Looked frantically for beauty products.
Nothing!
Lord help me! I needed inspiration, QUICK!
I quickly scooped up some Crisco and used it as hair product, then dusted on some flour to powder my face. A little nutmeg as blush, some olive oil as lip gloss, and finally, I spritzed myself with lemon fresh Pledge.
Flossie watched, slack-jawed. “Oh, yeah, that’s MUCH better,” she said when I was done.
We both laughed.
NO TIME, NO TIME!
I ran and opened the door, and there he was! My old friend! My old hero! And just the sight these sore eyes wanted to see!
He, too, was battered and bruised, bless him, and was leaning on a crutch for support. But his eyes were clear and bright, and he was smiling, smiling at me, and the attention was overwhelming.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said to him, and he said to me, at exactly the same time.
“No, you need to go to the hospital,” we both said.
And “I heard what happened” and “I saw what happened” and “I’m so sorry” and “I can’t believe it,” at pretty much the same time, but pretty soon we were both laughing at our seriously traumatic, life-changing nights, and I was helping him up the stairs, practically carrying him.
“You poor thing,” I said, and fluttered around him, making a big, embarrassing fuss over him. Should that foot be elevated? Did he need some water? Aspirin? And where was that footstool?
“Billy! Billy! Stop!”
He made me sit and tell him what happened in the swamp last night.
So I told him about Bernie, and not the sanitized version, either. I spared nothing. Not one detail. And Flip got so mad and so upset and punched the air and wiped away tears and swore a blue streak and promised me a hundred times that Bernie would pay for this, by God, and how much he wished he had been there to stop him and help me. And you should have seen how proud he was of me for fighting back, yes, and even more so for kicking his goddamn ass.
Then, finally, when we had finished with all that . . .
He looked tenderly into my eyes and told me he had another reason for coming here, today.
“I had to see you. . . . I need to tell you . . .
He grabbed my hand and held it tight.
I held my breath and tried not to fly up to heaven, or burst into flames, or dissolve into a puddle of goo.
No, now was not the time to have an aneurysm or spontaneously combust.
He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he HAD thrown the game, just as I suspected. He said that he lost the ball on purpose, and it was the best thing he’d ever done.
“I did it for you,” he said, and my head began to swim.
The air began to sparkle.
What? Why?
I couldn’t . . .
quite . . .
breathe. . . .
He couldn’t stop thinking about what I said the other day, about someday finding someone important enough to give it all up for. . . .
“You were right,” he said. “And I did it for you, Billy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s you. It’s you. You’re the one.”
And he pulled me into a kiss.
Happy, happy, finally happy.
And there were fireworks and rainbows and a hail of “hip, hip, hooray’s” as church bells rang and the whole world cheered and danced in the streets. Yes, there was peace on earth when love saved the day and Flip and I lived FABULOUSLY ever after.
Well, of course!
Freak Show Page 25