Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  “I do?” She dropped her voice about six octaves. It wasn’t helping. “Different, how?”

  “I don’t know. Fussier. More girlie.” Great. Now I was channeling T-Bomb.

  “Girlie?” She laughed. “I hope I look girlie. I mean, after all, I am a girl.”

  There was no doubt about that. Plopped right down next to the word girl in anyone’s dictionary would be a big ol’ photo of El looking fabulous and sexy as hell.

  I tried to regain control. “Why are you so dressed up? This ensemble is a bit . . . haute . . . for Hoosier Daddy.”

  “Haute?”

  I shrugged.

  El folded her arms. “I forget what a scholar you are.”

  “I’m hardly a scholar.”

  “You certainly aren’t typical . . .” She let her sentence trail off.

  “Typical of what?” I was curious now.

  “Never mind.”

  “No. You started it.” I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “Typical of what?”

  El looked uncomfortable.

  I jerked a thumb toward the bar. “Typical of the other schmoes inside who can be bought off with a few beers and a couple of propaganda film strips?”

  El stared at me for a moment. “We don’t use film strips any more. We have iPads.”

  Okay. Now I felt like a real heel.

  “I’m sorry. That was pretty rude.”

  “No. It was pretty honest.” She shook her head. “You aren’t typical of the average Krylon worker. In fact, you’re not like anyone I’ve met since I got here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  El shrugged. “You’re like a chameleon.”

  “You mean I disappear?”

  “No. I mean you fit.”

  That was odd. I always felt more like a misfit than a fit.

  I got tired of squatting and decided to plop back and sit on my butt. I was wearing jeans, so I didn’t really care about getting dirty. Besides, I was feeling pretty low, and thought my posture should match my mood. El continued to stand over me with her arms crossed.

  “I’m still sorry,” I said.

  “And I’m still a labor organizer,” she replied.

  “I guess that makes us strange bedfellows.”

  “Not yet.”

  I was glad to be sitting down.

  “Are you always this direct?”

  She shrugged. “It saves time.”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On whatever is chasing me.”

  “Whatever or whoever?”

  “That depends, too.”

  I looked down at the torque wrench I had been turning over and over in my hands. “Am I chasing you?”

  “I hope so.”

  I looked up at her.

  “I promise to let you catch me,” she added.

  I nearly dropped the wrench again.

  El squatted down and somehow managed to fold herself into a textbook, seated posture on the ground beside me. She looked perfect and poised—just like one of the glamorous starlets who adorned the covers of those musty old Photoplay magazines I used to flip through out in Grammy’s garage. She smelled great. Like night-blooming Jasmine.

  “How’d you end up with a flat?” she asked.

  I was beginning to learn that this method of verbal bait-andswitch was part of her style. Since she was letting both of us off the hook, I decided to roll with it.

  “I have no idea. I just came out here and noticed that the thing wasn’t sitting right.”

  “But it was okay when you left work?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Don’t you think this is kind of a coincidence?”

  I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. “My flat?”

  She nodded again.

  “Not really. I probably picked up a nail or something in the parking lot.”

  El raised an eyebrow. “There are lots of loose nails lying about in your parking lot?”

  “No. But there are a lot of trucks that double as farm vehicles in our parking lot. It’s not beyond the pale that something fell out of one of them.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I just hope you’re right.”

  I looked at my tire, then back at her. “You think somebody did this on purpose, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s possible, yes.”

  I didn’t want to accept that explanation. “I don’t know why anyone would bother . . . I haven’t done anything to make myself a target.”

  El didn’t say anything.

  “You disagree?” I asked.

  “Let me ask you a question. Have you ever been involved with any attempt to organize this plant in the past?”

  “No. But . . .” I didn’t finish.

  “But what?”

  I looked at her. “I’m not involved with it now, either.”

  El looked surprised and disappointed by my response. I wished I could take it back.

  She shifted her position. The neon light from the bar sign made colorful highlights on her dark hair. She really was just about the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen, and I was acting like an imbecile. She had to think I was some kind of psycho yo-yo. Only yesterday, I’d been the one minimizing the obstacles that were bound to trip us up like cheap throw rugs. Now I was acting like what had happened in the bathroom at Fast Mart meant nothing to me.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. It sounded pretty flimsy . . . even to me.

  El sighed. “Forget about it.”

  “I don’t want to forget about it.”

  She stared at me for so long that I began to feel even more uncomfortable. “I don’t think you have the first idea about what you want, Friday Jill.”

  Touché. “That’s always been true.”

  “Maybe you should figure it out, then, before you put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “I’m not in harm’s way, El.”

  She waved a hand in frustration. “Well, what in the hell do you call this, then?”

  “I told you . . . I probably picked up a nail.”

  “Take a look around this parking lot. There are probably at least a dozen, half-drunk Krylon workers inside, swilling beer at Tony’s table.”

  “So?”

  She rolled her eyes. “So . . . that means there are at least three dozen, half-drunk Krylon workers inside watching them, and getting more pissed off with each pitcher full of beer. Any one of them could have oozed out here and let the air out of your tire.”

  “Oh, come on, El . . . that’s just plain ridiculous. They’d be likelier to key my paint job or piss on my rims. Letting the air out of my tires would take too long.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Besides, there’s no reason for them to target me. I’m not the one sitting at your comrade’s table talking treason.”

  “Maybe not. But you were the one locked up with me in the bathroom yesterday.”

  “They didn’t see that.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t mean they don’t know about it.”

  I had no response to that.

  El glanced down at her watch. “This is getting us nowhere, and I need to get inside. Tony probably thinks I got abducted by aliens.”

  That got my curiosity up. “What have you been doing?”

  “Talking with the boys at Solidarity House.”

  “Detroit?”

  She nodded.

  “You need reinforcements?”

  She looked amused. “No. I think this one might be a lost cause.”

  “You do?” I wasn’t expecting that response. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving?”

  “Probably, unless something shakes loose soon. We only had a finite window to try and close this before the transition team got spooled up.”

  “I guess you heard that they’re coming in at the end of th
e month?”

  She nodded.

  I suddenly felt like someone had let the air out of all of my tires— including the metaphorical ones. “Where will you be off to next?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Texas? Or maybe home?” She rested a hand on my shoulder, slowly got to her feet, and removed her hand.

  I wanted to pull it back, but I didn’t.

  “Sure you don’t want my help?” she asked.

  “Nope.” I held up my torque wrench. “I’ve got everything I need.”

  We stared at each other for a few moments. I was pretty certain that El knew I wasn’t talking about the tire. I was also pretty sure she knew I was lying through my teeth.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.

  She turned away and headed toward the bar. I watched her straight back dissolve into the darkness as she walked off—fading away like misplaced hope. Then something occurred to me. I quickly scrambled to my feet.

  “Hey, El?” I called out.

  She stopped and turned around.

  “You’re still coming to dinner at Grammy’s tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

  She seemed to think about that. “You still want me to?”

  “Yes.” I knew with certainty that I wanted it more than anything.

  She seemed to hesitate.

  “Please, El. I want you.” I paused. “I mean . . . I want you to come.” Oh Judas. “I mean . . . to Grammy’s. I want you to come to Grammy’s.”

  Though the semidarkness, I thought I could see her smile. She raised a hand and pointed toward my truck.

  “Right now, it looks like you have bigger fish to fry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I felt something brush against my pant leg. What the hell? I looked down. Lucille.

  “Oh, no!” I reached toward him, but it was too late. He’d already raised his fat leg and pissed all over my tire. I had to hand it to him, he had pretty good aim. He managed to hit every single one of the lug nuts.

  “Oh, man.” I lowered my torque wrench. This all just went from bad to worse at Mach ten.

  Lucille finished the job and hightailed his fat ass toward El . . . of course.

  Just my luck . . . I get stuck with a urine-soaked flat tire, and Lucille walks off with the girl.

  I hated my life right then.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I looked at El. She was smiling at me and reaching down to pat Lucille, who was dancing around her feet like a marionette.

  Maybe my life wasn’t so bad after all.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, I called El and gave her directions to Grammy Mann’s house. I thought it made a lot more sense for us to arrive for dinner separately, and not just because I was beginning to grow wary about too many wagging tongues if we were seen riding around together. I wanted El to have the wherewithal to leave early if she felt too uncomfortable being there.

  In hindsight, it did seem that maybe I had jumped the gun a little by asking her to come by and meet the most important member of my family. But then, Grammy had pretty much steamrolled her way into the middle of everything, and there was no way I could back out now. Besides, I was more than a little curious to see how well El would hold up after spending an hour or two in Grammy’s crosshairs. That was like getting grilled by Montel Williams, one of Grammy’s favorite afternoon TV stars.

  I showed up early to help get things ready, which meant making the iced tea and plumping up the cushions on the porch furniture. It was hot outside, but not intolerable. There actually was a nice breeze blowing in from the west. A couple of times, I thought the heavy, summer air smelled like the Wabash River. On a trellis at the end of the porch, a thick maze of Wooly Dutchman’s Pipe provided a wall of cool, deep shade for Grammy’s rocking chairs. It was still blooming, and if you looked closely, you could see tiny purple flowers.

  Fritz took up his customary post at the top of the porch steps. He seemed more alert than usual. He kept scanning the county road that ran past the front of Grammy’s house. Probably, he sensed my agitation. That wouldn’t be hard . . . I’d pretty much been an emotional basket case since running into El last night in the parking lot at Hoosier Daddy. I knew that I was just digging myself in deeper by letting Grammy pressure me into inviting El over here. And that was especially true now that it looked like she and Tony would be pulling up stakes and clearing out sooner than anyone expected. It was clear that I was on another fast track to emotional disaster, and instead of easing my foot off the pedal; I was jamming it into the floorboards.

  Fritz started up and climbed to his feet. It always amazed me how he could hear a car coming a full minute before I could. Down the road, I could see a red SUV coming around the bend. El. I glanced down at my watch. Right on time, too. I remembered what Luanne told me the other night. “Honey, one thing about them agitators is how they always show up, pronto.”

  I waved a hand at El to let her know she’d found the right place. Fritz flew down off the porch like he’d been shot from a cannon and raced out to the driveway to meet her. What was it with El and dogs? I followed a little more slowly, and tried to calm myself so I could act nonchalant . . . like having a labor organizer over to eat pot roast with my grandmother was the most normal thing in the world.

  El turned off her engine and hopped out. She was wearing a sleeveless, tangerine-colored cotton dress with a scoop neck. She looked fantastic . . . as usual. One thing was for certain: if El ever got tired of being a union agitator, she could make a fortune modeling for J. Jill.

  Fritz was dancing around her like a lunatic. She bent over to ruffle his ears and kiss him on the top of his blond head.

  “Well, hello there,” she cooed. “Aren’t you just about the best looking thing I’ve ever seen?”

  I had a hard time not repeating exactly the same words to her.

  “I see you made it,” I said instead.

  She smiled up at me. It was incredible how even a hardscrabble backdrop like Doc Baker’s front yard could resemble a rolling vineyard in Tuscany with El posed in front of it.

  “I would have been hard pressed not to find this place,” she said. “It seems that any place of note in this county is either one right- or one left-turn off this road.”

  I had never thought about it that way. “I guess that’s true. We tend to lead simpler lives out here in the Crossroads of America.”

  She laughed. “Don’t I wish that were the truth?”

  “You think it isn’t?”

  “Not where you’re concerned.”

  Apparently, Fritz decided that this was going to be a longer conversation. He sat down at El’s feet and rested his head against her knee. Fritz was a leaner.

  “I’m not that complex.”

  El raised an eyebrow. “I don’t share that assessment.”

  I thought about the conversation we’d had last night while I was changing my tire, and the ways my demeanor toward her bounced around. “I guess I have been acting like an idiot.”

  “I think idiot might be a bit strong, but you have expressed a fair amount of ambivalence.”

  “It’s really not ambivalence. It’s more like . . .” I searched for the right word. “Confusion.”

  She was still petting Fritz, who probably would’ve consented to sit there, plastered up against her leg, until the next millennium. It was hard to blame him.

  “What can we do to un-confuse you?” she asked.

  “Is that a word?”

  El shrugged. “It’s more of a concept.”

  “Jill?” Grammy’s voice rolled out from inside the house. “Are you ever gonna bring that girl inside so I can get a look at her?”

  I sighed and looked at El apologetically. “It’s not too late to lay a patch out of here and head for Pizza Hut.”

  “I think I’ll take my chances.” She brushed at the side of her dress to remove some strands of Fritz’s hair. He’d already bolted for the steps when he heard Grammy’s voice.
/>   “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  We walked together to the porch. The screen door opened and Grammy came outside to greet us. She was drying her hands on a faded dish towel. El and I walked up the steps.

  “Grammy, this is Eleanor Rzcpczinska.”

  Grammy’s eyes grew wide. “Zhep-what?”

  “Sin-ska,” I replied. “Zhep-sin-ska.”

  El stepped forward and held out her hand. “Just call me El, or The Agitator.”

  Grammy stared at her for a moment, then smiled and took hold of her arm. “We’re gonna get along just fine.” She led El inside. I could hear their heels clacking along the floorboards as they headed back toward the kitchen.

  Fritz stood there beside me, watching them go. Then he raised his brown eyes to my face.

  “I got nothin’,” I said to him.

  He sighed and ambled off to reclaim his perch beside the steps.

  “Jill?” Grammy’s voice rang out again. “Are you going to join us?”

  I looked out across the landscape. Nope. There were no talking animals or caterpillars out smoking behind the barn. It still looked like Indiana. I hadn’t somehow fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up in Neverland.

  “Jill!”

  “Coming, Grammy.”

  I shook my head and went inside to join them.

  “So, tell me about your people.” Grammy loaded El up with enough pot roast to start her own Oxfam chapter.

  El watched as Grammy ladled spoonful after spoonful of the thick, pot liquor onto her plate. Her expression grew more panicked as the mound of food grew larger.

  I intervened.

  “Grammy, she can’t possibly eat all of that.”

  Grammy paused, mid-ladle, and locked El in her cross hairs. “You look like you could use a bit of fattening up. I don’t imagine you get much decent food living out of hotels.” She passed the plate across to her.

  El gave her one of those smiles that looked like a million dollars before taxes. “Thanks. I do get tired of eating out of vending machines.”

  Grammy clucked her tongue. “Ain’t nothin’ in a Zagnut bar that can feed a body.”

  I didn’t bother to tell Grammy that the last known vending machine to dispense a Zagnut bar was probably collecting rust in some abandoned Kentucky rest stop.