My Very Best Friend (37 page)

He deserves more. Better. Cleaner. Not a dirty person like me. They said what’s wrong, Bridget, what happened, what happened, but I can’t tell them the truth I am ashamed and they would kill Father Cruickshank if they knew and go to jail or he would kill them. That gun that gun that gun.

I miss my daughter.

I cannot do this anymore. My memories crowd in and they suffocate me, they smother me, they take me away again. Back there. Father Cruickshank. His hands. The shed. The baby. The baby that is gone. I can’t find her. Drugs. I can’t think. I cry all the time. Where is she? I hate my parents. I am so angry. I am always angry.

Love you.

Love Pherson and Toran.

I want to die.

Bridget

I was shaking when I was done.

Bridget, where are you? Please come home.

The Garden Gobble Chat Group (or something like that) was meeting at Lorna Lester’s. Her home was on the east side of the village and plain. Dull. No color. A lot like her.

She opened the door to me and said, “Do take off your shoes, Charlotte. I don’t want any dirt, dust, grime, or oils inside.” She sniffed.

I almost turned around right there. Not because I have an objection to taking off my shoes. Shoes track in all sorts of unwanted germs including, but not limited to, dog feces, spittle, dead gum, bacteria, diseases, and sewage.

It was the way she said it. Her tone. As if I was dirty, dusty, grimy, and oily.

Olive was right behind me and said, “No problem. Before I came over I was in the barn with the horses and, my my my, Dander and Prince could not stop dropping their presents!”

Lorna’s face tightened, like oatmeal instantly drying.

I didn’t step over the threshold. I stood and tried to determine if I wanted to proceed. It was one of those times when you wonder if you should say yes or no, and cut the person out of your life altogether and forget she existed. For example, Pluto. We all forget Pluto’s out there.

“Come on in. Don’t loiter.” Lorna stepped back. I saw that Rowena was inside, with wine, her red hair in a ponytail, as was Gitanjali, resplendent in a green tunic, sequined and shot through with silver threads.

I wanted to talk to Rowena, and I wanted to talk to Olive, Gitanjali, and Kenna. Even Malvina, if she would speak.

Olive pushed me in the back as I stared at Lorna’s squishy face. Could I do it? I thought of bacteria. I thought of how they squiggled in a petri dish. All sorts of diseases squiggle differently. Under a microscope, they become alive, sometimes dangerous.

“In you go, Charlotte,” Olive said. “Gitanjali told me in town today that she was making rogan josh, which is lamb curry. I’m not going to miss it. I brought tipsy cake with trifle sponges.” Olive gave me another shove, and in I went. She is a strong woman from taking care of all those chickens.

I had brought beer-battered fish to share. I should have brought laxatives for Lorna’s tea. She needed it.

“Tonight’s discussion is about fertilizer,” Lorna said, after serving tea. The tea was tasteless. “This newfangled organic type, which I’m sure doesn’t work, versus what I’ve been using all my life, Donald’s All Purpose Enricher. Let me tell you about Donald’s.”

Malvina kept her eyes on the floor. I watched her. She looked up, smiled at me. I smiled back. Poor her. Mother like that.

Unbelievably, Lorna went on and on, her notes in her hand. Who knew there could be so much to say about fertilizer? I tapped my jeans, tight and stylish, at least according to the saleslady. I was wearing a pink shirt with a hint of a ruffle at the neckline. Everyone noticed my makeover, no glasses, haircut, two of Rowena’s rock necklaces around my neck, and were complimentary. Except for Lorna, who said, “Well, aren’t we all fancy dolled up now? Like your mother. Fancy doll.”

I said to Lorna, “She was not a doll. I am not a doll. If I were a doll I wouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking of you, as I would not have neurons and synapses and electro-chemical signaling.”

She humphed and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” before she and her belligerent bottom flounced off.

As Lorna droned on, complete with photos and graphs, I saw Olive nodding off, her teacup in her hand, her chin dipping. I took her teacup. Pretty soon she was slumped against me on Lorna’s pink flowered couch. The walls matched the couch.

Lorna snapped, “Olive!”

Olive snapped to attention, muttering something about her pigs. She adjusted her knitted horse scarf. The horse, I believe, was stoned. It was probably not intentional. She had confided to me that she needed a broader market for animal scarves. I told her we could sell the stoned horse scarves with the marijuana for our fund-raiser if we changed our minds. She said that was a splendid idea.

“Please listen attentively,” Lorna reprimanded. “I have taken time with my presentation. A proper speech, no clichés or extraneous information. I take Garden Club seriously.”

Lorna droned on again, like a sledgehammer on low thrum.

Olive slumped on my shoulder one more time. Her breath smelled like beer-battered fish.

I am interested in the compounds of fertilizer, and it’s vaguely interesting that it can be used to make bombs. In fact, when I was in college, several of my university friends and I did make a small bomb, which we exploded in the woods in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was impressive.

We did, however, decide not to do it again, as we did not want to risk being arrested, but more than that, we killed two squirrels. This was extremely upsetting to both me and my friend, Sabrina Hillenstein.

Sabrina insisted on a funeral service. So the two of us, along with our friends Tara Wong, Rhonda Bronowski, and D’Ambria Jefferson, had a squirrel funeral service.

There we were, proud of ourselves and our bomb, burying two squirrels. Sabrina said a tearful prayer that ended with, “So thanks, God, for furry creatures.” Tara said, “Thank you, squirrels, for giving your lives in our pursuit of weaponry excellence.” Rhonda said, “I am so proud of us for making a bomb,” which did not honor the squirrels, and D’Ambria Jefferson recited a long poem by Thoreau about nature.

Rowena interrupted my fond bomb-making thoughts. “We sure are talking a lot about a pile of shit tonight.”

Kenna said, “Too much. Let’s talk about women’s issues.”

“What women’s issue do you want to talk about?” Olive sat straight up. The stoned horse shifted with her.

“I think we should talk about our uteruses,” Rowena said.

“Me too. I was thinking about my uterus the other day,” Olive said. “Right here.” She pointed to her uterus so we could find it.

I don’t know why, but I looked down at my stomach. I saw Gitanjali do the same.

Malvina wrapped her arms around herself. I thought I saw a tear.

“What do you want to say about the women’s U, medically speaking?” Kenna asked Rowena.

“I want to ask if a uterus is a positive thing or a negative thing for a woman,” Rowena said. “What are the pros and cons of a uterus, according to you all, my fellow gardening women and uterus owners?”

“The pros are you can have a baby,” Olive Oliver said.

“I have not finished,” Lorna Lester snipped, wiggling her imperious bottom, “my talk about fertilizers. I was going to begin Section C, fertilizers and birds.”

“Birds don’t need fertilizers,” Rowena said. “They’ll grow without it.”

“You fertilize birds? That mistake,” Gitanjali said, worried, hands fluttering.

I almost laughed. I squeezed my knees together tight so my bladder, which is now and then a mite weak, wouldn’t leak.

“I know birds don’t need to be fertilized,” Lorna huffed. “
Gitanjali.”

And there it was again. Putting Gitanjali in her place. Foreigner. Different culture, religion, color. Threatening.

“But how do we fertilize and make sure that the birds are never harmed,” Lorna said with an edge, “except for blackbirds. They can all fall out of the sky and die as far as I’m concerned. Cursed birds. And seagulls.” She pursed her thin lips. “And I am not enthusiastic about eagles, either. With those talons. My thorough fertilizer research shows—”

“The negatives are cramps,” Rowena said. “I have them right now. It’s like I’m being stabbed in the gut with a sword. Why did God give women periods when they don’t want to get pregnant? Why can’t we turn them on and off based on when we want to get pregnant?”

“Thoughtful question,” Olive said, nodding her head, her white braid over her left shoulder. “There was a mistake made.” She pointed upward. “In heaven. We all make mistakes.”

“Why were we made to bleed once a month?” Malvina said. “Why not the men?”

We were, again, shocked to hear a noninebriated Malvina speak, but I gathered myself, quick as I could, so as not to embarrass her.

“That’s easy,” I said. “Men wouldn’t be able to take the pain. Men are the weaker sex. In addition, a menstrual cycle is an evolutionary defect. In modern times, this should have changed.

“In the past, people didn’t live long. Girls regularly got pregnant in their teens. We don’t need girls to get pregnant in their teens now. From a world population perspective, if women could get pregnant only from the time they were twenty-five to, say, forty, the population would take an enormous nosedive.”

I did the mathematical calculations, the numbers staggering. “The math is boggling my mind. Millions of people, billions soon, would not even be here. No future water wars.”

“My uterus is sad and bored,” Malvina said. “Nothing to do. Nothing changes. Same thing, every day. No hope. No light. No action. It’s afraid it will die without living life the way it wants to live. It’s scared that something bad could happen, but more scared that being alone will kill it. It gets tired of reading books every night. Alone.”

My mouth dropped open, as did everyone else’s. I tried to push my glasses up my nose, then remembered I didn’t wear them anymore. I glanced over at Lorna. Shiver my science beakers, I think her eyes filled with tears.

“My uterus is old and cranky and giving me hot flashes,” Kenna said. “It’s middle aged and I am not that interested in sex anymore. How can I have interest in sex? I operate on people, I go home, my husband and I have dinner and clean up and pass out in bed. Last time we had sex I had a hot flash. Sweat flowing. He had to get off and fan me with a sheet. By the time he was done we weren’t in the mood anymore. But it’s okay. The older he gets, the more he farts. We laugh about it. I sweat profusely and he farts easily.”

“I’m an old woman who has been married only the last ten years,” Olive said, “and I find sex freeing. A gift.” She raised her fists in the air. “One, two, three, boom boom me! Four, five, six, let’s see that dick. I give it to my man!”

“I am trying to
give
the rest of my talk about fertilizer,” Lorna huffed and puffed. “The second part of my presentation involves the pH balance of soil, which, as you can see by my garden, I have mastered.” She eyed me with dark disapproval. “Some people don’t understand how critical it is to understand pH.”

“I understand pH,” I said.

“Do you?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yes.” I tilted my head and tried to calculate her IQ. Sometimes it’s possible with people to get a range. Hers was on the lower end.

“Men are not as intelligent as women,” Kenna said. “I see it in the doctors I work with. Give me a woman with a uterus any day. More detail oriented. Listen better to their patients, less ego, harder working.”

“Men think with their—” Gitanjali pointed down at her crotch. “Their wiggly stick. But not Chief Constable Benny Harris. He kind man.”

I think she blushed.

“He honest man.”

Now I knew she was blushing.

“The wiggly stick hampers their judgment,” Rowena said. “Hence, The Slut.”

“My husband thinks with his wiggly too much. It’s like a snake that pokes me. Poking around,” Kenna said. “Sometimes in my head I call him The Poker. That’s a secret.”

“My uterus would like a poke, I think,” Malvina said. “I think.”

Third time Malvina speaks.

Lorna said, “Malvina!”

Malvina said, “Yes?”

“I’m waiting for wine,” Olive said. The stoned horse looked like he could use some, too.

“Wine?” Lorna arched an eyebrow. “I am not serving wine. Wine is the devil’s punch.”

That was hypocritical, given our last garden ladies drunken meeting.

“What? No wine?” Rowena said. She actually gasped.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” Kenna cackled. She opened her flowered backpack. “Scottish Scotch, for medicinal reasons only. Best in the world. You do have glasses, right-o, Lorna?”

We should not have done what we did after Scottish Scotch. It was crazy and impetuous. But Rowena was furious with her ex-husband for not paying child support again. I don’t blame her. You have children, pay for them. Her car broke down. She couldn’t fix it. The house payment was late again. The kids had things that had to be paid for. The telephone bill was overdue.