Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)
Page 1
THE RACHAEL O’BRIEN CHRONICLES
JUNIOR: JOHNNY CAKES
A Novel by
PAISLEY RAY
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, compiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Copyright 2014 by Paisley Ray
Cover Art by Chantal deFelice
Edited by Margie Aston
Formatting by Lucinda Campbell
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9885528-5-2 (Ebook)
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Cynthia Slocum for her sharp eye and edit suggestions, my husband Marcel for endless discussions on plot and everything Rachael O’Brien. Also thanks to the Wikipedia community for their invaluable information on various subjects.
Also by Paisley Ray
Freshman: Deep Fried and Pickled (No.1)
Freshmore: Summer Flambé (No.2)
Sophomore: Shelled and Shucked (No.3)
Euro Summer: Toad in the Hole (No.4)
Junior: Johnny Cakes (No.5)
Southern Summer: Swamp Cabbage (No.6) – Coming Soon
Table of Contents
AUGUST 1988
CHAPTER 1
Fair to Middlin’
CHAPTER 2
I Ain’t Not Never In My Life
CHAPTER 3
Half a Bubble Off Plum
CHAPTER 4
Puttin’ Gas in a Car That You’ve Already Wrecked
SEPTEMBER 1988
CHAPTER 5
Joshin’
CHAPTER 6
Bun in the Oven
CHAPTER 7
I Found Your Nose in My Business
CHAPTER 8
Rootin’ in a Rock Pile
OCTOBER 1988
CHAPTER 9
Pay Them No Nevermind
CHAPTER 10
Wag the Dog
CHAPTER 11
Cock and Bull
NOVEMBER 1988
CHAPTER 12
Jar Your Preserves
CHAPTER 13
Bite Me
CHAPTER 14
Cracked Boll
CHAPTER 15
Turkey Shot
DECEMBER 1988
CHAPTER 16
Dern Near
CHAPTER 17
Fixin’ to Come Up a Bad Cloud
JANUARY 1989
CHAPTER 18
Knock You Into Next Week
FEBRUARY 1989
CHAPTER 19
Burr Under my Saddle
CHAPTER 20
Out of Kilter
CHAPTER 21
Three Pickles Shy of a Quart
CHAPTER 22
Hell’s Bells
MARCH 1989
CHAPTER 23
Creamed Yo’ Corn
CHAPTER 24
More Than I Can Say Grace Over
CHAPTER 25
High Tail It
APRIL 1989
CHAPTER 26
Didjya Ever
CHAPTER 27
Looka Here
CHAPTER 28
10 Miles of Bad Road
CHAPTER 29
Like White on Rice
CHAPTER 30
Running Toward Hell’s Half Acre
CHAPTER 31
His Heart’s a Thumpin Gizzard
CHAPTER 32
Ina Tirade
MAY 1989
CHAPTER 33
Stuck in Your Throat Like a Hair in a Biscuit
COMING SOON
Swamp Cabbage
“A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.”
~Mae West
AUGUST 1988
CHAPTER 1
Fair to Middlin’
“JOHNNY CAKES was looking for you,” Francine said, her eyes intent on the cast iron skillet that popped and sizzled as she scraped it against the electric burner.
I’d been inside Sheila Sinclair’s house just off campus two seconds, max. The sun outside shone bright; inside the space felt sleek with floor-to-ceiling mauve, black appliances, and a mid-century leather sofa sectional. I dropped my duffle bag just outside the kitchen saloon-style swinging door. My head was pounding from lack of sleep and my skin tacky from the motel bar soap film that clung from an early morning shower.
Francine had a cryptic way of making implications. I assumed her greeting was code for one of my past dating disasters. Junior year, I’d determined, was going to be different. With my redneck stalker digested into swamp muck, and having left the crazy Turk and the troublesome Asprey oyster brooch in England for Scotland Yard to deal with, my romantic interests scattered off the radar. This year was going to be normal. I’d have no bigger college concerns than cramming for tests and experimenting with hangover remedies.
Roger’s knees butted against the wall at a breakfast bar opening, his focus steadied on the frying pan. He wore a matted fur something or other around his neck. I stared at him. The belted blanket garb that draped his bare arms and legs had me wondering if the fleabag hotel where I’d spent the night had futzed with my brain. Or had Francine and her boyfriend kicked their relationship up a notch? Maybe they were into some kind of role-play that I didn’t have any business asking about. Flashing the signature gap between his upper front teeth, he said, “Hey Rach, you’re wrecked.”
Perceptive guy. Then again, if you dared to date Francine Battle, a Bayou-bred, opinionated handful, you had to be on your toes. And a little crazy.
“Me and my car engine.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“On an incline, sandwiched in by the Appalachian Mountains, about ten miles before I crossed the West Virginia state line, my Galaxie coughed fumes that smelled like burnt toxins before the transmission blew steam.”
Francine rolled her neck toward me and acknowledged my presence with a scowl.
Being inconvenienced and parting from funds I’d planned on consuming at bars and on extras I’d need living off campus, I was in no mood for the chilly Louisiana shoulder my temperamental roommate aimed at me.
“That blows,” Roger said.
“Owning that clunker just made a big ding in my bank account. I need to trade the pea green shit can in for something reliable.”
Scoping out Francine and Roger’s get-ups, I had to ask, “What are you two wearing?”
Roger stopped spinning an empty juice glass and it became lost under his carrot size fingers. “We dressed up last night. Posed as apostles at da Vinci’s last supper.”
“What?”
“Which one was I, Francie?
Facing the stove, she said, “Simon the Zealot.”
“Oh yeah, and Francie played Jesus.”
I stared at the bare skin on Francine’s neck, below her morning yellow shower cap. “Since when does Jesus have a scaly tail drawn in black marker? Did you run out of paper while playing Win, Lose or Draw?”
The aged pan Francine
handled started to smoke. The air smelled of new carpet, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and skillet-warmed butter. “Merde,” she spat, as she scurried to add a generous heaping of butter. Once she had the pan under control, she poked flat golden cakes with a spatula and turned the heat down. Stomping her slipper feet out of the kitchen, she buzzed around the corner toward the powder room. We heard the light switch flick and after a beat, she shouted loud enough for the neighbors two doors down to hear her. “Lord have mercy! When the tarnation did this happen? Roger!”
Dutifully, Roger disappeared and I looked past the kitchen to a slumbering body that was tucked into the sofa cushions. Plastic cups littered every surface. “This house has been partified. Did you throw some kind of church supper thing?”
The powder room door must’ve been open because I could hear every word. Roger mewed in an apologetic tone, “I don’t know, babe. The snake was on you before I arrived. I thought it was part of a biblical reference for our costumes, like a Garden of Eden thing.”
“We were apostles, not Adam and Eve. Why would I have a scaly snake drawn on my back and more importantly, how would I put it there?”
“Maybe I should be asking that question,” Roger countered.
Water ran in the sink, and when they returned her neck looked reddish, but the slithery snake was still intact. She caught me staring at it and prodded me with the spatula.” You were supposed to be here a day and a half ago.”
“My car broke down.”
“Excuses are like assholes; everyone’s got one,” her voice lowered to a murmur. “I should have known. You do this every year.”
“Do what?”
With calculated precision, she squinted her black eyes at me. “You avoid all the work of moving in.”
My voice pitched, “I do not. Not on purpose.”
Placing himself between Francine and the stovetop, Roger stepped in. Despite his head grazing the ceiling of the pint-sized kitchen, he hunched his shoulder to peer into the pan. “Now ladies, don’t be accusing.”
“Are you taking her side?” Francine spouted.
“Francie, something from this griddle is smelling mighty fine.”
She manhandled the spatula, and watched the crispy brown that formed on the edges of what I assumed were pancakes. “There isn’t room in here for all of us. You two sit your bottoms down,” she ordered as she adjusted the heat on the electric stovetop.
Everything was ready at the kitchen counter. The red snap-top on the maple syrup was open and a knife stood erect in the center of a tub of butter. Roger tucked a napkin in the neck of the Mexican blanket he wore and wrapped each of his fists around a utensil. “So the Galaxie broke down? Is she fixed?”
“Why didn’t you call and tell us?” Francine snapped as she stacked the grill cakes on a plate.
“Has anyone set up the phone service yet?”
Duh. I would’ve called if there was somewhere to call.
Biting her lip, she re-focused on the food. I considered storming off, that is, if pancakes weren’t my all-time favorite food. Besides, junior year had just begun and I didn’t want to start it with a fight.
“I ended up phoning Dad to let him know I’d been delayed. He spoke to the mechanic at the repair shop so I wouldn’t get completely ripped off. Even said he’d send me the money to help cover the cost, but I don’t plan on holding him to that.”
“Art restoration business still slow?” Francine asked.
I shrugged. “His business has picked up.” Which was a good thing since his butt-busting aerobic-instructor girlfriend of two years ate into his pockets with the social calendar she subjected him to.
After tightening her tasseled bathrobe belt and tucking some escaped hair under her shower cap, Francine set the stacked platter in front of us. I noticed Roger’s pie hole maneuver a series of exercises and contortions as a warm up. Both he and Francine took food as seriously as religion, and he was focused on quieting the grumble in his stomach. Sliding a fork down half the stack to serve me, I stopped him.
“Just a couple,” I said.
The two contorted their faces at me concerned-like.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re great, but food or drink that’s been named after a man never sits well with me.”
“These are not ordinary pancakes. You’ll change your mind. ” Roger said.
They were golden around the edges, and seemed denser than the ones at IHOP. I could’ve vacuumed most of the stack, but my jeans from last year were snug.
Sometimes things I think are a good idea just aren’t.
Francine’s boyfriend had perfected fueling her ego. It was his way of placing a protective shield around himself. I knew his gig. He conveyed a simple, easy-going persona, but underneath he was one smart dude.
“To start with,” I said.
“Suit yourself, but these johnny cakes aren’t going to be around for long.”
And it began. The southernisms that always confused me were pitched like fastballs. I slathered soft butter on my stack and poured a puddle of syrup out of the Mrs. Butterworth bottle. “Johnny Cakes? Francine. Who? What are you talking about?”
The downstairs bedroom door lock clicked. Within seconds a pair of lightly freckled, lanky arms hugged me from behind and my shoulders were covered in a curtain of red hair. Releasing me, the chronic hugger dangled her nimble fingers onto my plate and tore a corner of my johnny cake. After popping the bite behind her glossy lips, she made a show of sucking the leftover drops of syrup off her fingers. Sheila Sinclair was our roommate whose daddy owned the house. “Rachael,” she purred. “Good of you to show. What wanker kept you from your own party?”
I didn’t immediately turn to face her. For the life of me, I never thought I’d be living under the same roof with my bar brawling nemesis. But she had the house and the too-good-to-be-true rent. My back would be covered by my best buds, which she mistakenly assumed included her. “For the record, no man keeps me. And what party? No one told me about a party.”
Stationed at the stove, Francine manipulated the iron skillet with her wrist to evenly grease the pan, then waited a moment before she ladled in puddles of sunflower-colored batter. “That’s because it was a surprise.”
Roger and I turned toward Sheila, and we both noticed her clingy, low V-neck t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. Braless and perky, her prized torpedoes were on display.
What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to live with this crazy-ass chutzpah that reveled in testing her roommates’ boyfriends loyalties?
“Why would you throw me a party?”
Sheila slinked into the kitchen and leaned her skinny backside against the sink. Pulling her shoulders back, she gave Francine, Roger, and me an eyeful. “Honestly Rachael, you’re so modest.” At least one of us was. Unlike Roger, I kept my focus above Sheila’s neck.
Francine stepped an arm’s length out from the stove. Her Rubenesque figure and perfectly angled, oven-mitted hands on hips blocked Roger’s frontal view of Sheila. She spoke without moving. “For winning the scholarship we threw you a ‘dress like your favorite masterpiece’ surprise shindig.”
“You did?” I said looking from Sheila to Francine. Francine met my wide-eyed astonishment with a blank stare, and Sheila plastered an angelic smile on her shiny lips. Now the mis-arranged chairs, the dark stain on the mauve carpet, the ashtray filled with butts, and the body tucked under a throw with a back cushion covering its face made sense. “Is that Katie Lee or Jet on the sofa?”
Sheila’s eyes brimmed with delight while Francine contorted the center of her eyebrows heavenward.
“That there,” Francine said, “was uninvited and will be on its way as soon as it enters consciousness.”
Intrigued, I feigned nonchalance. “Where is Katie Lee?”
“Over at Dufus’ place.”
My nose crinkled. I had a vivid memory of Xanadu Apartments that still stung. I’d been out of the country for a good part of the summer, and
wasn’t up-to-speed on the whirling dramas that hurdled in and out of Katie Lee’s life.
So she and Hugh were still a thing.
I wouldn’t have predicted that those two would’ve lasted—not that I overly cared, except that Hugh’s roommate, Clay Sorenson, was my ex-fiasco. Our thing should’ve been promising, but ended with an unexpected bang—the kind that lands you in the hospital. If Hugh was still living with Clay, that meant that our circles overlapped and there was the potential for a run-in with someone I’d worked hard to put in The Forget File. Shaking the past out of my head I moseyed closer to the sofa. “Jet?”
A soda can tab snapped and Sheila poured herself a Pepsi. “Upstairs sleeping.”
If the body on the sofa wasn’t either of my missing roommates and it wasn’t Hugh or Roger then it had to be someone left over from my party. Someone I knew. Oh Shit! I’d had a long, romanceless summer, and a flurry of magnetic energy sparked from my heart to my thighs. Had the girls arranged for Stone Rogers, my on-again off-again to drive in from South Carolina for this soirée? End of last year, we’d left things dangling, but I wouldn’t have been disappointed to see him now.
At the corner of the breakfast bar, Roger used his finger to collect the last of the syrup on his plate while Francine hummed. Sheila didn’t bother to hide watching me as she giggled.
“Do I know this someone?”
Francine fixed a plate for herself. “Unfortunately.”
That bristly response meant it wasn’t Stone. He was the only guy interest I had who she tolerated. Panic seized me. There was a southern badass who passed in and out of my life. He’d been a man on the run whom I’d slept with, once. Like chocolate covered sprinkled donuts, he shredded my sensibilities cockeyed with his sweet-talking, testosterone-infused, tussled charm, and I somehow hadn’t managed to say no. After our last encounter, I’d sworn to never willingly step foot near him again. Frantically, I assessed the dimensions of the lump under the throw.