Retirement Plan (37 page)

Sandy swung the door open. “Got dogs,” he said. “They go nuts when the doorbell rings.”

Morgan wiped her feet on the mat and entered. The house included rich shining wood floors and trim, and the walls were coated with lush shades of mauve and sea green. From the front door, Morgan could see the dining-room table already set with ten places. The crystal, china, and silver shone under an opulent chandelier.

“You have a beautiful place,” Morgan said.

“Thank you.”

As Morgan handed Sandy the bottle of wine, two white teacup poodles appeared. They yapped a few times, then wagged their tails and sniffed at Morgan’s feet.

“Meet Karma and Chance,” Sandy said. “They won’t bite, and if you give them any attention, they’ll aggravate you to death.”

“How do you tell them apart?”

Sandy laughed. “Chance is male.”

Morgan unbuttoned her coat. “What can I do to help?”

“First, put your coat in on my bed.” He pointed to a door off the dining room. “In there. Then come on out to the kitchen. Lots to do yet.”

When Morgan tossed her coat on the bed, she saw only two other coats and wondered if one belonged to Chelsea. She discovered a full-length mirror on the closet door. Candles on the dresser created a soft flickering light behind her.

She’d found the courage to weigh herself that morning and discovered that, despite a diet of chocolate cake, she’d lost seven pounds over the past few weeks. She wasn’t ready to sell the diet to
People Magazine
or anything because the cake had been metabolized by means of pain, and who would want that? Turning, she looked over her shoulder and admired the way her jeans hugged her hips. Then, mustering her courage, she left the bedroom and entered the small kitchen, where she found Sandy with two women she didn’t know. No Chelsea, yet.

The room was quite warm and smelled of pot roast.

Sandy introduced them with sweeping gestures. “This is Ruthie and Kris.” They were different heights and weights, but their clothes were similar—jeans and flannel shirts. Morgan felt a little overdressed in her black turtleneck.

Ruthie, who was peeling carrots, motioned to Morgan. “I’m working on the salad. Come help me chop these vegetables.”

Morgan picked up the knife and found a cutting board.

“So how do you know Sandy?”

“The shop.” Once again Morgan wanted to say more but couldn’t. Her forehead beaded with sweat. She grabbed a paper towel and pressed it to her face and throat.

Ruthie said, “You’re so lucky.”

“What?”

“Lucky. You have an efficient cooling system. When I was in basic training, I watched women faint from the heat time after time because they couldn’t sweat. I mean, they did sweat a little, but not enough and not in time.”

Morgan was embarrassed. “So this damp hair, bra, back, underarms, and underpants is a good thing?”

Ruthie chuckled. “I suppose it has its disadvantages.”

“What’s so funny?” The voice came from behind them.

Morgan knew it was Chelsea.  She felt her stare burning into the back of her neck.

Over her shoulder, Ruthie said, “Won’t sound funny secondhand. You had to be here.”

Morgan didn’t turn. She thought she might never be able to turn and would have to stand at the sink to eat her dinner. She heard Kris say, “I made a place for the cake over there on the counter.”

Ruthie turned away from the sink and touched Morgan’s arm, encouraging her to move. Morgan did. Ruthie said, “Morgan Holiday, this is Chelsea Brown.”

Morgan stood with her mouth open.

Finally, Chelsea said, “We’ve met.”

Morgan’s heart was racing, but she managed to ask, “How have you been?”

“Fine, and you?” But before Morgan could answer, Chelsea slid the cake onto the counter and left the room.

Ruthie asked, “Who put a burr under her saddle?”

Kris said, “Probably some woman.”

Then they both looked at Morgan standing there with sweat dripping off her chin.

Ruthie said, “Just how well do you know Chelsea?”

“Well enough to have screwed things up already,” Morgan said. “Sandy told me I needed to show her I have some substance—that I’m not going away.”

“You aren’t the woman that Vic nailed in the DJ’s room the other night?” Kris asked.

Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “Where did you get that idea? That woman was a blonde.”

“Did you see her?”

“No. And neither did you.”

The vegetable knife slid from Morgan’s moist and trembling hand. It clattered as she dropped it on the counter. “I think I should go.”

Then she had a flannel-shirted lesbian on either side of her. “You’ll do no such thing,” Ruthie said.

“Yeah,” Kris said. “We got your back.”

The doorbell rang, and the dogs started yapping.

*

Four chairs were situated along each side of the table. Chelsea was at the end nearest the kitchen, and Sandy was at the other end near Morgan. Chelsea and two guys, whose names Morgan already couldn’t remember, brought the meal into the dining room one matching serving bowl at a time. When everyone was seated and had quickly toasted Sandy—happy birthday and many more—they started to pass the plates. The conversations were lively. Morgan ate and listened.

“So. Morgan. Are you new to our area?” a guy about Henry’s age to her left asked. His name was Erik or Aaron or something like that.

Morgan cleared her throat. “I’ve lived here all my life. I actually live in the home where I was raised.”

Trying to be agreeable, Aaron or Erik said, “With the economy the way it is, it’s a good thing for young people to live with their parents longer. It makes it easier for grown-up children.”

“My parents are both dead.” Morgan shoved a large bite in her mouth and hoped the conversation was over.

Aaron or Erik said, “I’m sorry.”

Then Sandy cut in. “Morgan’s mother died not quite a month ago. You remember the Alzheimer patient at the Prairie Flower who froze to death?”

“That was your mother?” Ruthie, who sat directly across from her, said.

Still chewing, Morgan nodded. All the conversation had stopped, and everyone was looking at her. She squirmed a bit in her chair.

Aaron or Erik quietly laid his hand over hers. “How are you doing?”

Morgan swallowed and said, “I’m back to work. That’s progress.” She laid her napkin on the table, scooted her chair back, and said, “Will you excuse me?” She stood and rushed out of the dining room, down a short hallway, and into the bathroom.

Grateful that she didn’t cry, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, taking deep, slow breaths. She would tell Sandy she wasn’t feeling well, apologize, then leave. It was true. Her guts were in a knot. After a few minutes passed, she stood and opened the bathroom door, and Chelsea was blocking her way.

“Why didn’t you tell me your mother died?”

“When did I have a chance?”

“You should have stopped me. You should have made me listen.”

Morgan said, “Not my talent.”

“I reacted over history. All I could think was that I wouldn’t put up with that nonsense again. I doubt if many women my age are baggage-free. But it’s no excuse.”

Glad for a chance to explain, Morgan said, “I went to the bar to find comfort. I actually thought you might be there. When you weren’t, well—Tanqueray is another kind of painkiller. I regret the way it turned out. I’m sorry.”

Chelsea said, “I behaved like an idiot. I’m sorry too.”

“I forgive you. So what do we do now?”

“We need to get to know each other better,” Chelsea said.

“How about dinner sometime?”

“How about dinner now? The table is set. The food is cooked, and there’s a cake.”

Morgan nodded and let Chelsea take her hand and lead her back to the dining room. Cake. Why did it have to be cake? After the last few weeks, Morgan was sure she’d never eat cake again. But by the time it was passed, she’d forgotten her aversion and asked for an end piece.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lois always had trouble sleeping when she wasn’t home in her own bed with Sophie next to her, but she finally did. She dreamed of Vietnam, of Maggie Newmar, of Nghuy Tran, and of a tiny baby wrapped in a camouflage T-shirt, lying in a Ringer’s lactate box. She dreamed of the day she met Sophie and of bringing their grandson home from the hospital. She dreamed on about Florida, about warm winters and walks on the beach with Daisy. In her dream, the dog was transformed. She ran ahead of Lois sniffing every bit of seaweed, every shell. The lazy cats slept in the shade of a canvas awning. She and Sophie would live out their days in peace and comfort the way they had always planned.

*

Just twelve miles south of the landfill where Curry’s body had been found, an abandoned railroad trestle connected the banks of the Des Plaines River. At dawn the following morning, Morgan walked from her car, through a wooded area, past the barricades, and onto the bridge. Chipped and broken pieces of cement lay beneath her feet. The rails were glazed with ice. She could detect light below some of the creosote-treated railroad ties.

The farther out she walked, the stronger the wind became. It whipped her coat open, and she pulled it close around her and grabbed the freezing side-rail to steady herself. The sky to her right was pink and gray with sunrise. In the distance, a car with its headlights still burning crossed another bridge.

Near the center of the trestle, she stopped and looked down. The brown river boiled and churned far below. From beneath her coat, she raised the M-16 and held it out over the water. Then she let go and watched it fall, turning end on end, seemingly in slow motion. By the time it hit the fast-moving water, the splash was barely audible.

The walk back to her car seemed longer and more treacherous. But she put one foot in front of the other because that morning she had a date to sled down a hill.   

*

Later that morning, Sophie Long crossed the Georgia state line into Florida.  Daisy hadn’t taken well to traveling, so they’d stopped in Tennessee and bought a new kennel. She slept there now. In the passenger seat, Lois snored softly. One of the cats was curled up in her lap, and her round, black-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose a little cockeyed.

The End

About the Author

Award-winning Midwestern writer Martha Miller is the author of
Skin to Skin: Erotic Lesbian Love Stories, Nine Nights on the Windy Tree, Dispatch to Death,
and
Tales from the Levee.
Her stories, reviews, and articles are widely published in anthologies, magazines, periodicals, and newspapers. She’s written and had four plays produced at Mid-America Playwrights Theatre, and she has won several academic and non-academic awards for her writing, including the Raymond Carver Short Fiction Award and an Illinois Arts Council Artists Fellowship. She loves to read and she loves basketball. She teaches writing part time at a local community college and lives a quiet life with her partner Ann and two dogs and two cats.

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