Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  And start to choke. Then cough. I can’t stop.

  “Bless your heart!” The girl drops her notepad and starts pounding my back so hard I’m certain my ribs will crack any second. “She’s choking. Oh, my Lord! Someone help her!”

  Chapter 6

  All around us, people stand up and gawk. Shug jumps to his feet. He pushes the waitress away, wraps his arms around my waist, and shoves his fists into my diaphragm. Over and over. In fact, I almost can’t breathe.

  Doesn’t anyone realize I haven’t eaten a morsel? It’s the awful tea, I want to scream, but I’m being squeezed too tightly; the helpless prey of an anaconda.

  Somehow, between compressions, I manage to gasp, “I’m fine.”

  Mercifully, Shug lets go. I want to fall to the floor and roll around in pure joy. But I can’t move. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he whispers, inches away from my ear. His hand still rests on my waist, which after all the drama, feels rather cozy. I lean against his arm and close my eyes briefly. And inhale.

  Oxygen. Blessed oxygen.

  My eyes blink open. How embarrassing. But, thankfully, because I haven’t spat a chunk of food across the room or gone into convulsions, the diner patrons have already lost interest and are back to gossiping about someone else.

  “Julia,” Shug says urgently when I don’t answer. “Are you okay?” He circles back around the table and sits down across from me. As he does, his hand slides from my waist to my fingers, which he squeezes tightly. “Do you need a drink? More tea?”

  With his free hand, Shug holds up the offending liquid.

  Between my elbow pressed into the table and Shug’s grip on my hand, I shudder but keep my balance. I realize if I don’t answer, Shug’s likely to leap back into rescue mode. Or make me drink the tea, which will cause me to vomit.

  “I’m okay. Absolutely,” I say, attempting to appear perfectly normal and refreshed, like I haven’t just made a spectacle of myself in front of thirty strangers eating breakfast.

  I actually somewhat lost my appetite. Especially when I see Mary what’s-her-name heading straight for the table.

  Mary Kate?

  Mary Anne?

  Mary Katherine. That’s it.

  “Yoo-hoo,” she chirps at us, making her way toward the back of the room, all white and sparkly. Like a hummingbird, Mary Katherine flits from one group to another, pausing momentarily to preen in the large mirror hanging on the far wall.

  Except I realize she’s not looking at her reflection; she’s scrutinizing me. The girl who happens to still be holding her boyfriend’s hand.

  At that moment, I jump back and grab my fingers like I’ve been scalded, but it’s too late. Her eyes probe my face as she moves toward us. I take it all back, what I said earlier. She’s not a hummingbird at all. She’s a lioness stalking a defenseless—

  “Well, hey, y’all!” says Mary Katherine sweetly. “What do we have here?” The words slide off her lips like beads of honey.

  No. No. Don’t sit down, I beg silently.

  I need to start my interview. I’m already behind.

  Of course, she’s sitting down.

  On cue, Shug bolts up from the table and offers his seat to Mary Katherine, who slides into the modest wooden chair like it’s her royal throne. He clears his throat. “Mary Katherine, this is Julia Sullivan. The writer from the magazine I’ve been telling you about? In New York.” His tone is important, solid, all business.

  Mary Katherine’s mouth forms a slight ‘o’, but if she’s impressed in the least, I can’t tell. She gives me a thorough once over, pausing at my black jacket, black pants, and then my black shoes. At any moment, I expect that cute couple from “What Not to Wear” will jump out from behind the partition that hides the kitchen.

  I start swinging my foot, a bad habit, but it tends to soothe my nerves.

  The waitress is back. “Try again?” she asks innocently. “You feelin’ better darlin’?”

  Mary Katherine swivels to look at Shug. “Oh dear, did I miss something exciting?”

  The waitress is staring at me. I motion for her to stay quiet, widening my eyes in alarm.

  Evidently, she thinks it means recap the entire choking event in vivid detail. Then embellish on the facts. I flush cherry-red up to my hairline and do my best to examine my fingernails and cuticles.

  Holding the entire restaurant spellbound, the woman launches into her story. Five excruciating minutes later, she wraps up with flourish, probably because the manager is glaring in our direction.

  “… and he practically saved her life,” she says, finishing with a little bow at the end.

  Mary Katherine’s eyes narrow. Shug is flustered.

  I have to say something. I have to fix it. “It really wasn’t like that at all,” I interject.

  “Aw, sweetie, go on. It’s all right.” The server winks at me. “We needed some excitement around here.” She taps her pen on her notepad. “So, can I take your order?”

  Fabulous.

  “May I please have some water?” I ask in a meek voice. “And some …” I scan the menu. “Grits. No cheese. And bacon please.”

  The waitress scribbles on her pad and turns to Mary Katherine, who’s scowling. This isn’t going at all like I planned.

  I steal glance down at my watch. “Look at the time,” I exclaim. “We have to get busy.”

  Shug looks confused—something that translates into ‘you said you needed to eat, now we need to leave?’

  “Oh, after breakfast, I mean. We have a lot of ground to cover. A schedule to keep, right?” I chirp and wave a hand as if he shouldn’t worry, then pretend to check my iPhone.

  What am I talking about? Schedule is not even in my vocabulary, unless I have a plane to catch. Schedules mean confinement, like the four walls of an office. I don’t schedule. I rely on my local contacts for who to see, what to do, and where to go.

  It’s worked so far.

  Well, maybe not every single time.

  There was that luggage mix-up in Greece when I ended up with someone else’s suitcase. Little did I know it was full of nothing but cigars, condoms, and a pair of men’s red silk pajamas. Gag. Five seconds later, I was back in a taxi on the way to the airport to find my real baggage.

  And I did get lost in Madrid, but only for a few hours. This I-thought-they-were-nice couple took pity on me, offered me a ride, and then wanted to stop off for a glass of wine. I was all for it until the husband propositioned me. He thought a threesome with his wife would be delightful. I begged off, citing a recent Hepatitis flare-up, fingers crossed behind my back the whole time. The man deflated like a stuck balloon faster than I could say ‘adios.’

  Then, there was a hotel snafu in Cozumel, when I ended up sleeping in a youth hostel. After my roommate left her taco half-eaten on her backpack, we had a midnight bug infiltration. Big. Huge. Bugs. Thank goodness I was on the top bunk.

  Anyway, it all worked out, in the end.

  And here, in Eufaula, Alabama, Shug seems every bit the reasonable, responsible host. I can rely on him to point me in the right direction. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

  “I do have some things in mind,” Shug wrinkles his brow. He’s probably trying to remember if I asked for a schedule. I’m not about to correct him. He takes a long drink of the dreaded sweet tea. Ugh! How can he stand it? My teeth are rotting in my head just thinking about the cavities. Dentists must make a fortune around this place.

  “Great! I can’t wait to get started!” I exclaim.

  Mary Katherine giggles like we’ve just shared the funniest joke ever. The sound crawls right up my back. “Shug has been beside himself—we’re thrilled that you’ve decided to come to Eufaula and do the article!”

  I smile at the ‘we’ comment. And have a sneaking suspicion they’ve known about this little project a lot longer than I have.

  With a nudge at Shug, Mary Katherine throws me a hopeful look. “If I’m lucky enough to be in the article, I’ll need to buy
at least thirty copies and send them to everyone. All of my friends in Birmingham and Mobile,” Mary Katherine ticks off names on her fingers. “There’s Stacey, Melissa, Candy, Alicia…”

  Shug clears his throat.

  Mary Katherine pauses, “You do know I’m on the Pilgrimage committee, don’t you Julia?”

  I don’t know this, but nod anyway.

  “Breakfast,” Shug announces, no doubt as glad as I am for the interruption.

  One by one, the plates are set in front of us. On Mary Katherine’s is one slice of toast, no butter, and a plain bowl of sliced melon. Shug has what looks like several biscuits topped with gravy and something else I can’t identify.

  My grits and a side of bacon arrive seconds later. “May I have some brown sugar, please?” I ask the server. She gives me a strange look, then disappears.

  Mary Katherine lowers her eyes and takes a tiny nibble of her toast. At this rate, we’ll be here a million years.

  I dip my spoon carefully into the creamy-white grains, as if I’m testing the water of a swimming pool the first day of summer break. A bit of it sticks to the end of my spoon. Looks harmless enough. I close my eyes and put the spoon to my lips. Hmm. Bumpy and kind of bland. A little salty.

  When I open my eyes, Shug is staring at me with an amused look on his face. “You really should try it with cheese,” he recommends.

  “Oh, no,” I say, horrified. The brown sugar arrives and I am totally distracted. I dump half the bowl into the grits and begin to stir. The sugar melts into a lovely taupe swirl. Without hesitating, I spoon some into my mouth. Mmm. Pure heaven.

  “So, tell us about how you became a writer,” Shug asks.

  I smile, grateful he’s changed the subject. “I grew up around it, so it seemed like a natural career fit for me, too. My father’s been a journalist all of his life. He started out as a newspaper reporter in the South, worked his way up the East Coast, then went to New York and got into the magazine industry.”

  Even Mary Katherine looks impressed. “Shug’s in the family business,” I hear her say.

  “Really? The travel and tourism business?”

  “No,” Shug tries not to laugh. “She means that I’m part owner of Jordan Construction and so is my sister. My father runs the business. The Historic Chattahoochee Commission is my full-time job.”

  “For now it is,” Mary Katherine adds tersely. “It’s a great service to the community. But it’s so demanding and keeps Shug here all of the time.”

  Somehow, I don’t think I’m getting the full story. I focus on my grits and brown sugar.

  “Traveling is so glamorous.” Mary Katherine sounds wistful, almost human. “I’ll bet you’ve been to all of the most wonderful places. Paris, London, Rome.”

  “I’m just back from Italy. Belize before that,” I say, nodding.

  “Do you love it?” she asks, hopeful, leaning closer.

  “I do. I see so many different places and different people. I don’t have any commitments. I’m not stuck anywhere.”

  Then, I see Shug staring off into space. Have I upset him?

  Staying here is probably what’s expected of him. Like the mafia, but not as clandestine and illegal. He does it for family. A sacrifice.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with living in a lovely place like Eufaula.” I look at Mary Katherine with an apologetic grin. “Besides, travel isn’t all that glamorous. You lose your luggage, miss flights, the weather can be awful, and hotels can lose electricity. I never get my mail.”

  Mary Katherine looks unconvinced and takes another bite of dry toast. Doesn’t she have somewhere to go? Something to do? Exercise? Haircut? A job?

  Which reminds me about my own career.

  I put down my spoon, dab at my lips with a napkin, and prepare myself to listen, forcing my body to be still.

  “So,” I say, “Tell me all about Eufaula.”

  Chapter 7

  Mary Katherine looks immediately pained and purses her lips, as if someone poured a pound of salt in her sweet tea.

  “Oh, my. Gotta run, y’all,” she twitters and pushes back her chair. Ever the gentleman, Shug jumps to his feet again.

  She pecks Shug on the cheek and turns to me with an apologetic look. “Have to get to Dothan. I’m squeezing in a mani-pedi before my meeting at the bank. Can’t be late.”

  The thing is, as I gaze in her direction, Mary Katherine’s fingernails and toes look immaculate, like tiny shells painted a pale coral color. Not one chip.

  She gathers her purse, then takes time to fuss with Shug’s collar. I’m certain the gesture is a sign, a symbol, perhaps a warning to me. Mary Katherine is marking her territory, making sure that I know what’s what. She might as well hammer a sign above Shug’s head, “Private Property. No Trespassing.”

  Don’t worry sweetheart, I want to say. It’s all business. I play with the straw in my water glass to illustrate just how detached I am from the whole scene. I wonder why someone as beautiful as she is has to put so much effort into demonstrating ownership.

  Andrew wouldn’t know what to make of it if I acted swoony. I’m the first to vouch that my boyfriend deserves more attention. He always teases that he’s going to file a missing person report when I’m off on assignment for more than a week.

  With men, staking a claim doesn’t do any good anyway. If they want to leave, they just do. Take my father, for example.

  “Julia,” Mary Katherine is trying to get my attention. She waves a finger in front of my face. “Thought we’d lost you for a minute there.”

  “Oh no,” I recover, “just running through some ideas.” I certainly can’t tell her the truth. That she’s a possessive girlfriend with security issues.

  Mary Katherine wrinkles her brow.

  “For the article,” I explain.

  “Oh, sugar,” she claps her hands. “I meant to ask you, Julia … and I’m sure you won’t mind, Shug.”

  Uh-oh, I’m already thinking. Shug looks a tad uncomfortable.

  “Please join us for dinner tonight at the Jordan’s. It’ll be great. You can ask all kinds of questions about Eufaula. And meet the rest of the family. They have all sorts of photos and books from the old days. Don’t they, honey?”

  “Sure. Good idea,” Shug chimes in, relieved.

  What? He was supposed to disagree. I’m already shaking my head no. I need a bubble bath and a glass of wine. Then, sleep. Dinner can be Diet Dr. Pepper and a Hershey Bar.

  They both look at me expectantly.

  “I think I need to rest, with the long trip and all…” I start to explain.

  Mary Katherine immediately pouts. Shug looks taken aback. Great, I’ve just broken some long-standing rule of Southern hospitality. Never say no to an invitation. “You need to meet MeeMaw. And Aubie and TJ.”

  Who is she talking about? Does everyone have crazy nicknames?

  My resolve crumbles. “Well, I suppose I can if it’s no trouble.”

  “Good. Then it’s all settled. Say, about six-fifteen? See you then!” Mary Katherine reaches over and squeezes my hand like we’ve been best friends for years. “Can’t wait to see you tonight.”

  Then she’s gone.

  “Whew!” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but somehow it escapes from my brain and travels out my mouth before I can catch it.

  Shug starts to chuckle. He throws a twenty and a ten on the table. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Um.” I’m not sure how to answer.

  “Don’t worry about it. Mary Katherine operates at 150 percent all of the time. She tries to make a good impression. She wants everyone to like her. I’m sure she just wanted to make sure you felt welcome.”

  “Oh,” I say and feel slightly guilty. Maybe I judged her too quickly.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ll grab your bags and drop them off so you can get settled. Probably best if you leave the SUV at my office. No need to drive around with a shattered
windshield.”

  Balmy air hits me as Shug holds open the door. We step outside, and I am blinded, the way immediate bright light shuts down your senses. When I regain my focus, I get the strangest feeling. Then, I realize that the sidewalks are almost empty. One person wanders up ahead, window-shopping.

  It’s so peaceful. So quiet. So not New York. In the City, there’s the rushed crackle of electricity on the streets. Everyone in his or her own little world. People too busy to strike up a conversation, every head on the subway buried in the Wall Street Journal. Hot dog vendors on every corner. Street salesmen hocking knock-off designer purses and jewelry.

  There’s none of that here.

  “It’s funny to think that folks managed without air conditioning for eons,” Shug is saying as we start to walk. “Of course, if you’ve lived here all your life, it’s not that bad.”

  “I wouldn’t have made it,” I say, half-joking. “I’m not that tough. What does the temperature get to in the summer? Ninety-nine in the shade?”

  Shug laughs and nods.

  “If I had to stay outside in July, I’d probably melt.” I shade my eyes at the glare as we round the corner, and I try not to run toward the trees lining the street and sidewalks up ahead.

  “Oh, I think you’re wrong,” Shug says with a sidelong glance at me. “We all underestimate our own strength and determination.” He pauses, thoughtful.

  And I realize he’s not talking about the heat at all.

  “Almost three hundred years ago,” Shug says with a sweeping motion toward the expanse of antebellum houses and trees in front of us, “none of this existed. Only Creek Indian tribes and wildlife lived here. Then, two hundred years ago, the first white settlement was established. The people built a steamboat wharf, which boosted trade between Alabama and Georgia.”

  I nod, taking it in.

  “None of it would have happened unless someone first believed it could be done, put the plans in place, and led the charge.”