Bubbles Ablaze

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  “Do you know the gas mileage one of these oversized heaps gets?” Jane asked, inspecting a sticker on a Ford F150. “Seventeen miles city, twenty-one miles highway. That’s criminal, Mom. That’s global suicide.”

  I scanned the premises looking for salesmen. I still didn’t know how I was going to begin finding who had raided my home. I certainly wasn’t going to give anyone from the Price company my name, which they’d recognize from this morning’s story in the News-Times. And what if the Prices had been the ones to burglarize my house? Though why would they have left behind a key chain?

  “Look at this Ford Expedition. Twelve miles city, sixteen highway. Is that a misprint? Haven’t these people ever heard of greenhouse gasses?” Jane’s voice was getting louder. Other customers were rereading the stickers and clucking their tongues. “No wonder we don’t have white Christmases, anymore. Thank you Henry Ford for single-handedly ending civilization.”

  Jane’s Earth First outrage caught the attention of a salesman in a navy jacket. He jogged out of the dealership, his lapels flapping.

  “Looking for a large, safe vehicle for your daughter?” He put his hands on his hips and nodded toward the SUV. “Listen, I put my own kid in an Expedition. My wife wouldn’t have it any other way. Between you and me on the QT, I sleep better at night knowing that if she hits somebody on some highway, they’re dead, not her.”

  Behind him Jane gave him devil horns with two fingers.

  “I’m Frank,” he said, extending his hand, which I shook because it would be rude not to. “And you are?”

  “Uh, looking for some men who maybe came in for a car today.”

  Frank lowered his hand. “Excuse me?”

  I held up the white plastic key chain with the Price Family Ford lettering. “They left this in my house. I wonder if you might know how I could find them so I could return it.”

  Frank still looked nonplussed.

  “And I, uh, assumed they must be searching high and low for it. These are pretty nice key chains.” I dangled the chain. “Yessiree. If I lost one of these, I’d be mighty bummed. So sturdy and easy to find in your purse—”

  “So plastic,” Jane interrupted. “Not that you gas guzzlers care.”

  Frank, not sure whether I was a prospective customer or not, but eager to get Jane and me off the lot—especially Jane—ushered us into the dealership.

  Jane can rant and rave as much as she wants about how evil fossil-fuel-burning vehicles are, but I love showroom cars with the hoods open to reveal sparkling clean engines. I love the smell of genuine leather and fake leather, the feeling that if I just had this perfect automobile, everything else in my life would come together.

  Frank led us into a large wood-paneled office, which was pasted floor to ceiling with framed photos, every one showing a celebrity and Bud Price in a tuxedo grinning so hard his face was about to split open. Liza and Bud in front of the Sands Casino, arms around each other’s waists. Bud and Bob Hope in a hospital bed. On the stage with Bill Cosby and Billy Crystal in Las Vegas. With Charo and Bo Derek by a pool.

  It was hard not to recall the last time I saw Bud’s smiling face, pasty white and shocked dead, at the bottom of a mine.

  “Who is this lucky guy?”

  “It’s my brother-in-law. It’s his office,” Frank said, slipping behind a large mahogany desk. “And he’s not so lucky.” His voice took on a somber tone. “He was killed Wednesday night in a mine explosion. The whole family was at a reunion in Bermuda when they got the word, except for his wife, Chrissy. She was in town ’cause her kid had school. I flew back last night to run the dealership. Chrissy, I guess, is going up to visit the site where he was killed.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” I said, sitting on a red leather chair. I flashed a look at Jane to keep . . . her . . . mouth . . . shut.

  “That’s why I decided to have the big sale.” Frank clapped his hands. “No money down. Interest-free financing if you drive off the lot today. Bud would have wanted it that way. His last big closeout deal.”

  Jane coughed. I slid my foot over and stepped on her toes. Damn those Doc Martens. Impenetrable.

  “Where was the explosion?” I asked.

  “Slagville. Bud owned land up there.”

  “Get out!” I said, slapping my knee. “I bet that’s where those men were from who left the key chain.” It was a gamble, but I was hoping to smoke out more info.

  “Oh, those men.” Frank opened the top drawer and rummaged around. “Come to think of it, they did catch my attention ’cause they were from where Bud blew up. Now, where is it? I swear one of them left his name. I remember asking where they worked and they said they were retired coal miners.” He pulled the drawer out another inch. “One of the gentlemen said a hairdresser here in Lehigh recommended he talk to Bud. She told him Bud could get him a good deal on a trade-in if he just mentioned her name. They drove a pretty decent F1 Ford. Still had the old Fordomatic.”

  “That hairdresser wouldn’t have happened to have been Bubbles Yablonsky?” Jane asked before I could stop her.

  I froze, sweating on the red leather. Frank stopped searching the drawer. “You know, I think it was a Bubbles something. Those fellows were real interested in her. How she knew Bud. Where they’d met. They made it seem like Bud and Bubbles were,” he glanced behind each shoulder, “kind of intimate, if you get my drift.”

  Jane folded her arms. “Don’t you know Bubbles Yablonsky is a reporter at the News-Times, too? Wrote that front page story today about McMullen Coal digging under the casino Bud wanted to build.”

  She hadn’t even read the story. What had gotten into this kid?

  Frank sat back and eyed her. “And you read that newspaper article and got it into your pretty head to visit Price Family Ford and get yourself a brand new vehicle?”

  I swallowed. He was onto us.

  Jane played it cool. She popped her bubble gum and said, “Yup. How about that?”

  He leaned forward. “How about three percent off on today’s purchase? Honey, you can’t buy advertising like this. Bud must be rolling over in his grave or wherever he is.” He shut the drawer. “Well, I can’t find that damn name and number. Why don’t you tell me yours? Let’s start with your mother, here.” He poised a pen over paper and winked at me.

  I, however, was speechless, totally and completely confused. Why would a couple of retired coal miners invade my home? Zeke Allen had said not much had changed since the 1860s. Arson, assault and murder were still the ultimate tools for change. Did that mean that these coal miners, whoever they were, were the ones who had set up Stiletto and me to die? I didn’t even know any coal miners.

  Frank coughed and tapped his pen. “Miss?”

  “My mother appears to be having one of her episodes,” Jane answered. “Just put down that her name is Sally Hansen, like the manicure maven. That’ll be close enough.”

  We stopped by Genevieve’s apartment and found her waiting on the sidewalk, repacked suitcase and polished musket in hand. Jane climbed in the back and Genevieve sardined herself in the front again. She was ecstatic to hear that we were off to Limbo, to stop by the home of one Pete Zidukis.

  “Pete Zidukis? The Pete Zidukis?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Is he . . . somebody?”

  “Only the most respected conspiracy theorist in Eastern Pennsylvania,” Genevieve said, clapping her big paws together. “His nickname’s Stay Put Pete ’cause he’s the one resident of Limbo who refused to leave when the U.S. government bought everyone else out of their homes after the fire started. He’s a celebrity. I’ve got to meet him.”

  I headed east on Route 22. “That might not be a good idea, Genny. We have—”

  “You’ll never find Limbo without me. The government’s rerouted the highway and put up road signs to trick you. They’ve even ordered all the mapmakers to erase the town off the maps.”

  “Let me check,” Jane said, opening a Pennsylvania/New Jersey AAA map. “Sure enough, there’
s no Limbo where it’s supposed to be. You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right, dear,” Genevieve said, punctuating her comment with a snort.

  Since we’d been cleaned out of leftovers and cold cuts, Jane and I stopped at Mona’s Lunch in Pottstown. Genevieve, who had chowed down on pickled beets, pickled herring and coleslaw at home, said she’d stay in the car and keep a lookout for any trigger-happy coal miners, or whoever it was who was supposed to be after me.

  Inside Mona’s I ordered a turkey and bacon on toasted white with extra mayo, a little lettuce, a bag of potato chips and a diet A-Treat with a double chocolate brownie chaser. Jane ordered a salad with extra carrots and broccoli, vinaigrette on the side and a mineral water.

  While Mona made our lunch, Jane tapped her black nails on the glass counter and studied me. I could feel it coming, the same old lecture, and I pretended to be very interested in a notice about a garage sale held last Saturday that was still left on Mona’s bulletin board.

  “You’re killing yourself, you know,” she finally blurted. “What did you have to eat today? No. Let me take a shot.” Jane closed her eyes while I concentrated on an antique china hutch, baby carriage and assorted Fisher Price toys. No sales before 8 A.M. No kidding. “Coffee, pastry, chips. Tastykakes and soda, soda, soda.”

  “Croissant.” I patted my thighs. “And see? Not an ounce of fat.” I also took a “don’t look/don’t tell” approach when it came to cellulite. That is, when I wasn’t staring at an overhead mirror.

  “It’s not just about beauty, Mom, it’s about health.” Jane slid down the counter toward me. “Nitrates in the bacon, saturated fat, coconut oil, and white death in those brownies.”

  “White death?” I asked, suddenly alarmed. “Cocaine?”

  “No. Sugar. Tons of it. You’ll have diabetes by forty.”

  I waved her off and returned to the garage sale. “By forty I’ll either be married to Stiletto or I never will.”

  “Unbelievable.” Jane slapped the counter. “You and men. Left to your own devices, you’d guide your entire life according to some man. They’re not our compasses you know.”

  Goody. I’d been waiting for this opening ever since Jane had announced via Mama that she was holding off on higher education after graduation so she could pick grapes with G in France. It probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much if she hadn’t had a 3.8 average, near 1600 SATs and offers from universities being mailed to our house daily.

  “Really,” I said. “So I guess you bypassing college because of what G wants wouldn’t be following a man. Per se.”

  Her expression soured. “Not per se. Anyway.” She looked off. “G and I are kind of shaky these days.”

  What! What was that? Did I sense a split? I bit the insides of my cheek to keep from grinning.

  “Is that so?” I said casually.

  Jane’s glance flittered toward me with doubt. The next few minutes were crucial. How I played this could well determine my daughter’s entire future. “I suppose you’re glad about that, huh?”

  “Wonder Bread Gobbler and Pig with extra Slime!” Mona slapped my sandwich on the counter. “Your Compost Heap is coming up, hon.” She smiled at Jane.

  “Glad’s not the right word,” I said, grabbing the sandwich and chips. Ecstatic was. “But you guys seemed so close. What changed?” I asked with feigned concern.

  Jane batted her eyes. “It’s difficult to explain. I’ve read that people who are intellectually curious are less likely to bond permanently with another individual because they tend to grow and evolve whereas their partners don’t. This has been a topic of serious discourse at my Mensa meetings.”

  “You met a hunk,” I translated.

  “Not just a hunk.” Jane gripped my arm. “A mature man. A man who understands me, who can discuss Plato and black holes without cracking butt jokes.”

  “Compost Heap!” Mona plunked the salad onto the counter, but Jane didn’t even notice.

  “I think it might be love.”

  “Christ,” Mona said, wiping her hands on her apron. “They’re all like that. All the Compost Heap orders. Just wait until the sex goes bad, then you’ll be adding extra mayo like your ma.”

  Mona and I exchanged knowing, appreciative looks about the comforts of rich, satisfying mayonnaise and crispy bacon.

  “Sex!” said Jane. “We can’t have sex. I’m underage. He’d get fired.”

  Mona quit wiping her hands. “That’ll be six forty-five,” she said, rushing to the cash register.

  I counted out the change, my hands shaking. Mona returned a nickel and clasped my hand sympathetically. “My heart goes out to you, dear. If it’s any consolation, these crushes usually last only a week. Maybe someone decent will come along to take her mind off the scum.”

  “I don’t think her mind is the problem,” I said.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  I smiled at her weakly and handed Jane her salad.

  “He’s older than you?” I said, opening the door for her.

  Jane walked ahead of me. “He teaches at Lehigh. He’s European.”

  European? Professor? The door slapped me on the back. Professor Tallow. It must be Professor Tallow. That’s what all the college kids at the dig had been snickering about. Jane with her puppy love crush on Tallow.

  Jane waited for Genevieve to heave herself out so she could get in the back. “I got a question to ask,” I said when we were all settled in.

  “If this is about him being older than me, forget it. I’ve always been adult for my age. I’m very responsible.”

  “How long has,” I cleared my throat, “this guy been interested in you?”

  Jane lifted the Saran Wrap off her salad and stirred it with a plastic fork. “We’ve known each other since the beginning of the semester, since August, when I started auditing his course.” She bit into a lettuce leaf and thought about it. “But I’d say it’s only been a few days since we’ve really gotten close.”

  “Close?”

  “Remember when I told you this morning about the Druid thingy last night, well that wasn’t all.” She cracked open the mineral water, carefully avoiding my searing gaze. “Don’t tell Dad, but we spent hours afterward curled on a blanket in the field, talking, until the sun rose through the mist. It was pure Shakespeare.”

  Shakespeare, huh? Did Shakespeare ever write a play about a forty-something professor taking advantage of a high school crush?

  “We just talked,” Jane insisted. “He didn’t kiss me or anything. He didn’t even touch me.”

  Genevieve and I exchanged sidewise glances. “Leave me out of this,” Genny said, raising one hand in protest. “If I was you, I’d just shoot the S.O.B. and be done with it.”

  The author of Reviving Ophelia would be pleased to know that I did not probe further into Jane’s relationship with Professor Tallow. I did not point out that there is no conceivable reason why a normal man who was a decade older than myself would be interested in my daughter. I did not ask what they discussed or in any way forbid her from seeing him again.

  If Jane had Shakespeare in mind, she was thinking Romeo and Juliet. And from my Shakespeare for Dummies course at the Two Guys Community College, I knew that Juliet’s pushy parents had ended up with the crummy end of that deal.

  Except in this case I was willing to bet my pointy-toed slingbacks that Jane was going to end up the worse for wear. Her heart was going to be broken and the bright beacon of higher education would dim forever when she discovered she had been used by a professor she worshipped.

  It was time to don my imaginary red cape and morph into Super Mom of a Vulnerable Teenager. I pulled into a 7-Eleven, threw a bunch of quarters into the pay phone and forced myself not to hang up when G answered.

  “Eh,” he grunted. “Talk to me.” A TV blared in the background. SpongeBob SquarePants.

  I swallowed hard. “Hello, G, this is Bubbles Yablonsky. Jane’s mom.”

  “Mrs. Y! Uh-oh. What have I d
one wrong now?” The TV went on mute.

  “It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you’re going to do,” I said before diving into a lengthy explanation that if G didn’t get his flabby butt to Roxanne’s Slagville salon pronto there was a good chance Jane was going to fall in love with Professor Tallow.

  “Who? That dinosaur? He’s, like, old. Older than Stiletto even.”

  I clenched my teeth. “He’s not old. He’s English.”

  “Yeah. Chicks go for that British stuff, don’t they? Wait. How’s this sound? Blimey, eh? Pretty good. Though that might be Australian.”

  G simply wasn’t grasping the gravity of the matter.

  “It’s up to you, G,” I said. “I’m just giving you a heads up.”

  “And to think I always thought you hated me.”

  “Now where ever would you get that idea?”

  There was a pause. “ ’Cause like those were your exact words. I hate you, G.”

  “You must’ve misunderstood.”

  “Okay. But I’ll only get up there on certain conditions.”

  Demanding little bugger. “And those are?”

  “That you’ll be nice to me. Make me sandwiches and stuff and don’t disrespect me.”

  “Perhaps.” I wasn’t too sure about making sandwiches.

  “And I get to call you Bub.”

  “Bub?”

  “Like, hey, Bub, wassup. Or could you get me a Coke, Bub? Or turn the channel, Bub, this is ‘Animal Planet.’ ”

  “Whatever,” I said, hanging up and looking over at Jane, who was passionately arguing with the 7-Eleven clerk about why they didn’t have a system for recycling her plastic salad container.

  Still, having taken steps to wean my daughter off Tallow, I was feeling a whole lot better. If I could manage the challenges of motherhood, what was there that I couldn’t handle, I thought, pulling back onto the highway. Jane was in the backseat, passed out for an afternoon nap, and Genevieve was snoring beside me.