The Hurricane Sisters by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

boot. I know, llamas. Like, what’s the matter with dairy cows or horses? But Maisie’s happy and she rarely poses a danger to the public, only occasionally breaking our agreement and driving all over the road like she does with her nose glued to the steering wheel like Mr. Magoo. And Skipper’s devotion, not his laundry, to Maisie is a relief to me. Since his arrival on the scene Maisie seems calmer and she’s decidedly better behaved.
    “Does he have to pile his unmentionables on the kitchen table?”
    “Lord! I had no idea you were such a prude! He can pile his bloomers on my dinner plate if he wants, okay?”
    I just stared at her. Her skin looked radiant. Hmmm.
    “Let’s go,” I said. “There’s going to be a waiting line if we don’t move it.”
    “Oh, fine,” she said and clicked off the television. “Cher’s going to be on tomorrow.”
    “I thought she retired,” I said.
    “Guess not,” she said.
    “Well, she should.”
    “Why?” Maisie said, setting me up.
    I took the carrot.
    “Mother. She’s sixty-seven years old. Isn’t it a little undignified to be prancing around half naked at her age?”
    We left the house through the kitchen door and she turned back to double-check that the door was indeed locked.
    “I guess you’re the expert on that sort of thing,” she said. “Gosh, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
    The expert . On that sort of thing. Thank you.
    “Famished,” I said, and opened the passenger door for her.
    Maybe I slammed the car door a little too hard, inadvertently letting her know I caught her slight. We rode to the restaurant with only the mournful sound of Joni Mitchell crooning away one of her very sad songs in the background.
    At the table she scrutinized the menu and said, “So I imagine you want to split the pad thai? You always do.”
    “Not really. I think I’m going to have the stir-fry.”
    “Doesn’t all that broccoli cause intestinal distress?”
    Intestinal distress.
    “No. What are you going to order?”
    “Well, I guess I’m not having the pad thai, am I?”
    “That’s up to you. You don’t have to eat the whole thing.”
    “I’ll have the seared scallops.” She said this with a sigh, exhaling deeply enough to dust the restaurant.
    We ordered and when our iced tea arrived, it seemed the air had cleared, mainly because I just let it go. I always did. I had other things on my mind besides her snippiness.
    “Did you see the Weather Channel this morning?” she said.
    “No. What did I miss?”
    “Well, there are a number of storms in the Caribbean. Any one of them could develop into something very nasty.”
    “Mother? It’s hurricane season and if a hurricane’s coming, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of notice.”
    “Let’s hope so. Is your bracelet new?” she asked.
    “Yes. It’s from Tiffany’s via Clayton’s guilt. I think Clayton’s having an affair. Maybe.” In fact, Clayton and I had not had sex in months, but I didn’t tell her that.
    “Why on earth would he do a stupid thing like that?” she said. “It’s very pretty.”
    “Thanks. The reason I think he’s fooling around is that the last time I was in New York our bed had not been slept in. He’d been there for three nights. And the towels were unused. And there was no half-and-half in the refrigerator. You know he can’t drink his coffee without half-and-half. It was pretty obvious he hadn’t needed to call the cleaning girl.”
    “Hmmm. He’s getting sloppy,” Maisie said. “Do you think he wants to get caught?”
    “No man wants to get caught unless they’re really Catholic or really Jewish except the politicians who think they’ll never get caught. Idiots. All of them.”
    “Amen to that. But if you think he’s dicky dunkin’, you can do one of two things.”
    “Really? What might they be?”
    “Well, you could fly up there without warning and surprise him.”
    “I’m not so sure I want to do that. It’s not cricket, you know? What’s my other