Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  She returned to her floral wallpapered kitchen with its scuffed white cabinets and waited for the men to wash up and sit down.

  “Venison and mashed spuds.” Douglas groaned as she slid a plate in front of him. “Boy, Miss, you have such imagination.”

  “You want a turn cooking, keep on complaining,” Daddy said. Missy slid the next plate in front of his watchful gaze. “Did you remember to add butter, salt and pepper, doll?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  She plopped some spuds on the next plate. She’d definitely added too much milk; they were soupy. Would flour or cornstarch help thicken them back up? Missy slid the plate in front of Gary, who was seated in his usual spot at the end of the table. Lastly, she sat down in the remaining chair across from Daddy and unfolded a paper napkin over her lap.

  “Remember, doll, how I was talking to you about color?” Daddy motioned one of his large, oil stained hands above the center of the Formica table. “From now on, I want to see at least three things on the plate, and something with color.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her cheeks felt warm. It would be nice to start a meal with something positive for once—like a compliment. Especially when Gary was here.

  “We got any ketchup?” Douglas asked.

  As she leaned back in her chair, Missy made sure she didn’t roll her eyes until her face was hidden behind the refrigerator door. Douglas put ketchup on everything. Why didn’t he just grab the bottle before he sat down? She tipped her chair back toward the avocado and gold linoleum, and handed him the half-empty bottle.

  Just like in the TV commercials, Douglas pounded on the bottom of the bottle first. The sauce took its own sweet time entering the neck before a mound dribbled onto the dark crusted steak.

  “What I don’t understand is, if you just went to town, why are we eating the same meal as last night?” Douglas asked.

  “Because, I stopped and helped a broken-down salesman on my way home—”

  “What kind of vehicle?” Daddy asked.

  “An older, two-door Chevy station wagon with a small block V8 engine.”

  “Hmmm... ‘57 was the only year Chevy made the Bel Air Nomad with a V8.” Daddy nodded and set an elbow on the table.

  “It took me forever to figure it out. Ended up being a fuel filter problem.” She took a bite of steak. The venison was chewy and tasted like a piece of leather with salt and pepper on it. “I used a Bic pen filter for a temporary replacement.”

  “The old Bic pen trick. Did you give him my card?”

  “No. He’s a solicitor, Daddy. Heaven knows how you don’t like solicitors.”

  “Is that why there’s an ice cream drip from your truck to the freezer in the garage?” Douglas pointed his steak knife toward the window above the sink. “Looked like chocolate.”

  “Neapolitan.” Missy nodded. “I’d planned to serve ice cream for dessert.” She’d also planned to look like Farrah Fawcett before dinner, but she didn’t inform everyone of that. She wanted it to be a surprise. Some Tuesday, when they least expected it, she was going to have hair like Farrah; and Gary wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of her.

  “Now, doll...” Daddy said, waiting for her full attention. “The next time you stop to help anyone, including a solicitor, give ‘em my card.”

  Missy nodded, but she knew it was one of those no-win situations.

  “You two catch any today?” Daddy glanced back and forth between the two men.

  Douglas shifted in his chair.

  “We caught a lot of sun.” Gary nodded.

  Daddy sawed through his steak and swiveled his fork to show Missy that the dark interior meant she’d fried the taste right out of it. “Where were you fishing?” he asked.

  Gary scratched above one eye.

  Douglas leaned both forearms against the table, and shrugged. “The wrong spots, that’s fer sure.”

  Missy cleared her throat. “The salesman that I stopped to help looked just like Jerry Lewis, ‘cept younger.”

  The corner of Daddy’s mouth curved up. He’d always been a fan of the Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin movies.

  Douglas laughed. “You’re kidding. Was he funny?”

  “No. He’s about our age, and after I was done fixing his wagon...” Her stomach felt fluttery at what Gary’s response would be. “He told me I was an answer to prayer.” She gave everyone a minute to respond before she glanced to her right. Head bowed, Gary sawed through his steak.

  “He’s not my type.” She shrugged. “A real city slicker. Didn’t have any tools. Didn’t know zip about vehicles.”

  “What’s he sell?” Gary asked, still hunched over his plate.

  “I’m pretty sure he sells Bibles. You know, the ones with the little, gold bookmarks.”

  “Did you see one?” Daddy’s dark brows knit together.

  “No.”

  “Then how’d you get that idea?”

  “He was awful clean cut.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with being clean cut.” Daddy turned to glare at Douglas, whose sandy-colored locks covered his ears.

  “He was awful polite.”

  Eyes narrowed, Daddy stared at her like she was talking gibberish.

  “Daddy...” She suppressed a giggle. “He told me I was an answer to prayer.”

  “You are.” Daddy’s voice was soft. “Your mama was a praying woman. She used to pray about you kids all the time.”

  Daddy rarely talked about Mama, and he always caught her off guard when he did. Warm water gushed at her eyes, and her rib cage felt knit together too tight.

  “Sounds like a Bible salesman to me.” Douglas plunged a bite of rawhide into a pool of ketchup. “It’s a good thing you didn’t give him our card.”

  Missy blinked back tears and watched Gary chew. Next Tuesday when he was here, her hair would be big with roller coaster curls; and she’d wear something sky-blue to match her eyes. Maybe she’d even put a tablecloth and candles on the table. And if Daddy let her, she’d take the whole day off and make fried chicken.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday afternoon, wearing her normal shop attire—blue coveralls, steel-toed boots, and stick straight ponytail—Missy sat on the corner of her father’s metal desk with the shop phone to her ear. The potential customer had never been out their way.

  “Are you familiar with Ridgefield?” she asked.

  She could barely hear the caller as Daddy was using the compressor in the first bay. Stretching the phone cord, she closed the door between the shop and the office.

  “You’ll head north on Seward Road past the Salmon Creek slough. After about three miles, you’ll see a large stand of fir trees. Start looking for our sign, Big John’s Auto Repair, propped up in the blackberries on the left-hand side of the road. When you start seeing abandoned vehicles, you’ll know you’re at our place.”

  “I’ll probably drive out there tomorrow,” the caller said.

  “Good. We’ll see you then,” she said before hanging up.

  The office door swung open. “What’s for dinner?” Daddy asked, holding a socket wrench.

  “Pork chops. I even remembered to take meat out of the freezer this morning.” She smiled.

  “What else?”

  “Rice is boiling right now.” As she said it, she realized she’d forgotten to set the timer. The clock above the filing cabinet read five twenty-five; another ten minutes ought to do.

  “Rotate the tires on the Impala for me, darling,” Daddy said.

  She’d get a tire or two started before she checked the rice. On her way through the first bay, she grabbed a lug wrench and chuckled at memories of when she was learning to drive. Daddy wouldn’t let her get her permit until she could change the oil, rotate all four tires on the truck, and drive the old ten-acre loop in the cow pasture in reverse. Reverse! She’d learned early to rely on her side mirror.

  Two tires done, she strolled back to the office to check the clock. Seated with his feet propped up on the desk, Daddy frowned as he looked up tow
ard the open rafters. Missy knew the look; the fellow with his back to her was a salesman. He had a Yellow Pages-sized catalog tucked under one arm, and he was wearing—she inhaled deeply—a powder-blue leisure suit.

  She paused before the doorway and bit her tongue.

  “Columbia Auto Parts used to be solely represented by Al Perkins,” Robert Schoening said. “The company’s growing, and our territory has expanded.”

  Before Daddy could spy her, Missy slunk down below the viewing window. It couldn’t be. Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. How could Jerry Boy sell auto parts when he didn’t even know what a coil wire was?

  “I buy everything from Standard. Rick Baker is a friend of mine. We go way back.” Daddy said his usual lines.

  “Because you’re a local client, we can guarantee same-week delivery on anything that isn’t a special order, provided it’s a twenty-five dollar minimum order.”

  “That’s a mighty fine, new line.” Instead of sounding annoyed, Daddy almost sounded amused. “I see you have a ’57 Bel Air Nomad station wagon out there.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. How’d you know?”

  “Chevy only made a two-door model for a couple years. I’d hang on to that if I were you.”

  “I’ll do my best; it was my grandfather’s.”

  “You don’t happen to sell Bibles, too?”

  Crab! Missy stayed crouched, with her knees to the grimy cement.

  “No. I don’t . . . just auto parts.”

  “Huh? You didn’t happen to have a cute, little blonde stop to help you last week out here on 41st Avenue?”

  “Why, yes . . . I did. How’d you hear?”

  “Missy’s my daughter.”

  There was a loud thud as something heavy–probably Jerry Boy’s catalog—fell on the concrete floor, followed by Daddy’s bellowing laugh.

  Missy crab-walked until she was on the other side of the Impala. From there she darted between vehicles before exiting out the side door. Heart racing, she walked the west side of the driveway and snuck between the rhododendron bushes to the rear of their ranch-style home.

  Thank goodness they hadn’t seen her!

  Jerry Boy sold auto parts, not Bibles.

  Daddy would never let her live it down.

  CHAPTER 4

  Robert returned his catalog to the top of Big John’s gray metal desk.

  “You look like ole what’s his name?” The large man’s bushy brows knit together.

  Robert’s heart raced. Of course he knew; everyone knew.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Robert . . . Robert Schoening.”

  “Do you know you’re sitting in my customer chair?”

  There was only one chair.

  On the other side of the desk, Big John stood up, locked eyes with him, and crossed his humongous forearms. It was the poise that Robert had been warned about. A mental picture of David facing Goliath without his slingshot came to mind. Where were the great lines he’d rehearsed on the way here?

  “For thirty-nine, ninety-five, I can take care of that Bic cartridge you’re presently calling a fuel filter.”

  “I would like the opportunity to bid on your next order of motor oil, filters, tires, belts… We can get parts for all makes, foreign and domestic. We’ll match any competitor’s pricing—”

  “You didn’t seem to hear me; Rick Baker’s my rep, and we go way back. Now either you—”

  The phone rang. Big John eyed the black rotary dial phone on top of a pile of nearby paperwork before he sunk down in his swivel chair and picked up the receiver.

  “Big John’s Auto Repair, how may I help you? Hi, Jean. You don’t sound like yourself, doll.”

  Robert wiped the palms of his hands on the knees of his slacks. He had to get his wits about him, and he had to sell John on service. He was loyal to the worst rep in the business.

  John leaned back in his chair, and set his steel-toed boots on top of the desk. The man’s profile disappeared behind his size seventeen feet. “Only because he deserves it.” John chuckled. “We’ll watch her. I’ll send Missy over there to get her right after dinner. Yeah, we still have a key.”

  Robert glanced at the house. Any minute John’s daughter was going to show up and obliterate any chances he had at making a sale or creating a relationship. Lord, help me here, and keep Missy busy in the house.

  “Take care of yourself, and drop by for dinner sometime.” John dropped his feet to the floor and returned the receiver to the cradle. “How do you like that?” he mumbled.

  Lifting the receiver back up, John lodged it between his shoulder and his ear while he used the eraser end of a pencil to dial. Robert glanced at his wristwatch. He needed to leave shortly if he was going to make the mandatory sales meeting on time.

  “Hey, Missy, Jean just called. Rick’s out-of-town for a couple days and he wants us to watch Martha. Yeah, he got Martha. Can you believe it? I told Jean you’d go and pick her up. Rick’s afraid she’ll say bad things about him. You know. . . in repetition. Don’t go until after dinner. I’m hungry.” John hung up, peered across the desk at Robert, and said, “Divorce stinks.”

  Robert couldn’t agree more. “Especially when children are involved.”

  “Martha’s a parrot.” John chuckled, and then shaking his head, gave Robert the brevity of silence he’d been waiting for.

  “I’ll match whatever Rick Baker’s prices are, if not beat them.” He patted the top of his catalog. “And for items we carry in stock, I’ll guarantee next day delivery... that is, with a twenty-five dollar minimum order.”

  John intertwined his fingers on top of the desk and leaned forward. His blue eyes keen. “For forty-five, ninety-five, I’ll replace the fuel filter in your wagon.”

  Was the escalating price John’s way of negating his offer?

  “What’s a nice way to word this, Bobby Boy?”

  “Robert... my name’s Robert.” He pulled one of his business cards out of his back pocket and held it across the desk. “Carl Meyers in Woodland happened to mention that you’re still using Standard water pumps. He gets an occasional customer because of it. There was a recall on the product two years ago, and some folks in the industry are under the impression you haven’t been informed yet.”

  John reached for a long, teak-handled back scratcher hung on a nail to the right of his desk. Using long strokes, he scratched the middle of his back.

  “Did Carl Meyers fix your fuel filter?”

  “He offered, but—”

  “Drive it into the second bay. I charge a twenty-five dollar service fee, plus parts.”

  “I have a six-fifteen sales meeting tonight in Vancouver.” Robert glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he’d only be a couple minutes late. “I dropped by to give you my card.” Again, he extended his hand.

  John grabbed one of his own cards out of an empty, but clean, glass ashtray on the desk. After trading cards, John flicked Robert’s toward the trash can behind him. The card landed face down on the grimy cement.

  Robert slid Big John’s card into a plastic accordion pocket inside his wallet. “I’ll stop by tomorrow about two o’clock.”

  “Drive it into the second bay when you get here. First bay’s for hurried customers and the third bay’s the pit. So remember, the second bay.”

  “The fuel filter will have to wait a spell; as you know I’m just starting out in commission-based sales.”

  “That Bic filter you got there,” John nodded toward the driveway, “may not get you to your next stop sign, much less your next paycheck.”

  Robert rose and held out his hand. “God willing it will. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Stuart.”

  John’s oil-stained grip was massive and strong. “You’re funny. I’ll say that for you.”

  “No, I’m not.” People had made the comparison for so long, it no longer fazed him. Robert picked up his catalog and strode through the open door. That didn’t go so badly. Compared to the stories he’d hea
rd about Big John, perhaps it had gone quite well. He continued toward his station wagon, which he’d parked past the shop in the shade of a moss-laden filbert tree. For some reason, Big John followed him. Not a good sign. Robert opened the car door, and slid behind the wheel.

  “Tomorrow when you get here, remember to pull into the second bay, and you don’t need to bring the catalog.” Big John closed his door for him, and then he twisted his wrist like it was time to start the engine.

  Feeling like a caged critter, Robert looked up at the large man’s soft, pudgy face. “I don’t make sales calls without my catalog.” He started the engine.

  Big John leaned his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “Idling pretty rough, there. Needs a tune-up. But first, we’ll fix that fuel filter.” He patted the hood.

  As Robert drove out of the tree-lined drive and then south toward Felida, he told himself to relax. Big John wasn’t so bad. Stories regarding his actions with sales reps abounded. He’d lifted up the rear end of Robert’s boss’ two-wheel drive pickup after Al had gabbed a little too long. If he didn’t want you on his property, John Stuart let you know it.

  Robert hated to second guess the situation, but the two of them had almost gotten along.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What happened to the rice?” Daddy asked.

  “Yeah, it’s supposed to be fluffy,” Douglas said.

  The pile on Missy’s plate appeared dry and parched white too. “I forgot to set the timer, and then...” She glanced across the table at her dad. “You wanted me to rotate the tires on the Impala, and by the time I got back in the house, there was this funny smell.”

  “It’s called burnt.” Douglas rolled his eyes.

  “That’s right.” Daddy’s gaze narrowed. “You were in the shop when the young whippersnapper stopped by.”

  Whippersnapper wasn’t the usual word her father used to describe solicitors. Hmm...

  “Yep, seems your city slicker Bible salesman is the new sales representative for . . .” The corner of Daddy’s mouth twitched. “Columbia Auto Parts.”