"Fifty-six. My mother was twenty-one. There's a match made in heaven. No telling what her deal was. She dropped me like a litter of kittens and hit the road."
"Does she keep in touch?"
"Nope. I saw her once, when I was eight. We spent one day together – well, half a day. She took me to Ludlow Beach and watched me splash in the waves until my lips turned blue. We had lunch at that snack stand, you know the one near High Ridge Road?"
"Know it well."
"I had a milk shake and ate fried clams, which I haven't eaten since. I must have been hyper. I remember my stomach was full of butterflies from the minute I woke up, knowing she'd be there. We were on our way to the zoo when I got sick in the car and she ended up taking me home."
"What'd she want?"
"Who knows? Whatever it was, she hasn't wanted it since. Pop's been great, though. I'm lucky in that regard."
"He feels guilty about you."
She turned and looked at me. "How come? None of this is his fault."
"He thinks he neglected you when you were young."
"Oh. Well, he did, but what's that got to do with it? He made his choices and I made mine."
"Yeah, but generally speaking, it's better to avoid the ones that are going to land you in jail."
She smiled. "You didn't know me back then. I was either drunk or stoned and sometimes both."
"How'd you hold down a job?"
"I saved the drinking for nights and weekends. I smoked dope before and after work. I never did the hard stuff – heroin, crack, or speed. Those can really mess you up bad."
"Didn't anyone ever notice you were stoned?"
"My boss."
"How'd you manage to take the money? Seems like that would necessitate a clear head."
"Trust me, I was always clear about some things. Have you ever been in jail?"
"I did an overnight once," I said, making it sound like an outing with my Girl Scout troop.
"For what?"
"Assaulting a cop and resisting arrest."
She laughed. "Wow. Who'da thunk? You look like a real button-down type. I'll bet you cross the street with the light and never fudge the numbers on your tax return."
"Well, true. Is that bad?"
"No, it's not bad. It's just boring," she said. "Don't you ever want to cut loose? Take a risk and maybe blow yourself through the roof?"
"I like my life as it is."
"What a drag. I'd go nuts."
"What makes me nuts is being out of control."
"So what do you do for laughs?"
"I don't know… I read a lot and I jog."
She looked at me, waiting for the punch line. "That's it? You read a lot and you jog?"
I laughed. "It does sound pathetic when you think of it."
"Where do you hang out?"
"I don't do any 'hanging out' as such, but if I want dinner or a glass of wine, I usually go to a tavern in my neighborhood called Rosie's. The owner's a mama bear, which means I can eat without being hassled by guys on the make."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Not so's you'd notice," I said, slipping into the vernacular. Better not to let her venture too far down that path. I glanced over at her. "If you don't mind my asking, have you been in trouble before?"
She turned to look out the passenger-side window. "Depends on your point of reference. I went through drug rehab twice. I did six months in county jail on a bad-check charge. By the time I got out, my finances were in the shitter so I declared bankruptcy. Here's the weird part. Once I filed? I got a ton of credit card offers in the mail and all of them were preapproved. How could I resist? Of course, I ran those up, too. Thirty thousand bucks' worth before the gates clanged shut."
"Thirty thousand for what?"
"Oh, you know. The usual. Gambling, drugs. I blew a bunch at the track and then went to Reno where I played the slots. I sat in on some high-stakes poker, but the cards were running cold. Not that I'd quit because of that. I figured I could only lose so many times before the game turned around and started working my way. Unfortunately, I never reached that point. Next thing you know, I was broke and living on the streets. That was 1982. Pop moved me into his house and then he cleaned up my debts. What about your vices? You must have one!" "I drink wine and the occasional martini. I used to smoke cigarettes, but then I gave that up."
"Hey, me, too. I quit a year ago. Talk about tough."
"The worst," I said. "What made you quit?"
"Just to prove I could," she said. "What about other stuff? You ever do coke?"
"Nope."
"Ludes, Vicodan, Percocet?" I turned and stared at her. "I'm just asking," she said.
"I smoked dope in high school, but then I straightened up my act." She flopped her head to one side and said, "Snore." I laughed. "Why snore?"
"You live like a nun. Where's the friggin' joy?"
"I have joy. I have a lot of joy."
"Oh, don't be so defensive. I wasn't judging you."
"Yes, you were."
"Well, okay, maybe a little bit. I'm mostly curious."
"About what?"
"How you make it in this world if you give up living on the edge."
"Maybe you'll find out."
"I wouldn't bet on that, but one can always hope."
As we approached Santa Teresa, a drifting fog had curled across the landscape, wispy and pale. I drove along the beach, palms standing out darkly against the soft white of the Pacific. Reba'd been staring at the ocean since it came into view south of Perdido. As we passed the Perdido Avenue off-ramp, she turned her head, watching it recede into the mist. "You ever hear of the Double Down?"
"What's that?"
"Perdido's only poker parlor – scene of my downfall. Had some great times there, but that's over and done with. Or so I hope."
The highway angled inland and she watched the ebb and flow of citrus groves on either side of the road. Houses and businesses began to accumulate until the town itself appeared – two- and three-story white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, palm trees, evergreens, the architecture denned by the Spanish influence.
"What'd you miss most?" I asked.
"My cat. Long-haired orange tabby I've had since he was six weeks old. He looked like a little powder puff. He's seventeen now and a great old guy."
As I took the Milagro off-ramp, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:36. "Are you hungry? We have time for lunch if you want to eat before you meet your PO."
"That'd be great. I've been hungry since we hit the road."
"You should have spoken up. You have a preference?"
"McDonald's. I'd kill for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese."
"Me, too."
Over lunch, I said, "Twenty-two months. What'd you do with your time?"
"I learned computer programming. That's a hoot and a half. Also, I memorized prison stats," she said.
"Sounds like fun."
She began dunking her fries in a lake of ketchup, eating them like worms. "Well, it was. I spent a lot of time in the library reading all the studies they've done on female inmates. Used to be. I'd pick up an article like that and it had nothing to do with me. Now it's all relevant. Like in 1976? There were eleven thousand women in state and federal prisons. Last year, the number jumped to twenty-six thousand and you want to know why? Women's Liberation. Judges used to take pity on women, especially those with little kids. Now it's equal-opportunity incarceration. Thank you, Gloria Steinem. Only something like three percent of convicted felons do any prison time anyway. And here's something else. Five years ago half the killers released from prison had served less than six years. Can you believe that? Murder someone and you're back on the street after six in the can. Most parole violations, you end up doing a bullet, which is a lot if you look at it proportionately. I flunk one drug test and I'm back on the bus.''