Bet Your Bottom Dollar (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 1)

by Karin Gillespie

  Timothy delivered this information matter-of-factly, but I thought I saw a twinge of sadness in his eyes, like he wished his mama was closer to him in more ways than one.

  It was hard for me to imagine my family members scattered here and there like dandelion fluff. My own kin had always lived within hollering distance of one another in Cayboo Creek, until Daddy moved to Augusta when he married Taffy.

  With his daddy gone and his mama an ocean away, I suspected Timothy sometimes felt all alone in the world. As the line started moving into the church, I touched Timothy’s sleeve and smiled at him. I was glad that Mrs. Tobias had introduced us and that we were becoming such good friends.

  One day Timothy and I were sitting on the bench by the creek, watching children pump their legs up and down on the playground swings a few hundred yards away.

  “I remember doing that,” I said. “Watching my legs fly out straight in front of me. Admiring the ways my knees wrinkled up. Thinking there was nothing as fine as legs that could snap out straight and bend at the hinges.”

  Timothy rubbed his chin. “You never seem to take anything for granted Elizabeth, not even knees. It reminds me of a poem by Whitman.”

  Then he recited an entire poem by heart. I’d never met anyone who could do such a trick—just fire off a poem as easily as pulling out a handkerchief from a jeans pocket. I loved the poem he recited; it talked about everyday things like a grain of sand and the egg of a wren.

  “‘And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,’” Timothy said. He smiled. “That was the part that reminded me of what you said about your legs on the swing set, Elizabeth. I bet you didn’t know that you think like a poet.”

  That poem made me hungry for others, and on our next meeting Timothy brought me a book full of some of the best poems in the world. I’d read one each night before I went to bed. I always thought poetry was only for college people or that you needed an English teacher to explain what they meant. But the more I read poems, the more I thought of them as word postcards to the reader. Like this: “Saw a chicken and a wheelbarrow. Wish you were here.”

  During one lunch hour, Timothy took me to the Morris Museum of Art in downtown Augusta. He taught me to notice the tiny strokes that made up the whole of a painting and to pay attention to the texture of the paint as it rose up from the canvas like frosting on a cupcake.

  I stood in front of a painting of a river lined with live oaks, and I imagined pushing myself inside the canvas so I could feel the feathery brush of Spanish moss as it slithered down the trunks and smell the swampy water that splashed against the knuckled roots.

  As much time as Timothy and I spent together, we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, despite the winks I’d get from folks in Cayboo Creek as we walked down Main Street together. If his hand accidentally brushed mine, he’d quickly move it away. Friday and Saturday nights my phone stayed quiet, and my social calendar was as slow-moving as a glacier.

  Sometimes when we were together, I felt Timothy studying me when he thought I didn’t notice. As soon as I looked up, his eyes would jump to stare at the ground.

  It got to the point that when I wasn’t with Timothy, I thought about him—like how his newly grown hair licked his forehead and curved around his ears or his deep blue eyes that were really almost purple. Sometimes whole blocks of time would pass as I ran movies of Timothy in my mind. Soon enough I’d be rudely jolted out of my dream world when Maybelline barked or the oak tree outside my window scratched its branch across the screen.

  Eleven

  Snowmen fall from Heaven unassembled.

  ~ Message in the Methodist Church Bulletin

  Fall withered into winter, and before I knew it the holiday season was upon us. Christmastime kept Mavis, Attalee, and me hopping at the store. It seemed just as soon as we put out the pumpkin pops and candy corn, it was time to replace them with marshmallow Peep snowmen and milk chocolate Santas wrapped in foil.

  We were so busy, we didn’t have time to stew over the impending opening of the Super Saver Dollar Store. Our group had collected almost two thousand signatures and sent it along with a letter to the corporate headquarters several weeks before, but we hadn’t heard a word. There hadn’t been any signs of progress on the vacant dirt lot since some surveyors had come around with their equipment in October. The neighborhood kids mostly used it to play dodge ball. I took this as a good omen. Maybe the Super Saver had decided to stay away from Cayboo Creek and just hadn’t bothered to tell anyone.

  The SOB group had lost some of its steam with the holidays looming. At our last meeting, Birdie reported that the new Winn-Dixie wasn’t going to have a coffee shop after all. Nor would the store be much of a threat to Reeky, as they’d carry only a few paperbacks up front. Boomer’s Butcher Shop would probably feel the pinch, but Boomer planned to add home delivery to give the “beef people” a run for their money. SOB was also working with the town fathers on getting the zoning laws changed to keep out other big chain stores, but that wouldn’t help Mavis.

  Not that Mavis seemed too upset lately. With no stirrings from the Super Saver, she hadn’t mentioned South Dakota in weeks. Plus Mavis got a real kick out of Christmas. She wore her candy-cane earrings and sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in her squeaky soprano voice as she hung tinsel from the ceiling.

  Attalee had her “Merry Twistmas from Conway Twitty” album playing on the boom box, and Santa Claus—who was actually Hank Bryson from the hardware store—was scheduled to make an appearance at the Bottom Dollar Emporium on Christmas Eve.

  That afternoon Mavis closed up shop because she, Attalee, and I were on the Christmas parade committee, which was meeting in the break area of the store to finalize some last-minute details.

  Hank Bryson scratched behind his ear with his pen and stared at his clipboard. “Okay, so far in the parade we got the Pride of Cayboo Creek marching band, the taxidermist shop, Miss Cayboo Creek and her court of cuties, the Chat ‘N’ Chew who’s going to throw candy, yours truly as Santa, and—”

  “About the taxidermist shop, Hank, do you know if Jerry plans to display that mounted deer head on their float again?” asked Reeky. “I personally found a dead deer wearing a Santa Claus hat and a red nose a gruesome sight, and Lord knows what the children thought.”

  Hank shifted uncomfortably in his seat, partially because his girth wasn’t meant to be stuffed into a $2.99 plastic chair, but also because Reeky made him nervous. “I haven’t checked with Jerry over at the shop,” he said. “But he’s been doing that Rudolph thing going on ten years now. Far as I know, the kids are crazy for it.”

  “‘Traumatized’ is surely the more accurate word,” Reeky said. Talking to Hank caused her smooth, pale complexion to prickle with a rash.

  “Well, Miz Flynn, Cayboo Creek is a hunting community,” said Hank in a patient voice. “When the young’uns around here see a deer, they don’t think Bambi, they think buckshot. Plus Jerry is one of our largest contributors when it comes to pitching in for Christmas decorations for Main Street.”

  More objections twitched on Reeky’s lips, but she remained silent. Since her business was located on Main, she had a stake in seeing the street all gussied up for the holidays.

  “I have a concern,” said Birdie, who’d been recording the minutes of our meeting in her notebook. “Someone needs to approve the wardrobe choices for Miss Cayboo Creek and her court. Last year everyone was saying that they all looked like a bunch of hoochie-coochie mamas.”

  “I’m on that,” Mavis said. “I told the girls they’d have to bring their gowns in here by the fifteenth for approval. By the way, Elizabeth, did you call the band director and tell him no more baton-throwing?”

  “I did,” I said.

  Last year a stray baton had crashed through the window of the liquor store and nicked the ear of Prudee Phipps, who’d bee
n purchasing sherry for some eggnog. When the baton broke the window, a group of women from the Rock of Ages Baptist Church had started shouting “Amen” and “Praise the Lord!” Prudee took it as a sign from God and had been a teetotaler ever since.

  “I suggested that the students shake red and green pompoms instead of twirling batons, which I think will be more festive,” I said.

  “Anything else?” Hank asked.

  We all shook our heads.

  “Fine,” Hank said. “Now the parade route will be the same, except we’re going to go around Chickasaw Drive because of road repairs and—”

  Chiffon’s daughter, Emily, who was eight, burst through the front door.

  Mavis rose from her chair. “Emily, we have a meeting going on here. We’ll be opening back up in a few minutes.”

  “I know, Mrs. Loomis. But my mama told me to run over here quick and tell you.” The child’s face was pink from the brisk weather. “We saw them. The cement truck. They’re laying out the parking lot for that new dollar store.”

  We scrambled out of our seats without bothering with our jackets and followed Emily, who’d already torn out of the door in the direction of the vacant lot, her red scarf flying as she ran.

  Our group trotted down Main and went one street over to Mule Pen Road, hugging our arms against the cool air. We crossed the road and heard the rumble of the cement truck before we saw it.

  A sign had been erected on the site. “Future Site of the Super Saver Dollar Store,” it read, over an artist’s drawing of the finished store, complete with landscaping and cars in the parking lot.

  “I’ll be, Hank, that looks a lot like your truck in the drawing of that parking lot,” said Attalee, her voice thick with accusation.

  Hank glanced guiltily at Mavis. “Now Mavis, you know I wouldn’t dream of trading anywhere but the Bottom Dollar.”

  We all stood there a moment, watching our breath cloud and listening to the churning of the cement truck.

  Mavis broke the trance. “Come on. Let’s go back. It’s freezing out here.” She looked forlornly at the Super Saver sign. “Although I suspect it’s a whole lot colder in South Dakota. Last time I talked to Madge she said her mailman had to have the tip of his nose removed due to frostbite.”

  I wanted to buoy Mavis up. Tell her we couldn’t throw in the towel, that we needed to prepare ourselves for a fight. But I could tell by the slouch in her shoulders and the shuffle in her walk that no matter what I said, she wouldn’t be encouraged. Besides, I didn’t know what to tell her. I was fresh out of ideas for saving the Bottom Dollar Emporium.

  Twelve

  I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain to become

  a vegetarian.

  ~ Sign outside Boomer’s Butcher Shop

  On the afternoon of the Christmas parade, Timothy and I stood in front of Boomer’s Butcher Shop watching a group of carolers traverse Main Street in a pickup truck decorated with holly and poinsettias. Boomer came out of his shop and saluted Timothy.

  “So, Timothy,” he said. “When are you going to make an honest woman of our little Elizabeth here?”

  The tips of Timothy’s ears turned bright red, and I dipped my head and studied the tufts of grass that grew out of the cracks in the sidewalk. Fortunately, at that very moment, Santa Hank appeared on his riding lawn mower with enough fanfare to deflect Boomer’s question.

  Timothy had taken to Cayboo Creek the way a water bug takes to a pond. He made small talk with the knot of men that hung outside Orson’s Bait Box and Tanning Salon and folks around town were starting to call him by name. He’d even taken a few fishing trips with Chiffon’s husband, Lonnie, saying that sitting in a bass boat waiting for a nibble was an excellent form of meditation. When he came in the store, both Attalee and Mavis teased Timothy about his easy acclimation to Cayboo Creek, saying he’d changed from Buddha to “Bubba” in under four months.

  As Timothy watched Hank toss red hots and Smarties to the kiddies, I made a rough head count for the parade committee. Clip and Jonelle were two among the crowd. I tried to move along, but Jonelle spotted me and made a show of clinging to Clip like a burr. When he saw me, Clip pulled up the collar of his jacket and ducked his head down like a turtle.

  In spite of that personal dark moment, the parade went smoothly. The only off note came when Mello Vickery, who was marching in the parade as the Virgin Mary, tripped on her gown. The head of the doll she was carrying jarred loose from its body and rolled in the gutter, forcing Mello to finish out the route carrying a headless baby Jesus.

  Regardless, Timothy said it was the nicest parade he’d ever attended. I sighed with relief when Miss Cayboo Creek and her court rode by, waving regally from their perches on the back of Ferrell Haines’s pickup truck. The parade was finally over.

  After the holidays, Mavis, Attalee, and I witnessed more progress with the Super Saver Dollar Store. The frame went up in January and by the end of the month, sheetrock was in place. Come February, the windows were in, the yellow Super Saver sign was erected, and a big banner announced “Grand Opening March 20.”

  Timothy Hollingsworth and I, on the other hand, were at a standstill. He spent almost all his free time in Cayboo Creek and although he was as sweet as he could be, I no longer anticipated him reaching across the table at the Wagon Wheel to stroke my hand. When he dropped me off at my house on Scuffle Road, I didn’t linger in the passenger seat, thinking he might lean across the console of his Volvo and pull me in close for a kiss. And when I was alone, huddled beneath my comforter at night, I tried to blot out Timothy’s blue eyes and his wavy, dark hair and replace it with the moon-shaped face of Orson Hobbs of Orson’s Bait Box and Tanning Salon.

  Orson had begun frequenting the Bottom Dollar Emporium on the pretense of being a customer, but we all suspected he was there to spark on me. As Attalee said, “It ain’t humanly possible for a man to go through three boxes of Q-tips in one week.”

  On his visits to the store, he’d lean over the counter, wearing a T-shirt that said “Born to Fish; Forced to Work,” and chat about how his bowling game was coming along. (He always kept his hand with the missing thumb discreetly hidden in the pocket of his Dickey work pants.)

  Orson was a good-hearted man with an easy laugh. He lived in a brand-new double-wide trailer just on the banks of the creek and he didn’t hang out at the Tuff Luck Tavern every night after work to toss back whiskey shooters. He also accompanied his mama to Rock of Ages Baptist Church every Sunday.

  Fact was, Orson and I were a real logical match: dollar-store girl and bait-store boy. What could be more natural?

  I’d made up my mind that if Orson got it in his mind to ask me out to the Wagon Wheel one evening, I was going to accept his invitation. I even told Mavis and Attalee that the next time Orson came in the store, they should prepare to see my eyelashes fluttering like palm fronds during a breeze. I was tired of spending every Saturday night alone watching Maybelline scratch fleas.

  “What about Timothy?” Mavis asked. A crease of worry crossed her forehead. “Y’all make such a cute couple.”

  “He’s clearly not interested in me as a girlfriend,” I said with a flick of my hair. “Do you know that in all the months we’ve been keeping company he has not given me so much as a simple good-night kiss?”

  Mavis and Attalee exchanged a look.

  I slammed my price stamp down on a can of Tried and True Tuna. “He obviously doesn’t find me attractive. Therefore, I think it’s time to seek out greener pastures.”

  Mavis cleared her throat and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t think that’s true at all, Elizabeth,” she said. “Why, when that boy is here, he can’t take his eyes off of you. It’s clear to everyone in town that he’s smitten. I believe he just has a slower timetable than most fellows.”

  “Well, as everyo
ne keeps reminding me, I’m not getting younger,” I said with a sniff. “Maybe Timothy is just a little bit too leisurely for my tastes. Do you realize that it’s two days before Valentine’s Day and he hasn’t even made a date?” I glanced over at Mavis. “Besides, you’re the one who was pushing Orson on me before I met Timothy. I thought you’d be glad if we got together.”

  “A few months ago I would have been pleased,” Mavis said in a soft voice. “But that was before I met Timothy and saw how good he is for you.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “What do you mean?”

  “Both Attalee and I have noticed how you’ve blossomed since you’ve met Timothy,” said Mavis. She looked over at Attalee, who delivered an emphatic nod.

  “It’s almost like he’s awakening the true Elizabeth in a way that poor, old Orson, bless his heart, never could,” said Mavis.

  “And you’ve been good for that boy,” Attalee added. “He’s stopped wearing bed sheets; he’s filling out his dungarees some and he ain’t nearly as peculiar as he used to be. Fact is, I’ve never seen two people in my life who were more suited for each other.” She paused. “Well, except for me and Burl, of course. When Burl wasn’t pie-eyed, he was as romantic as Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit.”

  I leaned up against the checkout counter and sighed. “It may be true that Timothy and I are good together, but I could grow old and gray waiting to get a little sugar from him. And besides, I think y’all are wrong. I do believe Timothy Hollingsworth just thinks of me as a friend.”

  It was time for me to clock out, so I flounced over to get my jacket.

  “Who knows? I might even stop by the bait shop on my way home and get me a little color in one of those tanning beds of Orson’s,” I said. “He said he’d be working there until 8 p.m.”