Wool Over Your Eyes

by Violet Patton

  And he doesn’t believe in goatsuckers. Go figure.

  Outside Madonna chatted up the boys, and I dotted on lipstick, checking for new wrinkles. In this dry climate, my wrinkles were getting wrinkles, and I had resorted to an old-fashioned cure—olive oil. I am greasy, but my wrinkles aren’t as crisp and crackly.

  Dressed and ready to rock-n-roll, I stepped out onto the veranda to find Philly leaning against the veranda railing, resting his chin on a thumb.

  He flicked out a scrap of paper. “Here are the dimensions of the Arizona room. Depending on what size the tile is, you’ll have to figure out how many to buy.”

  I smirked, but took the paper from him and didn’t say a word. I hate math, especially when measuring flooring. Short one tile would be a major screwup. He’d chide me forever. I can just hear him complaining as I lay on my deathbed, reminding me I didn’t buy enough tile to finish the Arizona room.

  Philly scratched his nose, and I caught the flashy glint of glitter already on his nose.

  “Sure. Let’s boogie. Time’s awastin’.” Madonna’s car sat parked beside the carport and I headed around to the passenger side.

  “See you guys later.” She opened her car door.

  Philly waved, giving us a warning. “Drive careful.”

  Just like him, he doesn’t trust women drivers or the interstate system. He loves to travel the backroads where if something were to happen, say a flat tire or whatnot, there wouldn’t be a service station within a hundred miles. We’ve been stranded before. Pulling my britches down and exposing my tushie to the air wasn’t my idea of a nice Sunday drive in the country.

  Driving along the Mississippi furrow it was best not to hurry in these narrow streets. Others driving golf carts made for hazardous road conditions. Any moment an elderly Other might pitch over dead while driving and crash their cart. It happens.

  “Let’s get a coffee.” I never get enough coffee until I switch to my iced tea, not takeout.

  “Okay. Let’s.”

  At the Oasis’ gate, Security Chief, aka Mike Riggs, manned the gate and glared into the windshield. I puckered, but didn’t press my nose against the car window; I would leave an embarrassing olive oil greasy spot on the glass.

  I glared, flaring my nostrils at him. “He’s such a nosy busybody.”

  Madonna put on the blinker. “Oh pooh, he’s harmless.”

  He waved us on through. Checking who was leaving and coming into the park was overkill. They should put collars on our ankles so they can track our whereabouts.

  “Always looking at me.”

  “You’ve got that look.” Madonna smiled, smirking.

  “What look?” I’ve been told I had a look before and it wasn’t because I was such a looker.

  “A big-time rule breaker. He’s got your number. Have you studied for your driver’s license test yet?”

  “No. I gotta read the manual.” Mentally, I scanned the park model. It wasn’t hard to lose the manual in the cluttered trailer, and I couldn’t remember where I put it.

  “I don’t need a driver’s license until we buy a car.”

  We postponed the car buying trip until after they finish the Arizona room. Seems like everything we do since we’re semi-retired takes forever to do. Back in San Fran, we had lived life fast, but here in the Oasis, Philly had settled into a snail’s pace.

  “Right.” Madonna watched the traffic, being careful as wise ol’ Philly advised.

  “We aren’t taking the backroads to Nogales, are we?”

  “There’s only one road. Unless you’re driving a four-wheeler or riding a horse.”

  “Yeah, I’m not riding a horse. Been there, done that.” My horseback riding adventures were limited. Like water, I don’t ride any animal with four legs and a saddle.

  We ordered lattes at a drive thru coffee joint. Jostling the hot coffee between my knees, I fidgeted. A few miles later, I relaxed enough to fish up a good topic to discuss. “Hey, Madonna. What’s an Etsy?”

  She had been focusing on the road, but she turned my way. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering aloud. The ladies… er… ah hum… whispered it after… ah… Trudi’s little fit.” I was dying to discuss what happened yesterday at the yarn crawl.

  “Who said that?”

  “I dunno. I heard the word a few times.”

  She sucked in a breath, gripped the steering wheel and sighed. “Etsy is an online store where you can buy crafts and such.”

  I puckered, narrowing my eyelids gazing at the ugly desert. “Like knittin’?”

  Chapter Five

  Nogales

  “Yeah, like knitting.” She sipped coffee and focused on the road.

  “I see.” I nodded, but I don’t see because I can’t shop online. There must be a connection between what everyone whispered at the yarn crawl and why Trudi had a meltdown.

  Yesterday, when our crawling group walked home from the knitting extravaganza, my neighbor ladies had clamped their mouths shut. Not one of them mentioned Trudi’s performance, and I was dying to talk about it.

  Madonna didn’t offer any more information about Etsy. She would not gossip, and I didn’t have a clue why not?

  Deftly, I guided the conversation elsewhere. “Is Nogales far?”

  Madonna asked, “First time going this far south?”

  “Yep.”

  Not once had we gone anywhere near Mexico. We had lived in Texas long enough—which was as good as Mexico, if not better—and traveling south of the border would be like staying home.

  “Not far.” She checked the side mirror for traffic and changed lanes. “Something seems to be bothering you this morning? Is everything all right?”

  “Oh nothing. A bit homesick.” I stared out at the dusty brown nothingness alongside the road.

  San Fran was green and floral, smelled like dead sea lions, but it was a memorable fragrance; Arizona smelled like dust, and not good dirt where tomatoes grew or a honeysuckle vine bloomed in the evening, it was more like vacuum cleaner dirt, the icky moldy kind.

  “Understandable.”

  It was a good thing Madonna didn’t say once you get acclimated—blah-blah-blah, you’ll feel better. I have plenty of reason to be blue and don’t need to be reminded how much I don’t fit into the Oasis’ groove.

  “Have you decided what kind of tile you want?”

  “Nope. I gotta see it first. It’s gotta be cool though.”

  Ever since I barged into Madonna’s Arizona room, acting nosy wanting information about dead Dan and saw her wonderful tile floor, I developed a big hankering for floor tiles. Her floor felt sinfully cold underneath my feet even through my Keds. The way I figure it, real Mexican tiles are great insulators against the Oasis’ heat. If, for example, I get flaming hot, which I’m apt to do either when I’m mad at Sweetie Bastard or fuming over intrusive neighbors barging in uninvited, I could strip off naked and lay on my cool tile floor.

  What a gruesome sight? Might get rid of unwanted nosy neighbors.

  “When I see it, I’ll know it.”

  She lifted a finger on the hand holding the steering wheel. “I understand. It’ll strike you as the one.”

  “Things have struck me before.” I shrugged agreeing.

  Sometimes the things, issues not items, which have struck me weren’t worth rehashing. I’m apt to get long-winded over my recent and unresolved grievances. If I got carried away, Madonna might just dump me over the border and forget she ever knew me.

  “Wish I had Philly’s Rand McNally roadmap.” I can’t navigate north from south and get lost coming out of the toilet.

  “It’s a straight shot. No need for a map.”

  “I ain’t in a big hurry.” There was nothing to go home for unless I wanted to listen the boys hammering and banging.

  “We’ll shop first and then lunch. Did you bring your passport?”

  Passport? What do I need a passport for? “No. What for?”

  “Too bad. I thought we’
d go across the border. Get some street tacos. Guess we’ll be eating on this side of the border.”

  Street tacos? Sounds terrible. No telling what kind of meat we’d eat.

  “Next time.” I twinged, dreading eating in Mexico.

  I don’t have a passport. We—me and Sweetie Bastard—never needed passports. When we moved to Cali, mama thought it was a scary foreign country and she would never see me again. Not once had she flown on a plane or taken a road trip further east than Arkansas or west over the Texas border. Everything else surrounding Texas was an uninhabited wasteland of Yankees and goatsuckers. Mama didn’t believe in goatsuckers, but she’d spot a Yankee before they spoke a word. Mama swore every time I visited her after moving to Cali, I sounded more and more like a Yankee.

  Believe me, I don’t sound like a Yankee. The Others and Canadians love to point out my speech defects every time I open my mouth. Slowly, I’ve taken their less than subtle hints and toned down my twang as best I can.

  Madonna drove the car off the interstate and in no time, we arrived on the outskirts of a small town. “Is this Nogales?”

  “It’s small but quaint. The tile store is down there.”

  At the stoplight, she braked at the corner. All three corners were empty, so she turned without coming to a full stop. Good thing we weren’t in the Oasis, Security Chief would love to give her a ticket, only because I’m riding in her car.

  Nogales was sleepy and slow-paced. Not what I expected from a notorious border town. “Is it safe here?”

  Madonna chuckled. “Safer than San Fran. Julio lives on the American side.”

  San Fran was a dangerous place to live. We had our share of homeless people, drug addicts, panhandlers and just regular bums, but I have no experience with Mexico.

  Nogales must be like the Oasis. Refreshed by an afternoon siesta, thirty minutes of Jeopardy, a snack of string cheese and crackers, then the Banditos would begin their real party. They probably party until sunup unlike the Others who have a ten o’clock curfew.

  “Do they have a curfew here?”

  “For what?” Madonna turned onto a dirt residential street. A dog charged along a chain-link fence barking, chasing us securely behind the barrier.

  “For the heavy-duty partying.”

  She giggled. “Hunny Bunny, your mind won’t stop dreamin’ up cockamamie situations, will it?”

  “Guess I was expecting something more exciting.”

  Mexico was boring. The Oasis was humdrum, almost like living in a gated community—oh wait, it is a gated community—but it had Nogales beat.

  Under my breath I murmured, “I bet they got doozy goatsuckers in this mud puddle.” This part of Arizona hadn’t seen a drop of rain in a hundred years if that soon.

  “The tile maker works out of his home.” She parked in front of an older ranch-style adobe home surrounded by acres of dirt, scrub brush and cacti. “Here we are. He knows we’re coming.”

  Ten steps later, Madonna pushed a buzzer hanging on a gate in the fence surrounding the compound. On one side of the dirt drive, several highly polished late-model cars sat gleaming in the shade. Behind the house, pole barns with rusted tin roofs showed over the house’s low roof.

  The tile business must be very lucrative to own so many fancy cars. “He’s got it goin’ on, don’t he?”

  She squinted at the fancy cars, which were far newer and better than her used car. “They do all right.”

  Bet they’re selling something other than tile.

  A tanned boy dressed in a mud-splattered T-shirt and cargo shorts waved, coming our way. He unlocked the gate and pushed it open.

  Madonna greeted him with a smile and offered her hand. “Julio. I brought you a customer. He made my tiles, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I design many of the tiles.” His eye caught a ray of sunshine and sparkled too much.

  I’ve seen his expression before. Once a wannabe purse snatcher tried to rob me. Stupid fellow was sorry he picked me. By the time I got through kicking him, he was crying for his mama and Jesus to take him home. He did not get my purse.

  I squinted, shading my eyes and noticed a speckle of gray whiskers on Julio’s chin. “So, you’re the tile artist.” Drug dealer if I ever saw one.

  He turned to lead the way. “This way. My family are craftsmen making tiles since… I dunno when, feels like forever.”

  “This is Bunny. She saw my tile. They’re building an Arizona room onto Wanda’s…” Madonna shook her head. “I mean across the street.”

  They exchanged telling glances, obviously, Julio knew of Wanda’s murder or she wouldn’t have mentioned her name.

  “Si.” Julio nodded, catching Madonna’s blunder. “What do you have in mind? Something custom?”

  “Oh, heavens to Betsy no.” Julio was planning his next Disney vacation, maybe a pricey cruise with all the kiddos. “I want what you have in stock. Something pretty, not tacky.”

  Do Philly and I look like rich folks? I dress more like a dust mop than a lady. Most days, he acts like a lumpy horned toad wading in sawdust.

  “Follow me. I have plenty of pretty, maybe some tacky.”

  Two long sheds set along both sides of the fenced area. In the shadows underneath the buildings, busy workers were making tiles. At the far end of the shed on the left, a tall antiquated smokestack poked from the rusty metal roof.

  “That’s your kiln?” I nodded toward the smokestack.

  Odessa once had an ancient brick factory and an abundance of sand, so an entrepreneur put together sand and water and made a fortune. One night after the brick factory had seen better days, some joker forgot to shut the kiln door, the whole rusty shootin’ match went up in flaming glory. Me and Candy stood on the front porch watching the orange glow in the distance.

  Daddy being the curiosity seeker in our family got in his Chevy and drove toward the glow. Mama tsked and made us come inside; she didn’t have to ask twice because mosquitos were dining on my shins.

  “We are turnkey. We design, produce, kiln and dry our tiles right here. My family has lived here since… Me grande padre fought at the Alamo. Kicked their asses, they did.” He switched into cutesy Pig Latin-Spanish to hoodwink me into paying a higher price for tile.

  But, learning his grand papa fought in the Alamo made my turkey neck waggle. “The Alamo. Pfft. We’re a long way from the joint.”

  I’ve been to the Alamo. One of the many places I made Philly take me as a bride. Mama wouldn’t travel far to see the historic site of Texas history. Lemme tell ‘ya, I was disappointed. It’s a mud shack setting between high-rise buildings in Downtown San Antonio and Texas shouldn’t be proud of winning it. I understand those Texas boys were fighting for principles, but give me a break. No sense dying over a mud hut in the middle of nowhere. Granted, the little mud fort hadn’t been in downtown during the war, but you get the picture.

  Julio chuckled. “It isn’t far if you want to kill Texans stealing your land.”

  “Pfft!” My dukes were rising along with my hackles. This upstart needed to learn Texas history. “Texans had a…”

  Madonna chuckled, grabbed my elbow and squeezed hard. “Isn’t history wonderful? So much to be grateful for.”

  She shoved me along and gave me a shut-up look, and I puckered backing down. If I got into a spitting contest with Julio over the Alamo’s wherefores and why comes, he might jack up his tile prices. Such things have happened before so I cut her a cheerful glance, grinning. “I don’t know my Texas history well.”

  Madonna rolled her eyes. Julio opened another chain-link gate, waving us through and said, “I’m grateful my padres kicked ass.”

  Chapter Six

  Poochy

  “Ladies,” Julio said. “Prices are marked on the sign in front of each style of tile. And how many are available.”

  I glanced left and right. Tiles stacked as high as my head set in long rows over the back lot. “Dang. You got enough?”

  Julio crossed his arms acting bore
d, but his brown eyes sparkled with his love for money. “We sell tile online and ship it around the world. We never have enough.”

  No wonder he heard my cash register ring earlier. “If you buy from this stockpile, I can have it delivered in a week. If you choose something short by a tile or two, you must wait six months for it to deliver.”

  “Six months?” I fumbled in my purse for Philly’s measurements. “Can you tell me how many tiles I need based on this?” I waved the slip of paper at him.

  Madonna grabbed it, passing the drawing over to him. “He can.”

  A call buzzed his cellphone. “If you pick ten-inch, it’ll take… I’ll calculate this out later. If you do twelve-inch. I gotta take this.”

  Madonna offered advice. “Ten-inch is so much prettier. More delicate details.”

  Julio moved the phone away from his ear and gestured. “Start there. Work your way along the rows. Take a photo of what you like and we’ll sit in the office and figure it. Most stacks have more than plenty for your size job.” He handed Philly’s chicken-scratched drawing back.

  “Take your time,” Julio put the phone back to his ear. “I’ll see you when you leave the yard.”

  “Thank you,” Madonna smiled as he walked away.

  “It’s too much.” I expected something else. The yard seemed a hundred times larger than an entire Home Depot store, and I abhor shopping there.

  “Good thing I brought my hat.” I adjusted my safari hat covering my neck with its long back flap.

  Madonna wore her standard sun visor. “Did your wear sunscreen?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Hunny, leaving the Oasis means you must wear sunscreen. You’re gonna get skin cancer or worse. C’mon.” She jerked her chin toward a row of tiles.

  Withering under her scathing remark, I followed her deeper into the tile maze.