If I didn't know better, I'd say somebody laced the RV's oil with bean dip. It's jerking like a wild bronco, and the smell that's shooting out its back sideâwell, it ain't healthy, that's all.
The metal contraption sputters and spasms until Lydia exits the ramp and pulls into a combined convenience store and filling station. Maybe it's emotionally distraught. Carrying around two menopausal womenâhey,
I'm
still normalâcould do that.
Millie looks at Lydia. “Everything okay?”
Lydia doesn't look troubled in the least. “Everything is fine. Waldo just needs a fill-up. Gas goes through him a lot faster these days.”
“You're saying Waldo can't hold his gas?” I pipe up.
Lydia chuckles, and Millie laughs right out loud. Mark it on the calendar! It's a rare event when Millie cuts looseâyou know, like the appearance of the seventeen-year cicadas.
Lydia sets to work at the pump.
“I've never even driven a van,” I say, peeking over the driver's seat and staring at the panel on the dashboard.
“These things aren't all that hard to drive, really,” Millie says. “Why don't you sit up here a minute and get a feel for it?”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I climb into the driver's seat. “Wow, this is so high up. Gives you that king-of-the-road feeling. You know, all-powerful and everything.”
Millie chuckles. “Much more than a convertible, that's for sure.”
With my hands clamped on the large steering wheel, I turn it slightly back and forth. “I could get into this. It's kind of fun.”
“You'll have to tell Lydia you want to try it.”
Lydia pops her head in the door. “Hey, I'm going to go inside for a minute to get a bag of chips. You guys want anything?”
“No thanks,” we say.
“You want to drive next?” Lydia asks me.
Gulp. “I'm not sure I'm ready for that just yet.”
“You can try it out by moving straight ahead, away from the pumps, so other people can get their fuel.” Lydia motions to an empty spot.
“Really? You want me to try it?”
“Sure.” Lydia closes the door.
Starting the engine, I carefully edge forward. My queenly perch lifts me above the masses, and I sense this whole power thing could get the better of me. Okay, so I only moved forward a couple of feet, but still.
“You're blocking those cars,” Millie graciously points out.
I turn to face Madame Librarian. “Well, if the drivers come back before Lydia, I'll move. No use worrying about it now.”
Lydia steps up to the store's door as if she hasn't a care in the world. Just goes to prove you never can know what's going on in the heart of another person. A man holds the door open for her.
“Now that's just nice,” I say, pointing to the man, who is dressed in a crumpled white T-shirt, black jacket, tattered jeans, and dark, scuffed boots. Gray stubble shadows his chin. “Not much to look at, but nice.”
Millie turns to see what I'm talking about. “Yeah, you don't see many men doing that nowadays. If you're not a babe around twentysomething, the men don't even notice.”
“Babe? Did you just say âbabe'? In all the years I've known you, I've never heard you use that word.” You think you know a person.
“Hey, I'm hip,” she says, thereby proving she's not.
We look back toward the guy holding the door open for Lydia. “That guy reminds me of Bruce when he lost all that weight before they found out he had diabetes,” Millie says. “He probably weighs all of, what, eighty pounds?”
“Um, I'd say he'd tip the scales at a hundred five, at least.” We both chuckle.
“Here he's doing something nice, and we're making fun of him,” Millie says, spoiling everything.
“Just like we used to make fun of the boys at camp when we were fifteen,” I reminisce. I pull out a magazine and read an article on the latest breakup in Hollywood. When I look up, Lydia is exiting the store.
“You know, a bowl of grapes sounds pretty good to me right about now,” Millie says, getting up from her chair and heading for the refrigerator. “You want some?”
“No thanks.”
Lydia walks toward a trash can at the side of the store, still in view. I notice a teenage boy walking behind her, a little too close to suit me. Lydia must sense it too. Just as she attempts to turn around, his hands reach out to grab her. Lydia struggles to break free and takes off running toward the open field at the side of the store.
“Millie, he's after Lydia!” I scream.
“What?” Millie asks, semichoking on a grape.
A driver is waiting in a nearby car with its engine running. In case he's in cahoots with that kid, I kick the RV into reverse so I can block him. Millie loses her balance and drops her bowl, sending grapes rolling all over.
The RV's side is too close to the car, so getting out on the driver's side is not an option. Springing into action, I scramble to the other door. “Come on, we've got to help Lydia!”
I shove the door open and run toward that teenager in full middle-age fury. He trips when he sees me coming and falls forward, hitting his forehead on the ground. “Lydia, run!” I scream. My legs and arms spread like those of a flying ninja, and I lunge at the criminal for all I'm worth. A Bruce Lee scream pierces the air. In one swoop I fall hard on the perpetrator, most likely taking years off his life.
Footsteps race toward us, and I turn just in time to see Millie take a high jump. I open my mouth to scream, but in one giant free fall, Millie's derriere comes crashing down upon us, snuffing out my cries and pushing my spleen to the other side of my body.
The kid groans. I don't have the strength. Lydia is nearby, her mouth hanging open in shockâwhether from being grabbed or from the sight of Millie and me sprawled on top of this kid, I'm not sure.
Now, call me pessimistic, but something tells me this trip is just wrong.
By the time the policeman arrives and sorts through everything,
we find out that the kid thought Lydia was his mom's friend, and he was trying to scare her just for fun.
Well, Lydia wasn't his mom's friend, he did scare her, and it wasn't fun. Still, we don't press charges. We figure Millie's free fall was enough punishment to last him a lifetime.
Millie takes a group snapshot of the policeman, the kid, and the three of us before we part ways. For a reward, I go back into the store and buy a bag of assorted candy.
Once we get back into the RV, I step over the grapes on the floorâhey, Millie spilled them, and she's the neat freakâand pull open my sack of junk. Though I normally snub my nose at store-bought chocolate, that little episode with Lydia begs for it. Besides, I like to keep tabs on the competition.
Millie bends down to pick up the scattered grapes and tosses them in the wastebasket.
My hand stops digging through the bag for a moment. “You missed one,” I say, pointing.
Millie glares at me. “Thanks.” All sincerity is gone from her voice, but I enjoy our little exchange just the same.
Glancing out the window, I have no idea where we are, not that it matters. As I root once more through the sack, it occurs to me that Lydia is not saying a whole lot. “You okay, Lydia?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shaken.” She gives a nervous laugh.
“I'm sorry. I'm sure that was scary for you. It was scary for me, and I wasn't the one being chased,” I say. Lydia will no doubt have nightmares after this. Like I said, too many cop shows.
“Well, it's not every day that a teenage boy pays attention to me,” she says with a chuckle.
“That kind of attention we can do without,” Millie joins in.
“That's the truth,” Lydia says like the benediction of a prayer.
Lydia's handling it better than I thought. “Well, that kid will think twice before he messes with a couple of middle-aged
babes
,” I say, winking at Millie.
“I see why you didn't want to drive,” Millie says, pointing to the sack. “You wanted to stay back there with the junk food.”
“You're quick, Millie, I'll give you that.” I continue to dig through the bag like a bargain shopper at an after-Thanksgiving sale. “You guys want anything?”
“No thanks, not now. Maybe later,” Lydia says, as in save me some.
Millie shakes her head. “Hey, have you guys seen my glasses?” She looks around her seat area.
“You didn't have them on when you tackled that kid, did you?” I ask, my eye on a Snickers in the bag.
“No, I had gotten up to get some grapes.”
“It takes real talent to lose glasses in a motor home, Millie.” I decide to wait on the chocolate, pull out a bag of Twizzlers instead, and rip it open.
“What can I say? I'm gifted.” Her fingers reach under her seat.
“Try your head,” I say dryly, taking a bite of red licorice. The Twizzlers are good, but they're not Le Diva's.
Millie's fingers tap against her head until she touches her glasses. “Oh good. See, I told you this was a great place to keep them so I don't lose them.”
“Yeah, too bad you don't remember that's where you keep them.” I get up and grab a bottled water from the refrigerator.
“You know, we laugh about what happened at the store, but that was pretty scary. Even once we saw that it was only a kid, I was afraid,” Millie says.
“You sure didn't show it with your determined free fall,” I say.
We chuckle.
“You should talk, Miss Ninja,” Millie says.
Lydia stays serious. “I wasn't sure whether that kid had a gun or what. Made me think how fragile life can be.”
A somber moment passes between us.
“I'm telling you, just the sight of you and Millie running after us. I mean, the look on your face, Millieâ” Lydia starts laughing. “And, DeDe, that Bruce Lee scream, the whole ninja thingâ” Tears are running down her cheeks now. Her words are indiscernible, and I'm wondering if she should pull over to the side of the road. She's guffawing, and Millie soon starts in with her trademark chipmunk laugh. Think Alvin. It's a little frightening, but still I join in.
Despite the RV's problem starting at the beach and that prank-gone-sour deal, I think we're having a good time after all. Maybe the worst is behind us.
When we finally calm down, Lydia says, “Hey, DeDe, would you mind checking on Cobbler? She's awfully quiet, and I just want to make sure she's okay. All the commotion probably scared her to death.”
“Sure,” I say after taking a drink of my water. We risk our lives, and Lydia's worried about the bird. Hello? I could have had a heart attack. After finishing my water, I throw it away and walk to the bedroom. Cobbler's cage is hanging from the ceiling in a corner so she can see out the window. Her cage is swinging as our metal home on wheels creaks down the highway. I'm wondering how Cobbler keeps from getting carsick. Now that I look at her more closely, she does look a little, well, frightened. Her eyes have that sort of deer-in-the-headlights look, and her feathers are all fluffed out. Not to mention the fact that several feathers are lining the floor. I sneeze twice. Her feathers and I just don't mix.
“You all right?” As if she's going to answer me. I'm telling you, Lydia's messing with my mind. First an RV dubbed “Waldo,” and now I'm talking to a bird.
I stagger back to my seat at the table. “She appears to be all right, but can birds get carsick?” My teeth vibrate with the dishes in the cabinet.
“Well, I suppose so, but I'm sure she's fine. She's traveled with us before. It's actually a blessing when she travels. She's not nearly as vocal.” Lydia gives a slight chuckle.
I'm thinking if I were hanging in midair in unfamiliar surroundings feeling nauseated and frightened, I'd be quiet too.
“What about when it's time for
The Andy Griffith Show
?” I ask.
“Oh, we'll hear from her then, believe me. She won't want to miss Barney.”
It scares me to even think about that.
“Speaking of which, I brought some videotapes of the show. Would you mind putting one in for her so she can watch it?” Lydia asks.
“You buy Cobbler videos of
The Andy Griffith Show
? You're kidding, right?” My friends never cease to amaze me.
“No, why? I have my favorite shows; why shouldn't she?” Lydia asks with a broad smile that I can see in the rearview mirror.
“The fact that she's a
bird
comes to mind, but then, maybe that's just me,” I say.
Lydia ignores me. “The tapes are in the stand beside the bed.”
Trudging to the bedroom, I pull out a tape. “I suppose she'll squawk if I put in an episode she's already seen?” I call out.
“Of course not, silly,” Lydia says. “She's seen them all before and loves every one.”
Right. Sticking a tape in the VCR, I set the channel. Lydia has placed a small portable TV and video player on the nightstand in the bedroom specifically for Cobbler. We also have a small television set anchored in the ceiling just behind the driver area. At least that ensures the driver won't be watching and driving.
Cobbler starts walking sideways back and forth on her perch. She shivers once, ruffling her feathers, and then settles down. The tape needs to be rewound, so I hit the rewind button.
Our feathered friend whistles. First she just does a couple of notes, similar to the vocal exercises one would expect from a professional singer on the opening night of a concert. A kind of warming-up thing.
Then Cobbler breaks into a full rendition of
The Andy Griffith
Show
theme song. Okay, maybe it's not the full rendition, but it's the first few bars over and over. And over. And over.
Upon hearing her whistle the tune for the second time, I'm totally convinced it wasn't a fluke. “Wow! She really can sing that,” I say, totally amazed.