Chapter One

A Snowball's Chance...

 

"You can have me, if you want."

There! She had said it. In one sanctimonious moment, Sue had offered him the Holy Grail; defied her God, her Country, and the 104^th Erindale Girl Scout Troop. Oh, and there was also her mother! God and Country and the Girl Scouts of America, I can handle, Sue thought. Mother was something entirely different!

Her mother had been raised a strict Baptist. Southern Baptist. Hardcore. The woman believed in godliness and cleanliness. Sue was scarred by the memories of the "baptism" in the creek: the alligator and mosquito infested cesspool, they laughing referred to as "The River."

Her mother had squandered the family food money that Sue's father sent from overseas; squandered it on an aging evangelist that appeared on the local television: Sister Julie, who had to stop often, in her condemnation of sinners everywhere, to adjust her dentures.

Sue's mother believed she would be spared the indignity of dying. That God would pull her from earth's cloying clay, into his bosom, by the shoulder blades during the Rapture. Sue suffered five minutes of pray, each evening, as the greasy catfish congealed on the cold dinner plates, and remembered, all to clearly, the hour kneeling, her face against the wall and a bible pressed to her chest, when she had mistakenly suggested that her dead field mouse might be allowed into heaven.

There were the hours, on her knees behind the unforgiving straight-backed pews in the hand-hewn shed they called a temple, and the scratchy homespun clothes that made her the butt of cruel jokes at the public school.

"This is a gift from God," her mother had expounded Sue's virtues during bath-time "to be bestowed on only one man. A good Christian man. A Baptist man. And don't you worry, child; I'll find you a good boy from the Church; when you're ready to provide the fruit."

"Mother was nuts!" Sue realized it in later years. And her mother's dream of a good Christian marriage and a house full of grand-kiddies had been dashed when the "good boy from church" had taken up with one of the "Bubble-Heads" from the Mr. Bubble Car Wash; a dubious establishment where the girls made a wet tee-shirt contest look like a Sunday-school picnic romp. The "Bubble-Heads" took great delight in drenching each other with buckets of soapy water and had devised a wonderful method for washing car windows with their boobs, much to the delight of the male occupants. For awhile there, Sue's husband had the cleanest car on the block. Sue had checked all this out when he had run off to Kansas City, leaving her with no money and no job. But then there was Marcy; a beautiful daughter, fourteen years old at the time, and Sue loved her more than, well more than ice cream. With chocolate-fudge sauce.

 

Sue arched her pelvis forward onto Dwight's mouth.

It was so raw; she felt cut, bled her juices onto his tongue. Sue was surprised she was even capable... at least anymore. Forty-two years old and she was doing the unthinkable; hands around his head, wound in his hair, pulling him into the heaving throb. In a guilty flash of sanity, she wondered what her mother would say. She wouldn't be impressed. Reason one: He's probably never seen the inside of a church. Reason two: He is at least fifteen years younger. Reason three: He is practically naked. And reason four: Oh my lord, I met him only two hours ago!

Sue tilted her head up and, in the darkness, she thought she saw starlight. In fact her whole body seemed to star-shimmer as she leaned back against the heavy hands that grasped the backs of her thighs.

Twenty years have passed since I last felt anything like this. The electrical impulses spasmmed delightfully through her abdomen.

 

How could this be possible? She had always been a decent girl. A good girl. Had dated in college but taken her virginity, as instructed, demurely to her wedding bed. She had worked with her husband to pay for a happy home, had raised Marcy, and put her into school. It had cut deep when Marcy's daddy took up with the younger girl. But there was nothing for it... her husband and the "Bubble-Head" had fled to Kansas City and that was that. Sue had suffered hard over it, but dug in and got a job. That had helped her, but not Marcy. Her daddy was everything to her daughter and his out and out desertion bit deeply. Her grades at school faltered, she wouldn't eat and she moved through her day, empty-eyed; all hollow and pithy inside.

Marcy had cut off her hair. With sewing shears. It would have been horrible on any other girl, but she had such a pretty face: large eyes, high cheekbones and a narrow chin. It gave her the gaunt look of a photographer's model, and the ragged haircut-massacre looked more like a fashion statement than an act of defiance. Sue had taken her to all the clinics, but doctors and councilors alike, tried to reassure her that Marcy would get over it in time. But as the years passed, with no word from her father, Sue became more afraid for her daughter; worried that she would wither away, right before her eyes. Then Sue introduced her to the "snow-cowboy," Dwight!

 

By the time Marcy had turned eighteen, she seemed to disappear from Sue's radar screen; emotionally and physically. Gone first thing in the morning, with a shrug when Sue questioned her about her plans for the day; only to return late at night and steal secretively into her room. Sue suspected, at first, her daughter had taken a lover and had hoped, in her heart, that it might bring Marcy a measure of fulfillment, though she prayed desperately that her daughter would be careful. She hoped Marcy would come forward; ask advice; discuss birth control. It didn't happen. And any young girl who suddenly finds herself smitten with an exciting new man, immediately starts spending more time in front of the mirror; takes a new interest in makeup, personal hygiene. And most importantly, her hair. But that didn't happen either.

Sue had made numerous attempts, over the years, at bonding with her daughter: shopping trips, weekend travel; excursions to the library, the museum, the beach! All were met with a roll of the eyes and a pitying look. If Sue insisted, Marcy would huff out of the room with an, "If you must!" and disappear into the privacy of her room to change her clothes; an arduous practice that usually took the better part of an hour.

Sue had suggested lunch: "At that new French cafe." Marcy suddenly looked very tired and complained about not liking French food. "Ok," Sue said, exasperated. "You choose a place to eat. Where we go is hardly the point."

Of course Marcy missed "the point" altogether, moaned dramatically, and said: "Fine. We'll go out. There's a place called 'El Rodeo' that's kinda nice, but can I at least shower first? And I'm meeting Starr at two."

"Fine," Sue said, "El Rodeo!" They where off to a fine start, once again.

El Rodeo was a fast food place off the highway. It was cheap, noisy and seemed to specialize in beans and corn dogs. Sue got herself seated in an orange plastic chair at a round table with a checked table cloth covered with a piece of industrial-grade clear, poly-vinyl. "This is nice," Sue said and perused the menu. She noticed there wasn't a wine list. She had tried not to sound patronizing but the lift of Marcy's eyebrow told her that she had been none too successful! Sue chose the Chicken Poppers, which she assumed was the least toxic item on the menu; nuggets of white chicken battered and deep fried with a helping of salsa.

Marcy dropped her over-sized bag on the floor and began to rummage like a cat. She finally straightened and checked her phone. She gave a faint smile as her eyes scanned the screen. She began pressing the keys with her thumbs.

"What are you doing?" her mother asked, already knowing that she should be minding her own business.

"Texting Starr," Marcy replied without looking up.

"But didn't you just get off the phone with Starr; at home?" Marcy ignored the question with a shrug.

"I have to let her know where I am."

Sue felt her shoulders slump. "Of course."

The waiter came across to take their order. "The dog," Marcy said, still working the phone. "Hold the salsa. Oh, and a bottle of water."

"I'll have the poppers; coffee if you have it."

Marcy set her phone down along side of her paper place-mat.

"So everything alright at school?"

"Yes, mom." Marcy turned away to study the kids seated at the opposite tables. "Just the same as before; when you last asked." There was a dramatic sigh.

Ok. It was a lame question but a mother had to start somewhere.

Sue paused a moment, watched her daughter idly move her plastic fork around and reassessed. "How's Starr?" She tried to pick a topic closer to her daughter's heart.

"She's good. Has a boyfriend now."

This was monumental news. If her daughter's best friend had a romantic interest, where did that leave Marcy? On the outside looking in?

"Really. What's he like?"

"He has a motorcycle," Marcy replied without conviction, her eyes, dark with suspicion and focused across the room.

Sue slumped, even lower. It seemed the boy's entire personal profile could be defined by the fact he had a motorcycle. Anyway, she at least knew he was sixteen. Or older. That, plus the fact he was dating Starr wasn't impressing Sue much. "So how do you feel about that, honey?"

But Marcy either didn't hear the question or chose to ignore it; still intensely studying someone across the room. Sue followed Marcy's gaze and immediately recognized the form-fitting sweater a girl was wearing as one that Marcy had recently picked out for herself. The girl was her daughter's age, though her marvelous young breasts filled the front of the sweater in a way Marcy never could. The girl sat with two adoring teen-aged boys. Sue knew that, by tomorrow, she would find Marcy's sweater in the trash can. She would rescue it for the Thrift Shop.

Before Sue could comment, the waiter stepped up dropping two plates in front of them. He retreated rather quickly, before either one of them could offer an opinion on the food.

Wow! That was fast, Sue thought, before realizing that the food had been pre-prepared and micro-waved. Her fries were smothered under a glutinous guck of what looked to be partially melted Cheese Whiz. She didn't have high hopes for her coffee.

Marcy's phone buzzed a little circle around the table, like a swatted fly, and she picked it up.

Sue could only hear Marcy's side of the conversation but the rest wasn't hard to figure out:

 

"Hey," Marcy's voice rose brightly. "How is it?"

It was Starr.

"Already? Yeah... as soon as I can."

Starr was at the mall ahead of time and was looking for Marcy.

"How much?" eyebrows arched.

Starr had already started shopping and had found something on sale.

"Oh. That will look amazing on you."

It was red, or green, or blue or some other amazing color.

"It's got to be tight."

Starr had bought a top, one size too small to make her boobs look bigger.

"Ok... ok. Right away," and Marcy closed her phone.

Marcy would get to the mall as soon as she could ditch her lame-brained mother.

 

"Starr?" Sue asked, wondering why she had bothered taking her daughter to lunch when she could have just as easily telephoned her.

"Yeah. Sorry mom; I gotta go. Starr needs me."

"You haven't touched your lunch." Marcy look down; seemed surprised to see the chilli dog cooling in front of her.

"Sorry mom," she apologized again. "It's important."

"Of course it is," Sue sighed, pushing her plate toward the center of the table. "I'll drop you off."

 

Sue wasn't proud of the fact that she had decided to follow her daughter. But she had thought it through carefully and made a decision. She needed to know how Marcy was spending her spare time. I'm her mother, she justified the conspiracy in her own mind, but not the guilt.

Sue caught Marcy slipping out the front door on a Friday evening, with her phone at her ear. "Marcy. I was hoping you would help clean up the dinner dishes. I need to go out for groceries and pick up my dry cleaning for work next week. I could use a hand."

"Sorry, mom," Marcy turned the phone to her shoulder to muffle a conversation that obviously was an embarrassment to her. "I can't. Starr is waiting. I've got to catch the bus."

"Oh. Well in that case, way you go," Sue pretended to encourage her. "It's not a problem. I can manage."

Marcy gave her a wide-eyed look, not able to hide her disbelief at her mother's surprise capitulation, and without a word, she turned, pulling the door closed after her.

Sue knew where Starr lived, with her mother, in a low-rise in the east end, so there was no hurry. She pulled on a light jacket, checked her hair and makeup, then went out to the car.