Wishbone Read online

  His gaze darted across the street. “Sorry about that.”

  “Have a good day, Mr. Fielding.” I touched my cap and left him watching me from the porch.

  Chapter 3

  “YOU HAVE A date!”

  I scowled at Chaz. “It’s not a date.” I never should have mentioned Pam to her. Now I’d never hear the end of it. I hadn’t been nervous about tomorrow’s trip to Drumlin until now. And I wasn’t about to mention that.

  Chaz wiped the bar with her towel. “Well, it’s not a one-night stand, so it must be a date.” She reached over the bar and pinched my cheek. “My little girl is growing up!” She laughed heartily while I mumbled something beginning with an “f” sound.

  Usually I looked forward to Friday nights at Ezri, a women’s bar tucked away in Boston’s financial district, owned and operated by the one and only Chaz Giannelli, real name Concetta, but no one who valued her life would call her that. I’d nurse a beer, spend the evening chatting with Chaz and if a pretty woman caught my eye, I might ask her to dance or play pool.

  Between orders, Chaz slid back down the bar to my perch. “You do know what a date is, right? Chapter 2 of Lesbianism for Dummies. Right after Coming Out.” She chuckled, clearly proud of her own wit, and pretended to search under the bar. “I know I have a copy somewhere.”

  Chaz frowned on what she called my “little hobby” of picking up women. I had told her I was bringing in business and she should advertise me—come in for a drink, leave with a dyke. She remained unamused.

  “You’re not in your twenties anymore,” she said, leaning on the bar, getting serious. “It’s time to settle down, find a nice girl.”

  “Have kids and the picket fence?” I added.

  “Don’t knock it.”

  I love Chaz, but we are very different people. Maybe that’s why we get along. No expectations of compatibility. Truth spills out of her like the dark curls on her head. Unruly and wild.

  “So . . .” Chaz said, calming down. “What’s she like?”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I said, knowing full well she wouldn’t settle for that. She glared at me. “It’s not a fucking date, Chaz. We’re going to Drumlin Farm with her kid.”

  “Ah, ready-made family,” she said with pride.

  Chaz could be impossible once she got on a track. Her need to watch out for me got on my nerves. We’d met when we ran into each other on a rugby field. Literally. She broke my collarbone. It was my first day trying the sport and she popped me like a balloon. She’d taken me to the hospital to get patched up but when she learned I lived alone, took me to her home to recuperate. She lived in Cambridge with her partner Louise, a high school history teacher. We’d all been friends since. Unfortunately, because she’d taken care of me, Chaz seemed to think she got to do that for the rest of my life. She came from a large Italian family, complete with bossy sisters and babied brothers. She was like an exotic species to me, fascinating to watch.

  I drained my glass, wishing for another, but back during the whole she-broke-my-collarbone thing, I’d told Chaz about my mother’s alcoholism. When I started going to Ezri and she saw me drinking, she lit into me. After considerable arguing, we made a deal. I could drink, but only at Ezri, under her supervision, and only one drink a week. Though I’d agreed to it, I don’t react well to being bossed around, even if it’s for my own good, so I got blasted a couple of times. And of course I called her so she’d know. One time, she came to get me from a straight bar to make sure I didn’t drive. I pouted all the way home. She sat with me until I sobered up. Glared at me was more like it. But it worked.

  I set my empty glass on the coaster and swiveled around to check out the action. The bar was filling and the music from the dance floor upstairs rose in volume and beat. Across the room, women played pool. Others huddled at tables. Time for a little fun before my non-date. Everyone seemed to be paired off, so with a wave to Chaz, who shook her head in defeat, I went upstairs.

  After a week of working in a straight, male-dominated world, I liked nothing better than to unwind surrounded by women, by lesbians. Good old fashioned dykes, butches, femmes, and, as the years have gone by, some new identities: queers, bois, whatever.

  I stood to the side while my eyes adjusted to the shifting light, alternating dark and brilliant as a spot circled the floor and bounced off the disco ball into multicolored snowflakes. The music throbbed through my body, filling the air, solid and barely breathable. The dance floor was a lesbian lekking ground of courtship displays. As I could make out faces, I strolled past those standing along the wall, making eye contact, seeing who might be interested. Eye contact. I stopped, reminded of Pam, and realized that was what she had been doing. Checking me out. I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. I smiled.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I pulled into Pam’s driveway. I swallowed the last bit of coffee in my mug and checked myself in the mirror. I was no worse for last night, which turned into a quickie in some woman’s car parked on the street behind Ezri, so I managed a few hours’ sleep.

  I’d cleaned the junk out of the back seat, but Pam suggested we take her car since Violet used a booster seat. “Easier than switching it. If you don’t mind.”

  How could I mind? Still, I’d have preferred to be in the driver’s seat, so to speak.

  I stood, awkward, in Pam’s tiny kitchen while she gathered together their things—snacks, lunch, drinks. She wore what I’d seen her in each time—the fleece jacket and jeans. I had to keep stepping out of her way. She kept apologizing. Violet entered the room, and we became packed like sardines.

  “Why don’t you take Meg to the den,” Pam suggested to Violet. She then looked at me as though asking if I minded.

  Violet was a lot quieter than she had been while helping me. She started out the door. “Come on.”

  I followed obediently, but she led me upstairs.

  “Isn’t the den downstairs, Violet? I think that’s where your mom meant.”

  “She’s not my mom. And the den’s boring.”

  I let that go. One thing I know about kids like Violet is not to push. We needed to establish a bond before she would relinquish control. The turkey wasn’t enough, and watching Pam deal with her told me even she was barely getting through.

  Three rooms and a bathroom fanned off a small hallway. One was an office, with a desk and computer. Violet’s was, well, violet. The walls were lavender. The third door was partly closed. As I entered Violet’s, I got a peek into Pam’s bedroom. The bed wasn’t made. One pillow, but to the side, not the middle, like she expected Lee back any day. I berated myself for allowing any thought about Pam’s love life.

  I reminded myself that this wasn’t a date. And it most definitely was not a one-night stand. There was no chance I’d end up in her bed, even for a couple of hours. Pam not only didn’t seem the type, she also had a broken heart a quickie wasn’t going to mend. Then there was Violet. There’s nothing wrong with two adults making love, even with a kid next door, but I’d seen enough of my mother’s sex life to know it can be confusing to a child, especially if the lovers come and go.

  I blinked away the memory of movements seen through partly closed doors and focused on the present. Violet’s room was typical for a kid her age. A mess. Cracks in the walls could likely be attributed to her temper and not age. The crayon marks would be easy enough to remove, but there were other signs of a kid on the brink. Toys jumbled, uncared for, many broken. She plopped herself down amid a pile of clothes, Beanie Babies and books. Torn covers, ripped pages. Rage resided here. My armpits felt damp.

  She tossed a small purple hippo into the air and caught it, repeating the move. “Do you have kids?” She reminded me of Chaz with her bluntness.

  “Uh, no,” I said. This was going to be an exhausting day.

  “Why not?”

  What could I say? I hate kids? Not true. Or I hadn’t met the right woman to have them with—pointing out Pam’s current single status? There was no good answer. “Maybe someday.”

  “Do you want to play house?”

  God no. The warm, stale room closed in around me. I spotted a stuffed dog on the bed. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  Violet’s face brightened. She jumped onto the bed and grabbed the floppy, black creature. “This is Dog.”

  “Dog? That’s his name?” I’d never named my toys either.

  “He’s not mine. Pam lets me play with him. He was hers when she was a little girl. This was her room.” She looked around proudly.

  She grew up here. Imagine living in one house all those years.

  “Come on girls, we’re ready!” Pam called from downstairs, like I was Violet’s playmate.

  Violet raced out of the room, pounded down the stairs, and jumped the last four steps. Pictures on the wall rattled. I followed more sedately. Pam waited by the door, holding Violet’s jacket and rolling her eyes.

  While Pam got Violet into her jacket, I glanced around. A shelf filled with photos caught my eye. Violet. Pam and Violet. Violet with a woman who was not Pam. Colleen? She had short, dark hair, but before I could examine her image further, Pam ushered us outside.

  Violet swirled in a little hurricane of commotion, talking, grabbing the lunch bag from Pam then dropping it. She insisted on checking the mailbox. Pam patiently coaxed her toward the car. It took forever to get us all into her Jetta, Violet buckled in the back with a few toys to keep her occupied. Pam cleared the passenger seat for me, tossing items into the back.

  “Finally,” she said with a sigh as she backed onto the street. “Which way?”

  I told her to head out to 128 and north to Route 2. I figured she could get that far before I needed to give directions.

  Violet’s sneakers thumped the back of my seat. She humme
d while dancing a Beanie Baby bear on her lap.

  Pam focused on the road, which let me watch her without having to worry she’d look at me and make me blush. She handled the car and the stick shift with confidence, zipping in and out of the passing lane. Her sunglasses kept me from seeing her eyes.

  “Violet,” Pam said. “Want to ask Meg what we’ll see today?”

  “I guess,” Violet said quietly. She didn’t look at me. I understood why. She knew car rides could have good or bad outcomes, like how dogs know you are taking them to the vet. She would play her cards closely.

  I sensed my cue to start talking. “Well, Violet,” I said, in my best game show host voice, “Today we’re going to a farm.” I turned to her. “Have you ever been to a farm?”

  She shook her head. I explained about cows and pigs and the vegetable plot and how my friend Jeff worked there and would know about wild turkeys. I told her about the wildlife clinic where he works. She didn’t ask questions, so I ran out of things to say and resorted to staring out the window.

  As we sped down the highway, we moved from city to town to country. The farm was a remnant of the past, surrounded by suburban estates. By the time Pam had parked in the lot, we’d left the noise of highways, barking dogs, and car alarms. A breeze whooshed through tall white pines and the air smelled of earth, not asphalt.

  At the entrance, I picked up a map and showed Pam the layout—barnyard, wild animal pens, then farm fields and orchards. We stopped at the sugar shack and watched a man boiling maple sap down into syrup. He gave Violet a taste, and she hooted with joy. We headed down the hill toward the barnyard, and she took off at a run.

  “Does she ever stop?” I asked.

  “Not even in her sleep,” Pam said, perhaps not jokingly.

  With Violet always thirty feet ahead of us, we made our way past the chickens, through the vegetable garden, and alongside the pigs in their pen and fields where draft horses dozed in the warm spring sun. Our goal was the quintessential red-sided New England barn.

  “Dude!” I called to a lanky man with a ponytail who was pushing a wheelbarrow filled with bags of grain.

  Seeing me, he grinned and set the wheelbarrow down. “Hey dude, yourself.” He pulled off his dusty leather gloves before giving me a warm hug. He smelled sweet, of hay and manure. I might be the only person besides him to appreciate that mix.

  Though two years younger than me, Jeff was like an older brother. He understood this thing I have for animals, why I worked at a job filled with heartache. He got it when people asked how I could stand to investigate animal cruelty cases and euthanize dogs, cats, or wild animals. I couldn’t stand not to, I answered. When you care, how can you not try to help? Jeff felt the same way. As a veterinary technician, he cared for injured wild animals, and, if they couldn’t return to the wild, he helped them adjust to life at the sanctuary.

  I introduced Pam and Violet. As Pam and Jeff shook hands, Violet pulled her other hand, impatient to get inside. Jeff released her.

  “Excuse me,” Pam said shyly.

  We followed them into the barn and Jeff put his arm around my shoulder. “Nice,” he whispered, giving me a squeeze.

  I nudged him in the ribs. “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure it’s not.”

  Jeff and I have been friends since he’d taught a wildlife care class I’d needed for my animal control certification. He’s an Eagle Scout—present tense because “You don’t outgrow it,” he said—so he’s smart in many ways. I often seek his advice about animals of all species, including Homo sapiens.

  Whenever I was tempted to think of him as unique, though, he’d remind me that he had an identical twin, Greg. I’d never met his brother, he taught at a college somewhere on the West Coast, but the idea of another Jeff walking around freaked me out. I don’t have any siblings or cousins and like to think we are each unique, one of a kind, but it was different with twins.

  “To me, it would be weird not to have another person just like me running around,” he had told me.

  Jeff also came from wealth, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him—he wore farm boots and ripped jeans, drove a beat up Honda Civic, worked for a nonprofit and lived in a tiny apartment. His father was a huge mucky muck real estate developer. I knew because Jeff’s parents lived in Brookline and Bennett Industries was in the news a lot. Jeff didn’t talk about his family much but had invited me to parties at the mansion, as I called it.

  He’s one of the few people I’ve talked to about my past. He also helped shape my attitude about wildlife and motivated me to try to educate the public to accept wildlife and not want to exterminate everything.

  We found Violet and Pam peering through the slats of the cow stall.

  Violet was holding her nose. She made a face. “PU, it stinks in here.” She turned toward the cow. “Mooooo!” Then she laughed.

  I sniffed the air. Sure, there was manure, but also sweet Timothy hay. What else? Damp wool. Leather. Before I could point out the finer essences, she was off to the sheep pen.

  “Look!” she called out. “They’re pooping!” That set off a gale of giggles and repeating singsong, “Poopy, poopy, poopy!” The sheep ignored her and continued dropping their small round pellets, much to her delight. “That’s so gross!” she wailed with high drama.

  Pam looked only slightly mortified. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?” she said with a half-hearted smile.

  Jeff chuckled. “She’s a kid. They all react that way. Nothing like a little bathroom humor.” He stooped down to Violet’s level and pointed out the different breeds, that some were goats and others sheep, and how to tell the difference.

  “Can we go outside now?” Violet asked. We hadn’t been inside five minutes. She looked up at Pam with pleading eyes.

  “Okay, but stay in sight,” Pam said, and Violet ran out the large barn door and headed to the deer pen.

  A stillness returned, like when a gust of wind comes through. Things stir then settle. None of us said anything.

  After Violet charged around the white-tailed deer exhibit, Jeff gave us a private tour of the clinic. There, he explained, staff and volunteers took care of animals brought in by area wildlife rehabilitators. “These are people who have special permission to handle injured wild animals,” he told Violet.

  “Like Pam,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Jeff turned to Pam. “Are you a rehabber?”

  “No,” she replied, blushing. She looked at Violet. “It’s not the same thing, honey.”

  Violet ignored her and continued in an emotionless tone, possibly honed by overhearing social workers lecture. “Mommy can’t take care of me right now. That’s why I live with Pam and Lee. Lee left because of me. She said I was a wild child.” She turned to one of the cages. “Maybe I should come live here.”

  Like a theater curtain that opened too soon, revealing the stage hands, Violet dropped us out of the fantasy, the play where everyone pretends that what’s abnormal is normal. Even the animals in their cages stilled.