“This is really nice,” Millie says.
“Yeah, I needed it.” The hot liquid coats my throat and calms my frayed emotions.
I glance around the room. This is a new coffee shop with cream-colored ceramic tile flooring and matching tables crouched in snug corners. A display of coffee goods such as mugs and cof-feemakers shines from one wall, while full windows on the other side release a burst of sunlight into the room. A few customers huddle at their tables in quiet conversation. The whir of the cappuccino machine and the spray of whipped cream sound from the counter area. The scent of rich coffee permeates the air.
“Hey, I was noticing in my book that there's a really neat zoo in Omaha. I think it's called the Henry Doorly Zoo. They have a rain forest and everything,” Millie says. “I thought maybe we could go there this afternoon.”
After another quick drink, I nod. It does no good whatsoever to buck Millie when she's on a mission. Lydia's voice carries our way, causing Millie and I both to look at her. The frown on her face tells me the conversation isn't going well.
“That doesn't look good,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I noticed that. Poor Lydia.”
“Well, we'll just have to help her through this. You know, us being her community of friends and all.” Millie joins me in a smile.
By the time my coffee cup is empty and Millie and I have discussed the fashions of the '70s, as in bell-bottom trousers and psychedelic shirts, Lydia comes back with swollen eyes and a red nose.
“Why do I try? That boy won't even talk to me. He needs help, that's all there is to it, but he won't hear of it.” She plops down in her chair.
“Give it some time, Lydia. He'll come around,” I say, hoping it is so.
“He's making a mess of his life. Dropping his goal of becoming a dentist and instead working at an ice-cream factory. What is he thinking?”
“He's got time, Lydia. He's still young. We all make mistakes,” Millie says.
Lydia takes a deep breath. “You're right. God can handle it. I have to quit worrying about things.”
Millie puts her hand over Lydia's. “You're human, Lydia. It's okay to get frustrated, worry, fear, whatever. The important thing is that you don't stay there,” Millie says, and I'm just amazed. That's the most profound statement I've ever heard Millie make without quoting from a book. Then again, maybe it is a quote.
“I know we'll be at the camp soon, but I was just wondering, well, do you girls want to go home early?”
Millie and I lift a surprised look to Lydia. There goes my chance to see one of my old flames.
“It just seems like everything's going wrong on this trip. You both are having struggles with your jobs, Waldo's fighting just to hold it all together, andâoh, I don't know. I just wanted to give you that option and let you know I'd be happy to do that, if that's what you want.”
We fall silent again.
“That's what I thought,” Lydia says, eyes downcast.
“No, we don't have to go home, Lydia. I'm sure I'm worrying about my business for no reason.”
“It's all right, really. With all this going on with my boys, I'm wondering if I shouldn't go back early.”
“You can't always fix it. That's how they mature,” Millie says, and I'm wondering how she knows so much about kids since she's never had any of her own. She fidgets with her cup.
“What about you, Millie? Do you want to go back early?” Lydia asks.
She shrugs. “I've wondered about going home before Bob has time to stir everyone up with this computer thing. Then another side of me says to let it go and just take what comes. Truthfully, I can hardly stand to think about it.”
“Well, why don't we do this: let's go on to the camp, see how things go, and we can make our decision then,” Lydia says. “Is that all right with you two?”
“That works for me,” I say.
“Me too,” Millie adds.
We linger over coffee awhile longer and soon get back on the road. Before long, we enter the fine state of Nebraska, where the Missouri River winds its way through a land of low, rolling hills, creeks, and woodlands thick with cottonwood trees.
“Looks like it might rain,” I say, glancing up at the sky.
“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Millie says, closing her map once more.
One glance at the ceiling and I note the starting-to-curl duct tape that's been holding the rainwater at bay through the few showers we've happened upon since the flood at Wal-Mart. We still have plenty more tape, so I may need to replace it soon.
“It might not be the best day for going to the zoo,” Lydia says with a touch of worry in her voice. “We have umbrellas, though, so maybe we'll be okay.”
“We'll be fine. We're nobody's sugar; we won't melt,” Millie says.
Thanks for the reminder.
Before we find our campsite, the heavens dump clouds full of rain upon the city. The rain is so thick, Lydia can't see to drive. She pulls off the interstate and into a parking lot until things subside.
The duct tape pulls farther from the ceiling, curling all the more. Grabbing another roll, I apply fresh tape in hopes of warding off the leaks. Millie and Lydia come back and help me.
“Poor Waldo. He seems to spring a new leak with every rainstorm,” Lydia says, stretching tape across some fresh drips.
After the rain slows to a trickle, Millie suggests that we go to the campsite and get settled, maybe even take a taxi to the zoo so we don't have to maneuver the RV around in any more rain in the unfamiliar city.
We decide to do that and head for our new site. Once we've been assigned a lot, Lydia drives to the new place. The ground is wet beneath us, almost marshy in some areas. Pools of water stand in small swales here and there. Not the most ideal conditions for camping.
Lydia is getting pretty good at backing into our camping spots. I hop out of the camper and wave directions as she backs into place. A steady sprinkle starts again, slowly turning my hair into a moppy mess. I brush the drops from my face just as the RV's back tires leave the rocky path and roll into the ground. Way into the ground. The farther Lydia backs into the site, the deeper the motor home sags into the ground.
“Stop!” I scream, flailing my arms like a busy traffic cop.
Lydia is talking to Millie while edging back. Neither is looking my way. With the RV's sinking back side, panic surges through me. This rig could bury me in the mud before Millie's next hot flash.
Millie yells something and turns around. Things inside must be falling backward. Lydia gets it. They both turn to me, my arms still waving. The tires grind to a halt, already deep in mud, flicking specks of mud my way.
My stomach sinks with the tires, and I'm wondering where I might find the closest airport . . .
The thought occurs to me that the RV's being stuck in the mud
is analogous to my life. I've allowed my past to pull me down further with every passing day. I've had enough. When the opportunity presents itself, I will tell Lydia and Millie the truth. I think.
By the time we get a tow truck to pull the motor home from the pit and find another camper-friendly site that can hold us, we're too pooped to go to the zoo.
Before dinner we grab a cab, go to a Laundromat, and clean our dirty clothes. Then we return to our campsite and settle down to dinner later than usual. We're feeling a little less than friendly. Happily for Lydia and Millie, the air-conditioning still works. They continue to keep it at an even temperature for Cobbler's sake, and the leaks have calmed to a trickle, thanks to the duct tape and the clearing skies. Unfortunately, the air still smells like a stale, musty basement.
With my fork I push the green beans, chicken, and applesauce around on my plate, and I notice Millie doing the same. Lydia takes a bite with all the enthusiasm of a sick puppy.
“This hasn't turned out to be quite the trip of our dreams, has it?” Millie asks.
It's just better if I keep my mouth shut right about now.
“I vote we head back tomorrow,” Lydia says, her voice thick with disappointment.
We look at her.
Hope dashes through me, but I refuse to dwell on it. It's true I don't want to fight this whole RV thing anymore. I'm worried about my business, and I want to go home. Still, we've come so far, and we need to do what we can for the camp. “What? I'll have to spend my days wondering if Tony and the others are now fat and bald? I just can't live like that, Lydia.”
She smiles in spite of herself.
“That's true, Lydia. That could put Dee right over the edge. Do you want that on your conscience? You know how fragile she is,” Millie says.
“Death by chocolate,” I say with solemn conviction.
“Oh dear, I would never forgive myself,” Lydia joins in.
“Exactly.” I fall back against my chair, and we all giggle, causing the tension to flee.
“This trip has been a little crazy,” Millie finally says.
“I've never seen anything like it,” Lydia agrees.
“I hope I never do it again,” I say.
Millie calls Beverly to check on things and to let her know we'll be there the day after tomorrow. Beverly tells Millie that several people have backed out of coming, but they're leaving the campground in the Lord's hands.
Later that night we try to play a game of Scrabble, but we're all pretty much drained and decide to call it a night. Lydia and Millie soon drift off to sleep, but no matter how I try, it escapes me. I finally decide not to fight it. Glancing down at my green-and-white- checkered pajamas, I decide I shouldn't get too cold with long pajama pants on. Still, I grab a sweater to put on over my long-sleeved top, slip on my sandals, and step outside. Crawling onto the bench of the picnic table at our site, I take care to avoid splinters. The night air has cooled off the humidity from earlier in the day. It's a little chilly for me, but Millie and Lydia would love it out here right now.
Thoughts of my business, my time with Millie and Lydia, and the way things have changed for us all consume me. I've never minded growing older. In fact, I'm of the opinion that most things get better with age. Still, I can't deny the fact that a younger woman has moved in on my business territory, and that bothers me. There has to be a way to make it work for both of us. After all, there are enough tourists in our town to support a couple of gourmet chocolate businesses, right? There must be a way to stay competitive.
While sorting through my business problems, Rob's face pops into my mind, and I wonder if I'll ever know love again. Though I have the strong opinion that I don't need a man to enjoy life, the older I get, the more I realize I don't want to be alone forever, either. But a future with him is not possible, unless he makes a major change. Another pang of guilt. It isn't possible. Period.
A mosquito lands on my wrist, and I smack it, totally spoiling his mealtime and adding pain to my arm. Another zooms in, then another. Mosquitoes attempt to prick my exposed skin the way unending questions poke through my safe world.
Since I hate bugsâand right now I'm drawing them in like a bug zapperâI'm thinking it must be a sign. Unfolding my legs from the picnic bench, I walk to the door and tug on it to go inside. It doesn't move. Another shove. Nothing.
I'm locked out. Locked out of the RV. Locked away from my chocolate. I try to stay levelheaded, but the sky is really dark and the campground completely quiet but for a rustling in the grasses behind me, and might I note that just freaks me out a littleâWhat if there's a murderer nearby? Wait. First of all, I used the words
what
if
. Second, I'm acting paranoid like Lydia and Millie. Third, all this stress could give me gray hair. And right now, I don't have gray hair. Well, not since I plucked out the six strands this morning.
Okay, eight.
Another rustle in the grass.
A mosquito lands on my face, and fear makes me hit myself a little too hard, which, by the way, does wonders for my mood. Have I mentioned I have a low patience threshold?
Another knock. Loud knock. “Lydia, Millie, get up,” I say as forcefully as I can without waking the neighbors. Between the RV's air-conditioning and Millie's snoring, I'm surprised anyone in the Northern Hemisphere can sleep. “See if I tape up your leaks anymore,” I grouse, kicking a muddy tire on the RV as I go. The ground is still wet, though not nearly as bad as at the first site. The mud sucks my shoes, causing a sort of
schlop
sound with every step.
I edge my way to the motor home's back side, but the window is too high for me to get to it. Stepping back to the side, I glance around, my gaze stopping on the picnic table. If I could just heave it over to the side window, I might be able to knock on the window and wake someone.
Rolling up my sleeves, I drag the picnic table toward the window. Grunt, heave, grunt, heave. A few more steps, and I'll make it. With one final grunt, I yank the table toward me. My foot sticks in the mud at the same time a splinter jabs into my index finger. My derriere plops smack-dab into a puddle, splattering flecks of mud everywhere. I let out a tantrum-type squeal and smack the muddy water with my handsâwhich, I might add, also helps things immensely.
Okay, tantrum over. Brushing a strand of hair from my face, I feel the smudge of mud I've left behind and can only imagine how I must look. A mud facial comes to mind, but I'm just not in the mood. I push up from the puddle and shake myself like Beethoven (the dog, not the musician).
Finally, I get the picnic table close enough to step up to the window. The good news is, Lydia's bed is beside this window. The bad news is, if I have to break in, she will not be a happy camper. Not only that, but I'm guessing my muddy self could pass for the creature from the Black Lagoon.
Now I'm tired, muddy, and mad. I give the window some heavy-fisted pounding. No thumping of feet as they get out of bed. Nothing. The moonlight would help me see if the blinds weren't down.