Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  “She said something like that to me,” I said. “Do you think it’s only about aging?”

  “Fern has always been realistic, so I don’t think so. I reminded her we’re healthy and have a good life. Why not be satisfied with that? But I was talking to a wall. Nothing I said made a difference.”

  A young couple strolled by, waving a bag of bread at the ducks.

  “A few months ago, we met the CRS Ladies at a campground in New Mexico.” Belle stared at the couple, not looking at us. “We had a nice spot right by the lake, and everyone was happy to be together again, but Fern was gloomy. She didn’t participate in any of the activities. One day, she got into an argument with Patti.”

  “Who would argue with Patti?” The long-legged, baby-voiced New York firefighter had seen the Towers come down and retired shortly thereafter with health problems. Patti was a quiet, kind soul, most of the time anyway. Of course, there was that time in Key Largo with Jessie’s abusive boyfriend, when Patti took out the dude’s windshield with her fire axe.

  “Exactly,” said Belle. “And when Candace and Margo sided against her, Fern went into our trailer and wouldn’t come out.”

  “Unbelievable.” Candace, a Paula Deen look-alike, and Margo, her best friend, were as easygoing as could be. I couldn’t imagine Fern in a serious argument with either of them.

  “The next morning,” Belle continued, “Fern wanted to get away. She decided we would drive to California, to see the wildflowers at Anza-Borrego. I told her it was too early in the season, but she insisted, and I gave in. I always do.” Belle looked from me to Rita and back. “Ever since that fight, I’ve been asking myself why.”

  Neither Rita nor I had an answer. Not one we could say out loud, anyway.

  Belle stood and walked toward the pond.

  “Comes the dawn,” said Rita.

  “Yup.” We watched Belle stroll slowly along the edge of the pond, her hands clasped behind her back. I had long wondered if she would ever see this in herself, this tendency to be too accommodating.

  Some of us were born with self-knowledge. Some of us learned it as we matured. The rest of us, myself included, tended to find out the hard way, when one of life’s lessons whacked us on the head.

  Eventually, Belle returned, her gait a little quicker. “I think I figured it out. Recently, I began talking about not RVing so much. A friend of ours owns a catering business, and he’s always asking me to come work for him. A while back, I told Fern I wanted to do it.”

  “So is Fern jealous?” asked Rita.

  Belle snorted. “Alfred is married, so I doubt it. Why would you ask that?”

  I looked at Rita. She looked at me and ducked her head.

  I was nominated. “So, what about this Vic guy?”

  “Vic? Why would you bring him up?” Belle gripped the table with both hands.

  “Fern seems to think he’s important to you,” I said.

  “That’s ridiculous. He’s just a friend.” She looked from me to Rita and back again, her eyes wide. “We were hiking at Borrego. We met Vic and his friends on the trail. He was our age, just under eighty, and very fit. He had a mustache. Nice brown legs. We hit it off.”

  “Fern, too?”

  “Not exactly.” A smile flitted across Belle’s face and was gone. “She made a couple of snarky comments in response to his humor. That night, she was sharp with me and irritated even more than usual. I felt guilty as if I had done something wrong. I didn’t sleep well. I thought she was being unfair and kept trying to understand why.”

  The ducks were back. A mallard tried to nibble Belle’s shoestring, and my gentle friend kicked at the poor bird. Luckily, he was agile enough to avoid her. She looked up, saw my surprise, and blushed.

  “Fern’s anger is contagious,” she said. “At the campground the next morning, I went for a walk. Vic came along, and we hiked a long way together. He was funny. Being with him was carefree, and he reminded me of my brother, with the same sense of humor. It felt so good to laugh, after living under Fern’s dark cloud. We really had good chemistry, but only as friends.”

  “Fern saw the two of you together?” I asked.

  “Yes. When we walked back into camp, she was watching us.”

  “Uh oh,” said Rita.

  “She can be quite possessive. I used to find it appealing when we were younger,” Belle said. “Of course, we argued, this time worse than ever. She accused me of wanting to break up with her. It was really unfair. I’ve been good to her.”

  “Everybody knows that. She’s lucky to have you,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, I was madder than a hornet, and by now I had had it. I yelled at her and threatened to pack my things and go. She said ‘what are you waiting for?’ and went to storm out the door—you’ve seen how she loves to slam doors. Anyway, she misjudged the step.” Belle rubbed her face. “Ah, God, she fell so hard. And I was so mad I almost left her lying there.”

  “You mean you didn’t?” I said.

  Belle gave me a little smile. “Of course not. I was frightened for her, and also I felt terribly guilty. I had goaded her, and she overreacted. Some of the other campers ran over and helped get us to urgent care, and to the hospital. What a horrible time that was.”

  “I’m glad I had the house for you to use,” said Rita.

  “Yes, thank God. So close to where it happened, like a miracle. And I thought our time here would help solve our problem, that we could relax and talk, but things are even worse now because Fern is dependent on me. She is madder than ever.”

  “Were you really going to leave her?” Rita asked.

  “At the time I meant it. She’s killing me. I try to get her to talk, to tell me what’s bothering her, but she won’t.”

  “What are you going to do?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know.” Belle looked over at the young couple. “Where can I go? I’m old. I don’t want to start over. There is no good choice.”

  “What about marriage counseling?” asked Rita.

  “We’re not married.”

  “Still, it could help,” I said. “The two of you are at an impasse. You think she’s depressed, and she thinks you’re going to run off with Vic.”

  Belle turned to me, her mouth a straight line, her nostrils flaring. “That’s what she thinks?”

  “Well, you were originally married to a guy,” said Rita.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. The big switcheroo. That’s always been her fear. It’s as if she doesn’t trust me to know my own mind. Seeing me with Vic must have set her off.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Rita. “All you have to do is go back there, tell her you understand now what she’s worried about, and reassure her you’re now a confirmed lesbian.”

  Belle got up and stomped toward the pond, gesturing at us with one hand as if ordering us to remain seated.

  I shook my head at Rita. “Smooth move, Truck Driver Lady.”

  “Don’t blame me,” said Rita. “I saw you laugh.”

  Belle circled the pond. A pair of geese waddled into the flock of ducks and started a fight. Kids rode bikes on the sidewalks, plastic ribbons streaming from handlebars. Belle did two more laps. Rita and I waited.

  When Belle came back to us, she was walking more slowly, calmer in her bearing.

  “We’re sorry,” said Rita.

  “We’re idiots,” I said.

  “No.” Shaking her head, Belle reached into her purse. She freshened up her lipstick, a pale peach, and closed the mirror. “I’m the idiot. The solution has been in front of me for a while.”

  “What?”

  “Let me think about it a little longer. I’ll tell you when I’m sure.”

  It was mid-afternoon already by the time we returned to the house, and despite the gravity of our talk, we were starving. The three of us made sandwiches.

  Fern was still in hiding. We left her alone.

  I grabbed a bottle of crisp rosé to go with our sandwiches. We arranged ourselves
at the patio table, a cool afternoon breeze bringing us the fragrance of colorful petunias in nearby pots, and fresh-cut grass. A twosome waved at us from the nearby fairway. Except for the angry woman hiding inside the house, life seemed pretty good.

  “I love your house,” I said. “Is this like a getaway when you aren’t driving?”

  Rita shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I’m always driving. Grady bought it for me, but I’m hardly ever here.”

  “Where do you live?” asked Belle. I was curious, too.

  “Here and there.”

  “More than one house, you mean?” I was puzzled, and from the look on her face, so was Belle.

  “I don’t actually have a house anywhere,” said Rita. “I keep my things here, and I stay with Grady or my brother or in my truck or a hotel.”

  “Your truck is like an RV, and you’re a full-timer,” said Belle.

  “Pretty much.” Rita picked up the second half of her sandwich. “I save a lot of money that way.”

  “I’m sure you do.” I had a lot of respect for anyone who could live so austerely, and I assumed Rita was saving for retirement. She’d been married and divorced early in life—no children—and had dated enthusiastically, at least until the attack. At that point, her life changed. Ever since, she’d been living the solitary life of the long-haul trucker.

  Belle asked Rita about her boyfriend, Grady, a cool old dude who lived in a mansion overlooking the ocean.

  “He’s still there. We see each other every couple weeks, or so.” Rita picked up the wine bottle and topped off her glass.

  Grady was a successful developer in Orange County. He’d worked his way up from day laborer to owning a construction firm, and had made and lost several fortunes, but the one deal he couldn’t seem to land was Rita.

  Back in Key Largo, she had shown us her new diamond-studded tennis bracelet. In the two years since, she’d added to it with a twin on the other wrist as well as a couple of rings and a new pair of diamond studs in her earlobes. Plus, this house.

  “He wants us to get married,” Rita said.

  “You must think about it,” I said. Her life had to be lonely and difficult, and although I could understand what kept her out on the road, she was my age, late-fifties. I wondered what her plans were.

  She looked at me, but I couldn’t read her, with her eyes hidden behind those expensive aviators. “I’m not ready to settle down,” she said.

  “But surely, at some point—” Belle said.

  Rita fell silent. Belle looked at me. I shook my head, having sensed before that this was a sensitive subject, although I didn’t know why.

  “At some point, I’ll find myself a cabin in the woods, buy a big, mean watchdog, and live like a hermit,” Rita said.

  “Every girl’s dream.” I raised my glass to her.

  We hadn’t been speaking loudly, so when Fern began moving through the house with her walker, we heard her and stopped talking. The kitchen cabinets banged, and a couple of metal utensils crashed to the floor. Fern cursed.

  Belle shifted in her seat, lifted her chin, and stared off across the fairway.

  Okay, then. I got up and went inside to see if I could help. Fern was fumbling with the mayonnaise jar. She juggled it, almost dropping it in the sink.

  “Sit down,” I told her. “I’ll get your lunch.”

  “I can do it myself.” She dropped a plastic container. A couple of pickle slices slapped to the floor. She looked up at the ceiling.

  “Come on.” I grasped her arms from behind and gently steered her to the table, and pulled out a chair.

  “Fine,” she said, settling into the chair. “You can fix my lunch.”

  I put the container in the dishwasher and got a clean plate from the cabinet. “Do you want wheat or rye?”

  “White, if we have it. Belle was supposed to go shopping...”

  I hunted around and found the bread she wanted. “Here it is. Now, chicken or ham?”

  “Roast beef. There should be some left over from last night.”

  “Chardonnay?” I pulled the cork out.

  “A beer.”

  I looked over at her. She had a little smile on her face.

  “Very funny.” I placed her sandwich on a plate, cut up an apple for her, and carried it to the table.

  “Just trying to put some life in this morgue.”

  The screen door slid open. We both looked up, but Belle walked past us. She went into the bedroom and shut the door. We heard a closet door sliding shut, hard. The impact shook pictures hanging on the living room wall.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

  Fern shook her head. She was staring down the hall, her lunch forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  I WENT TO BELLE’S DOOR and almost knocked, but I heard her speaking to someone, followed by pauses and sniffling. I killed a few minutes in the guest room and, when the house fell silent again, tapped on her door. She opened it. A suitcase lay on the bed, half-packed. Her eyes were red, her mouth grim.

  “Can I come in?”

  She let me in and closed the door behind me. She stood by the door, arms crossed.

  I gestured at the suitcase. “What are you doing?”

  “I think you can see.”

  “Isn’t that kind of extreme? Don’t you want to try talking it out with her first?”

  “I’m on my way to the storage unit, to get some things out of our RV.” Belle closed the suitcase and stuck it under the bed. “You can come if you want.”

  Belle drove the big Silverado with confidence. We passed through the mechanical gate and wove through the sprawling blacktopped complex, pulling up next to their thirty-five-foot fifth-wheel. It was the top of the line, a luxury trailer with multiple slide-outs. A wave of nostalgia hit me as I remembered seeing this beast in Moab and Key Largo. How many hours had I sat inside it, enjoying Fern and Belle’s hospitality, sharing meals, discussing the news of the day or my big plans for my future? This was where Jessie and Sunshine had first found refuge from the boyfriend, and it became the focus of Jessie’s new life. It had been Belle’s home and the heart of the CRS Ladies traveling RV group. I wondered how hard it was for her to walk away from it now. Disbelief hit me again.

  The inside of the RV was hot and stuffy in the late afternoon sun. We both went around opening windows. Air flowed in off the winter desert, balmy and sweet with the fragrance of sage.

  “Make yourself at home,” said Belle. “I need to go to the office for boxes.”

  I nodded, and as soon as she walked away, I texted Jessie.

  Disaster here. Call me.

  Within seconds, my phone rang.

  “What’s going on?” Jessie asked.

  “I have to talk fast. Belle will be back in a couple minutes.” I told her about the argument in New Mexico, the fall, and what had happened since. Jessie didn’t interrupt until I stopped for a breath.

  “So, you think Belle’s really leaving?”

  “I’m telling you, she’s packing right now. We’re at a storage unit, and she’s getting her stuff out of the RV. Fern’s back at the house. They’re not speaking to each other.”

  “Where’s she going?”

  “I don’t know.” In the background, I heard a baby cry.

  “It’s dinner time. The kids are hungry, and I have to go. Can you delay Belle a day or two?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “I’ll try to arrange a flight for me and the kids, and Ryan if he can get away. We could help somehow...” Jessie’s voice trailed off.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s pretty tense here.”

  “They love the kids. The kids will distract them. It’ll give them time to reassess. I’d like to try, anyway.”

  “Jessie, really. Forget it.”

  “But what are you going to do?” The baby wailed, and we hung up just as Belle returned with cardboard boxes and packing paper. I stuck my phone in my back pocket, held t
he screen door open, and took two boxes from Belle.

  “They can go in the kitchen.” She scooped her hair into a rubber band and began hunting through the cupboards.

  “Why are you in such a big, fat hurry?” I asked.

  Belle handed me an ivory-colored vase with gold-leaf scalloping around the top edge. “That was from my mother.” She unfolded a step stool and flung open two cabinet doors.

  “Belle, please stop.” I set the vase on the table. “I didn’t know we were coming here to pack.”

  “Then don’t.” Standing on the stool, gripping two cabinet doors, Belle looked down at me, her eyebrows knitted in annoyance. “Fine.” She climbed down.

  Belle found a couple of bottles of water and handed me one. I cracked it and took a sip. We sat at the dinette table.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked. “Back at the house, you seemed to come to a decision. What is it?”

  “I have a sister in Monterey.” Belle tipped her head back, drank a third of the bottle, and capped it. “Ever since her husband died, she’s been at loose ends. She’s wanted me to move in for a long time.”

  “Didn’t she know you were with Fern?”

  “I never told her. She wouldn’t have approved.”

  How convenient. And what a big secret to carry. People never fail to surprise me. “So you’re just going to take a few boxes and suitcases and move to a new life?”

  “That’s about it.” Belle’s gaze was steady, her mouth a straight line. “I get a little Social Security and Medicare. I’ll be fine.”

  “Is this really what you want?”

  “Of course not.” She got up and stood to look out the screen door. The storage unit was quiet, and I could almost hear Belle’s thoughts forming.

  “I’m torn,” she said. “On the one hand, I need relief. I can’t bear living with Fern another minute. She makes me feel guilty and inadequate. I’m always second-guessing myself.”

  I knew from my first marriage how corrosive that could be. If, after all their years together, they hadn’t worked this out, what hope was there now?