Elvis and the Rock-A-Hula Baby Capers

by Webb, Peggy

  “Now, we’re going to let the father change the diaper,” Betty Sue says, and I pass the baby off to Jack.

  He grabs it like he would a bag of charcoal. If this were a real baby, she’d be hanging sideways with her head flopping. Betty Sue’s eyebrows shoot up into her badly cut hair, but thank goodness, she doesn’t say anything snarky to Jack or I’d have to remind her that she should have already talked about properly supporting a newborn’s head.

  Of course, that would get us thrown out of baby boot camp on the first day, but nobody had better mess with Jack. Especially while I’m around.

  Jack’s now eyeing the doll diaper as if it’s a hand grenade with the pin pulled out. But he’s game. He immediately starts trying to solve the mystery of the diaper. By the time he asks me, “Does it have a front, Cal,” sweat is rolling down his face and the diaper is hanging off his thumb by a sticky tab. He shakes it like he would an attached rat.

  To make matters worse, Elvis saunters up and sticks his nose right into the middle of the other sticky tab.

  I hear this sound, and glower at Mama and Fayrene, both with their hands over their mouths holding back guffaws. I’m about to show Jack front from back of a doll diaper when a tall, skinny women with mismatched clothes and an out-of-date hairstyle screeches, “Help!”

  Betty Sue rushes to her side while fifteen other mothers and a smattering of fathers jump off their mats like they’ve been shot.

  Jack shakes the baby diaper loose and Elvis races off with it still attached to his nose. I’d giggle, but it seems inappropriate amidst all this mayhem.

  Jack hurries to the stricken woman, with me right behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” he says, but she’s too hysterical to answer. Furthermore, she’s clutching a real baby who is screaming at such a volume her face is bright red with the effort.

  “Are you hurt? Is the baby hurt?” I attempt to take the screaming child, but she snatches it out of my reach. Apparently, that’s her last straw.

  “Are you crazy?” she yells at me, and the leader of baby boot camp say, “Now, Laura, there’s no need for hysterics.”

  Something about Laura’s inflection rings a bell, but before I can dig out the memory, Jack draws me into the sweetest, most protective embrace I’ve ever seen.

  “Are you kidding me?” Laura whirls on Betty Sue. “Somebody stole Harley Boo’s pacifier!”

  “Holy cow!” I’m utterly shocked. Not by the theft of Harley Boo’s pacifier, but that anybody would name a baby after a motorcycle and a reality TV show.

  “Is that all?” Fayrene says. She and Mama have joined the circle surrounding the distraught mother and baby.

  “If this keeps up, I’m going to need some Prohibition Punch.” Mama’s working her funeral parlor fan like there’s no tomorrow.

  “It’s the pacifier!” Laura’s face is getting blotchy from screeching. She could use some advice on manners and beauty, but I don’t think now is the right time to offer. “Harley Boo will not have any other, and she won’t stop crying without it.”

  Betty Sue strides to the front again and claps her hands for attention.

  “Okay, everybody! Let’s search till we find Harley Boo’s misplaced pacifier.”

  “But it’s not lost.” Laura seems incapable of saying anything in less than a sustained scream. “I’m telling you, it was stolen!”

  “Who would steal a pacifier?” Jack says, but logic has no sway over a hysterical mother and her equally hysterical baby.

  I just hope they calm down soon or my husband is likely to back completely out of fatherhood.

  “It could be anybody,” Laura yells. “This is a crazy world we live in.”

  “And getting crazier by the minute,” Mama says.

  “Why don’t you and Fayrene head on home and relax, Mama? I don’t think we’re going to learn much more at baby boot camp today.”

  “I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “How can you miss anything?” I link arms with her and Fayrene then lead them toward the parking lot. “We’re just going to be searching for a baby’s pacifier.”

  Famous last words. Mama and Fayrene are climbing into the hearse and I’m heading back toward the park when somebody splits the air with a scream.

  “OMG, somebody snatched Stevie’s baby blanket!”

  Holy cow! If I were a gambling woman like two people whose names I’m not even going to mention, I’d bet Stevie’s blanket is the only one he’ll have, and that he can’t possibly stop crying without it.

  Chapter 2

  Theft, Mayhem and the Baby Boot Camp List

  By the time I get back to the park, Jack is looking like he’s landed in outer space. I’ll have to say, I don’t blame him. The sight of all those pregnant women crawling around in the grass is enough to even give me pause about this whole baby project. To top it all off, Harley Boo and little Stevie are screaming so loud you can hear them all the way to the Itawamba county line.

  I don’t know what I expected of almost-motherhood. Maybe wearing really cute maternity tops while sitting on the front porch with my swollen feet propped up, and drinking a big glass of lemonade while a nice blues song comes through the speakers. I never considered that a baby bump would hamper something as simple as searching for lost items.

  “Have they found anything?” I link my arm through Jack’s and smile at him, hoping to get him in a better mood.

  “Not yet, but it’s not for lack of trying.” He nods toward Harley Boo’s mother. The front half of her is buried in a holly bush and the back part is sticking out like the end of a double-wide trailer. “How hard can it be to find a missing baby blanket?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. Did they say what color?”

  “Green.”

  “Maybe that explains it. Come on. Let’s see if we can help.”

  I drop to my all fours and start searching, but Jack does his usual thing. Anytime there’s a crime to solve, he finds a quiet spot where he can go relatively unnoticed, then stands as still as death surveying the scene. He takes in every last detail and can later describe the scene as if he’d taken an eight by ten color glossy of the whole shebang. He won’t leave out a single detail.

  I know this. I’ve seen him in action too many times.

  I notice two of the mothers-to-be eyeing him like he’s a long, tall drink of iced tea and they’re dying of thirst. This makes my spattering of Cherokee blood boil, but I refuse to react. Personally, I think jealousy is just plain tacky, and totally beneath an entrepreneur such as myself.

  Might I add that I have better things to do than worry about silly, fashion-challenged women with too much make-up on their straying eyes? Still, if I can figure out who they are, I’m marking them off my list of one big, happy family.

  I suck up my outrage and concentrate on the important thing. Solving this case.

  I’m athletically built and unfortunately unhampered by a baby bump. Within a short time, I’ve already covered every inch of this park, and I’ve got the grass stains on my pretty pink capris to prove it.

  This leads me to only one conclusion: Harley Boo’s pacifier and Stevie’s baby blanket are not lost. They’ve been stolen. Which means I’m neck deep in the middle of a summer crime wave.

  While everybody else is looking for the missing items, I start looking for suspects. To the untrained eye, everything looks ordinary, just a bunch of women of various ages and various stages of pregnancy, crawling around like they’re demented. Not a one of them looks capable of being a thief.

  The kids range from babies who sit Buddha-like amidst the mayhem to kids who are old enough to be in second grade. Any one of them could have just grabbed the items or stolen them as a prank. In this madhouse, who would see?

  The two kiosks are within spitting distance of us, but I haven’t seen either vendor leave. The clown has been meandering among the children all morning. He had opportunity, but what in the world would be his motive? The only person missing is the old man on th
e park bench, and he probably went home to take a nap.

  One of the kiosks is run by a sweet-looking, blue eyed lady, probably fortyish, selling hot dogs and balloons. She misses being pretty because of an unfortunate overbite and a bad perm. I can work miracles with over-cooked hair. Next week I’ll give her a card and find out what she knows.

  The other is run by a jovial older woman with orange curls and ice cream in seven different flavors. She looks incapable of anything except smiling.

  When this crazy search is over, I’m treating all of us, including Elvis, to some strawberry ice cream.

  *

  We’re in the car headed home, and I’m trying to eat my ice cream off the top of the cone before it melts and runs down my arm. The ice cream lady, Amanda Green, turned out to be as friendly as I’d imagined. She thought it was cute that I ordered ice cream for my dog, and she even gave it to him in a cup without me having to ask.

  “Reckon who stole those baby things?” I ask Jack.

  “They weren’t stolen, Cal. They just got lost in all that bedlam.”

  I know better than to argue with a Company man over crime.

  “I’ll have to agree it was a bit noisy.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going back next week?”

  He shoves his sunglasses into his hair and turns to wink at me. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, Cal.”

  “I think that reply deserves a reward, Jack Jones.”

  “Wrap it up in back silk.”

  I’m still smiling at Jack’s comment when my cell phone rings. It’s Mama. And she’s hysterical.

  “Somebody just tried to kill me.”

  Nobody loves drama more than Mama. Once she told me she’d nearly cut her finger off, and I broke all speed laws getting to the farm only to discover she’d cut her fingernail to the quick and had a little dab of blood on the end of her ring finger.

  Now I ask her, “What happened, Mama?”

  “It’s just so awful. You’ve got to come quick. I’m half dead.”

  “Do you need an ambulance? Do you want me to call 911?”

  “I want my one and only daughter. Is that too much to ask?”

  Mama sounds suspiciously feisty for somebody who’s just had a brush with death.

  “Hang on. We’ll be right there.”

  Jack has already picked up the gist of the conversation and made the turn-off to Mama’s farm.

  “Is she all right, Cal?”

  “With Mama, you never know. Just hurry, Jack.”

  All I’m going to say about Jack and speed is that I’m glad the highway patrol didn’t see us. He whizzes into Mama’s driveway and who should greet us but Mama, herself? My relief is so great I cry. When I get through hugging her, I ’m going to kill her.

  “Mama, you scared me so bad I’ll probably never produce eggs again.”

  “Flitter. You’re healthy as a horse.”

  Jack strides over with Elvis at his heels. “What happened, Ruby Nell?”

  “Somebody tried to run me over with their car.”

  “Holy cow, Mama! Where?”

  “Down at the mailbox.”

  “Let’s go inside and take this from the beginning,” Jack says. Mama just gets the all-overs when he hooks her hand through his arm. She leans on him like she’s on her last leg, and I can’t help but smile. It’s great to see how much she dotes on him and how she makes up for all those years in the orphanage and on the job when he had nobody.

  Jack helps Mama to the sofa and proceeds to fluff pillows behind her back while I head to the kitchen to make some iced tea. By the time I get back, she’s telling how she and Fayrene stopped at Gas, Grits and Guts for a little refreshment. I can just see it, the two of them kicked back in the séance room drinking Prohibition Punch from Mason jars. And believe me, those jars hold plenty.

  “When I got home, I stopped at the mailbox to see if my J.C. Penney catalogue had come, and out of nowhere this great big car nearly runs me down. I nearly lost both legs.”

  “But you didn’t, Mama.”

  “Not because he didn’t try. Look.” She lifts her caftan to show two tiny Hello Kitty band aids on her knees.

  “What kind of car, Ruby Nell?”

  “A black Cadillac. I won’t soon forget it.”

  “You didn’t happen to see the license plate, did you?”

  “Flitter, Jack. How could I see the license plate? I was upside down on the ground, breathing my last breath.”

  To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t crack a smile. I take Mama’s hand. “You’ve got to come spend the night with us so we can take care of you, Mama.”

  “For Pete’s sake, I’m not about to get in the way of the baby making process,” she says, and Jack shoves his sunglasses on, but they can’t hide the twitch in his mouth. He’s about to burst out laughing. “I’ll just go on up and spend the night with Fayrene.”

  “Are you sure, Mama?”

  “If you’ll just go in there and pack that pretty pink nightgown I’ve been saving for when I go to the hospital, I can drive myself.”

  Mama’s been saving this hospital gown for so many years, it’s faded a faint shade of blush. I’ve tried to tell her that in the event something disastrous happens, I’ll make sure she has something pretty and new. But no, she’s saving this one to die in. Mama’s stubborn that way. And eccentric. You wouldn’t think a woman who burns the candles at both ends, frequents the gambling casinos, smokes using a 1930s cigarette holder and carries a knife in her purse would be the kind to save a gown for her deathbed. But that’s Mama, for you.

  Jack insists on driving Mama’s car, and she leans on his arm like she’s an invalid. They are so sweet together it makes me tear up. When we get to Fayrene’s, I go inside to help deliver Mama. This takes a while. Fayrene has to have a complete recap of Mama’s brush with death.

  “Lord help us, Ruby Nell. Bobby said you were in danger from a dark eyed stranger.”

  Jack lifts his eyebrows, but I don’t even want to know. Apparently they did more than drink Prohibition Punch in the back room.

  The minute we get home, I ask Jack if thinks somebody really did try to run Mama down with a car, but he assures me she probably got a little dizzy from all this heat and fell down. That’s what I think, too. Or else, she had one too many Mason jars of punch.

  *

  Later that evening, I feed little Jackie Nell her final bottle for the evening and then tuck her into the bassinet a real Jones baby will occupy if Jack’s reward turns out the way I hope.

  In my dressing room, I ditch the pink nightgown I’d planned to wear in favor of black silk. Then I climb into bed with my dream man. All I’m going to say about the next hour is that I’m in such a state of euphoria I don’t want to move when the latex baby’s cry box goes off.

  Still, I intend to be the best mother in Lee County, so I sit up and jerk my gown back over my head.

  “Don’t go.”

  “She needs a diaper change.”

  “It’s just a rubber doll, Cal.”

  “Wash your mouth out with soap, Jack Jones!”

  The minute my feet hit the floor, Elvis stirs from his pink satin doggie pillow in the hallway and follows me into guest bedroom I’ve already converted to a nursery. I change little Jackie Nell’s diaper then sit in the rocking chair and hum to her before I put her back to bed. Elvis makes these little noises that I swear sound like Love Me Tender.

  “You’re going to be a good baby sitter, Elvis.” I lean down to pat his head, careful to make sure that the latex baby is secure in my arms.

  After I put the baby back to bed, I tiptoe into our bedroom and find Jack sound asleep, lying flat on his back with his arm thrown across his forehead and all the cover kicked off. This is a sight worthy of a centerfold. I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

  Still, that doesn’t stop me from doing the exact thing Jack would not want me to do. I tiptoe downstairs, make myself a cup o
f tea and then get the list of baby boot camp attendees out of my purse to see if I can find a suspect.

  This is my first chance to read the list, and I’m astonished to discover that I know two of these women. Sally Riker Cunningham and Harley Boo’s mother, Laura Lane Gillentine. Both of them were in my high school gym class. Still, it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize them. Laura used to be the size of a swizzle stick and Sally was huge, with bushy black hair and thick black eyebrows that looked like two woolly worms sitting on her face.

  They hated each other’s guts. And I have the picture to prove it.

  I’m onto something here. Carrying my tea into the living room, I sit cross-legged on the floor and dig my high school yearbook out of the bookshelves. Sure enough, on the page entitled Crazy Days at Mooreville High is a snapshot of Laura with her hands dug into Sally’s ugly hair, pulling to beat the band, her mouth stretched in a banshee howl.

  Did that animosity carry over all these years? And did Sally hate Laura enough to steal Harley Boo’s pacifier? Even worse, would she stop there? Next, would she steal Harley Boo?

  “Cal? What in the world are you doing down here?”

  I jump like somebody shot. Jack’s standing at the foot of the stairs, fully dressed. I glance at the clock and am shocked that I’ve been here almost an hour. Still, I’m not about to admit that I’m searching for a thief.

  “More to the point, what are you doing?” Good grief, I sound like screeching Laura. “It’s not even two o’clock.”

  “I got a call. I’ve got to go.”

  “In the middle of the night! What about the baby? If you’ll care to remember, today’s your turn, Jack.”

  “I’ll just take him with me.”

  “You will do no such thing. I’m not having my baby shot right off the bat.”

  “I’m just helping an old buddy with a simple reconnaissance job, Cal. Nothing dangerous.”

  “Do I know this buddy?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know I’d want my daughter to be around him?”

  “Okay, Cal. I’ll tell you what. You take care of Junior and I’ll make it up to you.”