Millie giggled.
“How old is the Sphinx? Nobody knows. If I tell you, you'll only gasp and say I look good for my age. Or, God forbid, you'll say I look ‘well preserved.’ Sounds like I'm a pickle. Let's just say I'm old enough to know better about most things, and young enough not to care too much.”
The screeching of the tires brought a lump to my throat. Now, I'm a coffee-colored woman. If I blush, I have to let you know, because you can't see it on my face. But let me tell you something, after just fifteen minutes in the car with Millie, I was turning white, literally.
I saw the sheriff's car around the next bend. Thank the Lord, I thought, I am about to be delivered. Millie was going to have to slow down, big time, if she didn't want to get a ticket. I settled back into the seat. But instead of slowing down, Millie floored the gas pedal and we flew past the patrol car like a jet on takeoff. The sheriff turned his lights and siren on, and came after us. I closed my eyes. “Millie! Are you crazy? What are you doing?” “Setting a record!” was the insane reply. And we sped down the road for a few miles, with the sheriff in hot pursuit.
Finally, Millie sighed deeply, stretched, and slowed the huge car down to a crawl, then pulled off the road and stopped. The patrol car pulled in front of us and turned off the siren. Millie lit a cigarette. She had a blissful, relaxed expression on her face. As if she'd just had sex.
I wanted to throw up.
The sheriff stalked over to the driver's side of the car, his ticket book in his hand. His face was stern, his eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. Millie exhaled loudly.
“License, please.” The officer didn't sound too happy. I wondered if Millie had been in trouble for speeding before.
Millie handed it over with a flourish. He barely glanced at it, then jotted something down on the ticket. He's gonna take her license away, I just know it, I said to myself.
Thank God.
“I clocked you at eighty-six miles an hour.”
Millie blew a smoke ring but didn't say anything.
“You know what that means, don't you?” the sheriff asked, his voice clipped and unfriendly. I know what it means, I thought. It means you're going to take her license away forever. Millie blew out another smoke ring. “Did I break the record?” “Yes, ma'am,” the officer acknowledged seriously. “And if you, Reverend Hare, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick ever make another bet like this, I'll haul all three of you in, do you understand me, Aunt Millie?”
Millie nodded, with a saucy tilt of her head. Blew out some more smoke.
The officer smiled, signed the ticket, and tore it off.
Aunt Millie?
“Well, at least it was a good cause. Reverend plans to use the money to supplement the food pantry,” the officer remarked. “But Aunt Millie, you can't keep making bets like this, this has got to be the end of it! Seventy-five is one thing. But eighty-six is just plain crazy! You gotta keep the speed down. The next time we stop you, we'll have to take your license!” There was a note of earnestness and pleading in the man's voice. “Aunt Millie?”
Millie took the ticket and patted the concerned officer gently on the cheek.
“Juanita, my nephew, Horace Patterson, my sister Ger-trude's baby boy. Isn't he a sweetie?” She crooned like she was talking to a two-year-old. “He was absolutely the most precious baby!” She slipped the ticket into her bosom. Horace Patterson blushed. “Horsey, this is Juanita Louis, the new chef at Jess's Diner.”
“Glad to meet you, ma'am. I haven't had the pleasure yet of sampling your food, but I expect Diane and I will get to real soon. Mountain can't say enough about your French toast!”
Well, that was not a surprise. Mountain usually had four slices every morning, along with three eggs, hash browns, four sausage links, and three strips of bacon.
I thanked “Horsey” for the compliment, watched as Millie gave him a peck on the cheek and sent him on his way, just as if she was sending him off to kindergarten. He, in turn, again warned her against traveling over eighty miles an hour. Said it just wasn't safe. For the other drivers, that is.
“Aren't you afraid to drive so fast? What's the speed limit around here anyway?” I hadn't noticed a sign. 'Course, even if I had, we were traveling so fast, I wouldn't have been able to read it.
Millie grinned.
“Seventy-five, eighty, but who cares? Mountain Peters has emptied his ticket book on me more than once, and Horsey catches me now and then, but that's the fun of it. I see how fast I can go, he or one of the other sheriffs clock me, and we see if I've broken any records! My sister takes the bets.”
“You're going to break more than that if you don't slow down,” I growled at her.
“Don't be a spoilsport, Juanita, nobody's going to get hurt. We haven't passed a car for ten miles. And I started driving a car before your parents were born, used to drive Louis's car before the Grand Prix all the time. And no, I'm not afraid.” She took both hands off the steering wheel to light another cigarette. I almost died right there. “Let me give you a piece of advice I've followed since I was sixteen years old. Whatever you are afraid to do, do it immediately. Taking risks will give you the best rewards in life. I've found that to be true without exception.”
“Yeah, but you could also get killed.” I gulped. I hadn't felt this bad since I took the kids on the Beast at Kings Island.
Millie shrugged.
“I could die tomorrow falling out of bed, or choking on a fish bone. Why not go out in a flash?” We hyper-spaced past a tired-looking Chevy that had crawled onto the highway. My life passed before my eyes. In review, it wasn't much.
“I'll pass if you don't mind,” I told Millie. “I was planning to pull my toenails out on Wednesday, and I'd hate to miss that.”
Millie grinned and let her foot off the gas.
“OK, seventy-five, but not a bit less.”
It was the best she could do.
“And remember, Juanita. Your fears can paralyze you. Always, but always, do what you're afraid to do. You'll be surprised to see how far it will take you.”
By the time we got back to Paper Moon, I had barely recovered enough to walk without my legs shaking. Millie parked the car in the garage and went inside to take a nap. She was hosting her bridge club that night. I meandered over to the diner on my way to the drugstore. I came in the back door since I wanted to check the supply of meat in the freezer. I'd place an order if we needed more. I peeked through the doors at the dining room but didn't notice anything unusual. Carl was at the counter. I didn't see Jess anywhere, but his truck was parked on the side so I figured he was probably in the back. A couple of locals sitting at table four; a table of eight giving their orders to Mignon; Fish Reynolds over in the corner reading the paper; and three red-faced good old boys at the counter. At first, I didn't think much of that. Around here, red-faced good old boys are a dime a dozen.
But as I was to find out, these guys were different.
They were already a few sheets to the wind and it was only one-thirty. That usually meant trouble.
“Hey, Chief! Got any firewater? Ha, ha!”
“You all do rain dances anymore, kid?”
“Hey, why you cooking, anyway? I heard you got a negro cook now. A real tar baby. They moving west, now, huh? Ha, ha!”
I peeked out again. The boys were slapping each other on the back, real happy with the jokes they'd made. Mignon was at Mrs. Phelps's table, looking really nervous. Carl, who was carrying a tray filled with dirty dishes, had a dark, angry look on his face. When he went to the refrigerator, taking out hamburger patties, I heard them call him “Chief” again. I didn't hear what Carl said in reply. I got my tote bag and headed toward the ladies' room.
Normally, I probably would have just filled their orders, argued with 'em a bit, and left 'em alone. They were harmless, drunk but harmless. But today I felt like shaking things up bit—and them, too. Giving them a little nightmare they
could only remember pieces of. And having some fun at their expense. Sometimes you have to be outrageous just to bring people back to what's real.
Besides, they were starting to piss me off.
“Yeah, I hear them blacks can cook, even if they can't do anything else except riot and rob people who got jobs and are hardworking. Good thing we don't have too many of 'em out here. That gal any good?”
“Boy, he's a wooden Injun, ain't he? Not much personality.”
Carl's eyes widened when I came out of the back, but he didn't say anything. Just moved aside to let me take his place at the grill. Mignon almost dropped the plates she was carrying. Carl started grinning. I checked the progress of the hamburgers on the grill, lifted the fries out of the grease and shook them a little. It got so quiet in that place, you could have heard a mouse hiccup.
Jess came out of the back carrying a tray of salt and pepper shakers. He stopped in his tracks and his jaw dropped.
I know I was a sight.
I had wrapped my head cloth into a real fancy style a friend had shown me once. It stood almost a foot and a half high. I had a corncob pipe clenched in my teeth, and an amulet around my neck. The amulet wasn't an African piece, but Lakota, given to me by Jess's Aunt Portia, but these idiots wouldn't know the difference. With two arms full of bracelets jingling, I started chanting as I turned the burgers over.
The Good Old Boys weren't saying anything now, and I had my back to them, but I could feel them staring holes through me. I was looking forward to making them nervous. I reached up to the spice rack and picked up an old baby food jar that had an “X” on its label. Figured that ground meat might need a little more seasoning.
“Hey, what's that you putting on there?” Good Old Boy One had finally gotten the courage to speak.
I turned around and looked at him, letting my eyes talk, keeping my face still.
“My name is not ‘Hey.’ My name is Juanita. Miss Juanita to you.” I continued to chant.
Carl stuck his fist into his mouth.
Good Old Boy One wasn't sure how to respond so he said nothing. Good Old Boy Two just laughed nervously.
Good Old Boy Three smirked and put his big, beefy elbows on my clean counter. I shook a little more of the “X”-marked spice on his burger, slapped a piece of cheese on top. Closed up the jar.
“Well, Miss Juanita, I don't want you putting no strange spices on my good old all-American hamburger. You hear?”
I picked up the cayenne pepper again and added a little extra. He was a big boy. It wouldn't kill him. Also pulled a little doll out of my apron pocket. Good Old Boy Two inhaled loudly. I stuck a pin in the doll's midsection. Good Old Boy One turned white. Good Old Boy Three's eyes got big. Behind their backs, Mignon, Mrs. Phelps, a family of tourists, and Reverend Hare were grinning.
Jess slapped Good Old Boy Three on the shoulder, shook him a little, too.
“Bobby, maybe that ain't such a good idea, talking like that. Miss Juanita here is real sensitive to those kind of things … and temperamental. Sort of takes things to heart, if you know what I mean.” Jess leaned close. “I've heard that she practices …” I didn't hear the last part of that sentence. Jess continued: “Wouldn't do to piss her off. After all, she is cooking your hamburger.”
I pushed the pin in a little farther, then set the doll, facedown, on the counter. Finished frying up those hamburgers.
Good Old Boy Three was quiet.
I set three cheeseburger platters with lettuce, tomato, onion, and extra fries on the counter in front of the three stooges. For a few seconds they just stared at those plates— and at me. I stared back. Puffed on my pipe (had borrowed some of Roy Porter's Cherry Blend tobacco) and picked up that little baby doll again and looked at it real close—pulled the pin in and out, in and out.
Good Old Boys One and Two just stared—eyes open wide. Good Old Boy Three looked as if he was about to shit, or wind his watch, but he hadn't made up his mind yet.
“Ain't you boys gonna eat?” I asked, evenly. I locked eyes with Good Old Boy Three. His cheek twitched. “I fixed those burgers up special.” I narrowed my eyes and blew a cloud of smoke out of the pipe right into his face. “Would hurt my feelings if you all didn't eat …” I let my voice trail off. Pushed that pin in—hard.
You never saw anybody eat hamburgers and fries so fast. Good Old Boy Three practically licked the plate clean—and all that extra gumbo filé that I'd sprinkled on it, too. He finished with a belch and a huge grin.
I was grinning, too. But I thought someone would have to carry Jess out. He was doubled over with laughter.
You see, gumbo filé is just ground-up sassafras leaves. You use a touch in Louisiana cooking, especially in gumbos and such. It gives the food a nice flavor, a little zing, and it thickens it a bit. Most people have had sassafras tea in their lives, your grandmomma probably gave it to you when you were little. Sassafras can be a bit like a laxative. A little bit is OK as a medicine.
But too much?
Well, I'd heard Good Old Boy Three say that he was headed down to Wyoming. He didn't know it yet, but it was going to be a long trip.
When he left, he said to me, “You know, I was just kidding. I kid Jess all the time, we're just like brothers. Me and the boys got started a little early today. Didn't mean nothing by it. Hope you didn't take it personally. By the way, I loved that hamburger.”
I let my eyes, and my gumbo filé, answer him.
Mountain came in laughing a few days later. Put two huge elbows up on my counter.
“Hey, Juanita! Mignon!”
“Hi Mountain,” Mignon spoke as she flew by with a tray full of food.
“Mountain! Didn't your momma teach you not to put your elbows on the table,” I said, pouring him some coffee.
“Yes, ma'am. But I'm a slow learner,” Mountain answered, grinning. “Got a little time today, Juanita. Give me a steak, three eggs, grits, a cinnamon roll, two pieces of toast, and a tall glass of orange juice.”
“Coming up.” I pulled a rib eye the size of Nebraska out of the refrigerator. “The orange juice is freshly squeezed today, Mountain,” I added. I was in a pretty good mood.
“And I don't want whatever you gave Bobby Smith either.” Mountain was still grinning.
“Bobby Smith?”
Mountain reached out to touch the sugar I had sprinkled on an apple pie cooling on the counter. I popped his hand.
“Ow!”
“Oh, quit! I didn't hurt you! But I will if you don't leave that pie alone. Who's Bobby Smith?”
Mountain pretended to pout. An interesting look for a WWF-sized state trooper.
“One of the boys who came by a few days ago. Remember? Three hamburgers, medium rare?”
I looked at him, put my hands on my hips. Pretended that my feelings were hurt.
“Now, Mountain, all I gave that boy was a cheeseburger, medium, extra fries, and a chocolate shake. Nothing unusual about that.”
Mignon coughed, then cleared her throat.
Mountain downed the glass of orange juice in one gulp. Had an orange juice mustache on his top lip. He looked like a super-sized six-year-old.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, laughing. “Whatever you say. Anyway, I'm headed toward Cheyenne on Fourteen. I see Bobby's green Ram parked by the side of the road. No-body's in it. So I turn around, go back and park. Wonder if maybe Bobby's having engine trouble or something.”
Mignon cleared her throat again.
“Mignon, you gotta sore throat or something?” I ask her, smiling as wide as I can smile.
“Oh, no, ma'am,” she answered, exaggerating the “ma'am” part in her best fake Southern drawl. “Just a little tickle …” She grins. Coughs a little more.
“Well,” Mountain continued, “I call out to old Bobby. You know, maybe he's hurt or met with some foul play. You remember, Mignon, we had problems with that pervert from Nevada last year
this time. At first, I don't hear anything. Then I hear some scratching around, the bushes moving. And I hear somebody moan. I reach for my gun, call out to Bobby again.
“ 'Mountain, is that you?' he yells from back in the bushes somewhere. I say, ‘Bobby, it's me. Are you hurt or something?’ He says no, he's not hurt, but do I have some….” I don't know if you've ever seen a seven-foot-tall, three-hundred-fifty-pound man blush before, but it's quite a sight. “Aw, excuse me, Juanita, Mignon. So Bobby says, 'Mountain, do you have any toilet paper?' And, of course, I'm always prepared, so I go get him some from out of my trunk. He tells me something he ate at the Paper Moon Diner has run through him like Sherman through Georgia. Says he's had the shits, oh, excuse me, Juanita. I mean, he's had the diarrhea since Butte. Doesn't know what he's gonna do. I told him I eat at the Paper Moon practically every day, don't ever have any problems.” Mountain reaches for a doughnut. Looks at me with twinkling, green eyes. “Bobby says I'd better be careful. Told me that the voodoo woman Jess has got cooking for him put a hex on the food, and that's what's making him sick.” Mountain popped that doughnut in his mouth—all of it.
“Now, I told him there wasn't any voodoo woman working at the diner, just Juanita. He said ‘Yeah, that's the one.’ ” Mountain chewed slowly, talking with his mouth full, then swallowed with one loud gulp. “Said the woman smoked a corncob pipe, wore a beaded headdress, and chanted while she flipped the burgers. Said she called herself 'Miss Juanita.' ”
“Must have me mixed up with somebody else,” I mumbled, tapping out a little black pepper on the steak.
Mountain looked at me sideways.
“You know any voodoo, Juanita?”
I smiled at Mountain. Handed him another doughnut.
“Noooo,” I answered truthfully.
“So, what did you say then, Mountain?” Mignon asked as she put some toast down.
“I told Bobby that he needed to stop smoking that weed,” said Mountain, chewing and smiling at the same time. “Told him he was imagining things, and it was giving him the shits, too. Oh, excuse me.” In one sweeping movement, faster than I thought a man that size could move, Mountain scooped up the baby doll Carl's little sister had loaned me. I had left it on the counter near the cake platter. He looked at it for a second, then set it down on the stool beside him.
Dancing on the Edge of the Roof Page 12