Sinners Football 02- Wish for a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

“You did fine, Joe. Thanks for coming. I appreciate you didn’t bring a photographer.”

  “Speaking of which—do you have time for lunch?”

  “If we don’t go out, I can spare a half hour. How about the cafeteria?”

  “Great. Hospital food, my favorite.”

  “I recommend the chicken wrap. Stay away from the special and the grill.”

  In the end, Nell had the wrap and unsweetened iced tea. Joe had the jumbo cheeseburger and fries, good and greasy from the grill.

  “Hey, it’s the off-season. I get to have some fun.”

  “This past weekend was no fun?”

  “About that.” Joe took a bite of cheeseburger big enough to bring on a Heimlich maneuver. Nell braced herself for first aid on either Joe or her heart.

  “Have you seen the tabloids this morning?”

  “No, I’ve been here since seven.”

  “Good. Well, you might prepare yourself.” He took one last item from the deflated plastic sack and spread the tabloid out on their table.

  “Oh, no! They mistook me for a teenager!”

  “If that’s all that bothers you, you’ll be fine, sugar. Just don’t talk to the press if they track you down. Okay?”

  “For my good or yours, Joe?”

  “Both. It will blow over.”

  “If you say so.”

  When Nell Abbott completed her shift and emerged from the hospital, she discovered she had been tracked down.

  “Hey, Miss Abbott, are you Joe Dean’s latest?” one reporter called out to her.

  She made the mistake of turning toward him and heard the camera whir. Head down, Nell kept moving for the parking garage.

  A pushier version of the first reporter, this one a woman, shouted, “What number are you? My paper will pay good money for an interview.”

  Nell took a firmer grip on the files she carried and walked so fast her lab coat flew open in the breeze she created. She approached her car, sure her followers were going to jot down the license number of her rather ordinary Toyota, when Joe’s Porsche roared up the ramp. He popped the door and she jumped in. They peeled out, leaving the entourage groping for their cell phones.

  “That was awful.”

  “You get used to it. Spend the night at my place. The concierge will keep them out. Better yet, if you can get some time off, we can hide out in Chapelle where I’m just one of the good ole boys. Since Uncle Lester warned the scum of the press off our land with a shotgun, no one bothers me there. We can visit Mintay and the Rev. They’re living in a high class gated community now.”

  “I can see why. I can’t leave my kids though, and I work this weekend. Just take me to your place for a few hours. We can sneak back and get my car after dark. I’ll treat for Chinese take-out, and then we can…”

  “Yes, we certainly can. It will be my pleasure. I’ll pay for the take-out, too.”

  As it turned out, Nell did not have to work the following weekend. Her decision was made for her. Joe Brunner, her supervisor, called her into his office late on Friday. “Nell,” he began, feeling his way. “You are great at your job and your personal life is none of our business so long as it doesn’t affect your performance. But, the reporters hanging around the front doors are causing a disturbance and a few of the mothers, just one or two, have called to say they don’t think you are morally fit to guide their children.”

  Nell gasped. “Am I going to lose my job?”

  “We’ve had many more calls in your favor. Cassie Thomas’ mother was particularly supportive. We have no intention of firing you, but the administration has suggested we put you on a leave of absence—a paid leave of absence—until this quiets down. That might take a while.” Brunner unfolded a fresh tabloid out just in time to catch the eyes of the weekend supermarket shoppers. He shoved it across the desk.

  “Joe Dean’s New Girl is Nurse Nelly,” she read in the banner. They hadn’t run the picture of her fleeing in her lab coat. No, they used her high school yearbook photo. She realized she had changed very little: same short pixie hair cut, same big eyes and minimal makeup. Nell wished she had taken Emily’s advice and let her hair grow out now that she had hair. She should have gone for a makeup makeover at Dillard’s, too, when her mother offered to pay for the deal. She wondered which friend or acquaintance had sold her out.

  Except for her job title, the article was fairly accurate. The reporter portrayed her as a “valiant cancer survivor.” Ha! They had tracked down Brady Grant who sold real estate in Mobile. He called her his “wild child”, but made sure everyone knew they hadn’t seen each other in years because he was a respectable businessman with a wife and small son. All things considered, Brady could have been much more explicit.

  The writer cited her work with sick children. The last paragraph speculated, “Has Joe Dean reached the end of his list?” and reviewed his sexual excesses, noting his longest affair had been with a model named Amber who lasted three months as Joe Dean’s woman.

  Brunner began talking again. “We think six weeks would do the trick. Football training camp starts the beginning of August. The Sinners will be out of town. The scandal should blow over by then. What do you say, Nell? Myself, I’d love to have six weeks of paid vacation.” He gave her a friendly smile.

  “Some of my children might come up for transplants during that time. I have a couple in recovery right now. I can’t leave.”

  “Well, uh, we have a graduate student who was looking for an internship this fall. She’s willing to start early. I’ll work with her directly. That should cover things.”

  “I guess I have no choice.”

  “Nell, don’t make things any harder than they need be. This is no more time than we’d give you for surgery or maternity leave.”

  “Yeah. Right. Maternity leave.”

  Joe waited in a borrowed car by the cafeteria exit exactly as promised. All week long, he had been devising ways of avoiding reporters. Nell never left by the front door. He drove a different vehicle each time, some rented, some loaned from friends, all low key transportation. She could hardly deny she was having an affair with Joe Dean Billodeaux. They stayed at his place and to stay with Joe was to have sex with Joe. Where had all her resistance gone?

  Nell slid in next to him and immediately turned her head toward the window and pretended to scan for paparazzi. She blinked her eyes rapidly and made a quick swipe of the hand across her cheeks to get rid of the two escaping tears.

  “You’re crying. What happened?”

  “I was laid off, given a leave of absence for six weeks.”

  “That’s not fair.” Joe turned off the engine. “Let me talk to your boss.”

  “Let it go, Joe. There have been complaints about the uproar, complaints from a few parents about my morals. All true.” Nell slumped against the armrest and kept her face toward the glass.

  “It’s my morals, not yours. What—a couple of guys in high school, two in college, one in grad school, none for over a year. You’re practically reformed. Me, I was up to number eighty-two, not counting all the ones that came before the list.”

  “Could we leave before someone sees us?”

  “Sure thing, sugar.” He took care to pull out and drive as normally as possible to keep people from noticing them. “Looks like our trip to Chapelle is on.”

  ELEVEN

  Nothing had changed since her last visit to Chapelle. Joe said it never did.

  Joe’s mama greeted her with a big hug and a “Mais, cher, it’s good to see you again. You stay in Allie and Eenie’s room like las’ time across from me and Frank.”

  She gave her son a meaningful look and relegated him back to his childhood quarters filled with dusty trophies and faded ribbons for high school athletic achievements at the end of the hallway. He stepped on the squeaky board on his way to toss his shaving kit and an overnight bag on his old single bed and winced.

  Nell settled herself in the front bedroom. She found a few dresser drawers not stuffed with winter
clothes packed in plastic and put away her underwear, hung up two modest dresses Joe told her to bring in case, as he said, they were forced to go to Mass. This trip, she placed athletic shoes, sandals and a few pair of low-heeled practical work pumps in the bottom of the closet. Maybe, she should have invested in cowgirl boots.

  She took another look at Allie’s old bulletin board on the wall across from the bed. There was no doubt about its ownership. The teenage Allie had written her name in glitter glue across the top of the cork board. Twelve years older than her baby brother, Allie had pictures of herself holding baby Joe Dean and later of her brother, a curly-haired six-year-old squeezing in between her and her prom date. The curls had been subdued by brushes and a short styling, hair spray and gel, but Nell already knew if he missed a haircut, one or two of those curls would spring to life and end up on his forehead. With one hand on the wheel of the Porsche and the other pushing back those curls every now and then, Joe had driven them to Chapelle.

  Nell emerged from her room to find a lunch spread on the kitchen table and Nadine and Joe waiting for her behind a stack of cayenne-spiced pimento-cheese and egg salad sandwiches on white bread, a glass dish of hot-sweet homemade pickles and a red bowl of potato salad.

  “Lemonade, milk or tea, cher?” Joe’s mama asked.

  “Beer,” Joe answered.

  “Milk for you. What you want, baby?” Nadine asked again.

  “Lemonade would be fine, thank you, Mrs. Billodeaux.”

  “You call me Nadine. Help yourself to sandwiches. I get your lemonade.”

  Nell selected half a pimento-cheese, a few pickles and a dab of potato salad. She finished her meal and watched Joe Dean wolf down sandwiches with his milk.

  “Mr. Frank isn’t coming?” she asked as the pile of sandwiches lowered.

  “No, honey, he’s workin’ Wylie’s back acres today and took his lunch wit’ him. We’ll see Frank tonight.”

  “Want to walk off the lunch, Tink? The ranch is about a mile down the road. I want to show you the progress we’re making,” Joe offered.

  “Tink?” his mama questioned.

  “Short for Tinker Bell, Mama.”

  “Ain’t that sweet. You don’t eat no more than a fairy either. That’s why you’re so small, I guess.” Shaking her head, Mrs. Billodeaux cleared the table. “Go on. I don’t need no help.”

  The cane along the road now grew well above Nell’s head, but not over Joe Dean’s tall frame. He held her hand as they walked. She felt like breaking the contact, still riled over her forced exile. Now and then, a pickup truck passed with a honk and a wave. Joe waved back.

  The old homestead had been repainted a brilliant white trimmed with dark green. Wicker chairs in the same color as the trim sat in place of cousin Bijou’s plastic seats. The camellias, dropping a few yellow leaves on the newly mowed lawn, were long past their bloom. The spring flowers had vanished, replaced by a blaze of yellow daylilies along the walkway. The rusting Lorena Ranch sign was gone, replaced by a new arch of wrought iron spanning the dirt road.

  “The old place looks nice,” Nell commented. “Especially without Bijou on the porch.”

  “Yeah, my mama took it in hand. I have to admit Bijou did not get the Billodeaux looks. He can be a hard worker, though, when he wants to be. He did a good job overseeing the renovations on the barn.”

  They approached the grove of live oaks. The frame of a huge house raised up right in the middle of the trees. Dust coated the small, shiny leaves and darkened the Spanish moss from a silvery gray to a light brown. A few workmen were on the job even though it was Saturday. This was what money could buy: six bedrooms with their own baths, a home gym, a game room, a four car garage, formal dining, an immense living area, a kitchen big enough for a whole family to eat in, galleries on top and bottom, front and back, and enough white pillars to satisfy Scarlet O’Hara.

  “Nice, huh?” Joe Dean asked as he pored over the plans laid out across a pair of sawhorses.

  “Big. Trying to restore the Billodeaux name to its former glory?”

  “The Billodeauxs have no former glory. As far as we can tell from the old foundations, a four-room cottage probably stood here. Maybe they had a garconniere in the attic for the boys of the family. No, the Billodeauxs are known for their good looks and their outstanding fertility is all.” Joe waited for a smart remark, but Nell said nothing.

  She wandered off toward the barn, its old gray boards now painted a deep red and its peaked metal roof as bright in the summer sunshine as if it had been scrubbed with Brill-O pads. The broad doors on both ends were open and a slight warm breeze moved between them. Nell stepped into the shade and sniffed the aroma of horses, manure and straw. Joe came up behind her.

  “I thought about having it air-conditioned, but that just spoils your stock, I think.”

  Cousin Bijou backed out of a stall with a barrow full of muck. “Yeah, but it wouldn’t spoil me any,” he complained, closing the door behind him. Fatima stuck out her finely-formed gray head and nickered. Lazy Boy stirred in his big box across the way.

  “So, did L.B.’s fertility check out?” Nell asked.

  “L.B.? Oh, yeah, Lazy Boy. You bet. He’s fit to be a Billodeaux earning his keep as a stud. We’ll have some living, breathing results next spring.”

  “Not Fatima!” Nell looked at the small mare with pity. “He’s so big.”

  “Not Fatty. Some racing mares up by Opelousas. Here you go,” Joe fished out a sugar cube from his shirt pocket. Fatima accepted it with pink-lipped delicacy. Lazy Boy snorted and hung his head over the ledge. “You, too. Got to keep your energy up. Want to ride, Nell?”

  “Not again.”

  Joe ignored her. “Bijou, saddle up the horses while Nell and I take a walk around.”

  “We added on a tack room and there’s a nice overhang where you can groom and wash the horses.” He led her back toward the house but closer to the bayou. “My barbecue pavilion is going up right there.”

  He pointed to another slab sitting among some small pecan trees. “We’ll have a built-in pit and a side-well with piped in propane. You can sit your crawfish boiler right down in there, fry turkeys, whatever, and won’t have to worry about little kids getting in the flames or knocking over the pot. The floor is big enough for dancing and we’ll have screens to keep the mosquitoes down and ceiling fans to stir the air. Great view of the bayou, too.”

  Joe stood in the middle of the slab and spread his arms. “Boathouse and dock will go there.” He pointed in the direction of the water.

  Bijou came over leading the horses. Joe tossed Nell up into the saddle despite her protests, but did take the time to position her hands on the reins and run through the instructions again. “Just follow me and L.B. I like that…L.B.”

  Once again, Fatima followed the stallion without any encouragement from Nell. They came to the meadow where they had turned around the last time. Half of it was now fenced off. A white bull, curly-haired and pink-eyed, watched them, his blocky body half in, half out of a new open-sided shelter that gave a little shade. Beyond the bull, six cream-colored cows, some with calves nearly their own size, grazed in their own field that stretched away to the tree-line along the road.

  “Who is that fellow?” Nell asked as she bounced along.

  “I call him Snowballs. He has some fancy French name, Neige de-something on his registration papers. Pure-bred Charolais, the prettiest cattle you’ll ever see.”

  “Looks like he has been busy.”

  “Those calves aren’t his. Some of the ladies came with company, but he’ll get his chance soon. We’ll keep a few steers for table beef and all the heifers for breeding. I figure on giving some of the calves to 4-H kids to raise.”

  “Table beef?” Nell echoed. “Those pretty animals?”

  “I know you grew up in the suburbs, but you do know where hamburger comes from, I guess. I don’t need but one bull and all a steer does is eat. That was your country livin’ lesson for today. How about some
riding instructions?”

  “I’m fine. No need.”

  “Really?” Joe put his heels to L.B. and picked up the pace to a trot that mowed down the waist-high meadow weeds and orange and yellow cone flowers around the perimeter of the field. He glanced back at Nell clutching the saddle horn as Fatima kicked up her heels and followed. He eased into a slow canter and heard Nell gasp. When Joe pulled up, Fatima went flying by to one side and continued around the meadow.

  “That’s it, Nell! Take her around a few times and get the hang of it.”

  He watched Nell saw back on the reins. Fatima slowed to a trot, then stopped altogether. “Good, good. Now bring her head up and start out with a walk. Put her through her paces.”

  “Easy for you to say, Joe Dean Billodeaux,” Nell shouted, but she did manage to get Fatty moving again and ventured into a trot before stopping once more. Nell slid down the horse’s side and led the mare to where Joe Dean stood to do his coaching in the center of the field.

  “Fun, huh?”

  “Sort of. I guess I do need lessons.”

  Joe threw the reins over the heads of both horses and let them graze in the dry grass for anything they might find tasty. He pulled Nell farther into the tall weeds. “Here’s something else us country boys like to do.” He lifted her off her feet and fell back into a patch of yellow daisies making sure Nell landed on top of him. “We call it a roll in the hay.”

  “Out here—with cows watching? What if someone comes along the path or up the bayou?” Her words came out a little muffled because he was already pulling her red cotton top over her head. Joe unhooked her bra with one hand while working on her jeans snap with the other.

  “I thought you were a wild child.”

  “Was. Years ago. And another thing. How come I’m always on top? It seems to me I’m doing all the work.”

  “Didn’t want to crush you, sugar, but if you insist.” Joe was busy shucking off his own clothes, but he stopped to lay her clothes across the flattened grass where he had fallen. He added his shirt and jeans to the pile. “There you go. No blackberry brambles in your ass.”