.
her face got this stunned kind of scared look on it. She slammed the door shut. “Son of a bitch! You did kidnap me. Jesus!” She raked her hands through her hair and turned in an uneven circle.
Bitsey slid across the back seat and got out. “Now Margaret, listen to me.”
“No! What do you think I am, ten? Twelve? You can’t run my life anymore, Mom. I won’t let you.”
“And I won’t let some worthless excuse for a man beat you up!” Bitsey might have started off trying to be calm, but she had just lost it big-time.
“I explained about that. And anyway, he didn’t beat me up.”
“You’re lying, Margaret. If not to me, then to yourself. He’s not going to stop, so I’m going to stop him.”
The two guys who worked at the service station watched Margaret and Bitsey squaring off as if they didn’t know whether to enjoy the spectacle or break it up. Cat wasn’t nearly so hesitant. She hopped out of the car like a firecracker about to explode and thrust her cell phone at Margaret.
“Here. Call the creep. Tell him to come and get you.”
When Margaret just glared at her, she went on. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think he’ll come? Isn’t he your white knight, willing to come to your rescue no matter the odds? Surely he’ll battle three middle-aged busybodies to get you back.”
The girl’s face was as pale as ever, but two spots of color burned in her cheeks, nearly as red as the red streak of hair over her left eye. I held my breath waiting for Margaret to snap back with something too ugly for Cat to back down from.
Instead Margaret turned away, bent over and puked into the dirt.
All in all, it was the best thing that could have happened. While Bitsey helped Margaret, I dragged Cat away from them to cool down.
“That ungrateful little bitch,” Cat fumed.
“Come on, give her a break. She discovered she’s in New Mexico. How did you expect her to act?”
“Better than that.”
I tucked my arm in hers. “I wonder how you would’ve behaved at that age if your mother had done that to you.”
She shrugged me off. “Just shut up, M.J.” But there was no venom in her words. I had scored my point and, as usual, once she’d spouted off, Cat was cooling down.
Under the watchful eyes of the gas station guys we made our way back through the dusty heat to the waiting car. Bitsey raised her brows at us but said nothing.
“You okay?” I asked Margaret. She nodded and gave Cat a sidelong look. I nudged Cat.
“Sorry I went off on you,” she said to Margaret. “But I get a little crazy over the men-slapping-women-around thing.”
“But he doesn’t—”
“Save it, Margaret. I’ve been there and I’ve done that, and I can’t stand to see anybody else go through it.”
On that sober note we all got back into the car and headed east. Margaret slept again. Bitsey said that she’d agreed to spend the night with us but that tomorrow she was taking a bus back to Tempe.
“We’ll just see about that,” Cat said, gunning the motor. “We’ll just see.”
It took twenty-five miles and Tammy Wynette to settle us down. I don’t usually listen to country stations, but the choices were limited. Besides, there was something about our situation that called for the messy heartbreak of country music. So when “Stand by Your Man” came on and Cat started singing “Stand on your man,” the gray cloud hovering over us broke up and vanished.
Bits and I joined in, too, in our best Southern twang. “Stand on your man.”
“That’s me,” Cat said as Tammy kept on singing. “I stand on ’em. You two stand by them, and Margaret, too. But not me. Then I D.I.V.O.R.C.E. them.”
“Don’t act so smug,” Bitsey said. “You may cut and run, but only after they’ve stomped all over your heart.”
“Okay, okay. So we’ve all been stupid about men,” I said. “But isn’t that what this trip is about? Second chances?”
“Or third,” Cat said.
“No. It’s a second chance with your Boy Scout turned sheriff,” I said. “And Bitsey’s second chance with her Eddie.”
That’s when Cat’s eyes got big, and she gave me a sharp shake of her head. I didn’t understand why until Margaret shifted in the backseat, opened her eyes and stared at her mother. “Who’s Eddie?”
Bitsey
I wanted to kill Mary Jo. She should never have mentioned anything about Eddie, even if she thought Margaret was asleep. Even if she thought the girl was comatose.
But once the name was out of her mouth—Eddie—it hung in the air like the loud buzz of a faulty neon light. It sputtered and spat and wouldn’t go away.
“Mom?” Margaret said, and for a moment I was reminded of a seven-year-old Margaret who’d just been told by her older sister that there was no Santa Claus. “Who’s Eddie?” she repeated.
“Oh, Eddie.” I laughed and prayed I didn’t sound as nervous and guilty as I felt. “Eddie is the boy I went to the prom with. I told you about my high school reunion, didn’t I, sweetie? Well, that’s the whole point of this trip. I wasn’t going to go without your father,” I went on, talking much too loud and way too fast. I tried to slow down. “But he encouraged me to go anyway, and M.J. needed to get away after Frank died, and Cat wanted to visit her family. So we decided we’d all head down south together.”
Margaret stared at me; Tammy had subsided and now Randy Travis was singing “Forever and Ever, Amen.” Other than that, the car was absolutely silent.
“So…this Eddie was your date for the prom?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I’m praying he’s gained more weight than I have.” Again I laughed, but it was a strain.
“That’s why she’s been dieting,” M.J. jumped in, trying to help. “We’ve been working out together.”
“Yeah,” Cat added. “You’re too young to know this, but starting around the tenth high school reunion, looking slimmer and better dressed than the rest of your old classmates becomes a major motivator in a woman’s life.”
“I wasn’t going to go,” I repeated. “But M.J. convinced me I could lose twenty pounds by then. And I’m almost there.”
Margaret smiled then, and I wanted to breathe a huge sigh of relief. She said, “You’re looking good, Mom. I can see the difference already. This Eddie guy is gonna be sorry he ever let you get away. But I’m still mad at you,” she added. “You had no right to kidnap me. I could have you arrested, you know.”
I grabbed Cat’s shoulder before she could jump into the fray. This was between me and my daughter. “I have twenty-three years of right!” I said to Margaret, trembling with emotion. “I love you, Magpie. I always have and I always will. Even with your hair dyed black and streaked with red. If you ever have a daughter and find out she’s being abused, you’ll do the exact same thing.”
“I’m not being abused!”
God, but I wanted to shake her. Instead I tried to stroke her healing bruise, but she flinched away. I felt as if my heart were breaking. “Would you ignore a black eye on me?” I asked.
“That’s stupid. You don’t have a black eye—and neither do I.”
“You did. What would you think if I told you your father had given me a black eye?”
She shook her head. “Daddy would never do that.”
I