Dead Dancing Women (20 page)

She smiled brilliantly and straightened her pink glasses. She stood as tall as she could get and looked resolute. I was thinking maybe Dolly should move into Flora's house. Seemed like the best idea for both of them. Dolly could be away from insulting phone calls and protect Flora at the same time. I wished I could move the two of them right in with me but I already had a houseful, though I hoped to get rid of Jackson and Jennifer as soon as I could think straight again. Any minute. Maybe after they discovered the address I'd given them didn't exist, they'd get the hint. It was a faint hope. Not one in which I put a lot of faith.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The white Jaguar pulled
in directly behind us, as we came down the drive. An unspoken meanness between me and Dolly made us ignore it though Flora looked over her shoulder, and gave a flustered “
Ooh, ooh
,” warning we could get run over. Jackson gunned his motor, frightening Flora, who stumbled off to the side. Dolly and I turned in unison, a chorus of two, pretending surprise, jumping out of the car's way, smiling as wide as we could smile.

“Swine,” Dolly muttered under her breath, her smile clamped grimly in place. I reached out and punched her arm. At that moment, I didn't need her making things worse with my fishy-
smelling
guests.

“Never found that house!” Jennifer yelled cheerfully out the car window and waved as they drove on past.

At the bottom of the drive they got out and waited while we choked our way through their trail of dust. Jackson pulled off his sunglasses, threw back his arms, and stretched hard. I recognized the move. Kind of a strut for women who could only look, but never have him. All I noticed was his stomach, which used to be so flat but wasn't anymore—at least not what it once was. And I noticed that his shoulders sloped more than they had. When you know where to look for fault in an old lover, the discoveries can be pure pleasure.

“We had the most unbelievable picnic,” Jennifer gushed and folded her hands over her heart, or between her perky breasts, almost visible beneath a wide-weave, champagne-colored sweater. “Bread and cheese and wine and fruit. One of those events most people only get to read about in
Gourmet Magazine
.”

The three of us—the “most people” Jennifer was talking about, (well, at least Dolly and I; Flora Coy wasn't really in this tug of war)—went on smiling, saying nothing much.

In the house, Sorrow lay in the middle of the living room oriental with a piece of leather hanging rakishly from the side of his mouth. Oh, oh. I recognized what was left of one of Jackson's shoes. At least I imagined it was Jackson's shoe, though now it was in bits: a lolling tongue hanging off in one place; laces, like little worms, in another; and small chewed pieces of leather scattered all around a busy Sorrow.

“Sorrow!” I shouted, making him cock up his ears and look at me funny, as if he would never understand how to make me happy. “You bad dog.”

Jackson and Jennifer lugged in a wicker picnic hamper clanking with empty wine bottles and glasses. Jackson's mouth fell open when he saw the destruction of his shoe. He set his end of the hamper down and stood with his hands on his hips, scowling.

“My God!” Jennifer gave a shout and ran into the living room, whirling in circles as she searched for, then found, the other shoe. She grabbed it up.

“You beast!” she screamed. “Look what you've done! Stupid, stupid animal.”

As the rest of us stood transfixed, watching, she brought the shoe down on Sorrow's head.

I heard my dog yip in pain and I was off. I think Dolly was right behind me. I grabbed Jennifer's upraised arm. She was about to hit him again because he hadn't the brains to drop the shoe completely from his mouth, or maybe a tooth was still hooked in the leather. All I knew was I had to stop her. The quickest thing I could think of was to hip check her, sending her on to the sofa, arms flailing, mouth and eyes opened wide. She hit with a whoosh of breath and bounced, coming to rest in a slide off the sofa to the floor where she lay with her tiny skirt up around her waist. Teeny thong panties, for which I was grateful, were shoved up into her crotch. Her arms were stretched wide, unfettered breasts at their fullest, and the offending shoe lost from her hand.

“Emily!” She lay where she was, shocked, the air knocked out of her. Her big blue eyes filled with astonished tears.

“Don't you ever, ever hit my dog like that.” I bent over her, my face as threatening as I could get it. What I wanted to do was laugh, or help her up. Anything to lighten the moment. I was stuck with indignation and didn't know where to take it next.

Dolly held Sorrow back. He saw what I was up to and wanted to leap on Jennifer now that she was down. Flora Coy stood away from all of us, behind the kitchen counter, hands to her cheeks. I heard Jackson sputtering behind me. Soon he elbowed me aside, helping Jennifer, who was crying, to her feet, soothing her, saying something about how kind it was of her to protect his property, that it wasn't necessary … just another shoe, after all. Surely Emily is sorry …

My face was frozen. Flora Coy scurried off to the bathroom. Dolly disappeared through the door to the porch, dragging an incensed Sorrow beside her, bits of chewed leather still hanging from his muzzle.

“I'm sorry, too,” Jennifer said between sniffles as she tugged at her skirt. “I was just so mad at what he did.”

She turned big, wet eyes on me. “I didn't mean to hurt your dog. I wanted to save poor Jack's shoes was all. They're expensive.”

She leaned on Jackson's arm and sniffled again. He pulled his handkerchief from the back pocket of his Bermuda shorts and held it out for her. She took it, tenderly holding the precious gift, then blew her nose.

I chewed at my bottom lip. For one thing, I needed to stop myself from laughing at the silly scene. The other thing was, I was really pissed off. I didn't sic my dog on “poor” Jackson's shoes. I didn't leave the shoe where a puppy could find it. I didn't …

Well, I couldn't think of any other way I would have been smarter, but certainly I'd never let my girlfriend bean my hostess's pet. Especially if that hostess was my ex-wife.

It didn't take me long to work back up to a good sense of outrage. When I stood straight, I was almost in Jennifer's face. Maybe a little shorter than the statuesque beauty. Still, I was sure I looked impressive as I forced the two of them to back away and give me room to stomp off with dignity.

“I'm very sorry my dog chewed Jackson's shoes,” I shot over my very stiff shoulder. “However, if he'd put them in the closet where they belonged, it wouldn't have happened.”

“Emily, that's outrageous!” Jennifer, taller than I by a good four inches, grabbed back her indignation and looked down her nose at me.

I smiled a nasty smile and waited just long enough to be sure I was going to say exactly what I wanted said. “You know, Jennifer, I don't like people who hit animals. It's time for you to get over to your parents, or wherever you're going. In the morning, Jackson, you drive her where she needs to go, OK?”

“I … eh … don't know what to say, Emily.” Her full lips went into a full pout. “I'm really sorry. I didn't mean … if I offended you … it was just … well … poor Jack …”

The best I could come up with was a flounce off to my bedroom and a solid slam of the door behind me, leaving Jackson to get his shoe, or leave it, to soothe his grieving girlfriend, or leave her.

I couldn't stay in my room for long. Dolly was alone with Sorrow. Flora Coy couldn't hide in the bathroom forever. But getting out was going to be a little tough. My pride was on the line. First I opened my door and peeked around it. The bedroom door across the hall was closed. I could hear voices. Jackson soothing Jennifer, who wailed that she couldn't go and leave him here, where he wasn't appreciated.

I tiptoed into the hall and back to the living room. Dolly and Flora sat on the sofa, Dolly hunched forward, hands between her knees, head bent. Flora was taking a nap, chin on her chest, glasses slipping down her nose. She snored softly, little bursts of breath rippling her thin lips. When Dolly saw me, she put a finger to her mouth and motioned for me to join her outside.

I got a Diet Coke and followed her into the garden where we walked along slowly, looking down at my flower beds, most buried under leaves now, ready for winter despite me.

The day had cleared again. Probably not for long. Up in northern Michigan, weather changed every hour. Kind of like my life was going. The sky was one of those fall blues almost impossible to believe isn't painted on. I called them Rembrandt skies—enough gold to make each one a treasure. Everything around us, trees, grasses, knobby roses—all with a crisp edge to them. If it hadn't been the bloody—and beyond—time of year, I might have enjoyed the walk.

If I hadn't been such a shit to a guest …

I felt sad, and small, that I'd taken such pleasure in throwing Jackson's “friend” out of my house. It didn't matter that there was damned good reason behind it. I still saw Jackson's face. A rare kind of disappointment etched there. I guess I'd always been above the psycho/sexual dramas he'd indulged in. Now I'd matched him in vileness. When he had his affairs, while we were married, I didn't have many meltdowns. Well, not until my one spectacular dish-throwing fit. I guess even now he expected better of me.

I
expected better of me. I hoped this wasn't about him at all, but really about my black and white mutt with sad eyes, who didn't deserve being hit, or hurt. I hoped I wasn't one of those sick, jealous women who'd do anything for revenge.

“I'm sorry … about all that.” I motioned toward the house.

“Yeah,” Dolly said, and she took a swipe at her nose with the back of her hand.

“I shouldn't have gotten that mad,” I said. “It wasn't right to hit her. Maybe I'm just jealous. I don't know …”

Dolly stopped at the top of a set of brick steps leading down through a wild strawberry patch turned a soft bronze fall color. The steps led to the bottom garden where tall, pink foxgloves grew all of July.

Dolly made a face at me. “Do all of you smart people wear hair shirts? Hey, sometimes a duck is a duck, you know? That duck you got back in there …” She snapped her head to point to where I lived. “That duck's a conniver without the good sense God gave a pumpkin.”

I had to grin. It felt good to have somebody angry on my behalf. I couldn't remember the last time a friend had been so solidly on my side. Maybe not since grade school, when Claudia Jarvis decked a boy for hitting me in the face with a snowball. That was loyalty, too.

“Think he'll go now?” She walked ahead of me, out to what an etched rock I'd found in Traverse City proclaimed as my “Secret Garden.” Really it was just a mass of weeds growing up through creeping thyme. Another one of my garden dreams gone bad. It was supposed to be tranquil, with a bench, a birdbath, a flowering crab, and a ring of lilacs.

I said nothing. Something about my house being that empty didn't appeal to me. Jackson might be a pain in the ass, but at least he was a familiar, and reassuring, pain.

“Time you got your head back to what we're supposed to be doing.” Now she scolded me; standing in front of my leaf-choked birdbath, feet planted in my weeds, hands on her hips, the harsh look on her face finding me seriously lacking.

I opened my mouth, but I must have run out of comebacks and insults. My lips hung slack while she waited for a zinger. She looked disappointed in me yet again as I gave a sputter, then another sputter, and finally gave up.

“You want us to leave? Get out of your hair?” Dolly asked, stopping beside a lilac bush still decorated with small, brown blossoms at the top, where I hadn't been able to reach last spring.

I shook my head.

“Then why don't we get the heck out of here? How about Fuller's? I'm hungry and we need to talk to Eugenia. If she's the one said she saw me coming out of the funeral home, we'd better find out why.”

I stopped between a bent-over butterfly bush and a cascading spirea. “Let's go to Flora's, too. She needs clothes and stuff.”

“Should feed all those damn birds.” She hesitated. “Think she'll come back here to stay?”

I shrugged.

We went in and woke Flora. The other two were nowhere in sight. I didn't care if they left or stayed. It felt good to have more important things on my mind. Flora Coy was ours to keep alive. Mine and Dolly's. We were her guardians. Like it or not, we'd be the Three Musketeers until this thing was over. That meant I had no room in my life for errant strings attached to my past. If Jackson was gone when I returned, let that be the finale, the
coup de grace
, the overdue ending to my marriage.

When we got to Fuller's, the parking lot was almost empty. While Dolly and Flora went on in, I stopped to check the latest of Eugenia's genealogical sheets, almost as a way of forestalling this confrontation between Eugenia and Dolly, and anyway, I was always curious about Eugenia's latest.

The new sheet had a big gold star attached, the way Eugenia did with her favorite ancestors. But something was wrong with this one.

William H. Bonney, Jr. died in 1881, the sheet said. Dead at twenty-one.

Un-uh, I thought. I knew the name and he almost certainly never married—so therefore no descendants—and though he was certainly a bad guy, he wasn't hung, as Eugenia claimed in big bold letters. The guy had been shot, I thought, by a sheriff in New Mexico.

I knew Billy the Kid, and he sure wasn't part of Eugenia's family tree, or almost anybody's family tree (except for maybe a brother or two), and had no place in Eugenia's vestibule.

I took a look at some of the old charts. Nothing jumped out until I uncovered Belle Starr. How had that one gotten by me? It looked as though Eugenia claimed every outlaw who ever lived. I was disappointed. I guess I'd wanted her infamous family tree to be real. I wanted that touch with a rowdy past, which Eugenia had been claiming, to exist. To lose that big, wide wayward family felt like a personal loss. I felt sad for Eugenia.

I went on in but said nothing to the others. I hugged my guilty knowledge to myself.