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“It’s a pain in the keister. I’m tired of hearing clomp, clomp, clomp. And it takes me a half hour to go up the stairs. And it hurts if I walk on it too much, so I’m sitting around going nuts. I’m not used to sitting around.” She leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. “Holy cow, who let one go? What’s that smell?”
I held up the garbage bag. “My clothes were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They need washing.”
“Leave them on the back porch,” my mother said. “I’ll do them later.”
“We got coffee cake,” Grandma said to me. “An
d there’s some breakfast sausages in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I just ate breakfast.”
My mother and grandmother looked at me.
“You ate breakfast?” my mother asked. “I thought you broke up with Joseph.”
Morelli isn’t Martha Stewart, but it’s a known fact he’s more organized than I am. Morelli almost always has food in his house. When we’re a couple, and I spend the night, I eat breakfast at his little wooden kitchen table. Sometimes it’s leftover pizza and sometimes it’s a frozen toaster waffle. And Morelli is always the one to start coffee brewing, because Morelli is always the first one up. His kitchen is almost identical to my mom’s, but it feels entirely different. He’s refinished the wood floor and put in new cabinets. The lighting is pleasant, and the counters are for the most part uncluttered in Morelli’s house. My mom’s kitchen hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. Some new appliances, and new curtains on the back window. The floor is vinyl tile. The counters are Formica. The cabinets are maple. And the kitchen smells like coffee, apple pie, and bacon even when my mother isn’t cooking.
“I ate breakfast at home,” I said.
“Are you pregnant?” Grandma asked. “Sometimes women do strange things when they’re pregnant.”
“I’m not pregnant! I went shopping and got orange juice and Rice Krispies, and I ate breakfast at home. Jeez. It’s not like I never eat at home.”
“You only got one pot,” Grandma said.
“I had more pots, but they got wrecked when my stove caught fire.” I put the garbage bag on the back porch and took a seat at the table with Grandma. “Maybe just one piece of coffee cake,” I said.
Two pieces of cake and two cups of coffee later, I pushed back and stood.
“I need Lula to help me decorate this big black boot,” Grandma said. “I think it needs some of that glitter, or some rhinestones. Lula has a real flare for fashion.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, I was looking for a parking place in front of the bonds office. Cars were lined up on the curb. Some were double-parked. Some were angled in nose first. Soccer mom vans, junkers, tricked-out Escalades, Civics, and F150s. Mooner’s RV was parked in front of the bookstore. A crowd of people was milling around on the sidewalk. Hard to tell what was going on from the road. And then I saw the sign as I drove past. SIDEWALK SALE.
I parked half a block away and walked back to where Lula was directing pedestrian traffic.
“You want genuine first-class handcuffs, you just go to table number three,” she called out. “You could have a lot of fun with these handcuffs. They fit just right around a bedpost. Handguns are table six. We got a nice selection. Kitchen appliances and jewelry’s inside.”
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“Sale,” Lula said. “Sunflower wouldn’t negotiate, so we’re sellin’ everything. You want a lawnmower? It’s gonna go cheap.”
“I haven’t got a lawn.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“Where’s Connie?”
“Inside. She’s doing credit card sales. I’m strictly cash out here.”
Lula was dressed in four-inch black micro-fiber heels decorated with multicolored glitter, a short purple Spandex skirt, a gold metallic tank top, and she was wearing a Tavor Assault Rifle as an accessory.
“What’s with the gun?” I asked her.
“It’s in case some of these people get unruly.”
A big bald guy in a wifebeater shirt and cami cargo pants came up to Lula.
“Hey, Lula,” he said.
