at the other two. ‘He seems very sweet…’ She picked up her jacket from the chair and laid it neatly over her suitcase on the floor. ‘He’s older than me.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘He kept putting his hands in his pockets, then taking them out again and the pockets kept flopping out.’ She felt herself go briefly to a dreamy, distant place, then she abruptly brought herself back. ‘But, I mean, really. I’m not at all interested. What’s the point? Mick should have the car ready in a matter of minutes now. And then,’ she snapped her fingers and flung her arm outward, a more dramatic version of the gesture she’d done before. ‘We’re off! Gone! Byebye, apple pie! Besides, he’s not my type. He’s very different from Lenny. Umm, physically. And in what he does for a living. He’s not my type.’
Shelly, looking incredulous, said loudly, ‘What the hell does that mean? It’s not like there’s only one type of guy for you. For crying out loud! Do you like just one…outfit?’ C.C. grinned as Shelly stared at her, in her velour pantsuit. ‘Or…or one flavor of ice cream?’
Meg laughed lightly, shaking her head at Shelly. C.C. was delighted by Meg’s smile, on two counts: lately, any smile from Meg was to be celebrated; and, it demonstrated yet again that Meg and C.C. were the kind of friends who committed each other’s loyal preferences to memory. Shelly didn’t commit her own preferences to memory. She said her tastes changed with her hormone fluctuations so sometimes she liked pumpkin ice cream best. Other times mocha cappuccino with fudge chunks. Still others, she was a sucker for rainbow sherbet. Meg and C.C. knew this about her.
Meg looked at Shelly. ‘Yes. She does only like one flavor. She always, always orders pralines and cream. Don’t you know that by now?’
Shelly looked stunned. She glanced between the two. ‘So, what if they don’t have pralines and cream?’
‘Then she orders–’ Meg looked at C.C.–‘butter pecan’, they said in unison. C.C., her unrestrained southern accent in full swing again, added, ‘And then, mah deah, if they don’t have butt-ah-pee-can, ah ordah vanilla, with caramel sauce and a heapin’ dose a—’
A knock at the door interrupted her. C.C. jumped, her heart pounding. M.J. gave a short bark and ran to the door, ears up, tail high, her body vibrating. C.C. looked at the others. They each smiled reassuringly, Shelly making a ‘go on’ flick with her hand. C.C. scooped M.J. up, held her close. She wondered if the little dog could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She kissed the top of M.J.’s head, took a deep breath. She put her hand on the doorknob, suddenly feeling as if breathing was something she had to think about in order to do. She thought to check her hair, but the only mirror was behind her, and Meg and Shelly would give her no end of grief. Slowly, she opened the door. Outside, Mick stood, hat off, held against his chest again. C.C. felt her shoulders cave just a little, but she couldn’t help but think: this boy was raised right.
‘Ma’am.’ He nodded in greeting, repeating ma’am and nodding again as Meg joined C.C. at the door. ‘You’re all set to go, ladies. Just come on over when you’re ready, and we’ll get you right out on the road again.’
‘Thank you, Mick,’ said Meg. After another ‘ma’am’ and nod to each of them, Mick pulled his cap on, then turned and ambled back toward his shop.
‘Finally!’ said Shelly. She started singing ‘On the Road Again’, loudly and off-key. M.J., still in C.C.’s arms, raised her little snout in the air and started barking.
‘Stop! Stop!’ said C.C., laughing, gently holding M.J.’s snout, then letting go and admonishing both the dog and Shelly: ‘Saints preserve! You two make some choir.’ M.J. licked furiously at C.C.’s neck, making C.C. shriek with laughter. Suddenly she stopped laughing. Feeling panicked, she thrust M.J. into Meg’s arms. ‘Here, hold her, please. I gotta pee!’ She ran to the bathroom, lunged inside, slamming the door, barely making it in time.
Sitting in the small, dark room, she shook her head. She probably needed to see a doctor about this. She’d been putting it off for months. It was bad enough going for her ‘annual indignity’, as she referred to her yearly gynecological exam. She was holding out to do it all at once, and she always scheduled her annual appointment for just after her birthday, in September. Come to think of it, had she had a check-up last year? Or the year before?
There was a gentle knock on the door. ‘You okay in there?’ Meg words were somewhat muffled by the thick door.
‘Yeah! Just the usual problem,’ she shouted back. ‘That’s what comes from having a big baby. And middle age. No going back from either!’
A few minutes later C.C. emerged, washed her hands at the sink. Over the running water she could hear the TV, the SavR King jingle pulsing through the room. C.C. put her hand on the counter, steadying herself, thinking of Kathryn. She felt near tears again. The sounds of a newscast saved her.
‘C.C.!’ yelled Shelly. ‘C’mere! Hurry! We’re going to be on the news! Mick phoned while you were peeing, said to turn on channel five.’
They were sitting on the ends of the stripped beds, watching, M.J. in Meg’s lap. C.C. sat next to her and M.J. immediately crawled into her lap. C.C. and Meg exchanged quick smiles, an unspoken acknowledgement that M.J. was hook, line and sinker in love with C.C. They turned their attention back to the TV.
A blonde anchorwoman, looking like News Barbie, in a bright, lime-green suit with a large, even brighter and limier rosette on the lapel was speaking. C.C. surmised that it was the local news from Chicago, which she thought was probably as local as Tupper got. Suddenly the newscaster’s words grabbed her full attention. ‘…little dog who escaped from her kennel from Quad City Airport and has been on the lam—’ Here she turned to her co-anchor, a nicely coiffed man who, C.C. thought, happened to look vaguely like a Ken doll. ‘Can a dog be on the lamb?’ Barbie asked Ken. They each gave a hahaha canned laugh. ‘But now, happy day! This is no April Fool joke: we’re thrilled to report to all you dog lovers who have been calling in, that little…’ She started to smile, then giggle. ‘Okay. I’m not even going to try that registered name. Anyway, the dog, M.J. they call her, has finally been found, and will soon be on her way home to Kentucky. And she won’t have to fly, thanks to several good Samaritans. Right after this broadcast, I’ll be going out myself, to the small town of Tupper, to interview the senior citizens who are on a road trip south, and who have agreed to take the dog back to her home.’
Shelly squawked loudly as she stood, arms akimbo. ‘Who is that bitch calling senior fucking citizens?’ Meg and C.C. both shushed her, but Shelly continued to mutter, just barely under her breath, as the newswoman continued.
‘I’ll bring you that story today, at News At Noon with Marcia and Ralph. I know our viewers will want to tune in for that! This has been quite the story we’ve been following with this little doggie, hasn’t it, Ralph?’
‘You bet, Marcia! The whole country has been worrying about this little dog.’
Marcia looked into the camera, a big smile directed to her viewers. ‘If you’ve just tuned in, our breaking story this morning is that little M.J., the missing Italian Greyhound, has been found, safe and sound, and is going home to–’ she glanced down at her papers–‘her owner, Candy Suddle of Lexington, Kentucky.’ She turned again toward Ralph. ‘We just love happy endings around here, don’t we, Ralph?’
‘Yes, indeedy!’ said Ralph, looking like he couldn’t wait for the happy ending to this newscast.
Ralph moved on to other local news and Shelly clicked off the TV with the remote. ‘Shit. I don’t want to be interviewed! TV adds ten pounds! Besides, I don’t want to give that little green witch the satisfaction of getting the story. Senior citizens, my ass!’ She stepped to the window, peeking nervously, keeping herself hidden behind the curtain. ‘Let’s get the hell outta here!’ she said as if she’d seen gunfighters gathering out front.
‘Well, I’m sure the senior citizen thing was just a miscommunication,’ Meg said. ‘Maybe that Kirby guy said it. Regardless, I’m