“Burger, fries, Mountain Dew,” answered Tom in his just-the-facts cop voice.
“Right!” Cut the enthusiasm, Val. You’re getting weird! It was just a kiss. Don’t blow it out of proportion! “I’m starving, too. Who knew that police work was so demanding?” What? Shut up, for crying out loud!
“Tom prob’ly did, since he is one,” Winky replied in a dry, obvious way that made us all snort with laughter. Tom turned the ignition and pointed the old Ford east on Hwy 90 away from Chattahoochee State Hospital and toward Chattahoochee proper, home of the world-famous Chattaburger.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was no way to have a real conversation with Winky in the seat beside us, so on the drive to the burger joint Tom and I kept our thoughts to ourselves. We decided to save time and get our Chattaburgers to go. We ate our burgers and fries on the ride home. Tiny McMullen’s order was in a sack between my knees – a not-so-subtle attempt to keep Winky’s dirty hands off of it.
“I have to admit, this Chattaburger is pretty darn good,” I said, trying to make conversation to drown out the sound of Winky chomping and slurping mere inches from my right ear. “No wonder Tiny wanted us to bring him back one.”
“Yeah,” Winky agreed, smacking his lips. “Who would a thought a cheetah could taste so good.”
“It’s Chatta, not…oh, who cares,” I said, reminding myself some battles were not worth fighting. “How do you like yours, Tom?”
“Pretty tasty,” he said, then nudged me and whispered. “But nothing compared to something I tasted earlier.”
I blushed with an uncomfortable mixture of pride, embarrassment and lust. To compensate, I did the only mature thing I could think of. I punched Tom in the arm. The impact made him drop his bag of fries. They scattered over his lap, putting grease marks all over his crisp, ironed jeans.
“Oh no! Sorry!”
“You’re going to have to clean that up, young lady,” he said in a mock-stern cop voice.
I looked into Tom’s sparkling green eyes, and smiled coyly. Then I shot a glance over at Winky. He’d already finished wolfing down his food and was in his own well-fed nirvana. His head stuck out the window like a freckled hound dog – complete with open mouth and wagging tongue. With Winky distracted, I turned my attention back to Tom.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Officer,” I said, chipping the rust off my “sexy voice.” I picked the French fries from his thighs one by one. Each time, I’d offer him one, then eat one myself – slowly and suggestively. That certainly got his attention, if you know what I mean.
“I see you like fries,” he said distractedly, trying to keep one eye on the road and one on me.
“I love fries.” I moved my hand slowly down the inside of his thigh on the pretense of searching for any stray fries. His leg felt strong and muscular. “Just making sure I did a good job, officer.”
Tom inhaled sharply, then blew out a breath. “Believe me, you did.”
“Why we goin’ so gaul-dang slow?” bellowed Winky. He’d pulled his head in from the window.
I looked down at the speedometer and bit my lip to keep from laughing. We were going about twelve miles an hour.
“I like to take my time,” Tom answered too loudly, his face scarlet.
“Me too,” I said, smirking into his green eyes.
“Well if that don’t beat a goat a gobblin’,” said Winky.
Whatever that meant.
***
Not-so-tiny Tiny grabbed the Chattaburger bag with delight and explained Tom’s car troubles between mouthfuls of fries and slurps from a huge, half-gallon cup of Mountain Dew.
“It’s the earl line,” the huge man said. He leaned against the hood of the 4Runner and sucked some antifreeze-colored soda from his straw.
“The earl line?” Tom asked politely.
“Yep. Been cut clean in two. Earl nearly completely drained out. Good thing you didn’t go nowhere. Would a blown the block. Need to replace the line. Gonna need a few quarts a earl, too. Take six or eight to fill her?”
“Oh. I’d say six quarts of oil should do it,” said Tom.
“Alrighty then. I got enough earl at the house. I done ordered the earl line. Should be here tonight. Or first thing in the morning. Won’t take but a jiff to have her ready. I figure $30 and a box a donuts and we’re square. Deal?”
Tiny wiped his right hand on the thigh of his filthy overalls, then held it out toward Tom. Tom shook it without hesitation.
“Deal.”
Tiny eyed me and Tom, then whispered, “Wouldn’t take him, huh?” He nodded his head in Winky’s direction.
“Nope, too far gone,” I said before Tom could answer.
Tiny nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Purty obvious. Prob’ly coulda saved you a trip by sayin’ so.”
“Don’t worry. We got an aunt in Valdosta who’ll take him,” I said in a serious, hushed tone.
“You can always count on family,” said Tiny.
I looked over at Tom. His face registered a hint of unease and regret. I hoped he knew I was just joking, and that I wasn’t really part of all this craziness. But wait. I was!
“Okay then,” said Tom, in a way that seemed to close the discussion. “Looks like I’m taking the day off tomorrow. I’ll call the office and give them the heads up.”
Tom walked off to make a call. I left Tiny and Winky standing in the shade of the pecan tree in mom’s front yard and went into the house. Mom and Dale were in their matching recliners watching The Price is Right at five million decibels.
“Hey,” I called out to the backs of their heads, trying to trump the volume on the TV. “Looks like we need to stay another night. That okay with you two?”
“Sure,” said Mom, her eyes never leaving the set. “What you wanna do about dinner?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Good.”
I poked around in the fridge. Off hand, I didn’t know any recipes that called for pudding packs, Velveeta and buttermilk.
“I’m going to the store,” I hollered in their general direction, then I went back outside. “We’re good to stay another night,” I said to Tom. He nodded.
Across the street I saw Tiny’s large backside disappear behind a junked car in his yard. Winky was in the process of trying to aggravate that poor squirrel with a stick again. Winky heard my news and hurled the stick across the yard. He kicked the ground with his bare foot, making me wonder whether or not he’d been wearing shoes on our trip today.
“Gaul-dang it! I was hopin’ to hightail it outta here!”
“Why? You got somewhere to be?” Tom asked.
“Not partic’lar, but I know when I ain’t wanted.” Winky looked me in the face. “Excuse me for sayin’ so, Val, but right now I’m about as welcome with your mammy as a turd on a cherry sundae.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry, Winky. It’ll blow over. I’ve been the human sacrifice for Mount Saint Mom’s volcanic moods for over forty years now, and I’m still standing.”
“And still smokin’ hot, I might add,” said Tom in a half-joking, half-sexy way that made my neck flush with heat. I might have been offended if he weren’t so damn cute.
“Well, I ain’t used to gettin’ such dirty looks,” Winky whined.
“Really?” I asked, truly incredulous.
“Ha ha, Miss Val Pal. Your humor ain’t lost on me.” Winky shot a sore glance over at Tom’s truck. “Crap. Looks like I’ll be settin’ up camp in the 4Runner again.”
“Sorry, Winky.” I felt bad about making him feel bad. “Look, let’s take the golf cart up to IGA and get some donuts or ice cream or something. That’ll get my mom in a better mood. I need to find something to fix for dinner anyway.”
Winky brightened at the prospect. “Shotgun!”
***
Okay, I admit it. I chose to fry chicken for dinner not because I was a good hostess. Or because I was trying to impress Tom with my Southern culinary skills. Nope. I chose to fry chicken because I knew it w
ould take a long time and keep me out of that familiar line of fire I called, “Conversation with my mother.” I smiled smugly at my cleverness and dredged a raw chicken thigh in seasoned flour, then buttermilk, then back through the flour again. I dropped it carefully into the sizzling oil in the last open spot in the cast iron skillet, then clamped on the glass lid. I stirred a huge pot of collard greens and listened in on the boys in the battlefield. Despite their peace offering of a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, they never stood a chance.
“How come yer a cop.” It was Mom’s voice. “You got some kinda problem with aw-tharity?”
“No ma’am. I just like helping people.”
“Hmmm.”
I chuckled to myself. “Hmmm” was Mom’s typical response to something she didn’t believe. I guess it was more polite than screaming “bull hockey” or “liar,” something I’d also seen her do plenty of times. Maybe she was mellowing in her old age. To my surprise, Winky stepped up and saved Tom from further interrogation.
“I shore do like your spare toilet roll holder, Mrs. Short. I ain’t never seen a purtier crocheted poodle. You do that yourself, ma’am?”
“Why no, Winky. My sister Vera Jane done that. God rest her soul.”
“Well that’s a real keeper, fer shore. I seen me a pink one a’fore. And a yeller doll-type one, you know. But I never seen a yeller poodle. Yep, it’s a real keeper.”
“I ’preciate that, Winky. You and me got off on the wrong foot. But now I see you got good manners and good taste. Val could do a lot worse than to settle on you.”
“Oh. Thanky, ma’am. But they’s nothin’ goin’ on with me and Val. Strictly platonical, if you know what I mean. Besides, I think she’s sweet on Tommy boy, here.”
I was desperate to hear what came next, but the damn oil in the frying skillet boiled over and sent a plume of white-hot smoke through the dingy kitchen. I ran around opening windows and fanning the air like an idiot to keep from setting off the smoke alarm. By the time I got the air cleared and the chicken pieces turned, the battlefield topic had moved on.
“No I ain’t much on flea markets,” Mom was saying. “Growin’ up, just about everything we had was give to us. We was poor. I mean dirt poor. I won’t have nothin’ now ’less it’s new and we can pay cash money for it, right Dale?”
“Yes’m, honey.”
Short and sweet. That was Dale.
“Vallie!” Mom’s razor-sharp voice startled me, causing me to nearly drop the plate of chicken I was carrying. “You about burned up that chicken dinner yet?”
Short and not-so-sweet. That was my mom.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’d set the alarm on my cellphone to 6 a.m. to avoid another one of Mom’s flyswatter wake-up calls. I heard it beep, switched it off then lolled around inside the wispy memory of a dream. Glad and I had been laughing together. I was sitting behind her, my arms wrapped around her and we were riding on a giant blue-and-green dragonfly. No, wait. We were shrunk to the size of matchsticks and riding a normal-sized dragonfly. I think. Anyway, it soared over Glad’s Minnie Winnie, which was parked on the sugar-white sand between the beach and Paddy’s. The sky was blue and warm, and Glad was leaning back, whispering something in my ear. It tickled. What was she saying? “Be Glad. Glad. Glorf. Glorf. Grrof.” Her breath smelled like kibbles and barf….
I shot awake. Mom’s damn yappy dog was licking my ear. I sat up on the couch and pushed the pooch away. My ear was sopping wet with slobber. Gross! I got up and scurried down the hallway to the bathroom, holding my ear and cursing under my breath. Preoccupied, I ran headlong into Tom.
“Wow, Val. You really aren’t a morning person.”
Someone kill me now. “Told ya.”
He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. “How about a good morning kiss?” he teased.
“Not the time or place,” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip, dog saliva trickling down my ear.
“It’s okay. We’ve already had our first kiss, remember?” he asked with his minty fresh breath.
I turned my face away before I spoke, in case my breath was worse than the dog’s. “Yeah, in a nuthouse.”
Tom touched the side of my face and turned my head gently until we were eye to eye. He was smiling! At this ungodly hour! Without even so much as one cup of coffee!
“I heard that’s good luck,” he joked in a deep, sexy morning voice.
I snorted out a sarcastic laugh. “Come on, you’re spoiling my bad mood.”
His smile evaporated and his face registered concern. He pulled his hand away from the side of my face and examined it. “Is your ear leaking?”
Horrified, I pushed past Tom into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
***
Miraculously, Tiny got the 4Runner up and going by breakfast. Tom and Dale had taken the golf cart up to IGA at half-past six and scored two big boxes of donuts. I guess they had freed Tiny up so he could dive right in to fixing the oil line. It didn’t take him long. In fact, he was done in time to join us at the breakfast table. Tiny washed up at the kitchen sink, then turned a dining chair around and straddled it, lowering his huge bulk precariously onto the unlucky chair as it protested with groans and squeaks. Actually, it felt good to have a house full of men around me. Dale, Tom, Winky and Tiny provided a testosterone-filled buffer zone between me and my mother.
“Well, Valiant Jolly, when are me and Dale gonna see you again?” Mom asked, cramming half a cream-filled donut in her mouth. She shot me a pathetic look that could have made Mother Teresa feel like shit.
“It’s Fremden now, Mom. My German name.”
“Fremden? I never can remember it. What in tarnation is a Fremden?”
I had wondered the same thing a few years back. Lots of names like Smith and Jones didn’t really have any meaning. But Fremden did. I’d looked it up in my German-to-English dictionary. “It means stranger, Mom.”
“Well, you do keep gettin’ stranger and stranger,” Mom snorted, amusing herself so much she nearly choked on her Maxwell House.
I nodded silently, counting her intended insult as personal gain. I sure hope so.
“Tiny, thanks again for fixing up the 4Runner,” Tom said. My hero! Coming to my rescue by changing the subject! I had to admit, Tom did look a bit like Prince Charming. Especially sitting amongst this lot. I threw him a grateful smile. He caught it.
“No problemo, Tom,” replied Tiny. “Only thing I like better’n donuts is gettin’ under the hood of a vehicle, even if it is a Ty-otee.”
“It’s been a real pleasure havin’ you and these boys here,” Dale, aka The Hostage, said in my direction. He took out a hanky and dabbed at his nearly useless eyes. He was a small, delicate man, and for some reason the thought of him and my mom together brought to my mind a pair of black widow spiders. After mating, the much larger female often annihilated her partner by eating him alive. The male had to be crafty to avoid such a fate. I hoped Dale was crafty.
A sudden wave of melancholy threatened to overcome me. It left me no choice but to bust out crying or get busy doing something. I chose the latter and I stood up. “Thank you, Dale. It’s always a pleasure to see you…and Mom. I guess I better get started on the dishes if we’re going to get out of here anytime soon.”
“Leave ‘em. I’ll do ‘em,” my mother said. My knees nearly buckled at the surprise.
“Thanks, Mom.” I started to reach over and hug her.
“You don’t get ‘em clean enough anyway,” she said, never looking up. She chose instead to take a huge bite from a cruller.
***
Some things just look an awful lot better from the rearview mirror. As we drove away, I watched the reflection of Mom and Dale waving from the front yard until it shrank and faded away. Despite the feeling of relief, my throat got tight and my nose grew hot. Longing to return to a fairytale that never was is, I guess, the universal irony of family.
Tom offered me a hanky that came with the welcome bonu
s of a tender squeeze of my hand. I blew my dripping nose and was reminded of something to be grateful for. My nose was healed enough for my mom not to notice. At least I didn’t have to explain to her why I got punched in the face.
“Did I hear your mom call you Valiant?” Tom asked, returning me from Lady Lala Land.
I took a quick glance in the backseat. Winky was passed out. Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. God bless you whoever invented Dramamine.
“Yes. Val is short for Valiant. Valiant W. Jolly. That’s the name my parents gave me.”
“So…is there a story that goes with that name? I’ve never heard of anyone called Valiant before.”
I glanced over at Tom. He actually looked serious. Damn handsome too, his blonde bangs gently moving with the gusts from the air conditioner. His mirrored shades gave him a sort of movie-star cop mystique.
“I guess. But it’s a short story. My dad said he called me that because I was brave.”
“What did you do that was brave?”
I scrunched up my eyebrows. “You know, I don’t think I ever asked him. I guess I never thought about it. Maybe I was brave just to be born into a family run by my mother.”
I laughed. Tom didn’t.
“I could see where that would count for something,” he said. “So what’s the W stand for? Who, what, where, when or why?”
He turned and shot me that grin I’d begun to enjoy so much. I liked it when he joked. It was easier to breathe. Serious Tom made me nervous…in more ways than one.
“Another mystery. My mom said they couldn’t decide on anything good. They thought a W would make me sound more distinguished. A distinguished redneck. Talk about being born into irony….”
“Well, you are pretty distinguished, if you think about it. College educated. Lived in Germany. Speak the language.”
“Danke.”
“And you’re pretty redneck,” Tom added, deflating my fledgling ego boost.
“What do you mean?”
Glad One: Starting Over is a %$#@&! (Val & Pals Book 2) Page 19
