Hob Broun - Odditorium

“Mrs. Daigle? You’re calling about my father’s place?”

“That’s it exactly, hon. See I met some new folks down here, some of ’em your age, and they’re real interested in what we call the healin’ arts. We been talkin’ about why not start up a clinic that would be for all the people, but where to put it with costs so high. It dawned on me there’s Lucy’s place, God bless him and keep him, so I got up my nerve to call you.”

“You’d like to know my price?”

“Oh my, but you’re makin’ this so easy on me. I want you to know how hard we’d work to do it up as a fittin’ memorial to Lucy. We been goin’ out after the contributions to make you at least a little downpayment and there’s a fella in town says he can draw up the legal papers….”

“Fine. However you want to do it. Send whatever you like.”

Tildy stood stiff for some time, metallic bubblings from the receiver that dangled against her skirt, before she hung up. From a rag-lined shoebox at the bottom of the closet she removed the bronze canister and held it to her ear. It made a sound like sand in a gourd when she shook it. God bless him and keep him.

The treasure trunk sat uselessly under the bed, not one mumbling word from Sparn on fencing the contents. A cruel kind of wealth that wouldn’t buy a thing, another devil’s prank on Karl. So this new windfall — however small — came just in time. Karl’s teeth were bothering him and the Galaxie needed new brakes.

Out in the yard again, Tildy put her bonnet on, drawing it down over her eyes like a riverboat gambler’s.

“Who was that?”

“A social call.”

“Yeah?”

“An old lady who likes to talk about plants. No one you know.”

She knelt in prickly grass and, using a souvenir soup spoon with a dolphin on the handle, worked her father’s ashes into a part of the garden where she was planning to put some sweet peas in the not-too-distant future.

After dinner that night — T-bones fried in bacon fat, tomatoes stewed in milk — Tildy sat on the steps and watched the bats swoop as she smoked. Urgent music trickled out the door. Karl had something called King Solomon’s Mines on the teevee, so wrapped up in it he’d barely touched his food. Tildy thought maybe she’d go to bed early, sleep late.

High beams came arcing past the front of the house, over the grass. She heard the sounds of engine afterrun, a low, cracked voice she knew she ought to recognize.

White sneakers, white slacks, then a white face. There was Flora Pepper grinning ardently, and M.J. right behind her with hair so short she looked like a recovering chemotherapy patient.

“Evening, ladies. Run out of gas?”

Flora kissed the top of Tildy’s head. “Damn, but it’s good to see you. Been too long. We been on a motor trip, M.J. and me. Left Dayton last month and been on the road ever since, just goofing around, seeing what’s out there. But we figured before heading up to Jayville to get ready for the tour, we ought to come by and visit. Gonna be a long season without you.”

“Got a college girl to take your place,” M.J. growled. “Pete picked her up at a pinball tournament. Great reflexes, he says.”

Flora kicked the ground. “You can substitute for someone like Tildy, but you don’t ever replace her.”

Nothing left but to invite them in. Karl waved incuriously and pulled in closer to the glowing screen. Tildy passed out beer and cleared debris off the sofa. A long time since she’d entertained. There were wives who did it all the time, had the neighbors in for ice cream with cordial poured over it, thought up conversational topics in advance. But she was flummoxed by her guests. Had they really come all this way just to chum around?

“So what the hell have you been doing with yourself?”

“Taking it easy, Flora. Just resting and digesting. Worked at a drugstore for a few months, that was okay.”

“Looks like you’re in great shape.”

“I still do my pushups after breakfast, sometimes me and Karl throw a ball around, but that’s about it.”

“M.J. got me on weight training this winter. Put some more meat on my upper body, increased my leg strength; I ought to have ten percent more velocity this year. Mow ’em on down like crabgrass, won’t I?”

“They won’t even touch you, sugar. Our girls can just lay back and sunbathe.”

Flora stroked her pitching arm. “All the same, I took some night classes at Dayton Community. Auto mechanics. I want something I can fall back on, you know? I’m on the down side of thirty and it’s time to think practical.”

“Don’t let on to Pete,” Tildy said. “He’s got no show without you.”

“He already knows. We renegotiated my contract and he’s giving me an interest-free loan so I can buy my own garage. A garage with maybe a little store tacked on. Beer and fishing tackle and novelty key rings, that kind of thing. So what we been doing the last few weeks is scouting around for the right spot. Somewhere me and M.J. could live quiet, sit out in the sun by the pumps when it’s not too busy, and watch the traffic go by.”

“He agreed to all that? On paper?”

“We got a good understanding with Pete,” M.J. said. “Just a matter of learning to speak his language.”

“He still hasn’t forgiven you for skipping out. He’d probably throw a tantrum if he knew we were here.”

“For sure.” M.J. went tap-tap-tap on her aluminum can.

Karl shouted, “They found them diamonds,” and patted the teevee like a dog.

“Say, I could use a little something to nibble on. Pretzels maybe? Anything really to help soak up this beer. You know I’ve never been much of a drinker.”

“I’ll look, Flora.”

Karl joined her in the kitchen during commercials. “What’re those lezzies here for? You goin’ back on the team?”

“Not in this lifetime. Just slice up the cheese for me, okay?”

“You shouldn’t always keep me in the dark on what’s what. Man and wife’s supposed to hold each other up.”

Pitcher and catcher were nuzzling on the sofa, exhaling sweet nothings back and forth. Karl cursed them under his breath.

Flora jumped up. “This is such a cute house. I’d love for you to show me around.”

“What there is to see you’ve seen.”

But Flora wanted to talk about color combinations and closet space, to peer behind the furniture for electrical sockets. Tildy hung at her heels, absorbing all this women’s-page chat with an increasing sense of misdirection.

“I used to try and picture how it was, your place,” Flora said confessionally. She seemed to be counting the plates in the drip rack. “I’m like that with people, trying to get a bead on them. I thought of something a little more, you know, funky. But this here is nice. Like one of those little cottages in the old songs.”

Tildy doubted the profession of curiosity; on past evidence, Flora’s interest remained within the usual star’s boundaries. But none of this was bothering her exactly until they reentered the living room and she saw video images flickering on Karl’s sulking face like firelight and felt one of those sad maternal pangs that kept her both with him and irritated at her own forebearance.

She swiveled around on Flora. “So how long were you planning to stay?”

“Only a day or so,” M.J. said behind her. “We won’t disrupt you.”

“But we only have the one bed.”

“Don’t you worry none about that.” M.J. came up off the sofa like someone had asked her to dance. “We’ll sleep out in the car. The rear seat folds down and it’s real comfy, so don’t you give it a second thought.”

Second thoughts? Always. Tildy looked at Flora, blinking repeatedly, at M.J. moving forward with her stolid catcher’s waddle. She said, “Actually, we’re a little busy with, with a project right now.” And she thought: I’m overmatched again; another fishbone in the throat.