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Alone in New York City and not a Bob in sight. At least not one she knew.
"To me," Madison lifted her champagne in toast and after the modest applaud from her inner self, she took a sip. And then another, until the glass held only her reflection.
She looked around the five-star hotel room. Next to the open bottle of champagne sat a bouquet of tiger lilies and peach roses with her novel, No More Bobs, nestled in the middle. Grand Marnier and Cognac truffles arranged at opposite ends of the book accented her name - Madison Lawhon like chocolate bookends. Who'd ever have known?
Bending slightly, she stroked a rose petal and welcomed the companionship. The delicate scent of celebration tickled her nose and she swallowed back her excitement. With a quick glance at her wristwatch, she backtracked the hours. Ten, nine - bordering seven o'clock on the West Coast. The kids would be expecting her call.
She kicked off her slippers, picked up the phone and entered the eleven-digits. On the table, a copy of the agenda for the morning's events reminded her why she was there and sweat formed in her palm. Please someone answer.
"Kayla? It's Mom." She said, relaxed in the intimacy of her daughter's voice. "How's everything?"
"Grandma's driving us crazy." The whisper spoke volumes.
Madison sighed, "Maybe you're driving her crazy? Put her on the phone." Even cross-country, still a mom. Madison forced her ear to the receiver to take in the commotion miles away. What was that crash? Who just screamed? Maybe she ought to book an earlier flight home?
"Is that you Madison?"
"It's me. So how are the kids?" She prepared for the he-did-what-to-whom and back-in-my-day recital. No answer. Madison amplified her voice, "the kids?"
After mom readjusted the volume on her hearing aid she spoke crisply. "Marc scraped up his knee. He'll live. And Luke got a phone call from some floozy." Madison sensed a proverb coming off her mother's tongue. "The way these girls flaunt their fannies and pierce every orifice in their bodies, it's a wonder they--"
"Come on, they're teenagers." Madison counted the hours until she could parole the kids from grandma's protective custody and changed the subject, a futile argument to two different interpretations of misbehavior.
"I still can't believe it." Madison grasped the itinerary and gazed out at the New York skyline. "I'm going to be on Awakenings tomorrow morning."
"My little girl on my favorite talk show," Mom sent her reviews. "Your father would be so proud and Jessica and Paul are so…oh, I can hardly wait."
Madison walked barefoot on the plush carpeting, her toes sinking two-inches deep into the thick pile, and dropped in ecstasy on the over-sized bed, savoring her impending nine-minute moment of fame. She floated back into the soft pillows and stared at the ceiling, enveloped in her mother's familiar voice. So far away, yet so close.
She closed her eyes and imagined her mother's encouragement riding on the California bay breeze, scaling the snowcapped Rockies, dipping in the currents to tickle the stalks of corn in Iowa and crossing into New York City with barely an inhalation between sentences. Her presence filled the room.
"I had all the ladies in my prayer group say a special prayer so you won't be nervous tomorrow." Mom confided.
Mom how could you, she thought in embarrassment, and thanked her efforts with a simple, "I'll be fine."
But Mom was right.
Her stomach gurgled and she exhaled slowly, not wanting to disclose her nervous jitters. God had more important issues than Madison's gastric juices flip-flopping on a television studio set. She shifted the headset to her left ear and propped her elbow on the pillow.
"Is the studio paying for this call? You're not rich and it is long distance." The reprimand lost its sting somewhere over Ohio.
"It's okay, really. NBC's paying for everything. Did I tell you I'm going to be interviewed by Jessica Martin?"
"Why not Paul Samuelson?" Mom waited for her daughter's empty reply.
Yeah, why not Paul Samuelson, Madison fantasized. He's a five-star stud.
"He's so handsome," Mom rambled on. "I think you should wear your family colors." Madison listened for the 'you’re a Scot, Madison Lawhon and be proud of it' declaration.
A strong mix of Scottish ancestry - a Kellogg without a frosty flake, a Loucke without a lake, a Lawhon without a tartan - a lost Scot, Madison was in constant search for the color of her tartan.
"We've been over this before. I have no colors."
Her voice spiked and the needle traveled into the upscale hotel room. "So what are you going to wear?"
A square neck black knit top, size four-petite, red floral skirt and red lace thong panties and matching bra: a celebration of self, rested neatly over a chair. Madison gave a thumb up to her decision for femininity.
"Just make sure everyone gets up to watch." Madison slid off the bed and poured another glass of champagne. "I'll be back in Pelican Point late tomorrow night."
"Can you get me Paul Samuelson's autograph?" adolescent giddiness sealed the request.
"Of course, and would you call Denny and make sure he remembers to pick me up at the airport?"
"Denny dropped off a bucket of chicken wings and biscuits for the kids last night. Such a nice man." Her voice sweetened. "And a successful businessman, too."
"Mom, he owns the Chicken Palace." Madison sensed her mother planning her bridal registry. "Just give Denny a call. He tends to forget. Gate 12, Mountain West Airlines, eight o'clock."
*****
The slight echo of Mom's voice lingered as Madison put the phone back in the cradle and try not to kill each other until I get home she added as her own silent prayer.
Clad in a short silk robe, Madison stepped out onto the hotel balcony. The easterly breeze fluttered under her light fabric, the temperature degrees cooler than the darkest alley of Pelican Point. She wrapped her arms around her slim waist as she walked across the ceramic tiles and peered over the metal railing.
Four floors below, a tattered musician belted out Broadway tunes on a crumpled trumpet. Way-off-Broadway. The beat all his own, she reconsidered as the shrill vibrations sent quivers down her spine; the musical rendition rated curbside seating for a back-alley production - at best. Tourists drew hands to ears in protest; others dropped bills in the cup hoping to end the misery. The dollars overflowed.
To the right, a newspaper stand, expanded to mini-souvenir mart, starved for customers. Huddled on a stool, the merchant flipped pages of a magazine and tugged his collar higher around his bare neck.
ILOVENY bumper stickers, Yankee jerseys and Liberty foam crowns bounced against each other in the harvest wind. The baseball shirts waved in the current, cheering on an invisible team. From her focal point, the game looked to be coming up a run short.
Maybe Luke and Marc would like a Yankee jersey Madison thought and then shook her head pensively. As sure as she knew how to brew a cup of coffee under a caffeine withdrawal, she understood the three non-negotiable rights to remaining secure in the family tree: never date a catholic, never vote for a democrat and never own a wiener dog. Always go for a whole dog.
She was positive buying a Yankee shirt had to be filed under a loyalty sub-clause somewhere in the Lawhon family rules and regulations. Her dad had been an avid Giants fan right down to his orange and black boxers with the tiny baseball bats. The phrase "damn Yankees" and "strike 'em out" haunted her memories. That was not a good sign.
No way. She'd pass on the Yankee hat just the same way she held her tongue in political conversations and kept her escapades with good Catholic boys left to an unknown confessional.
Kayla, however, might enjoy a foam crown for Halloween. She'd take a peek tomorrow after the studio shot.
With a slight downward lean, she focused on a couple disappear into a local bar. A neon sign blinked "Bob's Corner Spot". A smirk crossed her bluing lips as she closed the sliding door. Even thousands of miles away from the bay waters of San Francisco, a Bob was close by. She was cursed.
*****
The limousine arrived half-past sunrise complete with orange juice and fresh baked raspberry scones. Madison scooted into the center spot next to Helga Rosenberg, a stout woman from Minnesota who spoke to animals - large geriatric dogs her specialty.
"The voice beyond the bark is a science as old as the ruins of Rome." Helga said. Her tongue wagged faster than a dog chasing a dream as she babbled on.
Judging by the sag of her chins and the map of wrinkles on her cheeks, Madison figured she ought to know and nodded politely.
"Goodness. I'm so nervous." Helga clenched her fingers in a fist of prayer. "This is my first time on television."
"You'll do just fine." A bracken voice answered and Madison nudged over to make room for the third guest, a wilted form of a man in a black suit, once fitting to his frame. "I've done this plenty of times." He said with a polished confidence and smiled widely at the two ladies.
Madison scooted over an extra inch as Daniel Peacock, owner of the Wicked Tinker, finished his introduction. He rested against the leather upholstery, cradled his cane along his inner thigh and exhaled a labored breath. Possibly a stroke Madison thought.
An expert on bayou concoctions for freeing the spirits that haunt, Mr. Peacock was prepared with a relay of stories and evidence of back street secrets and voodoo rituals to share with the audience. Madison looked at the small duffel bag and the large manila folder in his possession.
Slowly Daniel loosened the drawstring on the cloth bag and opened the neck. "Where I come from there are many evil spirits and souls of unrest." He lifted his left brow, paused and waited on cue for the ladies to react.
Helga sat twisting the folds of her skirt around her fingers like casings around plump sausages. Oblivious. Theatrics aside, Madison had to know what the wicked tinker held at bay and motioned for him to continue.
He pulled out a brown leather pouch. Inside, his secret potent. With the sliver of a glance, he carefully placed the small present in Madison's hand and folded her fingers around it for safe keeping.
"The Liberator," he said.
Madison stared at the sample and looked to Mr. Peacock for an explanation.
He locked into her gaze and whispered with the weight of conviction, "To scare the spirits away."
"But I don't need--"
"One never knows when a spirit will get riled," he said, his stare intensified. "One must always be prepared."
Madison figured it must work - the stench overwhelming enough to scare even the most persistent ghost away. She thanked him for the spirit pesticide and tucked it deeply into the side pocket of her purse.
At that he said no more and retreated into meditation, preparing for the scheduled presentation. Mr. Peacock silently mouthed his rehearsed speech, his aged fingers stroking the shaft of the scorched maple. Lost in concentration, he massaged the handle of his cane, rhythmically kneading the ears of the golden retriever head. Helga peered at the dog head, a perplexed glaze on her face, and Madison wondered if the two were bonding.
Sandwiched between the spirit irradiator and the animal communicator, Madison pulled her arms inward towards the outer ridge of her breasts, not wanting to touch the anxious woman or the gentleman in black for fear their nervous contagion would ignite under her skin and penetrate her jitters. She already had enough of her own.
*****
Madison was whisked through a back door and escorted to the television studio along with the woman from Minnesota and the shriveled man from Louisiana with cemetery tales. The corral of behind-the-scene employees skirted her from corner to corner. A fluff of hair, a dab of lip-gloss, a pre-show potty break, and Madison found herself cast opposite the host.
"Good morning Madison." Jessica scanned her notes. A makeup artist dotted Madison's nose with a dry sponge and Jessica looked up and asked, "Nervous?"
Madison's stomach fluttered and she gulped back the acids.
"Just be yourself, have fun and follow my lead." The morning talk host wore black lambskin jeans, a deep-scooped sweater and the faint scent of expensive perfume unknown to Madison's pulse points. The diamond ring on her middle finger was as large as the antacid Madison had popped backstage.
"And we're back in…" The director lifted his hand and ticked off the seconds with his index finger. The applause light beamed. Loud claps repeated until the light flickered off. 8:38am. The nine-minute time segment hit the air.
The studio lights blinded. A kaleidoscope of colors danced in Madison's eyes and obscured the panoramic view of the audience; the restlessness in her stomach told her they were out there. What are these people doing up at this hour?
“We have a real treat in store for you this morning." Jessica radiated warmth and enthusiastically welcomed the sold out crowd. “Today's guest is Madison Leigh Lawhon, the author of this month’s Book Club selection No More Bobs.”
Madison kept her head high; her shoulders back and greeted the mounting approval of applause; a quiver tickled her insides. Rehearsed responses jumbled in her mind and her mouth dried as a dust-bowl prairie. Relax. Focus.
"For those of you who haven't read Lawhon's book No More Bobs," Jessica turned the book cover to the side camera and paused for a five-second zoom. "You're going to fall in love with the Lawhon family."
Madison knotted her fingers together and resisted the temptation to brush a fallen strand of hair resting across her nose. Instead, she tried to blow it away with an upward puff.
"Pelican Point. Home to the Ogden Nash Bar and Grill, the Webbed Foot and Denny's Chicken Palace." Jessica played with the fans talking at a speed designed to fall into commercial time slots. "I just love those names, don't you?"
Madison did a quick frump check. Legs snug together and crossed at the ankles, knees slight angle to the right. Good. She embraced the softness of the slight skirt, the lining of silk against her bare cheeks and sensed the thong string.
"Everyone, if you think you have problems wait until you meet Madison; a single mom with kids," the morning host flagged three fingers, "a backyard equal to Noah's Ark and then there's the Bob." Jessica lifted her finely penciled brows and her expression drew the question. The audience bit. "Or should we say the Bobs?"
"My Father who art in heaven…" breathe, breathe. The phrase reeled in Madison's mind; a few words slipped near the microphone and she darted her eyes towards the audience to see if anyone noticed. Only attentive grins under the umbrella of lights.
"So tell me, Madison, when did you discover you were a Bob-magnet?" Jessica leaned towards Madison; her calm fingers lit on the guest's forearm like the wisp of a hummingbird wing. The eager audience fell silent.
"Well…" the strangled sound of words choked and Madison stammered. Jessica sent a supportive smile and a whisper of a wink.
"How many of you have read the book?" Jessica surveyed the crowd and a multitude of hands saluted. "Any of you have a Bob?" Titters escalated into deep laugher.
The tension eased, the director quieted the audience, and once more Jessica turned for an answer.
"Jessica it started the year I dated seven Bobs." Madison found her voice.
Jessica fanned her face to ward off a flush. "Seven?"
"Seven Bobs," Madison paused for Jessica's blush to fade and added, "and counting."
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