Girl babies don’t grow up to do the awful things that grown-up boy babies do—is there such a thing? I have seen very little proof that boy babies ever really grow up, even after they have beards—and if grown-up girl babies were running things, the world would be a better place.
No wars, for one thing.
They are such bastards, really. That cop was barely out of sight before his pals started telling me what a mixed-up screwball he was. That he had become a cop to prove his manhood in the first place, and that he wasn’t really a cop, just playing at being one.
Was that a put-down of him, per se? Or were they putting him down to increase their chances—their nonexistent chances; I would really have to be desperate to let either of them close to me—of getting into my pants?
What about the cop?
Under other circumstances, would I have . . .
There are no other circumstances, and I know it, largely because of the male bastard I’m going to see tonight.
When they cause trouble, they don’t cause trouble just for themselves, but for everybody around them. In this case, Sweet Jennie and now a baby. And, of course, me.
And they just don’t care!
Maybe I would be better off if I were a lesbian.
But I’m not.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
It’s a good thing. The truth is that I would kill . . .
That’s a lousy choice of words. There’s enough killing.
The truth is that I would give a good deal to be in Daffy Nesbitt’s position. To have a husband, and a baby, and not to have to worry about anything more important than changing diapers.
Not to have to worry about—try to deal with—other people’s problems. Most of which, I have learned, they bring on themselves.
I would really like that.
What does that make me, a selfish bitch?
And since I do worry about the problems other people have caused for themselves, what does that make me, St. Susan the Martyr?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You got yourself in this, and now you’re going to have to pay the price, whatever the hell that price ultimately turns out to be.
And anyway, the Dixieland band would probably have been terrible, and the worst possible man for me to get involved with would be a cop. And despite how his good buddies tried to put him down, I think whatsisname—Payne, Matt—is probably a pretty good cop. His eyes—I noticed that about him—were intelligent. I don’t think much gets by him.
She drove through the suburbs of Jenkintown and Ab ington and Willow Grove, and shortly after 10:30 reached the outskirts of Doylestown. She drove through town, past the courthouse with the Civil War cannon on the lawn, and spotted the Crossroads Diner just where Jennie had told her it would be.
The parking lot was jammed, also as Jennie had told her, when she had called the Bellvue, it would be. The diner, Jennie had said, was more than a diner. It had started out as a diner, but had grown into both a truck stop and a restaurant with a bar and a motel.
Jennie said that I should drive around to the rear of the diner, to the part of the parking lot between the restaurant and the motel. That there would be the best place to leave the car.
Susan glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven.
I’m ten minutes late. Or twenty minutes early. Jennie said between half ten and eleven, and that if she didn’t show up by eleven, that would mean something had come up and that we would have to try it again later.
By something coming up she meant that Bryan, or whatever he’s calling himself this week, got drunk, again, or wrecked the car. Again. Or is off robbing a bank somewhere.
I’ll have to watch myself to make sure that Jennie doesn’t see how much I loathe and detest that son of a bitch. She has enough on her back without my adding to her burden.
As she drove behind the lines of parked cars between the restaurant and the motel, looking for a place to park, the lights came on in one of them—she couldn’t see which one, but there was no question that someone, almost certainly Jennie, was signaling to her.
Or maybe it’s just another admirer of Porsche 911s.