by R. R. Banks
“Who are you talking to?” I whispered.
Rue held up a finger and turned slightly away from me.
“Yeah, it’s that bad. Totally took him for a ride. That’s actually kind of the problem…. Yeah, it’s not running anymore…. The big field behind the MacGregor place. I was hoping that you’d maybe send some supper this way…Whatever looks good tonight…Thank you, Bubba Ray. I’ll be looking for him.”
She ended the call and handed the phone back to me casually, apparently not seeing the stony look that I was giving her. I tucked it back into my pocket and leaned back against the pillow again.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“You said that you wanted to have dinner,” she said. “I figured this is where you brought us, so we’ll have dinner here. Our very dedicated waiter will be here in just a few minutes.”
“What are we having?” I asked.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said. There were a few moments of silence as we both enjoyed the evening around us and then she turned back to me. “Look, I’m sorry about all of those things that I said to you that night.”
“It’s alright,” I said.
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry about all the screaming and embarrassing you in front of, well, everyone.”
“It’s alright.”
“No. I’m sorry about the dick-in-the-mouth-thing, and the pig pen thing, and the blow it up your ass thing.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“Oh. Well, I meant to, and I’m sorry for that.”
I wanted to laugh. Even though those few minutes in the restaurant were some of the most mortifying that I had ever experienced in my life, thinking back on them made me realize just how hilarious it actually was. These were people who were mortified by people who wore the wrong color to social events or didn’t know the proper etiquette for a thank you note, and there Rue was yelling about my dick. I kind of loved it.
“It’s alright,” I said again. “You did what you felt that you needed to do.”
She nodded, and we fell silent again for another few seconds.
“I guess you came to talk about the baby,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“The baby,” Rue said, running her hands along the sides of her belly as if she thought that I had somehow forgotten. “I’m guessing since I’m so close to my due date that you want to talk about everything so that we have a plan in place.” I tried to stop her, but she just kept on talking. “I’ve been thinking more about the whole induction thing that the doctor talked about. I’m still not sure that that’s something that I want to do, but if you would rather go ahead and schedule a time that would be convenient for you and Flora, I understand. I have a doctor’s appointment Tuesday, so I can talk to her about it then if that’s something you’ve been considering.”
“Rue,” I said, finally able to get my voice in. “That’s not what I came here to talk to you about.”
“Oh,” she said, looking taken aback, but not asking anything further.
****
Rue
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I had been bracing myself to have that conversation with him. I knew that we needed to talk about the logistics of the birth and what was going to happen afterwards. We had gone over the basic procedure with the lawyer at the beginning of the process, but we hadn’t gone over the details yet. Little things that seemed like details that we could figure out later, early in the pregnancy were suddenly pressing and we needed to figure out things like if he expected to be in the room with me during delivery and how long I was going to stay in the hospital. Even smaller issues like how I was going to get to the hospital when I went into labor and what I was supposed to bring with me in my hospital bag suddenly seemed tremendously important and I figured that he felt the same way. Why else would he want to come all this way to talk to me?
I leaned closer to him to get a better look at the shirt he was wearing, wanting to get past this strange moment. The shirt he was wearing was definitely a mechanic’s shirt and I could see the name embroidered on it.
“That’s Jeb’s shirt,” I said.
“What?” Richard asked.
“That shirt,” I said. “It says ‘Jeb’ on it. It’s Jeb Montaigne’s shirt.”
Richard grabbed the embroidered section of the shirt and tilted it up, tucking his chin as far in as he could so he could look down at it.
“Do you know Jeb?” he asked.
“Of course, I know Jeb. Everybody with a car knows Jeb. He’s the best mechanic around. Brilliant with vehicles, not so much with anything else. That’s probably how you ended up with his shirt.”
“What do you mean?”
“I once heard Jeb mention that his wife Lula went to the dry cleaner every Wednesday. I couldn’t figure out what the hell he could possibly be talking about since the only dry cleaner around is also a key grinder, locksmith, bait and tackle shop, and bakery. Not a good bakery. Mostly molasses cookies. But the dry cleaner part hadn’t really been in operation for years since no one around here is big on clothing that needs to be dry cleaned. Anyway, I asked why he thought that and he told me that she did her errands in town every Wednesday and that every time she came back she had pants and shirts and skirts with her, and all the ones that he had torn up or stained were missing. He figured that they were cleaning and mending his clothes and she was going to get them every week. Of course, I knew for a fact that she was going to the thrift store because I saw her in there two weeks in a row and she told me that she always went on Wednesdays because that was the day of the week when they would change up the colors on the tags that indicated how much each of the items was discounted. She’d get there early so that she could be the first one to go through the good stuff.”
“So, what was happening to his shirts?”
“Lula was going through his closet and the hampers every week and weeding out the ones that were too stained or torn up and either tearing them up for rags or throwing them away. Then she would go to the thrift store and replace them. She convinced him that they needed to be dry cleaned because that would make them last longer. For some reason he never questioned why she was washing them in her usual laundry, too.”
“So how did I end up with this?” Richard asked, indicating his shirt again.
“He must have thought that if he brought it in and dropped it off, it would be ready for Lula when she went on Wednesday.”
Richard laughed, his chest seeming to open up with the sound as it came out.
“You know,” he said, “come to think of it, I think I might have had the honor of making Jeb’s acquaintance when I bought this truck.”
“You did?” I asked.
“I took it by his shop to look it over. He recommended that I bring it back for a full inspection tomorrow.”
I nodded, trying hard not to laugh at him again. I looked down at the quilt we were sitting on and ran my hand along it, feeling the soft fabric and the tiny stitches that went through it.
“This looks like one of Norma’s quilts,” I said.
“It is,” he told me. “Both of them are.”
I lifted my eyes to him sharply.
“What did you do? Come here and hit every business you possibly could before coming to my house?”
“Yes,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“Why would you do that?”
“I know that I wasn’t the most open and adaptable person in the world when I first came here, and that that hurt you. I wanted to show you that I’m sorry, that I would never purposely insult you or make you feel bad. I wanted to show you that I’m willing to do this. To do all of this.”
“Do all of what?” I asked.
My lungs were starting to feel smaller and my heart was trembling in my chest. I didn’t understand what he was saying, and I didn’t know how to react.
“This,” he said again, gesturing around him as if to encompass all of Whiskey Hollow. “I don’t have
to live my life in the city. I don’t have to have the mansion, the cars, the tailors, all of that. I want to show you that I can be here, with you, and live this life if that’s what you want.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Was he seriously suggesting that he and Flora were going to come live in the Hollow and raise the baby? Why in the living fuck would they do that?
Before I could answer I heard the puttering of a tractor approaching and I turned to see Clive coming toward us through the moonlight. He was like the least impressive knight in shining armor ever, but I had never been more relieved to see him. One hand was gripping the steering wheel and the other was trying desperately to hold onto a large picnic basket that was sitting beside him on the edge of the seat. He drove up alongside the truck and heaved the basket into the bed so that Richard could grab it and set it down on the quilt.
“How are you doing tonight, Clive?” I asked.
“Doing great,” the ancient man said. “I’ve never been a delivery driver before. I didn’t know that Bubba Ray was thinking of offering this service.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” I said. “I have a feeling this is just a one-time thing. Kind of an emergency roadside assistance situation.”
“What do I owe you?” Richard asked.
“How should I know?” Clive asked in a husky voice that sounded like it held half the state’s tobacco production in it. “I just hauled the basket. I don’t even know what’s in there.”
There was a hint of suspicion in his voice, as if somewhere in his mind he thought that he had gotten himself embroiled in some sort of unscrupulous espionage work and he wasn’t sure if he was appalled or intrigued.
“Just check the basket,” I said. “Bubba Ray puts a list inside his bags, so you know he’s charging you right. It’ll have the total on it.”
Richard opened the basket and the warm, somewhat confusing, smells of Bubba Ray’s food came out. I filled my lungs with them and smiled. It had been so long before I came home permanently since I had eaten this food and it was comforting and familiar. He reached in and pulled out a list, scribbled on the back of a menu, and checked the total. Taking out his wallet, Richard handed Clive a bill and then reached for another.
“For you,” he said. “Thank you for your prompt and friendly service.”
Clive beamed and tucked the tip into the pocket of a pair of jeans that looked almost as worn as the one’s Richard had on. He waved and started off, puttering into the night back toward Bubba Ray’s restaurant where he sometimes helped with the cooking, sometimes did a few dishes, and sometimes just sat at the bar waiting for time to go by.
I reached into the basket and started pulling out plates and bowls of food. Some of them I could tell what they were immediately, but others I figured were relatively new offerings and I was going to have to consult with the menu to figure out what exactly it was that he had served us. I started arranging the plates on the quilt, ran out of room, and handed the last couple to Richard, who placed them beside him.
“What is all this?” he asked.
“The specialties of Bubba Ray’s Rojo Cuelo Cantina,” I said.
“Rojo Cuelo Cantina?” Richard asked as if he thought, or maybe hoped, that he had heard me wrong.
I nodded.
“Yep. His grandfather was from Mexico. At least that’s what they call it. Truth is, his daddy ran off after sticking up a Wells-Fargo truck and took his mama with him, not knowing that she was pregnant. She ended up having him there after they had changed their names and started working as avocado pickers.”
“They became migrant workers…in Mexico?” Richard asked. I nodded, and he nodded back, hoping to find some common ground in the gesture. “What did they change their name to?”
“Ramirez,” I said.
“Ramirez. Bubba Ray Ramirez.”
“Yep. So, when the heat died down they came back here, his grandfather got married, had a son, who had a son, and there we have Bubba Ray.”
“Bubba Ray. Bubba Ray Ramirez.”
“Yes.”
“That has a nice ring to it.”
“Well, their time in Mexico apparently gave them more than just their musical names. They picked up an affinity for the food there and when they came back here, Bubba Ray’s great-grandfather decided he was going to open the first-ever Mexican restaurant in Whiskey Hollow. You can imagine how well that went over. So, they started tweaking the recipes a little at a time and by the time that Bubba Ray took over, he completely switched up the menu to the delightful creations that you see here today. Mexican Southern fusion.”
“That sounds promising.”
I laughed as he turned over the menu and scanned the listed items.
“Country Quesadilla and Warm Creamy Salsa?” he asked.
I gestured toward a plate and bowl beside me.
“Just don’t call it a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. He hates that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup,” I told him. “But there’s just the one piece of bread and it has some chili peppers and fancy cheeses in it.”
“You know,” he said, “I think I’ll try some of those Thick-Style Chips,” he said.
I picked up a plate of flattened, fried biscuits and a small bowl of melted pimento cheese.
“You have to try the queso,” I told him. “The secret to really enjoying a meal from Bubba Ray’s is that you have to deconstruct. You get your food and then you have to kind of take it apart into its individual elements before you can really understand it.”
“He does know that the name of the restaurant is wrong, right? I’ve taken immersion Spanish classes for work and I can tell you for certain that that’s not right.”
“Bubba Ray might be exceedingly proud of his faux-Mexican heritage, but it didn’t inspire him enough to get through the two years of high school Spanish. He does, however, watch all of his sports broadcasts in Spanish.”
“He does?” Richard asked, sounding surprised.
“Yep. He has absolutely no idea how soccer is played or who is leading the league in baseball this year.”
“Good thing there aren’t any bookies around here.”
I nodded my acknowledgement and handed him half of a Chicken and Waffles Taco.
“Jeb and I have a history you know,” I said, catching sight of the embroidery on his shirt again.
“You do?” he asked, looking around to try to find a place to set the food and then looking back at me.
“Mmm-hmmm. We were supposed to get married.”
“You were engaged to Jeb ?” he asked.
All the polishing and finishing and decorum in the world couldn’t cover up the horror in those words.
“Not exactly,” I said. “We were born right around the same time and our fathers decided that it would be just perfect for us to get married when we grew up. That way we could combine all of the land and our family’s assets, and climb right to the top of the grand power struggle that is Whiskey Hollow.”
“You could have been Lula,” he said.
I nodded.
“I could have,” I said. “So, you see, I understand social pressures.”
“I see that,” Richard said. “What happened with Jeb?”
“It just didn’t work out,” I said. “Too many family politics. Different values. I wanted to get the hell out of here and he wanted to stay forever. I couldn’t stand being near him for more than five minutes and the thought of waking up beside him even once made my stomach turn. You know, classic conflicts.”
Richard laughed and took a bite of one of the chips. He gave a somewhat surprised sound of approval and swallowed.
“The romantic tragedy of our times,” he said.
“Speaking of which,” I said, knowing a good segue when I heard it. “How is Flora?”
He winced and lowered the plate of food he held to his lap. He finished chewing the bite of taco-seasoned fried chi
cken in his mouth and let out a long breath.
“That’s actually what I came here to talk to you about.”
I braced myself, feeling the fun rapport that we had managed to find again drain away. Before he could open his mouth again, though, we heard whooping and hollering coming from across the field and the squealing of ATVs cutting through the grass.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Just a couple of teenagers out to wreak havoc and enjoy the summer night,” I said. “Probably hopped up on moonshine.”
“Moonshine?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it when you were picking out Big Blue here,” I said. “Cletus’s Clementine Moonshine. His pride and joy. It’s that little twist of clementine at the end that’s exactly the wrong thing to do. He bottles it up and gives it out at Christmas. That’s how most of the teenagers get a hold of it. The bottles make wonderful doorstops. Tie-downs for picnic blankets. Window cleaner. Not so much adult consumption.”
I could see Richard’s face fall and I tilted my head at him.
“What?” I asked.
He turned and pushed the sliding window on the back of the cabin open. He reached inside and came up a second later with a bottle of moonshine. I laughed.
“You bought a bottle?” I asked.
He reached in again and came out with another.
“I bought two.”
I threw back my head and laughed harder, pressing my hand to the side of my belly.
“I thought that we could celebrate,” he said.
“Celebrate what?”
“How close we are to the baby being born.”
“You bought unregulated moonshine to celebrate a still-pregnant woman?”
“It probably wasn’t the best choice.”
I shook my head.
“No. Probably not.”
He sat the bottles down beside him and leaned slightly closer to me.
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night at the restaurant,” he said.
The smile melted from my face and I shook my head.
