“Okay, well, I guess I’ll talk to him when he gets back. So I’ll see you tonight? Ethan Allen’s around nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Awesome.”
I go home, take Buster Loo for a walk, then piddle around in the yard until dark. I dig up and separate some monkey grass, leaving the daylilies to divide in the fall because I read that they might not bloom if divided in the spring and I don’t want that. After filling in several gaps, I have enough monkey grass left over to fill up two five-gallon buckets.
“I’ll take that to Lilly’s tomorrow,” I tell Buster Loo. “Plant it around those god-awful shrubs of hers.”
I walk around the yard and inspect the flower beds. Even after all that thinning out and rearranging, I still have a few gaps. I decide to go buy more flowers. And while I’m at it, I’ll get some flowers for Lilly, too.
*
I get to Ethan Allen’s at five minutes after nine and find Stacey Dewberry sitting at the bar next to Jalena.
“This girl is crazy!” Jalena explains when I join them. “She’s been telling me all kinds of stuff.”
“I do not doubt that,” I say.
Ethan Allen walks up and leans on the bar. Jalena winks at him and says, “And I have hollered laughing when she told me about this weirdo staring at her.”
“Didn’t know I was creepy until a minute ago,” Ethan Allen says. He looks a little embarrassed, so I decide not to pick on him about that. Lilly comes in a few minutes later and then Cameron Becker comes in shortly after that. The two of them turn every head in the place, male and female.
“I feel like everyone is staring at me,” Cameron says, taking a seat at the bar.
“Well, it’s because they are,” Stacey says. She looks at me. “Why do people do that so much around here? Just stare at you. Don’t even try to hide it.”
“It’s worse than this in some other parts of the state, trust me,” Lilly says.
I introduce Cameron to Jalena, and it’s fairly obvious that Cameron is excited to be hanging out with the girls.
“I don’t even remember the last time I had a Girls Night Out,” Jalena says. “I guess it was when we were back in Florida and that wasn’t Girls Night Out—it was Girls Night In.”
“We need to crank that tradition back up,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ethan Allen says. “That wouldn’t be good for business.”
“Yeah, right,” Lilly says. She waves a hand around the crowded bar. “You’re just struggling along here, aren’t you?”
“What’s Girls Night In?” Stacey asks. “That sounds kind of dull.”
I explain it, but Stacey doesn’t look interested. “I like to belly up to a bar, myself,” she says, then turns around on her bar stool and does just that.
We drink and dance and have a large time hanging out and acting silly. Cameron Becker can’t turn around without someone hitting on her, so she goes back to her bar stool and stays there. She’s soon joined by Lilly, who is equally uninterested in flirting and foolishness. I lose Stacey Dewberry on the dance floor and when I find her later, she’s cutting some serious rug with a man sporting a king-sized mullet. When things start to wind down, Ethan Allen joins Jalena and me on the dance floor. Eventually, we all end up back at the bar. Except the mullet man, who Stacey tells us had to go outside and smoke.
“You need a karaoke machine,” Stacey says when Ethan Allen pours her a fourth Southern Comfort Special.
“I had one one time,” he tells her. “Turns out a lot of people want to sing who can’t and it got to where it was running more people off than bringin’ them in. Ended up selling it at a yard sale.”
“Aw, man,” Stacey says. “I could really break it down to some Lynyrd Skynyrd right now.”
“We’ve got ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and ‘Free Bird’ on the jukebox over there,” Ethan Allen tells her.
“‘Sweet Home Alabama’! That’s my song! Because, you know, I’m from Alabama.” She looks at me. “Did I ever tell you that I’m madly in love with Kid Rock?”
What? “No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Yeah, you know he did a song about ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’ A song about a song. He’s a genius. I love him so much.”
“I like that song, too,” Cameron says.
“You know, I saw Kid Rock at a concert down in Orange Beach a few years back,” Stacey says. “He jumped up on top of his piano and all I could think about was, ‘Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be a piano with bumper stickers and Kid Rock all over me right now.’” She starts digging in her purse.
I glance over at Jalena, who whispers, “She is great!” I look around and don’t see Lilly.
“She’s back in the office,” Ethan Allen says. “Phone call.”
“Good for her.”
36
Saturday morning I wake up without a headache because I only drank three beers instead of getting hammered like I usually do. I roll out of bed, take a quick shower, and throw on some old shorts and a T-shirt.
“Buster Loo,” I say, and he peeps out from under the covers. “I know this is earlier than we usually get up on Saturday, but come on, I’ve got us a little adventure planned for today.” He jumps out of bed and starts stretching on the rug. Then he rolls over on his back and looks at me. “You can do it, little man. C’mon.” I take off down the hallway and that gets him in gear because Buster Loo doesn’t care where you’re going—if you’re going in a hurry, he’s ready to move. He passes me in the kitchen and hops out the doggie door. I brew half a pot of coffee and pour it into a big to-go cup. I get Buster Loo’s leash and walk out onto the back porch. When he finishes his doggie business, we get in the car and go to the nursery.
“You back for another tree?” the gentleman asks when he sees me poking around his greenhouse.
“No, sir, not today,” I tell him. “This morning I’m looking for some flowers.” We talk while we walk around his impressive spread of plants and I find myself captivated by his interest in and knowledge of all things green. I tell him that I need flowers to fill in some gaps in a fully matured yard and then some for a bed I’ll be starting from scratch. We discuss shade versus sun, annual versus perennial, so forth and so on. He knows just what I need for each project, helps me find the colors I want, then helps me load the containers into the back of my car where I still have the newspaper from earlier in the week.
“I’m giving you a discount for buying so much,” he says. “But you’ll have to come in and let me find my calculator.” I follow him into his office where he sits down behind a big wooden desk covered with papers. He pulls a pen out from under a stack of papers. “I need to get this mess organized,” he says. “Where is my receipt book?” It takes him a minute to find it and, in the process, he uncovers an old, dusty nameplate. I stare at the name spelled out on the triangular block of wood.
“Here it is,” he says. “Tell me your name again, sweetheart.”
“Ace,” I say. “Ace Jones.” He stops writing and looks at me. I look at the nameplate. MELVIN EMERSON. He puts down his pen and his eyes get cloudy.
“I thought you looked familiar,” he says. “You’re Essie Jones’s granddaughter.” It’s not a question.
“I am,” I say. My chest tightens up as we sit and look at each other for a minute. Finally, he gets up and comes around to where I’m standing on the other side of his desk. He sticks out a hand. “I’m Melvin Emerson, but everyone calls me M.” I shake his hand and I don’t know what I want to do more—run out of there screaming or give him a big, sappy hug. “It is so nice to meet you. I thought a lot of Essie. She was very special to me.” He keeps shaking my hand.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You played basketball when you were in high school. You were good.” Again, statements, not questions.
Yeah, and you were snaking my grandma while I was at basketball camp! I think, but don’t dare say. Gramma Jones wouldn’t be too proud of me for sp
outing off something like that. “Yes, that’s me. But that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that long ago at all,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you can’t pay me a dime for those flowers.”
“Oh, no,” I protest. “I can’t do that. At least let me pay you what they cost.”
“Heh, heh, heh, you’re just like her. A little on the stubborn side.” For some odd reason, I feel like squalling. “Okay,” he says. “You can pay me what they cost.”
“Thank you,” I say. “How much is that?”
“Not a dime,” he says, and starts to snicker. “I’ve had this nursery for thirty-five years, Little Ms. Jones. You bought all perennials, which multiply like crazy. You should see the garden I have out behind my house. If I didn’t dig ’em up and sell ’em, they’d take over the whole property.”
“Well, I have to pay you something.”
“Then pay me another visit sometime and let’s talk about your grandmother,” he says. “How about that?”
“That’s a deal,” I say, and we walk out to the car, where he sees Buster Loo.
“Well, look at that little guy,” he says. “Let him out and let him run around a minute. It’s no fun to be cooped up in the car.” I open the door and Buster Loo looks like a rodent-sized gazelle as he leaps from the passenger seat. He barrels over to M. Emerson and starts paw tricking. “Hey there, little feller,” he says. “What is this, a wiener dog?”
“He’s a chiweenie, actually,” I say. “Part dachshund and—”
“Part Chihuahua,” he says, finishing my sentence. “You’re a pretty little thing, I tell you that.”
I stand there, watching M. Emerson pet Buster Loo, and I feel as if my heart is about to burst. I go over and kneel down to pick him up and Buster Loo completely ignores me.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I say.
“Thank you for coming by here today,” he says.
After I scoop Buster Loo up and put him back in the car, I walk back to where Mr. M. Emerson is standing and give him a big hug. I’m surprised by how thin he is and I wonder how old he is.
“Have you figured out her secret yet?” he asks. My face burns with embarrassment. There’s no way he could know I know about the letter. He continues. “The secret to having the most beautiful flower beds in Bugtussle?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “No,” I tell him. “I haven’t.”
“Barnyard,” he says with an adorable grin. “Essie put barnyard in her beds, but she never would tell anyone.”
“Barnyard?”
Mr. Emerson points to the cow pasture to the left of his nursery. “Barnyard,” he says again.
I start laughing and can’t stop. Mr. Emerson gets tickled, too. “Can you imagine what those snooty old ladies up at the garden club would think if they knew that?” he says, still chuckling. “They would die.”
“Well, I’m glad I used gloves last time I pulled weeds,” I tell him, and he starts laughing again.
“Oh, Ace Jones, you’re just like your grandmother,” he says. “Please come back here and see me real soon.”
“I’ll be hanging out here all the time now, Mr. Emerson.”
“I’d like that,” he says. “And please, call me M.”
As soon as I pull out onto the highway, I start squalling and I’m not even sure why. Buster Loo gets upset because I’m upset, so I get myself under control and try to keep my composure for the rest of the trip home. When we get there, Buster Loo hops out of the car and makes a beeline for the gate. I open it for him, then go back to the car and unload the flowers I got for my yard. I load a few things from the garage into my car, then go inside and grab a Diet Mountain Dew from the fridge. I walk back outside and look at the flower beds. “Barnyard,” I say. “I cannot wait to tell Birdie Ross about the barnyard.” I run back inside and grab my phone, then get in the car and drive over to Lilly’s. When I pull up in her driveway, I dig my eyedrops out of the console and, after putting a few drops in my eyes, I rub some of the liquid around my eyes so they won’t look red and puffy. I walk around the back door and when Lilly opens it, I see that she’s been crying, too.
Basket cases, I think. We’re all just a bunch of fucking basket cases.
“What are you doing?” she asks. She has a tissue in her hand.
“Get dressed and come outside,” I say. “I need you to tell me where you want these flowers.”
“What flowers?” she sniffles.
“Your flowers.”
Between my ten gallons of monkey grass and the free flowers from Mr. M. Emerson, Lilly—who actually gets down and digs in the dirt with me—and I transform the area around her house from something pitiful and scary to something pleasantly pretty.
“I have another surprise for you,” I tell her before getting up and walking back to my car. I pop the trunk and get out a hedge trimmer along with a ten-ton bright orange power cord.
“What in the hell do you plan on doing with that thing besides getting electrocuted to death?”
“Plug me up and stand back,” I tell her.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll stand way back. Should I go ahead and call 911 or wait for you to actually cut into something vital?”
“Go ahead and give ’em fair warning,” I tell her, and laugh my evil, wicked, crazy laugh that always cracks her up. “Just kidding,” I say. I crank up the hedge trimmer and look over to where she’s standing, looking at me like I’m deranged. “Steer clear, my dear, and observe a professional at work.” Unbeknownst to her, I did a practice round at my house the other day, so I know exactly how to operate the hedge trimmer. At least I think I do. After ten minutes of trimming and retrimming, I shut the machine off and stand back to survey my progress.
“That looks so much better,” she says.
“Everything looks better after a good trim,” I say. “Shrubs, bushes, the muff.”
“You just get crazier every day, don’t you?” she says, laughing.
“I try. Now, here, help me move this cord, and I’m going to carve a serpent out of those hedges over there.”
“Are you sure you can do that?”
“No, but I’d like to try.” She gives me a wary look that makes me laugh. “Maybe later?” She shakes her head. “No? Okay, then.” I finish trimming Lilly’s shrubs and hedges, then help her bag up the trimmings in one of my superbig garbage bags.
“Wow, Ace, this looks great.” She looks at me. “How much do I owe you for those flowers?”
“Well, the flowers were free.”
“How did you get the flowers for free? Did you steal them or are you sacking the flower salesman?”
“Actually, I think Gramma Jones was sacking the flower salesman.”
Lilly’s jaw drops at that. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope,” I say. “His name is M. Emerson. He owns the nursery. He and Gramma Jones were, uh, friends.”
“I have to hear all about this.”
“I can’t talk about it today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow then,” she says. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Sitting on the damned couch. Drinking beer and eating pizza topped with aspirin and ibuprofen. I can hardly move.”
“You should sit on my couch and do that. The least you can do is let me buy you some pizza.”
“Can we watch Saturday Night Live?”
“Absolutely! I’ll make us some blue coconut margaritas!”
“You know I don’t drink that shit!” I say, laughing. “I’ll go home, get a shower, and then BYO—some of my own beer.”
“Okay, let me know when you’re on your way back and I’ll call in the pizza.”
“Okay.”
I go home and kick my shoes off at the back door. I go inside, take a long, hot shower, and throw on some clean cutoff jogging pants and an old T-shirt. Then I grab Buster Loo and head back over to Lilly’s where I hang out for the rest of the night and wonder why Tate Jackson hasn’t called me yet.
&nb
sp; 37
Another week passes during which I do not hear from Tate Jackson, and I think every single day about quitting my job as a permanent substitute teacher. On Friday, I go to Chloe’s office during my off period and tell her that we need to talk.
“What’s going on?” she says when I sit down.
“First of all, it’s the end of the year, so why am I having to work so much? Where are all of these teachers going? What’s the deal?”
“There have been a lot of meetings at the county office this week,” she says. “Everyone should be back next week and you can go back to getting paid to sit in the teachers’ lounge and gossip with Stacey Dewberry.” She smiles.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling back. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
“I can’t believe you hung in here this long, Ace. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d last two weeks as a sub. And a little birdie told me that the board was pleased that Cameron is hosting the art fair, and I have a feeling that she’s going to do great on her evaluation next week.”
“Don’t forget Stacey Dewberry,” I say. “She’s more popular than I am now.”
“And that,” she says, laughing. “You’ve really done a great job with everything and I am very impressed and I very much appreciate it.”
“I am pretty awesome,” I say.
“Yeah, you’re so awesome that we’ve had a lot of parents calling in bragging on what a nice sub you are.”
“Really?”
“Of course not! Rest assured, we have had some calls about you, but I took it upon myself to deal with those.”
“Bring me up here next time you get a call about me,” I tell her. “I’d be more than happy to talk to some of these kids’ parents.”
“I know you would,” she says. “This is why I handle it. Some of the parents don’t have good sense.”
“Complaints my ass,” I whisper. “I’ve got some complaints for them!”
“Okay, so the pain is almost over and you’ve survived. You only have two weeks left.”
“How’s the wedding planning?”
“Great,” she says. “Everything is in order. Jalena is decorating and catering, and I can hardly wait.”
Down and Out in Bugtussle Page 25
