by Laura Briggs
"I'll bet you'd be surprised to know that this little girl is my daughter," said Arlene. J.P.'s smile broadened slightly.
"No, ma'am," he answered. "I didn't think you were old enough to have a daughter."
"Well, it's been a long time," said Arlene. "We've got a lot of catching up to do." Her voice softened with these words as she looked at Drew. In her glance, Drew detected something beneath the cheerful countenance, something she couldn't identify.
J.P. nodded. "Dessert's on the house, by the way." With a final glance in Drew's direction, he withdrew from the table and moved towards the coat and hat rack by the door. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as he pulled a cowboy hat and jacket from the hooks and then pulled open the front door.
A moment after he was gone, she turned back towards Arlene. Who had wadded her napkin up on the plate, the rest of the brownie forgotten suddenly.
"Were you happy?" Arlene's question came after a pause, her fingernail scraping aside the onion on the edge of her plate. Her eyes did not meet Drew's with these words.
"Yes," said Drew. "I was happy. More than happy. This isn't about that."
Arlene didn't ask anything else; she glanced up at Drew momentarily, as if to confirm it was true.
"No regrets," said Drew. It was both a phrase and a question, although she met Arlene's eyes for this one. It was painful to do so, but she searched their depths as if reading what she needed to know.
Arlene glanced away, her cheeks puffing out with a sigh. "I suppose ... I suppose we all have some. Now and then." Her dessert was melting in its bowl, the brownie submerged beneath the cream like a sinking ship. Drew's was untouched before her.
The older woman coughed slightly. "I don't want you thinking I didn't care," she said, her tones sinking to the huskiness evident beneath her accent's twang. "It's just ... I couldn't be what you needed. Couldn't do the right things at the right time. I understood that then, even though I wasn't all that smart in a lot of other respects." She laughed, although it rang half-heartedly compared to her previous tones.
"I see." Drew could only manage these two words, her throat tightening in response.
"Maybe so," Arlene answered. "If you stick around, maybe it'll be plain enough in time. You are sticking around a little while?"
Drew's head both confirmed and denied this with its motion, a debate turning within her. She could easily make her escape now. There was nothing else to ask, she supposed; and nothing else to say, now that she had met her birth mother face to face. The highway to her future was waiting for her, with nothing in this Texas community except the painful realities of a past she would never remember. The birth certificate from Wyoming, the national adoption agency's certificate — this was all she had to connect her to the woman seated across from her.
As Arlene withdrew her wallet from her purse, Drew caught a glimpse of a photo inserted in the vinyl slipcover, the surface yellowed with age. She recognized the pink sequined sweater from her second-grade photo, her shaggy strawberry locks pulled back by a plastic headband.
The sight took her by surprise, the exclamation catching in her throat. Glancing up into Arlene's face, she saw something familiar in those features for the first time. The curve of her mouth, the short eyelashes, the soft cheeks: all part of Drew's reflection whenever she looked in a mirror.
"I'll stay," she said. "For a little while, anyway." In her mind, she pictured the last of the holiday season, then beyond. For it wasn't as if she had definite plans for the future.
The lateness of this reply took Arlene by surprise as she looked up from the act of laying a few bills on the table, her look of confusion dwindling a split-second later.
"Good," she said. "Then we'll get to know each other a little. Lunch is on me." She laid an extra ten dollars on the table, then offered a wave in the direction of Tonni, who was watching them from the cash register with a curious expression. Drew had a feeling that her relationship to Arlene was spreading through the restaurant like a blast of warm air. By dinnertime, it would probably be common knowledge to the whole town.
On the drive back to the trailer, she kept glancing at Arlene, as if to confirm that those similarities were really there. For by now, Arlene had rolled down the window of the car and was letting a cigarette trail its ash in the breeze despite the dust billows from the road.
"I never thought I'd think of this place as home," said Arlene.
"What?" Drew replied. She coughed slightly in the dust, her thoughts momentarily disconnected by Arlene's remark.
"This place," said Arlene. "The town. Never thought I'd end up settling in a place like this. Thought of Cheyenne, Denver, even Dallas once. When I parked here, I never thought I'd still be here come sunset, as they say."
"Really," said Drew. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as the cigarette entered the window again via Arlene's fingers, a stream of smoke sucked from its depths by her lips.
"Where you from? Your folks, they were moving off somewhere in New England, the agency said. You have a Yankee accent, so I suppose it's true."
"Boston," said Drew. "They lived in Boston." She waved her hand to fan away the cloud of smoke issuing from Arlene's mouth. "But I guess 'home' is a relative term, isn't it? I mean, it's where we feel most comfortable. This town probably feels that way for you after twelve years." Right now, she was painfully aware that for her it was not this town.
"True enough," said Arlene. "I never do think of it, though. Not until I come back from one of my haunts. See the silhouette of that little red trailer up on its blocks and realize, 'This is where I belong.' But I never think that in any other moment." She tossed the cigarette's stub out the window and rolled it up.
As the car turned up Arlene's drive, the trailer's shape became visible as if summoned by her words. The red convertible parked in front in all its weathered glory, the metal awnings sagging over the windows.
It struck Drew momentarily as sad; then, as something almost noble, as if it possessed a strange pride in its shabby circumstances, merely parked here in this dry landscape by chance. Perhaps it was the ghost of Arlene's past, the aura of merely killing time in this spot until a new possibility rolled around the corner.
Chapter Nine
Even with her head buried beneath two pillows and a worn wool blanket, Drew was aware of the music drifting from the kitchen space a few feet away. The sound of classic rock wavering across the bandwidth, punctuated by a crackling noise — not through the speakers, but from the stove. A moment later, the smoke alarm sprang to life again from its hidden perch atop the fridge.
She threw back the blanket in time to hear Arlene's voice commanding the device to shut up. It blipped one last time before receding into silence as its reset button was pushed.
Sunlight streamed through the trailer's window, bathing Drew in a haze of gold as she squinted at the clock beside the sofa. Nine-thirty. Clearly, she had overslept, unaware that Arlene was an early riser.
Stumbling up from the sofa, she gathered the blanket around her tank top and flannel shorts and staggered in the direction of the noise. A cloud of blue was vanishing through the open kitchen window with the aid of a fan — not only from the burned contents of a skillet on the stove, but from a cigarette wedged between two of Arlene's fingers. She was seated at the kitchen table, removing plastic curlers from her hair.
"Are you cooking?" Drew glanced askew at the charred remains in the skillet, the pile of eggshells on the counter behind the mini sink.
"Tried to," Arlene answered, her mouth filled with bobby pins. "Not much of a cook, but I forgot the cereal was out." Two cigarettes were stubbed out in a pink ashtray at her elbow. A yellow curler bounced across the table and joined others in a pile near the center.
Drew reached over and flipped the knob for the burner to "off", coughing as the oscillating fan pushed the cloud of smoke in her direction. "I didn't realize you were a morning person," she choked aloud.
"I'm not." Arlene's mouth was fre
e of pins now, her fingers shaking out a mass of red curls. "But I'm getting an early start this morning. Got to see something besides these four walls before the new year comes, else I'll go stir-crazy thinking I'm stuck here to the last."
"But you just came back." The words escaped Drew's mouth before she had a chance to stop them. "You're leaving again? But why? Where?"
Her voice had assumed a babbling quality, embarrassing her as she stood in the doorway and surveyed Arlene's casual preparations.
"Wherever the wind takes me," Arlene said. "But what — you think I'm running off to get away from you, don't you?" She looked at Drew, a mixture of dismay and sympathy on her face. Then, smacking the table with her hand, she laughed loudly.
"Why, you don't know me at all, so I suppose it seems so," she said, grinning at Drew. "I get used to doing things my own way and other folks are used to it. Not many strangers turn up these days so I need to explain myself."
"Then you would let me come along?" asked Drew, with a shrug of her shoulders. This wasn't what she had in mind, of course; she had anticipated a day of sorting through her mother's past, of photograph albums and scrapbooks.
Then again, maybe Arlene was uncomfortable with anything other than a public encounter. The shock of seeing her long-lost child was too much to bear with the two of them reunited in this cramped space and close proximity.
Arlene had not answered her question, apparently pondering it. "You sure could," she said, after a moment's silence. "I think you should. No sense in you waiting around here any longer when we could get acquainted out on the road." She rose from her seat and pinched Drew's tank top sleeve in passing.
"We'll have to do something about the way you dress, though," she called. Drew's mouth dropped open, but nothing emerged except a slight murmur like an animal's cry.
"Wha—what do you mean 'the way I dress?'" she demanded, turning to follow Arlene. "What kind of place are you planning to visit in which blazers and slacks are unacceptable?"
Arlene had pulled open the squeaky folding door to the closet, staring at the narrow space inside. "Course, you're too small for most my things," she said. "But there's a little somethin' to liven you up here. And we'll do your hair. That'll fix things a bit." She pulled a bright red scarf wide enough to be a shawl from one of its hangers and tossed it to Drew.
"I think my hair is fine the way it is," Drew interjected. "And you still haven't said what kind of destination you have in mind."
"Fun, honey," Arlene answered. "I have fun in mind. That could take us a lot of places." With a critical eye, she turned Drew's face to the side and studied her skin.
"Little red and some rouge," she muttered, digging in a makeup case and producing a stick of lipstick brighter than Drew had worn at her most daring. A handful of rouge and foundation containers in varying shades of pink and tan, with neon tones and glitter highlights that made Drew raise her eyebrow with horror.
"Come on, now," Arlene patted the bed. "Sit down so I can do somethin' with this mess before we head out." Drew's limbs moved woodenly to obey as she sank down on the rumpled comforter. A moment later, she felt Arlene's hairbrush tugging her snarl of curls back with considerable force.
It seemed nightmarish, being dressed and dictated by Arlene's overblown style. As if she was twelve years old again, and instead of contending with Priscilla's sensible suggestions on shoes, she was being steered towards the skimpiest blouse and shortest skirt in her wardrobe. A low-cut tank top, a flounce skirt — these failed to satisfy Arlene's tastes. At the sight of Drew's cowboy boots, she released a snort of laughter.
"Well, ain't those pretty," she said. "Honey, they're not supposed to look polished in these parts, 'less you're running for office. Don't you have some high heels?"
"This, believe me, is the most daring footwear I have," Drew retorted, the slandered boots in hand. "I didn't think to bring my stilettos to the middle of nowhere."
"There's still men in the middle of nowhere, you know," Arlene answered. She was busy rummaging through the contents of Drew's luggage, not noticing her daughter's slight jaw drop, nor the scarlet flush on her face.
She would have argued that remark, if not for the existence of J.P. Marsh, who came to mind with such startling clarity that it left her uncomfortable.
"Well, put on those boots, honey, and we'll make the best of it. Don't get scuffed on their own, although I suspect the joint that sold you those was one step away from puttin' glitter and sequins on 'em by way of disguising that cheap leather." Arlene's own boots were surprisingly battered in comparison to her generally-sequined-and-spangled wardrobe, Drew had noticed. The second pair which lay on the closet floor was a turquoise-dyed leather duo deemed too big for Drew's feet.
"Shouldn't you wear that pair out a little?" Drew asked sarcastically. Arlene yanked her arm, forcing her to sit down again on the edge of the bed.
"Them? That's my dancing pair. They're in a whole different league from my good pair here." She indicated the battered ones on the floor; Arlene's feet were currently arrayed in a pair of red high heels teetering high above a pair of red-feathered toes. Almost like house shoes from a Hollywood glamour film of the past, Drew thought.
Arlene applied lipstick in a thick layer which felt like paste to Drew's skin. Red circles on Drew's cheeks were blended with the foundation to create an overly-pink blush; a curtain of eyeliner in blue covered her eyelids, lashes coaxed out beneath a generous skim of mascara.
Drew fidgeted, wishing she could see the actual progress in a mirror, nervously imagining her face painted into a Halloween mask. Arlene's fingers dropped the blue eyeliner into the bag and fished around for something new.
"Are those my grandparents?" asked Drew. She pointed towards a photo she had been studying on the dresser, a silver-framed image of an older couple taken sometime in the '50s.
"Sure is," answered Arlene. "They got it taken at a studio when they were first engaged."
"What were they like?" Drew asked. "You said your father was killed when you were young —" she choked slightly, before continuing with "—and your mom remarried, right?"
Arlene paused in the act of swiping a makeup pad through a layer of lip gloss. "That's right," she answered. "He was a train engineer. Studied it, that is. But spent most of his life working at a station, where he checked all the cars and emptied bums out of 'em when necessary."
"Had you run away when his accident happened? Or was that afterwards?"
Arlene laughed faintly. "No," she said. "I'd run off a few times before. Not far — but enough to make him crazy. Said he'd tar my hide if I kept it up. Of course, I thought he'd get used to it, the two of us was always fightin' so. Then after he was gone, it didn't matter much to anyone else."
Drew's hands were cupped on her lap, a catch-all for the makeup jars she held for Arlene. "When I was twelve, my father — my adoptive father — died," she said. It was a strange moment to say this, but this piece of her life seemed to fit with Arlene's. Maybe there was a thread of connection at this point, something which could make them more than strangers.
"Well," said Arlene, softly, "I guess you know a bit about it, don't you?" When she drew back from her work, Drew detected moisture beneath the makeup-rimmed eyes. "I'm real sorry about that."
Drew shrugged. "Like you say, you go on. In my case, my mom didn't remarry. Just her and me."
Her and Priscilla leading quiet lives side by side. No running off to unknown places, no phone calls from late at night from payphone booths or postcards mailed without an address.
Maybe this wasn't the thread of connection after all.
"Do you have a photo of my father?" she asked. Arlene shook her head.
"Didn't keep any," she answered. "Didn't really have any. Just one we took at a little booth near El Paso. He kept it, far as I know. I only saw it once." She dropped a makeup brush into the kit again. "We were only an item for a real short time." With a flat smile, she zipped the bag closed.
“You know,
those boots just won’t do for today,” she said. “Those strappy old sandals of mine — I think they could be cinched down to fit you all right.” Rising from her knees, she fished around under the chest of drawers until she produced a pair of dusty black open-toed shoes, a sprinkle of glitter across the straps.
“Just have these on,” she said. Dubiously, Drew slipped on one and tightened the straps to the last hole; the shoe was loose and clumsy for her foot, but it was wearable. She considered issuing an objection to the idea, however, when she stood up on both of them and stepped forward, feeling the shoes wobble beneath her like bricks. Dead weights hauling her gait and progress to gravity’s oppression.
"All righty, then," said Arlene, her face brightening at the sight of Drew teetering upright in high heels. "I believe we're ready to hit the road."
*****
Wind whipped over the open top of the convertible, a force pressing against Drew like a billowing sail as she held tight to the arm rest. The rip in the passenger seat's upholstery rubbed against her skin, her eyes obscured by the strands of hair blowing in her face.
Beside her, Arlene watched the road with a genuine interest, fingers tapping to the rhythm of "Hillbilly Rock" on the radio. A green gauzy scarf wound around her head, sunglasses perched high on her nose.
"I love the highway through here," Arlene shouted above the noise. "All these curves. Makes you hug tight to the sides to keep a little speed." Evidence of this was present in Drew's whitening knuckles.
"It's nice." Her reply lacked conviction; although, when the road evened into a straight stretch again, Drew felt the faint tingle of exhilaration over the car's speed, the smooth track beneath them. Brushing the hair out of her eyes, she tried to admire the passing scenery. Faded signs that made her think of Burma Shave's legacy, buildings straggling close to the roadside like ranches dropped from above. All whizzing by at a rate which made it impossible to see.