Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  Philly loves his meat tender. If he was diddling Wanda, I would tenderize him with it when I find the mallet.

  For our anniversary some time back, I bought Philly a set of crystal highball glasses. Thick and heavy he left them alone for a decade, preferring a jelly jar, until one day I found him drinking from one. To quote my man, he said. “I broke my jar.”

  “They’re there somewhere.” I sat beside him, too exhausted to care about his highball glasses or the mallet, both would wait.

  “Giv’me a swill.” I waved at the scotch. All this time, he’s been drinking liquor from one of her glasses.

  On rare occasions, after my mother died, the day the doctor told me I wouldn’t have children and when we signed the contract to sell our San Fran home, and on our first day in Arizona, I would indulge in hard liquor.

  And now, with my new Sleep Number bed parked on the driveway in the shade, I felt indulgent. It was nice to have her—all beds in my book are female—back.

  “You’re becoming a drunk.” He smirked but handed me the glass.

  One sip tasted bad; I savored the pain it caused in my ears. I handed Wanda’s glass back to him. As soon as I unpacked our dishes that glass had to go.

  “I’m pooped.”

  He nodded.

  We had accomplished a lot. And I had learned plenty—everyone’s keeping secrets. Including me. Madonna hadn’t given me a single decent hint about Wanda.

  He remained clueless about her. I hadn’t had a private moment to ask Alice what she knew about the woman. Surely, she and Wayne knew her; she was kitty-cornered closer to them than to us. Moving her things prompted none of them to mention her.

  Nobody said oh look at what Wanda had, or hey I remember eating dinner on this plate.

  Nada. Zilch. Zero memories of Wanda.

  What about David Bell? If he wanted to scare me, it worked.

  “It’s as hot as Hades.” He poured another shot. “We gonna make a run to the liquor store.”

  “Did you get the TomTom?” I asked, adding. “It’s in the Caddy’s glove box.”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is the liquor store?” I mused about all the things we didn’t know about Tucson or the Oasis. We waltzed into this place like two blind mice. I should’ve paid more attention to Philly. I’ve always trusted his judgment, but now since he’s slipping, forgetting things too often, I must keep a closer watch on his screwups.

  He nodded. “Wayne will know.” That was a no-brainer.

  Like a satellite medical clinic, the Oasis needed a liquor store in the shopping arena. But then... maybe they don’t need liquor so readily available.

  A mosquito buzzed my ear. Where was there enough water for a mosquito to survive to maturity? The bottom of the drained swimming pool that’s where. By this time tomorrow night, the whole of the Oasis will have malaria. I fanned, shooing it away and the slight breeze lit up my brain or maybe it was that rancid sip of liquor burning through my feeble brain cells.

  No matter, a plan hatched. A beautiful, wonderful plan which would solve my immediate problem.

  “Be right back.” I started down the steps.

  “Where are you going?” He asked, sounding sleepy. We had worked hard all day.

  “To see a man about a box fan.”

  Once you know the way, it doesn’t take long to find your way in the Oasis. Slowly, I had acclimated to our street. At the edge of the driveway, I looked back and asked, “What’s the name of our street?”

  “Mississippi.”

  You might know. Next to Arizona, Mississippi was the hottest, dampest hole in America. My mother’s sister, Betsy, lived in Landry. We only visited once, after Betsy’s husband, I forget his name, got killed in an oil drilling accident out in the Gulf. Either land or sea, our family members had crude oil running through their veins. Betsy got a huge settlement from BP and moved to Florida, which wasn’t much better than Mississippi humidity or heat wise.

  Before I knew it, I knocked on David Bell’s door. He opened it shirtless. His other bullet wound scar was under his collarbone. Guess his aim was off twice.

  “Hey you.” I backed away from David’s scar. We should compare scar stories, but that wouldn’t be ladylike. “I was wondering if I could borrow your box fan?”

  “Uh-um.” He ducked out of sight. Coming back, he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “What for?”

  Neither a borrower nor a lender be. I explained the Sleep Number situation.

  He listened to my convincing spiel about not having a bed to sleep in.

  He glowered but said, “Sure, let me get it.” He has secrets, I know it. He closed the door and stomped, and I felt the vibrations through his veranda floor.

  He opened the door and set the fan at my feet. I smiled. “It’s only for one night. I’m buying my own fan tomorrow.”

  “It’s a ten-dollar fan. I won’t charge rent.”

  I picked up the fan, held the cord in one hand so I wouldn’t trip on it and headed home.

  Tsking, he shook his head watching me make the bed. Earlier he and Wayne had set the mattresses on the frame to keep it clean. I found the bedding in a crate I had marked sheets with a black MarksALot. It didn’t take me long to turn the carport into a suite as good as one at the Four Seasons; the fan buzzed, and I put a cutesy lamp on a box beside the bed. The carport had an outlet within reach of the bed’s cord, and I electrified my sleeping unit.

  “You can’t sleep out here.” Was his only comment.

  “Watch me.”

  I changed into my nightie. In bed, I ran the back up, nearly sitting up straight. Lemme tell ya, they made these beds for princesses. A pea would need to be a boulder before I’d feel it poking into my back.

  Patting his side of the bed, I cooed. “C’mere, big boy. Get in bed.” I fluffed my one-thousand thread count polished cotton sheet—slick as satin but cool to the touch. “I got something special for you.”

  “I ain’t sleeping out here.” He huffed and snapped the front door shut. The AC cycled on.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Princess Bed

  Laying in my princess bed, I watched the stars move across the sky. Luckily, the street lights sat far enough apart they didn’t obscure the view. Airplanes blinked across the night sky. A luxury bed on a carport was far better than camping.

  When we lived in Colorado Springs camping became our part-time hobby. I dabbled in hiking. My other hobby was perfecting my Better-Than-Sex brownie recipe. Those were our chunky years.

  When we moved to San Fran, instead of flying out, Philly had the bright idea of a road trip and seeing the sights. He came home with a tent, a kayak and a Coleman stove and lantern.

  We cut across Colorado, heading for Four Corners—where four states join in one corner. Like real tourists, we took snapshots of ourselves doing stupid stuff. We kissed from different states. I stood in New Mexico; he stood in Utah. I suggested a more aggressive, loving situation but there were families with children watching. That was when I was still frisky.

  Long about sunset we found a campsite along the San Juan River in the dusty dry boonies. We made camp and boiled hot dogs on the camp stove.

  “Wanna go kayaking?” The San Juan River was a trickle of mud.

  “Naw.” I washed hot dog grease out of the pan. We were lazy and had given ourselves ten days to travel to San Fran. It was hot, the middle of August. We were dumb.

  We went to bed at sundown, made love and Philly got up to pee. Long about 11 p.m. the first bolt of lightning flashed from the southwest. We were from Texas, thunderstorms weren’t anything.

  By eleven-thirty, constant lightning bolts lit the sky so bright I could read a book by the light. At 12:02—then I had a digital watch—the rain hit. I pulled Philly on top of me. At 12:05, a gulley washer picked up our tent—yes, we had staked it down properly—and washed us in it toward the San Juan which was now a raging torrent.

  For the rest of the trip, we stayed in motels, ate at restaurants and arriv
ed five days early. The Chronicle let Philly come to work early. We never talked about that night. But he saved our lazy asses with a feat of superhuman strength. We tossed downhill, and he unzipped the tent and grabbed hold to a scrubby tree. He had me by the neck. The gully washer lasted about twenty seconds, taking our love nest along with it. After that night, he hasn’t mentioned camping again.

  Had he forgotten about that ordeal? It was a long-term memory. Should be easy to retrieve.

  Signing up for alpaca hiking and camping proved his brain cells were dying.

  “Mornin’”

  That wasn’t Philly’s voice. I opened an eye and bolted upright—I had laid the bed back to sleep.

  “Hey you.” Ann held out a cup of coffee. “I watched the circus last evening. When I opened my blinds this morning, I had to come over. How d’you sleep?”

  I sat up and took the cup. “Surprisingly well.”

  Ann sat at the foot of the bed sipping her coffee. “I think there’s a rule about sleeping outside. Something to do with scorpions.”

  “I hadn’t thought of those.” Scorpions would be a deterring factor. The coffee tasted delicious. “Thanks for the java.”

  “Something to consider. Never turn over a rock with your hand. Use a stick.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s another rule about putting furniture on an unapproved surface.”

  “Like the carport?”

  “Definitely unapproved for bedding. Only for motorized vehicles. Nothing on the street either. You do know visitors must park in the visitor’s parking area. You pick them up there. Bring them over.”

  “Yeah, I do.” I found the bed’s control and lifted my side. It’s got dual control for maximum comfort. “It’s motorized.” I grinned, running it back and forth.

  “Still doesn’t count. No wheels.” She looked over the edge looking for wheels.

  “I’ll tell Philly.”

  “I noticed online he had signed up for the alpaca group hike. Did he?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. We don’t hike much anymore.”

  I saw an alpaca once in a petting zoo in Monterey. Candy, my kid sister, brought her kids out to Cali once. We entertained the kids with as much novelty as possible. She stayed a week too long and never came back to visit.

  Other than looking at an animal from a distance behind a fence, my alpaca experience was a void.

  “Huh-uh. Sounds good.” The coffee worked fast, and I squirmed. I didn’t want to run Ann off because the urge was coming over me.

  “You got hiking boots? You’ll need ankle support. Helps with the rattlesnakes. They can’t bite through Kevlar. It’s almost bulletproof.”

  Unlike scorpions, rattlesnakes were more my style. Considering San Fran’s limited rattlesnake population, I have had little opportunity to target practice lately. I have shot a few, if they were on my porch, in another life.

  “You going?” I asked.

  “Did last year. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. “Listen, you need a ride to town. Walmart? Target?”

  I wiggled, the urge getting more urgent. “Oh, my goodness. That would be great. We need so many things.”

  “How about one o’clock? I don’t take naps, do you?”

  “Nope.” I fibbed, but I’d miss nap time for shopping. Not only were we living in a desert, I felt deserted without my daily shopping forays.

  “I don’t stock up, not like I used too. Not enough space and shopping is plentiful. There’s a veggie stand. We’ll stop by there. Yuma brings in fresh veggies every day. I can’t live without them.”

  “Yuma?”

  “Down in the valley.” She nodded in the general direction. “They farm thousands... hundreds of thousands of acres. It’s a secret. You ate zucchini grown in Yuma in California.”

  “I’ll be ready.” I stuck a toe out from under the sheet. If I didn’t get inside, Ann would see a flood that would float a Bay ferry.

  She got the hint. “You need to go inside, don’t you?”

  “Sure do.”

  I finished changing and flopped with my man on the pallet he made from pillows and blankets from one of the shipping crates.

  I snuggled, he shimmied suggestively. Turning over, I stared at the ceiling recalling our lovemaking before the thunderstorm on the San Juan River. Now those passionate times were few and far between.

  He turned over and stared at the ceiling. “There’s a crack in the ceiling.”

  “I see it.” The crack reminded me of his absence the last few days. Since his retirement, I had grown used to his company. I hoped the move would draw us closer, like we were on the San Juan, but he distanced himself even further. A needy, clingy woman got on my nerves. Mama always said leave a man alone, they come home sooner or later. He had always come home until now.

  That domino dominatrix bewitched him into disappearing on odd whims.

  I had to try harder. I poked his ribs. He hates that. “Get up, Philly. Time’s awastin’”

  “Go away. Get me a scotch.” It wasn’t seven a.m. yet.

  “Ann invited me to go shopping. I gotta get a move-on.”

  He groaned. “I got pickleball.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.”

  By one o’clock, I had unpacked more boxes. He grumbled about missing pickleball and sent a text message to an unknown pickleball date, but I didn’t snoop. His pickleball partner can remain anonymous for now.

  He loaded empty crates and boxes onto his golf cart. I’m thinking he rented a storage unit, but didn’t pry when he left with load after load of stuff we couldn’t fit into the house.

  Somehow along the way, I had the forethought to pack shelf paper in my dish boxes and a retractable box cutter. Nothing perks up a miniature kitchen like new shelf paper. The kitchen is a galley-style with an L-shaped bar. Over the bar, shelves hang from the ceiling with glass doors on each side. Underneath the bar, the cabinets had a solid wood paneled doors on both sides. There would be no lost bowls or frying pans in that cabinet. Next to the L-shape was an electric oven and stovetop. I prefer gas, but I wouldn’t reinvent the wheel to get a new gas stovetop. The countertop between the stovetop and the sink was thirteen inches wide.

  Lucky number.

  I measured it with Wayne’s measuring tape he left sitting beside the nearly empty bottle of scotch. The kitchen came complete with a double stainless-steel sink. Turning around from the sink, there’s a pantry with trifold doors. The shelves inside the pantry were exactly five inches deep.

  The refrigerator sat almost directly across from the bathroom door. Wanda would say it sat kitty-cornered from the bathroom door.

  In the galley, two people must squeeze in their tushies to get past each other. That’s how tight we are in our park model.

  At 12:58, I dotted lipstick on, ran a comb through my hair and examined my age spots in the sliding closet mirror. The mirrored doors were the highlight of the bedroom. Everything else was a giant fail. I blotted my lips on a tissue, wondering if I should move Wanda’s wedding album. The far back corner tucked into a dark hidey hole was safe enough. No one had found it before I had, so I left it.

  I stood on the end of the carport, heading to Ann’s place when Philly drove the empty golf cart into the carport and parked by my bed.

  I pointed at the Sleep Number. “Get that bed in the room or else.”

  Sweat dripped from underneath his hat and he wiped his face with the bottom of his dirty T-shirt. He climbed the veranda steps and eased down like his knees hurt.

  Earlier, I set David’s box fan on the porch, and I flipped it on for him. He held up the empty scotch bottle and two fingers.

  “Beer. Scotch.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dust Devils

  Ann drove up in a ‘98 Ford Taurus before I crossed the street.

  When she asked me to go shopping, it hadn’t occurred to me that she didn’t have a car in her carport.

  “Hey y’all,” she said getting ou
t of the rattletrap. The Caddy was old, but this vehicle needed two mules hitched to it.

  I eyed it, unsure of its travel worthiness. She guessed my thoughts, again. “It’ll make it. I keep it in the staging area. You can rent a space if you’re too crowded.”

  No sense complaining about a free ride. Her escort was worth a ride in a quarter-century old car, because without her, I would get lost.

  “Good thing our Caddy’s dead. She didn’t fit in the carport, anyway.” I said, making light of my obvious doubts about her car’s travel worthiness.

  “I thought since it was after lunch, I’d bring Philly a Bob’s Burger.” She held up the brown Bob’s bag.

  “That’s right neighborly of you.” I took the bag and went back to where Philly dozed.

  I kicked the side of his shoe. “Ann brought lunch.”

  “Ho ho.” He jerked awake. “Thanks.”

  It smelled delicious. We had let eating slide with so much to do. At least, when I got back he wouldn’t be growling about being underfed. I’d find a snack to nibble on along the way.

  “Ready?” Ann asked.

  “Bye-bye, Philly.” Halfway to Anne’s car when Philly spoke unintelligibly around a bite of burger, I turned and waved goodbye.

  When we passed the security gate, Security Chief manned the gatehouse. He glared seeing me in Ann’s passenger seat, and I smiled waving. He wasn’t attracting flies to that sourpuss face.

  “Don’t mind him,” Ann said, putting on her blinker. “He’ll come around. He hates newbies. They’re so stupid.”

  I lifted a brow and copied his puckered face.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you’re stupid. Learning the ropes is hard. Especially for you, so much happened on your first day.”

  “I’ll say,” I said, reaching for my seatbelt. “And since then, too.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Ann said, noticing my fumbling around for the belt. “They quit working, so I cut the belts out.” Again, I wouldn’t complain about the free ride, but safety was big in my book. I got in a wreck once, and if it hadn’t been for my seatbelt...