Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  Missy smiled. Daddy wasn’t feeling too chummy about Robert yet, as he often charged the sweet little old ladies twenty.

  “Do me a favor, doll, and call Jean for us,” Daddy said. “Find out when she’s coming over to dinner and ask her what type of bird Martha is.”

  “She’s a parrot,” Douglas said from the living room.

  Missy used the wall phone in the kitchen to dial Jean’s number. “Hi, Jean, it’s Missy. We’ve all been wondering what type of parrot Martha is?” When she heard Jean’s response, she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Oh, and before you go, we want to have you over for dinner sometime soon.”

  “You pick a day,” Jean said.

  “Any night works.”

  “Be specific,” Robert said in the background.

  “How ‘bout Friday?” Missy said.

  “Yeah, Fridays are good,” Daddy said.

  “We’re having inventory this week, so I’ll have to check my work schedule and get back to you. Take care, Missy.”

  “You, too.” Smiling, Missy hung up the phone.

  “What’d she say?” Daddy asked. “Can she make it Friday?”

  “She’s going to look at her schedule. Her work’s having inventory this week.”

  “Oh.” He sighed.

  “And guess what?” Missy grabbed the men’s attention at the table before she stopped in the doorway to the living room. “Guess what, Douglas?”

  With a sun-beat, saturated expression, he looked away from the TV.

  “Martha is a Quaker parrot.”

  Douglas shook his head while Daddy let out a bellowing laugh.

  “You are one smart bird, Martha,” Daddy said, softly. “I can’t believe you ever belonged to Baker.”

  “Daddy!” He’d said it right in front of Robert.

  “Rick stinks.” Martha turned around in her cage, positioning her back to everyone.

  Robert’s jaw dropped almost to his pin striped polyester shirt. “Did she really just say that?”

  “Yes.” Daddy chuckled. “Missy, what’s for dessert? My sweet tooth’s on full throttle.”

  “There’s still some vanilla ice cream left and Nea...” Her voice waned as she wondered what the refrozen Neapolitan would look and taste like.

  “Yeah, but what can we put on it?”

  Daddy had obviously only heard vanilla. He wanted her to make a fruit sauce. She was exhausted, and the thought of sinking into the old recliner and watching Gunsmoke had kept her motivated all evening.

  “We still have some canned peaches left, Daddy.”

  “Remember the time you made that peach sauce?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel, and started down the hallway. With a hand on the pantry door, she paused to see what episode of Gunsmoke was airing. For some reason, Douglas waved her toward him. She grabbed the jar of peaches and keeping an eye on the kitchen doorway, strolled to the couch. Douglas had his legs stretched out in front of him with his dirty-sock-clad feet propped on the dark walnut stained coffee table.

  “What’s with the salesman?” He nodded toward the kitchen.

  “Daddy’s acting strange, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah.” Douglas agreed.

  She opened the jar of peaches. Beneath a thin layer of dust, ’75 was written on the gold lid. Martha would probably enjoy a peach slice. Missy slid a peach through the bars into the bird’s tray. Martha flew across the cage.

  “Banana,” the bird said.

  “Next time I’m at the store, I’ll get you some bananas.” At the stove, Missy brought water and sugar to a boil.

  “Martha, you remind me of Missy when she was about two-years-old,” Daddy said. “She used to like bananas a lot, too. We used to call her our little monkey.”

  The tenderness in Daddy’s voice was a rarity. Missy questioned why as she stirred the syrup. Sometimes he’d get emotional at Christmas, but it had been years. After the syrup thickened, she added the mashed peaches. The sauce needed to cool for a while before serving it over ice cream. She set the saucepan on a hot pad.

  “Missy, why don’t you boil some water for us? It would be nice to have decaf coffee while we’re waiting for dessert,” Daddy said.

  She set the kettle on the burner, took two mugs out of the cupboard and scooped a teaspoon of instant coffee in each.

  “Bobby, do you like cream or sugar in your coffee?” Daddy asked.

  “It’s Robert. I’ll take both, Missy. Thank you.”

  She set the mugs of coffee on the table and looked at the catalog. It lay open to water pumps, which were one of the few things they had plenty of in inventory. Maybe Daddy wasn’t matchmaking, maybe he was simply wasting Robert’s time. She finally sank down into the old recliner and closed her eyes.

  “Bobby Boy needs to head home soon, doll, so dish up the ice cream.”

  Missy sighed. A Charmin Toilet Paper commercial aired. If she hurried, she wouldn’t miss the next scene. She ladled warm peach sauce over four bowls of vanilla ice cream, added spoons, distributed them, and returned to her seat before Gunsmoke resumed.

  The episode was one of her favorites, a repeat in which Matt Dillon hunted down a killer that he’d traced to Mexico. Actor James Arness was six-foot-seven—exactly like Daddy. Big, strong and honest. Just like Daddy, James’ mere presence demanded respect.

  The peach sauce was good, but too warm. Her scoop of vanilla melted quickly.

  Robert stood in the living room doorway, the bulky catalog under his arm. He was maybe five ten at the most—almost a full foot shorter than her father.

  “When did Gunsmoke start shooting in color?” Robert asked.

  “Back when you were in diapers,” Douglas said.

  “1966,” Missy said. This bit of trivia implied that Robert had still been in diapers at about age ten.

  “Guess I haven’t watched it for a while.” Robert cleared his throat. “Um, thank you for supper, Missy. The, uh... uh . . . peach sauce was good.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her gaze returned to the screen. A few minutes later, the screen door clicked close.

  Douglas’s empty Corelle bowl bounced on the coffee table. “’The uh... peach sauce was good’ means that’s the only thing he thought was good. That’s okay, Missy, he’s not your type.”

  “’Course he’s not my type.” She laughed. “Not even close.”

  “Who is your type . . . Gary?”

  Missy’s heart stopped. Gary was big, strong, and honest like Daddy. But, would he ever love her like Daddy loved Mama? This August, it would be ten years since Mama had been gone, and he still couldn’t mention her name.

  “I used to think Gary was cute.” She shrugged. “Years ago. Then I got tired of hearing about Trudy Tibbits.” There, that’s all she’d tell him about her feelings for Gary.

  “You’re not the only one.” Douglas chuckled.

  CHAPTER 9

  The following morning when Missy drove Betty back to the shop, Robert’s station wagon was in their driveway again. Maybe he was here to get his car fixed, or maybe he was simply a persistent salesman. Either way, the man’s constant presence was beginning to grate on her nerves. Daddy was listening to him too much, enjoying his company too much. If Baker didn’t get back soon, Daddy might actually buy something from ole Jerry Boy.

  When she led Betty into the office area, Robert and Daddy were seated at the desk, scouring the Columbia Auto Parts catalog. Robert rose from his chair so Betty could sit down, and then he went to stand outside the door.

  “Here, Betty, sit here.” Missy held the back of the chair Robert had just vacated. She was glad he didn’t hang around like Baker did. When Daddy talked with customers, Baker usually stood a few feet away by the filing cabinet and smoked.

  “The bill came to $58.75.” Daddy set the two-part carbon copy in front of Betty.

  “I told my son about my flat tire and how we were so fortunate to discover that the radiator was leaking too,” Betty said, signing her n
ame. “He’d like to stop by and meet you. My boy’s name is Chuck. I told him to not raise a ruckus—that you’re good people.”

  “The radiator was leaking, Betty.” Daddy leaned forward and pointed to the signature line on the invoice. “I only charged you ten dollars for the radiator that we salvaged from the yard. A brand new radiator would have been forty, even fifty dollars. And I was very fair with my time.”

  “Don’t you worry about my boy.” Betty dropped Daddy’s pen in her purse. “I’ll do all I can to discourage him from barging over here. I wanted to give you a little warning just in case he does.”

  Earlier in the day, Missy had polished the mirrors, cleaned the windows, and wiped down the floor mats of Betty’s white Dodge Dart. The smell of Windex still lingered in the cab. It didn’t appear to bother Betty, who was all smiles.

  After seeing Betty off, Missy returned to the office area. Daddy had his steel-toed boots propped up on the desk while he talked on the phone. Robert sat idle. Missy sprinkled a handful of Floor Dry on the oil-stained cement in the first bay and then grabbed the shop broom.

  Using two-foot strokes, she pushed the broom back and forth across the cement. She made the first turn and glanced up to see Robert standing in the doorway. It was inconceivable and probably unprofitable how much time he’d spent courting Daddy.

  “You were good with Betty.” He nodded toward the office. “Attentive. Sweet. Not everyone has a heart for the elderly.”

  She grimaced at him. Who wouldn’t be good with an elderly woman like Betty Heiner, who was pure sweetness herself?

  “Your voice was surprisingly gentle.”

  Her voice was always gentle when she spoke with elderly people. Why wouldn’t it be?

  “And your point?” Missy frowned.

  “Just an observation, not a point.” He shrugged.

  When she made the final turn, he was still standing there, studying her in an odd way. She’d seen the look before when guys would come in the garage and stare at her in her steel-toed boots and blue coveralls. Douglas said the look meant they were trying to imagine what she looked like in a dress or a pair of jeans, but the blue one-piece coveralls made it too much work for the imagination.

  She hoped to heaven Jerry Boy wasn’t trying to imagine. He wasn’t her type. He was too short, too old-fashioned, too. . . Jerry.

  “I suppose my point is... I’m pleasantly surprised.” A slow courteous smile stretched across his conservative Christian face.

  Ole’ Jerry Boy’s confidence was growing by the day, and she didn’t like it.

  “The stories about Daddy are true.” She rocked the broom handle toward her. “He’ll look at your catalog and never buy a thing.”

  He lifted his chin a bit and narrowed his gaze.

  Daddy hung up the phone. Like a bird dog on the retrieve, Robert strolled through the office doorway and positioned himself in the customer chair.

  “What were we talking about?” Daddy asked.

  Missy pushed the broom closer to the office doorway.

  “Filters. Most smaller shops go through thirty to sixty a month. I hope you don’t mind, but I checked your supply the other day when you had me watch the phone, and you had enough inventory to last a week to ten days.”

  Maybe he was really a pro hiding behind a Jerry Lewis facade.

  “You’re saying I go through about eight to fifteen filters a week?” Daddy chuckled and crossed his arms. “For not knowing crab, you can sure fling it.” He grinned. “Let me talk to Douglas, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Daddy didn’t usually use that line. What had gotten into him? He was almost acting like he liked this solicitor. Why?

  While Big John was on the phone, Robert retreated to his car for the dollar bunch of bananas he’d purchased earlier in the day. He set them on the corner of John’s desk. The yellow fruit immediately caught John’s eye.

  Advertising studies proved red to be the best eye catching color with yellow close behind, which is why Columbia Auto Parts employed both colors in their logo design.

  “Who are the bananas for?” John asked, hanging up the phone.

  “Martha.” Robert closed his catalog.

  John held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart and added a knowing smile. “And maybe just a little bit for Missy?”

  What? It was fine with him if she ate some; it was just the odd way that John had said it. He couldn’t possibly be implying that the bananas were a token of courtship?

  “What’s a good time to set up our next appointment?” Robert clicked his pen.

  “This Friday or next week.”

  “How about Friday afternoon?”

  “Arrive close to supper time,” John said. “Bring an appetite, well at least a little one. If you’re used to fancy restaurant cooking, you’ll probably want to eat before you get here.”

  Robert glanced over his shoulder through the inner office window into the garage. Missy was in the third bay, sweeping. “I talked to my mom about Missy taking the ladies’ cooking class at our church. She said the next class is full.”

  “What does that mean?” John stared wide-eyed like a little boy who’d just found out there was no money for Christmas. “Missy’s got her heart set on those Ginsu Knives.”

  “My mom’s going to talk with Bertha, an elderly woman who’s in charge of Elderly Angels. Supposedly, Bertha can be a real stickler about the order on their waiting list.”

  “Can’t they make an exception?” John rubbed his temple area with one large grease-stained hand. “Did you tell her that Missy’s mama died when she was ten? What she needs is a woman, maybe several of them, to take her under their wing. No woman has since her grandmother died.” John looked up at the ceiling. “Missy would have been about twelve.”

  That explained a lot.

  “My mom said if we could just get Bertha to somehow meet Missy, maybe it would help the odds of getting her into the class. After service this Sunday, there’s a church corn feed at the—”

  “I’ll get her there somehow, but don’t breathe a word.”

  Robert glanced over his shoulder to be certain the girl was still sweeping. “If Missy goes, she’ll have to watch her language.”

  “Oh, of course, and she can.”

  Robert wasn’t fully convinced.

  “When she puts her mind to it, Missy can do anything she wants to. She learned how to can when she was twelve. She still cans just about anything—just can’t cook.”

  “Who taught her how to can?”

  “Before my mother died, she had Missy canning peaches, pears, applesauce . . . for a week straight.”

  “Wow.”

  “Tell your mama, there’s hope. Missy just needs someone to point her in the right direction.”

  Too bad he’d ever mentioned Elderly Angels. Missy’s cooking had been so poor, that for a moment he’d taken pity on Big John’s situation. Robert sighed. If they were able to get her into class, hopefully she wouldn’t cause problems.

  In the fourth bay, standing on a ladder, Missy hung a fan belt on a peg. For the second time in a row, the five-foot-long belt slipped out of her grasp, falling to the floor.

  “Crab!”

  She climbed down the ladder, picked it up off the cement and started back up.

  “You know . . .” Daddy’s voice echoed through the garage and up to her. “Douglas’s old coveralls aren’t the most flattering attire for a young woman, especially from behind.”

  “Who’s looking?” Missy glared over her shoulder at him.

  “Just your father. I’ve only got one of you.”

  Daddy was buttering her up for something.

  “When you’re in your sweet mode, there isn’t a sweeter gal in Clark County.”

  What was he up to? Reaching toward the nail, she was an inch away when the fan belt slipped again.

  “Crabola.” Grimacing, she climbed down the ladder.

  Daddy chuckled. “Usually you’re sweet. Sweet as honey.”

>   “It’s so obvious that you want your way about something.” She retrieved the fan belt and started back up.

  “I’ve seen a time or two when you haven’t been kind to Robert.”

  Why did he wait until she was ten feet off the ground to drop the bomb?

  “Where’s Baker been? I don’t like Jerry Boy hanging around.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “’Cause... he makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Why in the world would you say that? He’s the nicest young man I’ve ever been around.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to set me up with him.”

  “Now, why would I try and do a thing like that?”

  It was all too obvious to her now.

  “You just said he’s the nicest young man you’ve ever been around.” She gripped the ladder rungs, and glanced over her shoulder at him.

  With his lips pursed, and his arms crossed, Daddy looked up at her.

  “He’s not my type. He knows zip about cars, he’s too short, and I know I can beat him in arm wrestling.”

  “He’s not short.”

  “I want someone taller.”

  “Just because he’s wiry, doesn’t mean he’s not strong. And he brought Martha some bananas. They’re on my desk.”

  “So?” She reached to her left, and hung the belt on the peg. Success at last.

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Robert is a very nice young man,” Daddy said as she started down, one rung at a time. “I called Baker’s office this morning, and I told Anita, he’s losing this account if he doesn’t get his rear over here pronto.”

  “You’ve said that a hundred times.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  “Isn’t he out of town?”

  “What kind of grown man leaves town, not informing his clients or taking care of his responsibilities?”

  She didn’t have to go to church to know that telling the truth was always the best route. “Rick Baker.”