Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  But they no longer controlled what I did. I went into the settings and changed the name of the blog to Her Last Wish.

  I began to type.

  I met an old woman and an ugly dog a few weeks before my mother died. And then the words flowed like water.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesdays started with a swim, but on this Tuesday morning, I had to make an emergency stop in town first. Half an hour earlier, I’d opened the spigot to transfer the contents from the tank to the pootainer, and the stench had blown me backwards. In my mind, I saw a giant green cloud with a face, arms outstretched, flowing toward me, like a stink ghost. Unfortunately, the contents didn’t flow for long. The hose was as old as the Quacker itself, and with the pressure of hot caca, literally, the hose burst open and several gallons ended up on the ground instead of in the ’tainer.

  The green cloud went nuclear. I lifted my shirt over my face and ran, gagging. I shut the trailer door and leaned against it from the inside, pondering my options: go out and clean the mess up myself, now, or go out and clean it up myself, later. Tears leaked out of my eyes. I touched the butterfly locket on my clavicle and said, “Oh, Adrian, this would have been funny if you were here.” Then I realized I’d desecrated my necklace with dirty fingers and cried harder.

  I wiped my tears on the back of my arm and went outside to take care of the mess. I looked at my hands mid-process: covered in filth. Tlazol, I thought. Confirmation of who I had become. I cleaned up then checked the ’tainer. The good news was it was about half full. I backed the Jetta up to a small black trailer I’d bought for just this purpose. Then I positioned the Jetta and trailer so that I could roll the ’tainer up the trailer ramp, secure it in place, and take it to a dump station, all without ever having it anywhere near my vehicle.

  Yes, it had been awful, and it still wasn’t fun. But finally I spied the RV park with the pay-to-dump station. I dropped in their office first and bought a new hose, which made the second stage of the transfer process much less exciting than it had been in stage one back at the Quacker. Afterwards, I trudged to the restroom, feeling filthy and dejected. They had a bar of Lava soap by the sink, and I nearly wept with relief. Papa had sworn by it and kept a bar at every wash station in his clinic. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin was raw and my locket was sparkly clean.

  Five minutes later, I parked at the Giddings Public Swimming Pool. I walked to the pool, tore off my cover-up, and dove in without breaking stride. The water was a shock to my system, in a good way, cool without being cold, warm without being hot. I didn’t love to endurance swim, really, but I loved the water. I took a few minutes to glide weightless and sleek. Clean and fresh. Beautiful. I knew these were underwater illusions, but I didn’t care. Kids had started filling the pool, splashing and screaming. I didn’t care about them, either. When the water had done its magic on me, I put on my goggles, ear plugs, and MP3 player. I selected seventies music in honor of Gidget, and “Stayin’ Alive” pumped through my ears. I pushed off the wall in one of the lap lanes and began.

  I planned to swim for forty-five minutes. Because of my body pain, it was critical that I substitute even more swimming in place of running and bicycling. Compared to Adrian and Annabelle, I was a manatee in a school of marlins. Like Annabelle, Adrian had swum on the UT swim team. So I manateed my way along in the Giddings pool. After a couple of laps, I noticed someone jump into the lane next to me. Right before I flipped at the wall on my next turn, I lifted my head up out of the water. It was a woman roughly my age tucking long dark hair into a cap, putting on her goggles, and getting used to the water. I resumed my all-kick, barely-pull crawl.

  I ended another lap and the woman pushed off, putting us side by side. I expected to pull away from her within a few strokes. Just because I wasn’t as fast as Adrian and Annabelle didn’t mean I wasn’t a solid swimmer, far faster than the general population. But the woman beside me matched me stroke for stroke.

  Okay, I thought, she’s obviously overexerting herself because she’s just started. I’ll pull away from her after a couple of turns.

  But fifteen minutes later we still were in perfect unison. My hypercompetitive self kicked into gear.

  Maybe she’ll quit before me. I’ll swim farther. She’s just a short-distance swimmer.

  But after another fifteen minutes, she was still swimming, and we were still neck and neck. I pictured myself dolphin-diving under the lane rope to come around behind her. I could hold onto her ankles, weighing her down so she couldn’t keep up with me.

  Probably not a good idea.

  At exactly forty-five minutes I hit the wall and pulled myself up out of the water. My nemesis kept going, so I grabbed my towel and made for the bathrooms. I showered and was dressing when a woman with long dark hair came out of the shower.

  Probably my nemesis.

  We nodded at each other, and she smiled. “Nice swim.”

  My competitive feathers were still ruffled. I tried to smile, but it felt like it came off as a grimace. “Thank you. You, too.”

  On my way out, I dug for my phone in my purse. I had voice mail. I hit play as I walked up on a magenta pickup truck of a vintage year parked on the driver’s side of my Jetta. Two perfectly mannered golden retrievers were in the truck bed.

  The message was a hang-up from an Unknown number.

  “Hi, guys,” I said to the dogs. Their tail wags thumped against the pickup bed.

  My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “Michele Lopez Hanson.” I stuck my phone between my ear and shoulder, cradling it as I opened the Jetta and threw my bag into the passenger seat.

  “This is Eldon Smith,” a man’s voice said.

  I knew that name. Everybody in Texas knew that name. Eldon “Greyhound” Smith was one of the most rich and famous plaintiff’s attorneys in the state. He’d made a killing off asbestos work and breast implant class action litigation.

  “I’m the attorney for Ms. Anna Becker,” he continued.

  “Who?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Anna Becker. Some people called her Gidget.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  Really, Michele? You, a former attorney, get on the phone with one of the top lawyers in Texas, and you can’t do better than that? I hadn’t practiced law in years and didn’t think about attorneys much. Tried not to think about them at all. And still I was reduced to a speechless, quivering, baby-lawyer on the phone with this man.

  Greyhound—because that’s how I thought of him—said, “I was wondering if we could meet.”

  Again, no flicker of intelligence to help me out. “Why?” I asked.

  “Ms. Becker made a bequest to you in her will.”

  I dropped myself into the driver’s seat, a sack of potatoes. Air escaped my mouth in a soft “pffft.” She’d done it. She’d told me she would, but I thought I’d talked her out of it.

  “Are you there, Mrs. Hanson?”

  “Sorry, just stunned.”

  “I really believe we should meet and discuss it before the terms of the will become public.”

  The car was sweltering. I finally recognized this fact and turned it on so the AC could run. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Lunch at Royers, tomorrow.”

  “That would work.” I turned the AC to high. We set a time and traded contact information, phone numbers, emails, and such. “Could you say what it is she left me?”

  I heard a voice in the background. “Greyhound? George Bush for you on line two.” A female voice, cheerful but firm.

  He muffled his phone, but I could still understand him. “Dubya or elder?”

  I couldn’t hear her answer.

  To me, he said, “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.”

  After we hung up, I sat in the car, feeling weightless and out of place and time. A woman I had met only once wanted me to write the story of her life, and because of that, one of the top lawyers in Texas had just called me and hung
up to speak with a former president of the United States of America. But the weirdest thing of all was that Gidget left me something in her will. She’d been thinking about me after our meeting. Meanwhile, I had put her crate of treasures in the Quacker’s bench-seat compartment and never thought of it or her since, until her death forced it back into my mind.

  It was a weird feeling, and not in the good X-Files kind of way. In the “I need to do better” kind of way.

  Chapter Six

  La Mariposa the Second was possibly the most beautiful bicycle on the planet. She certainly didn’t deserve to be ridden by a shriveled-up, has-been athlete like myself, but that was her fate. I coasted the last ten yards as I braked to make the turn home onto my jarring dirt driveway. I’d risen at dawn to ride before the worst of the heat—after coyotes kept a shivering Gertrude up half the night (and thus me)—but still, it was over ninety degrees, and in the humidity, that felt like a hundred and eighty. My jersey was soaked with sweat and clung to my body like a wetsuit.

  I made the turn and pedaled slowly through trees and then past the pond for the last third of a mile. The Quacker was positioned near the back of our rectangular acreage. Our. I couldn’t help but still call it “ours,” because Adrian had bought it for us to enjoy together. The truth of the matter was that now it was just mine. Me. Solo, except for one ugly little dog.

  I stopped at the trailer and was greeted by Gertrude’s urgent barks. Her black nose and white locks of hair were pressed against the window over the queen-sized bed.

  “Hi, Gertrude. I’m coming.” I had clipped out of the pedals back at the gate in case I needed to put my feet down to catch myself on the rocky dirt road. I swung off and leaned my bicycle against the trailer. I opened the door, and Gertrude met me with enthusiastic kisses to my shins, which became even more enthusiastic when she tasted the salty sweat. Her rolls of hair stuck to my leg, soaking sweat off me like a sponge.

  “Stop it,” I said, and gently pushed her away. I rubbed her ears but she leaned back into my legs.

  I hid La Mariposa the Second behind the Quacker, locking her to a post. It broke my heart not to ride her more, but my poor aching body wasn’t up for it. I loved the feeling of flying with the wind in my face, when riding didn’t hurt. But it hurt all the time now, and it didn’t seem there was anything I could do about it.

  It took me half an hour after my bicycle ride to cool off, shower, and serve Gertrude and myself our breakfast. Dog food for her, a Quest bar for me. Technically, it was ten o’clock and past respectable time for breakfast, but I wasn’t going to tell anybody if she didn’t. I had about an hour left to fit in a little honest work before I had to leave to meet Greyhound Smith for lunch.

  First, though, I texted Wallace in Amarillo. “Are you guys still coming down for the rescheduled race this weekend?” It had been rained out, a rare occurrence in Fayetteville, Texas, and even rarer that the weather hadn’t touched us thirty miles away.

  Last I’d heard, he and Ethan planned to stay in a bed-and-breakfast Saturday. I was looking forward to seeing them, but part of me prayed he would back out of the race. Then I wouldn’t have to ride in it and either pretend it wasn’t hurting as bad as it was or give in to the pain and ride like the old hag I’d become.

  I booted up my laptop. Other than the article I was helping edit, the one on the general impact of gay marriage on sports, everything else in my inbox was specific to a particular sport, and all of it usually written, edited, and posted on the same day. That fit my lifestyle. I was able to work in short bursts, just-in-time, at all hours, instead of making face time eight hours a day. I needed to get the gay marriage piece moving, so I started with it. It was clean and well constructed but preachy and logically flawed. An hour flew by with my virtual red pen flying, slashing, cutting, incising.

  My alarm went off on my phone, which I’d set when I started working. Experience had taught me I could get lost in the Chicago Manual of Style. I got so lost this time that I hadn’t noticed Wallace had texted me back. Yes, they were coming. They’d see me an hour before the race. Ugh.

  I threw on one of the least-casual summer outfits I had brought with me: knit khaki skirt and shell with a little white jacket. When I was packing for a summer of work-from-home in the country, I never dreamed I would be meeting Greyhound Smith.

  Just about the time I got dressed, the air conditioner kicked off again.

  “Dios mío,” I said.

  I hadn’t left any doors or windows open. I checked the outside temperature on a thermometer perched at the window. It was 101 degrees. Unseasonably warm for June, it portended hellish heat for the rest of the summer. And it was clear the Quacker’s AC couldn’t handle it. Great. There was no time to do anything about it now, and it was too hot to leave Gertrude there. No reason why I couldn’t bring her with me, now that Gertrude and I were “official.”

  I picked up her brand new zebra-print collar and leash—which, yes, matched my handbag and made us look like a Hispanic episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, or it would have, if only Gertrude had been a Chihuahua–and slipped them on her.

  “Don’t you look pretty now?” I said.

  She sat up on her bottom and lifted her front legs. She rose slightly and hopped in a circle.

  “Look at you. That’s fancy. Come along now.” I gave her leash a gentle tug, and for once she followed me like a lamb.

  Once inside the Jetta, she jumped into the passenger seat like she’d been doing it all her life. I sighed. At least she hadn’t claimed my seat. I fired up the engine, and we got underway. The air conditioner blew hot air for the first couple of minutes. When the temperature grew colder, Gertrude and I tilted our faces toward the vents.

  We were headed to Round Top, which would have been a ten-minute drive if direct. But alas, it was not. I drove north to 290 and then east until Carmine, where I could then turn southeast, and finally south, and eventually get there in half an hour. And that’s only if we were lucky enough to be driving there when Antique Week was not in session. Antique Week fever grew hotter every year. There were now two weeks in the fall, two weeks in the spring, and one week in the winter. Heck, there were probably other Antique Weeks during the year that I just didn’t know about. What I did know was that you didn’t drive to Round Top from the south or the north during any Antique Week, or at all, if you could help it. The whole Roundtopolis became gridlocked with junkers, antiquers, food vendors, and shoppers. Round Top had grown so hip you could now find the likes of a former senator, Boyd Herrington, a famous attorney, Greyhound Smith, the top-selling country artist in Texas, Gary Fuller, and the Junk Gypsies of TV fame all within a population of less than one hundred.

  Kvetching about the circuitous route aside, the drive was gorgeous. A wet winter had brought the wildflowers out in force. Even though bluebonnet season was long over, the bright reds and yellows of the hardier flowers remained most of the summer. I secretly thought they were prettier anyway. And the rolling hills of green grass and trees were spectacular as well, reminding me of my girlhood-bedroom sheets, right out of the drier as my mother shook them out, billowing, to put them back on the mattress.

  I let off the gas as I rolled into Round Top proper. As I cruised past the Mercantile, an old magenta Ford pickup like the one from the pool was waiting to pull out. Not that I would expect there to be more than one of a truck like that. A woman with long dark hair and pale skin was driving. I stared to be sure, and I was. My swim rival. She entered traffic (little that there was) behind me. I turned at the square toward Royers, but she continued south.

  I parked nose-in right in front of the restaurant just as someone pulled out. The exterior looked like it had been attacked by a street artist with schizophrenia. I hadn’t been yet, but they were famous for their pies. So famous they’d spun off a separate establishment—Royers Pie Haven. I’d tried to cajole Adrian into a side visit there once during a bicycle ride. He was a man of iron will when it came to processed sugar, so I lost t
hat battle.

  I decided to leave the car running with the AC on like I had at the library, and trust in the goodness of my fellow man to let me retain possession. Gertrude put her paws on the arm rest and barked, but I steeled myself against her emotional blackmail and shut the door behind me. When I reached the entrance, the hostess peeked out and saw the dog in my car.

  “Is that Gertrude?” she asked.

  I took a closer look at the woman. Ear disks, tattoos, and a hair color best described as electric violet. “Why, yes, it is,” I said. “How do you know her?”

  “Ralph brought Gidget and the unforgettable Gertrude in for lunch once. Gertrude is a friend of the restaurant. Why don’t you bring her around back and she can play with our other dogs?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  We walked together to the car to collect my keys and dog. An ecstatic Gertrude led the way as we circumnavigated the restaurant.

  “My name’s Stacy Gifford,” she said.

  “I’m Michele Lopez Hanson.”

  “Are you the writer?” she asked.

  I was beginning to think everyone in a three-county area knew me, or at least of me. I had some catching up to do. “I am.”

  “We’ll all be lined up to read Gidget’s story when you’re done.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  She turned around. The back of her shirt read PEACE, PIE, LOVE. When we got to the back of the building, she opened a U-latch gate. Gertrude walked sideways like a crab through it, ahead of me like she owned the place. Two dogs rushed her–a Pekingese and a Pug. They ripped at the grass with their feet and strutted a little while Gertrude celebrated with joie de vivre.