by Lisa Patton
“One thing about life is always true. Things are always changin’,” she says. “You don’t have to live there forever. Just do what you need to do right now for your little girls.”
“I know. You’re right. You’re always right,” I say, and bury my face in my hands.
“The Lawd will bless you for puttin’ them first.” Kissie stretches one of her fluffy yellow bath towels and expertly pinches the corners together.
“I’m gonna start calling you Aristotle,” I tell her.
“No, baby, I don’t want that name.”
“How come? Aristotle was a genius.”
“That might be but he thought women weren’t fully human,” she says matter-of-factly as she plops the perfectly creased towel on the table.
“What!” I sit up in the chair.
“That’s right.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read it somewhere. I may not have a degree but when I read somethin’ I never forget it. You know my memory is just like an elephant’s,” she says, snapping the wind out of one of the towels.
I make a mental note to look up Aristotle and check the validity of Kissie’s claim. Then I change my mind. She always knows what she’s talking about.
* * *
Right after lunch, Kissie keeps the girls while I head out to Germantown to check out the rentals. The first house I tour is drab and depressing. A faint mildew odor permeates the air the second I step inside. After living in BO-infested surroundings in Vermont for fourteen months and endlessly ridding the Inn of Helga’s lingering cigarette aroma, there is no way I would ever entertain the idea of living in a stinky house. It has to smell good on the front end or “nothing doing” as Mama used to say. To Daddy, the man who bragged about having “the keenest olfactory senses known to man,” there was nothing worse than a home with houseitosis. I’ll never forget the time he helped me search for my first house. When the real estate agent escorted us to the front door of a little home on Alexander, Daddy, dressed to the nines in his custom-tailored suit and cashmere overcoat, stepped inside the foyer, turned to the woman and said, “I’ll meet you back at the car, thank you very much. I don’t want to go back to the office smelling like mothball soup.”
The second house, only a couple of blocks from the first, is not much better. In fact it’s even more dark and dingy on the inside, making me think both of the houses must have been taken off the market and turned into rentals because they were too hard to sell. Discouragement reeks from every corner. Thinking about the house I left in Memphis before we moved to Vermont, I’m not sure how I can’t be discouraged. That bright, cheery, odor-free house, only a few blocks from all of my best friends, is fifteen miles away in the other direction, now occupied by happy people living my Memphis dream.
The unfairness nearly keeps me from starting the car and moving on but I’ve already set up the third appointment. I figure I might as well go ahead and keep it—this one can’t be much worse than the first two. They are rental houses, I keep telling myself. Don’t be expecting perfection.
Ten minutes later, I pull up in the circular driveway of 2247 Glendale Cove and from the driveway, the view actually isn’t bad. The small front porch has a nice wooden Chippendale-style railing on either side of the steps. Boxwoods run across the front of the home and there’s even a picture window off to one side. Two dormer windows poke out of the black shingle roof, which appears to be a story and a half. I know from the ad that the home has three bedrooms and two and a half baths.
Since the owner has yet to arrive, I walk around back. There’s a nice backyard, fenced for a pet, and there’s even a swing set. It’s old and a bit rusty, that’s for sure, but at least it exists. The best parts about the house are that it’s affordable, it’s in the Dogwood Elementary School district, and pets are allowed.
Once the owner arrives and shows me around the house, I’m positive that this is the place for us. The three bedrooms are downstairs next to one another and there’s a nice-size kitchen with a large picture window that looks out over the quiet cove. Not too many cars passing by—a perfect situation for little ones. Upstairs has a large attic and a big playroom that sits over the garage in the back. There’s a living room and dining room just off the wide foyer and a small half bath. Carpeting runs all through the downstairs. I’d have preferred hardwood floors but if that’s the worst part of it, I can certainly live with beige rugs.
I write out a check for the first month’s rent plus a deposit and the owner hands me two keys. What a relief. While it may not be “home, sweet home” yet, at least the moving van now has an address to deliver my belongings.
* * *
Before returning to Kissie’s, and after a stop at Dinstuhl’s candy store for a white chocolate chunk, I head over to Seessel’s grocery to fill my new pantry. Seessel’s went out of business years ago, it’s actually called Schnucks now, but in the same way that I call Macy’s, Goldsmith’s, I’m never going to be able to stop calling Schnucks, Seessel’s. Extinct hometown landmarks die a slow death, especially in the South.
I leave my shopping cart for just a second and as I’m returning with an armload of items I forgot from the previous aisle, I notice there’s a woman trying to get past my cart, where I’ve left it a little too far into the middle. By the time I recognize the face, though, it’s too late to turn around. Cissy Green, the absolute last person on earth that I’d ever want to see—well, besides Tootie Shotwell—is looking dead at me. Her perfect taupe-eye-shadowed eyes bug out of her head when she sees who’s at the other end of the displaced cart. “Leelee?” she says, with perfectly executed astonishment, as if she hadn’t already heard through the grapevine that I had returned to town, with no Baker, no job and—well, thank the Lord I have a house now …
I feel my hand flitter in a fake, glad-to-see-you wave, and already know a polite smile is creeping onto my face.
“What in the world? I thought you were in Vermont?” she says, with a phony shrill to her voice.
“I was in Vermont, Cissy. But I’m so happy to be back in Memphis. The Northeast is overrated; let me tell you.” I can hear myself babbling even though my insides are screaming at me to shut up! Even I think my voice sounds obnoxious.
“Why? What happened? I thought—”
I interrupt her on purpose. I can’t take whatever it is she might say next. “The girls and I froze the entire time we lived there. It’s just hard to be Southern and live that far up there. Last month it never got above negative five for three weeks straight. Can you believe that?” I exaggerate a tad. But I need her to think that my move home was all about the weather.
“I had no idea it got that cold,” she says, with emphasis on “idea,” as if I had just suggested the formula for permanent Botox.
“Me, neither. I can promise you that. Alaska maybe, but the continental United States? It never once crossed my mind.”
“What does Baker think about it? I mean he was all gung ho to move. Is he okay about coming back?”
“Oh, he’s dealing with it.” Again, not entirely a lie … but certainly not the whole story. Why on earth can’t I just tell her the truth?
She pushes on. “I remember somebody telling me he was sick of the insurance business and that was the reason he wanted to move away. Will he go back to Allstate with Mr. Satterfield?”
“It’s actually Satterfield State Farm. And we aren’t sure yet.” At least that was the truth.
“Well, he’ll be great at whatever he does.”
Baker gets all kinds of passes because he’s good-looking and a former UT football star … one of the many perks of Southern football majesty. The truth of the matter is Cissy cares way more about Baker than she does me, it’s his happiness she’s after.
“Oh, yes. Baker is great at lots of things,” I say, knowing that list now includes cheating on your wife and abandoning two daughters. If there could be a way that I could make my cell phone ring right at this moment I would give up my right
baby toe. Since it doesn’t, I take matters into my own hands. “Cissy, do you happen to know what time it is?”
She glances at her diamond Rolex Oyster Perpetual. “One thirty.”
“Oh my gosh, I’m late. I have to have Issie to a doctor’s appointment in fifteen minutes. I’ve got to run right now. Bye Cissy, good to see you.” I back up my cart and turn around and leave it, two aisles over. I’ll do my shopping closer to Kissie’s house where I, the great liar, can be completely anonymous.
I grab my cell to call Alice and whisper into the phone as I’m exiting the store. “It’s starting.”
“What’s starting?”
“I just ran into Cissy Green, of all people. She kept trying to dig all the scoop out of me she could get. What am I going to do when people start finding out that Baker and I have split up? And even worse that he has a fifty-year-old girlfriend with silicone implants. Or maybe they’re saline. How can you tell the difference anyway?”
“One is softer than the other. You know, better to the touch,” she says.
“Well shoot, Alice, I didn’t manage to fondle her boob while I had the chance … what with trying to keep our livelihood intact I forgot to feel up my husband’s mistress.” My sarcasm reeks of wounded pride.
“Leelee, listen. You’re gonna hold your head up and deal with it. Who cares?”
“I do. I hate my life.”
“Don’t ever say that again. Everything is gonna be fine in the long run. It’s hard as hell right now but you’ll be yesterday’s news tomorrow.”
I start to protest when she butts in, “Leelee, you have five more seconds of this pity party and then I have to pick up the children from mother’s day out. Miss Becky passes out candy like it’s as healthy as spinach and I have to save my patience for whatever sugar rush they’re on.”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
We hang up, laughing, and as I’m running out to my car I hear my name called from across the parking lot. Acting as if I don’t hear the person, I bolt inside my car, my heart running so fast it might as well be the engine. There’s no telling how many cell phone calls Cissy Green has already dialed from the inside of Seessel’s, and I know all too well the rate of speed at which Dixie gossip blasts down the highway. Just as I ram the gearshift in reverse, I hear a knock on my window. I want to pretend I don’t see the person for fear it’s another Baker-lover but I notice Natalie Walker’s kind smile in my peripheral view. We graduated together at Jameson and she’s as nice a person as you could ever find. I roll down my window and hug her through the opening.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, genuinely happy to see me. She was at my going-away luncheon and would have to be burning at the stake before she’d ever say a mean word about me or anyone else. Something about her gentle hug and soothing voice brings tears to my eyes. The Cissy Green incident shook me senseless. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“No.” I sit back in my seat, feeling the tears pour down my cheeks. She hurries around to the other side of my car and I toss all the junk from the passenger seat into the back between the girls’ car seats to make room for her.
Natalie reaches over and wraps her arms around me once she sits down. “What is it, Leelee?”
There’s no sense in lying again—so I let loose. “Vermont was a disaster. It didn’t go well from the minute we arrived. The move turned out to be catastrophic for our marriage.” I pull away from her and look her in the eye. “Baker and I split up.”
Natalie’s face contorts into a grimace. “Ohhhh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She nervously nods her head up and down. Here she thought she was coming over to say hi to an old friend and now she must feel as uncomfortable as a portly girl lying out with a bunch of size fours at the beach.
“I’m sorry for crying,” I stutter in between embarrassing sobs.
“Don’t be silly. It’s okay. Is there a way I can help you?”
“There’s nothing you can do, Natalie, but I appreciate it.” I’m nervously rubbing the leather on the steering wheel when something reminds me of how well connected she and her husband are in town and it gives me an idea. “Actually, there might be something.” I look in my rearview mirror and notice the mascara smudges under my eyes. “Oh look at me. I’m frightful.”
Natalie reaches over and gently pushes my face away from the mirror. “No you are not. Now tell me what I can do.”
I fumble around for a Kleenex and all I can find is a dirty McDonald’s napkin lodged in between the seats. It’s been stepped on and is full of grime but without a better option, I spit onto a corner and gently pat the mascara away from under my eyes. “I need to work,” I say through sniffles, turning my head toward her. “As soon as possible. You and Tim know everyone in town. If you hear of any job openings will you please let me know?”
“Of course I will. I don’t know of any right offhand but I’ll think about it.”
“Preferably somewhere fun. I mean, I don’t mind working. Honestly. I’ve just run a restaurant all by myself. Well, actually, I had a partner but that’s another story. With all that’s gone on, I can’t help but wish I could just work at a place where I would feel excited about getting up in the morning.”
“What’s your degree in? Remind me.”
“Communications.”
“Oh sure. Ole Miss?”
I nod my head.
“Tim works in TV. You know WZCQ down in Midtown? He’s the sales manager there.”
“I’d forgotten that,” I say, a glimmer of hope returning.
“It houses FM 99 and AM 59, too. Would you like him to check to see if there are any openings?” she says, with genuine interest.
“Yes! That would be great.”
“Okay, what’s the best number to reach you on?”
We exchange cell phone numbers and promise to get together in the next week or two.
“We’ll find you a job, sweetie. Don’t you worry,” she says.
I hug her once more and watch as she walks to her car. Why can’t there be more Natalie Walkers and less Cissy Greens in this city? For gosh sakes.
* * *
Later that afternoon, no more than two hours after leaving Natalie, my phone rings. I’m driving back to Kissie’s after slipping into a Kroger closer to her house. I grab my cell, in hopes of seeing a certain Vermonter’s number, but am disappointed when the area code reads “901”—Memphis. I answer anyway. “Hello.”
“Hi Leelee, it’s Tim Walker. How are you, girl?”
“Hi Tim, I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m great. Doing fine. Natalie says you need a job.” He’s down to business but friendly.
“I do. I really do.”
“They need an assistant over on the FM side here at ZCQ. You’d be answering phones, handing out prizes—you know, the items that people call in to win on the radio?”
“Sure. I won a prize on the radio once. But it was a long time ago.”
“You’d do a lot of that and some administrative work. Plus you’d be assisting the program director and the promotions director. Sound like something you might be interested in?”
“Definitely,” I reply, hoping my desperation doesn’t sound too unprofessional.
“I don’t know how much the pay is, but I do know it’s the kind of place where you can work hard and move up in the company.”
“That sounds great, thank you so much, Tim.”
“No problem. Glad to help you.”
Tim told me to call an Edward Maxwell to set up an interview. I jot down his phone number on a piece of scratch paper I find in the console. “I’ll call him when we hang up,” I say.
“Okie doke. Hope it works out. Lemme know.”
“I sure will. Thanks so much, Tim.”
“My pleasure.”
After hanging up with Tim I almost want to scream I’m so happy. I’m confident I could be wonderful at that kind of work. I have a real love for music and to be among radio and music personalities sounds like a dream job
. WZCQ is always throwing rooftop parties at the Peabody Hotel and their promotions van seems to be everywhere—car dealerships, Memphis in May, charity events. My mood lifts just thinking about the job. I hang up from Tim and call Mr. Maxwell right away.
After talking with him, I agree to come in for an interview. I’m intrigued to meet him; during the phone conversation he sounded a bit strange, arrogant almost. After working for Helga, I’m determined not to have another boss who makes my life miserable. That said, lord knows I need a job, so I really can’t be too choosy.
Ed tells me that he needs a copy of my résumé, which I decide to drop off first thing in the morning. I could email it but I don’t want to chance it ending up in his spam folder. It’s six years old. I know what I’ll be doing till the wee hours of the morning.
* * *
Wednesday afternoon I walk in the front door of WZCQ for my interview, oh my goodness five minutes late, and I feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety. After checking in with Jane, the receptionist who I had met earlier when I dropped off my résumé, I take a seat on one of the outdated couches in the lobby. A man wearing dark makeup walks by and says hello with a deep, familiar voice. It’s Stuart Southard, the weatherman on channel 12. A regular Memphis celebrity. I get a little warm in the cheeks and involuntarily smile; I can’t help but be a wee bit starstruck.
“Ms. Satterfield?” Jane says, after I’ve been seated for ten minutes or so. “You can go back now. Straight down the hall to the left and you’ll run right into the FM 99 offices. Good luck!” If the size of her smile could determine my chances of getting the job, I’d be a shoo-in.
“Thank you.” I grab my purse and the folder containing an extra copy of my résumé, hot off the presses, and head down the hall, my mind ablaze. I’m already fretting about how much this job might pay, combined with doubts about my alimony arrangement with Baker. I’m still not so sure I made a good decision, opting for a quick solution with less compensation rather than a long, painful negotiation with a bigger settlement. If Daddy were alive, he would have made sure I hired the finest lawyer in town and had run Baker across county lines. Since that wasn’t the case, I’m living with the fact that I have to be away from Sarah and Issie all day long because of money.
