Secondhand Sister

by Rhett DeVane

  “You’re just a hop from my zone, so I thought I’d ride up and make sure you found this place all right.”

  “Can’t get much better directions than from a cop. It really is a nice campground. Thanks for telling me about it. I feel like I’m on vacation.”

  “And are you?”

  Mary-Esther stuffed down her reticence. Why lie? Nothing gained. “Not really. Seeing as how this is home now,” she motioned toward the van, “since mine got blown away by Katrina.”

  “I see. I’m so sorry.” His eyes were kind. “Bad business, that hurricane.”

  “I’d offer you a place to sit, but—”

  “I have a stool in the cruiser. I’ll join you for a spell if you don’t mind. Not much going on tonight in my part of the county, and it’ll be good to pass a little time in pleasant company.” He paused. “If I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Dear God. He was polite too. “Not like I have to clean house or mow the yard.” She motioned to the leaf-strewn campsite.

  “Got a Thermos of fresh coffee in the car. Like a cup?”

  She nodded. “I even have an extra mug. Bring it on.”

  He returned with a small folding stool and poured two mugs of steaming coffee. “I have packets of creamer, if you’d like.”

  “I prefer mine black and strong. No milk, no sugar.”

  “What a woman!” Jerry held up his cup in a toast. He unfolded the aluminum and canvas stool and sat down.

  “It’s easier that way. The less you require, the better off you are.”

  His eyes twinkled in the firelight. “A person who doesn’t come with a list of wants as long as the devil’s arm. I’ve certainly died and made a beeline to heaven.”

  Most men triggered Mary-Esther’s alarms, but Jerry Blount transmitted no threat. It wasn’t that she hated men, or had sworn off them. But after a few miserable times at bat, you decide the bench might be your best option.

  They sipped in silence for a few minutes. The lull wasn’t uncomfortable. Odd. Most of the time Mary-Esther reached to supply banal conversation.

  “Heard you landed the job at Bill’s,” Jerry said.

  “Have you to thank for that too. I dropped your name when I talked to the owner.”

  When Jerry leaned his head back and laughed, the sound rumbled from deep inside. “Good thing he likes me. I’d hate it if that had backfired on you.”

  Mary-Esther reached down and petted Boudreau’s back. When she hit the tickle-spot near the base of his tail, his haunches raised.

  Jerry’s white smile flashed in the amber light. “Isn’t that the funniest thing about a cat? Reminds me of those low-rider cars with the air shocks that jack up and down.” He wiggled his fingers and the kitten ambled to him. Mary-Esther admired the way Jerry’s strong hands rested on the kitten’s fur. Those hands would feel so fine on the small of her back.

  Mary-Esther dug her fingernails into her palm. Not a time or place for entanglements. Since Katrina, she imagined herself as a dandelion seed. Cast to the breeze, tumbling and spinning. She might light on the fertile soil beneath a stand of river birch. Or she could end up in the water, carried far downstream by the endless current.

  She had no roots; nothing held her down, but little held her up.

  Jerry refilled his cup. “Not meaning to pry, but have you had any luck finding those people you were looking for?”

  Mary-Esther stared into the fire. “Haven’t contacted them yet.” It had been so long since she had a confidant. She had trusted LaJune, why not Jerry? “It’s a long, sad story. Sure you want to hear it?” Her eyes met his. Their gazes locked for an instant before she looked down.

  “Miz Mary-Esther, I can’t think of a better way to pass a nice fall evening than sitting by a campfire with a pretty woman bending my ear.” He reached over and topped off her cup. “I’m on duty until half past chicken-thirty. I can drop and run if I get a call, long as you don’t take it personal if I have to leave in mid-sentence.”

  Chapter Ten

  Bobby Davis plopped down onto a wooden rocking chair on his log home’s broad front porch. Not long ago, he would’ve had a beer in his hand, one of the many it took to pass an evening.

  Most of his twenties through forties and the first part of his fifties had floated by in an alcohol-drenched fog. When he finally pulled himself from the hellish pit, he looked around to a reality he barely recognized. His miserable first marriage had long since foundered, his job hung by a wisp, and he was at odds with his only sibling. His mother stood by him, even during the angriest parts of his addiction, but Bobby knew he had been a large part of the sadness of her later years.

  The screen door screeched open. “Tell Daddy goodnight,” Leigh said to the chunky toddler balanced on one hip.

  “Bedtime?” Bobby asked, reaching for his son. He hugged the boy to his chest, kissed him on the top of his head. The kid was a real bruiser. His nickname Tank fit him.

  Leigh held out her hands and his son leaned away from him, back into his mother’s arms.

  “He’s wound up.” Leigh propped the wiggling toddler on the opposite hip.

  “Want me to take over?”

  Leigh shook her head. “Nah. We’re okay. I’ll give him some juice and Goldfish crackers while I’m finishing up in the kitchen. Usually does the trick.” She returned to the house.

  Life tasted so sweet now. How had he pissed away so much time? Fifty-four, with a three-year-old and wife number two. At least he had another chance to get things right.

  It had taken his mama’s death and the fated meeting with a determined young woman who saw a glimmer of goodness flickering inside of him to shock Bobby into admitting his life swirled in the crapper. But good.

  He pushed the rocker into a gentle back and forth.

  Familiar noises sounded from the kitchen. Though he couldn’t make out her words, he knew Leigh talked to Tank while she cooked.

  Felt good not to worry about punching a time clock. For over thirty years, he had lived and breathed his career with the Florida Game and Freshwater Fish Commission. Bobby didn’t want to be a part of that crazy, adrenalin-stoked game anymore. He dug into his past and resurrected his love for building with his hands, a talent nurtured early on by his daddy. This job wouldn’t shoot you in the back, leave you bleeding out on some lonely country road.

  I have a purpose. Two, actually. And soon, if God granted another great wish of his and Leigh’s, he would have a third. Shoot, if not, it was fun to try.

  In a few minutes, the screen door behind him screeched open. No matter how much he oiled the hinges, the door still protested under pressure. Such was the nature of wood.

  “Want some company?” Leigh asked.

  “Reason why we’ve got more than one rocker on this porch, I reckon.” Bobby admired his wife’s raven hair, blue-black in the gloaming light. “Tank asleep?”

  Leigh settled onto the rocker beside him with a contented sigh. “Yep.”

  Good thing about his boy. After his nightly snack, he was out. “How was your day?”

  “We got the flu vaccines in. Lots of folks coming by for shots. You need to get one too. I can give it to you so you won’t feel a thing.”

  Bobby flinched. The idea of a needle piercing his skin stirred his stomach. He might have drunk himself into an early grave if he hadn’t stopped. For sure, he wouldn’t have been a junkie. “I’ll ponder on it,” he said.

  Leigh boxed him playfully in the arm. “You amaze me, Bobby Davis. I’ve seen you reach down and grab a snake behind the head with your bare hands, yet you’re squeamish about a little pinprick.”

  “I’ll get one.”

  “See that you do. I’ve had mine. So has Tank. I don’t want you dragging home sick as a dog some evening and the two of us having to take care of your sorry butt.”

  “I absolutely get no respect in my own home.”

  Leigh slung one leg over the arm of the rocker and dug her toes into his jeaned thigh. “You are so mistreated.
I feel bad for you on a daily basis.”

  As the light faded in the thicket of pines and hardwoods surrounding the log home, crickets tuned up for the nightly serenade. Soon, a cacophony of peeper frogs sang from the boggy low land behind the house.

  Bobby cherished the night music as much as his father had. At one point, his dad had installed an intercom between the fishpond deep in the woods and the master bedroom, and insisted on falling to sleep each night to the piped-in symphony. His mom called it “that gosh-darn racket.”

  “You finished up in the kitchen?” he asked Leigh.

  “For the most part. Thanks again for washing the dinner dishes. My cake’s cooling. I should be able to frost it before we turn in for the night.”

  “Let me know if you need me to taste it for you.” Bobby winked. “I’d hate for it to leave this house without a proper quality test.”

  “Touch that cake and I’ll starch your shorts, buddy.”

  “Oh, them’s fighting words. You don’t go messing with a man’s under-drawers.”

  “Mister Davis, you don’t go messing with a woman’s contribution to the Fall Festival Cake Walk either. Got it?”

  Bobby tweaked his wife on the cheek. “Loud and clear.”

  They rocked, silent for a moment before Leigh said, “You were sort of quiet over dinner. You okay?”

  “How can you see right through me?”

  Even in the low light, Bobby could sense his wife watching him. “I pay close attention to things that matter,” she said.

  Before he met her, no one approached Bobby for idle conversation. Hattie had avoided sparring with him as much as possible. Anger bubbled beneath his thin skin. Anything could send it spilling over the edge. Most of his molars had been flayed flat from clenching.

  He looked over at Leigh. She didn’t prod. Only waited.

  For the first few months they dated, after Bobby committed to addiction recovery, he had spoken little about his feelings. Now he shared everything, no matter how insignificant, and he was learning to listen. Many nights after Tank drifted off to sleep, they talked deep into the evening until one or both grew too tired to continue.

  If only he had met Leigh before all the wasted years. Could’ve been wife number one. Not two.

  “I was thinking about how lucky I am,” he said. “Can’t imagine a single thing that would make my life more complete than what I have now, here with you and Tank.” Leigh grasped his hand and planted a soft kiss across the knuckles. “And to live here, in this house . . . on The Hill near my sister—”

  Leigh rocked a little, still holding his hand. Bobby gathered his thoughts.

  “I can’t help but wonder,” he said. “If Sarah had lived, suppose she would’ve ended up out here close to Hattie and me?”

  “Bet so. You have to figure, she would’ve grown up with Dan and Tillie as her parents too. Pretty good start.”

  “Good point.”

  Leigh fixed him with her intense eyes. “You miss Sarah, even though you never knew her.”

  The woman had a way of slicing through his mess. Hadn’t he exorcised all of his demons? The deep unease told him one or two remained.

  “We weren’t allowed to talk about Sarah. Didn’t dare mention her name. It was as if, when we stepped away from that little grave, all traces of her were stuffed in there with her.” He took a breath, blew it out. “It’s taken me a while to get used to Hattie naming her daughter Sarah . . . seems like we’ve stomped on a family taboo.”

  “Maybe it’s time, Bobby.” Leigh reached over and finger-combed his hair. “It’s been my experience, when you bring something out into the light, you can see it for what it really is. Most of the time, it’s not as threatening as it appears.”

  Bobby leaned and cupped her chin with one hand. He brushed her lips with his. “You ought to be on TV, woman.”

  “Keep your boots on, Buster! Mama’s coming!” Elvina Houston bumbled her way through the hallway. Buster yowled outside. The last time he stayed out so late, he showed up punctured and bloody.

  She clicked the lock open and shoved the heavy sliding glass door. “Dad-gum! The porch light is out again!”

  Elvina flipped the switch once more to make certain. The new moon offered no illumination. From the pitch-black darkness, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a full-blown cat fight. She fumbled in the cabinet next to the door for a small flashlight. When she depressed the button, the bulb barely lit before it faded altogether.

  “Well, Jumpin’ Judas on a pogo stick!”

  The cat screams escalated. Elvina gathered her chenille robe against the chill and grappled her way down the steps. In the daytime, she knew her back yard from memory, every bush, rock, and flowerbed. Recently, a roving marauder had visited her property, leaving random potholes where it had rooted around for whatever armadillos seek.

  One minute, Elvina picked her way through the yard to rescue her wayward feline. The next, she lay crumpled on her side, her right ankle sending white-hot streaks of pain up her leg.

  Piddie Longman would have called it an “O.S. Moment,” the split second of clarity when a person realizes a regrettable error.

  When Elvina could take a breath without crying out, she dug in the robe’s pocket, flipped her cell phone on, and dialed 9-1-1.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary-Esther pocketed her first paycheck. “I absolutely must get a haircut before animal control picks me up.”

  “You need to go see Mandy at the Triple C,” Julie advised. “She’s a wonder. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have snatched mine out by the roots long ago.”

  Mary-Esther held a good stylist in high esteem. Even at her lowest point, when Loretta neared death, and joy and money were sucked from her life in equal measure, she still managed to scrape together enough for at least a decent cut. Katrina changed that.

  After years of chemicals and coloring, her auburn hair crimped in unruly, frayed snarls. For the first time in years, Mary-Esther considered a short bob. Who had the time or energy to spend hours primping? Besides, the only mirrors in her life now were the fogged campground fixture, a compact she kept in the van, and the one hanging in the Homeplace ladies’ room. That morning, she had almost succumbed to chopping her hair with a folding pocketknife. Instead, she had scraped it into an unkempt ponytail.

  Mary-Esther flipped a couple of dollar pancakes. Perfect. Browned, not charred. “Is Mandy expensive?”

  “Fifty bucks for a color and cut. Worth every penny. You’d pay twice that in Tallahassee. It’s a good way to get to know the women in this town; that is, if you want to branch out from the handful of folks you’ve met here at Bill’s. Most everyone goes to either Mandy or Wanda.” Julie refilled two coffee carafes, her practiced hands working while she talked. “Wanda’s a big draw for the black community. She does these weave creations that are nothing short of fantasy.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “Corner of Bonita Street and Morgan Avenue. It’s had a couple of owners since it belonged to Jake Witherspoon’s parents, but everyone still calls it the Witherspoon Mansion. You remember Jake, the fellow who runs the Dragonfly Florist? He’s addicted to our French dip sandwiches.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mary-Esther shoveled the pancakes onto a warmed plate. Should know by now. No simple answers ever came from people in this town. They had to work the family history into everything.

  Julie washed and dried her hands then flipped the towel over one shoulder. “Take the road beside our parking lot and it’ll take you down Thrill Hill. Left at the stop sign. Triple C’s a couple of blocks down.”

  Mary-Esther added two strips of bacon, a slice of orange. Had to pull double duty this morning. The new cook called in sick. Again. More likely hung over.

  “Make sure you call first.” Julie balanced a loaded platter on one hand, picked up a coffee carafe with the other. “Elvina Houston strong-arms the front desk. She doesn’t cotton much to drop-ins.”

  *

  That afternoon, Ma
ry-Esther slowed the van in front of a sprawling, two-story house. Tucked between pines, dogwoods in red-leafed foliage, magnolias, and moss-draped live oaks, the mansion towered over the surrounding humble one-story homes like the town’s ruling architectural monarch.

  Mary-Esther followed the signs to a gravel-paved parking area and eased the dilapidated van into a tight spot between a gold Lincoln Towncar and a shiny late-model Buick. The van coughed and bucked before the engine died.

  Mary-Esther took stock of herself. The scent of fried food wafted up from her clothing, and her shirt looked like she’d been in a grease war.

  Oh yeah, I’ll fit right in here.

  She followed a slate path to a wide cement porch flanked with a row of Greek columns then entered the building through a massive pair of red doors. Upholstered high-back chairs and teak tables lined the walls of a spacious waiting room. A thick Oriental rug covered the polished wooden floor. In one corner, a rock fountain bubbled. Much fancier than the Sewanee Springs parlor.

  Muffled conversations wafted from deeper in the house. Mary-Esther wandered into the adjoining room. An antique mahogany reception desk dominated one corner. The only other furnishings were an armoire and a wood and glass display case filled with a line of professional skin care products.

  She glanced up to see several long, suspended poles displaying an array of garments. Some kind of specialized clothing store? The high-pitched wheeze of a sewing machine echoed from another room.

  “Hello!” a voice called out from behind her. “Thought I heard the door. It’s hard sometimes over the noise of the dryers.” A short, perky woman with bouncy, brown hair walked past her and tapped on the computer keypad. “You must be Mary-Esther Sloat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hope you didn’t feel like you had been deserted. Most everyone from around here knows to come on back if no one’s at the desk. But then,” the woman gave her the up and down, “you’re not from around here.”

  The woman’s tone was friendly. Mary-Esther smiled. “No, I’m not.”

  “Usually Elvina Houston, our appointment specialist, is on duty. She would pitch a fit and fall in it, if she knew I had allowed a new patron to stand out here wondering what to do.” The woman’s brows knit together. “Unfortunately, Elvina met with a slight accident.”