Honey, Baby, Sweetheart (25 page)

“Think about it,” Chip Jr. said. “We’re not seeing the light from right now. Stars are really pictures of the past. That light was coming to us from the time of cavemen, or before.” He was getting worked up.

“That’s amazing,” Peach agreed.

“It’s weird, don’t you think? There is all this drama going on in space all the time. Explosions and stars dying, and we’re just down here doing things like deciding what drink to have with our Quarter Pounder Meal.”

“Just pulling weeds and clipping our toenails,” Peach said.

“Harold, would you watch the elbows?” my mother said. He was eating his Slurpee with the little spoon end of the straw. I could see that my mother’s jaw was tight, the way it got when she descended into crankiness. I’m not sure if it was the long car ride, or if worry had made her irritable. Back at 7-Eleven she’d had to help Peach get Lillian to the bathroom.

“God, Ruby, I don’t want to get old,” she’d said after
they’d emerged. Peach was as chipper as ever, but Mom looked worried, as if the truth of Lillian’s deterioration had hit home. If anything happened to Lillian, if it didn’t work out at Charles Whitney’s, she would be the one who would feel ultimately responsible.

“You’re the one that’s shifting around every two seconds,” Harold said.

“I’m trying to avoid your constant swirling of the Slurpee cup.”

“Children,” Miz June scolded.

We all retreated to our own worlds for a while. The car radio still played, but no one spoke. Mom stared out the window, and so did I. I don’t know what she was seeing, but I was imagining phone booths, all of the phone booths that were out there just beyond the window. I could hear the dial tone, and then the rolling clank of coins dropping in a telephone slot. And then there would be Travis’ voice. I could make sure he was okay. His voice would fill the need I had to hear it. What had happened that night at Johnson’s Nursery was the most painful, shameful event of my life, and I’d like to be able to say that I never thought of him again afterward. But I did. He had a way of creeping in my mind, just like we had crept into that dark house. He walked around inside, took things that didn’t belong to him.

“Maybe we should think about finding a place to stay,” Miz June said. “Everyone is getting tired.”

“It’s only six o’clock,” my mother said.

“It’s been an eventful day,” Miz June said. “And we
need to call Mrs. Wong to see what’s happened at Golden Years since we left.”

“There might be a warrant out for our arrest,” Peach said. She sounded hopeful.

“We haven’t done anything illegal,” my mother said. “Not exactly. One doctor declared Lillian incompetent, but that doesn’t mean another will. Lillian can give Charles power of attorney.”

“The girls will fight that.”

“I’m turning off at the next exit,” Miz June said.

“We’re not even over the Oregon border,” my mother said. She sighed. Miz June took that as an okay, and she put on her turn signal a good half mile before the exit.

“Look, a Denny’s!” Harold said. For a chef, he sure wasn’t fussy about food.

“Senior meals,” Miz June said.

“I love menus with pictures,” Peach said.

The Denny’s was right by one of those motels with the little bear in a nightcap and pajamas on its sign. Mom went to check availability and prices of rooms and to call Mrs. Wong and Charles. I wished I were the one on that phone, I admit it. Instead I followed the old people into the restaurant, and we got a table. As if we hadn’t had enough closeness for one day, we sat on one of those curved booths, with Lillian and her wheelchair on one end. It took Peach a really long time to scoot around to her end of the vinyl bench. The table was sticky on the bottom of my arm, and it smelled smoky in there. An older woman with a coffeepot in one hand and a water
pitcher in the other came to our table.
CINDY
her name tag said, a name much too cheerful for her disposition. I bet she was wearing someone else’s apron. Cindy had lost her smile probably twenty years ago.

“Coffee,” Cindy said. It was probably a question.

Harold held up one hand. “Keeps me awake.”

She poured some for Peach, and then disappeared again, the bow of her apron looking pert and cheerful.

“The picture of happiness,” Miz June said. She’d noticed too. She already had her glasses out and was staring down her nose at the large pictures of baked potatoes and breaded chicken steaks. Peach was pointing things out to Lillian, who was awake and looking chipper. Harold was on the breakfast page.

The couple next to us ate without talking to each other, which is one of the most depressing public sights, if you ask me, right up there with cars abandoned in people’s yards. Two tables away, a young couple with three small children also didn’t speak—he concentrated on his meal as she wiped the chin of one child and fed the baby in the high chair, and tried to get the other to stop staring at us. When Mom arrived, she looked much happier. Her cheeks were rosy from the evening air and her eyes were relaxed.

“Now, look who
is
the picture of happiness,” Miz June said.

“Two double rooms, and a couch in one for Harold. In-room coffeepots.” She gave herself applause and did a goofy curtsy. She slid in next to Chip Jr. “Now, for a big, juicy cheeseburger. Bacon.”

“Charles Whitney is certainly looking forward to seeing
you”
she said to Lillian, who smiled.

“So did you get Mrs. Wong?”

“Oh, right. Jeez, I almost forgot I just talked to her.” Mom thunked her forehead with her fist. It was the same thing she used to do to the television to get the color to work before it gave up entirely and went yellow. “Yeah. Anna Bee was over there having dinner with them.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t accuse Mr. Wong of hitting on Anna Bee,” I said.

“Nah. She’s had enough excitement for a while. She heard from Delores and Nadine,” Mom said to Lillian. “Also from someone at Golden Years. And Delores’ attorney called.”

“He can’t do nothing,” Harold said.

“Scare tactics,” Miz June said. It seemed to be working. Lillian looked scared.

“Don’t worry, Lillian,” I said.

“They’ll no doubt be coming to see Charles,” my mother said.

“We better get there first,” Miz June said. “Get that power of attorney signed.” I suspect she also just wanted another chance to try to break the sound barrier in the Lincoln.

“Well, they’ll be seeing Charles
eventually,”
my mother said.

“What do you mean eventually?” I said.

“Mrs. Wong told them they’d never find him. That he was in hiding. They tried everything to get her to tell
where he was. Reason, pleading, bribery. They finally got it out of her. He was staying at the Coronado Hotel in San Diego. A place Lillian and he had a memorable weekend many years ago.”

Lillian’s shoulders were moving up and down. She snorted a little. Laughter.

“Never been there, huh?” Peach said. Lillian shook her head. I loved it. Victory. That day had been so great. That day was the best thing I ever did.

Cindy came to spread more sunshine and took our orders. Harold and Lillian were both having pancakes.

“If they’re as sweet as you, Cindy, I’ll have the pancakes,” Harold said. His ego had inflated since Mrs. Connors. At this rate, we’d have to get a U-Haul to pull it behind us.

Cindy’s pen stopped scratching. She looked up and withered Harold with a look. So much for his way with the ladies.

“Jesus, Harold. You’re lucky she didn’t jab your eyes out with her pen,” Peach said.

“Or stab you repeatedly with the pin end of her name tag,” Miz June said.

“That was really bad,” I said.

“Couldn’t Mrs. Wong have thought of somewhere a little farther away for Charles to be?” Harold said, ignoring us. “That’s maybe, what, a couple hours down the coastline?” Harold said.

“She did well coming up with that, I thought,” Miz June said.

“So who else did you call?” I asked Mom. “You were out there awhile.”

“She called Joe Davis,” Chip Jr. said. “Can’t you tell by her red cheeks?” He pinched his own to make them rosy. “I like Joe Davis,” Chip Jr. said.

“I had to check on Poe,” she said.

“Well, you certainly have cheered up since the car,” Miz June said.

“You bit Harold’s head off,” I said.

“She was testy all right,” Miz June said.

“I’m sorry, Harold,” my mom said. “I was feeling discouraged that we hadn’t made much progress. We hadn’t even crossed the state line.”

“So that’s what it was about,” I said. “The state line.” I was teasing, or else I thought I was. It was one of those moments where your own voice knows your feelings before you do. It had an edge to it. It was starting to move toward that joking that wasn’t really funny.

“What?” My mom sipped her water. The kid who had been staring in the next booth started to jump up and down on the seat.

“It was about crossing the state line. You wanted to be past where Dad is.” I swayed my hand up and down, in the motion of a roller coaster. I had only meant to indicate we were nearby the amusement park; the more cruel double meaning, that her emotions regarding men were as up and down as the Mine of Terror, only occurred to me as I put my hand down.

Chip Jr. raised his arms roller coaster-style and did a
fake scream. He hadn’t yet realized that we’d tripped over into the land of the unsaid. Too late, he noticed that the table had gotten quiet. He put his arms down. He began to scoot the paper off of his straw with the intent focus of someone doing heart surgery. My mother looked down and studied her fingernails.

“It can be difficult for women to get to the point where their feelings are not based on the attention of the men around them,” Miz June said. I presume she meant it kindly, but my mother flushed red.

“Who are you to talk?” my mother said to me. The vinyl of the bench seat was stuck to the back of my legs. I felt the heat rise in my own face. We were suddenly having an argument, and that’s how it was done by Quiet People, anger rising and struggling for release through a red face, words of barely contained viciousness. “After we’ve just done the Travis Becker soap opera.”

“I learned from the expert,” I said. Anger flew from the place where I had tried to contain it for so long. We were book readers, trained to step around raw feelings in the name of politeness and love, and yet I was furious. Furious at her sudden happiness, after years of her periods of mourning and absence that we had tried forever to fix with our goodness and peace and humor. She was happy. Fine. Terrific. Congratulations. My voice was hateful. I didn’t even care that the old people were hearing me. “He loves me, he loves me not.”

“You gave your heart to a thief, Ruby, my God, and it wasn’t like you didn’t know what he was like.” Everyone
else was quiet, except for Harold, who took a noisy drink from his water glass and made a show of putting his napkin on his lap. Maybe he had his hearing aid turned off, or maybe he saw his plate of pancakes coming. The charming and bubbly Cindy must have reached the end of her shift, as walking toward us with plates stacked up his arms was
RANDY,
tall Randy, not much older than me and wearing a mustard-colored shirt buttoned down too low, as if he was trying to show something off. Didn’t restaurants have a law about that sort of thing? After he’d unloaded the plates, I realized his object of pride was probably the one lone chest hair that was waving about frantically as he stood directly under the air-conditioning vent. It looked like a guy on a deserted island trying to signal to the rescue plane.

Harold leaned forward, giving his plate of food a long look with wide, appreciative eyes. My mother was making a snowy mountain from bits of torn-off napkin. The silence was oh so sharp. It cut. “Here you are, gang,” Randy said. “Anything else I can get you?” He was staring at Lillian. You’d have thought he’d never seen an old lady in a wheelchair before.

“What happened to Cindy?” Peach said.

“She’s on a break,” Randy said.

“I hope it’s a long one,” Harold said.

Randy chuckled. “Yeah, glacial.”

Whatever that meant. Randy turned away. I almost waved good-bye to the chest hair. He came back a second later with a catsup bottle, even though there was already
one at our table. “There you go, gang. Tomato, tomahto.”

It was quiet at our table, except for the sound of Peach’s knife edge scraping the glass plate as she cut Lillian’s pancakes, and Chip Jr.’s palm hitting the bottom of the catsup bottle. The people with the three kids got up to leave, a smattering of food left on the floor beneath where the baby sat. No one spoke. With Randy gone, tension sat between my mother and me like an extra person. It should have been given a menu and a water glass.

The silence sat in my stomach, making the food look bright and revolting and making guilt creep along the inside of my skin. I tried to eat a French fry.