Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “Everyone likes me?”

  “Everyone with good sense,” I say. “And who cares about the others? Not me.”

  “Don’t be jealous,” she says.

  “Of what?”

  “I’m sure Freddie chose me to talk to because I’ve dabbled.”

  “Because you’ve—okay,” I say, thinking this conversation has got to end soon. “Of course.” And certainly not because you’ve willingly introduced him to every skeleton in your closet and he could hang your ass out to dry in a fraction of a second.

  “He’s very upset,” Stacey says. “Just don’t take it the wrong way if he acts weird for a while.”

  “Did he tell you to say that?”

  “Yes. No. Well, not exactly.”

  “It’s okay. I respect that.”

  “He said you would.”

  “Great.” Shit! “So what happened?” I ask, unable to get my curiosity in check. “Who broke up with who?”

  “I’ve already said too much,” she says. “But I think he got dumped.”

  “Who in their right mind would dump Freddie freakin’ Dublin?”

  “Tell me about it,” Stacey mumbles. “He’s so awesome.”

  “And so hot.”

  “You can’t say that about him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you just can’t.”

  “He’s hot. There, I just said it. See? I can.”

  “He would be hotter with a mullet,” she says.

  “You should tell him that sometime,” I tell her. We both start giggling about that, and then the bell rings and lunchtime is over. I go back to class feeling genuinely sorry about Freddie’s personal problems and wishing he trusted me as much as he obviously trusts Stacey.

  When I get home Monday afternoon, I can’t get into my jogging pants fast enough. After changing, I walk back into the living room to find Buster Loo parked at the front door.

  “You wanna go for a walk?” I ask him, and he gets excited. “Buster Loo wanna go for a walk?”

  I take him down to the park and while we’re walking around the wooded part of the trail, I start thinking about Stacey’s advice to look in the phone book. In a way, I feel like I’m stalking my own grandmother, and that doesn’t feel right at all. The guilt is starting to get heavy, because if I’d just paid attention or asked her a few simple questions, I wouldn’t have to pry into her personal life all these years later without any idea of what she might have wanted to keep private and what she would’ve wanted to share.

  After we get home, Buster Loo heads for his water dish. I fix myself a glass of ice water, sit down at the table, and think about what I should do. After a few minutes, I put my glass in the sink, grab the step stool, and climb up to where I can reach the top cabinet. And there are the phone books, right where they’ve always been. I pick them up and return to the table. I set aside the larger area phone books and open the small one with Bugtussle printed on the front.

  I flip to the Es and start scanning. Eaton, Eins, Ensley, and there it is. Emerson. Seven Emersons to be exact. Three with a first name beginning with an M. There is no mark to indicate which one might be the M who was so happy to spend a few days with my grandmother. I flip to the back of the book. No names or numbers are written there. I turn to the front and find nothing. Gramma Jones must’ve memorized all the numbers she frequently called.

  I get up and take a notepad and pen out of the junk drawer. I jot down the addresses of the three Emersons in Bugtussle whose names begin with the letter M. I look down and see that Buster Loo has joined me in the kitchen. He’s looking up at me, curious.

  “What is it, Buster Loo?” I ask him. “Am I doing something wrong?” His response is to cock his head sideways and blink at me as if to say, “I don’t know. Are you?” I look down at the notepad. This must’ve been how they stalked people in the eighties. I go get my phone and call Stacey Dewberry.

  25

  Tuesday I don’t have to sub for anyone, so I stay in the conference room and help Chloe work on student records. Hanging out with her is back to being a pleasant experience now that she’s sporting that engagement ring.

  Tuesday afternoon, I go home and hang out with Buster Loo until it’s time to leave for the Bugtussle Garden Club’s bi-monthly meeting. I decide it’s in my best interest to wear my semiprofessional-looking school clothes; I don’t want to err on the side of inappropriate, and black pants tend to blend in anywhere. Maybe Stacey is right. Maybe my wardrobe does need a little more spunk.

  I park at city hall and walk across the street to 307 Ford Place, a newly renovated historic building in downtown, now used for meetings and professional get-togethers. I feel nervous and edgy as I walk down the hallway, because the Bugtussle Garden Club is notorious for gossips, rivals, and outright bitchy women. I remind myself that most apples in any basket are good, but unfortunately, I’m not one who can easily ignore the stench of the rotten-spirited. When I walk in, I see Birdie and Gloria sitting at a table to my right and try to ignore the stares and whispers as I make my way over to them.

  “Hello, sunshine,” Gloria Peacock says. “Glad you could join us.”

  “Yes,” Birdie says. “Good times to come. Speaking of which, have you heard from Bo?”

  “Bo?”

  “My yard man,” she whispers. “That sexy beast! Hot to trot, I tell ya! If I were twenty years younger, I’d be all over that.”

  “Birdie, please!” Gloria says.

  I had actually forgotten about Bo, but I don’t mention that to Birdie. Nor do I mention that I’m almost as excited about this date as I would be about having my ribs cracked with a steel club at daybreak tomorrow. I can only imagine what a tool this guy must be because, honestly, who takes his shirt off while doing yard work for elderly—and slightly perverted—ladies? Wait, I know. An overaccommodating man, that’s who. And we all know what comes with an overaccommodating man. Venereal diseases, that’s what. Due to his proclivity to accommodate the needs of his penis at every opportunity. Jeez. Of course, he could be the kind of guy who always works without a shirt—who knows? But still, what kind of person does that? He must have a nice body. I think about that bald asshole Garlen Blake and wonder if my two previous blind dates have made me so negative or if it’s just good old-fashioned common sense kicking in.

  A nice-looking older lady steps up to the podium and calls the meeting to order. Today’s topic is garden parterre and when she starts talking, I find myself intrigued and eager to get started on my yard instead of bored to death like I thought I would be. She starts a slide show, stopping periodically for open discussion of the designs presented. One lady remarks that non-variegated monkey grass would look better with the ensemble on the screen and another woman—who clearly has a yard full of variegated monkey grass—points out that professional landscapers designed the layout in question.

  “And, technically, Abby, it’s called Silver Dragon lily turf. Not monkey grass,” she adds.

  “No one calls it Silver Dragon lily turf, Carol,” Abby replies as if she’s addressing the stupidest person on the planet. “Everyone calls it monkey grass.”

  “Not necessarily everyone, Abby.”

  “How about this, Carol? You go to any nursery anywhere in the southeastern United States and ask for Silver Dragon lily turf and see how many people know what you’re talking about.”

  “Some would, I’m sure,” Carol replies sardonically. “I guess it would depend on their level of education.” Abby gasps as the garden club ladies start buzzing like bees.

  “Actually, a parterre shouldn’t contain any grass,” says a woman across the room.

  “This isn’t fifteenth-century France, Libby,” quips another lady. “We’re discussing modern parterre.”

  “Moving on,” the lady in charge says.

  “Who is she?” I nod toward the podium.

  “Mary Ellen Vickers,” Gloria whispers. “She’s been the garden club president for many years. A positively unflappable w
oman.”

  “She’s very pretty,” I whisper.

  “Plastic surgery,” Birdie whispers. “Face-lift, nose job, the works.”

  “Shush that, Birdie!” Gloria whispers, then looks at me. “She is a very nice person and does an excellent job.” Birdie leans back in her chair, and when Gloria turns her attention back to Mary Ellen, Birdie grabs her chest and mouths the words, “Boob job.” I cover my mouth to hide my smile.

  After Mary Ellen wraps up the slide show, she invites everyone to the reception area for drinks and snacks. I follow Gloria and Birdie, and we join some fifty other women in a room filled with treats worthy of a first-class wedding reception.

  “Dang,” I tell Birdie. “Y’all do this twice a month?”

  “Oh yes,” Birdie says. “We pay ridiculous dues. It’s the least they could do, furnishing us with fancy cheese and crackers.”

  I put down the plate I just picked up and gaze longingly at a pile of sauced-up cocktail weenies. “Maybe I don’t need to be in here snacking since I’m just visiting.”

  “Nonsense,” Gloria says, picking up the plate. “Here.” She lowers her voice. “Guests always snack. We have some ladies who’ve been guests for years. Many of whom were originally invited by people who aren’t even members themselves anymore.”

  “They just keep showing up. Like dogs. Gnawing on whatever they can get their hands on,” Birdie says, looking around.

  “Birdie Ross, you are in rare form tonight,” Gloria remarks.

  “I didn’t get my nap today,” she says. “Wouldn’t do for someone to piss me off.”

  Gloria looks at me. “No one has to pay, but you can’t be considered for any of the Yard of the Month awards if you don’t.”

  “And you don’t get your name on the bronze plaque, either,” Birdie adds. “Which must be all some of these folks are concerned with, because their yards look like crap.” The two ladies in front of Birdie turn around and look at her. “What?” she snaps. “Y’all both know I’m telling the truth.” One smiles. One scowls. They both turn back to the snack buffet. I start to fill my plate, very selectively, and wonder how much the dues are.

  “Your grandmother’s yard was something of a legend,” Gloria says, and I wonder how anyone but Gloria ever wins Yard of the Month, what with her sprawling acres of land populated by free-wheeling peacocks. “She was in a class of her own because no one touched her yard except for her.” Oh, so that’s how. Some awards for the working class and others available for purchase. “She always ended up with the most coveted accolades and she deserved each and every one she received. Her knowledge of blooming flowers was unmatched. Here at the club, she was considered the final and absolute authority on that.” Gloria forks a tiny pickle. “Every January, she did a presentation on seasonal bloom schedules, but no one could ever replicate her success with flowers. Not even the highest paid professional landscapers and, trust me, they tried.”

  “That Essie was a pistol,” Birdie says, “one of those rare people that I felt lucky to know on a personal level. She made life more lovely and not just with that blasted blooming garden of hers.”

  They know, I think. They know all about her. All about her life. Her private life. The one I never thought to ask about.

  “I’m so happy you came tonight,” Gloria says.

  “Yes,” Birdie agrees. “And if you somehow unearth the secret of those lush year-round blooms, I fully expect you to share that with me—pronto!”

  “I thought she did a presentation on it,” I say.

  “She did,” Birdie says with a smile. “But no matter what Essie Jones was involved in, she never told anyone the whole story. She was mysterious like that. She wanted people to figure out things on their own. To think for themselves. She wasn’t going to do the thinking for anyone, no sir.”

  “I understand,” I say, thinking of the mystery tree in the backyard and the letter from M. Emerson. I guess she knew one day I’d be standing back there, wondering. I’m dying to ask about him, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

  “C’mon, let’s grab some punch and sit down,” Gloria says. “After that, you should go look at the plaques they’ve just put up out back. When someone gets Yard of the Month, they put a small star next to your name with the month and year inscribed on it. You should see how many stars Essie has.”

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  I call Lilly on the way home, but she doesn’t answer. I wonder if maybe I could talk her into coming to these garden club meetings with me now that Dax is gone. It would be a good distraction, and that yard of hers could certainly use some TLC. Her house is adorable, one of the cutest in town, but her shrubs look like something from a horror film. Plus I wouldn’t be the only one there under the age of fifty.

  *

  Wednesday passes without much excitement. I don’t see Stacey all day, and Freddie still isn’t speaking to me. I try not to take it personally. The weather is warming up nicely, so after I get home, I spend the afternoon outside with Buster Loo. I pluck a few weeds here and there, but I don’t really feel like getting down and dirty because I’m just not in the mood. I go into the house, wash my hands, and sit and stare at the clock on the microwave. Buster Loo is snoozing on the sofa, not at all concerned with my anxiety.

  Stacey finally calls and tells me that she’s finished with her bus route, has her bus parked, etc., etc. Apparently she doesn’t own any kind of GPS, because I have to tell her sixteen times how to get to my house. Then she calls back after she misses the turn at the end of my road and winds up at the park. When she finally pulls into my driveway, I’m standing on the front porch with my notepad and the Bugtussle phone book. She asks if I checked all the other phone books for Emersons and handwritten names and/or numbers and I assure her that I have. I walk around to the driver’s side of my car.

  “Hey, just ride with me!” she says. “I could put on some good background music. I was thinking of a theme on the way over. Like some Bad Company. Maybe some Metallica if things get hairy.”

  “I don’t think things are going to get hairy,” I say. I look at her Iroc, gleaming in the afternoon sun. “But that car is so cool.”

  “All you have to do is tell me where to go,” Stacey says. “And a hillbilly with a spotlight can’t see through that tint, so we’d be incognito to the max.”

  “Would you mind?” I ask.

  “If I minded, I wouldn’t have volunteered, silly. Get in.”

  Ten minutes later, I ask her to turn down the music so she can hear me when I tell her where to turn. Then she misses the turn anyway and we end up riding around the Bugtussle Country Club. As we get closer to the golf course, I notice a big plume of smoke coming from somewhere behind the tree line.

  “Look at that,” I tell Stacey.

  “Aw, man, I hope that Emerson man’s house isn’t on fire.” She looks at me. “You wanna go check it out?”

  “I can’t really tell where it’s coming from,” I say.

  “Well, it looks to me like it’s coming from that way,” she says, pointing to a narrow county road that splits off to the right. “Do you know where that road goes?”

  “Of course, I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “You wanna go check it out?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

  Stacey takes a quick right and drives down the road a tad bit faster than I expected. I tug on my seat belt and start to wonder if this car has air bags. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. We haven’t gotten too far when smoke starts to roll across the road like fog. Then I hear the sirens. When Stacey turns the next curve, we come upon a massive wall of fire.

  “Holy shit wads!” Stacey yells as she slams on her brakes. “We gotta get outta here! Which way do I need to go?”

  I look around, but I can’t really see because the smoke has gotten thicker, it’s almost dark, and the tint on the windows isn’t helping. All I can see is the glorious orange flame burning the brush on the side of the road.

&nb
sp; “There’s really nowhere to go!” I tell her. “There’s nowhere to turn for another couple of miles.” She puts the car in reverse. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m turning around right here!” she says, and starts backing up.

  “Can you see?”

  “No, can you?” She begins what turns into a seventeen-point turn and just as she gets the car sideways across the road, a fire truck rounds the bend. We both scream as it slides to a stop inches from Stacey’s front bumper. She puts the car in reverse and guns it. I hear a loud thump as the back of the Iroc rolls into the ditch. When I look up, I see the firemen glaring down at us like we’re the stupidest people alive. Which we obviously are. With Stacey’s car backed off in the ditch, the fire truck is able to get past and we both breathe a sigh of relief after they get by. I’m sitting there wondering where Ethan Allen is because I’m certain it’ll take a four-wheel drive and a tow cable to get out of this ditch, when Stacey grabs the gear shift and jerks it down in low.

  “It’s time to go,” she says. She reaches for the volume button and Metallica screams, “It’s sad but true” as Stacey Dewberry mashes the accelerator to the floor. The Iroc fishtails, spins out, and stalls. Stacey puts the car in reverse and then guns the engine again. I look over and see her spinning that steering wheel around like a woman possessed. She throws it back in low gear, stomps the accelerator, and that Iroc jumps out of the ditch and onto the road with the tires squalling. We’re barreling down the road in the opposite direction of the fire when we meet another fire truck. The Angel of Ignorance must’ve been watching over us that very moment, because I don’t know how a fire truck and a late-model sports car ran past each other that fast on a road that narrow without crashing.

  When Stacey pulls back out on the road by the golf course, I am truly amazed that I haven’t shit all over her black leather bucket seats. As soon as she gets on the main road, I hear another siren. This one is behind us. And it’s not a fire truck.

  Stacey flips off the stereo and then pulls over to the side of the road. She presses the buttons that roll down both windows.