“I think I’ll walk over to Judge’s and see if I can’t get started.”
“What?” Easy explodes. “You can’t walk over there! It’s clear on the other side of town. Plus, there’s no need for you to work. You’ve got a baby cooking in there. I don’t think you should be around paint fumes and gasoline.”
I leave him ranting in the kitchen to get dressed although I wondered what an office person at an auto shop wore. Overalls? I don’t own any of those. I have my skinny jeans and tight T-shirts that the guys had bought me at the Harley store in Minneapolis and a small selection of ugly tan and denim skirts with church appropriate blouses.
I opt for the jeans and tight T-shirts. Michigan and Easy rode Harleys and Judge’s business was all about motors and engines and tires. Harley wear had to be appropriate. The jeans fit fine and as I pat my flat stomach, I’m weirdly disappointed. If I do have a baby inside me, I feel like I should show—immediately. I want to run out and buy maternity jeans and tiny little clothes. I guess that’s how my excitement is manifesting itself, whereas Easy is going a little crazy trying to wrap me up in bubble wrap.
He likes to joke that Michigan is more protective but the truth is that they both can go overboard. I wish I had started working before we found out. That way the fight wouldn’t be as hard and while it’s going to be a fight, it’s one I’m going to win.
I can’t cave to them now or I’ll never have any independence. Straightening my back, I march out of the bedroom to find Easy on the phone with a pen in his hand.
When he spots me, he waves for me to stop and then says into the phone, “Thanks for all that, Mom.”
I pick up my purse from the entry table and slide it onto my shoulder. There are a pair of gray flats and a pair of black boots. Boots seem better suited to a garage. I turn around to retrieve a pair of socks. Easy follows me.
“Where’re you going?”
“To work.” In the dresser, I find a pair of thin white socks and pull them on.
“Should you be wearing jeans?” he questions. His feet are shoulder width apart and his arms are crossed in what I suppose should be a menacing and intimidating pose but I’m too annoyed to be cowed.
“Yes and I swear, Easy, I will leave this house and go live in Pippa’s trailer out in the country if you and Michigan are constantly going to question what I eat, what I wear, and whether I can work.” I push by him and step outside.
“Can we come to a compromise?” he asks. I stop on the porch and look at him warily. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No tricks. I’ll drive you over to Wheels Up if you agree to call the doc and ask if it’s safe for you to work there.”
I twist my lips as I consider his request. It’s not that it’s unreasonable, because I don’t want to expose the baby to unhealthy fumes, but I also want to nip this let’s negotiate every little thing attitude in the bud before it evolves into you can’t do anything without my permission.
“I’m agreeing to this only because I would’ve done that anyway,” I finally concede.
“Great. Let’s get in the truck.”
“What about Amber?” I tip my head toward his motorcycle sitting in the drive.
“Oh no.” He shakes his head and backs up. “We’re not riding on the bike.”
“Seriously? No riding on the bike the entire time I’m pregnant? That’s like eight months of being in the cage.”
My use of the biker lingo makes one side of his mouth raise in a half smile but he still denies me. “No.”
“Fine, I’ll ask the doctor about that too. Anything else you’re afraid for me to do?”
“The list is endless, honey, and since I don’t want to start a fight in our front yard, I’m going to zip my mouth shut and help you into the truck.”
I have to laugh at that. We could keep arguing but my attention is pulled away when a strange car pulls up to the curb. Out of the driver’s door appears a tall, blonde woman. Even from twenty feet away I can see she’s beautiful with an enviable figure wrapped in a short skirt, a blousy top that falls off one shoulder. She smiles at us over the roof of the car and waves gaily, like we’re old friends. Is this one of Easy’s old girlfriends? I straighten and step closer to Easy.
“You know her?”
He slides a reassuring arm around me. “No idea. She looks familiar though.”
“Ugh, from a mash or something?” Not an old girlfriend, but club butt which might even be worse. I rub my hand over my stomach thinking today is not a good day for me to meet some woman that Michigan and Easy shared.
He squints. “Nah, I don’t think so. No sweet butt would have the balls to show up at a Death Lord’s home. That is not okay and would probably get someone banned.” He steps forward, pushing me behind him in one move.
She walks up the drive and as the distance between us closes, I see that she’s older. Her face is thin and there are small lines at the corners of her eyes. She’s very well maintained and reminds me of the pastors’ wives from Minneapolis. There’s an expensive look to her as if she gets her hair cut every month at a high priced salon. Her curls are expertly done and frame her face in way to soften the hard lines that age and dieting has brought on.
Easy must look better the closer she gets because her gaze is stuck on him. The hungry look in her eyes makes me stiffen and I erase any distance between Easy and I as if by my physical proximity I can somehow ward off any interest she might have for him. The possessiveness that the two men show for me starts to make sense to me. I wish I’d sucked a visible love bite on Easy’s neck to mark him as my own. Her gaze finally moves to me and her broad, dentist-perfect smile falters with the middle of her lips flattening out momentarily as I stare stonily at her. She rallies though, stopping about six feet away.
“Honey, don't you know who I am?” She lifts her hand and smooths some of her hair back. Honey? “It’s me. Your mother.”
If I was a fainting sort, I probably would've keeled over right then and there but since I'm not I slump against Easy. “It's been a long time…Mom.”
The last word sounds weird on my lips. I haven't had much occasion to use it and I can't remember the last time that I used it to address her specifically. The few conversations I had with her on the phone have not prepared me for this meeting.
“Ms. Bloom, I’m Easy.” He reaches out his left hand while his right tightens around the curve of my shoulder in silent support.
“Easy? That’s an interesting name.” She’s returned to smiling effortlessly although who wouldn't smile at Easy. He's gorgeous and generally is full of good humor although I know him well enough to see that his greeting is one of wary politeness rather than a full welcome. She takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes. “You’re with my daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“Is this new?” She leans around, still holding Easy’s hand in hers. “You didn’t mention it the last time we spoke.”
“That was three years ago.” I’m uncertain how to respond and look to Easy for help. He gives a minute shrug and pulls his hand back. He waits for me to make the next move. Am I going to turn around and walk back into the house and rebuff her? Or will I accept this out of nowhere attempt to reconnect?
“So new then. Well, I’m glad to meet you, Easy. Annie, do you have a hug for your mother?” She raises her arms uncertainly and it’s that hint of vulnerability that has me lunging forward into the hug I haven’t felt for a decade. It’s almost like hugging myself. She’s tall, like me, and I don’t have to bend to hug her like I do with other women. She and I are almost the same height. Her floral perfume is heavy, though, and its rich scent brings a wave of nausea. I swallow hard to keep back the tears and bile, afraid of the strong emotions that her appearance is generating.
“I’m on my way to work,” I blurt out. It’s just really too much. Hearing that Father is out on bail and then having Mom show up out of the blue? Learning I’m pregnant and I don’t know which one of my lovers is the father? I h
ave a sudden need to escape.
“Where? I was over at the church this morning and Mrs. Oak said you’d left.”
The mention of the church and Father is too much. I turn Easy with a panicked plea. “I have to go to work now.”
Part of me wants to go right back inside, crawl into the big bed and hide under the covers until it all goes away—the pregnancy, my father, my mother's re-appearance.
“All right, baby,” he murmurs and gives a quick rub over the hand that I have clamped around his biceps. To my mother he says, “I got to get Annie to work here. Why don’t we all have dinner tonight. Where are you staying?”