by Rhett DeVane
“Never was one for numbers.” He chuckled and shifted the cruiser into gear. “I’ll follow you to the tire shop, make sure you get there okay.”
She grappled for her keys. “Thanks.”
“Lead on, Miz Louisiana.” The officer backed his car enough to allow her space to exit the parking spot.
“It’s Mary-Esther!” she called out over the din of his engine. He idled there with his dark shades and a slight grin.
Dang.
Chapter Six
Through the tire shop’s plate-glass window, Mary-Esther watched Officer J. Blount whip into traffic and accelerate toward Quincy. A gush of loss and longing overwhelmed her.
Stop! Now! She dug her fingernails into her palms until the skin blanched. The trick had helped her quit smoking years ago. It might curb romantic disasters too.
She fished two aspirins from her purse and took a few sips from a dented water fountain. Magazines curled with overuse sat on a veneered end table. The top two caught her eye.
“Nice. A ratty motorcycle magazine and a Sports Illustrated from last summer.” Mary-Esther dug in the pile and picked up a torn copy of some hunting periodical. Find the big bucks, the headline read. Big bucks? She could use a few.
Mary-Esther threw the magazines down and slid into a seat beside a rack of chrome custom wheels. A small television blared the local news. She watched, trying to get interested.
In a few minutes, she saw a police cruiser pass by. Officer Blount? Mary-Esther sat up and leaned forward, watching until it was out of sight. She had no business starting up a romance. Not now, probably not ever.
She slumped back into the tacky black Naugahyde and picked at the scab of her marital history. As long as she steered clear of the raw center—the most brutal memories—she could worry the time-crisped edges. Her mind swept over the roster of men, at least the ones with a legal union. The others, she had long since quit trying to count and file.
She held up a finger. Ricky Lamar Alford. Husband number one. One year, two months.
Eighteen to her sixteen. They ran off to Las Vegas in Ricky’s aqua blue Dodge Dart. So romantic, exhilarating. A ticket out of Loretta Day’s cramped apartment and the endless stream of uncles.
Charismatic Ricky smooth-talked Mary-Esther out of her cotton panties, and the young virginal bride discovered she liked sex. Loved it. Craved it. So did Ricky, with any skirt that swished by. They drank and chain-smoked together, worked dead-end jobs to eke out a meager living. Drank some more. Until the night Ricky knocked her down and kicked her in the gut so hard she lost the barely-baby she carried.
And she never conceived again.
He or she would have been grown by now, maybe grandkids. Don’t go there! She shook her head.
Mary-Esther held up another finger. Jesus Luis Fernandez. Husband number two. Five years, three months.
Fifty to her twenty-three. He came in for pancakes and coffee at the Waffle Hut where she waited tables and he left an hour later with his gullible server. “Everything good and kind, you can find with Jesus,” he used to say.
Mary-Esther chuckled low. Wouldn’t the religious fanatics have a field day over that statement?
Strangers often mistook the couple for father and daughter until the two of them lip-locked long enough to make others wish they would get a room. Under his paternal watch, Mary-Esther attended night classes and earned a G.E.D.
The only blip in the relationship: Jesus’s possessiveness. Mary-Esther had no friends, only her husband. She had a home and plenty to eat, and it didn’t matter. Jesus never struck her, only suffered abysmal sadness when she “disappointed” him. A heart attack snatched Jesus from her life when he was four months past fifty-five. He left a little money, enough for her to attend evening nursing assistant classes.
The long-faced tire shop owner interrupted the husband count to quote her a price on a cheap tire, then he disappeared through a stained wooden door. Mary-Esther fell back into her mental muckraking.
She had to give daisy-chaining husbands a rest when Nana got sick. Life really slid down the toilet after Nana Boudreau suffered her stroke. But Mary-Esther would do it all again—the caretaking, bathing, feeding. Her maternal grandmother had always been there for her.
Six months after Mary-Esther moved into Nana’s cramped wooden frame house, Dear Loretta appeared on their doorstep, homeless and penniless, cast aside by the latest in a line of paramours. Mary-Esther struggled to extract a little peace, living in the same house with her mother. Again.
Then Nana died.
And Mary-Esther hooked up with the next loser.
She held up finger number three. John R. Sloat. Jazz musician. Forty-five to her thirty-three.
Mary-Esther accepted John R.’s bleary-eyed, boozy proposal following a marathon of Mardi Gras debauchery. Like most of her decisions, the marriage seemed like a good idea at the time. For the next twenty-plus years, she and John R. kept bad company.
If John R. could have satisfied his physical needs with the saxophone, his union with Mary-Esther would’ve been unnecessary.
She closed her eyes and could see him fingering the keys, his body swaying rhythmically. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to say John R. made love to the instrument, and the audience became willing voyeurs. Mary-Esther envied the place he went when he attached himself to the sax. To be so totally lost in something.
She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Her head felt swimmy. John R. still had that effect on her.
By the time her mother became ill, John R. was performing his instrumental magic for some other hapless woman and Mary-Esther was once again on her own. She moved back in to her grandmother’s house, this time without the buffering influence of Nana Boudreau.
Her throat constricted when she thought of Loretta. Telling, that she called her Loretta, never Mom or Mama.
Love, longing. Anger, distaste. Was every woman’s relationship with her mother as fraught with polar-opposite emotions?
Loretta’s life had consisted of hopping from one man’s bed to the next. Her mother drank too much and had no concept of money. The past and future didn’t exist.
Only when her mother lay dying did Mary-Esther realize the number of traits they shared.
“To your credit, Loretta,” she mumbled aloud, “you and Hurricane Katrina taught me: I can survive most anything.”
Papers rustled. She looked up to see Milton watching her with his hangdog expression from behind the sales counter.
“Er . . . Miss. Your van’s ready.”
*
After Elvina Houston started a fresh pot of Morning Blend coffee in the Triple C’s kitchen and checked the voicemail, she slipped from the back entrance and picked her way past the koi pond, butterfly garden, and birdfeeders to a small square flower patch. The daisies of late summer were gone, recently replaced with a thick carpet of lemon yellow and rust-colored mums. Such a pretty spot.
Jake had spent the better part of an afternoon working on it. Elvina’s heart near to broke in two watching him out the back window. The leg that got so hurt when he was beaten up doesn’t bend good, still. He stretched it out ahead of him and scooted along on his behind to plant every one of the mums.
“He’s a good man, that Jake Witherspoon.”
Elvina settled onto a cement bench and opened a bag of whole peanuts.
“Chip, chip, chip!” she called, searching the tall pines surrounding the clearing.
Gray squirrels in varying sizes scampered toward where Elvina waited, their pompom tails held high. Like rapt front-row fans at an Elvis concert, the animals lined up in a semicircle at her feet and settled onto their haunches. Six sets of round eyes studied her.
Elvina’s gaze swept over the group. “Where’s Elmer?”
One last rotund squirrel skittered down the pine to her right and queued up with the rest.
“Good of you to grace us with your presence, Elmer.”
Elvina laughed. Give the rodent a tiny rifle and an El
mer Fudd hunting cap and he would look like a furry miniature of the cartoon character. The portly squirrel inched forward and reached a tentative paw to touch the tip of her shoe.
“Apology accepted, sir.”
For the first few months when Elvina frequented the Piddie Davis Longman Memorial Garden, a single squirrel had braved her company for the price of a handout, long enough to snatch a peanut and haul butt to the closest tree. The squirrel grew steadily bolder as time went by. Soon it shared one end of the bench, contentedly chewing and chattering. At that early point, Elvina’s emotions were raw. Human company would have been too much effort. Squirrel was fine.
Her therapist had strongly suggested the daily visit to the garden as a balm to her sore soul. When Piddie Longman was alive, a day never went by that the two didn’t sit in her dear friend’s tiny kitchen and ruminate over the town’s residents, often speaking on the phone two or three times as well. Now, the daily one-sided conversations had become an integral part of Elvina’s mornings, a last link to a woman who had once thrown her a lifeline. Too bad they didn’t have phone service in the Great Beyond.
Elmer inched closer. Most folks thought squirrels all looked alike. Not so. Elvina could tell some of them apart.
That original gray-furred moocher, Gabriel—he had a star-shaped white clump of hair on his head—shared news of the mother lode with his cohorts. Depending on the morning, Elvina now had between four and eight visitors. The throng of squirrels she now regarded as fellow mourners brightened each day a bit more than the one before.
Elvina loosened the twist tie on the peanut bag. She’d have to raid the spare-change jar next to Buster’s kitty treats and pick up a few bags next time she was in Lowe’s. She doled out several whole peanuts and the group got down to business.
She thought about Piddie’s final advice, left behind on an audiotape delivered by the lawyer after the memorial service. She had replayed it so often, she had it memorized.
“’Vina, go on and grieve. Cry and fall out and do whatever you need to do to get past it. Sadness bottled up will rise to the top later and spill over into your whole life. Miss me, ’Vina. That is tee-totally all right. Just don’t go trying to crawl in the grave beside me.”
She looked at the flower garden that contained part of Piddie’s ashes. As good a place for a vacation grave as any. Or was the one in Alabama the getaway? Elvina harrumphed. Piddie never did anything the customary way.
“The Grim Reaper will come soon enough for you. In the meantime, do keep a watchful eye over the folks I’ve held dear on this earth.”
Elvina dipped her chin down then up. She would, by God, look after the people she now considered family.
“We’ll be together in the blink of an eye. I’ll be right here on the Other Side, waiting for you with a nice cup of that God-awful tea you swear by, and I’ll bet we will find a passel to talk about.”
A wistful smile lifted Elvina’s painted lips. Piddie had been so colorful, bigger than life. But Elvina had always been mousy and plain, unless it was a special occasion like New Year’s at Dan and Tillie Davis’ house on The Hill. Then she added a touch of snazzy.
Elvina glanced down. Wouldn’t Piddie be surprised by how she dressed now? Eye-popping red frock with shoes to match. She’d chipped the bright polish on two nails last night trying to affix Buster’s new rabies tag. Why did she bother? That cat could shed a collar faster than a politician lost tax money.
And wouldn’t Piddie get a kick out of her hairdo? Piled up like her best friend used to wear it. Elvina shook her head. The chandelier earrings clinked like wind chimes, but the mass of curls barely trembled. Hair fixative products, a miracle. Without the benefit of an add-on, her coif would never reach the loft of Piddie Longman’s ’do, but folks had noted the attempt. That was all that mattered.
“Morning, Piddie. Fine fall morning we got down here.” Elvina’s voice sent a jittery ripple through the squirrel line-up. She tossed out another round of peanuts.
“Lord, help. I thought cooler weather would never get here! That global warming business must be true. Mandy read a report somewhere, said it was on account of farting cows destroying the ozone layer or some-such, but I have my reservations.”
Elvina looked straight up. “I know you don’t concern yourself with such, up there in Glory. Thought I might mention it in case you want to put a bug in the Big Man’s ear about cow gas and all this heat, that’s all.”
Elvina pitched peanuts to the barfly squirrel contingency.
“I’m uneasy, Piddie. Problem is, I can’t put a finger on the reason to save my mortal soul.”
Elmer joined her on the bench. He hunkered down and chinked a nutshell into papery confetti. Above her, a woodpecker jackhammered a pine.
“A changeling wind is blowing. I feel it clean to my bones.”
Chapter Seven
Three miles south of Chattahoochee, Mary-Esther pulled onto Bonnie Lane. A petite woman with a red bandana tied around her head looked up from a flowerbed and squinted in her direction. Mary-Esther slowed the van. Her pulse raced.
Could this woman be her mother?
She checked the house number. Nope. Had to be another one farther down.
Mary-Esther continued up the drive, toward a white farmhouse with a porch full of rockers. Big block numbers over the front door. Correct address this time.
Cowardice had never been part of her make-up. Stupidity and blind hope, yes, but not cowardice. Mary-Esther swore under her breath.
What the heck. She should waltz up to the front door of the Davis family, ring the bell, and announce she might be their long-lost, mixed-at-birth, penniless and homeless relative.
Right.
Had to be a graceful way to make such a declaration. For sure, Hallmark didn’t make a card for the occasion.
She slammed on the brakes, threw the shift lever into reverse, and backed to a wide spot where she could turn around. The bandana woman watched her pass by again, her hands propped on her hips.
Mary-Esther’s foot trembled when she turned onto the highway and accelerated toward Chattahoochee. Priorities, she coached herself. She’d find the little restaurant, ask about the job, grab a sandwich, and head for the campground.
The scent of acrid sweat drifted from her body. Couldn’t meet the family anyway, smelling like this, looking like the undead. A shower and some sleep would help.
Tomorrow, or soon, she could screw up her resolve.
*
The perfume of sautéed onions caught Mary-Esther off guard when she stepped into Bill’s Homeplace Restaurant. Certain aromas flashed Mary-Esther to Nana Boudreau’s kitchen. The fragrance from years of Cajun cooking had lingered even when Nana’s ancient gas cook stove wasn’t in use.
The contented feeling of being home washed over her, followed immediately by the realization home was no longer a place she could go.
A kind-faced woman rushed by. Her scratched silver nametag read Julie. “Seat yourself, hon. I’ll be right with you.”
Before Mary-Esther had a chance to answer, the server disappeared behind a scarred wooden swinging door. Mary-Esther chose a vacant booth next to a window facing the main thoroughfare.
A row of shiny booths lined two windowed walls and Formica tables formed various configurations in the middle of the long room.
Had to be a busy place. Other than the little bistro where she had the huge biscuit, there didn’t seem to be many eateries in town. Did the locals tip well?
Julie the server appeared with eating utensils cocooned in a paper napkin. “What can I get you to drink, hon?” Even she studied Mary-Esther in an odd way.
“Water’s fine. Thanks.”
Julie pointed to the laminated one-page menu wedged between an aluminum napkin dispenser and a matched set of bubble-glass salt-and-pepper shakers. “Got most things on the menu, ’cept the buffet. That’s only at lunch. We have fresh fried mullet today, choice of fries or cheese grits, special for $6.95.”
F
atigue resonated in every joint. Mary-Esther mentally tallied what remained of her cash. If she stretched the bread and picked up a jar of peanut butter . . . “You fry in fresh grease?”
Julie winked. “You betcha. Best mullet you’ll ever wrap your lips around.”
“I’ll take that with cheese grits.”
Julie scribbled on an order pad. “Want me to have the cook throw a couple of fried onion rings on top? They’re not Vidalia. A little too late in the season for them. Texas Sweets. Next best thing.”
“Sure.” If she was going to have indigestion later, might as well go all out.
The server shoved the pencil behind one ear and walked away.
The walls held pictures and country-themed memorabilia. Printed gingham valances topped the spotless windows. The linoleum floor shone. She had worked in far worse places.
The tourist joints in New Orleans would be the first to resurrect from the deluge, but what about places like this? Where the menus weren’t fancy, the food was delicious and plentiful, and people knew you on sight. Most of the ones near her neighborhood no longer existed, if what she saw on the news could be trusted.
New Orleans would arise and shake its damaged wings to dry and heal in the salty marsh breezes. It always did.
Only she wouldn’t be there to witness it.
For a few minutes, she watched cars pass by, never more than four or five at a time. Even at three a.m., New Orleans had more traffic.
When she turned her attention to the room, Mary-Esther caught the interested glances of several fellow diners. Hard not to feel paranoid when everywhere she went in this town, people watched her as if she was some lunatic serial killer.
Of the handful of dinner patrons, all appeared to be minding their own company, except one woman. Every time Mary-Esther glanced to the table where the old lady sat, she was met with eyebrow-raised scrutiny. Mary-Esther checked to make sure she had the buttons fastened on her shirt.
Back in the city, she might have called out “what you looking at?” Ill-advised here, especially if she wanted to land a job.
When Julie arrived with her water and a plate piled high with hot mullet, Mary-Esther ignored the old woman and dug in. She bit into the perfect blend of crunch, seasoning, and grease, and let out a throaty moan. Even at twice the price, the mullet would’ve been worth every cent. She chased the fish with a spoonful of cheese grits. Sharp cheddar hung in strings from her lips. The onion rings added a sweet gooey tang, with the same delicate crispy coating as the mullet.
