Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Turning away, she let herself silently out the door.

  Nearly an hour passed before Naomi Tanaka left and Holly Grace went into Dallie's bedroom. There had been some confusion over Naomi's rental car, which seemed to have disappeared while Naomi was inside the house, and Miss Sybil had ended up driving her to Wynette's only hotel. Naomi had promised to give Holly Grace until the next day to look over the contract and consult her lawyer. Not that there was any doubt in Holly Grace's mind about signing. The amount of money they were offering her was staggering—a hundred thousand dollars for doing nothing more than wiggling around in front of a camera and shaking hands at department-store perfume counters. She remembered her days in Bryan, Texas, living with Dallie in student housing and trying to scratch together enough money to pay for groceries.

  Still dressed in Dallie's blue shirt and holding a coffee mug in each hand, she closed the door to his bedroom with her hip. The bed looked like a war zone, with all the covers pulled out from the bottom and tangled around his hips. Even asleep, Dallie couldn't seem to find any peace. She set his coffee mug down on the nightstand and then took a sip from her own.

  The Sassy Girl. It sounded just right to her. Even the timing was right. She was tired of battling the good ol' boys at SEI, tired of having to work twice as hard as everyone else to go the same distance. She was ready for a fresh start in her life, a chance to make big money. Long ago she had decided that when opportunity knocked on her door, she would be standing right there to answer it.

  Taking her coffee over to the old armchair, she sat down and crossed her foot over her bare knee. Her thin gold ankle bracelet caught the sunlight, sending an ambulating serpentine reflection onto the ceiling above her head. Glittering images flashed in her mind—designer clothes, fur coats, famous New York restaurants. After all her work, all these years of butting her head against stone walls, the chance of a lifetime had finally dropped right in her lap.

  Cuddling the warm mug in her hand, she looked over at Dallie. People who knew about their separate lives and separate home addresses always asked why they hadn't gotten divorced. They couldn't understand that Holly Grace and Dallie still liked being married to each other. They were family.

  Her gaze traveled down along the hard curve of his calf, the sight of which had once produced so many stirrings of lust inside her. When had they last made love? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that the minute she and Dallie climbed into bed together, all their old troubles came back to haunt them. Holly Grace was once again a helpless young girl in need of protection, and Dallie was a teenage husband trying desperately to support a family while failure hung over him like a dark cloud. Now that they'd begun to make it a practice to stay out of each other's beds, they'd discovered the relief of letting go of those old parts of themselves. Lovers were a dime a dozen, they had finally decided, but best friends were hard to find.

  Dallie moaned and turned over onto his stomach. She left him alone for a few more minutes while he pushed his face into the pillows and stretched out his legs. Finally, she got up and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. Putting down her own mug, she picked up his. “I brought you some coffee. Drink this down and I guarantee you'll feel almost like a human being by the time next week rolls around.”

  He eased himself into the pillows wedged up against the headboard and, with his eyes still half closed, held out his hand. She gave him the mug and then pushed back a rumpled thatch of blond hair that had fallen over his forehead. Even with messy hair and stubble on his chin, he managed to look gorgeous. His morning appearance used to aggravate her when they first got married. She would wake up looking like the wrath of God, and he would look like a movie star. He always told her she looked her prettiest in the morning, but she never believed him. Dallie wasn't objective where she was concerned. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter how bad she looked.

  “Have you seen Francie this morning?” he muttered.

  “I saw her for about three seconds in the living room a little bit ago, and then she ran away. Dallie, I don't mean to criticize your taste in women, but she seems flighty to me.” Holly Grace leaned back into the pillows and pulled up her knees, chuckling at the memory of the scene in the Roustabout parking lot. “She really did go after you last night, didn't she? I've got to give her credit for that. The only other woman I know who could go one on one with you like that is me.”

  He turned his head and glared at her. “Yeah? Well, that's not all the two of you have in common. You both talk too damn much in the morning.”

  Holly Grace ignored his bad temper. Dallie was always grouchy when he woke up, but she liked to talk in the morning. Sometimes she could pry interesting tidbits out of him if she kept at him before he was fully conscious. “I have to tell you that I think she's the most interesting stray you've picked up in a long time—almost better than that midget clown who used to travel with the rodeo. Skeet told me how she trashed your motel room in New Orleans. I sure wish I'd seen that.” She propped her elbow up on the pillow next to his head and tucked her foot up beneath her hip. “Just out of curiosity, why didn't you tell her about me?”

  He stared at her for a moment over the top of his mug and then pulled it away from his mouth without sipping. “Don't be ridiculous. She knew about you. I talked about you in front of her all the time.”

  “Thai's what Skeet said, but I'm wondering whether in any of those conversations you happened to use the exact word ‘wife’?”

  “Of course I did. Or Skeet did.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “I don't know... somebody did. Maybe Miss Sybil.”

  “Sorry, baby, but it looked to me like she was hearing the bad news for the very first time.”

  He impatiently set his mug down. “Hell, what's the difference? Francie's too much in love with herself to care about anybody else. She's past history as far as I'm concerned.”

  Holly Grace wasn't surprised. The fight in the parking lot the night before had looked just about as final as a parting could be... unless the two fighters loved each other to the point of desperation, the way she and Dallie used to.

  He abruptly shoved back the covers and got out of bed wearing nothing more than his white cotton briefs. She let herself enjoy the sight of those tight muscles rippling across his shoulders and the strength in the backs of his thighs. She wondered what man had first come up with the notion that women didn't enjoy looking at men's bodies. Probably some egghead Ph.D. with four chins and a potbelly.

  Dallie turned and caught her studying him. He scowled, even though she knew he probably enjoyed it. “I've got to locate Skeet and make sure he gave her money for a plane ticket home. If she roams around by herself for too long, she's bound to get into more trouble than she can handle.”

  Holly Grace looked at him more closely, and an unaccustomed pang of jealousy hit her. It had been a long time since she'd minded Dallie having other women, especially since she collected more than her fair share of good-looking men. But she didn't like the idea of having him care too much about any woman who didn't meet with her approval, which showed exactly what kind of narrow-minded Christian she was. “You really liked her, didn't you?”

  “She was all right,” he replied noncommittally.

  Holly Grace wanted to know more, like how good Miss Fancy Pants could really be in bed after Dallie had already had the best. But she knew that he would call her a hypocrite, so she set aside her curiosity for the moment. Besides, now that he was finally awake, she could tell him her really important news. Moving to a cross-legged position in the middle of the bed, she filled him in on her morning.

  He reacted just about the way she had expected he would.

  She told him he could go straight to hell.

  He said he was glad about the job, but her attitude bothered him.

  “My attitude is my own damn business,” she retorted.

  “One of these days you're going to learn that happiness isn't wrapped up in a dollar bill,
Holly Grace. There's more involved than that.”

  “Since when did you get to be such an expert on happiness? It should be pretty much apparent to anyone who isn't half brain-dead that rich is better than poor and that just because you intend to be a failure all your life doesn't mean I'm going to be one, too.”

  They kept on hurting each other like that for a while, then they spent a few minutes stomping around the bedroom without talking. Dallie made a phone call to Skeet; Holly Grace went into the bathroom and got dressed. In the old days they would have broken their stony silence with angry lovemaking, trying unsuccessfully to use their bodies to solve all the problems that their minds couldn't handle. But now they didn't touch each other, and gradually their anger ran out of steam. Finally, they went downstairs together and shared the rest of Miss Sybil's coffee.

  The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac frightened Francesca, although he was handsome in a scary sort of way. He had curly black hair, a compact body, and dark, angry eyes, which kept darting nervously toward the rearview mirror. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she'd seen that face someplace before, but she couldn't remember where. Why hadn't she stopped to think more clearly when he'd offered her a ride instead of just jumping into the Cadillac? Like a fool, she had barely looked at him; she'd just climbed in. When she had asked him what he'd been doing in front of Dallie's house, he had said he was a chauffeur and that his passenger didn't need him any longer.

  She tried to shift her feet out from under the cat, but he planted his weight more firmly across them and she gave up. The man looked over at her through a cloud of cigarette smoke and then glanced again into the rearview mirror. His nervousness bothered her. He was. acting like some sort of fugitive. She shivered. Maybe he wasn't really a chauffeur. Maybe this was a stolen car. If only she'd let Skeet drive her to the airport in San Antonio this wouldn't have happened. Once again she'd made the wrong choice. Dallie had been right every one of the dozen times he'd told her she didn't have any common sense.

  Dallie... She bit her lip and pulled her cosmetic case closer to her hip. While she had sat numbly in the kitchen, Miss Sybil had gone upstairs and gotten her things together for her. Then Miss Sybil had handed her an envelope containing enough money to buy an airplane ticket to London, along with a little extra to tide her over. Francesca had stared down at the envelope, knowing that she couldn't take it, not now that she had begun to think about things like pride and self-respect. If she took the envelope she would be nothing more than a whore being paid off for services rendered. If she didn't take it...

  She had taken the envelope and felt as if something bright and innocent had died forever inside her. She couldn't meet Miss Sybil's eyes as she slipped the money inside her case. The lock clicked and her stomach rebelled. Dear God, what if she really was pregnant? Only by swallowing hard could she prevent herself from losing the slice of toast Miss Sybil had forced her to eat. The elderly woman's voice had been kinder than usual as she said that Skeet would drive her to the airport.

  Francesca had shaken her head and announced in her haughtiest voice that she had already made plans. Then, before she could further humiliate herself by clinging to Miss Sybil's thin chest and begging her to tell her what to do, she had grabbed her case and run out the door.

  The Cadillac hit a rut, jolting her to one side, and she realized that they had left the highway. She stared out at the rutted, unpaved road that lay like a dusty ribbon across the flat, bleak landscape. They had left the hill country behind some time before. Shouldn't they be close to San Antonio by now? The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. The Cadillac bounced again, and the cat shifted its weight on her feet and looked up at her with a baleful glare, as if she were personally responsible for the bumpy ride. After several more miles had slipped by, she said, “Are you certain this is right? This road doesn't look very well traveled.”

  The man lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of his old one, then snatched up the map that lay on the seat between them.

  Francesca was wiser now than she had been a month before, and she studied the shadows thrown by a few scraggly mesquite. “West!” she exclaimed after a few moments. “We're going west. This isn't the way to San Antonio.”

  “It's a shortcut,” he said, tossing down the map.

  She felt as if her throat were closing up. Rape... murder... an escaped convict and a mutilated female body left at the side of the road. She couldn't take any more. She was heartsick and exhausted, and she had no resources left to deal with another catastrophe. She fruitlessly searched the flat horizon for the sight of another car. All she could see was the tiny skeletal finger of a radio antenna standing miles in the distance. “I want you to let me out,” she said, trying to keep her tone normal, as if being murdered on a deserted road by a crazed fugitive were the furthest thing from her mind.

  “I can't do that,” he said. And then he looked over at her, his eyes hard black marbles. “Just stay with me till we get closer to the Mexican border, and then I'll let you go.”

  Dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.

  He took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Look, I'm not going to hurt you, so you don't have to get nervous. I'm a completely nonviolent person. I just need to get to the border, and I want two people in the car instead of one. There was a woman with me earlier, but while I was waiting for her, this cop car turned onto the street. And then I saw you walking down the sidewalk with that suitcase in your hand....”

  If he had meant to reassure her with his explanation, it didn't work. She realized that he truly was a fugitive, just as she'd feared. She tried to suppress the hysteria creeping through her, but she couldn't control it. As he slowed the car for another rut, she grabbed for the door handle.

  “Hey!” He hit the brake and caught her by the arm. The car skidded to a full stop. “Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you.”

  She tried to twist away from him, but his fingers bit into her arm. She screamed. The cat jumped up from the floor, landing with its rump on her leg and its front paws on the seat. “Let me out!” she screeched.

  He held her fast, talking with the cigarette clamped in his mouth. “Hey, it's okay. I just need to get nearer the border before—”

  To her, his eyes looked dark and menacing. “No!” she shrieked. “I want out!” Her fingers had turned clumsy with fear, and the door handle refused to give. She pushed harder, trying to throw the force of her body against it. The cat, disturbed by all the activity, arched his back and spat, then sank his front claws into the man's thigh.

  The man gave a yelp of pain and pushed at the animal. The cat yeowed and sank his claws deeper.

  “Leave him alone,” Francesca shouted, turning her attention from the door to the assault on her cat. She slapped at the man's arm while the cat maintained its bloody grip on his leg, hissing and spitting all the time.

  “Get him off me!” the man yelled. He threw up his elbow to defend himself and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of his mouth. Before he could catch it, the cigarette wedged itself inside the open collar of his shirt. He swatted at it with his hand, yelling again as the burning tip began to sear his skin.

  His elbow hit the horn.

  Francesca pounded on his chest.

  The cat began to climb his arm.

  “Get out of here!” he screamed.

  She grabbed for the door handle. This time it gave, and as it swung open, she vaulted out, the cat springing after her.

  “You're crazy, you know that, lady!” the man screamed, yanking the cigarette from his shirt with one hand and rubbing at his leg with the other.

  She spotted her case, abandoned on the seat, and raced forward with her arm extended to claim it. He saw what she was doing and immediately slid across the seat to pull the door shut before she could reach it.

  “Give me my case,” she yelled.

  “Get it yourself!” He flipped her his middle finger, threw the car into gear, and hit the accelerator. The tires spun, spitting
out a great cloud of dust that immediately engulfed her.

  “My case!” she yelled as he peeled away. “I need my case!” She began running after the Cadillac, choking in the dust and calling out. She ran until the car had faded to a small dot on the horizon. Then she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the road.

  Her heart was pumping like a piston in her chest. She caught her breath and laughed, a wild, broken sound that was barely human. Now she'd done it. Now she'd really done it. And this time there was no good-looking blond savior to come to her rescue. A deep-throated rasp sounded next to her. She was alone except for a walleyed cat.

  She started to shake and crossed her arms over her chest as if she could hold herself together. The cat wandered off to the side of the road and began picking its way delicately through the brush. A jackrabbit darted out from a clump of dried grass. She felt as if chunks of her body were flying away into the hot, cloudless sky—pieces of her arms and legs, her hair, her face.... Since she had come to this country, she had lost everything. Everything she owned. Everything she was. She had lost it all, and now she had lost herself....

  Twisted verses from the Bible invaded her brain, verses half learned from long-forgotten nannies, something about Saul on the road to Damascus, struck down into the dirt, blinded and then reborn. At that moment Francesca wanted to be reborn. She felt the dirt beneath her hands and wanted a miracle that would make her new again, a miracle of biblical proportions... a divine voice calling down to her with a message. She waited, and she, who never thought to pray, began to pray. “Please, God... make a miracle for me. Please, God... send me a voice. Send me a messenger....”