by Debby Mayne
All satisfied and full of himself, he replies, “It’s from my stand-up comic days, back before I came to work for Uncle Hugh.”
That explains a lot. “That might be rather ostentatious.”
“Osten-what?”
Oops. “Showy.” He looks so eager to please, I can’t tell him no right now. “I’ll have to let you know, but first, tell me why my last hair color order is taking so long.”
“I take it you don’t want to go to breakfast?”
2
Laura Moss
If I get one more invitation back for being undeliverable, I’ll croak. Everyone assumes that I don’t mind taking on all these “special” jobs, just because I always have, but come on! People move, and they don’t even bother letting the class committee know. When I say class committee, I mean me. That’s it. I’m the one person who cares enough to keep track of the whereabouts of everyone who graduated with me. Why do I care? That’s the billion-dollar question of the year. After putting up with all kinds of abuse from so-called friends for thirteen years—from kindergarten to our senior year of high school—you’d think I would’ve learned my lesson.
Somehow I thought when I was elected vice-president of our senior class right before twelfth grade, people finally saw me as an important person. No. It just meant no one else wanted to do the job. I knew I wasn’t popular enough to be president, good enough with numbers to be treasurer, or smart enough to be secretary. But with an Army sergeant daddy, I know how to be organized.
My mama decided she’d had enough organization, and ran off with a weasel named Randy “Save-a-Lot” Elmore, the man who gave her a double-digit discount on a five-year-old Town Car. Now he’s her weasel-in-shining-armor. And they live in the nicest mobile home park in town where every home has a skirt and all utilities are underground. Theirs is a double-wide, so when I lived with them, they had plenty of room for me and my meager possessions. Life wasn’t easy with a stepdad though.
At least I had Pete. We were on-again-off-again boyfriend and girlfriend ever since fourth grade when we were paired off in our P.E. square dance class. That was the only time either of us ever did good at anything, and we wallowed in the attention we got from our faultless do-si-dos.
Pete has other good qualities too—one of them being loyalty. He stood by me through all the problems I had with my parents, even during the stickiest situations.
As time passed, Pete and I became inseparable, except for a couple times, like the time we had a fight and he spent two weeks being Celeste’s boyfriend. And when Daddy caught us makin’ out in the back of Pete’s mama’s car and threatened him with his service revolver. It’s been ten years and four kids since that night.
“Honey!” I hear Pete blasting his way through the house, slamming doors and letting out some bodily sounds other women might find disgusting. “I just left the Chili Hut, and they said we can use the back room before the reunion.”
I frown. “I’ve already sent out the invitations with Shenanigan’s for the preparty.”
He comes up to me, massages my neck, and lets out a loud belch. “This is for before the preparty. You don’t want me to show up without warming up first, do you?”
“Maybe you don’t need to warm up as much as you think you do.”
Pete opens the fridge, and I hear the familiar sound of a pop-top before he closes the door. “This is a class reunion, Hon. Everyone has certain expectations. I don’t want to disappoint.” He belts out one of those laughs that annoy me—the kind that sounds like a cross between a snore and a snort.
I’m not in the mood for another argument so soon after the last one, so I clamp my mouth shut and tighten my jaw. What seemed cute and funny back in high school is now a major source of all our fussin’ and fightin’. Pete used to like sneaking a few beers with his buddies before school dances. He said it made him light on his feet, and I have to admit, he was much less inhibited than the other boys who didn’t imbibe. Now it just makes him sloppy and stupid sounding. But he still has his moments of tenderness, like when he tells me I’m a good wife and mama. I take what I can get.
“What time are the kids getting home?” he asks.
“Bubba’s spending the night with Matt. Renee and Bonnie Sue are upstairs playing, and Jack’s outside riding his bike.”
He makes a face. “I was thinking about a little romance.”
Romance is the last thing on my husband’s mind, I think, as he stumbles on his way into the living room. This is obviously not his first drink of the day. After his last D.U.I., you would’ve thought he’d at least stay sober to drive home from work.
I pull out my box of reunion stuff and line everything up so I can check off the people as they R.S.V.P. So far, I’ve had two phone calls from people who said they were gonna try to make it. It’s still too early for the reply cards to come in the mail.
The phone rings, so I hop out of the chair and answer it. My shirt snags on the rough back of the chair. I’ve been after Pete to go shopping for new kitchen furniture, but he doesn’t think we need anything new with four kids in the house. “They’ll just ruin it,” he says, “so let’s wait until they’re grown and gone before we replace anything.”
That’s the story of my life, I think, as I listen to Mama drone on about the cruise she and Randy just signed up for. I decide not to call her out on breaking her promise to watch the kids during the reunion. Instead, I tell her I hope she has fun before I hang up and sit back down to see how much damage I did to my favorite gauze top.
“Who was that on the phone?” Pete asks as he walks back into the kitchen to toss his beer can and pop another one.
“Mama.”
Pete pauses. “So what’s new with your mama?”
I suck in a deep breath and close my eyes. “She and Randy are goin’ on a cruise.”
“Well, good for her. Maybe we should get my mama and daddy to watch the kids, and we can join them.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What?” he asks as he buries his head in the fridge so I can barely hear him. “I thought you always wanted to go on a cruise.” He laughs as he straightens and kicks the refrigerator door shut and slugs half the contents of the can he’s holding. “They have them all-you-can-eat buffets.”
“Those all-you-can-eat buffets,” I say, correcting him.
“You can be uppity as you want, Laura, but I know who I am.”
I choose to ignore his last comment. “We’ll be at the class reunion.” I stand up and take a look around at the mess around me. “Why is everything getting so complicated? First, the printer can’t get the invitations right, not once but twice, then all these people moved without leaving forwarding addresses, and now Mama is going back on her word.”
Pete puts his can down and looks directly at me. “Ever think it might be you?”
I’m stunned. Pete has his flaws, but he’s always at least pretended to support me during tough times. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Think about it, Laura. You’ve brought a lot of this on yourself. If you hadn’t taken on more than you can handle, you might be able to get something right.”
My chin quivers, but I manage not to shed a tear. Pete is right. I take on way too much, and I’m in over my head.
“I’m just tellin’ you this ’cause I love you.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” I bite my lip to keep from letting him have it. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, but my life has been tough.
“You’ve never been any good at lettin’ others do for you ’cause you’re so busy doing for everyone else.” He picks the can back up and joins me at the table. “Remember when I used to try to tote your books and you wouldn’t let me?”
I nod. “That’s just because you’d drop them.”
“See?” He shakes his head. “Maybe, but you oughta have at least let me try to help.”
“It just seems like it’s easier to do things myself than hand it over to someone else.�
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“That’s what you seem to believe.” He takes another swig of beer, puts down the can, then bares his teeth as he swallows, another habit that has always annoyed me. I look away. “Did you ever get in touch with that band you’ve got your heart set on?”
“Not yet.” I’ve been chompin’ at the bit to get Charlie and the Checkers to play for the reunion. That’ll impress everyone, and maybe people will think I’m really something.
“I told you Zeke Jacoby and his group will play for half the price, but you can’t wait forever. They pretty much stay booked a month or two ahead.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I should hear something from Charlie’s manager soon. If I don’t, I’ll let you know so you can talk to Zeke.”
Little Jack comes into the kitchen, his face red and all scrunched up. “Mama, these shoes is hurtin’ my feet. Can we go back to the store and get me some new ones?”
I lean toward my youngest child and look him in the eye. “Not shoes is. Shoes are.”
He tilts his head. “Huh?”
“You need to learn to talk right, or no one will ever take you seriously.”
“C’mon, Laura, lighten up. He’s only five years old.”
“Don’t start that with me,” I tell my husband as I see little Jack backing away out of the corner of my eye. “He needs to establish good speech habits, or he’ll sound like . . . like . . .”
“Like a hick?” Pete says, his mouth contorted Elvis-style.
I narrow my eyes and glare at him. Just as a growl starts in my throat, he lifts his hand and shakes his head then turns back to our son.
“This is not the time to argue with your mama, son. She’s in a real stinkin’ mood this evenin’.”
“Stinkin’ mood?” I say, my voice even tighter than usual, making me sound like a cat with its tail caught under a rocker. “I’ll show you what a stinkin’ mood is.” Little Jack scurries out of the kitchen so fast you’d never know his shoes hadn’t been broken in yet. Silence fills the room for a few seconds.
Pete sighs and stands. He starts to leave before turning back and looking me over. “Have you started your pre-reunion diet yet?” He snickers, turns, and walks away shaking his head. “Just kiddin’. Can’t you take a joke?”
If I didn’t think the Lord was looking at me, I’d pick up the saltshaker and throw it at Pete. Besides, the way things have been going for me lately, I’d probably miss.
Why can’t I be more like Priscilla Slater and not worry about what everyone else thinks? That girl has everything she wants and then some.
3
Tim Puckett
I may be a redneck, but I’m proud of who I am. Mama raised us kids to appreciate all things Southern. The only thing I don’t get is Gone with the Wind, and it’s not because I haven’t tried. I’ve watched that movie more times than I can count, and I still think Rhett is a scoundrel, and he don’t treat women very good. In my book, he’s a commitment-phobe. I learned all about people like him by talking to some of the hairdressers.
Now Priscilla, she’s Scarlett, only nicer and a tad softer. She never lets anyone else tell her what she wants—not even her mama and daddy (who, by the way, don’t allow her to call them that). She bucked her bookish upbringing and did not do what they wanted for her life. I say good for her.
Being a hairdresser is an honorable profession in my book. A girl’s hairdresser is her makeover specialist, both inside and out. But Mr. and Mrs. Slater don’t respect Pricilla’s career. She was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in high school—and she has three highly profitable salons to show for that—but sometimes she seems insecure. I think it’s her snooty parents who act like they’re better than everyone else in town, including their daughter. I only met them once, but it don’t take long to catch the drift that they’d rather be reading a book than talking to this little redneck boy from Jasper County, Mississippi.
Mama says I’m smitten. I appreciate the fact that Priscilla’s driven and knows where she’s drivin’. The only problem is she doesn’t yet know we’re meant to be together. But I have the patience of an oak tree. And after she goes into her office and slams the door, I leave to give her some of that space I keep hearing about. There’s always tomorrow.
I’m up with the chickens the next morning, ready to try again. I stop off at Piggly Wiggly and pick up a bouquet of flowers and a Snickers bar to get me back in favor with Priscilla. It worked last time.
I pull into the salon parking lot and see that her car isn’t there yet. So I sit and wait. A few minutes later, I spot her coming up the street in her yellow convertible. I smile. Priscilla isn’t one to be satisfied with the typical candy-apple-red convertible. She has to have a yellow one to be different.
As soon as I see her smiling face, I know all is fine in her world. Whatever was bugging her yesterday is gone today. That girl is the best at self-counseling. Whatever mind games she plays with herself work. If she could box up the secret, she’d make a million dollars.
She parks her car beside mine, gets out, and comes over to my window. “Hey, Tim. Is your breakfast offer still open?”
Be still my heart. I nod as I grab the flowers and the Snickers bar and thrust them at her. Not cool, I know, but I don’t want to miss the opportunity, and she’s standing right there.
“You are so sweet!” She takes my gifts and gestures with her head toward the salon. “Let me go put these in a vase and see if Mandy needs anything, then we can go.”
I follow her, trying not to look like a lost puppy. I assume her self-assured stride is rehearsed because she’s so good at it. No wiggle, just walk, but it works. She’s wearing high heels today, but even in flats, there’s no doubt she’s a woman who’s in charge and not just out there lookin’ for a man.
I wait for her to do her early-morning office stuff. Mandy occasionally casts a somewhat cautiously flirty glance my way. She’s a cute girl, but I still only have eyes for Priscilla, so I look everywhere but at Mandy.
On our way out to the parking lot, Priscilla tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks me in the eye. “Your car or mine?”
I shrug. I know she loves driving, and I want her to be happy. “Your call.”
She surprises me and asks me to drive, so I lead her to my company Buick and help her into her seat, although I know she’s perfectly capable of getting in all by herself. She takes it like a lady, too, with a smile and a “Thanks.”
I expect to take her to a decent restaurant, but she wants one of those Subway breakfast sandwiches, so that’s where we go. Over coffee and flatbread-wrapped eggs, we talk about the salon, until I bring up the reunion. And hold my breath.
“I have mixed feelings about the reunion.” She stuffs another bite of sandwich into her mouth and chews real slow. I can tell she wants to talk about it, so I give her a conversation starter.
“You know my offer to go with you still stands. I’m devout to you.”
“Devout to me?” she says with a curious look on her face.
I groan. “I didn’t use it right, did I?” Pricilla gave me the book A Hundred Days to a Smarter Vocabulary a couple months ago. At first, I was insulted, but she reminded me how frustrated I get when I don’t understand half of what she says. So I’ve been studying and I’m doing pretty good, as long as I find a way to use my new vocabulary words to keep from forgetting them. The biggest problem is knowing how to use them in sentences. “What I meant to say was I’m committed to our friendship.”
“You’re devoted to our friendship?” she says. “And me?”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Devout, devoted—whatever. I want you to know I’ll be there for you.”
She lifts her perfectly shaped eyebrow, swallows, and grins. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than go to someone else’s class reunion.”
I laugh. “C’mon, Priscilla. Really, I’d love to go.” That don’t sound very manly of me, but Priscilla needs some encouragement.
“Tell you what. I ju
st might take you up on your offer . . . but only as friends. Because there’s someone who might be there . . .”
“A guy?”
She nods. “Someone I’ve wondered about since we graduated.”
“I see.” I give the situation some thought and decide I can handle near ’bout anything and hope this guy she’s talking about turns out to be a loser. Maybe he’s what’s been keepin’ her from fallin’ in love with me. “I would like to go.”
“Then I’d be proud to have you escort me.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’ve always been so comfortable around you. It’s almost like you’re the brother I never had.”
That’s the second-to-last thing I ever wanted to hear from her, but I don’t have a choice but to accept it . . . at least for now. “I’m glad you’re . . . comfortable.”
“I’m not always so comfortable with the people I went to school with, though.”
“Wanna talk about it?” I settle back in my seat and study her face, hopin’ to make her squirm.
She squirms for a few seconds before looking up. “Okay, you asked for it. I’ve always been an ugly duckling with mousy brown hair, crooked teeth, and discount store clothes my mother made me wear.”
“But that’s not you now.” I pause just long enough to look her over, and she don’t even come close to resemblin’ what she just described.
“I know, but I’m sure everyone else will remember that. It’s not that my parents couldn’t afford nice things, because they could. Mother always said I needed to focus on the mind and stop thinking about outward appearances.”
“Why not do both?”
She shrugs. “That’s what I try to do, but my mother makes me feel like a frog trying to turn into a princess.”
I smile. “I think frogs turn into princes, not princesses, and that’s only when they get kissed.”
