Family Fruitcake Frenzy

by Margaret Lashley

  “Hi,” I smirked as I opened the door. “Welcome, Paul Bunyan.”

  “You like it? I’m thinking it’s good camouflage.” Tom stepped past me into the living room.

  “What? No kiss?” I complained.

  Tom shot me a boyish grin. “No offence, Val, but either you’ve got a cappuccino moustache or you’ve gone rabid.”

  I curled my upper lip and reached to wipe the milk foam from it, but Tom beat me to it. He grabbed me by the shoulders and licked my mouth like an over-friendly dog. I jerked my face away. “Gross, Tom!”

  “What?” Tom laughed. “I’ve been reading up on hillbillies for the trip. I thought that was redneck foreplay.”

  I shook my head, more amused than peeved. “That’s enough!” I pointed to my luggage. “There’s my suitcase. Put it in your SUV.”

  “Geeze, Val,” Tom mock-grumbled. “At least tantalizing Tammy delivered her demands with a side of honey.”

  Tom had hit a nerve. “Compare me to Tammy again and you’re gonna feel the sting from the other end of that bee.”

  Tom grinned and reached out to hug me. “Come on, Val. Relax. I get it. You’re afraid.”

  I bristled in his arms. “What? What would I be afraid of?”

  Tom sighed. “Nothing. Forget it.” He loosened his embrace. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Tom grabbed my case and stepped outside. I frowned and locked the door behind me. Tom was right. I was afraid. All of a sudden I felt...vulnerable. Fragile even. As if I might be shattered by the slightest misspoken word. I took a deep breath and hoped Tom was right. I hoped there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, and that I had been working myself up over nothing.

  WHEN TOM PULLED UP in front of Jorge’s house, the front yard was dotted with life-sized, semi-deflated holiday blow-up figures. A half-flat Frosty the Snowman hunched over the back end of a head-hanging Rudolf reindeer. I grinned and shook my head. Leave it to the guys to somehow make even the holidays seem obscene.

  Tom climbed out of the SUV and rearranged the hatchback storage while I went to fetch Winky and Winnie. Goober answered when I rang the bell. The door’s raised threshold added six inches to his already six-foot frame. I felt like a dwarf as he looked down at me.

  “It’s about time you got here,” he said, his face twisted with sarcasm. “I’ll finally be able to get some peace and quiet.”

  “What do you mean, Goober?”

  “Winky and Winnie chose this morning to enthusiastically debate the sustainability of their ongoing relationship.”

  Movement caught my eye. Winky appeared from the hallway looking a little worse for wear. He shook his head. “Well, let it be noted, I’m ready on time. But I’m always havin’ to wait on my alter eagle.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “He means alter ego,” Goober said, then let out the longest sigh I’d ever heard.

  “What’s an ego?” Winky asked.

  “Something you got waay too much of,” Winnie answered as she marched out of the bedroom dragging a suitcase. Winky shot her a scowl.

  “Great,” I said. “Two feuding hillbillies and I’m not even in Jackson County yet.”

  “Better you than me,” Goober smirked and rubbed a hand over his bald pate. “Happy trails.”

  “As I recall, yore momma Glad weren’t that far from redneck central herself,” Winky said with a smart-alecky sneer. “She was from Kentucky, as memory serves.”

  “Yes,” I hissed. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Crap on a cracker! I’d already been busted by a barnyard buffoon.

  Not good, Val. You need to up your game if you’re gonna survive the week in Greenville.

  TOM’S SUV TRAVELED north on I-275. We’d just buzzed by the exit for Ocala when Winky popped the top on the plastic cooler I’d tucked on the floorboard in the middle of the back seat. The smell of spiced rum overpowered the passenger compartment.

  “Whooowee! Smells like a whiskey bar at closing time,” Winky bellowed.

  Tom grinned at me and patted my thigh. I closed my book and craned my neck around to face the backseat. Up until now, Winky and Winnie had sat in the back in blessed silence. Like angry children, each had scooted as close as possible to their respective passenger doors and had pursed their lips until the blood had drained from them. Their lover’s quarrel was my answered prayer. It had kept Winky’s wildness in check, and saved me the trouble of having to dope him with Dramamine.

  “What are you doing, Winky?” I asked.

  “Lookin’ for a cold drink. But all you got in here is a brick that smells like a booze factory.”

  “It’s not a brick and you know it. It’s another fruitcake.”

  Winky pried the lid off the cooler again and took another peek. He turned his nose up and shut the lid. “Yuck.”

  “I like fruitcake,” Winnie said in my defense.

  Winky shot her a look. “You would say that.”

  Winnie sneered at him, then offered me a smile. “You taking the fruitcake for you mom, Val?”

  “Well, sort of. I made it for the competition.”

  “The competition?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “It’s a family tradition. Every year, all the women in the family make a fruitcake. Then there’s a taste-test. The winner gets a gift certificate for Jon-Boy’s Pig Heaven Barbeque and gets to hold onto the trophy for a year.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Winnie said. She took off her red-framed glasses and wiped them on her shirt.

  “Not really,” I answered sullenly. “My mother wins it every year.”

  Winnie popped her glasses back on her face. “She must have a super-good recipe, then.” She sneered at Winky again. “I’d love to have it.”

  “I’d share it with you, Winnie, but my mother won’t divulge her secret recipe to anyone. Not even Jesus. Besides, I’m not so sure it’s her recipe that wins the contest as it is her technique.”

  “Her technique?” Winnie asked.

  “Let me put it this way. The French didn’t invent sabotage. My mother did.”

  Winnie looked startled. “What do you mean, Val?”

  “Well, my mom likes to lower the odds. Last year, I’m pretty sure Mom filled Aunt Pansy’s bottle of vanilla extract with soy sauce.”

  Winky snorted a laugh.

  Winnie winced. “Oh my word!”

  From the driver’s seat, Tom chuckled to himself.

  “That’s only one example. Two years ago I caught her putting talcum powder in Aunt May’s box of baking soda.”

  Winnie sighed and shook her head. “People is always putting salt in the sugar shakers at Davie’s. What’s wrong with people? Why would they do such a thing?”

  Winky’s eyes shifted guiltily. He stared out the window.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “But stuff like that is amateur hour compared to my mom. You’d be surprised what a drop or two of vinegar will do to a cake recipe. She got me with that one a couple of years ago.”

  “Geeze! Her own daughter!” Winnie stared in disbelief. “That’s horrible, Val.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Mom never has been any good at putting her own needs second. But this time, I think I’ve got her beat. I made my fruitcake ahead of time. I figure with me and Tom watching the cooler, I’ve got a fighting chance to be the top fruitcake this year.”

  Tom snorted. I shot him a dirty look.

  “Well, you’ve got my vote,” Winnie said. “If it’s the same as what you served last night, it’s gotta win.”

  “Thanks, Winnie.” I turned back to face Tom. He kept his eyes on the road.

  Winky’s cellphone buzzed. “What?” he bellowed into the phone. “Gaul-dang it! Uh huh. Well, I can’t. I’m halfway to Lake City. You two’s gonna have to fix it yourself.” He clicked off the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Tom asked.

  Winky frowned. “That was Jorge. He said something what’n set up right with the lights at the mayor’s place.”

  “Oh. What’s the pr
oblem?”

  Winky tried to look serious, but couldn’t pull it off. “It was s’posed to look like Santa on the chimbley, tossing presents down to the mayor.” He grinned and couldn’t stop giggling. “But Jorge said...ha ha...the lights was...hee hee...screwed up somehow...ha ha ha!” Winky lost his composure for a moment, then continued. “...and it looks like...hee hee...Santa’s takin’ a dump on the mayor’s head!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TOM STEERED THE SUV down the last exit ramp for Lake City. The juncture was the halfway point to my mother’s place, and the drop-off point for Winky and Winnie. The plan was to have lunch together and wait for Winky’s cousin Roger to pick them up.

  “Where you guys want to eat?” Tom asked as he made a right toward an ugly lineup of chain restaurants and gas stations.

  “I’d love me some Krystal burgers,” Winky said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Tom replied. “Any objections?”

  Winnie and I had none, so a few minutes later we were sitting around a high-top table for four, pulling delicious little steamed hamburger buns out of open-ended little cardboard boxes.

  “Roger don’t live but a few minutes from here,” Winky said. “Val, can I use your phone to give him a call? I went and left mine in the SUV.”

  “Sure.” I wiped my hands on a napkin and pulled my cellphone from my purse. Winky grabbed it with his greasy hands and punched in a number.

  “Hey, Charlene. Roger there?”

  “What? Uh huh. Uh huh. Well don’t that beat all.”

  Winky clicked off the phone. “Dumb jerk went and shot hisself in the foot this time.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I just tole ya. Roger shot hisself in the foot. He was chasin’ down a wild hog.”

  “Oh. So what does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means he took his rifle and –”

  “No! I mean is he still coming to get you?”

  “Oh. I tole Charlene we was here. She said ‘okay.’ I figured that meant she was comin’.

  “Maybe you should call her back, you know, to make sure.”

  “Can do.” Winky looked at my phone and hit the camera button. “Cheese crackers,” he said, and snapped a shot of Tom and me as I crammed half a burger in my mouth.

  “Stop it!” I mumbled.

  “Just commemoratin’ this special event,” Winky laughed.

  I grabbed for my phone, but Winky was too fast. He scrolled through the photo gallery and waved around a picture of me stuffing my face. As everyone but me laughed, he swiped the screen and showed us a screen shot of last night, where I’d captured him gnawing on a turkey leg like Cro-Magnon man.

  “Turnip boots is fair play, Val,” he joked.

  “Turnip what?” I asked.

  Winky didn’t respond. He was focused on his own image in the photo. “That shore was fun. Had us a big time, didn’t we?” He elbowed Winnie, forgetting temporarily the two were feuding.

  Winnie smiled. “Sure did, honeybunch. You want my fries?”

  “Well ain’t you a doodle bug.” Winky grinned at Winnie, then lowered a waffle fry into his mouth like a crane. He hit redial on my phone. “Hey Charlene. You comin’ to get us or what? Uh huh. Uh huh.”

  “So, you two made up?” I asked Winnie while Winky was talking to Charlene.

  “Yeah. It usually doesn’t take much to set things right between us.”

  Tom shot me a sarcastic grin. “Well, with that, I’m gonna go wash my hands, ladies.”

  Tom took off for the restroom. Winky clicked off my cellphone.

  “You done with it?” I asked.

  “Yep. Just one more thing.” Winky went back to the photo gallery and started swiping through the photos. “Got to see what our little Val’s been up to.”

  I grabbed for the phone. “That’s none of your business!”

  “Well I’ll be horn-swoggled,” Winky said. He stopped and stared at a picture.

  “What?” I asked.

  He showed the picture to Winnie. “Looky, there, if that ain’t Mr. Peterson hisself.”

  Winnie nodded. “It sure is.”

  “Huh? Who’s Mr. Peterson?” I asked.

  “The guy who brought us the grill. To start our new, uh, cremation business.” Winky held up a group photo that Officer Muller had taken at the police precinct party.

  I nearly choked on a waffle fry. “Which one?” I asked.

  Winky’s fat, freckled finger landed on a smug-looking face in the crowd. It belonged to Hans Jergen.

  I SAT SILENT AS A STONE in the seat beside Tom as we hurtled down Interstate 10 to my impending doom. Winky’s cousin’s wife, Charlene, had gotten a flat tire on the way to pick them up. We’d spent half the afternoon sorting out that mess. When we’d finally waved goodbye to them and they drove away in a rusted-out Chevy pickup, Tom and I were three hours behind schedule. I’d used the extra time on my hands to exponentially expand my anxiety, and to call my mother to let her know we were running late. After making sure I was well aware of all the inconvenience our delay had caused her, she’d grunted and hung up.

  I was almost glad I had something else even more troubling to worry about.

  Is Jergen behind Ha-Pet-Ly-Ever-After? Is that simply a pseudonym for his Pet Patrol business? I’d made Winky and Winnie promise not to say a word to Tom about Jergen. Not yet, anyway. I wanted to make sure it was true before I let the cat out of the bag. Heaven knows Tom and Jergen didn’t need anything else to fight about.

  I felt a pat on my thigh.

  “Would you stop your worrying, Val?” Tom smiled. “I promise, it will all work out with your mom.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Hey, I’ve got wheels and a credit card.”

  I forced a smile and braced myself as the Quincy exit flew by. The next one would be ours.

  “Fair warning, Tom. If you thought last night’s supper was crazy, that was dinner with the Pope compared to what you’re in for with my family.”

  Tom gave me a dubious look. “Why are you just telling me this now?”

  I shot him a sly grin. “Because it’s too late to turn back now.”

  IT WAS A FEW MINUTES past nine o’clock when Tom pulled his SUV up in front of my mother’s house. The only light glowing in the rural darkness came from a solitary bulb on the front porch.

  “Wait here,” I said to Tom. “I’ll try the doorknob to make sure she hasn’t locked us out.”

  I crept across the yard and wiggled the knob, half hoping it wouldn’t budge. It did. I signaled for Tom to come in. I cracked the door open and felt around in the dark living room for a lamp.

  “Ragmuffin, is that you?” I heard my mother call.

  “Yes.”

  “We done give up and went to bed.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Don’t you go sleepin’ in the same bed with him.”

  “I won’t.”

  Quiet as mice, I led Tom down to the bedroom in the hall, and found some extra sheets to make up the couch for myself. When I went to the bathroom, I found a turd in toilet. I tried not to read too much into it as I flushed and watched it circle the drain and disappear.

  One day down. Three to go before Christmas.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I WOKE UP ON THE COUCH, half strangled by my flannel nightgown. Misty morning light was beginning to creep through the living room window in my mother’s house. The shadowy shapes of heavy-legged pine tables and frill-trimmed lampshades loomed at me like Dawn of the Doomed – The Country Décor Edition.

  I sighed and took in a lungful of familiar scents. This is what home smells like. I hauled myself to standing. A tinge of coolness in the morning air caught me by surprise. I’d forgotten how different the weather was in the Panhandle of Florida. In the dim light, I pilfered through my suitcase for a pair of jeans and a shirt with sleeves. I’d wiggled into them and put a pot of coffee on when I heard a voice behind me.

  “
Good morning, young lady.”

  I turned around. It was Dale Short, my mother’s legally-blind husband. He was a sweet natured, slender, slip of a man. My sister Annie and I were sure our mother had hog-tied him and tricked him into marrying her. Thus we’d come to know him, love him, and nickname him, “The Hostage.”

  “Hi, Dale. You’re looking well.”

  “I got no complaints,” he grinned. “They don’t fly round here, no-hows.”

  I grinned back. “I know that’s right. Here’s your coffee, just the way you like it.”

  The Hostage took a sip and grinned from ear to ear. “Ahhh! You always could make a good cup!”

  Tom tiptoed down the hallway from his bedroom, fully dressed and groomed for the day. “Morning, Val,” he whispered. “Good morning, Mr. Short. How are you?”

  Dale looked up at Tom. The two shared expressions of mutual admiration as they shook hands. “Doing fine, son. You, too, by the looks of it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am.”

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  Tom looked relieved. “Yes, please.” He turned back to Dale. “So what’s on the agenda today, sir?”

  The Hostage smiled. His eyes looked large and distorted behind the inch-thick lenses of his glasses. The dark, cat-eye frames were so old and out of date they were hip again.

  “Well now, I thought you and me would rustle up some donuts from the IGA, if you’re so inclined,” Dale said with genuine pleasure. “You remember the drill, don’t you son? We gotta get there early or old Tiny McMullen’ll buy the whole store out.”

  “Sure. I remember,” Tom said with a laugh. “Can I drive the golf cart this time?”

  “Yessirre. After that I figured we’d go huntin.’ Val’s Uncle Jake ought to be by here in a little bit.”

  “Hunting?” Tom and I asked together.

  “Yeah. Best to be long gone when Lucille’s making that fruitcake,” Dale explained. “She don’t take kindly to no prying eyes about, if you know what I mean.”