ELIZABETH WRENN

Last Known Address

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Elizabeth Wrenn 2008

Recipes copyright © Elizabeth Wrenn 2008

Elizabeth Wrenn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847560155

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007334988

Version: 2018-06-19

To all my girlfriends; you know who you are! With special love to my first and most enduring girlfriends: Ali, Peggy and Jenny. And to girlfriends everywhere, of every age.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Part One Leaving

CHAPTER ONE C.C.

CHAPTER TWO Meg

CHAPTER THREE C.C.

CHAPTER FOUR Shelly

CHAPTER FIVE Purdy

CHAPTER SIX C.C.

CHAPTER SEVEN Kathryn

CHAPTER EIGHT Meg

CHAPTER NINE Shelly

CHAPTER TEN Meg

CHAPTER ELEVEN C.C.

CHAPTER TWELVE Lucy

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Shelly

Part Two Arriving

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Meg

CHAPTER FIFTEEN C.C.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Purdy

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Shelly

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Guy in the Tent

CHAPTER NINETEEN Meg

CHAPTER TWENTY C.C.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Purdy

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Guy in the Tent

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Shelly

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Meg

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE C.C.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX The Guy in the Tent

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Shelly

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Kathryn

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Lucy

CHAPTER THIRTY Kathryn

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Lucy

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Kathryn

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Shelly

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Meg

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE C.C.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Shelly

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Purdy

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Meg

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Shelly

CHAPTER FORTY Hatch

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Azaad

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO Kathryn

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE C.C.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Meg

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE C.C.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX Meg

Acknowledgments

E-book Extra

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Part One Leaving

CHAPTER ONE C.C.

C.C.’s huge suitcase lay open on her bed, looking like a collapsed buffet guest. It was already too full to close, primarily due to the brand-new velour sweatsuits, tags still on, neatly folded and fanned on top of the bulging mound. Even so, C.C. turned a slow circle, scanning for anything she might have forgotten. She could tuck an item or two into the trunk of Meg’s car.

Should she take the third of a bottle of Happiness perfume on her dresser? No. One orange foam earplug on the bedside table? She tossed it over the bed toward the wastebasket. When it arced right in, she grinned. ‘That’s a good omen!’ She bent to pick up an old paper bookmark lying forlornly on the floor. She walked over and dropped it directly in with the earplug. Bookmarks didn’t fly well, and if she missed the wastebasket, well…Best not to tempt the fates.

Looking around the room, she mostly saw what wasn’t there. The other earplug. The rest of the perfume. And most of all, Lenny, who had bought her the perfume, for whom she’d worn the perfume. And whose snoring had made her reach for the earplugs each night.

She stepped to her dresser, picked up the picture of the two of them, its chrome frame glinting in the stark light of the nearly empty room. She had already packed the smaller picture, the one of Lenny and Kathryn and Lucy on the couch on Christmas morning, Lenny’s long arms embracing both her girls amid a litter of colorful paper and ribbons. She’d wrapped it in a short-sleeve cotton top, placed it in the middle of her suitcase, safely tucking it away, ready for the trip.

The trip. That seemed too small a word for this big…adventure. She laughed a little, all by herself there in her quiet bedroom. C.C. and Shelly and Meg’s Big Adventure.

She stared at the picture in her hands. It wasn’t a great picture, but it was the last one taken of just the two of them, at the Iowa Accountants Labor Day picnic two years ago. They were in front of a big oak tree, had their arms around each other, hers on Len’s thin waist, his hanging over her shoulder like a friendly snake. The light around them was peach-colored, and lovely, but they were both squinting into the setting sun. Like they were trying to see into the future or something. She’d left this picture out of the boxes till the last possible moment, to keep her company, and give her resolve. She touched Lenny’s smile. She could imagine him telling her, Go ahead, be brave.

Her eyes moist, C.C. allowed herself half a moment to hug the frame to her chest, then hurriedly pulled the nearest unsealed box across the carpet toward her. But when she saw the contents of the box, she laughed. Her extra slips, lingerie and other ‘unmentionables’. She wouldn’t be needing those. She didn’t fit into most anyway. She tucked the frame in, burrowing it into the slinky depths.

‘How’s that, darlin’?’

Eighteen months after his funeral, she could now finally talk to him without bawling. She’d considered bringing his sealed urn down south, but realized it wasn’t practical; she’d be devastated if something happened to it while they were on the road, or after. Where would she put it, after all? There would be painting, construction–mess throughout the house down there. So, months ago, before her house even went on the market, Kathryn had taken it, checking with Lucy first to make sure it was okay with her to have the urn in their apartment. Kathryn had told C.C. that, every night, Lucy blew Lenny a kiss; she called him ‘Papaw-on-the-bookcase’. Blood may be thicker than water, C.C. thought, but sometimes love was thicker than blood.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drew her to the window. She knew without lifting the blind, from the glub-glub motorboat sound, that it was Kathryn’s old Pontiac. The engine cut as C.C. glanced at her watch. They were early. Meg and Shelly wouldn’t be here till six thirty for the ‘clean your fridge out potluck’, as Shelly called it. C.C. sucked in a breath. This dinner would be it, the big goodbye, to Kathryn and Lucy. And C.C.’s last chance to make things right with her daughter, which she had little hope of achieving.

They could have said their goodbyes in the morning, Meg having pointed out that they might as well wait till after rush hour to head out of town. But Kathryn had to work the early shift at the store, and Lucy had school, although C.C. knew both would like to have a reason not to go. But C.C. needed to say her goodbyes the night before; she didn’t want to be sitting in the back seat crying for the first hundred miles.

She stood, massaging her lower back. If fifty was the new forty, it still came with the old aches and pains of fifty. She reached up toward the ceiling, stretching, muttering a Hail Mary, but thinking it wasn’t quite fair that she felt fifty, six months before she turned fifty.

C.C. lowered her arms, found herself staring out the bedroom door, down the hall, at the blank wall, the nails and hooks poking forlornly out of the wall where the family pictures had hung. She’d decided to leave them; maybe the new family would use them. How odd it had felt, padding about her nearly empty house these last few days, knowing it wasn’t hers anymore. Most of the proceeds from the sale had gone directly into an account that, God willing, would be enough to buy a small place outright, when she returned. There wasn’t nearly as much as she had hoped; they didn’t have a lot of equity, and she’d gotten caught in a down market. If the housing market recovered before she was ready to buy, she’d be in a real pickle. Yet again, her security seemed inexorably linked to Dogs’ Wood, Aunt Georgie’s house–her house, now–in Tennessee.

The closing on her Iowa house had been weeks ago, but Shelly–real-estate agent extraordinaire–had put a clause in the contract for C.C. to rent it back till they left, and a few days beyond so that Kathryn could come to collect the bed and dresser for her apartment, and take the remaining boxes to storage. C.C. had had a flare of excitement when Kathryn had mentioned the new guy at work, Matt, who had a truck and was going to help her move the things. The maternal delight had once again been too obvious on C.C.’s face. Kathryn had quickly informed her, with stern emphasis on the words she clearly felt her mother needed to hear, that Matt was over ten years younger than she, a kid, nineteen, and she was going to pay him to help her on his day off from his job as sacker at the store. C.C., determinedly cheerful, had put her arm around her daughter and told her (not for the first time), ‘Your true love will come, darlin’, just you wait.’ But Kathryn had angrily shrugged her arm off. It helped not at all that C.C. knew that Kathryn’s anger was really frustration that she too could not leave town, have an adventure.

C.C. sat on the bed, her eyes closed. If only she hadn’t made things so much worse with what Kathryn called ‘the mall incident’. C.C. did regret what she’d done at the mall. But at the time, it had seemed nothing more than a mother’s pride spilling over. Helpful, even. She and Meg had been having lunch after doing some clothes shopping for the trip. When Meg had excused herself to the restroom, C.C. had felt conspicuously alone at her table, so had started chatting with the two handsome young businessmen lunching nearby. It seemed only natural, in the context of their conversation, to show them the picture in her wallet of her beautiful, single, very available daughter.

‘Let me ask your opinion on something,’ she’d said, and they’d both been very willing. ‘Honest, now, don’t you think she looks like a young Meg Ryan?’ They’d nodded, smiling, good-natured. And C.C. had told them with unreserved pride that it was her daughter. Immediately one had said that she, C.C., didn’t look old enough to be that woman’s mother, always the hoped-for response. C.C. had blushed and beamed and given her usual reply: ‘I’m not old enough to be her mother. But I am!’ And when she found out that both men were single, what was she supposed to do? C.C. had only wanted to give Kathryn’s number to the lawyer, the one with the steady job, not the one who was starting an adventure travel business. But how could she politely exclude the entrepreneur?

She’d realized almost immediately afterward that she’d overstepped, confirmed by Meg on the drive home. It was just that C.C.’s heart broke for her daughter. Kathryn was hardly old at twenty-nine, but she wasn’t exactly prime dating age, either. And she had what that lowlife Jordan had called ‘the genetic ball and chain’. Imagine calling a child that! Especially, darling Lucy. C.C. knew she would have to tell Kathryn what she’d done, just in case one (or both!) of the men called. But despite her numerous apologies to her daughter, Kathryn had been madder than a swatted-at hornet. She’d been giving C.C. the silent treatment ever since.

C.C. clicked the lamp off, then peeked out the blinds again, wondering why they hadn’t come in yet. Down below, mother and daughter were sitting in the car, illuminated by the glare from the floodlight above the garage. Lucy was slumped far down in her seat, the heels of her hands on the cushion on either side of her. Her head was tucked turtle-like into her shoulders, her chin down. C.C.’s heart twisted. She hoped something hadn’t happened at school again. She watched through the crack, keeping herself hidden behind the blind. Kathryn took Lucy’s small hand, kissed it, held it to her chest. Lucy wiped at her cheeks with her other hand. C.C. let go of the blind, wanting them to have their private mother-daughter moment.

Until recently, she and Kathryn had always been close too, for much the same reason: they were just twenty years apart in age. Of all the ways C.C. would have wanted her daughter to emulate her, getting pregnant unmarried at twenty was not one of them. For one, it had made C.C. a grandmother at age forty. But she would never call sweet Lucy a mistake, unlike that fool Jordan. He and Kathryn had been dating only two months, but it was two months too long, in C.C.’s opinion. How she wished Kathryn would show that leather-clad lowlife the north end of her boot, send him out of town on that noisy motorcycle of his.

The front door opened, then slammed shut. ‘Meemaw? We’re here! Where are you?’

‘Be right down, Lovebucket!’ C.C. yelled as she headed across her bedroom. She stepped quickly into the bathroom, to the only remaining mirror, to check her hair. It was up, as always, curled, pinned, sprayed and clipped into not quite a beehive, but close. She tucked a curl in, then pushed her palm under it admiringly. Her hair was, and always had been, her best feature. Though she didn’t mind telling people that she now achieved her naturally light blonde color unnaturally.

‘Where are you, Piece-a-pie?’ C.C. called out as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

‘Coming!’ Lucy ran from the living room into C.C.’s outstretched arms. They hugged and C.C. kissed the top of her head, inhaling the child’s sweet scent. Kathryn took a long time hanging their coats among the empty hangers in the hall closet.

Lucy pulled back, beaming. ‘We brought you a present!’ Whatever she’d been crying about in the car was forgotten. At least for the moment. C.C.’s heart gladdened at Lucy’s words, specifically ‘we’. She glanced at Kathryn, but Kathryn spoke only to Lucy.

‘Shhh!’ she gently admonished. ‘We were going to do that at the end, remember?’ Kathryn had not, and would not, look at C.C.

‘Oh. Yeah. I forgot,’ said Lucy, lifting her shoulders apologetically.

‘It’s okay,’ said Kathryn. She at least gave Lucy a smile. ‘You want to go get it? It’s on the back seat.’

Lucy rushed outside without answering, or donning her coat, leaving the wooden door wide open. The storm door slammed behind her and the frigid air blew in through the screen. Lenny had been the one to put the glass panes in each fall. C.C. hadn’t even found them till last week, bringing the last of the boxes from the basement. She’d decided to just leave them there. The new family wouldn’t want them in now anyway. It was almost April, nearly spring.

C.C. smiled, closing the big wooden door. ‘Land, that girl can’t remember to shut a door to save her life!’

‘You and your doors, Mother. She’ll be right back in.’ Kathryn looked past her, her jaw tense.

C.C. nodded, wondering if she should open the door again. She didn’t know how to get off these eggshells with Kathryn.

‘Sweetheart,’ began C.C., ‘I’m glad we have a quick minute alone here. I just want to say, again, that I shouldn’t have given those men—’

‘No! You shouldn’t have. But I don’t want to discuss it anymore.’ Kathryn looked out the small window of the door. ‘So, this present?’

‘Yes?’ C.C. said hopefully.

‘It’s not really a present for you. It’s for Lucy. Mrs Diamont suggested it. I had to go in for another conference and—’ Kathryn caught her breath. ‘She’s way behind in spelling, writing in general. And she can’t–read.’ Her voice cracked, she placed a hand over her mouth briefly, then removed it, placing her palm on the door. ‘Mrs Diamont thinks she’s going to have to be held back, repeat second grade.’

‘Oh, darlin,’ said C.C., stepping toward her daughter, her arms open. But Kathryn spoke without turning. ‘Mother, no. Please. Just–leave it. I don’t want this to come up. With Lucy. But that’s all this present is about.’

‘Of course.’ She got it. She’d gotten it at ‘Mother’. Kathryn called her that only if she was angry, inaccessible. She called her ‘Mom’ casually, ‘Momma’ in a tender moment or when she most needed her. It had been a while since she had heard the tender moniker. C.C. lowered her arms to her sides, then clasped her hands in front of her, then put them back at her sides, suddenly wishing that arms came with some proper storage system. The doorbell rang. C.C. looked at her daughter, asking with her eyes if she could open the door. Kathryn nodded, stepped away, and C.C. pulled the door open.

‘Trick or treat!’ Lucy burst into giggles as she stood outside, her hands behind her back.

‘Land sakes, child! It’s only the end of March. Y’all come back in October!’ C.C. pretended to close the door.

‘It’s a treat for you, Meemaw!’ Lucy laughed, pushed the door open with one hand and brought the gift from behind her back. She jumped up over the threshold. C.C. gently closed the door behind her.

The gift was wrapped in colorful Sunday comics and had an inordinate amount of tape on it. It also had an impressive amount of pink ribbon, wrapped around several times, tied into several floppy bows, all with curly ends. Lucy handed it to C.C. ‘Here. We got me one that—’ She clapped her hand over her mouth, glanced up at her mother.

Kathryn gathered her in her arms, kissed the top of her head. ‘Good catch.’

‘Shall I open it now, or wait till your aunties arrive?’ asked C.C.

‘Wait for Aunt Meg and Shelly,’ said Lucy. ‘But you have to guess what it is now!’ She bobbed up and down on her toes.

C.C. looked at the box, hefting it. ‘Let’s see…It could be a big, fat book, but it’s too light. And I guess we can rule out a basketball, huh?’ She grinned at Lucy, who grinned back, almost filling C.C. up. She held the box near her ear, shook it gently. There was a soft rattle. ‘Umm, is it a goldfish?’ She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes, giving Lucy her fish face. Lucy dissolved in giggles.

‘Nooo, Meemaw! Guess again!’

‘Knock, knock,’ said a voice, as the door pushed open.

‘Auntie Meg! Shelly!’ Shelly had long ago told Lucy to just call her Shelly, but Meg liked being an unofficial auntie, as long as there was never a ‘great’ or ‘grand’ in front.

Both women bent, Meg setting a heavy-looking tote bag on the floor. Shelly gave Lucy a quick but sturdy hug. Meg, however, kneeled, wrapped her arms around Lucy. Her eyes closed as she held her, as if feeding on the life force all little girls have to spare. A small smile appeared on Meg’s thin, pale face as Lucy grunted happily, her little arms squeezing Meg back. C.C. didn’t know whether to smile or cry. What that little girl lacks in males in her life, she makes up for in maternal love, she thought.

‘Scooch back, please, you two, so I can close the door,’ said Shelly. When Meg and Lucy had moved, she pushed the door closed with a thud. ‘Don’t want to let the cold air in.’

C.C. smiled at Kathryn, gesturing with her hands to say, ‘See? I’m not the only one.’ Kathryn quickly moved to embrace Shelly, then Meg.

‘Look!’ said C.C., holding up her gift, trying another tack. She winked at Meg and Shelly. ‘Lucy gave me a goldfish!’

Lucy fell to the floor, laughing. Kathryn exhaled in a way that only her mother would hear.

‘Oh, a goldfish is just the ticket!’ said Shelly. ‘He’ll come in handy on our road trip. He can point the way.’ Shelly shrugged off her coat, threw it over the banister. She wiggled her hand like a fish in front of Lucy, alternately swimming and pointing. Then she gave her a little poke in the belly, eliciting more giggles.

They all made their way into the kitchen, with C.C. bringing up the rear, her gift in her hands, but a heaviness in her heart, too aware for days now of ‘the last time’ they’d be doing one thing or another. The last time we’ll all walk into the kitchen together. Their last meal in this house. It made it feel like she was never coming back to Wisataukee, which she was. She just didn’t know when. But not to this house. She’d likely buy a condo or something. A condo for one. She saw herself with a cat, tending too many plants, eating baked beans out of the can, standing over the sink. She didn’t even like cats much. A little sigh escaped as she joined the others in the kitchen. How often had the five of them gathered like this, for an impromptu meal, or a trip to the museum, or shopping? All happy events. But like the cold wind circling outside, a chill pulled at the edges of the group tonight.

Meg set the bag on the counter, began to unpack. ‘Shelly’s contributing caviar, believe it or not. How old is this, Shel?’ Meg stared at the small round container, intently studying the lettering of the black and red label, an uncertain look on her face. ‘Is this Russian?’

‘Yes. It was a gift from Sergei.’

‘Who?’ asked C.C.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Meg knowingly. She turned to C.C. ‘You know, tall, dark and handsome, in a pointy kind of way? The one before the one before…the last one.’ She bobbed the caviar through the air as she counted.

Shelly shoved Meg’s hand playfully out of the air, grabbing the caviar from her. ‘I don’t know, maybe six months,’ she said, studying it. ‘A year?’ She lifted the top and sniffed, made a face. ‘How do you tell when smelly fish eggs have gone bad?’ She pushed an errant, graying bang back behind her ear. C.C. knew Shelly had stopped coloring her hair for budgetary reasons, and had told them she wanted to try long hair again. The poor thing had gone from being the most well-off of the three of them, to avoiding creditors, all by way of one disastrous, overreaching business deal.

‘Have you ever had caviar, Lucy? Little fish eggs?’ Kathryn asked. Lucy had her back against her mother’s legs and Kathryn held her with crisscrossed arms over Lucy’s chest. Lucy made a face, shaking her head and sticking out her tongue. Kathryn laughed. ‘I think we’ll pass on the caviar, thanks. What else you got in there?’

‘Bagels…cream cheese…Cheddar cheese…’ Meg lifted containers and bags out, one by one, but stopped on a large round one. ‘Some, um…’ She held it to the light, tipping it this way and that, the bright red, lumpy contents slopping back and forth inside, ‘…Jell-O. With fruit, one would hope.’ She set it on the counter and dug back into the bag. ‘Pickles, an apple…’ She paused for a fraction of a second, her hand still in the bag. ‘Some fried chicken…’ She set the container on the counter, as if it were a small wounded creature she’d been caring for. She stared at it for a few seconds, then dug back in the bag. ‘…A box of crackers…and…some leftover wild rice.’ Meg set the last items on the counter. Shelly rearranged everything.

‘My stuff’s right here,’ said C.C., pulling several containers out of the refrigerator. ‘Some leftover tuna casserole, some cheese, bread, watermelon pickles and tapioca pudding.’

‘Let’s eat!’ said Shelly, grabbing the stack of paper plates and handing one to Lucy.

‘Can Meemaw open the present first? Please?’ Lucy handed her plate back to Shelly.

‘Oh, yes!’ said C.C., lifting the box from the counter again. ‘I want to open my present!’ She undid the ribbon, handing it to Lucy, then tore off the paper, revealing a creamy yellow box with bright illustrations on the top. ‘Butterflies! What could this be?’ She set the box on the counter and lifted the lid. Inside, was a thick stack of pale yellow stationery bound up in a bright yellow silk ribbon. C.C. fingered the soft, ragged upper edge of the sheets as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

‘Look under!’ shouted Lucy.

C.C. did, finding two neat stacks of matching envelopes, also tied with yellow ribbons. In the middle were two long strips of colorful butterfly stickers.

‘Look at this envelope!’ said Lucy, pulling one from the stack. She held it in front of C.C., her small hands gripping either edge. ‘See? We already addressed it!’

C.C. read Lucy’s uneven scrawl aloud. ‘Lucy Prentiss. Thirty-one twenty Clemmons Way, Wisataukee, Iowa.’

‘And read the other, up here!’ said Lucy, pointing excitedly to the upper corner.

‘Meemaw Byrd, seven thirteen Raven Road, Fleurville, Tennessee.’

Damn. C.C. could feel her eyes welling up. Something about seeing that address printed on an envelope, especially in Lucy’s labor-intensive hand, took her aback. That address was both more than and less than home; it was the place she had landed, the place that had caught her, after a long, hard fall. She felt like her body was being stretched forward and back in time, all at once.

‘You have to send the first one to me!’ said Lucy, putting her finger on her chest. ‘And we got another box for me! Mine has dolphin stickers and it’s blue and I already wrote to you!’

C.C. kneeled, quickly gathering Lucy up in a hug, hiding her tears behind her granddaughter’s head. ‘Oh, my darlin’ girl.’ C.C. swallowed again, hearing her southern accent creep into her words. Emotion always brought it out of her. ‘I will write to you. And I can hardly wait till I get my first letter from you!’ She had to struggle to get her words out. ‘I am going t’miss you, Lovee.’

‘Will you fill me up with brave, Meemaw?’ asked Lucy softly.

‘Well, of course I will!’ Shelly gave her a hand, helped her stand, as Meg retrieved a small empty ceramic pitcher from the sill above her sink. She handed it to C.C., who held it above Lucy’s head, and began to pour. ‘Show me where your fill-line is, Lovee.’ Lucy held her hand near her stomach, then let it rise. C.C. poured till Lucy’s hand was at the top of her head. ‘Full of brave?’ C.C. asked her. Lucy nodded, and they hugged again.

Still clutching Lucy, C.C. looked up at Kathryn, then at her two best friends, all of whom were teary. But Kathryn turned away from her. C.C. could hear her daughter’s sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t know how to read it. Kathryn held her hand out to Shelly for a plate.

Only her granddaughter enjoyed the picnic dinner on an old sheet on the floor of the empty living room. For C.C., and she suspected for the others as well, all the leftovers of their lives made for an odd and bittersweet meal.

CHAPTER TWO Meg

‘I spy with my little eye, something blue.’

‘Blue?’ said Shelly. ‘It can’t be inside the car, Ceece!’

‘It’s not! Look! On the bottom of that silo.’

‘Well, don’t show me, for God’s sakes! Now you have to pick something else!’

Meg smiled at them, Shelly riding shotgun, C.C. in the back, where she would be the entire trip because she didn’t drive a stick. Meg wasn’t playing the I Spy game; she was too worried about her car. The windshield wipers had done it again, a sort of hiccup. As she watched, they stalled mid-swipe and finally slid down and lay there, as if exhausted. Meg stared at them; she could relate.

At least it had nearly stopped raining. She glanced over at Shelly, then caught C.C. staring at her in the rear-view mirror. Both of them had that flicker of alarm in their eyes, their lively chatting abruptly stopped. It was clear to all of them now, the car was unwell. But it kept on going. Good ole Rosie, Meg thought. But she wondered again if the full load–all their suitcases, the cooler and the three of them–wasn’t too much for her ancient Honda.

‘I think your old car is having mid-life issues too, Meg.’ Shelly was fanning herself with the map again. She laughed, and C.C. chortled in the back.

Meg turned the radio off, then the headlights. She flipped the wiper switch off, then on, and the blades reluctantly picked up. But then the car surged and sputtered, and the wipers flopped spasmodically again.

As long as the car is moving, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull over here, in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois. Meg stared up at the gray sky, not to God, because she’d long ago dismissed that notion, but rather in the same way Eeyore would look at his personal rain cloud, not questioning, but with a somber acceptance. Hello there, Rain cloud. I knew you’d stay with me.

‘Those wipers look about as useful as goose doo on a pump handle,’ said C.C., matter-of-factly.

Meg smiled, finally. She was always grateful for C.C.’s take on things, and now it seemed their every mile southward was bringing out a little more of her latent accent and homespun sayings.

Meg looked at the trip odometer: 212. And they had nearly four hundred miles to go!

She tried the wipers again. ‘C’mon, you worthless things!’ They sprang to life, as if to mock her.

‘Yay!’ said C.C., and she and Shelly resumed their conversation.

Meg straightened in her seat again, able to see now through the cleared arcs. They rolled past another mile marker and Meg flinched when she saw it: 32. Her upcoming wedding anniversary. She said nothing, fearing that C.C. would interpret it as a bad omen.

Was it her imagination or were the wipers slowing again? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. They were. They stuttered, then refused to rise. Again. She glared at the blades, black and crisp-looking–she’d bought new ones just for this trip-but utterly useless on their metal arms. Involuntarily, she glanced down at her new pants, loden-green corduroys, also purchased just for this trip; she’d been shocked to find that she had to buy a size six. She’d been a fit ten her whole married life, except for when she was pregnant. A deep and audible sigh of empathy with the wipers slipped out as she decided she really couldn’t see. She carefully steered the car toward the side of the road.

Suddenly the wipers picked up again and the engine hummed to life. ‘Make up your friggin’ mind!’ Meg growled. She steered the car back onto the paved but unlined country road.

‘What the hell’s wrong with the wipers?’ asked Shelly.

‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’ C.C. asked.

Meg felt a surge of irritation that she was expected to know what was wrong, just because it was her car. She was a high-school English teacher; her mechanical aptitude wouldn’t fill a thimble. She tried the wiper switch again as rustling sounds came from the back seat.

‘Here, hon.’ C.C.’s chubby pale hand appeared between the seats, holding four squares of a Hershey bar. ‘Have some chocolate.’ C.C.’s panacea.

‘No, thanks. I’m okay,’ said Meg, though she realized her posture, hunched over the steering wheel, hands clenched and bloodless on the wheel, belied her claim. C.C.’s hand silently retracted, followed by soft sounds of smacking from the back seat.

Meg touched the accelerator with her toe again. The speedometer registered a lethargic twenty-seven miles per hour. She pressed again and there was a small roar, so she tried the wipers; they started up again, at a galloping beat. But they seemed…untrustworthy. But both Shelly and C.C. gave dramatic sighs of relief and resumed chatting.

Did they not notice that they were crawling along? Could they not hear the engine? Meg continued to breathe as if through a cocktail straw. The car was fine, she told herself; it was her. Hadn’t nearly everything become untrustworthy since—

Even the bucolic rural Illinois farmland had become foreboding. The country scene, the broad sky, the rich, chocolatey soil of the newly plowed fields, the red barns with their big white Xs on the doors, they had all always been a salve to her, harking back to another era. She had such nostalgia for a slower pace and a gentler time that Meg thought reincarnation seemed a more distinct possibility than heaven or hell. But at the moment, the somber gray sky and the sodden fields felt not calming, but remote and desolate.

They were down to ten miles per hour. Should she pull over again? A sudden stillness announced that there was no question for her to ponder anymore. The wipers slid one final arc. The quiet settled into the car like a morose fourth passenger. On momentum alone, Meg steered the car to the edge of the road.

No one spoke, but she knew the other two were looking at her. She exhaled finally; she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. She took one hand off the steering wheel, turned the key in the ignition to off, then turned it back. Nothing. She tried it again, with the same result.

She leaned back hard in her seat. ‘Shit. I’m sorry, you guys.’ She massaged the red marks on her otherwise white palms. ‘It was my stupid literary fantasy, to take the scenic small roads, emulate John Steinbeck. Now we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere,’ she said morosely, staring out her window. There was not a house, barn or even another car in sight. Just acres and acres of wet farmland.

Meg closed her eyes, too tired to remember C.C.’s cardinal rule never to tempt the fates when things were going wrong. As she rubbed her hands she thought: This can’t get any worse. They were stuck in the middle of their lives, in middle America, in the middle of life crises, and now, in the middle of nowhere. ‘So much for our Great Escape,’ she said with a small, unconvincing laugh.

How many decades had they fantasized about ‘the Great Escape’? To just up and leave their kids, husbands, jobs, lives for a week or two, head for the horizon, free of the myriad burdens of being something to someone, other than friend. They’d long ago agreed that their friendship was what held them together, reminded them of who they were as women, whole identities unto themselves, not defined by their roles of work, mothering or marriage. Even when the demands of young children and escalating careers had meant their conversations were carried out more on the phone than in person, especially with Shelly’s stint in New York, their friendship had kept them all afloat in hard times, held firm the sails in high winds.

Meg silently recounted all the reasons the trip had never happened till now: someone’s kid got sick, or was in the playoffs, or was graduating. Or someone got a promotion, or four new clients, or school was ending late because of snow days. Or someone’s husband had the flu, or suddenly had to go out of town that week, or was turning forty, or fifty, or was just too busy, depressed or tired to be left alone with the household responsibilities. Once, it was Meg’s dog. He’d cut his leg on some garden edging and the vet bill had wiped out her entire vacation budget. Meg had always thought all the reasons were valid. Disappointing, but valid. But now, at this gray moment, on this gray day, they seemed like so many excuses strung together. Even Buster.

Oh my God! She turned, wide-eyed, looked back at C.C., then over at Shelly. ‘How ironic is this? You know all those reasons that kept coming up that we never did the Great Escape? It just occurred to me that the only reason we’re on this trip now is because…’ she had to take a breath, ‘…all those reasons left us first.’

She looked at her friends again and they looked at her.

‘Fuck.’ Shelly leaned back against her door. ‘That’s true. First Len dies, then I lose most of my life savings in that damn mall development deal, having the added side benefit of making every man run to the other side of the street when they see me.’ She turned to Meg, her expression still incredulous. ‘Then your old dog dies and Grant takes off. You’d think The Trio had a curse thrown down on us.’

C.C. made three neat spitting sounds in the back seat. ‘Don’t even say that!’

‘Relax,’ said Meg. ‘It’s merely the curse of middle age.’

No one spoke for a minute, then C.C.’s voice floated up from the back seat, quiet, tentative. ‘So, I guess we’re broken down, huh?’

‘Of course we are,’ said Shelly. ‘And the car is broken down too.’ Shelly cracked up, but no one else did.

‘This isn’t a good sign,’ said C.C. softly, ominously.

And, there it is! Not with the signs again. Meg thought the words just a half-beat before Shelly barked them out.

‘Not with the signs again, C.C.!’

Meg felt that surge of anger again: at C.C. for perpetually seeing everything, good or bad, as a sign, and at Shelly for castigating C.C. for it. It occurred to Meg that their friendship had stood the test of time, but never had they put it to the test of the Road Trip. Not to mention: Remodeling a House. Which necessarily also meant: Going into Business Together. And, most dangerous of all, Living Together.

Meg’s breathing grew tight and rapid, her heart pounding. The nausea, the headache. The weather. Migraine. As if the universe was saying: This is but one way things can get worse. She forced herself to inhale deeply. Don’t say it, she told herself, at the insistent thought in her head. But the words came out anyway. ‘She’s right. I think this whole trip may have been a mistake.’

‘Now, c’mon,’ said Shelly, lightly punching Meg in the arm. ‘We are three competent women. This is nothing.’ She made a ‘pbllth’ sound. A mere blip on the radar. We’ve been through way more than a measly old car breakdown together.’

That was true. Birth, marriage, divorce, death, financial problems.

Abandonment.

Shit happens. And it seemed especially to happen when you turned fifty, thought Meg. Your kids leave. And then the dog dies. She’d had other friends who’d lost their old dogs or cats just before or after their last kid went off to college. No coincidence. They’d all waited till their youngest kid was five or six before they relented to the incessant begging and got a puppy or kitten. So all those animals simply came to the end of their natural lives at the exact time when many of the moms were feeling like a significant part of their own lives was ending. But Meg had been looking forward to the empty nest, that’s why she’d taken early retirement. She would not have if she’d known her husband, too, was going to leave her.

She reached down with her left hand, found the lever and reclined her seat; she couldn’t go far because the cooler and jackets and pillows were on the back seat behind her. She covered her eyes with her hands, massaging her forehead and temples with her fingertips. Her lower back ached, and her underwear was threatening to bisect her. But she didn’t have the energy to rearrange anything.

She longed for the safety and comfort of her living room, to be stretched out on her blue velvet couch, facing the big picture window that overlooked the slope of the hill. In her imagination, Buster was taking up half the couch, but keeping her feet warm. Dear old Buster. Her last act before leaving home had been to sprinkle that dear, dumb dog’s ashes on the hillside behind their house, saying prayers for him, and for herself, to no one at all.

Home. The purple and white crocuses would soon be dotting that hillside, not quite the cheerleaders of spring that tulips or even daffodils are, but maybe the junior varsity squad, smaller, less popular, but still cute and perky. Every year, just when she needed it most, they had cheered her into believing that spring would once again be victorious over the long, northern Iowa winter. But maybe not this year. Her life had been so turned upside down that now even the spinning of the earth on its axis seemed to be in question.

She was vaguely aware of C.C. and Shelly quietly talking, the kind of softly urgent exchanges between upright people around a prone person, in a coma maybe, or discovered inert on the sidewalk. But Meg drifted away, backing out of reality, which she did so often lately.

But reality, as it always does, followed. The familiar image of her husband, not her, ensconced on the couch with Buster sent a dull ache through her. Then a thought made her heart skip and race in a way that was both invigorating and life-threatening, all at once. Maybe Grant was there now! She put a hand to her chest, unconsciously spreading her fingers wide, like a net over her sternum. Maybe he had come back, was even now reading one of the letters she’d written and left for him, just in case, on the kitchen table.

A weak groan escaped from deep within her. She knew all too well that her house was empty–empty of children, empty of Buster, empty of Grant, and most of all empty of herself, because even when she’d been living there, alone, the past few weeks, she’d felt barely a shell of herself. And maybe even before Grant had left. In her heart of hearts, she’d known that their marriage had been leaking air for years, invisibly, like a balloon forgotten in the corner of the living room long after the party is over. Wizened, sinking almost imperceptibly, but undeniably, weighted down now by the very ribbon that was supposed to keep it from floating away.

‘Meg-legs?’ C.C. enquired again. Meg held up a finger, asking for another minute before anything was required of her. ‘Okay, honey, take your time. We’re warm and toasty in here. And we’ve got food.’

Good ol’ C.C. She would sit quietly in the back for days, munching her chocolate bars, supporting Meg in her fragility. In fact, it wasn’t her own but C.C.’s situation that had finally made this trip happen, first with Lenny’s death, then Aunt Georgie’s and the inheritance of Dogs’ Wood, the house in Tennessee.

So much change. Wasn’t life supposed to be less full of change, not more, with age? She wasn’t sure where she’d gotten that idea, but it was dead wrong.

A noisy clatter startled her. She abruptly sat up, bringing her seatback forward with the flip of the lever. The rain had suddenly intensified, the fat drops making a chaotic drumbeat on the car.

‘Oh, yay. That’s what we needed. A percussive soundtrack to our…situation,’ said Shelly, looking out her window, her enthusiasm of a moment ago gone.

Meg looked at her friends; they were both gazing skyward, hunched down into themselves as if they expected the roof to fall in. Meg grasped the key again, her mouth set. She felt both women’s rapt attention on her. C.C. began muttering a prayer.

‘C’mon, baby. You can do it,’ Meg said loudly, over the rain and over the prayer, deciding that talking directly to the car would be more productive than to a God she no longer believed in. ‘You can do it.’

It pulled at her throat to hear her words, exactly the way she’d urged on her kids, especially for all their firsts: letting go of her fingers and taking those first robotic steps on stubby legs across the living room; or when they were learning to dive off the edge of the pool, their little toes curled tightly around the cement edge, bony knees knocking from chill and fear, arms plastered against ears, fingers tight, hands laid perfectly, one over the other, a prayer pose if ever there was one, with Meg treading water, waiting, saying, ‘You can do it! I know you can!’; or as they wobbled off on their little bikes with the small, fat tires but, for the first time, no training wheels, defying both gravity and Meg’s own death-grip on their bicycle seat till she had to let go; or when they first merged into rush-hour traffic on the freeway with their still-crisp learner’s permit tucked proudly into their purse or wallet, both child and mother’s knuckles white; or when they were sitting on their overstuffed college suitcase, finally succeeding in zippering it closed, and then the child who had been so irritable and distant all summer, nearly bursting with the need to leave home, suddenly burst into tears at the prospect. ‘C’mon, you can do it,’ she’d said each and every time, until they had.

‘C’mon, you can do it,’ she said again, louder, to her car and to herself. But when she turned the key, the solitary and forlorn click of the ignition could barely be heard above the rain. She looked right, saw Shelly studying her, overly sympathetically.

‘Damn cars,’ she told Meg. ‘They’re like men. You can’t live with ’em, and you can’t live without ’em.’

Meg nodded, although it was Shelly’s mantra, not hers. Meg had never wanted to be alone. Never.

She sighed, reached forward, patted the dashboard. ‘What’s wrong, little Rosie?’

She felt a gaze pierce the side of her head. Shelly again. This time, mouth and eyes wide open. ‘You named your car?’ she asked. ‘I did not know this about you. How could I not know this? Did you name your lawn mower too?’ Shelly snickered. C.C. chuckled in the back seat. Meg tried to look indignant, but she couldn’t completely stifle a smile.

‘And your cheese grater?’ asked Shelly. There was just a fraction of a moment of silence, then the car seemed to explode with laughter. Their fatigue and predicament was taking its toll, all of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe, tears streaming down their cheeks, the kind of uncontrollable laughter that was pure, emotional release.

‘And your…carrot peeler?’ Shelly wheezed.

‘Oh, wait! I know, I know!’ said Meg, breathlessly. ‘Together, they could be Larry, Moe and Curly!’ She fell onto the steering wheel in silent, shaking laughter.

Shelly shrieked, then caught her breath enough to squeeze out, ‘Perhaps we should change from The Trio, to the Three Stooges!’ More uncontrollable laughter. ‘Oh! I’ve got it!’ Shelly was almost screaming now. ‘The lawn mower is…Moe!’

C.C.’s distinct laugh, an almost maniacal giggle when she really got going, made Meg laugh even harder. They were all beside themselves, hardly able to breathe.

Shelly was wheezing, talking in gasps. ‘And the…carrot…peeler is…Curly,’ more shrieks of laughter, ‘and the…the…’

Meg and C.C., still laughing but more controlled, waited for Shelly.

But Shelly had stopped laughing. She looked truly frightened. ‘Oh shit!’ she said, pressing her palms to her cheeks. Meg glanced back at C.C., who looked worriedly at Shelly, then at Meg.

‘Shell?’ asked Meg, placing her hand on Shelly’s knee. Meg’s mind raced with what the problem could be–a suddenly remembered stove left on at home? Sudden pain?

‘I forgot the third thing!’ said Shelly.

There was just the briefest pause, then all three screamed with laughter again.

‘I don’t remember it either!’ C.C. squealed.

‘Oh my God,’ Meg said flatly, catching her breath, looking side to side, blinking. ‘I can’t remember it either! This is so pathetic.’ She burst out laughing along with the other two and inadvertently snorted, making them all dissolve again.

‘Stop! Stop! Or you’ll make me pee!’ C.C. gasped from the back seat.

They slowly regained control. C.C.’s worry, a frequent one of late, quickly brought some sobriety into the car.

‘Oh my,’ said Meg, inhaling deeply. She pulled a tissue from the center console and dabbed at her eyes, sighing. ‘Golly. Just look at us here, all broken down and stranded, not doing a darned thing about it.’

‘Well, why the hell are we just sitting here, girls?’ said Shelly, digging through her purse. She pulled out a pack of tissues, which she handed back to C.C., then her bright red reading glasses, then her gem-studded cellphone. ‘You’re a member of Triple A, right, Meg?’ she asked.

Meg shook her head, pointed to a small sticker on the corner of the windshield. ‘No, but we’ve got–’ she sucked in a breath–‘I’ve got towing coverage. With our insurance.’ She held out her hand. ‘May I use your phone?’ Shelly handed it to her.

‘Ceece?’ Shelly said, twisting in her seat. ‘You’d better get an urgent delivery prayer up that we can get a signal out here.’

Meg turned and watched as C.C. closed her eyes, crossed herself quickly, then put her forehead against her clasped hands. Meg turned back around. She looked at the sticker, blinked, pressed her head back into the headrest, then looked at Shelly again. ‘I can’t read the numbers. Hand the specs over too, please.’ She punched in the number, and when it rang, Meg gave the other two a thumbs-up.

‘Yay, Jesus!’ shouted Shelly, the recalcitrant but loyal Jew, pumping her fist. Meg could hear C.C. clapping, saying, ‘Thank you, Jesus.’ Meg waved her hand for them to quiet.

‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Yes? Great. Hi. This is Meg Bartholomew. We, uh, need a little help, I guess.’

Shelly leaned over, nearly in Meg’s lap, and yelled toward the phone, ‘We need a lot of help!’ Meg swatted her off, grinning.

Meg listened, then said, ‘Well, actually, I did happen to notice the last mile marker we passed. Number thirty-two.’ Whether C.C. hadn’t heard, or didn’t remember the significance of the number, or simply decided to keep quiet, Meg didn’t know. But she was grateful.

When she had relayed the rest of the information, Meg closed the phone and handed it back to Shelly. ‘Well, I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait for someone to rescue us.’

The rain, which had been slowly letting up, had now finally stopped altogether, as if it too were worn out. Meg looked up, hopeful for a rainbow that she could point out to C.C. But there was no rainbow, no fingers of sunlight breaking through, not even a parting in the clouds.

No one spoke. Meg looked out at the soggy patchwork of farmland, most of it fallow still, even late March being too early and–untrustworthy–for planting. She stared at the barbed-wire fence, watched the drops clinging to the bottom of the wires, like tiny, upside-down birds, until they grew fat and heavy, and gravity made them plunge to the ground. She rested her head on the cool glass and wondered where Grant was. She closed her eyes, picturing him in his ubiquitous Yankees cap, driving his orange BMW. But where? She willed him to write to her, tried even to make herself picture a letter already waiting for her in Tennessee. He had the address; she’d dictated it to him that day he was sitting at the kitchen table making some sort of list and—She had a sudden pang. What had he been writing that day? He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, writing a list on a legal pad, and listening to that awful sports radio where the men seemed to yell all the time. She’d hesitated briefly, then she’d asked to speak to him. ‘What’s up?’ he said, neither looking up nor turning down the radio. The conversation that had followed, like all their conversations, was stilted, awkward. But somehow Meg had worked in how much she’d loved his letters to her in college, and that maybe they could write to each other while she was away. She thought, but didn’t say, that if they could write to each other, maybe they could find a way to talk to each other. ‘I really don’t need the address,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll call you if I need you.’ ‘Well, the phone may not work when we get there. C.C. thinks it’s been turned off. Just write it down. Please?’ Meg remembered the tired anger of having to cajole. ‘It can’t hurt to have it. If only for emergencies.’ Only then had he torn a small corner off the bottom of the page, hastily scrawled the address on it as she dictated. But she could tell he was, from habit, more attuned to what was being said on the radio than by her.

Sitting in the car now, Meg realized she should have looked at whatever it was he was writing. Probably his own list of things to take. He had known. Even then. Maybe he’d been planning to leave her for months. Years.

She gazed out at the expanse of emptiness again. She looked at the barbed-wire fence across the road, looking sharp and certain of its responsibilities. On one post was a small, metal ‘No Trespassing’ sign, a bullet hole just above the circle of the o. She wondered if the shooter had been aiming for the o, or had just taken a pot shot.

Sitting there, just past mile marker 32, Meg stared at the sign through the wet glass, and wondered if, in the end, aiming made any difference.

CHAPTER THREE C.C.

The small restaurant was dimly lit, but warm and cozy. Just what they all needed, C.C. decided. But she was worried when Meg and Shelly headed toward one of the three small booths along the wall. She didn’t think she’d fit. But, happily, the benches slid out. C.C. decided two things on the spot; one, that, like Meg was always telling her, she was not as fat as she thought she was; and two, that she liked this little place.

Two hours after the tow truck had rescued them, they were sitting in Purdy’s Restaurant and Bar in the tiny burg of Tupper, Illinois. Showers in their motel room (number three, like the three of them–a good omen!) had taken the worst of the chill out of them. Now, as dusk fell outside, they were warming their insides with what Shelly called Sleeping Irish–Irish coffees made with decaf. C.C. was so tired that she hadn’t realized till two sips into her very strong drink that they were staying at Purdy’s Motel, and just down the road was Purdy’s Grocery. Purdy himself had checked them in to their room. There were only four rooms; one of these Purdy had indicated he lived in (‘should you need anything, night or day’). Then he had insisted on carrying all their luggage from Mick’s Garage and Auto Sales, across and down the dirt Main Street to their room. By the time all of their luggage, mostly C.C.’s, had been delivered, the portly Purdy was red-faced and puffing, but strangely beaming. C.C. had tried to offer him a tip, but he had refused, just stood there, looking every which way but at her. Finally, he’d said that maybe they’d like to freshen up and then come over to his restaurant for dinner. Slightly embarrassed at the looks the other two gave her, C.C. had replied yes, they would probably do that. She refrained from pointing out that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Tupper that they could get dinner.

Purdy now appeared at their booth, bearing a small cast-iron pan of hot cornbread, and three small plates. ‘The bread’s on the house, ladies. Sorry your trip down south got detoured, but we’re very glad to have you here.’ That’s odd, thought C.C., as Purdy set everything on the table. They hadn’t mentioned anything about their destination when they’d checked in. Evidently Mick had told him. Mick and Purdy probably constituted the entire business district of Tupper.

‘S’cuse me, uh, ma’am…’ Purdy reached across the table and picked up a squeeze bottle of honey from between the napkin holder and a small glass pitcher of syrup. C.C. felt her cheeks redden, though she wasn’t sure why. He held the bottle up so they could all see the label:

Minding Our Bees’ Nests

Fresh Illinois Honey

‘I can personally recommend this honey for my cornbread,’ he said. ‘We–uh, I, tend the hives myself.’ He looks like a TV pitchman, thought C.C., quickly hiding her smile. Not quickly enough, she realized when Purdy darted a quick smile back at her, then looked away.

Not that kind of smile. Was it? No, of course not. She looked at her hands, wrapped around the ceramic mug. The warmth on her palms matched the warmth in her cheeks. Oh, she was just being silly, was all.

‘This’s real good on the cornbread,’ said Purdy. C.C. glanced up, relieved to see he was looking at Meg. His ruddy cheeks formed small balls under his blue eyes, a disarming dimple in his left cheek. He turned toward her again. Dimples in both cheeks, she saw. He held the honey before her like a maître d’ holding a bottle of wine for inspection. ‘See, it’s got a touch of cinnamon in it,’ he said, tapping his finger on the label. ‘But you got your syrup too,’ he added, pointing it out on the table, next to the napkin holder. ‘If you prefer that route. My wife, may she rest in peace, was partial to syrup. But I myself like the honey. Ma’am?’ He offered C.C. the honey, his eyebrows held aloft expectantly, wiry white caterpillars stopped mid-march.

C.C. looked down again, gingerly touched her hair. She then looked at the honey, keeping her eyes focused on the little bees on the label. ‘Well, being from the south originally, I do like syrup on cornbread. But I’ll give the honey a try. The cinnamon sounds good.’ She couldn’t help a quick glance across the table. Meg was doing that cheek-chewing thing she did when she was trying not to smile. Shelly was not so restrained; she had a smirk a mile wide and was staring right at her. C.C. was deathly afraid Shelly would make some wisecrack. But, bless her heart, she kept mum.

Oh, you’re acting crazier than a sprayed roach! It was all C.C. could do not to slap herself. Mum about what? Really. C.C. took the bottom of the honey bottle in her hand, looking at the cute illustrations of happy bees on the label. But Purdy still held the top of the bottle, his eyes locked on hers.

‘Thank you,’ said C.C., pulling slightly on the bottle. Purdy didn’t let go. ‘Um…’

He must have thought she didn’t remember his name, because he stuck out his free hand, still holding the bottle in the other. C.C. gave him her free hand, not releasing the bottle either, since he hadn’t. It was an awkward shake, her hand too warm from being wrapped around her coffee mug, his cool and a little clammy.

‘I’m Purdy. Everyone calls me Purdy,’ he said, still holding her hand.

‘C.C.,’ said C.C., wondering what in the hell was going on. They sat there, neither letting go of the honey, and Purdy not letting go of her hand. The bell on the front door rang and two men, laughing loudly, stepped in. Purdy startled visibly, and gasped. He let go of her hand, but appeared not to realize he still held the honey.

‘S’okay, Purdy. Just us,’ said a tall, thin man dressed in overalls, a younger man with him, who had to be his son, dressed alike, hair combed with grease alike. They quieted immediately and looked contrite. Purdy gave the men a slight wave. C.C. saw that Meg and Shelly were also looking back and forth between the men and Purdy. Those men acted as if they’d walked too noisily into a library, rather than a restaurant.

She looked at Purdy. He was pale. He slowly turned his attention back to the table, his face quickly pinking. But he still hadn’t let go of the bottle of honey. In fact, if anything, he had a tighter hold on it. And now C.C. too had been holding on for so long that she wasn’t sure how to let go. Plus, she wanted it. On her cornbread. She was feeling rather possessive of it.

Not knowing what else to do, too embarrassed to look at either of her friends or this odd, jumpy man standing there at the other end of her honey bottle, she studied each letter of ‘Minding Our Bees’ Nests’. She smiled, realizing for the first time the pun in the name. ‘That’s a cute name,’ she said, still mulling over her options–letting go of the honey bottle that had been, after all, offered to her. Or pull again, harder. But she immediately felt the blush rising in her cheeks as she realized with a cringe that the last thing spoken before she’d made her comment, was Purdy telling them his name. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’d just sounded like she’d said Purdy was a cute name! She saw Meg and Shelly stifling laughs.

‘I, I mean the honey. “Minding Our Bees’ Nests”‘,’ she added hastily, adding too many Ss at the end. She had a bit of a lisp, which seemed to be getting worse in the past couple of years (she’d even wondered if her tongue had gained weight). But it was a hard combination to say. Suddenly the bottle was in her hand.

‘I hope you enjoy it, uh…uh, ma’am,’ Purdy said kindly.

‘Yum,’ said C.C., setting the honey down close to her. Was he asking for her name again? It would be so embarrassing if she gave it to him, and it wasn’t what he was stuttering about. She felt like she was thirteen! But Purdy nodded and, if she wasn’t mistaken, gave a slight wink. Not in a flirty way, C.C. was sure. Just excited about his honey. She was glad she hadn’t blurted out her name.

He gestured toward the pan, still steaming on the table. ‘Lemme know what you think. That’s my own cornbread recipe. Secret ingredient.’

C.C. feigned adjusting the band of her watch.

‘Just wave if you need anything,’ said Purdy.

C.C. nodded without looking up, not until she heard the other two say thank you and Purdy’s footsteps heading off.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Shelly. ‘My, my. My, my, my, my, my!’ She lifted her mug toward C.C. ‘Ya still got it, babe!’ Meg giggled and lifted her mug too, clinking against Shelly’s. C.C. felt herself turning about four shades of red as the two intertwined arms and gave each other doe eyes, then sipped their drinks.

‘Oh, now, stop that. What!’ They were just being silly. What man would choose to flirt with her over the other two? Of course he wasn’t flirting. He was just…odd, frankly. And he just really believed in his honey. And cornbread. She shook her head dismissively and sipped her drink. ‘Wow! These puppies are strong,’ she said, desperate to change the subject. Shelly and Meg both set their mugs on the table, doe eyes gone, puzzlement in their place.

‘Mine sure isn’t. Is yours?’ Shelly asked Meg.

Meg shook her head. ‘No. In fact, I was just going to say that I’m not sure there’s any kick in there at all. It’s good coffee and all, but—’

C.C. shoved her mug across the table. ‘Here. Taste this.’

Meg took a sip, recoiled. ‘Holy cow!’ She handed it to Shelly.

Shelly sipped, then slapped the table. ‘Hee-heeee! Either he’s trying to get you drunk on your first date or he’s so distracted by your beauty that he poured all three shots of booze into your mug!’

‘Oh, please. You’re nuts, Shelly,’ said C.C., batting the air between them dismissively, and trying hard not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

‘No, I think she’s right,’ whispered Meg, leaning in, smiling. ‘The man is obviously smitten.’

‘And you’re the kitten with whom he’s smitten!’ said Shelly, too loudly.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed both Meg and C.C. Shelly slapped her hand over her mouth, but snickered underneath it. Removing her hand, she turned to Meg, whispering now, but with just as much animation. ‘Hey! I guess we each get our own bed tonight if Purdy makes his move on C.C.’

C.C. kicked her under the table, feeling Meg’s foot doing the same.

‘Ow! OWW!’ yelped Shelly.

‘I’m not you, Shelly,’ said C.C. ‘I don’t sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Now, give me your mugs.’ She poured the three drinks back and forth from mug to mug, till they were mixed, giving the lion’s share to Meg and Shelly. She figured she was several sips ahead of them. She pushed their mugs across the table. ‘Besides, I’m sure it was just an accident. The booze, I mean.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Shelly. ‘An accident caused by your bewitching beauty.’ Grinning, Shelly served them each a thick slice of the cornbread.

C.C. couldn’t help the small smile that slipped across her own lips. Could it be? Really? She hadn’t had a man flirt with her in a long time, maybe even since…When? High school? Lenny had certainly not been the flirty type. She wondered if he had ever flirted with her. Surely he must have when they’d met. But for three years he was just the guy at Byrd and Franholz, doing her taxes. Unless asking if she had a receipt for the high-school band wreath she’d bought was flirting. Come to think of it, his laborious explanation had grown longer and more cumbersome each year: that she ‘could only deduct the amount over the cost of an average Christmas wreath because the wreath itself was considered a benefit of having bought the wreath and only the remainder could be considered a charitable deduction to the band’. Was that flirting? She’d thought at the time, and still thought, that if a tax guy wanted to impress a girl he probably shouldn’t even tell her that he was a tax guy, much less go on and on about the tax code. But from the beginning, Lenny was always polite, albeit quiet, and somewhat narrowly focused. If he was reading an article in a magazine, she could walk into the room naked, with a bowl of fruit on her head, and he would not notice. And that wasn’t just a guess; she had tried it. But when he was focused on her, it was all about her. And Len didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, unlike her first husband, Billy, whose entire skeletal system was the lying bone connected to the deceitful bone connected to the cockamamie bone (Shelly would say ‘the bullshit’ bone). There had been something so fresh and clean and, all right, maybe boring, about Lenny. But thank God by the time he’d gathered his courage to ask her out, she’d gotten past the stage in her life when she found ‘bad boys’ attractive. (Kathryn was still in that phase, she thought morosely, picturing Jordan.) But C.C. had been much younger than Kathryn was now when she’d finally learned that hard-won lesson, that the other side of a dull, black piece of glass was the shiny, beautifully reflective mirror. The flip side of boring was sincerity. Right after Lenny’s third explanation about the band wreath, on his third year of doing her taxes, after he’d spent ten minutes telling her about 501Cs and benefit versus cost versus donation, he had nervously asked her out. Six months later, she’d become Mrs Leonard Byrd.

Now Billy, on the other hand, was a world-class flirt. He was a charmer, that boy. A constant flirt. And what good had come of that, in the end? None. None at all. Except Kathryn, of course. Who had Billy’s genes, but Lenny’s fathering.

C.C. finished her drink and took another slice of cornbread from Shelly, and the honey from Meg.

But this man–Purdy. Was it his first name, she wondered. He was just being kind to them. All of them. And even if he had sort of singled her out, and even if she did find him charming, jumpiness notwithstanding, what could possibly come of it? They’d be back on the road tomorrow, gone for good, heading south again.

She stared at her breasts. Heading south, indeed. Shelly and Meg must be wrong about Purdy. If he was looking for a woman to–well, date–he would certainly be more attracted to one of them, not her. Meg was almost eight years older than she was, but Meg was so trim and petite, an impeccable dresser, right out of J. Crew. And perky breasts, too. Even though she was too thin now, and her hair mostly gray. But it was an attractive silver on her. And Shelly, so funny and wild and seductive, with her sexy thick, red hair, though now with that troubling gray, unlike Meg’s attractive silvery hair. Back in the day, a man might have preferred C.C., when she was young, blonde and her body unaltered by either calories or gravity. But what man would be attracted to her now? Maybe a dairy farmer. She was a cow. She stared at her hands, her chubby fingers, especially her left ring finger. The indentation from her wedding ring still deep. She’d removed the ring not because she was a widow, or because it ‘was time’, but rather because she’d gained so much weight that she was worried they’d have to cut it off her.

She sighed, picked up the bottle, and squeezed a generous stream of cinnamon honey back and forth over her second slice of cornbread.

After they’d finished all the bread (they agreed, it was exceptional, deep and nutty-tasting, especially good with the honey), they’d decided to go ahead and order dinner, then get to bed early. C.C. stared at her menu: Meatloaf? Fried chicken? Maybe chicken fried steak.

‘Ahem.’

She looked up. Mick stood at their table. He’d pulled off his grease-stained cap, holding it to his chest, as if about to deliver a eulogy. ‘Evenin’, ladies.’ All three women put down their menus. ‘Well, I’ve got good news and bad news’. The good news is it’s just the alternator. Oh. And battery. I tested it and it’s pretty low on juice. If I was you, I’d replace it too. ‘Specially before a road trip. Now, it’s easy enough t’plop another of each in there. But the bad news is that I don’t have the right kind of alternator in stock. That’s a pretty old model car you got there. But the other good news is that I found one in Sash County, and it’ll be here tomorrow morning first thing. I can prolly get you ladies on the road again before noon. You’re headed down south, right? Kentucky?’

‘Uh, Tennessee,’ said Meg. ‘Can you tell us about how much this will cost?’

‘Well, I’m gonna give you the battery and alternator at cost, and a discount on the labor.’ He put his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Dad’s orders.’ They all glanced at Purdy, who, his complexion suddenly ruddier than ever, was wiping a spot on the wooden bar with such vigor one would think he held sandpaper, not a clean white towel. Then he disappeared below the counter, and they heard glassware being moved around.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely of him!’ said Shelly, clasping her hands together and grinning. Meg discreetly smiled at C.C. C.C. fidgeted with her watch again.

‘So, it’ll be around two fifty, maybe three,’ said Mick. ‘I’ll have to pay Kirby for bringing it over here.’

The levity was suddenly gone from the table. C.C. added it up in her head: that plus the motel bill would wipe out most of what they’d allotted for their entire travel budget to Tennessee. They’d each pooled all they felt they could afford to the Dogs’ Wood Investment Group, the name they’d given themselves, and had agreed to scrimp and save so that they could afford materials and the unexpected. They hadn’t planned on the un expected being the first day of their trip.

This was another sign. This trip was a mistake. They should probably just head back home, once the car was fixed. C.C. hung her head. The other two wouldn’t be in this mess if not for her.

‘Well, if you ladies will excuse me now,’ said Mick. ‘I gotta get Joe Spurn’s truck off the blocks.’ He nodded to one then the next, bobbing his head like a pigeon. ‘G’night, ma’am. Ma’am. Ma’am.’ He put his cap back on, pulling it snug with both hands before he turned and walked away. C.C. watched as he reached up and held the little bell quiet as he opened and closed the door.

Feeling adrift, C.C. looked at her friends. Shelly was pulling little bits off her paper napkin, already a small pile forming on her bread plate. Meg looked like she might burst into tears again. Poor Meg. She couldn’t control the breakdowns yet. But she would. Eventually. It was only recently that C.C. trusted herself not to break down in public. Right after Lenny died she couldn’t even speak, much less go out. It had taken weeks before she did anything besides go to the grocery store. And here Meg was, ‘the event’ still so recent, and she was on a road trip, of all things. In a way, Grant leaving was worse than Lenny dying. Grant had made a choice to leave Meg. Lenny had simply been called by God. Though she had doubted many times, C.C. still preferred to think there was some sort of intention somewhere in the universe. If not God, then…C.C. sighed. Something. Surely there had to be something.

She looked up, waved at Purdy till she got his attention, circling her finger around the table and lifting her mug. Purdy nodded, grinned, and bustled into action behind the bar.

‘This round’s on me,’ she said to her friends, her mug still in the air. ‘I’m sorry. I got us into this mess.’ As she said ‘mess’, she gestured broadly with the mug, which slipped from her grasp, and shattered on the hard floor.

‘DOWN!’

C.C. looked up, her heart pounding, first from the mug breaking, then from the shout. Purdy was cowering on the floor, at the end of the bar, his dishtowel wadded and held protectively near his head. Nobody moved for several seconds. Purdy suddenly stood, red-faced, and rapidly disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door.

C.C. had thought he was yelling at her. But clearly he was not. Still, she felt the heat of embarrassment. Then confusion.

‘Wow. What do you suppose that was about?’ asked Shelly.

Meg looked wan, said nothing. C.C. stared at the black, swinging kitchen door, then at the jagged pieces of mug littering the floor. ‘We should just turn around, go home. This is another very bad omen.’

‘C.C!’ Shelly and Meg said in unison.

‘Well, it is! Look, I did get us into this. When I inherited Aunt Georgie’s old house, I was just going to sell it, you know, just get rid of it, take that pittance the real-estate agent was offering and be done with it. But then Shelly told me about flip investments, and, then, well, Meg’s situation and all…’ C.C. hesitated, then went ahead and said it: ‘Well, it just seemed like a sign, like maybe we could all finally really do the Great Escape. I thought it’d be fun, all of us getting away, work on the house together, maybe all make a little money on it…’ Her voice trailed off. Quietly, she added, ‘But so far, it’s just costing us.’

The kitchen door flapped open again. Purdy was walking slowly toward them with a broom and dustpan. He didn’t look at them as he squatted and began to sweep up the pieces.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said C.C., scooting to the edge of the bench. ‘Here, let me do that. And, of course, please put it on our bill.’

‘No, no,’ he said gently, but keeping his head down. ‘It’s really okay. Doesn’t matter. These are…ancient.’ He rose, staring at the dustpan filled with mug pieces. He turned and walked back to the kitchen, his steps tight and uncertain.

C.C. watched him go, feeling at an utter loss in a way she didn’t quite understand. She was always interested in people’s stories, whether she knew them or not. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know this man’s story. She was pretty sure, whatever it was, it was a sad one.

‘Well, I’m the one who told you about the whole flip thing,’ said Shelly. ‘So really, it’s because of me that we’re even here.’

‘Look,’ said Meg, with a resolve that C.C. hadn’t heard in a while, ‘the only extra to all of us is going to be the motel. It’s my car, so it’s my repair bill. Plus, if I hadn’t wanted to do that little detour onto that country road, we would be farther along by now.’

C.C. opened her mouth to object, but Meg raised her palm, again surprising C.C.

‘The alternator and battery didn’t go out just because we’re on this trip. They went out because they were old, used up. If I’d been driving around Wisataukee, a block from my house, they still would have gone out.’

‘Well, then, I agree with Shelly,’ said C.C. ‘It’s all her fault.’ She playfully stuck her tongue out at Shelly.

Shelly laughed and put her finger on her chest. ‘Yeah. And I’ll take the credit when we all make a tidy little profit on the deal when we’re done. C’mon, show us the pictures again. That’ll lift our spirits, seeing the old cash cow.’

Even Meg smiled. But C.C. laughed. Where her own drug of choice was food, Shelly’s was money: her moods went up and down with her financial bottom line. She had done well as a real-estate agent, and then better, doing flips and small development projects. But she’d gone into a real depression–of every kind-when that big development deal went south.

C.C. gasped. There was that phrase again. It had to be an omen! But she didn’t know if it was a good one or a bad one. It didn’t seem great at the moment.

‘C’mon! You have that little picture book with you, don’t you?’ prodded Shelly, slapping the table lightly.

C.C. nodded. She opened her huge purse and pulled out a small, white vinyl album with a clear plastic pocket on the front. Before they’d left, she’d placed her wedding present from Lenny in the pocket: a necklace, a tiny, gold horseshoe with dots of green peridot stones set within, on a fine, gold chain. She trusted it: all the confusion and upheaval of her life had seemed to settle right down, everything falling into place, after she’d married Lenny. She touched it now, tenderly, with just her index finger. Then she thought about the car breaking down, the rift between herself and Kathryn, Grant leaving poor Meg like that, Shelly’s money woes. She pulled the necklace out and swung it around the table, as if it were a thurible, closing her eyes and silently saying as much of the prayer for travelers (which she’d found on the internet the day before) as she could remember, which was not much. Something about angels flying with them, protecting them.

‘For luck,’ she said, when she opened her eyes and found Meg and Shelly staring at her.

She poked the necklace back into the pocket, and placed the album sideways in the middle of the table so they could all see. She opened the cover slowly, her heart opening in its own way, right along with it. Meg and Shelly both turned, as did she, the better to see the pictures. The first page contained an old four-inch-by-four-inch black and white photo with scalloped white edges, pulled from her mother’s old photo album. C.C. thought that in black and white the house looked even more stately than in the later, color pictures. Or maybe it was just that the photo was old, taken in a time when the house had been maintained. She flipped the page to one that showed the expansive front lawn, in which three dogwoods, each heavily laden with blossoms, stood evenly spaced. She remembered planting those with Aunt Georgie, the weekend after the funerals. One each for her mother, her father and her sister. The dogwood had been her mother’s favorite flower. Aunt Georgie had referred to the house as Dogs’ Wood ever after, even having stationery made with that name in the address.

The picture was too small to see them clearly, but C.C. knew that between two of the trees stood a small dark metal statue of a dog with a ring in its mouth, and between the other two, a stone birdbath. An old Thunderbird four-seater was parked on the dirt street in front. C.C. touched the edge of the picture. The car had been her mother’s, and, like everything else, including C.C. herself, had been bequeathed to Georgie. Her mother had told some wild stories about her escapades with Georgie in that car. Both C.C. and her sister, Theresa, had loved her mother’s stories, especially while poring over the old photo albums with her, leaning against her on the big settee, like bookends, C.C.’s knees covered demurely by her skirt, her bobby-socked feet tucked neatly under her, Theresa’s knees worn through her dirty jeans, her bare feet on the coffee table, till Momma swatted them off. And they each had their favorite stories. ‘Tell us the story about your wedding dress!’ C.C. would beg. ‘No! Tell us about when you made Aunt Georgie climb a tree to get the bowl of butter and sugar!’ Their mother had often said about her two girls that they were like two acorns falling from an oak: if they had landed in the same place they’d grow up in each other’s shade, neither one becoming all she was meant to be. ‘Nature knows what she’s doing,’ she’d said, ‘and that’s why you’re so different!’ ‘Like you and Aunt Georgie,’ Theresa would point out, and Momma would smile and nod.

And different they were, and it made for a good balance. Occasionally the girls would argue, but mostly they adored each other, each accepting her sister’s different interests. Theresa would protect C.C. any time a bully threatened. C.C. did Theresa’s makeup for her when she finally relented and said she’d go to the formal dance with Jerry Happ. That had been Theresa’s last date. It was no wonder that C.C. had married Billy so young–too young and too quick–longing to recreate the family she’d lost. C.C. flipped the page.

As the pages turned, the decades flew by, the pictures changing to color. Some of the recent ones had been sent digitally by the estate attorney in Fleurville. Toward the end of the book a grainy and too-yellow color print she’d made when her color cartridge was low, showed the house from the front again. The graceful veranda, with its white slatted railing, had always made the young C.C. think of a toothy smile, the dormers on the roof, shining eyes. Now the smile was missing a few teeth, and the eyes were shut by blinds. Strips of the blue paint peeled in several places, and the white trim seemed dirty and worn. Weeds were marching in on every side of the porch, as if ready to climb on up and enter the house itself.

‘It’s got great bones, C.C.,’ Shelly said again, as she had said months ago on first seeing the pictures. ‘It’ll be an absolute gem. We’ll get a good price for it, once we spiff it up. You’ll see.’

‘I am so looking forward to seeing this place in person,’ said Meg. ‘After all the stories I’ve heard about it over the years. Especially about you and Theresa.’ C.C. reached across the table and took her hand. Dear Meg. Meg was like her sister, in many ways. In fact, C.C. had first met Meg on Theresa’s birthday, an omen to be sure. It was when she worked for Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee. C.C. smiled, remembering. She’d loved the job, greeting new arrivals to town, giving them maps, and samples and coupons from local businesses. And her boss had been very accommodating about giving her only homes on the bus route. But Meg’s driveway was so long, and carrying that big basket of goodies had her pretty much winded by the time she knocked on the door. Meg opened it just a crack at first, looking fearful. (Meg later told her it was because she was afraid that C.C. was a Jehovah’s Witness or something.) When C.C. introduced herself as the Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee woman, Meg looked amused and relieved. Her first words to C.C. were, ‘Nice alliteration. Come on in.’ They liked to say it was ‘friends at first sight’.

But Meg had actually met Shelly first. She’d been their real-estate agent–hers and Grant’s. Meg had invited both C.C. and Shelly to brunch not long after meeting C.C., and brunch had lasted all day, with a walk in the woods, and then drinks on the patio, then dinner. The Trio, as they’d christened themselves, was born.

C.C. flipped the last page of the album. To the only picture not of Dogs’ Wood. She’d stuck this one in mere hours ago, a sudden inspiration, just before they’d picked her up from her house. Meg and Shelly hadn’t seen it yet. At least not in a long time. She twisted it fully toward them.

‘Ohhh…’ said Meg, her eyes filling immediately.

Even Shelly’s face softened. ‘Damn. Look how young we were,’ she said. She covered her pile of shredded napkin protectively with her cupped palm.

‘Cept I look beat from that damn hike you two dragged me on!’ said C.C., forcing a smile. No one spoke.

‘Grant took this picture of us,’ Meg said finally, her voice barely audible.

In the photo, their beaming, sunburned faces nearly matched the Bloody Marys in their raised glasses. Their free arms rested over another’s shoulders, an ease and comfort and comraderie already evident. Each face was animated, lips forming words in unison. It had been the first of many times they’d raised their glasses and lustily toasted, ‘To friendship!’

Purdy arrived at their table and set the tray down with the new round, just as the bell on the restaurant door jingled again. He seemed to grit his teeth, but continued quickly handing out new napkins, followed by their drinks on top.

‘Again,’ said C.C., ‘I’m so sorry about the mug. Please let me reimburse—’

He lowered his eyes, shook his head, said softly, ‘Ma’am–C.C. It’s okay. Really.’

‘Well, thank you. And thank you for that delicious cornbread! That was about the best I’ve ever had. And that’s saying something, from a southerner!’ Without even thinking about it, she touched his forearm lightly with her fingertips as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you ever share that secret ingredient?’ When he finally looked at her, she smiled. And he did. His eyes stayed on hers, just a few seconds, but some considerable something passed between them. He hadn’t answered her about the ingredient, but his eyes spoke to her somehow.

As he walked away, C.C. was taken hold by a sudden, unbidden memory, but it came very clearly. It was a day bus tour she and Lenny had taken, just a few years ago. To see fall colors. It was late afternoon and they were headed home, when the bus passed a terrible accident, just as emergency personnel were arriving. Had they been moments earlier, the bus would have been involved. As they were directed slowly past the smoking wreckage, C.C. had quickly turned her head away from the window. When she did, she saw a man across the aisle looking past her, out the window. Then he too looked away, and their eyes met, very briefly. At the terminal, they’d all silently disembarked, and she and Lenny flowed into the mass migration into the station. Later, as they headed out of the terminal, the man from the bus walked past them, the opposite direction. Their eyes met again, locked, a mere second. They’d said nothing, but C.C. knew right away that in both their eyes were the words: ‘We’re alive. We’re alive.’

She watched Purdy talking to a very old woman, helping her to a small table in the middle of the restaurant. The old woman said something and they both laughed. He seemed like such a nice man. Yet, there was something about him that gave C.C. a certain unease.

‘Ceece? You okay?’ Shelly was snapping her fingers, mid-air. She and Meg were both looking at her.

C.C. nodded, picked up her mug, raised it toward the middle of the table. The other two lifted their mugs. ‘Here’s to the Great Escape, and–’ in unison, they added–‘to friendship,’ with a tender clink of their mugs.

CHAPTER FOUR Shelly

Shelly pulled the pillow into a tight crescent around her ears, willing herself back to her dream, uncertain what had woken her. She’d been dreaming something about a castle. In England? Ireland? She couldn’t remember, but it was fabulous–gold faucets, jeweled chandeliers, thick, pillowy beds with equally thick and pillowy comforters, huge colorful rugs across vast stone floors. She drifted back, sliding into sleep again like Alice down the rabbit hole. What a beautiful room! A living room, or maybe a library. For a giant. Huge brocade couches and massive French wingback chairs, all with thick, carved figures in their wood trim, leather-spined books floor to ceiling on the back wall, the furniture circling a roaring fire in a fireplace so big you could park a small car in it. She stepped around the huge, high-backed chair, easily three times her height. Startled, she jumped backward, stumbling. A giant chicken was sitting in the chair, roosting on an enormous egg. Shelly immediately wanted that egg. She couldn’t help herself. She knew she shouldn’t, knew that this gargantuan bird could really hurt her, peck her to death, or get its claws into her hair, carry her off to its lair. But she was driven by an uncontrollable urge. The chicken crowed. Could hens crow, dream-Shelly wondered, despite her fear. Her heart racing, she stepped toward the chicken, wanting desperately to retreat but feeling possessed. She reached for the egg. The chicken screamed at her, wings flapping, feathers flying. As she jumped back again, she screamed, but no sound came out. All she could hear was the chicken crowing as she fell into blackness.

Her eyes jerked open. Her fingers dug into the mattress. She was caught in the tug of war between dream and adrenalin, both pulling her hard to their reality. Adrenalin won. Her heart pounding, she glanced left and right in the dark room. Nothing looked familiar. Finally, she made out the other bed, Meg and C.C. asleep in it. A loud staccato crowing from outside their window broke the dark morning stillness.

Shelly took a moment to wade mentally through the webby remnants of sleep, weighing what was dream, what was real. Finally, she muttered, ‘Is that a fucking rooster?’

Somehow, neither the rooster nor her mumbling woke her friends. How she envied their ability to sleep so deeply! She untangled herself from the twisted bedcovers, threw them off and stood, stretching her hands over her head, then rubbing her upper arms vigorously, urging some blood to start circulating through her body. She looked at the red numbers of the digital clock on the bedside table: 5.18. Shit. No normal person should be awake at this hour. She lifted just the edge of the orange window curtain and peered out.

The sun had little more than peeked above the eastern horizon, just enough to streak the few clouds in the sky with shades of purple and pink, casting a hoary light upon the town. Down the road a bit, Shelly saw something moving. It wobbled into a yellow-orange circle of light from a lone streetlamp. A rooster. How fucking bucolic! He was strutting down the dirt road, as officious as a rabbi headed to temple. He stopped, ruffled his wings slightly in the light, as if spotlit on a stage. He pointed his beak skyward and let loose again. She would have laughed if she hadn’t shuddered. He was nearly exactly in the middle of the circle of light. She surmised that he must have come from the other direction, worked his way past their window, and on down the street. He finished his crow in the spotlight, and strutted off again, same direction. Still holding the corner of the ugly curtain, she wondered if maybe it was his job, waking up the town. That he’d worked out some sort of deal with the Tupper officials that he would walk down Main Street (which, frankly, she was surprised wasn’t called Purdy Street) and wake everyone up in exchange for–what? Maybe for being fed and not eaten. And maybe let into the coop with the hens every now and then. Shelly’s lip curled as she took a last look at the bird, then shuddered again, as if she’d just swallowed down a particularly vile substance. Birds of all kinds gave her the willies.

She sat heavily back on the edge of the bed, rubbed her face, collapsed sideways onto her pillow. She ached with fatigue. Or cold. Or age. Fifty was not old, Shelly knew (she’d been fifty for almost three years now), and she had spent a lot of breath reminding her two friends of that fact, who you’d think had one foot in the grave the way they complained about their age. Meg was only two years older than she, C.C. was only forty-nine. In Shelly’s opinion, it was a bit of a cop-out to succumb to the minor aches and pains of middle age. Wait till old age. There’d be plenty of time for complaining then.

Shelly closed her eyes, but sleep was gone, so she opened them, stared upward. C.C.’s nightlight (so she could find the bathroom) provided just enough of a glow for Shelly to make out the brown water stain on one of the ceiling panels above her. She stared at it for a minute, its dark brown edges making her crave a cup of coffee. She looked over at Meg and C.C., still and silent in their bed. They’d said they wanted to share a bed and gotten no argument from her. She knew they were being generous. They were well aware of her need to sleep alone. It was hard enough for her to share a room, let alone a bed. Even with men. Especially with men. Men made too damn much noise at night–snoring, sputtering, farting. Breathing. Then they woke up at some ungodly hour, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, snuggling up and grabbing her, ready for some more action, right when she felt like she’d finally just gotten to sleep. No, sir. It’d been years since she’d allowed a man to spend the night in her room. Down the hall, maybe. Better they should go to their own home and sleep. After her second divorce she’d vowed she would remain single and not even cohabit for the remainder of her life. That had been the one vow she’d kept. That, and not speaking to Nina.

Shelly sat up again, looking at her friends. She shook her head in dismay. They were both on their backs, C.C.’s hands neatly on the fold of the sheet over the blanket on her protruding chest, fingertips over fingertips, as if she’d been posed by a mortician. Meg was also on her back, but her hands and arms were under the covers. Probably cold. The poor thing had no meat on her bones anymore. On the table next to Meg’s head was an envelope addressed to Grant, at their house. Meg must have written it last night. Yet another letter to the asshole.

Shelly sighed, gazing at her friends. They looked like two pens in an engineer’s pocket protector, both of them trained by years of habit to sleep in exactly one-half of the bed. Or less.

Not her, by God. Not Rochelle Hannah Kostens. Never again. She flopped back on her bed, spread-eagled, taking up the whole bed, just because she could.

Twenty minutes later, showered, her curly hair (‘salt and cayenne pepper’, she called it) pulled back in a short ponytail, her face without makeup, Shelly stepped out into the buttery morning light. The clean smell of moist earth and the slow unfurling of spring made her inhale twice, deeply, relishing the scent of possibility. She admired the sky: the clouds were gone and that dusky blue of dawn, not night but not yet day, domed the earth. She checked her watch: 5.56. She had asked Purdy last night when he would open the restaurant for breakfast; she did not like to wait long for that first cup of coffee. ‘Six a.m. sharp, ma’am. Coffee’ll be fresh-brewed at six a.m.’

She strode down the street, watching for the rooster, not wanting it to sneak up behind her and crow. She didn’t see the bird anywhere but walked faster, feeling like she could be attacked by uncooked poultry at any moment. Her distaste for birds came, like so many things, from her youth. (Funny, she thought, how more and more years now qualified as ‘her youth’.) But she really had been young when the Tweety Incident happened. She was ten, at her friend Rachel’s house. Rachel had a new parakeet she’d rather uncreatively named Tweety. Extolling his many virtues, Rachel had coaxed Tweety out of his cage onto her finger, then onto Shelly’s shoulder. At first, Shelly, though nervous, was charmed. Then Tweety pooped a dribbly grayish blob onto her new green shirt. Shelly screamed and Tweety tried to take flight but became momentarily tangled in her long, curly hair. In her preadolescent panic, her brain locked up and all she could think of was the fire-safety lesson they’d all received at school the day before. So she’d stopped, dropped and rolled, with Tweety flapping madly to free himself through the stop, drop and half the roll. In the nick of time, he liberated himself from Shelly’s long locks and flew around the kitchen vocalizing his outrage as Shelly continued to roll. Tweety was completely unharmed. Shelly was not so lucky. She rolled into the corner cabinet of the Gold-mans’ brand-new kitchen island and cut her forehead, requiring three stitches. After that day, Tweety squawked loudly every time he saw Shelly, till Rachel fed him a bird cookie of some sort to calm him down. Shelly felt she deserved a cookie, not the damn bird. But all she’d gotten from the incident was a scar on her forehead, the humiliating nickname of ‘Drop and Roll’, which lasted all through junior high school, and a phobia for birds that had lasted her whole life.

Shelly quickened her pace down the road into a near-jog, till she came to a white clapboard house. She slowed, caught by its simplicity. It was a little box of a house, with a small cement front stoop, two aluminum lawn chairs on it, their webbing frayed and stringy. A thigh-high, white picket fence rimmed the tiny side and front yards. The ordinariness of the house was somehow extraordinary.

She strode on past two more houses and a one-pump gas station with an unmoving white and red barber pole outside the door. Funny little town, she thought. Not much to it. But thankfully, everything they’d needed yesterday after they’d broken down: a mechanic, a restaurant, an inexpensive but safe place to spend the night. And if any of them were interested in a quick trim, she wagered they could get it while someone filled their gas tank. She wondered what a haircut at the barbershop-cum-gas station might cost. Probably ten or fifteen bucks. Maybe less. A little thrill rippled through her, immediately followed by a horrific image of what a ten-dollar haircut might look like. She’d always gone to the most expensive hair salon in Cedar Rapids, just because she could afford it. She made a little ‘tsk’ sound. It pained her again to have to think about what everything cost. Like when she was in college or something, for crying out loud. She thought wistfully of her gleaming Italian espresso machine, enough to make any barista drool, and the imported biscotti she had nearly every morning with her first cup. Like so many other things, the machine had been sold, the standing biscotti order cancelled. She jerked open the big glass door to the restaurant, feeling angry about life in general, and birds and budgets in particular.

‘Good morning, ma’am,’ Purdy said, seeming to hold himself and the coffee pot in his left hand with undue grip as the little bell announced her entry. The aroma of coffee all but physically embraced her. Purdy was already pouring a cup, which he then offered to her, smiling. ‘You slept well, I hope?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it, mustering a smile, leaving it at that. He seemed like a genuinely nice man, but if that little bell bothered him so much, why didn’t he just take it down? ‘You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this.’ She took a sip. ‘Ahhh,’ she said, eyes closed. Yes, she would make it.

That’s how coffee always made her feel, especially lately. That caffeine alone would somehow propel her through one more day. There was no doubt that this was a drug, and she was addicted. Her new ‘budget’ (thinking the word nearly made her gag on her coffee) demanded that she forgo the double-shot lattes she’d grown accustomed to.

Still standing next to Purdy, she cupped both her hands around the mug, sipped again, and gave another satisfied sigh. She had to admit, there was something to be said for a regular cup of coffee. And in a ceramic mug, not a paper cup with a plastic lid. ‘That’s pretty good Java, Purdy.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He had the most adorable smile. If smiles could be marketed, she could make some money on his.

‘I’m Shelly,’ she said, extending her hand.

He switched the coffee pot to his other hand, shook hers, gripping her whole hand, but gently. Old school. ‘Good morning, Shelly. Do you want to wait for your friends, or…?’

‘They’re both still asleep.’

He looked slightly crestfallen, but recovered quickly, then pointed to the wall. ‘Booth?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ She slid into the same booth from dinner. Purdy, thankfully, stayed behind the bar. She needed a minute. She sipped her coffee, then picked up a menu. Grits. Yuk. Who ate corn mush for breakfast? She read on. Bacon and eggs. Waffles. Pancakes. French toast. C.C. would be in hog heaven here. But Meg was going to have a hard time. Let’s see…Shelly scanned the columns, found there was both a fruit bowl and cereal listed under ‘Side Dishes’. She doubted Purdy had soy milk to go on Meg’s bran flakes, but Meg would probably just peck at whatever food she ordered anyway.

Ahh. Lookee there, also under ‘Side Dishes’. Perfect. She set the menu down and suddenly Purdy appeared tableside, bearing the coffee pot. He was good. Been at this a while, no doubt.

‘And what can I bring you this morning?’ he asked as he refilled her mug.

‘You know, Purdy, a lightly toasted bagel with a shmear, uh, cream cheese, would absolutely light up my life right now.’

‘So be it! The light-up-your-life bagel with cream cheese.’

She wanted to reach up and pinch those bulbous, cherry cheeks. With his belly, and those big graying eyebrows, if he just had a beard and wasn’t bald, he’d make a perfect Santa. But he could grow a beard, wear a hat…

Purdy headed to the kitchen, leaving Shelly thinking about Santa. And suddenly she was thinking about Nina again. She had battled this in the car yesterday too. She knew why, though she tried to forget it. It had been her one reservation about coming on this trip. She sipped her coffee. As long as she kept her mouth shut, didn’t let anything slip to Meg and C.C., she could deal with it. But every thought of Nina stirred that deep well of anger, grown black and thick and viscous after so many years. Talking about it would be that much worse. She picked up the menu and read every word on it till her bagel arrived.

She was washing the last bite of bagel down with her third cup of coffee, when the black wall phone at the bar jangled loudly, an old-fashioned ring. Shelly noted curiously that Purdy didn’t seem so jumpy today. He strolled over and picked it up. Being the only two in the place, Shelly couldn’t help but listen.

‘Purdy here. Mornin’, son. Yes. Well, one of them is. Why?’ He glanced her way. She watched Purdy’s face registering confusion. ‘Wait. Who?’ Another long pause. ‘From where?’ Pause. ‘Kirby? Well, where’d he come across her?’ Pause. ‘Well, how’d she get there?. Never mind, I’ll just have Shelly come over.’ Another short pause, then Purdy turned toward the wall and added quietly, ‘No. She’s the tall, redheaded one. No. She’s not up yet.’ He turned, more red-faced than ever and clapped the phone back onto the wall base. Shelly picked up her menu again, using it to hide her smile.

Purdy walked back to the booth. ‘My son asked that one of you ladies come over as soon as you can. The part’s already been delivered and the guy who brought it, well, he somehow…eh, something about a runaway? Not sure what it all has to do with the alternator.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Well, I’d better let Mick explain it. I don’t understand, myself.’ He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and smiled his adorable smile again.

Intrigued, Shelly paid for her breakfast–they were keeping their food separate, but splitting all other bills–then headed out the door, the sound of the tinkling bell in her wake. She fished her large, white sunglasses out of her purse, squinting in the bright light till she had them in place. She unzipped her jacket as she walked across the road. It was warming up nicely. She passed another little Mayberryesque house as she walked toward the mechanic shop. But Mayberry turned Hitchcock as she passed by several rusting hulks of cars, and heard a soft but distinct clucking sound from somewhere within. Shelly quickened her stride, then, hearing or imagining little chicken feet pounding the road behind her, she began running to the door of the shop.

On the side window, as if it was a separate business, were letters too big to miss even at a chicken-escaping pace: ‘Mick’s Auto Sales’. As she rounded the corner, and reached for the big metal handle of the door, she saw there were different letters there. Not as large but bolder, as if that, in and of itself, delineated it as a separate business: ‘Mick’s Garage–Mechanic 24 Hr’. Shelly flung open the heavy glass door and almost leaped inside, glancing behind her. No bird. Still, only when the door closed and she felt she was safe did she turn and notice Mick, intently tapping away with two fingers at an old and very dirty computer on a battered wood desk. Shelly smiled, smoothed her hair, composed herself, trying to resemble a woman who hadn’t just been fleeing a chicken. Or rooster. Or whatever the hell it was.

She stood smiling, both her hands gripping the strap of her purse, hanging over her shoulder. She waited. Mick continued hunting and pecking with two fingers on the grimy keyboard, intent and focused. She hoped whatever it was he needed to tell them wasn’t bad news. Of course, ‘runaway’ didn’t immediately make one think of good news. But she felt she couldn’t take more bad news. Maybe there was a runaway car that had crashed, not a bad crash where anyone got hurt, but maybe where someone had left the parking brake off and it had slid down the hill and crashed into–something harmless–a dumpster, maybe, and they had been given its alternator to bring their ailing car back to health. Yes. A sort of automobile organ donation. For free. Sure, why not? Shelly was determined to remain optimistic, even implausibly so. Leave the doubt and worry to the other two. They more than had it covered.

Breathing impatiently, she looked out the window. The rooster strutted by, stopping to peck at something in the grass, not five feet from the door. Shelly shivered, turned away from the window and looked for a place to sit down. But the only other furniture in the tiny office, besides Mick’s desk and chair, was an orange plastic chair against the wall, also streaked with grime. She decided she would stand. A sign at the other end of the narrow room caught her eye: the universal man/woman silhouette, thumb-tacked onto the wall next to a closed door. Shelly suddenly felt her three cups of coffee. But, given the lack of cleanliness of the office, she thought it prudent to wait till she got back to their room.

‘Ah-hem,’ she said, tired of waiting. Mick looked up from the keyboard.

He rose, pulling off his cap. ‘Oh! Golly! Sorry. Didn’t see you there. Morning, ma’am.’

‘Good morning,’ said Shelly. ‘Your dad said you wanted to see me. Or one of us?’

‘Yeah. I got a sorta favor to ask. I wonder if you ladies could give M.J. a ride down south with you?’

Oh crap. No vehicle runaway. No free alternator. Probably some tattooed, preadolescent tart who’d scurried off on a romantic escapade with her much older boyfriend, and now wanted to go home to Momma.

‘No,’ said Shelly firmly, stepping to the desk. ‘I’m sorry but—’

‘Before you say no,’ Mick interrupted. He clicked at the keyboard for a minute, as Shelly cocked her head in irritation, thinking: but I just did say no. ‘Ahh! Here it is! And…’ said Mick, lifting his head and smiling, ‘…there’s some money in it for you ladies.’

Money?

He twisted the screen around toward her. Shelly stared at his email inbox as Mick highlighted then clicked on tailhound@whips4me.com.

Holy shit. Was this from a porn site? Grimly fascinated, Shelly read the email silently.

Hi Kirby and Mick: I got your email about the ladies driving south! That’s fantastic!!!!!! It’s a miracle!!!!! It’s truly God’s work sending those ladies to bring my little girl home to me! now Mary Jo won’t have to fly! fingers crossed!!!! well, obviously she’s terrified to fly!! LOL!!! now she won’t have to!!! I’m lighting candles at church tonight for both of you and for the three ladies and praying that they agree to bring MJ home to me!!! please, please please email or call me as soon as you know for sure!! I’ll let y’all figure out how to split the reward!!

Candy

Shelly stared, open-mouthed, at Mick. She didn’t know where to begin. She didn’t have children herself, but even she could tell that this mother’s screen name was enough to cast her under deep suspicion as an unfit parent. And kids who ran away usually had a reason. Not to mention this woman’s extreme excessive use of exclamation marks. Meg would have a field day with that.

‘How old is this M.J.?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone level, objective-sounding.

‘Uh, I didn’t ask. Does it matter? Can you take her? Please?’

Shelly already had the word ‘No’ formed on her lips again, complete with an exclamation mark of her own, when Mick held up his hand. ‘Wait. Before you answer, just meet her. She’s a sweet girl. She really is. Just scared, is all.’

She’s here? Shelly looked around, then out the window, uncertain what she should do. She could just walk out. But that bird was out there.

‘One second!’ Mick unclipped a set of keys from his belt loop and jogged toward the closed door at the end of the office. ‘I’ve got her locked in the bathroom so she don’t take off again.’

Locked in the bathroom? Forget the ride. Shelly realized they needed to grab this kid and take her as fast as they could to the nearest social services agency.

‘You’ve locked her in the bathroom?’

‘Yep.’ He looked a little sheepish as he put the key in the doorknob and tried to turn it. The key didn’t seem to be working. He jiggled it, pulled it out again, shooting a quick and embarrassed smile at her. ‘Never usually lock this thing, but sometimes it won’t latch tight and I didn’t want to take a chance of her taking off again.’ Finally, he turned the key in the lock.

Shelly put one hand on the side of the desk, steadying herself. C.C. or Meg should be here, she thought, not her. They’re the mothers. She took a deep breath. She was okay with Lucy, but otherwise she didn’t really enjoy children. Especially not teenagers. Especially surly, runaway teenagers. Mick fumbled at the door. Shelly lifted her sunglasses off the top of her head, set them on the desk. She tried to assume what she hoped was a maternal smile. Then she had a thought: if the kid ran away from her mom, maybe maternal wasn’t the way to go here. Maybe her real-estate agent smile would actually be better. She conjured the words ‘pristine’ and ‘move-in condition’ and ‘envy of the neighborhood’, and the smile slid on, natural, inviting, engaging.

Mick slowly cracked the door, standing in front of the opening. ‘Hey, M.J.,’ he said sweetly.

Shelly leaned to the side, trying to see around him, but it was impossible. Until he slowly opened the door wider. Then she saw a very worn-looking teddy bear face down on the floor.

Oh God. It was a little kid! She still couldn’t see her, but this was a whole new ballgame. Mick pushed the door fully open, revealing a small, plastic margarine tub, half full of water under the exposed gooseneck pipe of the sink. Christ! What a place to stash a kid. A little kid! She shook her head, but then noticed a second plastic tub. Filled with…? Cereal, maybe?

Just as the tired synapses of Shelly’s brain tried to process the information, Mick stepped aside. ‘I guess she’s not gonna make a run for it.’

Shelly scanned the little room, but saw no one. She stepped forward, tentatively. Then, she saw her. Hiding behind the toilet, a small, very thin, trembling…

Dog.

Her tired brain, like an old train, slowly but surely picked up steam, and headed through an entirely different information tunnel.

A dog.

Shelly guffawed, her shoulders slumping in relief. ‘It’s a dog!’ The three words echoed joyfully in her head, relief abundant. The dog appeared to be skin and bones, but Shelly thought that it was one of those breeds that looked that way naturally. But it was shaking like a leaf, the poor thing. ‘Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me it was a dog?’ she asked, recovering her equilibrium.

‘I thought Dad did.’ Mick looked at her blankly.

She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No, he sure didn’t. Or if he did, I didn’t catch it. I thought you’d locked some kid up in here!’ She put her hand to her chest, inhaling and exhaling dramatically.

Mick grinned, but his eyes were wide. ‘Cripes! I wouldn’t do that, ma’am. I felt bad enough locking this poor little thing in here. See? I gave her a towel over there for her t’lay on, and my old bear, Mr Snuppy. But she’s still scared silly, poor thing.’

Shelly looked at the dog. ‘What did you say her name is? The dog’s?’

‘M.J. Well, that’s what they call her. She’s got some fancy long name, but I can’t remember it.’

She was kind of pretty, but also kind of ugly, thought Shelly. She had a beautiful charcoal-gray coat, with four white paws, each looking like it had been carefully and exactly dipped into a can of white paint, a matching thin blaze of white down her nose. Her best feature, in Shelly’s opinion, was the tiny white tip on her tail. But she was so skinny, such a wisp of a thing, her features so pointy and bony, from snout to tail, ears to toenails, that she looked like she was only part dog, the rest of her genes contributed by a lanky rat. The poor thing had plastered herself into the corner, her bony narrowness seeming expressly made to fit neatly into a corner. She had the kind of ears that looked as if they were turned inside out, pushed flat against the back of her long, thin neck. She was hiding behind the porcelain pedestal of the toilet, her feet tightly together under her, her tail wrapped securely around them, every part of her quivering, as if she was experiencing her own personal earthquake.

‘C’mere, M.J.’ Mick was squatting now, snapping his fingers lightly, which only made the dog turn her head toward the wall.

Shelly’s heart constricted. Well, maybe they could take this little thing to her owner. Her ‘mother’. Shelly chuckled, shaking her head. Candy wasn’t a porn star! Tailhound, for crying out loud, referred to her love of dogs. Whips4us. Of course! Shelly realized that the dog must be a Whippet. But Shelly’s neighbor in New York had had Whippets, and this dog seemed too small. She wondered if it was a puppy, or maybe there was a sub-breed, Miniature Whippet. Either way, maybe they could help the little dog out. She was sure Meg and C.C., both being gaa-gaa over babies and animals of all kinds, would be willing.

‘So when the suitcase guys finally figured out the kennel door was open, M.J. had skedaddled,’ explained Mick to the assembled group in the restaurant. ‘She was prolly just so scared, she didn’t even know where she was running to. Just ran and ran. Kirby found her in the bushes next to his shop.’

‘Kirby is the guy who brought the alternator,’ Shelly explained to C.C. and Meg.

By the time she and Mick had brought M.J. over to the restaurant, the two women were on their second cups of coffee and just starting in on their breakfasts. As Shelly had guessed, a dinner-plate-sized waffle with an egg on the top, both awash in syrup, for C.C., and a small fruit plate for Meg. Shelly was sitting next to C.C., Meg opposite. Mick and Purdy had each pulled up a chair. C.C. pinched off a tiny corner of her waffle and fed it to M.J., who had been on C.C.’s lap from the moment she’d seen her. ‘Cookie? Yummy!’ C.C. whispered, as the trembling dog tentatively took the treat and ate it.

Shelly continued explaining: ‘So when Mick mentioned to Kirby that the three of us needed to get on the road again as soon as possible because we were headed to Tennessee, Kirby offered to bring the part over himself. He figured he’d found a ride home for M.J.’

‘Kirby’s delivering parts to Coryville today, but says he’ll stop back by for M.J. tonight if you ladies can’t take her,’ said Mick. ‘But if you can, he’s willing to split the reward, sixty-forty, with you ladies getting the bigger half, since you’ll be driving her home. That’d more than cover the cost of the alternator and labor. You’d have half your share left over.’

Shelly caught Meg’s teacher’s grimace at ‘the bigger half’. Meg smiled at being caught, then poked her fork hard into a grape she’d been chasing around her plate. Shelly patted M.J. in C.C.’s lap. The dog was clearly enjoying her perch on C.C.’s ample lap, though Shelly wondered how comfortable she could be in the leash and harness that Mick had fashioned. It appeared he’d used yards of twine, making M.J. look like something on which a very small and very inept cowboy had practiced calf-roping. C.C. held the end of the twine leash tightly in one hand, her fork in the other. No one wanted to take a chance on M.J. running away again. But Shelly winced, looking at the harness. The loops and knots of twine looked scratchy. They would have to stop and buy her a proper harness and leash as soon as they hit civilization again.

‘But how did she get loose in the first place?’ Meg asked.

‘This here explains. Kirby gave me this.’ Mick pulled a neatly folded newspaper clipping from his jumpsuit pocket and smoothed it on the table. As Purdy left to tend to some other customers, Mick read the article aloud.

‘Greyhound Takes Off Ahead of Schedule.’

‘A four-year-old Italian Greyhound [Ah-ha, thought Shelly] dog escaped from her kennel on the tarmac of the Quad City Airport on Saturday afternoon, prior to flying home to Kentucky after a local dog show. The dog, called M.J., but registered under the name of “Mary Josephine Fair Maiden Made-You-Look,” belongs to Candy Suddle of Lexington, Kentucky. Suddle and her dog were returning home after competing in the preliminary rounds of a dog agility competition. The kennel was about to be loaded into the aircraft when employees noticed the dog had somehow escaped. “I checked the door not twenty minutes before that, and she was in there and it was shut tight,” said Javon Cutch, an airline employee who was loading cargo that day for Mid-America Air.’

Mick stopped reading to take a sip of his very white coffee, and then bit into his cheese Danish. Shelly reached for the news clipping, asking, ‘May I?’ Mick nodded, pushing it toward her, and took another slurp of his coffee and another large bite of Danish. Purdy reappeared with the coffee pot, and refilled everyone’s cup, starting with C.C.’s. Shelly continued:

‘Suddle owns both Italian Greyhounds and Whippets, and shows them in various competitions around the country. “I can’t believe this happened,” said Suddle, in a phone interview. “I don’t know how she got out if someone didn’t let her out. The airline didn’t bother to tell me my dog wasn’t on the flight till we landed in Lexington.” Suddle said she is considering a lawsuit against the airline, and is offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the return of her dog. The airline said it would match her reward. There have been several unconfirmed sightings of the dog, each one at increasing distances from the airport. “It’s likely it’s her,” said Tanya Dean, spokeswoman for the Linn County Sheriff’s Office. “The descriptions all match hers, gray with white socks.” Dean urged area residents to keep an eye out for the dog, and to call the sheriff’s non-emergency number with any possible sightings.’

Shelly looked up. ‘And then it gives a phone number.’ She looked the little dog in the eye. ‘That is one helluva name ya got there, girl.’

‘What is it again?’ asked Meg, smiling.

Shelly traced her finger over the clipping till she found it. ‘Mary Josephine Fair Maiden Made-You-Look. Damn! For a name like that, I’d even consider getting married again.’

Meg laughed. C.C. leaned down, kissed the top of the little dog’s head. She spoke in a high-pitched voice. ‘Yesh she is, isn’t she? She is a verr-wee fair maiden! Aren’t you, widdle girl?’ The dog’s seemingly naked little tail thrummed against C.C.’s stomach. M.J. lifted her snout and licked her chin, making C.C. giggle. Still in a baby-voice she added, ‘Oooo! Tank you for da kisses, widdle girrr!’

Shelly sighed loudly, placing her palms on the table. ‘Well, for six hundred bucks I’m willing to take the dog with us and drop her off in Kentucky.’ She wagged her finger playfully at C.C. ‘But we’re dropping you off too if you talk baby-talk the whole way.’ C.C. laughed with everyone else, then stuck her tongue out at her, making them all laugh again.

Shelly knew it was crazy, but she would swear the little dog smiled too. M.J. looked like she’d spent her whole life on C.C.’s lap, and would happily remain there for the rest of it.

CHAPTER FIVE Purdy

Purdy smiled, but only after seeing that C.C. was laughing, that she had, in fact, taken Shelly’s comment about the baby-talk as a joke. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if his feet knew he should be doing any number of a thousand things right now, but his heart was keeping them firmly rooted to a place near the blonde woman, who seemed to be perpetually smiling. He stood behind his chair, holding the coffee pot at the ready, though he’d just refilled everyone’s cup. Except the thin woman’s; she’d hastily put her hands over the top as he’d leaned in. He’d forgotten; she’d had tea.

He knew he was hovering, but he couldn’t just sit back down. It would look idle. The tall redhead, Shelly, was staring at him. She was a little mouthy, but good-humored, and the other one–what was the thin one’s name? He couldn’t remember, but she seemed nice enough. Quiet and…he wasn’t sure what. Heavy-hearted, somehow. But C.C. He even liked her name. C.C. It made him smile.

He cleared his throat, rubbed his hand over his face. He was as tongue-tied and nervous as a teenager around her. There was something really wrong with him. But this wrong felt so much better than the other wrong. And aside from that mortifying shout and duck for cover he’d done when the mug had fallen, he’d felt…what? Hopeful? Even the bell was starting to bother him less.

Shelly was still staring at him, grinning. Oh, she had his number all right. Feeling the heat in his face, he turned and walked back to the bar.

He’d noticed C.C. right off yesterday, as soon as she had climbed out of the tow truck. Laughing. In spite of their car breaking down, in spite of the gloomy rainy day, in spite of being stranded in Tupper, of all places, she was laughing as Mick and the tow truck driver helped her down from the high seat. She looked nothing like his Keppie, who had been tiny and dark-haired and bony. In fact, C.C. was Keppie’s exact opposite. Was that why he was all hibbity-jibbity? He didn’t think he’d ever felt this kind of attraction before. Not that he had all that much experience. His hibbity-jibbities of his youth came mostly from pictures of girls in magazines, which wasn’t the same. Not like this. When he saw her, right away, bam! Like his body got plugged into some big old generator after the power had been off a long time. A long time. He was not a religious man, much to Keppie’s dismay, but he would almost believe that some divine power might’ve had a hand in making that alternator fail when and where it did.

Or maybe it was Keppie herself. He and Kep had always had that ‘first one up’ rule: first one up in the morning brought the other one a cup of coffee. Maybe the first one up to the Great Beyond brought the other one a new spouse. He would like to think that Keppie would do that for him. And what about the dog! Now that was a coincidence! Here’s a little lost dog that needs to go pretty darn close to where these ladies are going…Well, it made you wonder. It just made you wonder.

Purdy glanced around the restaurant. It was empty, except for the ladies. And Mick, of course. He tried to think of some reason to go back over there. He’d just refilled their coffee cups. Everyone had eaten breakfast. He’d cleared the plates, delivered the tickets. But even if he just went back over and sat down, he couldn’t trust himself not to stare at her like a fool. It was better if he stayed here; he could look at her from behind the bar.

He grabbed the towel that he wore draped over his shoulder and threw it hard onto the bar. He turned, his arms folded, and leaned back against the counter. C.C. wasn’t interested in him! How could she be? She didn’t know him. And he didn’t know her. He had never believed in love at first sight. And he knew this wasn’t love. Or was it? How should he know? Was it lust? Much to his amazement, he had gotten…excited just thinking about her last night. But he hadn’t been thinking about having sex with her. He’d just been thinking about hugging her. Just holding her in his arms. When everything in his life had seemed to become so sharp-edged again after Keppie’s death, was it so wrong to wonder what it must feel like to hold a woman like that, so round and soft and full?

He had wanted to ask her out after they’d finished dinner last night, but he’d been too embarrassed by his outburst. He hadn’t understood at first how that had happened. He’d thought the panic attacks were under control again. It must have been because he was nervous. Besides, he hadn’t been able to answer a simple question: how do you ask out a woman who is stranded at your motel with her two friends for just one night? And out to where? They would have had to drive clear to Bennet to find the nearest movie theater. He’d thought about inviting her to stroll with him, just an old-fashioned date, an evening walk through town. But he’d been struck mute as they’d departed, the three of them together too daunting even to approach.

Silence. His old refuge. He was only able to wave good night to all three. Then, when just the redhead came back and asked what time he opened for breakfast, well, of course then he could talk! After he’d locked up the restaurant, he’d walked by their room four times. Back and forth, back and forth, unable to go up and knock. He didn’t know how long he’d just stood there, staring at the crevice of light between the curtains on their window.

He picked up the towel, turned and looked at her again. If only he didn’t feel like this was somehow meant to be. Or at least a chance in a million. Or was it just his age? He remembered old Cort Smith, who’d tracked down and married a girl from his high school just weeks after his wife had died, when Cort was nearly eighty. ‘When you get to be my age, you dasn’t dillydally,’ Cort had told him. Well, Purdy wasn’t nearly Cort’s age. But was sixty-one old enough to stop the world when C.C. had climbed out of that tow truck?

Before yesterday, he’d thought he’d just spend the rest of his life alone. There were no single ladies in Tupper, except Mrs D’Blatt, and she was ninety-something. He would be like her, he thought. Grow old alone, and die alone, right here in Tupper. And truth be told, he hadn’t thought all that much about it, one way or the other. Until yesterday.

Finally, after the fourth pass by their window last night, he’d gone to bed. He’d hardly slept, feeling all night like he had to do or say something before she left. If only he had more time to court her properly. But what did he know about that? He had never even dated Keppie. Not really. He’d just written letters from Nam, in response to hers. Their letters were how they had gotten acquainted. They barely knew each other before he’d shipped out, just sat next to each other at high-school graduation. Mick Purdy and Katherine Purnell. They hadn’t even spoken before, just sat or stood next to each other throughout the school years, each time they were made to line up in alphabetical order. Never given her a second thought. Till that graduation day and she kept staring at him, sitting there in his uniform. Then, as their ragtag high-school orchestra–sounding worse than usual without the seniors–played the graduation exit march, she’d told him she’d like to write to him after he shipped out. He’d said okay.

Always shy by nature, it had actually been easier for him to write those letters than any conversation with her would have been, or ever was after. And the letters, well, he’d only said the things he’d said to her in those because he thought the chances were better than good that he’d be coming home in a body bag. So he’d opened up in those letters, more than he ever could have or would have in person. But he did survive, somehow. Probably because he wasn’t one of the brave ones.

When he got home, there was Keppie, waiting for him, right there on the airstrip at Quad City, her black-gloved fingers laced through the chain-link fence like it was the only thing holding her up. She was plainly dressed in a gray blouse and darker gray skirt, her hair pulled back, her only makeup a face full of both fear and hope.

Marrying her had seemed the thing to do. But they’d made it work okay, over the years. No great sparks or anything, but when the PTSD had taken hold of him, Keppie had stuck with him, held on, gotten him help. He was infinitely grateful to her, for her. But he’d often doubted that what he felt was love, as he was sure she had from time to time. But his doubt was erased seven months ago. Holding her in his arms, there on the floor behind the bar where she’d collapsed, her hands clutching her shoulder, he’d felt his own heart under attack. All he could think–he knew it was stupid, but still–all he could think was that it should be him; he was the fat one. How could tough, sturdy, bantam-weight Keppie be having a heart attack? But he knew that’s what it was right away, even though there’d never been a single warning sign, other than she’d said she felt a mite under the weather that morning. The flu, she thought. And when she’d dropped to the floor, and he’d gathered her up, her back warm against his knees, her shoulder blades sharp against his arm, he couldn’t imagine her leaving him, couldn’t imagine life without her. That’s when the flashbacks started again. A body in his arms. His wife, so small, nearly the same size as the South Vietnamese woman he’d carried from the burning village. And just as then, he’d felt her leave him the very moment she passed, despite his begging her to hold on.

Keppie never did smile too much. But he would never forget the way she smiled–really smiled–at him before her body let go of this life, and he felt some part of her float upward, and away.

Purdy tapped his arms, the trick he’d learned in therapy to bring him back. He took a deep breath and looked at C.C. again, sitting with her friends and Mick, all of them petting that little dog, and laughing about something else now, and he smiled. He was here. Mick glanced over at him, eyes searching. Purdy knew Mick could not delay putting in that alternator too much longer. And when he did, the women were going to leave, and he’d never see C.C. again, never hear that laugh again, never know if her skin was as soft as it looked. He had to think of something. Cort Smith was right. In youth it was hormones that made a man act; now it was the heart itself having a deeper knowledge of time.

As Mick stood up and excused himself from the table, Purdy pretended to rub the bar down again. As his son walked by him, pulling on his cap, he said out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Now or never, Dad. Now or never.’

Shelly and Meg stood up, and Shelly said, louder than necessary, ‘We’re going to the room to finish packing. C.C., you take the dog for a little walk.’ The two women left the restaurant.

Purdy tried to calm himself. C.C. was slowly scooting herself to the end of the bench seat with one hand, the other carefully protecting the dog in her lap. He grabbed the towel and turned away, leaning against the bar, dabbing at his forehead and upper lip. He could see himself in the mirror, above the reflection of the tops of liquor bottles. A pale, bald, fat guy. He turned back and glanced her way; she was standing now, the little dog in her arms. Lucky dog. He turned back around, dabbed the towel on his upper lip again.

‘Thank you for that great breakfast.’

He spun around. She was slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder, the dog was snug against her bosom, casually held with her other arm, like a girl might carry her books, like she’d carried that little dog that way for years. He noticed the dog wasn’t shaking anymore. He nodded, smiled dumbly. ‘We just left the money on the table. Is that all right?’ He nodded, even more dumbly.

He watched her walk out of the restaurant, with not a word from him. He stepped around the cash register to watch her. He put his hand over his thumping heart, tried to swallow.

Outside, she stopped in the sun, gave the dog a kiss on its head, then set it on the ground, holding the end of the twine leash. She began rummaging in her purse.

Go out there! He paced back behind the bar. His hand suddenly shot to the squat bottle of brandy at the end of the row of bottles. He grabbed a highball glass from the towel-covered shelf. He wouldn’t let himself look at the clock. The neck of the bottle clattered noisily against the glass edge as he poured. He had not had a drink since before Keppie had died. He’d never had a breakfast drink. He was an occasional social drinker, was all. Even after Nam, when lots of guys turned to the bottle, he hadn’t. Keppie had made sure of that. He took a deep breath and threw the swallow of brandy down his throat. The burn felt good, like it would hold him to consciousness. Social. That’s all he needed to be, was social.

He headed out the door, suddenly aware of the bar towel on his shoulder. But the damn bell had rung and she was already looking his way, so it was too late to do anything about it. He stopped in his tracks, a happy realization: instead of scaring him, the bell had made him angry. Fitz would say that was an improvement.

‘Hello,’ he said weakly. She smiled at him, waiting. ‘Um,’ he said, trying to find his bearings with his voice. He pulled the towel off his shoulder, twisted it in his hands.

She looked concerned. ‘Did we leave enough money?’

‘Oh!’ he said, suddenly pained that he’d caused her concern. ‘Plenty! I’m sure. Fine, fine!’ He was nodding like a spring had gone loose in his neck somewhere. He felt ridiculous. But he felt good. He was feeling.

‘Okay. Good.’ She smiled, still waiting.

He threw the towel over his shoulder again and jammed his hands in his pockets, nervously scratching his legs with his pocket-covered fingers, till he realized it might appear as though he was doing something else entirely. He quickly pulled his hands out again, pulling a pocket lining out. He shoved it back down, feeling his face redden.

‘Well, I’m going to take M.J. for a little walk,’ she said finally. He desperately wanted to ask if he could come, but his tongue, vocal cords, lungs–everything–seemed to be locked up. Damn brandy hadn’t helped. She took a step.

‘Wait!’ he said.

She stopped suddenly, turned, again looking concerned.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Well, that was a switch. Him startling someone else. ‘Uh, mind if I join you on your walk? I…I usually take a little stroll about now anyway. For exercise.’ He pulled in his big stomach, hoping to look like someone who’d ever taken an early morning walk, just for the exercise. Much less usually.

‘Uh, no. Of course not. You’d be welcome, right, M.J.?’ She glanced at the dog. Then she looked past him, over his shoulder. ‘But who’ll mind the restaurant?’

‘Oh, no one. No one in there anyway. If anyone comes in, they’ll just help themselves to whatever.’

She nodded warily.

‘Mostly regulars around here.’ He forced himself to smile.

He marveled at how, when she smiled, her whole face seemed to sparkle. ‘Well, sure then. Do you know how long it will take your son to put in the new part?’

‘Uh, I’m guessing not more than an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. Nearly 7.30. Mick could have it done in fifteen minutes, since it was basically already in; he knew Mick could stall only a little longer for him. ‘Maybe less.’

She chuckled softly. ‘Well, I don’t think either one of us would last walking for an hour.’ Then she quickly added, ‘The dog or me, I mean.’ She was blushing, and he couldn’t imagine anything nicer.

He smiled at her, and this one came naturally. For the first time since Keppie had died, he didn’t have to think about smiling, it just appeared on his face, like a finger-drawing on a mirror can show up days later, just by breathing on it. ‘Me either. Me either.’ He patted his belly.

They stood there a moment, the little dog looking up at them, one then the other, then she sat, waiting. ‘Which way would you recommend for a little stroll, then?’ C.C. said finally.

‘I’d say left. Definitely left. Right takes you to the train tracks and Mento’s cow barns. The cows smell a bit, and might scare little, uh…’

‘M.J.’ She smiled again.

‘M.J.’ He bent, held his fingers toward the dog. ‘Do you know how to shake, little one?’ Before he’d said ‘little one’ M.J. had lifted her paw. Both Purdy and C.C. exclaimed, and Purdy took M.J.’s tiny paw delicately in his two fingers, lightly moving it up and down. ‘How dee do, ma’am?’ C.C. giggled, and Purdy suddenly felt like spring breezes were chasing round his insides. He held out his hand to her. ‘I’m Purdy. Mick Purdy, Senior, but everyone just calls me Purdy.’

She took his hand shyly. ‘Well, in that case I’m Caroline Camilla Tucker Prentiss Byrd, but everyone calls me C.C. Pleased to meet you, Purdy.’

Her hand. It was as soft as kid leather. He pointed to the left. ‘Shall we, then?’

‘Okay, let’s go, M.J.!’ She said it with such energy that the little dog seemed to startle slightly. Then she took off at a brisk trot. ‘Whoa! Keep to a pace we can keep up with, girl!’

They walked in silence for a minute, M.J. weaving back and forth in front of them. Their footsteps made little sound on the dirt road, still just moist enough from yesterday’s rains to muffle the sounds, but thankfully not muddy. He put his hands back in his pockets again, hastily stuffing one pocket back in, realizing it had probably come out with the other and just been hanging out this whole time. Like a panting tongue. Embarrassment shot up his back again, prickling his neck and scalp. He was careful not to move his hands in his pockets this time.

‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked.

Bless her for starting a conversation! ‘No, grew up over in Platteville. Lived here nearly forty years now, though.’

‘My! That’s a long time.’

She’d sounded particularly southern just then. He liked it. ‘Yes.’

They walked on, till M.J. stopped determinedly, backtracked a few steps, pulling hard on the twine. She sniffed at a tuft of grass as if she’d picked up the trail of her long-lost kin. Purdy faced C.C. Ask her a question about her. He couldn’t think.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and the linings came out again. This time he immediately pushed them back in. But it flustered him. ‘And have you lived long?’ He closed his eyes. Stupid! Stupid! ‘I mean, have you lived where you live, wherever that is, for a long time?’ Let’s see. He could try to act like an idiot. But he doubted it would be any better than he was already doing. ‘Easy,’ Dr Fitzmarin would say, ‘don’t beat yourself up.’

She smiled, turned and looked at M.J. ‘Well, we’re all three, me, Shelly and Meg, from Wisataukee, Iowa.’ She looked up at him again, her eyes soft under her long lashes. ‘I’ve been there about twenty-five years,’ she added. She gave just the slightest sigh, then pulled gently on the dog’s leash, encouraging her to move on. M.J. took the lead again, C.C. followed. Purdy fell in step with her as she continued talking. ‘This trip we’re on, we’re going down south to fix up a house I own there. To sell. It’s too big to live in. Just me. Though I used to dream about one day maybe finding a small place in Fleurville–that’s the name of the town. I grew up there.’

She paused. He waited. They walked. Finally she said, very softly, ‘My husband died a year and a half ago, so…’

Purdy closed his eyes briefly, giving thanks not for another man’s death, merely for his absence. He looked at her. ‘My wife died last September.’

‘Just last September? I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?’

‘Yeah. Very. Standing there behind the bar cutting lemons, then the next thing I know, she’s on the floor in my arms, grabbing at her shoulder. Then, gone.’ He looked at the ground, that black feeling every time he said it, grabbing on to him.

C.C. stopped walking again and turned toward him, placing her fingers on his arm again, like she had yesterday. And just like then, her touch sent a current of warmth through him, gentle and comforting, chasing the black. He stared at her fingers, lovely, pale, plump, her small, carefully filed nails, short but clean, with some kind of very pale pink polish on them. Pretty.

‘Heart attack?’ she asked. He broke his gaze from her hand to her eyes and nodded, the ache and the warmth in him together now. There was complete recognition and empathy in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was looking at her eyes, into her eyes, or behind her eyes, or she his. ‘That’s how my Lenny died,’ she said. ‘No warning at all.’

‘None,’ he said.

‘Lenny was out jogging,’ she told him. ‘It was his first day of trying to get into shape. He had some crazy notion of running in a race to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.’ She looked at Purdy. ‘He was over ten years older than me. Anyway, he was thin as a rail, but he was trying to get in shape and…’

Neither of them spoke. M.J. had stopped and was circling around a spot. Finally she lowered herself.

‘Oh dear. I don’t have a bag,’ said C.C. quietly.

‘Oh. Well. Uh.’ He tried not to look at the dog, but wasn’t sure what to do. He looked down the road. ‘That’s okay. I’ll come back here later on and…take care of it.’

‘That’s nice of you. Thank you.’

Great. So far they’d talked about death and dog poop. He knew he should offer his condolences on the loss of her husband, but the dog doing its thing there had derailed the conversation.

‘Good girl, M.J.! Here’s a little cookie!’ C.C. bent and fed the dog what looked to be a little piece of waffle that she’d pulled from her pocket. ‘Well, now that she’s done her deed, I guess we should turn around,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a little packing to do myself before we go.’ He nodded. They turned around, C.C. tugging gently on the twine to persuade M.J. to head back.

They walked, and still he couldn’t think what to say. All he could think was how remarkable it was that their spouses had both died of heart attacks. And they’d pretty much said all there was to say about that. But he knew his mother would roll over in her grave if he let the moment go without commenting on her loss.

‘Ma’am? C.C.?’ She looked at him. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your loss.’ He suddenly felt his eyes welling up with tears. Of all the dadblummed things! He turned away, breathed the emotion out.

When he looked back, she was still looking at him. ‘Me too,’ she said simply, not explaining whether it was for her loss or his or both. She didn’t have to.

After a few seconds of more silent walking, he asked, ‘So are your girlfriends married?’ He almost smacked himself in the forehead. ‘Not that I’m interested,’ he blurted out. He stopped walking, winced, hoped she didn’t notice. What a bumbling fool he was! You never get a second chance to make a first impression, his dad used to say. ‘I mean…’

She smiled. ‘Meg’s married, but her husband just recently, uh…left. Walked out on her. After thirty years of marriage. Just–poof! No goodbye. Just left her a note on the kitchen table.’ She shook her head, heaved a sigh, looked at him soberly. ‘I’ve never been all that fond of him. And Shelly? Well, she’s terminally single. She was married. Twice. And divorced twice. She’s been single for about fifteen years now, though. She likes it that way.’ C.C. smiled, but looked tired.

‘And you? You doing okay?’ he asked. ‘Single, I mean? I, myself, find it kinda like living in an empty can. Kinda echoy, you know?’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. I’m okay–now–but, yes, it’s kind of echoy. Exactly.’ She exhaled. ‘It gets better, though, with time. A little better.’

Time. Just what he didn’t have. They were in front of the restaurant now. Already. They both stopped. He looked at C.C. She was leaning down to pick up the dog.

What did he know about this woman, other than her husband had died? Nothing. So why did he have the feeling, now more than ever, that they were supposed to be together? But he knew if he said that, it’d be too soon, too sudden. She’d head for the horizon. Well, she was heading for the horizon within the hour anyway. Still, this wasn’t the time. He looked toward Mick’s shop. He was probably playing solitaire on his computer, the car long since finished.

‘Well, I’d better go finish packing.’ She smiled back at him again, and he suddenly felt taller and thinner, which nearly made him laugh out loud. ‘Bye, now,’ she said.

His voice seemed caught again, but in a very different way. He lifted his hand and gave her a small salute. She grinned, then turned and walked toward the motel. He watched her go, tried not to think about how, in the movies, it all came down to whether the girl turned around, looked back. He watched her walk away, watched her put her hand on the doorknob, waited breathlessly as she paused. She slowly turned the knob, stepped inside, and closed the door.

Purdy exhaled, only a little disappointed. Those things in the movies weren’t real. Besides, it didn’t matter. He was just so pleased with himself for having had the courage to walk with her, to speak with her. If this was all he got with C.C., it was enough. She was a breath of fresh air when his life had felt heavy and stagnant. If the gift that someone gives you is merely to see that there is possibility for you, well, that’s still a pretty darn good gift.

He was just about to turn and head back into the restaurant when the door reopened a crack. His ridiculous heart flipped. The crack widened, her face appeared. A smile pulled at every part of his face. She was smiling too, as she lifted the little dog’s front paw and very gently touched it to its forehead in a small salute. He laughed out loud, she smiled radiantly, and that dog gave a single, happy bark that, for a second, he thought had come from him.

CHAPTER SIX C.C.

C.C. closed the door, her head inclined toward it still, after it shut. She couldn’t stop smiling. She turned finally, expecting Meg and Shelly to be right there, grinning, or even laughing at her, in a teasing sort of way. Spying, at least. But they were both at the far end of the room, at the bathroom sink area. Meg was fixing her hair, Shelly putting on some lipstick.

Or they were pretending to. C.C. could see both women’s reflections in the wide mirror, and Shelly’s big grin was making lipstick application nearly impossible. Meg, however, had a great poker face, and was innocently smoothing her short hair behind one ear.

But it was Meg who finally turned and said, ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’ said C.C., setting M.J. on the floor in front of the TV. The little dog immediately began a sniffing inventory of the orange shag carpeting.

Shelly was warily eyeing the dog. ‘She wouldn’t pee and poop again, right?’ C.C. caught Shelly catching herself, the furtive glance toward the window. C.C. turned, looked at the window, saw the curtain pulled to the side, and realized they had been watching her. Like little weasels they had obviously scurried to the mirror together so as not to get caught in the act.

‘Well, actually, she didn’t do either outside.’ Two can play at this game, thought C.C., adopting an expression of pure innocence. Shelly eyed her.

‘Did you have a nice walk?’ Meg asked.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ C.C. busied herself putting a sweater and her nightgown into her suitcase, open on the bed.

‘Well?’ said Shelly.

‘Well, what?’ C.C. said, not even looking up, enjoying the moment. She tucked the sweater in, using her fingers to get it just right. Then she lifted the suitcase top over, brought it edge to edge, slowly zippered it shut.

‘Oh, come on, Ceece!’ whined Shelly. ‘We want details! We saw him walking with you. What’d he say?’

She faced the two of them, her fingertips on her chest. ‘What? You two were spying on me? I’m shocked!’ She held in a giddy laugh.

‘Well…yes?’ said Meg, looking genuinely sheepish.

‘Hell, yeah!’ said Shelly, proudly.

C.C. couldn’t keep up her act, nor could she deny the smile that had been a force unto itself since she’d come back in the room. She’d have been surprised, and maybe even hurt, if they hadn’t spied on her. She stepped toward them exuberantly. ‘Well, y’all remember when we were talking last week, how we all felt like teenagers, going on this big adventure, so much unknown in our lives?’ They nodded, Meg pulling C.C. by the hand to the near bed. They all three tumbled onto the unmade bed, arranging themselves in the standard, juicy-details triangle born of long friendship.

‘Well, it’s like Aunt Georgie told me after the car accident. “Hon,” she said, “your teenage years are pretty much a puzzle to begin with, and you maybe have some of the edges put together, a few pieces in the middle. Then, a tragedy like this happens and it’s like a big wind blowing ’em all to Kingdom Come. And when all those pieces drift back down, it takes a while to find them. Then another while to put ’em back together again. And sometimes the picture’s a little different. Parts that you were sure were sky, suddenly seem to be ocean. But no matter what, it’s your puzzle. Your picture.”’

C.C. smiled, remembering how often Aunt Georgie would talk in metaphors of painting or art. But she saw Shelly looking impatient. C.C. knew she had a tendency to go on a mite long with her stories, especially about her southern past, so she tried to speed it up. ‘Well, she was really right about that, let me tell you. And I never really imagined my life being blown up a second time. But of course, it was. A bunch more times! There was Billy.’ Oh, she could go on about that! But she gulped a breath and went on. ‘Then having Kathryn so young, and alone and all…’ Shelly was circling her finger through the air, hurrying her along, which irritated C.C., but she pressed on. ‘Anyway, then when I met and married Lenny, and he took Kathryn on like his own flesh-and-blood daughter, and he was so good…’ C.C. stopped, looked at them both. ‘You know what I used to call him? Lenny?’

They nodded, said in unison, ‘Yes, your Steady Eddy.’

C.C. smiled. ‘Yeah. I mean, to another woman he might have seemed pretty boring. But to me, he was just pure golden goodness.’ She laughed. ‘Well, most of the time. We had our little spats.’

M.J. pawed gently at her leg, whining.

‘For God’s sakes, woman!’ Shelly yelled. ‘Even the dog wants you to get to the point! Your walk? This morning?’

C.C. laughed, bent and picked M.J. up, settled her on her lap, stroking her palm over the dog’s bony back. She remembered her point. ‘Well, I guess it’s that I feel like a teenager again, in more ways than just going on this trip. This thing with Purdy, I didn’t believe it at first, just plum didn’t believe it. But I can tell you it’s…fun.’ She whispered the last word. ‘It makes me feel, I don’t know, I guess, alive in a whole new way.’ She laughed. ‘Or whole old way! But I assure you, girls, this is just harmless, a passing fancy. As in, just passing through.’ She ran her hand in front of her, then off toward the horizon.

‘Did you kiss him?’ asked Shelly.

‘Of course not! We only just met!’ C.C. said, indignant. But then she smiled, pleased that Shelly thought it could have happened. ‘Purdy is a complete gentleman. And a little shy, I think. Besides, you saw pretty much everything, did you not?’ She gestured toward the window. Shelly winked, nodded. But Meg’s cheeks pinked, and she stood, began making the bed.

‘Meg!’ said Shelly. ‘What are you doing?’

Meg stopped, the sheet still clutched in both hands.

‘They have maids for that,’ said Shelly. C.C. wondered if that was true. She bet Purdy did it himself. ‘Besides,’ continued Shelly, ‘they’ll just strip the sheets off, y’know.’ She pulled her toiletries bag from her suitcase and walked to the sink area and began to gather the unused soap and small bottles of shampoo and lotion, tucking them into her bag.

Meg stared blankly at the headboard, still holding the sheet.

C.C. put M.J. on the floor, stepped next to Meg and put her arm around her thin, hunched shoulders. Poor Meg. She seemed so lost without her routines, her structured life. Her structured home. Her structured classroom. Her structured marriage. And there wasn’t one little bitty wisp of her old life left. Except for them.

Meg slowly pulled the sheet back, stripping the bed. C.C. watched as she made a neat pile of the linens on the mattress. She folded both the blanket and bedspread into equal-sized squares, placed them on the chair. She then headed to the second bed.

C.C. dragged her suitcase off, getting out of her way. As Meg pulled the pillows out of their cases, and Shelly tucked her bulging toiletries bag into her suitcase, C.C. wondered how the mood had changed so suddenly. Something about mentioning being a teenager, she thought. She decided a few more details from her walk were in order.

‘So, anyway, Purdy is…nice,’ continued C.C., ‘and, well…’ She put her hands on her large hips, cocked her head to one side, contemplating that which was Purdy: ‘Well, I think he’s just shy. And his wife died, very recently. Of a heart attack.’ She looked knowingly at the other two. ‘He seems very sweet…’ She picked up her jacket from the chair and laid it neatly over her suitcase on the floor. ‘He’s older than me.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘He kept putting his hands in his pockets, then taking them out again and the pockets kept flopping out.’ She felt herself go briefly to a dreamy, distant place, then she abruptly brought herself back. ‘But, I mean, really. I’m not at all interested. What’s the point? Mick should have the car ready in a matter of minutes now. And then,’ she snapped her fingers and flung her arm outward, a more dramatic version of the gesture she’d done before. ‘We’re off! Gone! Byebye, apple pie! Besides, he’s not my type. He’s very different from Lenny. Umm, physically. And in what he does for a living. He’s not my type.’

Shelly, looking incredulous, said loudly, ‘What the hell does that mean? It’s not like there’s only one type of guy for you. For crying out loud! Do you like just one…outfit?’ C.C. grinned as Shelly stared at her, in her velour pantsuit. ‘Or…or one flavor of ice cream?’

Meg laughed lightly, shaking her head at Shelly. C.C. was delighted by Meg’s smile, on two counts: lately, any smile from Meg was to be celebrated; and, it demonstrated yet again that Meg and C.C. were the kind of friends who committed each other’s loyal preferences to memory. Shelly didn’t commit her own preferences to memory. She said her tastes changed with her hormone fluctuations so sometimes she liked pumpkin ice cream best. Other times mocha cappuccino with fudge chunks. Still others, she was a sucker for rainbow sherbet. Meg and C.C. knew this about her.

Meg looked at Shelly. ‘Yes. She does only like one flavor. She always, always orders pralines and cream. Don’t you know that by now?’

Shelly looked stunned. She glanced between the two. ‘So, what if they don’t have pralines and cream?’

‘Then she orders–’ Meg looked at C.C.–‘butter pecan’, they said in unison. C.C., her unrestrained southern accent in full swing again, added, ‘And then, mah deah, if they don’t have butt-ah-pee-can, ah ordah vanilla, with caramel sauce and a heapin’ dose a—’

A knock at the door interrupted her. C.C. jumped, her heart pounding. M.J. gave a short bark and ran to the door, ears up, tail high, her body vibrating. C.C. looked at the others. They each smiled reassuringly, Shelly making a ‘go on’ flick with her hand. C.C. scooped M.J. up, held her close. She wondered if the little dog could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She kissed the top of M.J.’s head, took a deep breath. She put her hand on the doorknob, suddenly feeling as if breathing was something she had to think about in order to do. She thought to check her hair, but the only mirror was behind her, and Meg and Shelly would give her no end of grief. Slowly, she opened the door. Outside, Mick stood, hat off, held against his chest again. C.C. felt her shoulders cave just a little, but she couldn’t help but think: this boy was raised right.

‘Ma’am.’ He nodded in greeting, repeating ma’am and nodding again as Meg joined C.C. at the door. ‘You’re all set to go, ladies. Just come on over when you’re ready, and we’ll get you right out on the road again.’

‘Thank you, Mick,’ said Meg. After another ‘ma’am’ and nod to each of them, Mick pulled his cap on, then turned and ambled back toward his shop.

‘Finally!’ said Shelly. She started singing ‘On the Road Again’, loudly and off-key. M.J., still in C.C.’s arms, raised her little snout in the air and started barking.

‘Stop! Stop!’ said C.C., laughing, gently holding M.J.’s snout, then letting go and admonishing both the dog and Shelly: ‘Saints preserve! You two make some choir.’ M.J. licked furiously at C.C.’s neck, making C.C. shriek with laughter. Suddenly she stopped laughing. Feeling panicked, she thrust M.J. into Meg’s arms. ‘Here, hold her, please. I gotta pee!’ She ran to the bathroom, lunged inside, slamming the door, barely making it in time.

Sitting in the small, dark room, she shook her head. She probably needed to see a doctor about this. She’d been putting it off for months. It was bad enough going for her ‘annual indignity’, as she referred to her yearly gynecological exam. She was holding out to do it all at once, and she always scheduled her annual appointment for just after her birthday, in September. Come to think of it, had she had a check-up last year? Or the year before?

There was a gentle knock on the door. ‘You okay in there?’ Meg words were somewhat muffled by the thick door.

‘Yeah! Just the usual problem,’ she shouted back. ‘That’s what comes from having a big baby. And middle age. No going back from either!’

A few minutes later C.C. emerged, washed her hands at the sink. Over the running water she could hear the TV, the SavR King jingle pulsing through the room. C.C. put her hand on the counter, steadying herself, thinking of Kathryn. She felt near tears again. The sounds of a newscast saved her.

‘C.C.!’ yelled Shelly. ‘C’mere! Hurry! We’re going to be on the news! Mick phoned while you were peeing, said to turn on channel five.’

They were sitting on the ends of the stripped beds, watching, M.J. in Meg’s lap. C.C. sat next to her and M.J. immediately crawled into her lap. C.C. and Meg exchanged quick smiles, an unspoken acknowledgement that M.J. was hook, line and sinker in love with C.C. They turned their attention back to the TV.

A blonde anchorwoman, looking like News Barbie, in a bright, lime-green suit with a large, even brighter and limier rosette on the lapel was speaking. C.C. surmised that it was the local news from Chicago, which she thought was probably as local as Tupper got. Suddenly the newscaster’s words grabbed her full attention. ‘…little dog who escaped from her kennel from Quad City Airport and has been on the lam—’ Here she turned to her co-anchor, a nicely coiffed man who, C.C. thought, happened to look vaguely like a Ken doll. ‘Can a dog be on the lamb?’ Barbie asked Ken. They each gave a hahaha canned laugh. ‘But now, happy day! This is no April Fool joke: we’re thrilled to report to all you dog lovers who have been calling in, that little…’ She started to smile, then giggle. ‘Okay. I’m not even going to try that registered name. Anyway, the dog, M.J. they call her, has finally been found, and will soon be on her way home to Kentucky. And she won’t have to fly, thanks to several good Samaritans. Right after this broadcast, I’ll be going out myself, to the small town of Tupper, to interview the senior citizens who are on a road trip south, and who have agreed to take the dog back to her home.’

Shelly squawked loudly as she stood, arms akimbo. ‘Who is that bitch calling senior fucking citizens?’ Meg and C.C. both shushed her, but Shelly continued to mutter, just barely under her breath, as the newswoman continued.

‘I’ll bring you that story today, at News At Noon with Marcia and Ralph. I know our viewers will want to tune in for that! This has been quite the story we’ve been following with this little doggie, hasn’t it, Ralph?’

‘You bet, Marcia! The whole country has been worrying about this little dog.’

Marcia looked into the camera, a big smile directed to her viewers. ‘If you’ve just tuned in, our breaking story this morning is that little M.J., the missing Italian Greyhound, has been found, safe and sound, and is going home to–’ she glanced down at her papers–‘her owner, Candy Suddle of Lexington, Kentucky.’ She turned again toward Ralph. ‘We just love happy endings around here, don’t we, Ralph?’

‘Yes, indeedy!’ said Ralph, looking like he couldn’t wait for the happy ending to this newscast.

Ralph moved on to other local news and Shelly clicked off the TV with the remote. ‘Shit. I don’t want to be interviewed! TV adds ten pounds! Besides, I don’t want to give that little green witch the satisfaction of getting the story. Senior citizens, my ass!’ She stepped to the window, peeking nervously, keeping herself hidden behind the curtain. ‘Let’s get the hell outta here!’ she said as if she’d seen gunfighters gathering out front.

‘Well, I’m sure the senior citizen thing was just a miscommunication,’ Meg said. ‘Maybe that Kirby guy said it. Regardless, I’m all for getting out of here. I sure don’t want to be on TV. C.C.?’

C.C. couldn’t respond, couldn’t move. Tears were suddenly rolling down her cheeks. Just when she’d thought she’d gotten past unexpected crying jags, just when she’d thought she’d closed the door yet again on the deep well of grief in her life, here it was again. But these tears weren’t for Lenny. Or even Kathryn or Lucy.

‘Hey! Hey, there,’ said Shelly, striding back toward where the other two still sat on the end of the bed. Meg put her arm around C.C. Shelly squatted in front of her, her hand on C.C.’s knee.

‘Ceece?’ said Meg. A small whimpering cry slipped out of C.C; she placed her wet cheek on M.J.’s neck, wetting her fur with tears.

‘Is this about her calling us senior citizens?’ asked Shelly, the anger rising in her voice again.

C.C. laughed, then sniffed. ‘No. I don’t care about that. I just, well–I realized that we’re going to have to…give MJ. back’ She shook her head miserably. ‘I already love this little dog so much.’ She rubbed her wet cheek against the top of M.J.’s head. ‘It’s like I had a little Italian Greyhound-size hole in my life, and I didn’t even know it, but she just jumped in and filled it.’ C.C. wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Like a puzzle piece,’ she said, her voice breaking. She took the tissue Meg handed her, wiped her eyes, dabbed at her nose, and looked up at her friends. ‘You know?’

Both women nodded. ‘Dogs are sneaky, that way,’ said Shelly. ‘You give them an inch of your love, they’ll take a mile.’ She rubbed a finger behind M.J.’s ear.

‘I hate to rush you when you’re feeling low, honey,’ said Meg, ‘but speaking of miles, I’d like to put as many as possible between us and that TV crew. You okay to get in the car?’

C.C. nodded. ‘But I don’t want to see Purdy! I’m all–puffy! And I’d start crying again and he’d get the wrong idea, and, oh! Why is life so complicated?’

Meg stood. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll give him your goodbyes, and settle up the bills.’ She grabbed her purse off the desk as she strode across the room, then disappeared out the door.

Shelly gently lifted C.C. by the elbow. ‘C’mon, Puffy. We’ll take our things out and load up.’ C.C. stood, and Shelly grinned at her, rubbing her palms together. ‘Come on. Isn’t this a little fun? It’s like a James Bond movie or something. We gotta make a quick getaway before Prissy Galore arrives, a.k.a. Miss Malevolent Marcia.’ She cackled. C.C. shook her head, but smiled. Shelly punched her lightly in the arm. ‘Ready, Agent Puffy, and her trusty sidekick, M.J.?’

C.C. inhaled deeply, boosted M.J. up in her arms, squared her shoulders, and said, ‘Ready.’

Shelly had insisted on loading all the luggage while C.C. sat in the car with the dog. ‘You keep M.J. safe and sound in there, and that way you’ll also avoid any goodbye scenes with Purdy.’ C.C. gratefully slumped down in the back seat, out of view, but none the less feeling at a loss. She would have said goodbye to him-wanted to, in fact. If only she hadn’t been crying, and gotten all red-eyed and swollen. She would have liked to thank him personally for all his kindnesses. She had imagined maybe even giving him a hug.

But no. She shook her head, telling M.J., ‘It’s just as well we’re in here. He might have gotten the wrong idea.’ Men often got the wrong idea about hugs. But she didn’t think Purdy would be like that.

Suddenly both front car doors flew open, Shelly on the driver’s side and Meg the other, hurling themselves into their seats. ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ shouted Meg, wrestling with her seat belt. Shelly wasn’t taking the time to buckle up, simply started the car, revved the engine once, then threw it into gear and floored the gas pedal, throwing C.C. into the back of the seat, M.J. into C.C. C.C. clawed at her seat belt, but suddenly the centrifugal force of the car careening across the road and turning around, made her instead grab on to the door arm rest and M.J., and hold on for dear life. Meg was dissolved in nervous laughter up front.

‘What’s going on?’ C.C. glanced frantically out every window. ‘Is the TV crew here?’ They drove past Mick and Kirby, the latter dressed in an ill-fitting suit coat, his hair greased back, small tooth marks from a comb still evident. Kirby turned away from Mick, waved his arm over his head at something in the opposite direction, then pointed toward the women’s speedily retreating car. Mick was pushing roughly at Kirby’s arm, but Kirby kept waving and shouting and pointing. Finally, Mick pulled his arm down and grabbed a fistful of his shirt and they tussled, till Kirby broke away, running north, heading toward a white SUV with a big dish on the top, a trail of dust behind it.

‘It’s them!’ C.C. shouted, just as Shelly turned the car south, heading toward the interstate.

C.C. breathed a sigh of relief as the SUV turned west, into Tupper, apparently none the wiser from Kirby’s efforts. M.J. jumped up, her front paws on the top of the back seat, looking out the back window, now that they weren’t careening around or peeling out, just steadily gaining speed to merge onto the interstate. She didn’t bark, her tail wasn’t wagging, and she wasn’t trembling; she appeared just to be watching the retreating scene. C.C. watched too. Kirby was still jogging toward the SUV, with Mick running after him. But something caught C.C.’s eye, the other direction. In front of the restaurant. Purdy. He wore a full, white apron. Maybe he had been cooking lunch, C.C. thought. His arms hung by his sides, his white bar towel hung limply from his left hand as he watched their car drive off.

C.C. lifted her hand, waved. But as she did, Purdy turned, draped the towel over his right shoulder, and walked slowly into the restaurant.

‘Whoa! Big bump!’ Shelly yelled, swerving but not in time. The car bounced mightily over where the asphalt had heaved, making M.J. momentarily airborne. Even C.C. felt the jolt lift all of her, briefly, an absence of gravity for a fraction of a second, like an astronaut, untethered, unmoored. Both she and the dog landed roughly back on the seat. And suddenly C.C. felt the opposite of weightless. She watched the spot where Purdy had been, till Tupper itself disappeared from view. She gathered M.J. into her arms and turned back around in her seat as they merged into the morning rush hour on the interstate, feeling like she, too, had disappeared.

CHAPTER SEVEN Kathryn

Kathryn grabbed the phone and angrily punched the intercom, for the second time in as many minutes. She took a deep breath, held the handset to her mouth, earpiece down, and said, ‘Can we have another checker up front, please? Now?’

She knew she had not succeeded in keeping the irritation out of her voice. She would no doubt be ‘having a little chat’ with Mr Knelbrecht again about the importance of intercom etiquette, which he infuriatingly pronounced ‘eti-kwett’. Chat, my ass, she thought, grabbing a stack of Lean Cuisines from the carry-basket, sliding them over the scanner one at a time. As she reached for the bag of apples, she looked up to see if any of the other checkers were coming. But all she saw was her line of angry customers. Only old Mrs B. smiled at her. Kathryn glanced at lane six, the only other one open. Marianne had just three people waiting in her line, but each had large carts, all very full. As Kathryn continued to scan items, she noted that all three of Marianne’s customers were moms with toddlers and/or babies in the front, bulbous legs dangling through the leg holes of the cart, chubby hands idly playing with keys or a pack of gum, while Mom flipped through a gossip rag for a few minutes of escape. Marianne was smiling and chatting with two of the women. The stay-at-home moms were almost always nice. They were rarely in a hurry.

She mechanically but speedily grabbed and scanned items. She knew it made sense for her to be in lane one; she was head clerk, the most experienced and fastest. But she hated the express lane. The endless queue of people with their overbooked calendars invariably blamed her for their lateness and stress, no matter how fast she was. She was beyond tired of their impatience, their lack of even minimal courtesy, and especially their creative math when it came to fifteen items or fewer. ‘Oh, sorry. I counted the apples, oranges and pears as one item because they’re all fruit.’ Or, even worse, the petulant: ‘So, I’m a couple of items over. Sue me.’

She passed through a can of frozen orange juice, but it wouldn’t scan. She ran it again. Still no ding. She moved her thumb over the bar code, clearing the frost from it. She felt, then saw, a thin line of hardened juice on the bar code: another container had leaked in the freezer case. She used her nametag, with its decade-of-service gold star, to scrape it off. She hated the star; to her, it felt like a tick, latched on up there, sucking the life out of her. She’d been working here since high school. Living here, since high school. Dying here, since high school. She’d imagined so much more for herself.

Her hand closed tightly around the can. She felt the blood surge up from her swollen feet, anger rising through her like a deep-sea diver coming up too fast, knowing it was certain death, but the need for air too great. A young man wearing a too-small business suit stood in the middle of her line, checking his watch, scowling.

Where was Tom? Or Shirley? Or Ting? Or Mr Fucking Knelbrecht? Was this some kind of April Fool joke? But she knew it wasn’t. It was business as usual.

Kathryn froze, closed her eyes, orange juice in hand. She wanted so much to hurl the can. She imagined it, spiraling upward, breaking through the narrow horizontal windows above the high shelves of charcoal briquettes, stacked above the bags of de-icer. Barbecuing season still seemed a long way off, but the de-icer hadn’t been needed for a while either. It wasn’t winter, but it sure as hell wasn’t spring yet in northern Iowa. The sun was shining only anemically today. Kathryn knew more snow would come before spring truly arrived. ‘Betwixt and between,’ her mother would say. ‘You’re just betwixt and between, honey. Wait a spell. Something’ll shove you one way or the other.’

Kathryn tried scanning the juice again, to no avail. She began punching in the numbers from the bar code, but found that her star had scratched through two of them. She pressed the intercom code again. ‘Price check on one.’ She kept her finger on the button, toying with the idea of announcing, ‘Naked woman on one.’ That would get Matt and Mr Knelbrecht, and the guys from the back, running up for sure. Tom would emerge from his break only if she said ‘Naked guy on one,’ and then he’d try to saunter by inconspicuously. She put the juice aside and returned to the basket, picking up item after item, not looking, not counting, not caring that this woman probably had thirty items in her basket.

Betwixt and between. Ding. Her mother. Ding. Just thinking of her made her blood boil anew. Ding. What she’d done was unforgivable. Ding. Kathryn was already pissed at her for just planning the trip, let alone actually going on it. Ding. Ding. Didn’t she realize how much Lucy would miss her? She wasn’t thinking about anyone but herself. Ding. Even when she’d shown that damn picture to those men in the restaurant, she’d been thinking about herself. Ding. Another example of C.C. Byrd dealing with that one messy corner left in her life: the embarrassing unmarried daughter situation.

Matt arrived just as she scanned the last item. Finally. Kathryn held up the juice, he nodded, ran to get another. Good kid. She sacked the woman’s groceries, then reached under the counter and grabbed the paper towel and Windex. She angrily scrubbed the scanner while she waited for Matt.

It didn’t seem right, her almost-fifty-year-old mom taking off on a road trip, like a college kid. And here she was, working overtime at the SavR King. Being the responsible one. One irresponsible moment with that handsome blackjack dealer in Las Vegas had determined a level of responsibility for her that would last her lifetime. She adored Lucy, and would do anything for her. But she battled the persistent feeling that doing anything for herself was at odds with doing something for her daughter. Not to mention what she made her daughter do. Lucy had tearfully begged yet again this morning not to be made to go to school. Pretty tough to take from a second grader.

She leaned on the intercom button again, knowing it would be more productive to try to get a response from deep space. ‘Checker needed up front, please.’ Was Matt squeezing the damn oranges to get the juice?

Standing there at register one, under the sign that, this morning, falsely advertised ‘EXPRESS’, Kathryn picked up the scratched can of juice. She closed her eyes, felt her fingers clenching around the can.

‘Kathy, honey? Are you okay?’

Kathryn opened her eyes. It was Mrs B. Sweet old Mrs Benettucci, standing there, still holding her basket, with maybe five items, but starting to sag under its weight. Kathryn reached over and took her basket. ‘Here, Mrs B., let’s set that up here.’

She turned to the woman waiting to pay. ‘Free juice today,’ she said, tossing the scratched can into her bag, smiling, punching the total key. The woman looked only mildly placated as she swiped her credit card. Kathyrn handed her the long receipt, far too long to be under fifteen items. ‘Have a good day,’ Kathryn told her. The woman silently took her receipt and left.

Mrs B. shuffled to the check-writing platform; it came only to her chest. She placed her knobby hands on top.

‘How are you today, Mrs B.?’ Kathryn asked, punching the numbers into her keypad so Mrs B. could swipe her SavR King Valued Customer card. As the old woman worked at threading her card into the slot with her trembling hand (Kathryn knew she liked to do it herself, and if anyone was to be indulged, it was Mrs B.), Kathryn smiled, looking at the top of Mrs B.’s head. She knew from long experience that Mrs B. had twenty-two silver bobby pins holding her eleven gray pin curls in place, her head a neat pattern of Xs so she could look nice for someplace other than the grocery store.

‘Oh, can’t complain,’ she said. They smiled at each other, an unspoken acknowledgement that Mrs B. had a lot she could complain about, but rarely did. Kathryn quickly scanned a small box of fiber cereal, two bananas, a small drum of old-fashioned oatmeal, a quart of milk and a tube of arthritis ointment. Mrs B. had pen in hand, poised above her checkbook, waiting to dole out a quarter of her weekly budget for, basically, breakfast. Kathryn wondered if Mrs B. ate cereal for two, if not three meals a day.

She looked at Mrs B., then suddenly was aware that only one very irritated man remained in her line, the guy in the ill-fitting suit. He was watching the remainder of her line following Ting toward register six, like little goslings with grocery baskets over their wings, following the goose. Ting, about as high as she was round, even waddled like a goose.

‘Oh, and this please,’ said Mrs B., after she’d checked the total on the screen. She handed Kathryn a small tin of mints.

‘Sure,’ said Kathryn. ‘Do you want it in your bag or your purse?’

‘Bag, please,’ she said to both Kathryn and Matt, who was now standing at the end of her counter.

‘Sorry,’ said Matt, almost breathless. ‘We’re, like, completely out of that kind of juice, so I went to the back to check and they spilled, like, a whole box of cabbages back there.’ He grinned. ‘They’re rolling all over the place. Tom’s back there imitating Knelbrecht, saying, “Heads will roll for this!”’ Kathryn thought Matt had a great laugh.

She smiled at him. ‘No problem. But in the future, if the item’s not up front, just come tell me right away, please.’

He nodded, then tucked the mints into one of Mrs B.’s two canvas bags. Kathryn made a mental note to thank him for remembering to use both of Mrs B.’s bags, even for just the few items. Mrs B. walked and bused everywhere, therefore liked the weight split between two bags. Plus, Kathryn knew, she liked getting double bag credit.

She took Mrs B.’s proffered check, stamped it, opened the register, slipped it under the drawer, and removed a dime. She placed the coin carefully in Mrs B.’s soft, wrinkly palm. ‘Here’s your bag credit, Mrs B. Don’t spend it all in one place.’

Mrs B. chuckled, and Kathryn fed on it like a transfusion. She knew it wouldn’t cure her disease, but it might help her survive one more day.

CHAPTER EIGHT Meg

‘Y’all better pull over soon, Shel.’

Meg heard C.C.’s voice, understood her words, but they sounded hollow, as if they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. Lulled by movement and the low and steady drone of the motor, she’d fallen into a deep car-sleep; emerging was like swimming up to an unseeable surface. She wondered how long she’d been asleep.

‘There’s a lot of traffic right here. I’ll pull off at the next exit.’ Shelly’s voice too sounded distant, boxed in. Meg blinked, started to lift her head, felt a sharp pain in the side of her neck. She licked her dry lips, groggily remembered C.C. announcing several miles ago that MJ. had woken up and might need to pee. But Meg had drifted right back into a sleep that felt deeper than she’d had in weeks. With her head resting against her wadded-up sweater on the window, her neck felt like it had petrified at that angle. She massaged it with one hand, rubbed her eyes with the other, finally coming out of her stupor. A loud, sharp bark made her jump, sending a shooting pain down her neck.

M.J.’s bark was surprisingly deep, given her small size. Meg gingerly turned around in her seat. MJ. barked again, staring directly at her. There was an unmistakable look of urgency in the dog’s eyes. She remembered the same look in Buster’s eyes when he would stand by the back door, waiting to be let out. He never barked, though they’d wished he would. Meg had tried to teach him to bark, to complain, because too often she would come from another room to find him standing silently by the front door, waiting patiently, looking absolutely pained, and she would have no idea how long the poor dog had been suffering silently. Sometimes she would just get a feeling, maybe noting his absence for a while. She’d often find him leaning on the door, looking like he’d give anything for the power of speech at that moment. Or opposable thumbs. After a while, he learned to come find them, then just her. Grant, whether watching TV or reading a book, would be so absorbed he would rarely notice the dog’s urgent stares. So he’d find Meg, home his big brown eyes in on her.

Buster. Meg closed her eyes again, a small moan escaping as she pictured not their old lovable, floppy-eared shepherd mix, but instead his urn. She had initially set it on the mantel, thinking: that’s where urns go. But unbeknownst to her, days before the trip, Grant had moved it. Merely moved it. She’d thought he’d taken it.

For three days, Meg had believed Grant’s note: that he was going to Lake Louise to sprinkle Buster’s ashes. She had been hurt and angry that he would do such a meaningful and important ritual without her. But she had not suspected more to his unannounced departure. It was only on the third day that she found Buster’s urn. It was completely full, tucked behind the curtain on the wide, low windowsill of the living room. It was as if Grant had said his own final goodbye to the dog by placing the urn where Buster had so often sat in life: at the window, watching the squirrels cavort across the hillside and into the woods. Panicked at what her bones already knew, Meg had searched the house, found all the wrong things missing: Grant’s camera equipment, his laptop, his box of old manuscript starts from college. His baseball cards. The photos of the kids from his dresser. Left behind were his Fighting Cougars mug from work, the Cougar book ends–a gift on his retirement–many of his clothes, all of his ties, and his briefcase. Their wedding photo remained on his dresser.

Although Meg had tried to rationalize all this–Well, he’s just gone off to do some photography, some writing, she thought, even though he’d never actually done that before, just talked about it–after finding the urn, there was a foreboding inside her for the rest of that day, one that grew all night, like a tsunami slowly rolling in from another continent, not knowing when it would crash over her. It had kept her awake all night.

The next morning Meg wandered in her thin, blue robe, no slippers on her cold feet, through the quiet house, clutching her robe closed with one hand, checking all the spots where the missing items should be. Only hours later, when, sobbing again, she’d picked up Buster’s urn, cradling it in her arms, had she seen the other note. He’d anchored it–or hidden it–under the urn. It only confirmed what her heart already knew.

Meg, I’ve left. I had to. I’m doing this for both of us. All the bits of glue that were keeping us together are gone. I think we both know that. I have needs I can no longer deny. I’ve ignored my own dreams and aspirations for too long. Maybe you’ll find a dream of your own.

I’ll write when I land somewhere. Take care.

Grant

His words ate at her like parasites, from the inside out. Who was he to say she didn’t have a dream? Hadn’t she already achieved that dream? Of raising a family, meaningful work, a life-long marriage? It was his note that had ended her dream.

A car honked. Meg blinked, that amorphous pain in her torso again. She couldn’t even tell exactly where it was. Maybe that’s what a broken heart felt like, when it spilled over inside you. She stared at the traffic zooming along the lanes of interstate.

‘I am not kiddin’, Shell!’ said C.C. ‘She’s going t’pee on me!

She won’t even eat a cookie.’ Meg looked back and saw C.C. offering the dog a piece of Nilla Wafer, saying, ‘Cookie? Cookie, girl?’ but M.J. turned her head.

‘All right, all right. I’m working on it! Hang on,’ said Shelly. She made a hissing sound as she frantically scanned the heavy traffic. She flipped on the turn indicator. ‘C’mon, somebody let me in!’

Shelly made her way, at seventy miles an hour, across one of the lanes. The dog was whining in the back seat, punctuated by nervous noises from C.C.

Meg rubbed her face vigorously, sat up, rubbed and stretched her neck till it was moveable again, then helped Shelly watch for holes in the traffic that they might dart into.

‘Maybe after this green car, get ready…No! Wait! That van is changing lanes.’

‘Nice signal, asshole,’ Shelly said to the van as it flew by.

Meg felt displaced and disheartened. A passenger in her own little car, far from home in every sense, she was just so much flotsam being carried along this anonymous highway, and her suddenly anonymous life. That tsunami had hit, swept through her life, her home, shot her over the edge, a crushing, noisy waterfall, dropping her here. A passenger, in her car, and in her life.

Another horn blared. Cars of every color and shape whizzed by, passing the slow ones doing the speed limit. Why was everyone in such a hellfire hurry? What, exactly, were they rushing to with such life-threatening speed? Did they even know? Meg wondered. Did she?

‘I swear, girls! If we don’t get this dog outta this car, and soon, we are gonna have a little sea of dog pee back here!’ Meg looked back, saw C.C. trying to carefully ease her coat under M.J., over her lap, just in case.

‘Shit!’ said Shelly, scanning and twisting back, then forward. ‘Come on! Somebody let me in! Please? Damn! Okay, if you want to play hardball…’ She pulled on the emergency flashers. Nervously monitoring traffic both in front and behind, she cried, ‘Meg, roll down your window and point! I’m going to have to just go for it!’

Meg stared at her briefly, then, like an automaton, rolled down her window. The wind made her eyes water as it whipped into the car. She waved at the driver coming up, mouthed ‘Emergency’ and pointed. Amazingly, the driver slowed. Shelly veered into the gap, then kept on going. Meg screamed as they cut off a huge pickup truck, his horn blasting. M.J. started barking in the back seat.

‘Coming through! Dog pee-pee emergency! Sorry!’ yelled Shelly, veering across lanes. The pickup truck driver shot Meg the finger. She pulled herself back into the car, rolled up her window, holding her back tightly against the seat. Finally Shelly got the car to the wide shoulder of the highway, braking slowly at first, then very firmly. Meg felt squeezed by her seat belt.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ cried C.C. Meg clicked her seat belt release and was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop. She pulled open C.C.’s door. She grasped M.J.’s narrow sides, lowered her to the asphalt. She wasn’t sure the dog’s toenails had even touched down before the relief finally flowed into M.J.’s eyes, and a yellow rivulet twined along the asphalt.

‘Thank you, Jesus! In the nick of time!’ C.C.’s hands were on her heaving chest as she sat in the car. ‘Better tie this on her again.’

She thrust the twine toward Meg. Meg untangled it, made a slipknot, and placed the loop over M.J.’s needle-nose and small head, remembering again that they needed to get her a proper leash and collar. But maybe not. They’d made good time. They’d likely be dropping her off later today. And the dog didn’t seem to mind the twine at the moment. Though Meg thought she probably wouldn’t mind an inverted spike collar, at the moment.

‘Wow. She has a big bladder for such a little dog,’ said Shelly, who had appeared by Meg’s side. ‘Boy. Look at her go.’

M.J.’s eyes were glassy and fixed. Meg tried not to look below, but found herself mesmerized by the pee moving across the asphalt. It was meandering down the slight grade, toward a dry ditch on the side of the road. C.C. was waiting, still sitting on the end of the car seat, door open, her spiky heels hooked on the edge of the car frame, staring at M.J., directly at her feet.

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