Reviving Jules

by Peggy Trotter

  “Andi…” He paused as her eyes blinked closed and her body stilled. Instead of correcting her, he tiptoed from the room and shut the door. He stood outside, looking down the shadowed hallway, internally finishing the conversation.

  It doesn’t happen like that. There will be no mommy. There will be no sister. You need to push it from your mind.

  Man, he hated killing her dreams. He jammed his hands in his pockets and headed for his room. If they were handing out the award for the world’s worst dad tonight, he was sure to be close to the front of the line.

  * * *

  Rhett twisted in the driver’s seat to back up the truck out of the church parking lot the next day. Andi peered into a Walmart bag in the rear seat.

  “What’s that?”

  “My panties.”

  He pressed the brake and threw the gearshift into park before he turned to her again. “You brought your underwear to church?”

  “No.”

  Her faux innocent eyes alerted him to trouble. Rhett tilted his head and spoke firmly. “Out with it.”

  Andi sighed. “Mrs. Farrows got me panties.”

  He faced forward, set his lips in a line, and crossed his arms. Dipping deep into his tank of patience, he moved the mirror so his glance met hers. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the next answer. “Why would Julie’s mother buy you underwear?”

  Andi blinked, and her face grew long.

  “Andi?”

  Her voice dropped. “’Cause I asked her to.”

  He sighed audibly, never taking his eyes from his daughter’s reflection. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “My old ones get up inside.”

  Oh, good grief. “How come you didn’t tell me you needed new underwear?”

  Andi leaned forward, palms up in her graceful manner as she brought home her reasoning. “’Cause you’re a boy, Daddy. And Julie’s mom knows about girls.”

  He glanced at the Shoultz family getting into the van next to him then rubbed his hand down his jaw and grunted. Shaking his head, he twisted around in the seat again and stabbed his daughter with a steady gaze. “Andi Carsen. Don’t you ever ask anyone else to get you underwear again. Am I clear?”

  Eyes wide, she nodded, sticking out a quivering bottom lip. “Girls have panties, Daddy. Not underwear.”

  Rhett spun toward the front of the vehicle and exhaled aloud. This boy-slash-girl thing wasn’t going away. What would he do when she became a teenager? Drown, that’s what. Drown in a pool of estrogen without a water wing to save himself. After glancing at his tearful daughter in the mirror, he jerked the truck into gear. They were in for a long talk at home. He muttered to himself, “Dear Lord, help me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Ma’am. We asked for more butter.” A blond woman leaned out into the aisle and beckoned to catch Jules’ attention.

  She paused at the table near the magazine rack and groaned. Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten. “Sure. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  Hattie slapped the bell on the order shelf next to her grill and growled. “Jules.”

  She blew up her bangs as she raced to the next table, two plates balanced in her hands. Which customer had the fried pork steak, and which had the cheeseburger meal? With a sigh, she plopped them down.

  “You gentleman need anything else?” She deposited their receipts and extra napkins on the table.

  “Actually, I had the cheeseburger.” The mustached man cut her a glance.

  “Oh, sure. Sorry.” Jules switched the plates.

  “I could use some more coffee.”

  “Gotcha. Coming right up.” She spun and booked toward the back to grab her other order.

  “Ma’am? Butter, please?”

  She nodded with an artificial smile. Ugh. She closed her eyes a moment as she breezed to a stop in front of the pick-up window.

  “You better get a move-on, missy,” Hattie grunted.

  Jules licked her dry lips, grabbed several butter containers, and tossed them into her greasy apron. She clutched the next two identical plates of fried chicken. At least she wouldn’t have to remember whose was whose. “I’m doing the best I can, Hattie.”

  She twirled and buzzed back by the butter table to deposit a generous supply of the condiment before speeding to the next customers with the chicken. The bell sounded again.

  “Jules.”

  Oh, could she just change her name? Swallowing frustration, she turned and hurried back for the next order. Sherry gave her an encouraging smile as she joined her at the window.

  “You okay? Your face looks really red.”

  Jules wanted to scream. Why in the world would she be hot? She zipped about like a racecar in the Indianapolis 500, in a room hotter than the sun’s surface, trying to please everyone and get all the food and drinks delivered, only to have forgotten half the condiments the customers needed. And Hattie, with the self-righteous smirk, slapping that stinking bell every two seconds and screaming her name.

  Jules took a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

  “Here, let me take that. I know whose order this is. He gets the same thing every time.” She pulled the plate from her hand. “Why don’t you go cool off a minute?”

  “No, I…” But she was already gone. Jules flicked a glance to Hattie, who tsked and elevated a judgmental brow. Jules raised her chin, pushed through the saloon doors, and directed herself to the restroom.

  She snatched a paper towel and fanned her face. Was it getting any easier? Sixth day on the job, and she failed to deliver butter. Her mouth fell open. And coffee. Shoot. She’d forgotten that guy’s coffee. Her body sank to the closed toilet. The lunch crowd was unbelievable. A Wizard of Oz quote popped in her mind. “People come and go so quickly around here.” A giggle escaped. She must be getting punchy.

  A frown returned to her brow. Except they weren’t quick little munchkins hiding among the charming forest foliage. And from the pain in Jules’ feet, this wasn’t some fairy-tale land. No sooner did someone vacate a seat when someone else sat down. She wet the paper towel and wiped her face.

  She’d learned the names of a few regulars who questioned who she was, where she came from, blah, blah. Marsha owned the joint and only helped when necessary. The other waitresses, Sherry and Sally, slung coffee and food with finesse.

  Sherry, still young, had just graduated the previous year, but had worked here throughout high school. Why the child hadn’t made better career plans was beyond Jules. But she knew her stuff. Lickety-split, she took the order, delivered, and ‘anything else-d?’ the customer. With her fresh face and eager smile, she jammed bills into her apron pocket all day. Next to Jules, she was a pro.

  A knock sounded on the door. Hattie’s voice invaded her solace. “You orders are backin’ up.”

  With a sigh, she rose, washed her hands, and swung out of the small room. At the window, she snatched up two more plates. Bob’s and Bill’s. Retired regulars. She waited on them every day, and they were of the patient sort. Thank goodness.

  After delivering the meals and fetching the java for her irritated customer, she grabbed a tub to clear some tables. Jules glanced toward the counter, Sally’s area, where a guffaw of laughter erupted. She’d charmed them again with her coffee pot of de-caf suspended in midair. The old salty dog of the diner biz had weathered years of the ups and downs of the place and knew every rumor and tasty bit of gossip three counties wide.

  A faithful bunch of old coots in camo hats flirted and harassed Sally in a friendly sort of way, so her tips were never ending. Jules let out a stream of air as she swept the eighty-five cents across the speckled Formica and into her pocket. At this rate, she might break five bucks by closing time.

  “Don’t forget to bus that table.” Sally stood at the end of the counter, one hand on her pudgy hip while the other pointed to the overflowing booth where a family of six had just left.

  Does it look as if I’m picking daisies? Jules gritted her teeth. “I’m just about to get to it,
thanks.”

  Thanks for nothing. She moved to the table Sally indicated. Food splattered every surface like a scene from a documentary where wolves had devoured an antelope. She filled the tub with dishes and wiped the walls and table. A couple of quarters rested by the creamer. Really? Eight hours and these measly tips. How did waitresses do it?

  She glanced at the clock. One thirty. She didn’t get off until seven thirty. She shook her head. What did it matter? She had nothing else to do. But then her feet reminded her why she’d checked the time. She’d been on the go since clocking in at 11:00. Maybe now she understood the reason Sally moved a little more leisurely. Her glance cut to Sherry as she whisked by. Oh, to be young and have your whole life in front of you.

  Somehow, the day passed, and even though exhaustion lay around her neck like a lead mink stole when she exited the diner, she didn’t turn left to walk home as normal. At the bottom of the three worn concrete steps of Marsha’s Snack Shop, she veered right.

  She pretended to be oblivious as to where she was going. Reaching the end of the block in front of the ancient hardware store, she turned left and crossed the street to the west. She passed the new fire station on the right and continued to walk towards a red and white whirling barber’s pole. Gabe’s Barbershop.

  Through the window, Gabe snipped hair while the customer talked with the two older cronies lounging in plastic chairs. After crossing the alleyway, the post office appeared on her left. She strode right past and froze at the end of the sidewalk. Deep breath.

  A car stopped at the stop sign in front of her and the driver gave her the once over. Jules ignored him and raised her eyes to the structure on the other side of the street. Her toes rested behind the crack between the last sidewalk slab and the curb.

  Before her rose a regal edifice. Huge, soaring, red brick. Here, old meant something. It signified establishment, a tradition never-ending, a place rich in legacy, the Alpha and Omega. A church.

  The architecture was amazing. High Victorian Gothic. Massive arched doors weighing several hundred pounds apiece were dark with age and inset with panels. Giant, decorative bronze door handles graced the inner edges of the doors, and thick black hinges secured the other edge. An even larger arch echoed above the double set of doors, painted white with a graceful bell tower topping the front section. And it grasped for the sky. Reaching up, drawing one’s eye, magnifying the Creator.

  Jules covered her face with her hands and wiped her skin slowly outward, as if she were wiping something away. A web? More like a translucent memory, faded in time and pain. Or amplified. She turned on her heel and lifted her chin. No. no.

  Time to go home. Resolutely she set off, hammering her heels into the sidewalk to garner authority from the motion. At school, her strut through the shining hallways clicked with incredible purpose. But now, her rubber-soled shoes made not a sound.

  She didn’t stop for seven blocks until she reached home. Home? A loose definition of this space. Emptiness rattled her soul as she shoved the door open. With a sob, she pushed the door shut with a thud.

  * * *

  5:02. Seriously? Just one day. Could she not have just one day? She dared not consider whom she addressed. It was Sunday. Groan. No work. Marsha closed the place on Sundays. The day stretched before her. Yippee. The sunlight, stronger this morning, slashed across her bed. Sunrise appeared earlier and earlier each day. It would soon be the end of April, and she counted the time she had left before September arrived in full force. Five months. She had to get her life together in five months. She would not let Hannah down.

  “Now, breakfast.” Jules spoke the words aloud as she squinted at the eastern trees. Talking to herself had become a habit she’d picked up as of late. Perhaps she needed to hear more than, “I’ll take the special with de-caf.”

  But the why of it had hit her yesterday. Loneliness. She worked five days a week listening to people yak, and she was lonesome. To top it off, Marsha’s Snack Shop closed on Mondays, too. So not only did she have the day to herself to twiddle her thumbs, she had tomorrow to talk to the walls also.

  She sighed. This is what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Peace, quiet, rest from the nagging friends. A respite from well-intentioned family. And now, she had it.

  “Woohoo.”

  The echo of her voice in the near empty room mocked her. She sat up in the air mattress with a whoosh of air, and her bottom thunked to the hardwood floor. She supposed she ought to turn on the electricity. Perhaps her monstrosity of a stove would work, and she might just find the energy to cook. Maybe not. At least she had gas heat and hot water.

  “All righty, then.” No hot breakfast. She smacked her cheeks. Time to get a move on.

  Jules did the shower thing and soon sat in the lawn chair beside her air bed, taking in the strong rays of sun as it filtered through the maple behind her honeysuckle and lilac bushes. She held a package of chocolate donuts in one hand, and her usual soda lay on the floor next to the chair.

  She drew up her legs and sat angled against the sharp aluminum armrest. The grass needed trimming. Everyone around her had already mowed their yards. Well, one neighbor to the south. Beyond her house lay plowed fields, and to the west, the front, nothing but a tall bank of dirt topped with trees dominated the view. Yet the very next block sported beautiful Victorian houses. So…one neighbor had the jump on her.

  She’d mowed her yard before, back when time outstretched the money. When it reversed, a high school boy came and cut it between the landscapers spiffing up the perennials and the grass guy eliminating any dandelions or other pesky weeds in the lush greenness.

  She straightened, swiping her hands of excess crumbs. A lawnmower wasn’t so mystifying. That dilapidated hardware carried used push mowers, and really, it was all she needed. She’d just have to purchase one. Once her house in Nashville sold, and the cash moved through the lawyer’s office, she could make other arrangements for the yard. For now, a cheap lawn mower solved her problem. Ah, Monday planned.

  Meanwhile, Sunday stretched eternal. Bleck.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jules tapped her fingernails on the lawn chair’s aluminum armrest. The sound echoed off the empty walls. Sunday, hmmm. She glanced at the pile of dirty clothes in the living room corner. Along the wall, the assortment of odd shaped boxes and plastic tubs cascaded everywhere. She’d pulled needed items from each box without actually opening them for the last several weeks. To organize that mess, she’d need a washing machine, a dryer, and some shelves. Oh, and the desire to do it. Yeah, that wasn’t happening today.

  She stood up. A drive. What better way to get acquainted with the area? A larger town existed not far away, so that’s where she’d start. Shoes on in a flash, she grabbed her purse and keys and sprinted out the door before the clock said 7:30. No make-up these days. It took too much effort.

  She loved the jeep. Always wanted one. Even back when a Lexus and a convertible Mustang sat in the garage, she’d been fascinated with jeeps. Darrel said they’d never use one. It was more of a vehicle for outdoor folks. Not for them, definitely. She sniffed and cocked her head.

  “Bite me, Darrel! I own a jeep.” She glanced around to make sure no one overheard and patted the white exterior. On to the drive.

  Exhilaration shot through her as she cranked open the window, zoomed down the street, and whipped onto the highway toward Princeton. Fourteen miles. She turned the radio on a country station, but didn’t recognize the song. Jules hadn’t kept up to date with current tunes, given the muck she’d survived the last seven months. But she blared it anyway, the music trailing her vehicle in a warped sound. Her hair flew around in disarray. For a moment, she could almost imagine being free of worry and pain.

  Jules tried to stay in that frame of mind as she drove through town. Given the early hour, not much had opened, but to her delight, the large discount department store was. She spent several hours doing what her father called, “turning things over.” No matter. It soothed her soul to leave her
fingerprints on a few items. It validated her. Afterwards, armed with fast food, she pulled over at a park—a scenic view with a lake. She ate her lunch watching old guys fish and preschoolers play. The sun was lovely, even hot. She was a person. A real human.

  By the time she arrived back at her house, it approached two-thirty. Pleased with herself for finding a full morning and half an afternoon’s worth of entertainment, Jules carried in her minor purchases and put them away. A movement caught her eye. She glanced toward the sliding glass doors. A small girl knelt at the fish pond.

  Her thick, dark hair hung below her waistband and she looked…maybe, five? What was she doing here?

  Jules unlocked the glass door, and the child looked up but didn’t take off. Stepping onto the porch, Jules smiled. She must belong to the neighbor.

  “Hello.” Jules greeted the girl like she’d just entered her classroom.

  “Hi.” The imp went back to peering into the water.

  Jules’ eyebrows rose. Perhaps the child didn’t understand she needed permission to be in this yard. Or maybe she didn’t care. Jules tried again. “Do you like goldfish?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mmm. Okay, time to get more direct. “Do your parents’ know you’re in my backyard?”

  The child’s head shot up, and her hands halted in midair. Her posture reminded Jules of Snow White holding her palms skyward in every frame, even when the house-keeping began.

  “Don’t tell my Daddy. He’s asleep.”

  Now she was getting somewhere. “So that probably means you shouldn’t be here.”

  The girl’s face was priceless. Her mouth formed an O, and her slanted oval eyes widened. They were so dark the pupil disappeared in the color, making them seemed twice as large. That, coupled with her dusky skin, had Jules wondering about her parentage.

  “I…I just wanted to see the fishies. I like ’um.” She hung her head.

  Okay, I’m a dirty, rotten, rubber-heeled dog-kicker. “I understand, but it’s best if your father knew where you were.”