She wiggled her rear end into Philly’s still warm chair. “Gosh, I love sitting where a man sits. His vibes feel good. Hey, Poochy how are you?”
Poochy woke and stretched out her long body, putting a paw on Wanda’s curvy leg. She even licked her affectionately.
“C’mon. Climb up.” Wanda gave Poochy a hitch-up, and the pup licked her face.
“Such sweet dog slobber.” She wiped her face with her boa, and Poochy bit at it playfully. Incredulous! My dog was sitting in Wanda’s lap like she belonged there. She shouldn’t be able to set in a ghost’s lap.
Wanda sighed. “Bunny, Bunny, Bunny. You know I’m not a ghost. Not officially.”
“Still rattling around in my mind?”
“It’s stuffy in there. You don’t ever have a clear thought.”
I couldn’t argue the point. “You need to make an appointment. I can’t have you dropping by willy-nilly. I got problems.” Which I don’t want or need to share with a nosy ghost.
She chuckled, smoothing Poochy’s silky hair.
What the? How was Poochy sitting on her lap without falling through? There was no law of physics working here, whatever that law might be. Was there a law of psychics? If I were psychic, I’d need to understand its laws.
“Ghosts must solve their earthly problems. They send angels to help the earthly.”
Tsking, I offered Wanda a problem to solve. “So, you’re telling me you’ve solved all your earthly problems? Your murder for example?”
“I am at peace with it.”
I winced, asking, “Tell me who killed you?” I might have stepped out of the boundaries of angel questions, but I didn’t care. How many times have I asked an indelicate question? Lots.
Wanda waggled a perfectly manicured red fingernail. “Touché, my dear. I’ll never tell. I am your helper only. Not a problem solver.”
Where does an angel go to get their nails done? It must be one giant-sized salon considering all the ugly dead people who will need glamor shots done. Their photo ID machine must be the size of a Walmart store.
“I’m checking in. Making sure you’ve received all three of your gifts. Four if you count Poochy. I threw her in on a whim. I didn’t have permission for her, but some things are allowable just because it’ll keep your mind occupied and out of trouble.”
The escaping raspberry from my lips relieved the pressure building in my chest and thank goodness it didn’t go south. “My mind is occupied.”
“Your tellin’ me? Heck, I spend most of my time sorting out your dirty laundry and gibberish so I can get to the metal.”
“What metal?” My shoulder blades pinched together as I crunched up ready to pounce on this… witch… devil… she couldn’t be an angel. Sending gifts my way wasn’t solving problems it was creating a bigger one. If she really wanted to help, she’d make Philly move to Scottsdale and get me out of this mess.
“Listen, Bunny. Is that your real name?” Wanda winked, but her industrial size false eyelashes stuck and she stopped chattering to pry them apart.
“Aren’t angels supposed to be wholesome and sweet.” I’m getting irked. “How’d I get stuck with a floozy? If you know so much, you know that’s my real name.”
She ignored my floozy remark. “You’ve been given your crystal ball, tarot cards and the palmistry book. Correct?”
I’m peeved, but I nodded to confirm I had received my true gifts. “How do you know such things?”
She chuckled. “You know, I know. All seeing, all knowing.”
“That’s pushing things. You’re not God, who do you think you are?”
“Hunny Bunny, God sent me to do a job.”
I jabbed with my crochet hook deliberately missing her arm. “What’s that.”
“For a long time, you’ve had the gift of insight.” She pointed up. “They have sent me to teach you to hone your skills.”
“Bunk and BS. Not on your life.” I have it from reliable resources Wanda was most definitely dead, which meant I couldn’t bet on her dead life.
“It’s on your life. We’re gifting you with special powers so you can help the Others.” She grinned and her devilishly beautiful green eyes lit up like emeralds in candlelight.
“Who is we?”
She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t have long, stop asking questions.”
Shouldn’t she have eternity? What’s an angel/ghost’s life span?
“You remind me of Philly, always telling me to stop it.”
“Okay, I will ignore you. You must learn palmistry, tarot cards and how to use the crystal ball. Open yourself to the possibility.” She took a deep breath, and the boa snaked freely around her bosom expanding to three maybe four times its ordinary girth. Lordy, she’s gonna rupture something.
“Nope, I gotta learn how to crochet before tomorrow morning.” Time was short. I was wasting plenty dillydallying with this creature from the deep lagoon.
“Put the crochet hook on the table.” She nodded, and I obeyed her willingly.
“You told me you’re a painter. Can’t you teach me to paint?” Anything but palmistry, tarot cards and gazing into a freakin’ crystal will be acceptable in the confines of the Oasis’ security.
“Aye! I loved painting sunsets. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to paint. Your talents lie elsewhere.”
“Hopefully outside of the Oasis.” Texas! I’d move back to Texas––wide open spaces, windswept landscapes, grasshoppers, tornados and goatsuckers. I’d be back home. Philly can shove his idea of an Oasis you know where and until the light of day fades. If he moves to Scottsdale without me, I could concede Texas.
“Listen carefully. Walk Poochy. She’s gotta piddle.” Wanda handed me her leash and passed the pup over the arm of my throne and set her on my scrawny bare legs. “When you get back, you’ll be at peace with your problems. After the silent memorial, you can focus better on your other lessons.”
“Bull! I’m not learning nothin’ you have to teach.” I’m punished enough by moving here, I don’t need Heaven sent lessons. I did drop out of Permian Basin Junior College and never needed to further my education. Hard knocks taught me everything else I needed to know and then some.
Adjusting Poochy, I gazed down Mississippi longing to escape the Oasis and Wanda. What can a floozy angel with gigantic boobs inflated enough to lift the Titanic from the ocean bottom have to teach me? I glanced back at Philly’s empty throne. “Dang it to all double hockey sticks. She’s gone again.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Dog Park
“Good riddance. C’mon, let’s you and me go to the dog park.”
Wanda was the most confusing and confounding person-ghost-angel-man-tease I’ve ever met. Why was I being so thoroughly punished with her presence?
Surely, it wasn’t because I went rogue witchy on Philly for selling my house out from underneath me.
On a sunny day in San Fran, if I squinted, shaded my eyes and stood on my tippy toes while leaning over the balcony railing, a sliver of the ocean between the buildings was visible.. In terms of real estate, the sliver was still a view. In my heart, I lived on a cliff overlooking the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge was within rock throwing distance, and there weren’t a zillion people living around me. I had a right to complain and shed genuine tears, but he remained stalwart in his decision to move.
I tossed the granny square ingredients onto Philly’s chair before I noticed the smattering of glitter scattered across it.
Chuckling, I told Poochy. “He-man went off to play with the big boys with glitter on his britches!”
I laughed all the way to the dog park. Bet there’s glitter stuck in his nostril hairs bugging the crap out of his fellow domino ticklers. Every time he breathes a little piece of flashy glitter glints in the smoky room. Maybe his teammates will get annoyed and kick him out of the hall. No way, not one of those old geezers will have the guts to say, “Uh, Philly, my man, you got glitter in your nose hairs.”
For months,
I’ll be plucking glitter off his chest hairs, and it will tickle me to no end.
Poochy skipped jauntily along the furrow. When she hunkered to piddle, I jerked her leash, gently at first, since dogs weren’t allowed to pee on the streets. She’d have to learn to hold it until we got to the park.
“It’s not that hard, is it?” Surely, the pet rules won’t be too hard, as soon as I find the binder, I’ll brush up on the rules and regulations. “We don’t want to go to doggy jail, do we?”
Now that I have Poochy, I won’t look like a raving lunatic while I talk walking the streets. For Pete’s sake, I’m not a streetwalker, more a street-talker. When I walk alone I talk to myself, and Others will now believe I’m talking to her. She and I will carry on detailed conversations. It’s about time I have someone to talk to who won’t talk back.
As we—Poochy and I are now a couple—approached the dog park, she stepped up her pace, and I let her lead. From the short distance we were away, the park was lovely. Inviting grass covered manmade hills and a very large willow tree draped over a serene pond encircled by yards of nicely trimmed lawn. Many benches set beside the dirt-walking track and stone obstacles tempted the bigger dogs into athletic aerobatics. Overhead, several large shade sail covers crossed the area, and my heart pinged with lonesomeness for the green hills of San Fran and the lush gardens around the Bay.
“It’s so green!” I didn’t have to urge Poochy, she acted like she was an old pro finding the park. Luckily, since I walked off without my photo ID, the gate in the chain-link fenced area didn’t have a scanner to protect unruly pets.
I opened the gate while Poochy tugged on the leash. “Hold your horses, girly. Lemme unleash you.” I unhooked her, and she bounded toward the grass, sniffing close to the ground, noting where her new neighbor dogs piddled.
“This is the real oasis?” I followed Poochy as she piddled and grinned, flapping her ears.
“We’re the only ones.” The empty park benches were a breath of fresh air. The decomposed granite walkway was totally pet proof and the rest of the park was spotlessly clean.
I sat on the nearest bench. No sense walking all the way around the pond, Poochy will sniff her way back when she’s done getting the lay of the land.
I crossed my legs and jiggled my foot. Alone time gives my gray matter too much time to bubble with toil and trouble. Guess that’s why Wanda sent Poochy—I don’t believe she sent the dog for a minute—to keep me company and occupy my rambling muses. I don’t muse, it’s more like fretting over silly stuff like glitter up Philly’s nose.
I drummed my fingers on my knee. Next time, bring your crossword puzzle book and your reading glass. Note to self: Buy a reusable refillable bottle. Bring your own home-brewed sweet iced tea.
A man entered the park’s gate, clinking it loudly and my heart sank.
So much for alone time. I shaded my eyes, rubbernecking like a tourist at the geezer. He walked with a cane and did not have a dog with him.
Poochy caught up with him, and he spoke to her but at this distance, I couldn’t hear what he said. Slowly, he came my way wearing a smile and a black fedora. I stood, nodding at the gentleman. “Good evening. Want to share my bench?”
He didn’t say yeah or nay but sat where I had been sitting. He adjusted his cane and crotch. Why do men adjust their junk? Must be sitting on a delicate part. He smacked and pulled a pipe from his breast pocket. “Don’t mind if I do.”
I slipped onto the other end of the bench and didn’t yammer like a lunatic, giving him time to stoke his pipe. The tobacco steamed, he sucked blowing out a fragrant wash of sweet tobacco.
He’s what I call a true angel, bringing me tobacco I can vicariously inhale. “Name’s Bunny.”
“Bernard Albertini.”
Poochy waded into the shallow pond, but she squealed when the fountain unexpectedly sprayed water.
“It’s set off by a motion detector. Always surprises the pups. She’s new?” He waved with his pipe.
I smiled, practicing nice neighbor stuff. “Yes. She is. Only had her a few days.” I didn’t expound on the entire exposé of how Poochy and I became a couple. Sometimes, I spew too much information too soon, but I had to ask. “Where’s your dog?”
Dragging on the pipe stem, he huffed. “Dead.”
My turkey neck waggled. I had turned over a new leaf. No more blabbing everything I think aloud.
“My dog came here so I could smoke.”
People—especially old folks—use their pets as an excuse to do things they might not otherwise do.
“I see.
“You lived here long?” I cringed, letting my new leaf blow away in the wind. There was no wind, but you get my meaning.
“Long enough.” He puffed and blew more delicious tobacco smoke. I lapped it up like water dripping from a window air-conditioner.
“When I die, smoking will be my favorite pastime.”
“That right?” He stared across the pond lost in his thoughts. “Tobacco is good for the soul.”
My lips opened to utter amen, but I held onto the thought. Who knows what happens after death?
“My wife used to knit. She’s dead, too.”
My frown dropped into my turkey neck and it almost choked me. Why did he tell me that tidbit?
I fiddled around, gazing off into the same space the man gazed into trying to think of a condolence worth mentioning. An ugly wiggly willie climbed from my brain and hit my blabber like a stone plunking into the pond. I squeezed my tushie together trying to keep quiet.
Oh! Holy double H-E double hockey sticks.
Don’t ask. Keep your mouth closed. Was Sissy your wife? I narrowed my eyes discreetly examining the fellow.
“How long ago... did she... pass?” Poochy wadded along the edge of the pond, biting at tadpoles clustering in the shallows.
He puffed more smoke. “Not long ago. My wife used to bring her... our dog to the park. Then I had to after she passed.”
Quick do math! He couldn’t be Sissy’s husband? Could he be?
I drew in a smokey breath, letting the richness of the tobacco soothe my earthly fears. If his dog died a time back, and Sissy died yesterday, then she couldn’t have been walking a dead dog.
Do I have my calculations right?
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
He nodded saying nothing else. We both came to the dog park for the same reason. I wanted to walk my dog, and he wanted to remember walking his dog.
“Sun’s going down. Gotta get back.” He stood, pocketed his hot pipe and walked away. Poochy sniffed at his feet for a few yards. He spoke to her again, but she stopped, looking back.
I patted the side of my leg. “C’mere. Come to Mama.” She trotted jauntily toward me.
Later, I collapsed into bed without waiting on Sweetie Bastard’s return, drained of my sap and mustard. Poochy felt the same way, even though she didn’t say so, she snuggled in and snored.
In my threadbare nightie, I curled around her warmth.
In the back of my mind, I have a nagging little frog croaking. The frog’s voice sounds strangely like Mama’s and it croaked over and over, never sleep with a dog—dogs carry disease.
Bunk! The frog can hush. Some days I wish Mama did not live in my gray matter.
I fluffed my pillow settling in for a long fall nap because it wasn’t winter yet. “I’ve been sleeping with an old dog all of my life. So far, the only things he’s given me are: a hard time and taken up most of the bed.”
Poochy snorted but didn’t wake.
If I get my Sleep Number bed installed in the new Arizona room, I have a good mind to kick the disease riddled ol’ man out of my bed. That’ll teach him to stay home and take care of his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Fitting Memorial
Since Philly was heading to pickleball, I hitched a ride with him to the community center. I don’t know why he plays the dumb game; he complains how much his metal knees hurt. My daddy used to spray WD-4
0 on everything squeaky, including his worn-out knees. I should buy Philly a can. If it worked for my daddy’s knees—they weren’t metal—it should work on Philly’s.
I had packed for the long haul. In my Trader Joe’s shopping bag, I carried a quart jar of sweet iced tea and the potholder-weaving loom. Armed with my photo ID lanyard draped around my neck, safari hat on my head and the bag looped over my shoulder, I dressed more like a dumpster diver than a bereaved memorial attendee, black capris and a button-down shirt, instead of my usual dirty T-shirt and cutoff blue jean shorts.
Philly stopped the golf cart at the entrance to the community compound. Others gathered on the inside of the fence as I hesitated getting out from the safety of the cart.
“What’s in the bag?”
I cut him a look. “Knitting. Remember, we have to knit in silence for an hour.” I don’t enjoy fibbing to him, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. I can’t knit or crochet a lick. It’s a secret I’m planning to keep secret.
His shoulders crunched with his chuckles. “Don’t make me freakin’ laugh.”
I climbed out unentertained by his humor and blew him a kiss. “I wasn’t trying to. This is serious. One of our friends and neighbors has been murdered once again.”
At the rate murder happens in the Oasis, we should install a private security system for our humble abode and set up booby traps.
Splendid plan! Videoing Wanda would prove I’m not a crazy loony who talks to a ghost/angel with the biggest titties in Arizona.
He grunted, putting the cart in reverse. “What time is the silent auction over?”
“You’re not taking this seriously. A woman lost her life. Wish it was already over.” He backed up without further comment.
The ID photo badge had a learning curve to it, but I finally mastered the complicated lock. Swipe fast, jerk hard, put your shoulder into the gate or it’ll slam shut on your hand. I hopped away from the heavy gate glad it hadn’t severed my hand from my arm. If it had, I would have a good excuse for not attending this knitting memorial séance.
Wool Over Your Eyes Page 12
