Here Today, Gone Tamale

by Rebecca Adler

  With a slam of my hand against the push bar, I stepped into the alley and was slapped upside the head by the cloying smell of greasy Dumpster. “Ivan, come on.” Instead of catching a teenager throwing his cigarette butt into the weedy gravel, I caught Mayor Cogburn and his wife in a heated embrace. It was like watching cowboy Woody and his cowgirl sidekick make out. I was horrified and riveted at the same time.

  The mayor released his wife with such speed that she lost her footing and only a quick hand to the wall kept her from falling on the sparkly pockets of her too-tight jeans.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  With a glance of warning at his wife, he straightened his bolo tie. “We didn’t want to arrive too early,” he said, polite as a poker, unaware his wife had left coral lip prints on the side of his mouth.

  I had no idea what to say or where to look. Mortified, I blurted, “Great outfits.”

  She started to smile, but then realized her leather vest was hanging off one shoulder. If looks could kill, hers would have skewered my gizzard to the doorframe. She thrust her arm back into place. “Why don’t you go inside and fold napkins or something?” With a flounce, she dug out a small mirror and inspected her makeup.

  Dutch and Felicia Cogburn frequented Milagro on Friday nights. He never left without making a suggestion on how to improve our tamales, and she made sure to complain about the temperature of the air, water, coffee, and food—all too cold, so it was odd to see her so hot and bothered.

  It wasn’t every day I walked outside to find two people making out in our alley, especially not local dignitaries of a mature age. My face burning, I tried to keep it light. “I’m sorry if I, uh, interrupted. You’re more than welcome to come inside . . . when you’re ready. We started early.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, drew back his expensive shoe leather, and kicked an abandoned soda can with a loud thwack. “Nah, you didn’t interrupt nothing much.”

  “You can say that again,” Felicia muttered, withdrawing a tissue from her handbag. “We’ll enter through the front door if it’s all the same to you.”

  “You can enter here,” I said with a plastic smile, “or walk all the way around.” I shrugged. “Your choice.”

  Mrs. Mayor spoke up, “Why don’t you go back inside and check on your other guests?” In other words, get lost.

  “No problemo.” They could stay outside and bark like dogs for all I cared.

  None of the gossiping chatterers in the kitchen noticed me as I made my way through the fragrant aroma of onions, garlic, and eye-watering peppers and out the swinging doors into the dining room, grateful to leave the Cogburns behind me.

  Chapter 2

  Five minutes later, the cowbell clanged again, and the mayor and his wife entered hand in hand. “Evening, folks.” They joined us in the kitchen, the pinnacle of marital bliss.

  At their appearance, Hillary stopped texting and shoved her phone into the pocket of her ripped jeans. Funny, all it took was an appearance by the town’s power couple for her to perk up and remember how to act right.

  Senora Mari stepped forward with two Milagro aprons. “Glad you could make it.”

  With a quizzical glance, the mayor retrieved them. He placed one around his neck and one on his wife.

  “Would anyone like a margarita? Or a glass of wine?” Aunt Linda asked, raising her hand. “We’ve got frozen or on the rocks, salt or no salt?”

  A dozen hands went up.

  “Josie’s going to come by and take your orders so there’s no need to take a break just yet.”

  Suellen Burnett lifted her fingers from a bowl of shredded chicken. “I’ll take a rum and coke,” she said with a grimace. Surprisingly, she didn’t complain about her greasy task and went right back to tossing chicken bones into a nearby pan.

  The kitchen doors burst open. “I hear we’re having a party!” A statuesque wild woman stood in the doorway with her arms out wide and an ear-to-ear grin on her round chubby face.

  “We are, now you’re here,” I said, and I meant it. Now that Dixie Honeycutt, well-known artist, hellion, and pain in the establishment’s backside, had arrived, things would liven up a bit.

  “Aren’t you going to save the rum for the pirates, hey, Suellen?” she chortled, clapping the younger woman on the back. Judging by her speech and the state of her clothing, Dixie had started her own party earlier than the rest of us.

  One never knew if Dixie was going to show or not when it came to the WWF committee events, but knowing her as I did, I wouldn’t put it past her to show up a bit drunk simply to shock those in charge. She wore her usual attire, hippie chic straight from Haight-Ashbury circa 1967. Like dozens of musicians and artists of her generation, she’d migrated to the stark beauty of the Chihuahuan Desert and its austere twin, the Chisos Mountains, searching for inspiration. Where others had found unforgiving heat and monotony, Dixie had shed her urban roots like a rattler shedding its skin, finding success using rocks and precious gems to create her own handcrafted jewelry.

  She whipped around to greet the rest of us and tripped over her floor-length, tie-dyed skirt.

  I lunged to her side. “Dixie,” I said, grabbing her arm and scooping her cloth bag from the ground. “Let me help you.” Whoa, someone had been tipping the grain alcohol. When you work at a dance hall, you know what whiskey smells like on someone’s breath and oozing out their pores.

  “Hey, go easy,” she said, pulling away from me to rub her upper left arm. “I’m a bit tender right there today.”

  “Making a grand entrance as usual, I see,” Mayor Cogburn gave her a droll smile as he rolled up his sleeves.

  “Only way to fly,” she said, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. She dug under the hem of her tank top and adjusted the waistband of her skirt. Flinging her long white braid over her shoulders, she quipped, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Back in the early seventies you might have called Dixie a flower child, but in the past forty years or so she’d grown in girth. Demonstrated by her tie-dyed skirts, plaid shirts, and bold jewelry, terms like Hippie Momma or Earth Mother had become a better fit. She and the artists who remained in town had transformed this small ranching community into a mini Austin with a cool, relaxed vibe.

  Aunt Linda placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. “Let’s go ahead and take everyone’s drink order.” She pinned on a hundred watt smile for the rest of the committee.

  “Y’all must be powerfully thirsty.” With a nod and a wink in my direction, my aunt started for the back of the room.

  I thought I heard the whole room breathe a sigh of relief. They’d obviously been watching the show while soaking up juicy tidbits to share with their friends and neighbors at the first opportunity. Oh, they wouldn’t go so far as to pick up the phone, for the good Lord knew that would be gossiping. But if a friend or acquaintance should ask what’s new over morning coffee at Elaine’s Pies or a cold Coors during happy hour at Two Boots, well, that was a horse of a different color.

  “Make it four margaritas without salt for me and the lovely Burnett ladies,” Dixie said, making a grand sweeping gesture.

  Suellen spun toward the older woman, hands clenched, not caring that bits of chicken still stuck to her fingers. “I don’t want a margarita, thank you.” Her words might have been polite, but her tone was somewhere between shut up and let’s take this outside.

  “It’ll loosen you up, prissy pants.” Dixie laughed and glanced around the room as if she expected the committee to join in.

  Suellen’s jaw fell open in horror and snapped shut in rage. “At least they make pants in my size,” she said, her voice as quiet and threatening as a roll of thunder over the desert. She turned to where I stood with my jaw hanging open. “I want a shot of Jack Daniels, a shot of Jägermeister, and a shot of Dr Pepper in a tall glass with ice.”

  Without drawing my atten
tion, Elaine had appeared at her daughter’s side. “That’s enough, little sister,” she said in a gentle voice and squeezed Suellen’s hand. Under her breath, she added, “Sticks and stones.”

  Suellen tore her gaze from the inebriated woman to her mother’s disappointed face. “Oh, alright,” she muttered through her teeth. “Give me a margarita.”

  “Whatever Dixie says goes,” Melanie’s sarcasm could have melted iron.

  Yesterday, I’d heard from a customer that Melanie and the jewelry maker had had a huge blowout in front of Bubba’s BBQ. I made a quick note on my pad. “Ohh-kay. That’s four without salt. Anybody else?”

  The mayor chimed in, “Two with salt.”

  Felicia Cogburn fidgeted with her sparkly bangles, her eyes wide and unblinking as a gecko, smiling at no one in particular.

  “Diet coke, please.” Of course, Hillary needed to watch her calories to prevent her head from growing any fatter. Oops. That thought wasn’t very Christian. I’d better watch it or one day I might say something to Hillary that I’d live to regret.

  Senora Mari stepped into the center of the room, twitching with the need to get the tamales rolling. “Back to work, por favor. No breaks until the drinks arrive.” Among the volunteers I detected a few groans.

  With a wide smile, my aunt added, “But when they arrive you can take a nice long sit down.” Someone let out a whoop.

  “Lord knows, I could use one of those,” said Mayor Cogburn, turning from the restaurant’s industrial, double-sided sink. He was drying his hands thoroughly with paper towels from the nearby dispenser, and though his comment was clearly sarcastic, his delivery was so dry it was hard to take offense or think less of him.

  “You’re welcome,” Senora Mari hadn’t caught the sarcasm. She smiled encouragement to him and the other volunteers as she circled the room, yet again, inspecting the committee’s progress.

  Walking toward the group, the mayor balled up his paper towels and lobbed them into the trash can. “Hurry up with them drinks, now, ya’ hear?” he said in a campy Southern drawl.

  Dixie barked a brittle laugh at his remark as Aunt Linda whisked her over to the sink to wash her hands.

  “We wouldn’t want to deprive Miss Honeycutt of anything her heart desires.” Cogburn turned and gave his wife a tight-lipped smile. “Would we, sugar?”

  “No, definitely not,” Felicia said. The mayor’s wife turned her head toward me and whispered, “Not while we’re waiting for the witch to finish the auction necklace. She’s two weeks late.”

  The laughter died in my throat. “Don’t go away,” I said, infusing my voice with false cheer. “I’ll be right back.” I broke through the swinging doors, relieved for any excuse to skedaddle away from the melodrama.

  * * *

  An hour later, Senora Mari had stacked the first batch of tamales in two tall steamers, and folks were feeling mellower. Alcohol had done the trick.

  “Does anyone know why in the Sam Hill we don’t have more traffic on our WWWF page?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The mayor’s abbreviation made our Wild Wild West Festival sound like a wrestling event. “It should be really rocking this close to opening day.” Only a stern look from Aunt Linda kept me from rolling my eyes.

  Melanie shook her head in disgust as she headed for the sink. “A website needs to be current and easy to navigate.” She rinsed her hands of masa and dried them. “The festival’s next week, for pity’s sake. Why don’t you update the fool thing?”

  Hillary sidled up to where Dixie perched on a tall stool from the bar. “I love your work, I really do,” she cooed, pointing to the handcrafted necklace Dixie wore. The jewelry maker had created a series of tiny horses in the Native American style, each one carved from a different rock or precious stone indigenous to the Southwest.

  Tilting her head to the side, the inebriated woman swayed forward as if trying to figure out from which planet Hillary hailed. “You got a cigarette? Filtered or unfiltered, dudn’t matter to me.”

  The beauty queen wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “No, I don’t smoke those things.”

  Dixie cackled. “Why, Hillary, what things do you smoke?”

  With lips thinned in a painful smile, Hillary pressed on. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” She drew in a breath. “What does your necklace for this year’s auction look like? Is it turquoise or topaz?”

  “Why would I tell you, Miss Goody I-Don’t-Smoke-Those-Things? It’s a secret, same as always, and none of your dad-burn business.”

  Hillary turned to Mayor Cogburn and his wife. “I thought you said you were going to display the necklace online to build up anticipation for the auction.”

  After a quick glance at his wife, Cogburn stuck his thumbs in the belt loops of his designer jeans. “Well, you see . . . we’re still debating the matter.”

  “You mean there’s still no photo on the website? I thought the whole point was to generate publicity for the auction.” Mrs. Burnett was rarely critical, which made her quiet comment hit home.

  “Um . . . well . . . I haven’t received any photo.” Felicia Cogburn raised her hands in a helpless gesture.

  “Heck to the no.” Dixie slid from the stool to stand before the mayor like a rooster at a cockfight—chin raised, eyes narrowed, and plump hands fisted. “The debate is over. It’s going to be a surprise just like every other year.”

  From the corner of the room, a voice muttered, “What a diva.”

  “Who said that?” Dixie swung her girth first to one side and then the other, but not one of the committee members would admit it, though several struggled not to laugh. The remark had come from the direction of the shredded chicken.

  Melanie Burnett stepped up with a toss of her head, flinging her razor-cut bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t see why you won’t let them show it on the website now that you’re famous. It’s for a good cause.”

  Dixie had recently hit the big time by scoring a contract with Neiman Marcus. And as a result, The Texan magazine was writing a feature article on her turquoise and tribal style jewelry. Hoping to ride on the coattails of her newfound acclaim, the festival committee had commissioned not only a necklace for this year’s auction fundraiser, but matching earrings and a bracelet, with the hope that someone would donate at least five thousand dollars to the cause.

  Like a sonic boom, Dixie slammed her hand on the metal prep table by her side. “Maybe I’m sick of no-talent hacks stealing my designs.” She leaned forward, exposing a bit too much of her bountiful bosom. “Are you folks worried I won’t deliver the necklace in time for your precious auction?”

  Jumping in to soothe the troubled waters, Cogburn said. “Now, now, don’t get riled up about it.” He turned to his wife. “Felicia and I aren’t worried, are we, hon?”

  The mayor’s wife tried to smile. “Why, no.”

  Suellen crossed to her sister’s side. “Well, I’ll admit it, even if none of the rest of you will. I’m worried.” She thrust her hands on her hips and lowered her chin like a bull ready to rumble. “You haven’t ever delivered early. Last year we had to hold up the auction thirty minutes so you could drive over that set of his and hers rings.”

  “The rings I designed.”

  The room fell silent except for Senora Mari, who chose that moment to start humming an old Freddy Fender song as she pulled another pork roast from the refrigerator. I recognized the tune as one of her favorites, “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.”

  With a lurch, Dixie stepped nose to nose with Suellen. “I don’t see your sister stepping up to donate her work.” She tapped her forehead with a long, pudgy finger. “Hmm . . . maybe that’s because everyone knows the auction wouldn’t make a dime if she did.”

  “You . . . drunk . . . cow,” Melanie sputtered and stepped back. “You should be thanking me for allowing you to sell your Native American knockoffs in my ga
llery.” Her face flamed as she looked at one committee member after another. “Without me, she’d be selling cactus on the side of the road.”

  “Maybe just this once you could email a picture to me, and I could post it the morning of the auction.” Mrs. Mayor tipped her glass for a sip from her second margarita, though the glass was clearly empty. She volunteered down at City Hall, maintaining the city’s website and festival pages, though she had no experience.

  Her husband cleared his throat. “She can’t send it because it isn’t finished.”

  Dixie reached out and patted Mayor Cogburn’s hand, smiling at him as if they shared a delicious secret. “I’m creating something breathtakingly beautiful. You, on the other hand, have no excuse for your shortcomings, darling.” The mayor must have caught an eyeful if the twinge of pink in his cheeks was any indication.

  Without warning, Dixie lurched to her feet and pointed her finger inches from Felicia’s face, cackling like a witch on helium. “You’re a better woman than me.” She drew a deep breath. “I would have left for greener pastures years ago.”

  The mayor’s wife gasped as if Dixie had struck her across the face. I stole a glance at her husband. The mayor was staring at the jewelry maker with enough venom to wipe out even her large frame and, indeed, the whole county. Before the cow patties could hit the fan, Aunt Linda rode to the rescue. “Why don’t we all take a fifteen minute breather?”

  “Speaking of breathers,” Dixie pulled a pack of Marlboro lights from her crocheted bag.

  “No, no, no,” barked Senora Mari, reaching out as if to take the offensive object. “Take it outside.”

  “Alright, I was kidding.” Dixie dropped the soft pack back into her bag with a shrug. “Geez.”

  * * *

  During the unexpected break, I presented the long-suffering committee members with flautas, quesadillas, and generous helpings of sour cream, guacamole, and pico de gallo. They swarmed the platters like flies on popsicles, and I rushed out the door, intent on rescuing Dixie from herself.