“The problem with Hogg Jaw is that it’s full of Hoggs,” Lucille stated with a matter-of-fact tone, reaching into her purse to remove a hand mirror. “I’m meeting Earl for a late lunch at Chez Louis,” she announced, checking the state of her stylish gray pixie cut.
“They are liars. Thieves. Classless cheats.” Doc snuck in a last word, punctuating each word with a fist on the table. “The whole lot.”
“’Course, Hogg Jaw thinks much the same about us,” the General said with a live-and-let-live shrug. “The two towns don’t see eye to eye. Never have. Never will. Used to settle differences with muskets and powder kegs. These days the competition stays on the high school basketball courts and football fields. Mostly.”
Pepper jolted as the clock tower chimed noon. Where had the time gone, and how was this possible? She’d been enjoying herself in a dog park. A. Dog. Park. With small-town strangers chatting about phantom savior dogs.
Whowasshe?
The idea sank in, sending ripples through her puzzled brain. What if she didn’t know herself? She had so many ideas for so long, and what if she’d never taken the time to look right where she was, at the woman she was, not the woman she wanted to be?
She took her time on the walk back to Mr. Drummond’s. The sun might be hot as a branding iron, but the air from the coast was cool, clean, and tinged with a hint of salt. Wolfgang didn’t attempt any sexual deviancy. The time passed peacefully.
No sirens. No horns. No pressure to walk fast to keep up with the crowd. No sensory overload from hot dog stands, buskers, billboards, or the idea that you lived cheek to cheek on an island of millions of people.
Yes, there was a part of her that craved the city’s endless excitement, the fact that she could be Super Pepper, headquartered near the NYU campus, ready to seize success, gain stability, and have a future brighter than the sun hitting the glass panes of the Freedom Tower.
Except the super secret of Super Pepper was that her invincibility cloak felt more and more threadbare. Like the time she’d fainted after sitting for the bar exam, and while she sat in urgent care getting an IV of electrolytes, Tuesday called in tears afer losing out on a commercial. Or when her Dadagainevaded pointed questions about whether or not he paid the farm’s property taxes.
Or Mother’s Day.
She huffed a small sigh. How quickly the satisfaction of coming to the rescue—of being needed—could morph into feelings about being overextended, overwhelmed, and underappreciated. And that’s when she loved the city the most, how she could step on a crowded rush hour subway, or sit in Union Square, and lose herself. Be nobody’s hero. An anonymous face in a crowd. At least for a few blissful minutes.
She could never take off the cape for long, because what if Tuesday and Dad tried to fix their problems while she was off-duty? Batman couldn’t take extended vacations because Gotham might organize a community crime watch, take down the bad guys, and realize they didn’t need him after all. In some ways he needed them as much as they needed him. Maybe more.
The unsettled feeling lasted all the way home. When she got back to Love Street, her mailbox was empty except for a postcard. It was a picture of a roaring bear and read, “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. Except for bears. Bears will kill you.”
On the back, scribbled in Dad’s messy handwriting, was a short note:
Chili Pepper,
Dropping a quick line to let you know that I had a tumble last week. Hurt my back again. Nothing serious. Tried to patch up a broken window screen and slipped off a sawhorse. Stayed in the hospital two nights but back home now and fit as my favorite fiddle. Fitter even. Please pass the message on to your sister. Miss you.
Her arms fell to her sides and she sank to the top stair, burying her face in her hands. “Yeah, Dad, of course I’ll handle telling Tuesday,” she muttered, hating the bitterness curdling her tongue. “Of course, I’ll handle everything.”
Seriously—a sawhorse? Dad wasn’t a spring chicken; he should be using a stepstool. But trying to urge him to make practical choices was like trying to read a blank piece of paper. She could try and try, but what good would it do? She’d only drive herself crazy.
Hospital stays meant hospital bills. She rocked in place, calculating the costs. This required more than Batman skills; it needed a Bruce Wayne fortune.
At least she’d gotten him on a health insurance plan two years ago because he didn’t qualify for Medicare for another year. How on earth would he pay for the deductible? The short answer was, he couldn’t. A cold wind blew through her, even though the wind was warm. He was an overgrown kid. A fiddle-playing grasshopper who kept on laughing and hitting his homemade moonshine even as winter drew ever closer.
His carefree attitude to life was charming, but his financial negligence rankled. Right now her plate was full—jam-packed—without extra room to hold this news. Except filial responsibility meant making room, even if that required her shoving her own stuff to the side.
Even if it came at the expense of her own sanity.
She walked inside the house and slammed the door behind her with too much force. Real life wasn’t dog park Scrabble, river swimming, or cute Southern gentlemen. It was her thought-out, meticulously organized plan. She couldn’t goof around. Not when Dad would have to count on somebody, someday soon.
A place like Everland could never be home, and she couldn’t get comfortable. She was just here visiting.
