by R. R. Banks
“So how did I end up with this?” Richard asked, indicating his shirt again.
“He must have thought that if he brought it in and dropped it off, it would be ready for Lula when she went on Wednesday.”
Richard laughed, his chest seeming to open up with the sound as it came out.
“You know,” he said, “come to think of it, I think I might have had the honor of making Jeb’s acquaintance when I bought this truck.”
“You did?” I asked.
“I took it by his shop to look it over. He recommended that I bring it back for a full inspection tomorrow.”
I nodded, trying hard not to laugh at him again. I looked down at the quilt we were sitting on and ran my hand along it, feeling the soft fabric and the tiny stitches that went through it.
“This looks like one of Norma’s quilts,” I said.
“It is,” he told me. “Both of them are.”
I lifted my eyes to him sharply.
“What did you do? Come here and hit every business you possibly could before coming to my house?”
“Yes,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“Why would you do that?”
“I know that I wasn’t the most open and adaptable person in the world when I first came here, and that that hurt you. I wanted to show you that I’m sorry, that I would never purposely insult you or make you feel bad. I wanted to show you that I’m willing to do this. To do all of this.”
“Do all of what?” I asked.
My lungs were starting to feel smaller and my heart was trembling in my chest. I didn’t understand what he was saying, and I didn’t know how to react.
“This,” he said again, gesturing around him as if to encompass all of Whiskey Hollow. “I don’t have to live my life in the city. I don’t have to have the mansion, the cars, the tailors, all of that. I want to show you that I can be here, with you, and live this life if that’s what you want.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Was he seriously suggesting that he and Flora were going to come live in the Hollow and raise the baby? Why in the living fuck would they do that?
Before I could answer I heard the puttering of a tractor approaching and I turned to see Clive coming toward us through the moonlight. He was like the least impressive knight in shining armor ever, but I had never been more relieved to see him. One hand was gripping the steering wheel and the other was trying desperately to hold onto a large picnic basket that was sitting beside him on the edge of the seat. He drove up alongside the truck and heaved the basket into the bed so that Richard could grab it and set it down on the quilt.
“How are you doing tonight, Clive?” I asked.
“Doing great,” the ancient man said. “I’ve never been a delivery driver before. I didn’t know that Bubba Ray was thinking of offering this service.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” I said. “I have a feeling this is just a one-time thing. Kind of an emergency roadside assistance situation.”
“What do I owe you?” Richard asked.
“How should I know?” Clive asked in a husky voice that sounded like it held half the state’s tobacco production in it. “I just hauled the basket. I don’t even know what’s in there.”
There was a hint of suspicion in his voice, as if somewhere in his mind he thought that he had gotten himself embroiled in some sort of unscrupulous espionage work and he wasn’t sure if he was appalled or intrigued.
“Just check the basket,” I said. “Bubba Ray puts a list inside his bags, so you know he’s charging you right. It’ll have the total on it.”
Richard opened the basket and the warm, somewhat confusing, smells of Bubba Ray’s food came out. I filled my lungs with them and smiled. It had been so long before I came home permanently since I had eaten this food and it was comforting and familiar. He reached in and pulled out a list, scribbled on the back of a menu, and checked the total. Taking out his wallet, Richard handed Clive a bill and then reached for another.
“For you,” he said. “Thank you for your prompt and friendly service.”
Clive beamed and tucked the tip into the pocket of a pair of jeans that looked almost as worn as the one’s Richard had on. He waved and started off, puttering into the night back toward Bubba Ray’s restaurant where he sometimes helped with the cooking, sometimes did a few dishes, and sometimes just sat at the bar waiting for time to go by.
I reached into the basket and started pulling out plates and bowls of food. Some of them I could tell what they were immediately, but others I figured were relatively new offerings and I was going to have to consult with the menu to figure out what exactly it was that he had served us. I started arranging the plates on the quilt, ran out of room, and handed the last couple to Richard, who placed them beside him.
“What is all this?” he asked.
“The specialties of Bubba Ray’s Rojo Cuelo Cantina,” I said.
“Rojo Cuelo Cantina?” Richard asked as if he thought, or maybe hoped, that he had heard me wrong.
I nodded.
“Yep. His grandfather was from Mexico. At least that’s what they call it. Truth is, his daddy ran off after sticking up a Wells-Fargo truck and took his mama with him, not knowing that she was pregnant. She ended up having him there after they had changed their names and started working as avocado pickers.”
“They became migrant workers…in Mexico?” Richard asked. I nodded, and he nodded back, hoping to find some common ground in the gesture. “What did they change their name to?”
“Ramirez,” I said.
“Ramirez. Bubba Ray Ramirez.”
“Yep. So, when the heat died down they came back here, his grandfather got married, had a son, who had a son, and there we have Bubba Ray.”
“Bubba Ray. Bubba Ray Ramirez.”
“Yes.”
“That has a nice ring to it.”
“Well, their time in Mexico apparently gave them more than just their musical names. They picked up an affinity for the food there and when they came back here, Bubba Ray’s great-grandfather decided he was going to open the first-ever Mexican restaurant in Whiskey Hollow. You can imagine how well that went over. So, they started tweaking the recipes a little at a time and by the time that Bubba Ray took over, he completely switched up the menu to the delightful creations that you see here today. Mexican Southern fusion.”
“That sounds promising.”
I laughed as he turned over the menu and scanned the listed items.
“Country Quesadilla and Warm Creamy Salsa?” he asked.
I gestured toward a plate and bowl beside me.
“Just don’t call it a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. He hates that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup,” I told him. “But there’s just the one piece of bread and it has some chili peppers and fancy cheeses in it.”
“You know,” he said, “I think I’ll try some of those Thick-Style Chips,” he said.
I picked up a plate of flattened, fried biscuits and a small bowl of melted pimento cheese.
“You have to try the queso,” I told him. “The secret to really enjoying a meal from Bubba Ray’s is that you have to deconstruct. You get your food and then you have to kind of take it apart into its individual elements before you can really understand it.”
“He does know that the name of the restaurant is wrong, right? I’ve taken immersion Spanish classes for work and I can tell you for certain that that’s not right.”
“Bubba Ray might be exceedingly proud of his faux-Mexican heritage, but it didn’t inspire him enough to get through the two years of high school Spanish. He does, however, watch all of his sports broadcasts in Spanish.”
“He does?” Richard asked, sounding surprised.
“Yep. He has absolutely no idea how soccer is played or who is leading the league in baseball this year.”
“Good thing there aren’t any bookies around here.”
“Jeb and I have a history you know,” I said, catching sight of the embroidery on his shirt again.
“You do?” he asked, looking around to try to find a place to set the food and then looking back at me.
“Mmm-hmmm. We were supposed to get married.”
“You were engaged to Jeb?” he asked.
All the polishing and finishing and decorum in the world couldn’t cover up the horror in those words.
“Not exactly,” I said. “We were born right around the same time and our fathers decided that it would be just perfect for us to get married when we grew up. That way we could combine all of the land and our family’s assets, and climb right to the top of the grand power struggle that is Whiskey Hollow.”
“You could have been Lula,” he said.
I nodded.
“I could have,” I said. “So, you see, I understand social pressures.”
“I see that,” Richard said. “What happened with Jeb?”
“It just didn’t work out,” I said. “Too many family politics. Different values. I wanted to get the hell out of here and he wanted to stay forever. I couldn’t stand being near him for more than five minutes and the thought of waking up beside him even once made my stomach turn. You know, classic conflicts.”
Richard laughed and took a bite of one of the chips. He gave a somewhat surprised sound of approval and swallowed.
“The romantic tragedy of our times,” he said.
“Speaking of which,” I said, knowing a good segue when I heard it. “How is Flora?”
He winced and lowered the plate of food he held to his lap. He finished chewing the bite of taco-seasoned fried chicken in his mouth and let out a long breath.
“That’s actually what I came here to talk to you about.”
I braced myself, feeling the fun rapport that we had managed to find again drain away. Before he could open his mouth again, though, we heard whooping and hollering coming from across the field and the squealing of ATVs cutting through the grass.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Just a couple of teenagers out to wreak havoc and enjoy the summer night,” I said. “Probably hopped up on moonshine.”
“Moonshine?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it when you were picking out Big Blue here,” I said. “Cletus’s Clementine Moonshine. His pride and joy. It’s that little twist of clementine at the end that’s exactly the wrong thing to do. He bottles it up and gives it out at Christmas. That’s how most of the teenagers get a hold of it. The bottles make wonderful doorstops. Tie-downs for picnic blankets. Window cleaner. Not so much adult consumption.”
I could see Richard’s face fall and I tilted my head at him.
“What?” I asked.
He turned and pushed the sliding window on the back of the cabin open. He reached inside and came up a second later with a bottle of moonshine. I laughed.
“You bought a bottle?” I asked.
He reached in again and came out with another.
“I bought two.”
I threw back my head and laughed harder, pressing my hand to the side of my belly.
“I thought that we could celebrate,” he said.
“Celebrate what?”
“How close we are to the baby being born.”
“You bought unregulated moonshine to celebrate a still-pregnant woman?”
“It probably wasn’t the best choice.”
I shook my head.
“No. Probably not.”
He sat the bottles down beside him and leaned slightly closer to me.
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night at the restaurant,” he said.
The smile melted from my face and I shook my head.
“I don’t think that we have anything else that we need to talk about, Richard. I saw you and Flora together at the hotel. I don’t need any of the pandering or the big sweeping romantic explanations. You and I had fun. You needed a little break from her and I was convenient. I understand. We don’t believe so much in the fairy tales out here.”
“Rue, that’s not what happened.”
“Of course, it is. She got cold feet about the baby and left, so I was the warm body you needed to get you through, but when she changed her mind, you realized that she really was what you wanted. After all, she’s what you’ve been looking forward to your whole life.”
“I wouldn’t really say I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Well, she’s what you’ve expected. It’s easier to just go with what you know. I get that. It’s your future. It’s your baby. What I felt, or what I thought that you felt, doesn’t matter.”
“But Rue, that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you…”
I shook my head, a wistful smile coming to my lips and a veil of tears covering my eyes.
“When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to make me oatmeal raisin cookies. There was nothing like coming into the house and smelling Grammyma’s cookies baking. They were my favorite thing in the world. Then one day I came home and there was a big plate of oatmeal raisin cookies sitting on the counter. When I reached for one, though, she told me that they weren’t for me. She had made them for a friend of hers from church. I was really upset, but there was nothing that I could do. She didn’t make them for me.”
“I don’t think I’m following you,” Richard said.
I sighed painfully.
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you want something or how much you think that you should have it. Sometimes, it’s just not meant to be yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rue
I wished that I could get out of the truck and run away. I didn’t want to be a part of this moment any longer. When I looked up at Richard, though, he didn’t look upset like I would expect him to. Instead, he had the hint of a smile on his lips.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “You do have it. Or at least you could, if you want it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I saw you with Flora at the hotel. I saw the way that she was hugging you.”
“She was hugging me goodbye,” Richard said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Richard tried to come toward me through all of the food and reached for my hand.
“Flora had changed her mind,” he said, and I felt my heart sink. “But not about the baby. Just about me. It was a complete surprise when she called me that day. I didn’t even know that she was back in the city. I had absolutely no intention of seeing her, but she said that it was really important that we meet, that it had to do with the baby. As horrible as it sounds, until that moment I hadn’t even thought about the fact that she still had anything to do with the baby. She had been gone for so long that I had just put it behind me that she was still legally involved. When she reminded me of that I knew that I needed to see her. The plan was to meet her at her hotel, iron everything out, and then still get to the restaurant in time for our date.”
“So, what happened? What do you mean she changed her mind about you, but not the baby?”
“When I got to the hotel I could tell that she was scheming from the first second I saw her. She was wearing one of my favorite dresses and the perfume that I got her for her birthday last year.”
I held up a hand, squeezing my eyes closed for a brief moment.
“I really don’t need to hear all of this,” I said.
“The point is, none of that mattered to me. I didn’t care what she looked like or smelled like or even anything that she had to say.”
“What did she have to say?”
“She told me that she had been thinking a lot about us since she had been gone and realized that we had had a good thing going before we decided that we were going to have a baby. She saw all of the other people our age getting married and having these perfect lives, and she realized t
hat she wasn’t going to get by in society without a husband, much less maintain the position that she wanted by not having me.”
“How romantic,” I said bitterly.
“Exactly.”
“So, what? She told you that she was jealous of all of the other people because they were married, and she realized that she had made a royal screw up by leaving you.”
“Yes, but she didn’t want to go back to what we had been. She wanted to go back before that. She wanted to go back before what she thinks is the point when everything went wrong between us.”
“When you decided to have a baby,” I said.
“Yes. She thinks that I put too much pressure on her to start a family and then when we found out that she couldn’t get pregnant, it just made things worse between us. The thing is, though…that was a lie.”
“What?” I asked, shocked by what he was telling me.
He nodded.
“I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t know if it would matter to you, but I found out that she lied to me about it. When she went to the doctor she actually found out that she was perfectly fine.”
“Why did she lie to you about that?”
“When I called her out for it she said that even then she wasn’t convinced about the whole having a baby idea. She decided to lie about not being able to have a baby hoping that I would feel sorry for her and drop the whole idea. When I mentioned that we could consider surrogacy, she didn’t really have any way to argue with it. She had made such a fuss about wanting to be a mother, saying that she didn’t want to do a baby contract would only seem strange. I think she hoped that either the process wouldn’t work, or she could pretend to be so devastated by the whole thing that I would give up on it.”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry, I’m not following you. Why does any of this matter?”