Pig-Out Inn by Lois Ruby Page B

raspberry-and-lemon-sherbet shirt rolled up at the cuffs. The freckles gave her away. She had long plum nails, and her right pinkie was gold-speckled. Her hair was feathered back and layered to her shoulders. I was pretty sure she wasn’t a natural blonde. She warmed the air around her with delicate driver-sweat and some perfume that smelled like baby powder.
    There was this little round girl with her, about five, wearing a snug halter top and shorts and carrying a stuffed Snoopy with sunglasses.
    The one lone truck driver left after dinner looked the woman over good and hard, until his eyes fell on the little dumpling of a girl and then trailed back to his newspaper.
    â€œWho’s in charge here?” the woman asked. She had a voice deeper than I’d expected for such pastel fluff clothes.
    Momma stood up.
    â€œYou?” the woman said. Maybe she’d been expecting a big farm hand kind of woman. “I’m Rosie McFee,” she said finally. “Taggert’s mother.”
    â€œMommy,” the little girl said, “is this where Tag’s living, in a restrawnt?” It was Tag’s voice all over again—a growl, almost.
    â€œQuiet, baby, hmm?” She turned back to Momma. “You’re the owner?”
    Momma nodded. “Marilyn Chandler,” she said, putting out her hand, which just hung there because the woman was shaking her head back and forth and saying, “My God, Cee Dubyah didn’t even know your name. Where is he, Mrs. Chandler? Where’s my son?”
    â€œDovi, go get him,” Momma said.
    I flew out the back door, tripping over Stephanie and Eddie, who were plastered together on a lawn chair near the walk-in.
    First I knocked on Johnny’s door. “She’s here for him,” I whispered. My heart was thumping like an Indian war drum as I reached Tag’s cottage. There wasn’t a light shining anywhere. I knocked softly, and thought I heard him say come in. He lay in his jeans in the center of the bed, barely taking up any space at all, and with his arms folded under his neck. The room smelled of Fenway and felt heavy with emptiness, like a load you could carry on your back.
    â€œYour momma’s here, Tag. Bonnie too.” He turned over onto his stomach. “She seems very nice. She’s so pretty.” Tag sat up, reached under his pillow for his Red Sox shirt, and slipped it over his head. It fell around him like a tent—not like a shirt at all, just a rag that didn’t remember anybody’s shape. He stood up and turned away to tuck the shirt in. Even tucked in, it seemed sad the way the top gaped open over his scrawny neck. I thought maybe it was Cee Dubyah’s shirt. The little gold cross lay flat on the ribbing.
    He picked up a backpack stuffed with clothes and probably all the merchandise from his shop that he could ram into it. There was also a shopping bag, which I grabbed before he could start his macho act and try to carry it all.
    â€œWhatever’s left belongs to you anyway,” he said. He slapped his leg once—to call Fenway?—then remembered.
    We trooped over to the restaurant. Anybody driving by would have thought we were a couple of scouts heading for a camp-out in the woods.
    From the kitchen we heard murmurs of mothertalk, an easy give-and-take, which made me feel a little better about this McFee woman whose house Tag would be sleeping in later that night.
    Johnny came in behind us and put his arm around Tag. “What the hey are you doing in here this hour of the night?” he teased Tag.
    â€œI gotta get up early to get ahead of you,” Tag shot back as Johnny pushed something—I couldn’t see what—into his pocket.
    Bonnie spotted his face first, above the swinging door. “Mommy, look!” Tag pushed his way into the dining room. Bonnie ran toward him, stopping shyly just short of his feet. Mrs. McFee encircled them both with her sherbet