You’re probably thinking I got sidetracked.
Well, guess what?
I didn’t.
What I did was almost get killed.
Now, if Maynard’s freeloading son, T.J., had been working the counter instead of the Elvis impersonator, I might have had to go clear down to the supermarket, because T.J. likes me about as much as a chained dog likes a cat. Something about seeing me sets him off, and he will bark and snarl and snap at me until he finally drives me away.
So there was definitely the potential for a sidetrack, but Elvis was happy to see me. “Hey, little mama!” he calls from behind the counter. “How are things in Carny Town?”
Now, with Hudson’s help, I had finally figured out that the Elvis clerk talks only in Elvis songs.
Well, almost.
He’ll throw an extra word in now and then to tie together the lyrics or song titles, but pretty much everything he says is something Elvis sang. And it used to drive me kinda nuts, because I’ve never heard any Elvis songs—well, except maybe “Jailhouse Rock” or “Hound Dog”—so it was like he was talking in riddles.
No, not even riddles.
More like mixed-up phrases.
Nonsense that actually made sense.
In a weird Elvis-impersonator sort of way.
Even so, I’m always super-happy to see Elvis, because seeing him means I don’t have to see T.J. Of course, Elvis doesn’t know that. He just thinks I’m a happy camper coming in for bubble gum.
“Things are hoppin’ in Carny Town,” I tell him, and then right away I flash to the similarities between him and Justice Jack. Not what they do—just how they dress in costumes and prefer to be people they’re not. “Have you heard about Justice Jack?”
“Didja ever? He’s catchin’ on fast!” Elvis says with a crooked Elvis smile. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Think so?”
He nods. “Watch him try to move from a jack to a king.”
I laugh. “But you’re the King, right?”
He laughs, too. “Doin’ the best I can.”
I grab the Tums and put them on the counter. “Seems like the two of you could be friends.”
He shakes his head. “I got wheels on my heels, baby.”
I stare at him. “Okay. What does that mean?”
He rings up the Tums. “I’m just a lonesome cowboy in a long black limousine.”
I almost tell him, No, you’re not. You’re an Elvis impersonator working in a corner market! But instead I ask, “Can you translate, please?”
“My long-legged girl told me to get on the long, lonely highway.”
“So … you had a girlfriend who broke up with you?”
He nods. “My honky-tonk angel turned out to be the meanest girl in town. I told her, ‘Reconsider, baby, put the blame on me! Let’s patch it up!’ I said, ‘Baby, I’ve been steadfast, loyal, and true! You’re the only star in my blue heaven!’ But she’s a machine with a wooden heart, and now there’s been too much monkey business.” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll be the twelfth of never before my blue moon turns to gold again, so it’s viva Las Vegas for me.”
I hand over the twenty. “You’re moving to Las Vegas?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. I’m movin’ on.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. It’s now or never.” He makes my change and snaps off the receipt, and as he hands them over, he sort of cocks his head and says, “You look like you’re gonna sit right down and cry.”
“I really liked you being here,” I tell him.
He gives me a little shrug. “I slipped, I stumbled, I fell, and I’m leavin’. But that’s all right, mama. Don’t think twice.”
“Well, I’ll miss you,” I tell him, then grab the Tums and head out.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he calls after me, and actually follows me to the door. “Before we go our separate ways, let it be me that gives you some sound advice.”
“What’s that?”
“As we travel along the Jericho road, anyplace is paradise.”
He’s looking like Serious Elvis now, so I nod as I keep walking and say, “Thanks.”
But Elvis isn’t done. “Keep a pocketful of rainbows.”
“Will do.”
And since I’m now at the corner and about to cut across a red light, he calls, “Always stop, look, and listen!”
I laugh. “Thanks!” And as I’m heading across the street anyway, he shouts, “By the way, my real name’s Pete Decker! I’ll get you passes to my show if you’re ever in Vegas!” And since I’m so shocked to hear his real voice and his real name, I do something you should never do when crossing against a red light.
I stop, turn, and stare.
All of a sudden horns are blaring and zooming by and I’m running and jumping like crazy trying not to get killed.
“You almost had the steamroller blues!” he shouts when I’m safely across. Then he waves. “Bye, Sammy! I’ll remember you!”
I wave. “Who could forget you?” Then I hurry up the sidewalk and sneak back over to the Senior Highrise.
Now, when I’d left the Highrise, I’d gone out the front door and waved real big and shouted good-night to Mr. Garnucci so he’d know that I was leaving the building. Which meant that I now had to sneak up the fire escape to get back inside. No biggie, but halfway up it hit me that I’d made a mistake.
A kinda big mistake.
When I’d come in with Justice Jack and the Wedge-o-matic, I’d had my backpack and my skateboard, but when I’d gone out, I didn’t have either.
I tried to convince myself that Mr. Garnucci wouldn’t notice something like that. Especially considering all the excitement about Justice Jack delivering the Wedge and then the big payouts and everything.
But still. It bothered me. I could just see him waking up in the middle of the night going, Wait a minute …!
So I’m a little preoccupied sneaking back into the Highrise, and I really just want to deliver the Tums and get home quick, but while the Wedgie Woman’s checking her change, she says, “Don’t rush off, sugar. Sit a spell.”
So, great. Now I have to visit with her? Like doing her laundry and shopping and hoisting her off the bathroom floor isn’t enough? Now I have to chitchat?
About what?
She can see me thinking. “Come on, sugar. It won’t kill you to visit a minute.”
I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Wedgewood, I have homework and chores to do, and I’m starving.” And then, just because I’ve never actually admitted that I live next door, I add, “And I still have to help my grandmother with a few things before I go home.”
“Home,” she says with a cagey smile. “We both know what a long walk that is.”
“Look, Mrs. Wedgewood, I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have other responsibilities.”
“Sit,” she says.
I don’t know how to explain it other than to say that there’s something about two beady eyes, five chins, and a crooked wig that adds up to scary.
So I sit.
“Now, then,” she says. “Tell me about your mother.”
“My mother?” I try to pull it back a notch. “What do you want to know?”
“Well,” she scoffs. “I know she’s beautiful and self-absorbed and in denial about her responsibilities, so we don’t have to cover that. I’m curious what her plans are for after The Lords of Willow Heights is off the air. Is she coming back to Santa Martina?”
This did not feel like a theoretical discussion to me.
This felt like she knew something I didn’t.
And while the wheels in my head are whirring around trying to figure out which direction to go, Mrs. Wedgewood adds, “She’s very good in her role, by the way. I like her better than the original Jewel.”
“You watch it?”
She smiles. “Since it first aired thirty years ago.”
My eyes bug out. “You’re serious?”
“Of course. Which is why it’s so sad to see it going off the air.” She studies me a minute, then sighs. “She hasn’t told you.”
I just look down.
“And neither has your grandmother?”
The truth is, I’m mad. Why am I learning this from her? Why am I always the last person to know? But I don’t want the Blubbery Blackmailer to see she’s getting to me, so I try to cover. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s just a rumor?”
“Oh, it’s official, all right. And your mother and grandmother both know. They’ve had several heated phone calls about it. And you.”
I stand up. “Look, Mrs. Wedgewood, it’s a little creepy to think about you eavesdropping on us—on them.”
“Can I help it if my ears are unnaturally receptive? I don’t set out to listen, but the walls are paper-thin, and, sugar, your situation is intriguing. Like a real-life soap happening right next door.”
I head for the door. “I need to help Grams, then get home.”
“And home is …?”
“None of your business,” I snap.
Now, for me this is like setting loose a tidal wave of pent-up anger, but to her it’s just a little ripple. “Come back, sugar. No need to get defensive. Can’t you see we’re a lot alike, you and I?”
I just stare at her with my jaw dangling.
“Sugar, it’s obvious neither of us should be living here. I do what I have to to stay, and so do you. And believe it or not, I admire you and I have my concerns about your situation.”
Now, I know she’s a sweet-talking blackmailer. I know I should deny everything and storm out, but she actually seems sincere, so I just keep standing there, staring.
“How does your mother expect you to continue the way you have been?” she asks. “What are her plans for you? It seems she only has plans for herself. And what are your grandmother’s plans for you?” She scoffs again. “Besides telling you to quit growing up so fast.”
“Grams is a rock,” I tell her.
“Oh, no doubt. But rocks stay put. They don’t move forward. Or soar. You need to soar, Samantha. You’re smart and resourceful and you need to do something with your life.”
Now, I complain about my mother all the time, but the Whale doing it and jabbing at Grams makes me want to harpoon her!
Besides, who is she to give me advice about doing something with my life?
About soaring?
But before I can figure out what to say, she sighs and adds, “I know you’re not listening. I know you think I’m wicked. And you may not believe this, but I have not enjoyed my role in your life. But what else can I do? I do not want to wind up in a care home! I can’t afford a good one, and even the good ones are just places to go to die!”
I give her a hard look. “I get that, but you don’t have to do it the way you do it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t ask for help, you demand!”
She laughs. “Like you would do all the things I need your help with if I just asked?”
“Look, Grams could have called Mr. Garnucci anytime and told him that you fall off the toilet and can’t get up.”
She gives me a hard look. “And I could have called any day to say you were living here!”
“You’ve made that threat every day since you moved in. The point is, we’ve never threatened you. You would have been out of here within a week if Grams had called Mr. Garnucci instead of helping you. And if you tried to get back at us, it would be easy for me to not visit for a week or two while he got you moved into an old-folks’ home. Even if you sprang it on us, Mr. Garnucci knows I come to help Grams a lot, so he wouldn’t be surprised to find me visiting. And since I have a massive wardrobe of two pairs of jeans and three shirts and absolutely no stuff, he sure wouldn’t find anything.” I shake my head. “Grams has never even hinted at turning you in, and the sad thing is, I would have been happy to help you. Nobody wants to live in a nursing home—I get that. The Senior Highrise is bad enough.”
She just sits there like a wiggy walrus. So after a minute of her staring at me, I take a deep breath and tell her, “Look, you say you’re concerned about my situation and I don’t expect you to make it better, but could you please stop making it worse?”
She nods her head just a little, then whispers, “I’m sorry,” and puts her arms out.
At first I don’t understand the arms.
And then I do.
I try not to show how grossed out I am just thinking about it, but, really, there’s no avoiding it. So I hold my breath and let her hug me, and when I resurface from the Stink Swamp, I smile the best I can, then escape.
And I’m planning to dive straight for the shower, ’cause, believe me, after you’ve been swallowed up by the Stink Swamp, there is nothing else on your mind.
Trouble is, Grams has the news on.