Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day

by Ann B. Ross

  “No it’s not. Go get some of that Grease Grabber I bought you and I’ll get it out. I declare, Etta Mae, I told you to leave the plastic covers on. If you’re going to have nice things and keep them nice, you have to take care of them.”

  I heaved a sigh, just done in by one more awful thing happening, and went to the kitchen for the grease cleaner.

  “While you’re looking for it,” Lurline said, getting up from the recliner, “I’ll just use the little girls’ room.”

  And off she went to the bathroom while I stood there trying to say, “No, don’t, it’s broken, wait, I’ll get you something . . .”

  But I couldn’t get a word out before she’d closed the door. I heard her put the seat down and I cringed. Dang that Skip, that’s just the sort of thing Lurline would notice.

  When she screamed, the sound of it bounced from one end of the trailer to the other. The bathroom door slammed open, banging against the wall, and she came running out, jerking and pulling at her Easy Curves girdle. It was halfway down her thighs, making her run with her knees clamped together.

  “There’s a man in your bathroom!” she gasped, her eyes about to pop out of her head. “Etta Mae, there’s a man in there! Right in the shower stall, watching and listening to me use the bathroom!” She hopped and jittered around, rotating her hips back and forth as she struggled to get her girdle up. Then she threw her head back and screamed, “Help! A man’s in here!”

  “For God’s sake, Lurline,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a shake. “Stop that screeching! This is a trailer park, remember? Nobody’ll pay any attention. Now, hush!”

  She looked at me, wild-eyed and frantic, still tugging at her girdle. She had her uniform hiked up around her waist, with the skirttail partly stuffed into the girdle. “Get a knife!” she said, her voice hoarse with the effort to whisper. “Your butcher knife, where is it?”

  I gave her another shake. “We don’t need a butcher knife. Now, just calm down; nobody’s going to hurt us.”

  “But . . . but, there’s a man in the bathroom. We got to protect ourselves till we can get help.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lurline. It’s just ole Skip. Remember? You used to love him to death and he just showed up right before you got here. Skip!” I called. “Come on out here and let Lurline see you.”

  He came sidling out, his head cocked down and grinning like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t’ve been doing. Not an unusual situation for him. She took one look at him, jerked her uniform down in front, and threw her arms around him. “Skip! Oh, honey, where’ve you been, you bad boy? Oh, God, it’s so good to see you. Let me look at you, honey. My goodness, but you look fine, all filled out and handsome as ever.”

  “Hey, Lurline,” Skip said, beaming down at her.

  She hugged him again. “Etta Mae, why didn’t you tell me my favorite boy was back in town?”

  “He didn’t want anybody to know it,” I said, leaning against the counter, disgusted with the welcome she was giving him. I didn’t want Skip to be getting encouragement to stick around any longer than he had to.

  She slapped him playfully on the chest and said, “You ole mean thing, you didn’t want me to know? Why, Skip Taggert, I was always your biggest fan and your best buddy, and you know it.”

  That was a jab at me, because she’d never thought I’d treated him right. Lurline had had a soft spot for Skip ever since he was a tiny boy—he was a cousin or distant nephew, step- or half-something or another. She’d mothered and petted him all through school and our marriage, slipping him money, bailing him out of jail, and taking his side in spite of all evidence to the contrary. She’d been on cloud nine when I married Skip, figuring she’d arranged it all with a bit of help from heaven. Then she’d hardly spoken to me for a year after I kicked him out, giving in long enough, though, to tell me I was selfish and hateful for doing it. It was only after I’d given up on Bernie that she’d seen hope for me again. That’s when she’d paid for my CNA course so I could help her with her business.

  “I sure have missed you, Lurline,” Skip said as he put an arm around her shoulders.

  She stroked his chest, adoring him with her smile. “I knew you’d be back,” she said, like he hadn’t left with a string of creditors after him. “Now, you and Etta Mae kiss and make up, you hear? That’s what I’ve been wanting.”

  “Me, too, Lurline,” Skip said, like a little boy looking to his mother to make things right. “That’s what I want, too.”

  Yeah, I thought as I watched her pet and croon over him with him loving every minute of it, and people in hell want ice water, too.

  I reached over and jerked the back of her skirttail out of her girdle.

  Chapter 7

  “Okay, Skip,” I said, pushing away from the counter. “Let’s get on with it. What’s your big news?”

  “Well, I . . . ah, it’s . . . ah.” He glanced at me over Lurline’s head. Then his eyes flicked up at the ceiling, searching for something to say. Then he brightened with a new thought. “I bought me a motorcycle!”

  “Oh, honey,” Lurline cooed. “That’s wonderful. I hope you got a Harley.”

  “Yeah, a Low Rider. Used, but I got it runnin’ pretty good.”

  Then Skip began to wink and blink at me like he was having a spell of the St. Vitus’ dance. I shrugged. I didn’t care whether he told Lurline his big news or not. It was his secret, and frankly I’d just as soon he kept it.

  Actually, though, Skip was showing some sense for a change. After my recent experience with Lurline and secrets, I didn’t trust her, either.

  All of this went on over Lurline’s head, in more ways than one.

  “Now, Etta Mae,” Lurline said, “do you have a place for this boy to sleep tonight?” She cut her eyes at me, her mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

  “No, I do not. He’ll have to fend for himself, because I don’t take in boarders, company, guests, or ex-husbands.”

  “Oh, you bad girl, you. You can’t just turn him out after his long trip. Where’d you come from, Skip?”

  “Gastonia,” he said. “And I am pretty tired.”

  I rolled my eyes. Gastonia, a two-hour trip. “Sorry,” I said. “There’s no room in this inn. Take him home with you, Lurline, if you’re worried about him. You have more room than I do.”

  “Oh, I will. Come on with me, Skip, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Well, dang, Lurline,” he said. “Me and Etta Mae, we got lots to talk about.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, putting as much starch in the word as I could. “I’m tired. I worked all day, unlike some, and it’s past my bedtime. I’m not about to stay up talking all night.”

  “It’s settled then,” Lurline said. She got her purse from beside the recliner. “We’ll go to my house and let this party pooper get her beauty rest.”

  Skip looked from one to the other of us, clearly befuddled by the decision being made for him. Not an unusual case, by any means.

  “Etta Mae . . .” he began, wanting me to let him stay.

  “Tomorrow,” I said again, unlocking the door and holding it open. “I’ll see you when I get off work. You just stay at Lurline’s until I call you.”

  I hoped he got the message I was sending: if you’re scared, lay low, Lurline’s place is as safe as here. But you never know what Skip gets.

  • • •

  I locked the door behind them. Then I went into the kitchen and put half a pizza, left over from the day before, into the oven. By that time I wasn’t really hungry, but you have to keep your strength up. Especially if you have things to do. Which I did.

  While it heated, I changed into jeans and a cropped tank top. I pulled on my boots, cowboy style that I just loved, and brushed my hair.

  I ate standing at the counter, washing down the pizza with a glass of milk. Not the best ta
ste combination, but I’m real careful about my nutrition. I grew up about half malnourished, so I take a vitamin every day even if they do cost an arm and a leg.

  When I finished, I buckled a fanny pack around my waist, so I’d have my hands free. Cramming my driver’s license, a twenty, and a tube of lip gloss into it, I turned off the lights, locked the door, and left.

  The night air was still and muggy, even though it was September—the hottest and driest one on record—and late enough for the temperature to’ve dropped a few degrees, which it hadn’t done. The car was stifling, but I rolled down the windows and started out, hoping to stir up a breeze.

  There wasn’t much traffic on the highway, and not much more in Delmont. The Porky Park Drive-Thru and the Dairy Queen were doing a good business, and the blocks around the Skyway movie theater were filled with parked cars. I drove slowly around the town square, not wanting to attract any police attention, especially Bobby Lee’s, then turned onto Old Oak Avenue. Three blocks from Main Street, and the fine old houses of Delmont’s rich families began to show up. Well, not exactly show up, because the larger the house the farther back from the street it was and the more trees blocked it from view. There were no cars parked at the curb, because these people had wide driveways and parking courts and garages. When you pulled into one of the long drives, drove under magnolia and maple trees, and around hemlock hedges, it was like closing off the rest of the world.

  When I got to Mr. Howard’s house, I slowed with one eye on the rearview mirror and the other trying to peer through the trees and shrubbery. There were a couple of lights on downstairs, but none outside, so I couldn’t tell if Junior’s car was still there or not. At the end of the street, I turned around and drove past again. From that angle, I saw lights on over the garage, which was what I was hoping for.

  I picked up speed and drove back to the square, parking so that it would look like I was at the movie. Not that anyone would care where I was, but Bobby Lee knew my car and I didn’t want him poking around in my business.

  I walked quickly across the square and down Old Oak, keeping in the shadows as much as I could. When I got to Mr. Howard’s house, I was grateful for the first Mrs. Connard, Senior’s interest in gardening. It was easy enough to glide from one huge azalea bush to another, right up to the stairs on the far side of the garage.

  I tiptoed up the stairs and tapped on the door. The low mumble of the television immediately went off, and so did the lights. I tapped again.

  “Emmett,” I whispered as loud as I dared. “It’s me, Etta Mae Wiggins. I need to talk to you.”

  “What you doin’ here? I don’t need no trouble.” He must have been standing right next to the door.

  “Me either,” I said. “But I’m worried about Mr. Howard. Please, open the door. I’ll only stay a minute.”

  Nothing but silence while Emmett considered where his bread was best buttered. Not that I blamed him. We all do that when we have choices to make.

  Then he unlocked the door and opened it halfway. His white shirt gleamed in the dark, but that was all of him I could make out.

  “Miss Etta, I can’t ax you in,” he said. “You know that wouldn’t be right.”

  “I know, Emmett, and I didn’t come to visit or to get you in trouble. I just need to know what’s going on. How’s Mr. Howard?”

  “Mr. Howard, he so mad he ’bout to blow up. He done cussed Mr. Junior up one side and down the other. ’Course, Mr. Junior don’t know it ’cause he can’t understand him. But I sure can, an’ I ain’t never heard such talk. Why, Miss Etta, he even tried to fight Mr. Junior. Give him a hard swat one time with his good arm.”

  “Oh, me,” I said, agitated now that I couldn’t go in and calm Mr. Howard down. “Emmett, that could lead to another stroke. What’s Junior doing to make him so mad?”

  “Tole him he wadn’t bein’ taken care of here an’ he was takin’ him to Raleigh soon as he could make ’rangements. Tole him peoples’re taking advantage of him here, that peoples was stealin’ from him. Miss Etta, you know I ain’t never stole nothin’ from nobody, specially from Mr. Howard.”

  “Well, that just makes me mad as fire. Of course you haven’t stolen anything. He’s just telling Mr. Howard that to turn him against you so he can get Mr. Howard away from me.”

  “It ain’t right, Miss Etta,” Emmett said, and I could hear the hurt in his voice. “It ain’t right what he’s doin’ to Mr. Howard, and it ain’t right to put the blame on me.”

  “I know it, but it’s really me he’s aiming at. Look, Emmett, we’ve got to do something.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ we can do,” he said, with that hopeless tone that had come too many times from me. That was back before I decided to make some things go my way for a change. “Mr. Junior,” Emmett went on, “he done tole me to pack up what Mr. Howard gonna need, an’ then pack up myself an’ be outta here day after tomorrow. Miss Etta, he firin’ me an’ ain’t nothin’ been said ’bout no pension what Mr. Howard been promisin’ me when I retired. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I been livin’ here come close to twenty year, an’ countin’ on that pension to take care of me when Mr. Howard pass on.”

  He was scared and I could see why. You work all your life for somebody, depend on their promises, and, right when you’re too old to start over again, find out that the promises weren’t worth the breath it took to make them.

  Emmett was probably twice my age, but I already knew what it was like to be afraid of what was coming. Or not coming, as the case might be. My own middle age was getting too close for comfort, especially with no savings, no pension, and no prospects, except for Mr. Howard.

  So right then I decided to make it worth Emmett’s while to help us both out.

  Well, and help Mr. Howard out, too.

  Chapter 8

  The back door of the house slammed and we both jumped a mile. Footsteps crunched on the gravel heading toward the garage.

  “Oh, Lord, that’s Junior,” I whispered, frantic at the thought of being caught and put in jail for trespassing. Which Junior was just mean enough to do. “Let me in, Emmett. Please, if he catches me here, we’re both in trouble.”

  Emmett hesitated a second, then opened the door wide enough for me to slip into the dark room. He closed the door softly, and we both stood trembling, listening to the footsteps coming closer and closer. I could hear Emmett’s breath catch like mine was doing as we waited to hear Junior climb the stairs.

  Instead, the footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and we heard Junior call, “Emmett, you awake? Emmett?”

  I think Emmett stopped breathing then, and my heart skipped a beat as we stood beside each other in the dark, scared out of our wits.

  “Emmett?” Junior called again. Then after a long minute or two, his footsteps scratched on the gravel again as he walked away.

  We stayed still and quiet as we listened, both of us afraid to move. Then we heard a car door open and close, and the sound of a rich GM motor start up. We didn’t move until the car turned around and moved down the driveway.

  “You got to go, Miss Etta,” Emmett whispered. “I can’t take no more chances like that.”

  “Me either,” I whispered back. “But where’s he going this time of night, and why’s he leaving Mr. Howard by himself?”

  “No tellin’ where he goin’,” Emmett said. “Maybe to the Porky Park. That man like to eat, but never what I got in the kitchen for Mr. Howard’s diet. I ’spect he callin’ me to listen out for his daddy while he gone.”

  “Well, I’m getting out of here while the getting’s good,” I said, opening the door and listening to be sure no one was lingering at the foot of the stairs.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, turning back to Emmett. “Why don’t you go with me, and let me sneak in to speak to Mr. Howard?”

  “Uh-uh,” Emmett said, shaking his head. “Don’ ax me to do such
a thing, Miss Etta. He might come back an’ catch us in there. Uh-uh, I can’t do that. No, ma’am.”

  “I won’t stay but a minute,” I pleaded. “I just want to be sure Mr. Howard’s all right.”

  “No’m, I can’t go ’gainst Mr. Junior. No’m, I can’t.”

  I knew there was no budging him, so I asked him to try to find out exactly where Junior planned to take Mr. Howard and let me know. Then I thanked him and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Knowing now how loud footsteps were on the gravel and knowing also that Emmett would be listening, I hurried across the parking area, taking little care to be quiet. Then, halfway down the drive, I slipped between the azalea bushes that lined the edge of the grass of the front yard.

  I squatted down beside a large tree and waited until I thought Emmett would be sure I was gone. Then, moving as quietly as I could, I crossed the yard in front of the house, where I would be out of Emmett’s line of sight and hearing. My worst fear was that Junior would come driving in and I’d be caught in the headlights with my eyes shining like a possum cringing on the center line, but I didn’t let it stop me. Crawling behind the boxwoods next to the house, I edged around the far corner where I was reasonably safe from Junior’s headlights and Emmett’s sharp eyes.

  I eased up to Mr. Howard’s window and poked at the screen. Just as I’d hoped, the window was wide open. Mr. Howard didn’t like air-conditioning, since he suffered from the cold even on the hottest day of the hottest fall we’d ever had. He lived in flannel pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him most of the time.

  I scratched at the screen of the window closest to the head of his bed. “Mr. Howard,” I called softly. “Mr. Howard, it’s me, Etta Mae.”

  I heard the rustle of bedclothes, and I called softly again, not wanting to scare him. “Mr. Howard, how you doing, honey?”

  “Wha’ . . . ?”

  “It’s Etta Mae, I just came by to see if you’re all right.”