He Said, She Said

Her side:

They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. She should probably offer an apology or explanation. Sorry, I have no control over this arm. My hand accidentally landed on yours. Or, how about, it was instinctive; I thought you were someone else? Anything but the humiliating truth, which made her sound like a fool. Oops, for a second I thought I was still your wife.

He had allowed her hand to rest on his a long while before gently pulling away to drain his glass; long enough for her to realize what she had done and swallow a flood of tears before they escaped. Had he waited to see what she would do? Been too shocked to react? Or, was it possible he had relished the moment and traveled back ten years the way she had? What was in that hesitation? She would choke on the question rather than ask.

Denise closed her eyes and pulled a breath between her lips, hoping to clear the mess in her throat and stop the spinning in her head. More likely, he could still read her thoughts and had only resisted the impulse to wrench his hand away to protect her feelings. Why did he have to be so fucking perfect? There's the icebreaker she needed. Just testing to see if you're still perfect enough to make me feel like a loser. Congratulations, you passed.

Their animated waitress broke the heavy silence for them with an innocently inappropriate,

"Everyone doing okay here?"

Denise considered crossing her hands at her throat to signify choking. Craig ordered another
round, the relief in his tone a sure guarantee of an extra ten in his already predictable overtip.

"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away.

That's it? Back to business as though nothing happened? His use of the word we twisted her emotions further, but she managed a response for her daughter's sake. "Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."

"We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."

Denise looked the waitress in the eye as the girl deposited a fresh margarita in front of her. "We don't."

"You changed your mind?" the waitress asked, picking the drink back up.

"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you. I want the drink; I don't want to be part of his we."

Craig smiled at the girl. She returned the drink and backed away from the table, tossing a less animated, "Enjoy your drinks," at him before leaving.

Denise choked through the growing obstruction in her throat. "L.A. is so far, and so expensive."

"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass in a lone toast and took a drink.

"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."

"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise."

How sweet. Mr. Perfect immediately solved every problem. He severed that we without a second thought. He could be both mother and father, bankroll, and guidance counselor all rolled into one. Maybe he could decorate the new place and teach Kristin to act while he was at it. She would just scratch mothering and worrying right off her to do list and replace them with amputate uncontrollable right arm and get a grip.

The heavy silence returned. She rotated her glass on the table, staring at the condemned limb. Anything she said would be wrong, argumentative, whiney, negative, or pleading. This meeting was a mistake. They should have dealt with their daughter's decision separately.

"Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.

She took a sip, bowing her head to meet the glass halfway before her trembling sloshed a spill on the table to remind her how imperfect she was. "No, it might be the best thing in my life."

They sipped through the next uncomfortable silence; she wishing her poorly disciplined arm could reach out this time and squelch the unspoken words before they suffocated her, and he chewing his lip between drinks. Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Perfect showing signs that he might also be struggling for composure?

"I'm sorry." The words hit her ears and she tried to believe she had said them, but his eyes erased that hope.

With a slight nod, she grabbed her purse. "Ladies room. Be right back." She rushed across the bar, relieved to find the one-seater empty, and leaned against the wall to review the reasons she didn't want him to be sorry. That made him the bigger person since she hadn't found the strength to say the words when she should have. He hadn't done anything wrong, so his apology could only be the lead-in to a disappointing statement yet to come. Or maybe this was another instance of his being sorry for pain she had caused.

Denise went directly from the ladies room to the parking lot without bothering to say good-bye. Silence was better than anything he had left to say.

His side:

They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. He certainly didn't want to ruin the moment. She had forgotten her anger for a second and touched his hand in a gesture so uncharacteristic that he wondered if she was even aware of her action. One word might set her off again, and he wanted to savor as much as he could of this return of the woman he had fallen in love with a quarter century before.

Denise was really beautiful when she wasn't angry but he wouldn't say those words. He had tried to tell her before and she took it the wrong way. For some reason, she took everything he said the wrong way so he had stopped talking. Was that how it ended? It was hard to remember if there was any one thing now. And because he never knew what happened, he hadn't been able to go into another relationship. Why destroy another woman?

He looked across the table and realized he had lost her again. Denise had her eyes closed and was doing that huffy breathing that often came before the outburst. Fortunately, he had work and Kristen to pour his love and life into. Kristen! He remembered the reason for this get-together as the waitress came to check on them, ordered another round, and then approached the subject.

"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away. Immediately, he wished he hadn't said I think. Denise would perceive that as him trying to control everything.

"Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."

He half heard what she said, focusing on how to correct his last faux pas. "We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."

The waitress brought the drinks and Denise went off the deep end, making an issue over his use of the word we, probably because she was already ticked about the previous use of I. There was nothing he could do to please this woman. No matter how hard he tried, she couldn't accept anything he did. He would say as little as possible the rest of this meeting, and when he did have to speak; it would be short, positive, and neutral.

"L.A. is so far, and so expensive."

"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass and smiled. Short and positive.

"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."

"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise." Couldn't get more positive. That should ease all her fears.

She didn't respond and he didn't know if her silence was a positive reaction or not. Maybe she hadn't heard him; she was staring at her glass and turning it. "Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.

She leaned over to take a sip, as though looking at him was more than she could stand. Guess that wasn't a positive response. What had he done wrong this time? She never gave him a clue, just disapproved without explanation.

"No, it might be the best thing in my life," she finally answered. Great. That had to be a dig. The sour, salty drink was better than the company she was with. He chewed his lip, wishing he could take back the million things he had done to turn her into this bitter woman. He would, if he knew what those million things were.

"I'm sorry." He offered a general apology that she could apply to whatever she imagined he had done. Without a response, she excused herself to the ladies room. Why did he keep trying? Obviously, she wanted nothing to do with him and couldn't even tolerate an hour or two to discuss their daughter's future.

Once they got Kristen settled, he would let Denise off the hook. She'd only have to see him from a distance, at Kristen's wedding and major events in her life.

He watched her walk into the ladies room and said a silent good-bye, to Denise and to all hope of ever changing her mind about him.

Room 224

Alan stepped in front of the safety bar to hold the elevator door open after I exited. While I rocked my weight from one aching foot to the other, he carried on a one-sided dialogue as though he didn't notice my flamingo impersonation, or the door bucking his back.

"I think we should skip the first session tomorrow. Sleep in, or pack so we'll be ready for check-out. The agenda looks boring." I nodded; admiring his ability to ignore conditions that I suspected must be as painful for him as they were for me. When a buzzing alarm finally called him back inside the car, he waved and left me with a final comment. "Remember, I'm right above you if you need anything."

No doubt, Alan wanted his statement to reassure, but the reminder that I was alone and might need something accomplished the opposite. Thanks to his suggestion that something could go wrong, I strained muscles in my neck and eyes, trying simultaneously to watch my back and the doors on both sides of the long hall that led to my room. Apprehension crescendoed when it took three tries to make the key work in my door, and dissolved into freedom once I was inside, the second lock clinked a declaration of safety and privacy, and I remembered that Room 224 belonged to me for the night - only to me, to enjoy as I pleased. By default of death and gender (my intended roommate's grandmother died and the company sent Alan in her place), this room hosted a number of firsts for me: my first business trip, my first night away from my husband and son, and my first time having a bed (actually, two identical beds) to myself. I refuse to count the hospital bed when Jason was born since I had a roommate and nurses traipsing in and out all night. Lights, temperature, alarm clock, and television programs awaited my sole preferences. Fear would not ruin this for me.

I started by kicking off the shoes that had tortured me for the last fourteen hours, and then stripped my way across the room, shedding clothes and inhibitions without the slightest nag of guilt for leaving them where they landed. A naked rebel emerged, examined the bland, mauve-and-gray surroundings, and decided she would enjoy trashing the faux-pristine room. I had seen the truth on a news program; the matching bedspreads and lampshades covered traces of sperm and germs.

With no concern for nudity or utility costs, I turned the temperature knob on the heat/air unit to the coldest setting, pushed the highest fan button, and danced across my clothes, turning on every electrical device in the room. With equal (and familiar) disregard for my obvious pleasure, Ron's voice invaded my thoughts. How could anyone need six lights in one hotel room?

Why does anyone think a criticism doesn't annoy if it comes in the form of a question? As usual, I swallowed those words, but I did answer my husband's question. "Sometimes, it's okay to forget need and just give in to feeling pampered."

The response--even after feeling stupid for speaking aloud to someone who was not in the same state--made me drunk with freedom. I bounced from one bed to the other, scrolling channels with the remote. Cable offered more choices than I could deal with so I passed on television, settled on music, and thumbed through the books on the nightstand. Room service tempted, especially the drinks on the back. Goose bumps and the urge to crawl under the sperm-hiding blankets won that battle and stayed the regret of finally getting privacy after I had quit drinking.

Propped like a princess on four pillows, I clapped my hands on the odd chance that this fairytale evening might produce a servant with a drink. A knock on the door echoed the clap, almost making me believe I might actually have a fairy godmother, until I heard Alan's voice.

"You still up in there?"

"Kinda." I wrapped myself in the bedspread and mentally tracked the robe in my overnight bag, which, for reasons I could not recall, I had left under the bathroom sink.

"Come to the door. I have something for you."

Shrinking deeper into the spread, I pulled it off the mattress and wore it to the door, where the clink of the lock worked in reverse. Apprehension crept back in with the locks and hit full force when I opened the door. Jeans, a tee shirt, and bare feet removed ten years and most of the stuffiness of his suited appearance, making me wonder how many other attractive men I might have missed at work. He raised both hands, a bottle of wine in one and two glasses in the other.
Close the door and go to bed. No question mark. My voice.

"Want to come in?" The words that slipped out.

I shifted the bedspread to poke out an arm and accept the bottle he handed over as he walked past me. "Looks like you undressed in a hurry," he said, leaning over to pick up my jacket.

"Drop it. I'm being defiant."

He threw his head back and laughed, revealing another new secret: his hair actually moves.

"This room will be a total mess before I leave. In a little while, I am going to leave toothpaste in the skink. I might pee and forget to flush."

"Maybe you didn't need that bottle." He let the jacket fall back to the floor. "I can live without the toilet, but wouldn't mind witnessing the toothpaste blob. This is going to excite you?"

What was I thinking? I had to face this man at work. "Forgive me. I needed silliness to unwind after the conference. Was this the most boring day in your life, too?"

"Right up there with the worst of them. That's why I thought you might like a drink." He raised the glasses.

"I appreciate the offer but I don't drink." There, hard part said.

He put the glasses on the dresser and reached for the bottle. "You don't normally throw your clothes on the floor, either. You're being defiant."

"True." I handed my reservations over with the bottle.

He filled both glasses and we sat on the beds to drink, he on the still-made one, and I on the one whose spread I still wore. Halfway through the first glass, I stopped wondering why I hadn't gone to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas and robe. After the second, I fell back on the bed and complained that wine must be stronger than it had been when I drank every night.

"Could be," he said. I giggled because his voice tickled my ear. "You've lost your cover, my dear." His voice was in my ear this time, escorting me into that wonderful realm of inner heat shared with contradictory goose bumps and taut nipples. "Let me help."

Eyelids too heavy to lift, and not trusting what might come out if I tried to speak, I lay still and nodded. I needed help. He took my glass and placed it on the nightstand. I convinced myself that excitement and irregular breathing were causing the room to spin; keen senses proved I couldn't be drunk. I sensed his movements, heard the glass hit the wood, smelled the fabric softener in his shirt, and imagined the taste of his tongue in my mouth.

Still in a denied-drunk state of confidence, I knew he stood between the beds, staring at me. I sensed he would speak before he did.

"Will it upset your defiance if I turn off a few of these lights before I leave?" He sighed. "I'll get out of here and let you sleep."

My response surprised me more than his words had. "No."

"No, you don't want the lights off?"

"No, to both. I think." I slurred because my throat was dry, cursed myself for setting the fan on high. "My defiance will not suffer if you turn off the lights. And no, I don't want you to leave."

"Then, you'll have to put something on."

Thank God, he planned to turn off the lights. Otherwise, I would be too embarrassed to ever open my eyes again. My first chance to experience what I had seen in movies, read in books, and listened to on Mondays in the office - my first potential one-nighter tells me to put my clothes on? I could think of nothing more humiliating, at least not until the tears rolled down the sides of my face and plunked on the sheet like bowling balls on plywood. Maybe two glasses of wine was enough to do it these days. I hoped I was lucky enough to pass out soon.

He sighed again, this time maybe loud enough for people in surrounding rooms to hear. "Are you okay?"

"Drunk, naked in front of a co-worker, freezing, and too damned humiliated to move. Does that sound okay to you?"

"Let me get tissues," he offered.

I pulled the bedspread around my apparently repulsive body while he was gone. Maybe it wasn't me. He might not like women. Oh God, it might be even more humiliating to have missed something that important. When he returned with a handful of tissues and handed me one, I thanked him and blew my nose. What could it hurt? A honk would not make this night any worse.

"Do it," he said.

"What?"

"Toss the used tissue on the floor." I laughed, dropped the tissue, and reached for another. He fed me the stack he had in his hand and then went back for more, purposely dropping a couple before he got to me. We laughed until the tissues ran out.

The spinning settled while I learned to live with humiliation. He deserved a reprieve now that I knew I would survive. "Thanks for the wine and tissues."

"My pleasure." He ran a hand across the bed he had wrinkled and stopped mid-sweep. "What am I thinking?" He yanked the spread off the bed and dropped it on the floor. When I laughed, he went back for the blanket and top sheet. "This is actually quite fun," he said, watching the sheet parachute over the television. After it settled, he turned to face me. "Do I still get to watch you leave the toothpaste blob before I leave?"

"Maybe later." I adjusted my cover and held it closed with both hands. "I just thought of a great act of defiance." I stepped up on the bed and jumped; he did the same on the other bed.

"We're both crazy," he said.

I kicked my legs out and landed on my ass. "If you tell anybody at work about this, I'll have to kill you."

He smacked the ceiling with his palms. "Likewise."

After leaving toothpaste and shampoo blobs in the sink and on the counter, I walked him to the door. My "thank you" felt inadequate.

"For helping you destroy your room? I enjoyed it."

"For making the room the only thing I destroyed."

Everything Familiar

An eerie absence of everything familiar troubled Poncho, yet he hesitated to move since the bed felt more comfortable than it had in years. He compromised; didn't move a muscle other than to strain an ear and listen for sounds he normally tried to shut out - squawking birds, slamming doors, fights at the school bus stop, and Felix's damned muffler. Nothing. Surely, this lack of pain and annoyance could only mean one thing: he had died in his sleep. What a disappointing state of neither-good-nor-bad death turned out to be.

He opened an eye, found the midmorning sun peeking under the curtain instead of halos or pitchforks, and abandoned the original premise. The early morning sounds were missing because he had slept past them. He wiggled his toes, lifted an arm and leg, and then repeated the routine several times. Considering he had nothing to account for this mysterious relief, he especially appreciated the sensation of movement without pain.

Refusing to question or tempt this gift of luck, he eased from the bed and weighed options. He could use the extra energy to vacuum, or scrub the shower tiles he had neglected for so long. Or, he could capitalize on the emotional lift of having been through death and rebirth, and work on Amy's birthday poem. While making the bed, he decided the carpet and shower tiles could wait for another good day. Thirteenth birthdays only happened once, and didn't wait for anything.

This was a big year for birthdays in the Tranton family. Their baby would hit the teens,
Leonard--always Poncho's baby--would turn forty in April, with his wife following the next month. If all went according to schedule, Poncho would turn seventy before the year ended.

Walking taller than he had in months, Poncho padded to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. He bypassed the frosted mini wheats he would normally have pulled off the bottom shelf and reached up-still pain free-for the tin box on the top shelf, appreciating the heart swell that always accompanied contact with the tin.

He left the blinds closed, the lights off, the television and radio that he normally turned on for company silent, and carried the box to the table. Shielded from intrusion or distraction, he ran a hand over the faded Pansy lid. The picture on the tin was probably out-dated, which meant the matching stationary inside would be as well. That didn't matter; after writing twenty-seven birthday poems on Pansies, he would not break tradition for the sake of style.

The lid popped off easily now. With it came the memories. The week before Leonard was born, Mary had come in from her baby shower with an assortment of bottles, embroidered bibs, diapers, knitted booties and blankets - and one odd tin of Pansy stationary from her Auntie Edna. Incensed when Poncho laughed and suggested that Auntie Edna had finally lost her last marble, Mary informed him that she would write her thank you notes on that paper, making it a most appropriate gift.

Trouble started when Mary adopted a smug attitude and prissed her Pansy tin over to the Formica table she could barely fit her pregnant belly under. She mistook Poncho's smile as more ribbing, when in fact, the only thought in his head was that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Love was also responsible for the bigger smile that had encouraged her to toss the dishtowel at him.

Fixed on her goal, Mary ignored him and returned to her tin. She pulled up one corner of the lid, and another secured itself more tightly on the opposite corner. She rotated corners, turned the tin in every position on the table, held it between her knees and pried the lid with both hands, hit it with her fists, employed the assistance of the bottle opener and pliers. He had reached for the tin, offered to help, several times, but she ignored him.

Poncho held the lid to his chest now and re-ran every expression on her face that night, the emotions he had felt while watching her struggle with that tin, and all the love he had carried for her since.

Mary never got the lid off the tin, nor did Poncho open it to write her thank you notes after she died. He hadn't opened it until years later, when their first granddaughter was born, and he used the first sheet to thank his daughter-in-law for that gift.

He fanned the few remaining sheets. There were enough to cover the birthdays he had left, as long as he didn't get too wordy or mess up. Soon, boyfriends would supply whispers of love to his granddaughters. They would only look to him for wisdom. That wouldn't take much space.
Amy's thirteenth poem came easily, two drafts on the back of a dry-cleaning ad, and one perfect version copied onto Pansy-bordered stationary. While he had the paper out, he wrote a thank you note to Mary for understanding why he had never acknowledged his grief on the anniversary of her death. It was important that Leonard celebrate that date as the day of his birth without being reminded that his life had taken hers.

Poncho placed Mary's note in the bottom of the tin, wiped his eyes with a napkin, and returned the Pansies to the pantry until September, when Priscilla would turn sixteen. He took a deep breath, opened the blinds, and filled the coffeemaker with water, ready to restart his day - filled with everything familiar.

(excerpt from the novel Unlucky Horseshoe, to be published soon)

Marcelle Dreams

Swiping a forearm across her sweaty brow, Marcelle exhaled and whipped up an imaginary friend to help kick her fatigue in the ass. Michael Landon won the honor this time. (Sandy is generous)

Starting out with a dead man seemed fitting, seeing how somebody croaked in her last two fantasies. Her breasts smothered puny little Truman in one; she keeled over from boredom when she let Felix take a go in the other. She swore off friends after that, but might reconsider once a few of them had more experience. For now, Michael was perfect - too damned sexy to bore her, and already dead, so she didn't have to worry about wearing him out or losing him between the bazooms, as Truman had called them.

She wound the top of her trash bag into a knot (wishing she were twisting her fingers through Michael's curls instead) and hefted the sack of dead leaves over her shoulder. She would ride Michael to the dumpster and cool off before she returned to clearing the courtyard alone, since nobody else cared how sorry the complex looked. If she was lucky, the sun would die and Michael would return to life somewhere along the way. If she was lucky, which she wasn't.

Out of habit, she blew a kiss at Juanito's window before noticing he hadn't even opened the blinds. Michael's grin took care of that disappointment but she forgot both dark-haired knockouts when she spotted a sling chair in the dumpster. Maybe her luck was changing; she had made several decent finds lately. And, despite her complaints, most of the time she honestly felt as happy as she acted. Some people questioned her for laughing while she griped; others just said they couldn't imagine how she could even be happy. Years of practice, that's how, and a few bits of good luck now and again.

Like this - she either had a new chair, or at the very least a shot at trying on the latest fad in lawn furniture, without an audience. Several times, she had pulled a sling chair off the shelf in the drug store but chickened out before she sat on it. If she tried and didn't fit, or got stuck and couldn't get out, other customers would laugh. That might legitimately piss her off for the rest of an otherwise decent day.

She traded her bag of leaves for the trashed chair and carried it behind the dumpster to open it. The fabric and legs were intact. Not bad. But that didn't mean it was as new as it looked. It could be like the white jeans. They didn't have a stain on them but were so dry-rotted the seat completely blew out when she leaned over the meat counter at Kroger.

She played it safe; tested the seat of the chair with her foot, gradually adding more pressure until she was afraid she'd lose her balance. It felt sturdy. While working up the nerve to give it her full weight, a sniff from the other side of the dumpster distracted her.

Marcelle folded the chair and looked out. Bill's skinny girlfriend walked toward the dumpster, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Marcelle ducked back. Maybe the girl had physical ailments that caused her disgusting habits, sour attitude, and nauseating body weight. It didn't matter; the thought of making nice to the dimwit made Marcelle's skin crawl.

The dumpster lid opened and closed. Marcelle waited a few seconds, opened up the chair again, and peeked around the side to check sourpuss' location. Roughly two hundred fifty pounds of tattooed flab, chrome jewelry, and vinyl clothes barreled across the parking lot and cornered the anorexic sourpuss less than a yard from the dumpster. Marcelle's head throbbed as she closed the chair again and tried to flatten herself against the hot metal, noticing the stench for the first time.

"Your man say anything about finding money in the parking lot?" The male voice asked.
Sourpuss sniffed. "Who are you?"

"Nick. I'm with Wendy. Number ten." Marcelle slid down when the dumpster lid opened and stayed in position until it had closed again and Mr. Flab continued with his investigation. "You're in thirteen, ain't you?"

The female voice sounded father away. "Not your business."

"Ha! Guess he didn't tell you nothing." Big Guy cleared his throat and spit. "Cut your skinny ass right out of his windfall, I see."

Their voices came together then, close enough that Marcelle feared they might join her behind the dumpster soon. "What are you talking about?" Sourpuss asked. "Am I missing something?"

"My girl went out last night. Dropped two, hundred-dollar bills somewhere between the car and the apartment," he said. Sourpuss responded with a go ahead grunt. "She come back in yapping about seeing your guy eyeing her from the breezeway. Weird shit, and I was fucked up so I only half listened." He spit again. "Says she don't remember it this morning but I think she's trying to protect him now. Screw that."

"What's any of that got to do with me? You think Bill has something going on with your girl?"
Marcelle bit her tongue to keep from telling them this had even less to do with her and Michael, so they should stick to talk about the lost money or move the hell on.

"Nah, Wendy ain't interested in him. Just thought I'd see if you know anything about the money."

"You really think he has it?" Sourpuss sniffed a couple more times. "Interesting."

"If he found it and didn't tell you, he's a real prick." The big guy lowered his voice. "You could get high on two hundred bucks. Know what I mean?"

"I'll check it out. Nick? What number are you in?"

"Ten. Between the wailing birds and the Mexican Fucking Riverdancer."

Relieved that they walked away before she passed out, Marcelle stepped away from the dumpster. Mexican Fucking River Dancer? Ami wasn't going to like it when she found out that's what he thought of her Argentine Tango.

Marcelle sucked in a few clean breaths and returned her attention to the chair. It would be low for the card table, but a fourth seat was a fourth seat and she could use it in the courtyard. With a little maneuvering, she fit between the arms but was still afraid to put her weight on a discarded chair. When she had extra money, say something she found in the parking lot one day, she'd buy a new chair and try it out in the privacy of her own apartment. She tossed the chair back in the dumpster and returned to the courtyard.

Before she worked up a second sweat, Loretta stepped out her door in the gray cotton jumper that had become her uniform but nobody had the nerve to ask why. Marcelle waved. "Did you come out to help?"

"Maybe after my workout." Loretta walked toward Ami's door. "Why don't you join us?"
Marcelle's idea of exercise usually involved the likes of Michael Landon, but she followed Loretta. Anything to get help with the cleanup.

"I'm in the studio," Ami called out when Loretta opened the door. "Come on back."

Loretta followed Arabic music down the hall to the master bedroom that Ami had turned into a dance studio. Marcelle stayed close behind, finding what she thought was a beat in the unusual melody and wondering if that was what the tattoo guy had mistaken for Riverdance music.
Without stopping her routine, Ami met Loretta's eyes in the mirror. "Just warming up. Glad you're going to join us, Marcelle."

Loretta kicked her sandals to the corner and slid across the laminate floor on her socks. She landed in position next to Loretta and rolled her shoulders to the music.

Marcelle left her shoes with Loretta's, and waddled into place behind the younger girls. No sooner than her shoulders found their groove, Ami bent over and grabbed an ankle.

"Wendy has a hot head over at her place," Marcelle said, forcing her face in the direction of her thigh. "Thinks you're Mexican."

Ami touched her nose to her knee and held it there. Marcelle's stomach turned just thinking of the pain. "Mexican? Must be the wrestler-looking guy."

"That's him," Marcelle wheezed.

Ami sat on the floor, arms in the air, and twisted her torso from side to side. Loretta and Marcelle joined her. "Marcelle needs help in the courtyard," Loretta said to Ami's back. I get nervous when she works so hard in this heat."

"Don't take this wrong," Ami said. "I think it's nice you want to keep things neat. I just don't understand why." She scooted down, stretched her arms out to the sides, and twisted some more.

Marcelle did her best to follow Ami's graceful lead. She didn't have the breath to continue the conversation. After stretching and straining every muscle in her body, and just when she thought she might die, Ami got up and shut off the music.

"That's enough for today if you want us to help you in the yard."

Marcelle climbed to her feet, too exhausted even to think about Michael Landon, much less the remaining leaves. "Maybe we can finish tomorrow," she said, stepping into her shoes.

"That's what you told us yesterday," Loretta said.

"And the day before," Ami reminded her.

Marcelle walked toward the door. "If I didn't know better, I might think you girls distract me on purpose."

Before entering her apartment, Marcelle caught a second wind. It probably wouldn't hurt to search the parking lot for that missing money. Dean Martin seemed like the perfect companion for this trip.