Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “You sound like a politician,” she says without cracking a smile.

  “I’m thinking of running for office,” I say. “Ace Jones for president.” She doesn’t smile at that, either. Instead, she asks me if I mind covering P.E. again today.

  “Not at all. Whatever I need to do.” This is my life. The seventh ring of hell.

  “Coach Keeley is the only one out, so it’ll only be four periods.”

  “Oh, okay.” Or maybe just the fifth ring.

  Wednesday, I’m back in A Hall with Stacey Dewberry, who is rocking a purple one-piece outfit trimmed with gold and rhinestone embellishments.

  “Ace—I mean Ms. Jones,” she says when I walk into the lounge. “I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you!”

  “Uh, thank you, Ms. Dewberry,” I say, hoping no one can overhear this conversation. I wonder if I should tell her I missed her, too, but I just can’t get those words to come out of my mouth.

  “So who are you today?” she asks.

  “I’m Ms. George.” Another day of solid freshmen.

  “Cool!” she says. “I’m Mrs. DePew, right next door!” While she has the gifted class.

  “Lucky you!” I say, thinking I might call in sick tomorrow. Surely Chloe would understand.

  After the most horrible three hours of my life, during which I continuously curse my decision to take this job while trying not to curse all of these wild-ass, lunatic ninth graders who are all too happy to discover a substitute instead of their regular teacher, I take off to the teachers’ lounge for a moment of silence. And that’s where I’m sitting with my head on the table when Freddie Dublin walks in. He hums while he rummages through the fridge, no doubt looking for his Vitaminwater.

  “Bad day, Ms. Jones?” he asks, closing the fridge.

  “That would be one way to put it, Mr. Dublin.”

  “Sit up, sweetheart,” he says, and I do. He steps behind me and begins to massage my neck and shoulders, and it’s all I can do not to hang my mouth open and drool. “So much tension here, Ms. Jones. You’re so stressed out.”

  “Oh, that feels so nice,” I moan while he continues to work marvelous magic with his hands. “You are so good at this.”

  “Lots of practice,” he says, moving his fingers around my head. I put my hands on the table so I don’t fall out on the floor from sheer pleasure. I believe a good massage could cure me of most anything.

  “Better?” he says a minute later, taking a seat next to me.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m glad you stopped, because I was about to tell you that I love you.”

  “I get that a lot,” he says with a wink. Freddie is wearing a starched white shirt, perfectly cuffed at the elbows and a fantastic pair of khakis. Simple ensemble, but on him it looks divine. “So, I hear Ms. Lane’s young boyfriend is leaving her.”

  “He’s leaving all of us,” I say. “But she’s definitely the most upset about it.”

  “I saw him at a football game last year,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty good-looking.”

  “Who’s pretty good-looking?” Stacey asks as she sprays her way out of the restroom.

  “Dax Dorsett,” I say. “Lilly Lane’s boyfriend.”

  “Don’t know him,” she says.

  “Yes, you know him. He’s that handsome cop who comes to the ball games,” Freddie says. Stacey just stands there in her purple jumpsuit and stares at him.

  Freddie seems to be enjoying the awkward moment a little too much, so, in an effort to move things along, I say, “Yes, he’s been called back to active duty and we’re having a going away party next weekend and both of you are invited.”

  “Really!” they say at the same time, but they use two totally different tones of the same word.

  “Really,” I say. I grab the Post-it notes on the table and a pen. “Here’s my address,” I say, giving them each a Post-it. “Next Saturday. Probably around seven p.m.”

  “Dress?” Freddie says.

  “Oh no, you can’t wear a dress,” Stacey says, looking really nervous.

  “The dress,” I say, eyeballing Stacey, “will be casual.”

  “I love casual,” Freddie says. He looks at Stacey and then at me. “May I bring a plus one?”

  “Sure,” I say, then narrow my eyes. “Anyone I know?”

  “I’ll let you know,” he says with a wicked grin.

  “You better not bring that hoochie-hocker, Cameron Becker,” Stacey says.

  “Hoochie-hocker?” I say. I can’t help it; that cracks me up.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Freddie tells her, then flashes that radiant smile. Oh Lord, I think. What have I just done? The bell rings to signal the end of break, and I fight the cluster-fucked hallway back to Ms. George’s room where I spend the remainder of the day fantasizing about slamming my head in the file drawer of Ms. George’s metal desk until I’ve decapitated myself.

  Thursday, I run two red lights and almost sideswipe a dump truck, but I get to school on time. Stacey has already been dispatched and Chloe is sitting in her office, looking pallid.

  “I think you need to go to the doctor, Chloe,” I say. She looks up at me, and I notice dark circles under her eyes. “You haven’t been yourself lately and I’m starting to worry.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “But can you do me one small favor?”

  Oh hellz bellz! Am I back in freshman hell, or does she have me another hot date lined up for this weekend? “Sure,” I say.

  “Would you join Lilly and me at my house for dinner tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, secretly relieved. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. You know, I just got everything all moved into my brand-new kitchen and would like to have my girlfriends over for a nice meal.” She smiles. “That’s all.” I want to press her for a more honest explanation, because it’s never just “Oh, nothing” or “That’s all” with Chloe. But she looks tired and beat down, so I take my folders, tell her to have a nice day, and head off for another day in the fiery pits.

  I call Lilly on the way home and make some bad jokes about Chloe filleting us with a steak knife, but she’s not in the mood for my foolishness, so I let her go. When I get home, I shuck off my gut-gripping “teacher” clothes and slip into something comfy. After taking Buster Loo for a nice walk at the park, I refill his water bowl and then hang out with him until it’s time to freshen up and head to Chloe’s.

  I’m excited about seeing the place; I haven’t been there since the day after she bought it because she didn’t want anyone to see it while it was “under construction.” Lilly and I have both mentioned hosting a housewarming party because it’s the first house that Chloe has officially owned all by herself, but so far, she’s not been too keen on that idea.

  12

  As I pull into the drive at 505 Skyline Cove, I admire the lush landscaping and freshly painted columns. I park in front of the house, walk up the wide stone steps, and ring the doorbell. Chloe opens the door and when I step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the glorious décor. I follow her through the living room, past a study, and into the kitchen, all of which could put any home in any magazine anywhere in the country to complete shame. Money sure makes for a good-looking life.

  “Chloe, this place is unbelievable,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” She dismisses my comment with a small wave. “It’s just home.”

  Just home my ass! I think as the doorbell rings. Lilly is equally impressed with Chloe’s amazing spread, and we ohh and ahh like kids at Christmas when she takes us out back to the massive deck overlooking the lake.

  “Chloe, this is resort-style living at its finest,” I say, and Lilly quickly agrees. We follow her back inside to the kitchen where some wonderful aromas are wafting from the stainless-steel double oven. Lilly runs a hand over the granite countertop, then raises her eyebrows at me.

  “Quite lovely,” she says while Chloe fixes three glasses of iced tea.
I just stand there and nod.

  Chloe politely turns down our offers to help as she slides a pan out of the upper oven, which I see is full of those little appetizers you can buy only at Sam’s Club. She uses a fancy-looking spatula to scoop those lovely looking things onto a fancy-schmancy serving dish. Just as we finish those, a timer goes off, and Chloe reaches into the lower oven and pulls out a pan of crab-stuffed shrimp.

  “Oh my stars!” I say, inadvertently channeling my inner Stacey Dewberry. “Those are beautiful!” The next pan is full of potatoes, and then comes a beautiful loaf of artisanal bread. I make a joke about her oven being like a clown car, but no one laughs except for me. Chloe goes to the fridge and brings back a bowl of corn relish and a stick of butter riding in style in one of those little dishes made especially for sticks of butter. She refills our drinks while we fix our plates, and then Lilly and I sit down at the kitchen table, which has a very nice view of the lake. Chloe joins us a minute later, and we make awkward small talk while everyone tries to be nice and carefully avoids certain topics of conversation.

  “Did you make this?” I ask, taking another bite of the shrimp. “It’s delicious.”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Renaldo did.”

  “Who is Renaldo?” I ask.

  “Her butler,” Lilly says.

  “He’s not a butler,” Chloe insists. “He just drives up from Oxford twice a week to help out. He prepares and freezes dishes. I had to have a little help during the remodeling.”

  “Well, you can tell Renaldo that this is the best crab-stuffed shrimp I’ve ever had,” I say, thinking about how differently she and I define “a little help.”

  She tries to make more small talk, then stops, obviously frustrated.

  “I’m sorry for being so snappy and short these past few weeks,” Chloe says. “Y’all know that’s not like me at all.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “No problem,” Lilly chimes in. We continue eating.

  “I’m pregnant,” Chloe says. I stop sipping my tea and put down the glass. Lilly starts coughing and making choking noises. “Are you okay?” Chloe asks her.

  “Yes,” Lilly says. “The bread. It was the bread. I just—” She stops. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you were pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, you’re pregnant?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby.”

  “How do you know, exactly—uh, for sure?” I say.

  “I went to the doctor yesterday,” she says. “I couldn’t say anything at school—that’s why I asked you both to come here tonight.”

  “Okay, well…” I don’t know what to say.

  “Congratulations,” Lilly says, but it sounds more like a question.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  The three of us sit there for a long, awkward minute. I look down at my plate and feel like I might pass out from the stress hovering around the table.

  “Lilly, I’m so sorry to tell you this right now because I know you have so much going on.”

  “Chloe, this is a really big deal! It doesn’t matter what I’ve got going on when you have news like this!”

  “You both have to promise not to tell a soul. If anyone at school finds out, I’ll lose my job and be humiliated.”

  Lilly and I exchange an anxious look.

  “Technically, that would be illegal,” Lilly says.

  “Lilly,” Chloe says, “you know better than anybody how easy it is to fall prey to the small-town system of warped moral justice.”

  “That’s right,” I say, waving a finger at Lilly. “Violate the Code of Socially Acceptable Sins in Bugtussle, Mississippi, and you’re out the damned door. Crack a goat or your married coworker and we’ll all turn a blind eye as long as the coworker is of the opposite sex and the goat is not related to you.” They both stare at me while I giggle.

  “So, is J.J. excited?” Lilly asks, and the comic relief I worked so hard to perpetrate evaporates in the silence that follows. Chloe doesn’t acknowledge Lilly’s question.

  “Chloe, you have told him, haven’t you?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Lilly says, pushing back her plate.

  “Do you have anything here to drink?” I ask.

  “There is some wine in the fridge. I opened it last night, then remembered I shouldn’t drink, so it’s full.”

  I go into the kitchen and get the wine, grab two glasses, and return to find Lilly and Chloe staring at each other in silence.

  “Can I get you anything, Chloe?” I ask. “More tea? Some water?” A box of diapers and wipes?

  “No, thank you.”

  I return to my seat and pour Lilly and myself a glass of white moscato. No one says a word. I pick up my wineglass.

  “I don’t want to tell him,” Chloe says finally.

  “Well, you know he’s going to find out eventually, right?” I ask, and Lilly gives me a stern shut-your-mouth look.

  “Why in the world would you not want to tell him?” Lilly asks sweetly. “He’s going to be so happy.”

  “I want him to propose and then I want to get married and then I want to tell him.”

  I pick up my wineglass and chugalug. Normally, I’m not much of a wine drinker, but this stuff is pretty refreshing. Lilly pours me another and then refills her own. “Okay,” Lilly says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  And more silence.

  “I don’t want him to ask me to marry him because I’m pregnant,” Chloe says. “I don’t want us to have to get married. I want him to marry me because he wants to and because he loves me, not because he has to.”

  “Chloe, he does love you,” I say. “He’s always been crazy about you. Even when you were married to that shithead Richard Stacks.”

  “Oh, please, let’s not talk about him.”

  “We’re not going to talk about him!” Lilly says, giving me the evil eye. I give her my best okay-then-well-you-say-something look. She continues. “I think we can all agree that it would be best to tell J.J., right?” She looks at me and I nod.

  “I can’t do that,” she says. “I just can’t. And I can’t believe this has happened to me. I’m on the pill and I never forget to take it.”

  “I do not doubt that at all,” I say.

  “What are we going to do?” Chloe asks.

  “We?” I exchange another look with Lilly. We pick up our wineglasses and then I pour the next round. “This wine is fabulous,” I say. “Where on earth did you get it?”

  “Ethan Allen gets it for me,” Chloe says. She looks at Lilly and then at me, her expectation obvious.

  “Well, we are going to find a way to get J.J. to propose before you have to tell him that you’re pregnant,” I say with great conviction even though I’m only guessing.

  “No!” she says.

  “Chloe, you have to be realistic about this. We’re all adults here.” Lilly looks at me. “Well, almost.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Anyway,” Lilly continues, “J.J. needs to know. He would want to know, and he might get upset if you don’t tell him.”

  “It is his baby, right?” I ask, and Lilly kicks me under the table.

  “Of course,” Chloe says, taking offense. “Who else would it belong to?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was so stupid.”

  “Yes, it was,” Lilly agrees. “Do you want us to talk to him, maybe try to drop some hints?” Lilly ventures. I shake my head in disagreement because J. J. Jackson does not entertain foolishness in any shape, form, or fashion.

  “Please don’t do that,” Chloe says. “Let’s just give it a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks?” Lilly says. “How far along are you?”

  “Almost six weeks. My due date is November 15, so I should have at least another month before I start showing.”

  “But y’all have talked about getting married, right?” I ask.

  “No.”

&nbs
p; “Not even after you bought this big nice house?”

  “No.”

  “Has moving in together been discussed?” Lilly asks.

  “No.”

  I look at Lilly and she shrugs. She picks up the bottle and fills each of our glasses half full, emptying it.

  “You have to tell him, Chloe,” I say. “You have to. He has a right to know.”

  “I am not telling him,” she says stubbornly. “Maybe he’ll just up and decide to propose.”

  “Maybe so,” I say, realizing that there will be no reasoning with her tonight.

  “Maybe,” Lilly says, obviously sensing the same.

  On the drive home, I call Lilly and we discuss ways to drop some hints to the sheriff that he needs to propose to his damsel in distress.

  13

  Friday, Stacey Dewberry is hell-bent on the two of us going barhopping, and after the sixteenth time I tell her I can’t, she finally stops asking. Lilly texts me just before noon and says they’re pulling into the driveway at Dax’s parents’ house and she’s about to have a panic attack because they live in a tiny farmhouse and she’s wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of heels. She’s not worried about getting them dirty—she’s worried about looking ostentatious. I send her a few messages, trying to encourage her, but then her texts stop abruptly so I spend the next few hours worrying about how that’s going.

  When the bell rings at the end of the day, I walk into the teachers’ lounge to get a Diet Mountain Dew. Freddie Dublin is stretched out on the couch with his shoes off. I compliment his wide-striped green and navy blue socks.

  “Big plans for the weekend?” he asks as I drop quarters into the drink machine.

  “Not hardly,” I say. “You?”

  “Going to Memphis and seeing a show at the Orpheum.”

  “That is so cool, Freddie!” I say because it is. “What are you going to see?”

  “Memphis. It’s based on a true story.”

  “Sounds great. Have a blast.” I turn to leave and run right into Stacey Dewberry who, in her haste to get into the lounge, almost knocks me down with the door. I step out of her way.

  “Ace—I mean Ms. Jones—I am so sorry about that,” she says, hustling past me to the drink machine. “Gotta go! Gotta go!” she chants, and she forcibly inserts her coins into the machine.