Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  “Neither one is answering,” I continue. “This might sound silly, but I’m a little worried. Is anything wrong? Did something happen?”

  Mary Katherine bursts into an attempt at fake giggles. She doesn’t do a good job. “Bless your heart. You are so sweet to worry about my Shug. And PD, too.”

  I count backwards from ten. “So everything’s good?”

  “As far as I know,” Mary Katherine twitters.

  In my mind, I can picture her standing in Aubie’s kitchen, fingers crossed behind her back, the entire Jordan family bound and gagged in a closet. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath. Calm. Be calm.

  “Tell them I called, please?”

  “Of course,” Mary Katherine simpers. “Tootles, now.”

  Then, dial tone.

  I check the screen—it’s black—and feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. She hung up on me. What the heck is going on? Where’s Shug? What’s happened with PD? Who else would know?

  When I look up, the postcard of Shorter Mansion catches my eye. As I gaze at the building and its long white columns, I can practically feel the soft grass beneath my feet, the sun warming my skin, and hear the birds chirping. As I channel energy from the picture, I think about the people who live and work in Eufaula, the men and women who grew up there, and the many generations of families before them. Only to have it all destroyed for a row of garish tourist condominiums?

  If there’s a way to reach Shug, I have to convince him that it’s even more important to stop Phase III from going forward now. I have to tell him who I think is behind the plans. And why.

  Even if it hurts him. Even if he ends up hating me.

  Chapter 31

  After splashing cold water on my face, downing a hot cup of coffee, and re-focusing the gray matter in my head, I figure out the perfect person to call. After ducking down to make sure I’m alone in the ladies’ room, I lock myself in the last stall.

  Like he’s been expecting the phone to ring, Roger answers before I can take another breath.

  “Julia, darling,” he drawls, “I was wondering how long it would take you to pick up the phone.”

  “How are you?” I ask, trying not to panic, ask a hundred questions, and offend him. My leg is jiggling. My foot is bouncing off the tile floor. I’m a wreck.

  “Now, dear, we both know that this isn’t a social call,” he tells me.

  “Where’s Shug? Where’s PD?” I ask with relief. “I called both of them, they’re not picking up. I called Aubie and TJ’s house, but Mary Katherine answered.” I stop myself from accusing her of lying.

  “Ah, yes. Protecting her territory like I’d expect her to,” Roger says. “She told you everything’s fine?”

  “M-hm,” I manage to answer, chewing on my thumbnail.

  “MeeMaw’s had another stroke, darling, but there’s not much that can be done now,” Roger allows this to sink in.

  I gasp. That’s why PD got off the phone with Dean Alice. “How? When?”

  “Just this afternoon. She had a spell. Aubie called 9-1-1. The paramedics rushed her to the hospital. Word is, she doesn’t have much time left. MeeMaw insisted on being taken home. The family arranged to have Hospice come in and help. That way, she can be comfortable. In her own bed, surrounded by family. It’s what she wants.”

  My eyes sting with tears. Another stroke. Hospice.

  Roger continues. “It’s tonight’s Phase III vote that upset MeeMaw so much. There’s a group rallying to vote in favor of the project, trying to make it look like the logical choice for tourism, the future, and the city’s economic growth,” he pauses. “Just today, TJ started speaking out in favor of the project. He’s making the rounds, politicking, chatting up the major players.”

  “So, Shug’s father is in on this?” I exclaim.

  Roger snorts. “Bought in, locked in, and sold out, far as I can tell. TJ’s suddenly crazy for Phase III. The man’s always been about the almighty dollar—don’t get me wrong—but in the past, he’s had restraint. He’s been logical and respectful of the city’s landmarks. This is different. It’s like he’s been brainwashed.”

  I press a hand to my forehead, remembering he and Shug arguing fiercely about Eufaula’s historic preservation versus the area’s future progress. At the time, it was a heated discussion. I saw it as a difference of opinion. Two grown men, agreeing to disagree.

  This changes everything.

  TJ is willing to harm his own son’s career, wipe out the city’s historic buildings, and ruin his wife’s beloved Pilgrimage.

  In my mind, I see a mushroom cloud of destruction. Scenes from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Okay, I’m getting a little carried away. I shake my head and think.

  This all comes down to money. Greed. Positive cash flow for Jordan Construction.

  Roger’s not saying as much, but it’s obvious. It’s the only way this makes sense.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  It takes me half a minute to decide.

  I stride out of the ladies’ room with renewed purpose. I am a woman on a mission.

  “Wait just a minute. You’re leaving?” Marietta looks alarmed. “I thought you weren’t rushing off until tomorrow. You know, New Orleans? Your job? The Roosevelt Hotel?” She’s worried. And suspicious. For good reason.

  “I have to talk to Shug,” I say, slinging my bag over one shoulder.

  “The guy from Eufaula?” Marietta asks. “What kind of name is that anyway?”

  “Um, long story. It’s a family tradition. Auburn University football. War Eagle, and all of that.” I circle around the desk and give Marietta a peck on the cheek.

  “You can’t just call him on the phone?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” my friend sighs. “You don’t have time to explain it all now.”

  I clench my teeth into a guilty smile. “You guessed it.”

  “And when David asks why you’ve disappeared?” Marietta puts her hands on her hips.

  “Don’t tell him a thing. Or Dolores,” I insist. “Say that I’ve been working on my new assignment. Doing research. Then, you went to grab a cup of coffee.” With a slight tilt of my head toward the break room, I nudge Marietta to get going.

  She doesn’t move.

  “When you came back, I was gone.” I shrug and try to look bewildered. “You don’t know where I went. And, that part is true, because I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Julia—” she warns me, not the least bit amused. She hisses at me, her voice straining. “Whatever you’re up to…this is not a good idea.”

  “I’m going to make it to New Orleans. I promise,” I say. “Just a day late. Plenty of time to get the story done.”

  “It’s not a good idea. What if something happens? You run late? Or you get lost? Or you miss your deadline?” She rolls her eyes. “You know what David threatened last time.”

  I level my gaze at my best friend. She’s right. “And I love you for reminding me. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

  We’re both silent for a moment.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Marietta lifts her chin, brightening at the thought. “That’s why you’re running back there so soon.”

  My first instinct is denial. Absolute, flat-out denial. It’s preposterous. It’s insane. And my pride tries to take over.

  “That’s not the only reason,” I pipe up in defense of the city. “I care about Eufaula and the Pilgrimage. I care about my story. And I care about the people who live there. All of them.” I suck in a breath and can’t meet my friend’s eyes. But, way deep down, I have to admit that she’s right. I can’t stop thinking about him.

  I throw out one last defense. “Besides, Shug’s practically engaged.”

  “Practically doesn’t mean a thing,” Marietta argues back.

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I hug my jacket tight to my body and lock eyes with Marietta. “It’s not just him
.”

  She waves me away, fingers fluttering. “Go on, now. Make your escape before I grab a rope, tie you to your chair, and talk some sense into you.”

  I take a step, wave good-bye, and pivot on my heel. And I keep walking.

  My heart is heavy. My body is throbbing with anxiety.

  The elevator dings.

  Do I really know what I’m doing?

  The doors open. I step inside.

  Am I risking my career? Can I save part of history?

  I press the button. And wait as the floors flash by. Three-two-one.

  Eufaula. The Pilgrimage. Shug.

  The elevator stops.

  Am I too late?

  Chapter 32

  By some miracle, I make it to JFK in record time. Our arrival is like Moses parting the Red Sea. When the taxi drops me off at the area departing flights, I jump out, pay my fare, and head for the terminal. There’s no luggage to worry about, so, I breeze up to the ticket counter and explain my situation to the pleasant-looking agent who greets me.

  “Tickets and identification, please?” she asks, leaning to one side and frowning when she finds no suitcase sitting by my leg. “No bags to check?”

  “Not today, traveling light,” I smile and hand over my e-ticket information and New York driver’s license. Of course, as I say the words, I realize that this might be code for Richard Reid shoe-bomber-speak. No bags equal big trouble. I lean on the counter and lower my voice. “You don’t have to worry. I’m the last person who’d want to bl—”

  The airline agent stares at me as if I’ve sprouted antennae from my tousled hair.

  I fake a huge coughing fit. In my rush to explain, I’ve almost gotten myself a VIP trip to the closest NYPD station.

  “Never mind,” I say and regain my composure. “Thank you.”

  The woman slides my license across the counter, flipping it up like she’s playing the poker game of a lifetime. With her thumb, she raises the corner of my license, then shifts her gaze from me to my photo, which, I’ll admit, looks nothing like me. My hair’s darker (missed my salon appointment for highlights), I don’t have on makeup (overslept), and I’m not smiling (I stubbed my toe on the way into the DMV).

  When I ask to change the destination from New Orleans, Louisiana to Atlanta, Georgia’s Hartsfield Airport, she doesn’t smile. I realize that the agent is staring at the line of people who’ve appeared behind me, each one toting rolling luggage and small children. One of the girls, otherwise adorable pink boots and a matching, faux-fur trimmed coat, begins sneezing every few seconds. A-choo! A-choo!

  “Bless you,” I murmur with an apologetic smile at her parent, then turn my shoulder away from the spray of bacteria.

  A-choo!

  “Return flight?” The agent sighs, returning her glance to me. She peers through her glasses, purses her lips, and poises her fingers to type.

  I hadn’t considered this. Though a one-way ticket makes more sense, I decide not to give airport security and TSA another reason to flag my itinerary, so I choose a random date. When I buy the ticket to New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll cancel the flight back to Atlanta.

  The agent slides my license back across the counter, prints out my boarding pass, and sends me on my way.

  A-choo! The girl in pink sneezes. Her mother shakes out a Kleenex and holds it to the child’s nose. Obliging, the girl blows into the tissue, then jerks away at the last minute, spewing micro-pellets of sickness on everyone in a twenty-yard radius.

  Holding my breath, I sprint away, putting as much distance as possible between the little girl and my deteriorating immune system.

  As I clomp along, one phrase echoes in my head. Please don’t be on my flight. Please don’t be on my flight.

  It’s warm in the terminal, but I loop my scarf tighter around my neck, chin, and mouth anyway, hoping the fibers will somehow offer an added measure of germ protection.

  For good measure, I stop by the first kiosk I find and grab cold medication and a bottled water. The sales clerk hands over the pill bottle and my drink, slapping my change down on the counter. Without bothering to read the exact dosage information, I pop a few of the tablets and wash it down with a long drink of liquid. This is serious business. I don’t have time to get sick.

  I head for my gate, joining about a zillion other people heading off to attend business meetings, visit loved ones, or enjoy a much-needed vacation.

  Somehow, on the escalator, the moving parts catch the edge of my sweater. I feel myself being pulled back, caught off balance. With a sharp jerk, I rip the offending piece of thread away. As a result, almost half of my favorite cashmere cardigan unravels. I watch as the silken skein floats away, carried by gravity. It now belongs to a four-year-old who’s decided that the pretty piece of blue string is the perfect play-toy.

  Keeping my dignity, I do my best to ignore the whispers of fellow passengers in the security line, waiting, moving the designated inch, adjusting my jacket, sliding another centimeter. After what seems a million years, I’m summoned through the metal detector. I kick off my boots and drop them, my keys, and any stray belongings into the nearest plastic bin.

  The TSA agent waves me through, unsmiling. I tiptoe across in my bare feet, not breathing. The machine lights up, bleating like a branded calf. I’m sent back to empty pockets, shed jewelry, undo belt buckles. I pat myself down, removing my watch and a few bobby-pins. The agent, now licking her lips in anticipation, beckons me like a lamb to the slaughter.

  I pass under the metal framework. As my body is scanned by unseen magnetic forces, the alarm sounds a second time, winning me a round in the pat-down Olympics.

  I’m led to an area a few steps away from the line of passengers being funneled through security. While I watch, the contents of my purse are pawed through. The findings include a pair of tweezers (tossed), a bottle of hairspray (more than 3 ounces), and a metal nail file (also confiscated as a possible weapon). I refrain from any small talk, and allow the TSA agent to run hands down both legs, under my arms, and pat down my midsection where no one—even Andrew—has been allowed for the last six months.

  After it’s been established that I am not a threat to national security, I am released to get on my flight. The corridor to my gate is yawning and long—thank goodness, there’s a people mover waiting for me—because I am suddenly very sleepy. I clutch at the rubber handle and lean against the side, watching for gate signs. When the wide black strip under my feet comes to an end, I step over the silver threshold, onto the tile floor, wobbling to one side from the sudden lack of motion.

  It’s another fifteen steps to my gate, and I shuffle forward with determination. I fan my face with my good hand, wondering why the building manager keeps the temperature at a sub-tropical ninety degrees. Before I can sit down, my boarding zone is called.

  I’m first in line.

  With a contented sigh, I find my seat, flop down, and buckle in. I press my head against the clear plastic window, hugging my purse close, and let my eyes slam shut.

  I’m jerked awake by a giant bump, and the sensation of an object being pressed down my bare forearm.

  “Ack!” I shout, brushing at my limbs like tarantulas are crawling over my skin. My sudden screech and jerky movements startle everyone around me, including the small passenger beside me who starts bawling. There’s a whoosh of wind against jet wings and the sound of wheels rolling down a strip of cement runway.

  I rub my eyes and realize my seatmate is the same child from the ticket line. She’s still sick, because in the next moment, an A-choo! sounds in my ear and I feel the faint, familiar spray of sickness covering my unprotected cheek. The girl’s mother glares at me, then hugs her daughter and coos into her hair. All I can catch is a few words of the conversation between high-pitched sobs.

  “Don’t pay any attention” and “She’s a bad, mean lady.”

  I am a nice person. I’m about to jump out of my seat—over the sick little girl— to inform the woman of that fact, when t
he crackle of the intercom interrupts. With a jerk and the squeak of brakes, the jet parks at the gate.

  The flight attendant’s voice fills the cabin. “Welcome to Atlanta. We hope you’ve enjoyed the flight. When your plans next call for travel, we hope you think of our airline first. Have a wonderful day.”

  There’s the usual rush of bodies, jockeying for aisle position, and shoving of luggage when the bell signals we’re free to go. I remain seated, seatbelt on, head turned. It’s the best attempt I can make to avoid the super-paranoid mommy who’s decided I’m the devil incarnate. As the passengers continue pushing toward the jet way, I allow my gaze to fall on my arm.

  I shrink back in horror and stifle another outburst. My pale skin has been decorated with marker. Pink, red, purple, in swirls, dots, and lines. There’s some black thrown in for contrast, giving my appendage a Halloween-like appearance. Down each finger, dotting my thumb, there’s more color. Dazed at the sight, I lift my wrist to my nose and sniff. It’s a distinct, acidic scent.

  Sharpie marker! What sort of psycho-mom hands over permanent marker to her four year-old and allows them to draw on a complete stranger’s skin? A stranger—who, by the way, I feel like yelling—was passed out. I struggle to unbuckle my belt, still groggy from the medication I popped in my mouth at the airport. With fumbling fingers, I pull apart the buckle, reach for my purse, stand up, and promptly crack my head on the plastic ceiling.

  “Ouch,” I hear from beside me. It’s one of the flight attendants. She’s staring at me, the expression on her face between confused and concerned.

  I expect she’s clearing out any stragglers, so they can turn the jet around and head back to JFK. My poking along at a sloth’s pace is most assuredly messing with their timetable.

  With caution, I duck my chin and ease out of the row. Once safe in the center aisle, I straighten and feel my spine snap back in place.

  “Y-you might want to visit the restroom,” she blinks up at me with a strange expression I can’t read. “Before you deplane,” the woman points in the direction of the galley.