Dollar Daze

by Gillespie, Karin

  “They’re advertising free color TV,” Dwayne remarked. “Doesn’t look so bad to me.”

  “Yes, it does!” Taffy and Elizabeth said in unison.

  “Well, let me go to the office.” Dwayne opened the car door and swung his legs out. “I’ll cancel my reservation and see if they can’t suggest some other place to stay.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Taffy emerged from the car, tying a red scarf over her hair. “Clearly you’re not capable of making our lodging decisions.”

  “Wait for me,” Elizabeth said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

  The only other car in the parking lot was a primer-paint-gray El Camino with a Hefty bag billowing from its passenger window.

  “Classy clientele,” Taffy remarked.

  The three trudged to the office, only to see a note affixed to the flimsy wooden door that said “Motel guests, please check in at pawn shop across the street.”

  “This is just getting better and better,” Taffy said as they crossed the two-lane road. The pawnshop, a square building with barred windows, was called “Quick Silver Pawn and Bail Bonds.”

  They pushed open the door and entered the dimly lit shop. A dark-haired woman was reading a John Grisham paperback behind a glass display counter filled with watches, jewelry, and an assortment of small electronics. A curly-haired toddler tugged at her sleeve, saying. “Mama, Mama?”

  “I want to cancel my motel reservation,” Dwayne said, holding his cap with both hands.

  The woman reached for a battered book underneath the counter. “Was it an hourly, nightly, or weekly reservation?”

  Dwayne chuckled deep from his chest. “You hear that, Taff?” He winked at her. “They take hourly reservations.”

  “That is not funny, Dwayne Polk,” Taffy said.

  The woman looked up from her work for the first time and squinted at him. “Uncle Dwayne? Is that you?” She stood up and smoothed the front of her denim maternity dress. “I’m your niece, Dorrie. And, oh my lord, is that Elizabeth standing behind you?”

  “Dorrie?” Elizabeth said, a puzzled look crossing her face. She had a hard time reconciling this very pregnant woman with the sharp-featured, gangly-legged tomboy of her childhood.

  “I know. I’m a lot wider around, and I don’t have that Prince Valiant haircut anymore, but it’s me, Dorrie.” She darted from behind the counter and drew Elizabeth into an embrace. “I haven’t seen you since we were kids.”

  The toddler scampered after her and raised his chubby hands, saying, “Up! Up!” Dorrie mussed his curls and hefted him into her arms. “This is my boy, Toby.”

  “What are you doing here in Dry Branch?” Elizabeth said, after she’d introduced Taffy to Dorrie.

  “I live here now,” Dorrie said. “Moved from Atlanta three years ago.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said.

  “I think what Elizabeth meant is what are you doing in this here pawn shop?” Taffy said, looking around with distaste. “We heard you were a fancy-pants lawyer.”

  That was exactly what Elizabeth had meant. Leave it to Taffy to cut to the chase.

  Dorrie laughed. “I don’t work here. This is my husband Skip’s business. His regular help didn’t show, and he had to run out to make a bank deposit. I’m just looking after things until he gets back.”

  “Skip Mahoney? Baloney-breath Mahoney?” Elizabeth said.

  “I don’t call him that anymore,” Dorrie said with a laugh. “Now I just call him honey.”

  “You and baloney-breath Mahoney are husband and wife?” Elizabeth asked with disbelief. “You used to throw pinecones at him. You put fire ants in his swim trunks.”

  “It was all just foreplay,” her cousin said, a mischievous glint to her eyes, and Elizabeth finally recognized a glimpse of the old Dorrie from her girlhood. “But whatever you do, don’t tell him about the fire ants. Skip never knew it was me. He thought it was Paulie Simmons, and to this day he still snubs Paulie when he sees him at the driving range.”

  “So this is Skip’s place?” Elizabeth said.

  “This place, the Presidential across the street, and the Party-Time Liquor store next door,” Dorrie said, unpeeling Toby’s hand from her cheek. “Skip’s like the Donald Trump of Dry Branch.”

  “I’d figured you’d be out at the hospital with your mama,” Dwayne said.

  “I was up there this morning. Ray’s still in a coma,” Dorrie said. Ray was Dorrie’s stepfather, and they weren’t especially close. Her real father died when Dorrie was just two.

  “We’re going to head out to the hospital ourselves,” Dwayne said. “About them motel reservations—”

  “Considered them canceled. Our customers are mainly migrant and construction workers who stay by the week.” Dorrie picked up a nearby phone book and leafed through it. “You’d probably be more comfortable in a chain. There’s a Sleep Cheap Inn, about five miles away on Frontage Road. It’s not the Waldorf-Astoria, but their rooms are clean, and they offer a free continental breakfast. I’ll make a reservation for you.

  “I’ll see you later on, Elizabeth, and we’ll catch up,” Dorrie said after she’d made the reservation.

  Dwayne followed Dorrie’s directions to Marion County Medical Center, a hospital that serviced Dry Branch and several other small towns in the county. They were directed to the intensive-care waiting room, where they found Georgia, Ray’s wife, snoozing on a molded plastic chair.

  Georgia startled when she saw them standing over her.

  “Dwayne!” she cried, clutching his shirt and pulling him toward her. She threw her arms around his knees and started sobbing.

  Dwayne, who wasn’t used to such emotional displays, awkwardly patted her head as if she were a pet German shepherd. She finally released Dwayne, leaving behind an orange pancake makeup stain on his jeans.

  “I’m Dwayne’s wife, Taffy.” With a stiff arm, Taffy held out a two-foot-long pecan log. “Sorry to have to meet you at such a troubling time, Georgia.”

  Georgia dumped Taffy’s gift into the chair beside her and said, “I don’t know why you can’t smoke in this darn place.”

  “Where’s the doctor?” Dwayne asked.

  “He was just in here,” Georgia said. “Ray’s the same. Just lying there like a lump. Doctor says he don’t know when or if Ray will snap out of it.”

  She started crying again, and Elizabeth knelt to comfort her, offering her tissues from a cellophane package in her purse.

  The Polks kept Georgia company in the waiting room for the rest of the day, occasionally slipping off to the hospital cafeteria for a cup of coffee or a slice of pie. Skip and Dorrie dropped by briefly, just as the streetlights outside the hospital window winked on. After they left, a stiff-legged Dwayne rose from his chair and said it was time to get checked into the motel. The plan was to return to the hospital the next morning, and then head back to Cayboo Creek around noon.

  “Ain’t a thing I can do for old Ray,” Dwayne said in a mournful voice as they stood in the brightly lit lobby of the Sleep Cheap Inn, waiting for room keys. “But I wanted to be here for Georgia at least.”

  The next morning, alert from hot showers and a hasty breakfast of coffee and apple Danishes, the Polk family returned to the intensive-care ward.

  During the evening, a seventeen-year-old boy had been seriously injured in a car accident, and his large, boisterous family was sprawled around the waiting room, making it their own. A portable playpen had been set up in the middle of the room; coolers filled with sandwiches and soft drinks were strewn over the floor; and a set of false teeth floated in a cloudy glass of water. Everyone in the family, except for a child in diapers, had a cell phone.

  Georgia was scrunched up against a wall, wrapped in a patchwork quilt, burrito-style, watching the scene around her with puffy-eyed dismay and jumping every time the theme from Batman or the latest 50-Cen
t song blasted from a cell phone.

  Close to noon, after Dwayne had made several guilty references to shoving off, an unshaven doctor in a rumpled white coat strolled into the room. The waiting area, which had been as lively as a block party, went silent. Even the toddler, who’d been pushing his toy corn popper back and forth across the floor, stood motionless and looked up at the doctor with wary brown eyes.

  “Good news, Mrs. Polk,” said the doctor. “It looks like your husband Ray is coming out of his coma.”

  A middle-aged woman with mascara-streaked cheeks rushed to the doctor’s side. “What about our Steven? Is there any news about him?”

  “I’m sorry. Your son’s condition is unchanged,” the doctor said.

  Both Dwayne and Georgia followed the doctor into Ray’s room, while Elizabeth and Taffy flipped through a stack of outdated magazines. After a few minutes, a smiling Dwayne returned, saying, “Ray blinked at me. I says ‘Ray, if you recognize your baby brother, give me a sign.’ Then he blinked twice, clear as day.”

  The Polks decided to stay in Dry Branch one more night to see if Ray’s condition improved. Elizabeth called Timothy to see how he was managing.

  “Everything’s great here,” Timothy said. “Take as many nights as you need. Ferrel’s been handling things at work.”

  “Don’t forget,” Elizabeth said. “Great-grandma Tobias could always lend a hand with Glenda. And if you need a break, either Mavis or Chiffon would probably be willing to—”

  “I’m her father,” Timothy said abruptly. “I don’t need any help.”

  The Polks stayed at the hospital another fall day and finally left around seven to eat ribs and hash at the Big Pig barbecue restaurant. Then they returned to the hotel, and Elizabeth fell asleep watching a Monty Python movie on HBO. She was startled awake by a knock at her door. The digital clock on the lamp table said it was five o’clock in the morning.

  “Elizabeth, it’s your daddy,” said a voice in the hall. She slipped into her robe and opened the door to her father, whose face was gray from shock.

  “Ray’s dead. Georgia just called. We need to go see her.”

  After dressing and running a comb through her hair, Elizabeth met Taffy and her daddy in the lobby of the hotel and they all drove to the hospital.

  “The doctor says he didn’t feel a thing.” Georgia sniffed into a wadded tissue after they’d joined her in the hospital cafeteria. “I thought he was going to pull through.”

  Dwayne took solace in the fact that Ray had regained consciousness before he’d died. “Least he knew his little brother was there for him at his darkest hour,” he kept repeating.

  After arranging for a funeral home to pick up the body, the family went back to Georgia’s house to discuss funeral plans. There’d be no coffin; Ray had asked to be cremated and have his ashes thrown in the Atlantic Ocean at the Grand Strand in Myrtle Beach.

  Elizabeth called Timothy to tell him about this latest development.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked when he picked up the phone. “You’re all out of breath.”

  “Nothing!” he snapped. “Everything’s fine. Don’t you trust me?”

  “‘Course I do,” Elizabeth said. She heard a muffled wailing sound in the background. “Is that Glenda crying?”

  “Glenda is as happy as a lark,” Timothy said quickly.

  “The reason I was calling is that I’ll probably have to stay a couple more days. My uncle Ray died.”

  The line went dead silent for a moment.

  “Timothy, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m, uh, just in shock about your uncle. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. It’s very sad, particularly for Daddy and Aunt Georgia, but Uncle Ray and I weren’t that close. Still, I think I should stay for the funeral. Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle things?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I? There’s nothing to this,” he said, but his voice sounded tired and thin. “How many more nights did you say?”

  “I’m not certain. No more than three at the very most. Are you sure you can manage? If you can’t, I’ll rent a car and—”

  “Of course not,” Timothy interrupted. “Glenda and I will wait for you to come home.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Too many freaks. Not enough circuses.

  ~ Sign on the bulletin board of the Bottom Dollar Emporium

  Mrs. Tobias sat at a booth in a pool hall, sipping a glass of sweet iced tea, while Rusty shared a pitcher of beer with his friends, Sheila and Larry.

  “Rusty, are you sure your old lady doesn’t want a mug of beer? There’s plenty to go around,” Larry said, wiping a white line of foam from his upper lip. He was pale and fleshy, with a few strands of hair combed over an age-spotted pate.

  “Gracie doesn’t drink beer.” Rusty slipped a protective arm around Mrs. Tobias’s shoulder. “She’s more of a champagne kind of gal.”

  “Go ahead. Take yourself a swig. Miller’s the champagne of beers,” Sheila said with a hacking laugh, recklessly waving her cigarette about. She bared a set of yellow teeth, the color of margarine.

  Mrs. Tobias smiled, but felt miserable. Why had she let Rusty drag her to this unpleasant place? When he told her he wanted to teach her how to shoot pool, she’d balked initially. Bowling was one thing, but pool? Weren’t pool halls dangerous places teeming with unsavory characters? Rusty persisted, claiming that pool halls had changed for the better over the years. “It’s a family activity now, wholesome as mother’s milk,” he’d said. “And they’re not called pool halls anymore, they’re billiard parlors.”

  He’d finally worn her down, and they’d driven to Chalky’s on the Aiken-Augusta highway. A tournament was in full swing, and every pool table was taken.

  Rusty turned to leave, and Mrs. Tobias was grateful. Family activity, my foot, she thought as glanced around at Chalky’s patrons. Nobody in her family had tattoos or wore trousers so low they barely covered their bottoms. But just as Rusty pushed open the exit door, they were hailed into the lounge by his friend Larry, who insisted they sit down and share a pitcher of beer.

  Everything’s wrong tonight, Mrs. Tobias thought. The trouble began when Rusty arrived at her house, driving a flashy black pickup truck. He’d apologized, saying that his Honda was in the shop and that he’d borrowed his brother’s vehicle. The back window of the truck featured a sticker of a nasty little cartoon boy urinating on the ground.

  “My brother Bruss has a lot of backwoods Georgia in him,” Rusty said with a hearty laugh, as if that excused his sibling from displaying such a distasteful image on his truck.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother,” Mrs. Tobias said as Rusty helped her up into the passenger seat. “In fact I know next to nothing about your family.”

  As it turned out, his brother Bruss, who installed swimming pools for a living, was Rusty’s only family. His father, who’d been a drinking man, had a succession of jobs, including peanut farmer and John Deere salesman. He’d taken off when Rusty was eight, and his mother raised her boys while working the night shift at a fabric mill. She’d died of pancreatic cancer four years ago. It sounded like a grim upbringing.

  “That’s my story,” Rusty said. Rain splattered the front windshield, and he turned on the wipers. “What’s yours?”

  “There’s very little to tell,” Mrs. Tobias said. “My parents are deceased. My father was a local business owner, and my mother was a homemaker.”

  Never mind that the business her father owned was a prosperous printing company that made him a millionaire by the age of fifty. He’d sold the company before he died, and Mrs. Tobias had inherited the proceeds.

  “No brothers or sisters,” she continued. “I have a daughter named Daisy, who’s a businesswoman.” No sense in mentioning that her daughter was CEO of Hollingsworth Paper Cups, a company she’d acquired from her late
husband.

  “I know that our families are worlds apart,” Rusty said, as if he knew she’d omitted some details about her background. “But when I’m with you, it feels like we come from the same little tribe.”

  Mrs. Tobias thawed somewhat at his remark. Rusty said such charming things, and it did feel extremely natural to be in his company. But there were several things about him that continued to rankle her. For instance, she wished he’d trade in his leather jacket for a suit coat every once in a while. And that strong accent of his! “Hire yew” was “How are you?” “Bares” were “beers.” Sometimes she could scarcely understand him.

  She kept recalling her recent meeting with her mother-in-law. Cecilia could be a terrible snob, but she’d also made some valid points. It was difficult for people from two such different worlds to mesh.

  Mrs. Tobias became even more convinced of that as the evening wore on. The lounge in Chalky’s seemed shabby and mean under the sickly light of a Molson Gold sign. The carpet was water-stained, and the yeasty smell of spilled beer soured the air.

  And these friends of his! Sheila was picking her teeth with a long, red fingernail while Larry and Rusty discussed the revolting things they found under houses.

  “A decomposing king snake about six feet long,” said Larry, who was a termite inspector. “I thought it was a length of rope.”

  “Last week I cleaned the ducts in a house out in Hephzibah and came nose-to-nose with a mama opossum. Three little baby opossums were hanging from her—” Rusty took a quick look at Mrs. Tobias’s face. “Maybe we ought to change the subject.”

  “I don’t know how you boys get the courage to crawl under houses all day long,” Sheila said from behind a thick screen of smoke. “You’re a pair of unsung heroes.”

  “Ready to go, babe?” Rusty asked.

  “Let’s do.” Mrs. Tobias winced at the word “babe.” The first time Rusty had used the endearment it had made her feel youthful, as if she were a young woman strutting about in a miniskirt instead of a sixty-four-year-old matron in a tailored linen suit. But now, in the presence of Larry and his flashy wife, the term seemed proprietary and vulgar. They returned to the truck, and Rusty slid a Jefferson Airplane CD into the player.