Tiny House on the Road

by Celia Bonaduce

  “Oh?” Priscilla said.

  Vivien couldn’t keep her eyes off Marco for long. She peeked in his direction. He wasn’t looking at her, but he was as flushed as she was. Vivien could feel Priscilla’s eyes moving from one to the other.

  “Ooooh,” Priscilla said again.

  After an excruciating polite breakfast, full of “please pass the orange juice” and “no thanks, I’ve had enough,” Priscilla started cleaning up the kitchen.

  “I’ll do that,” Vivien said. “You made breakfast.”

  “That’s all right, dear,” Priscilla said. “You help Marco get the tent ready to go.”

  “The tent’s already packed,” Marco said.

  “Then the two of you take Clay for a walk,” Priscilla said. “Wear him out before the long drive to San Diego.”

  Marco and Vivien stared at Priscilla, but still had not met each other’s eyes.

  “Go!” Priscilla continued, handing Vivien Clay’s leash and making a shoo-ing motion with her hands.

  Clay pulled Vivien toward a play area, full of swings, a seesaw, and a slide. No kids were around in the misty morning, so Vivien and Marco followed where Clay led. The boxer looked around the playground and up at Vivien as if to say, “Where are the kids?”

  The morose look on Clay’s face broke the tension. Marco and Vivien smiled shyly at each other.

  “He thought he’d find his adoring public,” Marco explained. “He’s always a hit at the local playground.”

  “As are you, I bet,” Vivien said.

  “Are you kidding?’ Marco said, pointing at Clay. “You think I can compete with that face?”

  Clay shook his head, sliming them both with flying spittle.

  “I guess not,” Vivien said, wiping down her top. “That drool is a real chick magnet.”

  The conversation faltered. They wandered to the swing set, each settling into a U-shaped swing. Clay lay in the sand beneath Vivien. She hugged the dog’s ribs with her feet as she gently glided back and forth.

  “We’re not wearing him out,” Marco said, looking down at the sleeping boxer.

  “I’ll never tell,” Vivien said.

  Marco looked at her sharply.

  “I mean about not wearing him out,” she explained, embarrassed. “Not about…you know…last night.”

  “I have a feeling we don’t need to explain about last night,” Marco said, his eyes drifting toward Shrimpfork.

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” Vivien said. “I don’t know how she figured it out, though.”

  “I know, it’s weird,” Marco said. “Old people know more about sex than you’d think.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Vivien said. “I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “Is it going to cause a fight?’ Marco asked. “Because I don’t really want to fight with you anymore.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you either,” Vivien said. “That’s why I want to ask you some questions. Because I really want to trust you.”

  “Sure,” Marco asked. “But what if I flat-out lie to you?”

  She didn’t want to say, “I’ll know if you’re lying.” But after last night, she thought she’d know.

  “I guess I’ll risk it,” Vivien said.

  “Then fire away.”

  “Why do you hang out with Priscilla so much?”

  “You mean, beside the fact that I’m an upstanding member of the community?”

  “Yes.” Vivien smiled. “Beside that.”

  Did she expect this to be easy? Did she think he would come out and say, “I’m trying to get some money out of her so my family could remodel the store, so I have something cool to work with?” She needed to listen very carefully to what he had to say—to hear the truth or the lie, regardless of last night.

  Marco sat staring straight ahead. She could see him formulating what he had to say. She saw the struggle. Part of her wished she hadn’t asked.

  “It’s complicated,” Marco said. “You know our families go way back.”

  “I do know that,” Vivien said.

  “But even given all that drama,” Marco said, waving his hands as if brushing away cobwebs, “I guess the answer is –she gets me.”

  “She…” Vivien tried to wrap her head around the words. “She gets you?”

  “Yeah,” Marco said. “Everyone in town—from the minute I was born—hell, from before I was born—saw me as the grocer’s son. I grew up thinking—no, knowing—what my whole life was going to be.”

  He stopped. Vivien waited.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And it just wasn’t the life I wanted,” Marco said. “I don’t want to be a grocer. I know my dad thinks if he fixes up the store, I’ll change my mind. But… I won’t.”

  Vivien’s stomach flipped. She had been on the wrong path all along.

  “After my mom died, when I was twelve, my dad just became all about the store,” Marco continued. “I mean, I don’t blame him, we were all a mess. They say everybody grieves differently. But he took ‘retail therapy’ to heart. Only it was selling, not buying, that was getting him through.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Vivien whispered.

  “When I was about fourteen, and started delivering groceries to Priscilla, she took an interest in me,” Marco continued. He looked at Vivien in anguish. “She saw me as a person. And she encouraged me.”

  “To do what?”

  “Whatever I wanted,” Marco said. “It took me awhile, but one day I showed her something I’d made. Something I was really interested in.”

  “What was that?”

  “You’ll think it’s stupid,” Marco said.

  “I won’t,” Vivien said. “I promise.”

  “I made this little sculpture out of clay,” Marco said. “It was a little gnome kind of thing with wings…”

  “With wings folded in on itself,” Vivien said.

  Marco started.

  “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “The attic is full of those sculptures,” Vivien said, taking his hands. “Priscilla has a whole wall of them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” Vivien said. Clay snorkeling at her feet at the disturbance. “And they’re all beautiful. Marco, you’re amazing.”

  “You’re just saying that because of last night,” he said.

  “You wish.” Vivien giggled. “So that’s what you want to do? Be a sculptor?”

  “Not anymore. That was just kid stuff,” Marco said miserably.

  Vivien thought she might cry, but she took a few deep breaths, hoping Marco would continue.

  “I can’t believe she saved them,” Marco said. “When my dad found out about them, he threw a fit. He yelled at Priscilla that she was filling my head with stupid dreams and that I’d end up crazy like her. It was pretty rough.”

  “Wow,” Vivien said. “Poor Priscilla.”

  “That’s not all,” Marco said. “You might as well have all the gory details about what’s going on.”

  “Okay.” Vivien swallowed.

  “The day my dad came over and found me working on a sculpture on Priscilla’s patio instead of what he called ‘working,’ he didn’t just happen to stop by. He had a reason.”

  “Which was?”

  “He came by with an offer to buy Priscilla’s house.”

  “What?”

  “He always felt the land belonged to our family,” Marc said. “He knew his grandfather had sold it to Emilio Workman, but roots run very deep and very strong there. He just wanted to buy the ten acres back. But that conversation got derailed when he saw me. So now he considers me part of the problem. He’s never insisted I stop seeing her—I mean, like it or not, with our history, she’s almost like family. But it was never the same afte
r that. Neither of us ever mentioned sculpting again. And as far as the house…”

  “Do you think Priscilla would ever sell the house?”

  “I can’t imagine it,” Marco said. “What else has she got?”

  They both looked at Shrimpfork, which was shining in the sun as the mist cleared.

  “She’s got Hilda,” Vivien said, smiling.

  “I guess she does.” Marco met her eyes.

  She knew he was telling her the truth.

  She leaned over and kissed him, stroking his cheek.

  “And she’s got us,” she said.

  Chapter 25

  They walked back hand in hand, letting Clay stop at every shrub and tire.

  Priscilla had Shrimpfork ready to go. If she was surprised by the turn of events, she didn’t say anything. But as they loaded up the truck, Priscilla settled into the back of the cab with Clay.

  “Priscilla!” Vivien exclaimed. “What are you doing in the backseat?”

  “Oh, I miss my dog on these long days,” Priscilla said. “I just thought we’d ride to San Diego together. You don’t mind sitting in the front, do you?”

  Vivien looked at Priscilla—who winked at her!

  Vivien flushed, but she climbed into the shotgun seat.

  Vivien watched the landscape roll by. She saw the parched desert of Arizona turn into plots of land irrigated by the Colorado River and mountains that looked like they were thrown together by giants having a rock fight.

  She was giddy as she relived the night before. She not only saw Marco in a new light, but Priscilla as well. What a brave little lady she was.

  By mid-afternoon, the truck was on Highway 8, following signs to San Diego. Vivien’s good mood started to slip away. Up until this point, neither Vivien nor Marco had to acknowledge the challenges they would face now that they were in San Diego.

  Vivien shot Marco a furtive glance. He was thinking the same thing.

  “Shit’s getting real,” Marco said under his breath.

  “What did you say, dear?” Priscilla said from the backseat.

  “San Diego’s the real deal,” Marco called back, shrugging his shoulders helplessly at Vivien.

  “That it is,” Priscilla said. “What time do we need to meet the Colonel?”

  Vivien and Marco looked panicked. Neither had a clue how to proceed at this point.

  “We’ll have to look into that,” Marco said. “We have time. The show isn’t until tomorrow.”

  “Shall I look it up on my phone?” Priscilla asked.

  “Sure.” Marco raised his eyebrows. “That would be great!”

  Marco and Vivien exchanged another look. Vivien was happy to have all these reasons to be looking at him. She put down the passenger-side sun visor, slid open the mirror, and peered back at Priscilla, who had taken the phone out of her purse and was staring at it. Priscilla looked up suddenly, catching Vivien’s eye in the mirror.

  “What do I do first?” Priscilla asked, handing over her phone.

  “Actually,” Vivien said, taking out her own phone, “we need to find a place to stay. San Diego was the only city I wasn’t able to book ahead of time.”

  “Good idea,” Marco said.

  “Can we also look that up on the phone?” Priscilla asked, leaning forward.

  “Yep,” Vivien said, grateful for the task at hand. She spoke to Marco—in sub-text. “Maybe we can grab something to eat and start checking for a spot to park for tonight.”

  She could see he understood. The longer they could stall, the longer they had to come up with some answers.

  Should they even try to find the location of This Old Thing? What would they do if they found it? Would it be easier to drive to Los Angeles and see if they could get tickets to The Ellen DeGeneres Show? Maybe Ellen would be interested in Priscilla and Hilda’s story. Maybe the doll would be a good angle? Vivien didn’t have any idea if Priscilla even liked Ellen, but Vivien suspected Ellen would be much nicer than that Colonel Cornwall Abbott.

  “Are you looking up restaurants, dear?” Priscilla said from the back seat. “I understand there are Yelps everywhere.”

  Vivien blinked. She opened her mouth to explain, but decided against it.

  San Diego was the most populated place Vivien had been with Shrimpfork. She did not envy Marco having to navigate in and out of traffic. Parking spaces dictated what kind of lunch they would have. They finally found a Chinese restaurant in a mini-mall with room to park the tiny house.

  “What would you like, Priscilla?” Vivien asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Priscilla said. “Anything is fine.”

  Vivien could hear the nervous edge to Priscilla’s voice.

  “I have the menu here on the phone,” Marco said, showing Priscilla the screen. “You can pick whatever you want.”

  Priscilla seemed to calm instantly as they all silently agreed they would eat in Shrimpfork.

  “I’ll have wonton soup, some fried rice, and two orders of paper-wrapped chicken,” Priscilla said.

  “Two orders?” Vivien asked, “You must be starving!”

  “Oh, it’s not for me,” Priscilla said.

  Vivien’s heart sank.

  Was the second order for Hilda?

  “Clay loves paper-wrapped chicken—if it’s done right. You just have to make sure he doesn’t eat the paper.”

  “Do you have the menu on your phone, too?” Priscilla asked Marco, who was staring at his screen. “You can do that at the same time?”

  Vivien wondered how Priscilla envisioned the inner-workings of cell-phones. She didn’t really seem to have a grasp. Priscilla also seemed agitated. She kept looking out the window at the cars whizzing by on the street just outside the parking lot.

  “I’ll have the sweet-and-sour shrimp and some brown rice,” Vivien said.

  Vivien could detect a hint of disappointment in Marco’s eyes that she would not be going into the restaurant with him. She texted him.

  He pretended to be reading the menu as he pulled up the text. It read:

  I don’t think Priscilla wants to be alone. Too much going on.

  “Okay,” Marco said briskly. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Can you remember all that?” Priscilla asked.

  “I wrote it down.” Marco smiled at Priscilla, wagging his phone at her.

  “You wrote it on the phone? Really?” Priscilla stared down at her own phone as Marco hopped out of the truck.

  “I can show you how to use the Notes app if you like,” Vivien said.

  Priscilla didn’t seem to be listening.

  “I’ve missed so much,” Priscilla said softly, turning the phone over and over in her hand.

  Vivien thought about the mob that they were sure to encounter should they manage to get to This Old Thing? How was Priscilla going to navigate that crowd if she couldn’t handle eating an eggroll in public?

  * * * *

  For a show the size of This Old Thing?, switching gears and changing markets on short notice would have thrown most teams into a panic. But the show’s staff was a well-oiled machine. By the time they gathered in the Marriott’s conference room to discuss the details, Devora’s staff had secured a venue that would hold at least six thousand people.

  “Good job,” the Colonel said.

  “The owner is a huge fan of the show,” Devora said. “We lucked out.”

  “So, no bumps ahead?” the Colonel asked.

  “There are a thousand bumps ahead,” Devora said. “We didn’t have our usual advance time, but the popularity of the show will see us through. We’ve put out the word on social media that this is going to be a ‘Very Special Edition’ of This Old Thing?”

  “And why is that?” the Colonel asked.

  “So we don’t look like we just rolled into town without any
kind of plan,” Devora snarled. “And so the network doesn’t hand us our collective ass.”

  The meeting broke up. As the crew filed out, Devora asked the Colonel to stay for a minute.

  “The network isn’t happy about losing Taos,” Devora said.

  “None of us are,” the Colonel said.

  “Not the point.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Devora said. “This event has to run like clockwork. We screw up and—”

  “‘We’ meaning me?”

  “Take it any way you like. Just know that the network will be watching—and jobs will be on the line.”

  “Jobs, plural?” the Colonel said. “Or singular—meaning my job?”

  “We need to keep things fresh,” Devora said.

  “And winging it in front of six thousand people isn’t keeping it fresh?”

  “Tastes change,” Devora said.

  “Apparently,” the Colonel said with a cold smile.

  He knew Devora caught his meaning, but she remained all business.

  “The loss of lead time has screwed us. We have no idea what kind of things the audience is going to bring to be appraised,” Devora said. “But it’s got to be all hands on deck. Every single item has to be spectacular.”

  “‘Spectacular,’ no less.” The Colonel smirked.“Now that is going to be a challenge.”

  “I’m just warning you.”

  “Consider me warned,” the Colonel said, bowing and leaving Devora standing at the conference room table. He almost ran into Franklin who was clearly eavesdropping at the door.

  “You heard her,” the Colonel said, walking past. “Bring me only the spectacular.”

  “Noted,” Franklin said. “I have a black lacquer cube that will make an interesting ‘What Is It?’ segment.”

  “Forget it,” the Colonel said. “You know I loathe anything called a cube.”

  The Colonel skirted around Franklin and his blind ambition, not waiting for further conversation.

  * * * *

  Securing an overnight space for Shrimpfork proved harder than finding paper-wrapped chicken up to Clay’s standards. Luckily, Vivien had become Facebook and Instagram friends with people she’d met on her travels. She stepped outside and started texting—asking for leads for any kind soul with a spot of asphalt to house Shrimpfork for one night.