By then, she was fifteen and wanted to forget about the attack. Baby Madeline had been given to Vivian’s Aunt Fay who lived in Texas. Vivian’s mother and Fay were sisters. Fay had a nice house and yard and drove new cars that never broke down. Fay lived far enough away that the little baby could have a fresh start and because Fay couldn’t have children of her own, she was happy for the gift of a baby, regardless of how she came into the world.
On occasional family get-togethers, Vivian kept her distance from the “younger cousin” who grew up to be a successful businesswoman. As Vivian aged, she tried not to dwell on the baby she’d given up. Madeline had a good life, that’s what mattered.
Then one day a few months ago, the family charade came crashing down. Vivian got a call from a distraught Madeline. Fay Tea, the lady Madeline had called “Mother” for sixty-three years, spilled the beans on her deathbed that Madeline was her niece, that “Cousin” Vivian who lived in Pardon, New Mexico, was Madeline’s birth mother. Can you believe this crap?
Fay Tea’s dying request was that Madeline forgive the family for lying, and to reach out to Vivian, her birth mother, and help her get settled into a nursing home in Pardon because she had no family left in the area and she was in bad shape.
Shortly after Madeline got Vivian moved in, Vivian confessed that Madeline was conceived during an act of rape, and the father of the rapist was no other than Manifred Hurn Senior, who happened to live two doors down from Vivian. When Madeline first approached the old man with the news, he accused her of fabricating the whole thing. Once her attorney presented the old man with enough evidence along with DNA testing, he changed his will.
For the record, Madeline never asked for a dime. She’s apparently wealthy in her own right. So her motive was never to go after his money, but in the end, I suppose that’s all he had left to give her.
Because the one thing he seemed incapable of giving was a verbal apology.
Aunt Star, if anyone has a reason to contest the will it’s you. But given the delicate circumstances the three of us found ourselves in years ago, I’d rather not tangle with Madeline’s lawyer. Not that she would care how her father died…but you never know…
For now, Madeline wants no contact with our family. She told the lawyer this has all been a shock to her system and she needs time to process. Can’t say as I blame her. It’s certainly been a shock to us. Apparently, the old man croaked shortly after she stopped by his room to deliver flowers. Nothing suspicious, he just checked out.
BTW, while Mom and I were serving cake, Vivian and her caregiver stopped by the dayroom. We didn’t speak to her, only to her caregiver. Looking back, it’s clear she didn’t want to make eye contact with us. Most likely she came to celebrate once she learned of the old man’s death. Vivian is probably a few years younger than Mom, but clearly the woman’s in bad health and it shows. As for Madeline, I looked up her profile online since I’ve only seen her from afar. She’s tall and slender, regal even. Her professional photo appears a bit dated, but she definitely has Uncle Manifred’s ready smile, rosy cheeks, and apparently his business savvy.
I’ll close for now and give you a chance to process. For obvious reasons, please don’t cc Mom on this thread.
When Mom gets up from her nap, we’ll load up and head to Clay’s for supper. Zia and Hercules get along great. She bosses that little dog around and he bosses right back. Mom and I are going to help Clay decorate his house for Christmas. It’ll keep her mind off things and give her something to do.
Trudy
Re: Meeting with the Lawyer
What a surprise! But then nothing much surprises me these days. How’s Sister? Keep an eye on her blood pressure. Jewel had a better relationship with him than I did. He did help her out after Shep got shot down. I wish I could say I’m sad, but mostly I’m relieved. Understandably, my relationship with him grew more complicated over time. He covered up for his son at the expense of others. I suspect he skedaddled out of there so he wouldn’t have to face the prospect of being publicly humiliated in case Vivian made a stink at his birthday party. As for Madeline, I hold no ill will toward her. Something tells me she’ll put that money to good use. My heart breaks for her mother, though. Vivian probably still has nightmares. We’ll talk soon. Thanks for being Sister’s secretary. And yes, best to keep some things private.
Still hanging my flag upside down,
Aunt Star
Re: Meeting with Lawyer
Please tell Mom I’m thinking of her. I know without Uncle Manifred’s financial help, Mom would’ve lost the house after Daddy’s plane went missing. Aunt Star, I’m sorry he didn’t leave you anything. If anyone was owed part of his estate, it’s you. I’m stopping by after work. Gil’s teaching an acting class tonight. I could sure use one of your hot toddies; my throat’s a bit sore from crying after reading about Madeline and Vivian. We’ll drink a toast to them and all the fearless women in our family. We’re all survivors in our own way.
I love you all,
Georgia
December 20, 2016
Group email from Lupi Belen
To: Trudy, Georgia, Jewel, Star Hurn
Hey Chicks,
Game on. Let’s make it official and launch the Women’s March on Pardon to be held Saturday, January 21, 2017 to coincide with the Women’s March on Washington, D.C. the day after the inauguration. Sister Marches are being planned across the nation and in several other countries. Let’s have our voices heard and advocate for women’s rights and human rights and honor those courageous sisters who marched and protested for all of us to have the right to vote.
Benny Trujillo says he’ll take care of the permit. This is still a conservative town, but being he’s a former mayor, he still has some pull. We’ll set up headquarters next door in the parking lot. That way I can keep it separate from the diner. ’Cuz not everyone who loves my food loves my politics. Hehe. Since it’s off-season, Mary Ortiz has offered to let us borrow her snow cone hut. Having a designated structure makes it real and serves as a place where we can distribute fliers and other items for the march. We can talk about hours of operation later. On the day of the march, we’ll gather on the courthouse lawn.
You chicks heard of the Pussyhat Project? It’s a social movement sweeping the country to bring awareness to women’s rights. It’s also a way to keep your head warm and flood this nation with the color pink on January 21, 2017 when people all over this country gather to protest the president-elect’s derogatory comments about grabbing women’s genitalia. Pink is feminine and empowering. Two young women in California came up with the idea.
Ms. Star, Trudy tells me you’re a knitter! We could use your help. I’m not a knitter, but my understanding is the basic pattern is a rectangle. When worn, each point forms kitty ears. Clever, huh! And for those who want to contribute but can’t physically march, knitting a hat for someone else is a great way to be involved and still participate.
There’s a simple pattern online. Google pussyhatproject.
Think of it as a grassroots effort, but with pink flooding the streets of our nation and world. Let’s show Señor Grab’em not to mess with us. To paraphrase Helen Reddy’s famous song about female empowerment: We Are Women, Hear Us Roar.
Who’s in?
Lupi
December 20, 2016
Group email from Star Hurn:
Count me in, Lupi! And please call me Aunt Star. I have fond memories of you and Georgia prancing all over the house. I’ve been knitting caps for years. I’ll do anything to help advance the rights of women and all those who feel they don’t have a voice. I may be too old to march with my feet, but my fingers and knitting needles can do their own marching as I work the yarn.
December 20, 2016
Group email from Lupi:
May Day, May Day! Mary Ortiz’s husband is afraid they’ll lose customers come spring. Whatever! We need to find an alternative structure to serve as headquarters. Anybody got any bright ideas?
&nb
sp; December 21, 2016
Group email from Trudy:
Lupi, we’ve got you covered. Remember the old travel trailer that sits out back of Mom’s place? Mom says it’s time to put it back in service! It needs new tires and the license plate and registration have expired, but I’ll take care of it. Clay’s got a trailer hitch on the back of his Tahoe. He can haul it into town for us.
Aunt Star, I ordered more pink yarn for you in various shades. Lupi says some women of color prefer darker tints, so let’s oblige. The package should arrive tomorrow.
December 22, 2016
Group email from Georgia:
Aunt Star, Gil says you can set up a knitting circle in the theater lobby! He’ll advertise on the marquee and issue a PSA for local knitters who want to participate in the Pussyhat Project. I’d knit but my talent is in my feet and not my fingers. Keep flying your flag upside down. Even some of my students have commented. Word is getting around here on campus.
Trudy and Mom, I’ll catch up with y’all later. Lupi, can’t wait to see you in January. We might have to break out some of our old dance squad routines for the march.
Group email from Lupi:
Thank you, Cutterbuck family and super knitter Aunt Star! Time to get to work. We have a march to plan. Nobody grabs our VJJs without our consent!
Feliz Navidad!
CHAPTER 28
Women’s March on Pardon
& Pussycat Hat Headquarters 2017
January, Friday the 13th
A SMALL crowd of protestors had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the travel trailer parked in the lot next to Lupi’s Diner. A large banner announcing the women’s march hung across the top of the camper. To the right of the camper door, Trudy had draped a POW-MIA flag that morning at her mother’s request.
“As a military family, we have to take any opportunity we can to remind people there are still service members missing in action,” Jewel had stated on their drive into town.
“Be prepared for some pushback,” Trudy told her gently. “That’s all I’m sayin’. It’s one thing when you fly your flag at home. It’s another when you hitch it to another wagon.”
“Bring it on. I’ve been waiting for forty-four years to raise a stink. People have so many misconceptions about the military and military families. They trot us out when it’s convenient for their parades and when they need to pat themselves on the back. That flag’s a stand-in for your daddy. Because I can tell you right now, if Shep were here, he’d be appalled by the fake patriotism and inappropriate comments coming out of that showboat’s mouth.”
After Trudy pulled on a pink kitty hat, she tacked the flag to the side of the trailer while Jewel unlocked the door and hauled out lawn chairs and set up camp for another day. With the inauguration one week away, interest in the women’s march had increased since they’d set up headquarters two weeks ago. Already, they’d passed out hundreds of fliers and distributed fifty knit caps Georgia had shipped from Aunt Star’s knitting circle based at Gil’s theater. Two more caps were sent priority to Seattle so Cinda and Roxy could have them in time before they flew to Washington, D.C. next week for the march on the nation’s capital.
By now, Trudy and Jewel were used to the occasional hoot, holler, or honk from some car passing by on Seven Mile Road, but today was the first time counter protestors had appeared holding picket signs. A patrol car cruised by and parked on the opposite side of the diner. The uniformed police officer stayed in his unit, but was obviously there to intervene if things got out of hand. Trudy wondered if Clay had sent the officer. Until today, she’d only seen a couple of patrol cars in the area. None of them had ever stopped and parked.
A woman with long frizzy hair and a hawkish face yelled from the sidewalk, “Shame on you for disgracing the POW-MIA flag.” She turned and said something to the others. Seconds later they began to chant, “Shame on you, shame on you, shame on you for disgracing that flag.”
Jewel sighed. “How can they stand there and say that? Or support the orange braggart who claims Senator John McCain isn’t a war hero because he got shot down and captured? Like that coward would know. He didn’t go to war. He hid. I can only imagine what he’d say about your daddy.”
By now, Trudy could feel her simmering rage began to boil. She didn’t know what Señor Grab’em would say, but she recalled what another gutless creep growled decades ago: Where’s your flyboy daddy? Got himself shot down. As the protestors chanted, Dub’s cruel remarks mocked her from the grave.
She had the urge to get up out of her chair and go scream in their faces to shut the hell up, but she stayed put, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled. “You hanging in, Momma?”
Jewel brushed at something on her slacks. “Been hanging in for forty-four years. Why stop now?”
“Looks like your flag has drawn some ire from a few citizens in town,” Mayor Trujillo chuckled as he walked up and dropped off a new stack of fliers. “Lupi sent me to check on you. You ladies need anything?”
“A different president-elect,” Jewel snorted as she stashed the fliers in the box next to her lawn chair. “One who doesn’t disrespect war heroes or brag about how hot his daughter is,” she added with disgust.
Trudy greeted the former mayor. “Thanks for making more fliers and posting them all over town. Looks like your press releases are working, too. We’ve heard from lots of people who said they heard about the march either on the radio or read about it in the Pardon Gazette.”
Benny Trujillo tipped his felt cowboy hat and glanced back at the protestors. “They have every right to protest. But remember, so do we. That’s the beauty of our constitution.” He walked off.
A chubby blonde bundled in a parka paced up and down the sidewalk, carrying a sign with a picture of a black cat and bold red letters that proclaimed, “He can grab my pussy any day.” She hollered at Benny, “Hey, you in the cowboy hat, go back to Mexico!”
Trudy stiffened at the woman’s crude, inflammatory remark. She waited for Benny to react.
The mayor, a retired accountant, a college graduate born and raised in Pardon, looked over at the woman and tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Señora. Let’s hope that black cat of yours doesn’t come alive and jump off your sign and cross in front of you while you’re out here being an informed citizen. You know what they say about black cats and Friday the thirteenth.” He laughed and headed toward the diner.
“He’s a class act,” Trudy remarked as she watched him open the door and disappear inside.
Jewel crossed her arms and smiled smugly at the round woman who was sticking her tongue out in their direction. “Like our current first lady reminds us, when they go low, we go high.”
“Right now I’d like to give that woman a fat lip.” Trudy bristled between clenched teeth.
“Go high, darling,” Jewel chimed, waving at the protestors like they were best friends.
A few minutes later, the sound of a cowbell clanged in the air. Lupi moved toward them, her dark hair in a topknot, and wearing a light jacket over her apron and dark slacks. She balanced a tray with a thermos and paper cups in one hand while ringing the cowbell in the other. “Benny said you need backup. I made you chicks some Mexican cocoa.”
Jewel rubbed her hands together. “Sounds delicious. I bet it’s got a kick.”
“And then some,” Lupi giggled. “The cayenne pepper should warm you up.”
While Trudy took the thermos and handed her mother the cups to hold, Lupi stashed the tray under her arm and glanced at the side of the trailer. “Ladies, I’ve been praying every day that the military makes a positive ID. I may have a mouth on me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pray.”
Lupi placed a hand on Trudy’s shoulder and squeezed. Trudy reached up and felt her friend’s slender wrist. She squeezed back. “Thank you, Lupi. I kinda struggle in that department.”
Jewel held out both cups and waited for Trudy to pour the rich concoction. “Smells heavenly.”
After Trudy pou
red the cocoa, she screwed the lid on the thermos and set it down on a three-legged camping stool between the two lawn chairs. Savoring the rich hot liquid, she murmured between sips, “Hits the spot, Lupi. You know any of the protestors?”
Lupi made a show of squinting in their direction. “The chick with frizzy hair. She was a goat roper in high school. From what I remember, she thought she was hot shit. The little fat one waving her pussy in the air, she used to call me a spic on a regular basis. I wanted to kick her ass, but I knew if I did, I’d get kicked off the dance squad.”
The woman with frizzy hair began to lead another chant: “Shame on you, shame on you, shame on you for disgracing the flag.”
A few seconds later the chubby blonde began to heckle, “You and your silly pink hats. You’re a joke. So are you, Lupi Belen! Your food sucks.”
Lupi clanged her cowbell high in the air, adding to the cacophony. She yelled something in Spanish before she turned and said to Trudy and Jewel, “I need to get back to the diner. Come inside if you need to escape. Just lock everything up first.”
“I’ll come in if I need to potty.” Jewel burrowed into her lawn chair. “The party’s just getting started.”
“Thanks, Lupi,” Trudy said. “We’ll stick it out till noon. Then I need to get home to let Zia out and Mom can take her nap. I’ll be back for the afternoon shift though.”
As Lupi passed in front of the protestors, she clanged the cowbell one more time. “If you chickas get hungry, come break bread in my diner, ’cuz for all our differences, we still need to eat. And some of us have a history, dating back to high school.”
After Lupi left, Trudy noticed her mother was unusually quiet, her face drawn and tight beneath her pink knit hat. “You okay, Momma? Forget about those protestors. You knew we’d catch some blowback.”
The Flying Cutterbucks Page 27