Free Skinnybones and the Wrinkle Queen by Glen Huser Page B

smiles.
    The Courvoisier tastes like liquid fire. “There’s a soda pop machine inside if you’d like something.”
    The caramel latte has filled her up, she declares. She runs her fingers through her hair. For once it isn’t sprayed purple or magenta or green. It’s reddish brown and has a bit of curl to it.
    â€œI like your hair,” I say. “It looks...well, normal. Is auburn your true color?”
    â€œThe real me.” She smiles her phony smile. She’s anxious to be on her way, I can tell. I get her to take me across to the dining room since it’s almost time for dinner. She waves the letters at me as she heads out the door.
    Mrs. Gollywatchit is burbling around the dining lounge. Must be picking up some overtime.
    â€œJean! So nice to see you’re well enough to be taking your meals with us again.” As she pulls out a chair and sits down, she gives my shoulder a pat. “I think that Stanley Merkin girl has given you a whole new lease on life.”
    â€œYou really think so?”
    â€œAnd you get to access more of the special programs. Today we have the Dixie Belles and Beaus.”
    She’s not kidding. A band is setting up in the corner where an old out-of-tune upright piano is always parked. By the time Mrs. Gollything gets up and moves to another table, an accordion and a banjo and a couple of sopranos who should have given up singing forty years ago are urging everyone in the Rancho Cafe to “roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.”
    It’s a worthwhile thought, I decide. Roll them out. The crazy days — I’m ready. Not even the Triple Smeatloaf with gooey mashed potatoes and flavorleached peas can squelch that little trickle of excitement. I don’t care if it may only be a residual glow from the Courvoisier.

15
    With school out and Shirl and the gremlins at the daycare, there are times when I feel like phoning the Wrinkle Queen just to talk to someone. How’s that for desperation?
    Herb and Shirl said they’d keep an eye out for odd jobs for me and I did get some hours helping in the kitchen where Shirl works, and babysitting Herb’s boss’s kids for a couple of weekends. They made Lizzie and Lyle look like angels.
    But most days I’m home alone — all day — with no one arguing about what to watch on TV . Herb’s satellite dish, tilted up on the roof, gets about a thousand channels. On Monday, his day off, he hangs onto the remote like it’s a lifeline, cruising from one sports channel to the next.
    â€œThat’s interesting, Herb, watching golf,” I say. “Sort of like watching grass grow.”
    But we make a deal. I make him lunch — a grilled cheese sandwich or maybe a bowl of soup — and he agrees to take an hour off from his sports watch to give me a driving lesson after lunch.
    On that last Monday before blast off I ask him, “You want fries or salad with that?” I use a voice like the waitress at Humpty’s.
    â€œFries,” he sighs. “But don’t tell Shirl.”
    â€œOur secret,” I tell him.
    During my driving lesson, he has me try out a traffic circle. In my hurry to take advantage of an opening in traffic, I rub the car’s back wheel against the curb.
    â€œTake it easy,” Herb says. “We’d like a little rubber left on that tire.”
    But I parallel park twice with no problems.
    The letter comes on Wednesday, in with utility bills and a fat envelope of stuff from Reader’s Digest. It looks funny sitting there on the hall bureau. I think of the times I had to type it — three before I got it perfect — and Miss Barclay’s old fingers with their bright red nail polish carefully forging Byron’s signature. And then the letter going to the big downtown post office where the stamp gets canceled and it’s sorted (by people?machines?), and then coming all the way back here. In a way, it