Dymphna flushed. She was sure Cleo would know that sitting next to the driver was verboten. She said a little prayer of thanksgiving that Cleo wasn’t around to witness her faux pas.
Why am I worrying about her?
She decided to sit at the dining room table—there was a hollowed out center with lovely apples and pears nestled in it. She assumed that a bowl sitting on the table instead of in it would slide right off at the first turn. She realized that, as comfortable and inviting as the RV seemed, it was battened down as tight as a ship. She took an apple out of the bowl and pressed on it to make sure it was real—every piece of fruit in the bowl looked too perfect. But they were real, all right! She rubbed the apple on her sleeve to make it shine. Before she took a bite, it occurred to her that perhaps the fruit was just for display and she shouldn’t eat it.
“Would you like an apple or a pear?” Dymphna swiveled in her chair to ask the driver.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “But you go right ahead.”
Dymphna took a big bite of the fruit, pleased with how she’d handled the situation. The RV took off—she was on her way. The vehicle was incredibly agile for its size. She could see people straining to see inside. She blushed, sure that everyone thought there must be a famous person lurking within.
“Where are we going?” she called up to the driver, to distract herself from worrying about the gaping onlookers.
“Los Feliz,” the driver said.
She was surprised how casual he sounded. She would have been extremely jumpy driving this whale of an RV.
“Next passenger is Professor Elwood Johnson. That’s the last of the locals.”
“Oh?” Dymphna said. “What about Ms. Johnson-Primb?”
The driver shrugged. “I don’t have her on my list.”
Dymphna felt suddenly more at ease. She couldn’t imagine traveling for two days with that woman. The trip suddenly seemed much more interesting.
Mr. Tensaw had sent each of them a follow-up letter, with a debit card loaded with a thousand dollars and the directive that they would all be taking an RV to Fat Chance. Now that she thought about it, the geography didn’t quite work. She knew everyone else lived out of state, but, except for Titan in Las Vegas, none were between California and Texas. And even Las Vegas would be out of the way.
“I’m a little confused,” Dymphna admitted. “How are we going to pick up Bertha, Polly, Titan, Marshall, and Wally?”
She was pleased with herself for remembering everybody’s names. Dymphna and Erinn had Facebook-stalked everyone but Bertha (who wasn’t on it), so she had at least a little information on all of them.
“Picking everybody else up at the airport,” the driver said. “All their flights got in about the same time.”
It was inconceivable how much money Cutthroat Clarence was spending on this crazy idea of his. He’d paid to fly each of the out-of-towners in and out twice in the same week—once to have the initial meeting at Cleo’s and now for the trip to Fat Chance. For a man who was dying of cancer, he seemed to have considered every detail. She thought how much easier it would have been for him to just tell his advisers to send everyone some money. She didn’t know about the rest of the group, but she sort of admired him for working so hard on this escapade. Especially since she suspected that Ms. Johnson-Primb was looking for loopholes!
Dymphna looked out the window as they passed the Silver Lake Reservoir. They climbed up a steep street not much wider than the RV. The driver pulled smoothly to the curb as Professor Johnson and an enormous wrinkled dog came out of a duplex. His half of the yard was a vegetable garden. She wondered if the occupant of the other unit in the duplex would water the vegetables while Professor Johnson was out of town. She also felt a pang of remorse that the professor’s dog was making the journey with them, but not her rabbits. On the other hand, if Professor Johnson’s dog was coming along, perhaps it was a good thing that her rabbits were safe in Santa Monica.
The door swung open and the driver repeated his routine. He grabbed the professor’s bag and ushered him inside. The professor also had a messenger bag slung across his body, but he didn’t relinquish that to the driver. The dog looked up into the cab and sat down on the street. Professor Johnson went back out, got behind his dog, and pushed him bodily into the RV. Dymphna looked at the dog. It was tan with a black saddle and muzzle. It had sad, sleepy eyes and a forlorn expression. The droopy ears added to the animal’s depressed appearance.
“Hi, boy,” Dymphna said, guessing by the black, masculine collar that she was speaking to a male.
That was enough for the dog. He shook himself happily, sending spittle flying over the inside of the RV. The driver probably didn’t know there was a long line of dog slobber on the back of his shirt. Dymphna decided it was probably best not to mention it.
The dog loped over to her, settling down with his head in her lap. They let out a collective sigh.
Professor Johnson sat in one of the captain’s chairs in the rear section. He obviously knew not to sit next to the driver.
“Hello,” Dymphna said.
“Hello,” Professor Johnson said.
“So,” Dymphna said. “You’re a professor.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And this is your dog?”
“Yes.”
Dymphna was terrible at small talk, but she felt she’d met her match. She patted the dog’s furrowed brow.
“Is this a bloodhound?” she asked, briskly rubbing the dog, whose skin oozed like a mudslide under her ministrations.
“Well, technically, he’s a Chien de Saint-Hubert,” he said. “But bloodhound will do.”
Thank God. “Are you excited about the trip?” she asked.
“I find it interesting that my grandfather formulated this little production and died just as I started my sabbatical year,” he said. “It’s the only way I could have gone.”
“You think your grandfather planned to die during your sabbatical?”
“Stranger things have happened.” He shrugged.
No, they haven’t.
The bus lurched forward. The dog’s toenails skidded on the laminate flooring.
“What’s his name?” Dymphna asked, patting the wobbling dog again.
The dog lost his fight with gravity and thudded to the floor, legs splayed.
“Thud,” Professor Johnson said.
“Pardon me?”
“Thud. His name is Thud—for obvious reasons.”
Dymphna and Professor Johnson stared at the melancholy heap on the floor.
“Good name,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Professor Johnson signaled the end of the conversation by opening a large newspaper—it appeared to be called Old News, and had a banner headline about ancient China. Dymphna felt awkward just sitting there, but reading in a moving vehicle made her nauseous, so she pulled out her latest knitting project—a sweater in a pale yellow. The touch of the yarn moving softly through her fingers made her miss her rabbits. She tried not to cry—was she really up for this trip? Thud seemed to sense her anxiety and scooted across the floor to put his head on her feet. He drooled on her shoes.
In no time at all, Dymphna had finished a sleeve and they were pulling in to LAX. The sign overhead read Arriving Passengers.
With Titan looming above the crowd, it wasn’t hard to spot them. The sight of the RV apparently intimidated the drivers of several smaller vehicles. One by one, they pulled away from the curb without a fight. The driver swung the door open and dismounted to deal with the luggage. Thud lifted his head from Dymphna’s shoes. She watched as Professor Johnson continued to read, but without missing a beat reached up and grabbed Thud’s collar as the dog made for the stairs.
Thud’s tail wagged violently as the passengers started to board. Dymphna could see Titan helping Old Bertha (she tried not to think of her as “Old” Bertha, but it was difficult) into the RV. Bertha grabbed the railings with both hands and heaved as Titan pu
shed. Once inside, Bertha glared directly at Dymphna—who was looking at her—and Professor Johnson—who was not. Bertha gave Dymphna a curt nod and lumbered to the front of the RV. Dymphna was about to tell her not to sit by the driver, but couldn’t work up the courage to speak. Bertha didn’t seem to invite conversation any more than the professor did.
Next aboard was Titan. Dymphna felt herself relax as soon as she saw his colossal frame filling the doorway. He beamed at her, but was soon distracted. He saw Thud.
“Hello, beautiful boy,” Titan said, kneeling in the middle of the narrow room. “Aren’t you a good dog!”
Thud broke free of Professor Johnson’s grip and put both paws on Titan’s shoulders. The two of them happily wrestled each other to the floor. Dymphna was afraid the shifting of all that weight might tip the RV, but the vehicle seemed stable.
“Okay, move it,” came the sudden voice of Wally Wasabi. “I gotta—get by.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Titan said, getting off the floor and returning his attention to Dymphna. “Hi, honey!”
Titan gave her a big hug as Wally Wasabi slunk by, disappearing into the back section without another word. Polly Orchid, in black leggings, a black ruffled skirt, black tunic, and her signature kohl-rimmed eyes, climbed up the steps two at a time. She still had her bright red hair with the shaved sides, but had replaced the white lipstick with black. Thud was on his way to greet the newcomer, but Professor Johnson grabbed the dog’s collar again.
“He can be a bit enthusiastic,” Professor Johnson said to Polly.
“No worries,” Polly said, a giant smile emerging from her black lipstick. “I love dogs.”
Professor Johnson kept his grip on Thud and went back to his reading. He glanced up one more time at Polly and said, “By the way, thank you for your father’s service.”
Polly nodded, once again trying to keep her tear ducts from overflowing by pressing on her lower eyelids. Dymphna and Titan exchanged a conspiratorial look. Clearly, the Johnsons were a cold bunch, but maybe the professor wasn’t a complete icicle. By the time they turned to smile fondly at the girl, she was absorbed in her cell phone.
The whole RV shook as Marshall Primb climbed on board. He was only about half the size of Titan, but he seemed to be in perpetual motion.
“OK, OK,” he said, clapping his hands together, then waving them in the air. “Let’s do this!”
Dymphna thought his frenetic energy was impressive, but she noticed that Bertha swung her seat around to look out the front window. The older woman was obviously not a fan of noisy men. Thud strained to get free. It was clear another wrestling partner had joined the party. The driver, having divested the curb of all luggage, climbed back on board. Marshall took a seat at the dining room table with Titan and Dymphna, offering his hand to each before he sat.
Dymphna couldn’t help herself. She turned to the front of the RV to watch the drama unfold between Bertha and the driver.
The driver said his well-rehearsed line. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Against policy. Please make yourself comfortable in the back.”
“Bite me,” Old Bertha said, staring determinedly out the front as she fastened her seat belt. It clicked with a resounding finality.
They were on their way. Dymphna tried to make conversation with Polly. Although Dymphna was Polly’s senior by about five years, Polly was certainly the closest of the travelers, with the possible exception of the antisocial Wally Wasabi, to her own age. As if Polly could sense Dymphna’s interest, she looked up from her phone.
“I’ve never been to Texas,” Polly said.
“Neither have I,” Dymphna said, hoping to get a grip on a potential bonding moment.
“It’s crazy big,” Polly said, showing Dymphna a colorized map of the state on her phone. “Did you know that the most popular snack food in Texas is peanuts floating in Dr Pepper?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Dymphna said. She could feel the potential bonding moment slipping through her grasp.
“I don’t drink soda,” Polly said, looking up with a stricken face.
“I . . .” Dymphna could think of nothing comforting to say.
Polly sighed and swiped at her phone. Dymphna could see the screen fill with words.
“I never got the hang of reading a book on my phone,” Dymphna said.
“Oh, I love it!” Polly said. “I use my phone for everything. Right now, I’m reading a series of short romances by a woman named Mimi Millicent. She actually writes her stories on her phone. They’re awesome.”
She left Polly to stare at her phone and turned to Titan. “Are you excited about the trip?”
“Sort of,” Titan said. “I’ve been working on a show in Vegas with my friend Maurice. He’s a top dresser in Vegas and he got me the job. It’s the longest I’ve ever been in one place. I’m just afraid this is just a crazy rich man’s joke and I’m leaving a good thing for some stupid wild-goose chase.”
I know what you mean.
Marshall turned out to be the chattiest among them.
“This is just insane, isn’t it?” he asked the group. “Old Cutthroat pulling a stunt like this?”
No one answered him. Dymphna wondered if this was out of shyness, like with Titan and Professor Johnson, or rudeness, like Bertha or Wally Wasabi, or cell-phone absorption like Polly. She felt she didn’t fit into any of those categories, so she spoke up.
“It’s a little unusual,” Dymphna agreed.
“I noticed that these gentlemen have spectacular nicknames—Titan, Wally Wasabi.” Marshall turned to Professor Johnson. “Except for you and me, Elwood.”
“Apparently, yes,” Professor Johnson said flatly.
“I mean, ‘Elwood’—that’s some handle,” Marshall said. “I remember telling your mom and dad, God rest their souls, that Elwood was way too much name for a little boy.”
Dymphna had forgotten that Marshall had been part of the Johnson clan for several years.
“Did you get a nickname in school? Woody? Woodstock? Anything like that?”
“No,” Professor Johnson said.
“So, what do your friends call you?”
“Professor Johnson,” the professor said, pointedly returning to his paper.
“Catchy,” Marshall said, winking at Dymphna.
Dymphna blushed. Marshall was pretty old, probably around sixty, but he was masculine in a way that men of her generation rarely were. She couldn’t picture Marshall refusing to leave the house because he had no hair gel.
“Well, I’ve been thinking.” Marshall turned his attention to Dymphna and Titan, apparently not at all put off by Professor Johnson’s snub. “I want to be called Powderkeg from now on.”
Dymphna and Titan nodded.
“All right,” Titan said. “We’ll call you Powderkeg.”
“Oh no!” Marshall slapped the table. “Not like that! You’ve got to say it like a pirate! Powwwwwderkeg! Maybe squint one eye when you say it.”
Titan jumped at the loud noise, but Dymphna started laughing. Polly laughed, too. At that moment, a life preserver couldn’t have been more welcome than Polly’s black-rimmed smile. It felt wonderful to release all the tension that had been building up as one after another of the new residents of Fat Chance, Texas, boarded the RV. Marshall tossed an appealingly crooked smile Dymphna’s way.
“Okay, Dymphna Pearl,” he said, Dymphna’s blush deepening. “Let’s hear it.”
“I can call you Powderkeg,” she said. “But I can’t close one eye at a time.”
“Like this,” Powderkeg said. He winked at her.
For the first time in her life, Dymphna really regretted her inability to wink back.
Powderkeg turned to Elwood. “You can call me Uncle Powderkeg, if you want.”
CHAPTER 8
Dymphna Pearl was dreaming.
In her dream, she was surfing a huge wave, barreling toward the California coastline. The wave kept getting bigger and bigger, until she was a speck riding a living, breathing,
wild animal of blue-black water. When the wave crashed over the bluff of Santa Monica, she had to lie flat, gripping the board, to keep from falling into the sea. She held tightly to the surfboard as it arched up—past Los Angeles, over Las Vegas—then landed like a jetliner in a gentle green valley by a lake. She was still facedown on the surfboard, afraid to look up. The far-off mechanical voice of a GPS whispered in her ear.
“Oh, Dymphna! Wake up! You have reached your destination.”
“I don’t know my destination,” Dymphna said, fighting to stay asleep.
“Be that as it may,” the mechanical voice intoned as the surfboard morphed into the RV, “your destination is on your left.”
Dymphna’s eyes opened. She looked around. She was in the RV. She realized this was not a dream. Well, the surfboard and flying over Vegas clearly was, and while global positioning units had gotten very advanced, they still didn’t call you by name or use expressions like “be that as it may.” But the rest was real. The RV was parked on a turnout on a desolate highway. There was nothing but silence. She looked around the cavernous interior of the RV. She counted—one, two, three, four, five sleeping figures—not to mention the driver, who was asleep with his feet propped up on the massive steering wheel. Someone was missing. She saw that the door at the front of the cab was open. Tossing a light knitted shawl around her shoulders, she got out of the gigantic RV. The area was socked in, in a thick fog. She walked toward the outline of a man.
Once they’d seen highway signs for Austin late last night, they’d all voted to keep going. Dymphna had no idea how far outside the city limits they were—an hour? Two hours? Three? She’d fallen asleep while the neon lights of the college town still lit up the sky and country music rode on the wind.
“Professor Johnson?” Dymphna called out as she made her way over to him.
The fog was so dense, she couldn’t tell if the professor shrugged a greeting or, more likely, just ignored her. He had a real paper map in his hands and was scanning the horizon—what there was of one in the fog.
Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas Page 6
