I like how the five syllables that form the words Mojave Desert pop out of my mouth. I like the arid land’s lack of concern for appearances. And most of all, how the haunting wail of the afternoon dust storms fill my emptiness. It’s not a place for the mollycoddled—8 across—Pampered darlings.
Mollycoddled isn’t a word that would describe me. I don’t make my bed and rarely venture far. Breakfast starts with a bowl of baked beans and ends with two swigs of Jack Daniels. Lunch is a bologna sandwich with extra mayo and another two swigs. The last time I tried to do something good for myself, I quit smoking, gained seventy pounds, bought a closet full of muumuus, and re-created myself into the stereotypical fat lady.
Kappa Publications allows me to work from here as a puzzle constructor. With no cell towers nearby, Kappa reluctantly accepts my submissions through the U.S. Mail Service. My home, a 1962 Airstream Globetrotter, resembles the shape of my favorite cake snack, so I christened her Twinkie. Her shining body once glimmered as the sun changed positions, but after twenty years, she’s riddled with pockmarks from sandstorms, and the sun has eaten through the side awning.
On February 15th, the crossword clue beloved triggered nostalgic thoughts of my childhood. Sudden memories—15 down—Cerebral souvenirs, of my only long-ago friend, settled inside me, causing a tightness around my heart, followed by anxious sensations of both desire and loss. Soon, our time together began to beat inside me, and it burst into a full-blown obsession that not even Jack could anesthetize. I realized it was the thirtieth anniversary of the last day I shared with Rosy.
We were best friends from third grade through the second summer of middle school. She had no siblings and slept alone in a room with two lace-covered twin beds. Her father had built shelves on the walls for her glut—7 across—overabundance, of Vogue Ginny Dolls in their original boxes.
As a girl who never had a doll, the spectacle caused me some anxiety. Once, when left alone in that room, I took the one named Tina Sue off the shelf and pulled her left leg out of its socket. That simple tug shot my thrill dial to high speed. Before Rosy returned, I shoved it back into the box and set it exactly where it had been.
Soon after, on a moonless February night, my folks, my brother Eddie, and I moved away. We had been squatting for almost four years in a government-owned house which was scheduled for demolition to make way for a future freeway.
I usually leave Twinkie twice a month to stock up on essentials. But when my fixation on seeing Rosy again became all-consuming, there was reason for an exception. I put on a clean muumuu and drove the forty-three miles to the library. It had been decades since I’d stepped into the small, cement-block building and operated the microfiche reader.
From behind the counter, the librarian turned on a smile as I walked toward her, each step slapping the floor. When I told her I wanted to find an old friend, but I didn’t have a computer, she did all the work.
I left with Rosy’s phone number and address in la-de-da Beverly Hills, along with the fact that she had recently divorced. My imagination conjured an ivy-covered wrought iron gate shielding entry into her grand mansion, and spontaneously opening to let me through.
My palms turned clammy as I dialed.
“Rosy?”
“Who is this?”
“Yvonne.”
“Sorry, you must have the wrong number.”
“Yvonne,” I yelled. “From a thousand years ago. Yvonne.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know an Yvonne.”
“Yvonne Carter. Peachgrove Street. Your best friend, for God’s sake.”
I had hoped the years of being apart would evaporate into a reverie we’d step back into with lightning-fast affection—13 down—emotional attachment.
“Remember our trip to Magic Mountain? We ate corn dogs and the mustard ran down the sleeves of our matching outfits—the blue suspender dresses with an orange fish appliqué?”
“Vaguely,” she finally said.
Not, how are you? Not, so glad to hear from you. Instead, she said, “So, how did you find me?”
“On the internet. It was easy.”
“I’m so glad you did,” she finally said, with measured sincerity.
“Fancy schmancy you, living in Beverly Hills,” I joshed.
“On the outskirts,” she laughed.
I caught the lie.
During those four years we had together, she’d been my coach, my mentor—18 down—Trusted Advisor.
“Remember our favorite lying game?” I asked as I thought back. We took turns holding our eyes steady as we spun whoppers for no reason other than practice. “Remember, we called it Alibi.”
“I’ve outgrown all that childish behavior,” she snapped, snobbish as all get out.
Her unnecessary affront poked a hole in my disposition. “Are you still loyal to the bone, Rosy?” I said, mimicking her tone.
“Well, yes, I like to think of myself as loyal.”
“Still polite as punch? Still perfect as a china doll? Can you still talk your way out of anything?”
“Yvonne, stop,” she said tersely, then put a smile in her voice. “What about you?”
Just that fast, those three beautiful words proved my instincts were right. She still cared. “God, Rosy,” I gushed. “I’d love to see you again.”
I had no plan or strategy. I only knew I needed to see her. “I’d drive to your place in a heartbeat, but my car’s on the blink.” My small fib grew. “I’m scheduled for surgery in two weeks for knuckle implants in my right hand. Recovery time is a couple of months.”
Stunned. No, astounded, describes my emotions when she volunteered to drive out for a visit.
“It will be good for me to help out. I’ve been going through a lot lately. I can only stay for the day, but will bring whatever you need after the surgery. What’s your address?”
“GPS sucks out here,” I said and gave her directions for the four-hour drive to the Mojave Cabana Trailer Estates. I didn’t mention that most of the residents cleared out after the management company went belly-up and stopped providing maintenance services.
I had two weeks to pace and worry and fantasize about our rendezvous—3 across—Pretext for intimacy.
During another unscheduled trip to town, I bought my first bottle of nail polish in a decade, called Wicked Ruby, and some periwinkle eye shadow to match the muumuu I planned to wear. On the drive back, pangs of desire and hate shared the same space inside me.
As time grew closer, I stopped constructing puzzles altogether and mostly drank.
That morning, I exhumed my ‘friends-forever’ bracelet from a box of childhood trinkets. Rosy and I had each woven matching ones from the catgut strings of an old tennis racket. The memory triggered a warmth around my heart. It took pure determination to squeeze that child bracelet around my bloated wrist. I began to rock in my seat and spilled Jack from my glass onto my dress.
Finally, at 2:12 in the afternoon, her tires crunched across my driveway pebbles. I bolted to the door as her shiny new Jaguar pulled in behind my Festiva. She adjusted the rearview mirror to look at herself. And yes, she still looked pretty as a china doll.
Frightened she might have second thoughts and back out, I rushed outside. She stepped from the car, and we shared an unpleasant hug. I felt as big as a sequoia next to her bird-sized shape. She smelled like peppermint drops.
“Rosy,” I said. “You look like a kid. I’ll be damned. You haven’t changed one bit.”
The left corner of her plump lips pulled upward. “Oh, Yvonne. It’s nice of you to say that. And look at you.”
“Welcome, welcome,” I said three or four times. “Let’s get out of this wind. Come inside.”
The sight of her caused the fine threads tugging at my emotions to twist and tangle. The small space between my love and loathing caught me off balance, and I felt a bit perplexed—16 across—slightly worried.
She was the first guest to set foot in Twinkie since the neighborhood exodus. I knew I should have cleaned up, but I didn’t have it in me.
“Sit, sit, sit,” I said, like she was a puppy. She did, scanning the mess on the kitchen counter, the veneer cabinets held closed with oversized rubber bands around the knobs, then me. More precisely, at my polished nails.
I looked at her perfectness. She stiffened, probably searching for something nice to say.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years.”
“You’re kind of isolated, aren’t you?”
I almost said, duh, but held back and decided it was the perfect time to end the questions about me. “My liver’s startin’ to rumble. You want to join us?”
“Us?” she said.
“Usually, it’s just me and Jack.” I stood and looked toward the kitchen.
“Um,” she paused. “Who?”
I laughed and walked the twelve steps to the kitchen.
“You like yours with ice, or straight?”
“Um,” she said again, real wishy-washy.
“Ice it is.”
I took the pick from the sink, stabbed the bag to loosen some cubes, filled the glasses, then slipped the pick into my pocket and carried the drinks to the wood crate that served as my coffee table.
She glanced again at my nails. “I thought you were having hand surgery.”
“What surgery are you talking about?” I felt my left eye twitch. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Rosy. Let’s drink to Peachgrove Street.”
I shoved my arm toward her, thinking if I showed her the bracelet, she’d simply forgive my little untruth. “The day we made these bracelets, we promised on spit that nothing would come between us. Remember?”
Her pretty, collagen-filled mouth said, “Not really.”
“Well, that’s damn convenient, isn’t it, Rosy.” My voice warbled. “I don’t suppose you remember Skippy Howard either.”
Rosy laughed at me. “Skippy Howard? What are you talking about? I can’t even remember which one he was.”
My eye twitched faster. The past rushed in—the faces, the voices, the judgmental sneers—17 across—Showing contempt, and the envy of Rosy I’d carried all those years.
“Not funny.”
“What’s going on, Yvonne?”
“Yep. You’re still little Miss Twist-Things-Around, aren’t you?”
The afternoon wind howled. Rosy straightened her back and sat still as a stone. Her tailored pantsuit clung to her dainty bones.
I wished I could control all the anger inside me. I wished I could tell Rosy I love her and have thought of nothing but her.
Her perfectly plucked eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Lighten up, Rosy. I’m just teasing you.” I faked a laugh.
She looked around again. “So, do you live here alone?”
Dread rushed to my core—the dread she’d discover I’d never had a relationship with anyone, man or a woman, except her.
“Only since Larry died.”
“Larry? Your husband?”
It seemed I cracked under all the nervous tension I’d put myself through, and involuntarily belched out a story of strife and persecution—2 down—Ill-treatment on religious grounds.
“Larry was a loser.” I stopped and took a sailor’s gulp. “When we met, he drove a taxi. By the time we moved in together, he was a part-time drunk, a part-time bricklayer, and a full-time man of God.”
“A man of God?” she said.
I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Words spilled out, bypassing both truth and logic, and they escaped untethered.
“I used to sit under the awning every Sunday and watch him preach the Holy Scriptures from the truck bed of his Dodge Ram.” I shook my head as if remembering the made-up man, and raised my hands in the air for drama. “He’d say things like, ‘Praise be, God in heaven. Help my wife accept her journey of penance. Lord Jesus, make her understand.'”
I fell into a short coughing jag and wiped the spittle that collected in the corners of my mouth.
“Wow,” she said while reaching for her purse and setting it on her lap.
“He was a goddamn madman, Rosy.” My voice veered toward hysteria.
Rosy’s lips tightened.
Excitement and adrenalin spilled from every pore. I licked my lips and shut my eyes, then stood. Twinkie swayed. “He was shouting to the Holy Ghost, and the veins in his neck jumped like they were trying to escape. One big fat vein finally burst, and my husband collapsed.”
I opened my eyes.
As her hand fumbled deeper into her purse, she said, “What did you do?”
“I made a joyful sound unto the Lord. And every day, I thank Him for taking Larry.” I performed a most sincere smile. “And now He’s brought you back to me.”
I clutched the ice pick from my pocket and headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s celebrate.”
“No more for me,” she said, still searching through her purse.
“If you’re looking for your cell, there’s no service out here.”
Rosy bolted toward the door. It didn’t budge—the trick is to pull up, not down. She jiggled the handle.
Telling that little fib about Larry seemed to calm me. “What are you doing? You don’t need to go anywhere. Sit back down and visit awhile.”
“For God’s sake, Yvonne.” Anger shot from her eyes. “You said you were having surgery.”
“I don’t need any surgery.”
“So, this trip was nothing but a charade?”—1 across—Blatant sham.
“Charade? No. Don’t you understand? I wanted to see you so bad. I didn’t think you’d come unless I fibbed just a little. Hell, you’re the one who taught me how.”
“That’s rich.” Her head bobbed, but her eyes stayed locked on the ice pick.”You want to know the truth? I didn’t drive out to this hellhole for you.” Her voice thinned. “I did it for me. This trip was for me, not you. My life has gone to shit.”
“I know about your divorce.”
“How do you know about that?” Her pretty face twisted. “I barely remembered who you were. I thought doing a good deed might get my life back on track. Buy me some good Karma. Instead, I’m standing in a pigsty with a con-artist.”
“Get a grip, Rosy, we both lied. I thought if I could get you to see me, you’d accept me again. You’re the only person who ever gave me a chance at friendship—the only one who didn’t judge me.”
I grabbed her arm to get her to sit back down. She jerked free and lunged for the ice pick in my other hand. I held tight and thrust it toward her. She blocked it with her purse and punched her free fist through my stomach fat. The force knocked me off balance. I hit my head on the corner of the crate.
Rosy figured out the secret to the door handle, flung it open, and ran down the steps.
Dazed, I pushed myself onto my elbows and, with the help of the coffee table, hauled my swollen body to my feet. “Rosy,” I moaned. “What are you doing?” I stumbled to the door. “Please don’t be mad at me. Please don’t go.”
She flung open the car door. “Stay away from me,” she screamed. “Get away, you sick, deceitful cow.”
Unsteady, I clung to the doorframe and looked down at my ‘friends-forever’ bracelet.
Instead of an engine’s roar, that fancy-pants car remained where it was, playing possum. I took it as a sign from the universe that I could still talk her back into my life. I struggled down the steps only to tumble on the last one and land on the gravel.
After several tries, the ignition caught. The engine wailed. Rosy backed out of the drive, pebbles flying. As she sped out of The Mojave Cabana Trailer Estates, I could only watch as her dust cloud moved all the way to the main road.
Her last words struck like cymbals crashing: sick, deceitful cow.
I once read that sometimes the heart needs more time to accept what the mind already knows. Jack and I talked it over for a couple of days, and both agreed. It was clear Rosy needed a touch more time to realize her future was with me.
Satisfied, I went outside to tend to my prickly pear garden, knowing that her address was still in my glove compartment, resting on top of the roadmap—5 across—It shows the way.
Nancy Klann-Moren has published two novels, The Clock Of Life, and Love and Protest, and a collection of short stories titled, Like The Flies On The Patio. She has also contributed stories to several anthologies. She served on the board of The Southern California Writers Association and teaches a short story workshop each year at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. www.nancyklann-moren.com.