Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  We sailed through Gidget’s cedar-post-and-barbed-wire entrance, bumping over the cattle guard. A large stock tank (which I called a pond on my place since I didn’t have livestock) with high earthen mounds at its edges was only a few yards back from the right fence line. A few elderly Herefords and two Boer goats grazed in the pasture on the left. The cows and goats were color coordinated in their white-and-reddish-tan coats. They looked up from their grazing as we passed, but only for a moment. The house was tucked into trees straight back from the entrance, although the driveway wound back and forth a little on the way there. The trees extended in a big box around the pasture. The far right edge of the trees led back through the woods to the Quacker.

  The picturesque white house with its picket fence, big red barn, and grain silo made me envision the olden days. A farmer in overalls with a pitchfork, some chickens in the yard, a couple of kids chasing a dog, and a woman in a bonnet and long-sashed cotton dress hanging laundry. I smiled, then blinked them away.

  A thunderous boom shook the ground, but there were no clouds or lightning to account for it. I stomped on the brakes and hollered. It felt like a bomb. A part of me entertained the idea of a terrorist attack for a split second. Then my mind flashed images of magma from the center of the earth hurtling upward and ripping a gash in the surface. Or it could just be an earthquake. Before I could gather my wits, a white Ram pickup the size of a Sherman tank pulled up behind me and honked. Not a hands-on-the-horn, solidly blaring city honk, but a tap-tap, neighborly country honk. Still, I jumped. I eased off the brake, coasting into the area between the fenced yard and the barn that looked most like parking space and was nearest to the side gate. This house was built long before people demanded attached garages with their three bedrooms and two baths.

  Gertrude jumped out, excited, her stubby legs scrambling over grass up to her belly. I stood beside the gate while a man backed the truck in. I didn’t like him being there, but I didn’t have any proof that I had a right to be, myself, so I wouldn’t be mentioning my objections. A bumper sticker on the back of the truck read NOBAMA. There was a black diamond-plate toolbox in the truck bed and a gun rack with a rifle in it across the back window. He got out, and when he stood, he towered over the cab. From the tips of his boots up to the crown of his cowboy hat, he was over six five. His long legs looked skinny below a middle hanging over his blue jeans waistband and stretching the buttons on his checkered shirt. All he needed was a big tin star on his chest and he’d be a cartoon sheriff.

  He tipped his hat as he walked toward me. “Howdy. My name’s Lumpy. I live”—he pointed to his right—“over there. Who are you?”

  His name threw me for a second. He was too big to be one of the Seven Dwarfs.

  “Michele Lopez Hanson.” I held out my hand to shake his, and he took it like a gentleman takes a lady’s and gave it a squeeze. I wondered if a curtsy was in order. “I’m—”

  “That Mexican girl that writes books, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I’m—”

  “The one who found Gidget and’s keeping the little yapper.”

  I smiled but it was the kind that feels like it’s stretching your cheekbones with the effort not to show the expression is fake. I opened Gidget’s gate and said, “Do you have any idea what that explosion was a minute ago?”

  He nodded and—I swear to God—hooked his thumbs through his front belt loops and rocked back up on his heels and then forward onto his toes. “Seismic testing. Exploration company’s got a big project going on.”

  “Aha. Thanks.”

  “It true that Gidget left you this place in her will?”

  Mierda. Something new for people to talk about. I kept my smile pasted in place but didn’t answer.

  When I almost couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he said, “Well, if she did, we’ll be neighbors. I’d be more than obliged if you’d let me give you a hand every now and then.”

  The way his eyes roved up and down my body gave me the impression that the hand he’d like to give me would be planted on my culo. The same one that was stained with half a glass of Royers sweet tea.

  “Well, aren’t you nice?” I said in my best imitation of my mother’s voice. “Thank you so much. You’ll be the first one I call if I”—I stalled out trying to think of something less rude than need my septic tank cleaned out—“need something.”

  “This has got both my home and cell numbers on it.” He reached into his left front shirt pocket and pulled out his wallet. He held a business card out to me, and I stepped forward to accept it. “When you’re settled in, we can talk about the contract I had with Gidget to sell me this place.”

  My radar quivered. “Excuse me?”

  “Gidget was selling out to me. My parents bought from hers originally anyway. Her family used to own hundreds of acres out here.”

  “Do you have a written contract?” Because he wouldn’t be buying real estate from a dead woman without one. Or anyone, in the state of Texas.

  “Well, no, but we’d agreed on all the particulars.”

  Which meant bupkus, but I’d have to tell Ralph about this. “Huh.” I stepped back again. “Well, thanks again, Loopy, and you have a good one, now.”

  “Lumpy.”

  I stared at the card in my hand. It really did say Lumpy Baker. Loopy, Lumpy, Grumpy, or Sleepy, I wasn’t going to be calling him. “Sorry. Lumpy.”

  I shut the gate and walked to the front of the house. I chirped for Gertrude, and to my surprise, she trotted along behind me as if she were an obedient creature. As I stepped onto the porch, another of the earth-rending booms split the silence and shook the house. This time I didn’t make a sound, but I grabbed a column. I turned back toward my neighbor.

  “Those seismic guys are pretty close.” He tipped his hat. “Have a nice day.”

  I stood there acting cool, but I didn’t have the keys. I pretended to watch him drive away. Luckily, he drove past Ralph, in a Nissan Murano, coming in. I turned and saw cardboard taped to the broken window where Gertrude had broken out to go for help, and the new doorknob and repaired door and frame that looked like it had all been wood-glued back together. I sat down in a porch swing on the opposite side of the front door. Its paint was chipped and peeling, but I didn’t think it could do any further damage to my skirt. I patted the seat beside me, and Gertrude leapt up and moved in close. The porch was shaded so the direct sun wasn’t hitting us, but she was a hot tamale anyway. I scooted her a couple of inches away. She moved back, and I scooted her again. She won.

  “Michele,” my new friend called out in his super-cool-old-guy voice.

  “Hi!” I swung and waved and snuggled my dog.

  “What was Lumpy doing here?”

  Looking for Snow White? “Claiming Gertrude had agreed on terms for him to buy this place.”

  Ralph came up the steps. “Opportunistic SOB.”

  “Yeah. But he admitted he didn’t have anything in writing.”

  “Because there was no agreement. He’s always trying to make a deal.” Ralph threw the keys in the air and caught them. “How about I open the house and crank up that AC?”

  Crank up, as in it wasn’t on. Oh no. “We’ll be right here, hanging out.”

  A second later he joined us. I used my toes to still the swing. Gertrude ducked her head and wagged the back end of her bus at the same time as her tail, but they weren’t always going the same direction. Ralph handed me the keys, then he gave her a few scratches before he leaned back on the porch railing.

  “For me?” I held the keys up.

  “Yep. Spare set. You’re about to get it anyway, so let yourself in and out as you need.” He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have a friend who knows your mother. She wants to meet you.”

  It was like a punch to the gut. “Knew. She passed away recently.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t know.” I gave him a weak smile. “I’d love to meet her.” I used my toes to pu
sh off and start the swing rocking again. Ralph watched me, saying nothing. “Mom and I were so different. We didn’t always get along. I’ve found out recently there’s a lot I didn’t know about her.”

  I rocked and Ralph shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. The silence lengthened.

  Ralph cleared his throat. “I heard you had lunch with Greyhound today. Did he tell you the news?”

  I nodded. “I can’t believe it. Did you have any idea she was going to leave this place to me?”

  “Not an inkling. I knew she wanted you to get paid, but not how. And her mentioning a daughter in the will, that’s a total surprise. She never said anything about a daughter to me. No one has.”

  “What about a Jaguar? Is there one around here?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “The day I found her, there was a stack of letters on her kitchen table. All sealed, all addressed to My Darling. Did she have a sweetheart? If not, those could be to a daughter.”

  “No sweetheart,” Ralph said. “Maybe she does have a daughter.”

  “Greyhound doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “I got that impression, too. Any clues in those letters as to where we’ll find her?”

  I noticed he used the word “we” and smiled. I really did want desperately to be included. “I didn’t open them. I will.”

  “All right, well, I have to get back to town. Doctor’s appointment.” He walked toward the gate but kept talking. “Greyhound’s at the court filing the will for probate right now. Then we’ve got two weeks to see if anybody comes forward to contest its validity. After that, I think my work’s pretty easy, except for that finding the daughter no one knew about part.”

  “Yeah, that one will be tricky.” We waved goodbye as he fired up his engine.

  But, I thought, I have a sneaking suspicion finding her daughter was at the heart of her last wish.

  Chapter Eight

  I got up from the swing after Ralph was gone and went inside. It was hotter than the Quacker. Much hotter. While Gertrude happily ran around, sniffing and snuffling, I checked the thermostat. Ninety-six degrees. Good Lord. My life had turned into Dante’s Inferno. I needed to make this quick and get out of here. I went to the kitchen table, expecting to see the My Darling letters, but I went through the stack of mail one piece at a time, twice, and the letters weren’t there. I considered searching, but I had the keys. We could come back anytime now without bothering Ralph to meet us.

  “Gertrude, where are you, girl?”

  I heard her toenails and followed the sound. The heat was blinding, or maybe it was just the sweat in my eyes. I swiped at them, smearing moisturizer with sunscreen into my eyes. It burned like a son of a gun. I found Gertrude in Gidget’s room. She was running around it, looking stressed and confused.

  “Come on, girl,” I said gently. “We’re going to melt in here.”

  She perked up at my voice. I locked the door and, with Gertrude in my wake, walked back to the car. She got in without argument, but put her head between the paws of her short legs. I was sad for her, but relieved. I’d been afraid she’d insist we stay. We drove back to Nowheresville, both of us quiet and in our own thoughts.

  The air conditioner had cooled the inside of the Quacker down to a just-bearable eighty degrees. Compared to Gidget’s house, it was an igloo. Closing up a house for days in the Texas summer heat with no air conditioner was no laughing matter. I stripped my tea-stained clothes off, down to my bra and bikini panties. Gertrude and I flopped down on the bed, side by side in front of the fan.

  “We don’t have to get in a hurry.” Might as well give the house time to cool down and knock a few things out here. I turned to the dog. “I don’t know about you, but that tenderloin sandwich is calling my name.”

  Eating in my skivvies felt too nudist camp to me. I wanted clothes on, but the smallest scraps of fabric possible. I put on my white wicking running togs, the kind with vents. I dumped the beef tenderloin sandwich onto a napkin and sniffed. Yum. I tried a bite. It was magnificent, even cold, with grilled onions, a creamy horseradish sauce, and Swiss cheese. I’d pulled the lettuce and tomato out before I boxed it up earlier so it wouldn’t get soggy. The toasted bread was still crunchy.

  Gertrude came and sat at my feet and whined.

  I got my laptop going while I continued enjoying my sandwich, and Gertrude continued to act mistreated. I offered her one of the onions, and she pulled her nose down, back and away from it. I laughed out loud.

  “You already ate,” I reminded her.

  She shook her head as if to disagree, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and a bite of tenderloin. It was gone in an instant. She begged for more. I offered her the last potato chip, and she smacked and chomped happily for two seconds before begging again.

  “That’s all there is.”

  I let her lick the Styrofoam clean while I pulled up my work email. There were no crises. I navigated to the Her Last Wish blog. I reread the post I’d written the previous night and noticed that it had seventy-five likes. Surprising to say the least.

  I clicked “Add New” under “Posts” and started typing.

  For the title, I wrote “Surprised Doesn’t Cover It,” then moved down to the body.

  When I decided yesterday that I would honor the last wishes of Anna “Gidget” Becker by writing her story, no matter the cost to me, I meant it. She was a woman who rose from humble and challenging religious and cultural origins, who went on to rule the art world in Houston for decades, and who partied with some of the most famous names of the seventies and eighties. A woman who returned to her roots and who and what she was in the beginning. A woman who, I learned today, hid a painful secret and lost everything, but wanted her story told so badly that she left me her family farm in her will to incentivize me to go through with my commitment to her. I don’t know how I feel about that yet. I guess her family’s home has to go to someone, and, on paper, she has no heirs. But she made another bequest in her will. She claims to have a daughter. An unnamed, unknown daughter she gave away many years ago, and she wants to give her old family Jaguar to her. Without going into too much detail, it’s hard to know whether this daughter is real anywhere except in Gidget’s imagination, but I know in my heart that this is the reason she wanted me to tell her story, and if her daughter is real, to find her. I’m not going to lie. It’s pretty personal to me. My own mother died less than two months ago. We didn’t have a super relationship, but at least we had one. Daughters deserve to know their mothers love them. For that matter, so do sons. And my mother, like Gidget, maybe, mourned a son she gave away many years ago and never found again. I’m going to find the truth about Gidget’s daughter and give that to Gidget. I’m going to give this daughter Gidget’s story, and I’m going to try to do the same thing for my own mother and brother.

  Tears fell on my fingers as I typed. I stopped. Was I getting too personal? I looked at everything I’d written. Gidget’s information was all public since Greyhound had filed the will with the court. But what about my mother? She hadn’t shared her secret with her friends. I had Papa’s blessing, but she wasn’t being given the choice. She hadn’t even told me. But something about it still felt right. Like she was looking down, and I finally had her approval. Oh, Mom, what I wouldn’t give for another chance to really know you. My tears fell harder. I lowered my head, touched my butterfly necklace. It was warm.

  “What should I do, Adrian?” I whispered.

  Of course, there was no reply.

  Help me know, God, please help me know what to do, what’s right.

  I decided to give God and Adrian a little more time to answer me and clicked Save on the blog post. I pulled up Weather Underground to check the temperature. It was down to ninety-six from a high of ninety-eight and maybe would get down to ninety-two before sundown. Was it cool enough to run in? It didn’t seem like a good idea, running in this heat, especially when I’d already bicycled in it today, but I felt the tension bu
ilding inside me. Uncertainty. Grief. Responsibility. Loneliness. A fear I couldn’t place. And the only way I knew to quiet those demons once unleashed was to pound the pavement with my feet. To run it out. To run away from whatever was out to get me. To keep running, because, if I was still, even for a second, it would catch me.

  I poured coconut water into flasks for my fuel belt and put water in the reservoir for my swamp-fan hat. I put on some sandal-type running shoes with mesh toes, which were excellent for the heat. It was all I could do to prepare myself for what was out there, except for one last, most important thing. I grabbed my Shuffle and clipped it to my waistband and shoved the earbuds in. I took off at a run down the trailer steps, catching a glance of Gertrude’s reproving gaze before I slammed the door.

  I turned the volume up as high as I could stand. My legs and arms moved in rhythm with Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love.” The dirt roads were easiest on my legs, so I took a right at the end of my driveway. In a quarter mile the paved road gave way to gravel. The yaupon, cedar, and oaks were thickly clustered out that direction, and the land was perfectly flat. All the leaves were still green, as was the grass peeking out on the edges of forest. Wildflowers bunched together between the edge of the road and the base of the trees. The green and the flowers wouldn’t last much longer. The cycle of life for flora was achingly short and bittersweet, and the gift of a longer season totally dependent on the vagaries of the weather. A teeny sob burst out of me as I realized it wasn’t only flowers with short, bittersweet lives controlled by forces other than themselves.