MAGPIE (12 page)

Something tells me I can be honest with you, so here it goes… I am beat. My grandkids really took it out of me and then, to boot, I had to do a bunch of catching up at work. I want to take a few weeks for me, myself and I. And, I’m sorry to break this to you: I am hoping to take a road trip with another guy, Cody, who does a terrific job keeping me warm at night. But I’m sure Fresno does the same for you.

Any chance for a rain check? Mid-September maybe?

Equally hip,

Maggie

Greg responded later that day with a quick note, saying he’d be happy to take me up on the offer of a rain check; he left it to me to touch base. I liked that. He seemed confident and in no hurry to secure a date with me. His postscript, though, sent a small shock wave,

p.s. Cody is the only character allowed in your sleeping bag!

I wondered if Greg was the overprotective type; worse, maybe he’d left an old, new or otherwise messy flame who’d charred his soul.

Tucking away thoughts of Greg came easily; practice with Brett had paid off. I focused on the much more enticing idea of a road trip. It was as though sharing my desire to hit the road in writing somehow made it real
.

So make it real, Mags!

The nice thing about working for the same company for eons was the amount of leave accrued. Several years ago, I had to purge more than one hundred hours of vacation time because the new HR rules capped the amount one could bank at twelve weeks. I’d worked like a dog the first ten years of my career and took only a few long weekends with Jack, including several, magical dive trips. We paid little attention to our valuable free time that escaped like a slow leak in a tire; our careers had become
priority one
. Even with the two weeks I’d taken in July, my reserve was still in good shape, so I requested another five days off. I’d caught up at work, and my new boss was still trying to scale the learning curve—another vacation request was the least of her worries.

I decided to hit the road the first week in August, counting on low-stress driving conditions. The highways would be full of tourists, though relaxed from enjoyable excursions, most likely heading home. Plus, I planned to head north to Wyoming, long-haul truckers and commuters the bulk of the folks going that way. I knew the route there and back—could probably drive it blindfolded—and looked forward to coasting along, listening to my mega-playlist of music spanning five decades.

It was Friday and I wanted to take off Sunday morning, but Beater needed a tune up. I called my garage and asked if they could squeeze me in, hoping to pick up my resuscitated comrade Saturday afternoon. A friend had recommended Ralph’s Imports once I’d earned the “widow” title; Jack had refused to let anyone under the hood of any of our vehicles, leaving me clueless about car repairs. I was on a first-name basis with all the mechanics at Ralph’s due, in large part, to my complete lack of mechanical skills. I was in luck; they’d had a cancellation and could fit me in, as long as I came by before they closed.

Leaving Beater in good hands, I walked home; wouldn’t be ready until the next afternoon.

Cody knew something was up, so I spent ten minutes tossing the ball—he and I both needed to work out our jitters. Excited to start organizing my road trip gear, I made my way inside. It took just a few minutes navigating the dusty storage room in the basement to uncover my “ready-bag,” one of Michael’s old duffels filled with road trip clothes and gear.

Everything looked in order, so I moved on to the first-aid kit, making sure it was fully stocked. Cody’s bag received a look-through, too; an old throw, several toys, and a doggie first-aid kit filled it to the brim.

Bags were set, so I went into the garage looking for my road-trip toolbox. My dad had put it together for my first cross-country trek the summer between my junior and senior year of college. I’d taken a short course, leaving four weeks of vacation before another year of brain-numbing textbooks, thirty-page papers and grueling exams.

Leaving exactly one hour after my last class ended, I’d taken off for my folks’ house, craving familiar surroundings and an abundance of comfort food. After a heaping snack of salami, provolone cheese and tasty crackers, I’d asked Dad to help me look over my old but functioning jalopy, talking him into an oil change. An hour later, he stood up, stretched and, in his typical nonchalant way, suggested that I take a few days for myself. By six the next morning, I’d eaten breakfast, dressed and packed a bag for my first solo trek.

I remember that morning like it was yesterday; tossing my duffle in the back seat, I noticed a box brimming with road trip essentials. Sitting on top was a white envelope, “Magpie” scrolled in Dad’s beautiful handwriting.

Unfolding the tattered and yellowed page from a Ziploc baggie, I read Dad’s words from a lifetime ago,

My dearest Magpie,

May you marvel at the sights that fill your mind; be eased by the roads you travel; feel peace under the stars; laugh at the stumbles you take, and may you find love for Mother Nature and all Her creations—even in the beautiful black and white scavenger who, in her attempt at survival, clears the paths of weary sojourners.

With all my love, Dad

I’ve updated the box over the years, but the principle remains the same: Be prepared to survive three of four days in the car or wilderness, regardless of the season. Reading Dad’s letter made me think about survival; not in the wilderness but the kind I’d strived for the last seven years. I wondered what kind of survival kit I could have rigged to ease my pain. An image of a sleek, solitary magpie crossed my mind.

Had I been scavenging for what was missing in my life? Was I aloof and self-directed by nature?

Without thinking, I began reciting an old rhyme about my totem dad used to whisper as he tucked me in for the night,

One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret,

Never to be told.

When I was old enough to ask, Dad explained the rhyme—old superstition, really—foretold one’s luck, depending upon the number of magpies seen. For a brief moment, I wondered if I was, somehow, the conveyor of luck…good or bad. Not wanting to dwell on mystical metaphors and prose, I returned on the task at hand, replacing the batteries in the flashlight and making sure my multi-tool knife was in good shape. Everything else looked okay. Finally, I grabbed my camping box that held, among other things, a two-person tent—make that a one-person, one-dog tent—a Coleman stove, and my “kitchen” in case I decided to camp out a few nights.

Wiping my hands on my shorts, I made my way to the front yard. I glanced around, pleased with the lush and colorful scenery that had survived an unusual heatwave, which was expected to continue. I set the sprinklers for an extra day and piled another layer of mulch on my garden beds. Satisfied with my work, I went inside to call Sean, a neighbor boy who looked after things when I traveled.

“Mrs. G, how are you? I haven’t seen you all summer!” Sean was a good kid and I was glad we’d worked things out.

“I’m well, Sean. Yes, I’ve been extremely busy this summer. I should have called you over to meet my grandkids, now that I think about it. Oh well, old age is setting in, it seems.” Talking to Sean had a soothing effect on me, not sure why—unless I’d somehow made him Michael’s proxy.

“Wondering if you can come by in the morning and talk about looking after my place while I’m gone next week.”

“You got it, Mrs. G. Is eight too early? Football practice is at nine sharp.” His voice cracked at the end of his question and I smiled, thinking about the change in Michael’s voice.

“Perfect, Sean, thank you.” Sucking in a deep breath, I placed my phone on the breakfast bar and poured a glass of wine, pondering what sort of dinner I’d fix.

Recollections of meeting Sean for the first time washed over me. A few summers back, I’d heard a loud crash coming from the front yard. Scrambling to my front window, I saw a teenage boy, crumpled on my cherished hostas and ornamental grasses that encircled the mailbox. His buddy was bent over his own bike, laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. Little harm had come to my plants, but the poor kid had a goose egg on his forehead, swelling minute by minute.

My irritation leveled off when I suddenly recognized a terrific opportunity. Changing my tone, I promised Sean I wouldn’t tell his parents about the calamity. Relief overcame the youngster until I further explained he’d have to help out around the yard whenever I needed it. After several minutes of serious contemplation, he nodded, shaking my hand to seal the deal. Sean’s been my unofficial gardener ever since.

Giggling at the thought of Sean running into my mailbox shook me from my rambling reflection. A wave of excitement washed over me and I cranked my favorite Indigo Girls CD and, completely unrestrained, joined the duo in the last verse of “Galileo,”

But then again it feels like some sort of inspiration

To let the next life off the hook

She’ll say look what I had to overcome from my last life

I think I’ll write a book…

Scrapping the idea of fixing dinner, I walked to a neighborhood Chinese place and ordered sesame chicken and some lettuce wraps. While I waited, I went next door to grab a six-pack of Stella. I’d make sure to pack what I didn’t drink. When I got home, Cody was more excited than usual, circling my legs and jumping up as much as his old legs would allow.

Easing him down, I said, “We’re going on a trip, Buddy, and you’re coming with me!”

I couldn’t imagine traveling without my furry companion; he’d provided unyielding companionship and a sense of security, in spite of his ten-plus years.

Beater was ready by five o’clock the next evening—my gear, loaded by six o’clock. I putzed around the house all evening, finishing it off with a hot bath. Still, I couldn’t sleep. My night vision was terrible, or I would have left right then and there. Even worse, driver fatigue tended to overcome me like a thick veil—once the sun went down, so did I. TV blaring, I mindlessly scrolled through the channels until I stumbled on one of my favorite movies. I was eleven years old when I first saw
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. I think my parents thought it was a typical western, like the Spaghetti Westerns that Clint Eastwood made so popular. They allowed me to go to the movie with a couple of girlfriends, all of whom were pre-pubescent, while I was post.

Several years before, Mom had explained that all the women in her family matured early, as she handed me a giant box of “feminine napkins.” I was ten. I hated how I’d developed so early; it made no sense and left me feeling (and looking) very different from my friends, all of whom thought it was normal to ask to see my boobs and armpit hair.

I never felt more different as the night I saw
Butch Cassidy
. Aside from the schoolgirl crush I had on both Robert Redford and Paul Newman, I was stunned by my physical reaction to the love scene between Redford and Katherine Ross.

My girlfriends giggled and scarfed popcorn, while I questioned the pulsating sensations in my groin. My face flushed, and I had no clue why. Heart racing, I thought I was dying. Literally. I sat completely still throughout the movie. I didn’t tell anyone about what happened—I wouldn’t have known where to start.

I decided to text Daniel right before that scene, hoping to pique his interest,

Today, 9:42 PM

MAGS: U up?

I waited exactly seven minutes for his reply,

DANIEL: In what way do you mean?

MAGS: LOL! Ok, awake

DANIEL: Barely

MAGS: Sorry!

DANIEL: Don’t be – wassup?

MAGS: Watching a fav movie

DANIEL: Porn?

MAGS: No! I’m serious

DANIEL: Ok – which one

MAGS: Butch cassidy

DANIEL: Classic

MAGS: I know, right?

DANIEL: What channel

MAGS: TCM

DANIEL: Let’s watch together

MAGS: Ok!

DANIEL: Going to call

MAGS: Why?

DANIEL: Want to hear you

MAGS: K

He called in under a minute, right when Etta enters her little house, startled to find Kid sitting in a chair. At first, the audience doesn’t know about their romance, creating sizzling tension. After having watched the film at least a dozen times, though, I knew that theirs was a red-hot affair, and I couldn’t wait to get to the part where Kid points his gun at Etta, urging her to unbutton her blouse. Camera closing in, the only thing in view was a string of buttons. The scene was set up to appear as though Kid was taking Etta against her will, until her famous line: “You know what I wish? I wish just once you’d get here on time.”

“Do you want me to take you against your will, Maggie?” Daniel asked in a smoldering voice.

I was incredibly aroused watching that scene and listening to Daniel’s heightened breathing. I pictured him stroking his cock in the dark, lying on his sheets with an air of masculine confidence. His question caught me off guard, and I stopped touching myself.

With hesitation, I responded, “Not sure, Danny, do you?”
Don’t overthink this shit, Maggie!

Almost empathetically, Daniel said, “We’re just playing, Mags, just go with it, you know me by now. Let’s just play this one out.”

Ignoring the analytical side of my brain, I allowed myself to fall back into the fantasy. Daniel began to walk me through a scenario much like the one in the film, only modern day. His voice led me through the scene he’d created—my resistance pushing against his insistence. I said nothing, focused only on Daniel’s voice and the images that danced in my mind. His orgasm broke my spell, and I came seconds later. His guttural moans reverberated through the phone, making an electronic connection with my whines and whimpers.

“Danny, you drive me wild,” I said breathlessly. How could virtual sex be so incredibly hot?