Wool Over Your Eyes Page 4

  An hour passed, and I carried two lovely sample tiles from the yard. One was blue and gray, the other a festive lime and orange, but I couldn’t decide. As much as I didn’t want Philly’s help, I wanted his approval of the design.

  Julio graciously allowed me to take them home—no charge. He handed me his business card and said if I made a choice, just call and they’d process the order and ship it to the Oasis. No telling how many permission slips Amelia will have to approve before they deliver the tiles.

  “So, you ready for lunch?” Madonna asked.

  “Never been so hungry.” That’s not true. I’ve been hungrier. My skinny body is a mean, clean calorie burning machine; it’s how I keep such a svelte figure.

  “I think there’s a nice place over by the park. If they’re still there.”

  “Okay.” I was at Madonna’s mercy and wanted to go home. I would play nice in Nogales so she wouldn’t dump me in Mexico. “Street tacos?”

  “Huh-uh. Probably the best on the planet.”

  She wheeled the car left and right, making me nauseous and lost. After a few more twists and turns leaving Julio’s neighborhood, I sat back but did not relax. I’d never be able to find my way back even with Philly’s TomTom.

  Madonna drove slowly searching for the taco stand. “Shoot. Guess the taco stand is gone. You never know, do you?”

  I sighed relieved the taco stand was gone, but kept my pie hole shut.

  “We’ll find something else.” The car jostled along the uneven streets and the tiles shifted in the paper bag on the floorboard.

  “I know where. Maria’s is a little pricier than street tacos, but it’ll be good.”

  “I’ll treat. No worries.” I had money to pay.

  I have a fear of poor. Once you’re poor and then you’re semi-rich, you’ll do anything to keep from being poor again. I budgeted our money, paid the bills and made sure Philly didn’t lack for scotch or beer and has plenty of folded money. He carries a money clip of cash in his front pocket because he hates to sit on a wallet. He spends his money if he treats me to dinner. Twice we’ve eaten at Elmer’s, and I can’t wait for him to find a dead rat in Elmer’s meat loaf.

  Philly doesn’t mind buying dinner, but he’s the world’s worst tipper. A buck doesn’t cut it these days.

  So, I carry cash to add to the tip after he leaves the table to go see a man about a horse. He does not know I think he’s a terrible tipper, and I don’t make it a point of contention; we have enough problems as it is.

  Madonna eased the car into a small parking lot next to a bright yellow painted shop. Someone had painted three sombreros with little feet sticking out like they were dancing hats. Above the dancing hats, Maria’s was painted in blue on the yellow wall.

  “I’ve eaten here before. She makes the best homemade tortillas.”

  “Okay.” I trusted Madonna completely, I had to, she was driving. “I’m starving.”

  After my hysterectomy, I began to burn calories like crazy. My skinny arms are a sight. If I get incurably mad at Philly and decide I will fly the coop, I’d spread my arm bat-wings, catch the hot air current rising over the Oasis and coast far away. There’s so much hot air rising over the asphalt jungle, I probably would only need to flap once or twice before I landed in Odessa.

  An air conditioner hung in Maria’s only window, underneath it a spotted, mangy dog licked water from the puddle of condensation dripping from the unit.

  “Poor baby.” Madonna said. “He’s little.”

  “It’s a mutt.” I stopped in the shade while Madonna reached to pet the poor thing. The puppy hunkered and snarled like as snapping great white shark bearing all of its baby teeth.

  “Whoa!” She jerked back saving herself from a round of rabies shots. “I feel so sorry for it.”

  It snarled again, this time its eyeballs spoke. When a sound comes from a dog’s eyes, it’s a good bet you better not touch it.

  I grabbed her elbow. “C’mon. You’re a bleeding heart.”

  Daddy was the bleeding heart in our family. He had the biggest heart, the foulest mouth and hated church more than any sinner, but he couldn’t leave an abandoned dog dumped on a dirt road going to an oil well site. He named every sick dog he brought home Poochy.

  One Poochy resembled the next and for a while, because he was a hard-nosed oilman and such a softy, they’d have a good life. He fed them pork chop bones and mama would grumble when she stepped barefoot on a sharp bone fragment forgotten by the screen door. After they fattened up, she’d give each Poochy to a better home than ours.

  “I should know better. Probably diseased. It’ll die quick.”

  “Stop it.” I tugged the restaurant’s glass door open, cool air escaped. Madonna sighed going inside, leaving the pup to its fate.

  Once my vision adjusted to the dim room, its inside walls matched the outsides. A painted faux bubbling blue and white waterfall fresco had orange and green parrots sitting among palm leaves.

  “It’s a seat yourself place.” Madonna grabbed a laminated menu from a rack next to the cash register. Somewhere in the kitchen a person rustled, hearing our entrance, waking from their nap as we took a booth on the far wall.

  “They have good Coke here.” Madonna passed over the menu.

  “Good Coke?” I glanced at the menu written in Spanish.

  “Original recipe. No high fructose corn syrup.”

  “I haven’t had a good coke in decades.” Coke burned going down. A hot tickle massaged your tonsils and fizzed in your belly. That was when its ingredients were still a secret and most likely made from battery acid and used motor oil, but everyone loved it.

  “You can get them here. Tastes like it did when we were teenagers.”

  A chubby white apron-clad old woman came toward the table, chattering incoherently putting a salsa bowl and a basket of sizzling tortilla chips on the table.

  Madonna replied, “Buenos. Cómo está, Señorita?”

  Grinning, a near toothless grin, Maria began a full-blown tale of her entire life story in Spanish, and I couldn’t understand a word. It sounded like a doozy life and Madonna giggled, replying in fluent Spanish.

  They nodded, smiling as the old woman jerked the menu out from underneath my elbow. “Oh, sorry.”

  She waddled away, yelling something into the kitchen.

  “I didn’t know you speak Spanish.”

  “I don’t. I improvise. She speaks perfect English, but she loves it when her customer’s order in Spanish.”

  “You ordered?” I hadn’t decided what to order.

  She held up two fingers. “Yes. Two taco carbonara baskets and real Cokes.”

  “Sounds good. Should I order a to-go box to feed my empty man-hole?”

  “Your man-hole?” Madonna smirked, knowing I was talking about Philly.

  “Yep. Philly growls like a grizzly bear coming out of hibernation when he’s hangry.” He’d rather have microwaved Maria’s—no matter what I ordered—than scotch and a bowl of Cheerios.

  Stuffed with Maria’s delicious food and swinging a sack filled with Styrofoam containers, I toted fixings for three more meals for me and Philly.

  Without mentioning my dislike of the park model dinky kitchen, I said, “He’ll be a happy camper.”

  Madonna loves the Oasis. Constant complaints aren’t ladylike, so I cut back on my objections of the cramped trailer, the black asphalt furrow and the unrelenting heat.

  Outside Maria’s, the sun glowed like the end of a welding torch in the sky.

  “Ahh! That puppy is still there.” I pursed my lips. It lay panting on the shady side of the building. It… she… it opened one eye as we walked by.

  Madonna reared back, stopping in her tracks. Stopping meant bad news in the stray puppy department.

  “C’mon. Don’t stop.” My knees went wobbly as I recognized her wonky expression.

  When he came home with another Poochy, Daddy used his sappy sucker face on Mama. She steamed like her steam iron set
on high, but resigned herself to care for another of his foundlings. She had too much to do and mouths to feed, but she never complained much about the dogs.

  In a big way, my daddy was a stray dog. When he returned tired from the oil fields worn-out and ragged, mama rescued him, coddling and clucking over her man. She’d bathe him, feed and water and put him to bed and he’d return to the oil fields on Monday. When she stopped fussing over him, she’d care for the foundling pup he brought home for her to bathe, feed and put to bed.

  With my free thumb and finger, I opened the car door and sat Philly’s taco buffet on the floorboard next to the tile samples.

  Madonna shaded her eyes, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Girlfriend. You need to stop. There are too many rules and—”

  “Hush. You’ll scare him.” Madonna waved backwards before she crouched heading for the pup. It wasn’t very old, thin as a shoelace and nearly hairless from mites.

  “Do you know how much trouble a dog is?”

  A few feet from the pup’s head, she got on her knees and opened her doggie bag, smooching big syrupy clucks. “C’mere, Poochy. You can eat this.”

  My jaw dropped, and a willie shivered up my spine. “Did you call him Poochy?”

  Chapter Seven

  Green Grass

  Madonna eased over holding a corner of tortilla, and Poochy nipped at it.

  His little tongue flicked out, snapped the tasty corner of tortilla and while occupied with saving his waning life, she grabbed him by the scruff.

  He shrieked like she had skinned him and she held him far enough he couldn’t scratch or nip her.

  “Looks like Poochy is a girl.”

  “That’s too bad.” Girl dogs make the grass turn yellow when they pee. I don’t know why I’m concerned: A. She’s not my dog. B. There wasn’t a blade of green grass within… I couldn’t imagine how far we’d have to travel before the grass turns green. Therefore, she won’t be making my green grass turn yellow, because I don’t have grass.

  In Odessa the grass springs to life for three or four days, grows with gusto for a week, and then the wind, whether it’s a hot or cold wind, dries the young grass to brown straw. Even a goat can’t find much grass to eat in the barren landscape. If you suck the blood from a skinny goat, I’m sure… but I’m no expert… the poor dear goats will have less blood. Thus the goatsuckers will be shy a good meal.

  Poochy swung limply from Madonna’s grasp, her gusto drained with one small snarl and a shriek.

  “There’s a towel on the backseat. We better wrap her up.”

  “We? Uh-uh. I ain’t touching that hairless thing.”

  Madonna gave me the shut up and do what I say look. I reached over the front seat and got the towel.

  I’m gonna be sorry I took part.

  Holding her—not him—in front of her, Madonna laid the she-devil in my arms. Like a wet fish, she wiggled, snapping and slobbering going for my jugular vein. Real tears spouted from her weepy eyes, and my heart did a somersault.

  Hugging the beast, I snapped loudly. “Poochy, you settle down.” Her little heart raced, and a lump grew in my throat.

  “Gimme another tortilla.” I waved my free hand at the doggie bag Madonna was holding.

  She tore another corner off a tortilla and waved it under the dog’s nose. Poochy stopped simpering, snatched the bit and swallowed it whole.

  “I’m getting in.” I flopped into the front seat and Madonna slammed the car door shut.

  I will regret touching Poochy for the rest of my life.

  About the time I got attached to the new Poochy, Mama would re-home the dog. After a few hissy fits, I stopped bonding with the dogs and vowed to never love another animal. Cats are an exception, they don’t need people and couldn’t care less about their owners. Dogs are different, they are loyal to a fault, willing to die for their human.

  “What kind of dog do you think Poochy is?”

  Madonna flipped on her blinker as she eased onto the highway. “She’s a mutt.”

  Between my hands, Poochy’s big bulgy eyes slayed my will. My mind wandered back to the double chastisement Sondra and Amelia had given me over the Oasis’ pet rules and policies. The dog park was a long way from Mississippi Street and we don’t have a car to shop for kibble, a dog bed or a crate.

  In baby talk—yes, I am a sucker—I said, “Woo not a muttie wuttie, are woo?” I pinched another bit of tortilla off, and she snatched the morsel from between my fingers.

  Corn had a determining factor on Poochy’s decision-making processes and she collapsed. My scratchy old lady voice couldn’t have soothed her fears, but shivering despite the heat, she laid her head across my arm.

  My pet, Sweetie Bastard, slept with his mouth open and head resting on the trailer wall when Madonna eased the car up beside our carport. He didn’t flinch as she put the car into park. Goatsuckers might walk right up onto the veranda, drain him dry of blood and disappear before he woke.

  “You sure you want to tackle this job?” Madonna leaned over and petted Poochy’s wee little head. We hadn’t talked about the next step, but I knew the minute Madonna named Poochy, I wouldn’t be able to let her go.

  “Oh, I’m positive. Me and Philly are expert dog rehabilitators.”

  Philly doesn’t hate dogs, but in San Fran the responsibility of walking a beast, scooping poop in special biodegradable green waste bags was too much. In the evenings, we were too lazy to get out of our chairs to walk a dog. Nothing has changed since we moved to the Oasis, well one thing has changed, we’re sitting in Wanda’s pink recliners.

  “Okay. If you’re sure, I’ll let you take her home. If you change your mind, I’ll take her to the no-kill dog shelter and they’ll re-home her.”

  “No. No re-homing.” Mama never called giving away the Poochys re-homing—it’s a modern term for what she used to do—getting rid of a pest.

  I hugged Poochy. Reaching for my bag and Philly’s takeout; I bumped the tiles laying at my feet. “Can I get the tiles tomorrow?”

  “Sure, I’ll bring them over.”

  Clicking open the door made Poochy’s snout search for new smells. “See you later.”

  Madonna nodded toward Philly. “If he has a fit, you bring her over right away.”

  “Okay. I will.” With my hands full of dog and taco fixings, I eased the car door shut so the noise wouldn’t disturb Philly’s beauty sleep. As I tiptoed up the steps, his chin fell forward, and he stretched, pretending to be awake. “Hey y’all. What took you so long?”

  “Oh, you know just girl stuff.” My standard answer when he wonders why I was gone too long shuts him up in a heartbeat.

  “Whatcha hiding?” I shut Philly up, but he’s keen on my body language. My arms can’t wiggle like a puppy.

  “A Poochy.” I batted my eyelashes—what little I have left—and grimaced firmly, setting my jaw to argue the pup’s plight.

  He glowered through a tiny slit in his eyelids. “That don’t sound good. What’s a Poochy?”

  On cue, Poochy swiveled her nose up and out of the towel, and I beamed.

  “I’m thinking it’s a mutt.” Poochy’s weepy-eyed gaze broke through the old man’s heart of steel.

  “Crap woman. You know how I feel about dogs.” He flared his nostrils.

  “I know you know how I feel about dogs. We’re not in San Fran anymore. The Oasis is sort of dog friendly.”

  The pet policy document I signed during orientation might be a deterring factor. Taking on a stray, especially one weak and sickly might be a heartbreaking situation without dealing with Amelia’s rules.

  Poochy delicately licked my thumb, and my heart shook like a bowl of Jell-O. “See, she’s coming around.”

  “She? Even worse. I don’t like sissy dogs.”

  The puppy shivered, and I hugged her close. “Me neither, she isn’t a sissy, just hungry and tired. She won’t be any trouble at all.”

  Philly’s taut neck muscles flexed because he doesn
’t have a loose turkey neck like mine to waggle.

  “She better not be.” He tried to sound gruff, but I heard a hint of giving-in creeping underneath his growl. “You’re walking her. Do you know how far away the dog park is?”

  “I’ll take the golf cart. Everyone else does?”

  Every morning a parade of dog owners drive to the pet park. I haven’t gone inside the fenced compound, but it was nice enough. Park benches and picnic tables set under shade sails just like the ones at Bob’s Burger Bar eating area. It wasn’t a dining area since you clean up after yourself. There’s a small aerated pond for the pups to enjoy with a realistic patch of potty grass. Others bring coffee thermoses turning dog walking into a social hour. Everything, which happens in the Oasis, was a big social outing, dog pee and poop was an excellent excuse to gab and gossip with your neighbors.

  “Unfortunately, Hunny, you don’t have a driver’s license.”

  I poked out my bottom lip. “Pooh, don’t remind me.” Where’d I put the manual?

  I flopped onto my throne, unceremoniously dropping Poochy onto her new Sweetie Bastard’s lap. Her pointy tail flipped as she sniffed Philly’s tanned arm.

  He glared at me. “Why d’you name her Poochy? Dumb name.”

  “Dunno. It came to me.” At last, I had a dog of my own. Even though she will be a big inconvenience, but my mama can’t get rid of her.

  “I gotta see a man about a horse.” Philly stood and took Poochy into the park model. I sat still, which is nearly impossible, giving them a moment alone. Through the closed door, I listened to him sweet talk the pup. When he stomped into the bathroom—sitting on the veranda I can tell where he was inside the trailer—I hopped up and went inside with them.

  We were no longer a dogless couple. Poochy is our first and most probably will be our only dog.

  Philly left her alone, and she followed me into the kitchen, took a good whiff of the dirty kitchen rug and squatted, christening it like she had me.

  Philly came out of the bathroom in time to see the incident, snickering and heading for Wanda’s recliner. He sat, levered up the footrest and flipped through the television channels. “I told you so.”