Southern Fried

by Cathy Pickens

  The quizzical look Mr. Earnest fixed on me, and the gentle, saccharine politeness of his tone, told me he knew more than my dad would’ve told him. The circumstances of my firing were too complicated to be adequately absorbed by the grapevine. So I wondered which tendrils had reached the cracked-leather pump chairs in Mr. Earnest’s barbershop.

  “Came up to drain the water lines at the cabin,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting this much excitement.”

  I smiled. I knew we’d both pretend that he knew nothing at all scandalous or questionable about me.

  A couple dozen cabins sat tucked back among the pines on needle-strewn winter-weedy banks around a small, still lake. Luna Lake, only twenty minutes north of Dacus, serves as a busy weekend getaway in summer but sits largely abandoned in cold weather.

  “Whoa!”

  A shout from the ramp stopped conversations in the clustered groups. Pudd swung around and into the truck cab, as fast as his bulk would allow, to reach the brake. Pudd’s young buddy cut off the winch’s motor and scuttled out of the way before the truck, on a slow slide toward the water, could run him down.

  “Shoulda tied that thing off on a tree,” Mr. Earnest observed. “Winch’ll pull the truck underwater ’fore it pulls that car out.”

  Pudd got the truck stopped and several of the Ghouly Boys gathered around to hatch another plan.

  Mr. Earnest nodded. “Don’t use the cabin much anymore,” he said. “Might not keep it. With so many Yankees coming in, I can probably get a good price for it.”

  I nodded. Mr. Earnest, his hands jammed into the pockets of his L.L. Bean jacket and his bald head shining in the weak sunlight, could’ve been mistaken for one of those retired Yankees. Until he opened his mouth.

  “I hear tell you’ve moved into your granddad’s cabin up here.” He squinted at me. “That a good idea?”

  “Well, it’ll do until I decide on something more permanent. Mom and Dad tried to get me to stay with them. But the cabin needed some work. It’s a nice change, after living in Columbia.”

  “You sure it’s safe?” Mr. Earnest asked bluntly. “Not too many folks up here this time of year.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I didn’t elaborate. Years ago, my grandfather had not only taught me to shoot, he’d bought me a nice little S&W .38 and educated me on the advantages of hollow points.

  Mr. Earnest leaned against the hood of a county cop car, settling in to watch the lake. “You setting up practice in Dacus?”

  “No. I’m just working out of Carlton Earner’s office temporarily.” To keep busy, I picked up court appointments and guardian ad litem cases that the county’s other attorneys avoided like plague-ridden rats. I’d left Columbia a few weeks ago without a clear plan in mind, but with no reason to start a real job search until after the holidays.

  He nodded, staring at the lake. The winch whined weakly, straining to dislodge the car from its mud bed. Mr. Earnest didn’t seem in any hurry to get about his business.

  “Funny, you and Melvin Bertram coming home at the same time.”

  “Who?” I settled back against the car hood next to him.

  “Melvin Bertram. You too young to remember him?” He sighed, his round belly shifting beneath his crossed arms. “He’s been gone, law, I guess ten or fifteen years now. Time sure has a way of getting away from you.”

  I nodded. The pace of conversation and most else in Dacus now struck me as odd. I’d been away almost ten years, to attend law school and then to practice law. In that time, I’d forgotten the circadian rhythms of my growing up, the paced conversations with deep currents. The pauses, in some cases, spoke more than words. He was saying something important. I waited, hoping I could hear it in the pauses.

  He continued. “Yep, probably closer to fifteen years. Were you gone by then?”

  “In high school,” I said. But Melvin Bertram’s name rang only a faint bell with me.

  I studied the trees that rimmed the small lake—scarcely more than a shirttail full of water, in my Aunt Letha’s words. The leafless hardwoods sketched stark patterns against the watered blue sky. A half dozen docks jutted around the lake’s rim, though the only boat visible was the rescue boat.

  “Peculiar he’d come to mind,” Mr. Earnest said, then sloughed off the topic like a too-warm overcoat. “How’s your momma and daddy doing? Can’t believe he decided to buy that old newspaper.”

  I smiled, mostly to myself. “Yep. He’s been getting a lot of ribbing about that.” My father had surprised the Rotary Club one day by announcing that he’d bought the Clarion, after a working life as a mechanical engineer. “He says the paper’s only assets are a bunch of old machinery, and he can keep that running as well as anybody.”

  Mr. Earnest chuckled, his belly heaving. “That’s ’bout true.”

  The rumbling arrival from Todd’s Wrecker Service interrupted our slow conversation. Whoever had radioed into Dacus for a wrecker without giving Pudd’s winch a chance to prove itself had been wise. But, before the wrecker could maneuver into place, Pudd petulantly had to rewind his cable and back his truck out of the way, the tires spitting gravel.

  The spectators perched around staring, like we didn’t have anything better to do with our midmorning.

  Which I didn’t. I could’ve walked over to get Donlee Griggs sprung from county detention. Donlee’s alleged victim stood a scant twenty yards from me, jeans riding low on his skinny hips and brown locks stringing over the neck of his grubby flannel shirt. So avoiding a murder charge would likely be a formality.

  But I wasn’t in any hurry. Especially since that goofball had planned all this just so I would rush to his aid.

  Pudd’s laughter still burned my ears. I really should make a phone call to assure that the wheels of justice began to grind. But I needed a little while to nurse my pique—and my embarrassment. You really can’t go home again.

  The wrecker kept feeding cable to the divers.

  I couldn’t help being surprised at myself. True, the tense boredom and promise of drama here reminded me of a courtroom. But two weeks ago, I couldn’t have imagined propping my rump against the hood of a car, staring across the lake and shooting the breeze with the guy who cuts my father’s hair. I’d been too busy calculating billable hours and buzzing around Charleston or Columbia in my black BMW from lunch meetings to hearings to late-night preps for morning depositions. Killing an hour or two in the company of a bunch of county employees and police scanner addicts wouldn’t have been on my agenda.

  Now I had nowhere to ran. And not much to ran around in since I had no leased BMW. My closetful of business suits hung in the only closet I could claim—in my old room at my parents’ house; the lake cabin boasted only wall pegs. And my most important client sat periodically stamping nose prints onto the window of a county cop car.

  The wrecker cable drew taut as the motor ground loudly. A few of the cops gathered at the bottom of the ramp, right where the wrecker would flatten them if its brakes failed.

  Out on the lake, the johnboaters positioned themselves closer to shore. They wisely stayed a safe distance away from the taut cable as it disappeared into the water. The onlookers stared, most not speaking now. Several minutes went by, filled only by the sound of the winch and the intermittent squawk of two-way radios. Then the water at the base of the boat ramp churned.

  In a bubble of muddy water, the car’s rear end appeared. Even with most of it still underwater, the car dwarfed the bobbing two-seater boat. The juxtaposition of the two objects jarred my senses. Cars aren’t routinely resurrected from watery graves.

  Slowly, as the truck’s winch continued to whine, more of the car lifted into view. The sheet metal had rusted to a mottled red-brown shade. The mudcaked tires hit the submerged end of the ramp.

  Johnnie Black stopped the winch, leaving only the car’s trunk and rooftop visible.

  The divers, belly-floating beside the car, seemed to be checking the underside of the car.

  “Good thing it ’uz right side
up,” one of the amateur rescue experts standing near me commented. “Otherwise they’d’ve had to flip that sucker in the water.”

  Several watchers drew in closer, forming a tighter ring around the drama. Not close enough to get in the way, but eager not to miss any of the good stuff.

  One of the divers flipped a hand signal to the wrecker operator, who started pulling up cable again. Slowly.

  The car inched up the ramp. Water streamed down the sides in muddy rivulets. Reddish-brown stains coated the window glass, leaving a color like someone had tried to wash away dried blood. Distinguishing between the rusty parts and the red mud was impossible.

  I’m no good at identifying makes and models, but the sedan sported a boxy broad trunk and a mass of sheet metal that current gas mileage restrictions won’t allow. A Ford decal decorated the trunk.

  The car’s rear end crept up the ramp. The onlookers craned, necks extended like vultures’ for a better look. The front seat wasn’t yet visible.

  As the car emerged from the water, the front end canted sharply downward. But I didn’t have to move for a better look. The car’s passenger obliged me by floating into view against the rear window.

  I’ll never look at a kid’s Magic 8 Ball in the same way again.

  Murky water filled the car. Inside a shape floated into view, undefined at first. Then the face—or what remained of it—drew close to the window and took form through the murk. A human head. Not exactly a head. But not quite a skull either. A waxy yellow padding outlined the cheeks, jaw, and neck. The eye holes gaped, hollow and black.

  Floating limply, the head tilted. The grinning teeth tapped once against the glass. Then the apparition floated back into a shapeless form in the murk.

  The guy who’d been glad they hadn’t had to flip the car clamped his hand over his mouth and stifled a gagging sound.

  Two

  The unexpected resurrection at the lake must have I unnerved me more than I realized, for I immediately made two mistakes: stopping by my parents’ house and calling Sheriff L.J. Peters.

  L.J.’s guffaw as soon as she heard my voice told me she’d already learned about Donlee and the invented drowning of Pee Vee Probert. Pee Vee himself had shown up at the detention center to ask Donlee why he’d tried to drown him when he, Pee Vee, hadn’t even been at the lake. Then the two of them had headed off in Pee Vee’s pickup.

  “Practically arm in arm,” L.J. said. “Probably headed to Tap’s to celebrate Pee Vee’s near-death experience.”

  Tap’s Pool Room, the bar where Donlee worked and where Pee Vee regularly drank. And where Donlee drank and alternately lost and remorsefully reclaimed his religion.

  “They’ll most likely both be back down here in detention by sometime tomorrow morning,” L.J. finished in a wry tone.

  I hoped Pee Vee was the only one drinking to celebrate that he hadn’t drowned. I didn’t want a late-night call from Donlee.

  As soon as I hung up the phone on L.J’s barking laughter, my mom corralled me.

  “You finished, Avery? Then you can come with me to the Frank Dobbins circle meeting.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Those ladies would love to see you, now that you’re back in town. Some of them probably haven’t seen you in years.”

  “I really need—”

  “And you’re already dressed up. Though you need to spot-clean the hem of your jacket. Looks like you backed into something.”

  She stuck the corner of a kitchen towel under the faucet, then proceeded to damp-mop the back of my blazer.

  “Mom, I really need to stop by the hardware store—”

  She picked a couple of stray red-gold hairs from my jacket. “Stayin’ up at that cabin isn’t one of your better ideas, Avery. Lord only knows, though, you’re as pigheaded as your grandfather ever had time to be. Anything could happen up there. Take that drowning this morning—”

  “Mom, nobody drowned this morning. A guy made the whole thing up. It was a joke.”

  “Still, that car with the body in it. That’s not the kind of place you need to be staying by yourself. Who’d they think it was?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t want to think about it right now. I suppressed a shudder. The picture was too fresh in my mind—and too gruesome.

  The drowning, I could believe she’d heard about. How she knew about the submerged car already was beyond me, though not much happens in Dacus that Mom doesn’t know about, mostly through her various projects.

  Come to think of it, Donlee Griggs had been one of her little projects. She and I would have to have a talk about that one of these days.

  But not right now. Right now, we were on our way out the door to the Frank Dobbins circle meeting.

  I couldn’t very well insist on driving, since I didn’t have a car. Nothing made me question what would become of me more than reminders that I had no wheels. I’d have to attend to my lack of transportation, probably sometime after I attend to my lack of gainful employment.

  Mom scooted through a yellow light in front of the Lutheran church and banked in a sweeping circle, with several bags of cans collected for recycling rattling across the back of the minivan. She parked in a diagonal space beside the church, her front wheels perched on the sidewalk.

  I’ve never been certain what function the Frank Dobbins circle meetings serve—or even who Frank had been. Mostly, it seemed, a group of ladies got together at one another’s houses or in church social halls and chatted about books, ate cucumber sandwiches, and then, I assumed, spent the rest of the afternoon burping up cucumber.

  My mom, being a sensible woman, didn’t seem to fit. But she went anyway. I suspected it enabled her to enlist the aid of these ladies, their Sunday School classes, and their husbands’ checkbooks in her projects. You can’t save the world without adequate resources.

  The cooing and chirping that greeted me fell in sharp contrast to the hands-in-the-pockets stares that had met me at Luna Lake that morning. But the arm-patting and polite comments masked some of the same kinds of questioning looks.

  The tallest woman in the room neither smiled nor genteelly patted arms. From her vantage point near the cut-glass punch bowl, she spotted us as soon as we came through the door. She set her collision course accordingly. The lesser ships floating in her path did little to impede her progress, but her salutation reached us before she did.

  “Avery. Glad you brought her, Emma.”

  Seeing my great-aunt Letha in contexts other than family gatherings always brings the enormity of her into stark relief. Aunt Letha is a large person by any measure, but against lesser mortals, those less able to withstand her onslaught than her own family, she is formidable indeed.

  Letha is my mother’s aunt. My greatgrandmother died in childbirth while producing my grandfather, Avery Hampton Howe. Two decades later, my greatgrandfather remarried and sired three daughters, Aletha, Hattie, and Vinnia. When my greatgrandfather later buried his second wife, Aletha assumed what all considered her birthright: the role of matriarch. She’d held the unelected office ever since.

  “Aunt Letha, it’s good to see you.” We don’t waste a lot of time hugging in my family, but a handshake seemed particularly awkward. So I simply smiled.

  “Good thing you’re here. Getting out’s the best thing. Best thing to still wagging tongues.” Letha shot a look at a pillowy lady standing nearby in a tight print dress. “Afraid a mule’s gonna kick you, stand close to it. It’ll still kick. But it won’t hurt nearly as bad,” Letha said, not quietly.

  The pillowy lady’s expression froze under her wiry gray curls. Like a possum caught in headlights, she couldn’t even bring herself to scurry away. I had no idea what they’d been saying about me before I got there, but Aunt Letha’s unveiled remarks left little doubt that this pinch-faced woman had been in on it.

  Aunt Letha turned her attention to me, and I tried not to wince. Her directness can be rough, even on those she might intend to protect. “Good thing you’re pulling y
our hair back like that,” she said. “Makes that long hair look more professional. You need to meet Sylvie Garnet. She may have a wonderful opportunity for you. If you’d bothered to stop by this week, I’d have told you about it sooner.”

  My mother comes by her penchant for hard-luck cases honestly, though Aunt Letha is more formidable in her aid to the downtrodden. The downtrodden better be moving pretty quick or Letha can steam right over them.

  “Drat. Don’t see her right now. But I’ll introduce you. Whatever were you doing hanging around up at the lake this morning? Hattie, Vinnia. Avery’s here. Avery, you come by tomorrow. We need to go walking.”

  My other two great-aunts joined us, rescuing me from further cross-examination. I really didn’t want Aunt Letha asking me about the lake.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and I promised to get my mom and dad over for lunch after church. My great-aunts didn’t mention the submerged car or Donlee’s stunt—which boded badly for my reputation. Either they didn’t know—which was unlikely————or the story circulating was so embarrassing they dared not mention it. Maybe they were still so embarrassed for me over the loss of my job, they hadn’t had time yet to fret over how I’d managed to attract the attentions of Donlee Griggs.

  Had anybody asked, I couldn’t really explain the loss of my job. I still wasn’t sure why I had snapped that day in court, listening to my own expert witness shamelessly perjuring himself to win my medical malpractice case. I play to win, but not at all costs. Not with an expert willing to stretch the truth beyond all recognition. I snapped. By the time I got through angrily goading Hilliard and he got through exploding, the judge declared a mistrial, the insurance company I represented settled with the injured baby’s family, and I was out of a job. True, I should’ve controlled myself in court. But my reasons were too complicated to explain in casual conversation. So I’d just keep smiling and pretending along with everybody else in Dacus that nothing had happened.

  As I looked around for Mom, Letha returned to grab my elbow and steer me at an alarming pace past clusters of dainty little ladies. I feared we’d topple someone over, bobbing as they must in Aunt Letha’s wake.