by Lisa Patton
“The only problem with these is eight ounces isn’t always enough. I’ll get you one more.”
“No, baby. I can’t have but one. My sugar’s been actin’ up anyway.”
“I thought it was better.”
“One day it is. Next day it ain’t. Dr. Jones says I need to lay off my sweets.” Kissie loves pies, cakes, candy, and especially Hershey’s Kisses. She says she loves the way they melt on her tongue.
I close my eyes and sigh; the last thing I want to hear is that anything is awry with her.
“Kissie is okay—”
A loud knock on the door interrupts her sentence.
“Who in the world?”
“Maybe the movers forgot somethin’,” she says.
I shrug my shoulders. “Finish your Coke, I’ll be right back.”
When I open the front door there’s a man with dark brown hair beaming at me. He’s wearing a black and turquoise windbreaker with “Tupperware,” of all things, written across his right breast. One hand is shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants and the other is holding some sort of orange-colored cleaning product. He’s not bad looking or anything but his hairdo makes me think he’s in the military. It’s a little longer on the top and from what I can tell it seems to be buzzed in the back. “Hi,” I say hesitantly.
“Hi! I’m, Wiley. I live in the house next door.” He takes his left hand out of his pocket and switches hands with the cleaning product before reaching out his right hand to shake mine.
“I’m Leelee Satterfield. Nice to meet you.” I respond as pleasantly as possible when you’re covered in dust and have been cleaning and moving all day long.
“And this is Luke.” He points to the dog at his side. Luke’s not on a leash but he doesn’t move from his perch.
“Hi Luke,” I say, and bend down to pat his head. The pooch looks up at me with appreciation. “What kind is he? A Lab?”
“Half Lab. Half something else, maybe.” The man leans in closer, lowers his voice and speaks out of the side of his mouth. “I got him at the pound. Had a feeling he might be put to sleep.”
“He’s so sweet.” I scratch the dog under his chin and down his back. “We never would want you put to sleep, Luke, never.”
“Watch what you say. He’s pwetty smart.”
“Oh. Gosh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I named him after Luke Skywalker.” Upon hearing his name, Luke peers over at his master. “I see you’re moving in.” He pokes his head in my door and glances around at the living room on the left and the dining room on the right side of the foyer. “Would you like some help?”
“Oh no. You’re nice to ask but you don’t have to do that.”
“I insist. Let me just go put ole Lukey boy up and I’ll be back. Second thought, can he stay in your backyard? That way I can look out on him.”
“Actually … Wiley,” I say, trying to politely come up with an excuse as to why all I want is some peace and quiet.
“It’s not Wiley, it’s Wiley.”
I tilt my head.
“With an aar.”
“Oh my gosh! Excuse me. Riley.” How embarrassing. I feel just awful. He’s obviously got a speech impediment. Now I have to invite him in. “You can let Luke out through the patio door in the den, if you want.”
“Oh no he cain’t!” Kissie hollers from the kitchen. “I just finished vacuumin’ those carpets. I don’t want no big dawg trackin’ mud through this house.”
“Oh he won’t bwing in mud.” Riley puts his hand aside his mouth, and calls from the front door, leaning in toward the foyer, “It’s not wet outside.”
My coy smile lets Riley know that I’m humoring Kissie and I ask him to please take Luke around back. Within a minute flat, Riley’s knocking on the back patio door. Kissie’s closest so she lets him in.
“Kissie, I’d like for you to meet my next-door neighbor, Wiley … I … I mean Riley.” Gosh, Leelee, what’s the matter with you? “Rrriley, this is Ki- Kri-Kiiissie.” At this point I’m so flustered I can’t get anybody’s name right.
Kissie says, “Why hello.”
Riley says, “Hello.”
I say, “What’s your last name, Riley?”
“Bwadshaw,” he says.
Instead of simply leaving well enough alone, I just have to say, “Well, isn’t that just the nicest name? Riley Bwadshaw.”
It’s not until Kissie looks at me with her eyebrows raised that I realize my latest faux pas. “I mean Bradshaw.” I close my eyes and shake my head, completely disgusted with myself.
“I bwought over a housewarming pwesent for you.” He hands me the orange cleaning product he was holding earlier.
“How nice.” After looking at it a moment I place it on the coffee table. “Thank you.”
“Mind if I take off my jacket?” he asks.
“Of course not,” I say. “Where in the world are my manners? Here, I’ll hang it up for you.” I’m so mortified, the man could ask me to buy his house and I’d do it; probably overpay him for it while I’m at it.
Riley removes his jacket and hands it over. Kissie and I, at the exact same time, can’t help but stare bug-eyed at the shirt he’s wearing. It’s the bowling kind with vents on the sides. His is black and the lettering on the breast pocket reads, “Tupperware products can change your life! Ask me how!” To be honest, I’ve never seen the word “Tupperware” on a piece of clothing in my whole life. Nor did it ever once cross my mind that Tupperware clothing even exists, not to mention the life-changing kind. I do everything I can not to look at Kissie; I know one moment of eye contact with her will send me into a laughing attack and lord knows I’ve already offended the man enough.
After a minute or so of unsubtle gestures like poking out the right side of his chest and scratching just below the logo, Riley not-so-inconspicuously turns around, so we can read the writing on the back of his shirt. “TUPPERWARE ROCKS!” is embroidered in all caps and it’s underlined with several red lines, also embroidered. After he stares at the blank wall and makes a comment about how much he likes the beige paint color, he turns back around. It’s obvious that he’s studying our faces, which, rest assured, were quite blank. “I can tell you ladies are dying to know how Tuppa’ware can change your life.”
I’m not dying to know at all, but of course I lie and say, “How can it change my life, Riley?” Out of guilt for my previous faux pas, I nod my head and act like I’m interested. Kissie, on the other hand, doesn’t act in the least bit interested. In fact, by the perturbed look on her face, I can tell she’s well on her way to a stupor.
“All I had to do to get started was give two parties and weport four hundwed dollars in sales,” he says. “Today, I’m at the top of my game. I’ve been on luxuwy vacations, I’ve got a bwand-new car.” As he’s listing, he’s counting on his fingers. “And you should see the furniture I’ve collected over the years. I’m the only male selling in Germantown”—he lowers his voice and closes his eyelids—“it’s a gweat way to meet the ladies.”
Kissie slowly turns her head in my direction. Her eyebrows look like upside-down crescent moons. Between the look on her face and Wiley’s face it takes everything I’ve got to keep my shoulders still.
“Either of you ladies intewested in holding a Tuppa’ware pawty?” Riley takes the jacket back out of my hands and holds it up to show us. Bless his heart. “Professional Tupperware Hunter” is in big neon green letters on the back.
“Just for having one, you can get a stylish Twi-Mountain Highland Jacket like this one. It features a nylon zipper fwont, waglan sleeves, elastic cuffs and waistband, and twin pockets with safety flaps.” He’s pointing to each jacket feature, while holding it up to give us a better look. “See this hidden hood concealed in the collar? For added comfort, it’s got a vented yoke and mesh upper lining. They come in sizes wanging fwom small to double X large.” He turns his glance toward Kissie. “Or, if you’d rather have a bowling shirt, you can get that, too. Ah you a bowler?” he
asks her.
I’m looking at Kissie out of the corner of my eye. Although her butterscotch face doesn’t get red, I know it is anyway on account of her pursed lips and squinty eyes. Riley has her completely unnerved.
“We’ve got a stellar ladies’ team.”
At this point, she’s glaring at the poor thing. “Hm, hm, hm. Do I look like a bowler to you? Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm.”
“You’d be surprised at the vawiety of women on the Tuppa’ware team.”
“I’m goin’ back to the kitchen,” is Kissie’s response to that. “Either there or Bolivar,” she mutters up under her breath as she’s walking off.
Bolivar is home to an old Tennessee mental institution. You can’t grow up anywhere near Memphis without hearing about how so-and-so is going to end up in Bolivar if they aren’t careful. Anytime I’d get in trouble Mama used to say, “You’re gonna send me to Bolivar.” The funny thing is Bolivar is just the name of the town that houses the Western State Mental Hospital. Everyone has just shortened it to Bolivar.
Riley never stops talking. Instead of helping me unpack he strolls around my house analyzing every piece of furniture I own. Since I don’t know him all that well, I figure I better stay right with him. I mean, who’s to know? When he walks through the dining room he halts in front of my antique sideboard. “Wow! That’s an expensive piece. Where’d you get it?” He runs his hand over the top and examines his fingers for dust.
“That came from my grandmother,” I tell him.
“Pwetty darn nice. I tell you what, though. It could stand a good coat of polish. I’ll be wight back.” He heads out the dining room door that leads through the kitchen where Kissie is, and sprints right back through holding my housewarming present. “This is a bwand-new bottle of Owange Glo wood polish and conditioner. ‘It’s got a bwilliant luster that fills the air with the natural scent of fwesh owanges.’” He holds up the bottle, squirts a bit into the air and sniffs.
As soon as the words leave his lips, Kissie’s hm, hm, hming again. I can hear her all the way in the kitchen. “No, Riley.” She’s in the doorway now with her hands on her hips. “I ain’t puttin’ no Orange Glo on Miz William’s mother’s sideboard. We’ve been usin’ Harrell’s Paste Wax long as I been workin’ here.” She strolls over to her stash of cleaning supplies and brings over her own can of Harrell’s to show Riley. “I’mo do it myself. Hm, hm, hm.”
Riley says, “How much did you pay for that Hawell’s?”
Kissie says, “Something like twenty-three dollars.”
Riley says, “This Owange Glo retails for six ninety-nine,” and an ear-to-ear smile spreads across his face.
She squints her eyes again and pops her hand on that big hip of hers. “That’s cuz it’s so cheap!”
“It’s even cheaper if you buy it by the liter.” Riley chuckles and snaps his fingers in the air, completely clueless to Kissie’s dismay. “It cleans and shines wood finishes thwoughout your home in one easy step. It contains pure Valencia owange oil to wevive your wood, westore its luster, and wemove dirt, gwease, and wax buildup. It’s also gweat on stainless steel, cewamic tile, and fiberglass to wemove gwease, soap film, gum, and stickers.”
Kissie is so quiet, she’s seething through her teeth—I know she’s mad when her voice drops low, “Who are you anyway? A salesman for Orange Glo?”
“Not at the moment. But I can’t say it won’t be in my future!”
“Hm, hm, hm,” Kissie chants, loudly. “Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm.”
“You are wight about one thing, though. I am a salesman. Tuppa’ware and Cutco, both. Ever had a Cutco demonstwation?”
Kissie is flat done with Riley. “No, and I don’t want one, neither. We have lots of work to do in this house, Riley. Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to be gitting back to our unpackin’.”
“I’ll be glad to help.”
“No thank you.” Kissie places her hand on Riley’s shoulder and leads him to the back patio door where Luke’s nose is pressed up against the plate glass, smudging up the sliding door that Kissie cleaned earlier with Windex. “You go on back home now, you hear? Come back another day.” She slides the door shut behind him and flips the lock.
I wave at him through the glass.
“Do you think we’ve hurt his feelings? I bet he won’t be back here any time soon,” I say.
“Not only will he be back, you won’t be able to git rid of that man. You wait and see if ole Kissie ain’t right.”
Kissie is right about one thing. We still have hours of work to do. And if the sound of my stomach gets much louder I’ll have to eat that horse Kissie’s always talking about.
“How about a late lunch?” I ask her.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” she says.
“You always say that.”
“That’s cuz my people always said it.”
Chuckling to herself, Kissie reaches in the fridge and pulls out turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, and a new jar of Hellmann’s. She makes my sandwich first and sets it down in front of me. Strolling back to the kitchen counter, she finds a cutting board and places it down on the Formica. With a knife she’s expertly filed on a sharpening stone, she begins to slice a medium-size sweet onion.
Slicing Vidalia onions isn’t the only way they make me cry. Just their scent brings tears to my eyes.
* * *
I’m not sure which was redder, my face or my hair. The shorter strands around my forehead had fallen out of my high ponytail and were damp with perspiration. When I pushed them away from my eyes I could see Kissie’s large frame ambling toward me.
“Leelee. Leelee. Come here, chile.”
I stomped my foot when she caught up with me. “No, Kissie.” The last thing I wanted to do was leave the neighborhood dodge ball game.
She was holding a wet towel in her hand that had been soaking in a bucket of ice water. Grabbing me by the arm, she pulled me over to the side. “Sit down a minute.”
Reluctantly, I fell to the ground.
Kissie leaned down over me and wrapped the cold cloth around my neck. Right away I could feel my body temperature start to fall. “It’s ninety-eight degrees out here. Either you take a minute to cool yourself down or you’re gonna come inside for good.” Her face was right up in my face, the remnant of lunch on her breath. The onions from her favorite sandwich—raw Vidalias, tomatoes, and homemade mayo on Wonder bread—stunk to high heaven. I reared my head back to escape the odor.
My arms were crossed over my bent knees and the grass tickled the backs of my clammy thighs. I scowled and pouted at Kissie as I watched the game going on without me.
It seemed like forever but only five minutes passed before she removed the towel from around my neck. “Go on back now.”
Before running off, I wrapped my little arms around her waist.
* * *
I can’t slice, chop, or smell a Vidalia onion without thinking about that day. Or how much I love her. Kissie took better care of me than my own mother.
As I’m watching Kissie fix her favorite sandwich, the corners of my eyes moisten and a tear seeps out of my eye, trickling down over my chin onto my neck.
* * *
I bet I’ve checked my phone ten times today. Why hasn’t Peter called me back? It’s not like him, I keep thinking. Only seven days ago we shared a spellbinding kiss and I heard the words, “I’ve wanted to tell you for months how much I care about you. And how beautiful you are, inside and out.” Surely, there’s no way he could have forgotten his words.
Virgy brings Sarah and Issie over around six and Alice and Mary Jule are right behind them with plenty of takeout from Pete & Sam’s, Daddy’s favorite restaurant and another famous Memphis landmark. I’d been craving their barbecue pizza and garlic spinach for the last year and a half. Even Sarah and Isabella like the spinach—the garlic and parmesan cheese hiding any bitterness the spinach has otherwise.
As I knew they would, the girls approve of my new rental and promise to help me deco
rate in the weeks ahead. Alice even offers to drive Kissie home, a proposal I can’t refuse. By eight o’clock, the two of us can hardly hold our eyes open. I had to insist she lie down earlier, after we ate our late lunch. After all she’s almost three times my age.
Sarah and Issie love their new room. Today is quite a contrast from the day they first eyed their new bedroom in Vermont, which could barely fit twin beds with one nightstand in between, let alone a dresser. Baker, who had arrived three weeks before us, had not bothered to make their beds or arrange any of their toys. In this house, the bedroom is plenty large enough for both girls. We have painting to do, that’s for sure, but at least the beds are made, their clothes are in the closet and Barbie’s 3-Story Dream Townhouse is in the corner. Barbie and Ken are fully clothed and their wardrobes are hung in Barbie’s trunk. The stuffed animals are stacked in the corners and their Fantasy Vanity is set up with makeup, nail polish, and hairbrushes in place.
Speaking of bedrooms, mine looks like Hearst Castle, compared to the shoe box I slept in back in Vermont. I will never ever forget, no matter what happens to me when I’m old, the look on Alice’s face when she first saw that my great-grandmother’s canopy bed was the only stick of furniture that could fit inside my bedroom. In this house it fits perfectly and I have a nightstand on either side.
After the girls are asleep, I crawl on top of the mattress and try watching a little TV. When I turn on the ten o’clock news, a tranquility washes over me and I can feel the tension in my body start to subside. There’s Al Blakley and Lisa Murphey, both twenty-five year veterans at WZCQ, welcoming me back to town with their warm familiar faces. Only a few minutes pass before a commercial airs and I’m back to the world inside my head.
His kiss was just as I’d imagined it would be. At first I was embarrassed and shy. With George Clark and all of Fairhope, Vermont, watching who wouldn’t be? But when he reached up and held my face in his hands, after ripping off his gloves, the outside world melted away. I’d been staring at those perfect teeth and supple, pink lips for months, all the while wondering what it would be like to have them touching mine. Would his kiss be tender? Or would it be frantic, imbued with abandon? I’d thought about it over and over. But I didn’t want to go too far with my thoughts. Suppose he didn’t want me? Suppose I was merely his friend—a platonic liaison. And now, I’ve not been able to think of anything else but his kiss. His face moving in toward mine plays over and over in my head. I can see his eyes, as blue as the inside of a lovely conk shell, hovering before mine—and the tenderness of their story. He wanted me. He needed me. It was real. So why hasn’t he called me back? It scares me to think that he may have been just another man telling me just another story. Using me to get what he wanted. After all, he did work for me. I was the one paying his salary. No! Peter is different.