A Ticket to a Mission

The dust whorled, but Amy held fast to the ticket, allowing ultrafine particles to stuff her nose. The coughing spell that followed was potentially worth half a billion bucks. 

Odd, Amy thought, as an image of Jackie Breeden rose like a genie before the road dust re-settled without eliciting a sneeze or a tickle in her throat. Did Jackie’s gentle manner, so firmly affixed in memory, hold the cough at bay? 

Asthma was the only affinity Amy shared with her ex-mother-in-law, unless one considered her hapless son, Brandon, a thirty-something ne’er do well. He’d been handsome, ambitionless, and semi-literate—a waste of Amy’s quality time—so she’d dumped him after nine months of marriage. 

A ladybug landed on Amy’s palm and walked in tight figure-eights before flying off. A bit of Swedish folklore caused Amy to shudder. If a ladybug landed on your hand, you’d soon marry. 

Not Travis. Banish the thought.

Amy felt strange that ex-mother-in-law, Jackie, the enduring template of the steadfast Christian farmwife, intruded in the first moments after release from the gray bar hotel. Jackie was spunkier than most, and mildly subversive.

Here I stand at the crossroads of my happily-ever-after, and I ponder “What would Jackie do?” Of course, I’ll do the opposite. I’m golden, not good. I shall exact revenge on a madman, who skipped the premises and set me up for the fall.

Travis Castro is a dead man. 

Amy tucked the lottery ticket into her bra so she could run her fingers through her hair. She hoped to shake the dust while air-conditioning her scalp. Though she’d spent all of her allotted time walking the prison exercise yard, she didn’t recall the sun being this intense. Especially so soon after dawn.

Amy stood rooted, willing her eyes to blink back the moisture. Tears were not allowed in a self-reliant’s sphere. She stomped her foot. The dust spiraled tornado-like again, overwhelming her lungs. 

Amy bent to place her hands atop her thighs, to steady herself for the onslaught. Though the deep, croup-like coughing lasted many seconds, no one in the crowd looked askance when she righted herself. Everyone milled about. Amy already knew she signaled her loner status well.

She felt relieved that no one stepped forward to pound her back, an action that never halted an asthma attack.

With no tissues to wipe her nose or blot the perspiration from her hairline, she bent her elbow, unbuttoned the cuff, and dabbed her upper lip. Then she inched the cloth as far around her neck as she could reach.

Grumpy and discombobulated, Amy now felt dumped. She’d been led outside the concrete-and-iron cage, the gigantic doors locked and bolted behind her. All of her belongings in a backpack, including a cellphone, underwear, and three shirts. Oh, a comb, an inhaler, makeup—and a wallet that was leaner by a buck. The lottery ticket vending machine at the bus station practically shouted her name as she loitered among the other newly released prisoners.

She chuckled when other former inmates fell in line behind her to emulate her purchase. She guffawed when the torture over number selection, some ex-cons accessing their phones to find family birthdates while others called out to their posse for numbers to pick. Her final, triumphant laugh, before returning to subterfuge once more, as the others failed to suppress their addictive impulses and clutched fistfuls of tickets. Scattered conversations gathered around the topic of everything one could lavish money on, each eager to spendthrift.

Amy ignored the other inmates who greeted friends and family. She ignored their cheers, whoops, and hugs. She stuffed feelings of isolation, walled deep in her soul, the feelings that began when she was ten and her mom turned schizzy on her and her brother Andy. Back in California, where seasons didn’t matter, and where she longed to live.

Amy shrugged off dialing the Breeden dairy farm, within forty-fifty miles of Jackson, the location of the Michigan State Pen. She might be greeted as the prodigal daughter-in-law, but she had bigger game in mind. She aimed to track Travis Castro, the dealer who’d stolen her crop and allowed her capture when the law swept in. He was handsome, ambitious, and semi-considerate. Dangerous, furtive, and conscience-less. What an ass. What a lure.

            Amy gritted her teeth. Maybe she could muster the courage to call her gal pal, Veronica, to whom she’d slipped some ganga seeds during a single prison visit. The girl might be good for a ride to Traverse City, which was miles upstate, where Amy’d heard Travis owned a popular bar. But she couldn’t face the potential humiliation if V had pounced on Brandon. There were few eligible males in that small rural town she and Veronica had once shared.

            She decided. She’d forego meals, maybe reach Traverse City as a hitchhiker by noon.  

She had cash, gained by tutoring other inmates who sought the GED, but Amy was interested in speed, not spend. She didn’t pause to look in a mirror, to refresh her make-up. She’d seen her determined jaw and high forehead before. 

Amy hoisted her backpack and nudged the lottery ticket deeper in her bra. She put her back to the revelers and started walking. She’d put out her thumb when she was well away from the herd.

Too late to worry about bridges burned. Amy was resolute.  She’d create her own rebelution, as she had all of her life.