Sissy Spacek Chemo Patient (pt 5).

I believe I have seen more sunlight in the last day than the last year, Jackie says, sipping her coffee. She adores herself in her hand mirror.

I wish I knew how you do it, Faye says, sipping hers as well. Everybody in here is looking at you, Faye says, pointing her spoon at the mailmen and bread truck delivery drivers. They are at the Dennys on the highway, seated in front of the picture window. The Indian comes in, pauses when he sees Jackie and waves before going to counter and forcing his body onto a stool.

Of course they want to look, Jackie says, everyone admires glamor when they see it.

That’s what I mean, Faye says. You act like you’re in a movie all the time. I guess you think you’re better than everybody else, right? You’d have to if you wanted to dress like that. I bet it was easier up in Chicago.

It was, Jackie agrees. There were people like me there and sometimes we had these beautiful little salons where we’d just talk all day. That’s when Jackie Rose came to life.

I don’t know about any of that. Faye drops money on the table and gets up. Don’t do anything stupid, she says to Jackie. And don’t be late.

Why are you doing this? Jackie asks. She’s not going to keep that man, and she sure as hell shouldn’t be having a baby. This whole thing is God’s worst idea.

Faye gives her a look and leaves the restaurant, hiking her purse up on her shoulder; Jackie feels foolish for asking when the answer is written in neon: when you get a chance at something good you fucking take it, and you don’t ask why.

She goes to the bathroom, taking her wig off in the stall and combing it with her fingers. There is an amazing wave of graffiti on the walls in pens and markers and etched with the edges of keys, a roll call of which faggots and whores suck dick along with evidence that the President is the antichrist and is going to burn in hell. Next to the toilet paper roll is written SISSY SPACEK in large letters, and underneath that in a different hand and ink is added CHEMO PATIENT. And that’s what it is, Jackie thinks, you can write whatever you want and somebody else will come along and make it say something else altogether. That’s life for you right there.

She returns to the restaurant floor pleased with herself at making a great connection, and decides it’s time to meet the boy Faye brought her here to see. He is seated in a booth bathed in sunbeam, drawing on the table with an open packet of ketchup; his arms were slathered in the remains of the dozen empties piled on the ground, and his face was wiped with it: the whole thing looked like murder.

Hey there, little man, Jackie says to the boy, kneeling as best she could in a dress that was admittedly a little small for her. The boy glanced up at her but did not hesitate in his art, slapping his hands down on the palette of ketchup, spattering the walls.

If God had a kind bone in His body, Jackie thinks, He would have at least not made the child look just like him. He could have spared me that but if those aren’t Shawn’s eyes I’d as soon snatch them out of his head.

She feels like she should do something. Give something. Pass along words.

It’s all fucked, kid, she says. That’s all I got for you.

What you doing? It’s a waitress who works here, as dumpy as a melted candle with hair like a canary and acne everywhere else, and when she gets a look at Jackie she does a double take, and then a triple as she looks all over again. Wow, she says.

Yes, Jackie says. It’s a day of wonders. I was just saying hello to your little man here. How old is he?

Three, the waitress says. It’s none of your business so maybe you should get going.

You hear that? Jackie says to the goggling toddler. Aunt Jackie’s got to go.

Don’t talk to him, the waitress says, and Jackie twists her wrist and backs the girl up, all the way to the wall, her eyes as wide as saucers now full of fear. Thank you, Jackie says. I’m going to go now. Take good care of that little man. She lets go; the waitress sucks on her fingers. Jackie blows her a kiss; she waves to the boy; then she’s gone.