Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  I was almost blinded by a flash of bright light as the street door opened. I blinked over T-Bomb’s shoulder and saw Luanne Keortge fill up the door frame. She was carrying a white, plastic grocery bag. Aunt Jackie saw her, too, and jerked a thumb toward our table.

  “Here comes Luanne,” I said to T-Bomb.

  She turned around. “Well, hell. I think we’re gonna need more fries.”

  Luanne reached our table and yanked out a chair.

  “Where the hell have you been?” T-Bomb asked.

  “I ran outta smokes.” Luanne pulled a carton of Viceroys out of her bag. “I had to head over to Walmart ’cause they’re cheaper.” She looked at me. “You have to think about things like that when you’re unemployed.”

  “I talked with Joe—” I began.

  “I know. He called Jay.”

  I was surprised. “He did?”

  She nodded. “Well, Wynona Miles did.” Wynona was Joe’s secretary.

  Luanne ripped open the carton of cigarettes and dumped all ten packs out onto the table. “She said I wasn’t fired, but I had to sit home for two weeks without pay.”

  “Two weeks?” T-Bomb was outraged. “That asshole. What gives him the right to dock you two weeks’ pay?”

  “I ain’t complainin’.” Luanne was already tearing open a pack to fire one up. “It’s better than no job at all.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Luanne,” I said. “I did the best I could with him.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize. I know you were the one who fixed this mess for me. I’m just lucky I still have a job to not get paid for.” She blew out a long column of smoke and chuckled. “Ain’t this a great country?”

  T-Bomb was shaking her head. “Someday somebody’s gonna go postal on them jerk wads.”

  “You get no argument from me on that. Especially when it comes to that low-life Buzz Sheets.”

  “Why?” T-Bomb asked. “What’d he do?”

  Luanne shook her head. “Nothin’. He’s just stupid.”

  “Yeah, and Earl Junior makes him look like one of them Mensa babies.”

  They laughed.

  “You know what that dimwit said to me when I was walkin’ out?” Luanne asked.

  “Buzz?” T-Bomb asked.

  “Yeah. He said I was an albacore around his neck. That man’s an idiot.”

  “Are you and Jay gonna be okay?” I was worried about how they’d manage with Luanne losing two weeks’ worth of pay.

  She sighed. “Oh, sure. Jailissa just needs to win that crown more than ever now.”

  “That scholarship money would come in handy,” T-Bomb agreed.

  “Don’t I know it? That girl has her heart set on going to Wabash Valley College in September.”

  “She still wants to be a radio announcer?” I asked.

  Luanne nodded. “Ever since she got that summer job over at WVJC. She either wants to study that or cosmetology.” She tapped the ash off the end of her cigarette. “Young people these days have more choices than we had.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” T-Bomb ate the last French fry and glanced at her watch. “Do you gals wanna get more fries, or head on over to the VFW?”

  “Hell, we might as well go.” Luanne started collecting her packs of smokes. “I already bought my tickets last week.” She pushed back her chair. “You comin’, Friday?”

  I thought about saying no again, but I knew it was a hopeless cause. Together, they would be too much for me. It was easier just to go along and hope we could get out of there while it was still daylight.

  Neither of them tended to tarry long over their plates of food.

  “Okay,” I said with resignation. I picked up my unopened envelope. “But can I catch a ride with one of you?” I gestured toward my row of empties. “I don’t think I should drive until I get something to eat.”

  “You can ride with me.” T-Bomb was fishing a ten-dollar bill out of her bag to cover her tab. “But you’ll have to sit in back between Luke and Laura’s car seats.”

  “How come?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Donnie pulled the dern passenger seat out three weeks ago because the motor quit working, and it still ain’t fixed yet.”

  Luanne snorted. “Hell. By now, Jay would probably have it set up in the living room in front of the TV.”

  “Oh, lord. Don’t let Donnie hear you say that. He’s always complainin’ that they’re more comfortable than them Queen Anne chairs we bought over at Baumberger’s in Evansville.”

  “I think these men are just a waste of our time. All they do is make messes the rest of us have to clean up.”

  T-Bomb laughed at Luanne. “I can think of one thing they mostly manage to do right.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Luanne said. “I can get more satisfaction out of a pack of AAA batteries.”

  I held up a hand. “TMI, ladies.”

  T-Bomb slapped me on the arm. “Are we embarrassin’ you, Friday?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You’re making me want to gouge out my mind’s eye.”

  “Oh, like you never done it to yourself?”

  “T-Bomb . . .”

  “Remember that summer over at Oil Belt church camp, when you had the top bunk over Donna Steptoe?”

  “Oh, god . . .”

  “Every day, you ran around makin’ cow eyes at her, but never said nothin’.”

  “T-Bomb . . .”

  “But every night, them creakin’ bed springs told the whole story.”

  I sighed. “Can we please just move along here?”

  There was a long, slow hissing sound—like the noise when you blew out the spit valve on your saxophone. We all looked around. A sharp, sulfur-like smell rose up around us.

  “Oh, Judas!” T-Bomb waved a hand in front of her face. “It’s that damned Lucille. I wish them men would quit feeding him them eggs in beet juice.” She headed toward the door. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  I followed T-Bomb and Luanne, feeling strangely comforted by the fact that, finally, something seemed to stink worse than my job or relationship prospects.

  Chapter 7

  The VFW hall was buzzing like a beehive when we got there. T-Bomb drove around the building a third time to be sure there wasn’t a vacant parking space she’d somehow managed to overlook on her first two passes through the lot.

  I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Being hunched up between two car seats in the back of her minivan wasn’t helping. Neither was the fact that her air conditioner was only blowing stale, lukewarm air. Apparently, the motor on the passenger seat wasn’t the only thing in her van that wasn’t working right.

  “Can you just, please, find someplace to park? I don’t think I can ride around in circles anymore.”

  She glared at me in the rearview mirror. “Don’t you barf back there. I only just got that mess cleaned out of the carpet from Luke’s chicken pox.”

  Luke had chicken pox? Great.

  “When was he sick?”

  She waved a hand. “About two years ago.” She slammed on the brakes and threw the van into reverse. “This is ridiculous. I’m parkin’ at the bowling alley.”

  “What?” I was having a hard time hearing her over the Def Leppard tunes she had blasting.

  She didn’t answer, so I decided to ask her to just let me out so I could get some fresh air and try to regain my equilibrium. Before I could get the words out, T-Bomb slammed on the brakes again and laid on the horn.

  “Hey!” She rolled down her window and leaned out to holler at somebody. “You can’t just stop in the middle of the dern road like that! Move on over to the side so the rest of us can get by. Oh . . . hey, Wynona. I didn’t see it was you. Why’re you drivin’ the church bus? Is Carleen still off on that mission trip to El Salvador?”

  I couldn’t hear Wynona’s response, but somewhere behind us, another car horn started blowing.

  “Well, great day.” T-Bomb looked in the rearview mirror and gave whoever it was the finger. “Wh
y is everybody in such a dang hurry?” She leaned out the window again. “I gotta get movin’ so this person behind me can get on with his important business. I’ll see you inside, Wynona.” She rolled up her window, hit the gas, and careened around the church bus on two wheels. Gravel flew everyplace.

  “Jeez, T-Bomb!” Since I didn’t have a seat back to grab hold of, I latched onto the “oh shit” handle dangling above the sliding side door. “Are you trying to kill us?”

  T-Bomb wheeled into the Gibson Lanes parking lot. She barely missed sideswiping a vintage, pea-green Electra 225 that was parked across three spaces.

  “Look at how that doo wop parked.” She roared into a space and screeched to a stop. “Who in the heck does he think would want to hit that ol’ piece of junk?”

  I was slumped down in the back seat, holding my head in my hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  T-Bomb was outside, hiking the strap of her massive bag up onto her shoulder and tapping on the window with her keys. “Ain’t you comin’? I thought you was dyin’ to get outta there.” The door of the van rolled back. About two-dozen stuffed animals tumbled out onto the pavement. One of them was a Tickle-Me-Elmo, and it started giggling and writhing around as soon as it made contact with the ground.

  “Lord, god.” T-Bomb bent down and started scooping up the toys. “You look kinda puny. We better get you on inside.” She tossed Elmo back into the van, but he was still cackling and begging her to do it again. She rolled her eyes. “That damn thing drives me to bedlam. Donnie bought it for Laura because he thought it was funny. Funny, my derriere. Are you comin’, or not?”

  “I’m coming.” I twisted out of my niche between the car seats and stepped down onto the pavement. It felt better to be outside, even though it was still hot as hell. The bowling alley was hopping, too. It looked like half the teenagers in Princeton were out, enjoying their last few nights of freedom before school started. It was hard to believe that the summer was already winding down. Soon, the oppressive heat would give way to blistering cold, and the whole cycle would start all over again. It felt to me like the weather was part of the massive, general conspiracy that defined my life these days.

  I reached inside the van and grabbed my backpack. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Well, dang. Don’t sound so excited.” T-Bomb closed the door and locked it.

  “Sorry. I’m just not in a great mood.”

  “I’d like to know what in the hell else is new? You ain’t been in a good mood since them agitators showed up.”

  We walked across the parking lot toward the VFW hall. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and it was like a bright, orange ball. Tomorrow was going to be another hot one.

  “It’s not that,” I said.

  “Well then, what in tarnation is it?”

  I shrugged. “I just feel like my life is going no place.”

  T-Bomb laughed. “Hell. Join the damn club. Whose life is going anyplace? Mine? Luanne’s?” She waved a hand. “Anybody’s in this damn hayseed town?” She paused. “That El DeBarge just has you all tied up in knots. I don’t know why you won’t quit stewin’ and just do somethin’ about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  T-Bomb gave me the same look I’d seen her give her kids when they insisted they weren’t the ones who dropped overcooked broccoli on the floor for the dog.

  “You know exactly what I mean. You need to quit actin’ like a chicken shit and take a chance.”

  “Are you kidding me? Take a chance on someone who’s probably going to be leaving here for good in a few days? Why? That’d be about as smart as hooking up with another Misty Ann.”

  T-Bomb stopped walking and turned to face me. “It ain’t the same thing at all.”

  I held out both arms in frustration. “I don’t know what you want from me? It’s clear that I can’t do anything right.”

  “Well, you can quit actin’ like a moron and get your head outta your butt. Who cares if it don’t last forever? Nothin’ in life worth havin’ lasts forever. Ain’t you the one who told me that? Ain’t you the one who told me that it was better to have real love for a little while than never to have it at all?”

  I sighed. “I was talking about that time you fostered the dog with the heart condition . . . not about getting involved with somebody who has no intention of staying around here.”

  “Well, that dog didn’t have no intention of stayin’ around here, neither. And he ended up livin’ with us for nine years.” She shook her head. “You got no way of knowin’ what might happen or how things might work out. I seen you with El DeBarge . . . I think she trips all your triggers in just the right ways. And she’s not like all them other ones . . . she’s smart. And nice. I don’t think she’d do you wrong. Not on purpose, anyway.” She huffed. “Lord knows, you hooked up with some doozies in your time.”

  “Hey. It’s not like you always grabbed the brass ring. Remember Andy Clodfelter?”

  “Oh, hell.” T-Bomb punched me on the arm. “Randy Andy. Eighteen hands and no brain.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well . . . at least none of his people ever ended up in jail.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed.

  “Well, I wound up okay. Donnie Jennings was a big ol’ math club nerd, but he turned out to be a good catch.”

  “Yeah. And who pushed you to take a chance on him when you wouldn’t give him a second look?”

  “You did.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay . . . so now it’s my turn to give you the same advice.”

  I really hated arguing with T-Bomb. It was like going twelve rounds with Rocky Marciano. I always ended up on the ropes.

  “Can we change the subject?”

  She started walking again. “Chicken shit.”

  “Hey? I heard you, okay?”

  She looked at me. “You did?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” She smiled and pointed toward the side entrance to the VFW hall. “’Cause I see a fine-lookin’ agitator standin’ over there by that caterin’ truck, talkin’ to Grammy.”

  “Oh, god.” My anxiety returned with a vengeance.

  T-Bomb grabbed hold of my arm. “Come on. What don’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with her. But at least I had one consolation: the post’s famed Blue Vel-Vet Lounge was sure to be open and ready to meet all of my adult beverage needs.

  “Here you go, honey.” Betty Greubel stacked an impressive tower of spicy chicken tenders on my plate. “You want some extra hot sauce with these?”

  I shook my head. “Just some baked beans, please. And maybe some of that coleslaw?”

  I wasn’t really hungry, but I knew I needed to eat something. I decided to take a pass on the fish. I didn’t really care for catfish, and I’d heard other people in line saying that the ocean perch wasn’t as good as the walleye they had served last year. Apparently, walleye was just getting too expensive for the event organizers to make any kind of profit.

  Betty plopped a big, white dinner roll atop of my mound of food. “You come back as many times as you want, honey. You look like a bit of home cookin’ would do you some good.”

  I looked down at my plate. It had enough food on it to feed a family of five. I gave Betty a small smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Greubel. This looks like plenty.”

  I left the food line and noticed a couple of arms waving at me. T-Bomb, Grammy, and Luanne had commandeered some seats at a table near the stage at the back of the room. I walked over to join them.

  “Why are we sitting way over here?” I asked.

  Grammy gestured toward the long table on the stage that was loaded with placards advertising all the giveaway items. “Because this is where the raffle’s gonna take place, and I wanna be close in case I win that spa day.”

  “Spa day?” I blinked at her. “You want to go to a spa?” That didn’t sound like something I ever thought she’d be interested in. I picked up one of my c
hicken tenders and took a bite. It tasted like it had been dipped in fire. Betty must’ve pulled this stack from the nuclear option bin.

  “Not for me. For Fritz.” Grammy held up her wad of raffle tickets. “It’s from Darleen’s Pampered Pets out in Poseyville.” She read the description printed on the back of the ticket. “‘Treat your best friend to the ultimate spa treatment. Your winning ticket entitles the pet of your choice to a deluxe wash, clip, nail trim, and anal gland treatment by one of our I.P.G. Certified professionals. Note: ferrets or other rodents are not eligible for this prize.’”

  “Anal gland?” T-Bomb looked at me. “Does Fritz still have a problem with that?”

  “Lord, yes,” Grammy replied before I could answer. She fanned her face with the wad of tickets. “It’s righteous.”

  Luanne was shaking her head. “I never have known a golden retriever that didn’t suffer with that affliction.” She picked up her glass of iced tea.

  T-Bomb chuckled. “Hey? Friday? Remember that time you tried to do it?”

  I looked at her. “Do what?”

  She made two fists and pushed the tips of her thumbs together. “You know . . . pop his butt gland.”

  “I think that’s express his butt gland,” Luanne corrected, “not pop.”

  “What-ever.” T-Bomb cackled. “Friday watched these videos on YouTube about how to do it and then she cornered poor Fritz.”

  “T-Bomb . . .” I held up a hand to try and shush her. “People are trying to eat.”

  “You shoulda seen the look on that dog’s face when she started messin’ with his bung hole.”

  “T-Bomb . . .”

  “She just kept pinchin’ at it and squeezin’ at it, and nothin’ happened, except poor Fritz was lookin’ more and more embarrassed and like she was tryin’ to kill him.”

  Luanne chuckled. People at the next table kept turning around to stare at us.

  “T-Bomb,” I hissed. “Shut up with this . . . people are trying to eat.”

  She ignored me. “Finally, she gave up and let go of him, and dern if ol’ Fritz didn’t decide to let it fly.”

  I was mortified. Even Grammy was laughing hard enough that she had to take her glasses off and dab at her eyes with a paper napkin.