Mrs. Million (33 page)

Barbaraannette shrugged. “I did it mostly for Harold’s, to make up for all the stuff she shoplifted over the last thirty years. Nine thousand dollars’ worth of sweaters, scarves, and shoes ought to even the score.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that.” Toagie lit a cigarette. “Evening up the score.”

“I can afford to.”

“Only I still don’t get why you gave that Phlox woman ten grand.”

“It just felt right. I figure I’m nine hundred ninety thousand dollars ahead.” Barbaraannette smoothed the dress over her hips, turned to check out her backside in the mirror. She liked what she saw. The stress of the past week had caused her to drop a few pounds.

Toagie said, “I haven’t seen you looking this hot since you and Bobby got married.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling. “You’re amazing, B.A. Look at all that leg.”

Barbaraannette grinned. “I do look pretty damn good, don’t I?”

The doorbell rang.

“It’s like in one of those books, Pookie.”

“What books are those?” Bobby growled. He had one foot on the dashboard and was picking bits of duct tape adhesive off his boot. He’d been working on his left boot since Des Moines.

“You know. The man goes off to seek his fortune, and all these terrible things happen to him, and in the end he finds out that all he really wanted was what he had to start off with.”

“What’s that?”

“His true love.” Phlox smiled and knocked out shave-and-a-hair-cut on the steering wheel.

“I don’t think I ever read that one.” Bobby lifted his other foot onto the dashboard and examined both boots. He’d gotten most of the gunk off, but they still looked like hell. He might have to go over them with some turpentine or something.

“It’s like, ‘You can go home again.’”

“I thought it was ‘You can’t go home again.’”

Phlox shook her head. “Nope. It’s just like in
The Wizard of Oz.
You can go home again, Punkin, and the proof is that that’s what we’re doing. Going home.”

“I think you got something backward.” Bobby reached behind Phlox’s seat and fished a beer out of the cooler. “You want one?”

“Sure, Pook.”

Bobby and Phlox popped open their beers and drove for a while without talking.

“It was nice of her, all things considered, to give me the that money.”

“You mean give it to us.”

“Actually, Pook, she gave it to me.” Phlox giggled. “With conditions attached.”

“What conditions are those?”

“We made a deal. She gave me the ten thousand and made me promise to make sure you never ever go back to Cold Rock again. Ever.”

“So I’m right, you
can’t
go home again.”

Phlox shrugged. “What ever.” A few miles later she asked, “You think you still got a job?”

“I dunno. What about you?”

“I can deal cards; they’ll take me back at the casino.”

“
You
can go home again.”

“That’s right, Punky.”

Barbaraannette felt his eyes on her body. The dress was working. The poor man could hardly breathe. He thrust a bouquet of roses at her.

Art had bought some new clothes too: a natural silk sport coat and a pair of tasseled loafers. For a small-town banker this was some wild and crazy stuff. The tie was new, too, she guessed: yellow explosions on a navy blue background. And the haircut. Art had good hair, nice and thick.

Barbaraannette puttered around for a few minutes, putting the flowers in a vase, chatting about the weather, telling him how handsome he looked in his tasseled loafers and his new tie, letting him stand there and watch her, wondering what to do with his hands. She hadn’t felt this way since the night she’d convinced Bobby Quinn to propose to her. No, that wasn’t quite right. With Bobby she had been making a point. This time, this was something entirely different.

>Dear Mr. Keillor,

I recently had the great pleasure of reading your superb book
Lake Wobegon Days.
I, too, am a published author. Perhaps you are familiar with my most recent work,
F. Scott and Papa: Homoeroticism in the Roaring Twenties—A Structuralist Perspective.
I also grew up in a small Midwestern community much like Lake Wobegon, so I feel that you and I have a great deal in common.

As you can see from the return address, I am currently a resident of Stillwater State Prison, where I have been incarcerated after being falsely accused of a crime of which, needless to say (though I feel compelled to say it now), I am not guilty. Prior to reading
Lake Wobegon Days,
I was profoundly depressed. Life in prison is difficult for an educated man such as myself. The inmates here are crude, violent, and unrepentant. My only solace, and the only thing that now keeps me from utter despair, is great books such as yours.

Unfortunately, I am on a very limited budget, as all of my worldly possessions were sold to pay for my unsuccessful defense, and the small amount of money which I receive upon occasion from my ailing mother is as a rule confiscated by my cellmate, Frank Reinke, who refers to it as “rent.”

Do you have any copies of any of your other books with which you might be willing to part? I would be most grateful if you could help me through these long, dreary days.

Respectfully,

Your most sincere admirer and fellow author,

André Edmund Gideon

T
HANKS TO KATE MCCARTHY
of the Minnesota State Lottery for providing me with accurate information, much of which I corrupted to serve Barbaraannette’s cause, and thanks to H.B. for helping me move the money.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1999 by Pete Hautman

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-0621-6

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