Wool Over Your Eyes

by Violet Patton

  If I told Philly about my experience in the shop, he’d laugh until he busted something or until I busted him. He dropped me at the carport and mumbled about getting fresh ice before he took Wayne’s trunk back. What he really meant was he would go off to pout more, and I didn’t need to ask questions.

  Relieved he was out of sight but hardly out of mind, I hid the box containing the orb under the bed, pushing it as far as I could reach. Underneath the bed was equal to the space under the kitchen sink, he’d never get down on his hands and knees to peer into its dark recess. For all his bravado, he’s scared witless of spiders and doesn’t want to know he’s sleeping over them.

  Poochy laid belly up at my feet wanting to be scratched while I made supper.

  Here in the Oasis, Canadians call supper dinner, but I refused to let my supper turn into dinner. We’re not formal. Dinner required hoity-toity starched napkins and place settings.

  Philly stomped inside, grumbling and sat in the recliner, restlessly flipping the television channels. Half-heartedly and without civil conversation, we watched Jeopardy and ate off paper plates on TV trays.

  After supper, Philly splashed on aftershave without shaving. He grumbled as he stalked off to play dominos. Neither of us mentioned the car dealership fiasco, but I won. I always win major decisions except for one enormous doozy, moving to the Desert Oasis. I was dead set against the move, and Philly’s too proud to admit we—he made a mistake.

  “Ordered puppy chow and flea meds. Be here tomorrow.”

  “What about a bed, crate and poop bags? Poochy needs a harness and leash.” My hands were sudsy from washing dishes and I placed them on my hips wet. Grumpy Grandpa was out the door, in the golf cart, whirring away with the pedal to the battery-powered metal before I voiced my next complaint.

  He’d be back late, and I would not miss his pouty face. At this point, I was grateful Wanda hooked him up with a seat at the domino table, kept him out of my hair. In this cramped tin can we’re living in, I don’t get a shred of girl-time to repair my nails or stitch together my hurt feelings. A girl’s gotta have a place to have a good crying jag, if need be.

  I changed into my nightie just in time to see Poochy piddle were the kitchen rug should’ve been. Again, on my knees, I wiped Poochy pee from the linoleum.

  Poochy bit at the wet paper towel playing. “Bad dog.”

  "Arf!” She wiggled her rear end, slapping my leg with her pointy tail.

  I leaned over and she licked my whiskery chin with her little baby dog tongue. “You’re not bad. Silly maybe. We’ll get you trained.”

  I sat leaning my back onto the cabinet, she climbed into my lap licking my wet hands. “Dadgum it, little lady, we found each other. Let’s teach you where to piddle.”

  Dressed in my nightie, I took her out and stayed hidden in the carport’s shadows so I wouldn’t get caught indecently exposed. Poochy sniffed, pretending to enjoy potty training. It was after suppertime in the Oasis and a quiet had fallen across the asphalt streets. Inside all the identical park models, old folks bumped into each other in their small spaces. Lonely old women knitted potholders or whatnots. Old farts fell asleep, drooling in front of televisions.

  Out of nervous habit, I pretended to light a cigarette and sucked in two big gulps of fetid desert air, held it and blew invisible smoke rings. If the Others saw me pretend to smoke nothing they’d think me a special nut job—if they don’t already.

  The quiet gave me too much time to think. I replayed Huey’s teary expression as he handed over his heirloom to a stranger. He’s probably got storage building filled with crystal balls he got from a wrecked eighteen-wheeler which he passes out like candy to unsuspecting dunces like me.

  “Poochy!” I snapped my fingers, and she wiggled out from under the oleanders. “Come, climb the stairs. We gotta go inside.”

  Until then, we had been carrying the pup everywhere, and it was time she learned to walk up onto the veranda. I patted the step. “C’mon.”

  She put one paw on the first step and looked up. “You can do it.”

  She wiggled her butt, winding up to hop onto the stairs. “That’s my Poochy. You’re the smartest puppy in the Oasis.”

  Inside, Poochy settled onto Madonna’s towel sighing, five seconds later she was asleep. It’s hard work getting used to luxury like she’s living in, compared to drinking air conditioner condensation drip.

  Alone time was mine at last. Since we’d moved here, we were always together, except when Philly was playing dominos or pickleball or fiddle farting with Wayne.

  I talked to Poochy telling her I wasn’t going to waste my precious alone time working a crossword puzzle. I had important things to do, and I fetched the glittery bag out from underneath the sink.

  Was I stepping off into uncharted territory? Yes, but you love adventure. Don’t be afraid.

  I turned into the bedroom, sprinkling another trail of glitter and sat the bag on the bedspread.

  From underneath the bed, Grandma Johnson’s crystal ball called, and I listened to its siren’s song.

  It plucked at my good senses, numbing me with a sweet croon, urging me to rescue it from its spidery hiding place. Beside the bed, on my aching knees, I searched blindly feeling for the bag. When my finger brushed it, a tingle spread up my hands like a short-circuited toaster had shocked me. The tingle made my hand jerk, but it didn’t stop my mission.

  Girlfriend! You’re acting crazy. Stop it.

  I chucked the dusty box onto the bedspread and climbed onto the bed. Poochy walked sleepily beside the bed and without thinking twice, I picked her up to share the moment knowing my secrets were safe with her.

  “Bogus, ain’t it?” I slipped the dusty box from the used bag Huey had put it in. Neither were sparkly nor attractive which was a good thing. When I toss this thing into the Oasis dumpster, the dumpster divers—there must be a few divers in this cockeyed community—won’t think it’s anything worth diving for. Huey had wasted his special gift, I’m a dud fortune teller.

  “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

  Poochy opened one puppy eye, she wasn’t interested in hiking anywhere else today.

  Five seconds later—the one perk of living in this park model—everything is handy, there’s no walking back and forth a dozen times searching for what you forgot, I was back with the glittery bag.

  “Eenie meanie, minnie mo.” I pointed back and forth between the glittery bag and the dusty box.

  Which one did I need to open first? The glittery bag won. Even setting still on the bedspread, glitter fell like snow off the paper. I did not sit beside it because I’d get glitter on my nightie, but carefully wiggled my fingers into its tissue paper feeling for whatever sat on the bottom of the bag.

  “What the?” I pulled out a bedraggled box with chewed corners. “A puppy chewed it.”

  Poochy blinked when I spoke but she didn’t move.

  Crackled gold foil covered the box and on one side, a blue, green and red Celtic cross was printed on its cover. One end had a pull tab, and I pulled out the inside box. A deck of cards scattered onto the bedspread, glitter bounced flying in all directions. Some cards landed face down with the same blue, green and red pattern printed on the box was on the cards, others landed face up.

  “Oh, hell no!” How I wish it was a box full of dog poop! “Tarot freakin’ cards. Who the? Why?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. If Philly had creeped in and caught me acting like a fool over these silly cards, I don’t know what he’d do. He’d laugh until I poked him in the ribs—the one place he’s ticklish.

  The set of cards were used and antique, maybe ancient. A shiver climbed my spine, goosebumps prickled as I read the lettering on the box. “‘Thoth Oracle Cards. The future is in your hands.’ Mama save me.”

  If Mama were here, she’d lite a bonfire lickety-split to burn the stack of cards and have me shipped off to a convent to repent. “Who did this? I’ll get even.”

  Being the dunce I
am curiosity replaced my willie, and I thumbed through the cards. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of what any of the symbols meant until I came upon a card named The Fool. An idyllic vagabond fellow hopped around on a mountain top. A yellow sun beamed rays upon him and at his feet sat an overjoyed puppy. Only thing, the idiot walked toward the edge of the cliff, of which I couldn’t see what was waiting for him below, but I’m betting its goatsuckers.

  “Okay. Paybacks are hell.” I stacked the tarot cards, shuffling them into neatness and put them in their box, stashing the box in the Trader Joe’s bag, cramming it far underneath the bed.

  My second choice sat on the bed begging me to open the old box. Inside the browned tissue paper was fragile, unwrapping it the tissue crackled, and I laid it gently on the bedspread. Its plain metal base was corroded and tarnished. Pretty disappointing. No light shot from the ball. No wispy wailing image beckoned me. Look closer my dear! A bauble for your eye.

  “This is nothing but a five and dime trinket.” I was right about the wrecked eighteen-wheeler on the side of the road. A true junk collector can’t resist useless bric-à-brac they can’t give away.

  Dear old Huey had hoodwinked another hapless sucker. I dusted the crystal ball with the tail of my nightgown and turned it over. There wasn’t a slot for batteries or an electrical cord.

  It’s worthless. I can’t even use it as a nightlight.

  Poochy sighed because I was making too much noise.

  I had put little if anything on the bedroom shelves, mostly because I hadn’t unpacked. With all the hammering and banging, I didn’t see the point in setting do-dads on the shelves only to dust them later. I set the old trinket on the shelf eye level and stepped back admiring it. “Looks cute.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Puppy Mill

  Philly was conspicuously missing and playing hooky with Poochy.

  First thing, before pickleball, he took Poochy officially registering her as our pet unofficially taking himself off Amelia’s pet roster.

  It was almost lunchtime. He should arrive to feed soon. With too much free time and scrambled brains for smarts, I felt itchy and needed something productive to occupy my gray matter. The dirty breakfast dishes sat in the sink, and I puttered, but my heart wasn’t into dealing with dirty dishes or our unpacked crates.

  The dingy bag of alpaca wool caught my eye. Maybe I should take it over to the knitting room and get someone to help me with it.

  My itch got itchier. I filled my new glass sun tea jug with cold water, four extra-large family-size tea bags with the strings looped over the edge and two cups of white sugar. I sloshed it around a few times and screwed on the top. Clutching the heavy jug to my bosom, I carried it to the veranda and found Philly parking the golf cart.

  His sourpuss expression told me everything and nothing, but he wasn’t right. Hold on just a gall-darned second! He was empty-handed.

  “Sweetie Bastard.” I smiled sweetly, piercing his heart with an you’re an idiot following up with another I’m gonna kill you look. “Where is Poochy?”

  Terrible thoughts struck my gray matter. Poochy limped along the shoulder of a deserted backroad with her ears dragging in the rocks. Another image flashed replacing Poochy as I planned my soon-to-be dearly departed husband’s demise for getting rid of my first dog.

  Backing up, he leaned toward the golf cart, plotting an escape route. My knees wobbled as I sat the heavy jug beside my foot which was better than dropping it. Sugar covered shattered glass would damage my beautiful skin, but maybe a sharp shard of glass would puncture Philly’s ankle artery and he’d bleed out.

  Dang it! I’d have sugary blood to hose off the carport.

  Which meant precious water would flow along the furrow. Some nosy busybody might notice the blood and iced tea soup and report me to Security Chief. I did not want him snooping around while I chipped Philly’s body into manageable pieces to grind in the garbage disposal.

  “Did you get rid of my dog?” I couldn’t keep the warble out of my voice.

  His shoulders shook as he laughed soundlessly and plucked his beer cooler from the golf cart carryall.

  “Beer’s hot. She’s at the vet.”

  “Oh?” If he hurt my dog—he wouldn’t, would he?

  He sloshed the icy water in the cooler. “Amelia forced me into taking her to the vet.”

  My turkey neck waggled. “Forced?” Unbelievable! Amelia had accomplished an unaccomplishable feat. She forced Philly into doing something? Poor dear, he was slipping. First, he misses Wanda, the biggest set of titties west of Odessa, then he bends to Amelia’s will. What am I going to do with Sweetie Bastard?

  “She wanted to know everything about Poochy. Height. Weight. Age. Stuff like that. Found her model online, decided she was a blue dapple merle dachshund.”

  “Model?” Philly has new car fever. “Oh, really?”

  Amelia Googled my dog. She did have mottled bluish spots with a brown belly and big cute feet. “She’s really a wiener dog?” I knew it, I didn’t need the internet.

  “Yep. Bad news, though. The vet says she’s from a puppy mill.”

  My hand gripped my throat, and I tsked. “No! Not a puppy mill.” Puppy mills are despicable and criminal.

  He poured out melted ice from around his beer and added new ice from a bag I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Vet said she’s defective. They couldn’t sell her because of her faults. Dumped her in town.”

  “Defective?” Other than a little dirt, she was perfect. “Dumped? Goodness gracious.” I knew she wasn’t a stray, she was too young and pretty to be a street dog.

  “That was their intention. Good thing, they didn’t drown her and put her in the dumpster.”

  “Don’t speak such vile things into my tender ears.” I wobbled up the veranda and flopped into my throne.

  “She’s spending the night. Vet’s gonna run thorough tests. Even DNA.”

  Philly pulled a beer bottle from the ice chest, cracked open the twist top, climbed the veranda and sat beside me.

  “DNA? Extreme for a foundling.”

  “The vet is a young kid, wants to find the puppy mill and put an end to it. I thought it was a great idea. He can trace Poochy’s DNA to other dachshunds to find out where they came from.”

  “No kidding.” My frazzled nerves calmed somewhat. “How will we get her back in the morning?”

  He sucked on his brew. “Wayne.”

  I nodded glad Wayne was a tolerable fellow. We’re a needy pair. Do this. Drive me here and there. Build an Arizona room.

  “What have you been doing?” He rubbed my forearm, crinkling my parchment skin. His foul mood over the car buying fiasco had evaporated, and he sounded friendly as he spoke of my new baby… our new baby.

  “Nothing. Wondering when you’d be home.” That wasn’t true, but not a lie.

  “I miss Poochy.” I can’t lie. In such a short time, I had already become overly attached to the little piddler.

  “You won’t miss the mange,” Philly said. “Vet said it’s the catching kind.”

  “Catching kind?” Another itch happened on my thigh, not my itchy bored feeling, something akin to bugs crawling on my skin. I rubbed my thigh instead of full-throttle scratching.

  “Yes, the kind people can catch.”

  Mange! Oh my! I need to wash the sheets and everything else. “Guess I’ll load up the wash and go to the laundry.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Wanna help?” I knew the answer but asking didn’t hurt.

  “Of course not.”

  “Reminds me. We need to shop for the stack washer and dryer.”

  The Arizona room had taken shape. It was no longer rubble or sticks and stones. Two-by-fours were nailed in upright positions, but I didn’t dare question his completion timeframe.

  He thumbed his nose. “In due time… in due time. Plumbin’ll be finished this week.” He pointed with his middle finger—made me want to break it off at the joint—at the wall.

>   “Windows are arriving tomorrow. What’s for dinner?”

  “Dunno. I’ll stop by the store and pick up something easy to cook.”

  If I was doing laundry, I wasn’t cooking. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup had been our standby quickie meal, but these days Philly’s esophagus can’t tolerate tomato anything.

  I stood huffing, knowing the inevitable laundry duty was my problem.

  Might as well get it over with. Nobody’s gonna do it for you, darlin’.

  Wishing I had latex gloves, I stripped the bed and tied the sheets into a knot. Our other dirty laundry lay mixed into the piles of clean clothes. Mange might have contaminated the clothes I wore to Nogales. I grabbed my favorite threadbare nightie and tossed it into the pile.

  Before I finished I had three full garbage bags of wash. Too bad I don’t have an old wringer washer tucked away in the storage unit. I’d set it on the carport, hookup a garden hose, stretch a clothesline across the carport. Hanging our clean dirty laundry would set the Oasis on fire. Before I had my first pair of panties hanging on the line, Amelia would have me demoted and tossed into the Oasis dungeon.

  Breaking rules delights me to no end.

  “Come help me!” I hollered out the door, dragging the heavy bags out onto the veranda.

  I went back inside to get my bag, photo ID, my safari hat and a bottle of water.

  I’ve forgotten something.

  Scanning the living room, my gaze landed on the bag of stinky alpaca hair, I grabbed it and stomped out.

  Philly had hoisted the laundry bags into the cart, two in back and one in the passenger seat. Smugly, he leaned against the cart like he had won a gold Olympic medal for laundry lifting.

  I passed by without praising his athletic abilities, wondering how I’d unload those bags without him. I would not beg him for help—no way in H-E-double hockey sticks.

  I climbed behind the cart’s steering wheel, stashing the bag of wooly hair underneath my knees.

  “You got any quarters?” The more distracted I kept him the better off I’d be. I would be driving illegally.