Dancers of the Third Age
Judith Granahan
Copyright (c) 2011 by Judith M. Granahan
All right reserved
No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means -- electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other-- except for brief quotations in reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher.
Published in Minneapolis, Minnesota
Author’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any similarity to people, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Genny Kieley
Smashwords Edition
Acknowledgements
Writing a novel is similar to giving birth. In both endeavors, one needs a lot of help. This novel is dedicated to all my helpers.My partner, Robyn who’s always supported and believed in me. To the memory of my mentor Maureen LaJoy who encouraged even my bad stuff and showed me the value of criticism. To my critique group, Night Writers of Maple Grove, Minnesota.
They appear alphabetically because one is never above the other.
Genny, Jack, Janet, Judd, Laura, Lyn, Ross, Stephanie and Sue.
Chapter 1
Anna Mae looked around the cemetery once again. There still was no one visiting a grave or tending the grounds. A few birds sat in the lone tree watching her as she quietly slipped her husband’s pistol out of her pocket. Aiming it at where she figured the head of his coffin should be, she fired. The birds scattered as she fired again and, again.
Shooting Benny’s grave to shreds was not what she’d planned to do today. No, not at all.
Five months ago, when the paramedics told her, her husband Benny was dead, the sun had risen in her soul. Then last week the Tucson police declared his death an accident. That had been a pleasant surprise.
She’d been there, watched Benny fall, but couldn’t remember any more details. No matter how hard she tried, nothing came into her head, except a strong feeling that she’d killed him. She prayed it was her fault that he died.
Today would have been their fifty-first wedding anniversary. This day was the one she’d picked to return to their house, go out into their workshop to try and remember exactly how Benny had died. She had no more excuses to stay away. The police were done. All their yellow tapes were gone. She’d gotten a good night’s sleep, her body wasn’t stiff, or sore. Her mind was as sharp as it could be these days. She limped around, picked up a few things, anything to put off leaving for a bit longer.
Then, as it often did, her mind went to thinking about other things. Things like, if the other tenants would just stop pestering her to be social, she might like living in this three story, stone apartment building. Back in the Wild West days, it had been a very popular brothel just outside of Tucson now Tucson had grown up around it.
When the laws changed, the ladies of the night went to hotels so it became a series of legitimate businesses. A hat factory became a garment factory when hats went out of style. When clothes became name brands, it turned into law offices and finally a medical building. Then it got too outdated looking for a prosperous medical building so it had just sat there, tired and dilapidated.
In its ninety-ninth year, it went up for auction. Memories of childhood stories of ‘the ladies of the night’ made her friend Cece out bid a wrecking ball company for the property. It took Cece a year to turn it into a modern apartment building which she then rented only to single women collecting Social Security checks. The tenants gleefully named it ‘The Bordello.
Not long after Benny’s death, Cece had stopped by their house. Cece had accused her of losing too much weight, said the odors in her kitchen smelled like road kill, then insisted she move into the Bordello. Just temporarily until she got her life figured out.
Cece had said if she was with people, not sitting around in her house moping in the dark, she’d better adjust to being a widow. Moving hadn’t changed her because she’d not been moping. She’d been enjoying the quiet now that Benny wasn’t there in person to yell at her.
But, Cece was her only friend and she felt obligated to move in.
She’d brought few things with her. Clothes. Kitchen stuff. Some bedroom furniture. A coffee table Benny hated. The sofa he never sat on because it was green. Their old television set. Cece had added some furniture from the basement storage area. Still, Anna Mae saw her stay at ‘The Bordello’, as temporary as money in beggar’s pocket.
She did like sitting in any of the three Bordello lounges, listening to the stories that Birdie, and the others made up of ‘ladies of the night,’ dressed in fine clothes, teasing men, entertaining them, taking their money then sending them away. For most of her life, she’d had only Benny and her cats to talk to.
Being here had perked her up some but, she found freedom paralyzing. Always Benny had told her what to do, when to do it, how badly she’d done it. Fifty-one long years. Without him, even the little decisions sent her to bed. Eating alone, she couldn’t eat. Eating with people, she didn’t know what to say.
Then there was the money question. How much was there? Where had he hidden it? Before Cece had spirited her away, she’d searched the house, found almost one hundred thousand dollars in cash and stock certificates hidden in Benny’s room.
Anna Mae limped over to where she kept her purse. The funeral people had been very nice. They’d told her how to notify the government of Benny’s death so she could get his Social Security benefits. She still needed the papers that said she was Anna Mae Brown. Trouble was, she’d never seen their papers, Benny had kept track of all of them.
The only place left for her to search was in their workshop. The one place she was afraid to go. After the police had taken his body and said she was free to go out there, she’d only stared at the door into their workshop, feeling it pulse with Benny’s anger. Most of her married life she’d wished Benny dead. Now that he was, she didn’t have the satisfaction of actually knowing what caused him to die.
She pounded her grey head with her fists to knock details of how he’d died back into it. As usual, nothing happened. She did remember him high up on his ladder, then falling, then him being in his casket at the funeral home.
Pushing her watch up her arm, to get it to stay in place, she realized it was almost nine o’clock. Nine was a good time to leave. The tenants who volunteered in Cece’s free Daycare center were out in the carriage house by seven-thirty. Those golfing, or running, usually left by eight to beat the hot Arizona sun. Nine was her best chance of avoiding most of the women who lived here. It wasn’t that they weren’t nice women; it was that she wasn’t.
Suddenly she felt a courage, even an eagerness, to go. Starting out the door, she looked down.
“God damn it! I’ve still got my fool slippers on.” Anna Mae rushed into the bedroom.
“I can’t go out looking like an idiot or people will take notice of me.”
She enjoyed talking out loud now. Saying whatever popped into her head. Even swearing. Trouble was, she sometimes spoke out loud in public when she shouldn’t.
She put on a pair of slacks, cinched her belt so they wouldn’t fall down, shivered in the air-conditioned room, grabbed a heavyweight long sleeve blouse then threw it on the floor.
“Think, damn it! Anna Mae, think! Use your friggen head; you damn old fool! The house is all closed up. It’ll be hotter than hell!”
She slapped her face, muttered, Shut up, Benny, to stop Benny’s foul words from spewing out of her very own mouth.
Giving a swift kick to the blouse she sent it flying into a corner. She loved being messy, doing whatever she wanted. She quickly finished dressing, checked herself in the mirror. Her face was a sag bag, as some of the women called their faces. Her hair stuck out in short gray sprigs. It was time she got it cut again. A few strokes with a wet comb and she was ready to go.
Checking her purse to make sure her car and house keys were inside, she peeked out her door into the Shady Lady Lounge. This lounge was for potluck dinners, watching TV on the big screen, and visiting. Anna Mae chuckled at the prostitute manikin sitting on the red velvet settee touching the male customer manikin kneeling in front of her. Yesterday they’d been glaring at each other from across a table. She rushed down the back stairs, crossed through the first floor Scarlet Letter Lounge, and out the front door into the warm morning sun. So far her luck was good; she hadn’t run into Liberty Price.
She let out a very long sigh. She found it hard to understand people. From all she could tell, Libby was a nice person. But, there had to be something be wrong with Libby. Because two, or was it three days ago, she and Libby were having a pleasant conversation, when Cece suddenly showed up and grabbed her arm. Hissing she should stay away from Liberty Price, Cece led her to her office. It still was all very puzzling, but she couldn’t dwell on that. Now, she had to figure out if she’d killed her husband.
Concentrating on the traffic, she drove to the house she’d lived in with Benny for thirty-six very miserable years. Cece’s handyman must have been there because the grass had been cut, no papers blew around the yard. Busy checking it out, she drove up and over the curb.
“You dumb old fool! Pay attention! You could have wrecked my car.” Anna Mae slapped her mouth. “Shut up, Benny.”
Backing up, she drove into their wide driveway, shut the engine off, stared at the house and Benny’s repair shop, blinked back tears. Her life might not be perfect yet, but it was better. She could now plan a future for herself, she could. She had to keep telling herself that.
Telling herself to get out of the car, go into the shop, do it now, do it, over and over didn’t make her body move. Humming a tune to stop the nattering in her head she was suddenly out of the car. Limping only a little, she moved quickly before anyone could spot her and come over. She unlocked their front door, slipped inside. Creeping through the dark house, she went into their small kitchen, turned on a light and stopped in front of the door the went into her and Benny’s workshop.
As before, the door seemed like a pulsing, living thing. She could almost feel Benny on the other side, breathing, waiting for her. How many times since his death had she gotten this far? Never touched the doorknob? Fifty? A hundred? At least that. This time she’d do it. She thought back to what she’d been doing when it had all started.
She’d been fixing their lunch when Benny started yelling, ‘Get your sorry ass out here.”
At first she’d ignored him until he sounded really angry. That was when she went out there. Now, gathering up her courage, she opened the door and walked into that day.
“You sure took your damn sweet time coming out here!”
Her body shook. She remembered looking up, seeing Benny perched at the top of his ladder, nearly two stories up. He’d been repairing again, the huge fan set into the peak of their workshop ceiling. The huge fan was a very important fan. It sucked out the chemical fumes from their furniture and, antique car restoration business, outside. It hadn’t worked for several days and the air had smelled caustic as he shook his fist at her.
“Your god damn fucking cat’s hair got the vent fan stuck!”
That is not why. Ran through Anna Mae’s head followed by, Mrs. Dasher Cat is never, ever out in the workshop and you know it! But she dared not say it out loud.
She’d shut the door behind her. Moving forward, she’d tripped over something soft. Looking down she saw her cat, Mrs. Dasher, lying in a heap on the floor. Her head was turned all wrong. She screamed and screamed, until a rushing noise filled her ears and tears rolled down her face. She couldn’t suck in air. Grabbing onto the bench she almost fell. Benny had wrung precious, precious, Mrs. Dasher’s neck.
Benny’s glove landed hard right near her good foot. She jerked up, screamed, “You killed Mrs. Dasher! You wrung her neck! Just like the others.”
“Damn right I did! Fucking cat was out here getting hairs all over my stuff.”
“Mrs. Dasher is never in the shop! Never!”
“Hell of a lot you know. The damn thing sneaks out here when you aren’t watching her.”
Moving blindly forward, she edged along Benny’s workbench, hit something with her foot, looked down. Mrs. Dasher’s cat carrier with a small mound of cat food inside it was on the floor. She gulped air, picked up a wrench, pounded his workbench over and over.
“You tricked Mrs. Dasher into her carrier!”
“Why would I do that?”
“To kill her. Like you did my other pets.” She should have known he’d not keep his promise that this cat would live.
“You can bury her after you throw me the wrench to fix my stuck fan.” He paused, waved his hand at her. “Or, I could come down there and do the same thing to you.”
A rasping, come down, kill me too, things will be better then, came out of her mouth but it didn’t carry far.
Vowing that this time Benny would pay for all the animals he’d killed, Anna Mae picked up a wrench. Not the one she knew he wanted and threw it right into his hand; just like he’d taught her to do.
Benny looked at it, dropped it so it fell into a basket on the floor. “Bigger. You know I need the bigger one.”
“Bigger. Yes.” She picked up a much heavier wrench. Flung it hard, felt pain shoot to her shoulder, but was elated when it clipped his leg then fell with a huge clatter to the floor.
“Damn you, Maim you’ll pay for that one.” He held out his hand. “Park the right one, right here, right now, you old fool or I’m coming down! You know I will.”
“Try this one.” She threw him the adjustable wrench that didn’t adjust anymore.
Benny flung it back so hard it missed her head by inches and stuck deep into the plasterboard behind her. His hard laugh rang out through the huge workshop. Infuriated, she moved to his row of brand-spanking new wrenches, smiled, picked up one. Pulling her arm back, she snapped her wrist just so and let go.
That was what she’d forgotten! That wrench. Now, remembering it, she saw the wrench flip end over end until it was just a tantalizing few inches from his out-stretched hand. If he didn’t catch it, it would smash into the center of his precious ceiling fan.
She yelled, “That’s your good one, you’d better grab it.”
Benny, leaning far out, grabbed the wrench, laughed at her. Then she heard a snapping sound. His ladder twisted, tossing him off. He fell. As his head hit the edge of the workbench, she heard a loud whack. Then a dull thump as he landed on the cement floor. Then a horrible silence.
Suddenly heels clicked. Cece was running to her, saying it was all an accident. Why was Cece there? Anna Mae shook her head. Oh yes, Cece had brought in a picture frame, or something, to be repaired.
Cece, kept saying it was an accident because the ladder broke. She’d also said they shouldn’t leave things around that would make the police think she and Benny were arguing. Cece helped her put all the tools back in their proper places, covered up the hole in the wall with a calendar. She even buried Mrs. Dasher.
After that, Cece called the police, told them Benny had fallen off a ladder that broke. Then, before the police got there, Cece kept telling her how she saw the ladder break and that’s why Benny fell. Cece had said it so much that must be why she’d not remembered her part in his death. Not remembered she’d thrown the wrench wide hoping Benny would reach for it and fall.
She’d thrown him tools for years. Knew exactly where to aim. Now she rubbed the sides of her head; smiled. Her yelling so hard at him for the first time in her life must have knocked common sense right out of him. Made him reach out when he knew better. His weight probably twisted the ladder off its moorings.
Yes, she’d killed him. That’s was all there was to it. She patted at the bench that had broken his neck.
Chapter 2
Elated, Anna Mae burst out the workshop door and into an Arizona sunshine so bright it stung her pale blue eyes. Shielding the top of her glasses against the sun, she sucked in a breath, ran crazily to where she and Cece had buried Mrs. Dasher then collapsed onto the warm grass next to the dirt she remembered digging for Mrs. Dasher’s grave.
She patted the ground. “I’m so sorry we buried you without any kinds words, Mrs. Dasher. I wanted to have you nearer to my other cats, but Cece said it would be bad if the police saw some fresh grass all dug up. They’d find out Benny killed you and might think I killed him. Which I did, Mrs. Dasher.”
She clapped her hands in joy. “Did you hear me? I killed him! I know you’re glad to hear that.”
She rubbed her hand over the dirt, took in some easy breaths. “I should have visited you sooner than this, but it just broke my heart to know you were out here.”
The dirt seemed to warm beneath her hand. “You have nothing to fear where you are now. You’re safe, and I’ll bring you flowers very often, so rest well, my dear and loving friend.”
She looked around her yard, smiled. “Actually, Mrs. Dasher, this is the perfect spot for you. You’re higher up than all my other darlings. I promise you, when I sell the house, I’ll sell it to people with small children. You’ll be able to see them playing in the yard.
She patted the ground again, rubbed the dirt, nodded. “Yes, I like my new place.”
Anna Mae listened. “What? You say that’s not true, Mrs. Dasher?” She tried to hold back her tears. “It’s so amazing how you’ve always been able to read my mind.”
She listened. “Yes. You’re right again. The important thing is that I move on.”
She knew it probably wasn’t Mrs. Dasher talking to her. Cats couldn’t talk. Maybe they could when they were dead. Or, maybe sitting next to Mrs. Dasher, her most favorite cat of all time, she could shut out Benny’s voice in her head. The voice that so often disturbed her thinking, even now after his passing.
She leaned over the mound and whispered. “Is he around here?” She sat back up, waited.
“He’s not? That’s wonderful. Sometimes he comes in the deep night shadows to my rooms at the Bordello. I didn’t think he’d know to follow me there, but he has. At least it’s not so windy there. He can’t come in the wind to whisper to me. I left his chair here at the house, so I can’t see him sitting in it staring at me. Sometimes he pokes me in my sleep.”
She let out a satisfied sigh, patted Mrs. Dasher’s grave again. “All that will change now that I know I killed him. I’m not afraid of him anymore.”
Taking a small locket from around her neck to tuck into Mrs. Dasher’s grave something brushed against her leg. Smothering a scream, she pulled away then saw a small orange tabby dash behind a bush.
“Shoo. You must go away until all this is settled.”
The cat meowed a few times then inched its way out of hiding. Anna Mae clapped her hands, it dashed back only to come out of hiding a few seconds later.
“You’re hungry, but if I feed you, you’ll keep coming back and no one lives here right now.”
Grabbing the cat by the back of its neck she took it over to her fence gate and dropped it outside her yard.
“Please go away. You can find a better place to live, one that’s not a pet cemetery.”
She went back, knelt beside Mrs. Dasher. “As always, you’ve helped me by listening. I’m closer to knowing what I should do. I will be back to see you soon and I’ll plant you some beautiful flowers.”
Going back into the workshop, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, listened for Benny. The silence said he wasn’t there. Then she looked at his desk, his chair, and realized she’d killed a person. A bad person but, a real, live person was now dead because of her. It sunk her to the cold cement floor.
Pulling her knees to her, she hugged them tight. She’d ended a life. She rocked back and forth, wailed. She’d put an end to him. Pain shooting down her bad leg reminded her that Benny had brought her to this. Benny’s meanness had made her a killer.
She supposed some of their trouble had been her fault. He’d been cruel, but she’d been a coward. She rocked harder, faster, then stopped when her hips couldn’t take the pain of a cement floor any longer.
“I didn’t set out to kill him. He was being so cruel again. Laughing about killing Mrs. Dasher. And he nearly split my head open with that wrench!”
She was not going to feel guilty about this. Getting up from the cold floor, she picked up a crowbar, went to the far wall where Benny’s precious steel cabinet stood starring back at her. He’d kept all of his secrets locked in there; she just knew he did.
“Are you listening, Benny Brown, aka, David Thurgood?” She knew calling him by his real name would irritate him.
“Aka, David Thurgood, I hope you are. You drove me to kill you. I tried to please you all these years.” She tapped the cabinet hard with the crowbar.
“But you wouldn’t quit, would you? So, now you lay dead while I’m alive. I’ve searched the house for our papers, found our money, but no papers yet and I’ll never quit looking.”
She jammed the crowbar between the padlock and the cabinet. “Are they in here? If not I’ll wreck this place until I find them.”
She gave out a large grunt, yanked at the padlock. It fell off, the door flew open, spilling a box and it’s contents onto the floor. Photos, probably Benny’s before and after pictures of the furniture or cars they refurbished. More trash for her to throw away before selling the house.
Picking up a photo, she looked at it, looked again. A picture of young man and a girl. Their outfits said it had been taken years ago at a graduation. She studied it, then raced to the window for better light. Turning until the sun brought out the images, she nearly collapsed.
These people were her children. Children she sent away when they were four and nine. In the picture their daughter was graduating. How could Benny have found them? She and her sister Ruth had been so careful. She let out the wail of an animal caught in a trap, spun around.
Anna Mae clutched the picture to her chest, ignored the shooting pains in her ankle, paced around and around Benny’s desk until she was faint with pain. How had he gotten the picture? She’d been so careful. Even now, thirty-seven years later, she didn’t know where her children were. She stared at the picture of her son and daughter. Touched his face, her long hair. Her children were grown up and they looked happy.
Tears, forbidden all these years, poured down her face. She saw again the blue and grey highway bus pull away from the station carrying her brave nine-year old son and his tiny four year-old sister off to their aunt and uncle. Away from the cruelty of their father.
She’d stuffed their two small suitcases with clothes, some favorite toys and a note to her sister. No one even questioned her when she put the children on a bus with tickets to Flagstaff pinned to their jackets. Today, they’d arrest her for doing that and what a blessing that would be. Someone would have paid attention to her. A woman was all on her own back then.
She’d run away with them once, after his beating caused her to miscarry. Her father, not seeing her side of it, called Benny to come take them home. After years of failed escape plans, her sister phoned to say she and her husband were moving. They weren’t telling their parents where they were going. She could bring her children and run away with them. Instead, she’d sent them just her children.
Her sister called her hours later, to say the children had arrived but she wouldn’t let Ruth tell her where they were going. They planned to keep in touch through Anna Mae’s neighbor. Before that happened, Benny had moved them from Phoenix to Tucson. All these years she’d believed she’d saved their son from his father’s anger and their daughter from his fondling but, he’d found them. Had he talked to them? Hurt them?
Anna Mae stiffened. Were there more pictures? She rushed to the cabinet, threw everything off the shelves finding three more pictures. All had been taken at her daughter’s high school graduation. Her son looked smart in an Army uniform. Anna Mae gave out a small cry. Timothy had joined the Army! They’d talked about how the Army could be his escape. And her little girl looked so beautiful and proud and happy. It all hurt, but it felt good too.
She studied the pictures for any hint of where they’d been taken. Finding none she carefully laid them on the bottom of a small cardboard box bothering her feet. Covered them with some of the business files she wanted, got dizzy from going up and down.
She had to stop and think. What was she to do now? Sitting for the first time in Benny’s oil stained chair, she took in deep breaths to slow her heart and still the pains in her chest. Benny had found their children but Benny was dead. She couldn’t ask him where they were.
Anger sat her straight up. Benny had found their children and never said a word to her! Not one word. He knew she mourned for them. Knew that if he’d showed her the pictures it would have eased her pain. How could he not have let her know they were alive and well?
She stood up, swiped everything off his desk. Took a gun, carefully laid on the shelf behind the cabinet, removed its oily yellow rag, dug through the pile on the floor until she found bullets. Loading them into the gun, she put the pistol in the box along with the papers she needed and left.
Fifteen minutes later she was clenching her jaw and staring down at Benny’s grave marker. Reading for the first time, the small plaque she had made that said he was down there in his casket. To keep up appearances she’d spent almost a respectable amount of money on the plaque, and as little as possible on his casket. A plastic bag would have suited him better. Not even the heavy kind. The thin kind that maggots could cut through and get to him sooner.
She looked around the grounds of the huge cemetery one more time. Fate was with her. No one was visiting a grave, being buried, or tending to anything. It was just her, the dead, and a few birds, alone in the cemetery.
Stepping onto her husband’s grave with two loud stomps, she planted her feet like they showed on TV, raised Benny’s pistol to eye level, pointed it down to where his head should be and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked her arthritic hand straight up and sent her reeling backwards.
It gave her great pleasure to see dirt spray up where the bullet had entered the ground. She pictured it racing down, clipping her husband’s brain just enough to wake him up.
Birds cawed in the distance as she gripped the gun a second time, this time with both hands. She planted her feet even firmer, aimed at where his heart might be, if he had one, and fired. More dirt flew. She thought she heard him bounce in his casket. It was so cheap she was sure the bullets had gone all the way through to his body.
Gun smoke seemed to swirl around her. As the shots echoed in her ears, she pictured him quivering below her feet. Aiming lower, she shot again, then once more. Fearing someone would come to arrest her, she kicked his grave for good measure then fled to her car. Driving away from the cemetery, she headed back to The Bordello where she could lie down and figure things out.
Wild thoughts tore through her. What if her children lived near here? They could. Or, they could be dead at their father’s hands. Benny. Her children. The pictures. Nothing made sense. She hated him even more now. She had to lie down and think what to do.
Her hands shook. Her insides shook. Driving around a corner someone honked at her, then honked again shaking some sense into her. Benny had found their children, so could she. She was as smart as him, smarter even. She’d hire somebody. There was all that money she’d found. Tomorrow she’d go back to the house and find more.
Chapter 3
Liberty Price, determined today would not be a fiasco like yesterday, left her apartment minutes after Anna Mae had.
Driving a few miles over the speed limit, which was ticket territory in her mind, she made good time getting to the neighborhood she called the Garden of Eden. Botanical Zealots lived in the Garden of Eden. That included her ex sister-in-law and longtime friend, Ginger.
Every yard here was filled with breathtaking floral, cacti and plant displays. Their owners spent years striving to be on the front page of amateur garden magazines. Several had won contests. The Garden of Eden even had a circulating Vigilante Twosome to make sure there were no professional dudes involved in the planting. Ginger’s front yard had become the envy of all after Ginger retired from the real estate business. Driving over here yesterday to talk to Ginger hadn’t worked out at all. She’d been crazy to think Ginger was finally over being mad at her. Stupid to think the unusual noise her car made driving up to Ginger’s front door would have gotten her some sympathy.
As it had turned out, the irritating noise served as a warning bell for Ginger, giving her plenty of time to hide. Of course Ginger would deny hiding from her, but she was sure it was Ginger’s platinum hair she’d seen flitting past the entryway window then nothing.
Now it was Wednesday. Only scorching heat, or a furious sand storm, kept Ginger from tending her gardens on Wednesday mornings. Today there was very little wind, it was sunny and not too hot for mid-May in Tucson. All she had to do was trap Ginger in her garden, convince her to go over to the Bordello and talk to Cece on her behalf. Cece was usually in her office at The Bordello on Wednesdays from ten to twelve. These things meant the planets were aligned in her favor today, not Ginger’s.
Unfortunately, time had taught her, that reality often got in the way of planets and her best laid plans.
Libby checked her watch. It was nine thirty. By eight-thirty Ginger was usually done with the hundreds of things she did to make herself presentable to be seen outside. She always did her front gardens before the hot sun drove her into her back yard. Perfecto.
Libby parked as close as she dared to the giant, thick stand of tall hibiscus Ginger’s competitive neighbor had planted trying to block the view of Ginger’s front yard. This also was in her favor, since the hibiscus would completely hide her tiny car from Ginger’s eyes.
Libby gripped the steering wheel to stop her stomach ‘skitters’. She had to get this done today or she could be evicted from The Bordello. Lifting her birding binoculars to her eyes, she leaned on her dashboard, managed to get a limited view of Ginger’s front yard through the hibiscus branches. Nothing much there, just Ginger’s front door and Ginger’s tall something or others on either side of the door. If she wanted to see much more she’d have to get out of her car and risk being accused of snooping by the neighbor everyone called Sally Long Nose.
She had to admit Ginger had good reason to dodge her. The MADD protest she’d dragged Ginger to a few weeks back had been a doozie of a mistake. And, it was mostly her fault. She should have read the fine print on the flyer. Should have seen it wasn’t Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, but Men Advocating Dirty Dancing. It would have been just a good laugh if they hadn’t been photographed standing in front of a Men Advocating Dirty Dancing sign, which then became a featured picture in the Sunday paper. But the, ‘save the cacti’ sit-in? Her fault? Libby shook her gray head. No way was that one her fault.
The cactus mess was Ginger’s doing, beginning to end, no matter what Ginger said. Ginger had decided all on her own to stand next to the huge saguaro cactus and wave at the photographer. No one noticed the Saguaro’s lower arm pointing straight at Ginger’s lower region until the photo was printed in the garden section of the newspaper.
As Libby shook her head, her gray ponytail swished from shoulder to shoulder. She had to get to Ginger before Ginger saw her. Getting out of her car, she moved as casually as possible to a thinner clump of yellow hibiscus then, with her back to the street, slid her binoculars quietly up to her eyes and leaned in as if inspecting the hibiscus for bugs.
Libby sighed. Of course Ginger was sick of all the sit-ins, protest marches, etcetera she’d dragged her to over the last year and a half. And here she was now, creeping around the bushes like an FBI or CIA agent, or a criminal searching for empty houses. Trouble was, Ginger was the only person who had enough clout to save her from Cece’s wrath. This whole mess had something to do with her talking to Anna Mae a few days ago. They’d been having a nice conversation when Cece swooped in from nowhere and yanked Anna Mae right off the settee. The glare Cece gave her she called Cece’s Evil Eye. One should never make their landlady that mad.
Forcing herself back to the business at hand, she braced her feet, focused her binoculars at the dozens of flower beds stretching out like multicolored ribbons back and forth across Ginger and George’s huge front yard. Studying each row, she was happy to see how much work there was still to be done. No weeds, heaven forbid there would be weeds, but a lot of the flower heads had seen better days. The bad part was it could take Ginger hours to work her way down to the bottom of her yard where she’d planned to trap her. Reality raised its ugly head. She didn’t have hours. Cece would be gone from the Bordello by twelve. Time to come up with Plan B.
Libby moved to the very edge of the hibiscus for a better look at Ginger’s half moon driveway. No cars but, she hadn’t expected any. The Logan’s almost always parked their, much too expensive, cars in the garage. Cars and the Arizona sun were deadly enemies.
Her own precious car, her beautiful Rosa Rita, certainly was proof of that. Poor Rosa Rita had gone from cherry red to cream of tomato soup in just twelve short years. Seeing a wheelbarrow and a trash can at the top of the drive, Libby’s head jerked up. That meant Ginger had to be in her front garden somewhere. She zeroed in on the three tall, exotic trees, to the left side of the front door. Their white flowers, plush green leaves were in mint condition. Ginger had already tended to them.
Next came the dense, red bougainvillea bushes filling up the far left corner of the yard. If Ginger wasn’t there, then she’d have to chance it and run up to the top of the driveway, sprint across the front door, duck under the long run of living room windows, zip around the garage and into the back yard all before Ginger could get wind of her. Even thinking of doing it hurt her knees and made her short of breath.
Her eyes narrowed, her heart quickened. Had something had just moved behind the bougainvillea’s thick branches? Libby steadied her ‘binocs’, spied Ginger clipping away, wearing a bright, canary yellow, outfit. A floppy tan garden hat covered some of her bush of platinum hair. An excellent plan popped into Libby’s head. Turning around, she rushed back to her car then drove to the bottom of Ginger’s driveway all the while keeping her eyes on the yellow outfit and the bougainvillea. Suddenly the yellow suit disappeared behind the thick bushes. That was okay. Ginger was outside and she couldn’t get from the bougainvillea to her front door without being seen. It was too soon to give a shout of victory; she hadn’t trapped her yet.
Ginger peered in horror out from behind the thick branches. Libby’s junk heap of a car was at the bottom of her drive! She was here again; without calling first. Libby may have left New Hampshire over fifty years ago, but New Hampshire had never left her. Lib always called before coming over, unless she was about to beg her into going on some hair-brained crusade. These days Libby and picket lines were almost one word. Liberty Price was a good name for someone who did protest marches, sit-ins, car washes, as often as other people bushed their teeth.
Ginger adjusted her legs in their crouched position. Bent knees hurt, but if she went lower she’d get dirt on her Gucci slacks. That would about kill her, even if they were two years old. She looked longingly at her front door. There was no way she could dash for the door and get inside unseen, and she was fast for someone who collected Social Security.
Her bright yellow outfit didn’t help either. Yesterday, Libby’s high-pitched engine noise had given her the time she needed to dive into her front closet. Thinking about it now, she could still smell the perfume that had nearly asphyxiated her while waiting for Libby to give up and leave.
Ginger stared at the pink monster stopped at the foot of her driveway. Why had Libby stopped? Telephone call? That could be. If her knees didn’t give out, she could crouch a bit longer, see if Libby would leave. If she came up the drive she’d have to lie down and stay perfectly still. If she didn’t sneeze. If bugs didn’t crawl up her legs. If, if. She hated ifs. She should pray for Libby to go away.
No, she couldn’t pray. She only prayed for life and death things, a good score in golf and a plastic surgeon with steady hands. She glared at the small green lizard blinking at her from a branch.
“Saying no to Libby works about as well as me telling you not to change colors.”
Libby, picturing Ginger crouched down with worry worms crawling in her stomach, backed a few feet into Ginger’s driveway.
Ginger’s head snapped up. Tires on her driveway! She peeked between the bushes, thumped the ground and splattered dirt onto her Gucci. This was not the time to worry about ruining a Gucci outfit that had cost her an arm and two legs. This was the time to remember that Libby couldn’t back her way out of a paper bag. Her whole front garden was in jeopardy! Half rising, she grabbed at a thick branch.
Libby gripped the back of the passenger seat, cranked her neck around as far as it would go, aimed her car’s rear end right at the top of the drive and Ginger’s prize winning, triple blossom, azaleas, then started slowly backing up.
Seeing the car move, Ginger bolted straight up and out of her bougainvillea. Ran a few feet, leapt over a bed of Mexican day lilies. Raced around two rows of tall blue delphinium, heard something crunch under her foot and almost swore. Zig zagging down the rest of her huge front yard, around her perfect flower beds, she flapped her arms at Libby like a mad woman. When she finally stumbled out on to the driveway a few feet from the back of Libby’s car she was totally out of breath.
Libby held back a grin. Ginger had looked just like Big Bird trying to take off. Hearing Ginger thump her trunk, Libby felt completely paid back for yesterday’s evasion. She basked in the joy of winning the first round.
“God Bless America, Liberty Price. Stop your car before you give me a heart attack!”
Ginger gulped for air. It hurt to yell. She promised herself to get back to her aerobic classes right after she broke Libby’s neck.
Face to face with her friend she sometimes called Castro’s sister, because of her bossy ways and dumpy clothes, Ginger put her hands on her hips, stomped on the driveway, then abruptly stopped. Throwing a temper tantrum in rubber clogs had to look more like a welcoming jig. She reached down and yanked Libby’s passenger door open.
What had George said last night after she told him about being trapped in their front closet by Libby and nearly dying a perfume death? Oh yes, he’d said, “Avoidance paves the road to perdition.” Whatever that meant. George didn’t have to deal with Ms. Castro, now did he?
Like a boxer getting into the ring, Libby stepped out of her car, walked around to face Ginger, wiggled her toes in her re-soled Birkenstocks, hitched up her olive gray slacks, pushed her glasses up her nose and faced her former sister-in-law. She’d flushed Ginger out like a covey of quails.
Ginger, ran a nervous tongue over her teeth, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-nine inches, stared down at Libby, crossed her arms, planted her feet. “Explain yourself.”
Libby held back her grin; she couldn’t hold back her tongue.
“Flapping your arms in your yellow outfit made you look like Big Bird on Sesame Street trying to take off. I hope that bright yellow outfit means you’re being more sociable these days.”
Ginger’s glare killed that idea. Wearing expensive clothes in the garden was just Ginger being Ginger.
“I was in a very good mood until you aimed your car at my prize winning flowers.”
“All you had to do was to answer your door yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I wasn’t home.”
Libby probably knew she was lying. Her saleswoman tactics had never worked on Libby. Even her most icy stare, the one she could pull off at a moment's notice, was useless on Libby. Her success as a top real estate agent in Tucson, had been due in part, to her ability to keep at something until the client caved.
“Go home. This is my gardening day. Even George does not interrupt my gardening day. Scoot. I’ve work to do.”
Scoot? Ginger had said scoot to her! Libby reached into her shirt pocket, pulled out a piece of yellowed paper, unfolded it, slapped it onto the trunk of her car. “Read it.”
Ginger crossed her arms. “No.”
“You promised.”
Chapter 4
Ignoring the paper, Ginger looked as deep as she could into Libby’s eyes, the way her first sales boss had taught her to do. He’d instructed her to; “Look ‘em in the eyes when you want something they aren’t ready to give or when you have to flat out lie to them. The eyes throws them off. Makes them yours. ”
“I am not reading it, Liberty Price. That list is for emergencies only. I’ve told you over and over no more of your crusades, sit-ins or political protests for me. None. Nada.”
Ginger, checked her foot halfway up in the air and instead, spun around in a circle like a ballet dancer.
“I can’t deal with your charity stuff. George has barely recovered from his recent brush with death. Now he’s hinting at quitting his perfectly good job and starting a business making designer solar waterfalls for gardens. I married him for better or worse, not for him to take over our garage!”
“First off Ginger, they caught George’s cancer right away. All his doctors tell you he’s made a remarkable, and complete recovery.”
“Dang it, Libby. He scared me to death.” Reminding herself of her unbreakable rule, never to swear anywhere near her garden, even if Lib was here persecuting her, Ginger took in a deep breath.
“Let me repeat what you said to me the last time you wanted me to do something.”
“You needn’t do that.” Libby felt her face flush just a little, hoped Ginger didn’t notice it through her designer sunglasses and floppy straw hat.
“Yes, I do. You had said you were done with crusades yet, that day you went right into your guilt tripping antics. You cried out in such agony that the desert was being gobbled up cacti by cacti, shrub by shrub for asphalt parking spaces. You said we had to protest or there’d not be a speck of sand within seventy five miles of Tucson. You reeked of piety.”
Libby started to speak, but Ginger’s hands shooting up cut her off.
“That cacti protest got me in the newspaper standing next to a giant, horny looking, cactus. And before that? The paper again. You and me, in front of a poster saying Men Advocating Dirty Dancing. It’s a darn good thing I’m retired. No one would want a real estate agent like me.”
Libby nodded. “You’re right, I’m rotten. Absolutely right.”
“Don’t try that one on me, either. I’m not listening.” Ginger turned toward her house.
“Wait, Ginger!” Libby waved her paper at Ginger. “Read the list. We promised we’d never use it unless one of us was in dire straits. I’m tied to the train tracks here and the engine is bearing down.” She tapped the list. “Please. Out loud.”
The wind took the paper up. Ginger instinctively grabbed it, handed it back to Libby. “I don’t need to read it. It says we’ve been best friends for fifteen years even though I divorced your bed hopping brother. That you then, despite the fact you were married to one man for fifty plus years, you stood up for me at my next wedding. I’ve told you over and over, I’m done with your protest marches and picket lines. Libby, I’m truly sorry but I am done.”
Her voice had softened, giving Libby hope until Ginger shook herself. “I’m done with all things magnanimous, Libby; except for my cancer fund drives.”
Ginger almost never shouted and the intensity of her things magnanimous shook Libby.
“Okay, so I’ve over-played the desperation bit on a few occasions but, mad or not, your cacti picture got our cause so much attention we saved some of the desert that day. At least your name wasn’t in the paper.”
“I don’t need my name in the paper. Everyone in Tucson knows my face from all the real estate billboards I’ve paid for.”
Ginger, jammed her fists into her pockets, then took them out. The last thing she needed was for Libby to liken her to a banana popsicle, or a mustard covered hot dog.
Libby smiled. “That picture bothered you? A mutual acquaintance told me you sent pictures of you surrounded by those men and their Men Advocating Dirty Dancing sign to several of your friends.”
Ginger stepped back, as if dodging a bug. “Why not? I looked good. That’s beside the point.”
“I haven’t buggered you since then, have I?”
“No, not for a whole two weeks. And you aren’t going to today either, Libby. No more marches, or picket lines, or sit-ins for me. Ever again.” Ginger took a deep breath, slowly added, “Can I be any clearer?”
“No, you’ve been very clear all along.” Libby held up her hands. “That’s why I’m here with an apology gift for pestering you to death since my Phil died. I’ve a peace offering you can’t refuse.”
Ginger inwardly groaned. Sometimes, the way she thought only of herself, disappointed her terribly. She should try to remember Libby was still suffering from being a widow, even though that was over a year and a half or so ago.
As Libby opened the trunk, the screech it made, had them shivering in the warm morning sun.
Libby patted the worn cloth covering her surprise. It was cruel to tease a woman who adored presents as much as Ginger did, but anticipation was a powerful tool she couldn’t afford to overlook.
I can refuse whatever it is. I can refuse it, ran through Ginger’s head, followed by No, I should take it and bring it up every time Lib tries to bully me into saving the world from itself.
To keep Lib from seeing directly into her eyes, Ginger adjusted the brim of her hat, pushed her sunglasses up, jammed her hands in her pants pockets and bumped her thermos. Surprised it still hung on her garden belt after all her running and dodging, she snapped the cap off then took a long, but disappointing, cool drink of water. She’d stopped taking her gin and lemonade mix outside when ‘those in the know’ said the Arizona heat, her high-blood pressure, her age, and booze were a deadly brew.
She stared into Libby’s trunk. It was its usual mess, littered with books and pamphlets, same as the back seat of her car. The cloth covering something with lumps and bumps, didn’t look much like a peace offering to her. Leaning forward, her back muscles seized up. In all her years of gardening they’d never complained like they did these days, and she’d been out of breath just chasing down Libby’s car. She was getting old. No, she was getting older. Trouble was, she’d given up running five miles a day, and exercising, because of time spent with her husband’s cancer problems.
“I should go back to Pilates.”
“What?” Libby looking up banged her head on her trunk lid.
Ginger stepped back, “What, what?”
“You said something.”
“No, I didn’t.” To try and slow her back spasms, Ginger took in a long breath.
“You said Lattes or some such thing, Ginger. Do you want some coffee?”
“No, I said Pilates. It’s a strengthening class. I didn’t know I said it out loud.”
“Well, you did.” Libby drew the long cloth part way back, lifted out a long metal handle from the trunk. Turning with it, she bumped Ginger’s elbow.
Ginger screeched, hopped around muttering ‘God Bless America’ over and over.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were that close to me. How bad is it?”
“Not too much.” Actually, her elbow hardly hurt, but she rubbed it for show and mileage. The ‘God Bless America’ had shot out of her mouth when Libby’s cloth had moved just enough for her to recognize an antique water pump lying beneath it. If this were Libby’s apology, it was a doozy.
“Good.” Libby laid the handle on the ground, turned back to her trunk, pulled the cloth completely off. “Help me get this thing out. It weighs a ton.”
Ginger stiffened when she read the inscription, ‘D. Peters. 1857’.
“This can’t be your apology. It’s an authentic signed, antique water pump in mint condition. No. It’s too much.”
“It’s for the irrigation pond you and George are putting in.” Libby smiled. She’d about split her face grinning when she’d found the pump.
“It’s an original and far too valuable a gift. We’ll pay you for it.”
Ginger, embarrassed her first thought was that if she took the pump she’d be forever in Libby’s debt, was mortified by her second thought that Libby needed something really bad to have tracked this beauty down.
“Where’d you get it? George and I have looked everywhere. All we found were fakes.”
Libby smiled. “Glad you like it. Last week I was bored with the world so I went over to Kitt Peak Observatory to look into a volunteer position.”
“Great!”
“No, it’s too far to drive. On my way back, I swung into Three Points to see a friend. The pump was just sitting there in a pile of stuff to be hauled away as junk. I told her it wasn’t junk that I wanted to buy it for a friend. She refused my money because Phil and his guys had fixed up her house. She helped me load it into Rosa Rita’s trunk.”
Ginger ran her hand over the engraved name. “It’s so perfect Lib. I can’t believe this was in a junk pile. George will be thrilled. I’m thrilled. And you found it just lying around? I’m repeating myself aren’t I?”
Her gift was working. Ginger could not take her eyes off the pump. Ginger wouldn’t dare turn her down now, would she?
Chapter 5
Together they carried the awkward pump up the driveway, past the garage, into the back yard, up and over two slippery piles of dirt to where George had said their pump, if they ever found one, would go. The whole way Libby had nervously rambled on with Phil stories that Ginger had heard so often she could tell them herself, as if she’d been there in the flesh. Usually she laughed, or got sad, right along with Libby. Today, picturing the pump up and running and her backyard out doing all the other back yards in the neighborhood kept interfering with the stories.
Ginger sighed. Sometimes life was kind. Three months before Phil’s death the couple had celebrated fifty years of marriage. Friends had been expected to show up, but no one had imagined fifteen of Lib and Phil’s sixteen foster kids would be there. They’d come from all over the country. All had said they’d either be dead or in jail, if it weren’t for Phil and Libby.
Libby then shot back that since most of their marriage was spent loving them, they had kept their marriage out of trouble.
There were times now, when Libby would go quiet, clench her hands into fists. Ginger was sure she was thinking of how Phil’s Crafty Carpenters could fix everything but Phil. They rarely talked about the day eighteen months ago that Phil had died of a heart attack up on a hot roof.
“Where should we put the pump?” They had reached George’s wheelbarrow.
Startled, Ginger blurted out, “It’s okay to leave it outside?
Right?”
Libby raised an eyebrow. “It’s a water pump. Yes”
“Don’t look at me as if my mind’s gone. I thought the joints might need oiling or something.”
“Outside is fine.”
“Then we’ll put it right next to George’s wheelbarrow.
“Great.” Libby grunted as she caught her foot on a rock and the pump slipped a little.
“How many houses did you and Phil and his Crafty Carpenters restore?”
“Fifty-two. Why?”
“It just popped into my head when you said this came from one of them.” Ginger felt a pang of guilt. She was fishing for facts when Libby could probably use a hug. She laid her end of the pump down, stood up. “Whoooee authentic is heavy.”
Libby nodded. “I’ve something else for you in my car, and it weighs nothing.”
She took off at record speed for a woman with short legs and sandals going over a rough terrain. Ginger followed, getting to the car in time to see Libby lift out a bundle of silver sage from her back seat.
“Finding the pump got me so high I had to go do something, so I went picking sage. Most of it I’ll make into smudge pot bundles for gifts. The longest pieces I kept for you and me.”
Libby swished the sage in a wide arc in front of Ginger, the heat expanded and magnified the wonderful smell.
“Isn’t that the grandest fragrance?”
“Tis.” Ginger groaned. A rare and valuable water pump, sage harvested from rattlesnake infested hills. Libby did want something really bad. By accepting the gifts, she’d lost the contest of wills without ever speaking of it. Ordering herself a ‘happy smile’ she decided one more picket line or protest march with Libby couldn’t kill her. Maim her, but not kill her.
“You outdid yourself, Lib.” Ginger looked at Libby’s faded and tattered baseball cap.
“I surely did.” Libby grinned.
Resigned that her fate was sealed, Ginger wanted to be inside draining a cool glass of her gin-aide. “Time to get us out of this skin wrinkling sun.”
Ginger’s burst of speed, had Libby going at a trot to keep up. Following behind Ginger, she admired how Ginger’s ‘mucho bucks’ suit showed off her slim body. Libby brushed her own faded slacks, felt a little flab on her thighs, looked down at her dusty Birkenstocks. They always made her feel right. She was home brew, Ginger was champagne. But, she didn’t mess with Mother Nature, or Father Time, or whoever it was that was in charge, like Ginger did.
Now in the entryway to the house, Ginger pointed to the ceiling. “How do you like the new fan George had installed in our entryway?”
Libby looked around. “I don’t see a fan. Just your Italian cut glass, chandelier.”
“It’s behind the sconce.” Ginger snapped her fingers. “Give it a minute and you’ll hear glass hitting glass.”