A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2)

by Karin Gillespie

  A cry of self-pity welled up in her throat, but she swallowed it back. Buck up, Chenille. No wonder Walter didn’t want to be near her! She needed to quit languishing in bed and start looking for a job. If only she weren’t pinned to the mattress by some kind of invisible force field.

  On the day after she’d lost her job, Chenille had gotten up at 5:45 a.m. as usual. She’d consumed her customary breakfast of Grape Nuts with blueberries and a cup of decaf. She’d dressed in her nicest outfit, an ecru suit with lavender piping, accessorized with her pearl-inlaid filigree heart and matching earrings.

  Leaving her home at seven o’clock on the dot with the Bible Grove Courier and her resume in hand, she’d driven three miles down the road to the Prospect Employment Agency. There she waited in the parking lot for nearly a half hour, until a mousy woman in a cheap brown suit opened the door for business. Chenille marched inside the agency, a self-assured smile on her face. She addressed the woman behind the desk in a clear, strong voice.

  “I read your advertisement in the paper—the one with the ‘Jobs Galore’ headline—and I drove right over.”

  The woman frowned. “Can I see that advertisement?”

  Chenille surrendered the paper to her. She’d circled the ad several times with a permanent black marker.

  The woman, who had a dusting of Danish crumbs on her lip, squinted at the ad.

  “This is a typo. It should have read ‘job galore,’ because I’ve got only one listing right now.” She peered at Chenille. “You aren’t by chance a journeyman welder?”

  “No,” Chenille said, puzzled. “You have just one job?”

  “Yup,” she said with a nod.

  “As a welder?”

  “Journeyman welder.”

  “But the word ‘galore’ means ‘in great numbers’ or ‘an abundance,’” Chenille said in a puzzled tone. “It can’t refer to just one job.”

  The woman took a noisy slurp of her coffee. “What are you? Some kind of English teacher?”

  “Yes, actually, I am. Or rather I was.”

  The woman stared at her. “Wait a minute. You’re not that English teacher that everyone in town’s talking about, are you?”

  Chenille’s skin prickled at the collar of her blouse. “I have no idea to whom you are referring.”

  “The psycho one who tried to cut off some kid’s head with a chain saw.”

  “Good grief! It wasn’t a chain saw. It was a plastic machete, and I didn’t—”

  “It is you, isn’t it?” The woman went pale. She seized a letter opener on her desk and wielded it at Chenille with a shaking hand. “Look, I don’t want any trouble here. If you don’t leave peaceably, I’ll have to call the police.”

  Right after Chenille left Prospect Employment Agency, she took to her bed, where she’d been ever since. Each night before she went to sleep, she promised herself that she would get up early and start making the rounds with her resume, if not in Bible Grove, then in some of the surrounding cities like Pickens, Easley, or even Greenville.

  But every morning, as the streaks of sunlight stippled her bedclothes, an overwhelming feeling of fatigue flattened her to the mattress. Simple tasks like fastening the buttons of her blouse or squeezing toothpaste from the tube seemed to require a superhuman kind of strength that she didn’t possess. So she stayed underneath her flannel sheets and down comforter, one arm snaking out beneath the covers to find the remote, and remained there for the entire day, except to attend to Walter’s needs or snag a bite to eat from the fridge.

  A commercial for a business college interrupted her show. Chenille yawned. How she could be so tired after sleeping twelve hours each night?

  “Get on the fast track with your degree in information technology, medical assistance, or accounting,” said a fresh-faced woman in a nurse’s cap.

  What exactly does a medical assistant do? Chenille tried to imagine herself in a spotless white lab coat, working elbow-to-elbow with a wavy-haired, cleft-chinned physician. Their eyes would meet over a test tube and he would say, “Miss Grace, you’ve no idea how much I admire your dedication to pathology.”

  She foraged in her nightstand drawer for a pencil to copy down the toll-free number on the screen, but by the time she’d struggled out of the covers, another commercial was on.

  “If you, or someone you know, has been injured in an accident, call Schlager and Schlager, attorneys at law.”

  During the day, there was no shortage of ads for people in debt, out of work, or in need of a quick loan. Chenille was being indoctrinated into a brand-new subculture. At the rate she was declining, who knew when she might need the services of Pawn Auto or No-Questions-Asked Loan Company.

  Just as the commercial break ended, the phone rang, startling her. Chenille had no idea who could be on the other line; she received so few calls. The ringing was muffled, as if the phone was wedged under one of the many pillows on her bed. Before she could locate it, the answering machine clicked on and Chenille heard her mother’s voice.

  “Chenille? Are you there? Your sister has gone and sprained her ankle. Can you imagine? And her with a baby and two other children to care for. I blame that husband of hers. If Lonnie hadn’t got mixed up in this latest terrible business, Chiffon wouldn’t have been so distracted and slipped on that cooking oil.”

  Chenille clucked her tongue with disapproval. Lonnie’s “terrible business” could have been any number of things. He was one of those foolhardy Southern men who were always finding themselves in hot water.

  “Obviously I can’t help her take care of those kids, not with my trip to Europe coming up. Thank the Lord you’re in the position to lend a hand. It shouldn’t be for more than a couple of weeks. Please call me just as soon as you get this message.”

  Ten

  Some family trees bear lots of nuts.

  ~ Cross-stitch in Chenille Grace’s bedroom

  Last Christmas, Chenille had needed an entire week just to decompress from her annual visit to Cayboo Creek. And that was after seeing her sister and mother for only a weekend. It was hard to imagine spending fourteen days or more in her sister’s company.

  Still, she knew she had no choice but to help out. Family was family, even if they did make her break out in hives. What kind of person would she be if she didn’t help her flesh and blood when they needed her most?

  After calling her mother to say she was on her way, she forced herself to get out of bed and stand under a hot shower. Toweling off, she dressed in red leggings, a plaid jumper, and a matching fringed poncho with pom-poms at the hem. Then she dressed Walter in a Chesterfield topcoat that matched her jumper. She’d half expected him to protest, but he willingly slipped into the garment, as if he sensed the new sense of purpose in the air. She then packed her bags, a set for herself and one for Walter, and just before leaving, she left a note for her neighbor, asking her to collect mail and newspapers.

  On her way out of town, Chenille filled up her car at the convenience store and purchased a bottle of spring water and a tin of breath mints for the trip. While she waited in line to pay, she glanced at the magazine rack and was astonished to see her brother-in-law on the cover of People magazine. So this was the terrible business her mother had referred to on the phone! Lonnie was fooling around with the movie star Janie-Lynn Lauren. How awful for Chiffon! She had to be devastated.

  After gassing up, Chenille double-checked the straps on Walter’s booster seat, set her trip odometer, and sped off to the sounds of Michael Bolton singing “Soul Provider.” As she traveled, rain occasionally specked the windshield, and the unvaried landscape of fallow cotton fields and ruddy soil made her sleepy. When she reached the halfway point to Cayboo Creek, she could pick up only country stations riddled with static, so she snapped off the radio and listened to the low thrumming of the motor.

  “It�
��ll be nice to be around children again. Don’t you think so, Walter? There’s a baby in the house now.”

  Chenille had driven to Cayboo Creek for a day visit when Gabby was first born, but she’d only caught a glimpse of the baby’s wrinkled red face through the large window in the hospital nursery. That was back in September. The little girl would be about six months old by now. She wondered if she’d be expected to lend a hand with Gabby, not completely trusting herself with very small children. They tended to be slippery.

  Chenille vaguely knew Chiffon’s two older children. She’d visited with them on the occasional holiday, and each Christmas she went to the Busy Minds store in the mall and selected age-appropriate, educational toys as gifts for them. Emily seemed quiet enough, studious even. But Dewitt was more rambunctious. Once he’d tried to engage Walter in some rough-and-tumble play, and her dog had signified his outrage by nipping the boy on the ankle.

  Chenille stole a look at a panting Walter in the backseat.

  “Are you feeling okay, sweetie? Are you overheated? You look so distinguished in your coat.”

  She rolled down the backseat window an inch or so, hoping to stave off any carsickness. Chenille softly whistled “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo” while she observed a forest of kudzu-shrouded trees. She noticed an abandoned lean-to shack with a homemade billboard advertising boiled peanuts. As she passed a peach grove, she saw the first sign for Cayboo Creek. The closer she got to her hometown, the more unsettled her stomach became. Maybe things would be different this time. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so out of place with her mother and sister.

  “Ha! And maybe Walter will decide to take up needlepoint,” Chenille murmured to herself. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d felt even remotely comfortable around her family. As a preteen, she used to fantasize that she was the long-lost daughter of Ethel Kennedy. It made sense to her, as she shared none of the curvy blond prettiness of her mother and sister. Instead, she had boyish limbs and a decided horsiness to her features, much like the Kennedy women. She imagined she’d been accidentally left behind on an outing to Hyannis Port. It was plausible. Ethel had eleven children. Was it such a stretch that one had been overlooked? It would explain why she was inept with a Dial-a-Lash mascara wand and a curling iron and why she didn’t look like a hybrid of Elle McPherson and Dolly Parton. How many times had she been out with her sister and mother and heard people remark, “Chenille must look like her father”?

  If only her father had been RFK instead of Byron Grace, a window cleaner, who, over thirty years ago, had driven away from his family in a van emblazoned with the slogan YOUR PANE IS OUR PLEASURE.

  Eventually Chenille had to let go of the notion that she belonged in Greenwich, Connecticut, instead of Cayboo Creek. She no longer daydreamed about playing touch football within the walls of the Kennedy compound or consulting her aunt Jackie for fashion advice. But if she couldn’t be a Kennedy, she had decided she would escape the home where she felt like such an oddity.

  Except for occasional visits, she’d been able to keep her sister and mother at bay for a little over twenty years. Now she was driving straight back into her family’s well-endowed bosoms, where she would remain for fourteen days. She sighed. Her former life in Bible Grove already seemed a million miles away.

  Eleven

  The problem with the gene pool is there’s no lifeguard.

  ~ Sign tacked to a bulletin board in the Senior Center

  Chiffon stared into the burnt mess at the bottom of her Cup O’ Noodles. Did Wanda really expect her to eat this?

  “Mama?” Chiffon called out softly. When she didn’t get an answer, she raised her voice a notch. “Mama? Where are you?”

  Wanda, who’d been in the children’s room, poked her head into the living room. Wearing a look of pure disgust, she held a diaper at arm’s length. “What are you yelling about?”

  “I’m not yelling, Mama. I just—” She looked again into her Cup O’ Noodles. “Did you put water in this?”

  “Water?” Wanda snatched the noodle container from Chiffon’s hand. “Oh, for pity’s sake. You should have told me it needed water. ‘Just heat it up in the microwave,’ you said. Your exact words.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. You’re right. I should have been clearer.”

  Wanda cocked her head and glared at Chiffon. “Do I hear a tone in your voice, Chiffon Amber? Because I have better things to do than wait hand and foot on you and your litter of children. I haven’t sat down one minute since I’ve gotten here.”

  “No, Mama. There’s no tone, I swear,” Chiffon said.

  “I certainly hope not,” Wanda said, moving brusquely to the kitchen with the diaper in hand. “I’m going to the market now. You’re fresh out of milk.” The back door banged behind her as she left.

  Emily scampered out of her room and plopped down next to Chiffon on the couch. “Mama, does your ankle still bother you?” she asked.

  Chiffon stroked the end of her daughter’s braid. “Not too much, baby. The doctor gave me some medicine to kill the pain.”

  “Mama, are baloney sandwiches meant to be crunchy?”

  “No, honey. Why? Was the sandwich Grandma made you crunchy?”

  Emily nodded. “My stomach hurts.” She put her head in Chiffon’s lap and Chiffon made little circles on her daughter’s tummy with her finger.

  Besides being the world’s longest-suffering martyr, her mother was also the world’s worst cook. Growing up, Chiffon had endured every culinary disaster imaginable, from rubbery eggs to hamburgers as hard and black as charcoal briquettes.

  “Some kids at school were talking about Daddy,” Emily said in a small voice.

  Chiffon stiffened. “What kids? Who was talking?”

  Emily lifted her head from Chiffon’s lap. “Practically everybody in the whole class. They say Daddy was kissing that movie star.”

  Chiffon gently grasped Emily’s slight shoulders. “Don’t pay them any mind, you hear? They don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s all a big mistake.”

  “If it’s all a big mistake, why hasn’t Daddy come home yet?” She popped her thumb into her mouth, a habit Chiffon thought she’d outgrown.

  “He will, Pumpkin. He’ll come home and everything will be just like it used to be. I promise—”

  A high-pitched scream interrupted her, followed by dogs barking.

  “What in the—? Emily, hand me my crutches.”

  On stiff legs, Chiffon rose from the sofa and awkwardly made her way across the living room to the front door. When she opened it, she saw Chenille standing in the front yard, holding her terrier aloft. Lonnie’s two dogs were pawing her and Chenille squawked, “Leave my baby alone!”

  “Buddy! Beau! Y’all scat!” Chiffon hollered. The two dogs fled, tails between their legs.

  Chenille staggered up the lawn, clutching her dog to her chest. “Do those vicious beasts belong to you?” she gasped.

  “Yes,” Chiffon said. “But there’s no call to get upset. They won’t hurt a flea.”

  “Walter is in shock,” Chenille said, in a tizzy. “He needs his Zoloft immediately.” She pushed past her sister and situated the dog on the couch while she ransacked a black medical bag. Chiffon followed her inside on her crutches.

  “What’s Zoloft? If it’s kibble, I have a ten-pound sack out back,” Chiffon said.

  “Walter has an anxiety disorder,” Chenille said tartly. “Zoloft is the medication he takes to alleviate his symptoms. Without it, he could have a full-blown panic attack—” She heaved the bag to the ground. “Don’t tell me I left it at home!”

  Chiffon eyed the small gray dog. His dark eyes gleamed like buttons, and he appeared to be grinning. While Chenille retrieved the pill bottles that had fallen on the carpet, he swiped at his bottom with his quick pink tongue.

 
“He looks okay to me. Happy, even,” Chiffon said.

  “Maybe I put the bottle in his suitcase,” Chenille said, her voice on the verge of tears. “Keep an eye on him while I run out to the car.”

  Chiffon sat down beside the dog. “What kind of name is Walter for a dog? No wonder you’re so anxious.”

  “Mommy, that dog is wearing a coat!” Emily said in astonishment. She’d never seen such behavior in a canine. Lonnie’s dogs always walked around butt-naked.

  “Makes him look kind of silly,” Chiffon said, inspecting the garment. It was silk-lined, and the tag said ‘Made in England.’ “It sure is a fancy little coat.”

  “Do you think Aunt Chiffon would let me dress Walter up in some of my baby-doll clothes?” Emily asked hopefully.

  “I don’t think so. She’s awfully particular about her dog,” Chiffon said. “Besides, I think Walter is confused enough as it is.”

  Emily left the room just as Chenille rushed through the door brandishing a bottle as if it were the Olympic torch. “I found the pills. I’d packed them with Walter’s toiletries.”

  She pried open Walter’s muzzle and shoved a pill inside. “Swallow for Mama. That’s a good boy.” Patting his head, she wilted back into the couch cushions. “Emergency averted.”

  “Yeah,” Chiffon said. “How was your trip?”

  Chenille straightened her posture and arranged her hands primly in her lap. “It was lovely, actually. When I came up the stretch of Highway 78, just before the turnoff to Cayboo Creek, I saw these huge, majestic birds circling around. Hawks, I should think, or possibly falcons. I wished I’d brought binoculars.”

  “Buzzards, more likely,” Chiffon said. “Don’t you remember? We call that stretch of highway Roadkill Ridge. There always seems to be a dead possum or raccoon in the road. Last time I was up there, I saw a belly-up armadillo.”