Anywhere But Here

by Jenny Gardiner

  “Well you don’t have to explain everything to them.”

  “I know that. But there’s all these issues—your mom and my dad and getting it on when they were too young to be—”

  “Uh, I got news for you, young Lizzie,” Smoothie butts in. “In case you don’t recall, we were way younger than they were. They just got caught.”

  Lizzie’s pacing now, looking down at the ground. I guess she’s embarrassed at it all.

  “Fine. You’re right. But still. How do I explain this to my boys that they’ve got two grandma’s now?”

  “—And an uncle.”

  “And an uncle.” She smiles.

  “I know,” Smoothie says. “How ‘bout you tell them the truth? I’ve decided I’m all about knowing the truth about things now. The absence of truth is what put me here to begin with. Why not just put it all out there and let people digest the information as best they can. Kids aren’t stupid, and they’re not fragile either. They can take it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But it’s gonna take some time, you know? I have to figure out how to do this. You’ve got to let me do it on my watch, when I’m ready, okay?”

  “Deal,” he says. “Though I’ve got to warn you.”

  “What?” her expressions turns to worry.

  “Well, now that you’re part of the family, you’ve gotta take on some of the burden of dealing with Mama. She’s a real pain in the ass, you know.”

  Lizzie rolls her eyes. “Please, I’ve been dealing with you for plenty of years. I already know it’s a family trait.”

  “Yeah, well, welcome to the family. Guess that means you’re a pain in the ass too.”

  I take this as my cue to come back out.

  “D’you get lost in there, Mary Kate?” Smoothie asks. “I thought you fell in.”

  I smirk at him. “Ha ha. I just took my good old time, if that’s all the same to you. Making friends with Fido, here.”

  “So, now that we’ve got that sorted out, I guess we should be moving on,” Smoothie says. So like a man, cut to the chase and pull out. Every guy’s mantra: Okay, I’ve blown my wad, now it’s time to go to sleep. Here I am dying to watch things unfold and he just wants to move on to the next order of business.

  “I’d invite you to stay, but I need to head out and get my kids. We’re supposed to be going to a barbecue tonight.”

  “Not to worry. I don’t want to get in the middle of things. Like you said, handle this on your own schedule. Here’s my number, you’ll know how to reach me. Maybe we’ll swing back down here or something—”

  “Where you headed to?”

  Smoothie grins at me like a boy who just scored his first touchdown. “Niagara Falls.”

  Lizzie lifts her eyebrows out of curiosity. “Something you want to tell me?” She starts to hum “Here Comes the Bride” quietly.

  I jump in to reassure her. “Oh, Lord, no, nothing like that. We’re not getting married! Really, we’re just friends. I just thought Smooth—um, Randy might like to see it.” She squints in disbelief at him like she’s suspicious of one of our motives.

  I turn to Smoothie. “You ready to go, then?”

  We bid our goodbyes, Smoothie and Lizzie promising to stay in touch. I scruff the dog on the head one more time on my way out the door. It feels sort of hollow leaving behind this scene of domestic tranquility—the dog snoring in the corner, a dingy sock lying on the ground, dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen sink, dust bunnies just about everywhere. Something about a home filled with the litter of life seems so desirable. All of those years of well-groomed carpet nap and hospital corners on the beds and the perpetual smell of cleaning fluids never being eclipsed by the aroma of a life lived seems so very empty to me now.

  Chapter 15

  We can’t help but notice one thing Pittsburgh’s got in abundance is dive bars. It seems apparent this is something we need to experience before we leave town. We’re driving down a pothole-riddled side street on the South Side and happen upon Millie’s Tavern, a windowless bar with a large flashing neon Iron City Beer sign and sporting stylish faux brick tar paper siding—the stuff that went out of fashion even in the backwoods of Appalachia a good forty years ago. It seems as good a place as any to slip in for a drink.

  Once inside we’d never know the sun was still shining outdoors; the dim interior just begs for illumination. I guess the dark helps to keep cockroach sightings to a minimum, and keeps a drunk from feeling guilty for imbibing in the daytime. We drag two red vinyl-covered barstools from beside a nearby pool table over to the side of the bar, placing an order for two Iron Cities on tap. When in Rome, after all.

  The grizzled bartender, distinct comb marks delineating his jet-black slicked-back hair, tops off a crisp pour with nary a head of foam.

  “I suppose we need to toast your success today,” I say as I raise my chipped glass. Smoothie raises his as well.

  “To incest,” he says, which shocks me he’s ready to joke about this already, but I play along.

  “To incest.” We clink glasses and take a long drink.

  “Guess that went about as good as could have been expected,” he says.

  “Even better, if you ask me. There weren’t any glasses flying, no potatoes being lobbed at anybody. You might want to think about playing the lottery, it went so well.”

  I lean up against the bar and wince, my throbbing gut having pressed against it too hard.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just this damn thing you forced on me, that’s all.”

  Smoothie looks serious for a minute. “Now Mary Kate, I don’t want you thinking I made you do that. That was not my intent. You’ve had enough Richarding in your life—”

  “Richarding? You’ve made him a verb?”

  “Well, I guess I could say dicking,” he laughs.

  “Yes, totally too much dicking, that’s for sure.”

  “I just wanted you to expand your horizons, that’s all.”

  I lift up my shirt—something I’d have never done a few short days ago around anyone other than my spouse, let alone in public—and show him my badge of honor. “Shit, Smoothie, I think you can say my horizons are expanding. As far as the eye can see.”

  He reaches out and presses the palm of his hand gently over my abdomen, a healing touch. It feels warm and welcoming, and I realize I’m so not used to the feel of human flesh against my own. At first I want to flinch, until I realize it feels, well, almost human.

  “You don’t mind me touching you here, Mary Kate?” He asks. “It’s just that it’s begging for me to reach out and feel it. You did yourself proud, sweetheart!”

  Not many times I’ve done something that made me feel proud. But now I do. And it feels right.

  Smoothie reaches out to my earlobes and fingers the small studs. The pain at my ears is insignificant compared to where that barbell is poking out of my belly.

  “You’re supposed to twirl them like this, aren’t ya?” He spins the earrings so they don’t stick in place.

  I suddenly feel awkward, being the object of attention and all. I get up and excuse myself to the ladies room, which I know I’ll regret because I’ve yet to encounter a seedy bar with anything other than a rusted-out old toilet and a dearth of useable toilet paper.

  When I come back Smoothie’s cuing up the balls and challenges me to a game of pool, which doesn’t last long because I sink the eight ball on my third try.

  “Let’s see if we’ve got better luck with music.” He strolls to the jukebox and flips through the songs. He slips a couple of quarters in and Phil Collins starts singing You Can’t Hurry Love.

  Smoothie grabs my hand and he starts to shag, the old kind of southern shagging, something I’ve seen done a thousand times but nothing I have much experience with. I’ve never been the dancing type—it’s such a celebratory practice, and I never seem to have much to cheer about. He’s pulling back and forth and spi
nning me beneath his arm and back and it’s dizzying work but it’s fun and I start to laugh so hard I fall back into his arms just as the next song comes up—some country crooner singing Tequila Makes Her Clothes Come Off.

  “Is that true, Mary Kate?” Smoothie asks me. We’re dancing a little slower now, but not really slow-dancing. Just sort of feeling the song and moving alongside each other.

  “Is what true?”

  “Tequila. I’ve found it makes people do all sorts of crazy things. How about you?”

  “Honey, I can count on one finger the crazy things I’ve done in my life,” I say, lifting up my hand and sticking up my pointer finger. “One: pick up a hitchhiker and leave my husband behind. And I hadn’t even had a whiff of tequila when I up and did that.”

  Smoothie bends down my pointer finger and instead extends my middle finger, hoisting it up toward the ceiling, and says, “A salute, to Richard the dick. Bartender, I think we need a round of tequila.”

  Before I know it, we’ve each had several shots of tequila and I’m sitting, woozy-headed, on the pool table, hoping my butt doesn’t scratch up the green felt. Although I’d say this pool table’s seen far worse than my sorry ass resting on it.

  “Nothing crazier than this, huh?”

  “No, wait, something else.” I lift my shirt again and point to my barbell.

  Smoothie touches it again. “That’s downright wicked, Miz Doopreeee.” He laughs. He orders another round of tequila shots and if I don’t stop now I might well lose my clothes.

  Smoothie is looking at my hair, eying me up and down. He starts flicking strands here and there and back again.

  “I’ve got me an idea,” he says, and I don’t know that I trust his brilliant notion, but so far he hasn’t steered me wrong.

  He borrows a phone book from the bartender, looks something up then leans in and asks the bartender for directions.

  “Come on, Mary Kate.” He pulls me off the pool table, settles up the tab, and we head out in the late-day sun. We find my Crown Victoria, with not one but two parking tickets on the windshield.

  Smoothie pulls them off and looks at them. “Damn. Now you’re even breaking the law Mary Kate.”

  I grab them from him and tear them in half.

  “Number three,” I say as I toss them in a nearby trashcan. “Making up for lost time.” We start to laugh, the tequila having taken over my common sense, but at this point, who needs common sense? I’m already in way over my head anyhow.

  We haven’t figured out quite where we’re going, just following our noses, when Smoothie yells at me to pull over.

  “What?”

  “There,” he says, pointing at a beauty supply store. “You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  I pull into a nearby space, lock the doors, and close my eyes. I haven’t any idea how much time has passed when I’m startled awake by Smoothie knocking on the door. He’s got a big bag full of stuff.

  “What are you up to?” I ask him.

  “Not to worry. You’ll see.” His eyes, those engulfing emerald-green eyes, crinkle at the corners with his smile.

  We decide to drive a couple of hours outside of Pittsburgh, stopping to grab a pizza on the way, and find a small motel to spend the night. It’s well past dark by the time we settle into the room.

  I drag my shopping bag full of clothes and toiletries, and Smoothie gets his duffel bag and his beauty supplies, or whatever they are.

  “You wanna let me in on what you’re planning?”

  He scouts the room, complete with kitchenette, and points me over to where there’s a small green Formica table with two chairs, by the mini-stove. He peels off his t-shirt and hands it to me.

  “Put this on,” he says.

  “What in the—”

  “Just so your new clothes don’t get messed up.”

  Well, if my fancy clothes are going to be at risk, I’d better remove them from the area. I step into the tiny bathroom and take off my cami top and replace it with Smoothie’s t-shirt. When I come out I can’t help but admire his smooth, tanned chest, and wonder if he’s missing his daily workouts, what with this impromptu road trip he’s undertaken.

  He goes to the bathroom and comes back with a thin, rough towel, and drapes it over my shoulders as he helps me down to the seat.

  “Okay, now I want you to just close your eyes, but don’t fall asleep, cause I need you sitting up straight, you got that?”

  I start to giggle, because I’m in no state of mind to sit up straight, even if it has been a while since my last shot of tequila. Smoothie laughs at me, but then reaches into his bag.

  “Now, no peeking, you hear?”

  I feel his hands on my head, and the sharp tines of a comb pulling through my mousy gray hair. At first it feels weird to have him do this, but really it feels nice being pampered, so I keep my eyes and mouth shut.

  But then I hear it. The shush-shush of scissor blades mating, and I un-squint one eye to see what the hell he’s doing, just in time to watch a clump of hair fall down past my line of vision. Maybe it’s better that I can’t see what’s going on.

  I suck in my breath loudly.

  “Not to worry, Mary Kate. Plenty of experience here. I used to cut all the girls’ hair in college. Had the ladies fighting over my skillful hands.”

  I bet. And I can think of some other things they might have fought over. Smoothie’s belly (and a little lower) press against my back, and my imagination is getting the best of me. I feel the feathery cascade of hair across my face, an element of weight lifting from my head. Snip, whoosh, snip, whoosh. More combing, and then quiet.

  “Now, keep your eyes closed, Mary Kate. And sit on your hands. I don’t want you feeling around your head at all. I’ll be right back.”

  I hear water running in the bathroom, and I’m terrified to peek at what’s happened to my head.

  “Can’t I open my eyes? It’s not like there’s a mirror here or anything.”

  “Fine, open your eyes. But don’t look for anything reflective, and DON’T TOUCH YOUR HAIR!”

  Smoothie’s back and he’s got a crazy assortment of things: foil and paintbrushes and a couple of bowls with what looks like paint in them. Not a mirror in sight, so I have no idea what he’s done or what he’s about to do.

  He begins to separate my hair section by section, places a strip of the foil beneath each slender strip while he paints first with one brush, next with another. After a while I’m lulled into almost a trance (some might say I’m passing out from tequila) and lose track of what is happening to me. I know that Smoothie wouldn’t give me wild red hair, but I also don’t know what the hell he will give me. Better not be purple.

  After about a half hour, he tells me I can get up and look in the bathroom mirror. My hair is sticking out in every direction in metallic spikes. I might need to stand near the television for better reception during our overnight stay.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s time to rinse this out,” he says. “In the meantime, I got this.”

  Next he leads me over to sit on the bed. I lean back against the headboard, my legs stretched out before me, and Smoothie pulls out a selection of nail polishes. “I wasn’t sure what color you’d like.” He grins at me and I feel like I’m the one who should’ve played the lottery today.

  I choose hot pink (to match my new undies, not that anyone will ever know), and Smoothie sits down across from me, my feet in his lap, and proceeds to give me a modified pedicure. He doesn’t have any tools along, but first he massages my feet until I groan from the sheer indulgent pleasure of it. Then he paints my toenails and my fingernails, and leaves me to sit there while everything sets. I feel like a cake rising in the oven, hoping the ingredients mix just right, and that it doesn’t fall before it’s done cooking.

  “Let’s play truth or dare,” Smoothie suggests.

  I laugh. “And then can we play Spin the Bottle and see if Freddie Shifflett will kiss me i
n the laundry room?”

  “Laundry room?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that where you have to go to do the deed once the bottle points at you?”

  “I don’t know where you learned your rules, but I just did it where I sat when the bottle landed.”

  “You didn’t even go over to the girl?”

  “Hell, no. They always came to me.”

  “I guess you’re not named Smoothie for nothing.”

  “You could say that. Okay, truth or dare. You go first. What would you do if you never married the Dick?”

  I pause, stymied by the question. Maybe I should ask what the dare is instead.

  “If I hadn’t married Richard? Probably married someone just as bad. I was never gonna be much of anything, Smoothie. I was just Mary Kate Morris, big damned nobody.”

  “Maybe you think that about yourself, but I don’t see you as a nobody. As far as being damned, well, that’s another story altogether. Being stuck with that husband of yours, hell yeah, you were damned.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “So what do you see me as?”

  Smoothie takes a deep breath, links his fingers together, turns his hands out and cracks his knuckles. Guess he’s gearing up for his answer. “I see you as a sad, lonely little girl with a big heart who hasn’t gotten a chance at her hopes and dreams.”

  My nails are wet; I can’t use my fingers to wipe away any signs of latent emotion that might surface in my eyes. So I fan my eyes with my straightened fingers in a futile attempt to stave off what I’m feeling. I try to speak but I’m too choked up to say a word.

  “Mary Kate, I don’t think you’ve ever had a chance to give yourself any credit. Too busy worrying about your daddy and your mama and that miserable pisser of a husband. What about you? So you don’t know what you ever thought about doing. What about now? What do you want to do?”

  Hell if I know. “I guess right about this point I feel like taking a running leap into Niagara Falls and see where it gets me.”

  Smoothie squints his eyes at me and whistles loudly, like I just revealed to him that I’m really a man.