Zigzagging Down a Wild Trail by Bobbie Ann Mason

distance?”
    â€œWell, maybe I
would
call somebody if it was cheaper,” Julie said. She grabbed a sponge and came at Liz, as if she intended to wipe her off. “I’ve got some bad news,” she said. “Peyton’s mama’s in the hospital. She had a stroke and is in a coma.”
    Liz’s mind zigzagged as she listened to Julie fill in the medical details about Daisy, Liz’s mother-in-law. Daisy was not so old, but she smoked heavily and lived on deep-fried cuisine. Liz grabbed the sponge from her mother and set it on the toaster.
    â€œHow bad is it?” she asked.
    â€œBad. Peyton said if you were there, maybe she’d come to.”
    The idea threw her. “Does he think I’m some kind of faith healer? He never had any faith in me.”
    â€œDon’t get smart. Peyton needs you with him at a time like this.”
    â€œWell, I don’t need him,” Liz said. “I’ve written him out of my script.”
    If her mother knew the truth about Peyton, she would not have made such a suggestion, Liz thought. She wished she had driven straight to Tunica and learned about Daisy later. She dreaded seeing Peyton, and she had always been uncomfortable around her mother-in-law, who judged her by her clothing. Before saying hello, Daisy always eyed her up and down.
    Julie said, “Here, let me see that head.” She poked through Liz’s short hair. “Why, they didn’t shave a hair.”
    â€œThey don’t do that anymore,” said Liz, wriggling away. “And they don’t let you keep the knots. They send them off to the lab so they can charge you more.”
    â€œYou used to could make a bracelet out of your gallstones,” Julie said. “I was looking forward to that if I ever got gallstones.”
    â€œYou can cancel that little dream,” Liz said. “It’s probably against the law now.”
    Liz and Peyton had separated six months ago, when he went to jail for possession of cocaine. By the time he was released (prematurely, in her opinion), she had decided she could be free of him. She wouldn’t allow him to stay in the house, so he moved into a small apartment above a friend’s auto-body shop and got work laying sewer pipes. Liz had made Peyton take all his tools and tackle and videotapes. His gun collection had already been confiscated when he was arrested—the shotgun in the closet, the Weatherby .243 varmint rifle over the mantel, and the handguns in various drawers. Now she wouldn’t even call him when she needed his vise grip to open a stuck window lock. For jar lids she used a “rubber husband,” a gimmick that came free with a set of stemware. But Peyton was a nagging presence, like the shotgun that had been propped in the closet. He had begun to leave threatening messages on her answering machine. He swore revenge and demanded that she behave like a wife. “You belong to me,” he had said.
    At home Liz ignored the new messages on her answering machine and opened a beer to settle her head. She microwaved some popcorn and watched a romantic made-for-TV movie, trying to pretend she didn’t know about Daisy’s stroke. She badly wanted to go to Tunica on the excursion bus at dawn. Gambling was her way of mocking the dull predictability of her life, and Daisy’s stroke—an actual surprise—confused her.
    When the telephone rang, she didn’t answer. Her caller I.D. showed Peyton’s number, and when she heard his wheedling voice on the answering machine, she lowered the volume. She wanted to keep Peyton away until after Tunica. He would need petting and forgiveness, and she didn’t feel capable of offering any. Although she had thrown out his
Guns & Ammo
magazines, there were still reminders of him in the house. Stuffing extruded from holes in the couch, worn from five years of TV evenings with Peyton. She had once hoped they could have a nicer place