Sweet Gone South

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Still, he couldn’t help thinking if Carrie were still alive, everything would be on schedule. Carrie had been organized, efficient and — most of all — sure of herself. She had run a multi-million dollar business, several charities, and their home with seemingly no effort. And all the while she’d loved him, made him laugh, made him smile. He was sinking but there was an end in sight. It wasn’t the perfect end; a mother would be the perfect end. But it was a solution. Wednesday, he was interviewing three prospective nannies.

  For once, Luke immediately fell into a deep, restful sleep — so deep that he thought he was dreaming about a ringing bell when the phone rang. He reached for it but didn’t raise his head from the pillow.

  “Hello,” he said around a yawn.

  “Judge Avery, this is Jack Greer. Sorry to wake you.”

  “That’s all right.” And it was. Sherriff Greer was not the kind of man to make a late night call without reason. Luke sat up and glanced at the clock. One o’clock. He’d been asleep less than an hour.

  “I need a search warrant,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a body out here on Route 439. Domestic dispute, we think. We’re pretty sure the suspect’s hiding at his brother’s house but they won’t let us in.”

  “Sure.” Luke stood up.

  “I can have a deputy at your house in ten minutes.”

  “You know I’ve moved?”

  “Yeah. Downtown, above the candy store.”

  “Tell him to go to the ground floor door around back. I’ll meet him down there.”

  Luke pulled a pair of sweatpants over his shorts. This was the first time he’d been called for a warrant in the middle of the night but it was bound to happen. Emma was sleeping soundly but he took the baby monitor with him when he went downstairs to wait.

  The doorbell rang sharply and reverberated throughout the entire building, upstairs and down. Damn it all to hell! The officer must have parked the squad car in front and walked around. To be fair, he hadn’t said anything about not ringing the bell, but that’s what he’d wanted to avoid when he’d said he’d be waiting. He punched in the security code, jerked the door open, and held the monitor to his ear. No sound from Emma’s room.

  “Judge,” the deputy said, stepping inside.

  Luke took the clipboard and looked over the form. “Do you swear that these allegations are true?”

  “I do,” the man replied.

  “Good luck.” He signed his name and handed the clipboard back to the deputy just as the door to the stairwell flew open and Lanie appeared bleary-eyed, tousle-haired, and half-naked.

  Well, maybe not half-naked, but in shorts and a clingy little shirt with some straps that looked like they might not make it through a strong wind. Great idea. He let his eyes feast on her as he closed the door behind the deputy. After a peek at her leg that time, he should have known she would have a body like this, but out of sight, out of mind, and it was definitely out of sight in those baggy chef’s pants and aprons.

  She froze in place and crossed her arms over two very pert, very perfect breasts. They were not over large but they were firm and luscious looking. Then she blushed and moved one of her arms to shield her lower torso.

  “Sorry.” He found his voice. “I had to sign a warrant. I meant to catch him before he rang the bell.”

  “It’s fine. I was afraid something was wrong.”

  It is. Lots of wrong out there. Just not in your world.

  “Just a day’s work. I’m sorry the doorbell scared you. I’ll be more careful next time.” He dawdled over resetting the alarm and turning off the lights so he wouldn’t have to watch those fabulous legs and bouncing bottom ascend the stairs in front of him. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about it as sleep found him again.

  This time when Luke woke, it was with that familiar feeling that something was wrong, though in the abyss between sleep and complete consciousness, he couldn’t remember what. Then came the kick to his gut — not just any kick but a kick delivered by a super hero karate master wearing a ten pound spiked boot. The boot was for Carrie; the spikes were for Jake.

  If he had driven them to the airport that day, Carrie would still be alive. Jake would be getting ready for spring training, and Luke would be asleep.

  He sat up on the side of the bed and looked at the clock. 2:43 A.M. He could lie back down but it would be pointless. After this many awakenings and this many kicks to the gut, he knew the drill and he might as well get on with it. First he would go to Emma’s room and make sure she was still breathing. Then he’d make a sandwich or a bowl of cereal, eat two bites, and throw the rest away. Next, he’d flip through the TV channels, surf the net, and try to read. Then it would be time to check on Emma again and pour a glass of milk. He might even drink it.

  Eventually he would probably go back to sleep, maybe in his bed, most likely on the sofa, but never on the floor of Emma’s room, tempting as that was. More than anything, he wanted to sleep with his hand on her so he’d know if she stopped breathing, but that was just too far into the crazy zone.

  The third and final time Luke woke in less than eight hours, it was from twenty-two pounds landing on his stomach — not an emotional kick this time, but a diaper encased bottom. He opened his eyes just as small hands landed on his cheeks and a tiny nose met his.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hi, honeybee.” He turned to look at the time on the DVR player. 7:05. Damn. They were going to be late again. Mrs. Benton, Emma’s teacher, was not going to be happy. Last week, she’d taken him aside and told him Emma’s late arrivals disrupted the class and got Emma’s day off to a bad start.

  Not that Emma’s days were going that well anyway — good start or not. She was used to structure — breakfast, school, lunch, nap in her own bed, snack, playtime or some activity, dinner, downtime, bath, story, and bed. She wasn’t getting that and it made her tired and grumpy. Since his mother had left town he’d been using a hodgepodge of sitters, accepting play date offers, and taking off early. Daycare was not a good option. Emma was accustomed to quiet unhurried days and if she went straight from preschool to daycare, she’d be in sensory overload by mid-afternoon. She needed someone to get her ready for school, take her there, and pick her up. He needed someone who would do laundry, run errands, and cook dinner. He’d hired a cleaning service to come in once a week but they didn’t do the extras.

  He put his arms around her and sat up. “Time to get ready for school.”

  “No school. Gonna go ’round and ’round in your chair.” Oh, great. He’d taken her to his office last week for a few hours and she’d loved it — had been begging to go back ever since.

  “Not today.” He got up, swung her onto his shoulders, and started toward her room. “You’re going home with Beau after school, remember? You’ll have lunch there, take a nap, and then you’re going to Justin’s birthday party. I’ll pick you up from Justin’s house.” He needed to remember to call Missy Bragg and tell her the present was in Emma’s backpack.

  “I go with you,” Emma said. “I go in my car to the happy birthday.”

  “That’s not how it works. School, then party. Here, arms up.” He peeled her nightgown off. Maybe he would take her to school and come back and get himself ready for work. If he did that, she might be on time and, except in his own mind, there was no such thing as late for a judge. He was going to tell that new nanny he needed her here at 6:30 every morning so he could go for a run and be at his desk by eight. He had no illusions about why he was a judge. It was nepotism, pure and simple. People were bound to be watching and he wanted them to see what he knew about himself — that he was hard working and capable. In his view, that didn’t mean dragging into work mid-morning. When he’d been living at the farm, he’d been at his desk every morning by 7:15.

  “Let’s potty.” He directed her toward the bathroom and removed
her diaper. She’d had a dry night and that was a rarity. Potty training was something else the new nanny was going to have to make happen.

  He’d learned right off that it never went well if he asked Emma what she wanted to wear so he dressed her in a pink t-shirt, denim overalls with embroidered pink flowers, and pink tennis shoes. It was one of the outfits his mother had put together for her.

  “Hair bow,” Emma said pointing to the hair ribbons hanging over her dresser mirror. Damn. He was going to hide those things tonight after she went to sleep. Like Lanie’s body, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe. Bow tying never went well.

  “Let’s get your breakfast and then we’ll fix your hair,” he said. Hair bow aside, it was going all right. He’d fix her breakfast and she could feed herself while he pulled on sweat pants and shoes. If she didn’t spill on her clothes, if she didn’t balk at brushing her teeth, if she forgot the hair bow, they might make it to school on time.

  “Cartoons!” Emma yelled gleefully and ran into the living room.

  “Okay,” he said, reaching for the remote. “But you know the rule. You can watch until your breakfast is ready but you have to come when I call you.”

  She didn’t answer, but put her thumb in her mouth and plopped in the floor too close to the television. Not a battle he had time to fight today — the thumb or the sitting ten inches from the TV. Please, God, let one of these nannies be the one.

  Cheese toast, strawberries, and a sippy cup of milk. There were worse breakfasts even if it wasn’t really breakfast food. The new nanny would be able to make scrambled eggs without burning them.

  “Emma, breakfast.” The stars were aligned. Wonder of wonders, she came on the first call and didn’t argue when he tied the bib around her neck.

  “Honeybee,” he said as he set her food in front of her. “I’m going to get dressed. You eat and I’ll be right back.”

  He was almost out the door when she said, “Circle waffle.”

  “What?”

  “Want a circle waffle.”

  “Circle waffle?” As far as he knew, Emma had never had a waffle, circle or otherwise. “You like cheese toast. Eat it while it’s hot.”

  “Want a circle waffle.”

  “I don’t have a circle waffle.”

  “In there.” She pointed to the freezer.

  Like an idiot, he opened the freezer and looked, as if he hadn’t bought everything in there, as if maybe the circle waffle fairy had paid a visit. Fish sticks, chicken fingers, ice cream, vodka, popsicles. No circle waffle.

  “Here.” He picked up a strawberry and held it to Emma’s mouth, whereupon she clamped her mouth shut and twisted her head away from it. “Try the cheese toast. It’s your favorite!” He tore off a piece and held it toward her.

  “No! Circle waffle!”

  “Emma,” he said reasonably, as if it was possible to reason with a three-year-old. “I don’t have a circle waffle to give you. If you’ll eat your cheese toast, I’ll buy some today.”

  “No! Hate cheese toast. Hate strawberries!”

  Time was getting away. “How about some cereal?” He opened the cabinet and pulled out the raisin bran and cornflakes. “How about this? I’ll let you pick.”

  “CIRCLE WAFFLE!” She slammed a tiny fist onto the table.

  “Look.” He retrieved his Cap’n Crunch from its hiding place. “I’ll let you have some of this.”

  “CIRCLE WAFFLE!”

  Desperately, he reached to the top shelf for the chocolate chip cookies. “Look,” he said, holding out a cookie. “It’s round. Just like a circle waffle.” No one had to know. It was food. It was better than sending her to school hungry.

  “No! CIRCLE WAFFLE!”

  It was no longer a question of getting her to school on time. It was question of getting her there at all with anything in her stomach. He began to pull food from the cabinets and refrigerator. Muffins, applesauce, cheese, Jell-O, hotdogs, chips, yogurt — she would have none of it.

  Somewhere along the way, Emma climbed out her chair and began marching around the kitchen, chanting, “CIRCLE WAFFLE, CIRCLE WAFFLE, CIRCLE WAFFLE!”

  “Emma.” Luke gripped her shoulders. “Where did you eat a circle waffle?”

  “Lanie gived to me!”

  Well, of course, yesterday morning while he was at Rotary. Lanie Heaven would be at the bottom of this, with her long legs, small waist, enticing bosom — and her ex-football star boyfriend.

  Luke ran across the hall and pounded on Lanie’s door, praying this was one of the rare mornings that she hadn’t gone down to the shop at sunrise. When she answered the door, she was dressed for work — blue stripes with yellow lollipops.

  “Luke?” She looked him up and down and frowned. So he was barefoot and in his sleep clothes — just like she’d been last night.

  “Do you have a circle waffle?” Emma’s chanting could be heard in the background.

  “A what? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “For God’s sake! A circle waffle! Did you give Emma one yesterday? Do you have another one? I’ll give you fifty dollars for it!”

  “Oh!” Understanding spread over her face. “Sure. Wait here.” She returned with an open box of frozen waffles and a bottle of syrup.

  “I guess I owe you fifty dollars,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to go.

  “You owe me two hundred dollars. There are four left in that box.” He spun to meet her eyes. She laughed that laugh. “I was kidding, Luke. Kidding. Take the waffles.”

  Out of three nannies, surely one would be the one.

  • • •

  To have gotten off to such a shaky start, Luke’s day had turned out well. He’d handed down three decisions that he felt good about and the DA had pled out a case that had no business being tried in a courtroom. He’d paid Lanie’s new employee, Phillip, to return the casserole dishes and pie plates across town, so he didn’t have to deal with that. When Jill St. Clare called to thank him for returning her dish and asked if he wanted to join her and “a few other people” for dinner tonight, he’d managed to turn her down without being rude — though he’d wanted to be. Didn’t these people know he still felt married? Now, all he had to do was pick up Emma from the birthday party and, with any luck, this time tomorrow, he’d have a nanny.

  He was almost out the door when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up but he didn’t sit down.

  “Judge? This is Tiptoe Watkins out at the cemetery.”

  Did Olive have no concept of call screening? He’d fire her, if he had the guts.

  “Yes?”

  “Etheline Martindale is out here again setting out tomatoes and planting corn on her daddy’s grave.”

  Good God! “And that’s a problem for you?” Judges were supposed keep their tones neutral.

  “If you owned a cemetery, would you want vegetables growing on your graves?”

  “Uh, I guess not.” Judges weren’t supposed to say “uh.”

  “I can tell you, you would not. It’s undignified is what it is. You have to have dignity in a cemetery. Truth be told, I don’t think old Judge Martindale would take kindly to cornstalks on his grave. But Etheline has tried to do it every spring for twenty-four years.”

  “Well, Mr. Watkins — ”

  “Call me Tiptoe. Judge Gilliam did.”

  “All right. Tiptoe, if you want to have her arrested or get a restraining order, this is not the proper channel.”

  “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. I don’t want to scare Etheline. I just don’t want her harvesting tomatoes and corn from my cemetery come July.”

  “Then I’m not sure — ”

  “I need you come out here and talk to her, Judge. Judge Gilliam always did. I alway
s campaigned for Judge Gilliam and I like your daddy. I’d be glad to do the same for you.”

  Was this bribery? Did he even want to be elected? If he did, how much sway could a cemetery owner named Tiptoe have? Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time for this.

  “Have you asked her not to do it?”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. Etheline requires special handling. You know she’s never been the same since Judge Martindale died. Never married. Besides, she and my wife play cards together. Every Wednesday. I just need you to remind her it’s against the law to raise vegetables on a grave.”

  “Here’s the thing, Tiptoe. I don’t think it is against the law.”

  “Well, it should be. Who ever heard of vegetables on a grave?” Luke looked at his watch. He had exactly twelve minutes before he was supposed to pick up Emma. “So can you come? Right now?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I cannot. I’m tied up.” Just then, Keenum walked by the door. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll send my law clerk out to talk to her.”

  “I don’t know. Etheline sets great store by a judge and Judge Gilliam always came himself.”

  Judge Gilliam wasn’t trying to raise a child alone, with no wife, no nanny, and no waffles! “I’ll send Keenum. That’s all I can do for you right now.”

  “All right,” Tiptoe said reluctantly, as if he had the final say in this decision.

  “How will Keenum find her?”

  “She’ll be the one setting out tomatoes on a grave.”

  Well, of course.

  • • •

  To Keenum’s credit, he didn’t blink when Luke gave him the bizarre directive. But Keenum never blinked. He always did as he was asked, perfectly and in a timely fashion.

  Before walking over to Heavenly Confections to pick up his car, Luke put a stack of bench memos that Keenum had prepared in his messenger bag. He would look them over, but they’d be perfect. Too bad Keenum wasn’t a nanny. Maybe he could be. All it would take was a new job description.