Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “So what’s the problem?” Ethan Allen wants to know.

  “The problem appears to be that J.J. wasn’t aware of her, uh, condition,” Dax observes.

  “Well, he’s damned sure aware of it now,” Logan says. “That’s gonna be a weird ride home.” He looks at me. “How is it that Stacey Dewberry knows about this and J. J. Jackson doesn’t?”

  “There’s a million-dollar question,” Dax says, putting down his ice cream cup and picking up his beer.

  “She wanted him to propose first,” I say, and the men all look off in different directions.

  “Logan, you can’t tell anyone at school about this,” Lilly says. “Chloe is really concerned that if the wrong people find out about this, they might try to get her fired.”

  “Pffft,” Logan says, waving his hand. “Have you ever known me to hang out with the wrong people? She isn’t going to lose her job, but why the hell didn’t she just tell him? This was a hell of a way for him to find out. I thought y’all sat around planning for stuff like this your whole life.”

  “Who exactly is ‘y’all’?” Lilly asks, clearly offended.

  “Women!” Logan says. “Is this not the kind of thing y’all get together and talk about for days on end? How to break news like this like with a little bitty football or with some little pink baby shoes or something.”

  “Logan Hatter!” Lilly says. “It is so painfully obvious why you’re still single.”

  “Well, he has a point,” Dax says, and Lilly glares at him. “What? I’m just saying J.J. shouldn’t have had to find out like this. It was kind of like he was the last one to know.”

  Lilly’s shoulders slump. “I guess you’re right.” She looks at me. “We failed Chloe on this one.”

  “We told her to tell him,” I remind her. “We told her and told her and then we told her again.”

  “We tried to drop him a hint,” Lilly says. “But that didn’t work out very well, either.”

  “In the hot dog aisle at Walmart,” I say, giggling at the thought. “And Chloe crawled all over our asses, so we backed off.” Lilly recounts the story, and the guys think it’s pretty funny.

  “Well, he was going to pop the question anyway as soon as she got things squared away in her new house,” Dax says, and Lilly scowls at him. “He didn’t want to stress her out even more than she already was with all the renovations and stuff she had going on.”

  “How do you know that?” Lilly demands.

  “He was looking at a jewelry store paper one day when I walked into his office,” Dax says, like it’s absolutely no big deal whatsoever. “He’s already got the ring picked out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Dax looks confused. “Why, because—I don’t know, Lilly, hell, I didn’t know all this was going on. I’m sorry, baby.” He puts his arm around her and she leans into him.

  “I’m sure everything will work out just fine,” I say. “I hope. And Dax, I’m sorry all of this went down tonight.”

  “Not a problem,” he says. “It proved to be quite a distraction, which I very much appreciate.” That comment hits me like a ton of bricks. He’s going to Afghanistan. While military budget cuts are all over the news, Dax Dorsett is going to a war zone.

  “Hey, Ace,” Logan says. “If neither one of us is married by the time we’re thirty-five, let’s have a baby together—you want to?” I look at him and he grins and everyone starts laughing.

  “Sure, Hatter,” I tell him. “I’d love that. You’re so romantic.”

  “Great,” he says, clearly proud of himself for making a funny. “We can start practicing tonight if you want.” And everyone laughs even harder. Except me. I just stand there and look at him, shaking my head.

  “Hatt, you’re too funny for your own good, buddy,” Ethan Allen says, reaching over to slap him on the back.

  “I have to call Stacey Dewberry,” I say.

  “She can join us, too, if she wants,” Hatter says.

  “Hatt,” I say, rolling my eyes, “has anyone ever told you to quit while you’re behind?”

  “Well, that depends on who I’m behind,” he says, winking at Ethan Allen. I roll my eyes and walk into the kitchen where I pick up the phone and call Stacey. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to voice mail. I call her two more times and get the same thing. Finally, I leave her a message, telling her everything is fine and to please call me whenever she can. I put the phone down and think about Freddie Dublin. Thank God he didn’t show up tonight.

  As it gets closer to midnight, people start drifting toward their cars. Everyone shakes Dax’s hand, pats him on the back, and promises to send care packages. As the crowd thins, I find myself sitting way too close to Logan Hatter. He catches me looking at him and winks at me, then slips his arm around my shoulder.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I tease, getting up to say good night to the last of the partygoers. Dax and Lilly walk up and tell me they’re calling it a night as well. I can’t imagine how Lilly must be feeling right now, her expression unreadable as she says good night. Dax thanks me again and again for hosting such a lively get-together and I tell him again and again that it’s the very least that I could do. After they leave, I unplug my Christmas lights and turn to see Logan Hatter still sitting on the swing.

  “You wanna come in?” I ask. “There’s no one left to drive you home.”

  “Oh dang,” he says. “I guess I’m sleeping with you tonight.”

  “Your game needs some work, Hatter,” I tell him with a smile.

  “We’ll see about that later, sweet-cheeks.” He follows me inside, has a seat in the living room, and pats the sofa cushion next to him. “C’mon, Ace, you know you want to come snuggle up over here where it’s warm.” Despite my better judgment, I get two beers out of the fridge and join him on the couch. And tonight, I decide not to be lonely.

  23

  The next morning, I wake up at the crack of dawn and the first thing I see is a shaft of light drifting in through the curtains shining on Logan Hatter’s shockingly white ass. Oh shit! After throwing some covers over that pasty rump, I slide out of bed and creep down the hallway. I startle Buster Loo out of his slumber on the couch, and he jumps up on all four paws and commences with a first-class barking fit. I pick him up and try to pet him out of his guard-dog rage, but he wiggles out of my arms onto the sofa where he sits and stares at me as if to say, “How dare you!” I pick up my phone and think about texting Lilly, but she’s got so much going on today that I don’t want to saddle her down with tales of my sexcapades with Logan Hatter. Or maybe I just don’t want her to know. I’m not sure. I make a pot of coffee and think about that. And I think about Logan Hatter.

  I’m almost as tall as he is, but not quite. He’s got a pudgy beer belly that I find endearing and a receding hairline, which he keeps covered with a baseball cap. He’s a good guy even if he does fancy himself to still be the stud he thought he was at twenty-two. And he chases women accordingly. But he’s single, so I guess he’s entitled. Maybe Logan Hatter is just what I need right now, an easy no-strings-attached good ole boy. I pull my housecoat tighter around me and think about last night. Sleeping with him is like sitting in front of someone else’s fireplace. It’s warm and cozy, but regardless of how pleasant it always seems to be, you know you can’t sit there forever.

  I pour a cup of coffee, feeling tremendously guilty because the last time I had sex, it was with Mason McKenzie, the Ex-Fiancé. I try to come up with an excuse for myself, but I can’t. I just did what I wanted to do and that’s pretty much it. I think about all the action movies I’ve seen where the leading man and some hot chick he saves from certain death run for their lives until they end up in a seedy hotel on the edge of town, humping like rabbits. Maybe that can be my excuse: My life is a battlefield where I’m fighting for some peace of mind and I needed some damned relief. I don’t know what Hatter’s excuse is for firing up our old flame. One thing I’ve always liked about him is that he doesn’t
even pretend to need an excuse.

  I’m on my second cup of coffee when I hear him lumbering down the hall. Buster Loo jumps off the sofa and darts out the doggie door as if he simply can’t tolerate the perpetrator’s presence. When Logan rounds the corner, I notice his hair isn’t quite as thin as it once was. I want to ask him how that happened, but it might embarrass him, so I just sit there and wonder.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I say.

  “I can’t believe you took advantage of me like that,” he says. “I was highly intoxicated. What kind of person are you?” He gives me a peck on the cheek.

  “The kind who makes coffee,” I say. “Would you like some?”

  “Love some.” He walks over to the cabinet. “You moved the cups.”

  “Look in the one next to it,” I say, pointing. “I’m a habitual rearranger.”

  “That sounds dangerous.” He pours a cup of coffee and joins me at the table. As we chat about the party, I realize I’m a little happier than perhaps I should be to have him sitting here with me this morning. Then it hits me. I love Logan Hatter with all my heart and soul. But not in a romantic I-wanna-have-your-babies kind of way. More like in a let’s-have-sex-and-then-not-worry-about-it kind of way.

  “Can I fix you some breakfast?” I ask, like we’re an old married couple.

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” he says with a grin. “I haven’t had one of your world-famous omelets in years.” He looks at the pans hanging about my stove. “Need some help?”

  “You just keep me up to speed on all the juicy gossip. How about that?”

  “That’s an arrangement I can live with.” He gets up to pour himself another cup of coffee, then goes and settles into my recliner.

  “Those boxers are nice,” I say, looking at his Pink Panther underpants.

  “Thank you. They were a gift.”

  “From one of your many lovers?”

  “No, from my mother,” he says.

  “I’m going to leave that one alone.” When I start frying sausage, Buster Loo somehow finds it in his heart to come back inside and be social. Logan fills me in on all the latest gossip and then we start talking about Cameron Becker dumping Drew Wills. He has the inside scoop on that just like he does everything else, and it’s all news to me because the only two people I talk to on a regular basis at school are Stacey and Freddie. I hardly ever see Lilly during the day and while I do see Chloe a lot, she’s not much on sharing hearsay. We don’t talk about Chloe and J.J.’s situation.

  Logan leaves at eight thirty and I retire to bed with Buster Loo who, after being on the receiving end of a full piece of bacon, is totally over his mad spell. I snuggle up under the covers, then roll over and set my alarm for ten thirty because I have somewhere else to be today.

  *

  I roll up to the gates of the Waverly Estate at twelve forty-five on the dot. Gloria Peacock is hosting a brunch and quite a few Bugtussle big shots are there to wish Dax well.

  Chloe, Lilly, and I found ourselves in Gloria’s social circle for the first time about this time last year when we were in the midst of a terrible jam. Gloria Peacock, a woman of great wealth and status in Bugtussle, proved to be quite nimble at the task of quietly clearing metaphorical waters muddied by small-town scandal. Since then, she’s treated the three of us like family, which we all appreciate, but I probably value the most.

  When the gates open, I drive in and park in the space indicated by a smiling man wearing a royal blue polo shirt and white starched shorts. A few people I know from Bugtussle are arriving at the same time, so we ride together through the splendid expanse of the Waverly Estate on a royal blue golf cart, the rear seat of which is emblazoned with a magnificent peacock in all its feathered glory. Gloria greets us at the door, then shows me to the patio room where I find Gloria’s pal, Birdie Ross, sipping on sweet tea and grinning like a possum. I take a seat next to her and casually work my grandmother’s garden book into our conversation. I know that Birdie was a dear friend of Gramma Jones, and I’m hoping she can shed some light on things for me so I don’t have to go home and read that letter. Because if there’s something to be told, I feel like Birdie Ross will tell it. But when I mention the book, she doesn’t respond. She picks up her glass and takes a long sip of iced tea. Gloria Peacock joins us and as soon as she takes a seat, Birdie looks at her and says, “Someone found her grandmother’s gardening book.”

  “Oh,” Gloria says, looking at me. “Have we now?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and start to feel ashamed, like the time I hung all of Gramma Jones’s undergarments out on the line just before her lunch guests arrived. I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know she had company coming. Or maybe I knew and forgot. Yeah, that was probably what happened. I look at Birdie who is looking at Gloria, and I see some form of communication pass between the two of them. Nothing spoken—not even a nod—just a look. Almost indiscernible.

  “Perhaps you should come to the garden club meeting this Tuesday night,” Birdie says, finally looking at me. “You’re interested in gardening, right? That’s why you mentioned the book.”

  “Right,” I say. I feel like a child conjuring up lies about the cookie jar.

  “We could use some fresh faces,” Gloria Peacock says. “And Essie Jones kept quite an extraordinary yard.” She and Birdie exchange another look. “I must say I’m pleased with your interest.”

  “Yes,” Birdie says. “Most pleased.”

  “What’s going on, ladies?” Temple Williams asks, stepping into the room to join us.

  “Little Ms. Moppet here has dug up her grandmother’s gardening book,” Birdie says.

  “Oh,” Temple says, looking at me. “And what did you find in there?” The directness of her question catches me off guard. I think about the letter and my cheeks start to burn.

  “It was the buttercups,” I say, like an idiot. “I saw the buttercups.” I decide to stop talking in an effort to save myself from further humiliation.

  “Of course,” Temple says. “It’s always the buttercups. The early bloomers get us all excited.”

  “I love springtime,” Birdie says, winking at me. “The sunshine, little green sprouts all over my yard. I consider it a time of great awakening.” Gloria and Temple nod in agreement. I sit there, pretending to get it.

  “Yes,” Temple agrees, “because you know something beautiful is stirring just beneath the surface.”

  “And then when the flowers blossom and bloom, it’s the most magical realization of hope,” Gloria says. “Miraculous and inspiring.”

  “A continuous cycle,” Birdie adds.

  “Makes my soul sing every year,” Temple says with a smile.

  I want to stand up and scream for them to drop the cryptic veil and tell me what the hell they’re talking about because I’m getting frustrated and confused. But, of course, I don’t say a word. Perhaps this is part of the game. Part of the initiation into their elite club of hard-earned wisdom and knowledge. For some reason, I start thinking about wrinkle cream.

  “You know, some women keep journals,” Gloria begins. “But I never have.” She looks at Birdie, who nods. “My garden keeps my secrets.”

  “You can tell a lot about a woman by what she does with her yard,” Temple remarks.

  “Indeed,” Birdie says. “That’s why I always plant cockscomb in the same bed with naked ladies.” She looks at me. “With the Clitoria ternatea right in between.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s a climbing plant.”

  The three of them have a good laugh at that, and I wonder for a second if Gloria, Birdie, and Temple might have started smoking hash. Grown in their secret-keeping gardens, of course. Or maybe they’ve jointly invested in some medical marijuana. Or perhaps this is their way of telling me that they have answers to the questions I have yet to ask.

  “Come to the garden club this Tuesday,” Gloria says. “I think you will find it most helpful as you begin your journey.”

  “As a gardener,” Templ
e says.

  “A book can only get you so far,” Birdie adds.

  “Sure,” I say. “Okay.” I try to hide my apprehension about attending a garden club meeting. I mean, I’m not that old. Yet. But the Bugtussle Garden Club is invitation only, so I focus on how honored I should feel right now. “Thank you,” I say with as much reverence as I can muster.

  “My pleasure,” Gloria says.

  “So tell me about your boyfriend,” Birdie chirps.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say. I have a private little freak-out moment, wondering if they somehow know about my sleepover with Logan Hatter. Why would that matter?

  “You don’t?” she says. “Well, today is your lucky day.” Oh God! No! I’m so stupid! “I know the nicest guy.” No! Not her, too! “His name is Bo Hammond, and I’ll just go on and tell you that he is some kind of hot-to-trot, little missy!” Shit! Somebody just shoot me, please! “Especially when he takes his shirt off.” Yuck-oh!

  “Your yard man takes his shirt off?” Gloria asks.

  “But of course, Gloria,” Birdie says. “You know I wouldn’t have one that didn’t.” I can’t help it. I laugh at that. Birdie picks up her phone.

  “You don’t have to call him right now!” I say quickly.

  “No time like the present,” Birdie says, and Gloria Peacock laughs and shakes her head as Birdie scrolls through her contacts list. I sit there while Birdie carries on with her yard man, thinking that sitting in the gyno’s office in that awful paper dress isn’t half as awkward and uncomfortable as this moment right here.

  “Tell him I’m chunky,” I whisper, “so he’s not surprised.”

  Birdie disregards my comment with a dismissive wave. She puts the phone on her shoulder. “Friday or Saturday?” she asks.

  “Friday, I guess,” I say, feeling as if I have no choice. She chats for a few more minutes, cackles a few times, then asks me where I live. With more apprehension than when I slip my bare feet into the cold steel stirrups, I give up my address. “It’s a date!” she says proudly after ending the call. “He’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”