In a Jam

by Cindy Dorminy

  “Oh God. That’s not a little leak. That’s a geyser about to blow.”

  “Yep. It’s fixin’ to blow, all right.”

  The Jacksons pull their knees up to their chests to get their feet off the floor. The photographer of the group takes one last photo of me before sealing her phone in a zip baggie.

  I glance up from my squatting position. “Fixin’?”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh tosses her dish towel on the counter and shoves the crumbs onto the floor. “You’re not makin’ fun of me, are you? ‘Cause if you are, you can run this piss palace all by yo-self. First it was wanting to charge family for food. Now this.”

  She jerks her apron off and hangs it up then snatches her purse off the hook. The morning started off great, but I now have water gushing out of the pipes all over my inheritance. I pissed off my one employee, the only person who can help me survive the terms of my contract. She’s halfway to the door before my brain kicks in. I really need to get some Southern manners in the worst way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Andie

  I rush up to Mrs. Cavanaugh and hold her shoulders. “No, no. I’m not making fun. I didn’t know what you meant. That’s all. Water’s everywhere.” Water seeps its way toward my shoes. “What do I do?”

  She pushes out of my hold. “I’d say you need a plumber.”

  I slosh through the water, toward the phone hanging on the wall. The two Jackson ladies agree as they sip coffee. One puts a plastic bonnet over her blue hair and hat. The other one positions her phone on the table to take a not-so-inconspicuous photo of me.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m watching you.”

  Her shoulders slump in disappointment as she slides her cell phone back into her bra.

  “A plumber. A plumber. Yes.” I rush back around the counter and turn toward Mrs. Cavanaugh, who cracks some eggs into a bowl as though this sort of thing happens all the time. “This town has a plumber, right?”

  She gives me a dirty stare. I guess that was a stupid question. They have to have lots of plumbers. Everyone needs a plumber from time to time.

  “Of course, silly. Jimmy Stokes.”

  Great. One plumber. That’s a shocker.

  “Do you know his number?” Water inches closer to my feet. I try my best to slosh it away from me, but it creeps back like the blob in one of those old monster movies. I fling open every cabinet door in search of a mop and bucket. It can’t be the first time this has ever happened.

  “Five seven eight seven,” she says, beating the eggs.

  “Five seven eight seven... what? That’s not enough numbers.”

  The two Jackson ladies giggle, earning them a really big Boston-size snarl from me.

  “The first three are four two three like everyone else.”

  Seriously? “Oh.” I dial the number as fast as my fingers can use the rotary phone.

  “Too bad he ain’t there,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says.

  I slam the receiver down on the cradle. Ugh! Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks. I thought I could buy a few muffins from the grocery store, sell them as my own, and close up shop before noon. Easy peasy. And in less than two months, I could lock up the shop for the last time and hand over the keys to the person with the best bid.

  Even running a stupid coffee shop is too difficult for me. I can’t even do that without making a mess of things. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not sure why I even care. It would be best if I called Mr. Christian and told him I can’t do it. Granny was mistaken when she thought I should run this place for even one single day.

  The click of one of the Jacksons’ camera phones pulls me out of my pity party. If they document that I’m not fit to run this shop, I’ll lose the money before the week is up. I can’t let that happen. For some reason, Granny wanted me here. She didn’t want the money to go straight to the church without me at least trying to change. For some reason, she thought I needed this chance, and I owe it to her to try. A little bit of water won’t stop me.

  I stiffen my spine, wipe the tears off my face, and turn toward Mrs. Cavanaugh. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  She shrugs. “You didn’t ask. And even if you had, you weren’t very nice. If you’re nice, I’ll tell you all sorts of things.”

  Time to pull out the beauty queen smile I buried years ago. With all my molars showing and the water creeping up over my sneakers, I say, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Do you know when Mr. Stokes will be back in town?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  I bang my head on the counter. The water is up to my ankles now. Thank God there’s a big floor drain so the water shouldn’t get too much higher, but I need that water turned off now.

  “You knew he was out of town.”

  I pull out a bucket from the storage bin and slide it under the sink to catch at least some of the water. With my feet, I slosh the water on the floor toward the drain.

  “It’s a beautiful summer day,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. “He’s fishin’ if he’s alive. Won’t be back ‘til it rains.”

  “So I’m supposed to swim until he gets back in town?”

  Click. Click. Two more pictures. If one of those women gets a photo of my ass sticking up in the air, I’m going to go all Northern on the Jacksons.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh shrugs. She’s still so calm; it makes me crazy.

  “Attention all In A Jam customers, we are currently having technical difficulties. Please leave while you still can. Mrs. Cavanaugh, what do I do?”

  “I suggest you make friends with the other Stokeses.”

  I sop up some of the water that’s not making it down the drain with paper towels. At this rate, I might as well get a canoe and paddle out of this one-traffic-light town. “So the other Stokeses don’t like to fish?”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh dumps the eggs into a frying pan and sprinkles some salt on top. “Beats me. But they own the hardware store down the street. They could probably help you with your problem.”

  “Great. That’s perfect.” I run toward the front door, slipping and almost sliding into the barstools.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh stirs the scrambled eggs on the stove top. “You might want to turn off this valve before you leave.” She motions with her head toward the sink.

  The Jackson sisters giggle. I slop back toward the sink and poke my head underneath it to see the handle she’s talking about. I guess everyone in this town has basic plumbing knowledge and is sitting back like flies on a wall, waiting for me to screw up.

  Trying to keep my groan to a minimum, I turn the valve, and the water stops. “Pissa!” Through gritted teeth, I mumble, “Why didn’t you... never mind. I’ll be right back.” I point at the Jacksons. “You two better not leave without paying.”

  I slip one more time trying to stand up. “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to start cleaning up this mess while I go get help?”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh pulls out another towel. “Not at all. All you got to do is be nice.”

  Nice. I used to be nice, but Boston tends to change a girl. Being nice can get a girl taken advantage of in Boston, and we certainly don’t waste time saying “hello” to every stranger on the street. That’s just not done. One loses a seat on the train by being nice, and guys walk all over nice girls. All the nice guys have bitchy girlfriends, which in turn transforms them into jerks. I need to find a guy that hasn’t been tainted yet, and with all the money I’m about to get, I bet lots of guys will be nice to me... until the money runs out.

  First, I need the quickest fix for my plumbing problem—I mean, the store’s plumbing problem, even though mine is as rusty as those pipes. Next, I’ll need to decide how this will affect the property value. With any luck, a buyer will want to demolish the entire building, anyway. Right now, I need to find a nice hardware store.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Andie

  My ponytail hangs to the side, and my water-soaked jeans drag the concrete. I probably should have asked where the hardware store is, but I can figure this
out. For once, I can’t bail when the going gets tough. And as much as I would like a shot of whiskey right now to steady my shaking hands, I’m not that desperate... yet. Granny believes in me, so I need to believe in myself. It’s a stupid leaky pipe, for crying out loud. It’s not like the entire freakin’ roof is falling in. It had better not.

  To my right is the barbershop with about six half-bald men sitting out front on a bench. That’s not an appropriate advertisement for the quality of work the shop does. Across the street is the Big Ash Gym, where I may be able to find a guy to help me, but I need to figure this out all on my own to prove to everyone, especially myself, that I’m not a failure.

  Three stores down on my left is a sign in the shape of a hammer, hanging across the sidewalk. I see “Stokes Hardware” printed across it. My first step in that direction in my wet, sloshy shoes almost sends me sailing into the street, so I toe out of them and leave them next to the door of Granny’s shop. If anyone wants my ten-year-old, worn-out Keds, they can have them. The bald smoker fitness fanatic across the street tips his head in my direction. Cars pass me as I race-walk on the hot concrete sidewalk. Each driver waves my way as if we’re besties. If one of them is Jimmy Stokes, I don’t want to know about it.

  The Big Mouth Bass over the door of the hardware store about makes me pee in my pants when it starts singing “Take Me to the River.” That thing is ridiculous enough in a stinky old bar, but here it is downright creepy.

  The cold cement floor is a welcome relief to the soles of my feet. “Plumbing, plumbing,” I mumble to myself as I wander down one of the aisles of the cluttered hardware store. By the looks of the place, it hasn’t been updated anymore than Granny’s store. A lone customer rifles through the paint swatches, holding up various shades of white next to the dingy concrete wall.

  “That old sink acting up again?”

  I jump about two feet off the ground. When I turn around, I am face-to-face with a guy not much older than me. A cigarette is dangling from his mouth, and his T-shirt is stretched tightly over his big belly. It’s apparent that he hasn’t spent much time at Big Ash’s Fitness.

  “Actually, it is. How did you... never mind. Small town.”

  He sticks out a paint-stained hand for me to take. His blue eyes twinkle, as though he knows a secret about me. “I’m Jake. Jake Stokes. Your grandma has had problems with that old sink for years. I’ve tried to get her to replace it, but she wouldn’t.”

  I shake his hand. He seems nice enough. Maybe he can fix it for me if I lay on the charm. “But she did keep me afloat with all that plumber’s tape she bought.”

  Sounds simple enough. “Will that do the trick?”

  “Until you overuse the pipes again.”

  I take in his words. “So it’s a temporary fix.”

  “Yep.”

  Hmm. Maybe it can hold for a few more weeks, and I won’t have to spend a quarter of my inheritance on new plumbing. I’m sure Fisherman Stokes isn’t cheap. “Will it hold for about, say, six weeks?”

  He grins, his lips still holding on to the cigarette. “Until you sell the place?”

  A sandy-blond-haired woman with long, lanky legs walks our way, holding a cigarette in one hand and a Mountain Dew can in the other. “Oh my stars. You must be Andie.”

  She slides one arm around Jake’s neck without spilling a drop of her drink. “I’m Liza Jane. Call me Liza. I’m Jake’s better half.”

  “Yeah, I’m Andie. Nice to meet you.” No time for chitchat. I’ve got a business about to float away.

  She puts her cigarette in her mouth then holds out her hand, and I take it. People are so polite in this town. She blows smoke away from my face and catches me eyeing the can she’s holding. I smell beer. She’s a morning drinker like me. The beer calls my name as if it’s been searching for me for the past five days since we last connected. It wouldn’t hurt too much if I took one tiny sip, if only to take the edge off my craptastic day.

  The Big Mouth Bass sings its song again, and in walks the two Jackson sisters. Ugh. Tell me they have better things to do with their day than to follow me around.

  Liza smirks, and without losing eye contact with me, she says, “Howdy do, Miss Jackson, other Miss Jackson. I’ll be right with you.”

  Keeping my eyes on the Jackson bitches, I grin at Liza. The Jacksons don’t seem like the type to do any do-it-yourself projects, so there’s only one logical reason they’re here—to finish their collage of Andie disaster photos. A paint can moves on its own, and I see Sarah Jackson behind it with her phone. She snaps a photo of me. For spite, I stick my tongue out at her. Take that. I have to admit, I’m impressed the AARP member knows how to use a smartphone.

  Jake laughs. He crushes the cigarette butt under his boot and lights up another. I guess he doesn’t care about the burn mark on the concrete floor. “Bruce told me about your special circumstances.”

  I hope to God there isn’t a pop quiz because I can’t keep all these small-town people’s names straight, but I’m sure I haven’t met a Bruce yet. “Bruce?”

  Jake blows smoke in the air. I try to dodge it, but I’m too late. He fans it away from my face while I stifle a cough.

  “Gunnar. I call him Bruce. He calls me Bruce. Long story.”

  Liza Jane fans the smoke away. “One you will hear way too many times before you escape from this one-traffic-light town.” She hands her husband her cigarette, and now he’s puffing on both at one time. Nothing like getting COPD at twice the speed.

  She wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me away from the lookie-loos behind the paint cans. We stop in the plumbing aisle, and she pulls a roll of plumber’s tape from the rack.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now all you got to do is unscrew the pipe under the sink with a wrench.” She looks over at her husband. “You’ll loan her a wrench, won’t you?”

  He bobs his head like a well-trained husband.

  “Then wrap some of this white sticky tape around where the threads are and re-screw the pipes. Now make sure the water is off first.”

  “That’s it?”

  She grins. “Yep. It should do, for the time being. How are you getting along?”

  I shrug. “As well as can be expected. The roof didn’t cave in at church yesterday, so that’s a good start.”

  She giggles. “If I had been there, it would have fallen in for sure.”

  Jake chuckles until Liza gives him the stink eye. She glances my way and rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind him. I heard you had to go to the ER yesterday.”

  A wave of nausea flows over me as I remember yesterday’s ups and downs. I wonder if Liza is going to be nice like Mel or venomous like the auburn-haired girl at the hospital. “Somebody left heatstroke out of my orientation manual.”

  She pats my arm. “At least Gunnar was there to save the day.”

  Yum. Gunnar. My eyes close as my mind flutters back to him eating his breakfast. I could eat him up. “Yeah...” My eyes fly open as I catch her grinning. “I mean yes, he helped me, but so did Mel and Regina.”

  Jake doubles over in a fit of laughter.

  Liza crinkles her nose. “Regina?”

  “It was weird at first, but she ended up being real nice, not like that redhead with the resting bitch face.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. This could be her best friend. Or worse, her sister. Crap.

  “Harrumph. You met Jolene. She has the resting bitch face down to a science. But she’s had lots of practice.”

  I peek around the aisle to see the Jackson sisters pretending to read a How to Install Ceramic Tile brochure. “And then they’re everywhere I go. They should work for the CIA.”

  Liza belts out a laugh, making the smaller of the Jackson sisters drop the brochure. “They’re all right once you get to know them.”

  I roll the plumber’s tape in my hand, remembering why I came in here in the first place. “I really appreciate it. It was really nice meeting you.” When I get to the register, I turn around
and pat my pockets. I didn’t bring any money. Shit. I cringe and turn toward Jake, who’s leaning against the counter. “I forgot my money.”

  Sarah Jackson whispers to her sister. Of course they heard I didn’t have money.

  Liza Jane giggles. “We’ll have to get Officer Wills to arrest you. Could be fun.” She wiggles her eyebrows, making the Jackson sisters huff in disgust.

  My ears burn, but why not have some fun and give the sisters something to stew over. “Maybe this time, he’ll let me play with his siren.”

  Jake laughs so hard, he loses one of his cigarettes. Liza stomps it out with her sneaker. Jennifer Jackson gasps as she tiptoes around the cigarette butt.

  “I’ll put it on your tab,” Liza says.

  “Don’t stress those pipes,” Jake yells.

  I wave, and before the door closes, Liza Jane says, “Careful being barefoot on that hot concrete. Bless your heart.”

  I’m going to need a lot more than a blessing to get me through this summer. I’ve only been here three days, and I can tell I’m in way over my head. But I can’t let the Jackson sisters get my granny’s money. If she wanted them to have it, she would have given it to them outright. Granny wanted me to have it, but making me come here must be some damn lesson I’m supposed to learn. Come on, Granny. Help me out here. And making me do this without my favorite boys, Jack Daniel and Sam Adams, is pure meanness.

  Granny, if you’re watching over me, I hope you’re getting a big belly laugh out of this because that would make one of us.

  I fumble with the plumber’s tape as I scoot down the sidewalk, hopping from one shady spot to the next. It’s obvious the tape is a temporary fix to a much larger problem, much like my thirty-day Southern intervention is on my sobriety. Once my required stay is over, the patch I’ve put on my life may burst wide open, creating an even bigger problem.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I fish it out as I stand first on one foot then the other to keep from blistering my feet. No telling what Tinsley wants.