Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day

by Ann B. Ross

  Instead of upsetting or depressing him, as his son was likely to do, I was the only one who knew how to give him something to live for.

  He’d come to depend on me, see, and he knew he could rely on me to know what he could stand and what he couldn’t. He could get right sprightly if I’d let him, but I always called a halt before he went too far and got too excited. I just eased him along a little at a time, all the while watching his pulse rate and checking how flushed his face was while he got some pleasures he thought he’d lost forever. Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of what went on when Mr. Howard and I were alone together. I was a churchgoing woman, had been ever since I broke up with Bobby Lee. All I’d done with Mr. Howard was let him find out that life still had something to offer, that there were things to look forward to, and that there was a possibility of having those things every day. And every night.

  I know for a fact that I helped him, because his doctor said so. He was amazed at Mr. Howard’s rapid rehabilitation, not to the point of having full use of his left side, of course, but enough to compliment me on the physical therapy I was practicing on Mr. Howard.

  It wasn’t the same for me, of course, as it was for Mr. Howard. But I never expected it to be. After two husbands and Bobby Lee, oh, and Junior Johnson for a little while, I’d had about all the thrills, and the heartaches that went along with them, that I could stand.

  I figure everything’s a trade-off. I could give Mr. Howard what he wanted, and he could give me what I wanted. And if we didn’t want the same things, why, who’s to say one was getting the better of the deal? We could both be happy if people would just let us alone.

  But that was the very thing Junior was hell-bent on not doing. It just worried me sick to think how mad Mr. Howard was going to be when Junior dumped him in an old folks’ home, and how unglued he’d be when I wouldn’t be allowed to visit. That was a blueprint for another stroke. And another stroke might wipe his memory clean of what I meant to him. It might even kill him. We’re talking life or death here.

  The worst possible case would be if Junior took his daddy to Raleigh and put him in a nursing home there. No way would I have the means to commute two hundred miles often enough to get on the good side of an aide or an orderly who’d let me sneak in to see him.

  I got so agitated at the thought that I had to get up for another Bud. One nice thing about living in a single-wide, you don’t have to walk far to get to the refrigerator.

  I watched Patty Loveless for a minute—that woman can mortally sing—then got myself reclined again to think out what I needed to do. First, I had to find out what Junior’s plans were. Regardless of what he did—closed up the house, pensioned Emmett off, committed Mr. Howard—I could get around them if he just didn’t take Mr. Howard out of town.

  As I lay there wiggling my toes and sipping on the Bud, I heard the uneven growl and pop of what sounded like a dirt bike or a motorcycle whose timing was off, puttering and popping along somewhere in the trailer park. I pictured Jennie’s husband, Mack, coming home from the Kawasaki Cycle Center where he worked to their double-wide across the street from me. From the sound of it, though, what he was riding needed more work than it’d gotten.

  Then I heard footsteps on the cement slab, and somebody banged on my door. I jumped up and tied my robe tighter, wondering who was visiting me at eight o’clock at night. I glanced in the mirror by the door and fluffed up my hair.

  Lurline had been right; my roots could’ve used some help.

  I put on the chain lock and cracked the door. Lord, my heart sank to my toes when I saw who it was.

  Chapter 5

  “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Lemme in, Etta Mae,” he said, pushing against the door as he glanced over his shoulder. “I need help, and you’re the only one I could think of. Come on, hon, lemme in.” His hand, grease-stained knuckles and all, curled around the door.

  “Oh, no, Skip Taggert, you’re not getting in here. I had my fill of you a long time ago. Now, get on away from here.”

  He mashed his face right up in the crack between the door and the trailer so I could see the blond stubble around his mouth, and said real low and pleading, “Etta Mae, I ain’t foolin’. I need help real bad. I’m in big trouble, and you just got to help me. I got nowhere else to go.”

  “I’ve already helped you to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of bills you ran out on. Who do you owe now?”

  “It ain’t like that, Etta Mae,” he said, whispering across the chain so close that I could smell his breath. Onions and beer. “Please, I don’t owe anybody anything. This is something different, and it’s big. Lemme in so I can tell you about it. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

  “You think I’m a fool? Is that what you think? Well, let me tell you I’m not. I learned my lesson with you when you left me with enough debts to choke a horse, so you might as well get on away from here.”

  “Etta Mae,” he whispered, letting his big, flabby body slump against the door like he’d just given up on everything. “Please, I really need some help. I’m in big trouble.”

  I’d never heard Skip ask for anything. Usually, he just took what he wanted with never a thought of what it might cost him. Or anybody else, for that matter. He did look pitiful, though, and my heart always goes out to the pitiful and the helpless. Even when it’s their own fault.

  “Get off the door, then,” I said with a click of my tongue, “and let me get the chain off. But I want you to know right up front that I’m not giving you a nickel so you’d just better not even ask.”

  “You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

  “Uh-huh, I hear you.” I slipped off the chain and stepped back. “Come on in, then.” He held the door so that it wouldn’t fully open and sidled inside. Then he stuck his head through the opening and peered out, looking one way and then the other.

  Apparently satisfied, he closed the door, turned the latch, and put the chain back on.

  “Thanks, Etta Mae,” he said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I ’preciate this more’n you’ll ever know.”

  “Oh, sit down and shut up about it,” I said, waving toward the couch.

  “I will in a minute, but right now I got to go real bad. Which way’s your john?”

  “Down the hall,” I said, pointing. “First door on the right, and close it behind you.”

  Unzipping as he went, he said, “I ain’t even had time to stop at a bush.”

  I shook my head, watching him hurry to the bathroom. There’d been some big changes in the way he looked from the last time I’d seen him. Back then, he’d been a hunk, the star that every girl in school wanted to date. I thought of how he used to be everybody’s friend, a good ole boy who’d thrilled this town every Friday night on the football field. We all thought he’d go places, like to Chapel Hill or State. But I found out quick enough that gaining a hundred yards every game didn’t prepare a man for anything but pumping gas and guzzling beer at the Broad River Fish Camp. As long as he had ten dollars in his pocket for a few beers and a pool game, he never gave a thought to the next day when the rent was due or his truck needed tires.

  But when he came back from the bathroom, I could see there was something heavy on his mind this time. He looked lost and pitiful and, worst of all, he’d taken no pains with his personal appearance. That told me something was bad wrong. His blue plaid shirt was half out of his jeans, with a buttonhole gaping open. His jeans were smeared with grease and grass stains, and no telling when they’d been washed. The biggest change, though, was the fifty or so extra pounds on him, making him look as round and pudgy as a baby. He certainly wasn’t the boy I’d married before I knew any better.

  But I’m an easy touch when it comes to the downtrodden, so I said, “You had supper, Skip? I could heat up some pizza, if you want it.”

  “Naw, I don’t want anything.
” He flopped down on my new couch and leaned his head back against the pretty floral pattern that I’d paid extra for. I wished for one of Lurline’s doilies. “Maybe some brew or something stronger, if you got it.”

  “I don’t have anything stronger than Bud Light,” I said, opening the refrigerator door and looking around inside. “And only two of them.”

  “Well, shoot, Etta Mae,” he said. “I know you wadn’t ever much of a drinker, but looks like you’d be a little better stocked than that.”

  “I wasn’t exactly expecting you, you know.” He took the can I held out to him, glanced at the unopened top, then up at me with a hurt look. Maybe that was when it got through to him that I wasn’t going to wait on him hand and foot like I’d once done.

  I sat down in the recliner far enough away to cut down on the body aroma I’d been smelling ever since he came in. This was a small trailer that was pretty tight against the elements.

  “So what do you want, Skip? What kind of trouble are you in now?”

  “Etta Mae,” he said, coming up for air after emptying the can. “My luck has turned. You’re not gonna believe this, but I’ve hit it big. I won’t ever have to work again.”

  “Big deal!” I said. “When’ve you ever?”

  “Now, hon,” he said, his mouth drooping down like I’d cut him to the quick. “You got to admit I used to take good care of you. You didn’t want for a thing.”

  “I sure didn’t, except the money to pay for it. But I don’t want to talk about the past; that’s over and done with. I want to know what kind of trouble you’re in and why you’re bringing it to my door.”

  “You’re not gonna believe it,” he said again, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face.

  He sat forward on the edge of the couch, his hands dangling between his legs. His smile spread even wider, waiting to hit me with his news. “What would you think if I told you what I’ve got in my pocket?”

  I jumped straight up out of my chair. “I don’t want to hear that nasty talk!” I headed for the door, mad enough to jerk it off its hinges. “Just get on out of here. Right now!”

  “Wait, wait, hold on a minute,” he said, holding both hands up and patting the air, “that’s not what I meant. Come on, Etta Mae, I didn’t mean a thing by that. I just said it wrong. I’m not coming on to you or nothing. Not that I wouldn’t if you gave me half a chance. You’re lookin’ real good, hon, but this is bigger than anything me and you ever had goin’ for us.”

  “Well, get on with it,” I said, standing there fuming with my arms crossed under my breasts, just waiting for him to cross the line again.

  “What would you say if I told you I got two million dollars in my pocket?”

  “What? Where would the likes of you get two million dollars?”

  “Hold on, and I’ll tell you. Let me catch my breath a minute. I been on the run for two days.” He bowed his head and shook it, letting me see how beat he was. I just rolled my eyes.

  “On the run from who? More creditors?” Then it hit me. “The Law? Skip, I swear, are you running from the Law? Did you steal that money?”

  “No! Whatta you think I am, Etta Mae? I don’t owe anybody anything. Well, maybe I left a bar tab, but I didn’t steal anything. Give me a break, hon, I just need a place to lay low for a while. That’s where you come in, and it’s nothing illegal, so you don’t have to worry. I got enough to make it worth your while.”

  “Huh, it’d take a lot more than you’d ever have. So, if you didn’t steal it, how’d you get this so-called two million dollars? What is it, Confederate money?”

  “Look here,” he said, standing up and pulling a worn leather wallet from his hip pocket. It was curved from being sat on so much. He opened it, stuffing gas receipts and dog-eared business cards back into it, and pulled out what looked like a ticket. “Know what this is?”

  I opened my mouth to say it looked like a pass to the Asheville Speedway, but three taps on the door stopped me.

  Skip jumped a mile, almost knocking me over. “Oh, shoot, damn, and dang it all, they’re here!” he croaked, his voice hoarse and scared. He grabbed my arm and gave it a shake. “Quick, Etta Mae, hide me someplace. Tell ’em I’m not here; tell ’em you ain’t seen me.”

  Chapter 6

  “Hide you! What’s going on, Skip? What’re you mixed up in?”

  “Come on, Etta Mae,” he whispered, breathing fast and clamping down harder on my arm. “They won’t bother you, but they’re evermore after me. Just get rid of ’em. Tell ’em I’m not here an’ you don’t know where I am. Okay?” he said, giving my arm a shake. “Okay?”

  I’d never seen Skip scared, and it wasn’t a pretty sight as he scrunched down behind me. He cringed again when we heard three more light taps on the door, none of which sounded very threatening to me.

  “Go get in the closet, then. No, wait,” I said, thinking of his dirty self smushed in with my clean clothes. “The bathroom. Get in the shower stall.” I pried his hand off my arm and turned him toward the hall. There weren’t too many places a man of his size could hide anywhere, much less in an eight-hundred-square-foot house trailer. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. And then, I’ll tell you right now, you’re gonna be outta here.”

  “Yeah, okay. Just get rid of ’em. Tell ’em I ain’t been here.”

  “I know what to say. Now go on,” I said, giving him a push. “And close the shower curtain.” I swear, you had to tell him the simplest things.

  I watched him tiptoe past the kitchen and down the little hall into the bathroom. Before going in, he turned and looked at me, putting a finger to his lips and saying, “Sh-h-h.” The man could make a preacher cuss.

  I went to the door and called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Etta Mae,” Lurline answered. “What’s taking you so long? You got company in there?”

  “No, I don’t have company,” I yelled, unlocking the bolts and chain. Here, she’d started on me again, accusing me, an engaged woman, of entertaining somebody behind locked doors. I could’ve smacked her to kingdom come, if she hadn’t been such a good friend.

  She still had on her uniform, which she wore everywhere except to church. She thought of it as a killing-two-birds-with-one-stone outfit, something to wear when she ran errands and did her shopping while advertising her business at the same time. I teased her one time and told her she ought to have Handy Home Helpers embroidered on the back of her uniforms. She didn’t do it, but she bought a red nylon Windbreaker and had it stitched on that. In white. And gave me five dollars for my Suggestion for Bettering Business.

  “I need a cigarette,” she said as she walked in, all on edge and jumpy. “Where’s your ashtray?”

  “I’ll get it. You want a beer?”

  “I sure do,” she said, putting my giraffe on the floor and sitting in my recliner. She rummaged in her purse, pulling out a pack of Doral Menthols and a Bic, and lit up. “I declare, Etta Mae, I’ve just been all upset today. Couldn’t get anything done for worrying about you.”

  “Me? Why’re you worried about me? You’ve just about ruined my life, but I don’t know why that should upset you.” I handed her the ashtray and my last can of beer and sat down on the couch. It smelled of motor oil from the last occupant.

  “Oh, Etta Mae, you know I love you like a daughter,” she said, wiping one little tear from her cheek. “Although, as you know, there’s not that much difference in our ages.”

  Ha, I thought, only about twenty years!

  She sniffed and went on, “And maybe I did wrong calling Junior Connard, but you know I had your interests at heart. You’ll thank me one of these days for doing it.”

  “Well, today’s not one of them.” I leaned back and studied her as she sipped daintily from the can. She preferred a glass and I knew it, but I wanted her to get a taste of my attitude for a change.

  Lurl
ine had been a good friend to me, but at the same time she’d decided to run my life, too. She thought she knew what was best for everybody, but since I was the only one obligated to her I had to put up with her advice and meddling. But that had just come to a screeching halt.

  “Don’t be mad at me, Etta Mae. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You know I wouldn’t.” She was really beginning to tear up, and I was beginning to feel bad. I can’t hurt a fly, much less another person. Even if that person is a busybody and a know-it-all.

  “I tell you,” she went on, carefully dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, not wanting to smear her makeup. “I have just suffered all day long, worrying about you and so upset that you misunderstood what I was doing for you. I’ve come to apologize if I hurt you in any way. Please accept my apology, Etta Mae, I don’t want there to be anything but good feelings between us.”

  Well, what can you do? All she’d tried to do was save me from an old, demanding man who’d keep me from enjoying life. As if that’s what I was doing now.

  “Oh, Lurline, for goodness’ sake, of course I forgive you. On one condition,” I said, making my voice firm so she’d get the message. “No more interference, okay? I mean it now, because I intend to marry Mr. Howard in spite of this setback you’ve inflicted on me.”

  “Thank you, honey, for accepting my apology. You won’t be sorry,” she said, quickly drying her tears. She took an Estée Lauder compact with her zodiac sign on it out of her purse and checked her mascara. Then she snapped it shut and said, “Now, Etta Mae, now that we’ve got that out of the way, you really need to think over the other options you have. Don’t close the door on any of them just because that old man’s there for the taking. I think . . . Etta Mae, is that grease on your lovely new couch?”

  I sat up and looked at the back of the couch. Sure enough, there was a stain right where Skip had leaned his head.

  “Oh, no!” I gasped. “It’s ruined.”