When Pigs Fly (10 page)

He hit the Pause button on his dream.

Ace opened his eyes and saw a large man with his hat pulled down over his face and the streetlights flicking across his ugly bulk. The guy slumped in the seat, his hands clasped on top of his head, an armpit aimed at Ace like one of those chemical weapons Iraq was supposed to have. He had a beard and a ponytail, and a green earring on the ear Ace could see. Frosty curled in the other corner, fast asleep. Ace turned away and gratefully smelled the old plastic on the seat, the hint of diesel exhaust, the touch of someone’s cologne. Probably not Britney’s, not on this bus. The idea made him smile, though, and he closed his eyes to look for the Play button on his last dream.

Ace and Frosty switched buses in New York at some ungodly hour when the skies were only hinting at dawn. They walked zombie-like with their coffee cups to where the bus lady pointed them, appalled at the number of people already awake but grateful not to be near that smelly guy on the bus. Taxicab drivers leaned on their horns and shook their fists, crowds jostled for space on the sidewalks and threaded their way across the street while cars kept trying to move. And the buildings, Ace couldn’t even see the tops of some of them. Man, this city was Boston on ‘roids.

They sat in the back of the bus again, and Frosty pulled a Spiderman comic book from under his shirt. The lights were bright inside the bus, and Ace watched as people found their seats: an old black couple, three college-type girls (two babes and a dog, in Ace’s opinion), some nuns, a guy with a long beard and a little round hat on top of his head, a bald guy in a bright yellow robe. A few rows up, a gray-haired lady found her seat and opened what was either a large purse or a small duffel bag. She took out some silverware and a cloth napkin rolled up and tied with a ribbon, then spread it on her lap. Then she took out a large plate, peeled off the aluminum foil and started to eat a turkey dinner complete with gravy and cranberry sauce. Ace looked at them like they were all silent partners in a great adventure, then turned to Frosty and said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dodo.”

“We never were,” Frosty said, annoyed. “And it’s Toto.”

“You boys off to see the wizard? Move over.”

Ace looked up, startled, as the same ugly guy grinned and sat down between them. Ace held his breath and recognized the man’s face. This was the guy they’d seen in the housebreaking, who’d beaten the living crap out of somebody over the missing whatsit! He hadn’t used his time in the bus terminal washing himself, so Ace and Frosty pressed themselves into the corners. The guy sat down and placed a bag between his feet. “Where you two clowns headed?”

“Miami,” Ace said.

“Then you’re on the wrong bus.” The big man laughed, then pulled out a box of donuts and opened it. They were all the same, with big gobs of white stuff oozing out. “You’re lying anyway. I seen your tickets to Arizona. Take a donut and tell me your names.”

Ace and Frosty hesitated. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’m Diet Cola. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Ace, and he’s Frosty.” They took donuts.

“What kind of stupid names are those?”

“We’re named after saints,” Ace said. “We’re going to see our sick mother in Tucson.”

Diet Cola turned to his left. “Did you catch that, Frosty? You’re going to see your sick mom in Tucson. Pay attention so you two can keep your lies straight.” His laugh seemed to filter through a gob of fluid lodged deep inside his lungs. “You don’t even look like brothers. Ace, you’re all gangles and angles. Frosty, you’re a stumpy white-haired mutant.”

Frosty tended to be sensitive about his looks, so he said, “Look who’s talking, Crisco Boy. If you ever take a hot shower, you’ll melt away. You and whatever those colonies are you’re growing in your armpits.”

A couple of passengers looked at them before going back to their business. Diet Cola gripped Frosty’s ear between his thumb and forefinger, then twisted hard. Frosty squealed like a mewling kitten, and then his eyes began to water. No one looked around.

“What did you call me?” Diet Cola said quietly.

“Crisco,” Ace said, thinking quickly. “An action hero. You heard of the Count of Monte Crisco?”

“No, he meant Crisco, as in one of the major food groups. He’s calling me fat.” Diet Cola frowned as he let go of Frosty’s ear. The bus started on its way, and soon Ace was looking out the grimy window at the highway as the bus went
kaplack-kaplack-kaplack
over concrete sections. “You two didn’t grow up in the same test tube,” Diet Cola said as he reached for another donut. He was right, Ace thought. Frosty had hair the color of road salt, cheeks like dumplings and the body of a pear. Ace, on the other hand, had a good-looking smile and a wiry build he was sure that girls secretly loved. In actual fact, their mother even refused to say if they were brothers, half-brothers, or a couple of strays an alley cat had dragged onto her front porch.

“Ace and me are brothers,” Frosty said, “no matter how we look. Plus we’re roomies. You got a problem with that, you can kiss my glutes.”

Diet wiped white frosting from his mouth, then took still another donut from the box on his lap. He tried to wipe powdered sugar off his knees, but only made a pair of white smudges. “Myself, I’m heading for Tucson to get laid by Lady Luck.”

“For her sake,” Frosty said, “she’d better be on top.”

God knows Frosty didn’t have Ace’s suaveness, but Ace marveled at his roomatoid’s talent for insulting people and making them smile. Diet Cola gave Frosty a friendly poke on the shoulder that knocked him backwards. Ace’s stomach felt queasy from the motion of the bus, the smell of their new traveling companion and the sudden thought that they all wanted the same thing.

Whatever that was.

Two thousand miles away, Poindexter slept fitfully in the desert, dreaming of Brussels sprouts and teddy bear cholla, of the human girl who had fed him, hugged him and thrown him away, of a luscious lady javelina who had turned up her snout at him yesterday. When he opened his eyes, the sky was an old blanket with light shining through a million holes. He felt deeply lonely. Unable to articulate any of this, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

In Tombstone, Mack sipped coffee at the restaurant table as waiters hurried by with steaming platters trailing the scents of fried beef and onions. He glanced hopefully at the door where customers lined up all the way out to the sidewalk, waiting to be seated. A candle flickered in its holder and reflected on the window next to him. Cactus-shaped menus sat next to a basket of tortilla chips and salsa. Was he right to be seeing a woman? There had been no excuse for his tumbling with Juanita the other night, no excuse for hanging out in a bar and getting drunk while he mentally measured women’s chest sizes (Juanita had come up a glands-down winner in that category).

Cal showed up right on time, and he stood up, delighted to have a second look at her, maybe a chance for a third. She wore earrings and pale lipstick, jeans and a nicely fitting flowered blouse, and she had undone her hair and let it cascade over her shoulders. She had dark brown eyes and smile-crinkled cheeks. God help him, she was beautiful.

“Is that whole smile all for me?” Mack asked.

Cal curled an eyebrow and placed her leather purse on the floor. “A Diet Coke, please,” she told the waiter. “Tombstone is a long way from Kerouac’s home town,” she said to Mack.

“Actually, it’s a long way from everywhere.”
Except Pincushion. Except my bedroom.
The thought was unbidden, God knew. Was he as transparent as he felt right now? “I met Mary at Lowell High,” he said suddenly. “The first time I carried her books, I knew I was in love.”

You moron, you’ve done it now. It’s more than she wants to know.

They scanned their menus and ordered enchiladas.

“I’ll bet she was beautiful.”

Mack nodded and smiled. “Venus with arms.”

“Well, they don’t get any better than that,” she said, squeezing his hand—and then letting go.

Change the subject, you fool. Say anything.
“Pretty state, isn’t it?” That should be safe to say.

“Too hot.”

“Dry, though.”

“Too many thorny plants. Give me oaks and maples and changing seasons.”

“I don’t miss shoveling snow.” Mack shoveled salsa with a tortilla chip and took a bite, hoping he wasn’t being a slob about it.

“Think you’ll ever go back?”

“Have to. There’s a tombstone with my name and a blank space for the year. But I’m in no hurry to fill it in. What about you?”

“I’m in no hurry to die either.” Her Diet Coke arrived, and she removed the remainder of the paper cover from the end of her straw. “It’s one reason I came out here. God, never date an Elvis impersonator.”

“On your sage advice, I won’t. Did someone threaten you?”

“Said he was my destiny. Ugh. We never did go out. Before that, I was married for a couple of years. Cosmo and I discovered we were wildly incompatible, though, so we got divorced and wished each other happy lives. Oh, and there was the married guy at the office who sent me passionate emails. I never answered, but the company president heard me complaining to him.” She made a wry face. “She fired him and then divorced him. I’m such a bozo magnet.”

Mack smiled, and Cal put her hands to her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me pull my foot out of my mouth.”

“No, no. You don’t know if I’m a bozo or not. The jury should be out on me, especially with your track record. Why didn’t you get a restraining order on The King?”

“You mean why didn’t I wave a red flag in front of a bull? A restraining order would just fuel his passion even more.”

“Ouch. Conking a man is one thing, but—”

“You had to be there.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m not into watching other people.”

“That’s a point in your favor. Believe me, I
never
would have seen the thing if he had remembered to zip his pants before he went on stage. He asked me out, and I guess ‘no’ was too deep a concept for him to grasp.”

Mack laughed. “So it was
hanging out
? In
public
?”

“Yep, in pubic. On local cable, no less.”

“Oh, I hate when that happens. All the women fainting, that’s the worst part.”

“Mmm, I’m sure. Anyway, Elvis—his real name, by the way, Elvis Hornacre—got really angry—why laugh at a wardrobe malfunction? The look on his face, I thought he wanted to—well, let’s change the subject.”

“You thought he was going to kill you. You didn’t need to run.”

“Of course I didn’t. So maybe I’m not running, maybe I just quit my job and I’m traveling. Anyway, what about you? What brought you out here?”

“Peace, beauty and hot weather. After Mary died, my boys insisted I take the trip we’d planned, like chicks chasing a parent out of the nest. The vacation has lasted about a year now, and I’m in no hurry to end it. I’ve rented a small house, taken a few courses at UA, read a shelf or two of books, checked out Anasazi ruins and tried my hand at watercolors because there was a woman I hoped to impress.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah, until I actually put paint on the canvas. I—There’s a crude expression kids use nowadays.”

“Are you saying your painting sucked?”

Mack bowed his head and laughed. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“And she held that against you?”

“I guess not, but then she fell for some hot watercolor stud.”

There went that beautiful smile again. “No women in your life?”

“Well, now and then. Mostly then. I have some good friends at the University.”

Dinner arrived, and they began to eat. “Any men in yours?” Mack asked between bites.

“Any men in my—oh, no, no men in my life.” She parceled out factoids about her life: parents divorced, kid brother in Iraq, took six years to get her degree. Loved Shakespeare and summer theater.

“Still,” Mack said, “You sound like you handled this Elvis guy rather well and didn’t really need to leave town. Buy yourself a can of Mace, even a gun if he’s that dangerous.”

“Guns freak me out. I’d hesitate, then he’d shoot me with it. I have the Mace, though. Besides, I have the feeling he’d follow me to the ends of the earth if he could. And since I’d never been anywhere, I thought I should see some of the world before he does me in.”

Mack made a fist. “That’s the spirit. Did you know that Tombstone was the murder capital of America once?”

“As long as it’s in the past tense. Look, can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. What have you seen on your trip out West?”

“Not much. Interstates. Green highway signs, cows, tall corn, the Mississippi River, Motel 6’s, Exxon stations, oil rigs and Roy Rogers fast food. I’ve been anxious to hit the left coast. Tombstone was my first side trip, but I plan to make it to L.A. by tomorrow.”

“It’s against the law to drive through Arizona without rubbernecking, you know.”

Cal smiled but said nothing. “But I could make it right for you,” Mack said. “Let me give you a tour tomorrow.”

“No. No, I couldn’t impose on you like that.”