Mavis bit her lip. “That’s not it. I’ve never seen her look so unkempt. And her eyes—the sparkle’s missing. Something’s troubling her.”
“Make way!” Attalee Gaines burst through the front door, her gray sausage curls bobbing on her shoulders. “Hedonism II, here I come.”
“What do you have?” Birdie said, looking at the card that Attalee held high in the air.
“It’s my ticket to tropical titillation,” Attalee said with a gummy smile. “It’s called Caribbean Cash.”
“Not another lottery ticket,” Mavis said.
“What’s Hedonism II?” Birdie asked, peering over Attalee’s shoulder.
“An all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. They have pj parties, wet t-shirt contests, and drinks with little umbrellas stuck in ‘em. It’s for singles, eighteen and over. If I win I’ll take Dooley.”
“Well, you certainly qualify for the age part,” Birdie said. “Several times over.”
Attalee scratched at the ticket and squinted at it through her glasses.
“Durn. I won only two bucks. Not even enough for a piña colada.”
“Do you know what the odds are of winning the Lotto?” Mavis said with a shake of her finger. “You’re just flushing money down the toilet.”
Attalee ignored Mavis and dropped into a chair beside Birdie. “I had my heart set on Hedonism. Looking forward to doing a little oil wrestling.”
“Speaking of hedonism.” Birdie craned her neck to examine a red spot on Attalee’s upper shoulder. “What is that thing, pray tell?”
“It’s a love nibble,” Attalee said. “Dooley came over last night and things got steamy.”
“Attalee,” Birdie said in a prim voice. “I hope you’re not compromising your virtue.”
“Too late for that,” Attalee said. “My virtue got compromised more than half a century ago in the backseat of a 1938 Nash. But I wouldn’t fret about things going too far ‘twixt me and Dooley. Every time I invite him over, my roommate Myrtle sashays into the parlor wearing a skimpy little nightdress. Claims she’s looking for her liver pills, but I believe she’s trying to horn in on my man. If I was out of the picture that chippy would be all over Dooley like dew on Dixie.”
“Why don’t you just go over to Dooley’s place, then?” Birdie asked.
Attalee frowned. “He lives in a boardinghouse, and his landlord don’t allow female guests. That’s why I was hoping to win that trip to Jamaica, so Dooley and me could have us some sparking time.”
The front door flung open, and Mrs. Tobias strode in.
“To the future Business Person of the Year,” she said. “I’m so proud of you, Mavis.”
“Word travels around fast,” Mavis said.
“By the way, did I just miss my great-grandchild and her mother?” Mrs. Tobias said. “I thought I saw Elizabeth’s car pull out of the parking lot just before I pulled in—” Her eyes alighted on Attalee’s shoulder. “Goodness, gracious, Attalee. Your shoulder is inflamed. Were you bitten by a spider?”
“It’s a hickey,” Attalee proudly said.
Birdie rolled her eyes. “You really should put a Band-Aid over that thing, Attalee. It’s attracting far too much attention.”
“I believe you’re jealous,” Attalee said, rubbing the spot with her finger.
“Jealous?” Birdie sputtered. “As I told Mavis at the Sweetheart Dance, I’m glad to be done with courtship once and for all.”
“Horse feathers!” Attalee tugged her white soda-jerk jacket from the hook on the wall and slipped into it. “A woman never loses her yen for a good man. That’s like saying you’ve lost your taste for a hot meal.”
“I disagree,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I’m quite content to be single.”
“Hear, hear.” Birdie clapped her hands together.
“I’m with Attalee,” Mavis said. “It’s nice to have a man about.”
“Particularly if he’s a red-hot French-kisser,” Attalee said.
“After that embarrassing incident at the dance, I thought you’d be soured on men, Mavis,” Birdie said. “Besides, there aren’t any eligible males our age around here.”
“There is now.” Mavis smiled. “Brewster Clark from high school stopped by the store recently. He’s in town to fix up some property his aunt left him.”
“Brewster Clark,” Birdie breathed. “Big, strapping quarterback with more dimples than a golf ball? That Brewster Clark?”
“One and the same,” Mavis said with shining eyes.
“He never gave me the time of day,” Birdie said with a frown. “And I was no slouch in high school, what with being editor of the Flying Squirrel Times and captain of the javelin team. Instead, he preferred frivolous girls. Cheerleaders and prom queens. Tore through them like notebook paper, finally settling on that blond minx, Prissy Stevens.” Her eyes gleamed with curiosity. “What does he look like now? Paunchy, bald, or both?”
“Nearly the same as he did in high school, only with more crinkles around his eyes,” Mavis said. “Best of all, he’s single. He was widowed a while back.”
“Poor, dear Prissy,” Birdie tsked. “She was always frail.”
“Not Prissy,” Mavis said. “She married a big shot in New York City. Brewster’s late wife was named Nettie.”
“And where’s this house that he’s fixing up?” Birdie asked.
“On the corner of Chickasaw Drive,” Mavis said. “It’s the place covered up in wisteria.”
Birdie pushed a stray silver thread of hair behind her ear. “I still say men are more of a nuisance than a comfort. Even Max, God love him, was a trial at times. The TV clicker was like an extension of his hand. I’d be happily watching a movie on the tube and in a blink, we’d be flung into the middle of a duck-hunting show.”
“Arnold wore scratchy wool socks to bed, even in the summer,” Mavis said, with a faint smile.
“Harrison used to listen to his Vivaldi records at such a deafening volume it made my china rattle in the cabinet,” Mrs. Tobias said. “Men are simply a different species entirely.”
“I should be going.” Birdie picked up her camera case. “The morning’s flown out the window, and my inbox is piled with papers.”
“I’m game for another cup of mud,” Mavis said as she waved good-bye to Birdie. “Join me, Mrs. Tobias?”
“I prefer tea,” Mrs. Tobias said. “But I’ll get it.”
“No, you sit.” Mavis gestured to her regular chair in the break area. “You like lemon, don’t you?”
Attalee didn’t join them. She had her nose pressed up against the front window of the store.
“I smell a bird,” she said in a suspicious voice.
“You mean a rat,” Mrs. Tobias said.
“I mean a bird,” Attalee said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the window. “A lovebird about to warble her mating song.”
“What are you jabbering about, Attalee?” Mavis said as she split open a box of teabags.
“Birdie claimed she had a desk piled high with papers,” Attalee said with narrowed eyes. “So how come instead of taking a left on Main to the Crier she took a right in the direction of Chickasaw Drive? Right into the arms of that Brewster fellow y’all were talking about.”
“That’s silly, Attalee,” Mavis said. “You heard Birdie. She has no interest in men anymore.”
Attalee shook her head. “I don’t give a hoot what she said to you. She buzzed out of here like a queen bee hunting down her drone. I’m telling you, Mavis, if you’re interested in that Brewster fellow, you better get cracking, ‘cause our girl Birdie is hot on his trail.”
Six
At the feast of ego, everyone leaves hungry.
—Sign outside the Wagon Wheel Restaurant
When Birdie left the Bottom Dollar Emporium, the gray dampness of morning had been swapped for a clear blue s
ky, shimmering with the pale pastels of a fragile rainbow. Her eyes followed the hoop of color, which disappeared behind a huddle of pine trees on the corner of Chickasaw Drive. It certainly wouldn’t hurt for her to take a short detour to find out who might be at the end of the rainbow.
As publisher of the Crier, it was part of her job description to call on new people in town. The newspaper had a section called “Welcome, Neighbor” that featured stories about Cayboo Creek newcomers. Therefore, she had a perfectly legitimate reason to call on Brewster Clark.
Although she’d tried to conceal it from Mavis, she was intensely curious about her former classmate. When Birdie was a sophomore in high school, she’d been crazy about two boys: Frankie Avalon and Brewster Clark.
But even the velvet-voice Frankie crooning “Venus” on American Bandstand couldn’t compare with the real-life thrill of having Brewster Clark as her lab partner for biology. He was the only boy in class who managed to look sexy in safety glasses.
She did feel a brief pang of guilt. After all, Mavis had made it clear she was interested in Brewster herself. Was she being disloyal to her longtime friend by popping in on him?
No, Birdie convinced herself as she traveled down the boxwood-lined sidewalk. Her visit to Brewster was completely innocent, born out of inquisitiveness and journalistic duty. One look at her former classmate and whatever spell he’d cast over her in high school would most certainly be broken. It’d happened with Frankie Avalon. Birdie had seen the former teen idol hawking Twilight Tan Exfoliating Cleanser on the Home Shopping Network, and now she could never think of him in the same way.
She reached Chickasaw Drive and spied a red convertible sports car parked in front of the corner house. She tidied her hair with her hand, and pushed past the ragged overgrowth of tea olives and clematis surrounding the two-story house. The structure was an elderly Greek revival with columns weathered to the color of unpolished silver. The home had ornate cornices and a gabled roof; clearly it had been a showplace in another era. But now the eaves sagged, the shutters hung crooked, and the facade was freckled with mildew.
“Anyone home?” Birdie sung out as she climbed the steps leading to the porch, threading her way through pieces of peeling wicker furniture. Just as she was about to knock on the heavy walnut door, it creaked open and Birdie found herself staring into a pair of dazzling emerald eyes.
“Avon calling?” said the man, in a puckish voice. He grinned, and Birdie was treated to a blinding, white smile.
“Brewster Clark. As I live and breathe. You’ve not changed a smidgen since high school.”
Brewster bowed at the waist. “Thank you, m’lady, for the kind words, but I have changed. My eyesight has weakened over the years, so forgive me if I can’t place you.”
Birdie chuckled to herself. What a diplomatic way of saying he didn’t know her from a knot in a log!
Unlike Brewster, she’d changed a great deal since she walked the hallowed halls of Cayboo Creek High School. Her blond hair had turned silver, and her once reedy frame had swelled over the years.
“Mealworms,” Birdie said as a prompt. “We studied their life cycle together. I was your lab partner in Mr. Phelp’s class.”
“Who could forget Formaldehyde Phelp?” Brewster clapped the side of his face and squinted at her. “You’re not that little snip of a girl who used to dress like a peppermint stick?”
She’d forgotten all about her red-and-white striped dress with the flared skirt. It was identical to a dress that Suzy Parker had modeled on the cover of Harpers Bazaar. In high school, she’d worn it at least once a week.
“Yes.” She extended a hand. “Birdie Purdy. That’s me. Rather, Birdie Murdoch.”
“Birdie,” he mused, eyeing her up and down. “Is that a nickname?”
She blushed. She’d acquired the nickname Birdie because she’d been such a scrawny teenager. Her real name was Bernadette.
“You look different now. Much curvier.” He chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get too personal.”
“No, not at all,” Birdie said coyly. “We shared a dissection kit, after all.”
“I like bumping into folks from high school. Brings back great memories.” He puffed up his chest as he spoke. Brewster was still a big man and looked rock-solid under his plaid work shirt and blue jeans. “I’m glad you decided to pay me a visit. What can I do for you on this fine day?”
She felt uncharacteristically flustered. “There was nothing in particular. I just... I’m the publisher of the Crier, and I interview new people when they come into town.”
“I’d love to be interviewed by you,” he said with a grin. “‘Specially since you’re a big-time newspaper publisher.”
She consulted her wristwatch. In fifteen minutes she was expected at a school board meeting. “How’s tomorrow around this same time, Brewster? It won’t take long.”
“Suits me fine. And look here, why don’t you call me
Brew?” He smiled at her. “I’m looking forward to it, Birdie.”
“Likewise,” she said, backing down the crumbling concrete steps of the porch. She was so flummoxed she tripped over a plaster pot and nearly fell, but Brewster lunged forward and caught her elbow just before she hit the ground.
Seven
They’re not hot flashes, they’re power surges.
~ Bumper sticker on the back of Attalee Gaines’s Buick Skylark
Attalee parked her Buick Skylark in front of a large storefront on the Aiken-Augusta Highway. The aging vehicle continued to stammer and lurch long after she removed the key from the ignition.
“Is it supposed to do that?” Gracie Tobias grasped the armrest until the car finally wheezed to a stop.
“It’s temperamental, all right.” Attalee kicked open the door with the heel of her shoe.
“I should say so,” Mrs. Tobias said, folding up her white kid gloves and tucking them into her clutch bag. “We should have taken my Caddie.”
“Other folks driving makes me nervous.” Attalee slid from her car seat and pointed to the flapping banner on a pole that read ‘Last Chance Flea Market.’ “Here it is: shopping paradise.”
Mrs. Tobias surveyed the decaying building, which had formerly been a Kmart.
“I’ve never been to a flea market before. Are you sure we can find a nice present for Mavis here?”
All of Mavis’s friends had chipped in money to buy her a special gift, which they would present to her at the banquet for Business Person of the Year. Mrs. Tobias and Attalee had volunteered to choose and purchase something appropriate.
“You betcha.” Attalee hitched her battered vinyl pocketbook on her shoulder. “The flea market has one-of-a-kind items. Couple of weeks ago, I bought my daughter one of them moving waterfall pictures. You won’t find something that classy at the Wal-Mart. I’d get Mavis one too, but she’s got a tendency towards seasickness. And my boyfriend Dooley works here. He’s got a booth inside, and I told him we’d meet him for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Mrs. Tobias asked. “There’s a restaurant inside?”
“‘Course there is. With rib-sticking country eats,” Attalee said. “I recommend the chicken-feet casserole. It’s so good it’ll put your granny in a branch.”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Tobias’s stomach flip-flopped. “I still think we would have been able to find a more suitable gift at Rich’s in the Augusta Mall.”
“Boring! We need a present with pizzazz,” Attalee said as they crossed the parking lot. “Maybe a lava lamp or one of them singing fish.”
“Well, you have known Mavis longer than I,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I suppose you’re more familiar with her tastes.”
The women pushed open the glass door and were greeted by a medley of food aromas. The scent of piping hot nuts mingled with the fragrance of deep-fried funnel cake and candy-coated apples.
“It smells like an indoor
county fair,” Mrs. Tobias remarked. She and Attalee lingered in the entrance, looking over the various vendors separated from each other with chicken wire and particle board.
“I believe Dooley’s booth is that-a-way.” Attalee pointed down the middle aisle. “But we’ll browse for a spell before we make our way over.”
Mrs. Tobias gazed up at a collection of t-shirts hanging on a cinder-block wall in a booth by the entrance called Rebel Ware. “‘Don’t be shy. Let it Fly,’” she said, reading the slogans on the shirts. “‘Dern tooting I’m a Rebel.’ ‘If you ain’t from Dixie, you ain’t spit.’”
A big-bellied man, wearing a faded red bandana on his bald head, noticed Mrs. Tobias and sidled up to her.
“This is just a small sampling of my inventory.” He stroked a beard that dangled from his chin like a piece of Spanish moss. “I’ve got a catalog you can page through. My company will put a Rebel flag on everything from beach towels to underwear to throw pillows.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Tobias squared her shoulders. “Don’t you know it’s inappropriate to display flags on underwear or throw pillows? If you’re so enamored of the Confederate flag, young man, you should treat it with more respect.”
Attalee seized Mrs. Tobias’s elbow and steered her away from the booth. “Whatcha trying to do, get us kilt?”
“‘Heritage not Hate’ my foot,” Mrs. Tobias harrumphed. “What kind of individual displays his so-called heritage on a beer mug?”
“The same kind of yahoo that gets his kicks from lynching loudmouthed little old ladies,” Attalee hissed. “Let’s move along.”
They meandered through a labyrinth of booths, but Mrs. Tobias didn’t hold much hope of finding a decent gift for Mavis. The vendors sold drib-drabs of the worst kind of kitsch imaginable. What possible use would Mavis have for a feathery dream catcher or a silkscreen portrait of a sad-eyed coyote?
“I declare,” Mrs. Tobias remarked after they left a booth called Kountry Kreations, which carried a collection of driftwood eagle wall clocks and oil paintings of elks on saw blades. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many lighthouses, unicorns, and American flags. Everything here is so...”
Dollar Daze Page 4