The Queen of Sleepy Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

highway.”
    â€œNo reason,” she said, turning on the bathroom light. She pulled back the plastic curtain to inspect the bathtub and broke the label proclaiming the toilet sanitized. I followed her to the kitchenette. “Cordial sounded like a lovely place to—”
    â€œWe’re in the middle of nowhere.”
    â€œWhat’s done is done,” she said, opening and closing all of the drawers and dragging her finger across the dresser and smiling. “Let’s make the best of it, shall we? Bonnie gets off in an hour. The two of us are going out.”
    â€œHow much is this room costing us?”
    â€œYou’re such a worry wart, querida. Relax. Bonnie gave us the weekday rate. Make a nest for yourself on the bed and read one of your old books. Watch some television. Isn’t The Rockford Files on tonight?” Mom opened her suitcase. Her robe, the one I’d made in advanced sewing, lay in a flattened wad on the top of her clothes. She shook out the wrinkles and disappeared into the bathroom. The lock clicked into place.
    Surrounded by a forest of pine paneling, my pulse quickened. How long had my mother planned on coming to Cordial? Staring at the varnished bathroom door, I yelled, “We are not staying here one minute longer than absolutely necessary! And don’t forget your promise. No men! I mean it, Mom. I’m going to California with or withoutyou. I’ll hitchhike if I have to.” While studying a knot in the door’s grain, a brilliant plan came to me. “Mom, are you listening?”
    â€œAmy, I’m getting in the shower now,” she said through the door.
    â€œWait! Open the door. I have a plan.”
    The door opened. Only the widow’s peak of her black hair showed under her terry cloth turban. She pushed past me. “I forgot my razor.”
    I stood between her and the bathroom door.
    â€œOkay, Amy, what’s your plan?”
    â€œWe should sell the car and—”
    My mother had only struck me twice that I could remember. Once for bringing a swear word home from school and once for mimicking the Pope during an Easter blessing on television. Now she slapped me for defaming a car with a failed transmission. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
    And I didn’t. My mother’s devotion to the Pontiac defied reason. More than once I’d envied the attention she lavished on the leather seats. She polished them religiously. Her passion for the car was but one more snag in Mom’s fabric that kept her enigmatic even to me. Yes, she loved flamboyant clothing and window-shopping for things she couldn’t afford, but if someone complimented what she wore—a scarf, a pair of sunglasses, one of hundreds of hoop earrings she owned—she would say, “Here, take it. It’s yours.” I once watched her wiggle out of a skirt in a restaurant bathroom. A woman had dropped soup in her lap and was only too happy to accept Mom’s skirt in exchange for her sodden skirt.
    What’s with that stupid car, anyway?
    Truthfully, I didn’t ask that question out loud for many years, long after the sting of her slap had faded in my memory. That day,I covered my face with my hands and turned my back on her. Nothing would hurt her more. To increase the drama, I threw myself across the bed, which smelled of cigarettes and hair spray.
    Blecch!
    â€œAh, gatihno, I’m so sorry,” she cooed, lying beside me. “Oh, baby, I can be so stupid. I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” I didn’t want my face in the bedspread one more second. I sat up. Mom embraced me with Herculean strength. We cried on each other’s shoulders. I’d acted like a brat. I could be so ugly, so condescending. She was doing her best, I supposed, and I hadn’t appreciated her efforts.
    She only acted crazy when she was scared. I should have remembered. Moving to California meant she