thirteen

I held the menu in front of my face and forced myself to study the entrées. Rooster Heart Tartare, garnished with garlic pods and cockscombs. Porcine Testicles with Crostini. Five-Brain Portobello Burger. The cheapest item was french-fried entrails.

Our waiter drifted around the table, setting out flatware, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. I lowered my menu and looked up at him. He handed me a tiny calico bag that was tied with a red ribbon. A fragrant, herby smell rose up.

“Compliments of the chef,” the waiter said. “It’s Herbes de Bonaventure. Kinda like Herbes de Provence, but without the lavender.”

He gave everyone at the table a bag. “The cocktail du jour is the greyhound,” he said.

Red’s face turned chalky. “Please tell me it don’t have a real dog in it.”

“No, just vodka and grapefruit juice.” The waiter grinned.

“I’ll have one,” I said.

“Me too,” Dr. O’Malley said.

“A glass of milk for me,” Coop said.

“From which animal?” the waiter asked.

“You pick,” Coop said.

Irene returned from the ladies’ room, her lips freshly dipped in red. Coop leaped up and pulled back her chair. From the next table, Son winked. He pointed to the dance floor, then to me. I looked away and rearranged my knife and spoon. Was I flattered? A little. Alarmed? Totally.

Coop glanced at Son, then back at me. I was relieved when the waiter set down our drinks. I took a bracing sip of the greyhound.

Irene cut her gaze to Son’s table. “Is that Dr. Finnegan over there? What a handsome fellow he is. And a marvelous plastic surgeon. Why, just last week, I sat next to him at a cookout. We had a long conversation. He asked about you, Teeny. I told him I hadn’t seen you in a decade, not since my party. You had a darling little curler in your hair.”

My mouth went dry, and I took another swig of the greyhound. So what if I’d slept with two men in this restaurant? The Baptist in me said, Slut. My backsliding part said, Nobody’s keeping a tally.

The waiter returned with something that looked and smelled like homemade bread. Coop sliced off a hunk and reached for the butter—at least, I hoped it was butter. I kept rearranging my fork and spoon, wishing I could readjust my past just as easily. I’d fix it so that Barb was alive and Son was her old lover. Emerson could be their daughter. I’d give O’Malley and me a brown-eyed, dark-haired child named Coopette.

Red polished off his drink. “So, Teeny. What’s the story on your nurse-friend? The one with the hair.”

Dr. O’Malley and Irene set down their drinks. “Who?” they asked.

“We ran into Dot Agnew,” Coop said.

“Her?” Irene’s nostrils twitched as if she’d caught a bad odor. “Didn’t her muh-tha used to breed budgies?”

“What the heck is that?” Red asked.

“Parakeets,” I said. “Mrs. Agnew made bird recordings, too.”

“I don’t care about the mother.” Red smiled. “Tell me about the daughter. I didn’t see a wedding ring. Is she single?”

“Ring or no ring, don’t get mixed up with her,” Irene said. “She’s got a bit of a reputation.”

This was true. Though I’d lost touch with Dot, her romantic history had been chronicled in the Bonaventure Gazette’s society pages. She’d been married, divorced, married, divorced. From the gossips, I’d heard about her in-between men: bikers, dirt movers, musicians, bankers, doctors, pilots, and even one of her divorce lawyers.

“What kind of reputation?” Red asked. “I noticed she had a pin on her collar. Praying hands. Is she religious?”

“Dot won those hands when she was fourteen,” I said. “She appeared on a radio show called Name That Bible Verse.”

“I remember that,” Irene said. “The disc jockey couldn’t stump Dot. She won an all-expense-paid trip to visit Oral Roberts University.”

Irene’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile, though I was sure she didn’t know the rest of the story. Dot had dated juvenile delinquents, hoping to reform them. Repent, she’d tell the boys, so your sins may be wiped out. Acts 3:19. Then she’d beat them off in green pastures, near the valley of the shadow, and their rods and staff were comforted.

Red looked disappointed. “So she’s churchy?”

“She’s a born-again skank,” Irene said.

“I might marry her.” Red looked Irene in the eye. I knew for a fact that he liked zany, free-spirited women as long as they didn’t veer into loon territory. But he hated bitches.

Another silence descended. I finished my greyhound. I needed a stronger drink: a double martini, heavy on the Beefeater, a gin-soaked olive skating along the bottom of the glass.

Irene’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodie. Here comes Dr. Botox.”

Son angled toward our table, moving more like a cowboy than a physician. His cattle-rustler genes wanted to make trouble. He stopped beside my chair.

“How you doing, Dr. O’Malley? Miss Irene.” His gaze skipped over Coop and Red, then settled on me. “Teeny.”

Only Son could make my name sound like a four-letter word. The candle on our table sputtered, and light rippled over his teeth, giving him a vampy look. My lungs felt ripe and plump, as if they’d turned into mutant spaghetti squash, packed with seeds and stringy flesh, the skinny girl’s substitute for pasta. It’s low-cal and edible, but nothing like the real thing.

He chatted with the O’Malleys about yesterday’s storm, then he gave me a quick two-finger salute. Instead of returning to his table, he left the restaurant.

Irene looked offended. “Was it something I said?”

Our waiter set a domed platter in front of her. He raised the lid with a flourish. There, on a curly layer of romaine, lay three hamster-like bodies, skinned and headless, butter dripping from their tiny claws.

“Perfect.” Irene lifted her fork and knife.

Coop brushed his mouth against my ear. “Anything you want to tell me about Son Finnegan?”

Not unless I was under oath. Not unless he pulled it out of me with sharp tweezers.

“He worked for Aunt Bluette one summer,” I said under my breath. And we made love until I was limp and breathless. He had to run to the house and get my inhaler.

“It’s not polite to whisper,” Irene said, and sank her teeth into a hamster.