by Lisa Smartt
“Hey Dusty, good to see you! Can I get you something? I’d offer you dinner, but my cookin’ is still pretty bad. We’ve got yogurt. Oh, and we always have sweet tea. I’m a killer at makin’ sweet tea.”
“No, I’m fine, Carlie. Thanks. I hate to barge in like this. It’s just that, well, I need to talk to both of ya. Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. Let me turn off the TV.”
By this time, Doug had joined me on the couch. He said enthusiastically, “Glad to see you’re out, Dusty. I hope it gets settled soon. I mean, I hope the trial is soon and you can put this behind you.”
“Yeah. For sure. The lawyer just called and he’s still doing some investigation. There’s still some things we don’t know, but yeah, I think they’ll get it straightened out.” He looked down at the rug and rubbed his hands together nervously. “Actually, I’m not even here to talk about my legal trouble. I have faith that’ll get worked out. I mean, I know those drugs weren’t mine. So I have to believe the court system will work for me.”
Doug smiled and said, “Then I’m guessing you’re here to talk about a woman, yes?”
Dusty looked down at the rug and didn’t make eye contact. Then he turned his head and smiled as he looked out the window. He rubbed his lips together. “Yeah. I know. It’s crazy. I get that. I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. And I haven’t been interested in a woman since, well, since Melissa. I haven’t. It’s been nearly a year now. I’ve been trying to build the business up, trying to re-build my life. I was living with Carl and Mrs. Betty at first. But nine months ago, I got my own place. Nothin’ to brag about, but it’s home. A two-bedroom place off of 119.” He looked straight at us. “ I’ve been goin’ to church, makin’ a plan for my life, savin’ some money, you know, tryin’ to get it together. Most decent girls around here, they remember me from before. They steer clear of me and I get that. I do. But Clara, she was different. I mean, she acted like she didn’t care that I was a mechanic or even that I’d done some time. And now…now I’ve messed it all up. I mean, I haven’t….but someone did.”
I was glad Doug was sitting next to me. I have a tendency to get all weepy and emotional and ridiculous when a man shares something personal. I wanted to run over and just hug the stuffins out of Dusty McConnell. I wanted to make an omelet for him (even though my omelets are dry and crunchy and completely worthless). I wanted to tell him that I’m mad that his dad was mean, and I’m sad that he used to steal cars, and uh, well, that God loves him…very much.
Doug spoke with confidence, “Dusty, your reputation hasn’t been ruined. There’s been no trial. No real outcome yet.”
Dusty bent the bill of his cap back and forth in his hands, then looked up. “C’mon, Doug. You live here. You know life in a small town. It’s been on the radio, in the paper. My name already had some black marks beside it and now it has another black mark. A big one.”
“When’s your trial date?”
“Two months from now.”
“So, you can still operate the business during this time? I mean, it won’t hamper your work schedule?”
He smiled. “Not unless people stop coming to the shop.”
“They won’t, man. It might lighten up a little, but people are still going to come.”
Dusty looked down at the rug again. “Business is not the only thing I’m worried about.”
This was my cue to break into the conversation. “Dusty, if you mean Clara, well, that was never a sure thing, right? You hadn’t really even gone out with her.”
“No. But I was makin’ plans to go to Georgia. And she was happy about it too. She acted like she really wanted me to come, like she was giving me a chance. And when I told her I couldn’t write good, she acted like she didn’t care. She said she couldn’t put an alternator in a car so that made us even.” He laughed and rubbed the side of his face like he was thinking.
I had a feeling Dusty McConnell could recall every single detail of that conversation with Clara. I was proud of her too. Even though I knew Dusty was not her soul mate, I was still glad she had taken the opportunity to make him feel good about his work. That effort had filled his soul. And God knows somebody should be filling Dusty McConnell’s soul.
“Dusty, have you talked to Clara lately? I mean, in the last few days?”
“Yeah, I told her tonight I was out on bond. I told her I couldn’t leave the state, asked if she was comin’ up here soon.” He stood and grabbed his coat. “But no, she said she wasn’t. And well, I could tell she didn’t even want to.” He looked at both of us like a puppy who’d been kicked. “So I guess that’s that, huh? Sorry I took up your time.”
I spoke up. “Dusty, it’s not you. It’s probably my fault. Truth is, I introduced her to a guy in Obion County a few weeks ago and they saw each other this weekend. And I think things went pretty well. I’m sorry.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, put his cap on, and headed toward the door, “Not your fault, Carlie. Really. Thanks.” He turned back and looked at Doug. “Let me guess? This guy’s not a felon or up on charges or a car mechanic either, right?”
At that moment I stopped caring about the sensible thing. I reached out to hug Dusty McConnell with every bit of enthusiasm I could muster. “I’m so sorry, Dusty. So very sorry.” He smelled like pine trees. A pleasant and happy smell.
He hugged me back and it’s almost like I could feel his pain being transferred into my own heart when he said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
Doug put out his hand and grabbed Dusty’s shoulder. “Dusty, you come by anytime you want. Anytime. Day or night. We’re here for you. And we’ll be prayin’ for a swift resolution to your legal trouble too.”
“Thanks, Doug. Oh, and if you have any car trouble, I’m open for business, y’know?”
“We won’t forget.”
Dusty McConnell drove out of our driveway in a 20-year-old red Chevy pick-up truck that looked like it had been through some rough years. But I had a feeling he wasn’t interested in doing a trade-in. He knew just how to care for it, battle scars and all.
Chapter 29 CLARA LOUISE: Conquering Mountains of Stone
I recognized Jake’s Camry as I walked out to the school parking lot.
He waved and shouted, “There’s one of Georgia’s treasures right there.”
“Thanks! Welcome, Jake! Welcome to the Peach State!”
His hug was pleasant and almost familiar. We were planning to eat supper at a place in Atlanta I had seen on the Food Network. But first, we were off to my parents’ house. He would put his stuff away, eat some of my mom’s brownies, and shake my dad’s hand. That was the plan. The entire operation should take less than ten minutes because my parents have almost no social skills. Mom was going crazy with cleaning and brownie making and breakfast plans. I guess she and Daddy had long given up on my ability to find a man. And now this. None of us were even sure what to call Jake. He wasn’t my boyfriend. But he wasn’t just a friend either. I decided we would all just call him, well, Jake.
Everything went fine. The brownies. The parental meeting. The burrito place that served everything with banana peppers. His clean car. My favorite sweater. His perfection. My ability to cover my imperfections.
Saturday morning Mom made some pancakes she had seen on the internet but the batter was too thin and it made a mess and stuck to the pan. The tiny kitchen was filled with smoke and tension as she struggled against the old cast iron skillet. She put her face in her apron and began to cry. Daddy yelled some obscenities, grabbed a paper, and sat in the recliner. Jake stood in the kitchen propped up against an old countertop covered in coffee stains, unsure of what to do next. I hugged Mom and explained that we needed to get going anyway and that we had had such a big supper that we weren’t really hungry.
When I pulled the car door closed, I decided to lay it all out. “Jake, I’m sorry about that. Mom and Dad haven’t had the best relationship. Ever. Mom’s real emotional. Dad�
�s volatile. It just makes for a bad situation. I’m sorry. Really.”
“No, it’s fine. I just wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted to help your mom. But I wasn’t sure what would help her.”
“You did fine. The fact that we didn’t add to the chaos was a help. Mom’s probably crying on the bed now and Dad’s in the living room ignoring her. It’s been this way my whole life.”
“So what did you do? I mean, when you were a kid, what did you do in a situation like that?”
“I read. I went to my room, closed the door, and went somewhere else through the pages of a book.”
“Did it work?”
I smiled and looked out the window. “Not really. But it made the time pass. And that’s what I wanted. I wanted time to pass quickly so I could grow up and get out.”
Jake looked uncomfortable. He asked if I wanted some gum. I declined. In an effort to find a more pleasant subject, he said, “Well, I guess all that reading motivated you to want to teach folks to read.”
“I’m not sure what motivated me. I knew I didn’t want to live at home. I knew I didn’t want to depend on Mom and Dad financially so I made a plan and carried it out. I’ve been happy as a teacher. So yeah, I feel blessed.”
“I guess your dad, seein’ as how he’s a little rough around the edges, was pretty hard on your boyfriends probably.”
I held onto the car door and said, “Uh, I don’t know. I guess.”
“Well, I know if I had a beautiful daughter, I’d be pretty strict with the guys comin’ around.”
“He could have done a better job in that department.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Let’s change the subject. So you’ve never been to Stone Mountain, huh?”
“No.”
We talked about Stone Mountain, about insurance regulations, and about his family. It sounded like the most imperfect thing about his family was that his sister didn’t graduate college. It broke his parents’ hearts and they did everything they could to change her mind. I wanted desperately to tell Jake Smith that I knew what family trauma was. Up close and personal. And trauma was not a sister who didn’t graduate from college. He explained the family tree. One brother is an orthodontist in Memphis, got married five years ago, has a little boy and one on the way. Another brother, a CPA in Jackson, has a wife and baby girl. And of course, the wayward uneducated older sister was happily married to a local history teacher and the proud mother of three. Yeah. That’s traumatizing alright.
We had a lovely morning. Pleasant. Happy. He needed to leave at 2:00 so he retrieved his things from my old bedroom and thanked my mama and hugged her. He shook my daddy’s hand and said, “You have a fine daughter, Mr. Johnson. She’s a great girl.” Daddy sighed and sat back down in the recliner, saying nothing.
I’m sure he wanted to tell Jake Smith all my shameful secrets. Daddy is like that. He doesn’t forgive or overlook. But for the first time in my life, I realized that Daddy shared the responsibility for my shame. Jake’s comment about him keeping watch over the boys was eye-opening. While I was a teenager living at home, Daddy was to be my caretaker, the keeper of the gate. But he didn’t. He didn’t watch the boys or the gate. He sat behind that paper for years while my heart cried out for love. He let me take the fall for the abuse and the baby and the traumas. No wonder I couldn’t choose a good man. I didn’t know what one looked like. I never really had.
Chapter 30 CARLIE: Aunt Charlotte’s Rural Detective Agency
I’m officially out of the movie business. Contract is signed, sealed, and delivered. The only caveat I scribbled above my signature was the insistence that Angelina Jolie not appear in the film. I’m not sure why that was so important to me, but it was. I figured one diva request or lack thereof wasn’t too bad. I was happy to relinquish control of the movie because I really want to learn to make pork chops and I don’t have time to micro-manage a movie studio.
Along with the pork chop project, I need to be working on two things: writing and matchmaking. They’re not even going to start filming the movie for several months. Evidently it takes a long, long time to make a movie. And I’m not good at waiting for things. I’m not even good at watching other people wait for things. Dusty McConnell is waiting for his day in court. Clara Johnson is waiting to fall in love. Dave and Shannon are waiting for a baby. And I can’t help any of them. Or can I?
On an average Tuesday morning, I woke with great inspiration. I determined to do some stealth detective work on behalf of one Dusty McConnell. I didn’t decide on my own. Oh no. It’s almost like I could hear the dramatic theme music wooing me in the background. I’m almost sure I heard an announcer’s voice say, “Carlie Ann Davidson, Rural Detective, and her Side-kick, Aunt Charlotte, A Crime Fighting Deviled Egg Eating Duo.” When you hear the call, you hear the call. I had no choice but to answer, “Yes.”
When Doug left for work, I threw in a load of laundry, took a shower, and put together a crock pot meal that Ms. Ida swore was the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten, saying it reminded her of something she ate in Savannah years ago. I had my doubts. Frozen peas, cream of mushroom soup, and canned tuna seemed a bit abusive to the palette. But what did I know? Oh, and I wasn’t sure Ms. Ida had really ever been to Savannah. She just read so many Paula Deen cookbooks that she thought she had.
I arrived at Aunt Charlotte’s house at 10:00. She was sound asleep in the dusty rose recliner. Uncle Bart answered the door and proceeded to wake her in a very ‘Uncle Bart like’ way. He stood in front of the recliner and cupped both hands around his mouth, “Charlotte, Charlotte! Carlie’s here! Wake up! Carlie’s here!”
She startled and then rose from the recliner, “I was just resting my eyes a bit. Glad you’re here, Carlie. Glad you’re here.”
“Aunt Charlotte, would you like to go with me to Sonic for a limeade?”
“Well, that’s a mighty fine offer, and it ain’t even my birthday. Sure, Honey. I’ll go! Bart, can we get you anything?”
“Naw. I had a big glass of buttermilk. I’m good.”
Aunt Charlotte put on her gray sweater and her tan garden shoes and got in the car.
I said in a whisper, “Look, Aunt Charlotte, I will get you that limeade, but that’s not really why I came over. I need your help.”
“Matchmaking?”
“Oh no. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. I’m talkin’ detective work. Real detective work.”
“Do tell, Carlie. Do tell.”
I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward town. “Okay. So, Dusty McConnell says he doesn’t know how that cocaine got in his truck. But I’m not so sure about that, Aunt Charlotte. I think he does know.”
“You think he’s lying? Carlie, Dusty don’t seem like that kind.”
“No. I don’t think he’s lying. I just think he’s not telling everything he knows. He’s protecting somebody, Aunt Charlotte. But who? That’s the question. And guess who’s going to find out? Go ahead, guess.”
“Well, Baby, I reckon you and me’s as qualified as anybody else ‘round here.”
“Precisely my point.”
Aunt Charlotte and I knew where to go for information. We wouldn’t be very good rural detectives if we didn’t. We saw Chester coming out of the barber shop and I rolled my window down, “Hey! Chester, wanna go get a limeade with us? We’re headin’ over to Greenfield. We’ll even throw in a burger, if you want.”
Now there’s something you need to know about Chester. He knows all the business in town and he never turns down free food. Phase One was in full force.
He hurried toward the car. “Reckon I could accompany you young ladies on that mission. Reckon so.”
The minute Chester crawled into the backseat, I was ready to pump him for information. But that’s not the way we handle things in a small town. Small talk must prevail.
“Chester, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you! Glad we ran into you. The weather sure has been cold lately, hasn’t it?”
&n
bsp; “Whew! Colder than a frog’s rear in January!”
I laughed, even though I’d heard that saying my whole life. “I saw Mrs. Ida at the craft fair last Saturday. She’s lookin’ good. Real good.”
“Yeah, Doc Murphy told us she’d be better after that gall bladder surgery. And it was a miracle, Carlie. She ain’t even scared of green pepper no more. A dad gum miracle.”
Aunt Charlotte had evidently not read the etiquette section of the “Small Town Detective Handbook.” She broke in with unbridled enthusiasm. “Chester, what do you know about Dusty McConnell’s trouble? We figure there’s a missin’ piece somewhere. He ain’t no drug addict, is he?”
Chester was happy to oblige. “Naw, Dusty ain’t an addict. Dusty’s problem is his family. Ever one of them McConnells was just ‘bout worthless.”
I disagreed with Chester. Human beings have worth. All of them. Even the McConnells. But I wasn’t going to correct an old man when I was on a detective mission and needed valuable information. “But Dusty doesn’t even see his family, does he?”
“Not usually, no. His mama, God love ‘er, was a good woman but she died a few years ago when he was in prison. Most of ‘em is locked up somewhere or dead. But Grover said he seen Dusty’s daddy a few weeks ago hitchhiking over toward highway 54. Yeah, hadn’t seen him in years. I figure he was up to no good. Probably came lookin’ for money.”
Every day I thank God for His guidance and wisdom. The wisdom to pick up Aunt Charlotte. The wisdom to know that the promise of a limeade and a burger would lure Chester straight into the car like a June bug lures a prize trout. God allowed me to glean valuable detective information and it only cost $9.78.
We ordered an extra burger for Mrs. Ida and then proceeded to drop Chester off at his house right behind the Kwik Mart. I hate that Kwik Mart is spelled like that. I know there’s a kid somewhere in Sharon who got five points off his spelling test because he spelled “quick” “kwik.” Bless his heart. Sometimes the world just works against you.
