-stopping ferocity. Other teammates were Wicca and others had mothers like Anita Bryant and were at odds with religion because of its persecutions. Still others adhered to the Big Bang theory of happy chaos—a universe without a plan. Vibro thought God was getting a bad rap, so she always made sure to say hello as she made ready at the plate by crossing herself and thinking good thoughts. Her team was already warming up when she got there.
“About time your ass showed up,” said Striker, the coach, his face screwed in consternation. Christ-on-a-bike, he was the second pissy person she’d run into in the last half hour. Striker wasn’t good looking like Wesson, though. He was a rangy guy with a beak for a nose, close-set eyes and no lips. When the Almighty was handing out collagen, Striker was probably in the back of the line smoking a joint. Vibro had this image of God traveling the world in a boxcar, something she’d gotten while reading the scene in Fried Green Tomatoes where Idgie throws food off the train to all the poor people and persuades Ruth to help her. In Vibro’s mind this had blossomed into the notion of God traveling around handing out physical goodies—brains first, then well-proportioned body parts, cute noses and nice hair. Striker’s one good part was his hair—it was long, d
ark, straight and thick. It was a girl’s dream hair. Obviously, there had been some gender confusion in the line at the depot.
“Yes, well, I sent my ass along earlier, but she got stuck in a traffic jam on the I-5 so we decided to carpool.” You could always blame the I-5 for being late. There was endless construction. Those orange barrels had saved many an ass in the tardy department. Striker didn’t know where Vibro lived. From her place to the park she didn’t go anywhere near the I-5.
Striker put his hands palms up in a what-can-you-do gesture. “Get stretched and suited up.”
Like she didn’t know what to do, Vibro thought as she did her calf stretches with a couple of touch-your-toes thrown in for good measure. She’d never been big on stretching, but being part of the Agnostics one couldn’t take chances—it wasn’t like they had God looking out for them.
The Wicca girls had their freaky little shrine of “Intended Victory” set up. It was a wooden box the size of a steamer trunk and it was covered in Wicca symbols—corn dollies, witch’s knots, athames, and pentacles. A softball signed by the Wicca members of the team was set in the center of the box on top. Three white tapered candles in silver holders were placed around it, along with a bunch of weird little trinkets that pertained to softball—a stack of cards, a DVD about women softball players during World War II and other queer items. Vibro didn’t like to look at the thing too closely. But she liked that the shrine gave the other team pause.
Vibro threw in some neck cracking. She watched Mary Lou practice her pitches with Dolores doing the catching. Mary Lou may have been stupid enough to tattoo her boyfriend’s names all over her body, but, man, could she pitch. Dolores played first base and, despite her big tits and motherly demeanor, she was quick and had a long arm. She could sail that ball across the field and, when needed, back at Vibro in seconds flat. At first people took Mary Lou for a bimbo and Dolores for an old lady, but when the team got playing they were surprised, and by midseason no one doubted their abilities.
Love Over Moon Street Page 10
