A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2)

by Karin Gillespie

  “Suggestions?” Chenille swallowed nervously. “I didn’t seem them as suggestions. I saw them more as...”

  Mrs. Schmatt studied her from beneath her bush of bangs.

  “Attacks,” Chenille said softly. “On the way I run my classroom.”

  Mrs. Schmatt’s eyes widened, as if she was genuinely shocked by Chenille’s statement. “Ms. Grace, I’m the para-facilitator; you’re the teacher. It’s not my place to be telling you what to do in your classroom. If you see my friendly suggestions as attacks, I’ll just keep my mouth shut from here on out.”

  “Mrs. Schmatt, you’re misunderstanding me. I want to hear your ideas. I just—” Chenille lowered her voice to a near whisper. “It’s the way you present them. You’re so...gruff.”

  Mrs. Schmatt tensed. “So now it’s my personality you don’t like. Just who is attacking who around here?”

  “I’m not attacking you,” Chenille said helplessly. “I’m not like that. Why, my last para-facilitator, Mrs. Birchfield, thought I was a lovely person.”

  “Yeah. Birchie told me all about you,” Mrs. Schmatt said with a smirk.

  “Birchie?”

  “That’s Birchfield’s nickname at the central office. I ran into her when she was filling out her retirement paperwork. She said I’d get along fine with you, just as long as I kept my mouth shut and did everything you said. Boy, did she have you nailed!”

  “Mrs. Birchfield talked about me? Behind my back?” Chenille said, flabbergasted. “I don’t believe you.”

  Mrs. Schmatt clapped her hands over her ears. “Don’t yell at me. I may be just a para-facilitator, but I don’t have to take this kind of abuse.”

  “I’m not yelling.”

  Chenille couldn’t get the image out of her mind. Mrs. Schmatt and Mrs. Birchfield (Birchie, indeed!), thick as thieves in the central office, comparing notes and cackling over her failings as an educator.

  It couldn’t be true. Why, surely Mrs. Birchfield, with her Peter Pan collars and hand-knitted sweaters, would be appalled by the spandex-clad visage that was Mrs. Schmatt. Still, there was that fine line of hierarchy between teacher and para-facilitator. Maybe Mrs. Birchfield had resented Chenille’s authority over her. Maybe all those afghans she knitted were actually a way to channel her bitterness. Chenille racked her brain, trying to remember a time when she might have inadvertently squelched Mrs. Birchfield’s spirit, but she couldn’t recall a single unpleasant incident in their entire ten-year history.

  Chenille shook her head in bewilderment. “I had no idea she felt that way. When it came time to do the bulletin boards, I always let her choose the theme.”

  “Look, Ms. Grace, I wouldn’t get all broke up about Birchie. I’d just appreciate it if you wouldn’t take your anger at her out on me.”

  “I’m not angry,” Chenille said in a clipped tone.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  Chenille had always considered herself a pleasant person, easy to get along with, but maybe she’d been kidding herself. Was it possible that she had the personality of a despot and Mrs. Schmatt was just the first person to call her on it?

  She wrung her hands. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schmatt, if I’ve been too overbearing. Certainly, I will welcome any of your suggestions.”

  “I’d like to help out some more. Sometimes I feel like this big useless lump,” Mrs. Schmatt said with a sad little frown.

  Chenille felt an unexpected tug of sympathy for this poor hulk of a woman. Was Mrs. Schmatt’s bearish behavior just an act to cover up her needy, sensitive side?

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Chenille said, genuine contriteness shining in her eyes.

  Mrs. Birchfield had always been so content with her knitting—or so she’d led Chenille to believe—that Chenille had never imagined that Mrs. Schmatt might feel unproductive.

  “Please feel free to do whatever you’d like to help out,” Chenille said.

  “Even when it comes to telling them kids what to do?” Mrs. Schmatt asked with a zealous little smile.

  “Whatever you think is necessary,” Chenille said.

  They were words she would soon regret.

  Since their talk, Chenille had tried to involve Mrs. Schmatt in more classroom routines. Her assistant was now responsible for writing all the lessons on the board as part of her regular duties. Unfortunately, she was a terrible speller.

  Chenille peeked out of her classroom window once more to make sure Mrs. Schmatt wasn’t coming back, and when she didn’t see her, she picked up a piece of chalk and changed “asigment” to “assignment.” Considering their fragile relationship, she didn’t want to embarrass the woman by correcting her spelling mistakes outright.

  The bell rang, and Chenille stood outside her classroom waiting for her sixth-period students to file in. She tried to behave as if every school day was fresh and new, unmarred by any unpleasant history, though her heart couldn’t help but sink as the teenagers tramped in the room, bringing their laughter, hoots, and general mayhem into her classroom. Mrs. Schmatt also strolled in, smelling like Chernobyl from smoking Kools in the cab of her pickup truck. Chenille nodded congenially and then shut the door of the classroom as the tardy bell rang.

  A journal topic was up on the board, and students knew they were supposed to begin writing as soon as they sat down in their seats. Trouble was, nobody was sitting. Two boys by the pencil sharpener were making obscene undulating movements with their hips, to the delight of a bevy of girls. Three young men were huddled around a computer, surfing the Internet. Nothing educational, she’d wager. Web pages like thuglife.com or hotgirls.net kept appearing in her history cache. The rest of the class milled about the room in a stupor, like patients on a mental ward.

  “We need to sit down, young people, and we need to work on our journals,” Chenille said with a clap of her hands. Her announcement had as much impact as a sneeze during a tsunami.

  “Young people, please,” she continued. “If you’ll just listen—”

  “SHUT YOUR TRAPS AND SIT DOWN!” Mrs. Schmatt bellowed from her desk, waving a yardstick in a menacing manner.

  Stunned students hurried to their seats like fiddler crabs scuttling to burrows. Chenille stared at Mrs. Schmatt in horror.

  “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you smart-mouthed kids,” Mrs. Schmatt wheezed, whacking the yardstick against the side of her desk. “You can go ahead and teach now, Ms. Grace.”

  “Yes. Well.” Chenille glanced at Mrs. Schmatt, who gave her a nod of encouragement. “Please remain quiet and start your assignment.”

  She was so shaken it was all she could do to monitor her students’ work lesson. Mrs. Schmatt had undermined her authority and had behaved in a grossly unprofessional manner. No matter how much she dreaded it, Chenille would be forced to confront her assistant after class to prevent any further outbursts.

  The classroom remained quiet for five minutes, and then a couple of giggles erupted in the last row. Steven McPhee was up to his usual nonsense. He waved an imaginary yardstick and puffed up his cheeks in a chillingly accurate imitation of Mrs. Schmatt.

  “Steven—” Chenille began.

  Mrs. Schmatt shot up from her seat. “Let me handle this, Ms. Grace.” She stalked over to Steven’s seat and hovered over him. “You got a problem with me, boy?”

  Steven glanced helplessly in Chenille’s direction. “What’s wrong with her, Ms. Grace? Tell her to leave me alone.”

  “Mrs. Schmatt—” Chenille began.

  The large woman continued to loom over Steven. “I’m tired of listening to your yammering. If I hear one more word out of you, I’ll have your hide.”

  After delivering her threat, she plodded back to her desk and tore open a bag of cheese curls. Chenille felt woozy, as if she’d just gotten off the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the fai
r. Whatever tenuous hold she’d had over her classroom was slipping from her fingers and into Mrs. Schmatt’s oversize palms.

  Chenille collected the journals and began a lesson on dependent clauses. She stuttered in front of the class while Mrs. Schmatt, seemingly oblivious to the upset she’d caused, contentedly sucked cheese dust from her thumb and forefinger. Forty-five minutes until the bell rings, Chenille thought as she sagged against the chalkboard. Then she’d have to stand up to Mrs. Schmatt.

  More tittering came from the back row. Chenille ignored the noise and raised her voice a notch. “The difference between an independent clause and a dependent clause is that the independent clause—”

  “What’s that racket back there?” demanded Mrs. Schmatt.

  “What’s that racket back there?” came Steve’s sassy reply.

  “An independent clause can stand on its—”

  “I warned you, boy,” Mrs. Schmatt said. She pulled open her drawer and waved a shiny object in front of her face. It took Chenille a couple of seconds to realize she was holding a machete.

  “Mrs. Schmatt. My God! What are you doing?” Chenille gasped.

  Mrs. Schmatt ignored her and lumbered over to Steven, slicing the air with her machete.

  “No! Stop!” Chenille pleaded. She was rooted to her spot by the chalkboard and could only watch in horror as Mrs. Schmatt swung her arm back.

  Steven’s mouth fell open and the girls sitting around him scattered. Everyone’s eyes watched the blade of the machete as it slowly swooshed through the air. Just before it could cut into the soft, pale skin of Steven’s throat, Chenille let out one last feeble shriek. Then she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

  Four

  “I Only Miss You On Days That End in J”

  ~ Selection C-8 on the Chat ‘N’ Chew jukebox

  The last thing Chiffon felt like doing that evening was hosting a baby shower, but she couldn’t let Elizabeth down. After all, it was her best friend’s first pregnancy, and Elizabeth had gushed over every aspect of it, from her swelling belly to the blurry black-and-white sonogram pictures she flashed at every opportunity. Last night she’d called Chiffon and spent thirty minutes fretting over her choice of maternity dresses for the shower. She’d be heartbroken if it was canceled.

  While Mavis ran out to the grocery store for some last-minute items, Chiffon mixed green sherbet with ginger ale into a cut-glass punch bowl on her kitchen table. Stirring the punch, she picked up the phone and dialed Lonnie’s hotel room again. As usual, there wasn’t any answer.

  “Darn it!” Chiffon said, slamming down the receiver. The noise startled the baby, who had been snoozing in her carrier on the kitchen floor. Gabby whimpered, and Chiffon popped a bottle in her mouth.

  As she turned her attention back to the punch, she wondered for the zillionth time if she could have been mistaken about seeing Lonnie on Hollywood Hijinks. Maybe it was someone who just looked like Lonnie. Had Chiffon automatically jumped to conclusions because of her husband’s low-down past? When she’d questioned Birdie, Attalee, and Mavis, they all said the image on the TV screen had been too fuzzy to say for certain. But if it hadn’t been Lonnie, why wasn’t he in his room last night?

  “Mama. Can I eat one of these little cakes?” Her daughter Emily had come into the kitchen and was poking a finger into the pale pink frosting of one of the petits fours that Mavis had gotten from the bakery.

  “Just one,” Chiffon said. “And I want you to keep Dewitt busy while the ladies are here. Y’all can play a game of Old Maid or Chinese checkers in your room while Mama is having her party.”

  “When’s Daddy coming home?” Emily asked.

  “Sunday afternoon. We’ll drive over to the airport in Augusta and see him zoom in on one of those big jets,” Chiffon said.

  Once Lonnie arrived at the terminal and she saw his face, she would know for certain if he’d strayed. That man couldn’t hide anything from her.

  Gabby dropped her bottle, her head lolling back as if she’d drunk too much wine. Chiffon picked her up to check her diaper. In her arms, the baby felt soft and heavy as a mesh bag full of ripe peaches. As she lay Gabby back down in the carrier, someone knocked on the kitchen door.

  “Come in!” Chiffon hollered, and Mavis stuck her head inside.

  “Hey, Mavis,” Chiffon said, taking a brown bag of groceries from her.

  Mavis stood in Chiffon’s kitchen, stamping her rubber boots on the straw mat just inside the door. She smiled at Emily, who waved and scooted to her bedroom in stocking feet.

  “Birdie’s laid up with a bad cold, so she won’t be coming,” Mavis said as she picked through the bags. “I hope I didn’t forget anything.”

  “I’m sure you got it all covered.”

  Mavis pulled a box of Sociable crackers from her shopping bag. “Saw Maynard yesterday afternoon. Said you weren’t out at the Wagon Wheel anymore.”

  Pretending she hadn’t heard Mavis, Chiffon arranged sprigs of parsley around a platter of cold cuts. She wasn’t in the mood to discuss the scene she’d made at the restaurant.

  “I could always use someone at the Bottom Dollar,” Mavis said, measuring her voice as carefully as a pharmacist doles out sleeping pills. “That is, if you’re interested.”

  “I appreciate it, Mavis, but I talked with Jewel at the Chat ‘N’ Chew today. One of her waitresses quit, and she said she could use me on the weekday lunch shift.”

  Mavis’s brow bunched with concern. She obviously had more questions buzzing between her ears, but she wasn’t a busybody, so she held her tongue.

  The door opened and Elizabeth burst in, pink-cheeked and swollen as a plum.

  “I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait another second,” she said, unfurling a plaid scarf from her neck. “Timothy shooed me out the door. He was tired of all my pacing.” She came inside and stood at the threshold of the living room. “Oh my goodness, Chiffon. It looks so festive in here!”

  Chiffon surveyed the room that she and the other women had decorated with streamers and balloons. In the middle of it all was Lonnie’s blasted pool table. Chiffon had covered it with a white crepe paper tablecloth and set the refreshments on top of it. The pastel finery looked out of place against the dark wood paneling and the camouflage-print curtains.

  “Thanks, Elizabeth. I gave it my best shot,” Chiffon said, taking her friend’s coat and scarf.

  Her remaining guests trickled in. Mavis pinned a pacifier corsage on Reeky Flynn, who clutched together her wool sweater as she came through the door. A few minutes later Grace Tobias, Elizabeth’s grandmother, swept in wearing a mink pillbox hat with a cape to match.

  “My goodness, Chiffon! Your house is painted such an unusual color,” she said as she slipped out of her cape. “What would you call that? Magenta?”

  It was actually Mulberry Bush. At least that’s what the dried-out paint cans in the shed out back said on the labels.

  “I’m constantly after Lonnie to take a paintbrush to this place,” Chiffon muttered. “I tell him purple is for grape juice and dinosaurs, not houses. But I still haven’t been able to get his butt out on a scaffold.”

  Mrs. Tobias gave her fur cape a little good-bye pat before she surrendered it to Chiffon. “Well, it certainly makes your home easy to find,” she said with a smile.

  Attalee arrived, toting a coconut cake in a Tupperware tub, and the ladies gathered in the living room. Chiffon had covered the couch with a quilt to disguise the splits in the vinyl and all the stains from Lonnie’s dogs and the kids. She’d also prettified some borrowed folding chairs with pink ribbons, but despite her best efforts, the room still looked dark and masculine.

  Not that Elizabeth cared. She oohed and ahhed as if the ginger-ale punch was Dom Pérignon and the cocktail weenies were caviar.

  Chiffon tried to rememb
er if she’d been half as excited as Elizabeth when she was pregnant with her first baby. She recalled fierce cravings for banana Icees and cream cheese sandwiches. And she’d diligently rubbed olive oil on her belly every night before bed, because she’d heard it prevented stretch marks. Not so with her last baby. She’d let the thin yellow lines have full run of her birth-battered body.

  “Timothy’s been a treasure,” Elizabeth said with color so high she looked almost feverish. “I can’t tell you how many times he’s gone out in the middle of the night for pistachio ice cream.”

  When Chiffon was pregnant and had a yen for a banana Icee during the wee hours of the morning, it was she, not Lonnie, who slipped into some shoes and drove to the all-night Quick Curb.

  “Have you thought about getting a doula, Elizabeth?” Reeky asked, blinking through her granny glasses. She was pale, with long, straight hair that hung in her face like a dun-colored curtain.

  “A whosa?” Attalee asked.

  “Doula,” Elizabeth said, patting Attalee’s scrawny wrist. “A doula is someone who helps the mother during labor. Almost like a handmaiden.”

  “If you’re considering using one, I know a lovely woman in Augusta,” Reeky said. “She specializes in labor with aromatherapy, and she also has a birthing ball.”

  Attalee tugged at the lace collar of her dress. “I don’t mean to be scaring you none, Elizabeth, but when that young ‘un tears you in two like a wishbone, you ain’t going to be in the mood for no ball game.”

  “A birthing ball isn’t to play with, Attalee,” Reeky said with a sigh. She owned the Book Nook and Novelties shop on Main Street and was always up on the latest trends. “It’s an oversize ball that helps the mother find a comfortable position while she’s in labor.”

  Attalee thrust out her chin. “I don’t cotton to these newfangled ways of having a baby. Women should have their young ‘uns the way God intended them to. Flat on their backs and doped up on ether.”