by Lois Ruby
Two days later a letter came from Hopkins, Corrwall, Punchess & Bailey, Attorneys-at-Law, saying that Momma was to appear in Wichita, in Family Court, to give a deposition on Tag.
FOURTEEN
Momma gave Johnny last-minute instructions before we left. “You’re not to close up before eight o’clock at night, and hang on to all the receipts and bills for Mike, and don’t experiment with any new recipes until I get back and can explain them away. Oh, and don’t forget to call McCrary about the frozen fries. And be sure not to let Stephanie go off this property with that young soldier.”
“Oh, Aunt Marilyn.”
Momma flew around the diner, wiping here, tucking there, and helping herself to a handful of ten-dollar bills from the till. She wore what she called her Saturday matinée clothes—a white linen suit with a silky turquoise blouse that wasn’t exactly low, but showed more of Momma than Dad approved of, and dressy white sandals with low heels. She had a rope of heavy turquoise and beige and white beads around her neck—the kind that looked elegant on her, but would have been like an anchor on me, yanking me down and underwater.
“Oh, and Johnny,” she warned, spit-curling a trail of hair escaping from her chignon, “don’t cuss at the customers. Stephanie, see that he doesn’t cuss.”
“Oh, I will,” Stephanie promised. She’d have made a terrific warden.
“And Johnny, when that boyfriend of Stephanie’s comes by as soon as I’m out of sight, you see that they keep all four feet squarely on the ground.”
“Aunt Marilyn!” Stephanie looked shocked, and I had to get out of there before I fell apart laughing.
Momma doesn’t believe in speed limits—but then, along with her theories on the sun and the moon, she doesn’t understand radar either. So if there’s no cop in sight she assumes she’s free to drive eighty miles per hour, unless it means climbing up the back of some truck ahead of us.
We had the windows rolled down, and at eighty the hot wind was whipping through the car and half our words flew out the window, but I distinctly heard Momma say, “What do you think, Dovi? Is the restaurant business working out for us?”
“Well, are we making a profit yet?” I shouted.
“We can make expenses, meet our mortgage, pay Johnny, but—”
“We’re not getting rich.”
“No. It wouldn’t really be any fun if we were.”
“You’d give it all away anyway, Momma.”
“I suppose I would. Things are no better for the migrant workers in western Kansas than they were in Oklahoma during the Grapes of Wrath days, you know.”
Well, I had to nip that one quickly, because the way Momma’s mind was spinning, we’d be out of the Pig-Out and into a grocery store in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, before the first winter freeze. “We never rent the cottages, of course, but I think the diner does really well for us, Momma. Look, without it Johnny would be collecting unemployment. Face it, who else would hire a crab like him? And where would Tag have been without our place?”
We both fell silent thinking about Tag and what lay ahead for him and for Momma in court later that day.
The deposition was given in Judge Edgar Bohanan’s office—his chambers, they called it. Cee Dubyah’s lawyer was there, and Mrs. McFee’s lawyer, and someone taking it all down on a machine.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor,” Momma said, extending her hand across the judge’s desk. She looked and sounded very self-assured and worldly, not at all like a person who had no idea what radar was. “This is my daughter, Dovi Chandler.”
The judge, who was wearing a business suit instead of one of those graduation gowns, nodded, then excused me curtly.
“Your Honor, I would prefer to have my daughter remain, since her contact with the young man in question was far more extensive than my own.”
“Very well,” Judge Bohanan sighed. “Court reporter, note for the record that the deposition was given jointly by the two ladies. State your full names, please.”
And on it went. We were asked the most incredibly exact and boring details about Tag: day, hour, and minute of his arrival; how he looked; how he was dressed. Were there any visible marks on him? Was his hair full and healthy-looking, or patchy? Was his skin clear and clean, or mottled and pocked? Were there any signs of malnourishment? Did his shoes seem too tight?
My guess was that Cee Dubyah’s lawyer was trying to build a case against Mrs. McFee’s mothering, but we couldn’t help out there much, because Tag came to us looking like a regular nine-year-old kid—scruffy, but not pitiful; hardly some boy out of the pages of Oliver Twist.
Then we were asked to describe, to the best of our knowledge, Tag’s relationship with his father, and I found myself swallowing back tears as I told these legal hounds, who were as hungry for information as our truckers were for meatloaf, about what I saw and heard eavesdropping outside Tag’s cottage.
Next they wanted to know, in tiny bites of detail, everything about Tag’s daily schedule at our place. I couldn’t lie—I was under oath—but I also couldn’t tell them about some of his cons and flim-flam dealings, or the beer.
“He’s a very enterprising boy,” Momma said, “quite self-sufficient. He saw that he had some time to fill, so he set up a roadside business.”
“Doing what?” Judge Bohanan asked.
I jumped in. “Selling gum. He said it was better than No-Doz to keep the truckers awake.” Those serious faces cracked a bit for quick smiles. “And he sold cold drinks.”
“Like?”
“Like Coca-Cola, Dr. Pepper. He bought them at cost and sold them cheaper than we could in the restaurant,” Momma explained.
“And,” I added, “he had a deal with the gas station across the road to mop the place in trade for ice to keep the Cokes cold.”
“He’s a clever child,” said Momma.
“Enterprising says it well,” the judge responded, dryly.
“He’s so enterprising, Your Honor, that he figured out a way to get me to wash his clothes for him.” Well, that wasn’t actually a lie, because Tag truly believed he’d conned me into doing his laundry, even if I knew better.
It went on like this, with us answering their questions honestly, but also not quite telling them everything. Then they wanted to know what it was like when Tag’s mother came for him. Was he happy to see her, or sad? Did he resist going with her? Did they seem to have a decent attitude toward each other? Did they seem comfortable together? Did she threaten or force or intimidate him in any way? Did he seem loving and respectful, or did he seem frightened, nervous, or angry?
This part was hard, because I couldn’t honestly say anything against Mrs. McFee, except that I thought her gold nail was gross. The thing is, she seemed better than the average mother, and Tag seemed to like her just fine.
But liking your mother just fine, and adoring the father you wanted to be just like—these were two different things.
Then came the clincher. The judge said, “Now, Mrs. Chandler and Miss Chandler, I’m going to ask you a question, and you may refuse to answer if you wish. One at a time, please. In your opinion, would Taggert Layton’s needs be better met with his father, or with his mother?”
Momma thought for the longest time, then finally replied, “Both of Tag’s parents love him deeply. His father is a kind and decent man. But he is on the road most of the time, and it is my opinion, regretfully, that Tag would be better off with his mother and sister in a steady, dependable home.”
Momma, the nomad, said this? I couldn’t believe it!
“Miss Chandler?”
I was sure this was the hardest thing I’d ever been asked to do. “Your Honor, sir, if you’ve ever seen Tag and Cee Dubyah together, then you know what it means when someone says, ‘They’re like two peas in a pod.’” I didn’t think Cee Dubyah would mind if I borrowed his words. “Tag told me there were days when they spent nine, ten, eleven hours in the track, barely talking. But he never got bored to death, because there’s this easy silence bet
ween Tag and his father. They could be comparing trees along the road, or counting oil pumps, or commenting on some weird road sign, all without having to say a word.”
Judge Bohanan leaned way forward in his seat, hanging on every word. Everyone was, except for Mrs. McFee’s lawyer, who was flicking something out from under his nails.
I shifted around, wondering how to say the rest. “Tag would be okay with his mother. She seems like a nice lady, and I like the way she didn’t yell at him when she came to get him, or ask him a thousand questions, especially the big one about why he left her to go with his father.” I paused, held my finger up to signal that I wasn’t done, and I thought a minute about Tag wrapped around Cee Dubyah’s waist, and the sweet creaking bedsprings, and that wilted stamp-sized note that Tag had hidden in the air conditioner, and that I now fingered in the pocket of my skirt. And I knew I couldn’t say it any plainer. “Sir, Cee Dubyah and Tag belong together.”
“Thank you very much, ladies. You’ve been most helpful,” said Judge Bohanan. The court reporter was hurrying us out of the chambers, flexing her tired fingers, and already the two lawyers had formed a huddle around the judge’s desk.
Sitting on a bench outside the courtroom was this massive person in a brown business suit—Cee Dubyah, as I’d never seen him before.
“Cee Dubyah!” Momma cried. “I wouldn’t have recognized you. Why, you look so handsome and proper!”
Cee Dubyah came to his feet on gleaming cowboy boots. He grinned at us, but seemed very jittery. “This is the day it all hits the fan,” he explained. “This makes it or breaks it, as far as Tag and me goes.”
“Good luck, Cee Dubyah,” I whispered. “I did my best.”
“That’s all I can ask. Say, I owe you for Tag’s room and all.” He reached for his wallet, and had to unbutton his suit jacket to get to it.
“No, no,” Momma said—for we weren’t under oath any longer—“Tag paid every penny from his earnings.” She stood on her toes and straightened Cee Dubyah’s tie. “Now, you just go in there and make the most of whatever the judge decides.”
FIFTEEN
Stephanie took the red stuff off and painted her toenails to match her fingernails to match her lipstick to match her shocking-pink pants. Eddie was on his way for their first date Off the Grounds. They were going to the Spinner movie. There was one movie in town, and it changed every Thursday; this was only Friday, so it was still pretty hot stuff. Momma gave them exactly one hour from the close of the movie (11:14) to the opening of the door of the Pig-Out, where she’d be waiting like Mother Superior at the gates of the convent.
I fumbled through the desk drawer for my sunglasses. “Your toenails are blinding me,” I explained. “I hope Eddie’s farsighted.”
“Eddie, for your information, has perfect vision.” I stared at her, trying not to smile. It’s pretty hard to take anyone seriously when she’s got wads of cotton stuffed between her toes, making her feet look about nineteen inches wide.
“By the way, Stephanie, I forgot to tell you something about my trip to Wichita.” I hadn’t really forgotten. I was just saving it up for a terrible moment like this. “Guess what I did.”
“You went to Steak and Ale?”
“No, it’s about a well-known person I talked to on the phone.”
“How well known? World famous?” Now she was just a little bit interested.
“Not quite world famous.”
Stephanie screwed the nail polish shut and dangled her fingers like wet laundry. “Known throughout the entire state of Kansas?” she guessed.
“No way.”
“A famous Wichita athlete? A soccer player, maybe? I know, someone from the Wichita Wings!”
“Not even close.”
“You said well known,” Stephanie pouted.
“Yeah, but I didn’t say who knew him well.”
“Aha, it’s a ‘him’!” she cried. She blew on her nails and pretended now to be bored with the whole subject, so that’s when I hit her with it.
“Wayne Firestone.”
Stephanie sucked in her breath. “You called Wayne Firestone?”
“Yep.”
“Why on God’s green earth would you do a thing like that?”
“You made such a big deal about the All Star game. I thought you’d want to know if he won.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“You might not like it,” I warned.
“Wayne Firestone is a part of the past, Dovi. There is nothing he can say or do that would touch me in any way.”
“Okay, but you made me tell you.”
Stephanie said, between clenched teeth, “I would strangle you, Cousin Dovi, but my nails are still wet. Tell!” Oh, it was going just the way I’d planned.
“Okay.” I held an imaginary phone to my ear. “Ring ring. ‘May I speak to Wayne? (Pause) Wayne? This is Dovi Chandler.’
“‘Who’s Dovi Chandler?’ he asked.
“‘Stephanie Fisher’s cousin.’
“‘Who’s Stephanie Fisher?.’
“Well, by now I know I’m talking to a real mental giant, so I said, ‘She’s about five eight—’”
“Five seven,” Stephanie protested.
“‘—has long brown hair, brown eyes. She sat behind you in English last year.’”
“Not English. French!” Stephanie cried.
“So he said, ‘Oh, you mean Donna Sperling?’”
Stephanie groaned and pulled the cotton out. Her toes snapped back.
“‘Right, I’m Donna Sperling’s cousin. Donna wants to know how you did in the All Star game.’ Well, all of a sudden I was talking his language, and he jumped into this blow-by-blow.
“‘We did great. Super-fantastic. It was the bottom of the seventh—we only play seven innings, I guess everyone knows that. They were the home team, so we wouldn’t get another up-at-bat. There was one out, and they were trailing by a run, and it was now-or-never time, you know what I mean? So, there’s a runner on first. Donna told you I’m a first baseman, I guess, and I’m covering the runner close, because he’s leading off and he’s gonna steal second in a minute. Then this gorilla comes up to bat. I swear, he musta weighed 220 pounds, more like a tackle than a batter, and I’m figuring well, he’s a power hitter. He’s either going to hit one over the fence, and it’s all over for us, or he might hit a line drive to right field, and then we’ve got him, because it would take him about twenty minutes to get his bod’ to first. You still listening?’
“‘Hanging on every word,’ I told Wayne.
“‘So, it happened like a dream. Boink! The bat and ball connect, and it’s a line drive just past me into right field. The fielder throws the ball to second—out!—and second throws it to me before Ape Man ever gets there—a double play! I’m telling you, it was a thriller!’”
“Oh mercy, my heart is fluttering with excitement,” said Stephanie in a sarcastic monotone. “Honestly, who but a little boy can get so worked up over a silly game?”
“You don’t like Wayne Firestone anymore?”
Stephanie sighed patiently. “My dear cousin, I have Eddie Perini now, a member of the United States Army and a licensed radio operator. What on earth would I do with a child like Wayne?”
“I’m really glad you feel that way, Steph, because Wayne said he was going to hang up and call Donna Sperling right away and take her to a show.”
The Pig-Out was packed with dinner customers. Some were even travelers who believed that old thing about finding the best food where all the trucks are parked. One of the truckers dropped a quarter into the juke box and brought Glen up to the turntable, and he was gentle on all our minds, calming Momma and me as we raced around the diner trying to keep everyone happy.
Then, with just two stools left at the counter, who should walk in but Cee Dubyah and Tag.
“Taggert Layton!” Momma cried. “Why, I’ll bet you’ve grown two inches since we saw you last!”
Cee Dubyah patted Tag’s head proudly.
“Had to take him over to Shepler’s to buy him some new dungarees.”
“Jeans, Cee Dubyah, Levi’s,” Tag said in that gritty voice I’d missed hearing. “Nobody but you calls ’em dungarees.”
“Hoo boy, the kid’s getting cheeky,” said Cee Dubyah with a grin.
Momma brought them each a bowl of vegetable soup and a mounded basket of crackers. “We want to hear how things are going, but as you can see—”
“Aw, we got plenty of time. Me and Tag will just sit here until everybody clears out.”
Well, we rushed the crowd through their dinners, shouting orders to Johnny so fast that he burst through the swinging doors and hollered, “Hold it! Y’all sit tight on your rear ends, and nobody order anything until I catch up, hear? I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Hi ya, Tag.”
The regulars, of course, were used to Johnny, but the travelers didn’t know what to make of him and cowered in their booths like circus tigers under a tamer’s whip. We waited for a shout from Johnny that he was ready, and finally he rang a bell. We had expected something a lot more dramatic, but there was this little bell on the pass-through, the kind you see at a Holiday Inn when they’re trying to get someone to carry an old lady’s suitcases. So we heard this dainty little tinkle, followed by “Kitchen’s open again, folks. Lay it on me!”
Momma and I sifted through our order books and let him have it: hot beef san, hold the mashed, give ’im fries. Pair of cheeseburgers riding on one horse, fries, fry ’em extra crisp. Dinner steak, burn it, no salt. Grilled cheese san on rye, got that? Rye, hold the pickles and slaw. We were merciless. Well, Johnny was awfully quiet back there, so I peeked in the pass-through to see whether he’d just given up and gone bowling. There was Tag hustling around the kitchen, flipping burgers, buttering bread, fixing plates for Johnny.
Cee Dubyah crouched down to see into the kitchen and watch his son in action. “That boy’s somethin’ else,” he chuckled. “He’ll double your output before you know it.”
