Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  She sounded so excited, but Mel worried that if Stu and George had talked, they would’ve dragged up every bad thing she’d ever done—or every bad thing they thought she’d done. All that old garbage would be fresh in Stu’s mind, and he might spout off in front of Tish. Then Tish would kick her out.

  Mel decided she’d better meet him at the street. She put herself between Tish and the door.

  Walking around his vehicle, Stu ran a comb through his hair. It didn’t take long. He didn’t have as much hair as he used to. He put the comb in his pocket and made a face at the front yard.

  Tish laughed. “Think he’ll volunteer to help with the yard work?”

  “Not a chance,” Mel said with her hand on the doorknob. “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t want to invite him in?”

  “Maybe another time.” Like when the devil and all his demons needed ice skates.

  That was the way Grandpa John had always said it, and the memory made her want to cry. Now she’d never be able to hold herself together.

  Tish came closer. “I’ll come out and meet him, then.”

  “No, don’t bother.” Mel shut the door behind her and ran down the steps. She kept herself focused on the walkway’s big, flat stones and the way their odd shapes fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Once she reached the sidewalk, she let herself look at Stuart.

  He was going bald. Definitely. He’d gained some weight too, so he looked older than George even if they were the same age. Stu used to be a teddy bear, grumpy but sweet. Now she only saw the grumpy part.

  “Hey, Stu.” She smiled, trying to make it real, but she felt as phony as Amanda.

  “Hey.” His face belonged on a middle-aged Ken doll. Plastic. Cold. The opposite of a cuddly teddy bear. Then he looked past her, putting on that car-salesman friendliness. “Hello there. You must be the Tish McComb I’ve heard about.”

  Tish and Stu shook hands, but then they only made small talk until he said something about wanting to see Mel on his lunch break but he had to make it snappy. Tish stepped back, grinning like she thought everything was just fine. They said good-bye to each other, and that was that. Tish headed back to the house.

  Mel took a big breath and looked up at Stu. “So, where are we going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here. You wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around the McComb house, would you?”

  He frowned like he wasn’t sure she was joking. “I’ve been wondering why you landed here, of all places.”

  “Rejects like to hang out together.”

  “You’re not a reject. Or at least you wouldn’t be if you would straighten up so people could trust you.”

  “George trusts me. He hired me. And he cleared my name, Stu. He figured out why everybody thought I was stealing. From my old jobs, I mean.”

  Stu gave her a skeptical squint. “I had coffee with him about a week ago, and he didn’t say anything about clearing your name.”

  George hadn’t stuck up for her? That hurt.

  “So what?” she said. “Even if he didn’t tell you about it, it’s still true. But where are we going?”

  He opened the passenger door. “We’ll think of something.”

  She climbed in, and he shut the door. She patted the leather seat and inhaled the new-car smell. It smelled like the showroom at the dealership. Like money and power and pride.

  He climbed in, buckled up, and eyed her seat belt while he started the engine. She ignored the hint.

  “So, you hungry or anything?” he asked.

  Not anymore. “No, thanks.”

  “Just want to ride around and talk?”

  “Sure. I’ve got lots of time. No money, but lots of time.”

  He backed a little ways into Tish’s driveway, nearly tapping bumpers with her Volvo, then pulled out, pointing the SUV toward Main. “So, where have you been? I heard Vegas.”

  “I don’t know how that rumor got started. I was in Florida. Orlando, mostly.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I worked at a restaurant. A seafood restaurant.”

  Stu laughed. “That’s funny. The kid who hates the smell of fish, working at a seafood restaurant.”

  She laughed too, glad he’d remembered that about her. “It wasn’t too bad.” Except she was always low man on the totem pole, and she never moved up from bussing tables because she’d admitted she had a hard time counting change.

  “Who did you stay with?”

  “I was in an apartment. I had some pretty cool roommates.” Some terrible roommates too, but nobody stayed long. “The girl who got me the job lived there, and she gave me a ride if we were working the same shift. I had a bike too, but that wasn’t great when it was raining. Then somebody stole it anyway.”

  “Couldn’t afford a car, huh?”

  “Nope.” She relaxed a little. It was almost like old times, talking things over with her big brother.

  He turned right at Main, heading away from town. “You already blew what you got for my watch?”

  So much for a happy reunion. “Who says it was yours? You only cared about how much it was worth, and Grandpa John knew it. He said he was giving it to me because I loved it and you didn’t.”

  “Did he put it in writing? That he’d give it to you?”

  Mel thought Stu sounded like a spoiled brat. “No. He died without a will, remember?”

  “I remember. I sure do. It was a crime, especially after all the times we tried to tell him to get his affairs in order.” He stepped on the accelerator.

  “You know what’s a crime? The way this thing slurps up about five bucks’ worth of gas every minute.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Melanie. Taking the watch was a crime. Grand larceny. It was worth a lot of money.”

  “You’re driving a huge, expensive gas hog, but you’ll fuss at me about an old watch? I don’t even have shoes except these because I had to throw my old ones out.” She propped her sneakers up on the fancy dashboard. “These are from a thrift store.”

  “You’ve made bad decisions, so you have to live with the consequences. You can turn your life around, though. Find a job. A real job.”

  “It’s hard when you don’t have a college degree.”

  “What’s stopping you? You can work and go to school at the same time. A lot of people do. And there’s financial help.”

  “Like anybody would give me a scholarship.”

  “Scholarships aren’t given. They’re earned.”

  “Then it’s hopeless.”

  “I didn’t pick you up just so you could argue with everything I say.”

  “No, you picked me up so you could lecture me like I’m five.”

  “Because you still act like a five-year-old.”

  Out of her window, green trees rushed by in a blur. Sometimes she wished she could be five again. Back before she’d figured out she was an oops baby. No matter how hard she tried, she could never make her folks proud. They’d never wanted her in the first place. They’d only wanted Stuart, their perfect son.

  Rage bubbled up inside her. “Most five-year-olds have better manners than you do, Stuart. You’re a jerk like your father, who isn’t my father anymore, so I guess you’re not my brother anymore either.”

  “That’s it. I’ve had it.”

  He veered into the turning lane and swung left in front of an oncoming car. Mel slid across the seat, shrieking. A horn blared. She caught a glimpse of a woman at the wheel, her lips moving as she gave them the finger.

  Once Mel could breathe again, she realized they were on the long driveway that led to the abandoned barn. “You trying to kill me?” she asked.

  “I can’t say I’ve never considered the idea.”

  He hung a U in the weeds. It was all so familiar to her now—the barn’s sagging roof, the rusty hulk of an old pickup with no windows. She wanted to smack him for trespassing on her private property. It was amazing, though, how fast they got the
re, and how fast they were flying away from it now. On foot, it seemed like a five-mile walk from Tish’s house. Driving, it was only a minute or two.

  He drove back toward Main with the engine roaring and made a right. “I’d better drop you off and get home.”

  Their folks’ house was home to him, then, at least for a while. Lucky Stu. If he showed up in time for lunch, nobody would tell him to get lost.

  Mel swallowed and stared straight ahead. They’d gather around the table, Stu and Janice and the boys. Nicky and Jamie would grab fruit from the crystal bowl with their grubby hands. Mom would wait on them, hand and foot. Even Janice.

  Can I get you some lemonade, Stu? Janice, baby, you want some potato salad?

  “Drop me off somewhere, okay?” Her lips were frozen rubber.

  “I’ll take you back to the house.” He smirked. “The McComb house, I mean.”

  No, she’d scream if she didn’t get out now. “Drop me off here.”

  “If you insist.”

  He swerved into the parking lot of a vacant bank building and braked so sharply she had to throw her left hand against the dash.

  “This okay?”

  “Perfect.” She climbed out, sucked in a big breath of fresh air, and stood there holding the door open. “You used to be nice, Stuart. What happened? When did you change?”

  “What about you? No, I guess you’ve always been this way.”

  “What way?” She held her breath, hoping he would explain.

  “Never mind. Sorry. I’m under a lot of stress.” He let out a long sigh and faced the windshield. “There’s something you should know. About the Corvette.”

  She felt like a thin sheet flapping on a clothesline in a strong wind. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “Dad decided to sell it. Before something happens to it and it loses its value.”

  “It’s not his,” she said between clenched teeth. “It’s not his car.”

  “Sure, technically it’s Mom’s.” He faced her again, his eyes hard. “What difference does it make?”

  What difference?

  Mel’s throat had closed up. She slammed the door and ran.

  George wasn’t in an especially good mood. He’d stayed half an hour past closing time to court a fussy customer who’d finally walked out without buying a thing. Calv had probably been working on the car for an hour already.

  George parked at the curb and climbed out, dog in hand. Daisy trembled with excitement. “You don’t live here anymore, dummy,” he said.

  She yipped and went into full wiggle mode.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m not tempted to leave you here,” he added.

  The front door opened, and Tish poked her head out. She’d tied a red bandana around her head, slightly askew and filmed with cobwebs. “Hey, George. How’s the project car coming along?”

  Like the Tish project, it was too soon to tell. “She’s prettier every day,” he said. “How’s everything going for you? Is Mel behaving herself?”

  “I’m delighted to report that her brother picked her up about noon, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  So, Stu got the message. Maybe he hadn’t become a complete jerk after all.

  “Excellent,” George said, “but don’t count on Mel patching things up with her family right away. Even if it happens, it might not last.”

  “I know, but I’m hoping for the best.” Tish’s face brightened. “Hey, can I get your professional opinion on a little bitty antique? At least I think it’s an antique.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s upstairs. Come on in. I’ll run up and get it.”

  He secured Daisy’s leash to the porch railing and walked in. While Tish went upstairs and Daisy lay down at the door that was once hers, he surveyed the living room. He hadn’t been inside since he sold the place to the Nelsons.

  Tish owned an old upright piano. A beautiful rosewood Fischer of Victorian vintage, it would be worth a pretty penny if the innards were in good shape too. Her other furnishings, though, were Early Attic at best.

  Seeing the place filled with Tish’s possessions made it seem less like his mother’s domain, but the furnace still grumbled like an angry troll in the cellar, and his mother’s last dog sprawled on the porch, perfectly content. He shook his head, wanting to forget the succession of Maltese puppies that had piddled on those beautiful hardwoods.

  Turning again, he faced a large portrait of a cadaverous old gent and his colorless bride. One of those studio photographs that had become common shortly after the War, it was set in an ornate gilded frame that outshone the couple. Then it hit him. This was the portrait Tish had mentioned. The notorious Nathan and Letitia McComb looked sickly—but not evil. They didn’t look like villains who would steal doorknobs and whatnots from the home of a dying widow.

  He hadn’t read the scanned letters yet. He almost hated to. Reality was seldom as interesting as tall tales.

  “Found it.” Tish ran down the stairs, moving so fast he was afraid she would slip and tumble to the bottom.

  “Next time, slide down the banister,” he said. “It’s faster.”

  “Did you, when you were a kid?”

  “Sometimes, if my mother wasn’t home. What have you got?”

  “It’s just a button I picked up at a yard sale. It’s so pretty I thought I could make it into a pin.”

  She opened her hand, revealing a metal button about an inch in diameter. A delicate honeybee resting on a lotus leaf. The nature motif hinted that it was Victorian, but the style leaned toward art nouveau.

  He pulled his jeweler’s loupe from his pocket. “May I?”

  “Sure.” She handed it over.

  Under magnification, the details popped—the veins in the insect’s wings, the dewdrops on the leaf. He turned it over. A shank back. No marks.

  He looked up at Tish in her bandana and had to smile. He’d never seen her in anything dressier than jeans, yet she’d fallen in love with this little delicacy.

  “How much did you pay?”

  “Four dollars for a whole tin of old buttons. This is the only really interesting one, so that was probably a ripoff.”

  “No, you did well. I’d say it’s from sometime around the turn of the century. Victorian verging on art nouveau. It’s in good condition. You go making a pin out of it, and it won’t be worth as much to a collector.”

  “What do you think it’s worth?”

  “Retail, as is, probably between forty and fifty.”

  Her eyes widened. “Dollars?”

  George smiled. “Dollars,” he repeated. She sounded like Mrs. Rose, who’d said the word in the same incredulous tone but for a different reason.

  “For one little button?”

  “Yes ma’am. If you want to sell it, I’ll pay—”

  She snatched it from his fingers. “I don’t want to know. I never said I wanted to sell it.”

  George stifled a laugh and returned the loupe to his pocket. “Why did you want to know its value, then?”

  “Just to know if I found a bargain, I guess, but I’ll never sell it. I love tangible connections to the past. Even to parts of the past that have nothing to do with me. Does that sound crazy?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I knew you would understand. You deal in antiques. Connections to the past.”

  Her earnest expression compelled him to confess. “I hate to break it to you, but my connections to my merchandise are strictly mercenary. I have no sentimental attachments to anything in my shop.”

  “Really? None?”

  “None. You’re not too disappointed, are you?”

  “Well … yes. Yes, I am.” She examined the button again, then looked up. “What about the Chevelle? Is that just a pile of metal and chrome to you?”

  “Of course not. It’s a big, noisy toy—and an investment as well. And if anything should happen to it, now it’s insured to the hilt.” He made his way to the door and stepped onto the porch. “I’d better get out to th
e garage before Calv starts thinking it’s his toy, not mine.”

  Daisy had stretched herself out like the Sphinx, except her posture was more relaxed. She rested her chin on her leash. Too lazy to raise her head, she lifted her gaze, showing the whites of her eyes.

  “Come on, Daisy. Let’s go work on the car.”

  She blinked, sighed, thumped her tail once, and closed her eyes.

  Tish leaned in the doorway. “You can leave her here if you want. She looks perfectly happy.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better take her with me. I don’t want to encourage her delusion that this is still her porch.”

  Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, George looked down the block. Mel trudged along the sidewalk, her head hanging and her shoulders slumped.

  “Here comes Mel,” he said. “And she doesn’t look like a girl who spent the afternoon in the bosom of a forgiving family.”

  Tish moved to stand beside him. “Maybe she’s tired.”

  “But if they parted on good terms, Stu would have dropped her off at your door. Especially if she was tired.”

  Mel turned into the yard and looked up. “Hey, y’all.” Her glum greeting matched her body language.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Well, yeah. Sure. Except—” She met his eyes. “Except they’re selling my car.”

  She looked so forlorn that he tried to speak as lightly as possible. “It’s not your car.”

  “Yes it is,” she said in a quiet but controlled voice. “Did you know? You knew they were selling it and you didn’t tell me?”

  Obviously, the gentle approach wasn’t working. “It was never yours anyway.”

  She moved up the steps. “It was. Grandpa John told me it was.”

  “Funny thing is, nobody else ever heard him say that.”

  “I know, George. I know. Nobody ever believes me.” Her words came faster now, spilling over each other in a small, frantic stream. “Even if he didn’t officially leave it to me, it should’ve gone to my mom, not my dad, but he took it because she never learned to drive a stick, and now he thinks it’s his to sell, but it’s not.”

  “Melanie—”

  “I’ll never see it again. He’ll sell it to somebody who doesn’t even live around here, because nobody around here can afford it. Almost nobody.” She edged closer to George. “I know you have tons of money. Please, please, buy it back for me. I’ll pay you back someday.”