“Dr. Squibb,” she said, “you have known my mother for years. When she worked at this hospital and beyond. To ask me such a thing is bordering on offensive.”
“Khloe, you are a fine nurse and good person,” Dr. Squibb said. “I have been your counsel and an extra set of ears when you needed one. So please, allow me to advise you on this. Your mother, God rest her sodden soul, took great care of the sick children in the hospital and by the looks of the way you turned out, also took care of you as well. Donating her body will give us and her a chance to continue doing well for others.”
“You speak of her with such fondness,” she said shocked.
“Let me show you something,” he told her, grabbing his wallet. He pulled out a photo of him and a young Erica, who smiled brightly. “This was before...when she actually smiled. You look a lot like her, just wish you smiled more, Khloe.”
“This life has given me limes, Dr. Squibb. I can’t make lemonade from limes,” she said woefully.
“You can make a difference to science, and you won’t have to worry about cremation or services, but you can leave her with me to continue doing work in this hospital,” Dr. Squibb said.
“Fine,” she said, giving herself one less thing to worry about. “Where do I sign?”
“Here,” he said, having the paperwork already prepared in a neat little red folder. “I also have the death certificate for you and again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she told him, taking the packet of certificates with her to the old house. Her mother had made the last payment on the house two years before she retired. The woman rarely drove, which left the 1999 Buick in the garage almost like new. Erica was never one to believe in making a lot of bills, which left whatever insurance money from the substantial policies to Khloe. Erica left her daughter a rich woman.
Armed with a backpack loaded with the one dress she had left at her mother’s, a pair of hose, and heels, she drove the airport to catch her flight to New York. A trip that would change everything in the life of Khloe Burgess.
Chapter Three – ... This Sh*t is Hard ...
Harbuck, Tennessee
It didn’t matter how many times he looked at it, the text he composed ended up being a pile of dog crap. The whole phrasing and sentence structure resonated of a man with an eighth-grade education. He’d earned his degrees in Computer Science from the University of Tennessee. At 42 years old, he prided himself on running a small business that brought in big dollars, not that he had a great number of opportunities to spend any of it. The small business, which employed his brother, three cousins, and a cousin-in-law who had trouble tying his boots, took everybody to provide service to a region of people who didn’t trust the government. They trusted him though. A Montgomery name on a satellite dish or a cell phone tower meant the government wasn’t listening in on mountain folk business.
Most of the people didn’t have much to talk about other than growing crops on the side of a mountain, running shine through the hills, and making hillbilly heroin to sell to a generation that grew dumber by the day. Looking at his words on the computer screen, he felt the same damned way — dumb.
“This shit is hard,” he grumbled as he typed three more sentences that were worse than the last four. “I need some help.”
He picked up his cell phone and dialed the Courthouse.
“Janet, I need to speak with Jethro,” he said to the receptionist. A few minutes later, his cousin came on the line.
“This here’s Jethro Montgomery,” he said through the phone.
“It’s me,” Beau said. “I need some help.”
“Can you be more specific, please?” Jethro said. “Help moving furniture. Help moving a satellite dish. Help climbing a cell phone tower to change out a blinking light. A man needs to understand what he’s consenting to, in plain clear language, before he responds that he is willing to lend a hand.”
Exhaling loudly into the phone, Beau almost regretted paying for the online night school law classes for his cousin, but the county needed a Magistrate that the locals trusted. The Montgomery name carried a lot of weight in the area. It was a name that could be trusted. He also trusted Jethro, but he was the one who got Beau into the whole mail order bride thing, and he had 10,000 non-refundable reasons why his cousin should help him.
“I need help writing this ad for my new ‘mate’,” he said into a silent phone line. “Hello...Jethro...you there?”
Less than a minute later, his cousin burst through the door. Another drawback to having an office in town was that he was too close to his cousin’s workplace.
“Glad you called, let me see what you got there,” Jethro said, pushing the bulk of Beau’s body to the side. He maneuvered a chair behind the desk while Beau ended the call he was on with the man who now sat behind his desk. “Let me make some magic here.”
The keys clicked as Jethro wrote a sentence, deleted it, looked at Beau, scratched his chin, and wrote again. Satisfied with his work, he leaned back in the chair, patted his rounded belly, and flashed his expensive dental work. “Perfecto!” he exclaimed, turning the monitor so Beau could read the ‘perfecto’ words on the screen.
Tennessee Mountain Man seeks a statuesque African American woman with a medical background as a life partner. Applicant must be able to work remotely, be physically fit, and have a love of gardening for cultivating needed food supply. A 4x4 vehicle is also required for travel up and down the painteresque smoky mountains. Childbearing, non-smoker, lover of smoothies, attractive is a plus but not a requirement. A warm and loving lady who enjoys cuddling, board games, and science fiction is sought for a man who likes the same. Ability to cook healthy meals is helpful.
“That’s pretty good, Jethro,” Beau said after reading it.
“Great, let’s send this puppy to the Mail Order Bride lady and see if anyone wants to pet it,” Jethro said with a huge grin.
“Some days I seriously worry about you,” Beau replied.
“Worry all you want, but we need to create you an email account separate from your regular one,” Jethro said.
“I’ve already done all of that,” Beau told him. “Coraline has it on file. I just need to email this to her and wait for a statuesque African American woman to follow the trail of breadcrumbs.”
“Yeah, to your mountain lair of love,” Jethro said waggling his red eyebrows.
“I really don’t like you sometimes,” Beau said.
“Don’t care, long as you love me,” Jethro said, making kissy faces at him. “I’m hungry. Jolene made stew today at the café. Lunch is on you, so let’s go.”
“How did I end up footing the bill for your lunch?”
“Because you called me over here to play Cyrano to your Lady Bear,” he said grinning. “Feed me, Signore de Bergerac.”
“If that ad works, I will let you marry us,” Beau said jokingly.
Beau’s mother, Honey Sherman Montgomery, needed to made aware of what he’d just done. God was forgiving; Honey Montgomery, not so much. After work, he would make the drive up the mountain and have supper with his folks. It could be months before he got a bite on the ad, or even a year, the lady told him, but he paid his money, so he would wait.
Good things came to those who waited. At least that’s what his folks taught him. This would be a testament to their teachings or a hard life lesson to swallow.
THE BLACK TOWN CAR waited for Khloe on the curb in front of the airport. A driver, a tall, slim, Black man in dark shades, held a hand-written sign with her misspelled name. She was unable to control the case of irritation that had traveled on the plane with her as she sat in the cheap seats sandwiched between a fat man with gas and a sweaty lady with sinus issues.
“I’m Koe Bungness,” she said facetiously.
“Right this way,” the man said, opening the back door. “Do you have any luggage?”
“No, I travel light,” she said, getting into the back seat. There was nothing to say to the man, and against her
better judgment, she napped quietly as they sat in traffic, headed into midtown to the Baccarat Hotel.
“Mr. Montana will be waiting for you in the bar,” the driver said. Tipping the driver a twenty, she thanked him and made her way inside.
Knowing Joey as she did, he won big last night and splurged on the $500 a night hotel suite. That was his way. Hot and cold and prone to impulses, which as a couple, made them more opposite than seemed attractive. In the Army, his government name was Joseph Greenwood. To the poker circuit, he was known as Joey Montana. The idiot had never been to Montana and when asked, he truly believed the state sat below Utah. He was good looking and great in bed. A girl can overlook stupid for those two reasons alone.
“Look at you, all tall, dark, and gorgeous. Where’s your luggage?” Joey asked.
“Long story short, my Mom got drunk and burned down my house,” she said flatly, raising her hand for the bartender to bring her whatever was handy. The guy in the crisp white shirt behind the bar held up a bottle of red wine. Khloe used her thumbs to indicate he needed to go higher. The bartender held up a brandy and a gin. She opted for the brandy.
“At least she saved you a nice dress. I like the one you’re wearing,” he said with that charming I’m going to get me some of that smile. “Love those heels as well. They make your legs look like they go on for days.”
“Joey, I lost my house and my mother, and you want to talk to me about my dress?”
“Oh wow, Erica is gone?”
“Yes, she died of smoke inhalation,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Baby, are you okay?”
“Not really. I lost my mother,” Khloe said to him. “My house is a pile of ashes and my job put me on administrative leave for two weeks after crazy Vicky called Lombardi’s wife and used my name, and the woman came to the hospital and shot up the place. It’s been a bitch of a week.”
The bartender arrived with a glass of brandy that she downed in one swallow. The expression on Joey’s face read like an old movie where you knew the plot twist before it was halfway over. More bad news. Why bring me way to New York to give me bad news? He could have told me this shit over the phone.
“Spit it out, Joey – life’s too short to pull your punches and save your aces,” she said, waiting for him.
He held his hands folded into each other. The thick thumb, which often brought her pleasure and eased the tension in her shoulders, rubbed over his fingers as he tried to find the courage he never possessed. She had the poker face the man craved but also never possessed. A sad trait for a man who played the game for a living.
“I have great news, my Nubian love,” he said, running his fingers over the thin mustache that made him look like the maintenance man in a bad porno flick.
Joey, tall and slim with just enough muscles for a girl to hold on to, had warm, cocoa butter skin, dark brown eyes, and jet-black hair. On a good day, the man reminded her of a Latin lover, even though he was born and bred on the south side of Chicago to a family of hustlers. He had 12 years of service in the Army but was chaptered out for selling food and goods to the Afghanis, which always made her question his scruples. Hell, the man would give her jewelry and take it back to play a poker game. Scruples weren’t the reason she semi-dated him.
“Let me hear it,” she said, raising her hand for another drink.
She sipped as Joey went over the details of the new contract he signed with a traveling poker show that got televised on a network no one watched. Joey spoke softly as he told her that he was leaving in the morning. His shifty eyes darted back and forth while the explanation of how they could no longer see each other rolled off his lips. Once more he offered his condolences on the loss of her mother. He apologized for the loss of her entire life, then handed her an expensive bracelet to replace the jewelry he’d taken.
“Are you breaking up with me?” Khloe asked in disbelief.
“Not breaking up, per se, but I’m going to be gone all the time. You know city to city,” he said.
“Like you are now,” she said with no emotion in her voice.
“But baby...you have to understand, I don’t want to be unfaithful, and I’m going to be balling,” he said.
Khloe’s eyebrows arched incrementally as she found her words. Hateful words eked up first but she tamped them down. Spiteful words filled her mouth but those she swallowed. Instead, the smile she often tried to form on her lips only resulted in a downward scowl as she found her voice.
“So, tonight was to be a farewell fuck and wish me well?” she asked.
“Well, when you put it like that...I mean, dinner, the bracelet, wish me well when I pack up in the morning, rub the junk for good luck kind of thing,” he said.
“I can’t stand you,” she said, standing on shaky legs. The liquor hit her empty stomach and was making everything fuzzy. “Only you would book a night in a hotel named after gambling. Your punk ass flew me all the way to New York for a final fuck and to wish you well. I hope you lose your shirt, ass, and the rest of your self-respect.”
She tried to maintain hers as she slung the backpack over her shoulder and left through the glass double doors. Common sense would have told Khloe to head towards the counter and book herself a room, but she had a point to make. Tonight, she was walking out of his life and her ass would be the last thing he saw.
Halfway down the sidewalk, she realized she was drunk. An unfriendly man saw she was as well and snatched the backpack off her shoulder and took off running. Without hesitation, she kicked off the heels and took off after him, catching him by the back of his jacket, yanking hard, bring him down flat on his back. She climbed on top of his chest, pressing his arms down with her knees and pummeling his face with her small balled up fists. The assailant screamed like a three-year-old girl, bucking underneath Khloe as he thrashed on the sidewalk, tossing her off his chest.
“Crazy lady!” he screamed as he ran away.
Khloe sat on the sidewalk, gripping her backpack, her feet bleeding from running three city blocks barefooted. The tears she refused to shed demanded acknowledgment of their presence. The pain which poked her in the chest asked for an audience as well. The culmination of loss, loneliness, and failure to be anything in this life other than a nurse or a nursemaid to selfish people who commanded she serve slapped her hard across the face.
The tears began to roll down her cheeks and a loud wail came from the recesses of her soul and she howled. She howled for the loss of the sorriest a mother a girl could ever have who had left this earth without even having an opportunity to be better or say farewell. She groaned as she balled into a small fetus position on a filthy sidewalk in New York City, upset with a father she didn’t know who had set the precedent of her understanding of relationships with men. It resonated to her core because she always picked the worst losers on the planet to try and build a life. A life that was now devoid of any heft. A life that had taken the fight right out of her soul.
“Come on, baby, get up off the ground,” the voice said. “This is no place for a lady to break down.”
The gentle hands were soft. The voice soothing to the weary soul as Khloe was helped to her feet. The tears blurred her eyes as she blindly followed a person she couldn’t see who may have been leading her to the car where she would be put into a sex trafficking ring. At least then, she would feel something.
“My name is Coraline, and I’m going to clean up those feet and get a cup of tea in you and some food,” the nice lady said. “Come on now, in my office. Let me take care of you.”
“I try to be a good person, but this shit is hard,” Khloe said, feeling lightheaded. She saw the settee and reached for it. Her body barely made the connection before all went dark.
Chapter Four – ... My Name is Khloe Burgess
New York City, Avenue of the Americas
Shades of gray materialized as Khloe tried to open her eyes. A dull pain thudded on the left side of her head as she tried to sit upright, but she gave up and lay ba
ck on the cushions of the flower covered chaise lounge. With her eyes closed, she could smell the faint aroma of lavender and vanilla which calmed her a bit, but she needed to get up, find a place to stay for the night, and eat. Maybe the lightheadedness, she surmised, was from lack of eating.
“Oh good, you are awake,” Coraline said as she surveyed the woman. By the look of her clothing, the backpack she carried, and the status of her nails, she was not homeless or a woman on the take. The sadness which hovered around her spirit read as deep hurt insulted by a near robbery.
Khloe’s eyelids fluttered as her vision cleared, allowing her to take in the room where her rescuer had given her refuge. The walls were covered in a soft flowered paper that matched the chaise lounge she rested upon. Gentle hands cleaned the open cuts and pulled away damaged the skin on her feet. The decorative hose with the intricate designs was ruined and the mangled toe covering rested on the floor, splattered with speckles of blood. The $30 pair of sexy leg coverings now resembled a pair of leggings.
“Thank you,” Khloe mumbled as she came to a sitting position.
“Hold still, I need to make sure there is no dirt or debris in those cuts and get this salve on your feet and some bandaging. I looked for your shoes but honestly, I had no idea which direction you ran from,” she told Khloe. “Looks like you had a rough day.”
“Lady, it has been a rough month,” she mumbled, pulling her feet away. “I can do that – you don’t have to.”
“Seems to me as if you could use someone to take care of you for a change,” Coraline said. “Women these days have forgotten what it feels like to be taken care of - always arguing they don’t need anyone to take care of them and that they can take care of themselves. While I admire the sentiment and the meaning behind it, at the end of the day, we all want to matter to someone. Do you matter to anyone?”
The Tennessee Mountain Man Page 3
