“I have options.”
“And Will Thaxton is one of them. I get it.”
“Well, I reckon he is, but the fact is I don’t want Will Thaxton. I want you.”
Suvi smiled and dropped his head for a moment. Then, rising to his feet, he took both of Beanie’s hands and pulled her up with him.
“What are you doing?” Beanie asked when he gently placed her hands on his shoulders.
“I just realized we’ve never danced together before,” Suvi said as he pulled her close.
“Prolly not,” Beanie said, “but now’s a funny time for dancing, don’tcha think?”
“It’s as fine a time as any, Beatrice Bradsher. Fine a time as any.”
And so they danced on the bridge that no longer led to anywhere or anything. And Suvi hummed a soft tune Beanie didn’t recognize. He would tell her later it was My Funny Valentine, a song his daddy used to sing to his mama. And it was his mama who always told him you should never kiss a lady until after your first dance.
Vesuvius Jones
I had an edge over most everyone I grew up with down in the Quarters. I knew I was destined for bigger things and no one ever told me any different. I never had to throw my weight around, even though I easily could have. I stood at least a head taller than everyone in my class, including the biggest white boy in school. I think some of the teachers thought I was held back, but they learned soon enough that there was nothing slow about me, except my temper. Takes a lot to rile me up. Hasn’t happened often. May have been why I was favored by coaches in both basketball and football. Those boys never could get to me. Not the white ones who called me nigger, or the black ones who called me Uncle Tom. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, I have to admit that. The problem was I cared too much. I kept a tight rein on my temper, because I was dead positive if anything would take me down, it would be that. I got a cousin in jail for life. That could easily be me. I focused on the ball and my target and everyone else might as well not even be there.
Always thought I would coach college ball, but the knee injury killed my career too soon. I’d thrown half the money I made playing pro-ball into a house for my mother, thinking the money would be there for years. I’d do it all over again, too. In a heartbeat. My mom took care of me when I blew out my knee, so when she got sick, I happily returned the favor.
Some people think I sacrificed a family life for my mother, but that’s not really true. I dated in high school and college, but I never had time for anything serious, playing two sports like I did. Then there was the NBA. It was a lifestyle I didn’t even know existed and, quite frankly, don’t miss. Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time, but the circles we ran in scarcely contained anyone I’d want to take home to meet my mother.
So now Mom is gone and there’s this thing with Beatrice Bradsher. I spent a lot of time steeling myself against what other people might think. And the truth is, I don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all Beanie. I don’t know where this will go, but I have to give it a shot. Lord help me, I don’t think it’s going to end well. Somebody in the godforsaken town is going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and there’s going to be a lifetime of back-pull on my fist when I let it fly.
16
The End Justifies the Means
If there was one thing Bubba John Atwater hated, it was lying and sneaking around. Never mind the fact that he wasn’t good at it, the truth was, it did a number on his heart, not to mention his emotional health. But, he had committed to this thing and he was going to see it through. September was nearing a close and he needed to get the design part of the house going. With any luck, he would have the house remodeled by Christmas to surprise the love of his life.
Speaking of which, luck sometimes went in his favor, like the chance discussion with the manager of the flooring department at the DIY box-store in neighboring Suwannee County. Bubba had the idea book Sweet had been keeping since the twins were in elementary school, and was using it to choose tile for the bathrooms. A black ring-bound folder that had seen better days and more than its share of coffee spills and heat damage from being forgotten in her car, the book was filled with pictures of rooms clipped from outdated magazines Sweet picked up from the recycle box at the public library. Sweet often took the book to the shop and worked on keeping it up to date.
The manager was accustomed to women bringing in photos and clippings, but watching Bubba John thumb through Sweet’s well-worn idea book made him do something he swore he would never do.
“You need some help, Sir?” Jack Crawford asked Bubba John.
“That’s a loaded question,” Bubba replied.
“And that’s a loaded design book,” he said, bending to pick up two pages of magazine photos that had slid to the floor unnoticed.
“It’s my wife’s,” Bubba said.
“I could have guessed,” Jack said and handed the pages back to Bubba. “My wife has several of those at home. She drives a school bus for the benefits, but she’s always dabbled in interior design. She’s got an eye for it.”
“Really,” Bubba said, the wheels already turning. “Well, believe it or not I’m trying to surprise my house with a wife—dammit all—my wife with a house for Christmas. She doesn’t know.”
Jack smiled. “That’s the nature of surprises, isn’t it?”
“Obviously, I am out of my element here. The answer is yes. Yes, I do need some help. Big time.”
Jack Crawford would later tell his wife that it was the first time in his career he’d almost been moved to tears. Here was this tall, sturdy man, wanting desperately to give his wife something spectacular and, for once in his life, perfectly capable of making it happen.
“Money is no object,” Bubba said. “Time is my problem. I only have until Christmas. Can you help me with that?”
The earnestness of this plea made Jack Crawford refer a DIY customer to his wife. Not entirely ethical since Jack worked on a commission, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if this wasn’t desperate, Jack didn’t know what was. He called his wife at home and explained the situation.
After brief consideration, a meeting was arranged between Bubba John and Jack’s wife, Nonie. It took a couple of phone calls to decide the location and time. Nights didn’t work for Bubba, and Nonie only had a four-hour window on weekdays. She had an office at home, but neither man was comfortable with that, since Jack worked every day at the store. They couldn’t meet at the store, nor could Nonie go to the Atwater house. They finally settled on 10:00 a.m. the following morning at the Waffle House out by the interstate. It was the safest place, and least likely to cause a stir. The two men shook hands and silently congratulated themselves on their foolproof plan.
***
“You don’t look like a school bus driver,” Bubba John said the next morning when Nonie Crawford shook his hand and introduced herself.
“Thanks, I think.” Nonie’s smile put Bubba immediately at ease. She was petite and a little on the plump side, what Bubba John’s daddy always called “soft,” which was a fitting description for Nonie Crawford in many ways. And yet, she was striking and not at all what he expected of a bus driver who did interior decorating on the side.
“I don’t mean to rush you, but I only have about an hour before I have to leave.”
“Not a problem – shouldn’t take us long at all. I was up for hours looking at your wife’s idea book last night. She has an interesting aesthetic.”
“Is that a good thing?” Bubba John asked.
“Oh, gosh, yes,” Nonie said. “I think this may turn out to be my favorite job yet. I was trying to put a name to her style, and eclectic is about the best I can do. It has elements of contemporary design – some shabby chic, but with cleaner lines, and without the kitschiness of Junk Gypsies. Does she watch that show?”
“She does, but it’s not her favorite. What she loves is Fixer Upper, and what’s that other one? Oh, shoot…the one where the girl buys up old houses…Rehab something.”
>
“Rehab Addict,” Nonie said.
“Yeah, that’s the one. She likes when you don’t change the character of the house too much.”
“You can kind of tell that from looking through her book. It helps that she makes notes all over the pages. You know, I was a little worried when Jack came home and told me about you. I’ve never done a ‘surprise’ house before.”
Bubba John grinned. “Me, either.”
“I almost feel like I know your wife already. I’m excited to meet her. December, right?”
“Yeah, if you think we can do it.”
“It’s a short timeframe, no doubt.”
“I know,” Bubba John said. “I worry about it a lot, but I got the idea in my head now, which Sweet says is the Atwater curse. Come hell or high water, I want this to be the best Christmas present ever.”
“Well, I have a lot of ideas, but I want to see the house before I make any big decisions. Do you have a copy of the floorplan?”
“Not yet. I’m not going to change the structure itself, except for interior walls. I want to make the kitchen bigger and create an open floorplan, but I’m still going to have it engineered with new blueprints. Everything will be properly permitted. I hired a contractor out of Madison to do the bulk of the work.”
“Good idea. Any surprises could set us back. I’d like to drive out there one day this week and see exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“I hope you have an imagination, ‘cause it’s pretty rough right now. The main section was built in 1934 and a wing was added in the forties when the children kept coming. My dad was the last of eleven children. Unfortunately, the house has been empty since my parents were killed in a car accident…” Bubba John coughed and cleared his throat. He was surprised and a little embarrassed that talking about it still choked him up.
Nonie reached out and covered Bubba’s hand with her own for a moment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I can’t even imagine…”
Bubba John cleared his throat again.
“It was rough,” he acknowledged. “I’ve mostly avoided going out there, and the house has been neglected the worst. I don’t want to completely change it, but it’s probably best if we make it our own home and not a replica of the old one.”
“I think we can do that. How much help will you need with the layout?
“I’ll need some help with the kitchen design, for sure. The only thing I know for certain is Sweet likes things convenient. She complains all the time about the refrigerator door opening the wrong way and about not having space to move around.”
“Perfect. Jack and I both love to cook, so I know what does and doesn’t work in a gourmet kitchen. If money is no object, we’ll give her the kitchen of her dreams.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for,” Bubba said.
Nonie and Bubba John spent the next half hour making notes about design plans and wrapped up their meeting with a time selected for Nonie to visit the house the next day.
17
Stubborn as a Mule
Friday morning, having told the children they were going to buy a new car and omitting the part about the doctor’s visit, Sweet Lee and Bubba John headed for Tallahassee.
“Did you hear what T-Ray said before they left?” Sweet asked.
“About the car wash?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Yeah, what was up with that? Since when do they offer to clean the car?”
“Uh, that would be since they think the van will be theirs now. Ha!”
“It’s not a bad idea, though. They can go straight to school instead of stopping in town to catch the bus. And even better, you won’t have to get Dottie to come in every afternoon so you can pick them up.”
“Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that,” Sweet said. “But I figured we’d sell it to help with payments. I’m not sure I’m ready for my crew to have that much freedom every day. I made straight A’s in school until I got a car.”
“I remember that car,” Bubba grinned and squeezed Sweet’s thigh.
“I’ll bet you do,” Sweet said, remembering, too. The car in question was much more comfortable to snuggle in than the beat-up old Chevy Stepside Bubba drove in high school.
“Did you ever stop to think that every single car you and I have owned, including the one I bought when I was thirteen, we’ve both driven at one time or another?”
Sweet poked out her bottom lip and nodded. “I’ll be darned…we have, haven’t we? Crazy.”
Other than her first kiss, which was a disaster from the start, and Bubba John’s semi-sordid fling with a rail-thin cheerleader who now sported breast implants that looked like balloons tied to a signpost long after the party is over, Bubba John and Sweet’s adult lives were a series of firsts. Now it was a new car. A brand new one with a warranty and a new-car smell and whatever color she wanted as opposed to whatever they could afford. Sweet protested at first, but Bubba John convinced her they’d be better off making payments on a car with a warranty.
An hour later they were at the Chrysler dealership scanning row upon row of Town and Country minivans. As hard as Bubba tried, Sweet was adamant. With five kids, not even the Chevy Suburban Bubba fancied seemed wise to his practical wife. Sweet did her homework. She wanted the basic model in metallic grey and was thrilled to learn it came with stow-and-go seats and a DVD player in the back. It was like that pine table she always wanted. Sleek and pretty and built for a family.
Later, Sweet would remember the fresh-faced Puerto Rican man who greeted them when they arrived. A hint of an accent and his bright, ready smile allowed Sweet to let down her guard enough to practice her rudimentary Spanish skills. He was tickled by her attempts and his laugh was contagious. They were all three laughing like old friends before they were even properly introduced. Angel was his name.
“Angel? Like….Angel?” Sweet blurted.
“Want to see my wings?” He laughed and winked at Bubba John.
“I’ve been praying for an Angel,” Sweet said. “Looks like God has a sense of humor.”
“Dios es bueno,” said Angel.
“Todo el tiempo,” Sweet replied and leaned into Bubba John’s embrace.
He always seemed to know what she was thinking and when there would be tears. He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head, giving her enough time to compose herself before she pulled away.
“Darned allergies,” she sniffed and swiped at her face with a napkin hastily pulled from her purse.
They were sitting in Angel’s office, waiting for him to finalize the paperwork that would seal the deal when Sweet suddenly grasped both arms of her chair and sucked air in through her nose. She would also remember how it felt, like a guitar string pulled tight and released with a twang. Except it never stopped ringing - just increased in sound and vibration until the noise of the pain spread through her gut, rose through her chest and exited through her ears. Like everything was in reverse. Bubba John leapt from his chair, but his arms and mouth moved in slow motion and she could see, but not hear, the words on his lips.
“Sweet? Sweet! What is it? Sweet! Oh my God, somebody call 9-1-1. Call 9-1….”
***
Sweet Lee Atwater awoke to a sea of blue-green hovering over her in a room with walls of ice. At least that was what it felt like as she opened her eyes and struggled to make sense of the surroundings. Something that sounded like waves crashing one after another, but the tempo was too consistent and closely spaced to be waves. Unless she was on an ice floe somewhere, which could account for the floating sensation.
I’m in an igloo, Sweet thought and shook her head, trying to bring the blue blobs into focus.
“Hold still, honey,” a disembodied voice somewhere behind her spoke kindly, but with authority.
Sweet tried to open her mouth to speak and found it was already open, taped so her jaw could not move in either direction. Nor could she make a sound. She tried to swallow and felt something blocking her throat
.
“Who’s scrubbing in on this?” Another voice, this time to her left side.
Hurts, hurts… Sweet reached for the offending tube in her mouth, but her hand was gently pushed back down.
“Anderson, I think. Hold still now, hon. The E.R. doc sent her up. Desmond consulted, but he’s got a C-section in progress. Multiples.”
“Great. How soon before she’s out again?”
“Working on that now. We may need restraints, Leo. What’s the patient’s name?”
“Um…wait, I’ll tell you. Atwater, I think.”
Sweet. My name is Sweet.
“Yeah, Atwater. Sweet Lee Atwater.”
“Sweetly?”
“Maybe, but it’s two words. Sweet Lee.”
Call me Sweet. Sweet turned her head and tried to focus on the voice to her left.
“That’s unusual. Hold still, Sweetie, you’re doing fine.”
“History?”
“Let’s see…”
“I know her history,” said another voice, breaking through to her right.
“Dr. Anderson, just in time. BP is dropping.”
“Gravida 6, para 5, and stubborn as a damned mule,” he said.
“Okay, then…” said the voice behind Sweet’s head. “Looks like there’s more than one history here.”
His was the only face Sweet would recall later - the young Dr. Anderson, scowling at a clipboard and barking orders that made the blobs move faster. She squinted at him, willing him into focus, just before the darkness closed in once again.
What she would not remember, but would be told later by a nurse who came by to check on her in ICU, was how, as Sweet’s blood pressure and respirations dropped to dangerously low rates, Dr. Anderson slammed the clipboard closed and jabbed it into the air above him.
“This woman has five – count ‘em people – five reasons why we are not going to lose her today.”
And then, even as the surgical nurse reminded him to finish scrubbing in, the normally staid and ultra-calm surgeon ranted all the way out of the operating room.
What Matters in Mayhew (The Beanie Bradsher Series Book 1) Page 10
