by Shelly Frome
The road notes skirted around that selfsame line: one you could travel on but better think twice about crossing. One you could steer clear of or retreat from as the situation indicated. It was synonymous with putting something on the line and the unfinished business he was undertaking. Underscored by unwittingly bringing Alice back here, Dewey’s prompting and Alice’s secret plight: “It’s waiting for me, been waiting for me right over the line and probably not waiting at all.”
As it all began to converge, he tossed his old jottings aside, got out an empty journal, pulled out a pen and gave it the heading Alice.
Returning to the dinette, he plunked the journal down and started a file. From what he had gleaned so far, Alice had suffered a blow to the head causing temporary amnesia. Perhaps right after whoever or whatever tore the sleeve of her windbreaker to shreds. A phone call had spooked her so much she’d tried to hightail it back to Carbondale, Illinois. But her mother and current lover shut her out. Which meant the aunt she’d been shipped off to resided…where? Where did her troubles originate? And what did any of it have to do with blowing the whistle, a rebel yell and a menacing “few-words guy?” Triggered once more on the bus ride by the mention of Huck Finn’s prank dragging a bloody sack to the river, plus glomming a rifle to bring down wild game. Triggered again when Josh then got out one of his harps and . . .
Josh licked his lips, pulled out the cross harp, cupped his hand, and softly warbled and wailed on We are helpless, helpless, helpless, help-less . . .
He slipped the harp back in his Levi jacket pocket and stared out the kitchen window, past the overhang and rooftops at the smudged stretch of morning sky. He did so realizing there was nothing to do but to take Dewey’s advice and not push it. Or as one of the older gals at the gaming tables was fond of saying, “Follow the song, sport. ‘Know when to hold, know when to fold’ and just play it as it lays.”
In time, Alice came traipsing in. Josh let her be and simply watched her open the fridge and cabinets, pour herself a bowl of cereal and a cup from the ever-ready coffee- maker and flop down opposite him. When she finished, she widened her eyes and said, “I heard you and that uncle. Holly Springs ain’t just liquor stores, man. It’s got that hospital that looks like chunks of pink. It’s where the emergency room guy told me about keeping awake but told me nothin’ about losing stuff in my brain.”
“It’s okay.”
“Hey, it’s not okay, you get it? It leeks back. Besides, I thought I told you to split.”
“Just as soon as things settle down.”
“What is that, a joke? You’re the one dragged me back close as can be. If that ain’t some wicked hand of fate my bible-thumping Looney-Tunes aunt would eat right up.”
“Close by in Mississippi, am I right?”
Springing up from the table, Alice said, “Brilliant. Alls I have to do is remember what the few-words guy wants or stay put till he catches up with me again like he did at the ER or—”
“Easy, Alice. There’s some logic here. One step at a time.”
“Logic? Yeah, right, another one of your great words. ‘There’s a helluva lot riding on this.’”
“Who said? Who told you that?”
Cupping her hands over her ears, Alice said, “I don’t know . . . don’t remember . . . don’t want to know . . .”
It was another standoff and took a good five minutes before Alice pulled her hands away. It took another fifteen minutes before she stopped telling Josh to get off his Good Samaritan act. Reluctantly, she accepted one of the duplicate cell phones just in case to speed-dial Josh while he was on the road. She also accepted two twenty-dollar bills he’d tucked away in his book bag. In the groggy state she was in, the money was the only thing that really registered. It could buy her time or an escape route or leastways something a lot better than logic from a man obviously no good in a pinch or much of anything else except some useless storytelling. The way Alice saw it, if Josh needed so bad to keep kidding himself otherwise, well so be it.
At the same time, Alice still wouldn’t or couldn’t disclose anything tangible. At best, all she would say was that it was “no sweat” to get from Ada Mae’s to Cody’s. Moments later, she reached for her coffee mug, set it back down and said in a voice more woozy than ever, “Even LuAnn makes it better than this.”
“LuAnn?”
“At Cody’s Gas and Grill. What are you, dense? Outside of Ashland, man. Look at your map.”
With her eyes half closed, she slid the mug off the yellow placemat, reached lazily for some of Billy’s orange swizzle sticks lying around in a bowel and formed a triangle of what looked like crossed swords. “Montecristo,” she said, as an involuntary chill ran up her spine. Shifting her blurry gaze over to Josh, she shook her head, pushed off and shuffled back down the hall.
Asking what she meant by “Montecristo” got Josh nowhere. Calling after her just before she reached the bedroom, Josh promised he would scout around on today’s run to see if anyone was even remotely interested in her whereabouts.
“Yeah, you do that, Josh. Keep talkin’, keep pretending, that’s what you’re good at.”
Josh announced that, for her information, he had a degree in journalism and been a stringer for a couple of Ohio newspapers.
A big yawn punctuated the impression he’d made on Alice re: his background and his scouting offer. When he told her he was serious, she yawned again, shuffled back into the bedroom and closed the door.
He’d told her partly to reassure her he had some credentials as a watchdog and partly to reassure himself. But in truth, as far as his stint on those papers went, as usual, he backed off as incriminating evidence of kickbacks, tax evasion and the like began to turn up. During his last foray, he backed off to the extent that he chucked his stint as a watchdog for the dull but safe confines of the office desk at his father’s trucking firm and an equally dull but safe future as a dutiful spouse. It was then that he’d lit out to at least see what he might have left in him. Which, at last count only landed him in the company of the likes of Scooter. Which, as of this moment, gave him no cache’ in the eyes of a seriously frazzled kid.
Josh glanced back at the triangle of orange crossed swords on the rectangle of yellow and jotted down Montecristo, Ada Mae and LuAnn at Cody’s Gas and Grill just outside of Ashland. He also jotted down There’s a helluva lot riding on this. As if the collection of “Alice” notes represented a second chance to actually take on something provocative and follow through.
10.
At first, the run was all too familiar: Route 78 heading over the state line, keeping the old International box truck at or around the speed limit, the growing number of churches dotting the landscape just beyond the verges of the southbound lane. It was the same old throughway to Oxford that every tourist and resident around these parts knew by heart and one Josh had taken by bus dozens of times. It was only when he veered off the main drag and found himself looking high and low for hidden low-lying structures that he ran into trouble. That he literally crossed the line into the hill country Dewey had warned him about as if it were part of some great unknown. For starters, he lost over an hour locating and unloading his first drop in tiny Watson. Blame it all on the AAA map and its thin squiggly lines as the only indication of the narrow lanes and vaguely connecting back roads.
As for his cargo—almost an exact duplicate of the ones he refused to load when he’d walked out on Billy--the liquor boxes were set in cardboard packing crates, the square ones moving companies use to hold dishes and house-ware goods. The brands of bourbon and sour mash and the packaging designs were faded almost beyond recognition, as if the boxes had been sitting around for decades and bleached by the sun until Billy bought them up in some back alley auction. There were brands Josh may have come across in old books and some that seemed made-up: Four Roses, Clayton’s Single Barrel, Sweet Magnolia, Gentleman Jack, Cotton Eye Joe . . . Not only was the stock in trade and back roads the complete opposite of the well-worn drops in Ge
rmantown, Collierville, Bartlett and Marion on the Tennessee side, the delivery pattern was odd as well. It started with the package store in Watson and the drive around the dirt track to the storage room out back instead of parking the truck in plain sight to at least feign a regular delivery.
The drop on the outskirts of Holly Springs reversed the pattern. The slew of antebellum homes echoed Tara in Gone With the Wind at the time when Hollywood’s Scarlet O’Hara was flouncing around and Ashley Wilkes affected the graces of a gentlemanly cavalier. In this same vein, Josh was graciously asked to park at the side of the wine and spirit shops, unload and collect the requisite signatures as if everything was pleasant and above board.
Back on schedule, he covered the next few miles in less than ten minutes and pulled into the hospital to get directions to nearby Higdon. His other aim was to see if there was any record of Alice’s aborted stay in the emergency room and who might’ve been asking after her. The directions to Higdon were simple and direct; the information about Alice was sketchy at best. She hadn’t actually been admitted and they didn’t keep records of incoming calls, especially from unlisted numbers. Josh was given a hospital brochure after intimating he was a close relative; in case he wanted to check back, that is, and see what intern was on that night that might have anything more to offer.
Woodsy Higdon, heading into the Chewala Lake recreation area close to the Tippah River put an end to any deep-South reverie and marked Josh’s first encounter with Darryl Purdy. Backtracking a half mile, Josh found his Rebel Spirits around a bend, its location indicated only by a wooden sign carved in the shape of a hand and a pointed finger. Dangling from the index finger was a chain holding a mock whiskey jug.
It was now almost two. Faint hints of sunlight glinted through the stands of loblolly pines and retreated as quickly behind the folds of cloud cover.
The gangly figure that ambled out the moment Josh braked in front of the ramshackle structure was truly a sight. Long straggly white hair; an Ole Miss cap to go with the “Rebels” patch haphazardly sewed onto the open-collared sweat shirt tucked into his overalls. But that wasn’t what struck Josh the most. It was the fixed lopsided grin and darting beady eyes.
The iffy delivery pattern reasserted itself as Josh was instructed to back the truck up and park around to the rear. The pattern broke just a smidge as Darryl insisted that, first-off, Josh walk around to the front to admire his handiwork. There, hanging from a pole to the right of the smudged store window, campaign poster and beer ads, was a rock. The red sign above the hanging rock read “Tippah River Weather Station.” Just below the sign, a code tacked-on in Day-Glo yellow: “If the rock’s wet, it’s raining; if it’s swaying, it’s windy; if it’s hot, it’s sunny; if it’s cool, it’s cloudy; if it’s white, it’s snowing and cold.”
“Ah,” said Josh, turning back to unload, “that is ironic.”
“Say what?”said Darryl, yanking on Josh’s left arm, spinning him around.
“Humorous, witty--words like that.”
The lopsided grin faded, the darting eyes grew more agitated as Darryl checked his pocket watch, said, “Damn, damn, just a second,” and rushed back inside the store.
With the door partially open, the low buzz from a radio station which had been barely audible transformed into the blare of an ad for a Sleep-rite mattress. The booming voice of the right-wing pundit was unmistakable. Despite himself, Josh found himself stepping closer next to the campaign poster, listening in to whatever it was that Darryl found so pressing. It certainly wasn’t the mattress ad. It had to be the following announcement:
“Folks, not only will you get a guaranteed best night’s sleep of your life, you’ll be fresh and alert so’s not to miss a word from the governor-elect of Mississippi who’ll be on the phone with me. Getting some much deserved rest this holiday season before inauguration but just might be coaxed to give us some insights into things that really matter. A true blue-dog, need I tell you, to keep things from going to the dogs, if you take my meaning. So stay tuned, and mark your calendar precisely.”
Peeking past the poster, Josh caught Darryl’s eye. Darryl tuned the volume way down and as he rejoined Josh, the lopsided grin returned. “You heard, didn’t ya? Well, what do you think? You got a radio in that ol’ rattletrap of Billy’s. You gonna stay tuned like the man said?”
Making his way back to the rear with Darryl hard on his heels, Josh said, “Well, you never know.”
“That’s your answer?”
“Look, I’m just filling in. Got a little lost finding the place and better get a move on.”
“That ain’t no answer.”
“I know, but what can I say?”
Having wasted enough time and getting no help from Darryl, Josh began stacking the cartons in whatever space he could find on the damp storage room floor. As he settled in to a rhythm, he noticed that all the boxes earmarked for Higdon were tightly lidded and taped. At a point when Darryl’s furtive silence was starting to get to him, Josh stacked up the last of the cartons and said, “Don’t tell me. It’s cases of rare old Ripple Wine.”
“Say again? Buddy, I sure don’t get where you’re comin’ from.”
Reverting to his old habit of keeping everything at a comfortable remove, Josh whipped out a harp and said, “You know, the old Arlo Guthrie tune about the Lightening Bar? Getting high on ‘good ol’ Ripple Wine’.”
To illustrate, Josh offered a few licks of the melody line.
Moving in closer, Darryl said, “Oh, now I get it. The harmonica and the ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ songs and such. Easygoin’ and folksy looking like you, but comin’ down the pike to turn things inside out.”
“Hardly.”
“Hey, buddy, I was there. Been lots of places, don’t fool yourself. And I know the fight goes on defendin’ states rights and self government. So quit diddlin’ with me. And while we’re at it, just where is the regular fella?”
Pocketing the harp, Josh said, “I have no idea.” Moving back toward the truck, he added, “Look, I’ll finish up, you sign the invoice and, if you’ll kindly point me in the right direction to Cody’s Gas and Grill, I’ll be much obliged.”
“Cody’s? What for?”
“Oh, just getting my bearings.”
“And gettin’ a little hungry for some fried okra, is that the ticket?”
When Josh didn’t answer, Darryl moved in on him again and started poking him on the arm. “And some fried catfish would go down real good about now. Or some chicken fired steak and a cold RC Cola, seeing how you’ve worked up such a sweat. Or maybe a chance to hook up with LuAnn. ‘cause she’s standoffish. But just might go for a guy who knows how to blow a harmonica and lots of hot air.”
Checking his watch, Josh spun away from Darryl and began to shed himself of the rest of the earmarked load. As soon as he was finished, he rechecked the inventory inside the cargo area but something didn’t jibe. There was a dusty Christmas box holding two decanters of Old Taylor 86 Kentucky Straight Bourbon “Topmost Class” with an early 1960s date and a fresh sticker marked ‘Rebel Spirits’.
Josh looked across the gravel at Darryl and held the box up. At the same time, a rusty brown Chevy pulled in at the head of the drive. A stocky old man emerged and waved. Darryl glanced over, waved back and advanced toward Josh, raising his voice and letting out a forced laugh.
“Tidings of comfort and joy, thank you, thank you. Hand it here, old buddy.”
“But it’s not on the list.”
“Don’t make no never mind. You check back with Billy. No sweat, no problem.”
Clipboard in hand, easing himself over the tailgate onto the ground, Josh said, “I’ll have to make a notation anyway.” Adding the note onto the invoice, Josh said, “So if you’ll sign here.”
Continuing to eye the stocky old man who seemed to be getting more and more antsy, Darryl said, “Anything to oblige during this jolly holiday time. And, oh, about the directions to Cody’s . . .”
Without th
inking, Darryl flipped through the invoice sheets, found a blank page, yanked it out and dislodged more sheets and the hospital brochure. Eyeing the brochure for a second, he said, “Feeling poorly, are we? Hope it’s nothin’ contagious.”
“Like you said. No problem.”
Studying Josh for a long hard moment, Darryl replaced the brochure under the clip, mapped out a few cursory directions and stuck them under the clip as well. Then remembered to sign the delivery slip and flipped through more sheets till he found the right one.
As Josh retrieved the clipboard and attempted to put everything back in order, Darryl patted Josh’s arm and said, “Say, did I ever tell you what some ol’ gal said to me the other day?” He raised his voice a notch higher to include the old man who was now getting even more antsy. “Well, sir, she comes busslin’ in wearing a beat-up raincoat over pink and yella pajamas. And she says she likes my place and Ada Mae’s Dixie Dollar store ‘cause it’s so convenient and casual. She don’t have to get all dressed up like she’s goin’ to Wal-Mart or something.”
The punch line was followed by a whack on Josh’s back and a guffaw as forced as the friendly tone.
As Darryl ambled off, Josh secured the roll-up truck door and was left with the odd feeling that he’d both stumbled across something and had just been had. That no matter how hard he tried to get a handle on things to help poor Alice out, all the messiness he’d been dreading and drawn to was bound to take over.
11.
