Her shrill laughter could’ve shattered crystal. “What does that even mean? ‘Look Hispanic.’ You’re so funny, Lydia.”
Lydia was laughing, too, but for entirely different reasons.
“Goodness.” Penelope carefully wiped invisible tears from her eyes. “But tell me, what’s the story?”
“The story?”
“Oh, come on! You’re always so private about Dee’s father. And yourself. We hardly know anything about you.” She was leaning in too close. “Spill it. I won’t tell.”
Lydia ran a quick P&L in her head: the profit of Dee’s undetermined heritage making the Mothers cringe with anxiety every time they said anything mildly racist vs. the loss of having to participate in a PTO fund-raiser.
It was a difficult choice. Their mild racism was legendary.
“Come on,” Penelope urged, sensing weakness.
“Well.” Lydia took a deep breath as she prepared to sing the hokey pokey of her life story, where she put the truth in, pulled a lie out, added an embellishment, and shook it all about.
“I’m from Athens, Georgia.” Though my Juan Valdez mustache may have fooled you. “Dee’s father, Lloyd, was from South Dakota.” Or South Mississippi, but Dakota sounds less trashy. “He was adopted by his stepfather.” Who only married his mother so she couldn’t be compelled to testify against him. “Lloyd’s father died.” In prison. “Lloyd was on his way to Mexico to tell his grandparents.” To pick up twenty kilos of cocaine. “His car was hit by a truck.” He was found dead in a truck stop after trying to snort half a brick of coke up his nose. “It happened fast.” He choked to death on his own vomit. “Dee never got to meet him.” Which is the best gift I ever gave my daughter. “The end.”
“Lydia.” Penelope’s hand was over her mouth. “I had no idea.”
Lydia wondered how long the story would take to circulate. Lydia Delgado! Tragic widow!
“What about Lloyd’s mother?”
“Cancer.” Shot in the face by her pimp. “There’s no one left on that side.” Who isn’t in prison.
“Poor things.” Penelope patted her hand over her heart. “Dee’s never said anything.”
“She knows all the details.” Except the parts that would give her nightmares.
Penelope looked out at the basketball court. “No wonder you’re so protective. She’s all you have left of her father.”
“True.” Unless you counted herpes. “I was pregnant with Dee when he died.” White knuckling detox because I knew they would take her away from me if they found drugs in my system. “I was lucky to have her.” Dee saved my life.
“Oh, honey.” Penelope grabbed Lydia’s hand, and Lydia’s heart sank as she realized that it had all been in vain. The story had obviously moved Penelope, or at least interested her, but she had come here with a task and that task was going to be assigned. “But, look, it’s still part of Dee’s heritage, right? I mean, stepfamilies are still families. Thirty-one kids at this school are adopted, but they still belong!”
Lydia took a millisecond to process the statement. “Thirty-one? As in exactly thirty-one?”
“I know.” Penelope took her shock at face value. “The Harris twins just got into preschool. They’re legacies.” She lowered her voice. “Lice-carrying legacies, if you believe the rumor.”
Lydia opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Anyway.” Penelope blasted another smile as she stood up. “Just run the recipes by me first, okay? I know you like Dee to take on special skills projects. You’re so lucky. Mom and daughter cooking together in the kitchen. Fun-fun!”
Lydia held her tongue. The only thing she and Dee did together in the kitchen was argue about when a mayonnaise jar was empty enough to be thrown away.
“Thanks for volunteering!” Penelope jogged up the bleachers, pumping her arms with Olympic vigor.
Lydia wondered how long it would take for Penelope to tell the other Mothers about the tragic death of Lloyd Delgado. Her father always said that the price for hearing gossip was having someone else gossip about you. She wished that he were still alive so she could tell him about the Mothers. He would’ve wet himself with laughter.
Coach Henley blew his whistle, indicating the girls should wind down their warm-up drills. The words “special skills projects” kept rolling around in Lydia’s head. So, here was confirmation that the Mothers had noticed.
Lydia would not feel bad for making her daughter take a basic car maintenance class so that she would know how to change a flat tire. Nor did she regret making Dee enroll in a self-defense course over the summer, even if it meant that she missed basketball camp. Or insisting that Dee practice how to scream when she was scared, because Dee had a habit of freezing up when she was frightened, and being silent was the worst thing you could possibly do if there was a man in front of you who meant to do you harm.
Lydia bet that right now, Anna Kilpatrick’s mother was wishing she’d taught her daughter how to change a flat tire. The girl’s car was found in the mall parking lot with a nail in the front tire. It wasn’t a big leap to think that the person who’d driven in the nail was the same person who had abducted her.
Coach Henley gave his whistle two short blasts to get the team moving. The Westerly Women ambled over and formed a half circle. The Mothers stamped their feet on the bleachers, trying to build excitement for a game that would unfold with the same painful drama as a mime’s funeral. The opposing team hadn’t even bothered to warm up. Their shortest player was six feet tall and had hands the size of dinner plates.
The gym doors o
pened. Lydia saw Rick scan the crowd. And then he saw her. And then he looked at the opposing side’s empty bleachers. She held her breath as he considered. Then she let it out as he made his way toward her. He slowly climbed the bleachers. People who worked for a living didn’t tend to sprint up bleachers.
He sat down beside Lydia with a groan.
She said, “Hey.”
Rick picked up the empty bag of chips, leaned back his head, and let the crumbs fall into his mouth. Most of them went down his shirt into his collar.
Lydia laughed because it was hard to hate someone who was laughing.
He gave her a wary look. He knew her tactics.
Rick Butler was nothing like the fathers at Westerly. For one, he worked with his hands. He was a mechanic at a gas station that still pumped gas for some of their elderly customers. The muscles in his arms and chest came from lifting tires onto rims. The ponytail down his back came from not listening to the two women in his life who desperately wanted it gone. He was either a redneck or a hippie, depending on what kind of mood he was in. That she loved him in both incarnations had been the surprise of Lydia Delgado’s life.
He handed back the empty bag. There were specks of potato chips in his beard. “Nice ’stache.”
She touched her fingers to her raw upper lip. “Are we still fighting?”
“Are you still being grumpy?”
“My instinct tells me yes,” she admitted. “But I hate when we’re mad at each other. I feel like my whole world is upside down.”
The buzzer sounded. They both winced as the game started, praying the humiliation would be brief. Miraculously, the Westerly Women managed to get the tip-off. Even more miraculously, Dee was dribbling the ball down the court.
Rick yelled, “Go, Delgado!”
Dee obviously saw the looming shadows of three giant girls behind her. There was no one to pass to. She blindly heaved the ball toward the basket, only to watch it bounce off the backboard and drop into the empty bleachers on the other side of the gym.