by Laura Briggs
“Two, please,” she said. The clerk’s fingers flew over the register, then scanned the card.
“Two keys?” he asked. She reached over and picked up the two hotel cards.
“Thanks.” She marched off towards the gaming room again, ignoring the sound of his voice calling after her.
“Ma’am, we have a shoes at all times policy ...” She let the door swing closed behind her without stopping.
When she found Arlene, it was fifteen minutes later. The red head was bobbing enthusiastically with the movement of a marble at the roulette table. Gladys was beside her, Judy having vanished somewhere else, not that Drew cared.
“We need to talk.” This time, it was she who grabbed Arlene’s arm and towed her away from the table.
“For goodness sakes, what’s got into you, girl?” She stared at Drew as if confronting a crazy person. “I have forty on red —”
“Where have you been the last hour?” Drew demanded. “You said ‘watch my baby’, so I stayed and watched it while you went off to who knows where. I’m assuming it wasn’t the restroom at this point.”
“I thought you were having fun there,” said Arlene. “I let you have the lucky one —”
“I,” interrupted Drew, “have been stranded here with sore feet and no clue what I was doing for way too long.”
“Well, you could’ve just gone out to the car and gone for a little spin if you were bored,” said Arlene, as if this was a perfectly reasonable solution to the dilemma.
“How? I don’t have the keys — you do! Another reason why I don’t appreciate being abandoned in a strange place.” She brushed the hair back from her face, the shoes at her side dangling like limp puppets from their straps.
“Honey, lower your voice a little. People are gonna stare at us if you talk all upset,” Arlene answered, keeping her voice slightly hushed. In Arlene’s face, Drew read genuine confusion — no comprehension of the issue at hand.
With a sigh, she shoved the key card in Arlene’s hand. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. “I won’t wait up, so have fun with your friends.” She turned and marched out of the gaming room, towards the hotel elevator.
It might only be eight o’ clock, but she felt the ache of fatigue biting through the core of her bones. She was tired of noise, of crowds, and of the growing suspicion that Arlene would have forgotten about this encounter a half hour from now.
Chapter Eleven
Drew was still sitting on the edge of the bed when she heard the door to the room open. Her bare feet were propped on the opposite bed, the cup of coins on the bedside table.
Arlene stood in the doorway, looking slightly worse for wear from a long evening. Faded lipstick, hair slightly rumpled along with her bright blouse. Her purse hung from one hand, almost brushing the carpet.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. In this awkward pause, Drew supposed her mother was wondering why she was sitting here, sulking, when she was supposed to be sleeping.
“Did you have a nice time?” Drew’s voice had a touch of frost — of sarcasm.
Arlene sighed. She said nothing as she sank down on the second bed.
“I’m just getting used to this,” she said. Her voice was slow, careful, as if searching for the right words. “This is new for me.”
A slightly scornful laugh emerged from Drew’s throat. “For both of us,” she reminded her.
Arlene’s fingers tapped her knees. “I’m a little rough around the edges,” she continued. “I guess I never really thought of myself as a mother. I mean, I gave you up. I went on with my life.” She cleared her throat as a huskiness emerged in her tones. “Some ways, I guess I’m still trying to do that. Which isn’t what you came all this way to find, is it?”
Drew was silent for a moment, staring at the carpet beneath her feet. “It isn’t that,” she answered, gently. “I just don’t know you very well yet. Tonight surprised me — as if I thought we were going to have some sort of mother-daughter experience and instead...”
Arlene chuckled. They made eye contact — tenuous, but a connection in which they could read the depths of each others’ emotions. Drew could see the edges of an apology there. Not quite emerging, but present.
Arlene cleared her throat. “So, I guess I should tell you about a few things,” she said. “Give you some advice, maybe. On mother-daughter subjects, like you said.” She dropped her purse on the floor and shifted her weight more comfortably on the bed.
“So what do you want to know about first?” she asked. “Do you want to talk about boys? Careers? Being a woman? I got a lot of experience in all of ‘em.”
Drew shrugged. “Then I guess — all of them. We won’t have another chance, will we?” The words were soft. After all, it was true. After this, she would move on with her life, the contact between them a brief touch in their existence.
Arlene nodded. “Well, then,” she said. “Take boys, for instance. Never trust a guy who don’t open the door for a girl bigger than you. And don’t trust a man who says he’d never fire a gun.”
“Are you serious?” Drew’s lips formed a smile of bemusement.
“Of course I am. Those ain’t subjects to joke about,” scoffed Arlene. “You don’t forget those pieces of advice, now.”
“All right,” said Drew, doing her best to stifle her smile. “Even though I don’t think it’ll come in handy in Boston, I’ll remember that.” She nodded emphatically.
“You better.” Across from her Arlene leaned back against the pillows. “Another thing about men you should know. The good ones aren’t always gone, but they’re too busy. Finding one takes a lot of time. I guess you could say that’s why I never did. Find one I could keep, that is.”
Drew leaned against the headboard. “Is that what life was about for you,” she began, “the other half of your list. A career, being an independent woman...”
“It worked for me,” said Arlene. “That’s not saying it works for everyone. See, that’s why I don’t go around giving people advice all the time. Advice is like a pair of shoes. It doesn’t fit everybody who tries it on, it don’t look good on everybody.”
“I guess that’s something else I should remember,” said Drew. She released her breath in a long sigh.
There were so many questions she could ask. There were so many subjects which they had not discussed. But even if they covered them all, there would still be distance between them.
“Now on careers,” said Arlene. “There I’ve got a lot to say. I know they call the working world a man’s world, but that’s the people who ain’t seen a woman in action. ‘Cause a woman can take a man in most any job, except maybe carrying somebody downstairs or combat zones in a war...”
They talked until midnight; then until one in the morning, after Drew opened one of the wine coolers in the mini fridge. Cross-legged on the bed, she listened to Arlene’s rambling collection of life stories and anecdotes. The chapters of an independent woman’s life in progress, a colorful parade of characters that seemed unreal even in the world of big hair and big hats.
“I will say this,” said Arlene, gazing at Drew emphatically, her voice slurring a little. “Whoever raised you up, raised you up right. Those are sincere words and I don’t want to hear any argument about them.”
With her arms wrapped around her knees, Drew pictured Priscilla’s face, her father’s smile framed in countless photos. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad...that you think that.”
“I wouldn’t have done better,” said Arlene, softly. “No, sir.” She took another sip from her paper cup, draining the last of the liquid from the bottom.
It was true, Drew realized; although it kindled the small ache within her, the one she remembered from years before whenever the subject of her birth arose. That little piece of herself must belong to Arlene in some way, buried in the lifetime of feelings and memories that belonged to Priscilla and Willis.
“I have to tell you about your grandma,” said Arlene. “Now there
was a pickle in a pot, let me tell you ...” As Drew drained the last of her own cup, feeling more energy at this hour than ever in her past.
This was nothing at all like she had pictured this experience; but then, nothing about this trip had been what she pictured, either.
Chapter Twelve
The local mercantile had a limited selection of canned soups; it also had no crutons in stock, no couscous, and definitely no fresh-grated Parmesan cheese. As Drew discovered after a morning hour spent strolling down the seven aisles in search of familiar favorites.
She hauled two sacks of groceries out to her car, shoving them in the backseat. By now, Arlene would probably be awake. She was still sleeping off the casino-road-trip experience when Drew awoke at ten o’ clock, the sound of snores drifting gently from the half-open door.
Drew opened the car door, pausing as she glanced in the direction of the Dry Street Barbecue, where a line of cars were parked outside for lunch. The smell of smoky meats drifting on the breeze as she stood there, sniffing with longing.
The door jangled as she shoved it open and entered with a smile of friendly greeting for the customers who glanced her way. Especially for the figure of J.P. working behind the counter, wiping it down with a cloth.
“Hi,” she said, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter. “Long time no see.”
“No more stuck windows?” he asked, with a polite grin. “No leaky pipes?”
“No reason to call anybody, now that Arlene’s home,” she answered, with a shrug. “I think she likes things the way they are.”
His grin became a knowing one. “I’ll bet.” He draped the cloth over his shoulder and pulled a menu from beneath the counter. “The smoked short ribs are the best,” he said, “but I would recommend the hickory bacon burger for an old customer like yourself.”
“Hey, J.P., hon, will you come help with this chicken?” Tonni’s voice drifted from the open kitchen. He withdrew, leaving her to study the menu alone.
“So how’s your mama?” A woman seated a few feet away made the inquiry, with a polite smile directed at Drew.
“She’s good,” Drew answered. Amazed that word had spread this quickly about her relationship with Arlene — but, of course, this was a small town in Texas. Maybe they had a secret phone network for spreading the word about new arrivals.
“Arlene Davis,” said somebody at another table, their voice lowered slightly. “She’s been around a few times.”
“Now that Billy, he was as good as gold,” said his companion. “What he ever saw in her...”
“I know. Just plain ol’ white trash...” Their voices dropped below the tone audible to Drew’s ears. Her cheeks were aflame as she raised her menu again, pretending to study the choices.
“Not everybody around here knows how to keep their opinions to themselves.” J.P. placed a plate of smoked ribs in front of her, his voice lowered to a gentle tone audible to her but not her neighbors.
“I don’t need anyone’s help to judge my mother, J.P.,” she answered, hotly. “That includes yours.” She felt a twinge of regret a second later — after all, J.P. had been nothing but kind, nothing but helpful. He didn’t deserve a cold shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he answered, after a quiet pause. “None of my business, I know.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said.
“Care for a glass of tea?” he asked. “With or without sugar.”
“Without,” she said. Her smile had grown friendlier, a warm feeling creeping through her despite her better judgment. She glanced up to meet his eyes as he set the glass of tea before her.
“They don’t drink sugar in tea in Boston, I take it,” he said. She offered him an impish smile.
“We are the home of the Boston Tea Party,” she reminded him. “That’s why we drink coffee now.” She took a sip from the glass of tea, then squeezed the lemon from the side over its contents.
“My mom used to drink herbal tea,” she said. “My real mom. The one who adopted me.” She stirred the contents of her glass with her straw. “She said that nothing relaxed her more than a cup before bed. Not even a classical music CD. And she had tons of them. All stolen from my dad’s office after he — well, after he died.” Suddenly, this anecdote sounded rambling to her ears, the words too heavy to carry on.
J.P. slid a bottle of ketchup to a customer a few seats away. “So what did she do?” he asked. “Your adoptive mom.”
“She was a doctor,” said Drew, after a second sip. “A pediatric surgeon. Then she became a professor at the medical university before she died.”
“So what are you?” asked J.P. “Doctor? Big shot businesswoman? Nuclear scientist?”
Her smile fell flat. “None of the above,” she answered. “I guess I haven’t found my future yet.” She pulled apart the row of smoked ribs, brushing aside the spicy seasoning over the fries beside them.
“They look good,” she said. “Delicious. Definitely better than canned soup.”
J.P. grinned. “I sure hope so,” he said. “They’re some of the best in Texas.” He offered a little wink as he moved to fill the glass of the customer beside her. A red flush spread across Drew’s cheeks in response to this move. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been flirted with before ... just not with someone like J.P. Surely that explained her reaction to such a harmless little gesture.
“You going to the dance?” he asked, glancing at her as he finished topping off the glass.
Her brow furrowed. “What dance?” she asked.
“The one next week,” he answered. “Don’t tell me nobody told you about it?” He seemed genuinely surprised by this, almost equally as confused as herself.
“Well, tell me,” she said, leaning forward. J.P. moved closer to reply, before the sound of another voice interrupted.
“J.P., hon, can we get another bottle of spicy mustard over here?” A female customer waved a hand in his direction from a table across the dining room. J.P. offered Drew an apologetic smile.
“Be back,” he answered. She watched him pull a bottle from beneath the counter and make his way towards the table in question.
As it turned out, J.P. didn’t come back anytime soon. Drew polished off the ribs and fries, a container of Cole slaw and two glasses of tea; while J.P. fetched ketchup and barbecue sauce bottles, refilled glasses, and disappeared into the kitchen to help with busy lunch hour racks of ribs and smoked chickens.
He was still busy when Drew paid her bill and left the smokehouse. She caught a final glimpse of him as she glanced back over her shoulder, but he was too busy chatting with another customer to notice her empty stool at the counter.
*****
“There you are,” said Arlene, when Drew struggled through the trailer’s narrow door with the grocery sacks. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come looky here.”
A shoe box was open on the kitchen table, its contents spread out over the surface. Blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, Drew lugged the sacks to the counter and set them down.
“What is it?” she asked, resting one hand on her hip as she leaned against the surface for a moment. Arlene gave her an exasperated look, as if she couldn’t believe that Drew wasn’t keeping up with her.
“It’s your past, honey,” she answered. “That is to say, my past. It’s what you were wanting to see.” As she spoke, she lifted one of the items, a little color photo of a child in a blue dress trimmed with ribbons.
Drew’s heart flip-flopped at the sight. The curves of her baby face, her sparse head of hair beneath the baby bonnet pulled to one side — only it was not her in the grainy color image.
“That’s me.” Arlene let her daughter’s fingers close around the snapshot, pulling it free of her grasp. “I was two when they took that. My daddy’s first camera, me out on the lawn in my best little dress.”
“You look...” said Drew, fumbling for words, “...you look like me. In the baby pictures my mom kept on her desk.” She stared at the t
iny pale face in the picture as if finding the link she had imagined must exist between herself and Arlene.
“This one here’s your dad,” said Arlene, lifting a snapshot from the pile. “Forgot I even had it around. Taken in a little spot where we used to go to dance. I suppose he was the closest thing I had to a steady boyfriend. Tried courting me for four whole months, he did, even while other boys hung about.”
The picture was of a petite strawberry blond, a tall, gangly boy with his arm slung about her shoulder protectively. He was half-solemn, half-scowling at the camera lens.
Drew gazed at him, searching for traces of herself in those features. None were visible, but the photo was blurry and out of focus, which might be part of the problem.
“Tell me about him,” she said. At the table, Arlene was lighting a cigarette clamped between her lips, shifting it to one side as she pawed through the mementos spread before her.
“Billy Walsh was a good worker. Even then he had a steady job at the mercantile besides what he did ranching. Was a good rodeo rider to boot, but he didn’t have much time for that with all the rest. Worked up until the moment he died.” She blew a puff of smoke as she removed the cigarette momentarily.
“He got married,” she continued. “Girl named Louise Hernandez. Lived a few miles away or so in Alverez. That was about five years or so after he moved on from me.”
“So why didn’t you marry him?” Drew asked. She placed the photo atop the one of her mother as a baby, gazing at the small, heart-shaped face of the almost-grown girl who had been the infant in blue.
“Well, look at me,” said Arlene. “Did I look like I’d be settling down anytime soon?” She laughed. “With that wild, sullen face there. I was a heartbreaker on my mildest days. That was something Billy couldn’t understand. Oh, he’d come to see me on Saturday nights, down at the bars where I slipped in for a pint and a good band. Try to talk me into settling for him, but I wouldn’t have it.”
