Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “My thoughts exactly, Buster Loo. Give me just a minute and I’ll be right there.” He cocks his head sideways, then tucks his snout back under the covers. “I wouldn’t leave my warm spot, either,” I tell him.

  After a hot shower, I put on some fuzzy britches, even fuzzier socks, and a sweatshirt that I wish were a bit fuzzier. I head to the couch and snuggle up with Buster Loo, who is reluctant to share his warm spot. While flipping through channels, I see a soup commercial and decide that’s just what I need for supper.

  When I get off the couch, Buster Loo rolls onto his back and looks at me like, “How could you do this to me?” I go into the kitchen and dig through my cabinets, trying to figure out if I have enough ingredients to make something tasty. I find a red bell pepper in the fridge, look over my canned goods again, and decide on corn chowder. I pull out the Crock-Pot from under the cabinet and turn to see Buster Loo sitting by the stove.

  “Want me to turn that on and warm it up in here?” His response is to wave his paws up and down, his signature trick, and I decide he’s more concerned about a potential scrap than the temperature in the kitchen because he has yet to take his eyes off the cans on the counter. I give him a little-dog biscuit, wash my hands, and set about chopping and mixing. When I’m finished, I pour my concoction into the Crock-Pot, fix myself a cup of hot cocoa, and return to the sofa. Two hours later, I enjoy not one but two bowls of hot soupy goodness along with a hearty chunk of French bread, and it’s so good that I don’t even mind I’m dining alone on a Saturday night. It’s peaceful. And I need all of that I can get.

  I think about Stacey Dewberry and wonder if she took that hair of hers out partying tonight. Then I wonder if she really enjoys barhopping or if she just does it because she doesn’t have anything better to do. I rinse my bowl, slide the soup pot into the fridge, and fix a cup of hot tea. I head back to the couch, where I end up falling asleep while watching Saturday Night Live.

  Sunday, I sleep late and the cold drizzle has me feeling depressed again. I’d love to get out and get started with my new gardening hobby, but this weather refuses to cooperate. I piddle around the house, wash some clothes, have a bowl of soup for lunch and then take a long afternoon nap. When I get up, I wander into the guest room where I sit down on the bed and stare at Gramma Jones’s box of books. Would she want me pilfering through her things? Would she mind? It’s not like she had time to dispose of anything she didn’t want me to see. I pick up the garden book, flip to the back, and take out the note. Holding the folded piece of paper in my hand makes me feel weird, like a dirty Russian spy, so when my phone starts ringing in the living room, I put the note back where I found it, lay the book on the dresser, and close the guest room door behind me.

  I don’t get to the phone in time and the call goes to voice mail. I look at the missed call list. “Lilly Lane.” Oh Lord, I think as I press the button to call her back. She never calls. When she answers, she’s such a sniveling mess that I can hardly understand a word she’s saying.

  “Can I just come over?” she asks finally.

  “Of course, I made some corn chowder yesterday,” I tell her. “You want me to fix you a bowl?” She snuffles and sniffs and mumbles something about Dax doing paperwork at the sheriff’s office. She doesn’t answer the soup question, so I decide to start a pot of coffee.

  I’m standing on the back porch when she comes through the gate. It’s still raining, but instead of rushing to get out of the dampness, she takes her time walking to the back porch. She’s wearing tennis shoes, jeans, and a Delta State sweatshirt that looks three sizes too big. I try to remember the last time I saw her in a pair of shoes like that.

  “New shoes?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says with a sniff.

  I hold open the door and pat her on the back as she walks into the kitchen.

  She goes straight to the couch and wraps herself in my fuzzy blanket. I stop by the kitchen and fix two nonalcoholic cups of coffee. I take those into the living room and find her hugging Buster Loo, who is, yet again, licking the tears off her cheeks.

  “I may have to borrow Buster Loo when Dax leaves,” she says.

  “He can help you through some hard times, that’s for sure,” I say. “Maybe we could have him certified as a service dog and get him one of those little vests to wear around. Then we could take him in Walmart and stuff.” My weak attempt at humor doesn’t even draw a smile. “So what’s with the outfit?”

  “Oh my God, I just had the worst weekend of my life and now I feel like a spoiled, foolish brat.”

  “But you aren’t a spoiled, foolish brat.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never thought of myself that way, either, until my little trip to the other side of the state.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, it was downright horrid,” she says. “Dax’s mother took one look at me and—” She stops, sighs, and shakes her head. She takes a sip of coffee and then continues. “All I wanted was for them to see how much I care for Dax. They didn’t have to like me. I mean, I wanted them to, but more than anything I wanted them to be happy Dax has someone who loves him as much as I do and they just—” She stops again.

  “Were they mean to you?” I ask, thinking I’d get in my car right now and make haste to the Delta where I would promptly punch somebody right in the face.

  “Oh no,” she says. “Not at all. I could just tell that I was stressing his mother out just by being there because I think she felt like, I don’t know, that I needed more accommodating than what they were able to provide, which is ridiculous. Her name is May and I called her Mrs. Dorsett and she insisted on being called May and she just kept going on and on about how simple her house was. I kept telling her how much I loved it, which I did—it was charming and so real—but I think all I did was stress her out more.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Then his sisters showed up. Oh boy, that was a blast. Two sisters. Both older than him but younger than me and they were both wearing Mossy Oak from head to toe.” She shakes her head. “They tried to be nice, but there was not a conversational level that we could connect on. I didn’t fit in and I made everyone uncomfortable. It was so horrible. And his dad, oh his dad was just—” She looks at me. “I don’t even know how to explain his father to you other than to say that he’s more of a no-nonsense guy than J. J. Jackson and he had grease under his fingernails. You know the kind that never washes off? And he didn’t mince his words. Everything he said was direct and to the point.” She looks down at her cup. “Like when I thought I would score some points for being a schoolteacher and then he asked me what I taught and I told him I taught French and then he asked me why schools today waste so much time and money trying to teach kids to speak another language. Yeah, that was awkward.”

  “Oh my goodness. What did you say?”

  “I stumbled and mumbled for a minute and then finally said something about the Department of Education requiring certain classes for graduation and that sometimes students’ schedules didn’t allow them to take the more-mainstream electives—I don’t even know. Everyone just stared at me every time I opened my mouth and they really stared at my shoes. I mean, as if everything wasn’t bad enough already, everything I took to wear was all wrong.” She shrugs. “I didn’t know what to expect and Dax didn’t do a very good job of explaining that situation. I think he was embarrassed because his family doesn’t have much. It kills me to think he might think that bothers me. And then he acted so damned weird all weekend.” She crinkles her brow and sighs.

  “Lilly, I’m so sorry.” I move over to sit by her and put my arm around her. Buster Loo is back on tear patrol.

  “And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, we went to this tiny little mom-and-pop restaurant where everybody knew everybody and I didn’t know a soul. Got to meet his old high school sweetie there. That was nice.”

  “The one you ran off from his house last year?”

  “Yeah, she was there with her pink Mossy Oak hat, and Dax’s sisters jus
t talked and talked to her. Apparently they’d all just been turkey hunting together or some shit—I don’t know. It was obvious that she belonged at that table with his family and I did not. And everyone at the restaurant stared at me the whole time I was in there. Like they’d never in their whole life seen anybody from out of town. I guess not many people wear heels in their little country steak house.” She smirks. “It was awful, all those people staring, and then his damned redneck sisters—”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks except for Dax, and he thinks you’re great.” I point to her sweatshirt. “Obviously you found a way to get a little more casual.”

  “I had to before I went crazy! I got up Saturday morning and drove into town. I’m telling you, Bugtussle looks like a major metropolitan area compared to that place. Anyway, I bought some tennis shoes at a little corner store. I wore my one pair of jeans and this old sweatshirt for the rest of the weekend.”

  “So it was better after you dressed down a little?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  An hour later, I talk her into some soup and we chat about school, but I can tell she’s not in the mood to be distracted from her misery. We discuss Chloe and her baby situation, and I try to lift her spirits by joking about ways to drop some hints to J.J. She’s not interested in that, either. Finally, her phone beeps and it’s Dax. She thanks me for keeping her company, pulls on her new tennis shoes, and runs out the door. I take a shower and get into bed, not wanting to go to sleep because I know my next conscious thought will be, It’s time to get up and go to school.

  15

  Monday morning I somehow miraculously get to school on time and as soon as I get to my assigned classroom, I start thinking I’d rather go lie in the parking lot and be run over by incoming traffic than be in this classroom all day, but I want my job back, so I’ve got to stay with it. My ass isn’t getting any smaller and my pants aren’t getting any bigger, but all I can do is sit there and fantasize about chocolate-covered doughnuts. And speaking of eating, I’ve figured out that everyone in A Hall and B Hall has either first or second lunch, so I give up on getting to sit at a table with Lilly and Coach Hatter ever again.

  After three miserable hours, I’m off fourth period and decide to skip the trip to the lunchroom since I don’t have any students to escort up and down the hallway like maniacal kindergartners. I turn off the lights and get my peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of my bag along with a warm bottle of water. Two minutes later, there’s a knock on the door and Stacey Dewberry comes in with a bag from the Red Rooster Drive-In.

  “Great minds think alike,” she says, waving the bag at me. “Need a break from that lunchroom grub.”

  “Did you get to leave school to get that?” I ask her, eyeing the brown paper bag with envy. Today Stacey is dressed somewhat normally in khaki-colored jeans and a loose white button-up. You might not know she had an addiction to 1980s fashion if she hadn’t tight-rolled her pants over a pair of slouched white bobby socks—and if you somehow managed to miss that mile-high hair.

  “Oh no, I picked this up on the way in this morning,” she says, squeezing into one of the student desks. “Care if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” I say. “I thought the Red Rooster didn’t open until ten thirty.”

  “They just started serving breakfast,” she says, unwrapping a tasty-looking cheeseburger. “I joined their emailing list so I could stay fresh on what’s up. You get a free order of pickle-ohs when you do. Totally worth it.”

  “I do like pickle-ohs,” I tell her.

  “Rock and roll,” Stacey says.

  “Yeah,” I look down at my sandwich. “Rock and roll.”

  “You know, I wish I didn’t feel the way I do about some of these kids,” she says. “Makes me kind of sad, because there’s a few that I really and truly don’t like at all.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to love them all like we need to,” I tell her. “I never knew how hard it was to be a substitute teacher. I mean, I’ve always been good with the bad kids because I could find a way to relate to them, to reach them somehow. But with subbing, it’s in and out of this class and in and out of that class and that makes it almost impossible to form any kind of connection and it’s frustrating because they all seem like bad kids when they’re not. I mean, there’re a few bad kids who will be bad, no matter what, but—” I stop because I can see I’m losing my audience. “I know what you mean, Stacey,” I say. “Sometimes I feel bad like that, too.”

  “You know who I’ve made a connection with?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Hadley Bennett,” she says. “She does her own thing kind of like I do,” she says. “I don’t think she has the best circumstances at home, but she doesn’t let it get her down and doesn’t use it as an excuse to act a fool.”

  “I had her in art class last year. She’s very talented and so levelheaded.”

  Stacey nods in agreement. “I have so much respect for kids like her who have no choice but to figure it all out on their own and then they get it right.” And look at me, still trying to figure it out at the ripe old age of thirty-two. Jeez. Who’s the idiot now?

  “She thinks I’m cool because I don’t conform to the way all the other teachers dress.” She looks at me in my black pants, black flats, and pale blue sweater. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I say, and smile. I’d never thought of Stacey Dewberry as a nonconformist, but that’s exactly what she is. “It takes a lot of confidence to veer away from the mainstream, especially when you’re in high school.”

  “That it does,” she says, and it occurs to me that Stacey Dewberry is fairly brave herself for being so faithful to her hot rollers, ’fro pick, and helmet-head hair spray. “Hadley also appreciates eighties rock, which brings me to my next point.” She starts digging around in her multipurpose book bag. Or maybe it’s a purse. I’m not sure. “Where did I put those things?” A second later, she comes up with a white envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  “A surprise!” She opens the envelope and pulls out two tickets. “I don’t know when your birthday is, but I’ve already got you a present. Would you like to see Def Leppard and Poison this Friday in Memphis?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Totally seriously!” she says, getting excited. “Would you like to go?”

  “I would love to go!” I say. “But Stacey, these are third-row tickets. How much did they cost? I’m not going unless I pay for mine.”

  “No way, Jose,” she says. “I won these tickets fair and square by calling in to the Big Nasty Radio Show on 102.1 last week.”

  “Stacey, you’re too freakin’ cool for your own good!” I tell her.

  “You can just keep that ticket if you really want to go,” she says.

  “Of course I want to go, but I have to pay you for this.”

  We go back and forth for a few minutes, arguing about the value of a free concert ticket. I finally agree to take the ticket after she agrees to let me cover the cost of gas, parking, dinner, and drinks. She insists we go in her car and I don’t argue much on that one.

  The rest of the day doesn’t suck as bad because I’m so excited about going to a concert with Stacey Dewberry. I find myself wondering if she might tease my hair for me. It has a lot of natural wave, so I think it would really curl up, especially with the help of a professional hot-roller like Stacey Dewberry.

  During seventh period, I look up and see five students with their cell phones out, texting under their desktops like I can’t see what they’re doing. Who cares? I think. Sure, they’re only teenagers, but their drama is just as important to them right now as mine is to me, and as long as they get their work done and stay quiet, I can turn a blind eye. Let them think they’re fooling the poor ol’ substitute teacher who has no idea what’s going on in the world, let alone the classroom. As long as they aren’t back there watching porn, I don’t care.

  16

  Tuesday is better beca
use I only have to cover one class for half the day. I eat lunch in the cafeteria with Stacey and she yaps the whole time about the upcoming concert.

  After lunch, I retire to a study room in the library where I work on some cutesy little illustrations for Jalena’s menu and very much enjoy the three consecutive hours of uninterrupted silence. By the time the bell rings at the end of the day, I’m finished with the menus and quite pleased with my whimsical illustrations. I call Jalena when I leave school and she’s still at the diner, so I take the menus by there to see what she thinks. She shows me around her new office, which has a stylish white desk, a hot pink office chair, and two cushy floral chairs on the opposite side. I brag on how cool it all looks and then take a seat in one of the chairs.

  “Oh, these are poppin’,” she says when she looks at the menus. “This is exactly what I wanted! You are so talented.” She flips the last sheet over and smiles when she sees the drawing of her dad’s marina at Frog Bayou. “Oh wow,” she says quietly. “This is too perfect.” She looks up at me. “Thank you, Ace.”

  “Thanks for asking me,” I say. “I enjoyed it.” I nod toward the menus, which she’s carefully placing in a bright yellow folder. “Those and the mural.”

  “About that,” she says in a tone that makes me nervous. “Almost everyone who walks in here has either comments or questions.”

  “Really?” I say, feeling anxious. “So, like, good comments and questions or—”

  “Of course, good comments and questions!” She looks at me like I’m crazy. “That mural is turning out to be quite the conversation piece, and I think you need to have some business cards made up for me to keep at the register when I open this place up next month.”

  “You think?” I ask, relieved and a tad bit excited.

  “Yes, I think!” she says. “The guy who came in to do my trim work absolutely loved it and asked if you painted for hire. He said that people are always asking him if he knows someone who does specialty painting. And before he came in, one of the guys putting down the flooring asked if he could have your number. He’s building a new house and his wife is driving him crazy because she wants him to glaze the walls. He said he didn’t know anything about glazing walls and didn’t want to mess with it. He asked if I thought you’d be interested.” She looks at me. “Are you?”