by J. J. Murray
Might as well go for it, and I can even include Mr. Dunn in this! Yes! “It’s really become sort of a joke in the office. In fact, there are even a few men who call and act as if they’re Tom or another of her imaginary friends named Mr. Dunn when they know she’s had a few too many.”
“For something like phone sex?” the nurse says.
That wasn’t where I was going with that, but whatever floats your boat. “Something like that. It’s quite mean. What I’m asking is that you and your staff screen Miss Ross’s calls for her. If anyone calls and tells you he’s Tom or Mr. Dunn, please don’t hand the phone to her. It will only upset her.” Hey, that was pretty good.
“I may just talk to this Tom myself,” the nurse says.
She must be hard up Down Under. “How long will she be in the hospital? She couldn’t tell me.”
“No telling. She had a whopper of a sting. It looks like a zipper across her breast. She’ll be here at least until all the swelling goes down.”
“So at least ... four, five days?”
“No telling.”
Shoot. “I will call to check on her tomorrow. What’s the name of the hospital?”
“Tully Hospital in Tully.”
Of course it’s named Tully Hospital. It’s in Tully. “Make sure her phone is near one of your staff at all times.”
“Right.”
“Bye.”
I should immediately add number six to my list of what can go wrong: “I will probably forget and mix up all the lies I’ve told.”
But if I can make it through the next eleven days and win this account, I may only have to remember the biggest truth of all—that I can do this on my own.
And that will hopefully put me exactly where I want to be.
Chapter 11
Sundays I go to Brooklyn Tabernacle, and this Sunday is no exception.
I need all the help I can get.
The Brooklyn Tabernacle is only a block or so from the Brooklyner, and it has to be the most multicultural church on the planet. The United Nations should meet there. I usually only go to the 9 a.m. worship service and get my praise on with the world-famous Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. Today, I go to the 9 a.m. and noon worship services and the 3 p.m. Gospel celebration service.
And it isn’t five minutes into the first service that I start to feel guilty for what I’m about to do. This church was built on prayer, and I often pray alongside five thousand other folks on Tuesday nights. Today, I do some serious praying.
“Hey, God, um, it’s me, Shari Nance. Yeah, You already know what I’m up to and what I’m planning to do, so there’s no use explaining. If You could, I don’t know, make a way for me, I’d surely appreciate it. You know I have a good heart, and You also know I’m an impatient person. I’m tired of waiting, You know? I know Your Word says for me to stay still and wait quietly for You to work and that You will deliver me. Lord, I haven’t been still since I was a baby, and even then I was all arms and legs and energy. And I’m rarely completely quiet, right? I’ve been waiting patiently, and I know You’ve heard my cries. I’m trusting You to do what you did for David: Lift me out of this horrible pit, set my feet upon a rock, and establish my goings. I’ll try not to let You down. Amen.”
It is the most selfish prayer I have ever prayed, and instead of feeling renewed and uplifted, I drag tail the rest of the evening, barely sleep, and roll out of bed at 4 a.m. on Monday morning.
Yawning, I stand outside my clothes closet and realize that I have no business attire, nothing that says “advertising account executive.”
I do have a lot of clothes that say “mountain climber” and “lumber woman.”
The last time I wore a dress was Becka Short’s wedding ten years ago. I had to wear a long frilly dress the color of green olives, white hose, and shiny red flats. And it wasn’t even Christmas. I looked jacked up, but I guess that’s the way weddings are supposed to be. The bridesmaids have to look like butt so the bride can look more fabulous.
I wouldn’t wear a dress while touring a plant anyway, and since Mr. Peterson said that I wasn’t what he expected, I’ll just stay with the unexpected. Jeans, boots, sweater—done.
I could have gone to Corrine’s apartment yesterday to air it out and raid her closets. She tells me she has two closets—one for clothes and one for shoes. Her clothes and shoes would all be way too big for me, but I bet she’d have a spare briefcase or an attaché case. Having something more professional like an attaché might help my cause today. I like the L.L.Bean tote bag, though. It’s so uncomplicated. Open, dump, close. No locks, no combinations. Simple. And although I really wanted to see what a transvestite concierge looked like ... no. I’ll bet the concierge is a nice man who once ticked off Corrine, and reducing him to a transvestite makes her feel superior.
But I really should be dressing up a little. I am a professional now.
No! I can’t wear a dress or a business suit.
This Cinderella isn’t going to put on a new gown.
She’s just going to be her uncomplicated, uncluttered self. I pick out some steel-toed Chippewa boots. Waterproof. Made in the USA. They have little American flags attached to the laces. A blue and black flannel shirt to go with my jeans. I’m sure they’ll give me a hard hat for my tour of the plant. I put it all on and look rugged. This is a look that says ... construction worker. Hmm. I still want Mr. Peterson to see me as self-sufficient and ready for anything and everything, so I take off the flannel shirt and put on a red, white, and blue wool sweater. There I am. The all-American girl.
I drop a few toiletries and a change of clothes into the tote bag. They barely ruffle my notes. I am certainly traveling light.
Now, how to get to JFK. I’ve never had to do this myself before. Corrine always had me call some car service to take her. I suppose I could do the same. I call Arecibo Car Services, and they promise to pick me up in five minutes for thirty-five bucks. Hmm. A bit pricy for eleven total miles, but I won’t have to ride over an hour on two subways and on two buses. I tell them to come on.
Twelve minutes later (even time is subject to inflation these days), a black Mitsubishi Lancer shows up. Very nice. The driver motions me to the back door, I get in, and twenty minutes later, I’m short thirty-five bucks but standing in front of the Delta terminal at JFK.
This travel stuff is easy. Maybe God is making a way for me?
Though the search procedure is tedious, mind-numbing, and wearisome, and taking off my Chippewa boots is such a pain, I survive the march of the zombies and wait for my flight. The Delta flight leaves on time at 6 a.m., I get on, get a window seat, we fly, I look at the tops of clouds for the first time in my life, we land in Atlanta, I rent a GMC Acadia, and I’m zipping down I-75 to Macon, Georgia, by 9:30 a.m.
There’s nothing to this! God has to be making a way for me.
I hope.
I did little research on Macon over the weekend. Population 93,000. Home of Otis Redding, Lena Horne, Little Richard, the Allman Brothers, and Alabama Vest, African-American inventor of the kazoo. Well, somebody had to invent it. I’m sure there’s much more to Macon than what I found online. I’ll just have to see Macon firsthand.
As I’m driving on I-75, I soak up the scenery, and it reminds me so much of Virginia. Forests, mountains, hills, views, a kaleidoscope of colors—it reminds me of home.
I drive straight to the plant in a section of Macon known as Cross Keys. I’m amazed at how much Macon reminds me of Salem. Lots of trees, hills, open spaces, flat areas, and parks. And I am also amazed at how non-industrial the bicycle plant looks. It’s a long and low green prefab aluminum barn maybe fifty feet high and three hundred feet long that blends into the surrounding pine trees perfectly. It has two small garage doors in front, few windows down its sides, and a loading dock way at the other end. An Office sign hangs over the entrance to a small gray trailer to my right, so I park near the trailer, get out, and walk through the door.
Sitting behind a simple L-shaped de
sk is a hefty woman in coveralls who is busily playing solitaire. “Hello,” I say.
She turns from her game. “Hello.”
I look at some pictures on her desk and see Mr. Peterson with her in several of them. This is Mrs. Peterson? She’s the secretary? This is a mom-and-pop operation, all right.
“I’m, um, I’m Corrine Ross.” I almost forgot who I was. “From MultiCorp.”
She smiles. “I’m Freda Peterson, and you’re here to tour the plant. Splendid. How was your trip?”
“Decent,” I say. “The scenery was breathtaking.”
She nods. “Always is this time of year. I’ve just sent out the gentleman from Harrison Hersey and Boulder with Woody.”
Tom Sexton is here? Now? He’s here now?! “Tom, I mean, Mr. Sexton ... is here already?”
“You just missed him,” she says in a honeyed drawl. “Perhaps I can delay Woody enough for you to catch up with them, and you can both get the full tour with Woody.”
That can’t happen! What am I going to do? I can’t let Tom see me. While I want to rub elbows with Mr. Peterson, I have to stay as far away from Tom as I can. I shouldn’t have come today, but Mr. Peterson said today would be the best day!
“You know,” I say, “I’d much prefer a woman’s perspective of this facility.”
Mrs. Peterson stands. Whoa, she’s a healthy woman. She has girth, but it’s in all the right places. Those coveralls, though. They’re screaming at the seams. “Then I’m your gal. We’re usually slow on Mondays anyway. Where do you want to begin?”
“At the beginning?”
She sweeps around the desk. “I like how you’re dressed. You’re prepared. That other fellow’s wearing a suit, and it’s a might bit dusty in there.”
Chalk one up for me.
“If I know Woody,” she says, “he’ll take Mr. Sexton straight to the machines. Men.”
“Yeah. Men.” Yes, Mr. Sexton is a man who should be in Australia or Detroit or anywhere on earth instead of here today! What is he up to?
Mrs. Peterson takes me inside the plant to a little holding area surrounded by large plastic strips hanging from the ceiling, and the noise isn’t as bad as I expected. Some clanging and a steady humming.
She hands me a hard hat. “Regulations.”
I put it on.
She hands me some goggles. “You never know what might be flying around in here.”
I put them on over my glasses. The goggles are a little scratched up, but I can see fairly well.
She hands me some heavy leather gloves. “Keeps your hands clean.”
I put them on.
She helps me into an orange vest. “Gives our workers the impression that you’re on an inspection tour. Usually keeps ’em on their toes.”
I look as far as I can down what looks like an assembly line, bike frames and wheels hanging on moving chains, noise assaulting my ears the closer we get to the machines I desperately want to avoid. I wish she had given me earplugs. I don’t see Mr. Peterson or Tom, and I almost feel safe because of my disguise and the fifteen thousand square feet of plant in front of me.
And then, I immerse myself in Peterson Bicycles. I learn they make one hundred bicycles a day, two hundred and fifty days a year, giving them slightly more than one million bicycles “on the road” since 1969. I learn how the wheels are made, how the frame is made, why the frame is shaped the way it is, how many safety checks they make, and how many African-American workers they employ.
“We’re up to thirty-five percent,” Mrs. Peterson says. “We’re getting there.”
I stand beside men and even women grinding, drilling, pressing, folding, extruding, attaching, clamping, tightening, painting, and testing. The tour takes a little over an hour, and I still don’t see Mr. Peterson or Tom by the time we get back to the holding area. Maybe they went out to lunch. Which reminds me ...
“I told Mr. Peterson that I was expecting some home cookin’,” I say, purposely dropping my G this time.
“You did?” She whips out a walkie-talkie. “I’ll give him a call.”
Oh no!
“Woody, this is your better half, come in.” She waits a few seconds. “Woody, this is your wife calling.” She waits a bit more then puts the walkie-talkie in her front pocket. “He isn’t here. He always answers me, or else. Guess he and Mr. Sexton have already left for lunch.”
Whew. I try to look disappointed, but I’m sure I’m not very convincing. “Where’s the best place to go?”
“You’ll want H&H,” Mrs. Peterson says. “Where Oprah came one day to visit. Big news around here. Made all the papers.”
I leave the holding area and step outside into the sunshine and see a tall man with dirty-blond hair wearing an expensive blue suit getting into a Chevy Suburban only fifty feet away from me.
I turn quickly and nearly collide with Mrs. Peterson. “Um, I’ll need directions.”
Mrs. Peterson looks past me. “There’s Woody and Mr. Sexton leaving right now. Let me call him.” She pulls out a cell phone.
No! “Um, that’s okay. Maybe it’s better that the three of us don’t sit down together. It’s kind of a conflict of interest.” And it will get me caught!
She stares at me for a moment. “All right. I can take you.”
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble.” Please go to some trouble!
“Nonsense,” she says. “I want to go. Mondays H&H has fried chicken potato pie. You have never tasted anything like it. Heaven.”
I step outside again. Tom and Mr. Peterson are gone, and my heart stops battering my chest. I should probably escape to my hotel after lunch and then escape to New York. “I can drive us,” I say, digging for my keys.
“No, my treat,” she says, pointing at another Suburban.
But I can’t make my escape if you drive!
“And you can leave that gear inside the plant,” she says. “You have to be hot.”
I can’t take off my disguise! “I’ll, um, I’ll want to wander around the plant after lunch, so if I keep this stuff with me, I can just get to wandering when we get back.” Wandering right on out of here.
“Suit yourself.”
I remove the goggles, gloves, and hard hat in Mrs. Peterson’s Suburban, but I keep on the orange vest. I have no idea why. Maybe I like the color.
We ride down to Forsyth Street, park, and enter a simple all-brick building on the corner. I notice a mushroom on the only window and another mushroom on the sign hanging over the entrance. Inside I see fresh flowers resting on multicolored vinyl tablecloths. Four chairs, only a few of them matching, surround each table, and every table seems full of people chowing down. Even the four stools at the counter are occupied with a mostly African-American crowd.
The smell is heaven. I do not ever want to leave. I will eat myself to death here.
“They’re not that busy today,” Mrs. Peterson says. “We won’t have to wait long.”
Not that busy? There’s nowhere to sit, is there?
Mrs. Peterson nods at an older black woman moving among the tables. “That’s Mama Louise Hudson. She’s been here for nearly fifty years. Best cook I ever knew. Better than my granny.”
I see motion from my right and smile at an ancient black woman waving us over. “There are two chairs at that table in the corner,” I say.
“Told you we wouldn’t have to wait long,” Mrs. Peterson says, and I follow her to the table.
“Y’all can sure join us if you like,” the waving woman says. “I’m Tillie, and this is my sister Millie.”
Twins. They have to be. Both have the same toothy grin and wear the exact same Carolina-blue sweat suit. “Thank you. I’m, um, Corrine.” I’ve got to stop saying “um”! I sit opposite Millie.
Mrs. Peterson sits opposite Tillie and to my right. “And y’all already know me.”
“Good to see you, Freda,” Millie says. “I said to myself, ‘Isn’t that Freda Peterson?’ And I turned to Tillie here and said, ‘Tillie, it must be Monday if Freda
’s here.’”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Peterson says. “I try not to miss the fried chicken potato pie.”
“You look powerful hungry,” Tillie says to me. “You don’t look like you’ve eaten in days.”
“I am pretty hungry,” I say, taking and scanning the orange paper menu.
“Everything’s good here, child,” Millie says.
The menu tells me I’m in heaven. Collards, macaroni and cheese, lima beans, okra and tomato, rice and gravy, squash, roast beef, barbecue ribs, fried chicken potato pie, bread pudding, and peach cobbler. “I’ll have ...” I smile at Millie. “You think they’d let me have a sample of everything?”
Mille nods. “I told you she was powerful hungry.”
Mama Louise appears out of nowhere beside Mrs. Peterson. “Welcome, welcome. Good to see you again, Freda. Who’s this?”
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Corrine Ross.” Better. I even included my last name this time.
“Where you from?” Mama Louise asks.
“Macon,” Mrs. Peterson says before I can answer.
“I know that, Freda,” Mama Louise says with a smiling scowl. She looks at me. “That one ain’t from around here.”
I nod. “I’m from Brooklyn by way of Virginia.”
Mama Louise looks at Millie and Tillie. “We don’t get many folks from Brooklyn by way of anywhere around here. Did I hear you want a little of everything?”
Mama Louise has amazing powers of hearing. “Yes ma’am.”
“Bet you’re more Virginia than Brooklyn, am I right?” Mama Louise asks.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “Twenty-two years in Virginia.”
Mama Louise nods. “You put it away, and I’ll keep bringin’ it.”
And then ... I eat. Everything, and I mean, everything tastes of home. Everything. I haven’t had okra or collards or even a decent cobbler in years. Home. I nearly mist up over the rice and gravy while Millie and Tillie keep up a running commentary about Oprah, Capricorn Records, and the Allman Brothers, who used to “borrow” food when they were just starting out and paying Mama Louise later. They also fuss about the cold snap they’re having.
