Antiques Roadkill (11 page)

I could only marvel at how, in spite of everything that had happened, Mother could still act, but “the show must go on” raced in her blood alongside various out-of-control chemicals. One time, after Mother wrapped her car around a telephone pole, she went onstage in a head tourniquet, arm sling, and with crutches, ad-libbing her entrance—“Watch that last step … it’s a doooozy!”—and getting an immediate standing ovation for her pluck. (Would it be unkind to mention that she did not receive another ovation, at the end, for her actual performance?)

Sushi seemed to understand my directive about relieving herself on the Fourth Estate. She understood lots of words (not on the paper—the ones I spoke to her), and even some
of those I spelled out, in hopes of fooling her … like when I would say in an aside to Mother, “I don’t have time to take Sushi for a w-a-l-k.” Soosh would materialize at my side, and beg relentlessly, until I finally capitulated and went for the leash.

So now, on occasion, I resort to sign language—blind dogs, no matter
how
smart, can’t fathom that!

I scurried out the front door, locking it behind me, and in another moment hopped in the front seat of Tina’s black Lexus.

“Hi, honey!” I said, and she gave the same right back … our usual greeting in a Judy-Holliday-in-Born
Yesterday
voice.

Tina, behind the wheel, looked gorgeous, her blond hair straight with a little flip at the ends. She had on a hot-pink boat-neck top, and black satin cargo pants with a sparkly belt.

“Guess what I found,” Tina said with an impish grin. She shoved a cassette into the dash, and Cyndi Lauper began singing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

“Our
traveling
tape,” I squealed, and began to sing along as Tina pulled away from the curb. So did Tina. Instant in-car karaoke.

A decade ago, when I was a freshman at the local community college, and Tina was home from Northwestern, we spent a whole summer together, going out every weekend to one club or another … often in neighboring cities for a change of scenery (and prospects). Tina made a cassette of all our then-favorite artists, like Madonna … and even older ones such as Cyndi Lauper, Blondie, the Motels, and Lene Lovich.

Back then I was the designated driver, because drinking more than one glass of anything alcoholic could bring on an instant migraine, ruining the rest of the night (not to mention next day). I had a “gently used,” Leprechaun-green
Gremlin that I bought from an elderly couple who’d kept the car hidden in their garage … probably because they were too embarrassed to be seen in it.

Tina and I, at the time, had no such shame. The GM Gremlin was the ugliest car every made, bar none. Think of a regular car chopped in half, leaving only the front end and a small hatchback with room enough for a sack of groceries and maybe some running shoes—size 5. The rear sides of the vehicle had a little round window, like on a boat, so Tina dubbed the car “the Green Submarine.”

When flying down the highway, if I hit a bump, we’d go airborne for a while, because the GS was so front-heavy. If it was raining, we’d hydroplane all the way because there was absolutely no back traction—I’m amazed we even stayed on the road.

Early on I broke off the flimsy aluminum ignition key in the starter, which was the greatest thing! That meant the GS was always ready to go … and I never had to waste time looking for misplaced keys. Nor did I worry about locking the thing—who’d want to steal a green Gremlin? It’s not like the car wouldn’t be spotted.

Donna Sommer was singing “Hot Stuff” as we wound our way up the drive to the Octagon House, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the Mighty Mississippi.

The Octagon was, in reality, an ancient brick battlement, built back when Serenity was founded in the early eighteen hundreds. The large eight-sided structure had been used by the military for spotting attacks by (in order of appearance) the Blackhawk Indians, the French, the British, the Confederate army … and even Martians in the 1950s, when UFOs were supposedly spotted hovering over town.

Until recently, the building had been a crumbling, seldom-visited tourist attraction, when some local entrepreneurs leased it from the city and turned the edifice into a nightspot. Mother approved, saying it was a win-win situation:
the battlement (which was not on any federal preservation lists) got restored, people would come to see it, and the city received extra revenue. (Mother did not include in her lists of pluses the ability for Serenity visitors and residents alike to get drunk on their butts at this historical site.)

The parking lot was packed, but Tina, ever inventive, carved out a space between a Ford pickup and a Toyota, and we soon fell in behind others flocking toward the club.

“Nice wheels, honey,” I said to her.

“It’s not the Green Submarine,” she said with a grin, “but it gets me places.”

The Octagon House faced the river, and to get to the entrance you had to utilize a wooden deck that stretched almost to the edge of the bluff. We walked along it, enjoying the attention of the cool night breeze as it ran its fingers through our hair; briefly we paused at the railing to gaze out over the dark churning water.

The Mississippi can be wonderful, but terrible. It’s called “Mighty” for a reason: powerful undertows created by swirling currents of swift-moving water. A person should never go boating or skiing on the river without a good life jacket … and forget about swimming. Unfortunately, every summer, somebody learns this lesson. Or rather doesn’t.

The bridge was like a diamond necklace reaching shore to shore, thanks to an array of lights strung sparklingly along the span; in the distance the melody of a riverboat calliope playing “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” floated toward us, in that distinctive muted echoey way, sounding a little forlorn for such an upbeat number.

“You ever go gambling?” I asked her.

Several turn-of-the-century steamboats—with names like
The River Queen
and
Lucky Lady
—trekked up and down the river, offering a scenic ride to take the sting out of relieving citizens of their hard-earned pay.

“Do
you
ever go gambling?” Tina, ever the diplomat, had deftly passed the buck.

“Naw,” I admitted, but added, “Just that, with you married, we can’t spend all our time bar-crawling.”

Her expression was affectionately amused. “Brandy, I’m trying to imagine you putting down a bet on
anything.”

I shrugged; that breeze felt sweet, and the dark river view was strangely soothing. “I dunno—I could
maybe
see taking twenty dollars and playing the nickel machines till it ran out, poker not slots? But I’d really rather buy a pair of designer socks.”

She nodded. “Or Chanel nail polish in ‘Vamp.’”

“Or another Pandora charm.”

Right now we were wearing identical Danish bracelets—demonstrating how Tina and I were always on the same page, right down to the paragraph … sentence, even.

When “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover” morphed into a nearly unrecognizable “Hey, Jude,” we made a face at each other and headed into the nightclub to find better ear candy. And maybe some eye candy, too.…

The Octagon, we quickly realized, had two separate watering holes: a bottom floor for smokers, and an upper one for those who valued their lungs if not their brain cells. We entered onto the smokers’ floor, which seemed to be an older crowd, the decor disappointing: black walls trimmed red, standard small round tables, a few booths, a perfunctory bar in back; nothing that cigarette burns could damage too much (hookah bars have not yet caught on in middle America). Next to a postage-stamp-size dance floor, a band called Geezer was playing—four older guys doing Weezer songs, and not too badly.

I liked the music but not the literal atmosphere. Before the smoke had a chance to permeate our hair and clothes, we hurriedly followed some other females, who seemed to
know what they were doing (compared to us, anyway), up a flight of stairs to a red vinyl-padded door meant to keep the fumes out.

Pounding dance music assaulted us as we stepped through, the room crawling with yuppies and guppies, and Xers and Yers. Obviously, this was where the owners spent the bulk of their budget: subdued deco lighting, rich cherry furniture, Parisian dance-hall wall prints. The focal point was an elaborately carved, eight-sided bar in the middle of the room, mirroring the shape of the building. Tract lighting aimed at the large octagonal wineglass holder above the bar—where hundreds of crystal bats hung by their stems—made an incredible chandelier.

As we worked our way through the crowd, a couple slid off stools at a high-top table, and we grabbed it, beating out others in what seemed like a game of musical chairs.

With the dizzying din of music, it was hard to think, much less talk. A waitress in a white tux shirt and black tux pants came over, and we shouted our order: splits of champagne.

I leaned in to Tina’s ear. “See anybody you know?”

She shook her head. “Old married lady—been off the circuit too long.”

Our champagne came, and we drank and giggled and drank awhile and giggled some more.

Then I spotted an old childhood friend, Mia Cordona, standing among the crush at the bar. Even though I hadn’t seen her for years, that long chestnut hair, those dark sultry eyes, high cheekbones, and full-lipped mouth were unmistakable. Mia’s once skinny-as-a-toothpick figure, however, had blossomed voluptuously, putting a strain on her red spandex dress.

Mia had grown up across the street from me. Naturally, I gravitated to the girl closest to my age in the large Hispanic family. The Cordonas ran a Mexican restaurant catering to
the ever-growing number of immigrants who’d come north to work in the corn and tomato fields near Serenity. Mia was so much fun, always up for some harmless mischief, which we’d then blame on one of her numerous siblings.

I loved going over to the Cordonas’ rambling clapboard house, filled as it was with constant commotion, kids practically hanging from the rafters, one or another constantly in the “time-out” corner. The decor was so different from ours—brightly colored tablecloths, pottery, hand-carved Spanish furniture … and always some wonderful south-of-the-border food cooking on the stove.

Sometimes, after I’d already eaten at my house, I’d tie a scarf over my light-colored hair and go over to Mia’s, and sit among the mob at their table, unnoticed (or so I thought).

Mia’s parents spoke only Spanish (their kids, of course, were bilingual), and on several occasions I ran across the street to get Mr. Cordona to help me with Mother when she was having a particularly bad spell. His gentle manner and lyrical speech had a calming effect on Mother, and the fact that she couldn’t understand a word he said helped create enough distraction for me to go and get the doctor.

My favorite memory of Mia is of her at about age twelve, jumping on her bed like a trampoline, singing “Turn the Beat Around.” Sadly, the family moved across town, and because I was older than Mia, we rarely saw each other.

“I’m going over to talk to Mia,” I said in Tina’s ear.

Her brow furrowed. “You
know
that girl?”

Tina’s expression made me ask, “Why?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what? I’m a stranger in town, remember?”

Tina’s expression grew uncomfortable. “When she was on the police force—”

“Mia’s a
cop?”

“Was
a cop,” Tina corrected. “She got kicked off.”

“Why?”

Tina shrugged with her eyebrows. “Some confiscated drugs came up missing … and she was in charge of the evidence locker. She never got formally charged with anything, but she was fired for malfeasance, and since she didn’t fight it or anything … well.”

I stared across the room at my childhood friend; her devoutly religious, upstanding parents must have been crushed.

Mia seemed to be hanging on the arm of a really cute guy.

I said to Tina, “I’ll be back,” and slid off my stool.

Pushing through the boisterous throng, getting some flirty self-esteem-boosting glances from guys, I made my way to the bar.

“Mia!” I smiled. “Hi!”

She turned, recognition slow in coming. Her smile seemed halfhearted. Polite. “Oh. Brandy, right? Hello. Didn’t know you were back in town.”

Not that she seemed to give a damn.

The frantic dance music turned to a slow syrupy song, giving everyone a chance to talk, and for some reason, I didn’t accept her near brush-off.

“I’m back living with Mother,” I said, hanging in. “Nasty divorce, you know, that kinda thing … maybe we could get together some time?”

“I’m pretty busy,” Mia said.

I just stood there awkwardly with my hurt feelings hanging out. She hadn’t even bothered to say, “Cool, yeah, we’ll have to do that,” and turn away.

She had really changed.

But the guy she was with was giving me a look that said he, at least, was interested.…

Just to be ornery, I gave her my least sincere smile and said, “Mia—why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Her “friend” was of average height, nicely put together, with carefully mussed hair, and dark, penetrating eyes.

When Mia didn’t answer, I stuck out my hand. “Brandy Borne.”

“Todd.” His hand was warm, his grip firm, his smile easy. But he didn’t offer a last name.

Working my voice over the music, I said, “Mia and I grew up across the street from each other.”

Todd’s mouth smiled but his forehead frowned as he said, “Funny, I thought I knew all of Mia’s friends.” He looked chidingly at her. “Sometimes I think you keep things from me.”

Mia reached for her drink on the bar and took a sip. I might as well not have been there. The slow number ended and an oldie-but-goodie disco song filled the room.

Raising his voice over the pounding bass, Todd said to me, “Mia’s in one of her moods tonight … maybe
you’d
like to dance?”

Was he trying to make Mia jealous?

I looked at her; she shrugged indifferently, and faced the bar, her back to us.

I said to Todd, “I didn’t come here to sit!”