by Amy Metz
“No, honey. Daddy’s going back to his hotel.”
“I could spend the night,” Lenny piped up. Martha Maye glared at him.
“Can he, Mama? Can he?”
“Not tonight,” Martha Maye said firmly.
“Then can he read to me before he goes?”
“I suppose.” She kissed her daughter goodnight and added, “Just a quick one.”
Martha Maye went downstairs and out to the backyard for some air. She picked a handful of flowers from the waning garden, then took them inside. As she filled a vase with water at the kitchen sink, Lenny came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her. She jumped, splashing water over the countertop. “Lenny!”
“Ah, c’mon, darlin’, let me get to know the new you.” He propped his hands on either side of her on the counter, pinning her in. Pressing up against her, he attempted to kiss her neck as she squirmed.
“Getting that child to bed was literally like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree, but Carrie finally fell asleep. Now it’s me and you time.”
“It’s you and me,” Martha Maye snapped, trying to get out of his grasp, but he held her in place. “And no thank you.”
“Okay, Miss Schoolteacher. Let’s you and me go upstairs. I’ve literally been undressing you in my mind all day, sugar. Now let me do it for real.” He had her pinned so tight she could hardly move.
“Yeah, me and every other woman you saw.” She dropped her head and tried to duck underneath his arm. He wrapped both of his arms around her waist, keeping her from moving.
Hands grasping the edge of the sink, and in a deadly calm voice, Martha Maye said, “Lenny. Let. Me. Go.”
“Aw, you don’t mean that, precious. C’mon. Show Lenny some lovin’.” He moved a hand down a little until it reached the hem of her shirt. She felt his hand on her bare stomach. As it began to travel upward and his other arm held her still, she tried again to squirm free.
“Lenny, I’m not kidding. Let me go, dabnamit.”
“Not until you let me go, if you know what I mean,” he said into her ear, his hand exploring under her shirt, his groin mashing into her backside.
She stomped on his foot, and he yelped but tightened his arm around her. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back so he had a firmer hold on her. It hurt like fire to move even a fraction of an inch.
“Stop playing hard to get, baby,” he said with his lips against her ear. “You know you want me.” Keeping a firm grip on the handful of hair, he steered her around to face the kitchen doorway. And then he froze.
There’s not much difference between a hornet and a yellow jacket if they’re in your clothes.
~Southern Proverb
Honey stood in the kitchen doorway pointing a 12-gauge shotgun at Lenny. She chambered a round, making the chink-chink sound reverberate in the quiet kitchen.
“Leave her be.”
Lenny recovered from his initial surprise and snorted out a laugh. “You won’t shoot me,” he sneered. “You’ll hit Martha Maye.” He held her as a shield in front of him, a handful of hair still in his grip, his other arm clamped around her middle.
“Seriously? You would seriously use me as a shield? I love how you’re trying so hard to be a changed man, Leonard. I swan, you’re sorrier ‘n a two-dollar watch.”
“Don’t test me, buster. I took top honors in the ladies skeet shooting division at the 2012 Tennessee skeet-shooting meet.
“I tell you what, all y’all done lost your minds,” Lenny said. “I—”
“Mama?” The little voice came from behind Honey. Butterbean stood in the doorway with a terrified expression on her face.
Lenny let Martha Maye go, pushing her roughly aside. “Screw it. She’s as cold as a frosted frog anyway. It’s okay, Carrie. Go back to bed.” He turned and walked out the back door, slamming it after him. The door immediately opened, and he stuck his head back into the room, addressing Honey: “Lady, you shouldn’t hunt anything smarter ‘n you. Try hunting worms.” And he slammed the door again.
Martha Maye’s knees were about to give out, so she collapsed into a kitchen chair, and Honey and Butterbean ran to her. “You’re okay, sweetie,” Honey cooed, patting her back.
“Are ya, Mama?” Butterbean wrapped her arms around her mother and dug her face into her neck. “Are you okay? What was Daddy doing?”
Martha Maye returned Butterbean’s embrace. “Yes, punkin, I’m okay. Sometimes your daddy just has a temper, and that’s why . . . that’s why I can’t be married to him anymore. Understand?”
Butterbean pulled back, tears brimming in her eyes. She looked at her mother and nodded. “I understand,” she said softly.
Martha Maye smoothed her daughter’s hair and cupped her cheeks with both hands. “Everything’s just fine now, darlin’. You gwon up, and I’ll be right there to tuck you in.” Butterbean nodded and reluctantly climbed the stairs.
Honey put the shotgun on the table and sat down next to her friend.
“How?” Martha Maye turned to Honey. “How did you know?”
Honey nodded her head toward the window over the kitchen sink. “I saw you through the window, silly. How many times have you and I waved to each other from there? I saw what was going on and came right over.”
“Thank you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”
Honey put her arm around Martha Maye. “That’s what friends are for, sweetie.”
The next afternoon, Martha Maye dropped Butterbean off at Lou’s house and met Tess at the diner for pie and sweet tea.
“I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spit out,” Martha Maye told Tess.
“Why? What’s wrong, Martha Maye?”
Junebug arrived at the table, set down two glasses of sweet tea, and squeezed into the booth next to Martha Maye, leaning into her. “She actually came in with a shotgun?”
“Who came in with a shotgun?” Tess looked from Martha Maye to Junebug.
“Shewee, news travels fast around here,” Martha Maye said.
“Apparently not fast enough. What are you all talking about?”
“Honey,” Junebug answered Tess. “She rescued our girl from unwanted advances from that low-down, good-for-nothing, dirty-cur dog.”
“Yeah, she really did,” Martha Maye said in answer to Junebug’s original question. “She was like Little Orphan Annie—”
“You mean Annie Oakley?” Tess asked.
“Is that who I mean?” Martha Maye squinted.
Tess nodded.
“Y’all, she stood there in the doorway with the gun aimed right at him, and just as cool as a cucumber, she cocked it, or whatever you do to shotguns”—she waved her hands in the air— “and it made that chink-chink sound. Man alive, I bet Lenny left so fast on account he had to go change his shorts.”
“It’s a crying shame Butterbean had to see her father like that, but it’s probably just as well that she sees who he truly is,” Junebug said.
“Butterbean was in the room?” Tess asked, horrified.
“The commotion woke her up. She didn’t see him pawing all over me, but she saw enough. I don’t reckon she’ll be asking for him to spend the night any time too soon.”
“Did you report him to the police?” Tess asked.
“Naw. I just wanted to forget about it, and I don’t want the whole town knowing my dirty laundry.”
Junebug stood up and said, “Well, I won’t let it go no farther than this table. I’ma get y’all some pie. Pie makes everything better, don’t you know. Y’all stay put.”
“This makes what I have to tell you a little easier,” Tess said after Junebug went for pie.
“What’s that?”
“It’s one of those things where you need to know, but it won’t be pleasant to hear.”
“About Lenny?” Martha Maye asked, looking over the top of her glass as she sipped her tea.
“‘Fraid so. Jack saw him leave the Ma
g Bar the other night with another woman. He said they didn’t exactly look like strangers.”
Martha Maye took a deep breath and let it out, ruffling her bangs. “You know, I don’t believe you could tell me anything about that man that would surprise me anymore.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tess touched her friend’s hand.
“Don’t be. It’s just another nail in his coffin, far’s I’m concerned. I’m gonna tell my lawyer to get on that divorce PDQ.”
“PDQ?”
“Purty dern quick.”
“Chief!”
The call came from across the street, and Chief Butterfield saw Ernestine waving madly, hands over her head, in front of her store, Ernestine & Hazel’s Sundries.
Not likely I wouldn’t have heard her. Her voice would peel paint. He waited for a green Ford Explorer to pass, then crossed the street and walked over to her.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” He tipped his hat as he reached her.
Glaring at Johnny, she stood under the store’s awning out of the sun, with her hands on her hips. “I want to report more missing items from my store.”
“Alrighty then, calm down, now. Tell me what’s missing.” He took out his notebook and pen.
“My inventory’s short on candy, and some men’s T-shirts and . . . unmentionables,” she said, looking at his notebook instead of him.
“Unmentionables?” he repeated. “You sell, uh, those things in there?”
“Chief, we sell a little bit of everything in there. That’s why it’s called sundries. And nowadays we sell a little less, because somebody keeps coming in and walking off with my merchandise. I’d like to know what you plan to do about it.” She crossed her arms. He looked closely at her ears, checking for signs of smoke.
“Ernestine, I appreciate your position, and I assure you we’re doing everything we can to apprehend the culprit.”
Bright yellow gingko leaves fluttered at their feet with a gust of wind.
“And what might that be?” Ernestine shivered a bit and pulled her green cardigan closed.
“We’re doing the best we can with what we got, which isn’t a whole lot.” He quickly qualified his statement. “Not the what we’re doing part, but the what we got part. Nobody can tell us anything other than what’s missing. None of y’all sees anyone or anything until it’s gone.”
She looked at him funny. “How can you see something that ain’t there?”
“You know what I mean, ma’am. There aren’t any clues except missing items.”
“So in other words, you ain’t doing diddly squat?” Her eyes narrowed and mouth puckered. She was rail-thin and had a nose like a beak.
“No, ma’am, that’s not what I said. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you: I can’t seem to find any Ernestine Baker in the database. Is that your legal name?”
“No, Chief, it isn’t. I thought everybody knew I only took on the name ‘Ernestine’ when I bought the store. People kept asking where Ernestine was, so I finally gave in and said ‘rightcheer.’” She eyed him suspiciously. “Why? You been checking me out?”
“Just routine stuff. I told you we’re busy trying to find the bandit.”
“You should spend more time on criminals and less on law-abiding store owners like myself.”
“Just what is your real name, ma’am?”
“Just as I thought,” she said huffily. “You ain’t doing diddly squat.” She turned and stalked to the door of her store, then stopped, turned, and said simply, “Mona.”
“Mona?”
“My name. It’s Mona.” She slammed the door behind her, leaving Johnny standing alone on the sidewalk outside her store.
Johnny walked a few feet to the store next door and stuck his head into Rhubarb’s to say hi to Pickle’s mother, Caledonia, who he’d seen through the window-shopping for fruit. Backing out the door, he felt a hand on his bicep.
“Chief Johnny Butterfield, as I live and breathe,” the woman attached to the hand said.
He turned to see who it was and tipped his hat. “Ms. Winchester,” he said politely but formally.
“Aw, you can call me Honey,” she said. “And you can call me anytime,” she cooed, standing a little too close. “I love a man of authority.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Johnny started walking, and Honey took his arm and walked with him. He attempted to put some distance between them, but Honey held on tightly.
“Say, Chief, are you going to the Oktoberfest?” She batted her eyelashes at him, and he adjusted his GPJPD cap over his eyes.
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon I am.” He looked around to see who might be seeing Honey hanging on to him. He knew how fast small-town gossip spread.
With one hand still hooked in his arm, she ran her other hand up and down it, squeezing his muscle. “Maybe we could go together, big guy.”
He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, I reckon we can’t.”
Honey looked taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered. “You don’t find me attractive, Chief?” She dropped one hand to her side.
“I didn’t say that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “But?”
“But I’m kinda interested in someone else,” he said, smiling down politely at her.
“You don’t seriously think you’re in love with Martha Maye, do you? She’s still a married woman, you know.”
“I don’t recall saying who I’m interested in, nor that it’s any of your business.” Stopping in front of the hardware store, he looked down at her and added, “No offense, ma’am.”
“Usually when someone says ‘no offense,’ it’s offensive. And must you keep calling me ma’am?” She stomped her foot like a petulant three-year-old. “It makes me feel so old.”
“Yes, ma . . . Ms. Winchester.”
She frowned. “So what are you gonna do, pine for Martha Maye until she’s free and clear of Lenny? That could be months. In the meantime, you and I could have us a peck of fun. If I were any more single, I’d be a fraction.”
“Thank you kindly for the offer, ma’am.” She gave him a hard look. “Honey. But I respectfully decline. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run into the hardware store.” He tipped his hat, said, “You have a real nice day,” and began to walk away.
She yelled after him, “I love it when you call me Honey.”
Johnny walked into the hardware store, making a note to himself to talk to Martha Maye about Honey. Lost in thought, he nearly walked right into a familiar-looking man.
“Huh,” the man muttered, blocking the aisle, “look who it is—Mr. Gutterfield.”
“That’s Chief Butterfield, thank you very much.” He looked carefully at the man. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” He thought the man possessed too much undeserved self-confidence. He had an air of cockiness and belligerence. Johnny looked down at him, taking in the flabby biceps underneath his T-shirt. Johnny was wider, taller, and more fit, with at least fifty pounds and five inches on him, yet the man’s stance mirrored a challenge.
“I know your name, but you don’t know mine, do ya? Well, Johnny, it’s best we’re properly introduced, since I just might be your worst nightmare.”
When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the Fire Department usually uses water.
~Southern Proverb
“And why would that be?” Johnny asked, propping his hands on his hips and stepping back slightly.
“I don’t take kindly to folks messing with what’s mine, that’s why.” The bully took a step toward Johnny, back into his personal space.
“Look, it’s been real nice dancing with you, but my dance card’s full, so why don’t you tell me what I’ve done to put that bee in your pretty little bonnet.”
“I’ll tell you who I’m not, Chief Butterball.” Johnny stayed silent but raised one eyebrow. “I’m not Martha Maye’s ex-husband.”
Johnny nodded. It was all clear now. “Lenny Applewhite,” he said, standing his ground. He thought Lenny was mighty stupid to
stand so close to him, because it allowed him to tower over the man. A vision of a bug being squished under a shoe came to his mind. He crossed his arms and glared down at the man.
“Darn tootin’ I’m Lenny Applewhite. And I’m literally here to say”—he jabbed his finger into Johnny’s chest with each word—”stay outta my way, Chief.”
“Well, Mr. Applewhite, let me tell you a thing or two. I don’t cotton to you pretending to bump into me accidentally, and furthermore, if you so much as touch a fingertip to me one more time, I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer and cart you off to jail.”
“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I’ll claim police brutality. It’ll literally be your word against mine, Chief Mutterfield.”
Johnny shook his head, looking around at all of the customers who were pretending to be shopping. “Somehow I think the truth would come out.” He tried to step around Lenny and walk away.
Lenny blocked his path again, his big belly touching Johnny’s belt buckle.
“Boy, you got your stupid head on today?” Johnny glared at him.
“You don’t scare me, Mr. Big Man, but maybe I scare you, huh? Does Martha Maye know about you and Honey Winchester? Maybe I’ll go fill her in.”
Give me strength, Lord. Johnny said, “My mama always told me to never argue with an idiot. Excuse me.” He brushed past Lenny, intent on ending the discussion.
Lenny said loudly, “So tell me, are you sleeping with my wife in addition to dining with her, Chief Buttercup?”
Johnny stopped and turned around slowly, narrowed eyes burrowing into Lenny’s. He looked at the man with a stare capable of burning paper and said with controlled anger, “Martha Maye is a lady and you will regard her as such.”
“Oh really? Here’s a tip for you, Mr. Nutterfield. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t say. This here’s a free country, and she’s my wife, and I can talk about her however I want.”
Johnny’s voice remained quiet, but his tone was menacing. “Then there will come a time when I am not on duty and will take great pleasure in teaching you some manners.”
“Ooh, I’m real scared.” Lenny shook his hands in the air in mock fear. “Did y’all hear that?” Lenny spoke loudly, looking all around the store for witnesses. “The police chief here just threatened me.”
