Pigs in Heaven
Page 65
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“Oh, shoot, it has a sad ending,” Alice says. “He was finally installed in his own St. Francis Park. But one of the tranquilizer darts had pierced his intestines and he developed per-itone-something or other.” Alice adjusts her glasses. “And died. Vets called it a strange twist of fate.”
“Mama, this is depressing, all your stories have morbid endings. You’re as bad as Lou Ann. She always thinks Dwayne Ray’s going to catch perito-something or other at day care.”
“They’re not my stories,” Alice says, raising the palm of her hand toward Taylor, as if taking a vow. “I’m just reading you the printed word.”
Taylor wishes with all her might that someone else was in the driver’s seat of this car. Even Jax. She’s visited with a sudden memory of Jax standing with her in the grocery, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. A gesture that is all give and no take.
“Excuse me,” Barbie says to Alice, leaning forward over the seat. “I’m in this awkward situation so I’ll just go ahead and say it. I don’t know your name. Taylor introduced you as her mom, but its not like I can call you Mom.”
“Alice Greer,” Alice says.
“Greer?” Taylor asks.
“I never did like Harland’s last name a bit. It never sat right.”
“Are you newly divorced, Alice?” Barbie asks, sounding exactly like a talk-show host.
“Well, I didn’t get the papers yet, but it’s over with. All over but the shouting.”
“Didn’t sound to me like there was ever much shouting”
Taylor says.
“Oh, no. It’s just an expression. I don’t know what it would take to get Harland to let out a holler. He wouldn’t even fart out loud. There was days I’d walk by him in his chair in front of his everloving TV set and I’d think, ‘Well, now, what if Harland was to die on me? I wouldn’t even know it till the fumes started coming off him.’ ”
“Oh, gag me,” says Barbie.
Don’t tempt me, Taylor thinks. She eases into the right lane and takes an exit marked Gabbs. They have spent the morning climbing out of Death Valley, but escaping from that particular death comes only by degree, it seems. The territory still looks empty. Only the square-headed good samaritans of gas-station signs loom above the dead fields.
“We’re like Francis Pig,” Turtle announces suddenly.
“We’re runaways.”
“That’s right, we’re heroes. But nobody’s going to shoot us with tranquilizers,” Alice promises.
“Or take up a collection to install us in our own park,” Taylor adds.
“Do you think we could find a place with milk shakes? I would die totally for a shake right now.”
Taylor is not too distressed by the idea of Barbie dying totally. Last night she hinted strongly that they should go their separate ways in the morning, but so far Barbie has absorbed hints with the sensitivity of a fire hydrant. And Alice does nothing to discourage her. They pull in at an interstate diner and Barbie leads the way across the parking lot. She’s wearing a pink-and-yellow flounced miniskirt over a baby-blue leotard and tights, with a silver-studded pink fringed jacket and pink high-heeled cowboy boots. Her boots make deep scraping sounds on the asphalt and her short skirt swings like a bell.
The diner has gingham curtains at the windows and a surplus of artificial flowers; Barbie fits right in with her Western ensemble. Her purse is at odds, though: she has been clutching the same square black bag against herself like a stomach ache since they left the Delta Queen. She even took it with her into the bathroom when she showered, in their motel room in Tonopah. It looks heavy.
“What do you think she’s got in there?” Taylor asks, once Barbie has downed two burgers and a strawberry shake and excused herself to visit the so-called little girls’ room.
“Makeup,” Alice says.
“Pennies,” Turtle says. “I heard it jingle.”
“All I can say is she eats enough for Ken too,” Alice observes. “I’d like to know how she hangs on to her 3618-33.”
“She acts like that purse is her baby kangaroo,” Taylor says. “Why would you have to take your purse to the bathroom every single time?”
“She has a relationship with the bathroom, don’t she?
Every time she eats something, up she has to get to the little girls’.”
Taylor is relieved to feel that she and Alice are on the same side again, united in their mistrust of Barbie. Turtle takes the pen Alice offers and writes her name four times on her napkin: twice from left to right, and twice in reverse.
“Mama, this is depressing, all your stories have morbid endings. You’re as bad as Lou Ann. She always thinks Dwayne Ray’s going to catch perito-something or other at day care.”
“They’re not my stories,” Alice says, raising the palm of her hand toward Taylor, as if taking a vow. “I’m just reading you the printed word.”
Taylor wishes with all her might that someone else was in the driver’s seat of this car. Even Jax. She’s visited with a sudden memory of Jax standing with her in the grocery, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. A gesture that is all give and no take.
“Excuse me,” Barbie says to Alice, leaning forward over the seat. “I’m in this awkward situation so I’ll just go ahead and say it. I don’t know your name. Taylor introduced you as her mom, but its not like I can call you Mom.”
“Alice Greer,” Alice says.
“Greer?” Taylor asks.
“I never did like Harland’s last name a bit. It never sat right.”
“Are you newly divorced, Alice?” Barbie asks, sounding exactly like a talk-show host.
“Well, I didn’t get the papers yet, but it’s over with. All over but the shouting.”
“Didn’t sound to me like there was ever much shouting”
Taylor says.
“Oh, no. It’s just an expression. I don’t know what it would take to get Harland to let out a holler. He wouldn’t even fart out loud. There was days I’d walk by him in his chair in front of his everloving TV set and I’d think, ‘Well, now, what if Harland was to die on me? I wouldn’t even know it till the fumes started coming off him.’ ”
“Oh, gag me,” says Barbie.
Don’t tempt me, Taylor thinks. She eases into the right lane and takes an exit marked Gabbs. They have spent the morning climbing out of Death Valley, but escaping from that particular death comes only by degree, it seems. The territory still looks empty. Only the square-headed good samaritans of gas-station signs loom above the dead fields.
“We’re like Francis Pig,” Turtle announces suddenly.
“We’re runaways.”
“That’s right, we’re heroes. But nobody’s going to shoot us with tranquilizers,” Alice promises.
“Or take up a collection to install us in our own park,” Taylor adds.
“Do you think we could find a place with milk shakes? I would die totally for a shake right now.”
Taylor is not too distressed by the idea of Barbie dying totally. Last night she hinted strongly that they should go their separate ways in the morning, but so far Barbie has absorbed hints with the sensitivity of a fire hydrant. And Alice does nothing to discourage her. They pull in at an interstate diner and Barbie leads the way across the parking lot. She’s wearing a pink-and-yellow flounced miniskirt over a baby-blue leotard and tights, with a silver-studded pink fringed jacket and pink high-heeled cowboy boots. Her boots make deep scraping sounds on the asphalt and her short skirt swings like a bell.
The diner has gingham curtains at the windows and a surplus of artificial flowers; Barbie fits right in with her Western ensemble. Her purse is at odds, though: she has been clutching the same square black bag against herself like a stomach ache since they left the Delta Queen. She even took it with her into the bathroom when she showered, in their motel room in Tonopah. It looks heavy.
“What do you think she’s got in there?” Taylor asks, once Barbie has downed two burgers and a strawberry shake and excused herself to visit the so-called little girls’ room.
“Makeup,” Alice says.
“Pennies,” Turtle says. “I heard it jingle.”
“All I can say is she eats enough for Ken too,” Alice observes. “I’d like to know how she hangs on to her 3618-33.”
“She acts like that purse is her baby kangaroo,” Taylor says. “Why would you have to take your purse to the bathroom every single time?”
“She has a relationship with the bathroom, don’t she?
Every time she eats something, up she has to get to the little girls’.”
Taylor is relieved to feel that she and Alice are on the same side again, united in their mistrust of Barbie. Turtle takes the pen Alice offers and writes her name four times on her napkin: twice from left to right, and twice in reverse.
