God's Country

Miranda went home and shoveled several piles of paperwork before pushing it aside with a sigh. Her mother had made macaroni and cheese from a box for dinner. An open can of refried beans sat on the counter.

"Ma, this stuff isn’t good for you," she said, opening the fridge and surveying its contents. She pulled out some lettuce and started making a salad. She chopped the tomatos neatly, added a little tuna and some cucumbers.
"What kind of Mexican are you, anyway, using beans from a can." The remembered aroma of fresh beans, simmering in the pot, stirred in her nostrils.

Her mother gave her creaky laugh. "What kind of Mexican are you, eating salad?" Miranda joined her at the kitchen table, where Nadine was sitting with her food mostly uneaten, smoking a cigarette. The salad disappeared quickly as she ate in quick, economical bites.

"Dad was Norwegian or something, wasn’t he?"

"Danish, I think."

"You think?"

Her mother waved her cigarette around. "It was a long time ago." An inch of ash fell to the floor. Miranda ignored it. She would sweep up after her mother went to bed, like always.

"Did you ever hear from him, after he left?" Miranda surprised herself by asking. They never talked about her father. Her mother’s red-rimmed brown eyes turned to her. A network of fragile lines, the legacy of 40 years of smoking, crisscrossed her prematurely aged face.

"Not once, honey. I’m sorry."

Miranda stood abruptly and washed up her dishes. Tiny tears pricked the corners of her eyes. What was wrong with her today? She cleaned up after her mother as well, then turned away from the sink.

"I’m going out tonight," she said. Her mother just nodded, weight on her elbows, her soft middle-aged tummy pooching under her stretch knit pants.

"Don’t go kissing any boys with that tuna breath," she said, creaking out a brief chuckle.

Miranda kissed her on the cheek and went back to her room as Nadine lit up another. She called Sherry, who she knew had just gotten off work. Sherry worked too hard at that insurance company, she wouldn’t have plans. They agreed to meet in town for a movie. Miranda went to get ready. She brushed her teeth and ran a brush through her hair, pulling it up in a red banana clip. She flipped rapidly through the clothing choices hanging neatly in her small closet, folded neatly in her cheap pressboard dresser. She sat on the bed suddenly in uncharacteristic frustration. She had nothing decent to wear.

How could she have nothing to wear to a movie with a girlfriend from high school? Rather grimly she changed into fresh jeans, a pink Izod polo shirt and white tennis shoes. Not too different from her work uniform, but it hardly mattered. She surveyed herself in the mirror. A plain, brown woman stared back. Taller than her diminutive mother, but by no means tall. A little thick in the middle, but with good-sized breasts and legs that weren’t entirely stumpy. Good hair, although she never knew what to do with it. The face was undeniably plain, generally round with broad, flat cheekbones, but her skin was smooth and unlined. She sigihed, wondering why she wasted her time wishing for something different.

She drove carefully down the dark, twisting roads. People drove fast out here, and most of the vehicles were Ford and Dodge trucks, ranch trucks, the kind that could run right over the top of her little Civic without stopping. She made it down the long grade and into Escondido, the closest town with an actual movie theater.

They were going to the Vineyard, a small and not terribly successful retail center next to the old Escondido Mall. The Vineyard was designed to be upscale, a multi-story edifice built of artfully diagonal wood panels, a garden-like respite from the flat, linear strip mall configuration of its next door neighbor. Instead, shoppers found the odd-shaped layout confusing and inconvenient. Many stores had come and gone, especially in the upper stories, without the public ever having noticed their existence, not having been determined or desperate enough to search them out. Miranda had taken ballet there for several years as a teenager and had a residual fondness for the place. Plus, it boasted a two-screen movie theater.

She met Sherry in the bar at Acapulco’s, the only easily visible landmark in the Vineyard, situated as it was at the very front, facing Valley Parkway, Escondido’s main drag. Sherry had come over in her work clothes. She was wearing an A-line skirt with a yellow blouse, pantihose and brown pumps. Her hair was pulled back in a neat clip, blonde curls cascading down her back, curly bangs fluffed out in front. She looked neat and professional. Miranda kicked herself for not dressing up. Sherry was halfway through a frozen strawberry margarita so Miranda ordered one as well.

"So what’s the special occasion?" asked Sherry, sipping at her pink drink.

"What do you mean?"

"I usually have to drag you out of that house. But you called me tonight."

Miranda accepted her margarita from the cute bartender, wishing she had the guts to flirt with him, but he simply took her money and turned to the cash register without a word or even a smile.

"I was restless," she said, taking a long sip, letting the cool redness slide down her throat. Sherry re-crossed her legs and four guys sitting at a nearby table all turned their heads to watch. Miranda sighed, realizing that going out with Sherry tonight was probably not the greatest idea. "Can’t you just try to be a little less eye-catching?" she asked. Sherry frowned at her, oblivious to the byplay.

"What’s wrong with you?"

Miranda scrubbed her face in her hands. "I don’t know. It’s just…today…I suddenly feel…old. I feel used up, worn out. Like my life is already written out for me, and maybe it’s not that great. Like I’ve missed all my chances." To her horror, she felt those tears starting at the back of her eyes again. Miranda rarely cried, and never in public. Sherry rubbed her back consolingly.

"Sweetie, you know that’s not true. You’re what, 30 this year?" Miranda nodded without looking up. "This is the 80’s, Miranda. You don’t have to married with 2.5 kids to be considered successful. You have a great career that you love, right?" Miranda nodded again. "So what you’re really missing here is just sex." The guys at the next table were glancing over interestedly.

"Keep your voice down, for God’s sake," she muttered. "I don’t need everyone in the bar to know that I’m desperately horny."

"Miranda," said Sherry knowingly. "How do you expect to get laid unless every guy in the bar knows that you’re desperately horny?"

"Great, Sherry, that’s great. Emphasis on desperate. I’m sure that’ll reel me in some great catch."

"You don’t care about a great catch, Miranda. You just want good sex." Maybe going out with Sherry hadn’t been such a mistake after all. She certainly got laid more than Miranda did.

"How do you tell who’s going to give you good sex? And how do you ask for it?" Miranda felt ridiculous. This really wasn’t her style.

"Don’t you know anything?" asked Sherry, outraged, her pretty pink mouth opening in a perfect little "o." "You’re a woman, Miranda. You don’t ask for sex. It comes to you, and you weed out the losers."

Miranda laughed. "Your world must be really nice, Sherry, all pink and fuzzy, and good sex served to you on a platter. Unfortunately, I live in Vallejo."

"I’m serious!" she said. "Watch." She turned to the man sitting directly to her left. "Excuse me," she said. He turned to face her. "My friend here is in need of a one-night stand, and I was wondering what your qualifications might be. I don’t want her going home with just anyone."

"Sherry!" Miranda shout-whispered, mortified.

Blue eyes stared frankly at her from under lank brown hair. He grinned. "Well, miss," he said to Sherry in a slow, Southern accent, "your friend here is right pretty, but she doesn’t seem to appreciate your intervention." He leaned back, hooking one thumb in the waistband of his 501s. "Besides, I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy." He nodded to Miranda, who burned with shame. She quickly sucked down the bulk of her margarita in one go and grabbed Sherry by the arm, virtually pulling her off the stool.

"We’re late for our movie," Miranda said. "I’m sorry my drunken friend has been bothering you," and yanked Sherry out the door.

"I’m not…Miranda….cut it out!" said Sherry, giggling and pulling away. Miranda finally let her go when they were safe in the Vineyard’s labyrinth depths. Sherry leaned against the wall, doubled over. "You should have seen your face!" she said. Miranda gave her a hard stare for a moment, but she couldn’t hold out. She chuckled reluctantly.

"You juvenile little bitch," she said. "I can’t believe you did that."

Sherry straightened with an effort. "Oh, don’t worry, you’ll never see him again." They started over toward the movie theater.

"This is a small town, Sherry," Miranda said severely. "A very small town."

"It’s not that small, Mir, good God. Besides, he was kind of cute and very polite. Not so bad for a random pick, I thought."

"That’s kind of you, miss," said a male voice right behind them. They turned, startled. The man from the bar stood in front of them, one hand holding out Sherry’s purse. "I believe one of you left this." A frozen pause then Sherry reached out one dignified hand.

"Thank you very much," she said, "Mister…."

"Boo Radley," he replied with a smile. Miranda snorted.

"That’s not your name," she said firmly. "No parent could be so cruel."

"A Southern parent and Harper Lee fan, already named Radley?"

She shrugged. "I’m sorry to hear it."

"I’m sorrier to have to say it."

She smiled, almost against her will. "I’m Miranda and this is Sherry, who has a very big mouth which will remain shut right now, and who is very grateful to you for returning her bag." Sherry, who had opened her mouth, shut it again and smiled demurely. "Have a good evening." Miranda ended the conversation and turned away.

"Miranda," he said. She turned back. "This is my phone number. I’d be pleased if you’d put it to use." He handed her a scrap of napkin and walked away before she could say a word.

Sherry was jumping up and down. "Let me see it! Let me see it!" Miranda hid it from her and stuck it deep in her jeans pocket without looking at it. "I can’t believe he came after you!"

"He came after you, to return your bag, which I believe you left behind on purpose."

"I didn’t! You pulled me out of there! It was your own fault."

"Never mind," said Miranda irritably, striding toward the movie theater.

"You’re going to call him, right?" said Sherry, scrambling after her.

"I am not going out with a guy named Boo."

"So make up a nickname." She paused. "I’m waiting for you to thank me."

"Thank you?!"

"For your first date in like, forever."

Miranda stopped again, gulping air. Her unusual agitation faded. "Sherry, I’m not calling him and that’s that. Now we really are late for the movie." Sherry subsided and they went in, just in time to catch "Witness," the new Harrison Ford film. Which turned out to be about a sexually deprived Amish woman, living in the same house with the incredibly hot Harrison Ford. Miranda hunkered down in the stiff seat, trying to focus on the murder mystery aspects, but without much success, the napkin shred burning a hole in the pocket of her jeans.