Free Divas and Dead Rebels by Virginia Brown Page B

time that getting a divorce and moving simultaneously must have a ranking somewhere in the nine levels of hell described by Dante.
    Looking back, I can truthfully say that I had no idea what was in store for me. The shock of finding my parents much more mobile—and prone to escapades of an intimate nature in unexpected places—than I had been led to believe was barely absorbed before I was introduced to my first corpse. From that point onward, it has been a roller coaster ride of often unbelievable thrills and chills. It is not a ride I recommend to the faint of heart.
    Mama was already in a tizzy when I walked into our kitchen, and as I paused to survey the array of baking ingredients spread upon the countertops, Brownie greeted me by throwing up on my shoe. I’m his favorite receptacle for all things unpleasant.
    Of course, Mama was immediately concerned and rushed to the rescue.
    “Oh, my poor baby,” she crooned. “Mama’s here. It will be okay.”
    I knew better than to think she was talking to me. I reached over to take a roll of paper towels from the counter to wipe off my shoe. It was an icky mess.
    “Do you think he’s eaten something bad for him again?” Mama asked as she tried to pry open Brownie’s jaws to check.
    My reply was a bit grumpy. “If he’s awake, then I’m certain he’s eaten something bad for him again. Probably a tin can or a roll of toilet paper. You should have named him Billy Goat Gruff. It’s much more suitable.”
    Brownie, a part-beagle, part-dachshund, closed his brown eyes and quivered with his best show of distress. The little faker.
    I watched while he wrapped my mother right around his left front paw. Ignoring me, she patted him and spoke softly to him until he allowed her to get his maw open wide enough for her to be sure he didn’t have anything he shouldn’t have in his mouth—like a table leg. Jewelry. Watches. Dental bridge. Those are just a few of the things he has ingested since showing up on my parents’ back deck one cold, icy night a few years back. Since then he has turned his big-eyed waif act into a thriving career. The single fact that my father—after years of not allowing animals in the house—actually lets this dog not only in the house, but in his bed every night, speaks volumes for Little Brown Dog’s repertoire of beggar tricks.
    He doesn’t fool me. And he knows he doesn’t fool me. We get along quite well when my parents are gone, because I generally don’t cater to him, and he generally lets me bump along in my selfish way until my mother returns. We have an unspoken truce. It works pretty well for both of us.
    “Excuse me,” I said to my mother, “I need to reach the garbage can with this mess I took off my shoe.”
    “For heaven’s sake, Trinket, go around that way. Just don’t let it drip. Did you see anything in it that could have caused him to throw up?”
    I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at my mother, who still knelt on the floor with Brownie cuddled up against her. “I have no intention of looking through it to see. If you’d like, I can hand this to you.”
    Mama looked up at me, and then she laughed. “I guess that is asking a bit much of you, isn’t it.”
    “Yes. Oh yes. I’ll put it in the garbage can and take the can outside. What are you baking?”
    “Pies that will freeze well. I have two chess pies in the oven already. We’ve asked Emerald and Jon if they want to come for Thanksgiving this year.”
    I had already pulled the garbage sack out of the can. My mother’s statement made me drop it, and trash spilled across the floor. “What?” I said.
    Mama turned to look at me. “Emerald and Jon. I asked if they’d like to come over for Thanksgiving dinner this year. Are you all right?”
    “Yes, I’m fine . . . you say that as if they live just around the corner. They live all the way across the country, for heaven’s sake. If they come for Thanksgiving, will they bring all their kids, too?”
    “My