The Cradle Robber. E. Joan Sims
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“I think this unlucky gentleman was the object you saw falling from that airplane the other afternoon.”
Horatio bade us “goodnight,” and went to make another attempt to see Andy Joiner. I was more than ready to head for home, but Mother reminded me that we had never made our trip to the grocery. I mumbled and grumbled as I lobbied against it, but she won. We tore her long grocery list in half and each set off with a basket to fill.
Ordinarily, I loved going to the grocery. There was something so wonderfully American about the bright and shiny display of good food in such abundance. In San Romero, even those who could afford the vastly inflated prices for imported, or even domestic foods, suffered the seasonal shortages of the most basic items. My friends and I had often complained that we were reduced to the level of primitive man. We were the Cro-Magnon females, the hunter-gatherers for the tribe, running from store to store in search of toilet paper and mayonnaise.
The colorful packages and attractive displays held no interest for me tonight. I was bone tired. I rounded the aisle of the bread section where a slovenly woman with three dirty-faced children blocked my way. I stood aside and waited while they manhandled every package of Twinkies and sweet rolls on the shelf. When the woman started moving again, I tried to go around her, but she stopped in front of the honey buns.
I wanted desperately to tell her that three kids hopped up on sugar would be the last thing I would want in a storm-damaged house without electricity, but I bit my tongue.
The woman didn’t appear to be in any hurry, and I knew Mother would be waiting, so I left my cart and walked around her and the kids to get to the bread.
“My! Someone’s impatient, ain’t they?”
“I din’t do nuttin, Mama,” whined the older one of the children.
“I don’t mean you, honey,” said the woman pointing a finger at me. “I meant HER!”
“Excuse me?” I said turning to face her.
“You! You’re being impatient!” she spat.
The woman’s face was mottled with anger. Bright red patches blazed on her cheeks. The blouse she had tucked hastily into her skintight jeans was rumpled and dirty, and buttoned wrong. I longed to tell her that, too. I grabbed my two loaves of bread and made a move to get back to my cart.
“I’m talkin’ to you!” she shouted as she blocked my way. “You’re impatient, ya know it? You need to learn some patience! Ain’t that right, kids?”
The three little children hovered around their mother—one holding on to her ample waist and the other two grabbing at her knees. They all looked at me with wide frightened eyes. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Neither could they. They knew their mother was losing it.
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Please move.”
“CRAZY? You called me crazy in front of my kids! I’m gonna have you arrested!” she screamed.
I pushed past her and pitched the bread in my grocery cart. A second later a small box of raisins hit me in the shoulder. I didn’t look back. I kept moving as box after box of dried fruit sailed through the air, knocking over jars of minced garlic, pickles, olives, and other condiments in flight. The sharp smell of vinegar filled the air as I dodged in and out the aisles like a hunted animal. By the time I reached Mother at the checkout line, I was shaking.
Cassie had locked herself in her room by the time we got home. After we put the groceries away, Mother excused herself and went to bed. I was too charged up to even think of sleeping. I grabbed an open bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and headed out to the patio.
Cassie had done some yard work. The walkway and half the patio were cleared of the smaller limbs and branches. I flopped down in the chaise lounge and popped the top. Relishing the fact that Mother wasn’t here to see me and complain, I swigged the wine straight from the bottle. It went down great—even the little pieces of cork.
I lay back and looked up at the night sky. It was so clear I could see the broad fuzzy band of the Milky Way against the velvet blackness. Fireflies danced over my head and vied with the twinkling of the stars for my attention. It was beautiful—as long as I kept looking up and not around me at the damage the storm had done.
I mourned a while over the ruin of my moonlight garden. I could still smell the sweetness of the crushed lilies and the blooms on the dying gardenia bush. It had taken two years to plant everything and create exactly the look I wanted. It had been a fairy garden—all white and dainty. I wasn’t sure I could do it again.
The tears ran down my cheeks like two little cold wet snails. I wiped and sniffed and wiped again. Then I turned myself loose and cried big. I boo-hooed and whah-hahed for at least fifteen minutes until I slowly began to feel a little better. I found myself wishing the Raisin Lady was within reach and discovered my anger. I wanted to tackle the bitch and hold her down while I slapped her puffy fat face. When I realized how foolish that was. Mother was right, yet again. The crazy lady and I were both showing the effects of post-traumatic stress. I started laughing and couldn’t stop until I was exhausted enough to go to bed. I knew my heart problems were over. I was back to being me – Paisley Sterling.
Chapter Nine
The birds woke me up early the next morning with their loud, incessant chirping. Since the storm, the blue jays and cardinals had been fussing and fighting over territorial rights to the few bushes and other remaining bits of greenery tall enough and strong enough to support a nest. While I sympathized with their plight, I deeply resented the rude interruption of my dreams. The tearful session with my innermost self the night before had left me relaxed and calm enough to have the first good night’s sleep I’d had since the tornado hit. I felt almost as well-rested as the princess who had slept without the pea under her mattress.
I stretched my arms and legs and decided self-indulgently that it was not quite time to get up. Then I heard the barking.
“Rats!”
I quickly hopped out of bed and landed precariously on the handmade hooked rug that Mother insisted gave my room “a finished look.” I fought to keep my balance as I slid wildly across the highly polished wooden floor. When I met the raised transom in front of the bathroom door, I went sprawling. My head missed the edge of the bathtub by a mere centimeter as I fell forward with enough force to shake my toothbrush off the sink and into the open toilet below.
“Damn! Drat and drat!”
I crawled over to the toilet and stared in dismay as I watched my toothbrush slowly sinking to the bottom of the bowl.
“Bother!”
Cassie had a lot to answer for if she got another dog without asking for her grandmother’s permission. And she owed me another toothbrush.
I heard the barking again. And I heard laughter and bits and pieces of conversation—in Spanish of all things.
I got back to my feet and climbed into the bathtub so I could see out the window in the direction of the patio. Sure enough, Cassie was sitting on one of the wrought iron chairs holding a skinny little white dog in her lap. Unlike Aggie with her long silky fur, this mutt was short-haired and had a pointy little nose—and appeared to be affectionate. At the moment, the puppy was standing in Cassie’s lap energetically licking her chin and face, a thin little rat-like tail wagging madly all the while. In the two years we had Aggie she had never wagged her tail even once. The worse thing was that Cassie seemed to be in love with the dog already.
I supposed the man sitting with Cassie was the dog’s owner. I puzzled over his identity for a moment. He appeared clean, but he was very thin and poorly dressed. I wondered where my daughter had met him and why on earth he was giving her a dog.
I ran a comb through my hair and used my index finger slathered with toothpaste to “brush” my teeth before I slipped into some sweats and moccasins. I was starving, but Mother had joined the party on the patio and I didn’t want to miss any of