Double blast, p.18
Double Blast, page 18
I had custody of Whiskey, because, as I’d been informed at lunch, it was my turn. And after an hour of Whiskey worrying me to death, following me and my wheelbarrow back and forth from Town Square as I filled my parents’ driveway with buckets of what would be their flowerbeds, the whole time him peppering me with what he called sesquipedalians, which he explained was a big word that meant big words, I parked him on my parents’ porch swing and told him to pipe down and stay put. In his fresh muumuu from Bea Crawford’s closet. Waiting on two o’clock. When he, Bradley, and No Hair would leave for Biloxi, supposedly with Fantasy. Who was still nowhere to be found and not answering her phone. Whiskey yelled back, “’Tis the hour of our departure, Mrs. Cole?”
“Not yet.” I turned back to smile at Mrs. Walters, then back to Whiskey, I yelled, “Think you could help me for a minute?”
“Most certainly.” I heard the porch swing creak. “I am, if nothing else, your humble servant.” He ambled down the steps, coming to an abrupt halt at the walkway when he saw Mrs. Walters. Two bright spots popped up on his cheeks too. “How—” he gave a little bow “—may I be of assistance?”
He was speaking to Mrs. Walters.
Not me.
I introduced the librarian to the crossword puzzle man. Whiskey explained away his “current state of attire,” and Mrs. Walters told him his appearance was “truly explicable considering his Mustelidae dilemma.” They seemed to understand every single word the other spoke. He happily agreed to be her Cyrano de Bergerac and apprise the “unaware of their potential peril from the beautiful yet deadly digitalis purpurea,” and off they went. Passing—finally—Fantasy. Headed my way wearing a crisp denim shirtwaist dress and espadrilles. Walking side-by-side with Florida Simmons. And not just walking. But chitchatting too. And smiling. At each other.
So that’s where Fantasy had been.
With Florida.
And that’s how she’d gotten to Camden.
In a chicken wing truck.
I stared holes through both of them.
“What?” Fantasy came to a stop in front of me. “You believe her, and I believe you. More than that, I can’t leave you here without backup.”
I studied the curiosity of the two of them.
Wondering who broke the ice.
And why.
Until the fire alarm ringtone of my mother calling cut through the thick afternoon air. I reached for my phone. “It’s my mother.”
“I know,” Fantasy said.
“I know too,” Florida said.
“How do you know?” Fantasy asked Florida.
“That same siren went off when we were drinking Boone’s Farm.”
“Ah,” Fantasy said.
“It’s nothing.” The fire alarm sounded again. “If it were something bad, it would be a text message.” The next word I spoke was, “Mother?”
The next word I heard was, “Daddy.”
“Daddy.” Adrenalin shot through me. “I’m so glad you called.”
“Are you, now?”
I could count the times my father had used a cynical tone like that with me on one hand. “Daddy, let me explain—”
“Davis, I don’t have time for you to explain.”
“Why? Are you on your way home?”
Florida’s head jerked.
“No,” Daddy said.
I shook my head no at Florida.
She puffed out a breath of relief.
“Can I ask one more question, Daddy?”
“If you make it quick.”
“What can you tell me about the day Old Man Carter died?”
“Nothing,” he said. “For one, I spent a good part of the day meeting with the new fireworks contractor and didn’t know anything was amiss with Mr. Carter until later, and for another, I truly don’t have time. Bea’s been arrested, Davis.”
“I thought she’d been detained.”
“She was. Now she’s been taken into custody.”
“Why was Bea arrested? What’d she do?” I pulled my phone from my ear and pushed the speaker icon. Everyone loved a good Bea story. And I didn’t want to have to repeat it.
“What didn’t she do would be the better question,” Daddy said. “As her reluctant representative based on my law enforcement status in the States, I was allowed in the observation room during Bea’s interview with Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship. You can’t imagine what I observed. First, her backpack.” He inhaled sharply. “Davis, they searched the backpack Bea had with her when she illegally crossed the border. In addition to several bratwurst sausages and a toaster, of which one isn’t allowed and the other considered a fire hazard, along with Chinese deer horn knives, which are deemed deadly weapons, the immigration authorities found a large amount of cannabis edibles.”
“Wait,” I said. “What?”
“Davis, it is against the law to cross the border with even one of those items.”
“I don’t even know what they are.”
“You know what bratwurst is, Davis, and you know what a toaster is—”
“Who drags a toaster around in a backpack?”
“She bought a used toaster at a roadside market. She said it was a good deal.”
“Toasters are already good deals, Daddy. She could have bought a toaster at Walmart in Greenville for ten dollars.”
“It’s Bea, Davis.”
“I get that. What I don’t get are the deer horn knives,” I said. “Are you talking...Kung Fu?”
He hesitated before saying, “You’re on the right track.”
“Where did Bea even get Kung Fu knives? And how did she get through the Atlanta airport with them?”
“She purchased all of the items, including the unseemly amount of cannabis edibles, at the same roadside souvenir stand. And the souvenir stand was in Niagara Falls, New York. She illegally crossed the border to Niagara Falls, Canada, with the items.”
“Cannabis edibles?”
“Candies laced with a high concentration of marijuana,” he explained.
I knew what they were. What I couldn’t believe was that Bea knew what they were. And that Bea would do something so stupid, considering medical marijuana dispensaries were legal in Alabama and there wasn’t a doctor in the state who wouldn’t write her a prescription as fast as humanly possible just to get her out of their office. Meanwhile, on my left, Fantasy was laughing so hard no sound could escape. It would’ve been the same had she dropped a brick on her big toe and was waiting for the scream. She was turning in a slow circle, batting an arm through the air then slapping her hand down on her thigh, head bobbing, and trying to catch her breath.
I smacked her arm.
“Then, Davis,” Daddy said, “Bea, as is her way, became argumentative with the Canadian immigration authorities. Insisting she was a victim. Claiming she was being railroaded by Canucks. Threatening the immigration agents. Threatening their families.”
With that, Fantasy, unable to stand on her own two feet, made her way to Mother and Daddy’s mailbox where she used it as a prop. The top half of her draped over it, head down, repeatedly banging the mailbox with a closed fist until the little door flew open and mail spilled out. Florida had a hand pressed over her mouth, trying to contain her amusement, but it wasn’t clear if it was the Bea or the Fantasy situation entertaining her.
“She went on to describe herself as an American Patriot,” Daddy said, “and too heavily handed to the point of an immigration agent asking outright if she considered herself a domestic terrorist. At which time, Bea climbed over the table, or shot over it, rather, got in the man’s face, and asked if she looked like a domestic terrorist.”
I glanced over at Fantasy and wondered if she needed oxygen.
“Which she did,” Daddy said. “She looked very much like a terrorist. Davis, Bea has been arrested.”
A call beeped in from Pine Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away Medical Center. I ignored it. “Okay, Daddy. What can I do?”
“From what I understand, you have enough on your plate.”
“That doesn’t mean that either Meredith or I couldn’t fly up there and bring Mother home if you feel like you need to stay with Bea.” The beep of the first incoming call stopped, only to start again immediately. The second call the same as the first, from Pine Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away Medical Clinic. “Daddy, I need to put you on hold.”
“Sweet Pea—”
“Just for a second.”
I switched the call over. “What?”
“Davis, it’s Shirley at—”
I cut her off. “What, Shirley?”
“It’s Roy Howdy.”
“What about him?”
“I called for an ambulance to come get him,” she said. “Thought you ought to know.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was clearing that hill back on Oak and Wright and he’s very allergic.”
“To what?”
“Turns out there’s poison oak under all that kudzu on the hill. He’s all swolled up, he’s drooling buckets because he can’t swallow, and he’s babbling nonsense about fireworks.”
“Do you not have an EpiPen, Shirley?”
“Sure,” she said. “A whole drawer full.”
“Have you given Roy Howdy a dose?”
“No.”
“Well, do it.”
“I can’t. Dr. Urleen says I can’t give out medicine or I’ll get sued.”
“By whom?”
“By him,” she said. “He says if I give somebody so much as a baby aspirin, he’ll sue the pants off me.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know. But I’m going to wait on the ambulance.”
“If Roy Howdy’s that allergic, Shirley, he won’t make it until an ambulance gets here.”
“Davis, I don’t want Urleen suing my pants off me.”
“Get an EpiPen ready. I’m on my way.”
Urleen—what a quack—could sue me all day long if he wanted to. Considering what I owed the Bellissimo, there’d be nothing for him to get. I ran down the middle of Main Street, passing my husband and children on the sidewalk on the way to my parents’ house.
“Davis!”
“Mommy!”
Over my shoulder I yelled, “I’ll be right back!”
My husband yelled, “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes!”
“I’ll be back by then!”
I kept flying. I already had a ton of explaining to do to my father if he ever made it home from Canada, and I wasn’t about to add the death of a citizen to the list. I flew through the door of Pine Apple a Day, busted into the single exam room, yanked the EpiPen from Shirley’s shaking hands, and stabbed Roy Howdy in his tree-trunk thigh.
Ten minutes later, I was still panting when the children and I stood in the driveway waving until we could no longer see the Bellissimo limo as Bradley, No Hair, and Fantasy left for Biloxi. I wore my brave face. Whiskey did not. He openly wept. Quinn patted his arm. “It’s okay, Mr. Whiskey. Daddy promised he’d be back for the parade.”
“Young lady.” Whiskey wiped away tears. “You should know by now that paternal figures often fall short of fulfilling commitments.”
“Whiskey,” I warned him.
“My sincere apologies, Mrs. Cole, for speaking out of turn, but bidding adieu often puts me in a state of cognitive dissonance.” A hand disappeared into the pocket of his khaki pants. “I find goodbyes challenging. Comparably approaching the challenging tasks the lovely Mrs. Walters and I have on our imminent temporal horizon.” His hand came out of the pocket with a cotton handkerchief with the initials WRW. William Robert Walters. My old librarian’s deceased husband. And as Whiskey blew his nose, sending the girls back several feet and surely dislodging a few of his brain cells, my old librarian patted Whiskey’s arm. “There, there, Cedrick. The prevailing circumstances are destined to ameliorate.”
Whiskey, in a dead man’s starched plaid shirt, laid a hand over hers. “Do you incline toward such an estimation?”
“I do.”
And for the life of me, she said the two words as if she were at the altar of The Little White Wedding Chapel in Vegas.
Whiskey blew his nose one more time then turned to Mrs. Walters. “Come, my dear. We have a slate of laborious undertakings awaiting our diligent attention.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, or what either of them meant by any of it, but I did know that together they were going all over town tweaking haphazardly planted Pine Apple yards into showstopping works of art, so I didn’t care what they meant. As long as they kept giving yard advice no one understood, but were more than happy to step aside to let the two wordsmiths show, not tell.
After they left, Bex said, “Mommy, are they from Irish?”
“Do you mean Ireland?” I hiked the baby up my hip an inch. “I don’t know. Wherever they’re from, they’re sure good at yardwork.”
We watched them until they passed the police station. The girls watched out of curiosity. I watched, wondering if Whiskey would be a permanent Pine Apple fixture. In a way, he’d fit right in, because Pine Apple made a place for everyone, but just looking at them gave me a headache between my eyes. Or I might have been in the throes of caffeine withdrawal. And the best coffee in town was at my sister’s. “Let’s go to Aunt Merri’s.” Because everyone needed a strong cup of coffee before their first personal loan interview.
Bex and Quinn raced off squealing. The baby and I followed at a much slower pace admiring Pine Apple in full bloom.
I was proud.
So proud.
And not of myself, but of everyone else.
Granny Dee was in her rocker on the front porch, her Jitterbug phone against her ear. She gave me a wink and a thumbs up in the middle of, “I do too know how to be a casino spy, because Davis taught me—” to whoever was on the other end of the line. So she was staffing the Baptist church casino. That’d keep her busy for a while. I leaned over and kissed the top of her blue-white head whispering, “Great job, Granny.” As I walked through the front door, I heard the pound of little feet on the steps as Bex and Quinn raced upstairs with their cousin, and I found my sister at the lunch counter. I saddled up to the bar. “Pour me a strong one.”
She landed a steaming coffee mug on the counter. “You’re going to need it.”
“Why?” Every muscle in my body tensed. “What’s happened?”
“You’re on your way to a meeting with Fiona Simmons, right?”
“I am,” I said. “How’d you know that?”
“There are no secrets in Pine Apple.”
Oh, but there were.
And Fiona Simmons was sitting on them.
TWENTY
The bank was dressed much like Fiona.
Beige.
And dismal.
The air was stagnant, the silence absolute, the furnishings worn, and there was no natural light past the front door. The overwhelming mood was bleak. I took a step in, vowing to liven things up a bit.
Knowing full well I was there, because the front door chime announced my arrival, Fiona Simmons didn’t look up from her desk through the plate glass walls of her corner office. The only other person in the room, the lone bank teller and Fiona’s mouthpiece, Courtney Carr, former Greenville Mall Hallmark Gold Crown store manager currently channeling her Sandra Dee school outfit of butter-yellow swing skirt and matching cardigan, said, “You’re early.”
I wasn’t.
She pointed at the ancient grandfather clock holding up the wall behind me as evidence.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time. “It’s three o’clock, Courtney.”
She pointed above my head. “We go by the bank clock, Davis.”
I took one of the metal folding chair seats on each side of the old bank clock that was eighteen minutes slow. The chair closest to Fiona’s office. Where she could see me. Were she to look up.
Ten minutes later, Fiona Simmons waved me in. She still hadn’t raised her eyes from whatever it was on her gargantuan desk that had her so mesmerized, but she managed to wag a finger at the two low chairs on the other side. I chose the chair on the left. It was a quicker escape route should things get really ugly. I cleared my throat and opened innocuously with, “Thanks for making time for me, Fiona.”
She finally made eye contact. It was a blank stare more than anything else. Then she slowly leaned back, crossed her arms, and looked down her nose at me. With nothing. She was every bit as unhappy with me as she had been a dozen years earlier. Fiona Simmons wasn’t a happy woman to begin with. And she certainly wasn’t happy to see me.
She wasn’t so surly back when Florida and I were high school friends. In fact, compared to my mother, who was constantly complaining about something, usually me, Fiona Simmons struck me as role-model happy. She was ten years younger, ten miles cooler, and ten infinities more fun than my own mother. She sang. And danced. She kept a radio in her kitchen window tuned to Magic 101.1 in Montgomery, a Top 40 station my mother forbade, and knew every word to every song. On any given Tuesday, Florida and I could bust through the backdoor after school and find Fiona having a party for two: herself and Britney Spears. But what I liked most about Fiona Simmons back in the day was that she didn’t care what Florida and I did. She never said our shorts were too short. Not once did she ever stomp her foot and point up the staircase with, “Get that stringy hair out of your face, young lady. You look like a hippy. You’re not leaving this house without two neat braids. Say something and I’ll get my scissors.” Fiona didn’t care how we wore our hair. Or how much noise we made, how late we stayed up, how messy we were, or that we lived on a steady diet of Dr Pepper and Hostess orange cupcakes. And she never said a word when we regularly snuck out Florida’s bedroom window. Then around the house to the driveway. Where we put Fiona’s Mazda Miata in neutral, rolled it out to the street, and popped it off in second halfway down the hill. She didn’t say anything the time we watered down her vodka to almost nothing after pouring the straight stuff into our Sonic limeades. Which was after we drank the limeades down to the last loud inch. (Or maybe she figured we’d punished ourselves enough that night. And all the next day.) I remembered thinking when I was an old lady mother, I wanted to be just like Florida’s mother. Cute, bouncy, and willing to look the other way.
