A Trashy Affair

by Shurr, Lynn

  “Mama, can I have a beach, too? Harley takes me to Destin sometimes,” Jenny pleaded.

  “Sure, baby.” Olive patted the settee and asked Jane and Merlin to sit beside her. “Now watch that wet spot on the carpet. No need to get pee stink on your shoes. Thanks for making an old lady happy today.”

  “Glad to do it, Granny.”

  Merlin pecked her wrinkled cheek. Jane murmured the same sentiment. About the time Milly finished with Harley and Jenny, the others returned, Jayden in his damp little boy pants but licking frozen yogurt in a cone and Doyle doing the same.

  Brittney, maybe concerned about her poochy belly, carried nothing but a sour expression and some water stains down the front of her red dress. “We got to go. I didn’t bring extra clothes for the kid. That Melba person gave me a towel to put down on your precious car seat, Merlin. I tell you these stains had better come out.”

  “Go on, then. I’m worn out from being a glamour puss.” Miss Olive mounted her walker again.

  Getting ready for the next group waiting in the hall, Milly said, “Now, I’ll be sending you the proofs by e-mail. Who has e-mail?”

  Merlin raised his hand. “Got a laptop.”

  “Great, then you can show the others. Write your address on this form. I know you are going to love these. I tell you with all these digital cameras around, a girl has to hustle to make a living. Remember, my photos will not fade away to nothing over the years. They are heirloom quality. Wait until you see my selection of frames.”

  “That’s all good, but don’t you forget to credit my gift certificate,” Olive reminded the photographer as she moved her walker forward.

  They parted from Olive at the double door entry of the Villa and got everyone into the truck again with Jayden positioned carefully on his towel and belted in, a tall for his age little boy already outgrowing car seats. He fell asleep on the way back. With his duffel bag stowed in the truck bed along with Harley who wanted him to have the front seat, Doyle chatted with Merlin, not about war but of old times growing up on the farm.

  Including Jane, the soldier told her, “Kids bullied me in grade school. You know, the pudgy kid with the squatty body. I tried to laugh them off, but one day the bully king decided to wipe that smile off my face and knocked out one of my baby teeth. Merlin, he says to me, you tell those brats you’re Blackie Tauzin’s brother. They don’t want to know what Blackie will do to them if they bother you again. With Merlin being so many years older and up in middle school that worked really great.”

  “What did you do to them, Merlin?” Jane asked as if he might confirm a history of violence.

  “Nothing, because they didn’t want to know what Blackie would do. By the time I got to be thirteen I already had a tough attitude and a beard coming in, pretty scary to third-graders. I knocked out a few baby teeth myself in grade school when I got teased about not knowing my real daddy. After that, I just lived on my reputation. Once I got the motorcycle and started hanging out with Slick Broussard, everyone left me alone.”

  “Except the girls,” Doyle snickered.

  Jenny said softly, “My poor little boy came home crying from school, wanting to know who his daddy was, but I couldn’t tell. No, I couldn’t tell. He got into fights. My poor boy.”

  Merlin pushed the truck up another ten miles an hour. Harley lay down in the truck bed in case the cops came after them. No sense attracting even more attention than being ten miles over the limit would do. They got back to the trailer park in record time and unloaded. Merlin did not get down. He let Doyle and Harley do the lifting. With a wave out his window, he sped home with Jane still in the backseat amid her choice of belts to buckle. She leaned as far forward as the seatbelt would let her.

  “That was awkward.”

  “Yeah, I hate when my mom gets upset about my grade school years. So what? I had to get tough fast. That’s what Harley taught us, but it didn’t come to Doyle naturally like it did to me.”

  “I meant the picture taking session. I did not belong there. Brittney was right.”

  “My sister is a bitch. Granny wanted you there, and I want—what Granny wants.” He kept his eyes on the road. She should have been grateful for that.

  “Those couple pictures must have made you uncomfortable.”

  “Nope. We watch the sunset together. I wanted a picture of that in case you go. The other was for Granny.”

  “Go where? Not one reply to any of my job inquiries yet.” Jane flopped back against the seat.

  “No rush. The Council won’t do much business right before Christmas. In January, they will see the error of their ways and want you back to run the new recycling program and administer that grant I know you’ll get.”

  “You have more faith in me than I do.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to think that’s the way this works.”

  “What works?”

  “Nothing. Look, I’m going to drop you off, change my clothes and pack, then go back to Mom’s to spend the weekend with Doyle before I have to go offshore. I’d invite you, but we’ll only be sitting around eating Mom’s cooking and telling stories on each other. I’ll leave from there on Monday morning, okay?”

  “That’s what you should do, spend time with your brother, only don’t drink—” Jane stopped herself. She wasn’t Merlin’s mother, wife, or fiancée—only his too easy lay, and had no more right to tell him how to behave than honky-tonk Wanda. “Never mind.”

  “I won’t drink at all. God’s oath,” he responded as if he really needed her to know that.

  “Good. We might not see each other when you get back. I’ll be flying out at six a.m. that Monday for Christmas in Montana. I don’t want to wake you early after you get in late Sunday.”

  “I don’t mind getting up to take you to the airport.”

  “No, you’ll be offshore again when I get back. I’d better leave my car in long-term parking.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  No, that’s not how she wanted it. She’d rather have him drive her to the airport, kiss her goodbye long enough to embarrass the other passengers, say he loved her and would miss her, and be there waiting when she got back. Wasn’t going to happen with Merlin. She should make it easier on both of them by creeping away quietly and driving herself home after the trip.

  He turned his truck into the gravel driveway. Helping her down, he held her briefly against his chest before turning her lose to go into the kitchen while he walked around front to his loft leaving her again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nine days without Merlin seemed like a month when Jane had nothing to do with her time except check her e-mail hoping for a reply to her job inquiries. Sunday morning, she ate a light breakfast of coffee, orange juice, whole wheat toast, and strawberry jam and scanned the newspaper Christmas ads for an inexpensive gift that might appeal to Merlin. If worst came to worst, she could always buy him a gift card for gas, though she couldn’t afford enough to entirely fill the tank of his big-ass truck.

  And there it was—her long letter pleading the benefits of restoring the recycling program in Ste. Jeanne d’Arc Parish and asking for public support. Right below it taking up precious editorial space ran a full-color ad of a gorgeous swamp scene she recognized as the work of a talented local photographer. It promoted the same message and purported to be paid for by Falcon Enterprises. An ad like that cost plenty. Merlin was not cheap, nor did he lie. He’d closed on the sale of his townhouse the previous Thursday and gotten back the title of his big-ass truck the same day. While the ad dazzled her, the townhouse transaction relieved Jane of the worry that her problems would result in his financial ruin.

  She tore out the page to save, noticing as she flipped it over that the backside had a picture of Bernard Freeman and his perfect family wishing his constituents a Merry Christmas and a Blessed New Year. Much as she wanted to use that portion to start her fireplace, the reverse side meant more. In fact, she would get dressed and walk over to the Fast ’N Fun
for another copy of the Sunday paper to get a tear sheet for framing. Christmas gift problem solved.

  ****

  Monday morning, Jane parked on the lot of the church of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc as everyone did who wanted avoid the new parking meters on the street and still shop in the two-block row of downtown, locally-owned businesses. She cut across the church green, its ancient live oaks currently bedecked with a frenzy of flying angel figures that lit up brilliantly at night to celebrate the holiday season.

  Strolling along Main Street on a brisk morning that complemented the carols and pop holiday songs emanating from some of the small shops, Jane paused to peer into the two barred windows of LeClerc’s Jewelry and Watch Repair. Mr. LeClerc seldom placed any jewelry of great value right up front, but he did sometimes feature locally handcrafted merchandise placed with him on consignment. She could still window-shop if nothing else. One window displayed a Christmas special on diamond earrings, some so tiny one had to squint to see them in the setting. In the other, a pyramid of glass cubes caught her eye. Each one held a small animal figurine within its clear walls. On the very top, a silver falcon swooped suspended within its confines. Merlin.

  But, first things first. Without entering the jewelry shop, she went next door to Sweat’s Gallery and Frame Shop, a relatively new business proving Chapelle held some fine but previously unacknowledged artists in its midst. Zola Sweat, who claimed her last name was pronounced Sweet, bedecked her walls with local art: swamp scenes, Louisiana celebrities, sketches of Cajuns past and present, and views of the church across the street in various mediums. While she occasionally collected a thirty percent commission on a piece of art, her real income came from framing LSU and Sinners football memorabilia and anything else people wanted preserved under glass like Jane’s news clipping. Zola lived above the store and came clomping down the staircase in her clogs when the bell over the door rang.

  A big-boned woman with her black hair parted in the middle and hanging to the center of her back in a coarse, curly tail, Zola claimed the clogs helped her bad back. Today, she wore a hand-woven caftan, multi-hued, from some small African nation. Tomorrow, she might favor an orange retro polyester pantsuit. No one knew what to expect from Zola since she’d blown into town from New Orleans where she’d earned a living as a quick portrait artist on Jackson Square before Hurricane Katrina. Trapped in the horror of the Super Dome refuge, she told any and all she “ain’t a-gonna go back there.” Her race mixed, her opinions outspoken, Zola added lots of color to Main Street.

  “Hey, Jane. How ya doing?”

  “Not so great. Unemployed and Christmas coming on. I’d like to have this framed, but nothing too expensive.” Jane laid out the newspaper clipping carefully handled to prevent any creasing.

  “Aluminum frame, plain back mat, and non-glare glass be okay? I’ll give you a twenty percent regular customer discount. Sorry about your job. That’s government for you. If someone does good work, they are the first to go. If they louse it up, they get a pat on the back. ‘Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job,’ my big, fat ass. I’ll never forget that one after Katrina.”

  “Me neither. Thanks for the deal. Can I have it by Saturday? I’ll be going out of town for Christmas and need to get it wrapped for someone.”

  “Sure, all the autographed posters of Joe Dean Billodeaux can wait. Would this someone be Blackie Tauzin?” Zola raised her thin-plucked, dramatic eyebrows and pursed the thick lips set in her tawny face. The little polymer parrots mounted on her hoop earrings swung back and forth inquisitively.

  “Maybe.”

  “No need to be coy with me, but you should be more careful now that you live by a stoplight. Miss Lolly says she saw Blackie carrying you up that outside staircase on her way home from perpetual prayer. Sinning going on according to her, but what do old maids know?”

  “We were just fooling around.”

  “I’ll say! I envy you. I doubt there’s a man in the world big enough to carry me up the stairs—except maybe Rev Bullock, but being a minister and all, that ain’t his kind of thing. The newspaper called here to get Roger Darby’s phone number to see if they could use this picture in Blackie’s ad. The ladies over there spilled about this Falcon Enterprises business. So are you and Blackie cohabitating?”

  “He brought my house and lives upstairs for the time being. I couldn’t keep up the payments. He’s letting me stay there until I find a job. Then, I’ll be moving on.”

  “Not what I heard, honey, but the grapevine don’t always bear ripe fruit. Jane, this parish needs people like you—and me—to shake things up a little bit. Don’t pack your bags too soon, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best. See you Saturday.”

  Jane went out the gallery door and into the jewelry store. Like most of the old brick buildings along Main Street this one was long and narrow running back half a block. An alley with parking areas separated it from the businesses the next street over. With a jeweler’s loupe attached to his spectacles, bald-headed Mr. LeClerc sat in his office far to the rear. Customers ran a gauntlet of tempting display cases, ropes of pearls in this one, colored gems in the next, diamonds farther on, to get to him. Few people came in for watch repairs anymore, but he would replace a battery in a cheap, disposal watch for seven dollars. Having tried to do this herself only to find the hands of her Timex on the floor, Jane came here most often for that particular service.

  He betook himself to the counter for her benefit. “Here comes the lucky lady,”

  “Hardly. I am currently unemployed. How much for these cubes with the animals in them?”

  “Very reasonably priced at twenty dollars and right up your alley. The figurines are recycled cast aluminum. For each one sold, a dollar goes to wildlife preservation. I favor the sea turtles myself. I’ve sold a lot of those. Great stocking stuffers.”

  “No, I want the falcon.”

  “Bring it here. Free gift wrap.”

  Jane brought the cube to the back of the store and sat down in the area reserved for the selection of class rings. The seat, an old-fashioned fainting couch, contributed to the standard joke that parents went weak after hearing the prices. The phone rang and another customer arrived to pick up a repaired necklace, all contributing to a delay in the wrapping.

  Jane got up and wandered over to the antique hutch that housed the bridal selections of fine china, crystal and silver, each one labeled with the name of the bride and groom. Her eyes skimmed over the cut-glass vases and sterling serving pieces suggested for wedding gifts. She lingered by the showcase of engagement rings, but nothing special attracted her. Still by the time Mr. LeClerc handed her the little white box with its topping of curly red ribbon and his gold business sticker, she began feeling mildly depressed.

  Not that she wanted fancy china or a crystal vase or a large engagement ring, all unnecessary for a happy life her mother would say. If Merlin did not return her love, she could not force him. He had been good to her, and she hoped her small gifts would brighten his rather stark life. Not a single photo, framed picture, or small piece of art moved with him from the townhouse to her, no, his new house. Her living room walls hung with wonderful items purchased from Zola’s gallery, all done by rising young artists who might someday be famous. Over her brass bedstead she had fine art prints of Van Gogh’s irises and Monet’s water lilies. How did he live without art and beauty in his life? They were simply too different, too far apart ever to meet in the middle.

  “Merry Christmas, Jane. I know the New Year will be better for you.” Mr. LeClerc beamed at her like a character in the last scene of It’s a Wonderful Life when the whole town comes together to save George Bailey’s bank.

  “Thank you, but I won’t count on it.”

  At home, two vital pieces of mail waited in the box—a letter fixing her unemployment hearing for January seventh and an invitation to interview with an environmental company in Billings, Montana, during the week between Christmas and the New Year. If they offered her a job, she co
uld hardly afford to turn it down on the chance she would get six months worth of unemployment support. Even if she won her challenge against Nadia and the parish, having work trumped living off the dole any day of the week. She needed to get on that treadmill and run off her new low before she went on a crying jag again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dammit! Jane made a clean getaway. Merlin thought sure he’d hear her get up and shower at four a.m. in plenty of time to go downstairs and give her the sendoff she deserved, maybe a hot breakfast made while she got ready to leave, definitely a kiss sizzling enough for her to remember while she was gone. But, she’d skipped the shower and left in her rinky-dink car that turned over with a faint buzz like a bumblebee.

  Between foul weather, stopping for dinner, and another wreck on the highway, he got in around ten last night. Her lights were out downstairs, and with a long day of travel ahead of her, he’d tried to be a considerate lover and let her rest, only to have her sneak away in the dark. What if someone offered her a job in Montana or her brother introduced her to some of his friends, and she returned to Chapelle only to pack her belongings and leave permanently before he found the right time and the right words?

  When he got downstairs only a little artificial Christmas tree centered on a red tablecloth occupied the kitchen table, not Jane, her yellow mug, or her breakfast dishes. Tiny wooden ornaments decorated its branches and a petite manger scene sat beneath its lowest branches. Two gifts, both for him, lay nearby. She’d wrapped the long, thin one in the Sunday Comics and made a bow out of twine. The other, a box from LeClerc’s, resembled the one he had for her. He ripped them open, saving the twine and the bow from the jewelry store because Jane certainly would. Smiling, he held the cube with the falcon in flight in his palm. She did know the meaning of his name, then, understood him better than he’d thought. As for the framed ad and letter, he wasn’t much for art but this had real meaning. It said he’d kept his promise and supported her one hundred percent.