Susan Phillips - Fancy Pants

me till we get closer to the Mexican border, and then I'll let you go."

Dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.

He took a deep drag on the cigarette. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you, so you don't have to get nervous. I'm a completely nonviolent person. I just need to get to the border, and I want two people in the car instead of one. There was a woman with me earlier, but while I was waiting for her, this cop car turned onto the street. And then I saw you walking down the sidewalk with that suitcase in your hand…"

If he had meant to reassure her with his explanation, it didn't work. She realized that he truly was a fugitive, just as she'd feared. She tried to suppress the hysteria creeping through her, but she couldn't control it. As he slowed the car for another rut, she grabbed for the door handle.

"Hey!" He hit the brake and caught her by the arm. The car skidded to a full stop. "Don't do that. I'm

not going to hurt you."

She tried to twist away from him, but his fingers bit into her arm. She screamed. The cat jumped up from the floor, landing with its rump on her leg and its front paws on the seat. "Let me out!" she screeched.

He held her fast, talking with the cigarette clamped in his mouth. "Hey, it's okay. I just need to get nearer the border before-"

To her, his eyes looked dark and menacing. "No!" she shrieked. "I want out!" Her fingers had turned clumsy with fear, and the door handle refused to give. She pushed harder, trying to throw the force of

her body against it. The cat, disturbed by all the activity, arched his back and spat, then sank his front claws into the man's thigh.

The man gave a yelp of pain and pushed at the animal. The cat yeowed and sank his claws deeper.

"Leave him alone," Francesca shouted, turning her attention from the door to the assault on her cat. She slapped at the man's arm while the cat maintained its bloody grip on his leg, hissing and spitting all the time.

"Get him off me!" the man yelled. He threw up his elbow to defend himself and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of his mouth. Before he could catch it, the cigarette wedged itself inside the open collar of

his shirt. He swatted at it with his hand, yelling again as the burning tip began to sear his skin.

His elbow hit the horn.

Francesca pounded on his chest.

The cat began to climb his arm.

"Get out of here!" he screamed.

She grabbed for the door handle. This time it gave, and as it swung open, she vaulted out, the cat springing after her.

"You're crazy, you know that, lady!" the man screamed, yanking the cigarette from his shirt with one hand and rubbing at his leg with the other.

She spotted her case, abandoned on the seat, and raced forward with her arm extended to claim it. He saw what she was doing and immediately slid across the seat to pull the door shut before she could reach it.

"Give me my case," she yelled.

"Get it yourself." He flipped her his middle finger, threw the car into gear, and hit the accelerator. The tires spun, spitting out a great cloud of dust that immediately engulfed her.

"My case!" she yelled as he peeled away. "I need my case!" She began running after the Cadillac,

choking in the dust and calling out. She ran until the car had faded to a small dot on the horizon. Then

she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the road.

Her heart was pumping like a piston in her chest. She caught her breath and laughed, a wild, broken sound that was barely human. Now she'd done it. Now she'd really done it. And this time there was no good-looking blond savior to come to her rescue. A deep-throated rasp sounded next to her. She was alone except for a walleyed cat.

She started to shake and crossed her arms over her chest as if she could hold herself together. The cat wandered off to the side of the road and began picking its way delicately through the brush. A jackrabbit darted out from a clump of dried grass. She felt as if chunks of her body were flying away into the hot, cloudless sky-pieces of her arms and legs, her hair, her face… Since she had come to this country, she had lost everything. Everything she owned. Everything she was. She had lost it all, and now she had lost herself.…

Twisted verses from the Bible invaded her brain, verses half learned from long-forgotten nannies, something about Saul on the road to Damascus, struck down into the dirt, blinded and then reborn. At that moment Francesca wanted to be reborn. She felt the dirt beneath her hands and wanted a miracle that would make her new again, a miracle of biblical proportions… a divine voice calling down to her with a message. She waited, and she, who never thought to pray, began to pray. "Please, God… make a miracle for me. Please, God… send me a voice. Send me a messenger…"

Her prayer was fierce and strong, her faith-the faith of despair-immediate and boundless. God would answer her. God must answer her. She waited for her messenger to appear in white robes with a seraphic voice to point out the path to a new life. "I've learned my lesson, God. Really I have. I'll never be spoiled and selfish again." She waited, eyes squeezed shut, tears making paths in the dust on her cheeks. She waited for the messenger to appear, and an image began to form in her mind, vague at first and then growing more solid. She strained to look into the dimmest corners of her consciousness, strained to peer at her messenger. She strained and saw…

Scarlett O'Hara.

She saw Scarlett lying in the dirt, silhouetted against a Technicolor hillside. Scarlett crying out,

"As God is my witness, I'll never go hungry again."

Francesca choked on her tears and a hysterical bubble of laughter rose from her chest. She fell back

onto her heels and slowly let the laughter consume her. How typical, she thought. And how appropriate. Other people prayed and got thunderbolts and angels. She got Scarlett O'Hara.

She stood up and started to walk, not knowing where she was going, just moving. The dust drifted like powder over her sandals and settled between her toes. She felt something in her back pocket and, reaching in to investigate, pulled out a quarter. She gazed down at the coin in her hand. Alone in a foreign country, homeless, possibly pregnant-mustn't forget that calamity waiting to happen-she stood in the middle of a Texas road with only the clothes on her back, twenty-five cents in her hand, and a vision of Scarlett O'Hara in her head.

A strange euphoria began to consume her-an audaciousness, a sense of limitless possibilities. This was America, land of opportunity. She was tired of herself, tired of what she had become, ready to begin anew. And in all the history of civilization, had anyone ever been given such an opportunity for a fresh start as she faced at this precise moment?

Black Jack's daughter looked down at the money in her hand, tested its weight for a moment, and considered her future. If this was to be a fresh start, she wouldn't carry any baggage from the past. Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she drew back her arm and flung the quarter away.

The country was so vast, the sky so tall, that she couldn't even hear it land.

Holly Grace sat on the green wooden bench at the driving range and watched Dallie hitting practice balls with his two-iron. It was his fourth basket of balls, and he was still slicing all his shots to the right-not a nice power fade but an ugly slice. Skeet was slouched down at the other end of the bench, his old Stetson pulled down over his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch.

"What's wrong with him?" Holly Grace asked, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. "I've seen him play with a hangover lots of times, but not like this. He's not even trying to correct himself; he's just hitting the same shot over and over."

"You're the one who can read his mind," Skeet grunted. "You tell me."

"Hey, Dallie," Holly Grace called out, "those are about the worst two-iron shots in the entire history of golf. Why don't you forget about that little British girl and concentrate on earning yourself a living?"

Dallie teed up another ball with the head of his iron. "How 'bout you just mind your own business?"

She stood and tucked the back of her white cotton camisole into the waistband of her jeans before she wandered over to him. The pink ribbon threaded through the lacy border of the camisole turned up in the breeze and nestled into the hollow between her breasts. As she passed the end tee, a man practicing his drives got caught up in his backswing and completely missed the ball. She gave him a sassy smile and told him he'd do lots better if he kept his head down.

Dallie stood in the early afternoon sunshine, his hair golden in the light. She squinted at him. "Those cotton farmers up in Dallas are gonna take you to the cleaner's this weekend, baby. I'm giving Skeet a brand-new fifty-dollar bill and telling him to bet it all against you."

Dallie leaned over and picked up the beer bottle sitting in the center of a pile of balls. "What I really love about you, Holly Grace, is the way you always cheer me on."

She stepped into his arms and gave him a friendly hug, enjoying his particular male smell, a combination of sweaty golf shirt and the damp, leathery scent of warm club grips. "I call 'em like I see 'em, baby, and right now you're just short of terrible." She stepped away and looked straight into his eyes. "You're worried about her, aren't you?"

Dallie gazed out at the 250-yard sign and then back at Holly Grace. "I feel responsible for her; I can't help it. Skeet shouldn't have let her get away like that. He knows how she is. She lets herself get tangled up in vampire movies, she fights in bars, sells her clothes to loan sharks. Christ, she took me on in the parking lot last night, didn't she?"

Holly Grace studied the thin white leather straps crisscrossing the toes of her sandals and then looked at him thoughtfully. "One of these days, we've got to get ourselves a divorce."

"I don't see why. You're not planning on getting married again, are you?"

"Of course not. It's just-maybe it's not good for either one of us, going on like this, using our marriage

to keep us out of any other emotional involvements."

He regarded her suspiciously. "Have you been reading Cosmo again?"

"That does it!" Slamming her sunglasses down over her eyes, she stomped over to the bench and grabbed her purse. "There's no talking to you. You are so narrow-minded."

"I'll pick you up at your mama's at six," Dallie called after her as she headed toward the parking lot. "You can take me out for barbecue."

As Holly Grace's Firebird pulled out of the parking lot, Dallie handed Skeet his two-iron. "Let's go on over to the course and play a few holes. And if I even look like I'm thinking about using that club, you just take out a gun and shoot me."

But even without his two-iron, Dallie played poorly. He knew what the problem was, and it didn't have anything to do with his backswing or his follow-through. He had too many women on his mind, was what it was. He felt bad about Francie. Try as he might, he couldn't actually remember having told her he was married. Still, that wasn't any excuse for the way she'd carried on the night before in the parking lot, acting as if they'd already taken a blood test and made a down payment on a wedding ring. Dammit, he'd told her he wouldn't get serious. What was wrong with women that you could tell them straight to their faces that you would never marry them, and they'd nod just as sweet as pie and say they understood what you were saying and that they felt exactly the same way, but all the time they were picking out china patterns in their heads? It was one of the reasons he didn't want to get a divorce. That and the fact that he and Holly Grace were family.

After two double bogeys in a row, Dallie called it quits for the day. He got rid of Skeet and then wandered around the course for a while, poking at the underbrush with an eight-iron and shagging lost balls just like he'd done when he was a kid. As he pulled a brand-new Top-Flite out from under some leaves, he realized it must be nearly six, and he still had to shower and change before he picked up Holly Grace. He'd be late, and she'd be mad. He'd been late so many times Holly Grace had finally given up fighting with him about it. Six years ago he'd been late. They were supposed to be at the funeral home at ten o'clock to pick out a toddler-size coffin, but he hadn't shown up until noon.

He blinked hard. Sometimes the pain still cut through him as sharp and swift as a brand-new knife. Sometimes his mind would play tricks on him and he would see Danny's face as clearly as his own. And then he would see Holly Grace's mouth twist into a horrible grimace as he told her that her baby was dead, that he'd let their sweet little blond-haired baby boy die.