Dollar Daze

by Gillespie, Karin

  Rusty Williams, I declare! Wasn’t that the name of the uncommonly handsome man she’d met at the flea market? Could he be the person who’d penned this peculiar little poem? The verse was dated three days ago, during the time when the book was in Mr. Williams’s possession, so he was likely its author.

  It was such a sincere poem, she’d hate to see Mr. Williams lose it. She’d simply have to alert Miss Goodbee so she could contact Mr. Williams and he could retrieve it.

  She went to seek out the librarian, finding her on her knees, arranging magazines on the rack near the circulation desk.

  “Someone has desecrated Crazy for Cross Stitch magazine again,” Miss Goodbee said as she caught sight of Mrs. Tobias. “They tore out the directions for constructing a pansy bookmark. I planned to make that project myself.”

  “How inconsiderate!” Mrs. Tobias clucked in sympathy.

  “Typical,” Miss Goodbee said with a scowl. “Some patrons have no regard for library materials. They take books into the bathtub or scribble phone messages on the covers. Once someone returned a Hardy Boys mystery all scuffed up. Turns out it’d been used as third base in a softball game.”

  “Shocking,” Mrs. Tobias said. “Speaking of books, I found a—” She paused. Why not call Mr. Williams herself? After all, she was the one who’d discovered the poem. The two of them could share a chuckle over the whole incident.

  “May I use your phone, Miss Goodbee?”

  “Help yourself. There’s one in my office,” Miss Goodbee said, still shaking her head over the violated magazine.

  Mrs. Tobias entered the librarian’s cramped office and found the Cayboo Creek phone book tucked underneath the phone. She leafed through the pages until she found Rusty Williams’s name and number.

  A shiver shimmied down her spine.

  Must be a draft in here, she thought as she dialed. She doubted she’d catch him at home in the middle of the day. Likely he was off doctoring dirty ducts.

  “Hello,” answered a male with a hearty voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Williams?” Mrs. Tobias said. “This is Gracie Tobias. We met the other day—”

  “At the flea market,” he said cheerfully. “How could I forget?”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  The chilly office now grew uncommonly warm.

  “You won’t believe what I came across today,” she began. “It’s the strangest coincidence.”

  After she told him about the poem, Mr. Williams laughed with a trace of embarrassment and said, “I’d wondered where it had gotten off to.”

  “Did you write it?” Mrs. Tobias asked.

  “Guilty. I’m no Yeats,” he said, mispronouncing the Irish poet’s name as if it rhymed with “meats.” “But I enjoy turning the odd phrase or two.”

  “I thought your poem was charming.” She paused. “Shall I put it in the post for you?”

  “You could do that,” he mused. “Or you could let me buy you a cup of coffee as a sign of my gratitude.”

  “Coffee... I don’t know.”

  “Or tea,” he interjected. “Or a grape Nehi if that’s your pleasure.”

  Mrs. Tobias laughed. His earnestness was infectious. Surely there was no harm in meeting him for an innocent cup of tea.

  “All right then.” Mrs. Tobias consulted her watch. “Shall we say the Chat ‘N’ Chew? In ten minutes. Unless, of course, you have some other pressing obligation.”

  “Ten minutes will suit me fine,” Rusty said.

  Mrs. Tobias maneuvered her Cadillac into the narrow parking space in front of the Chat ‘N’ Chew and was jarred by the roar of a motorcycle pulling up beside her.

  Gracious me, she thought, The Chat ‘N Chew is certainly attracting a rough clientele. She perked her ears for other bikers (she knew they tended to travel in packs), but the only sound she heard was the purr of a motorcycle’s engine in the next parking slot.

  She noticed a tag on the back of the bike that read “Iron Butt Association.” The helmeted hooligan hadn’t yet dismounted from his machine, and he appeared to be leering at her.

  Oh dear, she thought as she emerged from her car. She’d heard about situations like this in which motorcycle-gang ruffians heckled innocent women. Stay calm, she said to herself. And hurry past him.

  The entrance to the Chat ‘N’ Chew was only steps away and if the situation grew dire, she could always push the panic button on her key chain.

  “Mrs. Tobias,” the stranger on the motorcycle said. He removed his helmet and sunglasses and smiled. It was Rusty Williams.

  “Mr. Williams,” Mrs. Tobias said, her heart thumping as fast as a rabbit’s. “You gave me a start.”

  “I apologize if I frightened you. I could tell you didn’t recognize me.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I had no idea you drove a...”

  What did motorcyclists call their bikes? She’d heard the term in a movie once.

  “…pig?”

  He laughed. “I think you mean a hog.”

  Hog. Iron Butts. Motorcycle lingo was most unpleasant. Luckily, Mr. Williams wasn’t. In fact, he looked quite dashing astride his gleaming machine.

  “But this bike isn’t a hog,” Mr. Williams explained. “That’s what people call their Harleys. This baby is a Triumph. They’re made in England.”

  “Are they, now?” Mrs. Tobias said. She approved of most things British, except for the occasional swivel-hipped rock star. She regarded the motorcycle with new eyes. Yes, indeed, his machine looked classier than most.

  Mr. Williams hopped off his bike and offered her a leather-clad arm. “Shall we?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Let’s do.”

  Eleven

  “Feeling Single, Seeing double”

  ~ Selection J-2 on the jukebox at the Tuff Luck Tavern

  Mavis wove a dejected little path through the brush and brambles of a vacant lot near Chickasaw Drive. She’d decided to take a shortcut back to the Bottom Dollar Emporium from Brewster’s house so she wouldn’t run into anyone on her return. She was too down-in-the-mouth to make small talk.

  Wouldn’t you know it? The first eligible bachelor to come into town in ages, and Birdie had managed to wriggle her way into his affections. Mavis sighed as she slipped past the prickly branches of an overgrown rosebush. She had no intentions of trying to compete with her friend for Brew’s attention. It was a contest she felt sure she’d lose.

  For one thing, Birdie was a much snazzier dresser than she, purchasing nearly all of her clothes from the Career Collection, a specialty shop in Augusta. Mavis, on the other hand, chose comfort over style, favoring roomy polyester separates from Goody’s clearance rack.

  And Birdie, being a newspaperwoman, could talk intelligently on nearly any subject. She knew what was going on in the Middle East and could keep all those turban-wearing leaders straight. Mavis didn’t know Arafat from Sharon, and in fact skipped right over the hard news of the paper to look at Dear Abby and the funnies.

  No, Mavis didn’t have nearly as much to offer Brew: just warmed-over chicken divan and artificially enhanced cleavage.

  She crossed Main Street and a motorcycle whizzed by. Mavis could have sworn she saw Mrs. Tobias on the back, her arms clasped tightly around the waist of a broad-shouldered driver in a leather jacket. Must be seeing things, old gal. When people were as lonely as she, they imagined everyone being part of a twosome.

  Mavis pushed open the door to the Bottom Dollar Emporium and heard Attalee talking on the phone.

  “Yes, sugar booger,” she cooed, wrapping the cord around her fingers. “I love you, too.” She made a loud smacking sound into the hand piece before she hung up.

  “I’ve got some boxes to open in the back,” Mavis said, brushing past Attalee. She wasn’t up to hearing about Attalee’s latest exploits with Dooley. It
was hard to believe an eighty-six-year-old soda jerk had such a lively love life.

  “Hold up, gal,” Attalee said, grabbing her elbow. “Why’s your chin dragging the ground?”

  Her eyes widened when she saw Mavis’s chest. “Forget your chin; look at your chest. June is busting out all over.”

  Mavis turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Attalee said. “I’m getting the picture loud and clear. You must have crashed and burned over at Brew’s house.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Victoria spilled her secrets,” Attalee said, pointing to Mavis’s bustline. “I reckon you didn’t wear that bra to buy ham hocks at the Winn-Dixie.”

  Mavis hastily buttoned her sweater to hide her cleavage. “This Aqua Bra is going into retirement starting today. It’s back to Maidenform for me.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with treating a fellow to some eye candy. I’m just surprised the Brew boy didn’t bite.” Attalee scratched her head. “You don’t suppose his plumbing’s gone rusty?”

  “You’ll have to ask Birdie that.” Mavis strode to the checkout counter and snatched open the cash register drawer. “She was at his house, plying him with chicken divan, yeast rolls, and blueberry cobbler.”

  Attalee let out a low whistle. “That gal’s bringing out the heavy artillery. Still, your Aqua Bra ain’t exactly a popgun.”

  “Could we just forget about my bra?” Mavis said, counting bills to prepare a deposit.

  “I got it!” Attalee clapped her hands. “Hustle over there with your world-famous sweet-potato casserole. It’ll make her offerings seem like homemade paste.”

  “I’m not about to start a pie war over a man. Birdie’s my friend, and if she’s keen on Brew then she should have him.”

  “What kind of cockeyed reasoning is that? You spied him first, and—” Attalee gasped as she gazed out the front window. “Speak of the devil. Here comes that double-dealing dame right now. She’s got a heck of a nerve.”

  Mavis held up a finger. “Don’t you be ugly.”

  The bell overhead jingled and Birdie stepped inside, a sappy grin plastered on her face. “Toodles, ladies. I thought I’d nip in for a cherry phosphate and a little bite. I’m famished.”

  “Stealing other folk’s sweeties works up an appetite,” Attalee mumbled. Mavis shot Attalee a warning glance.

  “What’s that, Attalee?” Birdie shucked off her jacket and pulled out a heart-backed chair at the wrought-iron table in the soda fountain area.

  “I says, do you want an extra spritz of seltzer in your phosphate?” Attalee asked, slipping behind the soda fountain.

  “However you usually make it is fine.” Birdie folded her hands on her lap and looked at Mavis. “Do you have time to join me?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Mavis picked up an opened package of Lorna Doone cookies from the break table. They were Birdie’s favorite snack.

  “So good to see Brew again, isn’t it?” Birdie said as Mavis joined her at the table. “The memories came flooding back.”

  “And a bird starts circling around.” Attalee placed the phosphate in front of Birdie.

  “Attalee, what are you muttering about? I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” Birdie said.

  “Sorry, Buzzard. I mean, Birdie,” Attalee said.

  “Didn’t I see a lot of dirty glasses behind the soda fountain this morning?” Mavis asked Attalee in a tight voice.

  “Nope,” Attalee said. “I spiffied them up when you were out.”

  “You were so right about Brew,” Birdie said, clasping her hands together. “He looks incredible for his age, and so fit. And what a charmer!”

  “Not to change the subject,” Attalee said, plopping down across from Birdie. “But a few Sundays ago Reverend Hozey had a sermon about coveting thy neighbor’s fellow.”

  “I don’t remember that sermon,” Mavis said sharply.

  Attalee leaned back in her chair and eyed Birdie. “It was a powerful sermon, all right. Turns out, on Judgment Day, coveters are sent to the innermost rings of hell.”

  “What are you trying to say, Attalee?” Birdie asked in an insulted tone.

  Attalee jumped up from her chair and loomed over Birdie. “I’m trying to say that Mavis got dibs on Brew first. She stood right here and declared her intentions.”

  “What’s this all about?” Birdie turned to Mavis, eyes wide with innocence. “Are you upset with me, Mavis?”

  “‘Course not.” Mavis tucked into the bag of cookies. “Attalee. Stop this nonsense right now.”

  “Yes, Attalee. Please do.” Birdie jutted her chin in the air. “Brew and I go way back. We were lab partners in high school. I was merely paying him a neighborly visit.” She giggled. “Although, I must confess. I think he might be sweet on me.”

  “They used to whup horse thieves,” Attalee said. “And at our age a fellow’s a lot more valuable than a horse.”

  “Attalee! That’s enough,” Mavis said. She forced herself to smile. “I’m tickled that you and Brew are getting along so well.”

  “And I thought I was done with beaus,” Birdie sighed. “Who’d have guessed? Sometimes you have to walk by a bakery to know you’re hungry for a Danish.”

  “But you’re not supposed to go inside the bakery, pry the Danish from the baker’s hand, and scuttle off like—”

  “Attalee!” said Birdie and Mavis in unison.

  Birdie shook her head and chuckled. “We shouldn’t scold her, I suppose. Attalee’s just being loyal and that’s touching, even if it is misguided. I know you, Mavis. It’s not in your nature to get upset about a thing like this. And besides...” Birdie took a dainty sip of her phosphate. “Brew isn’t your type.”

  “To get all worked up would be pure foolishness, and—” Mavis paused. “Not my type? What do you mean?”

  “I just mean that you prefer salt-of-the-earth men, like your dear, sweet Arnold. Brew, with his matinee-idol looks and flashy sports car, isn’t exactly your speed.”

  “Are you saying Arnold wasn’t nice-looking?” Mavis asked.

  “Of course not.” Birdie reached out to pat Mavis’s hand. “He was a very interesting looking man. The two of you suited each other to a tee.”

  “Meaning that I’m also interesting-looking?” Mavis asked, pointing to herself.

  “Well, I—” Birdie said.

  “And interesting looking people should stick with their own kind? Is that it?” Mavis rose from her seat.

  “Not exactly—”

  “Interesting-looking women should just step aside and let grabby women have all the good-looking men.” Mavis’s face turned red. “Isn’t that what you’re really saying?”

  “Mavis!” Birdie bolted up from her chair.

  “You tell her, sister!” Attalee said, hopping up and down.

  “And for your information, Attalee was right. I am upset,” Mavis said. “I confided my interest in Brew to you, and before I know it, you’re over there like a robin to a worm. Next thing I know, you’re trying to win him over with my chicken divan recipe.”

  “Ha! At least I was tempting him with food rather than trying to titillate him with my...” Birdie pointed an incriminating finger at Mavis’s chest. “Ta-tas,” she whispered.

  “I can’t believe you said that.” Mavis reared back. “Especially since you’re wearing a skirt cut so high it’d make Britney Spears blush.”

  Birdie’s face turned pink as a flamingo’s. As she opened her mouth to make a retort, her cell phone chirped.

  “Birdie Murdock,” Birdie barked into the phone. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  She snapped her phone shut. “There’s been an accident on Highway One. A Dinty Moore truck overturned.”

  “Anyone hurt?” Mavis asked.

  “No, but tra
ffic’s backed up to Graniteville, and there’s tins of beef stew all over the road.” Birdie slipped into her jacket, refusing to meet Mavis’s eye. “I have to rush over and take some photographs for the paper.”

  “I’m partial to their chicken and dumplings,” Attalee said. “You mind picking me up a can or two?”

  Birdie shot her a poisonous look, hitched her pocketbook on her arm, and marched out the front door.

  Twelve

  Always remember you’re unique just like everyone else.

  ~ From the Baptist Ladies’ League newsletter

  For two days and nights after Elizabeth told Timothy she wanted to return to work, the couple didn’t exchange as much as a “good morning” or a “please pass the coffee creamer.” And although they still slept in the same queen-sized bed, the space between them seemed wider than the Savannah River.

  About four on the morning of the third day, Elizabeth couldn’t sleep, so she tiptoed into the kitchen to microwave a package of kettle corn. After preparing her snack, she went into the living room to read. She pawed through the stacks of Child and Parent on the coffee table until she unearthed what she was looking for: a Working Mother magazine she’d bought at the supermarket a couple of weeks back.

  Wistfully, she scanned the magazine’s table of contents: “Fun Meals in a Flash,” “Surviving Morning Mania,” and “Carpool Time Can Be Quality Time.” The lives of working mothers were frantic and full of verve, so different from her own. Only yesterday, she’d spent a full ten minutes in the Winn-Dixie, pondering pear varieties.

  Bosc or Bartlett? Sometimes her life felt like it had the leisurely pace of the boats in the “Small World” ride at Disney World. How she longed for the surge of adrenaline that came from deadlines and client demands! She was tired of drifting around in a tame rowboat; she wanted to board the rocket ship in Space Mountain.

  Elizabeth shoved the magazine between the cushions of the sofa. As much as she’d like to rejoin the corporate world, it wasn’t worth the breakup of her family. The two days of coldness between her and Timothy had seemed more like two hundred.