A/N: This chapter is kind of long and I apologize for that. I try to keep these updates as compact as possible, but the muse sometimes has bigger plans. Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing or just reading and enjoying. That's fine too.
-12-
Myrna told herself she had a lot to be thankful for. She was getting married in a couple of days, which was good. She continued to take pride in her work. That was also good. She was still her own person, and that was definitely good.
She tried to keep these things in mind as her mother dragged her into every women's apparel store in the Palmer Square mall. Unfortunately, the mall was open until 10 PM, which meant two more hours of Frannie pressing on to find Myrna that perfect dress for Saturday.
"I have a dress, Mom," Myrna informed her twice at dinner. They had eaten in the hotel restaurant before getting Frannie checked in (which had been surprisingly smooth going). Her stomach stuffed with filet of sole, hotel key card in hand, Frannie trudged alongside Myrna to the elevators...which is when the bitch fest began. First up--Mom did not like how the woman behind the desk smiled. Her teeth were crooked and yellowish. She was creepy looking...too old. A hotel should only have young, pretty people helping customers.
But Frannie hadn't even hit her stride. As the evening wore on, The Bromfeld Bitch Fest hitched into high gear. The more Mom yammered, the more intensely Myrna suffered, feeling her old pal anxiety writhing and twisting in her gut. Such was the powerful wizardry of Frannie's complaints.
Pretty soon the Bitch Fest would be nearing its peak.
She and Greg should have eloped; the thought popped into Myrna's head unbidden (although she did call it up a few subsequent times over the course of the evening). He had suggested it: Vegas, Mexico, anywhere, which was a shocker. Greg did not possess the faintest bit of wanderlust. At first, even the idea of the Canadian honeymoon was met with resistance. So his suggestion to elope both surprised and pleased her. Of course, Myrna couldn't find it in herself to abandon tradition and just...leave. The thought of how hurt Frannie would have been was what made her say no.
Yeah, hindsight was a bitch. Myrna couldn't help regretting her decision. How good and free and fun it would have been: just her and Greg, taking off, getting married in a strange town, surrounded by anonymous well-wishers they would never see again. There was something provocative about that. Something extremely sexy.
But she had made her choice and now she had to live with it.
Once they left the registration desk, Frannie complaints intensified, like a light drizzle changing to sheets of hard, driving rain. The elevator was too slow in coming, the room was too far from the elevator banks. The place was too hot, one bed was too hard, the other too soft. Which should she take? She tested each mattress three or four times before deciding on which was to be 'hers'. Georgie wouldn't care. He was one of those kids who could pass out on a rock.
Myrna heaved a sigh, shook her head, attempting to fight off the descending haze. Like a mirror in a mirror image, the dress racks seemed to go on an on...and on...and on.
She recalled the clench in her gut the moment Mom mistook James for Greg. It was an understandable mistake, especially since Greg looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after a three day drunk. The whole thing was wickedly funny. Years from now they would laugh about it. But not now. Now it was trouble, like a sore tooth in a lion's jaw.
Frannie was mortified.. Her embarrassment sent her rocketing from the room, hauling Myrna along with her. They ended up in the bedroom, where Frannie caught her breath and demanded to see the wedding dress. There had been no mention of Greg. Not one word. She wanted the dress. The dress, the dress, the dress. And when Myrna brought it out of the closet and zipped open the storage bag, Frannie wrinkled her nose in triumphant distaste. Of course the dress was unacceptable.
Of course.
Frannie ignored Greg on the way out of the apartment. She hadn't mentioned him in the car. She spoke only of wedding dresses, hotel rooms and the rising price of gasoline.
They spent forty five minutes in Ann Taylor's, where Frannie corralled the saleswoman into locating every white or off white dress in Myrna's size.
"I have a dress, Mom," Myrna sighed after trying on...and detesting the fourth one. She met Clarissa's (their perky personal sales assistant) sympathetic gaze, and waved a dismissive hand at the fifth contestant. "I like the dress I have at home." Myrna threw her mother a decisive nod. "I'm going to wear it."
"Can I see you outside?"
Myrna apologized to Clarissa, who remained rooted to the spot, continuing to hold up the fifth dress. Well, Myrna thought as she sullenly followed her mother out of the store, if she stands there long enough with it hanging from her arm, there's bound to be a buyer.
A confrontation was on its way. A real lollapalooza. Her mother was pursing her lips and pulling at the skin beneath her chin: telltale signs her anger was rising. Storm clouds were threatening. The big question would be broached any minute.
"Georgie should be here, with us, Myrna." Frannie frowned, her gaze far away. "He needs a haircut."
"I'm sure he's having a better time with Greg."
Frannie turned her head slowly, fixing Myrna with an accusatory glare. The time had come. This was it! Way over by Sephora, at the other end of the mall's second floor, Myrna could swear she heard thunder roll.
"Why would you say such a thing?" Frannie's voice was low and gruff, nearly obscured by the Muzak version of "Feelings" descending from the rafters.
Myrna had a very bad feeling. "Why don't we go to the car and talk?"
"We'll talk right here!"
The 'Mom' voice caught the attention of three bosomy teenage girls. They snapped their gum and slowed their steps, as their smiles grew wide and knowing. Yes, they had definitely had been there, done that with their own mothers, sisters, aunts, whomever. But they were anything but sympathetic. They waved their fingers at Frannie, whispering and snickering and, at one point, dissolving into a chorus of derisive cackles.
Shut up, Myrna wanted to shout...just scream it out and shake those girls until each one collapsed lat her feet like a sack of meal. She narrowed her eyes as they passed, let out a short breath, and slowly changed her mind. It wasn't their fault. Someone close to them, someone loving and caring had done them a true favor and damaged them. For life.
A burly man wearing a wife beater and shorts approached, pushing a stroller along at a good clip. He wanted to pass, maybe head for the parking lot, get in his car and drive his kid home. But Frannie was standing smack dab between Cinnabon and Orange Julius, blocking his way. Myrna felt for the guy. He looked haggard, exhausted, muttering under his breath as he attempted to steer around Frannie. Unfortunately, her itinerary for the evening seemed not to include clearing a path for her fellow shoppers. With arms folded across her chest, she stood silent and gloriously indignant in the center of the aisle.
Burly man was getting somewhat loud now, his grumbling taking on a sharper edge. But his vitriol was not aimed at Frannie, who probably didn't care, but at Myrna (who did). She would bear the brunt of this; she would be left defusing whatever situations Frannie might instigate this evening.
"Move out of the way, Mom." Myrna grabbed Frannie's arm and pulled her none too gently over to the glass and steel barrier overlooking the first floor.
"You hurt me."
"I didn't hurt you," Myrna hissed. "You're as sturdy as an ox."
"You're on a mission to make this whole visit difficult, aren't you?"
Just another damn day in paradise...
"Yes, Mom. I'm on a mission." Myrna leaned over the railing and nodded her head decisively. "And, yes, I am certain Georgie is having a better time with Greg."
"Are you trying to get me upset, Myrna? Because if you are-"
"I should be the one who's upset," Myrna said softly to the shoppers below. "You didn't say one word to Greg. Not even a simple 'hello'. "
Frannie sniffed. "Why should I say hello to a man who doesn't shave, puts his feet all over the furniture, and looks like a decrepit bum. In fact, I've seen bums in better shape than your...whatever you want to call him." She paused to inhale, then continued. "Did he sleep in those clothes?"
"I have a nifty idea. You can be civil to him because I'm marrying him." She arched a brow. "Simple."
They were side by side now, elbows and upper arms touching. They probably looked like kindred spirits, like old pals enjoying each others company.
Not.
"Desperation can make a person do funny things, Myrna."
"I've never been desperate."
"You were desperate when you were home and dating that Thomas fellow. He was also twice your age." Frannie tapped a forefinger to her chin. "Hmmm, wonder what a shrink would make of that."
"How was I desperate? I was having fun."
"You were having sex."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Myrna threw her hands up, well aware her voice was too loud. It grated on her but she couldn't seem to stop it from rising higher and higher... "It was none of your business!" Her heart drummed along with the hot beat of her consternation. She was livid. In a moment, if she didn't take a few deep breaths, she would be out of control.
"Aw. But that's just you, Myrna." Frannie kept plugging away. "You do what you want, not giving a single thought as to how if affects others."
"What?" Incredulousness shook hands with livid to form...justifiable fury. "What?"
"You heard me. You just don't care. You leave your mother and brother, the only family you have, to get as far away as possible. Now, now you are marrying a man just because he asked-"
"Stop it."
"He's a cripple-"
Myrna's breaths quickened. She held tight to the railing. Below, the rolling sea of shoppers seemed to waver and pitch.
"-a slovenly loser from the looks of him. Of course he'd want to marry a pretty nurse. You can give him your personal attention, catering to him in every-"
"STOP IT!" Myrna sobbed, pressing her hands to her ears. "You don't even know him. You don't even want to get to know him."
"Oh, I know the type."
"Yeah." Myrna unzipped her purse and rifled through it for a few seconds before finding a tissue. It was stained with lipstick traces: the wine colored kind trollops wore. "You think you know everything. When daddy died you thought you'd been suddenly blessed with the wisdom of the ages, acting like a damn sage." She dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose and emitted another small sob. "Something happened to you, Mom. I remember. Three weeks after the funeral, your hands started to ache. You decided you needed to go to that quack chiropractor after Dr. Janesbury found nothing wrong with you."
"Dr. Janesbury was the quack."
"He'd been our family doctor for ten years." Myrna pounded the railing with her fist, noticing the curious eyes of the passersby. Let them look, let them ogle and stare. Maybe if they listened hard enough they would learn something about themselves.
"Something was wrong with me. But Dr. Minchin couldn't fix it." The sound of Frannie's sigh seemed to fill the entire mall. "I guess I was already too far gone."
"Nothing was ever wrong with your hands," Myrna spat. "It...was all up here." She whipped her head toward her mother and tapped a forefinger against Frannie's temple before the old lady could back away. "I put up with you. I took care of you and Georgie and I never, never complained."
Frannie's gaze turned a steely gray-green. "Fffft. You did what any daughter who cared about her family would do."
"You took advantage of me. You were selfish then and you're being selfish now."
"What a terrible thing to say to your mother."
Myrna's hands were trembling. Behind her eyes hot tears were queuing up, preparing to make their appearance. Pink neon lettering above the storefronts melted into a candy floss blur. Shoppers were featureless, colorful apparitions going about their business.
She had to get out of here before she either passed out or throttled her mother to within an inch of her life.
"I'm leaving." Myrna's lips pressed together as she hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. "Now. With or without you."
Frannie's mouth fell open as Myrna brushed past her. Heels scritching against the waxed smoothness of the tiles, Myrna made her way toward the exit without looking back. But her mother was there, following along. She heard her. The tick clack of those heels swallowed up every other sound for miles...
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The Honda cycle rumbled and roared beneath him. Its vibrations traveled up his legs and thighs to pleasure him, giving him that familiar, rousing warmth in his groin. Moving onwards and upwards, that shivery, shuddery shake trembled through his spine, then moved on to buzz the nape of his neck. Chills rode down his back; he was feeling good.
Woah...
The ride was unexpectedly invigorating tonight. He'd been expecting a mediocre meal but this wondrous gourmet dinner of motion had been served up instead. It surprised the hell out of him.
And the fact that it was a night ride enhanced his enjoyment. He savored it all: the creak of his leather jacket as he turned the corner, the smell of the asphalt, the bus fumes, the grime, the headlights approaching, wicked close, then zipping by, the kid's arms around his waist, tightening with fear and excitement as the Honda kicked forward, hovering just over the speed limit.
His chuckle was deep and low as he roared down the roads of Princeton. That laughter intensified as he thought about the kid he'd so easily knocked down a few notches moments before. House prided himself on keeping his edge, through illness, through heartbreak, through job loss, through chronic pain. He was still that cocky military brat who discovered words could be just as debilitating as a punch in the solar plexus. He'd gotten out of a lot of scrapes using his wiles. Gotten into a bunch of them too.
It was true. Words could be your best friend or your worst enemy.
Georgie's mouth was going to get him in a truckload of trouble someday. He needed to fear...someone...something. House figured it might as well be him, at least for the next few days. At home, George had no male figure to dominate him or answer to, just his boys. And no way were they positive forces in the universe. Guaranteed, one of these days those boys were going to get Georgie knifed in the back, shot in the gut or twenty five to life.
George needed to fear. He needed humility. He needed to know when to shut his mouth.
"Where are we going?" George yelled as they slowed and stopped for the light.
"Shut up."
They roared off again, took some twisty turns at a stomach dropping clip, ending up in the parking lot of Elmer's, House's favorite greasy spoon. Myrna had tolerated a couple of visits, but she wasn't one of the faithful, Wilson wasn't its biggest advocate either. So House didn't get here much. But now that he had a captive audience...
"This place is ghetto," Georgie whipped off the helmet he hadn't wanted to wear in the first place. He'd groused that it just wasn't cool. Having your head bashed in, House explained, wasn't cool either.
"Awww, Don't like Elmer's?" House threw him a mock pout.
"No," George grumbled.
"Then stay out here," House eased off his seat, then hobbled past George to retrieved his cane from its sheath attached to the side of the bike. "Don't eat," he cooed, tossing George a syrupy grin.
Shaking his head, George tucked his helmet under his arm and followed House across the parking lot. "Shee-it," he hissed
"Eighty." House shook a triumphant finger in the air.
"No way you heard that," George moaned.
The glass door squealed on its hinges as House pulled it open.
Elmer's had originally been an old railroad car left in the rain to rust, corrode and eventually be hauled away for scrap. But someone had a better idea and carted it to the outskirts of town. They spruced it up, added a kitchen and voila! Instant diner. But that was forty years ago, when the whole idea of railroad car diner might have been considered innovative and neat-o. With its scarlet walls, matching leatherette booths and counter stools, it had probably been a hit, a great place to bring a date before banging her in the back of the old Chevy.
Now it was just...ghetto.
"Sit." House waved his cane at the nearest empty booth. The place smelled of old grease and fried onions. It was nowhere near jumpin'; only two out of the ten booths were occupied. Over there, an elderly man nodded over his soup bowl, and three booths back sat two heavily rouged, mascara caked young women. They perused the parking lot as they picked at a plate of fries.
Georgie perused them.
"Sit!" House thrust the cane into the small of George's back, sending the kid stumbling into the booth across the aisle. George nearly fell flat across the seat, before righting himself and sliding toward the window.
The girls giggled.
Georgie grumbled and threw them a scowl. House was certain the kid would have tossed them the bird if another ten dollars hadn't been on the line.
"Have the fish taco."
Georgie's scowl morphed into a cringe. "You gotta be kidding."
"Trust me. It's good."
"Eww, gross."
The girls giggled again.
"Hey, shut up," Georgie shouted. "Whores..."
"Seventy." House crooned, leaning his chin on his hand as he drummed his fingers against the table.
"Wha-? That wasn't a curse."
House leaned forward, his mouth lifting into a half grin. "According to Greg's Primer Of Profanity, it is."
"Geez." Georgie shook his head and glared out the window.
Selma, the matronly waitress who seemed to always be on the job (at least when House came a-callin') took House's order. Fish tacos all around and two Cokes.
Georgie was too quiet, dividing his time between staring out that window and staring down those girls.
"You can talk if you want," House told him. "I only bite on days with an 'M' in them."
"Monday...?" Georgie clicked his tongue.
"Right," House said. "I don't like Mondays."
"Why not?"
"It's a song. I Don't Like Mondays."
Georgie flapped his lips. "Never heard of it."
Using his fork and spoon, House played a paradiddle against the edge of the table. "You really don't know anything about music, do you?"
"I know my rhymes. I know the music that matters."
"You don't know shit."
"Oh, so you can curse and I can't?"
"Lower your voice and yes, that's the deal."
"Why?"
"Because you're in Gregland and in Gregland I make the damn rules." He locked eyes with George and jabbed the air with the fork. "That's why."
George licked his lips and fell silent again, returning his gaze to the parking lot. The girls threw a few unladylike catcalls his way. But one dose of House's major league sneer, cut their vocalizing short.
"Hey," George said after letting another moment pass.
"What?"
"You let Myrna ride your bike?" Georgie asked.
Strange question...
"She rides on back. Wears a helmet and doesn't complain about it."
"No." George met his eyes. "I mean do you let her drive your cycle."
House shrugged and studied his placemat. It was an activity sheet for kids, smiling fish and mermaids danced together in a sea crying out for the magical hues of Crayola. "She doesn't know how."
Folding his arms, Georgie leaned back, his eyes narrowing, lips widening in something akin to a victory grin.
"What's with the stupid look?"
"Back home, my sister had her own bike, something like yours. I don't know what the f-" He ducked his head, scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know what kind. She used to ride to school on it. Loved it. Used to take me out on it sometimes behind my mother's back. If Frannie knew, she would have had a fit."
Headlights flared and died in the parking lot. A horn beeped, causing the two girls to squeal, grab their purses and clatter down the aisle toward the door. "Byeee, loser boy," the shrieked as they passed.
Georgie twisted his lips. "Idiots," he hissed, then threw House a hesitant, questioning look.
House frowned, tapping his fork against the outline of the cheery fish. "Why didn't she tell me?"
"How should I know? Thomas taught her to ride. I don't know..."
The fish tacos arrived. Boy and man lifted the delicacies to their lips and ate in silence. Greg chewed pensively. Georgie downed his taco without complaint. When he came up for air, he looked like he could have used another. But House didn't offer. He was disappointed with the food, tossing the last remnant onto his paper plate.
"That was good." George belched and pressed a hand to his stomach.
"It sucked." House crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto the plate to join the last bit of taco.
"You said it was good."
"It usually is."
Selma brought the check. She looked tired, like she could have used a month off to idle in the Caribbean.
House set his money down and clicked his tongue. "Tacos tasted like paper mache tonight, Selma."
She shrugged, offering him a sad smile. "Frankie's off. Jared don't know what he's doin' back there.
"Wish you would have told me."
Selma swept up the money with a practiced flourish, then sauntered back to her post.
Wipe your face." House threw a paper napkin at Georgie. Obediently, George grabbed the napkin and scrubbed at the corners of his mouth.
"Let's go." House slid out of the booth, pleased at how quickly Georgie followed suit.
The kid hadn't even attempted to dawdle.
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"This is Georgie or, MC "G" as all de cool cats say,"
They stood in the presence of His Eminence Kyle, the proprietor of Zog's (named after Werner Herzog, the man's favorite film director),one of the last surviving independent record stores in the state. House visited once or twice a week, each time invariably finding another great piece of blues vinyl to add to his collection. The shop smelled of ancient record sleeves and dust. The floor was a faded, cracked checkerboard. A Coltrane riff poured from the speakers like liquid gold--all proof that magic had taken up residence here. If this combination of elements could somehow be bottled, House figured it could cure...anything.
Wouldn't need you anymore, eh, old son?
"The emcee here is my future brother-in-law."
"Hey." Kyle extended a meaty hand from behind his counter. He was a big guy with a big gut, graying blond hair and a scruffy beard. 'Roly poly' was how a kid might have described him. House thought he looked like a beatnik version of Burl Ives. But there was strength in that body, power in those hands, a wealth of knowledge behind those eyes. His appearance belied his smarts. He looked like he should be bouncing drunks out of a club, not talking about music, films and life in a retail shop. But it was his shop. He was proud of it. House figured if the guy had a choice (when the time came) he would prefer to die right here in the presence of the thousands of records and CDs lining the walls, than anywhere else.
George shook Kyle's hand.
"Georgie here thinks he knows everything there is to know about hip-hop."
"Wow." Kyle hitched a shaggy brow. "That is fuckin' impressive." His grin was wide but his tone was sardonic and cutting.
Slack jawed George was in for a treat.
"Where's your iPod?" Kyle made a 'gimme' motion with his hand.
Reluctantly, Georgie fished it from his pocket and set it in the big guy's hand. "You learn that 'gimme' thing from him?" George quirked his chin at House.
"Nah." Kyle studied the screen as he scrolled through the contents. "He learned from me." Right, Greg?"
"Oh, yeah." House laughed. "You da man."
Kyle scrutinized the iPod screen like it held the key to the meaning of life. He ran one hand down his scruffy beard, his sharp blue eyes taking it all in. Finally, he raised his head.
"You know what I got here, MC "G"?"
"Uh."
"Answer the man." House nudged George with his elbow.
"Uh...what?" said George.
"What I got here is a handful of whack."
"Ain't no whack, bro." Spittle flew from George's lips. "Those guys are masters."
"Chingy? T.I.? Young Jeezy? Greg, you get a load of this crap?"
"It's why young George was brought to kneel at your alter, Master. "
"There's no Criminal Minded here,no Dre. Where's Public Enemy's It'll Take A Million, NWA's Straight Outta Compton?"
"I-"
"'scuse me." Kyle paused to greet a customer and ring a sale. Turning back to George, he said, "You need...this." Kyle reached under the counter, brought out a CD and shoved it in Georgie's face. The kid took it and checked out the cover.
"The Mona Lisa of the genre," Kyle crowed.
House smirked, knowing what disc it was before even glancing at it over Georgie's shoulder.
"Nas. Illmatic." George made a face.
"Don't you be dissing that shit, Georgie." Kyle's eyes burned with conviction. "This is prime. This is serious. You play this for your boys, they're gonna weep. They're gonna worship you."
Georgie muttered something to himself and returned the disc to Kyle. "Thanks, man. I'll keep that in mind."
Kyle pushed his hand away. "Keep it. That's my copy. You remember where it came from when your boys are bowing and scraping to you."
"I can have it?" Georgie breathed.
Kyle nodded without a trace of a smile.
"No shit! he shouted.
"Sixty," Greg said.
"Awww!" George stomped his foot in frustration and threw House a silent plea.
"We now have sixty bucks on the line. It used to be a hundred," House explained to Kyle. "He loses ten bucks every time he swears."
"Ah." Kyle busied himself with some paperwork, succeeding only slightly in keeping his smile at bay. "Maybe...you could...give the kid a break. This time."
"This time?" Georgie piped up, meek yet hopeful.
"We-ell, that was heavy stuff." House rubbed his chin, making a big show of drawing out the moment. "I'll give you one."
"Yeah?"
House turned and headed toward the Blues section. "Kyle, pick out three more essential additions to the kid's treasure trove."
"Woah," Georgie shouted and clapped his hands.
"And George..."
"Yeah?"
"If I hear a swear, the deal's nowhere." House looked over his shoulder and tossed them both a wicked grin. "That is the 'H' man's law, boyeeez."