Patchwork People Chapter II The Good Man Hard to Find
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Patchwork People XXIII: Strange Geography free porn video
XXIII. Strange geography.
They really should teach more geography at school, that's what I'm
thinking.
I mean, I've got to get to New Mexico, but I'm not even sure where it is.
In the Southwest, somewheres, which is good enough to say, if you're
living two thousand miles away in New Jersey and have no intention of
ever actually going there. I don't even know if it comes before or after
Arizona.
I'm in Oklahoma now, a really godawful place from what I can see of it,
which isn't much, thank god, just endless fields of nothing with these
see-saw type things pounding away at the vacant dirt. I asked the first
cowboy who picked me up when I crossed the state line what they were and
he told me they were oil drills.
Who knew there was so much oil right here in the United States? What are
we doing in the Middle East then?
Oh...yeah, right. Bringing freedom and democracy to goatherds running
around the desert who've never even heard of such a thing. Instead of
democracy, they just go ahead and do whatever they please anyway. They
don't even need so much as a driver's license. Of course, they don't have
cars. I guess it's true: you can't have everything.
At first I thought they were just goofing around here in Oklahoma with
the whole cowboy thing. Making a campy fashion statement with the ten-
gallon hats and boots and all, as if it might be an entire state full of
butch gay guys. Then I started noticing that all the pick-up trucks have
rifle racks in the back windows. With real rifles on them! Apparently
they're in deadly earnest. Who knew there still was such a place?
Anyway, I haven't managed to get myself raped and strangled and tossed
into a ditch just yet, which I take it is a pretty good accomplishment
considering that according to what I'd always been told, hitchhiking for
a young woman is the suicidal equivalent of throwing yourself off the
Golden Gate Bridge.
Really, aside from the second person I hitched a ride with, and that was
a middle-aged lady in a Lexus minivan with Jesus Saves, pro-life, and
Protect the Sanctity of the Family decals plastered all over her
tailgate, everyone has been boringly normal. I was almost tempted to tell
Jesus Lady about my fucked-up family just to stir things up a little but
I was afraid she'd be so horrified she'd steer us righteously into
oncoming traffic in an attempt to to save my soul.
As it was, I had to listen to her rant on about the dangers of
hitchhiking, how you never know what kind of pervert might pick you up,
blah-blah-blah. After a while, I couldn't resist pointing out that it was
none too safe picking up hitchhikers either. That not everyone who looked
like a girl these days really was a girl. That quieted her down a good
deal. After that, she couldn't wait to find a place to drop me off.
I was actually relieved that my next ride was this seedy-looking salesman
type. He looked like a serial killer straight from central casting. He
wasn't threatening at all, though, except if you counted the threat he
might bore me to death. I reminded him of his daughter, as it turned out,
who he didn't see much of since he was divorced. Naturally this reminded
me of my own dad and I thought how this poor sad man could have been my
dad, well, his story could have been my dad's story, if he hadn't turned
himself into a girl, which made me start laughing uncontrollably,
thinking about it, and I guess that so inappropriate under the
circumstances it made the guy look at me like I was some sort of psycho.
I suspect he was glad to get rid of me, too.
This was somewhere just across the Kansas border, I think.
So I guess by now mom and dad are in the midst of their big reunion.
Somehow she got hold of my new cell phone number. I guess Marcia must
have told her, that traitor! Mom made the mistake of telling me to stay
put until she got to Hope Crossing. Like I was going to listen to her!
I'll leave them to each other. They deserve it. I wonder if they're boo-
hooing in each other's arms over all the mistakes they made in raising
me.
Well, honestly, I can't see mom admitting to ever making a mistake, not
when she has dad around to blame for everything. He was right about that,
I suppose, now that I think about it. He was useful as the villain of the
piece, a convenient enough bad guy. And now, how easy is it to just
dismiss him as a lunatic, changing his sex and all. He really is a
walking-talking mistake. It's not very hard to make that case, if you've
half a mind to. I guess you could say I've had more than half-a-mind to.
But at least he had the balls (pun intended) to do something about his
life instead of just complaining about it like seedy Mr. Sad Sack.
Oh well.
C'est la vie, as the French say.
The first thing Walt thought when the police called in the middle of the
night was "Jesus when was I ever in Cupadero, New Mexico, and what in
god's name did I do there?"
There could have been no more telling a commentary on his checkered past.
He couldn't remember ever being in Chupadero, nevertheless doing anything
he would have cause to regret now. But, as he well knew, his memory
didn't cover it all. That's what made it so difficult to seek forgiveness
for the sins of his past; he had no recollection of so many of them.
Had he gotten into an auto smash-up there, some hit-and-run whose impact
he didn't recall? Or a bar fight that might explain one or another of the
otherwise unexplained scars his body bore? Did he kill someone in
Chupadero? Surely he'd remember that; but then again, he might not. It
wasn't entirely beyond the realm of possibility. That was the scariest
part.
Did he have a one-night stand with some bar maid or all-night waitress
who was now, belatedly, accusing him of rape, or seeking support for a
child who claimed him as a father?
No, as far as Walt could honestly recall, he'd never done anything bad in
Chupadero, New Mexico. In that one particularly place, he was blameless.
This he could be reasonably sure of because, as far as he knew, he'd
never set foot in the place.
He was trying to explain all this to the police officer, his mind still
hazy with sleep. Through hooded eyes, he saw the clock radio on the
nightstand. It was 3.45 a.m. Adrenaline was spiking his bloodstream by
now, bringing him round to a full, painful awareness. No one ever calls
with good news at 3.45 a.m.
Beside him, Marcia stirred, collected herself, and then, propped on one
elbow, was instantly wide-awake. She knew what it was all about before he
did.
"Is it Phoebe?" she mouthed, knowing, of course, that it was.
Walt, by now, had ascertained that neither him nor his old demons were
being blamed for anything. His first reaction was relief. His second was
renewed alarm, because that meant the call had to be about Phoebe.
"Is she okay? That's what I want to know first off. Is Phoebe okay?"
Marcia was all eyes, great huge round pools of darkness even darker than
the surrounding bedroom night.
He nodded to her, gave her a thumbs-up, mouthed the words "it's okay."
Tears of relief were running down Marcia's cheeks. She sunk back on her
pillow and waited for Walt to finish the call. Her heart, which for a
time hadn't decided on a plan of action, started beating again.
"She's okay," Walt confirmed, when he finally hung up. He'd gotten all
the necessary information from the police officer, writing everything
down on a pad he kept beside the phone on the bedside table. "That's the
first and most important thing. She's in a hospital, but everything's
okay."
"Hospital?" Marcia repeated weakly. She wondered by what miracle the
words "hospital" and "okay" could fit into the same sentence. She was
afraid to ask.
"An overdose. Nothing serious."
Walt had done it again, put together words that didn't
seem to fit together in any reasonable world.
"She was staying in a roadside motel in New Mexico. Some town called
Chupadero. They took her to a local hospital. She's okay, resting
comfortably now. Drugs, that's the verdict."
"An overdose?"
"Unintentional, most likely. A binge gone bad, that's what it sounds
like. We won't know until we get there."
Walt was already out of bed, crossing floor, mentally ticking off the
things they would have to do before getting on the road. Marcia fell back
on the bed, staring at the ceiling, paralyzed. She was collecting her
wits, like someone who just missed getting creamed head-on by a tractor-
trailer on the turnpike.
"We'll have some breakfast first," Walt said, "bring everyone together to
explain the situation, and be on the road by ten. Do you want to call
Claire or should I?"
"Claire?" Marcia said, having momentarily forgotten all about her ex.
"Well, we've got to offer her the option of riding down with us, don't
you think?"
"Do we?"
Walt gave her a look. "Marcia."
She sighed. "I'll call her."
Just the idea of being trapped in the same vehicle as Claire all the way
to New Mexico was gave her a panicked feeling, the way she imagined a
bird trapped in a milk bottle might feel.
* * *
She needn't have worried about Claire accepting the offer. When they
gathered that morning at the Blue Cat and divulged the semi-good news,
Claire seemed to instantly shut down. They'd had an informal agreement to
meet each morning for coffee and pastry at what they'd come to regard as
their daily Phoebe briefings. Up to now, the meetings had served little
purpose other than to confirm that no one had any new information. So
today should have been a cause for guarded celebration.
Walt outlined the plan he'd formulated back at the house: get on the road
by ten, be in New Mexico the following morning.
"Of course, you're welcome to come along with us," Marcia offered.
"Thank you, but no. I don't think it necessary," Claire replied.
Marcia shot a glance to Walt, who gave a slight shrug.
"Well, it's up to you," Marcia said, trying to keep the
surprise as well as the relief from showing. "But if you change you're
mind, we'll be leaving in about an hour or so."
Perhaps the idea of being cooped up together in Walt's pick-up was just
as horrifying to Claire as it was to Marcia. Well, maybe a little more
unthinkable to Claire, since Marcia had actually been willing to go
through with it, and she did have Walt as any ally. Perhaps it was simply
that the plan hadn't been hers. Claire could be like that. She wasn't the
type to go along for the ride; she needed to be in control. In that case,
she could have decided to go to Chupadero on her own. Instead, she
surprised everyone by announcing that she'd book the next available
flight for home.
They all stopped talking and looked at Claire. They had been wondering
aloud what in the world Phoebe could have been doing in Chupadero, New
Mexico, of all places when Claire decided to reveal what she'd apparently
suspected all along.
"Her birth mother," she said, tightly. The very effort it took to say the
words turned her face into a mask of frozen fury. "I forbade her to go.
But apparently she's gone, anyway. I knew something like this would
happen. No one ever listens."
It all became instantly clear to Marcia. She didn't even need to hear the
story that followed. How Phoebe had used the internet, as well as
whatever records she'd managed to tease and trick the adoption agency
into releasing, adding to those she might have managed to uproot from
Claire's records, to locate her birth mother. Phoebe and her birth mother
had talked, at first online, and then a few times by phone. Phoebe had
told Claire all this quite openly, thinking that her mother would
understand, be sympathetic. That Claire herself might even be interested
in this mystery woman who gave birth to her adopted daughter. Phoebe
mistakenly hoped that Claire might encourage Phoebe's relationship with
her birth mother. That she'd see it as a necessary step in closing the
circle on a painful and always present hole in Phoebe's psyche. She even
imagined that Claire might be instrumental in setting up a meeting
between them, all three of them.
Phoebe and her two mothers.
Marcia could have told Phoebe that such a notion was pure fantasy.
Reasonable, perhaps, under other circumstances, nothing but wishful
thinking when it came to Claire. She could have told her daughter what
Claire's real reaction would be. You could see it now, as plain as if
Claire's thoughts were floating above her head in a cartoon bubble. The
woman was jealous. White-faced, pin-eyed jealous. She took Phoebe's act
of disobedience as one of deliberate betrayal. A double-betrayal, if you
throw in the fact that Phoebe had come to Hope Crossing.
"You can't blame the girl," Walt said, trying to reason with Claire,
still thinking that reason had anything to do with it. "It's a natural
urge, to know one's origins. She isn't doing it to hurt you. You're her
real mother," Walt turned and included Marcia in the mix, "both of you.
You're both her parents. The only ones she's ever had. But you can't
exclude her birth mother. She has something to do with it, too, you know.
Phoebe isn't trying to hurt either one of you. She's doing this to heal
herself."
"What do you know about it?" Claire snapped. For a moment, she looked a
bit taken aback at her own tone; it was one she didn't often use in
public with relative strangers. She paused, and then, as if she'd decided
it wasn't worth the effort to continue wearing a mask in front of people
who didn't matter, who weren't going to be a part of her life in the very
near future, she went on in the same cold, imperious voice. "What do you
know what about should and shouldn't hurt me? I didn't think it
possible, but you're all as crazy as he is," she said, pointing a damning
finger at Marcia. "The three of you nuts deserve each other. And if you
think, when this is all over, that I'll ever allow Phoebe back here to
visit any of you again, you're even more out of your fucking minds than I
suspect."
Walt seemed about to respond in kind, no longer seeing any need to remain
diplomatic. Marcia sat paralyzed under the vicious onslaught, as she
remembered doing so often in the past when Claire let loose. It was Grace
who laid a restraining hand on Walt's arm.
"Let it go Walt. It won't do any good. She's not well. Remember, hate is
a communicable disease."
Walt fought the anger roiling up inside him to a draw just long enough
for Claire to get out the door. His fist, at the end of the wrist where
Grace had placed her cool, dry, papery hand, clenched and unclenched, as
if he were determinedly trying to pump the poison from his system.
* * * *
Author note: I plan to publish "Patchwork People" in its entirety in
weekly installments here on Fictionmania. In the meantime, the complete
novel is currently available as an Amazon Kindle ebook for $2.99.
For more of my writings, drawings, erotica, and photos please visit my
blog Bad Pussy
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
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