Free All for One by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page B

Joey?”
    “Yeah,” PJ said. “Joey. Do you have it?”
    “Yeah. You want it?”
    “No,” PJ answered sharply. “No. I...need it. I mean, I have to call him. About the conference at One Wing.”
    “Oh. Sure. Okay.” Bryce gave her the number, hung up, and sat back at the computer. The reflections of his sisters mugging vexed him on the screen.
    On the phone, or in person, girls could be pretty weird.
    *  *  *
    PJ tore the top sheet from the notepad and folded it in half as her mother chased her little brother Bobby through the kitchen.
    “Mama’s gonna get her Bobby-boo,” Vicky Allenton said, playfully snapping her uniform apron at her five year old son.
    Bobby chortled and followed the racetrack path out of the kitchen and through the living room, rounded the sofa, scooted by the rack of TV trays, and passed his big sister again between the stove and the dinette table.
    “Gonna get you,” Vicky Allenton teased again, staying just far enough behind her youngest to keep him running and giggling.
    “He’s not a baby, mom,” PJ complained.
    “He’s my baby,” came the giddy adult reply from the living room.
    PJ rolled her eyes and said, “Mom, can I talk to you?”
    Vicky Allenton slowed when she crossed from carpet to linoleum, and stopped just past her daughter and leaned, out of breath, on the table. Bobby kept on running and did a superman dive onto the couch, his attention grabbed immediately by the Baywatch rerun on the tube; he liked the big yellow boats.
    “God, he’s a hoot,” Vicky Allenton said, taking the glass of soda from in front of PJ and sipping quick at it. She smacked her lips sourly and put the glass back. “Yech. Diet?”
    “I need to talk to you,” PJ said again.
    Vicky Allenton stood, whipped the white apron around her pink uniform, and turned her back to her daughter. “Tie me up, will you honey. I’ve got a five thirty shift tonight.”
    PJ did the apron ends into a tight bow. “Mom, when can I get a new jacket?”
    “When can I stop working two jobs?” Vicky Allenton replied jokingly.
    “I’m serious, mom.”
    Vicky Allenton went to the counter, reached into her purse, and found her pack of cigarettes. She lit one on the gas stove and eyed her daughter. “Doesn’t it fit anymore?”
    “It fits.”
    “It doesn’t keep you warm?”
    “It’s wearing out, mom.”
    Vicky Allenton blew smoke and leaned hipshot against the counter. Above her left breast, sewn in red, it said ‘ Vick’ . “When I was growing up we used things until they wore out.”
    “I know, but...”
    “Honey, not right now. Your brother needs the next size up in shoes. I can’t afford both.” Vicky smiled at her daughter. “I’m sorry.”
    PJ studied the tabletop and nodded.
    Vicky took her purse from the counter, kissing her daughter on top of her head on the way, and headed into the living room. “Heat up those enchiladas for dinner, okay. Be nice to Bobby. My baby, baby, baby. Bye bye.”
    Wet smooches drifted in from the living room, TV music, boats cutting wakes in a place PJ could only imagine, and the door shutting as her mother left for Happy Jacks Grill .
    PJ looked at the phone on the wall, then unfolded the slip of note paper and stared at Joey’s number. She’d printed the name Paula Jean Travers over and over around it.
    Bobby laughed at something in the living room. From the floor above the sound of Mrs. Kirk yelling at her five children pierced the ceiling, just before the unmistakable slap of a palm across a little cheek. A shriek, then a familiar wail. Again Bobby laughed.
    PJ’s eyes played over the kitchen, gouged Formica counters, sallow curtains on the window that looked over the rail spur. Dogs fought over scraps down there when the weather was good. When it wasn’t they left town, or died. Somehow, though, the old mutts always found their way back when it got warm.
    This is my life , PJ thought. Maybe not forever, but for now it was. The problem was, now felt