Down and Out in Bugtussle (2 page)

“I’m sorry—have I what?” I say, looking down as I cut into my
lasagna. I would attempt to change the subject, but I’ve gathered that whatever Mr. I Love Mommy wants to talk about, by golly, he’s gonna talk about.

“Have you ever thought about how magnificent your life would be if your wildest dreams somehow came true?” He’s peering at me like a Peeping Tom, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of my bare-naked soul.

“Of course,” I say. “Hasn’t everyone?” I take a bite of lasagna while he continues to work those noodles and stare at me.

“So you have dreams?” he asks. I don’t answer, and he continues. “Then you’ve imagined a marvelous existence with that man or that job and that house?” He’s still moving the fork. Around and around. “Tell me your dreams, Graciela.” His eyes are ripe with anticipation as they bore into mine.

“Again,” I say, careful to hold his gaze, “please call me Ace.”

“Tell me your dreams, Ace,” he says without missing a beat. His fork is still twirling those damned noodles and his eyes are still locked on mine. I don’t say anything, so he continues. “The verbalization of dreams makes our souls flourish with hope.” He raises the perfectly wound ball of linguine to his lips, then stops. I think about reaching across the table and helping him get that fork into his mouth. “Share yours with me,” he says quickly, and then finally takes a bite.

“You want to hear about my dreams?” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. His eyes dance as he nods, and the way he’s chewing his pasta is pissing me off. I think for a second about what to say and how to say it. And then, with great flourish, I begin.

“Once upon a time, I had a dream,” I say, opening my eyes extra wide, “and what a spectacular dream it was. I imagined a splendid
life with a handsome gent, a fanciful career, and a not-so-humble abode overlooking blue-green ocean water.” I pause, and his pretty brown eyes are glimmering with expectation. He’s swirling linguine again. “Then one day, the unthinkable happened!” And with all the dramatic intonation I can muster up, I say, “My dream came true.”

“No!” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s shocked or disappointed. He keeps twirling noodles.

“Yes!” I whisper, and then return to my usual tone. “And that crap didn’t turn out anything like I thought it would, so I packed up and moved back to reality.” My date looks startled and a wee bit troubled. The linguine falls from his fork. He says nothing, so I continue. “I left the snow-white beaches of Pelican Cove, Florida, which was the actual physical location of this failed attempt to live my dream, on New Year’s Day, and it was not the first, but rather the third, time I moved out of the ocean-view home belonging to Mason McKenzie, the love-of-what-turned-out-to-be-only-half-of-my-life.” He crams a forkful of tangled noodles into his mouth and I keep going because I’m on a roll. “The first time, I stayed for six weeks, and when I left, it was my fault. The second time, I stayed for six months, and when I left, I had a better understanding of the legal term ‘irreconcilable differences.’ As a matter of fact, I had a better understanding of about a hundred thousand legal terms because when Mason wasn’t at work, he was talking about work and, to be perfectly honest, it was exhausting.”

“So your dream man was a lawyer?” Mr. Conversation Hog snaps before cramming another massive wad of pasta into his mouth.

“Is,” I tell him, picking up a piece of bread and sopping it in olive oil. “He
is
a lawyer. And would you like to know something
else?” He makes an awful face and I realize that I don’t even remember his name. “Mason McKenzie is a good guy,” I tell whoever-he-is-over-there, “which is why I went back that third and final time to spend the holidays with him. I wanted to be sure we couldn’t work things out, but sadly, those irreconcilable differences proved to be unresolvable, so we parted ways one last time and now I have no dream.”

“You must have been chasing the wrong dream,” he begins, and then, in an obvious attempt to recover his domination of the dialogue, says, “One time I thought—”

“Oh, no,” I say quickly, effectively blocking his shot at turning the conversational spotlight back his way. “My whole life, Mason was all I ever wanted. And I had him! I had him and I had my very own art gallery—which was a lovely building with a stunning view of the bay—and we lived in a khaki-and-cream-colored three-story stucco house one block from the Gulf of Mexico.” I look across the table and see my date is cramming noodles into his mouth again. “I had it all,” I say. He’s looking at me now like he’s in actual physical pain. “And little by little, bit by bit, my dream life let me down.” I look down at my lasagna. “But there is some good news.”

“What’s that?” He’s hustling more pasta onto his fork.

“Mason and I are still friends and I’m sure we always will be, but whoever came up with that line about the third time being a charm is full of shit.” Several minutes pass during which the awkward silence swells. I take that opportunity to stare him down like he’s been doing to me since we met at the door of this way-too-romantic-for-a-blind-date restaurant. He just sits there, chewing like a squirrel, looking back at me. Finally, I break the silence. “Yep,” I say, and decide to entertain myself for a minute more. “The don’t-mistake-me-for-a-model-citizen
is back, and I’m sure the wanna-be-highbrows-with-overplucked-eyebrows couldn’t be more pleased. You know what I mean?” He shakes his head and stares at me. His fork is still. “Neither do I,” I say with a smile. I love the look on his face now.
Go tell this story to your damned mama,
I think as I continue. “But, hey! A few bad apples won’t ruin the whole basket as long as they keep their rotten asses at a distance, right?” I smile at my date. I bet his mother has overplucked eyebrows.

“Uh, okay.” He pushes his plate to the side and looks around for our waiter. “Check, please!” When the bill arrives, I consider giving him a twenty but decide against it. I think I earned my meal by sitting quietly through that series of painfully dull stories about his idyllic childhood and flawless mother. On the way out, he holds the door for me and says, “I’ll call you,” like men do when they think that’s what you want to hear.

“Please don’t,” I say. “But thank you for dinner.”

“Right,” he says, and starts speed walking in the opposite direction.

*   *   *

“How’d the date go?” my pal Chloe asks when I call her on the way home.

“It was downright therapeutic,” I tell her.

“So, not good?”

“Chloe!” I say. “This guy will never meet a woman he loves more than his mother.”

“His mother is very nice.”

“I think his mother might be the reason he’s still single at thirty-seven!”

She sighs. “Well, I tried.”

“And I appreciate that, Chloe. I really do. It was very thoughtful of you to fix me up on a blind date with this slightly good-looking yet somewhat dysfunctional guy.” I pull onto the highway. “Just please believe me when I tell you that I’m not interested in dating right now.”

“I can’t help it!” Chloe cries. “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”

“I moved home in January,” I tell her. “It’s the middle of March. Don’t declare me a spinster just yet. What I need more than anything is some time to myself so I can think and sort things out inside my feeble brain.”

“Okay,” she says with a sigh.

“No more blind dates or I’ll start adopting cats.”

“See?” she whines. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Chloe Stacks! You know good and damned well that I would never get a cat!” I say, laughing. “Need I remind you that Buster Loo, superchiweenie, is and always will be the undisputed king of my castle? And I promise that the two of us are doing just fine.”

“Ten or twelve cats wouldn’t go over well with Buster Loo,” Chloe says in her I’m-trying-so-hard-to-joke-but-I’m-really-serious voice.

“Right,” I say, feigning earnestness. “And that’s what I would do, too. I wouldn’t start with one cat or even two. If I decide to become a cat lady, you can bet I’ll be the cattiest cat lady around.” I pause. “I’ll go adopt fifteen or twenty. At least.”

Finally, a giggle. “Okay, so I’ll see you on Monday morning, then?”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Let’s hope not.”

M
onday morning, I pound on the alarm clock with my fist until it falls behind the nightstand. The racket upsets Buster Loo, who pokes his snout out from under the covers at the foot of the bed and growls. “Sorry to disturb you, Buster Loo,” I say as he nestles back into his warm spot. I roll out of bed and tell myself that everything is going to be just fine. I can do this.

After a steamy shower, a hot cup of coffee, and a rather ineffective self–pep talk, I decide it’s time to get dressed. I walk into the guest room and pick up the pants I ironed last night. When I put them on, I discover that they won’t zip.
Great,
I think.
Should’ve tried those on first.
I head back to my closet and dig through my “teacher clothes” for the hundredth time. After several minutes of pure, unadulterated frustration, I locate a pair of black pants that I think will work. It’s the “big” pair reserved only for “fat” days. I take a deep breath and slip them on. It takes some huffing and puffing,
but I finally get the bastards zipped. Who knew that two and a half months of wearing nothing but sweatpants would put such a strain on the ol’ buttonholes?

I walk back to the guest room and iron the fat pants. Thank goodness the shirt I picked out is a pullover made of loose, flowing fabric. I kick my shoes around to where I can slip them on because God knows I don’t need to bend over and pop that button off my pants. Along with my nerves, it’s in enough of a strain already.

“Wish me luck, Buster Loo!” I say to my chiweenie who is still buried under the covers. A muffled “ruff” is his reply.

I go in the kitchen, get a Diet Mountain Dew out of the fridge, and stick a bottle of water in my purse. I pick up my keys and walk out the door. Pissed off and ridiculously uncomfortable in my tight-ass pants, I drive to Bugtussle High School for my first official day on the job as a permanent substitute teacher.

It feels strange turning into the parking lot, because the last time I was here, I’d just quit my job after being fired by my former principal, Catherine Hilliard, who was having an affair she thought no one knew about. But I knew all about it, and when she became privy to that information, she no longer wanted me out of there, but out that door I went anyway. She ended up resigning in order to keep her gross and disgusting affair with former superintendent Ardie Griffith a secret and, although leaving town with him in the middle of the night might not have been the best way to keep that under wraps, I’m glad that they’re both gone. As I’m pulling into my old parking space, I remember it’s not mine anymore and go park at the other end of the lot. I get out of my car, depressed by the fact that I didn’t even last a year away from this place. I walk in the side door next to the cafeteria and report to the conference room where
Chloe Stacks, Bugtussle High School academic counselor, is waiting for me with a nice, neat stack of folders.

“Hey, what are you doing in here? I thought Mrs. Moore handled all this business.” I take a seat and pray that my zipper has the strength to hold it together for the rest of the day.

“She does, but Mr. Byer asked me to help her with this particular task because we’ve had some issues this year.”

“What kind of issues?” I ask, not sure I even want to know. I tug at the band of my pants, wishing they would give a little and ease the squeeze on my waistline.

“Very frustrating and time-consuming issues,” she says.

“Alrighty then.” I take a shallow breath and tell myself to stay positive. “So how’s the house coming along?” Chloe recently purchased a very nice lake home for herself all by herself, and even though I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen inside and out, Chloe saw much room for improvement. Maybe she just wanted to make it hers because the last deed that bore her name also bore that of Richard Stacks, her abusive, controlling, and unbelievably unfaithful ex-husband, whom Lilly and I eventually managed to run out of town, divorce papers in hand. It wasn’t an easy thing to do and we had to pull a few shenanigans, but we got the job done.

Chloe’s chattering away about the renovations when she stops talking and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Oh my goodness. Have I told you the latest Jackson family news?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Tate got transferred back to Tupelo.”

“J.J.’s older brother?” I ask, and she nods. “I haven’t seen him in years. How is he?”

“He’s awful. Just awful. You know, I met him at Christmas and I didn’t exactly love him, but I was like,
Okay, it’s the holidays—he’s probably just had too much eggnog, so just be nice.
Well, it wasn’t the eggnog!”

“No?” I try not to smile. When Chloe finds someone she doesn’t like, it’s a rare moment and I want it to last.

“No,” she says, whispering. “He came by my house Saturday morning and J.J. wasn’t even there! My doorbell rang and I opened the door and there was Tate Jackson. Said he was just stopping by to see how the renovations were going. Like he’s my contractor or something!”