by Diann Hunt
Grunt two . . . death by chocolate.
Amazingly, the horn’s blare dies down to a whine and fizzles out.
Grunt three, the malted milk ball pops out of my throat, bounces off the window, and rolls to the floor. I gulp in three huge helpings of air through what I am sure are cracked ribs and vow right then and there never to mess with Millie’s sock drawer again.
I fall onto the sofa in a heap. Lydia’s limp form lies across the horn like a rag doll, and Millie wipes the sweat from her brow, looking as though she hasn’t had this much excitement in years.
From the window I can see and hear an angry man shouting obscenities, but the man I thought I recognized has disappeared into the crowd. No man is worth all this.
Especially Rob.
8
Call it an educated guess, but I’m thinking my hair could turn gray before the day’s over.
“Are you all right, DeDe?” Lydia asks once she’s picked herself off the horn.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve told you more than once that chocolate would be the death of you, and you came mighty close,” Millie says.
Swallowing my sarcasm, I say, “Thank you for your help, Millie. You saved my life.”
She stretches two inches beyond her natural height.
“But don’t go getting any ideas. I’m not going to walk around and serve you for the rest of my days,” I say.
Lydia giggles.
Millie looks disappointed and heads to the fridge, where she pulls out her whipped cream.
I walk over to her, wait for her to swallow the whipped cream, then put my arm around her. “I’m sorry, Millie. That really upset you.”
“Well, of course it did.” She turns watery eyes my way. “I don’t want to lose you, DeDe.” Then she quickly adds, “Even if you do mess up my sock drawer.”
At this my eyes water, and we hug each other. Lydia walks over and joins us, and in that hug we release a multitude of tension between us.
“Well, all’s well that ends well,” Millie says, clearly uncomfortable with all the sentimentality. Pulling apart, we dry our eyes and settle into our seats once again.
Lydia drives away from the people and farther into the parking lot.
I rush to the back of the motor home to peek out the window. The angry man is walking away, but the man who looked like Rob is nowhere in sight. Was it him?
Turning, I take two steps toward the front and stop when I see that Cobbler’s cage has lifted off its hook in the wall bracket and is now resting on the bed. Birdseed is scattered all over my quilt, thank you very much, and Cobbler is hanging on to her perch for all she’s worth. As in death grip. As in I couldn’t pry her loose if I tried. The poor thing. Another triple sneeze and I’m good. She lost a few more feathers in the whole ordeal, and despite the fact that she’s overdue for her Barney fix, she doesn’t make a single peep.
Lifting the cage carefully, I hook it back into place, then return to the front. “I’ve got to clean the mess on my bed,” I say, looking for the dustpan and swish broom under the cabinet.
“What’s the matter? Did you have an, um, accident?” Millie laughs at her clever self.
“Uh, no. Cobbler did.”
“Oh dear, is Cobbler okay?” The frown between Lydia’s eyes resembles an exclamation point without the period.
“She’s fine. Just a little rattled is all. Her cage landed on my bed in the commotion.”
“Poor thing.” Lydia could cry here. She’s pretty sensitive when it comes to her animals, flowers, whatever. Come to think of it, Lydia can be sensitive over ants. She has a hissy fit if you step on one. Never mind that you can’t see it. If she sees it, that’s all that matters. Excuse me? But I’m over forty. I’m lucky to see the sidewalk. That little thought rocks my world for a minute, but I remember that I still haven’t had hot flashes, so I’m good.
Checking on Cobbler once more, I notice that her food bowl is empty. That’s because most of it spilled on my bed. Now, feeding Cobbler is Lydia’s job, but she’s busy driving at the moment. Since I’m not driving much—okay, try not driving at all because of my lack of directional ability—it seems I ought to do something to help out. Cobbler has perched on my hand before when she was out of her cage. How hard can it be to fill her food bowl?
Walking over to the nightstand in the room, I reach into the bottom drawer where Lydia keeps Cobbler’s food, pull out the box, and place it on top of the stand. Then I walk back to Cobbler’s cage.
The door of her cage lifts up easily enough.
“Poor Cobbler had a rough time, didn’t ya?” I say with a sort of sickening coo in my voice. Holding the door open with my left hand, I reach into the cage with my other one and Cobbler hops onto the back of my hand, causing a little tug in my heart. How cute is that?
Cobbler stays on my hand while I lift the food cup from the cage. The RV isn’t exactly helping matters, jostling us around as it hits bumps in the road.
Pulling the cup toward me, I try to tug the bowl out, but Cobbler won’t jump off my hand. Twisting my wrist this way and that, I try to drop her off, but she keeps her feet—or whatever those things are called on a bird—fixed on my hand. I’m beginning to feel like a statue.
When I try to wrangle free, Cobbler pokes her head out of the door and squeezes through the opening. Before I can blink, she goes fluttering around me through the bedroom door opening and heads straight toward Lydia. Fortunately, she’s had her wings clipped—Cobbler, not Lydia— and doesn’t get very far. She flutters to the floor and starts hopping forward.
“You get back here right now, Cobbler.”
“What’s going on?” Millie turns around, none too happy about being distracted from her book. Her eyes grow wide. “You’d better get her before she causes a wreck, DeDe,” Millie says as though I’m sitting down filing my nails.
“Oh no, Cobbler is loose?” Lydia asks.
“It’s all right. I’ve got everything under control,” I say as the RV hits a pothole. The refrigerator door swings open—Millie probably forgot to lock it after her whipped cream binge—knocking me into the bathroom before I can regain my balance. Pulling myself together, I step back into the kitchen. Cobbler has flopped down to the first step off the kitchen floor.
Lydia sees Cobbler out of her peripheral vision and screams. “Oh no, get my baby, Dee!”
“I’m not exactly having a pedicure here, Lydia.” My voice wobbles with the RV wheels.
Another pothole almost sends Cobbler to her eternal reward as I fall within an inch of her scrawny body. Her round, beady eyes look up at me. Just before she scrambles to get away, I reach over and lightly scoop her into my hand.
Mistake.
Cobbler bores her crusty little beak into my hand as though it’s a cuttlebone. She doesn’t have to ask me twice. She’s set free.
“Haven’t you gotten her yet?” Millie asks.
By now I’m sweating, my hand resembles Swiss cheese, and I’m seriously reconsidering my friendship with these two.
Lydia takes the next exit and pulls into a business parking lot. She crawls back to Cobbler and talks sweetly. The parakeet immediately jumps into Lydia’s hand and cuddles up to her. Traitor.How about I just pluck out your little feathers one by one?
“Poor baby, did you get hurt? I’m so sorry, Cobbler. Mommy’s here,” Lydia coos.
It’s enough to make me puke.
“I’m sorry, Lydia, I was trying to help by putting food in her cage.” The warm soap and water in the bathroom make my injured hand burn. If I could just get that hand around that bird’s scrawny little neck . . .
“Don’t worry about it. But in the future, you’d better let me take care of that. Thanks for trying, though.” She places Cobbler back in her cage, plops in the Andy Griffith video, then walks back up to the front.
My gaze collides with Cobbler. I throw her an evil glare. If she bites me again, I’ll bite her back.
Lydia climbs back into her seat. “You
girls watch for a store. We’ll stop there first, and then we’ll go out to eat.”
“Oh good. I want to develop some more film,” Millie says.
“Oh my goodness, look at that!” Lydia says, pointing to a green, life-size model of a Tyrannosaurus rex standing just at the edge of the road. Lydia slows the RV so we can get a good look.
“Oh my, that’s a little scary,” Millie says, grabbing her camera and snapping away. “Wouldn’t want to stumble upon him while walking through the woods. Look at all those teeth.”
“Yeah, can you imagine fitting dentures for a mouth like that?” Awe and wonder fill Lydia’s voice.
“I read in one of our brochures that there’s a ‘Prehistoric Forest’ in Ohio somewhere. They have a walking tour with dinosaurs scattered throughout the forest,” Miss Librarian informs us.
“Boy, I must be out of the loop. I thought dinosaurs were extinct,” I say.
Millie rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Well, if we can have Elvis sightings, there’s no reason we shouldn’t see dinosaurs,” she says in a sudden burst of humor.
“Do you want to stop and check it out?” Lydia asks.
“I’ll do whatever you two want,” Millie says. “Though I’m not a huge dinosaur fan.”
Pulling my hands to my chest, I say with a heavy dose of drama, “Let the heavens rejoice! Millie is passing up an educational opportunity.”
Lydia giggles. Millie shrugs.
“How about you, DeDe—do you want to stop?” Lydia presses.
“You’re kidding, right? Somehow Dee doesn’t strike me as the prehistoric monster type,” Millie says.
“Well, unless they’re edible and covered in chocolate,” I add.
We laugh and continue on our journey for some time until we come upon another Wal-Mart.
Lydia parks the RV and we get out. The warm air hits my face so fast, I’m wondering if that’s how a hot flash feels. ’Course, I’m basing that on what Lydia and Millie have told me. I want to cup my hands together, circle them in front of me in a semidance, and say, “Oh yeah, I’m still in my prime. Oh yeah.”
What does it mean to be in my prime anyway? As in still able to have children? Those days are over for me. It’s not as if I have time for kids anyway. I’m too busy with my business to be a good mom—or so I tell myself.
“Boy, it’s hot out here,” Millie grumbles. She lifts her hair and waves her hand under it. I’ve never understood why people do that. I mean, let’s be honest here—does our hand really generate enough air to cool us off ?
The asphalt is so hot that the tiny heels on my sandals leave imprints behind. We can’t get into the store too soon.
Once we’re inside, we shop around for a little while. The stupid cart I picked has a wobbly wheel, dipping and squeaking with every rotation, but I try to look cool as I push it along. Aside from the rickety cart thing, I’m wondering if it’s even possible to look cool when you’re forty-nine. Judging by the stares we’re getting now, I’m thinking no.
I place a few cosmetics, some lotion, and a bottle of nail polish in the cart. Millie gets her film developed and picks up another suspense novel and an extra set of glasses. Lydia buys dish soap, flour, sugar, blueberries, bananas, orange juice, some baking chocolate, and a cooking magazine.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about coloring my gray hair,” Lydia says thoughtfully as we walk down the hair color aisle.
“And why not?” I say.
“This is the time of life where we should be having fun,” Millie says as if she’s all over that. Yeah, right.
“I agree, Lydia. This could be fun.”
Now, I could be wrong, but I don’t remember learning all these colors in grade school. Yet I have to admit they sure sound pretty. We finally decide upon Saharan Rose strawberry blonde as the color for Lydia. It takes all three of us to pick it out, by the way.
After paying for our purchases, we climb back into the motor home and head to the nearest fast-food restaurant for a quick burger. Following that, we continue down the road in complete silence, but for the sputtering and occasional cough the RV spits out. Wobbly cart, ailing RV. Does everything around me have to be old and falling apart? As if on cue, Lydia turns up the air. Another hot flash.
“Whew, it’s hot in here,” she says with the vent tilted up toward her face, blowing her hair back as though she’s caught in a windstorm.
“You two ever think about upping your hormone meds?”
“I would if I took any,” Millie says.
“You’re not taking anything? That suffering in silence thing is way overrated, Millie.”
“I just don’t like to take medicine. I’ve read a lot on the subject, and I take a few supplements, drink lots of water, exercise, eat right.” Millie shrugs.
“Well, something’s not doing it for you,” I say. “What do you do, Lydia?”
“I’m on bioidentical hormone cream. Just started, so it probably hasn’t had enough time to work. If it doesn’t get better, I’ll either up the medication or try something else. It’s hard to know what’s safe these days.”
“Glad I don’t have to think about it yet.” I stretch out my legs and lean back on the sofa, thinking life is good.
“Yeah, you’re just a spring chicken for a few more days,” Millie says with a grunt and a smirk.
“I don’t mean to brag, but I still grow hair on top of my head and not beneath my chin.” Okay, that was harsh.
Millie glares at me. Really glares. As if she could swallow me whole. Then she bends over for something on the floor.
“Boy, I’ve been slipping,” Millie says, flipping through her book on Rocky Mountain National Park.
A groan rises in my throat, but I swallow it. Trivia Millie is totally in her element. She’s teaching us, and there’s not a thing we can do about it. I mean, where we gonna go? Besides, if I complain, she might break out the trumpet.
I’m envisioning Millie as a military weapon. Picture a weary prisoner dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, white rag stuffed in his mouth, hands and feet bound with a rough rope to a wooden chair in the middle of a deserted warehouse. Dressed in a white uniform, plastic gloves, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, Millie would make her entrance. In thick-soled shoes, she would pad up to a chair and sit down in front of him, her back ramrod straight. She’d snap the rolled edges of her plastic gloves into place, causing the prisoner to jump. Sliding on a pair of glasses, she would proceed in her monotone to drone on and on with first one fact and then another, until the poor man broke into a cold sweat and finally cracked. By the time she finished with him, he would tell her everything he knew and, in exchange for his freedom, offer her his golf clubs and season tickets to the NBA.
I know this is true, because when she’s on a trivia roll, I’m ready to give her my complete chocolate inventory.
Millie perches the new glasses at the tip of her nose. Thumbing through the pages of the book, she finally stops. “Here we go.” She peers at me over the rims of her glasses. “This is easy. Even you might get this one, DeDe.”
“Excuse me? Do I have the word stupid on my forehead?”
“What are you complaining about? You still grow hair on top of your head,” Millie quips. Okay, she’s gonna hang on to that comment like a librarian clutching a best seller at a book sale. She gets all situated in her seat and smiles as big as you please. “Name the highest continuous paved road in the United States.”
Jeopardy music again. I’m hoping Lydia jumps in here, because I have no idea what the name of the road is that leads up the mountain, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not all that interested. Sad but true. Millie’s gaze lands on me, and she gives me one of those teacher looks. You know the one. It says, “You know this. Now cough it up.”
“Lydia, feel free to jump in here anytime. I don’t know what it is,” I say dryly, obviously disappointing Millie, who clucks her tongue and turns to Lydia.
“It has the word ridge in it, I think,” Lyd
ia says, her brows pulled together in concentration.
I just refuse to strain my brain that much. Life’s too short.
Hope springs to Millie’s face. “That’s right, it does. One more word now.” She’s practically sitting on the edge of her seat.
For this she’s excited? Give me chocolate, give me diamonds, give me amore. But “continuous paved road”? No.
Lydia thinks some more. Unwrapping a truffle from my bag, I sink deep into the sofa cushion and kick my feet up. Might as well join in. “Come on, Lydia, you can get it,” I say like a cheerleader on the sidelines. Well, minus the flexibility and wad of gum.
Millie’s fighting the urge to keep from saying the name, I can tell. Her lips tense up to form a word, then pull tightly together, resembling a kid refusing a forkful of spinach. Eyebrows lifted, Millie waits with bated breath.
Watching this scene is terribly amusing, but I hold my giggle to a mere muffle. Millie has far too much emotion riding on this one. One hot flash from her, and this RV could become a rolling ball of fire.
“I’ve got it!” Lydia says with a snap of her fingers. “Trail Ridge Road!”
“That’s it!” Millie flops back against her chair in a heap. She closes the book with a thump. “That’s enough for today,” she says, quite out of breath.
Okay, the fact that they’re getting this excited over that whole question/answer thing? It just ain’t right.
“Hey, did you know that refining the chocolate crumb mixture from the cocoa beans is a risky business?” Why should Millie be the only one to spout off her knowledge? She gives me a look that says she doesn’t care, which, of course, fuels my need to tell her more. I sit up straighter and display my half-eaten truffle. “Oh my, yes. If the manufacturers don’t crush the mixture enough, the chocolate will be coarse and grainy. But if they blend it too much, the chocolate will be pasty and gummy.”
Millie looks surprised.
“My goodness, I take so much for granted,” Lydia says as though we’re talking about a mission trip to a remote country.
“Well, I have to agree with Lydia on this. DeDe, I had no idea there was so much to learn about chocolate,” Millie says.