by Fran Rizer
The beer ran out just before midnight—not that I’d had any. It’s easier to drink Diet Coke than argue with Daddy that at thirty-three, I’m old enough to have a beer. After Dad brought out the jars of Pink Stuff he kept in the back of his bedroom closet, nobody did much talking that made any sense, so I went to bed in my old room.
My daddy got drunk when I was born. I don’t blame him for that. My mama died giving me life, but Daddy was still inebriated the next day when he named me. He already had five sons, but no girls before me (or after me, for that matter). He couldn’t think of anything feminine except the color pink, and the only pink thing he thought of was Calamine Lotion. Thank heaven most folks call me Callie.
When Daddy brought out the jars of Pink Stuff last night, it occurred to me to be glad he hadn’t thought of it when he told the nurse what to put on my birth certificate. Being named Calamine Lotion was embarrassing enough, but Pink Stuff or Moonshine would have been worse even though Moonshine had a kinda nice ’60’s hippie sound. Pink Stuff is moonshine. Technically, Daddy’s shine isn’t white lightning because it’s tinted pink with cherry juice.
Now morning had come and Chuck looked like he needed a little juice to pink up his complexion. He was white as a ghost, or maybe white as white lightning, which I’d never seen, when he came out of the restroom.
"Callie," Chuck said. "Did you ever go to car shows with that husband of yours?"
"I told you last night that he showed the Mustang, but I didn’t go."
"How would you like to go to Charleston with me for this show? It’s a big one."
"How long will it last?" Daddy asked. "Calamine’s a single woman, and you’re kin, but it ain’t proper for the two of you to go off spending the night out of town."
Before I could remind him that I’m grown, Chuck said, "I’ll treat her like my own sister." He shook his head no to the cup of coffee Daddy offered and turned to me.
"I’m assuming you’d be willing to help me drive up there," he said.
"Help you drive? It’s only a couple of hours from here."
"I’m also assuming you feel better this morning than I do. I’m hoping I can get a few more hours’ sleep and be up to snuff when we get there. This show’s pretty important to me." He paused with a sick look on his face, then added, "That is, if you can drive an SUV pulling a trailer."
Daddy laughed. Loud. "That gal could drive a combine when she was twelve. She can drive anything that’s got gas in it."
"Good." Chuck gagged again and seemed to swallow. Yuck! If anything travels from my stomach to my mouth, it goes out, not back down.
I reached for the cordless telephone. "I’ll call one of my bosses and see if I can have the day off." I pressed in a number, but it wasn’t for Middleton’s Mortuary. "I need to call Jane, too," I explained. "She wasn’t feeling well last night. That’s why Frankie dropped her off before he came over. What time did he go home anyway?"
"He didn’t," Daddy said. "He’s asleep on the floor in Bill’s room."
"How many supervisors do you have?" Chuck asked, ignoring the conversation about Jane and Frankie.
"Two, and buh-leeve me, Otis and Odell are bosses."
Daddy laughed and set a plate of food at my table place. I sat down and began eating while I dialed Jane. She answered with, "What in the Sam Hill are you calling me for so early in the morning?"
"Since Roxanne has slowed down her work, I figured you’d be up."
"I’ve been up for hours—throwing up."
"Jane! That sounds like morning sickness. Do you have something to tell me?" I grinned and scooped up a fork full of scrambled eggs.
"Nope. I think it’s stress. I don’t have any other signs of pregnancy. In fact, right now I’m having the major sign that I’m not."
"Some women’s cycles don’t stop. There are other signs. Are your nippies red?" Dad was listening. Now he grinned.
"Not to be rude, Miss Kindergarten Cussing, but how the devil would I know?"
"I guess you could ask my brother."
"He’d have to have a good memory because I don’t know if I’ll let him be looking again anytime soon."
"Whoa! Are you and Frankie having bigger problems?" The sausage was homemade with onions—delicious. It had been too long since I’d had breakfast at my Daddy’s table.
"Let’s not go there right now. Why’d you call?"
"Just to check on you and let you know I’m gonna ride to Charleston with Chuck if Otis and Odell will let me take today off. Tomorrow’s my day off anyway."
"I want to go."
"I thought you were busy throwing up."
"The nausea has finally calmed down some. I’d love to get out of town. Do you think your cousin will take us by Victoria’s Secret?"
"I can’t make any promises, but I’ll ask him. I’ve gotta check first with Otis and Odell to see if I can take off. I’ll call you back."
Heading up Highway 17 just below the speed limit, I pretended the Suburban and Corvette on its open trailer were mine. Other drivers smiled and waved at me. They may have believed I was the owner instead of just a cousin. I was in my own proud world while Chuck and Jane nattered on, distracting me from the joy of driving this rig.
"I didn’t wake Frankie up before I left Daddy’s," I said and turned toward Jane, who sat in the back seat.
"Watch the road," she snapped at me.
"How does she know you’re not looking at the road?" Chuck asked.
"I know because Callie always faces me when she’s talking. Plus I can tell from her voice if she’s facing me or not."
"Coooooool!" Chuck said, like some leftover from another decade.
"Did you call Frankie?" I asked Jane.
"No. In case you haven’t noticed, Frank and I aren’t getting along as well as we were."
"I don’t guess it matters that much whether you called him since he left you home alone and came over to Dad’s last night. I didn’t know you were sick, and I didn’t know he’d stayed ’til this morning."
"That wasn’t because he was mad at me. He just wanted to jam with you guys and spend time with Chuck, and I’m not one of those women who sit up at night waiting to see what time their man wanders in." She sniffled, felt around in her purse for a tissue, found it, and wiped her nose. I couldn’t tell if she was about to cry or her allergies were bothering her. Had Frank been staying out some nights and Jane was too proud to admit it?
"I left a message on our land line this morning that I’d gone to Charleston with you and he’d find his lunch in the fridge."
"How’d you do that?" Chuck said.
"Called the house phone on my cell. We do that all the time since I don’t write notes."
"Oh, my heaven!" I said, "That reminds me I left my cell phone at Dad’s." My attention turned back to Jane. "What’d you leave him for lunch?" I asked."
"Pork chops, mashed potatoes, and lemon bars."
"He’ll be a happy man!" I laughed.
"Jane cooks?" Chuck asked in a surprised tone.
"She’s an excellent cook!" I confirmed.
"I just never thought about a blind person cooking," Chuck said as he reached out and tuned the radio to a country station.
"You’d be surprised at what Jane can do even though she doesn’t see," I said, but no one answered me. Chuck snuggled over against the door, and Jane unlocked her seat belt and stretched out across the back seat. Soon both of them were snoring.
Ignoring the throaty, nasal serenade from Cousin Chuck beside me and Jane in the back seat was easier than sharing the beautiful morning with them would have been. Sometimes I like to just drive my Mustang for pleasure. Driving this rig with that smashing Corvette behind me was great!
The GPS led me directly to the expo center with big signs directing cars to different gates. I pulled over behind a fine-looking ’57 Chevy Impala on a trailer being pulled by a bright new Escalade, reached over, and tapped Cousin Chuck’s shoulder. He moaned and squeezed his eyes firmly closed. I
tapped harder. He squenched even tighter. He looked so much like my brothers that I did what I would’ve done if he’d been John, Bill, Jim, Mike, or Frankie. I slugged him hard on his arm. That woke him.
"Hunh? Hunh?" He jumped up, knocking his head against the roof of the SUV, looking and sounding just as ridiculous as one of my brothers.
"We’re here. I don’t know what to do. The gates are labeled by parking lots. Which one do we use?" I asked.
"No parking lot. We’re at the wrong gate. We go to the exhibitors’ entrance." He blinked his eyes and shook his shoulders. "Just put it in park and let me come around. I’ll drive from here." He got out of the SUV and walked around to the driver’s side. Kin or not, that man had one fine looking tush. I wished Jane could see it as I scooted over to where Chuck had been sitting. Jane continued snoring, but, of course, she couldn’t have seen it even if she’d been awake.
"Do you need to put Jane and me out to buy tickets or something?" I asked. "Where should we meet you?"
"You don’t meet me. Just stay with me. You’ll go in as my crew, so you don’t need tickets."
"You’re taking a blind woman in as crew?"
"Well, I figure if she can cook and do all that stuff, she can be part of my crew."
Chuck drove away from the clustered signs and pulled up to an entrance labeled "Car Showers Only." I laughed. I knew they meant for "those who are showing cars," but I pictured cars taking showers like drivers at a truck stop. This indoor show was at the biggest, newest center in Charleston. Why couldn’t the sign say, "Exhibitors Only?" Sometimes I’m almost ashamed of the South, but the show was probably being sponsored by a Yankee, so maybe the mistake wasn’t a southern one.
Jane slept through Chuck showing his pre-registration papers to the man at the gate and accepting a large envelope in return. We were directed to unload the ’Vette, park the SUV, and take the show car into the expo center to its assigned parking spot—G5. Jane mumbled and grumbled, but woke up when Chuck had the car unloaded. He even took the glass out of the T-tops.
Jane and I sat in the Corvette until Chuck came back from parking the SUV. Since the car was a two-seater, Jane had to sit on my lap riding into the display area. Being her usual shy self, Jane hoisted her hiney up on my shoulder and poked her head and arm through the T-top. We entered the expo center with Jane waving her mobility cane like a movie star in a parade. Chuck handled the car like it was a part of him. He backed it in perfectly. It was a great beginning. We even had a good spot by my criteria. Near one of the snack stands and fairly close to a women's restroom.
Chapter Twenty-One
The car looked perfect to me, but Chuck kept polishing it—inside and out, over and over. I asked why he hadn’t put a tarp over it to ride up here. "If I had an enclosed trailer, I’d use a cover, but on an open trailer the wind would whip it and damage the paint."
That made sense, so I offered to help with the cleaning, but he insisted he preferred to do it himself. Jane and I finally went for something to drink. Turned out to be more of a coffee shop than I’d expected. I got a delicious Tira Misu latte and an almond biscotti.
The cute, dark-haired young man behind the counter said, "Our biscotti are made by a lady who lives near Beaufort." I don’t know if he lied or not, but it was yummy.
Jane ordered chai. She’d been excited and happy as we entered the expo center, but recently, her moods changed rapidly. Now she sounded grumpy, and since I hadn’t read the chalkboard menu to her, I figured she asked for chai expecting the young man to tell her they didn’t have any. When Jane’s in an ornery mood, she does things like that. We were both surprised when he turned away for a few minutes, then placed the steaming cup of tea in front of her. The fragrance was high quality chai.
As we stood sipping the hot beverages, Jane said, "Tell."
Jane and I have been friends long enough that we sometimes talk in short-hand. "Tell" means we’re somewhere she’s never been before and she wants a description of her surroundings. "This is the largest expo center I’ve ever been in," I said, then added, "for any kind of show. It’s huge and there are cars parked in concentric circles all around. Some of them might not be operable because instead of driving them in, their owners are pushing them into position, or maybe they just don’t want to crank the cars and add to the mileage. All I know is what I see. Donnie used to go to car shows, but I never went with him."
"Donnie the doctor?" Jane asked, referring to a guy I date sometimes.
"No, you know I call him Dr. Donald. Donnie, my ex, who, by the way, should be a cardiologist now."
"What did he show?"
"My Mustang."
"I always feel like we’re showing off when we’re in that car."
"You always show off in any car," I answered, thinking of Jane’s wild outfits and sometimes erratic actions like waving at people with her feet when the top’s down on my convertible.
"Do you see any cars like yours in here?" Jane asked and actually turned her head as though she could see.
"No, but later we’ll take a walk and see if we find any Mustangs. This show isn’t just Corvettes. There are lots of different kinds of cars."
"Are we in a good spot?"
"I think so. Chuck is on the outer perimeter, and, yes, we’re near a ladies’ room."
"I swear, Callie, sometimes I think you read me like a book." She held her cane out with her right arm, but the angle meant she didn’t intend to use it. She wanted me to guide her by the elbow and lead her to the facilities.
When we came out, Jane and I stopped back at the coffee shop and each got more to drink. Can’t say we got refills because we’d discarded our original cups before going to the restroom. I just hate seeing people carry food or drink to restrooms. I watched Chuck and other owners setting up their cars. Talk about old ladies being persnickety, they don’t hold a candle to a bunch of picky men making sure their vehicles are positioned precisely, impeccably clean, and identified by signs carefully slipped into metal holders on stands beside each chalked off parking space.
The signs intrigued me, so Jane and I walked back over to Chuck.
"Don’t get near the car with those cups," he said immediately.
"We’re not going to spill anything," Jane snapped back. "Do you want a coffee or some hot tea?"
"No, I’ll get something when I finish here." Chuck’s tone softened.
"Did you bring the sign with you or was it in the registration packet?" I asked.
"This particular show sends a placard with registration papers. I printed mine on my computer, but some people just fill ’em in with felt-tip markers."
The sign identified the owner of the car, the make, model, and other specifics with a few lines at the bottom for "comments."
Chuck identified himself as Charles Parrish, Orlando, Florida, owner of the 1976 Corvette with a custom paint job. I didn’t bother to read any more of the details.
"Do you want to walk around and look at other cars?" I asked Chuck.
"Not yet," he answered. "I won’t leave here until entries are parked on both sides." He glanced at the empty spaces on each side of him. "Don’t want to risk some idiot scraping my baby backing into place." He used the cloth in his hand to wipe a spot on the car. It looked perfect to me.
"I think Jane and I’ll take a stroll," I said. Chuck cautioned me to remember or write down our space number, G-5, so we could find our way back. I swear sometimes I think men believe women are stupid, though my personal attitude is exactly the reverse.
Cars, crowds of people, and sales booths with food or auto magazines and parts. I described everything to Jane including the good-looking men as well as the funny-looking ones.
When we returned, there were Corvettes parked on either side of G-5, but Chuck wasn’t anywhere nearby. The car parked on the passenger side of Chuck’s was metallic red. The sign caught my eye. When I taught kindergarten, I sometimes used Sunday’s colorful comics from the newspaper as background for bulletin boards. I go
t the idea from magazines that suggested using comics or newspapers for gift wrapping. The sign for the red ’Vette had crimson letters and had been matted onto black and white newsprint.
Not to be rude, but I "parked" Jane near the car out of the way of the crowds and maneuvered myself into position smack in front of that sign. I bent slightly forward to read it and . . .
"Dalmation!" I shrieked and slapped my behind where someone had just pinched my bottom!
Jane whipped out her cane and began waving it back and forth as she tried to move through the people and get to me. At the same time, she yelled my name, "Callie!
Callie! What’s wrong?"
I turned around and found myself staring at a tie tack exactly like one I bought several years ago. It was a tiny silver Rod of Asclepius. Until I bought that little piece of jewelry, I’d always called the rod with a snake coiled around it a Caduceus, but the clerk had told me both the Caduceus and the Rod of Asclepius have been used as medical symbols. Since the tie tack I chose was a staff with a snake curled around it, it was a Rod of Asclepius. The Caduceus is a rod with two snakes coiled around it.
Now tell me how that whole memory flashed through my mind in the time it took me to look up from the silver tie tack to the face of my ex-husband! During that same short space of time, Jane parted the crowd like the red sea by slashing her mobility cane back and forth. Just as I saw that the pincher was Donnie, Jane whapped him on the shin with her stick.
Buh-leeve me, the words that spewed from my ex’s mouth weren’t kindergarten cussing. When he finally calmed down, Jane apologized.
"I’m so sorry!" she gushed over and over. "I didn’t know it was you! I thought someone was hurting Callie."
I couldn’t resist, I promise, I just didn’t have the control not to say, "Oh, the days of Donnie hurting me are long gone."
"I would never hurt you again," Donnie said in a smooth voice, far more well-modulated than I remembered. He still appeared pretty much the same as when we divorced—tall and handsome with dark eyes and hair. His problem was his character and personality, not his looks. "What are you doing here? Showing the Mustang?" he asked.
