by Cathy Lamb
Then, I go back to my old town one day and I see my best friend, Sammy. He’s the only guy ever got me. My first love. We been married forty years now. Forty years. I still love him. He was here yesterday. Forgot my lunch and he brings it on in, made me a club sandwich with blue cheese, knows I love that blue cheese.
The other day I felt plumb tuckered out because they cut off part of my leg ’cause of the cancer, you know, and he brings me my favorite coffee drink. “Here you are, my flower.” That’s what that guy calls me, “his flower.” I weigh two hundred pounds, wear glasses, and the ankle that’s left is huge like an elephant’s, and I’m his flower.
What color bra did I wear under my weddin’ dress? Red. Wore it for Sammy. You wear the color you want on your knockers. Like life, you know? You wear the colors you want. What color am I wearin’ today? Purple. Here, I’ll show you, Meggie. See? You’re not wearin’ a beige bra on your knockers, are you? Oh, I can tell by that there face that you are. Don’t do that, honey. You an O’Rourke lady. Choose your color and wear it.
15
I smiled at Kalani on my computer. Beside me Lacey smiled, too, her jaw tight.
“Hello, Meeegie. Hello, Laceeey! You belly bigger and bigger.” She held her arms way out, in a circle. “You are big belly lady, Laceeey!”
Lacey said, “Hello, Kalani. Nice to see you. You are the size of an annoying pixie dust fairy.”
“A what? You say pissy dusty Ferrari?” Kalani waved both hands. “I like the Ferrari. I see one in magazine. Man who likes men driving it. Ya, I think. Hair too pretty.”
“Yes, a Ferrari can fly on by. Kalani,” I rushed in, “can you hold up for us the Sparkle bra that we talked about?”
“Oh, yeees. I can do. I got your e-mail! See?”
She held up the Sparkle bra.
It was a new line. Tory wanted to label it the Sparkle Seduction line. I personally was thinking of naming it Sparkle Hellfire, to spice things up.
I groaned when I saw the bra. “She’s created a boob shelf,” I whispered.
Lacey said, “Shoot me in the head.”
“You like?” Kalani grinned at us.
“Uh . . .”
“See? For the boobies. For the big-boobied ladies in America! You know, like on the Jersey show?”
Lacey dropped her head in her hands, her red curls tumbling over. I ran a hand through my own hair. It became stuck in a ball of curls. I hadn’t washed my hair in three days. I was exhausted and I could see no reason to get all cleaned up since I was dodging Blake, best as I could, until I figured out how to handle him.
“Kalani, that isn’t . . . uh . . . exactly what we were looking for. We sent you the information on how to sew it, the measurements, the drawings . . .”
The bra, for some obscure, inexplicable reason, was about half a bra. It wasn’t even a demi bra. It was half a bra and filled with padding. Basically, a woman’s boobs would sit on top of the half bra. The material was a shiny green, with silver sparkles.
“No? Not right? I thought you say be . . . what is the word I think in my head now . . . be a creature . . . creature like a monster . . .” She held up her hands in claw form, like a monster. “No, you say be cree-a-tiff. You no like?”
I felt ill. “Remember the pattern we sent you?”
“Yes. I change pattern. I cree-a-tiff.” Kalani tilted her head, back and forth, so happy with her work. “Tory say, get out there and live a little. Like, make some trouble. You know that Tory?”
“We remember Tory,” I said. I closed my eyes for a looong second.
“Let me bang my head through the computer screen,” Lacey whispered.
Kalani giggled. “This be good for you American lady. I know. I see it on TV of how the boobies are high up to the neck.” She tapped her neck. “This bring boobies to neck, too. I make new design! I cree-a-tiff.”
I thought of a lake as I rubbed my shoulders.
I thought of being in a canoe in the middle of the lake.
I thought of kissing Blake in a canoe in the middle of the lake and taking off his shirt . . .
“Okay, we need to start over here, Kalani.”
“Start over? Over and again? Meeegie. This good bra. I like! You American lady you like boobies up, crack showing between. See? It like black magic.”
Kalani took off her shirt and took off her red bra.
“I do not want to see Kalani’s boobs, especially this early in the morning,” Lacey said.
“It’s okay, Kalani, please stay dressed—”
“Oh, no. I show you, Meeegie and you, too, big, big Laceeey.”
“I think I’ll move to a shack in Montana and be a hermit,” Lacey said. “Kill deer for food. Trap rabbits. Eat bugs. Less stressful.”
“Lookie!” Kalani put her tiny boobs on the padding of the bra. None of her boob was covered, they were lifted up, sitting on a shelf.
“See?” She pointed at her chest. “My boobies up now like on TV. Waaay up! I got a crack between my boobies now. Hey, where Big Laceeey going?”
“Montana is peaceful. I can bring my guns, wear fur, a raccoon hat . . .”
I stuck my hand in my hair again and, yet again, it became caught in a tangle.
“She’s going to throw her head over a toilet, Kalani.”
“Why Laceeey put her head in toilet?” Kalani was baffled. “Wash hair?”
“Okay, let’s you and I talk about the pattern we discussed . . .”
“We need to talk about the road trip, girls,” Grandma said, tapping her manicured nails on the crisp, white tablecloth of Leonard’s Cafe. Today she was wearing a light gray suit with a ruffled hem and gray, shiny heels. The baubles: her four strands of pearls. Her white hair was in her usual chignon.
Lacey, Tory, and I forced smiles. A road trip? All together? Who would be the most bloodied and beaten up when we returned ? Tory or Lacey?
The high-end restaurant, up in a tall building downtown, was one of Grandma’s favorites. The owner-chef was Leonard Tallchief. He’d grown up on a reservation. Grandma had found him leaning against our building three mornings in a row when he was seventeen, about twenty years ago. He’d taken off with friends and ended up in Portland.
She finally told him to quit being “a lazy butt and work.” He had worked at Lace, Satin, and Baubles for a while but kept migrating to the staff kitchen to cook. The food was fabulous. He’d bring Grandma lunch every day. She gained ten pounds.
Eventually she put him through culinary school. He’s a top-ranked chef, and reservations are required weeks in advance, unless you are Grandma. Then he makes room. He continues to send meals to her office and says that Grandma is his “angel.” He’s even named entrées after her—Regan Cacciatore, O’Rourke Steak—and a popular drink called ROR with Grandma’s favorite whiskey.
“I’ll take no excuses,” Grandma said, shoulders back. “It’ll be something to look forward to after the miniwar that Lacey and Tory inflict upon one another getting The Fashion Story together and it’ll get Meggie living again. We’ll wait until after Lacey has her daughter. A road trip will mellow all of your outrageous mouths.” She picked up a silver fork and pointed it at Lacey and Tory. “We’re going to have a good damn time.” She looked exhausted all of a sudden. “A good damn time.”
“We’ll go on the road trip, Grandma,” I said, taking a sip of my beer. “I’ll control these two mannequin murderers and we’ll have a blast.”
“Yes, we will.” She glared at Tory and Lacey.
“It could be a son,” Lacey said.
“It’s not. It’s a girl,” Grandma said.
“Where are we going, Grandma?” Tory asked. “Give me the setting for our post-miniwar.”
“I’ll let you know when you need to know, no sooner.”
Our appetizer came and we thanked the waitress. She placed my slice of lemon meringue pie in front of me, which I ate before I ate the crab and tomato toasts, in case I keeled over. We would have small Waldorf salads and hot bread befor
e our entrées.
Leonard came over and chatted, then hugged Grandma extra long. He is meticulous about his food art, especially when it comes to feeding Grandma. Her praise was high indeed, and he flushed with pride.
“One of my favorite people on the planet,” she told us when he left. “By the way, I love you girls. You’ve been kick-ass since you were born. Strong-willed, obstinate, opinionated, liberated. Difficult and rebellious. I’m proud of you.”
We basked in that love until she said, “You are all crazy, too, in your own way. Half of your brains have been misplaced, lost, they’re somewhere.” She made circles in the air with her fork. “Who knows where.”
“I’m not proud of you, Tory,” Lacey muttered. They’d had a fight about The Fashion Story before lunch. It hadn’t been pretty.
“And I’m not proud of you, Lacey.”
They threw each other deathly looks.
I drank my beer.
Ah, family.
So complicated.
I had a business meeting with Grandma at ten o’clock later in the week. I grimaced as she rubbed her back, “patting the fairies.” That pain was plaguing here more frequently now. I knew better than to address it.
“I want Lacey and Tory to reconcile, Meggie. I want them to be friends,” she said as I left her office. “You get along better with Tory than Lacey does, but you also need to work on your relationship with her.”
“I do. I am. I have finally recognized that.”
“Be a better sister. This is important to me.” Her Irish brogue became thicker. I was surprised at how upset she was. “Your mother is, regrettably, a bizarre, elflike, quilt-making, embroidery-obsessed, outrageous sex therapist, but she wants the three of you close, as I do. Then when we’re gone we know you have each other to whine to.”
“Whining partners are important.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “I want you to talk to Lacey and Tory about being kinder to each other. There should be love among the three of you, as there is between your mother and me, despite how far off in the next galaxy she operates.” She stood up, pale around the edges, and kissed my cheek. “I’m counting on you, Meggie. Don’t mess this up.”
I’m counting on you, Meggie.
I would try not to mess up again.
I talked privately to both Tory and Lacey.
Lacey said, “Tory’s an overgrown witch, but I’ll try.”
Tory said, “When Pluto is the color of my butt, that’s when I’ll get along with Lacey.” She twisted around and pulled out her skirt. “Nope. Pluto is not the color of my butt yet.”
Regan stood at my door with a ratty-looking dog beside him. The dog was brown and squat, like a hot dog with a face and floppy ears. I swear he was smiling at me. The dog, not Regan.
Regan was in tears, shoulders shaking, in his muddy football uniform.
“Aunt Meggie,” Regan choked out.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Was it my sister? The baby? I clutched my throat and my stomach, as if I could protect the baby by doing that. “Is it your mom? The baby? What happened? Is she okay?”
“Mom’s fine.” I pulled him into my house, that blond, messy hair hanging over his green eyes, so like my mother’s and Grandma’s. The hot dog dog followed him.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m not physically hurt. I didn’t break any more bones. I didn’t conk my head on my shelves or hit it on my light again. I haven’t tripped over my feet and broke my toe or run into any walls, or a pole, that’s good, that hurt last time—”
“What happened, then?” Fear tightened my whole body up. “Is your dad okay?”
“Dad’s good. It’s—” He stared at the ceiling, shaking his head, traumatized.
“What, Regan, tell me!” I grabbed his shoulders. “What about Cassidy and Hayden?”
“They’re okay, but Aunt Meggie . . .” He moaned, gasping for breath. “My mom . . . my mom . . .”
I leaned over, hands to knees, feeling ill, frightened, stunned. What in the world? “What happened, Regan? Is it the baby?”
“She . . .” Sob. Sniffle.
“What?! What happened?” I stood up and shook his shoulders, fear burning my nerves.
“She won’t let me . . . She is being mean! She won’t let me keep Pop Pop!”
“What? What are you talking about?” I was panting, my pulse racing. “What is a Pop Pop?”
“I’m talking about my mean mom, and this is Pop Pop.” He bent down and held the dog up, eye to eye with me, then set him back down. He was not a small dog. “He’s a stray. I put posters up when I found him in the woods. He was so hungry, I know what that feels like. I feel my own starvation all day long because of my own problems of not being fed and watered enough. We had to take him to the vet for stitches on his neck and his paws were all bloody and he had worms, too, and she says I can’t keep him!”
I sagged in relief, head down. No one was hurt. The baby was fine. It was long seconds before I could function. “This is Pop Pop?” I pointed weakly at the hot dog dog that kept grinning at me. He was a weird dog.
“Yes, this is Pop Pop. Pop Pop, say hi to Aunt Meggie.”
“So your family’s okay?” My heart was still on high speed.
“Everybody but Pop Pop. He’s not okay at all!” Regan tried to breathe, couldn’t, tried again, chest rising and falling.
I plopped onto the floor and wiped a hand across my forehead.
“He’s a good dog!” Regan crouched down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. The dog’s smile widened. His tongue fell out.
“And he has worms?” I pictured worms in Pop Pop. Unpleasant.
“He did have worms. We took him to the vet. Dad and me. Now he doesn’t have any worms. He’s disinfected and worm-less. But Mom says we have to find him a good home.”
“Then you better keep looking for that good home.”
He wiped his wet face. “I don’t need to, Aunt Meggie.” He set those pleading green eyes on me, then whispered, “Please? He won’t be any trouble at all. He likes to cuddle. He runs quick because he likes to have adventures, but he obeys sometimes, too.”
“He likes to have adventures?”
“Yes. That’s why he runs, but he comes back! And see? He’s smiling at you.”
That was the only thing I believed. That dog did smile. The corners of his mouth were up. “No, honey, I don’t want a dog. I work all the time.”
“After football practice I’ll come right over and walk him! I will!”
“That’s not enough, honey. He needs to go outside for potty breaks . . .”
“It’ll work out, I know it will! Look at Pop Pop! He wants to be here. Give him a hug.”
“No, thank you.”
“I will then.” He hugged the dog. The dog hopped onto his lap. The dog barked at him, and Regan barked back. “Look how huggable this dog is, Aunt Meggie. He’s talking to me! I’m begging you. I think he’ll like Mrs. Friendly. They could be friends. And he and Jeepers can keep each other company and stop the loneliness.”
“Jeepers is a hissing cat. They won’t get along.”
“They will, I know it! Pop Pop will smile at him.” Sometimes I can’t believe what comes out of Regan’s mouth. He is a dear child. Perhaps not too bright.
“Please?”
“No.”
Another round of tears, shaking shoulders. “Pleeease, Aunt Meggie?”
“No.”
The dog barked at Regan. Regan could hardly bark back through his overwhelming emotions as he buried his face in Pop Pop’s fur.
Pop Pop slept on my bed that night, his head on the pillow next to mine.
He snores.
I would have to take him to doggy day care during the day. There was one around the corner from the company. I wondered if they would refuse to take him. That smile is almost creepy. I petted him. He woke up and licked my hand.
I thought of Mrs. Friendly, the lizard. I didn’t think they’d be friends. Jeepers hissed
from underneath my bed. He wasn’t looking for new friends, either.
And this dog was just plain weird.
The next morning, I dropped Pop Pop off at doggy day care. On the way there in the car, he barked at me, waited, barked again. I actually found myself barking back, like we were having a conversation. “You’re a bizarre dog, Pop Pop.” He smiled, put his head on my lap.
Blake came over three nights later. He was holding a huge bouquet of white lilies, a bottle of wine, and a double layer box of chocolates. He smiled, soft and sexy. He was killing me.
“Hello, Meggie. I decided to invite myself over.”
I opened the door. He walked on in and handed me the flowers. “Not original gifts, but I thought we could drink wine, eat chocolates, and talk.”
“You’re good, Blake, impressively good.” He was soooo good.
“I thought those might get me in.”
I laughed. “You’re in.”
Pop Pop grinned at him, wagged his tail, and barked. Blake petted him. He did not bark back. Jeepers hissed from upstairs. I told him to ignore the hissing, it wasn’t personal. Mrs. Friendly did nothing.
I put the lilies in water. Blake opened the wine and chocolates. We sat down on my leather couch, hugged by maple trees. We chatted about our days. He asked about Lacey and her pregnancy. He asked about Tory and Scotty, my work. I heard about his nonstop meetings, a speech he’d made at lunch, a white-collar criminal who had been written about in the paper. It was so . . . normal. Reassuring. Comfortable. I tried not to get too comfortable. It was hard.
Then he said what he’d come to say: “I’d like us to date, Meggie.”
“Date?”
“Yes. I want to be upfront about what I want. I like you. I respect you, and I want us to be together.”
I was suddenly calm. Calm as in cold calm. The kind of calm you get when you’re going to say something you don’t want to say and you sense a disaster looming, but you have to say it anyhow.