“Okay. Might have a matching baby sister in twelve months if you don't.”
I totally deserved the whack to the back of my head.
“This is too much,” she moaned.
“How many baby items can one person want from Walmart?”
“No! Not this. This!” She thrust her hands out, arms in a semi-circle. “How'm I gonna get through this, Trevor?”
I stood, moved over to her, and hugged her. “With me by your side.”
“Well, then,” she said, “You need to get dressed. We're going to Walmart.”
A chug of the rest of my coffee, then a quick run upstairs to throw on clothes, and I was back in under five minutes, Darla surveying me with a critical eye.
“You'll do.”
“Do for what?”
“You look a little citified, but I think we're okay.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Walmart at five a.m. in Peters, Ohio, is its own little world, Trevor. It's like The Tiger King: you never know what Joe Exotic is gonna do next.”
“What does that mean?”
She pointed to my keys on the counter. “You drive. I'll show you.”
“What about Joe?”
She winced. “Let the poor man sleep. Dmitri turned Mrs. Humboldt's ceiling into a birth canal. Joe needs rest.”
“Good point.”
Back in Boston, I drove plenty of places at five in the morning, the city streets devoid of much traffic, but still busy enough. Here in Peters, there was nothing going on. Not a damn thing. No cars passed us as I listened to Darla become my human GPS.
We pulled into the Walmart parking lot to find a vehicle that was an old Cadillac DeVille in the front, but a Dodge conversion van in the back, both parts covered with so much bondo they triggered the Uncanny Valley in me.
“See? Here we go.”
The vehicle had curtains, black like a hearse, along all the windows, and was painted with a logo.
“Dan's Hands,” I read. “Handyman?”
“Massage therapist. Mobile. Comes to you so you can come on him.”
“Huh?”
She looked at me forthrightly, chin down, eyes up, just like she always did when I was a bit thick. “Massage guy known for happy endings.”
“Out here?”
“Gay guys don't only grow on the coasts, you know.”
“I know but... he has a whole business? Here?”
“He's mobile. Plus he lives in his place of business.” She pronounced it like “bidness,” the weird Ohio accent from this part of the state digging in, pulling her old patterns out. We'd done a gig in Cleveland, one in Columbus, and another in Cincinnati, and none of the people in those areas sounded like her.
Or Cathy.
Or Mike.
Or Calvin.
You get the picture.
Even her cousin-slash-aunt Josie didn't sound like Darla's family, but maybe that's because she moved to Boston earlier? Or because her dad was the town librarian? I never met Darla's dad. Had never heard his voice. Didn't know a thing about him other than the fact that he died in a car crash and her mom gave me his guitar.
So that was a giant hole in my understanding of Darla and her family.
“Trevor? You all there?”
“What?”
“You blipped out.”
“Just thinking.” I yawned. “It's five in the morning and we slept for twelve hours.”
“We do this all the time when you guys have a gig. Fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning, get up around dinnertime.”
“Yeah, but this is the reverse. And normally, our time is our own. We have to help your family now.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest, like something I'd said made her defensive. I cut her off with a hand to her shoulder.
“And that's how it should be,” I added, kissing her cheek. “This is a beautiful moment for everyone. Your family just grew.”
“You're right,” she said, happy again, but she caught my earlier yawn, face stretching, shoulders straining as she breathed out. “Nothing could be more beautiful than this.”
Pisssssssssssssh.
We turned toward the sound to find a guy standing next to a small RV, pants down his hips enough to show ample butt crack, taking an early morning piss in a parking lot divider.
“Poor marigolds. They ain't recovering from that,” Darla muttered as she pulled me toward the store.
The parking lot was clean, but littered around the edges with an odd assemblage of RVs. I knew, in theory, that some Walmarts let people camp for free, but had never seen it in Boston.
Then again, when was the last time I'd been to a Walmart? My parents had convinced me Target was better. Darla shopped at the one near us all the time, and accused me of being an elitist snob for avoiding the place.
I had to admit she was right. I am.
Here in Peters, it was literally the only choice.
No Target or other store for miles around other than gas station-convenience store combos like the one where Darla worked when I met her.
The sun barely crept up the horizon, so the super-early-morning light made everything seem like the opening shot of an alien invasion movie, the air thick with humidity, smelling like wet stone. Darla's hand in mine felt good.
Great, even.
We reached the entrance. No famous Walmart greeter was there, until we turned to the right, grabbed a cart, and went into the store, where an old, bald man in a blue vest said, “Hey there, Darla Jo.”
“Heya, Tom.”
She waved like she saw him all the time, then stopped.
“Where's the baby stuff?”
“Aisle 21. Oh, hey! Congratulations! Heard Cathy had herself a surprise baby.”
Darla beamed. “Yep. I got me a baby brother now.”
His eyes went to me, then her belly. “You're older than sin and don't have one of your own yet. Better hurry up. Them eggs wither and die inside you if you don't use them.”
“Tom, this is Trevor. You remember him from Mama's wedding?”
Embarrassment shot through me. I definitely didn't remember him.
“Heya. Right. Which one are you?”
“Which one?”
“The asshole or the surfer boy?”
Darla cringed and turned the cart away from him. “Seeya later, Tom!”
I hurried after her. “What was that about?”
“Old family friend.”
“Asshole? Surfer boy?”
“Tom ain't known for being logical. He worked at the grain factory 'til it shut down. Then got a janitor's job in Lordstown. Nice guy, but he's pushing ninety.”
“ASSHOLE? SURFER BOY?” I hissed in her ear.
“Darla!”
A woman in flip flops, a tube top, and white clamdiggers that showed off her black lace thong came running up to us, giving Darla a huge hug. “I heard you were in town for your surprise baby brother.”
It was five a.m. At Walmart. And we'd been in the store for less than sixty seconds.
How could she know so many people?
“Hey, Julianne. What's up?”
“Getting ready for Jack's fishing trip. He's finding bait and I'm buying my wine. Having a candle party tomorrow night. You wanna come?”