Crossing the Street

by Campbell, Molly D. ;

  “And what happened with Gran’s email?” Bob could not stop vibrating.

  “Here I am! Gran’s letter convinced the marines to let me go home. Early discharge! And I have my twenty years in. Bobby, I am officially retired. Here. For good.”

  Bob wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and wilted, sobbing. Charles stood, holding her and swaying back and forth, whispering into Bob’s ear. Then he turned to Ella and put his free arm around his grandmother. The three of them stood, embracing like a scene from an Academy Award winning movie.

  Diana looked first at the soldier, then at me. She strode over to me, undid the Bjorn, and hoisted her son. “Time to go home, buddy.” Before she went, D leaned over to me and whispered, “Forget what I said about being a happy old maid.”

  He stroked Ella’s hair softly with broad, strong hands, kissing her forehead and the tip of her nose. His dark hair gleamed in the light of the porch as he smiled with straight, white teeth. His black eyes glinted, and the edges of his eyes crinkled with his smile. He looked as strong as Superman. My God. This man looked as if he might have stepped directly out of one of my books for “lonely” women.

  His arms full, Charles turned to fix me with those magnetic black eyes. “So you’re Beck, the one-and-only? The one who dropped everything in order to take care of my gran and be my daughter’s guardian angel?”

  My heart popped like popcorn.

  Acknowledgments

  There are two distinct groups of people that I wish to thank for my writing life. The first is professional. I have to thank Lou Aronica for seeing my potential, mentoring me for the many years that it took for him to teach me how to write a novel, and then for being the wonderful publisher and editor who has never once let me down. Beth Hoffman has held my hand, calmed my fears, given me private tutorials, and become a close friend. Robin Black encouraged me to self-publish my first book of flash fiction. Catherine Ryan Hyde has been an inspiration and supporter. Andrea Peskind Katz and her Great Thoughts Great Readers blog and Facebook group are great cheerleaders. Ann Imig, Alexandra Rosas, the women of Creative Alliance, The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, The Tall Poppy Writers, and every single author who has taken the time to converse, share ideas, and commiserate with me are deserving of my deepest gratitude.

  The second group is personal, made up of the friends and family who have given me love and encouragement from the first blog post I ever wrote. Sheryl Chapman Kammer, who told me I should be a writer before it ever occurred to me. My husband, Charlie, who never stops applauding. My two daughters, Marion and Annie, who keep me grounded and tell me when I need to “change that outfit” before I go out. My darling grandson Charlie and my yet unborn grandchild (boy? girl?) whom I can’t wait to hug. Bryan Sander, Trudy Krisher, David Lee Garrison and Suzanne Kelly Garrison, Dave and Jane Reeder, Hazel Dawkins, Lisa Rosenberg, Bob Rosenberg (my model for Bob Bowers, though I turned my Bob into a girl!), Suzy Soro, Amy Sherman, Bonnie Feldkamp, Lee Reyes Fournier, Dennis Fairchild, and all of my neighbors, who have to listen to me talk about writing.

  To my medical advisor, Laurie Bankston, and my veterinary advisor, Joe D’Amico, who appear as Dr. Lauren and Dr. DeMarco in this book. Thank you for your help and friendship.

  And finally, to my dear departed cat, Simpson, who stood in for all the cats in my life. I am indeed, one of those “cat ladies.”

  About the Author

  Molly D. Campbell is a two-time Erma Bombeck Writing Award winner and the author of one previous novel, Keep the Ends Loose. Molly blogs at http://mollydcampbell.com. Also an artist, Molly’s work can be found at http://www.cafepress.com/notexactlypicasso. Molly lives in Dayton with her accordionist husband and four cats.

  Also by Molly D. Campbell

  Miranda Heath is a quirky fifteen-year-old with cinematic dreams and a safe, predictable family. That is until she decides to pull at the loose end that is the estranged husband her aunt never divorced. What seemed like the best way to allow her aunt to get on with her life sets off a series of events that threaten to turn Mandy’s world upside down. Suddenly, she’s embarking on adventurous road trips, becoming the center of an increasingly unstable household, meeting surprising strangers, and seeing everyone she knows in new ways. Sometimes loose ends just want to stay loose. But what happens if they want to unravel completely?

  Warm, funny, and uniquely perceptive, Keep the Ends Loose is an irresistible novel filled with characters you might recognize – and will not forget.

  Here is an excerpt:

  Have you ever heard of a guy named Proust? He was an insanely famous writer. Get this: he wrote about his boring life. I figure that if Proust could do it, so can I. So let me tell you about my Aunt Iris.

  Iris Fletcher is my aunt on my mother’s side. My mother, Winnie, is absolutely nothing like her sister. Here is my mother: busy, bossy, and in everybody’s business. My mother, Winnie Heath, is about five foot three and weighs two hundred pounds. She’s chunky. I don’t know why, but even though she has never been thin, men love her. It might be because she has bright blue eyes and eyelashes that stick out a mile. But the rest of her is kind of ordinary. She has wiry, dark brown curls that spiral around her face. Plus, she has skin so soft that I like to pet her arms. And her boobs never fell. Winnie is quick to smile, with teeth straight from the braces Grandma insisted on getting for her. And I have to say that Grandma was right: Winnie has a real winner of a smile. She will never need those whitening strips. Winnie has a cheerful face, and her eyes wrinkle when she smiles. All in all, she is satisfactory. But she is a legend in the Heath family.

  They say that a girl who acts as if she is God’s gift to men becomes one. For sure, that has to be the case with my mom. She had a whole lot of boyfriends back in the day—when she was young, before she married my dad. She was chubby then, too. Didn’t matter. She had her pick. She picked Roy Heath to be my dad (well, her husband first) because she says she knew he would be a “good provider.” He has been. By the way, Mom quit being a heartbreaker when she got married. Men still like her, though. Go figure.

  My dad, Roy Heath, is a pharmacist. He owns Heath Pharmacy and Assorteds. He added the “Assorteds” because he knew what all the big chains were doing. They were taking over everything, becoming the “Pharmacy as General Store,” he said. “Trying to push all the little guys out of business.” So Dad started selling bread, eggs, milk, and motor oil, to keep the “big boys” from stealing his business and his store. So we stayed open. And the “big boys” never really got a foothold in our little town. And we still do just fine, thanks to Roy.

  I said this was a story about my Aunt Iris. It kind of is. And it kind of isn’t. Let me just say this: without Aunt Iris, I wouldn’t be telling you this. So I have to set up the comparison/contrast between her and the rest of the family. You see, she is completely different from the rest of us.

  As I was saying, my dad, Roy Heath, is a visionary. He does a lot of reading, and then he thinks about it. We take about ten different newspapers. That is, we did, until all the newspapers started going out of business. Then Dad took to reading stuff on the Internet. Now he’s thinking about the sorry state of the world, with all the global warming, terrorism, our sicko economy, and things. You know how everything big in the world always filters down to all of us in middle America. So Roy thinks about all of this and makes plans for the future. I don’t know what he’ll come up with, but I bet it will be something good that will make money. That’s just the way he rolls.

  I am fifteen. Oh, my name is Miranda. Can you believe it? Dad liked it. Mom said it sounded way too sophisticated, so they call me Mandy. What do I look like? Ordinary: Brown hair. Brown/black eyes. Three freckles on my nose.

  Anyway, I’m in junior high school (this town is so backward they don’t even call it middle school), and I hate every minute of it. I think it is because I live a lot inside my head. I have read all the books in our livi
ng room bookcase and a shit ton from the library, and I think I would prefer life in another era. This one is way too complicated. Mom says that I’m an “old soul.” I think she’s saying I’m immature, but in a nice way. I don’t think old souls can be immature. We just choose to float around somewhere in between Jane Austen and Harry Potter, instead of some dystopian place where you have to cook up some meth in order to afford medical treatment. I also hate zombies. Oh, yeah. I am extremely smart for my age. Even so, I would classify myself as a throwback. Ok. So I am a late blooming, smart, old soul. Anyway, this year coming up, I’m going to be a sophomore. This is classified at Framington High as officially “high school.”

  Ugh. As soon as I graduate, I am going to leave this forlorn cement-block town forever and move to New York or Toronto and have a career. I like business. I’m pretty good at math. My English teacher, Mrs. Hardin, says I am excellent at writing. Writing is fun, this is truth.

  I am not into sex. Not that I don’t have hormones. It’s just that I have all kinds of aspirations. So I have no time for all that porno texting, sending nude selfies, and throwing myself at what Mom calls “intercourse.” I have to focus on what’s going on in my brain. Boys don’t seem to like me much anyway, even though I am not chubby like my mom. I just don’t have “the gift.” That’s what Mom calls her talent with men. She says you’re born with it, chubby or no.

  It doesn’t really bother me about the boys, at least not right now. To me, living in a big city and working in a glass skyscraper with your own office sounds fantastic. I know I have to get a skill. Don’t get me wrong, I know you don’t just get an office because you want one. So I will go to college. I am sure that when I get there, I will pick a major that will result in my having an office with windows on two sides. I might not want an office, actually. I may end up being a writer. Writers get to stay home at their laptops and wear sweats all day. Maybe I will consider that. But really, I am not kidding myself here. Yes, I have aspirations. Yes, I want to get out of this town. And yes, I am a throwback who is mainly scared shitless of sex. There you have it.

  Okay. Now for my brother—I know, we Heaths all sound like candy bars, to start with. But Adam Heath? Believe me, he is the furthest thing from sweet. Adam Heath swears like Satan, uses dip behind my parents’ backs, and he has body odor that he tries to hide with the clinical strength deodorant that he gets for free at the store. What does he look like? He has eyes the color of the water in swimming pools, you know? That is a plus. A minus? He has hair the color of copper. It is curly, on top of that. Typical ginger kid: sullen or angry—take your pick. However, he’s about six feet tall, and even though I feel kind of incestuous saying this, he has that triangle body shape from his shoulders to that narrow waist that girls find sexy. Adam rarely speaks in actual words—preferring grunts and “Yes” or “No” answers—but when he uses it, his voice sounds like black velvet. And he has hooded eyes. But good Lord—I have told him that if he ever hopes to get married, he has to start washing. He insists that he washes, and that “you just have a sensitive nose, you asshole.” I told you, he sucks.

  My brother just graduated from Framington High. Next year he is going to the community college, whether he likes it or not. He has made it clear to Dad that he does not want to be a pharmacist. He thinks he wants to learn about taxidermy. Either that or forest management. He’s kind of outdoorsy. This is good, keeping in mind how he smells. But realistic? Of course not. Who stuffs animals anymore? He is bullshitting Mom and Dad. Plus, I think the forests are almost all gone, due to all the idiots in the world cutting them down and not replanting them. Global warming! And nobody supports hunting and killing just to stuff heads and hang them up over the fireplace these days. Well, most people with good taste and sensibility don’t go big game hunting any more. Anyway, I don’t think he has any future at all. Mom says that this is nonsense and that he will take a little time finding himself. Truth is, he finds himself just fine at night when he surfs the Internet for porn, but she doesn’t know that. Or she is choosing to ignore it. Adam is an asshole. Just the other night, he blew snot in my direction when I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast. I was infuriated and called him a cocksucker. Of course, I know that Adam is hetero and isn’t interested in sucking his or anybody else’s cock. So of course Adam felt free to inform me that I am an idiot. So I called him a prick. As far as I am concerned, any and all genital terminology applies to Adam.

  But there’s a real problem with the whole college thing. See, Roy Heath has his heart set on Adam joining the family business. And like I said, Adam has made it clear that he has no intention of being a pharmacist. Dad/Roy doesn’t even consider me. In his mind, I am way too much of a “scatterbrain” (Dad’s word) to want to go to pharmacy school. He thinks I will get married to some man who will sweep me off to some exotic place like Indianapolis, where the commute to the pharmacy won’t work at all. So Dad has given Adam an ultimatum: either go to college, get a pharmacy degree (which, by the way, is almost like being a doctor), or Dad won’t pay for any education at all.

  Mom/Winnie, who is more practical, sees this as a major problem. Adam says that he can get a scholarship to go to taxidermy school or something. Again with the taxidermy. I think he says that just to infuriate Winnie and Roy. As if anybody is actually buying the taxidermy thing. Come on. Or, Adam says, he’ll work his way through forestry school. Or he’ll go to work full time at the pharmacy in the fall. Hah. Winnie knows Adam the way I do. She doesn’t have a pharmaceutical fantasy like Roy does. She knows that Adam will never count a pill in a lab coat, no chance. So she’s been squirreling away money like mad, hoping that she can at least fund part of Adam’s college experience. Even if it’s stuffing dead things with sphagnum moss, or whatever they use when they mount those disgusting moose heads. Oh, God. Squirreling. Unintended pun.

  You see, our family is just the typical American situation-comedy variety. Nothing interesting. Nothing outrageous. Not even a gay couple anywhere.

  Aunt Iris is my mom’s older sister. Aunt Iris is my mom’s complete opposite. Remember, Mom is short and stubby? Well, Iris is statuesque. Tall, willowy, and graceful. Iris has long, taffy-colored hair that falls around her in waves. She always looks as if she just stepped out of a poem. Her skin is like fine china. Okay, I got that from a book. But really, she’s never had a pimple in her whole life, I bet. Her eyes are blue, but not like my mom’s. Iris’s eyes are a kind of light and watery blue. Sort of like the water in aquariums, you know? And her voice is her best asset, in my opinion. When Iris talks, it’s a combination of talking and purring. I swear. Aunt Iris is absolutely deadly over the phone. She sounds like one of those old-fashioned movie queens, only with a slight cold. Iris has long, elegant fingers and arms. She wears three gold rings on each hand. One of them is her wedding ring.

  I think Aunt Iris is pretty. But most people say she is bland. Isn’t that wild? Her sister is short and fat but beautiful, and even though Iris has it all over my mother with her wonderful figure and graceful ways, she is sort of boring. Iris puts her caramelly hair up in a French twist sometimes, but usually she wears it loose, with a headband holding it back from her high forehead. Her eyebrows frame her pale blue eyes with high arches that make her look just a little surprised all the time. Iris has a Grecian nose. And she has lips that nearly pout as much as Angelina Jolie’s. Behind those eyes, I have to admit, it’s a little vacant in there. Like Iris has left the building. I know, I’m tearing her down, but I am devoted to her, actually. But I’m compelled to be truthful.

  Winnie crackles. She has enough energy bursting out of her pores to light up a small city. Winnie is totally competent. She could probably change a tire while texting. Sometimes she moves so fast it seems like she can be in two places at once. So if you were to compare Iris to Winnie, it would be like comparing an Afghan hound wearing a silk scarf as a collar to a little pug running down the street with a stolen hot dog in her mouth. />
  Here is what I know about Aunt Iris:

  Iris was born two years before my mother. When she was born, it was kind of hard on Grandma, who swore she didn’t want any more pregnancies, on account of the pain. They say that the pain you have in childbirth is easily forgotten, or else there wouldn’t be the population explosion we have now. And that’s exactly what happened, because two years later, out popped Winifred. Iris always loved her sister. They didn’t fight or anything. Apparently, my mother claimed that the dollhouse Grandpa made for Iris on her seventh birthday was “for both of us!” and Iris didn’t even argue. You see what I’m saying: Iris doesn’t have much of a back bone. In her defense, though, living with Winnie would push anybody onto the path of least resistance.

  Iris plays the piano. She went to some kind of music college—maybe it was Ohio State or something. When she was there, she met Frank Fletcher. Frank Fletcher. It sounds to me like something you get after you eat a lot of fiber: “Oh, boy. I’m going to pay for that with a Frank Fletcher . . .” Anyway, this Frank played the saxophone. Yeah. He was some kind of lounge musician: a jazz man. Now what Frank saw in Iris is beyond me. Actually, I am telling this story about Frank secondhand; it comes from my mom, who actually met the guy. She says that Frank Fletcher was scary handsome, with romantic auburn hair (I picture some aging Rolling Stone type), muscular arms, and piercing blue-green eyes. He wore black clothes. I guess that was the height back then. Apparently he was pretty sexy. I hate to think of women my mom’s age getting all hot and bothered back then. Gross. But I guess Frank Fletcher was suave and charismatic, but with a cockiness that drew women like a magnet.