Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  As I’m wandering around shyly, not knowing where I’m headed, a rather cute-looking guy stops me. “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m here to see Edward Maxwell. I have an interview at one.” I glance at my watch and see it’s one fifteen. “Actually, I’ve been waiting in the lobby for a while. I was here right at a couple minutes past.”

  He shrugs his shoulders before a well-rehearsed smile spreads across his face. “Hi, I’m Paul.” I’d know his voice anywhere. He’s the afternoon deejay at FM 99.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “I’ll get Edward for you.” He disappears down another hall and leaves me standing in a small area with a coffeemaker and fridge. It’s not really a break room; it seems to be more of a reception area. I sit down on one of the chairs with a black plastic seat and steel frame and glance around the room. The walls are lined with gold and platinum records stacked on top of each other and running all the way down the hall. I recognize Bon Jovi’s gorgeous face from across the room and can’t resist the urge to walk over and inspect it.

  Presented to WZCQ FM 99 to Commemorate RIAA Certified Sales of More Than 500,000 Copies of the Mercury Records Album Slippery When Wet.

  Each plaque says the same thing but with a different artist and record. Bonnie Raitt’s Nick of Time, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Full Moon Fever, Don Henley’s The End of the Innocence, Kim Carnes’s Mistaken Identity, Bette Midler’s Beaches. Mariah Carey’s Mariah Carey—they all bring back a flurry of memories and without realizing it, I’ve traveled quite a ways down the hall inspecting them. The sound of a man’s voice startles me away from thoughts of the past.

  “Miss Satterfield?”

  I whip my head around.

  “Hi. Edward Maxwell.” He smiles, sort of, and keeps his hands at his side.

  Smiling back, I instinctively offer mine. “Hi Edward. Nice to meet you.”

  After a weak shake he says, “Come on back,” and turns down another hall, which is lined with even more gold records and award plaques. Edward doesn’t walk alongside me; instead he’s keeping pace in front. We pass a large window that lends a full view of the broadcast room and as I stroll down the hall of a radio station that has been around since the forties, I’m struck by how rich the music scene truly is in Memphis, Tennessee. I suppose, having grown up here, I’ve taken it for granted all these years. Beale Street was the birth of the blues, for goodness sake. And between B.B. King, Stax Records, Sun Studio, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis, Memphis has as much to brag about as Los Angeles or even New York for that matter. Why in the world we lost the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to Cleveland, Ohio, is still a mystery to me.

  Once Edward reaches his office door he heads on in front of me. When I finally arrive he gestures toward a chair in front of his desk and asks me to take a seat. “Pretty cool, huh?” he says, as he’s walking behind his desk.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The gold records. The platinum records. All the awards.”

  “Oh. Yes! Wow. Y’all have so many.”

  After sitting in his chair, he scoots himself all the way up so he can rest his elbows on the desk. “That’s what happens when you’re number one. No lonely number there.”

  I tilt my head a little to the side.

  “Three Dog Night?”

  “Oh! Sure. ‘One Is the Loneliest Number.’”

  “If you hadn’t known that one, this would have gone to the bottom of the pile.” He holds up my résumé, which is in the center of his desk. “You’ve passed the first test.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say, and mean it.

  Edward combs his short but full beard and peers down at my résumé. “You went to Ole Miss?” He looks up with a blank expression on his face. “I’ve heard that’s a big party school.”

  “Well, sure. It had its moments.” That’s an odd question. “But I didn’t do all that much partying.” Okay, I lied.

  The combing of his beard continues. “How fast do you type?”

  “I think about forty words per minute. I took typing in college and I’m actually pretty good at it.”

  “This job would be answering the phone calls that come into the station. You’d be assisting me and the promotion director, who you’ll meet before you leave.” Every time he lists a job responsibility, he holds up another finger. “You’d distribute the prizes to the contest winners.” One finger. “You’d coordinate with traffic and make sure they have all the info the jocks need.” Two fingers.

  I look a bit confused at the term “traffic.”

  “The traffic department generates a daily log that lists everything from the songs that will be played during a certain shift, to the ads that will air, to the station promo spots, to the live ads the jocks read. That kind of thing. In short, the jocks need a log that tells them exactly what’s going on during the day. They need to know precisely what time to give away a certain prize.” He drops his voice to a slightly elevated whisper. “Jocks are basically idiots. We have to give them the ABCs of everything. Tell them what they need to keep the contests straight.”

  That’s rude, I wish I could say.

  “You’d be sending out FedEx packages.” More listing on his fingers, we’re at three fingers and a thumb now. “Plus you’d be helping me with my letters and stuff. Do you have a problem with getting coffee?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. Lie number two.

  “Just kidding.” He breaks into a frightful smile, his full cherry-red lips have several wrinkles, resembling sun-dried tomatoes in between his mustache and beard.

  I have to force a grin.

  “Does the job sound like something you’d be interested in?”

  “Absolutely. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.” I lean in toward him. “I’m really good with people and I’m honest.” Well, I may have lied about not partying much in school and not minding getting coffee, but basically I am very honest.

  “Okay, let’s give it a chance. I’ll send you upstairs to HR and you can talk to Janice about benefits. We have the usual. Health, dental, and life as an option. 401(k) matching after you’re vested—that’s five years, I think.”

  “Honestly? You’re offering me the job, already?” I say, without thinking. Uh-oh, I hope I didn’t sound too eager.

  “Careful, this trial period is part two of the test.”

  “What’s part two?”

  “How quick you are. You don’t look like a blonde to me.”

  I practically have to bite the sides of mouth to force out another grin.

  “I’m assuming a redhead can add some fire to the job. I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself.”

  What a total weirdo. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I do a very good job.”

  “The job pays thirteen an hour. That’s $27,040 a year if you work a full forty-hour week…” I tune him out as he goes on to discuss vacation days and sick time and personal leave and dress code. All I can focus on is that I have a job offer.

  Okay. I’ll take it. But shouldn’t I be negotiating my pay? Isn’t that what educated people do? Yes, of course it is. I’ll play hard-to-get and try to act like they’d be lucky to have me. Just say it. Ask for more money. Do it. DO IT.

  “You said the job pays thirteen an hour, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Actually, thirteen dollars an hour…” I’m scratching my head. “Thirteen dollars an hour is…”

  “All I’m going to pay. Take it or leave it.”

  “Oh! I was just hesitating because I wanted to tell you how nice that is. Thank you, Edward. I’m thrilled to get that kind of salary.” Way to go, Leelee—that showed him. Lord, Sarah would have negotiated better.

  “Oh and one more very important rule. We have quite a few celebrities who come in an out of this station. There’s no room for star fu—uh, stargazing. I don’t want my staff hounding the stars.”

  “I understand. I’m not like that anyway.”

&n
bsp; “It’s a real no-no, Leelee. I don’t run that kind of ship.”

  “No worries at all, Edward.”

  “So when can you start? Can you be here at eight thirty Monday morning?”

  I’m so not ready for this. How in the world will I ever get the girls dressed, fed, and ready for school, and be in Midtown by eight thirty? But it’s not like I have a choice—I have to have a job. And I’m certainly fortunate to have found one so quickly.

  “So you’ll start Monday?”

  “Yes. Of course I’ll start Monday. That’s no problem at all!” Lie number three, or four—I can’t keep track—comes out easily and with high-pitched enthusiasm. What the heck? That’s only five days from now. Of course I can have my rental house completely unpacked, Sarah and Issie enrolled in school, and my new life completely figured out in that amount of time.

  “Before you head up to Janice, I’ll introduce you to Kyle. He’s my promotion director.”

  “Okay, sure. I’d like to meet him.”

  Once again I trail behind Edward Maxell on the way to Kyle’s office. The man walks so fast it’s hard to catch up. I decide not to even try. Kyle is sweet, probably about my age, not much to look at but he’s a frosty bottle of Coke compared to the program director. That Edward is an odd bird. Oh boy is he an odd bird. And that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about him.

  Chapter Four

  Moving day arrives, bright and early on a Saturday morning, and it’s mixed with all kinds of emotions. It makes me happy to think that I’ll be settled again in a home that’s all mine. A home where the girls don’t have to whisper. A home where there’s no wicked witch waiting on the other side of a flimsy door ready to bite their heads off for raising their voices. But, I’m moving into a bedroom all alone. No husband with whom to share my bed, to reach over and pull me close, stroke my hair, share our love. I haven’t been sleeping alone for nine years. And even during those last months in Vermont, I may have been alone, but Peter was always close by in the kitchen, not to mention in my thoughts.

  As I’m dressing for the day, I’m struck by the fact that I’ve been home for five days now and haven’t heard a word from Peter. Something is not right. It’s not like him to ignore my phone call … phone calls, really. At the very least he’d want to tell me he’s glad that Sarah, Issie, and I made it back safely. It doesn’t make sense.

  Before I know it I’ve let my mind run away with me, conjuring up all kinds of neurotic scenarios. I’m picturing him stranded on the backside of a black diamond with a broken leg, screaming for someone to rescue him. That boy can ski anywhere, and he ventures into uncharted areas where he has no business. Maybe he sped too fast over a patch of black ice—I was always telling him to slow down. That little truck of his doesn’t have enough weight in the back to warrant speeding down a bunny slope much less a mountain. Oh gosh, suppose he hit a moose?

  If he’s in the hospital somewhere he’ll wonder why in the world I haven’t checked on him. What’s the matter with me? Punching in his number, I dial it so quickly that the line doesn’t connect, causing me to have to hang up and start over. My fingers are practically shaking as I dial again. After four rings, there’s still no answer. And then … voice mail. What? He should be answering his phone. It’s—I glance at my watch—7:30 A.M. in Vermont. Uh-oh, that’s way too early to call a chef who works nights.

  Even still, I leave a message trying hard not to sound desperate. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, my voice happy and shrill. “Gosh. I, I’m just checking on you. The girls and I are here. We made it safe and sound. Kissie’s helping me to move into a new house this morning. It’s nice and spacious with plenty of room for guests. Hey”—I lower my tone—“will you please call me? I want to know you’re all right. You know how my head gets going, worrying about things that might not be true. I want to make sure Helga hasn’t hijacked you and forced you to become her boy toy. Now that’s an image I’m sure you’d rather not have planted in your brain,” I say, with a giggle. “Seriously, call me. I can’t wait to talk to you.”

  After hanging up the phone I analyze every word I said. It sounded motherly. Too desperate. He’ll think the joke about Helga was stupid. On the other hand, my lightheartedness might convince him to dial my number. Oh lord, Peter. Please just call me back.

  * * *

  Kissie and I drop off Sarah and Issie at Virgy’s so we can be at the new rental house by seven, or at least soon thereafter. There’s a whole lot of cleaning to be done before we meet the movers who are due to arrive around ten.

  After kissing the girls good-bye and shutting Virgy’s antique mahogany front door, I notice Kissie in the passenger seat as I walk back to the car. No matter what I say to try and convince her to stop wearing her white uniform, she won’t do it. I tell her all the time that it’s old-fashioned and completely unnecessary and that I want her to be comfortable when she’s at my house but it doesn’t do any good. She insists on wearing a white dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a puckered waistband in the back that she’s spent time ironing the night before. Her hose are wrinkled around the ankles, and she wears white, lace-up orthopedic shoes, which are bulging over the outsides of the soles, just as they always have been. You can’t cook like she does and not keep on an extra few pounds—and heaven help anyone who mentions dieting. There aren’t enough hmm, hmm, hmms in the world to express how Kissie feels about restrictive eating. When she bends over too far, her white girdle shows. It extends way down on her thighs, which can’t help but bubble out around it. It’s the kind of girdle with snaps to hold up her stockings. I bought her a pair of tennis shoes for her birthday three years ago and although she was ecstatic when she opened them, she won’t dare put them on unless she’s in her own home.

  For the last sixteen years, she’s been out at her mailbox waiting on the postman the exact day her Social Security check is due to arrive. I try to pay her when she’s helping me but she flat refuses to take my money. “We are family, Leelee,” she tells me. “I ain’t takin’ no money to help you move, or to take care of your little girls. You ain’t got no mama; no daddy, neither. Who else is gonna help you? Alice and them have their own hands full. They’ve got their own children. They can help you sometimes, but ole Kissie is here for you all the time.”

  That leaves me no choice but to go out and buy her groceries. Or sneak and pay her light bill. Or ask to take her car when we go out and fill it up when she’s buying her toiletries in Walgreens. The truth is, if she charged for it, her loyalty and support would bankrupt me and there’s no currency besides love to repay all that she’s done.

  Kissie’s not spent much time in Germantown and as we drive down Poplar Avenue she’s taking in the sights. Every once in a while she’ll make a comment. “I catered a party one time down that street there,” or “that’s the nursery where your daddy bought that dogwood tree that stayed in our front yard on East Chickasaw Parkway.” I love to take her driving, it reminds me of when I was a little girl and Daddy would take us all out for a Sunday drive, which always included a trip to our family plot at the cemetery. He and Mama would be in the front seat and Grandmama, Kissie, and I would be in the back. Looking back on it now, it makes me wonder when Kissie ever got a weekend off.

  When we pull up in the driveway on Glendale Cove, Kissie oohs and ahhs. That’s until she gets inside. My new rental house is nice but it’s certainly not clean. At the last second before leaving her house, Kissie remembered her Hoover. That’s after we had already put her broom, mop, toilet wand, and all kinds of cleaning supplies in my car. If it weren’t for Kissie, I’d have no idea how to cook, clean, or remove any sort of stain out of a blouse. She’s the one who taught me that hot water sets a stain—a fact that got me through college at Ole Miss and then through two messy toddlers.

  With a deadline fast approaching, we get right to work—starting first with the foyer, and then moving deeper into the home. After we clean the bathrooms, I head on in to the kitchen to start
lining the cabinets with shelf paper. Kissie’s in the front living room vacuuming when she spots the big eighteen-wheeler out the front window. “Movin’ van is here, baby,” she hollers, after turning off the motor.

  “Just in the nick of time,” I say, under my breath, dashing out the front door to meet the two men in the driveway. I direct the movers while Kissie finishes lining the kitchen cabinets. “You need to get your kitchen done first,” she says. “Your little girls need three meals a day.” Each time she gets another box marked “Kitchen” Kissie has it unpacked in minutes.

  Once the movers finally set down the last piece of furniture, right at four hours later, I write them out a check and shut the door. Kissie and I collapse on two of the wooden chairs at my breakfast room table.

  “How ’bout a Coke?” I ask her, knowing that the first thing she stocked in the fridge was two six-packs of the little green-bottled Cokes. “Let’s rest a second before we make lunch.”

  “That sounds delicious, baby.” She slightly pushes her chair away from the table.

  I clutch her arm. “I’ll get it. Don’t you move a muscle.” I’m halfway to the fridge when I remember bottles have caps. “Oops, we don’t have an opener.”

  “Oh yes we do. I unpacked it already.” She points behind her. No one in the entire world can set up a kitchen like Kristine King. She’s got an innate method of organizing each kitchen tool in relation to the stove, the sink, or the fridge. “Church key in that drawer right there beside the box. Second one down.” She shortens “icebox” to “box.” After finding it right where she said it would be, I reach into the fridge and take out two ice-cold beverages. I set one down on the table in front of her. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you. Sometime there ain’t nothin’ any finer than this right here.” She holds up the bottle and takes a long swig. “Ahhhh. I thank the Lawd every day He lets me have another.”