Never Say Never

by Lisa Wingate

  “The beauty shop’s closed,” I said. “And it’s gonna have to be closed while these folks’re here.”

  Betty’s eyes got wide, then the right one ticked shut. “And just what is everyone else supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Wash their own hair at home, I reckon.”

  Imagene chuckled behind her hand, and Doyle piped in from over on his stool. “Th.they got a b-b-beauty shop right in the Wal-wal-wal, in the Wal-Mart over to Killeen.”

  Betty acted like he wasn’t even there. She got a cold look that turned her eyes hard as glass, and I knew we’d just stuck the twig a little too far into the anthill.

  “Those people”—Betty stabbed a long, bony finger toward the wall, and her voice crawled up so high I figured they could probably hear her next door—“need to move on to a proper shelter. There are plenty of places set up by the government to handle this sort of thing, and the Daily Hair and Body is not one of them, Donetta Bradford. We have building codes and fire laws in this county. There’s an occupancy limit on that building for the protection of the pubic welfare.” Her chin wagged back and forth on occupancy limit and public welfare. “Being head of the city council, Harold of course can’t just turn his head and ignore such a matter. What if there were to be a fire and the authorities had failed to protect the public safety? What if it were to spread to our buildings next door and burn down all of Main Street? What then, Donetta Bradford?”

  “Seems to me folks ought to just mind their own business, and everything’ll be fine.” Oh mercy, sometimes my mouth ran wild when it needed to hunker down. Betty leveled a look like one of them serial killers on TV. I knew we were in for trouble.

  “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it”—she said each word real slow and careful, her nose pointed my way like she was gonna peck me with it—“if the county fire marshal found out about this. I mean, my gracious, how long has it been since your building has been thoroughly checked for code violations? If that new young fire marshal were to … happen by, he might even be forced to put a red tag on your building, and wouldn’t that be a sad thing for Daily—to have the Daily Hotel closed down for code violations? What with all the tourism showing up nowadays because of Amber Anderson’s big win on American Megastar, and now the movie project coming to the old Barlinger Ranch, visitors will need a place to stay. These are exciting times in Daily, and the last thing people need to see when they come to visit Amber Anderson’s hometown is rundown vehicles parked all over Main Street and a bunch of … well, not to sound untoward … but members of a certain element loitering on the curb in front of the only hotel in town.”

  Blood boiled in my ears, and I gripped the counter so hard I felt a nail tip pop loose. By certain element, Betty meant black folks. No matter that plenty of our neighbors in Daily were from Pastor Harve’s church out on Caney Creek, which’d always been a black church, just like Sister Mona’s. “What sorta element, Betty?”

  “Well, you know … people … from other places.”

  “From other places … like all them tourists you were talkin’ about?”

  Lucy sucked in a breath and started rubbing the locket around her neck, where she kept a lock of hair from the baby she had to leave behind in Japan during the war.

  “Paying customers are different, of course. Daily needs all the tourism it can get.” Betty’s eyes went half closed, and she smiled at me. “It’s important that the town project a certain … image. Of course, Harold and I have thought about building a new hotel outside of town, with a swimming pool and so forth. But we’d hate to be the source of competition for you. No telling what that would do to your old place.”

  Imagene caught my eye, and she started shaking her head like she felt a chill. Her face said, Hush up, Netta. She’ll do it. You know she will.

  Betty tapped her fingernails on her purse, looking satisfied with herself. She knew she’d won. “I guess my wash-and-curl can wait until Monday.” Her voice was all sticky-sweet, like a cat purring when it’s got a belly full of mouse. “I can see you’ll have your hands full today helping those people find suitable accommodations somewhere away from Daily. If you need help, Harold and I have contacts, of course.” She turned around and breezed out the door just as uninvited as she come in.

  None of us said anything for a minute. Imagene looked down at the baby, and Lucy just kept rubbing her locket.

  “What we go-een to do now?” Lucy asked finally.

  “We got to find someplace else to put that bunch,” I said.

  Imagene sucked her cheeks in and started chewing. “Just wait till she finds out there’s a group bedded down at the church, too.”

  My insides sank. I hadn’t even thought about the church. Betty’d find out about that just as soon as Harold got home from his visit to see Brother Ervin this morning, and then she’d be on a warpath no wash-and-curl was gonna smooth over.

  Chapter 18

  Kai Miller

  Kemp transported me, along with Don’s idiotic dog, to the vet’s office. Because there was no way for the two of us and the rat trap to get into the cab of the truck, Radar and I rode through town cheek to cheek on the tailgate. At the vet’s office, the receptionist laughed so hard she had a coughing fit and couldn’t catch her breath until she’d downed several big swallows of coffee. After checking out the situation for herself, she suggested cutting the trap so that my hair could have its corner and Radar could have the rest. Within moments, we were successfully separated, and I proceeded into the bathroom with a pair of scissors to finish extricating myself, while Kemp headed across the street to open the field house for his ball players.

  I came out of the bathroom with a little less hair, but no glue trap.

  The receptionist craned to check out my ponytail, then giggled, fanning her face. “Sorry.” She handed Radar’s leash back to me and opened a swinging gate so we could proceed to the exam rooms. “This way.”

  Radar, remembering that swinging half doors led to flea dips, vaccinations, and other unpleasant procedures, dug in his claws, and I was forced to drag him down the hall with his toenails plowing furrows in the linoleum. By the time we got to the exam room, I was winded and a laughing veterinary assistant was following behind us, pushing Radar from the back while carefully avoiding the rear glue trap.

  After we hoisted Radar onto the exam table, we were joined by a pretty veterinary intern with wide brown eyes and chestnut ringlets pulled up in a hair clip. Everyone stood admiring Radar’s accomplishment while I filled out forms, at the bottom of which I was supposed to sign my name promising that I was good for Radar’s bill. I considered just writing down Don’s address and leaving Radar there.

  While the matter of the bill twirled in my mind, Radar sat on the examining table wagging his tail as the intern and the assistant discussed possible removal methods. Reaching around to nip at an itchy spot on his rear end, Radar managed to stick the glue traps together, and after a moment of sheer panic during which it took all three of us to hold him down, he gave up and lay there like a giant chocolate doughnut.

  The veterinary intern laughed so hard her eyes watered. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, pressing the back of her hand to the bridge of her nose and trying to get control of herself. She had a smile that looked like it belonged on a billboard somewhere. “I’m sorry. It’s just … this is a new one.” She left the room, then came back pushing a cart full of potential glue trap solvents—everything from surgical soap to a tub of margarine from the break room.

  “If you’ll just stand at his head and help him stay calm, I’m going to give him a sedative to keep him still,” she instructed, tucking stray curls behind her ear. “All right, big guy …” She pointed the needle upward and squeezed out a bubble.

  Woozy at the sight of the syringe heading toward flesh, I looked away, leaning over Radar’s head. He had the nerve to roll an eye upward and thump his tail against the table while the needle went in, and I tried not to picture it. Vet trips were one of those errands I�
�d always refused to do for Don, even though he tried to con me into it. Anyplace that smelled like antiseptic or felt like a hospital brought back memories of Gil and all those times I could barely make myself walk into the room and see his pale, thin body surrounded by IVs and tubes.

  It’s okay, he’d say. It doesn’t hurt.

  Radar went limp in my hands, and for a moment I was back with Gil, standing over his bed, holding him, wondering when my parents were coming back.

  The sensation faded as I moved away and stood by the window. Across the street, Kemp was standing in front of the field house with two little boys. Both were too young to be high-school ball players, but the smaller one had an oversized plastic bat in his hand. Memories of Gil and the past floated from my mind and I watched Kemp help the younger boy position his bat as the older boy pitched underhand. The bat smacked the Wiffle ball, and it flew over the grassy lawn beside the field house. Kemp wheeled his arm and cheered like a base coach while the batter ran an imaginary diamond and the pitcher took off after the ball. At home plate, Kemp played both catcher and umpire. When the pitcher threw the ball in, Kemp caught it, got sloppy with the tag, and called the runner safe at home.

  A warm feeling slid over me as I watched the game continue. The veterinary office, the cloying scent of antiseptic, and the ongoing discussion of failed glue trap solvents and tender nasal skin faded away, and I focused out the window. A strange sense of déjà vu enveloped my senses, as if I knew exactly how it would feel to be sitting there in the sun, listening to the sounds of the Wiffle ball game. I felt myself leaning closer to the glass, pressing the tips of my fingers against it, trying to decide why the scene was so familiar.

  “Ma’am … Radar’s mom … ma’am?” By the time the intern’s voice penetrated the fog, I knew she’d been calling me for a while.

  I turned from the window unwillingly. I wanted to continue watching the game and searching for the memory attached to it. “Sorry. I was zoned out.”

  The intern smiled, and in spite of the fact that it’s hard to like someone who looks that good in scrubs, especially when you’re decked out in an ugly purple windsuit, I liked her. “He’s all fixed up. Thank goodness for Parkay.” With butter-covered fingers, she held up the plastic tub. “Guess I’ll put this back in the break room refrigerator.”

  I blinked and curled my lip, and she laughed, then tossed the margarine tub into the trash. “Maybe not.” She patted Radar, who was lying prostrate and groggy on the table, his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out. “It’ll take a while for the sedative to wear off. You can wait, or you can come back for him in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll come back,” I said, and handed Radar’s paper work to her assistant. On the way out, I stroked Radar’s damp, greasy ears and had the random thought that Don would get a kick out of this story. So would Maggie and Meredith. I tried to picture all of us back in the coffee shop, life going on as normal, me on my usual stool by the counter, but for some reason, I couldn’t.

  Exiting the clinic, I took a deep breath of fresh air, shook off the antiseptic smell, and jogged across the street to the field house, where the ball game was still going. Two additional elementary-aged boys had ridden up on bicycles, and things were getting rowdy. Kemp waved as I came closer. “Hey, we need a second baseman,” he called.

  “I think I’ll just watch” was out of my mouth before I even thought about it. Why? The voice in my head sounded like Gil’s. Why sit on the fence? You afraid to get dirty? “I’d hate to make you look bad,” I added, and Kemp’s brows shot up, disappearing into the brim of his Daily Dawgs baseball cap.

  “Oh-ho!” he said. “Look out, boys. Second base is covered.”

  “She’s a girl!” one of the kids protested.

  “She’s a lady,” another corrected, and all four of them studied me from behind home plate. I felt like the newcomer at the neighborhood sandlot. Fortunately, I had plenty of experience. Gil and I were always new somewhere, trying to prove ourselves in games of tag, football, soccer, baseball.

  “She’s got second covered,” I told them. “You guys better watch out.”

  Kemp drew back, surprised, or impressed, or both. “All right, new game. Take the plate there, Sly.”

  Sly, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven—too young to be wandering around the school grounds on his own, actually—stepped up to the patch of dirt that served as a plate, and the game began. By the time the batting order rolled around again, the ranks had swelled to include three kids who’d been riding by on bicycles and several high-school boys who’d just finished their workouts. Someone broke out a bag of old baseball gloves, and the game got serious. Even with a plastic bat, the high-school boys could smack a deadly line drive.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Kemp warned when a ball whizzed past Sly at third. “Easy. We’ve got kids here.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” the batter, a tall, stringy boy named Andy, apologized. Somewhere along the way, I’d figured out that Andy was the brother of the town’s blossoming country music sensation, Amber Anderson. To the little kids, Andy was a minor celebrity. “Send me one, Coach. I’ll be careful this time.”

  Kemp dug a toe into the grass, getting ready to pitch. “Hey, Andy, when’s your sister coming in, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, Coach.” Andy fanned the bat behind his head. “She called this morning, but I didn’t hear what she wanted. She talked to Peepaw. I think she’s on tour somewhere in Oklahoma.” Looking at Andy now, I recognized the similarity to his sister. I’d watched her make her way to the top on last spring’s season of American Megastar. No wonder Daily felt so familiar. I’d probably seen it on Amber’s hometown feature.

  “Next time she’s around, tell her to drop by the field house and remind me about those extra pictures of you guys from the playoffs last spring. I think she wants to frame some things for your grandpa to hang in the new house.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  Kemp pitched the ball, and Andy swung, lofting it into the outfield. He took off for first, and a runner came in from third. In the outfield, one of Kemp’s ball players jumped over a little kid and dove for the ball.

  “I got it.” Rolling over on the ground, he held up the ball. “He’s out, Coach.”

  “It hit the ground,” Andy protested, staying on first. “Digger trapped it.”

  “I got it in the air, Coach!” Digger defended.

  A minor disagreement fired up, and Kemp finally had to step in and play the part of umpire. “You guys are pathetic. You’re out, Andy. That’s three. Last bat for the other team. Let the little kids hit first.”

  My team went in to bat, and Kemp stayed on the pitcher’s mound. Standing in line, I watched him pour on the drama for the younger kids. “And, stepping up to the plate, it’s Slugger Sly Sofar. Back up, outfield, here comes a big hitter… .” Kemp’s face was alive with light. The hint of shadow that usually seemed to hang over him was gone, and watching him now, I could tell this was his game, his element. I thought about what he’d said earlier, that playing baseball didn’t feel like work, because he loved it.

  “But on the mound, it’s Robert Leroy Satchel Paige. He likes the corners, folks, and it’s batter beware… .” Kemp continued to give the play-by-play as he moved into his windup. “Paige’s in rare form today. There’s steel in his eye and lightning in his arm. Looks like he’s thinking about a Midnight Creeper, but he likes the curve, too. No … no … it’s … it’s a fastball down the middle. That thing’s clocking out over ninety-eight. Looks like Sly’s lined up on it. He’s loaded, he’s ready. If he gets ahold of the ball it’s gonna fly … and … it’s … outta here!”

  Sly tossed the bat and took off, then rounded the bases while Kemp did the announcing, and his ballplayers purposely bobbled the ball.

  “Oh … oh, he’s on second, and Anderson guns the ball to third. It’s gonna be close, but, but no, Hanson misses the catch and it’s all the way to the oak tree. There’s Sly rounding third an
d turning on the speed. He’s fast. He’s agile. Hanson’s recovered the ball. Catcher’s checking from the plate. The ball’s in the air. Throw’s off to the right, but … but … no, catcher makes the snag! Sly’s coming in like a freight train. He runs, he slides. He’s … he’s … he’s safe! Catcher misses the tag and Sly ties up the score for the Rangers!”

  The rest of my team batted through without a score. Now that the game was tied, Kemp’s high-school boys were playing for real and slinging so much trash talk that Kemp threatened to make them run laps if they didn’t chill out. Even in Wiffle ball, they had an undeniable competitive streak.

  Somehow, I ended up at bat with a chance to bring in the winning run. Sly’s brother, Jayden, was on third, in position to score. The pressure was on, and to compound things, the play-by-play announcer was in high gear. “And, look out in the stands, it’s Highfly Hilda. She’s 0 for 5 this afternoon.”

  I sneered at Kemp. He would have to point out that I’d flied out all five times so far. Of course, considering that it had been at least fourteen years since I’d picked up a baseball bat, I thought I was doing pretty well just to hit the ball.

  “The batter swings like a girl!” one of the high-school boys joked, and the little kids picked up the chant. “The batter’s a girl, the batter’s a girl… .”

  Just for fun, I stretched out the bat and pointed to the outfield.

  Kemp’s lips parted in the form of an O. He was impressed. “Look out, folks, Highfly Hilda’s callin’ the upper decks. She’s delivered a challenge to the pitcher… .” Grinning at me, he palmed the ball, rubbing it between his hands.

  “The pitcher’s raising the laces. Where’s the ump?” I complained.