Author: KarenPopeWrites

We left the hotel right before checkout time at 11:00 am.  Snow hopped into the back of the car and sat up straight watching everything out of the front window.  Chris opted to drive and I decided to let him, giving me a day off.

Chris picked up Interstate 10 and then took I 610 to I 69 N toward Little Rock.  Finally out of Houston, Chris was able to put his foot down and we traveled at a reasonable pace.

Around the time we merged onto US 59 N, Snow got tired of the view, so she settled down on her bed and went sleep.  What a life she has, so free from worry and all the human stuff we find ourselves tangled in.

I looked at Chris and asked, “Do you remember when we got her?”

“Yeah.  She was this tiny ball of white fluffy fur. I still think we should have named her Dust Bunny instead of Snow.”

I smiled.  Lily, Trip and I had gone shopping one Saturday about two years ago.  I had never had pets before, as my mother didn’t want an animal in the house and it never came up between Chris and me.  A local pet store was having a puppy sale and we walked over to see the little dogs on display. Trip ran over to the displays that were outside the pet store on the sidewalk.  Forty or fifty puppies yipped at us from their cages that were spread the length of the walkway in front of the store.  I spotted Snow and she looked up at me, her brown eyes full of expectation.

“What kind of dog is it?”  I asked the lady who sat on a folding metal chair beside the cardboard box. The woman had brown hair shot with grey, was well over 200 lbs and gave me a grandmotherly impression.

“A German Spitz.  She is the last one left from the last litter. I figured I would bring her down here to the sale to see if I could find her a good home.”

“I am not familiar with dogs,” I told her.

“Spitz are great family dogs and they have sweet dispositions.  Their fur is dense and they don’t shed like a lot of other dogs.  They are easy to care for.  You just have to brush them and feed them and give them a bath once in a while.”

“I’m not sure about this…”  I said, hesitantly.  “A dog is a huge responsibility.”

Then Trip chimed in.  “Please, Mom.  She is so pretty and so fluffy. Please.  I’ve always wanted a dog.”

And Lily said, “Trip and I can help you with her.”  Now I had two kids and a dog watching me with expectation.

I turned my attention back to the lady.  “I have never had a pet before.”

“How about this,”  the woman said.  “You take the puppy and I will help you get started with her.  I can show you how to house train her, how to feed her and even some basic training, like sit and stay and walking her with a leash.  If in a few weeks you discover you can’t handle her, I will take her back.  She has got a fine pedigree and I could sell her to someone else.  You have a nice family and I would love to see this sweet little dog with nice people.  She was the runt of the litter and I have a soft spot for this little one.”

“I don’t want a show dog,”  I told her.  

“Not a problem.”

“I don’t need papers on her,” I told the lady.

“Again, not a problem.  She was bullied by her littermates because she was the smallest and I want her to go to a nice family.  She needs a family who will love her.  I am real picky about who I place my dogs with.  This little one has been loved and played with by me since she opened her eyes. She just wants love.”

“How much?”  I asked the lady and we concluded the deal with Trip and Lily squealing with delight behind me.

“Here’s my card,” the woman said and I read her name, Debbie Durbin.  “I have a leash for her and her collar and a cage.  The cage will seem really big for her now, but she will grow to be about 30 or 35 pounds.”

Debbie gave me the name of the puppy’s vet, some house training instructions, suggested some food I should buy.  Just like that, I became a dog owner.

That afternoon, Lily and Trip ran and played with their new toy until she was exhausted and happy and fell asleep in the huge cage Debbie provided.  It had a blanket in the bottom Snow was familiar with and Debbie gave me a ticking clock to put in there, too, so Snow wouldn’t feel alone.

Chris came in for dinner.  “What in the hell is that?”  he demanded when he saw the dog cage in the kitchen.

“It’s a dog,”  I told him.

“I can see it’s a dog.  Why is it here?”

“I bought her today from a very nice lady named Debbie Durbin.”

“We’ve never had a dog,” Chris pointed out.  No kidding.

“We’ve never had any kind of pet.”  I pointed out.

“What’s its name?”

“We haven’t officially decided, but the kids want to call her Snowball.”

Trip and Lily ran into the kitchen and Trip reached into the cage to pick up the sleepy puppy.  “Isn’t she cute?”  Trip asked his Dad and then put the puppy in Chris’s hand.

“She doesn’t weigh anything,”  he said.  He held her close to his face and her tiny pink tongue darted out of her mouth and touched his cheek.

“See, Dad, she likes you,”  Trip said.

I smiled and then said to them, “You better take her outside, now, Trip.  Walk her around on her leash until she pees, then tell her she is a good dog and pet her, then bring her back inside.”

“Okay, Mom.”  Trip held his hands out and Chris gave him the puppy.  

Chris said to me, once they were outside, “You know he will lose interest in just a few days and you’ll have to take care of her.”

“I know.  It’s not a problem.”  

And just that quickly, Snow became part of our family.  She became just Snow almost immediately instead of Snowball.  

Training a dog was not as difficult as I imagined.  I bought a baby gate that kept her confined to the kitchen during her training, thinking tile is much easier to clean up than rugs or hardwood.  She only had a couple of accidents before she got the idea that she was supposed to go outside.  

Within two weeks, I removed the baby gate and gave her the run of the house.  Trip worked with her to get her to sit on command, to stay, to come and to heel when she was on her leash.  I spent the money to create a sizable run for her in our backyard to keep her from the flower beds and the swimming pool.  She had a dog house with her name painted on the top and grass to run on.  I don’t think she ever actually stayed in her dog house unless Trip got in first and coaxed her.

So many of early memories of Snow coincide with Trip.  He loved having a dog and spent a lot of time with her.  In his room, the don’t-get-on-the-furniture rule was non-existent because Trip allowed her to sleep in his bed.  He crept down the stairs when he thought everyone was sleeping, opened her cage and she followed him upstairs, very happy to sleep with him.

I knew what he did, but didn’t dissuade him.  Snow was with us only about four months before Trip died.  I remembered her watching as the EMTs tried to revive our son.  She whimpered several times and barked at the EMTs when they took Trip away on a stretcher.  For weeks after Trip died, Snow went outside and watched at the gate where she last saw him–the one the EMTs used to take him out on the stretcher.  One day, she stopped watching the gate, apparently convinced that Trip was never coming home.

My face felt wet and I wiped away a tear.  I hoped Chris didn’t see it.

“Oh, Jeez,” he said.  Crap, he saw it.  “What, now?”  he asked.

“I was thinking about Trip and Snow,”  I told him.  For a moment, I thought Chris was going to say something, but he refrained from making any remarks, snide or otherwise.

Chris pulled the Cayenne to the side of the road beside the Welcome to Arkansas sign and I snapped the selfie, me with a bright red nose from crying and Chris looking helpless.

Interstate 10 crossed Lake Pontchartrain with a 23 mile long bridge.  We reached the bridge at nearly 6 pm and decided to not go all the way to Texas.  We drove as far as Baton Rouge and stayed at a small interstate motel mostly because of its onsite restaurant and the sign which said it was pet friendly.

Again, we got two rooms and I went inside to get cleaned up for dinner.  After my shower, I called Matthew.

“It’s the Anne Archer,”  he said.

“No.  Not the Anne Archer.  An Anne Archer,”  I replied.

“Well, An Anne Archer, you haven’t killed Chris yet.  He called me a few minutes ago, mostly to complain about having to spend time in the car with you.  He did not find a sympathetic ear, here.  I yelled at him about cheating on you, and yelled at him about smoking.  He whined and said everyone was beating him up all the time.  I told him to behave himself and that would stop.”

“Well, then you know how this trip is going.  He’s about as much fun as root canal.”

“Has it been very awful for you?”

“No.  I actually got him to admit he should have been at the wake.  We have Lillian’s ashes with us and he talked to her a couple of times.”

“Probably more than he did when she was alive.”

“I daresay.  Now, how is Barbara faring?”

“Not much change from day to day.  But overall, we see improvement from week to week.  She sends her love.  I know because she just blew me a kiss.”

“I love her, too.  Check in with Lily from time to time.  My sister’s three boys are hellions and I want to make sure they don’t tie her to a tree or lock her in the tool shed.”

“Righteo.”  He disconnected the call.

I stared at the framed generic landscape that hung on the wall in my room for what seemed to be hours, though only minutes passed.  My mind raced with all that happened in the past couple of weeks.  Mostly, I wondered how I could survive a month on the road with Chris.  Things between us grew worse and not better.  He sulked all the way through Alabama and Mississippi and Louisiana.  Dark and brooding, but he didn’t tell me why.  Admittedly, I didn’t ask.

A glance at my watch told me it was nearly 9:00 pm.  I decided that I would wander to the restaurant.  If I couldn’t get anything to bring back to the room, a call to room service was the next best thing.  

Chris sat in the bar with a nearly empty glass of amber liquid in front of him.  I watched him for a moment and he said to me, “Are you going to join me?”

He slurred his words.  Obviously, the drink in front of him was number three or number four.

“I didn’t come down here to drink.  I want some food.”

“Suit yourself,” the disinterested voice said.

“I’m leaving at 8:00 am sharp, with or without you.”

“Bitch.”  Like I said.  Dark and brooding.

I walked into the restaurant and asked the hostess if I could get something to take back to my room.  She shook her head sadly and then suggested I call room service.

I thanked her and returned to my room.  The braised chicken breast I ordered arrived a few minutes later and I ate while watching a nameless movie on the hotel TV.  

I emailed Lily, not wanting to call in case she was already in bed, and I told her that Snow was having a great time.  I asked about Carolyn’s boys and then shut the lid on my laptop.  

My younger sister, by seven years, had three boys, each named after the city they were born in.  Austin was born in Austin, Texas,  Jackson in Jackson, Mississippi and Ham which is short for Hampton, in Hampton, Virginia.  They continued the tradition started by Louis’s mother who named her only son after St. Louis, Missouri.  Carolyn and Louis were exceedingly happy.  They didn’t own a pot or a window and they seemed much happier for it.

Another of Lillian’s favorite sayings:  They didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, referring to a poor person.

I have a younger brother, too. Ian married Stephanie and they had two boys named Drum and Banjoe.  My family wins the prize for weird children names.  Stephanie named the two kids after her favorite instruments.  Granted, she played the banjo exceptionally well and played the drums a little, but that seemed no reason to ruin her boys with those strange names.  I didn’t like much that Stephanie did and spent little time thinking about her.  

Even my own two children won the Strange Name Award.  Lily was named after grandmothers Lilith and Lillian.  Her middle name is Anne, named after me, of course. Our son was Christian Matthew Archer the Third.  Lily started calling him Triple when she saw his name written the first time with the Roman numeral for three at the end.  By the time he was two, his name was shortened to Trip.  

Trip, my only son.  The only son I would ever have because a tubal ligation made sure no additional Archers entered the world.  

Trip was eight when he died, nearly two years ago.  Trip’s hair was blonde like mine and curly like Chris’s.  His eyes blue and his face cherubic.  Trip smiled continually, was always well behaved and happy.  He listened, obeyed, ate all his veggies.  I know my memory is distorted by his death, but I can never think of any time he cried or did something he wasn’t supposed to do.

We hosted a Fourth of July party at our house with Lillian, and a few friends.  The children played in the pool and the adults sat in our outdoor living room to talk, eat, drink and have a good time.  No one watched the kids closely.  Trip dove into the pool, head first, at the shallow end.  His head hit the bottom and his neck snapped like a twig.  I winced when I remember his lifeless body floating to the surface.  The world went totally silent in the next few moments.  Then, I heard someone screaming.  Lillian told me later, it was me who screamed.  I don’t remember doing it.

Again, I fell asleep with Snow at my side and HBO playing endless movies and tears staining my face.

I woke at 6:00 am and ordered room service for my breakfast.  Snow ate her Blue and drank water.  She frolicked by the door, eager to go outside.

I dressed, walked her, and returned to the room to get ready to leave.  I called Chris’s room and he answered with a groan.  “Are you ready to go?”  I asked.

“No.  I’m still in bed.”

“Why?”

“I was in the bar until around two.  I need to sleep.”

I hung up on him.  Well, if Chris was going to sleep all day, then Snow and I could explore Baton Rouge. I let her sit in the front seat and she was happy with that arrangement.  We drove up and down streets in the downtown section looking at buildings and then headed out of town to see what the suburbs looked like.  I almost missed the sign for the Magnolia Mound Plantation and impulsively decided to take a look.

At the entrance, I asked the lady if I could bring Snow on the property and she said yes because it was a slow day.  I paid two admissions, one for me and one for Snow, and then we two went in search of plantation’s wonders.  We saw the original house, slave quarters and overseer’s houses.  We had the tour guide to ourselves and he was very informed about the history of the place.  The old man flirted with me and petted Snow.  If I were a few years older, I thought wistfully.

After three hours of wandering the grounds, Snow and I got back into the car and I drove to a burger place to buy two burgers.  I shared one with Snow.  I turned on the GPS to guide us back to the hotel, where Chris, presumably, still slept it off.

I was wrong. Back at the hotel, Chris fumed.

“Where the hell have you been?”  he demanded.

“Snow and I played tourist while you nursed a hangover.”

“Whatever.  I am ready to go.  Now.  Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“It’s in my purse and turned off.  Maybe, I didn’t want to talk to you.”  I got out of the car and handed Snow’s leash to Chris.  “Walk her while I grab my stuff.”  I packed up before I went sightseeing, so transferring the items to the car was the work of a moment.  

Chris returned to the car with Snow while I loaded my things into the back.  He went back into his room to get his suitcase and I, once again, climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, it’s my turn to drive.”

“Nope.  If you snooze, you lose,”  I said.  “I was ready to go five hours ago.”

“We are not under any kind of time frame,” he said as he opened the passenger side door.  

“I thought you were the one who wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.”

“There is no need to drive twelve hours every day,”  Chris said.

“Hey Lillian, did you hear that?  Chris wants to lengthen our trip by not driving twelve hours each day,” I said.

“I didn’t say that, Mom.  You hear what she does?  She twists everything I say.”

“Lillian, you heard for yourself.  I didn’t twist anything. Your son is an ass.”

“You can’t say ass in front of Lillian.”

“What’s she going to do?  Wash my mouth out with soap?”

“Look, Anne, I don’t want to argue.  My head is killing me.”

“Lillian, Chris has a hangover.  Drink some water,”  I told him.

“Yeah, that’s right, Mom.  I drank too much last night.  It’s the only way I can get along with her.”

“Lillian wants to know if you are going to get drunk every night?”

“So what if I do?  She going to send me to my room with no dessert?  Mom, I am smoking like a chimney and drinking like a fish.”

“Captain Cliche certainly is,”  I told Lillian.  

“I can’t do anything right, can I?  He demanded.

“Not lately,”  I said and he fell into a sulk, again.  What a baby he is.

I didn’t say a word when I pulled onto the shoulder next to the Welcome to Texas sign.  He got out of the car and Snow jumped over the seat and followed him out.  We took the selfie while Snow munched on some grass.  Maybe our fighting was upsetting her stomach.  I know it upset mine. I emailed the selfie to Mr. Cartwright, but not to Lily.  I didn’t have the heart to email the picture of with Snow in the background harking up the grass she just ate

We stopped for lunch in Mobile at a seafood restaurant just off of I 10. Because they had outdoor seating, they let Snow stay with us, on a leash, of course. For a little while, it felt like old times because Chris and I chatted amiably about inconsequential things to pass the time and to make us both feel as if we had a dining companion.  I have never enjoyed eating alone, so even a cheating husband was better company than no one.  If it were just me, a burger in a paper bag defined lunch.

Traveling along the interstate means most of the really nice views are missed. Interstate travel is about speed–get where you are going as fast as you can. The ribbon of asphalt carved its way through a lot of trees interrupted by the inevitable fast food restaurants and gas stations along the interchanges. On only the second day of travel, I decided that the interstate highways may be the quickest way to travel, but you don’t get to see the real America.  I enjoyed driving across Mobile Bay and that is all I can say about the trip through Alabama.

We arrived at the Welcome to Mississippi a short time after our lunch in the seafood place.  Again, neither of us showed smiles, the earlier camaraderie gone.  Clearly we still weren’t happy about having to spend time together.  The trip before us seemed daunting and endless.  Snow frolicked on the shoulder of the road, getting happier each minute we traveled.  At least one of us was enjoying ourselves.

I emailed the photo to Mr. Cartwright and, also impulsively, I emailed one to Lily.  I wondered if she missed us.  I am certain she didn’t miss our fighting and arguing.

Again, the interstate provided little entertainment through Mississippi.  We stopped at a couple of different interstate convenience stores to use bathrooms, grab snacks and to let Snow pee. We filled the very thirsty gas tank and I was secretly glad Lillian paid for the gas.  While Chris smoked in a parking lot, I gave Lillian my gratitude.

We managed to pick up quite a bit of traffic in Gulfport, but I still maintained at least 55 mph all the way. At the Louisiana welcome station, we got out of the car and I took another selfie of the two of us.  A portrait of two people who were bored, irritated, and disheveled by the road trip. The photo wheeled through cyberspace to Mr. Cartwright.

This is a long one to make up for not posting for  a few days!  If you want to start from the beginning of the novel, click here

We stopped at a chain hotel in Yulee, Florida.  We both went into the lobby and Chris told the girl that we wanted two rooms.  She looked from him to me and back to him.  He said, “She snores,” at exactly the same time I said, “He snores.”  She said nothing. I like discretion in my customer Service Representatives.  The girl filled our request and we went to our rooms adjoining with no connecting door.  I ordered the pizza to be delivered and Chris and I waited outside of our rooms for the pizza man to arrive. Snow stood faithfully by my side on the sidewalk.

The sun had been down for two hours, but the night was clear and the air warm and humid.  Not unusual for Florida.

I signed for the pizza having given them the card number over the phone.  Chris looked at the pizza box and then me.  “This is stupid.  We can eat either in your room or mine.  I don’t want to stand on the sidewalk while chewing on pepperoni.”

I nodded and went into my room.  He followed holding the box and the bag that held our fizzy drinks.  The room had a small table, so we ate there, devouring the entire medium pizza. I gave Snow the pizza bones.

After our meal, Chris went to his room with no argument and I immediately got into the shower.  I rinsed my shirt out in the warm water and hung it on the towel bar to dry using a hanger I put in my suitcase for that purpose.  I wanted to see if the hype was true.  If so, the shirt will be dry and odor-free in the morning.

I felt better after standing in the water longer than I would have had I been at home.  I dried my hair with the hotel dryer and wiggled between the clean sheets.  With HBO playing quietly on the TV, and Snow softly snoring beside me, I fell asleep.  No scary dreams or monsters under the bed.  The monster stayed in his own room.

The next morning, Chris and I walked to the Waffle House across the street from the hotel and ate a carb-filled American breakfast.  I limited mine to eggs, bacon and toast, while Chris loaded up on the same, plus hashbrowns.

I trotted back across the street to the hotel to finish getting ready to continue our journey and to take Snow for a walk.  I left her in the room while we ate breakfast and she ate all of the Blue Buffalo I put in her bowl and drank most of her water, so she was ready for her morning constitutional.  I picked up her poo with the doggy poo disposal bag and dropped it in the dumpster at the back of the hotel.  Snow was eager to get back in the car and travel.

I brushed teeth and hair.  I gathered all of my belongings quickly because I didn’t unpack the suitcase.  The shirt I put on before breakfast behaved as promised.  It dried overnight and didn’t smell funky.  The hype is right, so far.  I would see in a month if it still held true.

Chris still puttered in his room, so I opened the back of the Cayenne, put my suitcase inside and decided it was my turn to drive.  We mapped our journey at breakfast–head west on Interstate 10 to Alabama, Mississippi and into Louisiana.  We may even be able to get to Texas before stopping again.  

Chris glared at me when he saw me at the wheel.  I popped open the back of the Cayenne and he tossed his suitcase in like he was throwing for the winning touchdown.  Snow gave a yip because he startled her.  He said, automatically, “Sorry, Snow, but your mom pissed me off, again.”

“Hey, genius, if you dump out your mother’s ashes, you get to clean them up.  And bring up a bottle of water.”  I said.

“Why can’t I drive?” he asked handing me the bottle through the open window.

“Because,”  I said.

“That’s it?  Just because?”

“That’s what I said,”  He glared some more so I said, “You can drive when I get tired.”

He crossed in front of the car and pulled the passenger door open.  After fumbling with the seat belt he said, “Whatever.”

He reeked of cigarette smoke, again.  “Open your window,”  I commanded.

“It’s hot out there,” he countered.

“Then quit smoking and you can keep the window closed.”

“Are you going to gripe at me all the way back home?”

“Probably.”

I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, stopped by the front desk long enough to check out and then headed on I 95 S to catch I 10 W.  Maybe we could make it all the way to Texas today, a twelve hour drive.

Driving down the Interstate highway proved to be less than exciting.  The lack of interesting scenery lulled me into drowsiness.  Chris napped, outright, and I grew angrier every time I glanced in his direction.  The very least he could do was to stay awake and help me stay awake.  I pointed the car to a convenience store and went inside to buy a huge cup of coffee.  I took advantage of the restroom and headed out of the store in time to see Chris lighting a cigarette.  At least he had Snow on a leash so she could pee while he smoked.

I pumped gas.  Chris aimed for the car, so I let Snow back into the backseat.  He went inside the store to, presumably, use the facilities.  I pulled the Cayenne up to the front of the store and away from the gas pumps to wait for him.  He returned with a bag of doughnuts and a cup of coffee for himself.  “You want a glazed?”  he asked me and I reached into the bag to remove the sticky pastry.  He reached inside and broke one in half for Snow.  She gulped the donut down without even tasting it and look at him from the back seat with great expectations.  He fed her the other half of her donut and told her to lie down after she gulped it away.

“Thanks,”  I said.  I licked the sugar from my fingers and inched the speedometer up another five miles per hour.

“You’d better be careful.  You are going almost 80 and the speed limit is 70,”  Chris said to me.

“No, kidding.  I am keeping up the the trucks and they keep tabs on the cops, so I don’t have to.”  He crashed into a mailbox just the previous day, so I didn’t want to hear any diving advice from him.

“Fine.  Do it your way,”  he said.

I blew out an exasperated sigh. Then, “Okay.  I am making a new rule for the car.  Whoever is driving gets to decide the speed, the route and what music to play,”  I said, setting Sirius to Jazz.

“You have a lot of rules,”  he commented.

“I’m not done.  No smoking in the car, no talking to or texting your girlfriend while we are in the car. Does that cover it?”

He grunted, then said.  “And we have only been on the road since yesterday.  This will be a fun trip with you making up rules all day every day.”

“You hear that Lillian?”  I addressed the back of the Cayenne.  “Your son doesn’t like to follow rules.  Big surprise, that.”

“Do you always talk to dead people?”  he asked, unkindly.

“Your mother is with us on this trip.  It is the least we can do.  Talking to her.  We don’t want her to get lonely.”

“I don’t want to talk to her,”  Chris said.

“Why not?”  I asked.

“I am pissed as hell that she died.”  He turned his gaze to the trees along the highway.

A breakthrough.  Christian Matthew Archer Junior admitted to being angry that his mother died.  “You know, Chris,”  I said.  “If you talk to her, you won’t miss her so much.”

“Talk to her about what?”  he demanded.

“Anything.  Everything.  She’s your mom and in her eyes, you are perfect.  Nothing you say or do will make her think less of you.”

“I feel stupid.”

“Okay.  I will start.  Hey, Lillian.  It’s been a fews days since you died.  We had a nice wake for you and over a hundred people showed up.  We rented the Garden Club for the day and it was decorated with roses from your garden.  We put that portrait of you that hung in your guest room on an easel and draped a blue scarf over the edges.  Because your dress is blue in the portrait, Lily and I decided a blue scarf was better rather than black.  We know you are not a slave to convention. We drank your favorite wine and played your record albums on the turntable.”

“Mom had great taste in music,”  Chris said.  “She liked a lot of different kinds, depending on her mood. One day it was Beethoven, the next it was Pentatonix.”

“The wake was really nice, Chris.  You should have been there.”

“I hate funerals.”

“Chris, a wake is not a funeral.  Everyone shared memories of Lillian.  We laughed at jokes she made.  We talked about our favorite things about her.”

“I thought it would be everyone crying and talking about how bad they felt.

“No, not at all.  The only tears were right at the end when we gave her a final toast and said goodbye.”

“Maybe I should have gone to the wake.  What stories did you hear?”

My first impulse was to snap at him and tell him he should have gone to the wake and he would know what others had to say.  But, we had to start somewhere to get along.  So, “Jeff Richardson, you know the guy next door to her, told a story about Lillian hanging up clothes on the line she strung between those two big oaks in her backyard.  She reached up to hung a sheet and her pants fell down around her ankles.  She wasn’t wearing any panties that day and he said her backside was the whitest thing he had ever seen.  And if her backside was white her face was the reddest he had ever seen.  He politely turned his back while she pulled her pants back up.  She said to him,  “That will teach me to come outside with no step-ins on.”  He said back to her,  “At least you washed before you came outside because no one’s butt can be that white if it’s dirty.”

“She said to him, “A true gentleman would have pretended he saw nothing.”  And then Jeff said,  “Mrs. Lillian.  You have been telling me since I was nine years old that I am no gentleman.”  Then, Lillian said,  “And I was right.””

Chris started to chuckle and then he laughed in earnest.  “I can see all of that happening.  Mom really did tell Jeff he was no gentleman the first time he came into her house without wiping his feet.  He’s older than me, so he mostly came over to visit Matthew. I was the little brother who was always underfoot and he and Matt tried everything they could to get rid of me. Jeff bought the house from his parents when they went to the retirement community in Florida.  Jeff has kinda looked after Lillian all these years.  He kept her car serviced, cleaned her gutters, shoveled snow from her driveway. Things I should have done.  That’s why I know he will fix the mailbox I ran over.”

Lillian adored her youngest son and he spent as little time with her as possible.  Another taboo topic Chris refused to discuss.  I decided to find out why by going around to the back door.

“You remember Joyce Broome?”  I asked.

“Yes.  She and mom had lunch together at least once a week.  I never understood why she and mom were so close.  Mom was sixty years older than Joyce.”  I glanced at my husband.  How could he be so out of touch with his mother’s life?  

I told him, “Joyce used to write a gossip column for the Pilot. She published a story about Margaret Whitney that was not terribly flattering and Lillian got mad about it.  She went to the newspaper’s editor to complain about the story and he sent her to Joyce.  Lillian marched up to Joyce’s desk and told her that the story was incorrect.  Joyce asked Lillian how she knew that, and Lillian explained that she and Margaret had been friends right up to Margaret’s death a week before.  After they talked for a few minutes, Lillian told Joyce that she needed to be a serious writer instead of writing gossip that had no basis in truth.  They went to lunch to further discuss it.  Finally, Lillian became Joyce’s mentor and muse.  Everything Joyce wrote, she ran by Lillian to get approval.  Joyce learned to love Lillian very much.”

“I didn’t know that,”  Chris said.

“Joyce told the story at the wake.  I never knew the whole story, either, until then.  Joyce said Lilian used to tell her, “You’re not writing for a rag, girl.  You are a good serious writer, so ditch the gossip and write the truth.”  Joyce said Lillian taught her to be a reporter.  Joyce finally won a Pulitzer for a story about a homeless woman who slept in her car four nights a week because on her salary at her receptionist’s job, she couldn’t afford an apartment.  She went to a Motel Six every weekend to wash her hair, wash her clothes and to sleep in a real bed.”

“Joyce won a Pulitzer?  That’s amazing.”

“She just finished her third novel and it is getting published in a few weeks.”

Chris looked over his shoulder for long minutes and then said, “Mom, I am really sorry I missed your wake.”

“Do you know her favorite joke or her favorite story?”  I asked Chris.

“Uh… I don’t think so.”

“It’s one she tells about Barney Simpson.”

“Barney is Matt’s friend who is a gymnast and who almost got into the Olympics?” Chris asked me.

“Yes.  That’s him.  When he first met Lillian he told her he was a gymnast.  Lillian said, “Really?  Can you do a backflip?”  Barney replied, “Yes.  Can you?”  and Lillian said, “No.  You’ll have to teach me.  I’ll be able to do it because I can do everything else.”  Barney said he believed her because she was Lillian and no one ever doubted anything she said. And when Lillian was 60 years old, she did a backflip on Barney’s trampoline.”

Chris thought for a moment and then said,  “That’s not really funny.”

“That was her favorite story–doing a backflip at the age of 60.  Oh, her favorite joke. Sally Friedman told the story.  She said that Lillian and she went to a Bette Midler concert and Bette told a Sophie Tucker joke that Lillian loved.”

“Who’s Sophie Tucker?”  Chris asked.

“She was in the Ziegfeld Follies. Sophie told jokes because she thought she was big and ugly and she wanted people to laugh with her and not at her.  Anyway, Lillian’s favorite joke was borrowed from Bette Midler who borrowed it from Sophie Tucker.  Sophie is talking to her friend Clementine and a delivery man brings her two dozen yellow roses.  Soph read the card and it said, Love always from your boyfriend, Ernie.  Soph looks at Clementine and says, ‘Clem, you know what this means, don’t you?  I’ll have to spend the next two weeks flat of my back in bed with my legs spread wide open.’  And Clem says,  ‘Why? Soph?  Ain’t you got a vase?’”  

At the wake, I laughed again at the joke that I had heard Lillian tell many times.  Most of the time she only said the punch line, “Why? Soph?  Ain’t you got a vase?”  anytime someone misunderstood something she said.  I had to ask her what it meant and when Lillian told me the joke, I laughed all day, every time I thought about it.”

For the first time on our trip, Chris laughed.  Out loud.  For nearly a minute.  Not the hysterical laugh while watching clothes fly out of a dresser.  This was a real laugh from the real Christian Matthew Archer Junior.

Then, Chris said, “I always thought it was that line from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when Butch blew the railroad car, the safe and all the money to smithereens:  You use enough dynamite there, Butch?”

I laughed again, remembering Lillian did say that line whenever someone did too much of anything.

I pulled the car over and we got out at the Welcome to Alabama sign.  That selfie captured our giggling faces as we remembered Lillian’s jokes. I emailed it to Mr. Cartwright.

The trip across South Carolina went quickly and mostly in silence.  The traffic increased as we neared the Charleston exit.  

Seven hours in the car and we were both still alive.   But, that’s all I can say about it.  I watched trees, listened to Chris complain about the road construction and felt generally miserable about this entire trip.  Why didn’t he just move out of my house and in with Kathy?  Why did Lillian make us do this?

“He is in so much trouble,”  Chris said, suddenly.

“Who?”  I asked, whipping my head around to face Chris. I stilled fumed at him and his lack of responsibility and had no clue what he was talking about.

“That guy in the pick-up in front of us.  He has a dresser back there that isn’t tied down and the drawers have come open.  Stuff is blowing out.”

I watched a pair of jeans fly out of the back of the truck and land in the weeds beside the road.  Then, a sequined blouse came out of the drawer to flutter down and get snagged on a tree.

“I hope she has clothes somewhere else, or she will end up naked,” I said.

“Look! A suede jacket,”  Chris said.

“Oh, my,”  I said.  Then, a red peignoir flew out of a drawer.  “No sexy nighty for him.”  I held up my phone and began taking pictures every time a clothing article flew out of the back of the truck.  

“There goes a pink lace bra,”  he said.

“That guy has no idea this is going on behind him,”  I said, as a pair of black lacy panty hose flew out of the dresser.

“It could be his clothes,”  Chris said and in spite of my anger, I laughed out loud.  Every time another clothing article flew out of the dresser, Chris and I laughed.  We watched bras, panties, blouses and jeans fly away.

Several miles passed and just as I was going to announce the dresser was finally empty, a fuzzy white sweater blew out of the back of the pick-up truck, sparking another round of hilarity.  Even though the laughter had an hysterical edge, it felt good.  Little in my life seemed funny for more than a month.  The man exited at the interchange for Brunswick.  So went our entertainment.  

“You would think he would turn around once in awhile,”  Chris said.

“Or at least look at his mirrors,”  I said.  “But, it was really funny when that peignoir got hung up in a tree and that blue sequined blouse.”

“It will be even funnier when she makes him go back to get everything,”  Chris said.  

“He is in for a long night,” I said. We laughed again.

After a few more miles, Chris said, “I am stopping at the first hotel in Florida.  We need to figure out where we are going from there.  Maybe we can share a pizza.  Lillian only gave us one credit card for the trip and I can’t eat a whole delivered pizza myself.”

“Okay, but we are getting separate rooms.  Plus it has to be a hotel that accepts pets.  Snow stays with me.”

“Fine by me,”  he said as he pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road so we could take another selfie at the Welcome to Florida sign.  This time, we had small smiles that didn’t reach our eyes.  Snow barked at a car that passed because a Blue Tick Hound had his head stuck out of the window and his tongue hanging out.  Just saying howdy to the passersby. Maybe she was interested in him.  Don’t do it, Snow.  Men are nothing but trouble.

“So if you knew about her three months ago, why didn’t you say something, then.  Why wait until four weeks ago?”  Chris asked me.

“Say what?  Would anything have made a difference?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  It just kind of happened.  At the reception for the Waterman Apartments, she put her hand on my arm.  I noticed she put her hands on me every chance she got.  She smiled at me.  Winked at me.  Paid attention.  You spent the entire reception schmoozing with Waterman and his wife. I could have fallen in a hole and you wouldn’t have known.”

“Chris, the only reason I was schmoozing was because you didn’t.  You had just won a huge contract and it was your job to welcome Mr. Waterman and company, but instead of that, you invariably hid in a corner or behind a bush. Just like always.”

“You know I don’t do well in those situations.  Forced socializing.  I never know what to say.”

“Which is why Ben and I always had to do the schmoozing.  Now, you are saying that’s the reason you and Kathy Skank got together, because I paid attention to your client just like you wanted me to do.”

“You always had something else to do.  You took Lily to dance classes, you worked in your store, you did the shopping, the cooking.  You never paid attention to me.”  Did he really just say that?

I attacked.  “You seemed to think if you brought a paycheck home once a week you did everything necessary to contribute to a happy home.  Things had to get done and waiting for you to do anything is impossible.  If I didn’t ride herd on the lawn service, the grass would be tall enough to hid a car.  If I didn’t cook, you and Lily would starve. You don’t even take out the trash. Your sins of omission are piled as high as the ceiling.  I refuse to take responsibility for your indiscretions.  Kathy in your bed is not my fault.”  Maybe if I said it often enough, I would start to believe it.

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“Of course, it’s your fault.  I am not sleeping with Kathy Skank.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Kathy Skank.  Kathy Skank.  Kathy Skank.”

“That’s real mature,” he accused.

“I was the mature one for our entire marriage.  You have never taken responsibility for anything that went wrong.  You ran out of gas in your car, a car I never, ever drive and you came home, foaming at the mouth because somehow I didn’t put gas in it.  You remember that?  You left the blueprints for the Benson project on your desk in your office and went off to the meeting without them. You called me an hour later and yelled at me for ten minutes because the blueprints were in your office.  I had nothing to do with that, but you blamed me all the same.”

“Well, you’re no prize to live with.  You’re always too tired for sex.  Most of the time, you go to bed before me and if I try to wake you up, you yell at me.”

“Did it ever occur that I fell asleep so early was because I was doing my job and yours?  Did you ever think that maybe I was really tired?”

“Still, once in a while wouldn’t be too much to ask.”

My fury rose higher and higher.  This conversation wasn’t productive, but maybe we were getting some of the buried stuff out in the open.

“You know what?  You’re absolutely right.  What was I thinking?  Your massive-three-minute-in-the-sex-department effort wouldn’t have been too much to ask.”

“Kathy never complains,”  he said, defensively.

“She wants something from you and you are too stupid to see it.”

“What could she want from me?”

“Let me see.  She is twenty with a receptionist’s job and you have a stable career, a nice car, a nice house, credit cards, a swimming pool, a boat, vacations in the Caribbean.  In one instant she can achieve the American Dream: Cars, cash, credit cards, maybe a condo.”

“She is twenty-three,” he said.

“You are impossible.  Absolutely impossible,”  I said and turned my head to watch the pine trees out of the window at my shoulder.  

During all of our sniping, neither of us realized we missed the real reason we were at odds.  It all had to do with Trip, our son who died two years, previously.  Neither one of us had dealt with that death and suddenly, we had Lillian’s death to deal with, too.

Once again, Chris pulled the Cayenne over and we took the selfie of the Welcome to Georgia sign.  Snow peed on Chris’s foot, which made me giggle.  He looked down at his soggy sneaker and said called Snow a very ugly name.  And he said I am immature.