Time. I was feeling the press of it. I wanted to be on the road with plenty of daylight left. “Out,” I said to Val as I looked at Jeremy. “How soon can your dad check out my car?”
“Right now, I expect.” He nodded out the windshield.
An older version of Jeremy, only stockier, stepped out of the nearest bay. Though he was probably only in his late forties or so, he was wearing a uniform like the ones I’d seen in really old magazine ads.
For a while after Mama died, I went on a kick of trying to recreate what her world was like when she was my same age. Mama was born in 1954, back when a service station provided real service. Pumped your gas, washed your windshield without holding you up for spare change the way the homeless guys do at intersections. Mama used to talk about those days with reverence, telling me how her mother wore white gloves and a hat to church and how men used to open doors for women and such.
But no matter how many old movies I watched or Life and Look and McCall’s magazines I read back then, I couldn’t seem to figure out what Mama would have done with herself if she were me.
I couldn’t picture Mama with a mother who wore white gloves, anyway. Mama was more prone to wear cha-cha slides, tight skirts and low-cut blouses. Just this side of trashy, I guess, but I didn’t see it that way back then. I just knew she was real pretty, not like her skinny daughter. When I was tossing out our past like crazy after Sister died, I do recall seeing some photos and thinking that Mama pulled off the look, with her doll-baby face and cute curves. Men couldn’t get enough of her.
Her people, though, weren’t like that, best I could tell. They were serious folks, Sister told me, even a little upper crust. From what I’ve been able to piece together, Mama just went off the track real bad when she discovered sex and boys discovered her. I guess she could never find her way back. But I think she must have been a little homesick for the life she’d left behind, based on the stories she’d tell.
The world Mama grew up in might as well have been on Mars, but I couldn’t get enough of it. The magazine ads, with their dainty references to female troubles and their notion that a woman’s life should be built around pleasing her man, were interesting in a sick sort of way. And I’ll admit right now that I really liked those Betsey McCall paper dolls in each issue. She was so wholesome and she had a real dad and all these great clothes.
I might not have figured out what Mama would have done at my age, but I sure got an eyeful of why she waded through an ocean of men and tried to please even the most worthless of them.
The man before me in his dark gray uniform pants and shirt wasn’t all that much younger than Mama would have been. Maybe they read the same magazines, only he was missing the sharp cap and bow tie.
And he didn’t much look like he was itching to give me the sparkling Pepsodent smile.
“Pop, this is Pea—” Jeremy frowned at me as if just then noticing he didn’t have my last name.
“O’Brien,” I supplied. “Pleased to meet you.” I held out a hand.
“Tommy Cashwell.” His dad nodded but just kept wiping his hands. Then he looked at Val. “This car been acting up long?”
Hey, I wanted to say, but Jeremy was shuffling his feet, so I answered politely. “No, it hasn’t—”
Just at the same instant Val said, “Yes. Been running rough for a good fifty miles.”
Hoo boy. If he—any of the three hes standing there—thought I would just hang back and play the simpering little lady, they were severely wrong.
“Longer than that,” Alex piped up before I got a chance.
I whipped my head in her direction and glared.
She merely folded her arms and shrugged. “You never noticed, did you?”
I tried to look stern, but Jelly could have told all of them that cars were not my strong suit. He thought it was funny, the time I drove off with the nozzle still in my gas tank. Like to busted a gut laughing, and it wasn’t just that he’d been drinking beer at the lake all afternoon.
Shoot, except for the cashier who came screeching out the door, I thought it was pretty funny, too.
If I’d been around back in the Fifties, a shined and pressed service station man would have been pumping my gas, and my husband would have made sure my car was always running. It wouldn’t have mattered that I tended to daydream instead of having my ears always tuned to the zillion noises a car can make, even when it was doing just fine.
But everyone was staring at me, and I was nailed.
Any fool knows that women get taken advantage of by mechanics if they act like helpless maidens these days, however. “I noticed,” I said and cast Alex a withering glance. “But I had a few other things on my mind.” Making it clear by my pointed looks at her and Val that if I hadn’t been so busy with pregnant girlfriend beaters and con men, I would’ve been right on top of whatever noise they heard that I wouldn’t have in a million years.
I swore I would make Val pay for the snort that followed.
“I have an excellent mechanic back home,” I said, to put the disapproving station owner on notice. “If you can just do something to get me by, I’ll see him first thing when I get back.” There. I hoped that would save my pitiful grubstake.
“We’ll see.” He turned to Jeremy. “Stick it in bay two, and I’ll take a look.”
At that moment, Jeremy’s grandfather putt-putted into the drive. His dad sighed, cast a rueful glance next door at the grocery, then back at Jeremy’s grandfather, who was dressed just like his son and looked much more authentic.
The phone rang. “I’m expecting a call from Charlie,” Jeremy’s dad said to him. “Just be a second.”
“Charlie’s my uncle.” Jeremy kept his voice low. “Been refereeing between Gran and Gramps all this time. My dad says he’s an idiot. That if he’d just quit relaying messages, they’d give up and talk to each other and leave the rest of us out of it.”
“Don’t whisper, boy,” said his grandfather, approaching us. Mama would have swooned. This was the Texaco man come to life. Except for no smile. “Won’t do you no good. I still got the ears of a bat.”
Jeremy flushed. Shuffled his feet. “Sorry, Gramps.”
“You just remember, boy. What’s between me and her—” Here, he shot a baleful look next door “—is our business.”
The tips of Jeremy’s ears were bright red. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
Face still a little thunderous, his grandfather turned to me. “‘Mornin’. I’m Ray Cashwell. What seems to be the problem?”
Everyone but me chimed in on symptoms and solutions. All of them seemed tickled pink by the discussion.
Not me. I was seriously depressed. I drew Jeremy aside. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do to get me back on the road right away?”
“Sorry. Wish I could.” He glanced over at Alex with a calf-sick look. She smiled back ever so sweetly.
Uh-oh. Was the boy blind? He didn’t stand a chance, not being in full possession of the facts relating to that little ball of dynamite who’d ensnared him. “May I speak to you for a minute, Alex?”
She didn’t budge. “Jeremy was just going to take me over to his Gran’s. They serve breakfast here, and you want me to eat well, right?”
Son of a gun. I’d thought I was channeling Big Lil, only to discover she’d taken up residence inside that little dab of a girl.
Small women just cannot be trusted. The more helpless they look, the more you’d better be on red alert. I toyed with the notion of blowing her cover right then and there, except that Jeremy might only have turned the hots he had for her into some sort of chivalry.
Val grabbed my arm. “Breakfast sounds good. Let’s go, Red.” He turned to Jeremy’s grandfather. “We’ll look forward to your verdict.” None too gently, he drew me away before I could plant myself good.
He’d better at least be buying, was all I could think.
Once inside the small rock building, there were smells that immediately sucked me in. There was coffee—ju
st plain coffee, mind you—and Lysol and Windex. Standard convenience-store fare.
But then there was bacon frying and toast on a griddle. Pancake syrup.
To one side were wooden shelves of groceries, but these were more staples than grab-and-go midnight items. No walls full of refrigerated cases for beer and soft drinks. Instead, I saw one standing case with milk and eggs and a glorious old red metal Coke machine beside it.
Along the front wall on the other side was a series of orange formica booths, and several sets of tables and chairs standing between the booths and a long counter. Behind the counter was the kitchen.
“What you got there, sugar lamb?” A voice came from back that way.
“Some hungry friends, Gran.”
A woman emerged, silver hair in a scraped-back coronet, her face lined, her eyes interested and kind. She was wearing a shirtwaist dress with an apron over it, the old-fashioned type with a ruffle around the edge. Her only jewelry was a plain wedding band and two tiny pearl studs.
She wasn’t Aunt Bea, she was better. Aunt Bea was a little ditzy and way too helpless. There was an air about this woman that said Rock-Solid Steady. Warm Cookies and Hot Chocolate. Bedtime Stories and Real Big Hugs.
Grandmother with a capital G. Just like I always wished for.
“You’re a long, tall drink of water, aren’t you?” She looked up at me with a smile.
It didn’t matter that I’d have to bend down a ways; that wistful child in me wanted to step into her arms and claim one of those hugs.
When I couldn’t seem to speak, Jeremy did. “This is Pea O’Brien,” he said. “And this is Alexandra and Val. They had car trouble. This is my grandmother, Lorena Cashwell.”
Isis picked that moment to awaken and stir inside my purse. Her head poked over the edge, and she yowled at the smell of food.
“Can’t have a cat out here.” His grandmother held out a hand. “I’ll take her.”
I clutched Isis. “She won’t get on anything. I won’t let her.”
“Give her here.”
“I’ll just wait outside.”
“I’m only going to get her a drink,” she said, then winked. “Not make tacos out of her.” With surprising quickness, she nipped Isis from my hand and stroked the cat’s tiny head.
Isis, the traitor, started purring.
“Grab a seat. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait!” I charged after her, heedless of Employees Only signs and Jeremy’s quick intake of breath.
I followed her into a storeroom, its walls lined with jars of home-canned vegetables, their colors so vivid they might have graced a cookbook photo. Lower shelves held boxes and tubs and ancient kitchen utensils, some of which I’d swear I recognized from old magazines. A chest freezer on one wall and two refrigerators on another.
I smelled grapes, and spotted jars of jelly cooling on a dishcloth. It might have been the single best scent I had run across in years. My stomach growled.
“Hungry, dear?” She filled a bowl with milk that Isis was already trying to dive into. She set the bowl and the kitten on the floor.
“I have some food for her in the car,” I offered.
“No need for that. I don’t mind a bit.” Then she looked up. “But I was talking about you. You look a little peaked. Why don’t you go on, now, and look at a menu. Figure out what you want to eat.”
The bell over the front door rang, and she shook her head wearily. “Drat. I’ll take your order as soon as I get done.”
I remembered the Help Wanted sign. Had a notion about how I might be able to offset the expense of my car repairs and breakfast.
No, not breakfast. Val was going to buy that much, I decided, with his suspicious windfall. But my car repairs . . .
Sister, I apologize. I was about to give Fate the back of my hand.
You just hang on now. We’ll be together before you know it.
I was pretty sure we’d died and gone to heaven, and the others probably felt the same, but we three were too busy stuffing our faces to discuss the matter.
The woman could cook. Lord have mercy, she could cook. The pancakes were fluffy and golden with the slightest crispy edge, and she had these amazing little Fiestaware pitchers brimful of maple syrup and melted butter so that you could just pour rivers of each over your stack. The bacon was perfectly browned, the coffee fresh and strong, and there was even honest-to-God cream for it. None of those teeny little plastic containers of fake cream that would last through a nuclear war, nossir.
Alex was even drinking her milk without complaining. “This is seriously amazing,” she said.
“Practically orgasmic,” I responded. “Oops.” I saw Mrs. Cashwell and clapped my hand over my mouth as Val snickered.
She only smiled. “Y’all want more coffee?”
“Mrs. Cashwell, this is quite honestly the best meal I ever had.” Val clasped her hand and ostentatiously kissed the back of it.
“Oh, go on with you!” She retrieved her hand, but her cheeks took on color. “Just plain country food.”
“Ma’am, Val’s right. I would give my right arm to cook like this,” I said.
“Anyone can cook, dear. It’s merely a matter of patience and practice,” she said. “Along with a little sense of adventure. Some of the best results come from taking a chance.”
“Did your mother teach you?” I asked. Both Mama and Sister came up a little short in the cooking area.
“She did. Now there was a woman who could work a miracle with only a cast iron pan. She had me helping from the time I was knee high to a grasshopper. Mostly I just learned from watching her.”
I could just picture her, a little girl with long braids standing on a chair as her mother showed her the ins and outs of the kitchen. They would roll pie crust together, the little girl with her face all screwed up in concentration as she worked the rolling pin, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Real Little House on the Prairie kind of stuff. It had me all but sighing in envy. “Did you always live here in Jewel?”
“Oh, yes. My people go back to the Republic of Texas. They’re all buried here.” She began gathering our dishes, and I jumped up to help her. “No, honey, you just let me do this.”
But I was too eager to hear more. And too nervous about the verdict in the garage next door. I didn’t stop stacking plates. “Did you have brothers and sisters?” When she moved toward the kitchen, I followed.
“One sister who died young, another still living and two brothers, both gone now. What about you, dear?”
“Just one sister.” I didn’t want to think about the true barrenness of my family tree, so I pressed on. “How many children do you have?” I cut my eyes toward the door.
“Three boys and two girls. Tommy and Charlie live here with their families, as does our daughter Millie. Our son Jeff is in Omaha, and our daughter Janie is in North Carolina.”
“How many grandchildren?” Smoothly, I sidled up to the sink and began running water.
A line appeared between her eyebrows, but I just smiled and went on. I kept thinking about what I might need to do if the bill was as bad as Jeremy had estimated.
Before she could answer, the door to the store opened, with its jangle of sleigh bells. “I’ll be right back. You are not to do those dishes.”
She left, and I kept going. Dishwashing was not high on my list of enjoyable pursuits, but whether or not I needed a job, I could see what Jeremy meant about her seeming tired.
She was back in a minute. “You need to come out front, dear.” Things had gotten very quiet out there. I continued washing. If it was the verdict on my car, I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it. Then someone cleared his throat. “About your car—”
I turned to see Jeremy’s grandfather in the doorway, Mrs. Cashwell frozen like a statue about six feet away, scrubbing a countertop as though her life depended on it.
He addressed me, but his gaze kept straying to her. “Electronic parts—” He harrumphed. “Got no use for ‘em.”
> “What does that mean?” It was all I could do not to squeeze my eyes shut and stuff a finger in each ear.
“Means we practically have to tear out everything under the hood to get to what’s wrong, and the part has to be ordered.”
“Ordered? How long will that take?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “We could get it in maybe two days if you wanted to pay extra for it.”
“What kind of extra?”
“Another fifty bucks, I’d guess.”
Fifty bucks? Just for shipping? “What kind of total are we looking at?”
“‘Bout eleven hundred, more or less.”
“Dollars?” My knees wanted to buckle.
“Damn foreign cars, all those electronics. Man used to be able to work on his own vehicle under a tree, swap out parts in the salvage yard. Not anymore.”
“How long, once you have the part?”
“Couple of days, maybe three.”
“And without paying extra for fast delivery, how long will the part take to get here?”
“At least a week.”
I felt sick. I whirled and went back to the dishes, trying furiously not to cry. I knew he was waiting for an answer, but I didn’t have one to give just then.
“Perhaps you could ask him to allow you a little time to think,” Mrs. Cashwell suggested.
“Perhaps I ain’t deaf,” he responded. “You might tell her to mind her own business,” he said to me. But despite the sarcastic words, there was no heat in his words.
She only scrubbed harder.
While he stared. At her, not me.
I had to wonder just how much their children and grandchildren were paying attention. They might not be speaking, but there was a lot more than a feud swirling in the air around us.
“If I could have a few minutes, I’d be grateful,” I said to him.
He didn’t respond immediately. Finally, he heaved a large sigh and removed his focus from his wife. “Come over to the garage whenever you’re ready.” He waited a few beats longer, but she never looked his way. At last, shoulders sagging, he left.
I went back to washing dishes. And started trying out arguments to convince her to save my hide.
The Goddess of Fried Okra Page 12