She looked at me and winked. “Lesbian?”
“That.”
She smiled. “I’m a free spirit, and I love sexuality in general, but I guess if you had to label me, you’d have to call me straight. Straight, but adventurous.” She winked again.
I’d never had a friend like Maggie. I’d never experimented with anyone of the same sex. “I’m not. Adventurous, I mean.”
“Sure you are.” Her eyes had softened, and now they grew hazy. “You moved out here in a trailer, you’re writing Gidget’s memoirs, and now you’re in her old house trying to fix everything for everybody.”
I took a big gulp of the whiskey. “That’s a different kind of adventurous.”
“True.” She raised her cup. “But I like your adventurous side.”
“Thanks.” My ears felt hot again. “I’ll keep your non-boyfriend a secret. We wouldn’t want anyone to mistake you for traditional.”
She looked very grave. “Thank God.”
We bumped cups, and they made a metallic clunk.
The whiskey was working on me fast. “Greyhound has a secret,” I said.
“That he does and you should call him.”
I thought about it. Whiskey made it hard to think, but I swigged more anyway. I thought about Greyhound and touched my phone in my pocket. “Maybe I should wait until I’m sober.” The phone vibrated under my hands and I heard its little text tone, so I pulled it out.
It was a message from Annabelle: “Where are you? I’m at your house.”
“My house in Houston?”
“No, your house in Nowheresville.”
I felt like we were playing “Who’s on First?” “The Quacker?”
“No, the old lady’s house.”
I looked up at Maggie. “My stepdaughter’s at Gidget’s house.”
“The one who just got dumped?”
“Yes. And fired.”
“Uh-oh. Time to be a mama.”
I nodded. I texted Annabelle: “I’m at a friend’s and need a ride. Can you come get me?”
She responded: “LOL, sure.”
“It’s kind of far.”
“That’s OK.”
I sent her Maggie’s address.
“You’re a good mother,” Maggie told me.
I set my phone down, faceup in case Annabelle needed me. “Sometimes. Being a stepmom can be tricky. But family is everything.”
She scraped up the last of the hummus.
Her comment reminded me of something. “My papa wants to move here.”
“Sweet. We can set him up with my mother.”
The conversation and whiskey flowed for the next half hour. Maggie’s stories could make a sailor blush, but she was interesting and funny. I felt less Tlazol around her. More Itzpa.
The back door rattled as someone knocked. It was Annabelle. She opened the screen door and joined us.
I stood to greet her and swayed, then threw my arms around her. “Here’s my beautiful stepdaughter. Belle thizziz Maggie. Maggie, Belle.” I released her and swayed again. I covered it up by sitting back down.
Annabelle shook Maggie’s hand then turned around and frowned at me. “You’re drunk.”
“No,” I said. “A little tipsy izzall.”
“Wasted,” Maggie agreed.
Annabelle looked fresh and young and beautiful, with her blonde curls tumbling around her shoulders. But there were dark circles under her eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks. She rolled her eyes at me. “Nice, Michele.” To Maggie, she was more polite. “Cool place.”
“Thanks. I hear you’ve had a rough day.”
Annabelle leaned over with her elbows on the island and her head in her hands. “It’s been awful.” Tears welled up.
I did my sober best. “Telluz about it, Belle.” I scooched my stool down to her end of the island and put my arm around her.
She put her head on my shoulder for a few seconds then straightened up. “At first, work was cool.” She swiped at her eyes.
“Then what happened?” I tucked a curl behind her ear.
“He . . . was . . . um . . . hitting on me. It was gross. He’s as old as Papa.” Her pale face reddened. No hiding a blush for her.
“Who?” Maggie asked.
“Senator Herrington.”
“That sleazeball.” She patted Annabelle. “He’s hit on me before, too.”
I ignored Maggie. “What do you mean, hitting on you, Belle?” My own skin had grown cold and prickly.
“Um, talking about hanging out sometime, or whatever, and um, well, that he liked how my top fit my . . . chest.”
Maggie put a hand on her hip. “You shouldn’t be working with people like that.”
I was white-hot angry, but she needed my empathy, not a display of my temper. “I’m so sorry, honey.” I squeezed her again, and then the tears really started falling.
“I told Jay about it, and he was upset about the top I wore.” Her cheeks flamed again. “It’s just, like, a top, but I guess it does show some cleavage. And it’s a little tight. But it’s what I wore to class.”
I was sobering up fast. I pulled her closer, and she turned her head into my shoulder. “It never hurts to cover up your, um, assets at work, but that doesn’t make it your fault. It’s not like you asked him to say those things to you or to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
“I know.” My shoulder muffled her voice.
Anger burned through my buzz. I still felt numb and woozy, but I was more clear than I had been a few minutes earlier. I wanted to hurt Senator Herrington. “I’m sure Jay will get over it, Belle.”
She tilted her face up at me. “What if he does? Maybe I should be mad at him.”
I used my thumb to rub some mascara off her wet cheek. “Maybe, but just because you’re mad doesn’t mean you break up. You gotta forgive each other for mistakes sometimes. I’m not saying you have to stay together. If you don’t want to be with Jay, then don’t be. But if you do, then you can decide whether or not to make this a big deal.”
“But I got fired, too. And it’s, like, so embarrassing.”
She buried her face in my shoulder again. Sobs wracked her tiny body. We were the same height, but she was eighteen and slight and I was forty-one.
“Why’d you get fired, hon?” I stroked her back in little circles interspersed with pats.
Maggie was watching the two of us closely, her face a mirror of our emotions.
“Because Jay told me if what I said was true, then I had to report him, or whatever. So I did, and when I told my supervisor, he took me in to see his boss, and she made me talk to her alone and asked me all kinds of questions, and then said because nobody else saw it happen she couldn’t believe me over a senator and that I was a tr-tr-tr-troublemaker.” Annabelle’s face scrunched up, and her voice was a wail. “Then she told me to never come back.” She looked up again, deep into my eyes, and didn’t break connection with me even as she choked on another sob. “She told me it was my fault. Like Jay. She said I dressed like a slut.”
I put my hands on both of her cheeks. “She shouldn’t have said those things. It’s not your fault.” I stroked her cheekbone with a thumb. “And if you get another job, you should cover more skin.” I smiled. “Because it’s very pretty skin. And you want to choose who you show all that beauty to.”
She smiled and then laughed through her tears.
Maggie broke in. “Do you have the phone number for your boss?”
Annabelle nodded. “She made us all put it in our phones. I almost called her to tell her she’s wrong. But I was too scared.”
Maggie turned to me. “I think we should call her.”
The clock said seven thirty. “Tomorrow. When I’m sober, and she’s at work.”
Maggie cocked her head at Annabelle. “What’s the number?”
Annabelle pulled it up and read it to her, and Maggie punched buttons on her phone. I thought she was just going to save the number, but all of a sudden she was speaking.
“Yes, Ju
lie Sloane. Sorry you’re not here right now, too. This is Michele Lopez Hanson, and I’m calling to tell you that I know exactly what the senator did, and he’s not going to get away with it.” Maggie pressed a button on her phone and shoved it in her pocket.
Annabelle’s face lit up, and she crowed. “That was awesome.”
I knew there would be damage control for me tomorrow, but in the meantime, I had to agree. It was pretty awesome.
Chapter Twenty-six
The chirps of birds ricocheted in my skull the next morning like gongs. I tried to open my eyes, but they felt swollen and glued shut. I rubbed them, dislodging dried mascara and sleep. I cursed my vanity for putting on waterproof mascara that I wouldn’t sweat off the day before. I cursed Rashidi for being the one I’d probably put it on because of. I tried the opening thing again. This time the lids pulled apart with my lashes clinging together with all their might. They gave and light hit my eyes, coming in through the window whose curtains I’d left ajar the night before. I groaned and put my hand up as a shield.
I licked my lips. Hard to believe they could be chapped in 95 percent humidity, but that’s what dehydration did to a girl. Not a girl, though. Way, way too old to be a girl. Way too old to drink whiskey from a tin cup and let another woman kiss her. Old, with the breath of a dead buffalo. Foul Tlazol.
I turned away from the light and smacked into a warm body. Again? But the lump beside me had long, curly blonde hair. Annabelle. I smiled, my first of the morning. I took care not to jostle the mattress as I got up.
Annabelle stirred. “Jay?” Then she started snoring.
Little did she know she’d given away the sleepovers with Jay I’d assumed would start when she left for college. I wanted to hug her, keep her the same sweet sprite who’d entered my life six years before in her braces and training bra phase, but I couldn’t. She’d gone and grown up on me. Shafts of sunlight streamed across the room, hitting Gidget’s Front Porch Pickin’ in a way that brought out its depth. More than that. I half-closed my eyes, trying to get a fix on a chimera-like image I was seeing. When I locked in on it, I gasped softly. It was a mother and child, painted into the background like a ghostly Madonna. I stepped back, followed the light to her next painting, moved around with my eyes relaxed, and bam, there was another one. Dios mío. How had I missed her hidden message? In each painting in the room, the image was the same, hidden in plain sight. Motherhood. It wasn’t just me seeing more than what was there. It was real. I studied them closely, looking for other clues, but came up with nothing more than the beautiful simplicity of her statement. I tiptoed into the kitchen, feeling a humming in my chest that was more than the nausea from too much whiskey. The paintings made my soul light and airy. Hopeful.
That lasted until I reached the kitchen. Rashidi had stayed in the Quacker the night before, so there was no coffee made. Damn. I filled a tall cup with water and gulped it. There was no food to speak of, either. I needed heavy, greasy, carby food, and fast. I found a nearly empty sleeve of saltines. They would have to do. I stuffed one in my mouth. It was so dry it stuck to the roof and sides of my mouth. I couldn’t even chew it. I had to wait for it to moisten enough that I could lick the adhered white flour, sugar, shortening, and salt and try to swallow it. The dietary lows I had sunk to. I collapsed in a kitchen chair and leaned my head back. I stretched my neck and rolled it, and when I’d finished, I saw a note on the table.
Mom,
Please don’t be mad.
It was Sam’s handwriting. Sam, as in my nearly seventeen-year-old son, who was supposed to be in Kansas, if I remembered his schedule correctly. I caught sight of a human on the couch. A human with long, bony arms and legs with the lean musculature of a youth athlete, and a dark, floppy head of hair that needed two inches off the front.
I put my hand over my mouth. What was he doing here? I watched him, drinking it in as his back rose and fell with his breath. I walked over to him and laid the back of my fingers against his cheek, my heart molten inside my chest. I decided to let him sleep a little longer. Whatever his story was, it could wait. I made coffee (not as good as Rashidi’s) and finished my saltines, sneaking peeks at my son every few seconds. Between the food, the water, the coffee, the girl, and the boy, I felt good enough to slip into my running gear to go sweat the poisons out. I grabbed my Shuffle, my phone, and a water bottle and stepped outside. I was greeted at once by paws on my knees and kisses to my ankles.
“Good morning, Gertrude.” I rubbed her hindquarters.
Maggie had forgotten to take Janis and Woody with us to the pool, so they’d spent the night again. I gave them a good ear-scratching, too. The food bowl was still half full, and they had plenty of water.
“Be good, y’all.”
I clipped my Shuffle to the neckline of my top and put my earbuds in. With my phone in one hand and the water bottle in the other, I slipped out the gate, pressed play with my thumb, and started to run.
The music gave me a rhythm to pace with. I silently thanked Kevin Fowler for the assist this morning. I’d learned to train through anything building up to the Ironman, but running in the humidity with a hangover was still not fun. Just necessary. I wanted to be present today, to enjoy the kids, and not be weighed down by all the caca going on. My feet pounded against the soft dirt driveway. I imagined my foot stomping each of the problems—and problem makers—flat. Take that, Deputy Tank Vallejo and Sheriff Boudreaux, Lester Tillman, Lonestar Pipeline, Nancy Little, Lumpy, Ralph, Greyhound, and even Gidget herself for leaving me this mess. Take that, Rashidi, for showing up and confusing me. Blake, for making Maggie think I was something I wasn’t. And everyone else I missed that deserved to be included.
I kept pounding and stomping, out the long driveway and onto the paved road. It helped, as had the arrival of my kids. I was more sanguine, more centered. I even felt a smile creeping up the sides of my mouth after about ten minutes. At half an hour, I turned back. I was eager to be with my family.
Sweat dripped down my neck and torso and even my legs. It worked its way between my lips and into my eyes. Other than the impact of the weather and the hangover, I felt pretty okay. And when Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” started playing, I picked up the pace. I turned the music louder as my breaths grew faster and harder. I left the pavement, moving onto the forgiving dirt of the driveway again. My lips were moving as I sang all the words.
I was halfway up the drive when in my left peripheral vision a big truck pulled up beside me in the grass and careened to a stop in front of me. My heart rate shot so high the rhythm was like a drumroll in my throat.
I shouted, “Hey!” and put my arm up to keep myself from running into it. It really wasn’t all that easy to stop suddenly after an hour of a fast, humid run. My legs wobbled, and I nearly fell. I ripped my earbuds out, and turned to face off with the perpetrator.
My giant neighbor hauled his belly out and to the front of his truck, his face all smiles until he saw mine.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I snapped.
“Didn’t you hear me coming?” he asked.
I shook my earbuds. “I believed it was safe to run to loud music on my own property.”
“Sorry ’bout that. I just was stopping to say good morning.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, my teeth gritted, the air feeling almost cool as it sucked through them. Before I spoke, I focused on his name, determined to get it right, to calm down and discuss my safety in a civil fashion. “Grumpy, listen.”
He interrupted. “Lumpy.”
I’d tried. Whatever. “Next time, please don’t cut in front of me when you want to say good morning.”
“Gotcha.” He gave me a crisp salute. “Hey, I got a visit from the deputies yesterday.”
With the back of my hand I wiped sweat out of my eyes. “About the break-in at my place?” Like I didn’t already know.
Lumpy nodded his head several times, nice and slow, and his words—when he spoke—were the same pace. “Yeah,
they asked if I’d seen anything out of place. I told them about the picture on your camera, and about”—he paused for a moment, his lips compressing—“a black fella I saw sneaking around here.”
My eyes closed again and I tried not to scream. “What do you mean, black fellow? Can you tell me what he looked like?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Black and um . . . well, he had long, braided hair.”
I cut in. “You mean dreadlocks?”
“I guess so.” He lifted his hands and shrugged, then dropped them.
I crushed my ear buds in my hand. My head bobbed with my words. “What exactly did you see him do?”
Lumpy’s pants were losing their fight with gravity. He hitched them up to the shelf of his belly. “Well, I saw him driving in here.”
“So, you saw a dreadlocked black man in a car drive to my house?”
“Yep. That’s exactly right.”
“That doesn’t sound like sneaking to me. Lumpy, the man you’re describing is one of my best friends.” Mentally, I edited it to be “friend of one of my best friends,” but he didn’t need to know the particulars. “He was here to see me, and he’ll be here again. I sincerely hope you haven’t caused an innocent man trouble.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s not trouble for you.” He beamed, seeming to miss the fact that he’d just gotten a butt-chewing. “Are you headed back to your house?”
My teeth ground against each other, and I bit back a sarcastic reply about the obvious. “Yes.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have some coffee for a fella, would ya?”
My head started shaking “no” before the words even came out of my mouth. “No, I wouldn’t.” Name shame. “Have a good day, Loopy.”
“It’s—”
I was already walking away, but I lifted a hand in the air. “Lumpy. Got it.”
It took a second, but I heard his truck door shut, his engine start, and the sound of him driving away.
My peace had been short-lived and my hold on it too precarious. I used the rest of the walk back to the house to pull my tension meter down to a 6. I was excited to see my son. When I got to the door, I straightened my face a final titch and barged in. I heard noises coming from the back of the house, but I didn’t see Sam on the couch.
Fighting for Anna Page 28
