Calamity Jayne Rides Again (14 page)

"I'll have the Heartland Omelet," Townsend said, giving me a sidelong look and another jab to the ribs. He started to hand
his menu to Toni. "Fruit, no cakes," he said, but I grabbed the menu out of his hands before Toni could take it.

"What's in a Heartland Omelet exactly?" I asked, trying to find it in the menu.

I'm sure Toni was giving me a disgruntled look, but I couldn't risk looking at her again or, sure as my grammy would pass
gas at the table before we were done, I'd be off in a fit of laughter beyond my control.

"Diced ham, bacon, sausage, and sharp American cheese, topped with diced tomatoes and more cheese." The monotone response
told me this waitress did not believe this particular customer was ever right. "I suppose you want to change your order again?"
I heard her ask, still not taking the chance of looking at her.

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling a bit guilty at my inability to make up my mind. But it had been so long since I'd been out to
eat where someone waited on me for a change; where I didn't have to wait at a window to pick up my order. I wanted the perfect
dining experience— which, of course, required the perfect order. "Uh, no fruit, though. I'd like the cakes. Uh, if you wouldn't
mind?"

She gave a loud sigh and reached out a hand to take the menu. The menu flipped open and I caught a look at an item I'd missed.

"Whoa! Just a minute there," I said, turning my head upside down to try to read. "Does that say 'Double-bacon Benedict'?"
I asked, craning my head to see if such a magnificent, mouthwatering item actually existed. "Double bacon, as in twice as
much?"

"Don't tell me," the waitress said. "Let me guess: You want the double-bacon Benedict now."

I nodded, never so sure of anything else in my life. "Yes. Definitely. Double eggs Benedict is my final selection," I said.

Toni crossed out my order, rolling her big brown eyes in the process. She picked up the remaining menus and turned to go.

"Come to think of it, that double-bacon Benedict thing don't sound half bad," Gram said. "Switch my order to that, too," she
said.

I finally braved a peek at Toni. Her eyes were crossed.

She wrote the order down like the zombielike Lurch in
The Addams Family
would—snapping her pencil in the process. In slow motion, she turned to go.

"Oh, and dear, make sure we get the senior discount, won't you?" Gram asked. "I know we don't look like we qualify," she continued,
"but we do. Barely," she added.

Toni backed away from the table.

"She seems nice," I remarked.

"And now she's gone," Joe said. "Now let's hear that waitress joke, girlie."

A few seconds later three-fourths of our table were wiping their eyes or blowing their noses. I'll let you guess who the party
pooper was. Hmmm. Is that your final answer? Woo-hoo! Ding, ding, ding! We've got a winner!

Townsend and I sat in his pickup truck outside a Des Moines department store waiting for his grandfather and my grandmother.
My grammy had convinced Townsend to stop on the way back to the fairgrounds, as she wanted to buy a pair of hot-pink Capri
pants to wear with her Passionately Pink nail polish. She had assured us that it would only take a minute, but knowing my
grammy's penchant for shopping was second only to her passion for
Judge Judy
and
Entertainment Tonight
, I knew we were in for a long wait.

I sighed from the cramped quarters of the back seat.

"You can move up front, you know," Townsend offered for the third time. I figured it was safer being behind him than beside
him. His proximity in the restaurant and the frequent brushing of thighs had actually diverted my attention from my breakfast
several times. Usually it takes a natural disaster or a case of the flu to get my focus off a meal. Especially one that includes
bacon.

"I'm good," I said again, my fidgets belying my words.

"You're stubborn," Townsend said. "You are, without a doubt, the most stubborn female I have ever met. Or maybe
contrary
is a better word."

"Why? Because I don't want to get out and walk around and climb in the front of the pickup when, at any moment, I'll just
have to turn around, get out, and climb into the back again? I think that's called economy of effort," I said. In my case,
it was just plain self-interest. With the amount of food I'd consumed, there was a good chance my shorts would split if I
tried to bend my body out of the back of the pickup. Besides, I'd spent enough time sucking in my breath whenever Townsend
and I accidentally brushed arms or legs.

Townsend turned around and placed a deeply tanned, very toned arm across the length of the seat-back between us and looked
at me. "So, you liked the clown's blonde jokes the other night after all?" he asked. "That's a first. You usually want to
punch someone's lights out when they tell 'em around you." He rubbed his chin. "Hmm. I wonder what it was about this clown—the
wrong clown, as you called him—that reversed a lifetime of anti-blonde joke activism. And, for the record, I thought you hated
clowns," he said.

I avoided eye contact, instead playing with the patch on one of Townsend's uniform shirts. "Hate is a very strong word, Rick.
I'd say intensely dislike."

"But this clown was different? More likeable?"

I pulled at a thread on his sleeve. "I suppose you could put it that way. He just didn't annoy me as much as others have in
the past. Or maybe I'm just mellowing out a bit. Keeping things light. Upbeat," I finished.

Townsend nodded. "Upbeat," he echoed. "Don't you mean 'beat up'? You looked like you were ready to play a little game of clobber
the clown," he said. "Until you dunked him. After that, you just walked off and ignored the guy. Explain that."

"Dunker's remorse?" I replied with a wide-eyed and what I hoped was innocent look on my face.

Townsend blew a long, noisy raspberry. "How the hell gullible do you think I am, Tressa?" he asked, grabbing one of my shoulders
and forcing me to look at him. "Tell me. What kind of fool do you think I am?"

I stared at him, not sure what he wanted from me.

"Do you really think I didn't know that Bobo the clown was your cousin Frankie? Geez, give me some credit. Those ears alone
gave him away. Not to mention the pimples."

My mouth flew open. "You knew? All along you knew? And you didn't say a word?"

Townsend's lips thinned into a politician's smile— the kind they give when they're shaking your hand with one hand and shaking
you down with the other. "How does it feel, Tressa, to have someone deliberately withhold information from you? Someone you
really wished would trust you and open up. Tell me, how does it feel? Or do you give a shit at all?"

I waited for inspiration to strike, for my usual ready response to leap forth and be heard. But this time I didn't have a
made-for-the-occasion quip or rejoinder. I had nothing. How could I explain that the problem wasn't a lack of feeling on my
part but a lack of confidence. In me. In my own appeal. That I was still too uncertain to step forward in faith, but still
too optimistic to step back. So I remained frozen in place, safe and secure in Tressa's limboland, my own low-risk version
of Neverland, where to dare nothing in the relationship realm was to keep the evil forces of heartbreak at bay.

"So, is this about the clown?" I asked, still not willing to breach a vast chasm hewn by years of deft dueling and feigned
animosity. I wasn't yet ready for what I might—or might not—encounter on the other side.

Townsend ran a hand through his hair and cursed, then reached out and touched my cheek. "Someday, Calamity, you'll have to
confront your true feelings, get up close and personal with them. I just hope we all have the stamina to hang in there 'til
then." He dropped his hand. "Now, tell me what the hell Frankie is up to."

I quickly filled Townsend in on Frankie's theory that Luther Daggett or Mr. Li of Li's Asian Express could be behind the acts
targeting Uncle Frank. I also informed Townsend that the cowboy on the Sky Ride had been Frankie in another outrageous outfit,
but skipped the part about our planned dual surveillance. I knew Townsend would blow the whistle on us pronto, and I still
believed Frankie deserved the chance to clear his name.

I skipped over the details, too, knowing I couldn't discuss it in front of the Mac and Myer for Hire when they returned from
their shopping.

"Frankie is bent on staying under wraps until he has the goods on the bad guys," I told Townsend. "And I promised him I wouldn't
tell anyone, not even his folks, what he was up to. He thinks if anyone else knows, it will tip off the bad guy and the pranks
will stop and he'll never be able to prove it wasn't him. So, you can't tell a soul, Townsend," I stressed. "Not a soul. Please.
I promised."

Townsend let out a long, loud breath and shook his head. "Okay. I'll keep this to myself for now," he said.

"Thank you!" I put my arms around his neck and hugged.

Townsend drew back and looked at me. "I hope you're not bettin' on the wrong horse here, Calamity," he said.

I let my arms drop. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, the ranger's tone transmitting a signal I didn't think I wanted
to pick up on.

"The clown on the trolley. How sure are you that behind the clown paint and large, fake nose that wasn't dear ole cousin Frankie?"
he asked. "Just how sure are you?"

I winced. I'd better be pretty darned sure, 'cause I was bettin' the farm that this weenie wouldn't roast.

CHAPTER 12

Gram and Joe finally finished their shopping and found their way back to Townsend's pickup. Joe handed me several large shopping
bags and I stuck them on the floor behind the front seat.

"Hope we didn't take too long/' Gram said as she slid in beside Townsend. Joe crawled in behind her. "They had a sale, and
they had so many colors I couldn't make up my mind. I had to try the ones I picked on. Used to be, I could go into a store,
pick my size, and walk out knowing it would fit. Now, the sizes are so screwy, I don't know what size I am from one day to
another. Or one store to the next."

I took a peek in Gram's bag to see what she'd ended up with. A kaleidoscope of peach, lavender, and hot pink blinded me. I
reached in and pulled out a package of men's boxers. "Who are these for?" I asked.

"Me. I figured I might as well see how they work as pajama bottoms," Gram said. "Seems your sister had a bit of an objection
to sharing a bed with me the other night, so I thought these might help matters."

I shoved the shorts back and took a peek in Joe's bag to discover another package of boxers, some breath mints, and the latest
Rush Hour
DVD.

On the way back to the campgrounds, I tuned out the chatter in the front seat—a heated discussion over whether a soap opera
character who'd just returned from the dead had undergone collagen injections in her lips, which, Gram swore, looked like
those of an Ubangi tribeswoman. I found myself wondering what on earth I'd been thinking when I'd agreed to play detective
and keep tabs on the mini-freeze in the dead of night. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't come up with an appropriate shirt
to wear. I gave myself a mental head slap. I should have purchased a shirt while Gram was shopping. It sure would have saved
me a rather uncomfortable conversation with Townsend.

I shifted position on the narrow seat, and one of Townsend's uniform shirts slid to the floor. I bent over and retrieved it,
smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. I stroked the light tan-colored material and ran my fingers over the DNR patch on
the short sleeve. I stared at the patch, then at the shirt in my hands. I looked over and noted two other shirts wrapped in
plastic.

No. I couldn't. I shouldn't. He'd throttle me.

He'd never know, I told myself. I'd slip the shirt back in his granddad's RV and Ranger Rick would never miss it. I slipped
the shirt on the bottom of Gram's sack, rearranging her orange flip-flops and matching nail polish neatly on the top and sat
back, thinking maybe this security guard detail might work out after all.

Townsend dropped us off at the campground. I mumbled a thank-you to Townsend for the ride (and the use of his shirt) grabbed
Gram's bag, and held the door for her as we entered the trailer.

"I'll just go lay your Capris out on the bed so they don't wrinkle more," I said, heading for the bedroom,

trying to figure out where I could safely stash Townsend's shirt and retrieve it later without rousing the sleeping occupants
of the trailer. I finally decided my bunk was the only place no one would go near, and I folded the uniform shirt up and stuck
it down the front of my shorts. I left the bedroom and walked across the tiny living area. Gram sat on the couch and watched.

Dang. How was I going to pull the shirt out of my pants with her sitting there? I walked to the kitchen and got a drink of
water. "You might want to check that I laid those Capri pants out all right, Grammy," I called out to her. "You know how you
always say I look like an unmade bed. I can't fold. That's why."

"It can wait for a bit. I'm reading
People
. Did you know that Paris Hilton was engaged to a feller named Paris? If he took her last name, they'd both be Paris Hilton.
Paris Hilton. Do you suppose that's how they answer the phone in France at the Hilton Hotel? 'Hello, Paris Hilton.' I wonder
why they named her Paris. Or him, for that matter. Do you reckon they were conceived during a hot, steamy affair in gay Paree?"
she said. " 'Course they coulda been named after the faucets, too, I suppose."

I pounded my head against the tiny built-in microwave. I drank my water, rinsed the cup, stuck it in the drainer and returned
to the living area.

"I think I'll take a short nap," I said, looking at the time and figuring I had a good two hours before I had to report to
the mini-freeze. "You gonna be around to wake me at two-thirty?" I asked, preparing to pull myself up into the crypt.

"You know, a short catnap doesn't sound too bad," she replied. "I'll use the big bed and set the alarm. You can take the couch."
She rose. "You know, dear, you might want to take it easy on the double bacon for a while." She motioned to my bulging abdomen.
"You're getting quite a paunch there."

I nodded. "Thanks for the tip, Gram," I said. "I'll watch it."

She moved to the bedroom, and I pulled the now wrinkled uniform shirt from the front of my shorts and secreted it under the
pillow in my bunk, staring at a stomach that was stall way too Buddhalike for my peace of mind. I rubbed my tummy and belched
hollandaise sauce. Grammy was right; I did have a paunch. Instead of sacking out on the sofa, I should be doing sit-ups or
going for a jog.

Somehow my feet found their way to the sofa anyway, and my head hit the pillowed arm shortly thereafter.

I stared at the ceiling, detecting the sound of Gram's snores from the bedroom. My eyelids grew heavy. The last thought I
had was that someone could make a killing if they'd invent a pill that sucked the body fat from you while you slept. Hey,
it could happen. Who'd have thought they'd come up with a pill that causes eight-hour erections?

"Does this make me look fat?"

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and was sorry I did.

Britney Spears fifty years down a rather long, bumpy road stood over me in peach Capris, matching flip-flops, and long, dangly
orange earrings that nearly reached her shoulders.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Do these pants make me look fat?"

I sat up, my girlish dreams shattered. I'd fantasized that the time would
come
when womankind everywhere would never feel the need to let such a query fall from their collective lips ever again. I shook
my head. If a woman who'd raised a family, survived menopause,

and outlived a husband of forty years still lamented her body shape, all was lost.

"You look wonderful," I told her, thinking she made an adorable, if somewhat pear-shaped, peach. I suspected Joe would think
so, too. And there, I knew, lay the root of Gram's sudden anxiety over her appearance.

"What time is it?" I asked, rolling to my feet.

"A quarter 'til three," she answered.

"Gram! I told you to wake me at two-thirty!" I exclaimed, running to the bathroom to check out how bad a case of bed-head
(or couch-head) I had. I screamed, yanked the scrunchy from my ponytail, and began salvage operations. I squirted some spray
gel on, pulled my hair back so tight I gave myself an instant face-lift, then secured it. Pulling up my T-shirt, I rolled
on some deodorant, then slathered cocoa butter lotion on my arms, gave my hair a final squirt to be safe, and headed out.
I strapped on my cheapo watch, grabbed my khaki visor, keys, and camera on my way out the door.

"Bye, Grammy!" I called. "Stop by the mini-freeze if you're out and about. You could drop that
People
magazine off if you're done with it, too," I said. Sometimes it gets really boring whipping up ice cream, especially on a
Sunday evening.

I checked the time again, and a naughty word escaped me. I caught an episode of
Oprah
some time ago that featured folks giving up their bad habits, so I decided, What the heck, I'm in. The hardest part was picking
which of my bad habits I needed to break the most. After I got Popsicle sticks glued to my fingers during craft time at Vacation
Bible School last summer and an uh-oh word slipped past my lips in front of the youth pastor, I decided language usage should
be at the top of the list. I've been doing a pretty decent job of self-monitoring. I still have slips occasionally, but those
are mostly under my breath and those don't count, do they?

Joe Townsend saw the same
Oprah
, and he stopped trimming his toenails in the living room. At least that's what he says. I haven't checked his living room
for toe-nail clippings. And don't ever intend to.

Noting the time again, I jogged the last two-twenty, wondering how much I would have to run to get rid of the double-bacon
baeakfast I'd consumed earlier. Probably a 25K marathon. In hundred-degree heat. With Joe Townsend strapped on my back.

I was thirty minutes late when I reached the door of the mini-freeze. I opened it and rushed in with a very detailed excuse
prepared. I would blame it all on my grammy.

"I am so sorry, Kimmie," I said, grabbing an apron and pulling it over my head and securing it around my waist. "Gram overdid
it a little in the bacon department at breakfast, and she went in to lie down, and I really didn't feel comfortable leaving
until she was up and I knew she was okay. Man, it's hot out there. Townsend says we've got thunderstorms on the way for later
in the week. I bet the midway is already getting a little ripe, don't you?" I stopped and finally looked at Kimmie.

Normally Kimmie is clothed to the nines. She reminds me a lot of Hilary Duff, but Kimmie's hair is darker. Her hair and makeup
always look just right, and she has a knack for coordinating clothes. In other words, she has the skill sets I don't. This
Kimmie, however, looked like she'd been chopping onions for the burn-your-innards salsa Uncle Frank put up each summer. Tears
streamed down her face much like the water had trickled down Bobo's—I mean Frankie's—face after his abrupt introduction to
the dunk tank. Kimmie's eyes were redder than I imagined my cheeks were from having hoofed it to the mini-freeze.

"Oh, Kimmie, I'm sorry I was late. Honest, it won't happen again." I patted her arm. "Next time that old lady is on her own,"
I said. "I swear."

I looked around the tiny stand. "Where's Craig?" I asked. Craig and Kimmie always work together as a team, since Kimmie is
relatively new to the ice cream business, only having three years under her belt. Besides, they're new enough in the wedded
bliss department that they still enjoy each other's company. "Call of nature?" I asked.

"He's gone!" Kimmie wailed, grabbing a wad of napkins from the dispenser and blowing her nose loudly. "He walked out!"

I looked at her, wondering what it was about the mini-freeze that prompted people to disappear.

"Come again?" I asked.

"We got into a major fight," she announced, wiping her eyes and discarding wet napkins for dry ones. "And he left."

"My brother is a selfish ass," I said, suspecting that what they'd been fighting over was his readiness to become a father.
Craig said he wasn't sure. Kimmie assured him he was, even if he didn't know it yet. I'd kept out of the brewing storm so
far, but seeing how upset Kimmie was and coming to realize how cool it would be to have a little niece or nephew to totally
screw up, I was ready to join her campaign against my own flesh and blood.

Kimmie blew her nose again. "He's not really a selfish ass," she said, not quite able, it appeared, to stop herself from defending
him. "He's more an immature ass. A six-foot, adolescent ass."

I shoved her gently onto a stool and took the other one. "So, this is about baby Turner?" I asked, thinking that on any number
of levels men can be adolescent, immature asses.

She nodded. "He still says, 'What's the hurry? We're both young. We have plenty of time. Blah, blah, blah, blah.' That's easy
for him to say. He's not the one who has to carry and deliver a baby. I'll be twenty-seven years old in September," Kimmie
went on. "If I conceive now, I'll be nearly twenty-eight when I give birth. That will make me forty-six when my first child
graduates from high school. Forty-six! That's eight years away from AARP and senior discounts!"

"My grammy says that if men could have babies and couples took turns, every couple in the world would have only three children—providing
the woman had the first one, that is," I said. "Men are totally clueless when it comes to pregnancy and motherhood." I reckoned
I was, too, but decided not to point that fact out to Kimmie.

"I told him he needed to quit spending so much time with his buddies and their toys and games. If it isn't boating, it's snowmobiling.
If it isn't fishing, it's hunting. If it isn't football, it's basketball. If it isn't rec sports, it's TV sports. It if isn't
pro, it's college. I just want to scream, 'Grow up!'" Kimmie's voice rose, and several folks on the sidewalk outside the stand
stopped and looked over at us.

"Excuse me: We're having a conversation here," I said. "Do you mind? Listen, Kimmie, if you'd like, I could have a talk with
Craig—you know, try to get him to see your point of view on the matter. I could even bring along some of those 'Your Pregnancy'
flyers they have at the doctor's office, with the pictures of babies in various stages of fetal development," I offered.

Kimmie shook her head. "My luck, he'll see them and throw up," she said. "But maybe it would be a good thing to have someone
in his own family talk to him."

She stood and patted my shoulder. "Thanks, Tressa," she said, pulling off her apron.

"No problem," I said, thinking I was getting better at this touchy-feely family stuff.

"I'll see if Taylor can talk to him. She's a psych major, so that should help." Kimmie reached down and gave me a quick hug.
"Thanks again, T!" she said, and was gone.

I stared after her and shook my head. Taylor?!! What had just happened here?

I shook my head. It was the same old, same old, dumb blonde shuffle, that's what. Two steps forward and three steps back.
What the devil did it take to overhaul a reputation, anyway? Mr. freakin' Goodwrench?

I pushed the button on my Bargain City cheapo glow-in-the-dark watch to quiet the alarm and, through eyelids that refused
to open beyond a slit, read the time. One forty-five. I sighed and buried my face back in my pillow, wondering what it was
about me that made it impossible to verbalize the teensy-tiny, insignificant itty-bitty word No. Or why I had such a hard
time accepting that little word from others. The alarm sounded again, and I shoved my chirping wrist under the pillow to silence
it.