Chenille hadn’t set out to be a career woman. Gracious, no! Despite excellent grades and much encouragement from her instructors, she always had her heart set on being a wife and mother. Maybe she would volunteer as a Brownie troop leader or a Pink Lady at the hospital, but she’d never anticipated a forty-hour workweek.
But attracting a suitable fellow—much less converting him into a husband—had proved troublesome. Although she wasn’t as stunning as her sister, Chiffon, Chenille was hardly a hag. Her clothes were spotless; she meticulously coordinated her shoes with her pocketbooks, and she regularly sucked on Tic Tacs to maintain a fresh mouth. Nor had she withered away at home, hoping a man would materialize from the woodwork. During her twenties and early thirties, she’d been an active member of her singles Sunday school class and faithfully attended the monthly mixers at the VFW hall. But despite her diligent efforts, she had very few dates.
A few years ago, she’d stopped attending activities for singles. She’d blamed it on Walter, her Norwich terrier, who’d turned both diabetic and arthritic in his advancing years and required lots of care.
But truthfully, Chenille had lost heart. An avid reader of romance novels, she’d always expected a tall stranger to sweep into her life and transform it. But now that she was a forty-year-old single woman, her girlhood dream of meeting and marrying Mr. Right seemed as out of reach as discovering an oil field in her backyard.
So, instead of marking time, waiting for a broad-chested Jake, Chase, or Dirk to happen along, she’d immersed herself in her career. She volunteered for all the school committees and handed in detailed and annotated lesson plans. She tirelessly and cheerfully accepted extra bus duty, and last Christmas she’d hand-decorated 250 cupcakes for the Junior-Senior Holiday Fling.
And now it was over. She was alone in this world with just her dog and his cartload of medical supplies. She envisioned herself and a flea-bitten Walter standing on a street corner, with a cardboard sign: will work for food and insulin.
Dipping into her Kleenex box for more tissues, she was startled by a knock on her passenger-side window. She dabbed at her eyes and rolled down the car window to speak with Winston Tobin, the school’s public safety officer.
“Hello, Winston. How are you?” She faked a sneeze. “My goodness, my allergies are acting up today.”
Chenille often exchanged pleasantries with Officer Tobin as he patrolled the halls of the high school. He was a short, jovial man (married, of course) with watery gray eyes and a neck the width of a tree trunk. He liked to recap his Saturday-night bowling games with her during class changes.
“Ms. Grace, Mr. Brock tells me you’re no longer on staff at Bible Grove High School. Would you kindly surrender your parking validation and identification badge?”
“Of course, Winston,” Chenille said, unpinning her ID badge from her blouse. “But what’s the rush? I still have to come back and pack up my room.”
“No, Ms. Grace. Mr. Brock is having your personal items boxed up and sent to you via UPS. Steven’s parents asked that you be denied further access to the school campus in order to prevent any further assaults.”
“Great ghosts!” Chenille protested. “I’m no danger to Steven.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Grace,” Winston said, swallowing uncomfortably. “You need to leave now. Please don’t return to Bible Grove High School for any reason, or I’ll have to have you removed from the premises.”
Six
Men are like pantyhose. They run when you need them.
~ Graffiti in the ladies’ room at the Tuff Luck Tavern
When Lonnie didn’t get off the plane, Chiffon threw a hissy fit right there in the terminal. She harangued the reservation people, accusing them of misplacing her husband, as if he were a garment bag instead of a six-foot man with a mind of his own.
After repeated demands of “Where’s my husband?” all three kids were bawling and the agent behind the airline counter had threatened to call security, Chiffon had no choice but to load her brood into the car and drive back to Cayboo Creek. Once home, she hustled the children inside and seized the phone, punching in the number of Lonnie’s hotel room. Noticing the blinking light of her answering machine, she stopped dialing and listened to the message.
A familiar voice spoke on the recording.
“Hello, Chiffon? Chiffon Butrell? You don’t know me, but my name is Janie-Lynn Lauren. I’m a film actress and I’m calling on the behalf of your husband, Lonnie. He won’t be coming home today. Or the next day. In fact, he has no idea when or if he’ll return. Goodbye for now.”
Chiffon listened to the message at least five times, and with each play she got more frantic. Her first instinct was to toss a few diapers and clothes in a bag, scoop up the kids, and tear off to California to retrieve her husband. That idea lost steam when she checked her pocketbook and found she had just $23.17 left over from the money her mama had given her. With that kind of cash she’d only get as far as Alabama. Her second instinct was to head over to the Dairy Queen and suck down two or three Pecan Mudslides. She followed her third instinct, which was to call her friends for support. This burden was too heavy to carry all by herself.
Moments later, Mavis arrived at Chiffon’s house carrying a Tupperware dish filled with homemade pimento cheese spread.
“There’s nothing like pimento cheese to cheer a body,” Mavis said, placing the container on the kitchen counter.
“Thanks for coming, Mavis,” Chiffon said. “Attalee said she’d be here directly. I need some strong shoulders to cry on.”
“That’s what these shoulders are for, Chiffon,” Mavis said, drawing her into an embrace.
Chiffon felt comforted by the older woman’s arms around her. She’d known Mavis since she was a child, but it was only in the last few years that she’d begun to think of her as a surrogate mama.
“Pull your head out of the oven, girl,” Attalee said, bursting through Chiffon’s back door. “Attalee’s here, break out the beer!”
Chiffon lifted her head from Mavis’s shoulder and smiled weakly at her guest. “I guess the party’s begun,” she said.
“I don’t know what ails you,” Attalee said as she sorted through a cloth satchel that hung from her arm. “But here’s something to help you forget your troubles.” She withdrew a Playgirl magazine, saying, “Nothing like a little beefcake to chase away the blues.”
Mavis picked up the magazine and glanced inside. “Oh my,” she said, dropping it as if it were on fire.
“It’s been a while, ain’t it?” Attalee said with a sly grin. “They’re making them bigger than I remember.”
Attalee dropped into a chair and looked up at Chiffon. “So what’s plaguing you? Put it on the front porch.” She glanced at the back door. “Or are you waiting for Elizabeth to get here so you can kill three birds with one slingshot?”
Chiffon toed the linoleum with her tennis shoe. “I didn’t call Elizabeth. I don’t want to upset her right now, considering her delicate condition.”
Mavis patted her arm. “That’s real thoughtful of you, Chiffon, but knowing Elizabeth as I do, she’d want to be here for you. Baby on the way or not.”
Chiffon nodded. “I know, but I just didn’t think—”
The kitchen door opened and Elizabeth rushed in, holding a magazine to her swollen belly. Her bottom lip trembled as she spoke. “Oh, Chiffon. Sweetie! Why didn’t you tell me?” She glanced at the magazine in her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what?” Chiffon asked. “Why are you so upset? What’s in your hand?”
Elizabeth paled. “I thought you knew. I’d guessed you were keeping it to yourself.” In her distress, she dropped the People magazine she was holding. It landed face-up, so everyone in Chiffon’s kitchen could see the cover.
“Good heavens!” Chiffon gasped as she picked up the
magazine. “Where’d you get this?”
“At the Winn-Dixie,” Elizabeth squeaked. “This photo is on the cover of every celebrity magazine in the grocery store—US, In Touch, even The National Enquirer.”
The cover story was titled “Janie-Lynn’s Latest Dish,” but it was the accompanying photo that told the tale. There was a head shot of a man, cheek-to-cheek with Janie-Lynn Lauren. They were both grinning stupidly, like a pair of chimpanzees. This time there was no mistaking it. The man on the cover was her husband, Lonnie.
Attalee gaped at the photograph. “Well, I never...That boy should have his hide hung on a fence.”
Chiffon wasn’t listening. She was too busy rifling through her pocketbook for her car keys. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. Before anyone in town sees this, we’re going to drive down to the Winn-Dixie and buy every single copy of this magazine. Then we’ll get some lighter fluid and have a big old bonfire.”
Just then the phone rang.
“What?” Chiffon barked into the receiver.
“Chiffon, I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Reeky. Listen, I just got in this week’s shipment of magazines and I couldn’t believe what I saw on the cover. Does Lonnie have a twin brother?”
“Please don’t sell any of those magazines, Reeky. I’ll be right down to take them off your hands,” Chiffon said, hanging up the phone. It rang again at once.
“Chiffon? This is Effie Stykes. I was getting my hair done at the Dazzling Do’s, and I nearly choked on my Tab when I saw who was on the cover of The Globe this week.”
Chiffon slammed down the phone. “We need to run by Dazzling Do’s and to all the other places in Cayboo Creek with magazines in the waiting room. Let’s split up so we can cover the whole area.”
The phone rang again. This time Mavis gently pushed past Chiffon and picked it up.
“Yes, Luna. No, it’s Mavis. Chiffon knows all about Lonnie. You say they interrupted your TV program just to announce it? What kind of show gets interrupted by Hollywood gossip?” Mavis nodded in understanding as she listened. “Ah. I see. Carmen Electra, E! True Hollywood Story.”
Mavis ended the conversation with Luna and then turned down the ringer on Chiffon’s phone. “Chiffon, I think you should let your machine pick up for a little while. Until things die down.”
“Okay,” Chiffon said, nervously rubbing her hands together. “Here’s our strategy. Mavis, you take the area north of Mule Pen Road. I’ll take Chickasaw Drive and Main. Attalee and Elizabeth, you cover Highway One.”
Mavis touched Chiffon’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just sit down for a spell? I’ll make some coffee.”
“But I need to stop this before it gets out of hand,” Chiffon insisted.
Mavis shook her head. “It’s too late, dearie. Buying up all the magazines in this county isn’t going to change that.”
Chiffon flung herself into the ladder-back chair at the kitchen table, her body heaving with sobs. “How could he do this to me? Again! Doesn’t he care about the kids or me? Doesn’t he love us?”
Mavis patted her back. “Oh, Chiffon, who knows what gets into men these days!”
“Old Granddad whiskey used to get into my man, Burl,” Attalee said. “When he was tippling, he’d make a play for anything in a skirt. Or a kilt, for that matter. Once he was so soused, he tried to chase down the bagpipe player during the Memorial Day parade.”
“Attalee,” Mavis said. “I don’t think—”
“I do miss Burl,” Attalee said with a sniff. “Struck down by a bread truck in his prime. He was just eighty-five. Still had all his teeth in his upper jaw.”
“Attalee, that’s enough,” Mavis said. “It’s Chiffon who needs our help right now.”
“I feel so all alone in this world,” Chiffon moaned.
Attalee, who’d recovered from her moment of self-pity, draped a scrawny arm around Chiffon’s neck. “You ain’t alone, girl. Not by a long shot. You got me, Mavis, and Elizabeth here. We can’t take away the pain, but we sure can badmouth that boy all over town.”
“And we can be here for you anytime you need us,” Mavis said, squeezing Chiffon’s hand.
Elizabeth pressed her cheek against Chiffon’s. “That’s a promise.”
Seven
If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.
~ Bumper sticker on Chiffon Butrell’s Firebird
Chiffon’s children sat in front of the TV set watching a screen full of static.
“I can almost make out SpongeBob,” Emily said. “If I squint real hard.”
“I can’t see anything!” Dewitt whined. He flung his toy truck to the ground. “Why is it always snowing on TV?”
It was snowing on television because Lonnie had forgotten to pay the bill for the satellite dish. Chiffon wondered what other bills he might have neglected before he left.
Struggling to pull a pair of pantyhose over her hips, she said, “Y’all don’t need to be watching TV right now anyway. Start getting ready for school. I can’t be late today.”
Chiffon was working the lunch shift at the Chat ‘N’ Chew, frantically hoping to pick up some decent tips. She was running on gas fumes in her car, Dewitt’s tennis shoes were full of holes, and the only food in the pantry was a bag of slow-cooking grits. She didn’t even want to think about the stack of bills that had arrived in her mailbox on Saturday, three of which had been stamped “past due.” Earlier this morning she’d called the NutraSweet plant to see if she could pick up Lonnie’s check, but the payroll clerk told her it had already been forwarded to California.
As Chiffon rummaged through her closet for her soft-soled waitress shoes, she felt a tug on her T-shirt. When she turned around, Emily stood behind her.
“Mama, Gabby’s crying, and Dewitt spilled the orange juice,” she announced.
“Why did you let him pour it? You know he’s too little,” Chiffon asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, but instead rushed to the nursery to retrieve Gabby.
Once she’d hefted fifteen pounds of wet, squirming baby on her shoulder, she dispatched Emily to clean up Dewitt’s mess and help him dress. Then she sat on the couch to feed her youngest daughter.
While Gabby nursed, Chiffon inventoried the living room for items she could sell for a little extra cash. The pool table could gladly go, as could all of Lonnie’s guns, but most of the room’s furnishings were so dilapidated they wouldn’t raise ten dollars at a tag sale.
As she burped Gabby, someone knocked on the front door. Pushing apart the curtains, Chiffon saw Wanda standing on her front porch, wearing her Mary Kay jacket and impatiently tapping a two-toned gold pump on Chiffon’s doormat.
“Hey, Mama,” Chiffon said, opening the door.
Wanda ignored her and muscled her way into the living room, slapping a copy of People magazine on the coffee table.
“Chiffon Amber, if this isn’t the absolute limit! I guess you weren’t content to air your dirty drawers in Cayboo Creek. Now everyone in the entire US of A has to know what a fool you’ve been.”
“Mama, I really don’t want—”
“Do you know who called me today?” Wanda’s eyes bulged so much they looked like they might plop right out of their sockets.
Chiffon dragged a hand down her face. “I haven’t the foggiest, Mama.”
“Your aunt Minerva, all the way from Mud Lake, Idaho. She subscribes to People magazine, and she recognized Lonnie from her visit during Thanksgiving two years ago. Think of it, Chiffon! The decent, potato-eating people of Idaho have a front-row seat to your husband’s debauchery.”
Chiffon laid Gabby out on the couch to change her. “Mama, I’m sorry that Lonnie’s tomcatting has caused you shame, but I didn’t have anything to do with him being on the cover of People. Surely even you can see that.”
Wanda sighed. “I don’t need your lip, Chiffon, and I don’t want to hear any excuses. Anyone with half a brain would have left that sorry excuse for a man years ago. This is too much for me to bear. I’ve been trying to prepare for my trip to Europe, and I’m as wrung out as a dish towel. Last night Chenille called with her awful news, and if that wasn’t bad enough—”
“What’s wrong with Chenille?” Chiffon asked.
“She lost her teaching job. Something to do with a machete. On top of everything, that broken-down dog of hers has developed eczema. She acts more upset about that mutt’s skin problems than getting fired.”
“Poor Chenille,” Chiffon said, fastening the tabs of Gabby’s diaper. “It’s hard to imagine her getting fired.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you girls,” Wanda said, folding her arms over her chest. “I raised y’all to be something special, and yet both of you are scraping around at the bottom of the barrel. Last week when Effie Stykes told me her youngest just graduated from dental assistant school, I was pea green with envy. At least her daughter has some kind of future, even if it means rooting around in people’s mouths all day long.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” Chiffon said quietly.
“Sorry isn’t going put food in your children’s mouths, is it, Chiffon? Now that your husband is AWOL, I suppose you’ll be looking to me for handouts. I can help out some, but I can’t keep throwing money in your direction. I’ve got my own expenses to consider.”
A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2) Page 6
