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Show Motherlunge a novel 59 "Of course!" Dorothy said. She smiled into the soft collar of her double chin, "You didn't believe me?" "Joseph," I said to Joseph, who nodded happily, "I'm Thea. This is Pavia. Where's your stuff? How long are you staying?" I pulled open the car door and folded the front seat forward. In the backseat, nestled among the empty tall boy cans of Natural Lite, were a duffle bag of clothes and two plastic grocery bags. I opened one of the bags, stirred its contents-loose tarot cards, matchbooks, packages of Com Nuts and herbal cigarettes. Two issues of Reader's Digest bearing the subscription sticker from Dorothy's psychiatrist's office. Also: condoms, loose, individually wrapped. "Sleeping bags are in the way back," Joseph was telling Pavia. "They're both mine." Dorothy's jewelry box was in the second of the grocery bags. Pavia and I had given it to her as kids. The box was cardboard covered in pale blue pleather, embossed with a gold fleur de lis. I grabbed both bags and the duffle and backed my way out of the car, awkward as someone newly injured. "Joseph, give me the car keys," Pavia said from the curb where she had successfully redistributed the sleeping bags to Dorothy and Joseph. "Thea, you take them up to the house. I'm going to find a parking place for your car, and then I'll be in." She waited for Joseph to put the keys into her outstretched hand, then turned away without meeting my gaze. I led the way up the front steps, unlocked the locks to open the door, withstood General's greeting, and introduced the dog to Dorothy and Joseph. I wiped my shoes on |