“Thanks.” I hugged Tom’s arm and inched toward him in the seat, partly because I wanted to, and partly to get away from Winky’s cloud of body odor. My move didn’t go unnoticed by the foul-smelling redneck.
“Whoa nelly! You two hookin’ up now?” Winky asked. He wagged his tongue at me like a deranged tequila worm.
I punched him on the arm. “Stop it, Winky!”
“Is that what she says to you, too, Tom?” Winky quipped.
Tom winked at me. “So far. But I’m not giving up that easy. Anybody else starving? I think it’s time for a Chatterburger.”
“It’s Chattaburger, not Chatterburger,” I said, then cringed when I realized how much I sounded like my mom. “But who cares?” I added, overcompensating with a syrupy layer of cheerfulness. “We better not forget Tiny’s order. What was it again?”
“Burger, fries, Mountain Dew,” Tom answered in his just-the-facts cop voice.
“Right you are, Tom!”
Geeze! Cut the enthusiasm, Val. You’re getting weird! It was just a kiss. Don’t blow it out of proportion!
“I’m starving, too. Who knew that police work was so demanding?”
What? Shut up, for crying out loud!
“Tom prob’ly did, since he is one,” Winky replied. His dry, obvious tone made us all snort with laughter.
Tom turned the ignition on the old Ford and pointed it east on Hwy 90. Chattahoochee State Hospital disappeared in the rearview mirror as we headed toward Chattahoochee proper, home of the world-famous Chattaburger.
Chapter Thirty
THERE WAS NO WAY TO have a real conversation with Winky in the seat beside us, so on the drive to the burger joint, Tom and I kept our thoughts to ourselves. We decided to save time and get our Chattaburgers to go and eat them on the ride home. Tiny McMullen’s order was in a sack between my knees. It was my not-so-subtle attempt to keep Winky’s dirty hands off of it.
“I have to admit, this Chattaburger is pretty darn good,” I said, trying to make conversation to drown out the sound of Winky chomping and slurping mere inches from my right ear. “No wonder Tiny wanted us to bring him back one.”
“Yeah,” Winky agreed, smacking his lips. “Who would a thought a cheetah could taste so good.”
“It’s Chatta, not –” I began, then reminded myself that some battles weren’t worth fighting. “How do you like yours, Tom?”
“Pretty tasty,” he said, then nudged me and whispered. “But nothing compared to something I tasted earlier.”
I blushed with an uncomfortable mixture of pride, embarrassment, and lust. To compensate, I did the only mature thing I could think of. I punched Tom on the arm. The impact made him drop his bag of fries. They scattered over his lap, putting grease marks all over his crisp, ironed jeans.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!”
“You’re going to have to clean that up, young lady,” Tom said.
I looked into Tom’s twinkling green eyes and smiled coyly. I shot a glance in Winky’s direction. He’d already finished wolfing down his food and was in his own, well-fed nirvana. His head was sticking out the passenger window like a red-speckled hound dog – complete with open mouth and wagging tongue. With Winky distracted, I turned my attention back to Tom.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Officer,” I whispered. “Should I start here?” I picked up a French fry from his lap and ate it slowly and suggestively.
“Uh...I see you like fries,” Tom said, trying to keep one eye on the road and one on me.
“I love fries.” I moved my hand slowly down the inside of his thigh on the pretense of searching for a stray fry. His leg felt strong and muscular. “I want to make sure I’m doing a good job, officer.”
Tom inhaled sharply, then blew out a breath. “Believe me, you are.”
“Why we goin’ so gaul-dang slow?” bellowed Winky. He’d pulled his head in from the window.
I looked down at the speedometer and bit my lip to keep from laughing. We were going about twelve miles an hour.
“I like to take my time,” Tom said a little too loudly. His face was scarlet.
“Me too,” I added, smirking into his sea-green eyes.
“Well if that don’t beat a goat a gobblin’,” Winky said.
Whatever that meant.
NOT-SO-TINY TINY GRABBED the Chattaburger bag with delight and explained Tom’s car troubles between mouthfuls of fries and slurps from a huge, half-gallon cup of Mountain Dew.
“It’s the earl line,” the huge man said. He leaned against the hood of the 4Runner and sucked some antifreeze-colored soda from the straw.
“The earl line?” Tom asked politely.
“Yep. Been cut clean in two. Earl nearly completely drained out. Good thing you didn’t go nowhere. Would a blown the block. Need to replace the line. Gonna need a few quarts a earl, too. Take six or eight to fill her?”
“Oh. I’d say six quarts of oil should do it,” said Tom.
“All-righty then. I got enough earl at the house. I done ordered the earl line. Should be here tonight. Or first thing in the morning. Won’t take but a jiff to have her ready. I figure $30 and a box a donuts and we’re square. Deal?”
Tiny wiped his right hand on the thigh of his filthy overalls, then held it out toward Tom. Tom shook it without hesitation.
“Deal.”
Tiny eyed me and Tom, then whispered, “Wouldn’t take him, huh?” He nodded his head in Winky’s direction.
“Nope, too far gone,” I said before Tom could answer.
Tiny nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Purty obvious. Prob’ly coulda saved you a trip by sayin’ so.”
“Don’t worry,” I said in a serious, hushed tone. “We got an aunt in Valdosta who’ll take him.”
Tiny pursed his lips solemnly. “You can always count on family.”
“Okay then,” said Tom, in a way that seemed to close the discussion. “Looks like I’m taking the day off tomorrow. I’ll call the office and give them the heads up.”
Tom walked off to make his call. I headed for the house, leaving Tiny and Winky standing in the shade of the pecan tree in mom’s front yard. I walked in to find Mom and Dale sprawled out in their matching recliners, watching The Price is Right at five million decibels.
“Hey,” I shouted to the backs of their heads, trying to trump the volume on the TV. “Looks like we need to stay another night. That okay with you two?”
“Sure,” Mom said, her eyes never leaving the set. “What you wanna do about dinner?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Good.”
I poked around in the fridge. Off hand, I didn’t know any recipes that called for pudding packs, Velveeta, or buttermilk.
“I’m going to the store,” I hollered in their general direction, and tromped back outside. Across the street, I saw Tiny’s large backside disappear behind a junked car in his yard.
“We’re good to stay another night,” I said to Tom. He gave me a thumb’s up.
Winky was trying to aggravate that poor squirrel with a stick again. He heard the news and hurled the stick across the yard. He kicked the ground with his bare foot, making me wonder whether or not he’d been wearing shoes on our trip today.
“Gaul-dang it!” Winky grumbled. “I was hopin’ to hightail it outta here!”
“Why? You got somewhere to be?” Tom asked.
“Not partic’lar. But I know when I ain’t wanted.” Winky looked me in the eyes. “Excuse me for sayin’ so, Val, but right now I’m about as welcome with your mammy as a turd on a cherry sundae.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry, Winky. It’ll blow over. I’ve been the human sacrifice for Mount Saint Mom’s volcanic moods for over forty-five years now, and I’m still standing.”
“And still smokin’ hot, I might add,” Tom said in a half-joking, half-sexy way that made my neck flush with heat.
“Well, I ain’t used to gettin’ such dirty looks,” Winky whined.
“Really?” I asked, genuinely amazed.
<
br /> “Ha ha, Miss Val Pal. Your humor ain’t lost on me.” Winky shot a sore glance over at Tom’s truck. “Crap. Looks like I’ll be settin’ up camp in the 4Runner again.”
“Sorry, Winky.”
I felt bad about making him feel bad. “Look, let’s take the golf cart up to IGA and get some donuts or ice cream or something. That’ll get my mom in a better mood. I need to find something to fix for dinner anyway.”
Winky’s freckled face brightened at the prospect. He nodded and yelled, “Shotgun!”
I CHOSE TO FRY CHICKEN for dinner that night. Not because I was a good hostess, mind you. And not because I wanted to impress Tom with my Southern culinary skills. Nope. I chose to fry chicken because I knew it would take a long time, and it would keep me out of that familiar line of fire I called, “Conversing with my mother.”
I smiled smugly at my own cleverness and dredged a raw chicken thigh in seasoned flour, then buttermilk, then back through the flour again. I dropped it carefully into the sizzling oil in the last open spot in the cast iron skillet, then clamped on the glass lid. I stirred a huge pot of collard greens and listened in on the boys in the battlefield. Despite their peace offering to my mother of a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, they never stood a chance.
“How come yer a cop, Tom?” I heard Mom ask. “You got some kinda problem with aw-tharity?”
“No ma’am. I just like helping people.”
“Hmmm.”
I chuckled to myself. “Hmmm” was Mom’s typical response to something she didn’t believe. I guess it was more polite than screaming “bull hockey” or “liar,” something I’d also seen her do plenty of times. Maybe she was mellowing in her old age. To my surprise, Winky stepped up and saved Tom from further interrogation.
“I shore do like your spare toilet roll holder, Mrs. Short. I ain’t never seen a purtier crocheted poodle. You do that yourself, ma’am?”
“Why no, Winky. My sister Vera Jane done that. God rest her soul.”
“Well that’s a real keeper, fer shore. I seen me a pink one a’fore. And a yeller doll-type one, you know. But I never seen a yeller poodle. Yep, it’s a real keeper.”
“I ’preciate that, Winky. You and me got off on the wrong foot. But now I see you got good manners and good taste. Val could do a lot worse than to settle on you.”
“Oh. Thanky, ma’am. But they’s nothin’ goin’ on with me and Val. Strictly platonical, if you know what I mean. Besides, I think she’s sweet on Tommy boy, here.”
I was desperate to hear what came next, but the dang oil in the skillet boiled over and sent a plume of white-hot smoke billowing through the dingy kitchen. I ran around opening windows and fanning the air like an idiot, trying to keep from setting off the smoke alarm. By the time I got the air cleared and the chicken pieces turned, the battlefield topic had moved on.
“No I ain’t much on flea markets,” Mom said. “Growin’ up, just about everything we had was give to us. We was poor. I mean dirt poor. I won’t have nothin’ now, ’less’n it’s new and we can pay cash money for it, right Dale?”
“Yes’m, honey.”
I grinned. Short and sweet. That was Dale.
“Vallie!” Mom’s razor-sharp voice startled me so I nearly dropped the plate of chicken I was carrying. “You about burned up that chicken dinner yet?”
Short and not-so-sweet. That was my mom.
Chapter Thirty-One
I’D SET THE ALARM ON my cellphone for 6 a.m. to avoid another one of Mom’s flyswatter wake-up calls. I heard it beep, switched it off, then lolled back to sleep on the wispy memory of a dream.
Glad and I were laughing together. I sat behind her, my arms wrapped around her as we rode on a giant blue-and-green dragonfly. Suddenly, she and I shrunk to the size of matchsticks, and the dragonfly we rode was of normal size. Together, we soared over Glad’s Minnie Winnie, which was parked on the sugar-white sand between the shoreline and Caddy’s beach bar. The sky was blue and warm, and Glad was leaning back, whispering something in my ear. It tickled. What was she saying? Be Glad? Glod. Glorf. Glorf. Grrof. Her breath smelled like kibbles and barf....
I shot awake. Mom’s yappy little dog was licking my ear. I sat up on the couch and pushed the pooch away. My ear was sopping wet with slobber.
Gross!
I got up and scurried down the hallway to the bathroom, holding my ear and cursing under my breath. Preoccupied, I ran headlong into Tom.
“Wow, Val. You really aren’t a morning person.”
Someone kill me now.
“Told ya.”
He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. “How about a good morning kiss?” he teased.
“Not the time or place,” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip as smelly dog saliva trickled down my ear.
“Come on,” he insisted. “It’s okay. We’ve already had our first kiss, remember?”
Unlike mine, Tom’s breath smelled minty fresh. As a courtesy, I turned my face away before I spoke.
“Yeah. I remember. We kissed in a nuthouse.”
Tom touched the side of my face and turned my head gently until we were eye to eye.
“I heard that’s good luck,” he joked in a deep, sexy, morning voice.
I snorted out a sarcastic laugh. “Come on, Tom. You’re spoiling my bad mood.”
His smile evaporated. He pulled his hand from the side of my face and examined it. “Is your ear leaking?”
Horrified, I pushed past Tom, ran into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me.
BY SOME REDNECK MIRACLE of ingenuity, Tiny got the 4Runner up and going by breakfast. Tom and Dale had taken the golf cart up to IGA at half-past six and scored two big boxes of donuts. I guess their chore had freed Tiny up so he could dive right in to fixing the oil line. It didn’t take him long, either. In fact, he was done in time to join the five of us at the breakfast table.
I watched as Tiny washed up at the kitchen sink, then turned a dining chair around and straddled it. As he lowered his huge bulk precariously onto the unlucky chair, it protested with groans and squeaks. A few minutes later, we were fresh out of donuts.
“Well, Valiant Jolly, when are me and Dale gonna see you again?” Mom asked, cramming the last half of a cream-filled donut into her mouth. She shot me a “poor-me” look that would have made Mother Teresa feel like crap.
“It’s Fremden now, Mom. My German name.”
“Fremden? I never can remember it. What in tarnation is a Fremden?”
I’d wondered the same thing a few years back. Lots of names like Smith and Jones didn’t really have any meaning. But Fremden did. I’d looked it up in my German-to-English dictionary.
“It means stranger, Mom.”
“Well, you do keep gettin’ stranger and stranger to me,” Mom snorted, amusing herself so much she nearly choked on a slug of Maxwell House.
I nodded silently, and counted her intended insult as personal gain.
I sure hope so.
“Tiny, thanks again for fixing up the 4Runner,” Tom said, coming to my rescue by changing the subject. I shot him a grateful smile. Tom actually did look a bit like a superhero – especially sitting amongst this lot.
“No problemo, Tom,” replied Tiny. “Only thing I like better’n donuts is gettin’ under the hood of a vehicle. Even if it is a Ty-otee.”
“It’s been a real pleasure havin’ you and these boys here,” Dale, said in my direction. He took out a hanky and dabbed at his nearly useless eyes. He was a small, delicate man, and for some reason the thought of him and my mom together brought to my mind a pair of black widow spiders. After mating, the much larger female often annihilated her partner by eating him alive. The male had to be crafty to avoid such a fate. I suddenly hoped Dale was crafty.
A rogue wave of melancholy unexpectedly washed over me. I knew I had to either bust out crying or get busy doing something. I chose the latter.
“Thank you, Dale,” I said, and stood up. “It’s always a pleasure to see y
ou...and Mom. I guess I better get started on the dishes if we’re going to get out of here anytime soon.”
“Leave ‘em. I’ll do ‘em,” my mother said. My knees nearly buckled in shock.
“Thanks, Mom.” I reached over to hug her.
“You don’t never get ‘em clean enough anyway,” she said without looking up, and took a huge bite from the last remaining cruller.
SOME THINGS SIMPLY look a lot better from the rearview mirror. As we drove away, I watched the reflection of Mom and Dale waving from their front yard until the image shrank and faded away. Despite the feeling of relief, my throat got tight and my nose grew hot. Longing to return to a fairytale that never really existed is, I guess, the ultimate irony of family.
Tom noticed me tearing up, and offered me a hanky that came with the welcome bonus of a tender squeeze of my hand. I blew my dripping nose into it and realized I had something else to be grateful for. My nose had been healed up enough for my mom not to notice. I never had to explain to her why I got punched in the face.
“Did I hear your mom call you Valiant?” Tom asked.
My gratitude dried up. I took a quick glance in the backseat. Winky was already passed out.
God bless you whoever invented Dramamine.
“Yeah. Val is short for Valiant. Valiant W. Jolly. That’s the name my parents gave me.”
“So...is there a story that goes with the name? I’ve never heard of anyone called Valiant before.”
I glanced over at Tom. He appeared to be seriously interested. And handsome. His blond bangs gently moved with the cool gusts from the air conditioner. His mirrored shades lent a sort of movie-star cop mystique.
“Yeah. But it’s a short story. My dad said he called me that because he thought I was brave.”
“What did you do that was brave?”
I scrunched my eyebrows quizzically. “You know, I don’t think I ever asked him. I guess I never thought about it. Maybe I was brave just to be born into a family run roughshod by my mother.”
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