Pigs in Heaven
Page 38
Angie owns not only the diner, it turns out, but also the adjacent Casa Suerte motor inn, which Taylor understood as “Casa Sweater” over the phone. According to Angie, suerte means “good luck”; she bought it ten years ago when the state finally persuaded Lucky’s father to catch up on his child support. The idea of this place as someone’s good fortune depresses Taylor. The low brick units of the motor inn surround a doubtful patch of grass, an empty swimming pool, and one palm tree that escaped the short, trashy stage only to find itself leggy and ridiculous above the telephone wires.
Each unit has a single metal chair outside its door, suggesting a concept of neighborliness, but the place seems short on neighbors. Taylor has seen only one other person around, an old woman with frightened-looking hair. She is grateful to have somewhere to hide out while she considers their next move, but being here is only slightly better than being nowhere.
“So what do you want to do now?” she asks Turtle.
“Go home.”
“I know. But we can’t. We’re on vacation for a while.”
Turtle bites her lips between her teeth, then releases them.
She picks up her fork and idly begins poking things with it: her plate, the tablecloth, her hair. The bulldog watches with mild interest. Taylor frowns unconsciously, fearing slightly for Turtle’s eyes, but she bites down on the impulse to tell her to put the fork down. Turtle will only go so far, she’s found. Not to the point of self-damage.
From their table Taylor can see the glossy slabs of lamin-ated newspaper hanging in the entrance to the diner: articles from the Phoenix Republic, the San Francisco Chronicle, even the Washington Post, all concerning the great adventure of Lucky and Turtle. It’s no comfort to Taylor that people in San Francisco and Washington, D.C., are aware of Angie’s diner.
“Let’s watch TV,” Turtle suggests.
“Sure, we can go watch TV. Pinky will cook and wait tables if the starving Armenians come in. Right, Pink?”
The dog wags its rear end with its ghost of bobbed tail, and Turtle smiles, her first all day. Taylor feels relieved for that, at least, as they shove the door open and run across the wet courtyard.
Sideways rain stings Turtle’s eyes and arms. She tried to see in the pool as they hurried by but there is no blue in there, only a big mud-color shape of a thumbprint growing on the bottom. Lucky Buster said he could swim, before, and now Lucky Buster is gone. Her mother is trying to fit the key in the door of their room. The scaredy white-hair woman comes toward them holding a little roof of newspaper over her head.
“Have you seen the horses?” she wants to know.
“No,” Taylor says. The key is on a wood card like Popsicle sticks. When it slips out of Taylor’s hand it goes away on the water down the sidewalk.
“Well, they were here,” the woman says. “Can you give me a present?”
Turtle catches the float-away key and gives it back. “What kind of present?” Taylor asks. She tries to make the lock open, but her hands are shaky like they were the day Turtle and Jax and Dwayne Ray came home from the rhinoceros zoo and they had to put everything in a suitcase.
“The horses! Didn’t you see them?”
“I’m sorry,” Taylor says.
Turtle doesn’t want to see a horse’s clomping feet. Everyone here is afraid. Turtle feels the old place coming, with him and no light and you can’t get air.
“Oh, you’re sorry. I’m sure you are.” The woman runs away with her feet in flip-flops splatting the ground with little steps. The door gives in and they fall inside, where the room smells safe and nose-stinging like clean bathrooms. She finds Taylor’s cold hand and knows they will stay right here.
Turtle clicks on the television and stands a few inches from the screen, punching the channel button, sorting through the brazen images. She settles on a documentary about repairing a cathedral, and climbs onto the bed. Taylor isn’t sure what the appeal is, but she accepts Turtle’s choice. The narrator is describing the chemicals they have to use on the ancient walls; meanwhile, a man in a little wooden swing moves up and down the high steeple in his system of ropes, like a spider, but not so graceful. A male spider with a bucket seat and chemicals.
“Where do you think Lucky Buster is now?” Turtle asks.
Taylor has stripped down to her bra and begins pulling off Turtle’s wet clothes. “Oh, I think he’s at a friend’s house chewing banana bubble gum and eating all kinds of junk Angie won’t let him have.”
“Like me and Jax do when you’re at work?”
Each unit has a single metal chair outside its door, suggesting a concept of neighborliness, but the place seems short on neighbors. Taylor has seen only one other person around, an old woman with frightened-looking hair. She is grateful to have somewhere to hide out while she considers their next move, but being here is only slightly better than being nowhere.
“So what do you want to do now?” she asks Turtle.
“Go home.”
“I know. But we can’t. We’re on vacation for a while.”
Turtle bites her lips between her teeth, then releases them.
She picks up her fork and idly begins poking things with it: her plate, the tablecloth, her hair. The bulldog watches with mild interest. Taylor frowns unconsciously, fearing slightly for Turtle’s eyes, but she bites down on the impulse to tell her to put the fork down. Turtle will only go so far, she’s found. Not to the point of self-damage.
From their table Taylor can see the glossy slabs of lamin-ated newspaper hanging in the entrance to the diner: articles from the Phoenix Republic, the San Francisco Chronicle, even the Washington Post, all concerning the great adventure of Lucky and Turtle. It’s no comfort to Taylor that people in San Francisco and Washington, D.C., are aware of Angie’s diner.
“Let’s watch TV,” Turtle suggests.
“Sure, we can go watch TV. Pinky will cook and wait tables if the starving Armenians come in. Right, Pink?”
The dog wags its rear end with its ghost of bobbed tail, and Turtle smiles, her first all day. Taylor feels relieved for that, at least, as they shove the door open and run across the wet courtyard.
Sideways rain stings Turtle’s eyes and arms. She tried to see in the pool as they hurried by but there is no blue in there, only a big mud-color shape of a thumbprint growing on the bottom. Lucky Buster said he could swim, before, and now Lucky Buster is gone. Her mother is trying to fit the key in the door of their room. The scaredy white-hair woman comes toward them holding a little roof of newspaper over her head.
“Have you seen the horses?” she wants to know.
“No,” Taylor says. The key is on a wood card like Popsicle sticks. When it slips out of Taylor’s hand it goes away on the water down the sidewalk.
“Well, they were here,” the woman says. “Can you give me a present?”
Turtle catches the float-away key and gives it back. “What kind of present?” Taylor asks. She tries to make the lock open, but her hands are shaky like they were the day Turtle and Jax and Dwayne Ray came home from the rhinoceros zoo and they had to put everything in a suitcase.
“The horses! Didn’t you see them?”
“I’m sorry,” Taylor says.
Turtle doesn’t want to see a horse’s clomping feet. Everyone here is afraid. Turtle feels the old place coming, with him and no light and you can’t get air.
“Oh, you’re sorry. I’m sure you are.” The woman runs away with her feet in flip-flops splatting the ground with little steps. The door gives in and they fall inside, where the room smells safe and nose-stinging like clean bathrooms. She finds Taylor’s cold hand and knows they will stay right here.
Turtle clicks on the television and stands a few inches from the screen, punching the channel button, sorting through the brazen images. She settles on a documentary about repairing a cathedral, and climbs onto the bed. Taylor isn’t sure what the appeal is, but she accepts Turtle’s choice. The narrator is describing the chemicals they have to use on the ancient walls; meanwhile, a man in a little wooden swing moves up and down the high steeple in his system of ropes, like a spider, but not so graceful. A male spider with a bucket seat and chemicals.
“Where do you think Lucky Buster is now?” Turtle asks.
Taylor has stripped down to her bra and begins pulling off Turtle’s wet clothes. “Oh, I think he’s at a friend’s house chewing banana bubble gum and eating all kinds of junk Angie won’t let him have.”
“Like me and Jax do when you’re at work?”
