Talk of the Town

by Lisa Wingate

  The reporter shut her eyes, muttering something about finally getting the chance to do a story on location, and this is where she ends up. I guess Daily wasn’t exactly what she had in mind for her first big news report.

  While she was waiting for her coffee, the countertoppers had decided to introduce themselves and see if they could get a little airtime. Doyle stuttered through a description of the lime quarry, told her she ought not to miss seeing those giant rock crushers at work, and offered to take her on a tour if she was looking to see Daily sights.

  About the time I delivered her coffee, Harlan was starting into a fine story about how the town got its name. “… folks usually do wonder about it. Legend has it that the first thing built on this spot was an old trading post, and the fella that ran it put out a big sign that said Daily Provisions. The name stuck over time, everyone who moved here eventually bein’ known as Daily folks, until finally they named the town that. While you’re here, you won’t want to miss seeing Boggy Bend Park. There’s paintings down there done by real live Tonkawa Indians—’course they’re not live anymore, but they was once. Great swimmin’ hole. Spring-fed year-round. Never dries up. Did’ja bring yer swimsuit?”

  Slapping a five-dollar bill on the counter, the TV lady grabbed her coffee, then left as fast as her red high heels would go. The cameraman trailed behind her, looking like he thought it was all a little funny. The reporter gave him a dirty look, then slapped open the door, stumbled over the stoop, and marched onto the sidewalk. Ramming her fist into her hip, she glared up and down Main Street, looking for her next victim.

  The funny thing was, Amber Anderson’s grandpa was working in the building right next to her and she never even knew it. Brother Ervin grabbed the phone and called around Daily, just to warn folks not to tell her anything.

  At the counter, the regulars had a fine time reliving their brush with fame.

  “That was a good one about the Indians, Harlan,” Ervin congratulated.

  Harlan gave a little bow. “Thank you, brother. I’ve got to say that the Academy A-ward goes to Doyle and his tour of the rock crushers at the lime plant.”

  Doyle nodded with the keen eye and straight face of a man who’s gone a long way by being smarter than he looks. “W-well, uuuth-ank you, Erve. If that don’t-don’t-don’t get her to ulll-leave town, n-nothin’ will.”

  But out there on the sidewalk, that lady reporter wasn’t going anywhere. As she headed down the street, she had the wily look of a prowling cat that was gonna dig and dig and dig until she snatched that mouse right out of the haystack.

  At the counter, Bob went back to scraping the fry grill. He was in a sour mood about Hollywood Undercover, and he didn’t feel like talking to anybody. His big chance to emerge onto the national spotlight, and he froze up. Things couldn’t get much worse than that.

  After the excitement died down and the supper crowd dwindled, Maria and Estacio took over the café for the evening. As usual, I dragged myself out the door, thinking that working three meals was too much for a woman my age. All the same, I wasn’t looking forward to going home. Even before I’d made it to my car, I was already thinking about my house sitting there on the hill, dark and lonesome, with the yard kind of ragged and the flower beds gone to seed. Every evening when I turned in the driveway, I wondered for just a minute why the place was so quiet, then it dawned on me that, these days, there wasn’t anybody to turn on the lights but me.

  I wasn’t ready to face that moment tonight, and there was still activity over at the beauty shop and hotel, so I went in and followed the racket upstairs. The baseball players and the cheerleaders were gone, but Verl was there with Andy, Amos, and Avery. The boys were sweeping the floors. Frank had come up to help after closing the auto shop downstairs. Everyone, including Donetta, looked like they were on their last legs—especially the boys.

  Frank passed me in the stairway. “Those are some hardworkin’ boys,” he said. “You know, I was thinkin’ I might ask them boys if they’d like to do some jobs for me at the shop from time to time. Verl, too, if he’s of a mind. My place could use some paint and caulking.”

  I could’ve hugged Frank right then for being such a kind soul. That old greasy auto shop didn’t need paint work any more than the man in the moon. “I imagine that’d be good.” Down the hallway, little Amos leaned his chin on the broom handle and closed his eyes. All towheaded, with his freckled cheeks, he reminded me of my boys at ten years old. “Verl ought to take the boys on home. They’re wore out.”

  Frank nodded in agreement. “Verl didn’t want to quit until the job was done.” He leaned a little closer to me. “I imagine after all day workin’, he means to take the money by The Junction and tie one on tonight. No tellin’ what shape he’ll wake up in tomorrow.”

  “Mercy,” I muttered, looking at the kids and thinking about what the rest of their day would be like. They would put themselves to bed tonight, wake up in the morning and scrounge around for some food and clean clothes to wear. I’d never really given it much thought before—how things must be for those Anderson kids, day to day.

  Frank sighed, his face somber. “Verl ain’t never had ten dollars in his pocket that didn’t go at least half into whiskey. One day of work ain’t gonna change a bad habit a man’s carried all his life.” Being an old rodeo man himself, Frank had been around enough to know a bit about folks.

  “I reckon not,” I agreed. “I wonder if Verl would let me take the boys on home with me for the night, since he’s busy working and all.” The idea formed in my mind, even as I was speaking it. “I could cook them a nice supper and wash up their clothes. Tomorrow’s Saturday. They could sleep in late, and I could make a good breakfast.”

  Frank gave me a surprised look, but he didn’t try to talk me out of it. Having been my Jack’s best friend, all Frank ever wanted was for me to be happy. “Don’t know, but I guess you could ask.”

  “I believe I will.” I headed off down the hall, determined that tonight that big old house was gonna be lit up from top to bottom and filled with the one thing it needed most—the merry ruckus of little boys just being boys.

  Chapter 13

  Mandalay Florentino

  Even after I’d concluded that Carter didn’t seem to have any hidden agenda, I was still latently watching for him as I toured the fairgrounds late that afternoon, still scouting locales, looking for potential snippets of filler, soaking up the atmosphere, and trying to devise a means of slipping Amber and a camera crew into an extremely crowded location without inciting a riot. Walking her in through the front gate was certainly not a possibility. Pictures of Amber were everywhere—in the exhibit building, on a banner hanging above the fair office, gracing T-shirts on the midway. Right now, Amber Anderson was the most recognized face in town, and the air was alive with anticipation of a hometown girl becoming the next American Megastar.

  It occurred to me, as I was taking in the plethora of Vote for Amber shirts on the midway, that Amber had an amazingly strong grassroots base pulling for her, and even though American Megastar had never seen a gospel singer make the top two, Amber might have a very real chance of being in the Final Showdown.

  I found myself unwillingly being drawn into the current of Amber Anderson euphoria, and I was filled with a renewed excitement for her hometown show. Anyone with this many people believing in her was worthy of a little effort. Amber had been an underdog all her life, and maybe, just maybe, she could pull this off. A carefully crafted hometown show would go a long way toward giving her a fighting chance. If the rest of America could see Amber Anderson the way these people did, viewer votes would roll in by the thousands.

  I, Mandalay Florentino, was going to awaken the slumbering crusader inside me and do the very best job I could to make that happen.

  As the light started to fade and the midway lights came on, I stumbled upon an idea behind the cow barns. The rear area of the fairgrounds was crowded with livestock trailers of various types, some with horses tied to t
hem, waiting to participate in the horseshowing competitions. The livestock parking area was inside the fairgrounds fence, and in fact, the trailers were entering the enclosure through a rear gate that was supervised by only one attendant, who checked the drivers’ paperwork and then glanced briefly into the trailers to inspect the livestock.

  The Amber entry plan jelled in my head as I watched one of the livestock haulers enter the gate, mosey through the rows of parked vehicles, and continue toward the rodeo arena.

  What I needed was a trailer and a horse.

  One of those large silver trailers might do nicely… .

  Just to be sure, I climbed onto the fender of an empty trailer and peeked in the window. Perfect. We could put the horse in the livestock compartment, so as to pass inspection at the gate, and hide Amber and the crew in the front compartment, which was designed to hold saddles, rider clothing, and various other paraphernalia.

  Bingo. Surprise entrance into the fairgrounds. Even our contact at the rodeo contracting company, who knew that a surprise performer would be arriving to sing at tomorrow afternoon’s opening performance, wouldn’t spot this one coming.

  “Mandee-lay, you are so smardt,” I muttered in Ursula-speak. I pictured her giving me my first-ever Uberstach compliment.

  “Well, hey there, Amanda-lee.”

  That didn’t sound like Ursula at all.

  “What’re you doin’ out here?”

  I turned to find Imagene and three half-grown boys watching me stick my head into some stranger’s livestock trailer.

  “You enjoyin’ the fair?” Imagene glanced around, wondering, no doubt, why I was skulking around the back lot in the dusky evening shadows. “You on yer way to the pony pull?”

  “Oh … uhhh … yes, I am.” I stepped down from the trailer, and the oldest of the boys gave me a suspicious look. “Enjoying the fair, that is. I guess I’m lost, though. I … thought there might be some—” come on, think of something—“ponies out here.”

  The littlest boy lowered an eyebrow. He looked to be about the age of my youngest nephew, maybe ten or eleven years old. There was something vaguely familiar about him. “The arena’s that way,” he offered, pointing toward the high bleachers and enormous stadium lights—the ones even a blind woman couldn’t miss. “Pony pull’s over there.”

  I smiled in what I hoped was a pleasant fashion. “Well, that does make sense, doesn’t it? I guess I should head that way. I wouldn’t want to miss the pony pull.” What is a pony pull, anyway? Pony pull. Pony. Pull. Hmmm …

  “Yes, ma’am.” The boy smiled, his brown eyes nearly hidden in a mop of tangled, overgrown hair. Even in the summertime when there was no school, none of my sisters would let their sons’ hair get that long.

  Imagene laid a hand on the boy’s head, and he turned to look up at her. “That’s real nice manners, Avery. Thank you.” She smoothed the bangs out of his eyes and held his face between her hands. “You are a pure pleasure to take to the fair. I’m sure glad we decided to stop off here and get us a corny dog.” Hugging Avery against her side, she turned back to me. “Boys, this is Amanda-Lee Forent-no. Did I get that right? She’s from out of town. Amanda-Lee, these are Amber Anderson’s brothers, Andy, Amos, and Avery.” Pausing, she gave me a meaningful look. “I reckon you’d be interested in meeting them … all things considered.”

  Overhead, the streetlight flickered on, and it became very clear that Imagene Doll knew exactly why I was in Daily.

  I attempted to hide my dismay by shaking hands with Andy, Amos, and Avery, who were polite but clearly confused about the reason for the formal introductions. Now that I knew who they were, I could see Amber in each of them.

  Suddenly, the story of Amber’s difficult childhood had a face—three of them. Andy, Amos, and Avery. I imagined Amber, just a little girl herself when her parents died, taking care of these three, fixing their meals, walking them to town to sell blackberries, making sure they did their homework at night. Something acute and moving struck me in the heart. This story wasn’t just about Amber, it was about a family—four siblings, orphaned and struggling to stay together against all odds.

  I swallowed an inconvenient lump of emotion. “It’s very nice to meet you, Andy, Amos, and Avery. I hope we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Avery said pleasantly. Clearly Avery, the youngest, was the talkative one. Amos only smiled, and Andy, the oldest, nodded, looking slightly reserved and mildly suspicious of my interest.

  Imagene tousled Avery’s hair. “The boys thought, since we’re here, we ought to go through the midway.” Glancing over her shoulder, she laughed and laid a hand on her chest. “It sure is nice to be at the fair. I haven’t come here since Jack passed away. You know, I feel so good tonight, I might even get on the old roller coaster. Jack always wanted me to try that thing and I never would do it. Seems like a person ought to try the roller coaster at least once before they die.” A kindred look passed between us—the meaningful exchange of two people who would probably live and die having carefully avoided life’s roller coasters.

  “Why not?” I agreed, with false bravado. It’s easy to tell other people to enjoy the ride. “You only live once.”

  “True enough.” Imagene smiled, gazing toward the midway. “Jack would be proud of me if I did it. He never wanted me to miss out on anything fun.”

  “He sounds like a wonderful man.” Would David care if I rode the roller coaster? After we were married, would he spend our years together making sure I didn’t miss anything fun?

  Imagene hugged Avery close. “He truly was.”

  Avery wrapped his arms awkwardly around Imagene’s waist, interlocking his fingers on the other side. Andy and Amos focused on the carnival rides, seeming embarrassed.

  “You guys have a good time,” I said, feeling a vague emptiness. Maybe those heroic individuals like my grandfather, like Imagene’s husband, didn’t exist anymore. Maybe they’d died out along with larger-than-life westerns, Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, and sappy romantic movies. In the era of self-help, self-esteem, and selffulfillment, there was one common thread. Self. “I’ll be anxious to hear about that roller coaster ride tomorrow.”

  Imagene wagged a finger at me, pursing her lips. “You ride it yourself, and we’ll compare notes.”

  I laughed. “I will if you will.”

  “Deal.” To seal the bargain, she grabbed my hand and shook it. “Be sure and ride the big Ferris wheel, too. We’re real proud of our Ferris wheel and our roller coaster. The Ferris wheel’s been in operation since 1936—put there for the Cotton Festival, back when there was money to be made in farmin’. That and the coaster are the only rides that stay as part of the park. The rest move on with the carnival.” She motioned toward the slowly revolving wheel, its lighted spokes and brightly painted red seats circling in an unhurried rhythm. “The wheel sits on high ground, so it’s quite a view. From up there, you can see the whole fairgrounds—heck, half the county, really.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to check it out.” In my head, my mother’s voice was warning that only an idiot would trust life and limb to a seventy-year-old midway ride. On the other hand, such a spot would be the perfect vantage point for taking in the complete layout of the fairgrounds… .

  Imagene gathered the boys as I stood watching the wheel turn and listening to the voices in my head.

  “Well, we’d best be off. Tell Miss Florent-no good-bye, boys.”

  I turned back to Amber’s brothers.

  “Good-bye,” Avery chirped, tossing his head to get the overgrown hair out of his eyes.

  “Bye.” Amos pushed his hands into his pockets and focused on his shoes. Shifting uncomfortably, he added, “Have fun at the fair.”

  “I will, Amos. Thanks.”

  “Later.” Turning to follow them, Andy pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked the most like Amber, perhaps because he was the closest to her age—fourteen,
maybe fifteen. He had an intelligent, contemplative way about him. Walking backward a few steps, he lifted his chin and gave a half smile. “Say hey to my sister.”

  “Andrew, hush,” Imagene whispered, snaking out an arm and grabbing his T-shirt. “That’s supposed to be a secret.”

  I couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I probably didn’t want to.

  I gaped after him as he followed his brothers away. The edginess that had been festering since the Amber banner incident yesterday came back with a vengeance. My presence here and Amber’s entrée into the Final Five were the worst-kept secrets in history. Sooner or later, Ursula would find out about the information leak and my trip to Wonderland would end in disaster. Off with her head. Swoosh. I’d be just another casualty of American Megastar, season three.

  Ursula would never buy the idea that this was not my fault—that I’d done nothing to cause the security breach.

  Which brought up the question of who had. How could top secret results, known only to Ursula, me, and a few select individuals, have so quickly reached Daily? Even the employees of the Austin affiliate, who’d been gracious enough to provide me with the helicopter flyover, thought I was a producer from 48 Hours, doing a piece on El Niño and erratic weather patterns in the southwest. The cover story seemed to have worked perfectly.

  What went wrong?

  The Doom-o-meter whispered a low electric hum in my head, slowly growing louder, higher in frequency, harder to ignore. I took a deep breath, tried to think logically. Calm down, calm down. Attack the problem, don’t retreat. You can still pull this off. Make Amber’s hometown show a success and Ursula won’t have anything to complain about. The livestock trailer idea will work. It’ll work brilliantly.