Wool Over Your Eyes Page 2

  Slyly retreating, I kept an eye on the festering women, their desires to indoctrinate me into the Oasis showed in their shiny dazed expressions.

  I might not resist their group coercion.

  Chapter Three

  Prize Winners

  “Coffee?” A woman asked as I passed the beverage station. The Canadian snacks were no different from Texas goodies, and I helped myself to freshly baked cookies.

  “Guess so.” The iced tea would be instant and terrible, but my caffeine levels were dropping, I needed something to qualm my shaky nerves.

  “I’m Barbie.” She smiled, handing me a steaming cup of coffee.

  I smiled back remembering the ‘60s mothers who named their kids dumb names like Flower or Stone. Bunny and Barbie sounded sweet tagged onto a little girl, but on wrinkled old varmints like us, the names weren’t charming. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Is that your real name?”

  Barbie grinned. “Yes. My brother’s name is Ken.”

  “Bunny Winters. Sister’s named Candy.” I offered my hand.

  We shook hands bonding instantly. “You’re from Texas, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t ask if my name was really Bunny because with a sister named Candy, sure as shooting our names were real—really awful.

  “Yes’m I am. Midland Odessa.”

  The two towns are sister cities but the West Texas oil fields are boundless and connected. Roads going through both towns are straight shots any direction. Unless you’re hunting for a city limits sign, you can’t tell which town ends where.

  “Thought so. I’m an Okie. My daddy worked the fields, but we never moved to Texas.”

  Okies are from Oklahoma. Men like my daddy followed the work, leaving behind crying babies and wives with dishpans full of dirty dishes. It was easier than packing up and moving every time they struck a new oil well.

  “I hear ya. A wildcatter? My daddy was as tough as nails. Had a crooked sense of humor. He made the preacher’s wife blush, if he went to church.”

  Barbie’s gaze sparkled. “Good guys, weren’t they? My daddy died. Got blown off a rig in the Gulf. Never found him.”

  Shark bait. Same thing happened to my uncle. It was a boon for his family. Blown off a rig and never found meant a big insurance settlement. Barbie’s family was probably richer money-wise without their daddy. She wasn’t the only orphan who profited from an oil rig disaster.

  “I see.”

  “You haven’t been here long, have you?” Barbie asked. “Cream?”

  I nodded yes to cream. “Nope, a couple weeks. I’m still acclimating.”

  “It takes a while. You gonna vote?” She glanced at her watch. “There’s square dance practice tonight. Gotta clean up. Bunch of new people to teach. You square dance?”

  “Ah, no not yet. We’re still building an Arizona room. I’m booked up with water aerobics, pickleball and knitting.”

  Barbie did not produce a square dance sign-up sheet, and I relaxed. I liked her friendly Okie way, but if she asked me to sign up for anything, I’d run away screaming.

  She nodded toward the front of the community room. “Better go vote. We’ll catch up after the announcement.”

  “Lovely. Come sit with us.” I grabbed another cookie before I headed toward the fishbowl where the crawlers were casting votes.

  I sat my coffee on the table and pulled a slip of paper from my pocket. I let the pencil hover over it trying to remember what number Trudi told me to use. Minette expected me to vote for Trudi’s project, or she wouldn’t have bothered to introduce us.

  I cut my eyes hoping I’d spot something to jog my memory. Nothing popped to mind. I wrote the numeral 9 on the slip, folded it over and dropped it into the fishbowl. I put the pencil in the box next to the bowl, and the geezer guarding the pencils puckered up.

  This time I giggled. “No way, Jose.” Even with a blister on my heel, I turned like a whirlwind because I would not kiss his puckering puss.

  I spotted Ann and Minette sitting together at a table.

  “Hey y’all. Did’ya vote?” I pulled out a chair with one hand and shoved in a cookie with the other.

  Ann smiled, nodding at Minette. “We sure did.”

  “Wish I had a ride back.” I lifted my coffee, but my hands shook.

  “Walking is good for you,” Minette said.

  “’Spose so.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I gotta get home to make Philly’s lunch.”

  He should be home from pickleball. The game kept him occupied until ten when it gets too hot to play. He’ll need real food and a nap until Wayne arrives for the afternoon shift to work on the Arizona room.

  Ann drummed her fingernails on the table. “Me too.”

  “You’re gonna make Philly’s lunch? Good, I won’t have to.” I joshed with Ann, and she giggled. “No! I am not making his lunch.”

  Madonna joined us. “The competition is tight. Everyone I talked to said they’re voting for Betty’s afghan instead of Trudi’s.”

  “That so?” Minette asked. “Trudi will be upset. She wins every year.”

  A nervous titter made its way around the room as the straggling voters put votes in the glass fishbowl. Ann leaned over. “Did you write seven on your ballot?”

  “Uh-huh.” Yikes. The fib slipped out. My turkey neck waggled, giving away my mistake.

  “You okay?” Madonna asked.

  “Yeah, just coffee coming back up.” The stout brew was so strong; it could’ve dissolved a knitted afghan.

  Up front, a woman rang a bell and spoke loudly. “Ladies, voting has ended. Ten minutes to count the votes. Then we’ll have the ribbon ceremony.”

  I whispered in Ann’s ear. “Who’s she?”

  “Sissy Armstrong, she keeps the knitting classroom. The other woman is Betty. Trudi’s foe. They are in a mad competition to win each year. Trudi has won the last three years.”

  Sissy read off the top six finalists. The women chattered and hurried forward carrying their winning knitted things to the front. Helpers brought their pieces up and each pale woman seemed peevish, almost nauseous, standing at attention next to their crafty handiwork.

  “They’re all winners.” If someone gave me one of the six pieces, I wouldn’t turn it down.

  “Shhh!” Madonna pinched the back of my T-shirt.

  I turned, giving Madonna a long look. “I might’ve screwed up.”

  “Again?” She had a point. I’d made several screw-ups since arriving in this paradise.

  Like nervous beauty pageant contestants, the knitters held hands and wished each other success. If someone judged them on knitting skill and beauty, this contest wasn’t winnable. Every woman had different degrees of gray hair, wrinkles and a variety of deformities like a hump shoulder, a gimpy hand, or worse yet, a plastic Velcro ankle cast.

  They were a bunch of crippled, wrinkled cranky old broads, just like me.

  “Why ribbons? If I had knitted one of those beautiful things, I would need a crown and scepter.”

  If I knit an afghan, it will be a miracle.

  “It’s the Oasis way,” Ann whispered. “Hush. I can’t hear.”

  Barbie came over and sat across the table and we nodded smiles.

  Sissy announced the sixth, fifth and fourth place winners who received red ribbons. Third place won a yellow ribbon. The second-place winner would receive a nicer blue ribbon. The grand prize blue and white ribbon was as big as a high school homecoming corsage.

  The winning losers carried their pieces back to their chairs. Facing the group, Trudi and Betty looked more peevish than before. Lurking in the background, knitting helpers wearing latex gloves—imagine Santa’s geriatric elves—rearranged the last two pieces beside the women. Straight-faced and square-shouldered, the women did not hold hands, only grimacing like they had something caught in their craws.

  “They leave that up for the square dance?” I asked Barbie.

  “No way. The square dancers would get tangled up in a mess. They�
��ll post the winners online. You can look it up. Hush, you.” She chuckled and squinted toward the front.

  Ann whispered, “I sure hope Betty wins. It’s not fair Trudi wins every year. Betty will be disappointed for sure.” Our alliances weren’t jiving.

  Sissy poked the air with the coveted blue ribbon, teasing the women, playing pin the tail on the donkey with their nerves. Sissy stopped in front of Trudi, and her groupies gasped in unison. Sissy did a little sashay of her tushie, like how I shake my tushie at Philly, but turned away from Trudi and pinned the grand prize ribbon on Betty’s afghan.

  A smattering of surprised applause happened, but it wasn’t a standing ovation.

  Gossip makes a special hissing noise when it first hatches out. A stinging murmur flew around the room like mini-witches riding whisk brooms. I picked up several hissed words—Etsy, eBay and Amazon.

  Trudi’s face washed a gruesome blotchy gray, her nostrils flared and an ugly after-menopause heat rash climbed her chest. She staggered backward, grabbing her throat until one of her groupies reached out to help, but she jerked free hissing like a disturbed viper.

  “What was Betty’s number?” I asked, leaning into Ann’s ear.

  “Nine.” Keep your trap shut, Hunny Bunny. Don’t spill this bean.

  “What’s an Etsy?”

  Ann shook her head and put her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Betty’s chin quivered, but she huffed hard keeping it together.

  Trudi rallied enough to walk stiff-legged over to congratulate Betty. She clutched Betty in a harsh bear hug. Betty coughed, wincing free in Trudi’s stronghold.

  Trudi let go and stepped back, nodding and carried the measly blue ribbon back to her chair within her gathered groupies. Her women fawned over her, patting and whispering condolences. Minette hopped up heading toward Trudi’s group to console the loser.

  Ann wiggled, and Madonna excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Barbie and I shared a glance, which said Trudi was just too sure of herself, but I kept my mug from cracking into a smile.

  “Well, guess that’s that.” Barbie rose. “See you later.”

  “Will do.” I smiled, waving goodbye.

  Barbie hadn’t gotten very far. I had grabbed my coffee cup to throw away when a shriek happened over in Trudi’s group.

  Standing up to gawk at the melee, I saw Trudi break free of her clutch of girls and run over to Betty’s prize-winning afghan and snatch the grand prize blue and white ribbon.

  Betty, gathered with her coven of hens, shrieked when Trudi tugged on the ribbon, pulling a long piece of blue yarn out from the center of the piece. After Trudi realized she had done damage, she grabbed the yarn, tugging harder, giggling like a lunatic and unraveling the afghan.

  The kissing pencil gentleman stepped forward with his palms out saying something I couldn’t hear. Trudi glared at him and he stopped in his tracks. Trudi’s face flushed a deeper red and even from my distance, I heard her hyperventilating. Several women came forward trying to talk Trudi down off the ledge, but she wasn’t having it. With all her might, she tugged harder and the easel toppled over, unraveling more blue yarn, dragging the whole dadgum easel and afghan, she went out the exit door.

  In the background, Betty boohooed like someone had stabbed her. The exit door slammed on the yarn, leaving the unraveled part of the afghan inside and it jerked like Trudi was still pulling on it from the outside.

  A funeral home quietness overtook the room. No one spoke or sighed. We were all waiting to see what happened next.

  Unfortunately, I commenced to giggle. The murder of black crows turned their shiny black orbs onto me. I froze like a rabbit in a coyote’s den. Barbie hurried to my side, looping her hand in the crook of my elbow. “C’mon. Let’s get you outta here.”

  Chapter Four

  The Glittery Bag

  The next morning, I rapped on Madonna’s door, calling, “You ready?”

  She opened the screen door wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Hey you. Are you excited?”

  “Today’s the day!” I plastered on a genuine smile knowing I was escaping the Oasis. Mexican tile shopping was a good excuse to get away from the constant racket of the Arizona room addition.

  Philly and Wayne are behind on my building timeframe. I had expected the addition to take two or three days, a week tops, but we’re into the third week. The harder I pushed the slower those two ol’ mules worked. No matter what I say, I can’t convince him my Sleep Number bed was more important than his pickleball or nightly domino game. He laughs and ignores me, going his merry way.

  “I’m ready, are you?”

  “Sure am!” Sporting a bad case of bed head, dressed in my regular cutoff blue jeans and T-shirt,. I had to forgo my new Keds and wear flip-flops because of the nasty scabs on the back of my heels. It doesn’t matter how I dress, Madonna knows I’m a fashionista failure.

  “Let me get my purse. Be right out.” She left the door open.

  Fidgeting, I finger-combed my constant bed head, it’s worse than a cowlick, I can’t plaster it down with spit.

  “I thought we’d get lunch.” Madonna came out crisply coiffured. She has an uncanny ability to remain fresh despite the sweltering heat. I can’t compete with her beauty.

  She cocked her head. “Maybe we should go over the border. We’ve got time.”

  “The border? Like into Mexico?” I would not leave the U S of A, not for Mexican tile. They would need to be made of gold before I’d travel to a foreign country.

  “It’ll be fun.” Madonna closed the door and checked the lock.

  “Guess so. Anything will be better than listening to those guys all day.” I winced, glancing back over my shoulder.

  Slinking, Philly stood watching us under the shade of the carport, smoking Wayne’s cigarettes. We’ve had words about his smoking, although I admire his guts. What wouldn’t I give for a pack of unfiltered Camels? My run-in with the Big C made my desires for a cigarette easy to resist.

  “I’m ready to get away from the noise, too.” Madonna nodded toward our carport. Our addition has disturbed the Oasis’ serenity with loud rounds of foul language and stupid man-jokes, not to mention all the hammering and banging.

  The discovery of a bloody butcher knife in the walls of our humble abode ruffled the FBI’s unsolved murder files. They sent out a rookie to handle the job. The blood turned out to be cat’s blood. Go figure. The brouhaha ended fast, but I can’t shake the mystery of how the cat died or why the culprit stashed his murder weapon in our wall. That’s what you get when an idiot (Sweetie Bastard) shops online for a used park model.

  “Of course, we’re going in my car.”

  “Gas is my treat.” We’ve been without wheels for weeks, buying gas and bumming rides from the neighbors. Every time I mention car shopping, he rears like a stallion, pawing the air and blowing steam, but I’m losing my patience with my cocky pony.

  We will eventually buy a car, but when he’d get around to the task was a good question.

  Madonna smiled knowing what happened to our ‘04 Caddy. She died in the storage area’s gate blocking it until a tow truck arrived. Security Chief got his apple cart tossed, and I lost my patience over his anger. To him our dead used car was a nuisance steaming hunk of metal, but to me, she was part of our family. A string of unladylike Texas words spewed from my mouth, and he turned blue, biting his tongue trying not to top my profanity. I gave him one; he was trying to be a gentleman, and I was acting ugly.

  “Let me ask Philly how much tile we need. Gotta get my bag, too.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up.” Picking me up meant she would back her car out of her carport and park beside ours on the asphalt furrow.

  Our two-man work crew squatted in the shadows with Philly and Wayne taking the first of their many breaks. I’m hoping a pile of tile setting on the carport along with all the other junky building supplies will make my stallion run faster. Hope doesn’t carry much weight with Philly, but a demerit o
r two from the Oasis monitors for too much junk on our carport might put a briar under his saddle.

  “Hey y’all. Me and Madonna are going to Nogales. Write down how much tile we need to buy.”

  I climbed the steps giving Philly a small tushie sashay only he would notice. I can’t help but flirt with the ol’ geezer; he’s the only man who still thinks I’m sexy.

  Behind my back, Philly snorted without a polite response to my announcement. With my hand on the doorknob, I noticed a glittery bag sitting in my veranda throne. I spend so much time sitting on the stoop; I named my cheap plastic chair my throne.

  What the! Who put that thing there? I glanced at Philly, but he had his back turned. He hates glitter with a passion; it sticks in his chest hairs. He complains about the sticky stuff, but he complains louder when I pluck glitter and hairs from his chest. He was just a blowhard about fun stuff.

  Muttering under my breath, I snatched the bag before he saw it and carried it inside. Glitter flittered everywhere, sprinkling onto the bare floor like bread crumbs.

  No telling what’s in the silly bag. Hope it’s not dog poop or worse.

  If there was poop in it—never fear—I won’t complain, but will save it for a well-deserving payback prank. There’ll be someone, sometime who needs a bag of dog poop.

  “Dang it!” I squeezed the bag feeling its contents. “Who would give me a book?”

  I only read when I’m working my crossword puzzles. Half of the time, I’m asleep, but Philly doesn’t know it.

  “What the?” I lifted the book from the bag, dragging a new trail of breadcrumb glitter along with it. I didn’t bother reading the title and shoved it back into the gift bag.

  Whoever was pranking me—us—with a glittery bag would have to wait until I return from Nogales. I have my priorities; plucking glitter from Philly’s chest wasn’t on my to-do list.

  I stashed the messy bag under the kitchen sink. Unless the pipes were leaking, Philly wouldn’t poke around under the sink. When he does, I have to hold the flashlight so the boogers underneath the sink won’t get him. He can’t put trash in the bin without getting a shimmying willie, fearing a woman’s dark forbidden things like dishwashing liquid and trash bags. Anything I stored underneath the sink was safe from his prying eyes.