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Authors: Gretchen Archer
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us?” she asked.
“Is your kid going with us?”
Fantasy’s smallest child—I never could remember her sons’ names because they all started with the letter K, so it was either Krane or Keef or Kite—was in the car, poking on a noisy electronic handheld game.
“You’re the one who said we were zipping down there, snapping a few pictures, then zipping right back,” she said.
“It’s up.” I pointed. “Alabama is zipping up there.”
Fantasy smiled at her small child. “He asked if he could ride. I said yes. Besides,” she said, “you brought Granny and your ex. You win.”
“I didn’t bring them,” I said. “They were here when I got here.”
“Why?”
“I got here three seconds ago, Fantasy. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Can you leave them here?”
“No.” I looked up at the building Bradley and I used to share. “Apparently, we’ve already moved out.”
“When did you do that?”
“Four seconds ago.”
It took an additional ten thousand seconds to get on the road. Both Granny and K, the small child, had to visit the facilities in the empty condo, and Eddie Crawford, that sorry bastard, refused to get in his car and leave until I bought him a tank of gas. My sister, Meredith, who usually shuttles Granny to and fro, was busy, and with zero consideration for me, had roped Eddie into driving Granny down for her gamble, which I’d completely forgotten about. Eddie, who all but refused to work, would use any excuse to get to Biloxi, his old hangout, and would give a ride to the devil himself to get here. He was, for a long list of reasons, eighty-sixed from the Bellissimo, but there were a dozen other casinos he was more than welcome in.
“How much, Eddie?”
“I like your hair that color.”
“Shut up. How much?”
“Two.” He batted his long black lashes at me. (As if.) “Hundred.”
“Two hundred dollars for a tank of gas? That’s not gas money, you jerk, that’s gambling money, and I’m not giving it to you.” I didn’t have a dime on me had I wanted to. Which I didn’t. “Granny?” She was shuffling our way, K bringing up the rear, still poking on his game. “Do you have any cash?”
“Honey, we already ate,” my grandmother said. “I’m full as a tick.”
We piled in, Granny in the third row of seats, a mile away. “IT’S NICE AND ROOMY BACK HERE.” Fantasy’s kid clapped his hands over his ears. “YOU NEED ONE OF THESE CARS, DAVIS.”
Eddie was following us to a convenience store two blocks away so I could buy him a tank of gas (what an ass), but his rattletrap car, a relic Lincoln Continental the size of a tugboat, died across two and a half lanes of busy Beach Boulevard.
I dug in the bottomless pit of my purse for my phone. “I’ll call a tow truck.”
“No,” Eddie the Ass said, “let the city get it. Scoot over, kid.”
I almost jumped out the window at every mile marker until the stowaways fell asleep. Two were drooling. All three were snoring. Fantasy and I were breathing sighs of relief. I caught her studying Eddie the Flea in the rearview mirror.
“He’s a total waste of pretty,” she said.
My ex-ex-husband was famous for his dark, swarthy, Danny Zuko-vibe good looks. “Let’s call him a total waste,” I said, “and leave it at that.”
Welcome to Pine Apple, Alabama. One four-way stop. One water tower. Fifty goats.
My sister owned a curiosity shop, The Front Porch, that was the ground floor of a restored antebellum on Main Street. She and Riley lived upstairs. We dropped everyone off there. Meredith was none too happy about it. “We’ll be right back,” I said. “Sometime this afternoon. Maybe tonight.”
“ Dammit , Davis!” You’d think that was my name, Dammit Davis, because it’s almost always how my sister addressed me. (She loves me.) (I love her, too.)
“Dammit, Davis?” I was practically in Fantasy’s lap trying to get through the driver window to get to my sister. (The one I love.) “What were
“Is your kid going with us?”
Fantasy’s smallest child—I never could remember her sons’ names because they all started with the letter K, so it was either Krane or Keef or Kite—was in the car, poking on a noisy electronic handheld game.
“You’re the one who said we were zipping down there, snapping a few pictures, then zipping right back,” she said.
“It’s up.” I pointed. “Alabama is zipping up there.”
Fantasy smiled at her small child. “He asked if he could ride. I said yes. Besides,” she said, “you brought Granny and your ex. You win.”
“I didn’t bring them,” I said. “They were here when I got here.”
“Why?”
“I got here three seconds ago, Fantasy. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Can you leave them here?”
“No.” I looked up at the building Bradley and I used to share. “Apparently, we’ve already moved out.”
“When did you do that?”
“Four seconds ago.”
It took an additional ten thousand seconds to get on the road. Both Granny and K, the small child, had to visit the facilities in the empty condo, and Eddie Crawford, that sorry bastard, refused to get in his car and leave until I bought him a tank of gas. My sister, Meredith, who usually shuttles Granny to and fro, was busy, and with zero consideration for me, had roped Eddie into driving Granny down for her gamble, which I’d completely forgotten about. Eddie, who all but refused to work, would use any excuse to get to Biloxi, his old hangout, and would give a ride to the devil himself to get here. He was, for a long list of reasons, eighty-sixed from the Bellissimo, but there were a dozen other casinos he was more than welcome in.
“How much, Eddie?”
“I like your hair that color.”
“Shut up. How much?”
“Two.” He batted his long black lashes at me. (As if.) “Hundred.”
“Two hundred dollars for a tank of gas? That’s not gas money, you jerk, that’s gambling money, and I’m not giving it to you.” I didn’t have a dime on me had I wanted to. Which I didn’t. “Granny?” She was shuffling our way, K bringing up the rear, still poking on his game. “Do you have any cash?”
“Honey, we already ate,” my grandmother said. “I’m full as a tick.”
We piled in, Granny in the third row of seats, a mile away. “IT’S NICE AND ROOMY BACK HERE.” Fantasy’s kid clapped his hands over his ears. “YOU NEED ONE OF THESE CARS, DAVIS.”
Eddie was following us to a convenience store two blocks away so I could buy him a tank of gas (what an ass), but his rattletrap car, a relic Lincoln Continental the size of a tugboat, died across two and a half lanes of busy Beach Boulevard.
I dug in the bottomless pit of my purse for my phone. “I’ll call a tow truck.”
“No,” Eddie the Ass said, “let the city get it. Scoot over, kid.”
I almost jumped out the window at every mile marker until the stowaways fell asleep. Two were drooling. All three were snoring. Fantasy and I were breathing sighs of relief. I caught her studying Eddie the Flea in the rearview mirror.
“He’s a total waste of pretty,” she said.
My ex-ex-husband was famous for his dark, swarthy, Danny Zuko-vibe good looks. “Let’s call him a total waste,” I said, “and leave it at that.”
Welcome to Pine Apple, Alabama. One four-way stop. One water tower. Fifty goats.
My sister owned a curiosity shop, The Front Porch, that was the ground floor of a restored antebellum on Main Street. She and Riley lived upstairs. We dropped everyone off there. Meredith was none too happy about it. “We’ll be right back,” I said. “Sometime this afternoon. Maybe tonight.”
“ Dammit , Davis!” You’d think that was my name, Dammit Davis, because it’s almost always how my sister addressed me. (She loves me.) (I love her, too.)
“Dammit, Davis?” I was practically in Fantasy’s lap trying to get through the driver window to get to my sister. (The one I love.) “What were
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