The F-Word

I blink. And look at her. She is staring straight at me, arms folded, chin high.

“I am?”

“She stole my favorite doll when we were six. Did I tell you that?”

“Uh, no. No, you didn’t.”

“Stole it. And pulled off Suzy’s head.”

“Suzy?”

“My doll. Violet wasn’t happy with just stealing her. She had to kill her.” The way she says it, I expect her eyes to blur with tears. Instead, her chin goes up another inch. “I hated her for that. Dammit, I still hate her!”

Another curse word? I’m stunned. But Bailey’s not finished yet.

“It’s time Violet found out I’m every bit as good as she is.”

“Better,” I hear myself say.

“Better. Much better.” Her eyes narrow. She gives me the kind of look the asp must have given Cleopatra in their last minutes together. “Did I tell you about her fiancé?”

I don’t get the chance to answer, because Bailey doesn’t give me the chance.

“She says he owns his own business. And he does.” The snake-to-Cleo look is gone. It’s been replaced by the way I figure a cat looks at a mouse. “He owns three launderettes.”

“Well,” I say cautiously…

“Washers. Dryers. Detergents.” She makes a sound that cannot mean she’s a fan of washers, dryers and detergents. “He’s an inch shorter than she is even though he wears, what do you call them? Elevator shoes.”

A picture swims into my head of a guy standing in an elevator with a box of Tide in his arms.

“And he’s pudgy.” She gives a little shudder. “I was up for a weekend at the start of the summer. Mom had just sold the house and she was moving into a condo…Never mind all that. The point is, Mom gave this Goodbye House, Hello Condo barbecue. Lots of people were there, including, of course, Violet and Chester.”

“Chester?”

Can a cat curl its lip while it decides what to do with a mouse?

“Chester. Not even ‘Chet.’ Everyone calls him Chester.” Another shudder. “He walked around shirtless. “

I am getting confused. The woman seated next to me is not a woman I know.

“Shirtless?”

“Yes. At Mom’s barbecue. Shirtless. Wearing Bermuda shorts. And lace-up black shoes. With socks.”

“Not good,” I say carefully.

“I came this close,” she says, holding up her hand, thumb and forefinger a hair apart, “this close to begging him to put his shirt back on.” This time, the shudder is huge. “He’s flabby. Like a dead fish. And he’s the color of toilet paper.”

A dead fish, wrapped in toilet paper. Wearing elevator shoes, and don’t forget that box of Tide

Charming.

“So, yes,” she says.” I accept your offer. You can be my date for the weekend.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I say. I mean, what else can I say? Somewhere along the line, we’ve gone from me offering my help to me being grateful she’s willing to accept it.

“Seven o’clock,” she says.