by Ad Hudler
“Yes!” Madeline VanDermeter replied. “I do need to use the ladies room, though. Is it in the same place, Suzanne?”
“Yes, ma’am. It sure is.”
Madeline tried the door to the powder room, but it was locked with someone inside. Not wanting to bother the hosts, she went to search on her own for an alternative. She wandered into the master bedroom and into the master bath and chose the toilet that appeared to be Suzanne’s, marked by a basket nearly overflowing with decorating catalogs and magazines.
Madeline raised her dress, lowered herself onto the toilet seat, and when her bare butt came in contact with the oily Shame! potion that Josephine had smeared onto the cool, doughnut-shaped surface, she slipped off the toilet, toward the wall, hitting her head on the sharp corner of the windowsill and falling into darkness.
Lying on her back on the floor, Madeline VanDermeter looked up and saw the faces of Boone Parley and Ed Nwasu, and she suddenly realized, mortified, that one of these two men had pulled her panties back into place, and she wasn’t certain which one she’d have preferred do such a thing—a strange black man from southern Africa or a handsome neurosurgeon whose mother she played bridge with each Thursday.
Thirty-six
Dear Chatter: The weather is not controlled by God. It is controlled by the jet stream and ocean currents and position of the globe. So please quit blaming the rain and floods on the Almighty.
Though she rarely bought more than an herb plant or two, Margaret stopped by Reeverts’ Nursery and Garden Center at least twice a week. Part of the draw was Francine Reeverts herself, a thin, wrinkly, seventy-four-year-old who wore her white hair in a French roll and was comfortable speaking with a smoldering Camel bouncing in her lips. Behind the cash register, Francine would perch upon a chrome stool upholstered in yellow vinyl and snack on fried chicken livers brought from home each day in a Styrofoam cup. Margaret enjoyed Francine’s company, and in their talks about Southern culture Francine would often unwittingly toss out interesting horticultural metaphors.
The other thing Margaret enjoyed at Reeverts’ was the quirky rock garden Francine and her husband, Robbie, had built adjacent to the nursery to honor their daughter who died of lung cancer. At first glance, the Judy Reeverts Bass Memorial World Garden appeared to be a miniature-golf course in the Flintstone theme with a man-made, concrete-and-flagstone creek connecting large dioramas created from brick and stones and trees and shrubs and a plethora of concrete-cast lawn ornaments.
Each diorama had a sign identifying it. There was the Ngoron-goro crater of Tanzania, with concrete lions perched atop a flagstone precipice like the one Margaret remembered from The Lion King … a miniature re-creation of Arizona’s Grand Canyon, complete with Matchbox car–size donkeys whose feet had been pushed into the concrete at the bottom … an Asian scene, with a cross-legged Buddha flanked by bonsai cedar trees … and in the center, much larger than the others, a re-creation of Jesus’ tomb, big enough for a handful of people to come in and sit down. Inside, a painted statue of Mary wept in the dark corner, the tears portrayed on her cheek with red paint that looked like blood. All these scenes and more were connected by the concrete creek that flowed from diorama to diorama.
But today Margaret was here to pick out flowers. For months, Dewayne had been urging her to wrest control of her hairy yard, and suddenly, inexplicably, Margaret found herself obsessed with transforming the weed-choked flower beds in front of her porch.
“Hey, Margaret,” Francine said, slowly walking down the aisle of perennials.
“Francine! How are you?”
“Doin’ good. And yourself?”
“Doin’ real good.”
Margaret scanned the greenhouse, breathing in deeply the warm air that smelled of geraniums and new soil and the plastic tarp overhead that was warmed by the sun. “I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of this place,” she said. “I always am.”
“It’s a good time of the year,” Francine agreed.
“I’m amazed at the variety of things that grow here. It’s such a weird mixture, with the oaks of the north and palms of the subtropics.”
“You know what they call it,” Francine said.
“Call what?”
“The area that Selby sits in.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s called a tension zone.”
She took her cigarette from her mouth. “See, the USDA gardenin’ zones run east to west. They’re these crooked, invisible lines that follow the frost patterns, and wherever two zones meet there’s twenty or so miles of schizophrenic weather, and that’s where the species from both zones collide and try to intermingle … one from the north, and one from the south.”
“I love that!” Margaret exclaimed.
“Only the strongest specimens from each zone will survive in a tension zone,” Francine said.
She took another draw of her Camel, exhaled, and raised her eyebrows. “Kind of like what’s goin’ on in Selby right now with another species we know pretty well. Where’s your man friend today, Margaret?”
Since Margaret’s revelation, Dewayne had called a few times but had not stopped by the house except to pick up a screwdriver from his tool box. Margaret was painting the back bedroom when he came. He peeked through the doorway of the room and, seeing her standing on the ladder, hurried in, lifted her by the armpits and set her gently on the floor.
“What are you doin’?” he said. “Are you crazy?”
“Quit treating me like a little child, Dewayne! That was very demeaning.”
“You shouldn’t be up there like that.”
“Why not?”
Dewayne stood there, silent.
“Was that action based on an assumption I should know about?” Margaret asked.
He turned and walked back outside. Margaret could hear the thud of his heavy boots on the wooden floor of the porch before reaching the concrete steps. And then, the sound of the steps returned, the door opened, and he was inside again.
“If I asked you to marry me,” he said, “would you believe it’s ’cause I love you?”
He had never said the words, nor had Margaret, and she could sense the weight of them by the way his eyes and lips subtly trembled. She walked toward him and put her hands on his warm, reddened cheeks.
“Oh, Dewayne … Dewayne … this is not the way it was supposed to turn out. You are so, so sweet.… But this is not a path I’d planned on taking. I never have. It’s just never been an option in my mind.”
“What path?”
“Motherhood.”
His hands crammed into the back pockets of his jeans, Dewayne took a step backward. “You know,” he said, “some people actually like bein’ mommas.”
“Was that a slam on my mother?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Dewayne!”
“I’m speakin’ my mind here.”
“It’s about time.”
“I’ve got too much to lose.”
“What?”
“My happiness.”
“But you won’t lose me,” Margaret said. “I’ll still be there.”
“But part of me won’t,” he said.
“Which part?”
“That part inside you right now.”
“I’ll ask you again,” Margaret said. “Which part?” She took her fist and patted her heart. “Is it part of your heart we’re talking about or your sperm? Which do you mean, Dewayne?”
Without answering, Dewayne turned and walked outside, got into his truck, and drove away.
***
Carrying a plastic flat of perennials, Margaret returned to her car to find Randy leaning against the hood.
“You can’t hide when you drive a car like this,” he said. “I was on my way home and spotted you.”
“Stalker.”
“What do you have there?”
Margaret opened her trunk and set the flowers inside. “Foxglove. Cat’s whisker. Black-eyed Susans and shasta daisies.”
“
I’ve got some news for you.”
“What?”
“The great dying dogs mystery has been solved.”
She slammed the trunk and quickly looked at Randy to read his face.
“Turned out to be nothing. At least nothing interesting. Maybe a six-inch story on two-B or a metro brief at best. Sheriff said some dufus’s truck at a construction sight was leaking antifreeze. I guess the stuff’s sweet and tasty. God knows Southern dogs would lap up something sweet but deadly. Anyway, I knew it wasn’t much else—what psycho goes around poisoning dogs? What’s with the flowers, Margaret? You been bit by that Southern decorating bug?”
“Actually, Randy, it’s called the nesting instinct.”
He furrowed his brow. “What are you saying?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“What!”
“Yes.”
“You are fucking kidding me! Pregnant! The redneck fireman?” he asked.
“His name’s Dewayne. Yes.”
“I thought this was just a fling, Margaret. Something you’d get over.”
“I’m not sure what it is, Randy. I’m not sure where it is either.”
“I was patient. I was waiting. Shit! Pregnant? I’m assuming this situation was intentional, then … realizing that you probably know more about birth control and the female reproductive system than the entire population of Selby, Georgia, combined.”
“It was not intentional, no.”
“I know what you want,” Randy said. “You want someone who’s going to open every damn door for you and take you to the NASCAR races. Jesus, Margaret, I’ve seen you guys driving around town—you sit right by him. Like some trailer-trash woman.”
“I accept your apology.”
Randy slumped against the car and looked down at his stomach. With both hands, he grabbed and pinched his roll of fat that had the girth of a baguette. “I used to be lean and mean,” he said.
Margaret walked over and gently pinched his right cheek. “You’re still mean, Randy. If that’s any consolation.”
Thirty-seven
Donna’s TIP of the Day: Too much fat in your diet? Replace that heavy oil with heart-healthy chicken stock! It’s so easy! Just freeze some stock in ice-cube trays, and that way you can just pop out and melt what you need! Keep the other cubes in a baggie in the freezer for future use! Try mixing some fresh herbs (thyme or rosemary!) in with the stock before freezing. Then watch that tummy melt away!
Since five A.M., Donna had been immersed in her newest creation—an end cap display celebrating Cinco de Mayo. In a sea of Italian plum tomatoes she made a giant number five out of dark-green Hass avocados. Using key limes, she spelled out Mayo in an arch shape over the five. Still not satisfied, Donna drove back home to get her four margarita glasses, which she filled with green and white jelly beans and a straw and randomly placed them among the tomatoes. Over all of this, taped to a ceiling beam, was a sign she’d made at home the night before with her mother’s airbrush gun, featuring giant, smiling jalapeños and the giant word GuacamOLE!, with the last three letters exaggerated in size and color.
All that was left was cilantro. As Donna placed bunches of it around the perimeter of the tomatoes, she continued the mental game she’d invented her first week in Kroger—comparing humans to varieties of produce.
In the past, Donna would assign to each person a fruit or vegetable based solely on appearance, yet sometime in the past few months she’d decided that the person no longer had to look like a pear or cucumber but rather had to represent the very essence of that fruit or vegetable. To increase the accuracy of her comparison, Donna would talk with the customer, thus revealing a personality with the sweetness of strawberries or astringent bitterness of rhubarb stalks or the watery, stringy emptiness of celery. A confident walk could denote yucca root. A disheveled, messy person would be a head of garlic. The supreme comparison was the pumpkin—the subject of fantasy and imagination (Cinderella’s coach and Peter’s prison for his wife) … a heavy, substantial, thick-skinned gourd who had no need or desire to be a climber … confident in its choice of color that audaciously clashed with most every other … a longevity that other produce could only dream of … interesting, rippling ridges that were pleasing to run one’s hand over.
“Nice display. Very nice.”
Mr. Tom’s voice caught Donna by surprise. Since their confrontation in his office, he had not been making his hourly swings through Donna’s department. The only time he’d spoken with her in the last two days was to confirm the hours on her time card. “You’ve got to write more legibly, Donna” was all he said.
“Did you get the sprayer heads cleaned?” he asked now.
“Yes, sir. I sure did. I used the pipe cleaner just like you taught me.”
“Where’s Adrian?” he asked.
“He’s corin’ pineapples in the back.”
“Can you please get him out here to cover for you? I need to see you in my office.”
“I’m not still hoppin’ mad if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m mad, but I’m not hoppin’ mad.”
“Just get Adrian. Please.”
Donna summoned Adrian and followed Mr. Tom to his office. He shut the door and took the chair on his side of the desk, opposite Donna.
“I don’t really wanna talk about it anymore,” Donna said. “Do you think your father would let you move out of Selby?” he asked.
Donna furrowed her brow. “What are you sayin’, Mr. Tom?”
Tom Green stood up, picked up his brown briefcase from the floor, set it on the desk, opened it, and retrieved a manila folder. He handed it to Donna.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Just look.”
Donna opened the folder and began to read. There were two letters, one from Mr. Tom and the other from Sarilyn Potter, the district manager in Atlanta, both of them suggesting that she be promoted to a new regional merchandising and training position.
“Mr. Tom!”
“It would involve a lot of travel,” he said. “And you’d probably have to move to Atlanta.”
Donna looked up from the letters, a solemn expression on her face.
“You’re supposed to be ecstatic, Donna,” he said.
“Did you do this because of what Gary Scalamandre was sayin’ about you and me? Are we in trouble here, Mr. Tom?”
He smiled. “They’ve asked for you specifically. No, Donna. We’re not in trouble, though maybe we might get me in trouble if you stuck around any longer.”
Donna smiled as the compliment washed over her. She remembered how Mr. Tom complimented Kathy’s bleached teeth when all her hair fell out after chemo, and how he took pains to remind seventy-two-year-old Emmett how well he organized groceries in the bags when he suddenly felt old and vulnerable after falling in the parking lot, breaking three dozen eggs and a watermelon. Donna knew that Tom Green was good at telling people what he thought they needed to hear—it’s what made him a good boss.
Her throat tightened. “You’ve taught me everything I know, Mr. Tom. You’re really, truly, one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
“The pleasure’s been mine.”
“You really think I could do that job?”
“With your eyes closed.”
She scanned the plaques on the wall behind him, five that chronicled Tom Green’s tenure as perishables manager of the year in the Midwest region.
“I think I’d like somethin’ new,” she said. “It would be fun livin’ in Atlanta. If I go, will you promote Adrian to produce manager?”
“I’m not so sure, Donna. You need two hands for that job.”
“But he knows produce better than anybody, Mr. Tom. It wouldn’t be fair for anyone else to get that job.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just hire some dumb strong boy to take his place. Adrian’s very organized, Mr. Tom. He’s been fillin’ out my order sheets for a month now.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Prom
ise me.”
“I promise I’ll think about it.”
“I want one more thing,” she said.
“Of course you do.”
She hesitated, then said, “I’ve been wantin’ to kiss you for the longest time.”
Mr. Tom broke into a smile. “You have?”
“Yes.”
“You still work for me, Donna.”
“Okay,” she said. “I quit.”
Tom Green laughed. “You will never go hungry, Donna Kabel.”
“That’s what my momma always said.”
He walked around the side of the desk and stood before her, his arms self-consciously dangling at his side. Donna stood on her toes, resting her hands on his shoulder to steady herself, as if she were preparing to whisper something into his ear, and she leaned into his face and kissed him gently on the cheek.
Thirty-eight
Dear Chatter: I wish y’all would just stop it! Yeah!—Editors.
Margaret returned from a long walk in Rosemont Cemetery and found a note taped to her front door: Got a package for you from UPS. Mr. Ted.
She walked next door and found her seventy-six-year-old neighbor rocking on the aluminum glider in the shade of his front porch, his gnarly, walnut cane resting between his legs.
“I saw you pull in,” he said. “I was waitin’ for you. I left a message on your anserin’ machine, too.”
She sat down beside him and they talked for ten minutes—about Reeva Standish, four houses down, who’d bit into a piece of glass that Sunday in the smothered pork chops she’d ordered at the G&F Cafeteria … about Rex, Mr. Ted’s terrier mix who treed someone’s cat that morning … about how the new mayor in Atlanta had changed the recorded warnings on the trains at the Atlanta airport from a Southern gentleman’s voice to a Northern male’s command.
Finally, as if Margaret had fulfilled her task and would now be rewarded, he reached beneath the glider and pulled out an overnight-letter package. Margaret read the label and saw it was from Freid, Hamblin, Reed & Johnston, the law firm that represented her mother and settled her estate.
