In a Jam

by Cindy Dorminy

  Family. I wouldn’t know. Mom always said this town smothered her dreams of being a singer, but I think she did a pretty decent job on her own. She flitted from one town to the next, taking any singing gig she could get until she landed in Tennessee. That was where, at some nightclub, she hooked up with “the sperm donor,” as she always called him. By the time I came along, she had given up singing and gone to work as a bartender. I learned how to make a martini before I was ten and took my first sip of alcohol when I was thirteen. Yeah, my mom was a great role model.

  “Do I really have to leave in the wheelchair?”

  “Yep. Hospital policy.”

  Gunnar lounges in a chair in the waiting room, thumbing through a crumpled magazine. His forearms flex with hardly any effort. When he sees us, he jumps up as if his pants are on fire. “I’ve got my car double-parked just for you.”

  His bashful grin makes me wish we weren’t surrounded by all these hospital personnel. Except my barf breath is a definite turn-off.

  As if Mel can read my mind, she slips me a peppermint candy.

  “Thanks.” I turn back to Gunnar. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get a parking ticket?”

  “Nah. I’ve got connections.” He takes the handles of the wheelchair, and we continue on our way.

  Right as we get to his car, Mel calls, “Hey, Gun.” She plants her hands on her hips then brings them up to a clap in front of her face. “Be aggressive. Be, be aggressive.” That’s an interesting sight—a doctor in blue scrubs, performing a cheer. She even does a high kick. Wow. I’m impressed.

  Gunnar growls.

  “Family,” I say as I wave to Mel.

  “Yeah. Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t shoot ‘em.”

  Even though there are better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than lying in the emergency room, I got to spend more time with Gunnar, and I made two new friends. Plus, they included me in their lives, which is huge for me. Maybe I’m being pranked, and this is all some Southern scheme to keep track of my every move, but I really think I can trust them. I want to trust them. There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to dust off my running shoes and take Regina and Mel up on their offer to go jogging. At least if I have another medical emergency, I’ll be in the best of care.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Andie

  After sleeping like the dead, I feel like a new woman, which I need because today is my first attempt at running the shop. I’m not sure what to expect, but I can make coffee and biscuits. It can’t be too hard. Since the IV fluids had me up at five o’clock this morning, peeing like crazy, I put my time to good use. I changed out the tablecloths, placed flower vases on each table, and even figured out that old-fashioned coffeepot and made a great cup of coffee, if I do say so myself. The Piggly Wiggly has a decent assortment of cut flowers, so I purchased some to brighten up the counter and hide what appears to be the remainder of an old bumper sticker. All I can make out is ‘ens.’ No telling what that said.

  I pull my ponytail tighter and commence cleaning off the tables, when an elderly African-American woman shuffles in. She walks all bent over as though every step is agonizing. Surely, I don’t have customers this early.

  “Good morning. How can I help you today?” I surprise myself by sounding chipper and businesslike. “All I have is coffee to offer you as I haven’t figured out my grandmother’s recipes yet.”

  The lady waddles around the counter and puts her purse under it. She picks up an apron that has “It’s all fun and games until someone burns their wiener” printed on the front. She crosses the strings in the back and ties it in the front.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Only a little stiff back. But I’s be fine in a while.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a rolling pin.

  “Excuse me. What are you doing?”

  She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind then commences pulling out other items from the drawer. “I’m goin’ to work. What you doin’?”

  I shake the cobwebs out of my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  She moves me out of the way with one strong, bony finger and opens the pantry. She hands me flour, sugar, and baking powder. If she tosses one more item into my arms, I’m going to drop everything on the floor.

  “Work. Don’t they teach you how to work in Boston?”

  Actually, no. I haven’t had a steady job in forever, but I don’t think she wants to hear about my work or lack of work history.

  “You work here?” Having an employee could be a positive thing since I have no idea what I’m doing, but it would have been nice if someone had mentioned it before now.

  She snickers. “Girl, you is sharp. Sharp as a tack.”

  Coffee. I need another cup of coffee. I set all the ingredients on the counter and pour myself a cup then hand one to this lady, whom I’m assuming is my employee. She pours some of the coffee into the saucer and blows on it before she slurps it down.

  “Mr. Christian didn’t say anything about employees.”

  She snorts. “Mm, mm, mm. He should be ashamed of hisself. I’ve been with Mary Grace since the beginning. Let’s see... I think it was eighty-two.”

  If she has known my grandmother since the eighties, then she had to have known my mother too, but I’m too distracted by her scooping out each ingredient into a bowl, combining it all together, and flouring the counter like a boss. She mixes up a gloppy, thick batter, and when she turns the bowl over, it falls out onto the floured surface with a splat.

  “Preheat the oven to fo-hunnerd, please.”

  That, I know how to do.

  The woman continues talking as she kneads the dough. “Of course, I ain’t been able to do much lately. I got the gout, but Mary Grace, she let me stay on.”

  “I would appreciate any help you can offer. I’m flying blind here, so thank you.”

  For ten minutes, I stand in my place as my employee that no one told me about throws a pan of biscuits in the oven, whips up some lumpy gravy, and starts bacon sizzling in a frying pan. The smell takes me back to one of the few memories I have of my grandmother—the smell and the sight of her standing in front of the stove, babbling on about some recipe. But then my mother walked into the room, ruining the moment. It was always about her. If she wasn’t the center of attention, she would spoil it for everyone else, especially me.

  I snap back to reality. To be polite, I pour some of my coffee into the saucer and blow on it. When I take a sip, I realize this isn’t so bad. It’s the perfect temperature, and I feel as if I’m drinking my milk from the bowl, which my mother hated. I check my watch to see how much time we have before seven o’clock rolls around when I get to turn the “We’re Open” sign around.

  “So, what all did you do for Granny?”

  The woman shrugs, flips the bacon over in the pan, and peers into the oven to check on the biscuits. “Pretty much everything except clean the crapper. Waited on customers, did some baking, cleaned windows, stuff like that.”

  “By the way, I’m Andie.” I hold my hand out to take hers, but she bats it away, sending a puff of flour into the air. It tickles my nose.

  “I know that. I know all ‘bout you.” She opens the oven door again, and with a dish towel, she scoops out the cookie sheet full of perfect, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits. The aroma wafts over me, making my stomach growl. She drizzles melted butter over the top.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  The lady laughs. “In this town, only the headstones. The name’s Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cavanaugh. By the way, how did you know to come in to work today?”

  “Is it Monday? Did the sun come up?” She stacks the biscuits on a plate before placing them under a glass cover.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I work.”

  I rub my temples. “So the shop hasn’t been closed since Granny died?”

  “Nope.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “And what if I had decided not to move here?”

>   She cracks a huge smile. “I knew you would come. She knew you would.”

  I should be miffed at her for assuming I would relocate, but she’s right. I am here. My mouth starts to curve upward even though I try to fight it. I glance at the clock on the wall and clap. “It’s time.” I run over and turn the sign around, announcing to the world that In A Jam is open for all of Smithville to enjoy. Granny, are you watching?

  I barely make it back to the counter, when the bell over the front door tingles and Gunnar walks in, looking mighty fine in his police uniform. Oh, dear Lord. He is even yummy first thing in the morning. I bet he thinks I slept in my clothes. If it didn’t seem rude, I would snatch the dish towel away from Mrs. Cavanaugh to sop up all the drool from the corners of my mouth. Hubba-hubba.

  “Mornin’,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says to him. “I got yo breakfast all ready.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” He bows his head. “Andie.”

  I salute him. “Good morning, Officer.”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh slides a plate full of bacon and biscuits with gravy toward him.

  I pour him a cup of coffee. “Regular coffee, right?”

  “Yep. The truck driver stuff.” He breathes in the food.

  Whatever he doesn’t want, I’ll certainly take.

  “This smells so awesome, as usual.” He dives into his plate of food, and I can’t stop watching his strong jaw mow through the crisp bacon. His tongue snakes out to catch a crumb at the corner of his mouth, and my knuckles turn white from hanging on to the counter.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh clears her throat. Busted. “Have you met Miss Andie? Of course you’ve met.”

  I bite my lip to hide my smile.

  “We’ve met,” he says with a mouth full of food. He glances my way then focuses on his plate. He gulps down some coffee and takes a break from his binge. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

  I shrug as I wipe the counter. It’s not dirty, but it does give me something to do with my hands. It’s not what I want to do with my hands, but this won’t get me in trouble or start any rumors. Mrs. Cavanaugh scrubs a pan that is already clean.

  “So far, so good,” I say. “As long as I’m not asked to pray in church, I think I’ll do mighty fine.” I pull out my water bottle. “And I’m staying hydrated.”

  Gunnar grins. The bell over the door chimes again, and in walks the two texting ladies from church that I spoke with after the service. I’m not sure, but it seems as though they have on the same gaudy flowery outfits from yesterday. Their wide-brimmed hats are different, but I hope to God no one owns more than one of those loud dresses. I bet some bees mistake them for really huge flowers... really huge. They both have silvery white hair with a blue tint, which sticks out of their hats, and yep, I see that cell phone peeking out from one of their bras. Ick. It’s way too early for this.

  “Mornin’, Miss Jackson, other Miss Jackson,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says with no expression at all.

  They wave to Mrs. Cavanaugh before they give me a sneer as they scoot their wide butts into a booth at the back of the shop.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh pours two cups of coffee and shuffles over to them. She sets the cups down on the table. “Now don’t you spill that hot coffee on that pretty dress.”

  The smaller of the two old biddies beams up at Mrs. Cavanaugh. “Why, thank you. I made it myself.”

  “I can tell,” Mrs. Cavanaugh deadpans.

  The bigger biddy gropes herself until she retrieves her cell phone from her bra. I’m glad I haven’t had breakfast yet because I’m sure it would make an encore performance after seeing that.

  Gunnar has his eyes trained on his plate. Smart man. His police radio screeches through the coffee shop. I guess Gunnar understood what was said because he stands, balls up his napkin, and tosses it onto the plate. Mrs. Cavanaugh hands him a to-go cup of coffee.

  “Duty calls.”

  Well, bummer. I know he’s got a job, but I was hoping he would stick around for at least a little bit longer, like four or five more hours. I glance at the chalkboard menu and rush over to the cash register. Hopefully, muscle memory from my days of working fast food will kick in and I’ll know how to use this antiquated thing.

  “Let’s see...” It makes a ka-chunk ka-chunk sound with every button I push and finally gives me a total. “That’ll be two dollars and eighty cents with tax.” Dang, there’s no way to stay in business with such cheap menu items. I need to think about raising the cost of some things to keep up with inflation.

  He stares at me for the longest time then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Mrs. Cavanaugh smacks me on the wrist with the dish towel.

  “Ow.”

  The Jacksons snicker, click a photo, then snicker some more. I wish they had a job to go to.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh gives me a stern look. “Child, where’s yo manners? He don’t pay.”

  “Huh?”

  Gunnar hands me a five-dollar bill. “It’s okay.”

  She smacks his hand this time, and he jerks back to escape another hit. I know my eyes are about to bug out of my eye sockets.

  He puts the bill in the tip jar and slowly backs away with his hands up, as if he’s startled a sleeping tiger. “Better go before she gets the switch out after me.” He winks then scoots out the door.

  “Mm, mm, mm.” Mrs. Cavanaugh shakes her head. “That’s the po-lice. You don’t make him pay. What’s wrong with you?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the rules. It’s a dumb rule, by the way.” I point at the two old ladies snapping photos of me with their cell phones. “Do they eat for free too?”

  She motions for me to come near. I’m not so certain that’s the best idea, but as long as she’s not holding the dish towel, I might be safe, so I tiptoe closer.

  She winks. “Mary Grace always charged them double.”

  I like my granny more every second I’m here.

  The door chimes again, and Gunnar’s cousin walks in, wearing a suit so fancy, she probably bought it at Barneys. She is one sharp dresser. With her hair down, her light-brown curls bounce all over her shoulders.

  “Hey, y’all.” She waves to the Jackson sisters then leans over the counter and gives Mrs. Cavanaugh a kiss on the cheek.

  I smile at her. “Hey, Doctor—”

  “Nope. I told you. It’s Mel.”

  “Okay, Mel. Would you like some...”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh pulls a bowl of cut-up cantaloupe and a cup of vanilla yogurt out of the refrigerator and slides it over to Mel.

  “Thanks, Mrs. C. You’re the best.”

  One of the Jackson sisters clears her phlegmy throat. “We hear Andie had to go to the emergency room yesterday after church. Did you have to give her a shot of Narcan for the overdose?”

  My mouth drops. Of all the nerve of the old biddy!

  Mel wipes her mouth with a napkin and wags a finger at them. “Now you know HIPAA rules prohibit me from discussing confidential patient information, or else I’d be telling Mrs. Cavanaugh about that boil on your ass I had to burn off last month.”

  Mel is my new best friend.

  A twin gasp comes from the Jacksons’ table. “Well, the nerve of you. You know that’s not true.”

  “Of course.” Mel takes another bite of her cantaloupe.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh holds out a fist for Mel to knuckle-bump.

  Mel puts on her invisible doctor hat and gives me a once-over. “How are you feeling today?”

  I shrug. “I’m okeydokey. I only had to pee about ten times last night, but I’m trying to stay hydrated.” I hold up my water bottle.

  “Good. If you need anything, you give me a holler.” She takes a business card and a pen out of her purse then writes a phone number on the back before sliding the card across the counter to me. “That’s my cell number.” Mel pulls out a five-dollar bill, which Mrs. Cavanaugh refuses to accept. And exactly like her cousin, Mel stuffs it in the tip jar.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh pours four cups of coffee, and
I place the lids on them. Then I pull out a drink carrier and place the cups in it for Mel to carry. “Take these for your staff,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says.

  Mel kisses Mrs. Cavanaugh on the cheek. “What would I do without you?” She points to me. “You show her the ropes, okay?”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh snorts.

  Mel waves and adds, “Y’all have a nice day. Oh, and we’re on for a run tomorrow, right?”

  “You bet.”

  She waves at the Jackson sisters as she scoots out the door.

  While I wipe up some drops of coffee on the counter, I shoot Mrs. Cavanaugh a dirty look. “Stop refusing money. This is a business.”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh snorts. “It ain’t gonna hurt you to be nice.”

  “Nice is one thing, but if you keep this up, I’ll have to raise the prices on the paying customers.”

  The Jacksons perk up and interject themselves into the conversation. “We’ll have to take our business elsewhere if you do.” I’m not sure which Jackson comments, but the other one nods.

  “Don’t tempt me.” I point a finger at them. “And if you take one more picture of me, I’ll dunk your phone in a glass of water. So nip it.”

  The Jacksons stare a hole through me as both of their mouths open and close like fish out of water. Boom. I think I won that round.

  A gurgling noise comes from behind us. “What’s that sound?”

  “Uh-oh,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says.

  I scamper around, trying to find the source of the gurgling. “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

  With her dish towel, she scoops some crumbs from the counter into her other hand. “Well, the pipes are real old in this building, and if you, uh...”

  The sound gets louder. I pace through the kitchen, trying to find the source of the noise. If the pipes are about to burst, that means the value of this building will be diminished. Crap. “The pipes? What about the pipes?”

  “If you overload them with too much work, well, they tend to leak.”

  I brave a peek under the sink, and water runs, not trickles, from the pipes. My throat constricts to only let out a tiny “eep” when I really want to scream. This can’t be happening.