Mother (4 page)

“You okay, honey?” Jason glanced at her.
 

“I’m fine,” she lied.
 

“I’m pretty anxious myself,” he said. “How’s your shoulder?”

“I’ll live.”

“You look a little-”

“It’s just morning sickness. Afternoon sickness, actually.” She knew he was only trying to be supportive. “I’m sorry, Jason. I know I’m terrible company. I’m just so tired all the time. And really nervous right now.” She stifled a burp then took another big swallow of ginger ale, concentrating on the feel of the bubbles burning in her throat. “Sorry,” she said, and let the burp go free.

He laughed. “I dare you to do that in front of your mother.”

“I just might. What’s in it for me?”

“The pleasure of pissing her off.”

“I could do that anytime.” She laughed. “But let’s not talk about her anymore. Let’s talk about something fun.”

He pointed at the festooned banner bridging Main Street. “We could go to the Valentine’s Day Rodeo,” he said. “Watching cowboys breaking their necks sounds pretty fun to me. And romantic.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “What do you think?”

Claire snorted and squeezed his hand. “Now I remember why I married you. You’re insanely romantic.”

Jason shrugged. “I just know how much you love dead cowboys. Do they have a lot of rodeos in Snapdragon?”

“They’re constant. The four biggies draw the tourists, though. Valentine’s Day is one of them.” She nodded at the next banner. “It’s one of our many Gold Rush Days.”

“Isn’t it a little chilly for a rodeo?”

“It doesn’t matter because it’s the celebration of a historical event. January 24th, 1848,” Claire recited. “
James W. Marshall found gold at Sutter’s Mill in Coloma. Then, on January 22nd, 1849, Louis Cannon found gold here in Snapdragon. Christ, it seems like that’s all we ever heard about in school.” She pointed at one of the looming false front buildings lining downtown Main Street. “Right there, in front of the bank. See him?”

“The statue of the man and the mule?”

“The very one. That’s Louis Cannon.”

“Kind of a reprobate-looking fella.”

“You bet. It’s said Snapdragon became a town so quickly because he spent so much money on whiskey and hookers that the town became incredibly prosperous while it was still made mostly of tents.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what they say.”

Jason drove slowly, minding the speed limit and gawking at the Old West architecture. Old Downtown, she had to admit, was scenic. Snapdragon was proud of its past, proud too of its survival when so many other boomtowns had turned into ghosts. Then the bright yellow arches of a McDonald’s appeared, the restaurant itself hiding like a hermit crab in an Old West building.
 

Icy dread touched Claire’s spine. She hated McDonald’s, and it wasn’t the food, it was Ronald McDonald himself. She’d been terrified of clowns since she was a child, thanks to the garish portraits Mother had hung in her room. Every night, she’d felt their big, glinting eyes on her when the lights went out. She shuddered.
 

“Don’t worry. We won’t eat there,” said Jason, grinning.
 

That was another reason she’d fallen for the guy: When she’d told him all about her idiot fear, back when they were dating, he never made fun of her for it. “Thanks.” Claire cleared her throat and continued on, tour-guide style. “Anyway,
Snapdragon was part of the gold rush in the mid-1800s. After its short days as a boomtown, the lake and railroad kept it from becoming a ghost, and while it had dwindled to a few hundred souls, it never entirely died. Then, in the late 1960s, builders came in and established new neighborhoods full of curving streets lined with expensive tract houses and well-behaved trees.”

And it was then that Mother and her husband bought the biggest house on Morning Glory Circle, the best cul-de-sac in town.
 

Naturally.
 

Jason laughed. “I see.”

“And there’s the Snapdragon Hotel.” She pointed at a big red brick and yellow clapboard structure on the corner of Main and Magnolia. “It dates back to 1857 and it’s claimed that Mark Twain slept there regularly.”

“We’re in Calaveras County … Maybe he did.”

“Maybe.” Claire concentrated on history, trying to keep her mind off Mother, who was barely a mile away now. Her stomach was a twisting snake pit. “The hotel also claims Wyatt Earp gambled there on numerous occasions.”

“Yeah, but is there
any
place out west where Wyatt Earp
didn’t
gamble?”

“Nope. I don’t think so.” Claire sipped the last of her ginger ale and admired the old building. “I went inside once with a friend, back in elementary school. Lori’s mom took us to lunch there at the Daffodil Grill. They had glass lamps hanging above the tables, all painted with flowers - snapdragons, daisies, lilies, roses; they were all different - and they had long glass crystals hanging from them that cast rainbows on the carpet and tablecloths. I was entranced.”

“How was the food?”

“Divine. We had burgers and old-fashioned ice cream sodas in silver goblets. I felt like a princess.”

“That settles it.” Jason pulled a quick right on Magnolia and parked. “We’re having lunch at the Daffodil Grill.”
   

“We can’t afford to, can we?”

“If your mother is as horrendous as you say, we can’t afford
not
to. We need sustenance to face the beast.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I love you, you know.”

“Back at’cha, Magic Man.” Claire rubbed her shoulder.

“I’ll give you a shoulder rub tonight.” Jason grinned.

“That would be awesome.”
 

The Lawn Wars

“That’s not even Pookie Bear’s poop!” Aida Portendorfer huffed. “I think that’s Waldo’s.”

“Waldo?” Stan couldn’t identify his own dog’s droppings, let alone keep all the neighbor dogs’ names straight.
 

“Oh, Stan, you know!” She pointed at the pale olive two-story traditional on the other side of the street. “Waldo is Duane Pruitt’s golden retriever. His poops are bigger than our Pookie Bear’s! And paler, too. I wonder what Duane feeds him. Maybe I should suggest he take Waldo in for a checkup. He might be having another bout of pancreatitis.”

Stan stifled a groan. He dearly loved his wife of forty-odd years, even though Aida couldn’t resist sticking her nose in everybody’s business. Gossip was her lifeblood and everyone on the sac knew it. She’d asked for binoculars for Christmas again this year and, reluctantly, he’d finally buckled.

Just as he’d expected, she now spent a lot of time upstairs, peering into neighbors’ windows and commenting on the state of their housekeeping and the color of their furniture, which was never right for the carpeting.
 

“Are you listening to me, Stan?”

“I think Duane can take care of his dog without your advice, Aida.”

“Hmm. I suppose. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? He takes good care of himself and that must mean he takes good care of Waldo.”

“I’m sure.” Stan stared at Duane Pruitt’s house. Aida was right: Duane - who had recently married a nice Korean man named Jerry - was very neat. Before Jerry came along, Stan hadn’t even suspected the ruggedly handsome contractor was light in the loafers. His husband Jerry spent a lot of time jogging shirtless, even in winter. Stan liked him, too; he was always smiling and friendly.
 

“Stan? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Aida-honey. Duane keeps his yard very nice.”

“No, I asked you to go make sure Waldo is in Duane’s yard. I think this is his poop and it’s not like Duane to let him run around loose.”

“Then how do you know what his poop looks like, honey?”

She sighed. “Because we talked about it, Stan. Don’t you remember? At the Morning Glory Street Fair last October. You were there.”

“Sorry, I guess I wasn’t listening.” He needed a respite from his wife. Now. “Aida-honey, I’m going to take a little walk. I need some exercise.”

“You go ahead without me,” she said, as if she ever came along. “I’m getting the snapdragon bed ready now, you know that. Our seeds have sprouted and I want to get them into the ground and out of the guest room as soon as the weather permits. We’re going to win first prize in this year’s Morning Glory Circle Snapdragon Contest.” She put her hands on her plump hips and turned to stare three doors down at Prissy Martin’s big white house. She eyed the freshly-painted shutters edging the windows, stared at the tall flagpole that waved American, POW, and MIA flags. Below those were California’s golden bear flag and the Snapdragon flag.
 

Stan suppressed a grin. Aida wanted to win that Snapdragon flag more than anything, but if she won it, she’d insist he erect a flagpole.
Probably an inch taller than Prissy’s, too.
When it came to pissing contests, his Aida had more to prove than any man. He glanced at her half-hoed flower bed and wondered if the dog with the pale poop liked to dig up gardens, too.
 

“We’ll win, Stan,” she said. “Oh, we’ll win big this year.” She smiled proudly. “Red, white, and blue snaps blooming in the biggest American flag on the block! Prissy Martin will turn purple with envy.” She looked at the huge rectangular patch of garden that had replaced the lawn. “It will be grand.”
 

“Okay, Aida-honey, that’s nice. I’m going for my walk now.” He turned.

“Stan?”

“What?” He tried to sound pleasant.

“If you happen to see Burke Collins, would you ask him if he’s going to barbecue for the Presidents’ Day block party next month?”

“Sure,” he called over his shoulder. Burke Collins was a little too full of himself for Stan’s taste, but he supposed he was a nice enough guy, especially if you enjoyed your liquor. Burke’s Kalamazoo barbecue cost thousands and he liked to show it off. He called it the Rolls Royce of grills.

“When you pass Prissy Martin’s house, see if you can tell if she’s fertilized her flower beds yet.”

“Okie-dokie.” He waved without looking back. He passed the Stine home, a neat two-story traditional painted the same blue as the eye shadow Phyllis Stine favored. Well-tended white roses and neat box hedges eased the pain of the color considerably, though Aida vehemently disagreed. Next, as the cul-de-sac began its narrow turn, came the Halloween House - that’s what Aida and Prissy called it. Hank and Crystal Lowell, their rambunctious kids, and their standard poodles lived there. Hank owned a motorcycle shop.
Nice guy.
Crystal was nice too, once you got past that lipstick-red dye job on her head.
Nice from the neck down, though.
The mouthwatering scent of barbecue wafted from the Lowell’s backyard as
Surfin’ Bird
played and the kids whooped and hollered, splashing in the heated pool.
 

Next, sitting center stage on Morning Glory Circle, was Prissy Martin’s coiffed two-story Federalist, white clapboard, red brick chimneys, and classic black shutters fronted by the only green grass in January on the cul-de-sac.
AstroTurf.
It was as neat and clipped as Prissy herself and her flags fluttered so high and proud that the sac called it the White House. He continued on without sniffing her flowerbeds for fertilizer. Aida could do that herself.

 
He passed Milton and Candy Sachs’ two stories of cotton candy fluff.
Poor Prissy, stuck between the Lowells’ pumpkiny paint job and Candy’s pink taffy apple one. Between the colors and those noisy dogs - not to mention Crystal’s hair and tattoos - Prissy must be fit to be tied.
 

He passed by Duane and Jerry’s home and their pale-stooled dog wagged his tail in greeting from behind the white wrought iron gate. He glanced across the street and saw Aida’s broad behind as she weeded her patriotic flower bed. He looked away before she noticed him. Sighing, he thought of those tight, tattered jeans she used to wear with her tight tie-dyed tank tops. Those were the days.
 

Next came the Collins’ huge home and Stan was pleased to see no sign of Burke. Before they’d remodeled, Prissy’s house had been the biggest on the street; but Burke and Geneva-Marie had recently turned their two-story traditional into a Spanish hacienda, even adding a second story to their three-car garage. Beautiful as it was, it stood out like a sore thumb on the cul-de-sac full of Federal, Colonial, and other traditional American styles. He nodded to young Billy Sachs who delivered papers, mowed lawns, and washed cars in the neighborhood. Today, Billy was waxing Geneva-Marie’s pearl white Escalade.
 

Billy was a great kid, lucky to be adopted by such attractive, well-to-do parents. His mom, Candy, was as statuesque and beautiful as any model, plus she was friendly, fun, and addicted to soap operas. She didn’t seem to have a brain in her head, but she was sweet like a little puppy dog. He liked her almost as much as he liked looking at her, even if she was taller than he was.
 

Stan continued on, passing Babs and Carl Vandercooth’s oyster gray Colonial. They were good people, the Vandercooths. Next was Ace Etheridge’s light turquoise house. The editor of the
Snapdragon Daily
was a widower, but his grown daughter, Iris, had been living with him since her divorce five years earlier. Her radio blared and that pretty Adele woman belted out that she was sorry for breaking someone’s heart.
Nice voice on that one.
 

Iris was watering, her blond hair in a ponytail, wearing denim cut-offs that accentuated her long legs.
Looking good, Iris.
As if reading his thoughts, she turned and waved. He waved back. She wore a light blue sweatshirt in deference to winter. In summer, she was even more fun when she waved.
 

He crossed the street - Daisy Drive - and passed by the Crockers’ corner home. His belly growled as he scented more barbecuing meat. Roddy and Bettyanne had painted their simple home in a green so light it was almost white. It made a nice backdrop for Bettyanne’s massive flower beds. Even this time of year, they bloomed in radiant blues and purples. Bettyanne had the greenest thumb in the neighborhood. Not only that, she was a pretty little thing, with golden curls that made her look like an innocent child. She and Roddy - an officer on the Snapdragon police force - had no children, just the flowers, and a pair of fluffy white cats that sat sunning themselves inside their picture window.
Nice people, the Crockers.
It was good to have a cop living on the street, too.