Marianne giggled as she tripped on the edge of the thick carpet. “Watch out, Mandy, that one’s tricky!”
“Got it.” Still in the doorway, Amanda brushed sand from her legs and tightened her sarong.
“Ohhh, there’s a bar!” Marianne whipped around, her grasp on a melted margarita tenuous at best. She pointed, as if Amanda couldn’t spot the crowded area for herself.
The lobby looked like a carnival, full of spandex, sounds and languages. People danced and talked and laughed. Some dressed for the evening, others simply wore cover-ups and shiny tans. The spirit of the beach had blown indoors for the evening.
“You know what I wanna do? One of those drinks in a little glass!” Marianne pointed to a low table next to the door, where a group of sunburned Europeans stacked their empties and roared at one another over the din of the cover band onstage.
“Tequila? You want a tequila shot?” Amazement raised Amanda’s voice. What had started with a few innocent margaritas had taken a decided turn for the worse. “I’m not sure you should have any more to drink.”
“Nonsense”-Marianne huffed-“I’m a grown woman, and I’d like to have a shot of tequila!” She shuffled to the bar, skirting the dancers on the edge of the parquet floor, leaving Amanda no choice but to follow.
Marianne straddled a high stool and plopped the orange hat next to her. “Yoo-hoo! Bartender! Tequila, por favor!” She flapped a hand in the air.
He nodded and turned to pour the shot.
“Look at the buns on that bartender,” she whispered.
“Shhh.” Amanda retied her mother-in-law’s cover-up, where it threatened to slip away. “It’s getting late, let’s go.”
“Oh, pooh. Don’t be a spoilsport.” Flashing a wicked grin, Marianne launched into a singsong, “Bartender buns, bartender buns, bartender buns?”
Expressionless, the man handed the drink over and waited for the signature. Amanda mouthed, “Sorry,” and sank into the nearest chair.
On the other side of them perched a woman with leathery skin, stuffed in a sequined catsuit. The bartender placed a shot in front of her.
Marianne tapped the lady. “How do you do this?”
“You lick the salt, take the shot, then suck on the lime.” The woman showed her, with the panache of a seasoned professional.
“Oh, how nice! You did that just beautifully,” Marianne complimented. “Let’s see.” It took her twice as long, movements awkward and slow. Her eyes widened as each taste set in. She slammed the glass down and grinned. “I did it!”
Catsuit woman lifted her refilled glass in salute.
Marianne spun on the bar stool and clapped to the music. The bunny hop. “You’ll watch these for us, won’t you?” She pushed their beach bags closer to their bar companion.
“I ain’t going nowhere.”
“Thanks!” Cramming her hat on with a flourish, she grabbed Amanda’s hand, with a grip suddenly like steel. “Come with me, o daughter of mine.”
“Oh no. No way. I am not doing the bunny hop.”
“Oh yes, you are….”
The chain wriggled through the lobby like a reeling Tilt-A-Whirl. Amanda found herself shoved in line and mercilessly pushed forward with a stranger’s heavy mitts on her shoulders. She lost her mother-in-law in the mix and looked for her in the crowd at the song’s end.
“How about the Cotton-Eyed Joe!” A perky voice yelled at the band. On the other side of the room, Marianne hopped up and down, waving. “We’re from Texas! Play the Cotton-Eyed Joe!”
The band obliged and Amanda slipped back to the bar, hiding as she watched the proceedings unfold.
Marianne taught other dancers the simple steps, her hat flopped over her eyes. It fell off in the shuffle and got stepped on. When the song’s stomps and yells subsided, someone sailed the hat like a distorted Frisbee and it landed in a nearby palm.
“This one’s for our friends from Texas!” The dulcet tune of “Blue Bayou” poured out as the revelers crept to their seats or found partners. Not exactly a Texas song, but close enough.
A tall, dark man asked Marianne to dance and she clung to his shoulders as they swayed across the floor.
“I’m going back someday, come what may…”
Amanda thought of Doyle, who never came back again. And of Mark. When would he be ready? She didn’t think she could last much longer. She ached with the longing, her heart rose and fell with the music. Mourning for what was lost, hoping for the future.
I’m coming home, Mark. Come what may.
When the couple turned, silver streaks wet her mother-in-law’s cheeks.
Amanda retrieved the crumpled hat from the palm tree, and approached when the song finished. “I’m a little tired. What do you say we head back to our rooms?”
“Tired.” She nodded, her face slack as a sleeping child’s. “Back to the rooms.”
“Thanks for the dance.” The man smiled kindly.
They made it to the elevators, where Marianne leaned against the wall with her eyes closed.
Digging through the fuchsia carryall, Amanda found the room key. Inside, the dark room smelled of fresh sheets and the ocean. She clicked on the bathroom light. Toiletries lined up in precise circles. Illumination hit the open closet, where shoes sat in rows with aligned heels. Clothes hung on equidistant hangers.
Amanda gently guided her mother-in-law to the bed, where she flopped back, legs dangling off the side. She poured a glass of water and set it on the nightstand. “Need anything else?”
One brown eye pinched open. “Do you think something was wrong with those limes? I feel a little… odd.”
“The limes?” Amanda shook her head. “We’re in a nice hotel. If anything, it might be the-”
Marianne sat upright with panicked eyes and raced to the bathroom. A polka-dot whirlwind.
“Tequila.” Amanda finished.
Horrible gurgling sounds came from the bathroom. Amanda slumped on the bed and stared out at the darkness, preparing for the long night ahead. She reached for a water glass and the phone caught her attention.
Trust me, Marianne had said.
Can’t go home, he’s not ready.
But they never said anything about calling.
One eye on the closed bathroom door, Amanda picked up the phone and dialed.
MARK’S EARS RANG from the warning shot fired just over his right shoulder, landing harmlessly in the field behind him. Tasting the burnt gunpowder, he threw his hands in the air à la every bad Western he’d seen. “Don’t want to cause any trouble. Just looking for my cat.”
The man with the gun lowered his bushy brows like hairy shades. He thrust his chin toward the gas station. “More like you’re looking to break into Gary’s.”
“No, really. I’m traveling through and my cat ran off.” Mark put his hands down. “I’m a minister. From Potter Springs. Honest.”
“A minister?”
Suspicion marched across the man’s face, wrinkling it further.
“Prove it.”
“Well, I’ve got a business card.” He edged his wallet out, slowly, and held out the piece of paper.
The man edged closer, trying to read from thirty paces.
“Listen, I’ll go.” Mark started to put the card away, but the man snatched it up. “If you can point me toward a motel, I’ll get out of your way and come back for my cat in the morning.”
“No motels round here.” The man propped the gun on the floor and drew a sleeve over his nose, reading. “If you’re who you say you are, don’t guess it’s right for me to turn you out. Name’s Clark Myers. You need a bed”-he gestured to the screened-in porch with the card-“there’s a cot out here.”
“I couldn’t possibly-”
The man’s brows shot up, nearly reaching the creases of his bald head. “Why, if it’s not good enough for a fancy man like yourself from the big city-”
Potter Springs, a big city?
“No, no.” Mark eyed the shadows. At least it was free. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”
Mark spent a sleepless night tossing in the crusty folds of Clark Myers’ cot, clutching a moth ridden blanket to his shoulders. He used his shirt as a pillow, wiping the soft cotton above his eye, where the cut from the hubcap throbbed. Twice he killed spiders inching their way up his arms.
Clanging sounds from Clark’s kitchen woke him at dawn. With his back in a vise, he lay still, turning only his head. Sunless light showed the mess he’d made at Gary’s next door, tires and hubcaps lay about like the aftermath of a tornado. Still no sign of Mr. Chesters.
Mark sat up, groaning, and smoothed out his shirt. Blood stained the front and dirt streaked in the cotton weave. He slipped it over his head, his back cracking like fireworks.
Careful of his throbbing hand, he picked through the strewn tires, balancing tires against his chest. The oil left tracks like he’d been run over. He stacked them, one by one, as the sun rose higher. The heat and humidity soaked him and his clothes clung to his skin.
From inside the house, Clark hollered, “Found him!”
Mr. Chesters hunched in a corner of the screened porch, wolfing down eggs and bacon in great lurching gulps.
Clark took a deep drink of coffee from a heavy ceramic mug. “Never did know a cat to refuse a little breakfast grease.” He tipped his head toward the frying pan. “Want some?”
“No thanks, Mr. Myers. I’ll just get changed, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
Outside, Mark reached in the Toyota’s open window and found Peggy’s goody bag torn apart. Next to the bear and candle, the remains of the brownies looked decidedly chewed. He forgot to shut the window, and Mr. Chesters apparently had enjoyed a midnight feeding frenzy.
Mark stared at the destruction in silence, noting the candle had melted in the heat and was stuck to the bear’s fur.
“The cat’s been in here.” Clark stepped behind him.
“You think?” Four-toed chocolate footprints smashed into the Toyota’s upholstery.
“No. I mean, the cat’s been in here.” Hands on his waist, Clark shook his head.
Mark looked at his unzipped duffel bag, where he’d pulled the wipies out last night to stop his bleeding hand. He leaned closer, and the unmistakable odor of Mr. Chesters’ spray hit him. Gingerly he touched the clothes. Damp.
“Looks like he’s marking his territory. Either that or a grudge of some sort,” Clark observed from over Mark’s shoulder.
Hoping to find something worth putting on, Mark tugged the bag out. Even his shaving kit had been fouled. His clothing reeked, beyond salvation. He zipped the bag to contain the odor and shoved it in the farthest corner of the trunk. Thankful that the second bag, the one with special things for Amanda, remained unharmed, still dry.
“Guess I’ll just have to stay in what I’m in.” He turned and nearly bumped into Clark, the man stood so close. “I need to get on the road.”
Clark looked him up and down. “You know, I might have something you could wear. My son’s bigger than me, about your size. He left some old things here at the house.”
The older man disappeared and an instant later returned with a strange smile and a neon yellow T-shirt. He held it up, displaying the front with four women in thong bathing suits. Across the gleaming buttocks, a cheery airbrush read SUN YOUR BUNS!
Clark bit his lip, a hint of mischief on his face. “How’s this?”
The short sleeves waved at him. Clean. Cool. Dirt and blood and sweat-stain free. For the second time in less than twelve hours, Mark heard himself say, “I’ll take it.”
Hours later, stuck in San Antonio’s swampy traffic with a greasy cat, a nifty new T-shirt, and the wound on his forehead turning into a third eye, he wondered if Amanda would even recognize him when he found her.
If he found her.