“I’ll pick something up on the way home.”
“No, baby, I’ll cook. I need to run by the grocery store with the kids anyway. Could pick up anything you want.”
I wasn’t breathing nor was I listening. I was stuck on Mitch telling me he’d cook just like he told me he cooked for me once or twice (or more times) a week for the last ten years of my life.
And I liked the way it sounded.
“Mara?” he called and I shut my eyes tight then opened them.
“I’m here.”
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Really, uh…I’ll just pick something up.”
“We both gotta eat,” he told me.
“You can eat with the kids,” I told him.
“Billie’s decreed she wants fish sticks and Billy’s decreed he wants whatever Billie wants. I stopped eating fish sticks when I was eleven and finally convinced my Ma I hated ‘em. So, I’m not eatin’ with the kids, I’m eatin’ with you.”
“Mitch –” I started to protest, sounding exactly like I was about to protest.
“Mara, baby, quiet,” he said softly, my mouth closed partly because he called me baby but mostly because he said my name softly. When he got silence he went on. “How’s this? Tell me what you don’t like and I’ll cook whatever I want just as long as it isn’t something you don’t like.”
“Um…” I began then stopped.
“Not hard, baby,” he whispered.
“Uh…”
“You like chili?” he asked.
“Um…” I mumbled and he chuckled.
“Mara, sweetheart, do you like chili?”
“Yes,” I forced out.
“Then I’ll make chili and cornbread,” he decided and the instant he did I started to get hungry because that sounded really good. What sounded better was going to Mitch’s and eating dinner with him whether he cooked it or not.
“Mitch –” I murmured but stopped speaking and my back went straight when I heard a shouted, “There you f**kin’ are!”
I whipped around just as Roberta whispered, “What on earth?” and I saw my Mom and Aunt Lulamae bearing down on us.
I watched them charging through the sea of beds noting they hadn’t changed, not a bit, except for the fact that they’d aged thirty years in the thirteen that had passed. Both of their hair was dyed blonde. Mom’s a brassy, straw blonde with at least an inch of steel gray mixed with dark roots. Aunt Lulamae’s was a mixture of blonde and chunks of brunette. She called it streaked but she did it herself so it looked more like stripes. They were baring way too much cle**age considering not only their br**sts but also their skin were sagging. Their skin was also leathery and overly tanned even though summer hadn’t quite started. They were also both wearing skintight everything: Mom, Capri pants and a scoop-necked t-shirt; Aunt Lulamae jeans and a flouncy blouse that was unbuttoned way too far down and the buttons that were done up were straining. They both had on too much makeup as in enough to cover the faces of the entire squad of Denver Broncos cheerleaders during games for at least half the season. And they were both teetering on high-heeled, platform stripper shoes.
Good God. There they were. At my work.
“You little bitch!” Aunt Lulamae shrieked when she got close.
I did nothing, said nothing, just stood there staring at them in horror mixed liberally with fear.
“Jesus, is that the Trailer Trash Twins?” Mitch asked in my ear.
“And who are you?” LaTanya asked the Trailer Trash Twins.
Aunt Lulamae shoved her hand, palm up, about half an inch from LaTanya’s face. LaTanya’s head jerked back about half a foot, her hands went direct to her h*ps and her brows snapped together.